Cosmopolitan 1911-03: Vol 50 Iss 4

Page 1

ga Nearch essex } OL FEB 10 1914 Mormonism: ' The Viper on the Hearth By Aad ene Lewis |

Page 2

Every touch of artifice postpones the day of genuine skin health and beauty. Every use of HAND SAPOLIO adds to health and charm because it cleans and revives from head to foot with an exhilaration that brings out the glow of nature, leaving the skin normal, fresh and beautiful. FOR TOILET _AND BATH.

Page 3

THE SQUANDERER BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX Gop gave him passions, splendid as the sun; Meant for the lordliest purposes, a part Of nature’s full and fertile mother heart, From which new systems and new stars are spun. And now, behold, behold, what he has done! In Folly’s court and carnal Pleasures’ mart He flung the wealth life gave him at the start. (This, of all mortal sins, the deadliest one.) At dawn he stood, potential, opulent, With virile manhood, and emotions keen And wonderful with God’s creative fire. At noon he stands, with Love’s large fortune spent In petty traffic, unproductive, mean— A pauper, cursed with impotent desire.

Page 4

WME BEST POLICY By Reginald Wright Kauffman Drawing by Charles A.Winter sagt It all depends on what you mean by success. These people got their own brands in their own ways. There is, however, another brand, and that kind can't be had except by virtue of honesty 436

Page 5

HEY have stopped preaching in the copy-books THE that “honesty is the best policy.” They are BEST trying to teach, laudably, that when honesty is POLICY merely a good policy it is a poor virtue. My own opinion is that if you can’t get the best virtue from the heart, then it is almost as well to get a cheaper grade from the pocketbook, which is where most men’s hearts are located, anyway. However, this does not, in the present case, apply; for the broad fact is that, for all politic men, honesty is the worst policy in the world. If, by the term “success,” you mean what most of us mean, hon- esty is almost antagonistic to it. It nearly always has been. There are exceptions; but not many, and these are daily growing less. Considering his times, Henry VII was England's richest king, and he got his fortune by telling Parliament he wanted money for the national defense, and then locking the collection in his own strong-box. His granddaughter looked upon an accepted lie as an intellectual triumph, and by such triumphs Elizabeth kept her throne for forty-five years. Napoleon laid the foundations of his empire in France by what all men now know to have been gigantic lies in his despatches from Syria. Consider the types of success that many of our school-teachers are still holding up as achievements possible of simulation by every American boy. Do you suppose the men that made the meat trust got rich by charging you an honest price for your pound of beef? Have you forgotten that, though the law forbade coal-mine officials to be officers of a coal-carrying road, in 1903 the president of _the Reading Railroad boasted that he was president of so many coal companies that he couldn’t remember the names of them all? How about our Warwicks of Wall Street? And how about — well, how about a few gentlemen in your own state Legislature? It all depends on what you mean by success. These people got their own brands in their own ways. There is, however, another brand, and that kind can’t be had except by virtue of honesty. The question involved is simple, and there is no escaping a categorical answer. Do you want to be, in your own sphere, a rich Henry VII or a poor Columbus? An Elizabeth or a Florence Nightingale? A Napoleon or a John the Baptist > Within your own limitations, you can be anything you want to be. It's up to you.

Page 6

er 5 “IT never knew you could be like this! I care enough for our Dana Gibson she exclaimed. W. Chambers Do you want a girl to go on her knees to you? Robert — > wo v a) os ee v ve 1 > 5 B — od 3 a ey * ° ~~ ° 2 = a on 3 8 Vv 2 A “s Illustrating ‘‘The Common Law Drawn by Charles By * How perfectly horrid you can be!”

Page 7

Cosmopolitan Magazine Vol. L MARCH, 1911 “It is coiled on the country’s hearthstone, and asks only time to grow and collect a poison and a strength to strike™ The Viper on the Hearth 1. Mormonism: Its Plots, Plans, and Intrigues Against American Homes By Alfred Henry Lewis EpitTor’s Note.—To most of us Mormonism merely means polygamy—a loatnsome institution abhor- rent to every American idea of home and social life. In the series of articles of which this is the first Alfred Henry Lewis shows how the fangs of the “ viper” have sunk ever deeper and with a more subtle and deadly poison into the body politic. It is not a pretty story that Mr. Lewis tells, but it bites deep and should sting the American people into a full realization of what Mormonism really means; how it has already cinched its slimy grip upon the politics and business of a dozen states; how its influence is spreading in federal affairs; and how, presently, unless something more than the enactment of a dead-letter law is done to prevent it, its insidious menace will become a very real and vital factor to be reckoned with not only in national business and politics, but in thousands of American homes. was and is—one who prefers lust’s substance to love’s shadow and would sooner wallow than dream; but it was not until my visit HE name of the viper—I take it from the mouth of the viper—is “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”’ It lies coiled on the country’s hearthstone, and asks only time to grow and collect a poison and a strength to strike. I had heard of Mormon- ism, but—dwelling far away in the ignorant East—had missed all impression of its ophidian characteristics. True, the Mormon himself had place in my mind for what he to Salt Lake City that he and his religion dawned upon me for the national threat they really are. President Taft, leaving Denver, had de- parted for Salt Lake City via Pueblo, Mon- trose, and Provo. This route was impossi- ble to one who must keep abreast of events, and was without those advantages which COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY 439

Page 8

440 special trains and spiked switches afford. Wherefore, making no attempt to follow Mr. Taft, I myself headed for Salt Lake City cross-lots, and so was there a full day before he came. THE HOME OF MORMONISM The town itself was fair to look upon; the hotel service all that heart could wish. Eager for a glance at my surroundings, I ascended to the roof of that caravansary and gazed abroad upon the landscape. The Wasatch Mountains curled all about the city like a horseshoe, the open end toward the lake—some sixteen miles away. Returning to the office floor, I sought the clerk. He was a jewel among hotel clerks, and answered to the name of Wesley Aus- tin. Also, like the mountains all about us, he was bald. Let me say at this crisis that Mr. Austin seemed more like a human being than any hotel clerk I had ever met. Com- monly your hotel clerk, like Alexander Sel- kirk celebrated in the poem, is “‘out of hu- manity’s reach.” You ask a question, and he’s as voiceless as the Sphinx. You curse him; he hears you not, being too far above you. You try sarcasm only to find that you have aimed an arrow at a star. Mr. Austin, bald, beaming, tolerant, benign, was no such infuriating personage of pedestals. He believed in the rights of the stranger inside his gates, and kept him- self at whatever personal effort within the reach of all. For example, I asked if he saw any reason why I should not summon a car- riage and go forth to view the burg. He called the vehicle himself. The driver was a clear-cut young gentle- man who gave his name as Harry Taylor. His father had been a Mormon, and came into the valley with Brigham Young. As for himself, young Mr. Taylor professed in matters of religion a strict neutrality. It may have been that the neutrality was of the William Green Sterett order. ‘My father’s attitude during the Civil War,” explained Colonel Sterett, laying down with some particularity his sire’s position in that struggle, ‘was patterned upon that of our native Kentucky. He was neutral. I know the old man was neutral, because when’ I— a lad of ten—would be getting ready to go down to the village, he’d draw me to him and say, ‘Willyum, if anybody asks you what you be, an’ spechully if any of them Yankees ask you, you tell ’em that you’re The Viper on the Hearth Union, but you remember you're Secesh.’” As I say, it’s quite possible that young Mr. Taylor’s religious neutrality was of the Sterett variety. However that may be, he knew the town, having been born therein, and I placed myself in his hands as a sacred trust to display to me its wonders. Young Mr. Taylor drove me to the Mor- mon theater—seats for twenty-two hundred —the fourth among the oldest theaters in the land. Next he pointed out the little cottage where Maude Adams was born, her mother about that time having been one of the leading lights of Brigham’s Mormon stage. On a dingy corner, in a.dingy house, her years on the sunset side of seventy, abode Amelia, the late Brigham’s favorite and seventeenth wife. Her name had been Folsom before it was Young, and she was the aunt of Mrs. Grover Cleveland. Also I saw the beautiful Eagle Gate, with the Bee Hive and Lion House, where afore- time Brigham lived surrounded by his mul- titudinous domestic circle. Just across stood the Amelia Palace, which edifice, on the heels of Brigham’s demise, the bereaved yet prudent Amelia sold to the church for $35,000, to be sold subsequently by said church for $50,000 to a Gentile lady with an Irish name. Within pistol shot of the Lion House was Brigham’s private graveyard. Brigham him- self lies sleeping there beneath a five-ton stone—which last he may or may not find inconvenient on resurrection day. It was grave-robbers, however, that Brigham had upon his careful slope of thought when he crept beneath that five-ton stone. He was content to make his remains safe from ghouls, and leave the day of resurrection to take care of itself. GENTILES: KEEP OUT! Across an open space, in Temple Square, uprose the Mormon Temple, through the sacred doors of which no Gentile has ever passed. It took forty years to build it. There’s not a contaminating ounce of iron in it, wooden pegs and strips of rawhide having the place of nails. The stone walls are seventeen feet thick at the base, eleven feet thick at the top. There are six tow- ers. On the tallest one is posed a twelve- foot golden figure of Moroni, that accom- modating angel who, upon a long-ago New York morning, showed Prophet Joe Smith

Page 9

( A a i s f4d4 / Mormon froth and fury, speak : well of Brigham. He’s dead and out of the present running, and it gives the papers a chance to make in- vidious comparisons between Brigham and the present prophet, Joseph Fielding Smith. By the way, I do not think that polygamy shocks the local Gentile sensibilities as it does those of the outside world. The local Gentile gets used to it, perhaps, upon a principle commemorated by the poet in a quatrain beginning, “Vice is a monster of such hideous mien.” I infer this from a two-column notice of the death of a leading Mormon, published in the Gentile papers the morn- ing I struck town. The papers registered the old patriarch’s age—seventy-nine—his civic usefulness, his wealth, and then stated without emotion or apology that, all sorrow- ing in the mournful wake of the old hero’s hearse, rode his four widows and thirty-five children—fifteen boys and twenty girls. 441

Page 10

442 That first sight-seeing day my atten- tion, as I’ve stated, was not peculiarly focused upon Mormonism. There were, indeed, Mormons all about me—thousands of them—Mormons of numerous wives and yet more numerous children. But since nothing occurred to separate them, goat- wise, from the Gentile sheep, there arose nothing to call my close attention to them. Upon the second day, however, when Mr. Taft arrived, this condition of submersion was sharply and disagreeably changed. It was like the ebbing of a tide. Gentile and Mormon stood revealed, and the separating differences: between them appeared in raw and dangerous relief. THE VIPER IN. POLITICS My curiosity aroused, I began to put questions and, per incident, learn many things. For one matter, I discovered that in Salt Lake the political parties are not Democrat and Republican, but American and Mormon, with the single issue Mor- monism, together with what moral slime and grime belong with the name. It was the advent of Mr. Taft that brought these fanged matters forth. Mr. Taft—as igno- rant of local conditions as was I myself— walked into a mixed situation, to become immediately yet innocently a bone of con- tention. The Mormons—the intriguing and astute Prophet Smith, aided and abetted by the intriguing and astute Senator Smoot, to the fore—seized upon him, and bore him victoriously away to the Tabernacle to be heard and seen of Mormon men. Whereat the Gentiles and the Gentile papers—while excusing Mr. Taft as one upon whom an imposition had been foisted—raged. They pointed out that Mr. Harrison, while presi- dentially the town’s guest, had refused to speak in the Tabernacle. They omitted mentioning, however, that Mr. Roosevelt had spoken there, and Mr. Taft was but fol- lowing in the fluent footsteps of his great predecessor. On the excursion to Saltair, Prophet Smith presented two of his wives to Mr. Taft. The prophet reckoned, doubtless, upon the name “Smith” being in no wise singular or unique, and trusted that in the happy hurry and rush of events Mr. Taft would fancy the second Mrs. Smith was some other Mrs. Smith. In discussing this two-wife introduction, the Gentiles fairly drew the blade and threw away the scab- The Viper on the Hearth bard. They condemned the whole business as a plot, a vicious stratagem, and said that the prophet and the Holy Twelve would later make use of that social incident to im- press the dull Mormon herd. The two thou- sand Mormon missionaries abroad in Den- mark, Norway, and Sweden—their favorite stamping-grounds—would also employ the story in showing how high the church stood in best American circles. The Mormon press—Prophet Smith the controlling spirit—made no retort to their enemies. But there was a sly grin upon the face of every Mormon—the satisfied grin of the cat that had eaten the canary—and that grin, taken in conjunction with the red- faced wrath of the Gentiles, could be called nothing short of a lesson. As I’ve already confessed, the whole Mor- mon situation, as it unrolled itself, was new to me. I had dwelt for two decades in the untaught East, my home in New York city. Which, so far as the West and things West- ern were involved, was as though I had lived those years lead-lapped in double folds of densest ignorance. The entire East, as to matters Western, is steeped in darkness. Which is why I write this article. WHEN WILL EASTERNERS WAKE UP? The very map-position of the Mormon Church has operated defensively in its favor. It is in the West; and therefore the East knows nothing concerning it. What it plans and is and does the East can never know until Mormonism comes to its very doors and discloses itself. This persistent Eastern ignorance of the West and all things Western is not perhaps the Eastern fault. Rather it would seem to be by a law of nature. Look down the lanes of history: What is the racial-regional tale? The race ever travels west and looks and listens east. It travels west as though the earth in its rolling were turned from beneath the racial feet. Alsothe racial winds of infor- mation blow, not from west to east, but from east to west. The Chicago papers circulate to the Rockies. One hundred miles east you would have to hunt hard for one. The Pitts- burg papers go flying westward throughout the length of the Ohio Valley, while hardly crossing the Alleghanies toward the east. And so the West, knowing what the West knows and knowing also what the East knows, knows more than does the East, whose fund of narrow knowledge is wholly of the East.

Page 11

age tainty wat be (ithéad pce aaiae: te Deke feat fi: feted” heling fa dee eae. Cong a ee hOnet™ i wa ee ed level bry 4x Miva rhcfhbe~ ahalh, ee ae Pau 4 ’ ; tin , oes lesa Vthtt. Cs Bhbtae €? 4 “J 4 has Vt fn ohh fant etl, 1rd phhe rity tr Rtg Oe 4 tt, fh of Leb ee wt Be onde ke oa , 4 - . hy * UAritt hated ony ht alob% : ” . f Se tyra ot Cast i Lpas fal fot And Aer. / x J hl tarle. A0vlg l5% baler Aigsd fi s < - A hl trd nA a fit too FF r ch + s 4 9 , é Os J uG At ft {ntl nt % Ces / cence ed % a fF 4 if A 4 w le Peace task Mave fla Took thel® font 7% « , r . af re , “ede hgh th hort wie BG Pgd Wee fy 4 oF “t jee best Of Pre Laer 4, <P OERL ; ie Me weed of Hy. Ont work & Sts stet 4,2 ‘ f Mn - tt ‘ ee sett £2€¢ x frat Fa Ler ef Fiert. pratt e enh Sees é “ f Te cone Coron Wf Sy Seed, upper #° wel, urhtthe wok cane ate Fh ts COLA hail ve } TEL MAM ra coc fo Pole Adee Facsimile of a page of printer s é manuscript from which the first edition of the “Book ‘ of Mormon” was printed. —Joseph Smith, Jr., who, claiming to have re- ceived a revelation from on high, founded the Mormon Church, April 6, 1830 The Eastern con- * a4 woman, in respect ceit at this will * fat for human right. shrug its supercili- We have our juries, ous’ shoulders. our town councils, The East, with our legislatures, our the vanity congresses from those born of igno- same “Northern rance, regards savages,’ whom the Rom- itself as own- ans—the New-Yorkers of ing every their hour—succeeded so stitch of earthly thoroughly in despising, until 7 knowledge, and looks they heard the Northern battle- upon , the West as barbarous. axescrashing at their very gates. New ©@ Yorkcity, in particular, pecu- You who read, if youare of the #¥ East liarly be- J lievesitselfin sole possession Eastern,maysmileatanythought @& of of all en- lightenment, and betimes Mormonismas acloud in our na- tional sits up in its moral-mental trundle- sky. You—your back turned to- ward bed to patronize mankind. Ithasn’t the setting sun—cannot foresee a day wit enough to know that the wise never fail. when Mormonism will swell to a size that to recognize their limitations, and only fools shall make it a general menace. Before are boundless. The New York attitude is concluding so comfortably in favor of a that which old Rome was wont to hold continuous Mormon weakness, you should toward tke “Northern savages.” And all seriously reflect. Mormonism is young; its the time those same “savages” were ages _ seeds, not yet planted a century, are hardly ahead of every Roman possibility in liberty, past the sprouting stage. Who, from a in an intelligent freedom, in regard for beginning, shall estimate an ending? A 443

Page 12

444 child may step across the Mississippi at its source. The Mormon Church is but eighty years old. It started with six members, and now counts no fewer than seven hundred and fifty thousand. Ask a Mormon for a census of church noses, and he’ll hesitate and say he doesn’t know. Crowd him, and he’ll put the figures anywhere “between three hundred and four hundred thousand.” That polygamist prevaricates—not to use the shorter, uglier word. In his heart, as he goes telling of “between three hundred and four hundred thousand’”—in his heart of hearts, which is never opened to any less or lower than a Mormon bishop—he is felicita- ting himself with the conviction that the church strength is, roundly, not fewer than one million. It is my best belief, however, that in those —to him—happy heart-estimates of one million he overshoots the mark. Put it, say at seven hundred and fifty thousand; and you'll run no risk of crippling the fact. From six, a meager six, to three-quarters of a million in eighty years! Has the nation come on in any such towering measure? And yet you are not afraid! Mormonism is growing and spreading and creeping over the face of this people like ivy ona wall, and all upon Mormon assumption that a day is surely to dawn when it will poisonously cover the whole. And so it will, if no force be invoked to check or stay it in its growing—to break it destructively short off at the roots. THE OATH OF VENGEANCE You doubt if the Mormons entertain an anti-American intention? You doubt if the budding horns of Mormonism are lowered our way? Read the oath taken in the En- dowment rites, solemnized in the Temple the Temple, through which every “good” Mormon once a year is bound to pass. The oath reads, “I do solemnly promise and vow that I will pray and never cease to importune High Heaven to avenge the blood of the prophets upon this nation” [the United States], “‘and that I will teach.this to my children unto the third and fourth gen- eration.” The “prophets” referred to are Joe Smith and Hyrum Smith—the latter the father of the present prophet—killed by Gentiles in what troubles grew out of the Mormon settlement in Illinois. What is quoted, too, is part and parcel The Viper on the Hearth of the oath of “Blood Atonement,” which latter doctrine commands Mormons to mur- der, and cut men’s throats like sheep, as a religious duty. Nor is it as a tenet of Mormonism obsolete or fallen into decay. Secretly and under cover, “Blood Atone- ment” obtains with all the freshness and vicious vigor which invested it in a day when the red work of Danites Bill Hickman, Porter Rockwell, and John Doyle Lee- Brigham’s pet’ “destroying angels’’—horri- fied a world. Be assured that, given the power, the present Mormon Church would repeat and re-repeat the Mountain Meadows Massacre in every corner of the land. The Mormons teach murder as a “means of grace” and say they slaughter for “the soul’s sake.”? The Mormon destroying an- gels, led to some softness of phrase by the elders and prophets, do not, when they have cut the throat of some delinquent Mormon or offensive Gentile, speak of it as “mur- der.”’ They say, ‘We saved him.” “BLOOD ATONEMENT” THE FAMOUS These are the words of Brigham concern- ing the doctrine of ‘‘ Blood Atonement,” and the utterance is to-day accepted, undimin- ished, whether in letter or spirit, by all ““go0d”’ Mormons. Said Brigham: I could refer you to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain in order to atone for their sins. This is but loving our neighbor as ourselves. If he needs help, help him. If he wishes salvation, and it is necessary to spill his blood upon the ground in order that he be saved, spill it. This is the way to love mankind. The wickedness and ignorance of the nations forbid this principle being in full force, but the time will come when the law of God will be in full force. Will you love man or woman well enough to shed their blood? That is what Jesus Christ meant. He never told a man to love his enemies in their wickedness. He never intended any such thing. I have known scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance in the last resurrection if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled upon the ground as a smoking incense to the Almighty. That is the doctrine wherewith in secret your seven hundred and fifty thousand Mormons are brightening their consciences as this is read. .Add it-to the oath taken in the Endowment House, promising increas- ing warfare upon this people, and you may come by some glint of what would be your own state in case the Mormon Church at- tained the ends it strives for and got the public upper-hand. Every Mormon from his cradle days is

Page 13

“Smith, aside from being in constant wireless communication with the Almighty, is ‘trustee in trust” for the whole wealth of the church, . . . which, through its investments in banks, railroads, mines, smelters, and tariff-protected industries, is pushing toward a money domination of the country ~

Page 14

446 taught to look upon this nation as the arch- enemy. The present Mormon attitude to- ward the federal government is that of the captive. The church—they say—through superior force, is held in chains. Because of these chains, this duress, and since it is permitted one to mislead a foe, the Mormons are free to lie to the United States or state authorities whenever and wherever the truth would prove ill timed. That is the Mormon creed. Every Mormon, trom Prophet Smith and the twelve apostles—includ- ing Senator Smoot, himself an apostle and therefore a “prophet”— down to the last mean handful of proselytes brought in from Denmark, is at liberty to lie. Exercising that menda- cious freedom, he may deny his “Blood Atonement” oath, deny his hatred of the government, deny polyg- amy, deny he votes and finds his place in politics by “or- der’’ of his bishop trans- mitting the “order” of “Prophet, Seer, and Revelator” Smith, deny the num- bers, the wealth, : the purpose, the power, of Lucy Mack Smith. mother of the first prophet.— Joseph F. Smith, present prophet and president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints the Mormon Church. The Gentile is the enemy; he is anti-Christ. Why, then, should your Mormon arm such a foe against the church? And so The Viper on the Hearth the Mormon lies and keeps on lying and— he thinks—finds himself the nearer heaven for it. As to the dimensions of the viper: The aggregate real-estate holdings of what mem- bers of the Mormon Church we shelter in this country would, if set boundary to boundary, make a region larger than France plus Spain and Portugal. The church itself owns thousands upon thousands of acres. This will show how the church protects it self. The Oregon Short Line com- plained of a ten- thousand-acre theft in Cache County, Utah, by the Mormon Church. What did the church do? Thechurch bought the road. Then the growl ceased. Smit h— ‘prophet, seer, and revelator” as well as “first president” of the church—Smith who, aside from being in constant wireless communication with the Al- mighty, is “trustee in trust”’ for the whole wealth of the church— is now a director of the Oregon Short Line, as also of the Union Pacific. While he would not take the headship of these railroads, lest he excite disastrous comment and bring down pressures upon the church before the church is ready to meet them, the voice of Prophet Smith is to-day the ruling in- fluence in both these corporations. He could buy them, sell them, bond them, start or stop them at the lifting of his pro-

Page 15

phetic finger. And so the Oregon Short Line no more com- plains of Mormon land grabs. For the Oregon Short Line itself is now a Mor- mon;and whoshould expect a reasonably prudent railroad company to incrim- inate itself ? As to money- mere gold—the Mormon Church overtowers either the Steel Trust or Standard Oil. I shall say more of Mormon money be- fore we have done, and show ‘how through dollars the church designs the conquest of the Re- public. In the old, unthreatened days, Prophet Brigham, his apostles, arch- bishops, and under bishops, openly and constantly preached this country’s sesses the same attitude and intention downfall. The Mormon Church was to “go as an empire from West to East” » ham. As much as did his predeces- —*spread until it touched every ocean.” It was to “cross the Atlantic, cross the Pa- cific, and rule the nations of earth.” Kings implicit, unquestioning obedience.” There * Heber C. Kimball (left). one of the "Twelve Apostles” Young, and chief justice and lieutenant-governor of the State of Deseret.— in 1835, counselor to Brigham Brigham Young, the “Lion of the Lord.’ successor to Joseph Smith, Jr.. as president of the Mormon Church were to be its pages, thrones its footstools, and none should prove so pow- erful or so high but he would “grovel be- fore the First Presi- dent of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.” That is what prophet Brigham preached openly and threateningly, and, were he Mor- mon or Gentile who contradicted him, he had his throat cut for his pains. Tor said Brigham to his Mormons, “‘ He whodenies that I can lead him both temporally and politically as I do in matters churchly, lies, and in that he sins in the sight of an outraged God.” Prophet Smith pos- ©) CXNPERWoOD & UNDERWOOD The first house erected by the = Mormons in Utah.—The Temple x in Salt Lake City, a structure J that was forty years in building and cost four million dollars. Its site was selected by Prophet Brigham Young toward this country owned by old Brig- sor, he insists upon every Mormon accepting the doctrine of “blind, 447

Page 16

is this difference, however, between Prophet Smith and Prophet Brigham: What Brig- ham would have done by force, by war, by guns, Prophet Smith will seek to do by in- trigue, by politics, by dollars. No, I cannot say that I expect to invoke the political resentment of American men against this hearthstone viper of Mormon- ism. For one thing, the every-day Ameri- can is politically lazy. It grows more and more difficult to make him work at his poli- tics in person. His public idleness arises, doubtless, from the fact that, with the mounting census of the country, he feels of less and less account. His self-importance gets swamped in a population of ninety-odd millions. He owns not one-twentieth the public weight that was his grandfather’s. Our duty-shirking idler of politics is right, so far as he seeks to measure his shrinking importance to government. And yet he should not for that reason slump into an inference altogether wrong. While his im- portance to government has diminished, not a splinter has been whittled from the impor- tance of government to him. The citizen, with ninety-odd millions for a popula- tion, should feel as‘much concern in safeguarding his country’s altars as was felt by him who voted for Madison one hundred years ago. oo Where the law of the church is above the law of the land—a Mormon family where there is one husband and father to five wives and several children 448 The Viper on the Hearth Wherefore you should come close to this viper of Mormonism, and measure it in all its evil length and breadth and power. Were the house on fire, most men would resent being disturbed with the flaming news of it ten minutes before the fire reached them. This is chargeable in part to that political laziness chronicled, and in part to a numskull thickness which must see and feel before it can know. We speak loftily, not to say pityingly, of the “lower animals,” and give to ourselves the brains of broad creation. None the less, from those same brainless “lower animals” we wise folk might now and then receive a hint. There isn’t a mule-eared deer so weak of wit but that it knows enough to feed always up the wind, and make of its nose a perpetual vanguard to feel out danger. Emulate the mule-eared deer; get your face and your nose toward the Western winds, so full of the threat- ening taint of Mormonism. While in Salt Lake City I encountered a Northwestern sena- tor. It was the even- ing of my second Salt Lake day, and we had comfortably cocked up

Page 17

Brigham Young, who led the Mormons into Utah. of polygamy and at his death left twenty-four dren.—Mill erected by Brigham Young at Lib- when he was receiving the bulk of the our chairs—village fashion—against the front of the hotel. I asked my North- western statesman questions. With the fate of ex-Senator Dubois in mind, he was solicitous that his name be kept hidden. Anonymously, however, he was warmly ready to talk. Said he: “The Mormon Church grows constantly stronger, not weaker. Politically, it holds Utah in the black hollow of its hand. As a balance of power it controls, for what purposes it has in view, Nevada, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico. Aside from these, it is of convincing political weight in both Oregon and Washington. No party, whether Re- publican or Democratic, would defy or offend the Mormon influence in any of these states. “Take the Senate, of which body I’m a member: For what it wants, the Mormon Church already holds twelve seats. When Arizona and New Mexico pick their sena- tors, the Mormons, for their own limited purposes, will get their brand on four more.”’ ““Limited purposes’? What do you mean?” I asked. “Why, this: The Mormons are, as a He was an uncompromising advocate widows and forty-four chil- erty Park, Utah, in 1852, Mormon tithes church, most modest—at present. All they ask is that the church be let alone. They recall with horror the Edmunds Act, which, during the eighties, was asa ae Za , a, , < en | forest fire to polygamy and polygamists, burning all that were over- taken by it. Statehood, by putting their own punishment into their own hands, removed the menace of the Edmunds Act, broke its teeth and saved the Mormon with too many wives. Now the Gentiles threaten them with an amendment to the national Consti- tution, taking the business away from the state courts and making polygamy an of- fense punishable in the federal courts. It is that possible amendment which the Mor- mons fear. Against such a chance, how- ever, the church, as I tell you, controls a dozen senators. With Arizona and New Mexico admitted, it will count on sixteen— a full sixth of the Senate! It will control, too, the delegations of those eight states in 449

Page 18

450 The Viper on the Tearth the House. Also, were an anti-polygamy amendment to the Constitution submitted to thestates, the Mormons could politically pro- tect themselves in those eight I’ve nained. “To be let alone! That is all the Mor- mons want, all they ask, and in return they contribute $100,000 to the treasure-chests of the dominant party every national cam- paign, and throw the solid Mormon vote on the side of that dominant party and its presidential candidate. Important? I should say so. The Mormon Church might in any campaign be easily strong enough to make or mar a White House. Like- wise, the church, for any platform or nomi- national purpose, can control the delegations of those eight states in a presidential con- vention. “Have you paused to figure up how many electoral votes the church and Prophet Smith might elect? Do so; it will be excel- lent exercise for your conscience. Calling Utah wholly Mormon, with seventy out of each one hundred of population, consider those other seven states wherein the Mor- mons hold the balance of power. How about the Mormon per cent. of population in those states? The Mormon count runs from as low as ten in each one hundred of population in Colorado to as high as thirty in each one hundred in Idaho. The parties are so evenly balanced that this is enough to permit the Mormons, by going in between, to have their way. There isn’t a politician hoping for office, or holding office, in any one of the commonwealths I’ve counted, who would invite the hatred of the Mormon Church. He’d as soon stick his hand in a flame-filled furnace.” “Tsn’t there one among you whose cour- age is equal to attacking the Mormon Church, with its foul polygamies and fouler treasons?” I asked. “Dubois attacked the Mormon Church, and you saw what happened to him. Dubois attempted to unseat Smoot. Smoot is still in the Senate. This very evening he— with Prophet Smith at his shoulder—acts as host to the President. More: Smoot, next to Aldrich, is the big member of the Senate Finance Committee, and had more to do in constructing the recent Aldrich-Payne tariff and imposing tax-burdens upon you than did Aldrich himself. As against this, where is Dubois? Smoot is safe, a tax-imposing pillar of the Senate, while Dubois is lost— vanished—politically destroyed.” Space crowds. In my next paper I shall show why the Mormon Church so earnestly adheres to polygamy, and how polygamy serves—after the manner of the binding- pole of a load of hay—to hold the church together and keep it from being overturned. I shall speak, too, of the wealth of the church, and how, through its investments in banks, railroads, mines, smelters, and tariff- protected industries, it is pushing toward a money domination of the country. ‘Give me but the wealth of a nation, and I care not who writes its laws!” sings Prophet Smith, and sends word to Aldrich. to give a seat on the Senate Finance Committee— the taxing power—to Aposile Smoot. As the general is, so also is the army, and I shall consider both Prophet Smith and Apostle Smoot, and give as nearly as I may their portraits. We Gentiles in our darkness speak of Smoot as a “senator of the United States.”” Not so the Mormons. When they are gathered unto themselves and no Gentile is nigh they speak of Smoot only as “One of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints,” and say, ‘He is on a mission for the church, and has gone to Washington as the church’s ambassador.” In the next issue of the Cosmopolitan Mr. Lewis will show how the Mormon Church is an ever-increasing menace to the most sacred of human institutions—the home,

Page 19

= The Czarina of Dress By Sloane Gordon COPYRIGHT BY BOISSONNAS & , AQUIN!”’ When you hear that it conveys an idea. If you heard some one speak of Emile Paquin, or of Bill Paquin, or of Joe, or John, or Sam, it would convey to your mind no idea. : “Paquin!’’ Throughout the Continent they speak of the House of Paquin in vari- ous tones. Those who worship at the shrine of fashion, and those who bow to the dic- TAPONIER, Pais tates of the autocrat of dress, speak and bow reverentially. Those who drive against the cutting edge of competition may speak, though, a bit disparagingly. But days ago, and months ago, and years ago, Paquin, the Paquin—whether “Monsieur” or “Ma- dame ’’—was mentioned as “ the genius of the Rue de la Paix.”” Monsieur Paquin is dead. His death occurred December 21, 1907. And then Madame Paquin entered the lime- 451 | 1 | |

Page 20

452 light to which she had been manifestly en- titled years before. Of course she will not admit that, and she will no doubt resent such a suggestion, but Madame Paquin rules, queen-like, to-day, in the light, as she did, queen-like, in other days, in the shadow. Madame Paquin is a monarch whose empire is bounded only by those boundaries that compass the universe. This queen, or that, may govern and direct the policies and destinies, it may be, of a nation, of a state; but Madame Paquin directs and controls the hobble skirts, for instance, of a world—a feminine world—which in turn controls— well, what doesn’t it control? When Miss Millions of America, or Miss Money of Australia, or Mrs. Alimony of some place else crashes into Europe, she seeks Madame Paquin. I do not mean to intimate that the Paquin trade is confined to either those of millions or of alimony, but those of millions and of fashion and of the world’s prints are of Paquin, know of Paquin, and are gowned by Paquin. Madame Paquin (whisper it) may be thirty-eight years old. It is probable that she would also deny this. None might blame her. She looks no more than twenty- eight. Sheconducts the greatest dressmaking establishment in the world. It is located, as indicated in the foregoing, in the Rue de la Paix. Madame Paquin receives a salary of $60,000 a year. That’s in real money. Her husband’s name was Isador. That’s the first time you ever heard of a first name attached to Paquin. During his life it was the House of Paquin. Since his death it is the House of Paquin. Years and years ago the famous actresses of the world, the queens of all Europe, and those women of worth, wealth, and beauty who shed their luster over the courts, not only of Europe but of the East—the East of Kipling—were gowned by Paquin. Liter- ally the House of Paquin dressed the courts of Europe and the stage of the world. Paquin originated the idea of “an audi- ence room.”’ And so, to carry that out, he employed for his models the most beau- tiful women that money could secure. He gowned them gorgeously. And those Americans who have gone abroad to seek style and experience and who have known of him, have probably witnessed the pa- rades of the Paquin models, who paraded at ten and at two each day in the Paris store. These parades were called ‘the daily dress The Czarina of Dress reviews,” and they have been carried on by Madame Paquin with only the intermis- sions that duil seasons demand. There are two Houses of Paquin—one in Paris, the other in London, in the midst of Mayfair, just off Piccadilly—incidentally the Mecca toward which thousands and tens of thousands of women—American, European, Australian, and Asiatic—make their annual pilgrimage. Madame Paquin is charming. In her Parisian store she is accorded a deference that not even an Elizabeth might command. In London she is idolized by those who com- pose the Paquin staff. Back there in the years M. Paquin was decorated by the Minister of Commerce, of France, and there was such a hullaballoo over it that it almost resulted in a riot in the Chamber of Deputies. Those who were opposed spoke slightingly of the ‘man dressmaker,” but those who knew of the genius of Paquin fought sturdily to uphold the action of the minister. And out through the courts of the Continent various mon- archs nodded approval of the ultimate action which anchored the decoration, for had not these crowned heads and arms and legs and bodies owed much of their present- able pulchritude to Paquin? A king is just as grateful as an ordinary person. Few of them have sense enough to be any more grateful. Kings are common clay. The ordinary king couldn’t hold an ordinary job as bill clerk in a restaurant. But that is digression. These kings and emperors and other royal débris were duly grateful to Paquin, and in the moment of his French Chamber ascend- ency they properly applauded. However, this deals with the dead rather than with the quick. Had Madame Paquin been decor- ated by the members of the French Cham- ber of Deputies (who would have been painting the lily) it is reasonably certain that few, if any, of those members who pro- tested would have protested. However— There is this to be said, in conclusion and in extenuation: Madame Paquin is a charm- ing woman, the head of one of the most remarkable business concerns in the world, a worthy successor to that genius or devil, as the case may be, who devised, developed, and made popular the sheath and the Directoire gowns, and the modest and beau- tiful dictator of the world of fashion.

Page 21

ne Si neni calcd The Compromise HOW LOVE AND POLITICAL CIRCUMSTANCES ALTERED CASES By David Graham Phillips Author of “The Plum Tree,” * Old Wives for New,” ** The Husband's Story.” et Illustrated by M. Leone Bracker I INCE his exit from public life—ab- rupt, disgraceful, and apparently final —after two terms in the lower house of the state Legislature and one in the upper house, young Andy Clarke was bicy- cling morning and evening between his father’s farm on Thunder Creek and his law- office in Little Falls. The journey was along about as depressing a five miles of neglected turnpike as could be found in the whole of the vast unfinished region between the Great Lakes and the Ohio. And the young ex-senator was moving between two scenes equally depressing. His father, who was well-to-do, and his stepmother, who hated the country and was lonesome, made him more than welcome. But a man of his temper could not forget that he was living on his father because he had not, and could not get, a living for himself—and he twenty- eight years old and, until this last year, self- supporting ever since he graduated from Purdue. As for the other end of the jour- ney—his office in Little Falls—the daily sojourn there in solitude except for some oc- casional friend seeking the pleasures of pity and charity—that sojourn might well un- string the nerves of so energetic and ambi- tious a youth. He shrank from showing himself in the streets, like living flesh from the branding-iron. He could hear what men were saying after he passed. “A sad case that. Everybody admired and trusted him, and he was engaged to one of the prettiest girls in the state. Then he was caught. He put up a job to blackmail Jim Neal into buying his vote for United States senator. He was arrested, drunk, in a dive—when everybody thought he was all that he pretended to be. He brazened it out, and Neal lost the senatorship. But the young crook lost Neal’s niece, to whom The first of this series of stories of love and politics in the Middle West appeared in the January Cosmopolitan he was engaged, and lost his reputation and ruined his career. He’s an outcast here. The sooner he clears out the better it’ll be for him, and if he’s sensible he’ll take a new name in his new place.” Of what use to deny, to protest? Of no use whatever. Even those who admitted Jim Neal’s scandalous unfitness for senator wceuld have felt that they were proclaiming themselves absurdly credulous if they had said they believed in the honesty of the young reformer caught in a raid on a dive. And who would believe that he was drugged and taken to the dive in a stupor, and that the raid was a put-up job to destroy him? Such things were not done in real life, but only on the sensational stage and in dime novels. To make his humiliation complete, while Andy Clarke had beaten Neal, he had caused the election of Abe Harrow, whom he had since found out to be a secret creature of Neal’s and a worse man for senator than Neal; for while Neal was the coarse and brutally frank corruptionist, Harrow was a dangerously plausible rascal who would probably live out a long public life of crook- edness, with the people never suspecting him. The people! When Clarke thought of the people to whose service he had sacrificed everything, with the result that they re- garded him as an exposed hypocrite, some- times he grew heart-sick with pity, and again he laughed in derision. At least they were getting what they deserved. Every morning at half-past eight he was at his desk, at the window commanding a view of the main street of Little Falls. He seemed to be absorbed in work. In fact, he was furtively watching the passing women— only the women. He noted each one as she appeared at the limit of his range of vision. If by any chance there were in, or could be imagined into, her dress or walk or figure any suggestion of Jessica Bushrod, his heart 453 i i if i i i

Page 22

454 leaped, and his blood began to throb, and he watched her until she passed from view. If, on the contrary, it was impossible for him to use her to remind him of Jessica, he im- mediately ceased to look at her and began afresh with the next-appearing woman. Every morning, about a quarter of an hour after this daily vigil began, there came down the opposite side of the street a young wom- an who was unlike any other woman, young or old, passing in review before him—in- deed, unlike any other woman he had ever seen. As he had, only a few months before, lost the girl with whom he had expected to live out his life and without whom he had thought he could not live, and as there was nothing about this unlike young woman to help him keep himself reminded of Jessica, it was some time before she became dis- tinct to him. And it was still longer before he saw her observingly enough to say, “I wonder who that girl is?” ' Those who have suffered from a love- affair gone awry will recognize the impor- tance of this apparently commonplace re- mark. It indicated that the young man was in the way of convalescence. The crisis had passed; the disease was either passing away or shrinking to probably harm- less latency; the invalid was once more showing an interest in life. He might still fancy himself mortally stricken; but he would sooner or later get well—relapse being carefully guarded against. The young woman—of medium height and dark rather than fair—dressed with extreme neatness and simplicity, as if she had business somewhere—business which she understood and liked and thoroughly attended to. She was a through-and-through feminine-looking person, with a well-propor- tioned figure and an expression and fea- tures that had claims both to beauty and to charm. Observing her yet more closely as time went on, Andy decided that, unlike Jessica, she belonged to that smaller and more select section of the female sex which is not’ trying.to attract any and every man with a view to selecting one—or perhaps several— from the full net, but is waiting tranquilly for just the right man. And Andy decided, so far as there could be decision from his casually collected and rather meager data, that when this girl found her man she would have something to give him. “There,” thought he, “is the kind of a girl a man could respect. He might not ‘The Compromise love her in the wild way he’d love some women. But it’d be a great deal more — more manly and—and wholesome.” Vaguely it drifted through his mind every morning that he had seen her before—a long way back in the past. But he could not recall where. His curiosity about her— who she was, where she went each morn- ing—was not strong enough to lead him to think of her when he might have made in- quiries. He was most of the time brooding over his plight, trying to find the “way out,” for he felt confident that there was such a way. Itsimply could not be that an intelli- gent and energetic man’s career could be ended for good and all at twenty-eight. The career was his sole concern—only the career. Not Jessica. No, indeed. “If I could get her now,” thought he, “I’d not have her. True, she was made for love. I’d not bea man if I hadn’t been mad about her. But that kind of love is slavery. She’d drag me down. She’s a voluptuary, an idle volup- tuary. If she’s that way now, what will she be when she’s a full-grown woman?” He finally decided that his only reason for dwelling upon Jessica was because he liked to keep himself reminded of his fortunate escape through her having thrown him over. One Sunday morning in March he was taking a constitutional along the highway between Thunder Creek and Little Falls. He was compelled to that road, as it was the only one not impassable with the mud of the spring rain. Toward him came another pedestrian—a woman, but as well equipped for the rain as he, and as vigorous a walker. Presently he discovered that it was none other than the unique, capable, businesslike girl who passed across his vision every morning—the girl a man could respect, the girl who wasn’t like Jessica. When they were but a few yards apart and he was about to glance away because he did not wish to seem rude, he saw that she was recognizing him, that she intended to speak. He was not surprised that he, who had represented the town in the Legislature, should be known. But he was astounded that any re- spectable young woman of that region should be venturing to speak—even, or especially, in a lonely place—to one who had fallen in the way he had fallen. “How d’you do, Senator?” said she. Her tone and her smile started in him a glow of pleasure. “How d’you do?” returned he, an eager-

Page 23

ness in his politeness that was pathetic in its reminder of what he had been through to make him thus grateful for so slight a courtesy. “T don’t believe you remember me?”’ said she. He was about to make some polite evasion when a cer- tain look in her eyes —the look of a frank nature that demands frankness from ot he rs—compelled him to say: “No, Idon’t. That is, I do in the ha- ziest sort of way.” “I’m Laura Knowles—Judge Morton’s daughter, or rather, step- daughter.” He suddenly saw a solemn, preposter- ously wise-looking little old woman of a child, with hair done up on top of her head and large eyes gazing suspi- ciously, as if to put down any suggestion that she was not so old as she wished to be thought. And he laughed—and it was his first laughter in nine long months. “No wonder I didn’t remember you. It’s been ten years since I saw you. You weren’t more than seven or eight then.” “Ten,” replied she. “I was small for my age.” They talked a few minutes—the com- monplaces of a re- newal of such an David Graham Phillips An acquaintance from the state capital had told Andy an inside story of politics—Jim Neal was about to lose his control over the machine 455 acquaintance. Then he became uneasy, felt that he was de- taining her, longed to ask leave to turn and walk with her, dared not because of his reputation or lack of reputation, could not bring him- self to pass on be- cause he hated tocut off the cheer of this first gleam of pleas- ant relations with a fellow being in many a dreary day. She observed him with her frank and equal glance, and said, “Won’t you walk with me?” He reddened, then he stammered, ‘‘I’d be—be delighted, Miss Knowles, but I’ve—that is, it’s impossible.” Her air was that of one so sure of her- self that she had not the least fear of being thought forward or of being in any way misunderstood —the air of the woman who is not hunting a husband and is independent enough to be indifferent to any suspicion of that chase. “I under- stand, Mr. Clarke,” said she with a can- dor that was yet the essence of tact. “I'd be very glad if you’d walk with me and give me a chance to say something I’ve had on my mind for along time. If you’ve really got an appointment, ll turn and walk with you.”

Page 24

456 “No, no,” exclaimed. he. ‘You are sure you understand?” “Perfectly. Isn’t my stepfather in poli- tics? Indeed, I’m in politics, myself. I’m a teacher in the public schools—head of the art department of the high school.” “Oh, that’s where you’re bound, looking so businesslike, every morning about nine?”’ They were walking on together now— away from town, and he was hoping she would go far so that he could have the happiness of accompanying her a long way back. There could not be too long a break in his lonely brooding. And this girl— natural, direct and simple and human—gave him a feeling of hope, of making the first beginning in renewing his severed relations with the human race. Said she, “Any number of times I’ve come very near to calling on you at your office.” “Why didn’t you?” said he, adding with grim humor, “ You’d never have found me engaged.” “That’s it!’ cried she, eyes flashing in- dignantly. “I’m ashamed of this town—of the men, of the women. They—all the so- called better classes, all that know politics —they know the truth about you. They know what a shameful trick Neal and his gang played you. Yet see how they act! What cowards, what hypocrites, they are! You did the fine thing—as fine a thing as any man ever did. And they help those wretches to destroy you!” It was several moments before Clarke could speak. The unexpected, superbly generous outburst took him off his guard, shattered the shell of hardness and cynicism he had formed over himself in self-protec- tion. At last he was able to say: “You don’t know what it means to me, your saying that. I didn’t realize how they had hurt me—how they’ve been making me suffer.” “Why don’t you leave Little Falls?” cried she, bursting out again. “Such a place isn’t fit to live in.” “Leave?” said he, and evidently the idea was entirely new to him. Then he added, “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.” There was no suggestion of pose in this defiance from the courage that is uncon- scious of itself. She glanced at him with swift admiration and glanced away again before he saw. She colored deeply. ‘“Of course you couldn’t go,”’ said she. ‘I never ‘The Compromise thought of that side of it. I beg your par- don for saying such a thing.” “No, Ill stay on,” said he, as if he had not heard her. His jaw set, and his eyes, gaz- ing straight ahead, gleamed dangerously. “Till fight right here.” His expression relaxed, and he smiled satirically. “I de- serve no credit for that. My one chance is to win out here. If I ran, the thing would chase me and bring me down.” “And, oh, I’ve so admired the way you haven’t made any public denial—or said anything at all. I despise whimpering.”’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘What’d be the use? No one would believe.” “But your friends!” Her eyes were flashing again. ‘Friends! Not one of them has come forward to defend you.” “T don’t blame them,” said he simply. ““They’ve got to look out for themselves. I fellinto this mess. It’s altogether my fault, for I knew the sort of people I was fighting. It’s all my fault. So it’s up to me to get myself out.”’ “And you will!” declared she confidently. “Ves, I will,” said he. ‘I had almost begun to despair. But now”’—he smiled friendlily at her—‘‘T’ll take hold.” What pitiful creatures the sensuous, shallow, fair- weather Jessicas, beside a girl like this! The rain abated, ceased. The sun came out. He accompanied her back to the edge of town through a merry spring landscape that brought out all their natural youthful gaiety. There were moments during that four-mile walk when he wholly forgot his disaster, when he thought of Laura Knowles without using her to think of Jessica. At the city line he halted. “T must turn here,” said he. “I’ve barely time to reach home for dinner, and my stepmother can’t endure anyone’s keep- ing dinner waiting.” But her expression showed she was not deceived. “TI insist on your taking me all the way home.” She smiled charmingly. How beautiful in a high-souled way she was, especially when she smiled. “You mustn’t be foolish,” said she. ‘It can’t hurt me to be seen with you.” This candor made him shrink for an in- stant. Then his burst of laughter showed that she had calculated exactly right. “You’re doing me a world of good,” cried he. “But I’ll not take advantage of your kindness to-day. Really, my excuse wasn’t altogether a pretense.”

Page 25

“Then I'll let you off,” said she. ‘ Any- how, I wanted you to walk through town with me for my own selfish pleasure. It delights me to taunt their hypocrisy. Per- haps I shouldn’t be brave if I weren’t beyond their reach.”’ “T’m sure you'd be brave in any circum- stances.” She shook her head doubtfully. “But I’m not,” declared she. “I’m only safe— safe behind my sex and my family’s posi- tion and my stepfather’s pull. You'll come to see me?”’ “Thank you. Thank you.” She would not be put off. “Does that mean yes?” “Well, yes,” said he. “ Youreally wantit?” “Indeed I do. Am I not one of your friends?” “The only one,” said he, but as if that were not unendurable. “Oh, you’ve got lots of them. You'll find out, as soon as you begin to fight.” He looked amused. “Yes, I’ll have lots of friends—when I’m once more back where I don’t need them.” “That’s unpleasant,” said she. ‘It’s cynical.” “Tt’s true,” replied he. “I’m afraid so, though I try to think otherwise.” “Don’t,” advised he. “Dodging the truth is a disastrous business. You can’t build solidly on lies. You can’t deal with the world successfully if you pretend that it’s what it ought to be instead of seeing just what it is and acting accordingly.”’ Her expression showed that his philosophy —so practical,” so cynical to hear—dis- quieted her, not for her ideals but for him. But she did not speak the words that were evidently very near her lips. Instead, she extended her hand with a friendly, ‘“ You'll telephone before coming, so you'll be sure to find me in?” “Yes, and I’ll telephone soon,” replied he. {I ON reflection it seemed to Andy that he might weaken his jealously guarded self- reliance by seeing Laura again before he had put himself firmly upon his feet. But less than a month later—and long before he had intended—he telephoned her and got per- mission to call. The reason for this haste, this panic-stricken haste, was—Jessica.

David Graham Phillips 457

‘One morning he read in the paper that Jim Neal—that vicious old uncle who was the cause of the break with Jessica and of his finding her out—had married a vaude- ville dancer in Chicago. <A few days later, about an hour before he telephoned Laura Knowles to ask if he might call that evening, he got a note from Jessica—a note by hand: I am here in Little Falls, visiting Sallie Temple. I want to see you—very much. [I know you are cross with me, but surely you will come for the sake of old times JESSICA. P.S.—Any time. Just come.—Jess. A foolish and shallow note. He despised himself for his trembling hand. The per- fume that rose from the paper—what a strong, unwomanly, unladylike perfume! He despised himself for liking it, for not being sincere in his grimace of disdain and aversion. And that perfume brought her vividly before him—the shallow, foolish little face, but so pretty, so soft and smooth, so inviting to caresses! He decided that he would not answer. But, no—that would cause her to write again. After many attempts he sent off this with which he felt not wholly discon- tented: DEAR Jessica: Unfortunately I’m frightiully busy. You'll be glad to know that my affairs are beginning to look up again. I’m glad to be able to send my best wishes. I hope you’ll be happy. ANDREW CLARKE. There, thought he, was brevity with no suggestion of anger or curtness—finality in judicious combination with the courtesy of friendly indifference. He felt—when he finally let the messenger depart with this note—that he was showing real strength of character. But the crisis was too vital for any rash overconfidence in himself; he hastened to the telephone and arranged to call upon Laura Knowles, whom he had, privately to himself, appointed custodian of his self-respect. The warm weather had set in, and Miss Knowles was waiting for him on the front veranda of the big old-fashioned house where Mrs. Judge Morton led the life which, she flattered herself, made her one of the brilliant social leaders of the West. Clarke was for a moment or two not so much at his ease as he had anticipated, for his friend and chief supporter was now dressed in a thor- oughly feminine fashion, in embarrassing contrast to her trim, businesslike garb of the street and the country road. She looked

Page 26

jer ™-LEONE DEAWN BY M, LEONE BRACKER _ BRACKER~ She sprang up, white, her eyes glittering. “You! Another girl!” she cried. .

Page 27

the beautiful woman of the comfortable classes—the beautiful young woman; and he had come to see and talk with a friend, not with a woman. But the impression of soft delicacy of young womanhood in the romantic gloam- ing soon faded before her ease-compelling, serenely friendly manner. It puzzled him, how a girl thus femininely attractive could push almost out of sight in the background the sex-idea, which usually dominates all intercourse between men and women capa- ble of sex-attraction and possessing sex- charm. But, so surrounded was she by the atmosphere of friendship, and friendship only, that he did not linger over the puz- zle, but went on to accept and to give friend- ship alone. “Tt’s been a long time—at least, it has seemed long to me,” said he to her. “But I didn’t want to come until I had accom- plished something. I was tempted to come right away and be sympathized with and whimper and tell my troubles.” “T wish you had,” laughed she. “I don’t see why you didn’t.” “T felt it would be a poor return for your friendship, a poor use to put it to. So, in- stead, I set you up into a bogy.”’ “Bogy?” said she, her fine eyes opening wide. “Something to push me up to the mark, to make me do things,” he explained. “I told myself that you expected me to do something, that you’d be disgusted if I didn’t, that I’d lose your friendship.” She beamed with pleasure. ‘That isn’t so,” said she. “I’m not such a poor crea- ture. Still, you make me feel that I’ve been helping you.” “T should say you had! You’ve caused me to stagger to my feet years sooner than I should if you hadn’t talked to me in the rain three weeks ago last Sunday.” “You’ve thought out a plan?” “A little better than that. I’ve started.” She leaned forward in her eagerness to hear. He explained in the brief, clear way that comes natural to the man with the clear-thinking mind. A few days after their walk, an acquaintance from the state capital told him an inside story of politics: Abe Harrow had got, through a group of New York financiers, a chance to make himself rich at one stroke by selling out Jim Neal. Harrow, being a sensible man with no fond- ness for the degradation of his utter depend- David Graham Phillips 459 ence on the tyrannical Neal, had seized this chance to be one of the masters instead of a lowly slave-herder. He and Rud Ratcliff, the handy man of the Republican machine and the secret handy man of the Democratic machine, had formed a combination with a federal judge. The three had thrown cer- tain of Neal’s best properties into the hands of a receiver, whence they were about to emerge the property of the New-Yorkers, with Harrow, Ratcliff, and a convenient cousin of Judge Francis large owners of stock and bonds. This state of affairs, Clarke explained to Laura, meant a new deal in politics; and a new deal, with Jim Neal eliminated, meant a chance for Andrew Clarke. “But how?” inquired the girl. She was sitting back in her chair now; the eagerness had left her face. “Why, I saw Ratcliff—I’ve known him all my life, and we like each other—person- ally. I said to him: ‘I see now, Rud, what a fool I made of myself, beating Jim Neal to elect 2 man like Abe Harrow. I’ve learned my lesson.’” At the mention of Ratcliff, the notorious “Rud the Rat,” the slyest, shrewdest, most efficient political rascal in the state, Laura shrank back. Andy could feel her shocked disappointment. She now said in a strained voice, “What lesson did you mean?” “The obvious lesson,” replied Andy. “Not to strike out until your blow will land. Then I went on to say to him that I was beginning to let common sense teach me that practical life isn’t choosing between good and evil—because that ideal choice never offers except in sermons and novels —but choosing between the lesser evil and the greater.” “And you meant that?” said the girl. “Certainly. Isn’t it so?” She was silent. “He understood. We shook hands, and— well, I’m to speak for the ticket in the pres- idential campaign this summer and fall. And the embargo is to be lifted off me as a lawyer. And the word’s on the way down here to the local machine leaders to give out the truth about my arrest and my whole fight with Neal. Harrow is to write mea public letter, thanking me for my services in preventing the election of Neal.” A dead silence, he gazing calmly at her, she staring straight ahead with features set.

Page 28

460 Her face seemed coldly white, but that might be an illusion of the twilight. At last he said, “As I expected, you don’t approve.” After a pause she said, ‘Do you?” “Certainly not,” replied he. could I?” “Then, why?” said she. roused to passionate life. peated almost fiercely. “Because I must.” She sank back with a sigh. Her hands dropped listlessly to her lap. “What else can I do? suggest?” he inquired. “Oh, I thought—I imagined— No mat- ter. What’s the use in talking about it?” “Tell me what you wanted me to do?”’ “Well, you see, I’m not practical. What I liked about the thing you did, last spring, was that it was unpractical—splendidly un- practical.” “T destroyed myself to accomplish— what that is of any value to the world? The net actual result of my moral fireworks is Abe Harrow in the United States Senate and myself with all my hopes and possibilities of doing good in public life wrecked, ruined.” She made no reply. “Tsn’t that true?” “T can’t help seeing your point of view,” said she. “And yet—” She paused. “What?” he urged gently. “I beg you to be entirely frank.” “TI pictured you keeping up the fight along that line, building yourself here, little by little, but solidly. You know, you said to me that one could not build solidly on lies.”’ “You don’t suspect me of having sold out to them?” “Not for money, or anything like that,” replied she. ‘But—you’ve given up the fight.” “No, indeed!” cried he. “I’ve simply taken a fresh start, a start right. Your idea of what I should have done is the idea that attracts me. But, unfortunately, it won’t work.” “Why not?” said she. “Because we aren’t free to do what we please in this world. We’ve got to do as nearly the right thing as the power of others over us and over those we want to help will permit us to do.” She looked at him hesitatingly, finally ventured, “I don’t like to—to hurt you, but “How Suddenly she “Why?” she re- What can you The Compromise —you’re not at all the man I thought you were.” “T feared you’d say that,” replied he. “But I’m glad you’ve got at the truth about me. I want your friendship and your help. I think I need both more than I need any- thing else in the world. In fact, I’m sure of it. But I don’t want them on false pre- tenses. Thank God, private life isn’t like public life. In one’s personal relations one can be entirely frank. And it’s through frank and honest personal relations that one holds to the right course, no matter how much one’s compelled to tack.” “T’ve given you my friendship,” said she, “and I couldn’t take it back if I would. But —I’ve lost interest.” “Because I’m not a hero but only a man?” “Yes,” said she. “I don’t say you’re not doing right, doing what’s best. But—I can’t help it—my idol’s in pieces.” Another long silence, neither looking at the other. Then-he said: “Yes, I’ll say it, anyhow. I came here with the idea of asking you—not sentimentally but soberly and friendlily—to think about—about our marrying—youand me. Notasa definitely settled thing, but as a possibility.” “T had thought of that,” said she, in a matter-of-course tone. The darkness, deeper round him than round her, concealed his look of wonder. Never had he been so taken by surprise. “Not that I was in love with you—of course, not that,’’ she went on smoothly. “But it seemed to me, from what I’d read of you and heard of you, that you were the sort of man I could care for. So I put myself where I could find out about you—and you about me.” “What a strange girl you are.” “Todothat? Oh,no. Womenarealways doing just that.” “To admit it, then.” “Perhaps,” said she indifferently. “But why not—when I’ve found out that you aren’t a man IJ could join forces with, that we couldn’t help each other to do what I’ve been dreaming of doing?” “And what have you dreamed of doing?” he inquired. She did not reply. “Something vague?” he suggested. “T didn’t know exactly what it would be,” she admitted. “How could I? I’m not able to foresee the future.” “Well, the thing you dreamed of is the

Page 29

“SM OO ew OD OD FF ' | ! i thing I offer. It hasn’t wings—Laura—and it doesn’t soar out of sight in the blue heavens singing an angelic song. On the contrary, it plods very clumsily along the humble earth, and sometimes it even crawls. But always in the right direction—or as nearly the right direction as the difficulties permit. That doesn’t attract you?” “Please never speak of it again,” said she, gentle but final. “T’m sorry,” said he. “You are the very woman I needed. Together we’d have done a great deal and been happy in doing it. However, I’ll do the best I can, alone.” He happened to turn so that the light from in- doors fell upon his face. Never had his features shown his strength so plainly. The tears sprang to her eyes. She rose. “Please go,” she pleaded. ‘I’m sick and sore. You understand?” “Perfectly,” said he. “And we are still friends?” asked she, with a woman’s instinct to hold on even as she let go. “We can’t help being friends—always,” replied he. ‘You do me good in spite of yourself. If I had known in advance what you were going to say this evening, I’d have stayed away. I’d have been afraid it would drive me toward—something I’m fighting away from. But instead—somehow’—he laughed cheerfully—‘‘heaven only knows how—you’ve helped me, though apparently you’re unconsciously doing your best to—to do the other thing. If you were only a little more tolerant! Still, if you were, you’d no longer be you, I guess.” “You don’t quite understand,” said she. “T don’t think what you’re doing is bad, only that it’s—it’s disappointing. I am sort of—of ashamed of myself for feeling like that. It makes me seem—seem—” : “A moral prig?” suggested he, with rail- ery. “Exactly,” laughed she. “And the truth is that I don’t like it, not so much because it’s below your moral standard as because— because—it’s—weak.”” She put forth that last word very hesita- tingly. His hearty laugh reassured her. “Tt is weak,” said he. “I don’t like weakness,” she went on. “And you aren’t weak. Not even if you do do weak things.” “No,” said he thoughtfully, “I am not weak. And I’m glad to be reminded of it— just now.” He took her hand, held it in a David Graham Phillips 461 merely friendly way. “It was lucky I came this evening. You’re my good angel, in spite of yourself.”’ “That’s very flattering,” laughed she. “But I don’t exaggerate myself. You'd go right on. You don’t need anybody.” “T’m not so sure of that,” replied he. “Anyhow, whether it helps the knight to win the tourney or not, it’s pleasant to have the lady’s glove on his helmet. And I’ve put yours there, Laura—and there it’ll stay, whether you approve or not.” She laughed—and drew her hand away. “And let me tell you,” he went on, “that I suspect—I believe—I know that you’re like a great many of the formidable sort of people—not nearly so unsympathetic and dreadful as your creed. I don’t give up hope of you.” She was silent. “ And—I consider myself bound. I—’” “No, no,” she cried. ‘That isn’t fair.” “TI consider myself bound,” repeated he with compelling earnestness. “I need it. You must not refuse.” She looked at him searchingly. “ You— need it?” “T must have it.” “Very well,” she said. “I think I under- stand. I—accept. But—Andrew—I can’t give anything. I know that sounds cold. But I can’t.” “You’d not be the help you are if you were the sort that can,” said he. Ill THE next morning he heard the outer door of his office open; so he was looking up expectantly when Jessica Bushrod appeared on the threshold of his inner office. She had on a new dress, a most becoming one. Like all her dresses, it displayed her figure to ad- vantage—or was the figure so remarkable that it displayed itself to advantage, what- ever the dress? The instant his glance fell upon that piquant face of hers, he realized that memory had not done full justice to her beauty—no, her prettiness. There was just her peculiar charm, that she was not beautiful but pretty—made to hold in the arms, made to caress. She was smiling—a smile that was sweet and pleading about the mouth, a little roguish in the eyes when she slowly lifted them. “Missed me much?” said she. He had also been forgetting how young

Page 30

462 she was, how deliciously young; yes, he had overlooked this while he was pillorying her as an embodiment of all moral baseness. The most vexatious thing about a woman of the girlish sort—the sort that remains infantile until it loses its charms and trans- forms suddenly into the sort of woman no man cares about—the vexatious thing about a quarrel with such a woman, when she is still in the bloom, is that, no matter how grievously in the wrong she is, the man cannot but feel even more in the wrong. Looking at her, Clarke felt ashamed of his harsh judgments, felt that he was a cruel tyrant. He went straight to the point. Rising, he said gently: “Jessica, I’ve been think- ing all sorts of severe things about you. I apologize. I don’t blame you.” She became radiant. ‘Then that’s all settled! Oh, I’ve suffered terribly! Haven’t you?” “Tt hasn’t been easy,” admitted he. She had completely disconcerted him. What was the meaning of this air of everything being as before? “But,” he went on, “I cured myself. Not so quickly as you did. Still, I finally managed it.” “But I’m not cured!” cried she with a fas- cinating toss of her little head to straighten her big gay hat. “I don’t care for anybody but you. I’ve thought about nothing but you since you were so cruel to me. Oh, I don’t blame you,” she added hastily. “But you can’t expect me to understand politics or deep subjects. Somehow, we were both right—and it simply had to be. But now that Uncle Jim’s married to that awful dancer— Andy, she’s thirty-seven years younger than he!” She had seated herself now. He was regarding her uneasily—was fiercely re- minding himseli how shamefully she had treated him, how completely she had ex- posed herself as shallow, inconstant, mer- cenary—was wishing he knew how to get rid of her, yet was by no means certain that, if he did know how, he would use his knowledge. Certainly a man would not be aman who would strongly wish to be freed of a presence so fresh, so sweet, so gay. “T suppose you’re surprised that I came to see you?” pursued she. ‘‘When I sent my note, I didn’t know how horrid people were to you here—on account of that foolish thing you did. Andy, I’m sure you simply drank too much, and didn’t know where you were The Compromise going. Anyhow, I’d forgive anything. You can’t say I don’t love you.” What should he say?—what do? “Well, when your horrid note came,” she went on, again straightening the big hat with the same charming gesture, “I was— furious! And then Sallie Temple told me, and I knew you didn’t want to embarrass her by coming to the house. So—I came. You think me forward?” She tossed her head and smiled mischievously. “I don’t care if you do think so. I wanted to come, and I came. I always do what I want. More than ever, now that Uncle Jim— You haven’t heard what he did for us?” “No,” said Andy, sitting down. What a sparkling, bubbling stream it was, dancing musically and merrily on! Shallow, yes— and not at all a woman—like Laura Knowles —but so—so—how she did charm all the senses! Laura, for instance, had quite as much and even more beautiful hair; yet why did one never think of her hair, and why did this frivolous person’s hair insist on getting into one’s thoughts so tantalizingly? “When he married, he gave papa the paper, and settled ten thousand a year on me. Isn’t that splendid?” “Splendid,” said Andy mechanically. He was saying to himself, “This is not the woman for me,” over and over again—and was longing to have her within his arms, her soft, warm lips caressing his while she with glowing eyes and languorous voice would murmur all sorts of foolish, meaningless, thrilling love speeches. “And now I’m. free!” she cried. ‘And papa isn’t angry with you any more. He’s down on Uncle Jim—now that he’s got the paper and isn’t afraid of being put out. Papa’s so high principled—like you, Andy. He’s even threatening to say disagreeable things about him in the paper.” Said Andy hoarsely, ‘“‘When are you and Joe Redding to be married?” She looked confused, but only a shade. “T hate him!” she cried energetically. “I’ve never let him touch me—except to hold my hand a little. And usually I had my glove on.” Those childish words. But the woman —the fire and longing that glowed in her eyes— How weak a man was, on that one side! “T too am engaged,” said Andy. “An engagement seems to mean more to me than to you.”

Page 31

TE gees aa AT TT TR EI SRN ST oe She sprang up, white, her eyes glittering. “Voul Another girl!” she cried. ‘“‘ You!” “Tf you, why not I?” “That’s—different. Nobody expects girls to be—too serious. But—you do such a thing! I’d not have believed you could be so—despicable!”’ She had some difficulty in pronouncing that last word, which was rather beyond her vocabulary. It added to the charm and the force of her denunciation. He flushed, and his eyes fell. “T can’t believe you would do a low thing,”’ she went on passionately. Her emphasis on the “you” each time harried his nerves, made him feel absurdly guilty. “The last time I saw you, you wanted me to do about the lowest thing a man can stoop to.”’ “Oh—in politics,” said she impatiently. “But every man has to do low things in business, or politics, or not get on. So they don’t count. But to be treacherous to a woman who loved you, whorespected you—”’ He made no attempt to stem the torrent of jealous rage. She could not possibly be convinced that she was wrong. What a strange, wayward moral sense, What a fas- cinating mouth—and he could be kissing it, if he would only seize her in his arms. She did care for him, in her way—in the same way that he cared for her—“and always shall,” he groaned—and what a vivid way to care! How cold and placid and unsatis- fying it made the other and finer ways of caring seem! “You’re not the man I thought!” she was saying. ‘‘ You aren’t the man I looked up to and loved.”” And away she flew, leaving him astounded, confused, feeling guilty where there was no guilt, wishing he had tried to detain her, relieved that she was gone, that the strain was taken from his failing strength. IV Tue following days were crowded full of events for Andy Clarke—most luckily, he felt. Rud Ratcliff more than kept his word, because he had a strong personal lik- ing for Andy, and because it was wise to make as heavy as might be the debt of grati- tude of a man with such possibilities of usefulness. As the Rud Ratcliffs always appreciate, a most valuable asset of every political machine is its hold of one kind and David Graham Phillips 463 another upon some men of principle and high character, seemingly absolutely inde- pendent and actually almost so. The Har- row letter was published, the leading local notabilities in politics and its allied businesses changed their attitude toward Clarke, and the sheep-like crowd promptly changed also. Almost overnight the young man was res- urrected from the political tomb in which, because of the peculiar circumstances, the machine crowd could have kept him buried alive for years, if not for his natural life. And the “dear people” were fancying that they had always believed in him. Andy was rehabilitated. With everybody but Laura Knowles. After two busy weeks during which his career compelled all his thoughts he called on her. She was friendly, was frankly glad to see him, but as they talked he felt the barrier she had fixed between them. He resisted the temptation to reopen and argue the matter at issue, the subject of the prac- tical and the ideal. To argue would be only to confirm her in her characteristically fem- inine belief. Women—sheltered from real contacts with practical life by their male relatives and protectors, or at least by their sex, and usually by both—could not be reasoned into seeing that a code entirely fitting for heaven or hell was a grotesque misfit for earth, which is not heaven or hell, but a varying mixture of the two. Instead of arguing, he ignored. He talked of her work and of his, drew from her the plans she had for her art department, laid before her in detail his own plans. He was writing a speech, a very important speech both for himself and for the party. He consulted her about it, interested her in it, gave her the manuscript to comment on. And she was a genuine help to him— wherever what he was doing did not clash with her idea that right is always right and wrong always wrong, and that whoever does not tell the whole truth tells the wickedest of lies. 'When he thanked her for the sug- gestions about the speech, he said: “You have a mind for public affairs, a real and a rare gift. You could be tremen- dously useful to some man in his career.” She colored and eyed him suspiciously. But his face was innocently friendly; appar- ently he had not had the faintest intention indirectly to raise the forbidden subject. Said she, “I’ve a career of my own.” He shook his head Jaughingly. “A man

Page 32

464 can’t make a career, a real career, alone. Nor can a woman. A career worth while depends on usefulness to the whole public, and the public is half male and half female. A big fine career calls for a man and a woman working together.” She sat quiet, listening. “And it isn’t necessary that they love each other, either,” he went on. “In fact, love—the only kind of love I know anything about—is more likely to prevent a man, or a woman, from doing anything worth while. No, what ought to be between the man and the woman working together is comrade- ship. That’s far better and more enduring than love.” “T don’t agree with you,” said she. “But then, you and I don’t agree on any of the fundamental things.” He abruptly changed the subject— appar- ently. “Do you like your stepfather’s decision in the railway-franchise case last week?” “No,” replied she. Then she flushed hotly. “I suppose you think he decided for the railway because he was afraid he wouldn’t be renominated next fall if he didn’t.” “He certainly would not be renominated if he had decided for the city,” replied Andy. “As I was coming here,” she went on, The Compromise “And that suit was one of those cases where there is right and wrong on both sides so evenly balanced that men can honestly differ about it.” “And you think Judge Morton could do such a base thing?” “Not base,” he objected mildly. “On the contrary, if he did it to get another term he did what was best. He can now go on being the just judge, a big value to the community. If he had gone out of his way to ruin himself politically for an abstraction, his place would have been taken by some corrupt creature of the machine.” “T think all that is frightful!’’ cried she in a low, passionate voice. “When you say those things I almost hate you.” But he held his self-control. Said he, “You judge as is to be expected of a person who lives apart from life, and has all its unpleasant work, its dirty work, done for her.” “Maybe so,” admitted she. “But please don’t say those things to me, Andy. Leave me to my delusions, if they are delu- sions.” “T’ve got to be myself with you, Laura. And I’ve got to remind you, every time the subject comes up, that we who lead the “I was wondering what I'd have done if I had found myself in

Page 33

ere tly active life have to deal with human beings according to their intelligence as it is, not according to what their intelligence ought to be.” But he knew he had made no impression whatever. On the subject of the ideal and the practical her mind was made up. Fur- ther, he felt that he never could open her eyes to seeing what he saw. Her family and her sex enabled, indeed compelled, her to lead one kind of life; his position as a man of purpose and ambition forced upon him a life of a wholly different kind. Looking round him, he noted the two classes of women—those injuring the men about them because they were bigoted idealists who would have nothing to do with practical life; those injuring the men about them be- cause they had thrown away all moral standards, had gone in frankly and greedily for the grossest materialism of culture and luxury, and were encouraging their men to get position and money, anywhere, anyhow. It was impossible for him to decide which class of women was the stronger force for evil; he rather thought that the bigots were. After all, wasn’t there much to be said for the Jessicas? Not enough to make it wise for a man to trust himself to one of them. But still something. David Graham Phillips I guess there isn't any compromise I'd not have stooped to ~ V Towarb the end of the school year Laura came into his office late one afternoon. There was an instantly noticeable change in her expression, in her whole appearance. As he advanced to greet her, he said sym- pathetically: ““What’s the matter, Laura? What’s happened?” “T’ve come to apologize,” replied she in her habitual direct way, but her usual spirit was lacking. “For what?” inquired he, puzzled. “For—for condemning you,” said she, seating herself wearily. ‘I was a fool. I believed what they’d been teaching me since babyhood. And as the truth never touched my life I thought you were—were dishonest and crafty and _ self-deceiving when you acted sensibly—and when you tried to teach me some sense.” He smiled cheerfully. “So all the ideals have been shattered,” said he. “Well, I’m glad of that. I was afraid it would never happen. Tell me about it.” “The principal called me into his office at the noon recess,” she went on. “He explained to me that the politicians on the school board had gotten after him. They

Page 34

466 want a lot of changes made—in the teachers and in the courses. He argued with them. He yielded what he had to, he saved what he could—and it was a great deal, every- thing that’s very important.” Clarke laughed. ‘You see!” he cried. “Yes, I see,” replied she. “But wait till I tell you all. He yielded where he had to, because they’d have put him out if he had stood up for the ideal, and would have put a worthless man in his place.” “Precisely,” said Clarke. “But I haven’t confessed the worst. He told me I’d have to take in as my assistant a girl who isn’t fit to teach—a bad-tempered ignorant creature. And he showed me how I’d have to rearrange the courses in—oh, such a stupid way, and would have to cut out some of the very best things.” “And so you resigned,” said Andy with quiet, good-humored mockery. She laughed, half anger, half self-ridicule. “‘No, I agreed to the changes. If I don’t, the department will go to that worthless girl, and all I’ve done will be undone.” “Precisely,” said Andy Clarke. “Well, I accept your apology.” . He looked at her with amused yet serious eyes. “Now, Laura, you’ll come into your own. You’ve begun to reside on the earth among your fellow beings instead of in the clouds among the angels. And I predict you'll find your new friends not such unbearably bad .com- pany.” “As I was coming here,” she went on, “I was wondering what I’d have done if I had found myself in the situation you were in early last spring. I guess there isn’t any compromise I’d not have stooped to.” She laughed bitterly. “Oh, you ought to have seen me—how eagerly I threw over my ideals when it was my own career that was in danger.” Suddenly he struck the desk a vigorous blow with the palm of his hand. “The very thing!” he cried. “Rud Ratcliff will fix it. I'll get him on the long distance this evening at supper-time. He’ll make those petty rascals of the school board let the high school alone. He’ll be glad to do it for me. It’s lucky I made up with Rud—eh?”’ . She looked dazed, confused. Rud the Rat, The Compromise a rescuing angel! Her hitherto beautifully ordered moral universe was a whirling chaos. “By the way,” pursued he, “how about that suggestion I once made to you—as to our thinking of marrying?” She started up in a panic. “No, not that!” she cried. “I don’t concede that. Not marriage without love! I’ve got to hold on to something.” “But I don’t mean an engagement,” he reminded her. ‘Only thinking of marriage as a possibility. And I don’t mean—that is, I do mean that we would feel for each other something far finer and more inspiring than—than what’s called love.” He was standing smiling down at her. She was looking up at him with a grave, frightened expression. He took both her hands. “A possibility?” he urged. She drew her hands away, opened her small bag, and took out a newspaper clip- ping. She gave it to him without raising her eyes. He read an announcement of the breaking off of the engagement between Joe Redding and Jessica Bushrod. Said he with an unconcern he believed unaffected, “Well, what of it?” “Doesn’t that make a difference?” she asked hesitatingly, timidly. “Not the slightest.” His voice responded splendidly. Could there be completer proof of his cure?—especially as he was taken by surprise, didn’t even know she knew about his former infatuation. Said she, “‘You—you are free to care for some one else?” “Tam offering you what I never gave to any woman.” She looked at him gravely. don’t love me?” “T couldn’t give you the kind of love I once gave. You wouldn’t want it.” “How do you know what I want and what I don’t want?” said she quietly. “Then you still love her? You know, I’ve the right to ask.” “TI am offering you the highest and best there is in me, Laura.” A brief silence, and she said with a sweet and gentle dignity that made answer im- possible, ‘Then I guess we’ll wait.” “Then you: Eprror’s Note.—This series of stories dealing with the interplay of love and politics in the Middle West is ended here by the death of David Graham Phillips, January 24, 1911. “The Compromise” was one of the last short stories written by Mr. Phillips, and was completed only a few weeks before his death.

Page 35

What the Heart Knoweth IN SOME THINGS IT KNOWS MORE THAN THE HEAD By Mary Germaine Illustrated by John Alonzo Williams F I could have talked with another woman it might have helped some. And it might not, for I have a suspi- cion that women do not always tell the truth to each other when it comes to a sub- ject that really counts. And mine counted. I wondered how many women had wrestled with it before—and never let on. I did speak to Juliet one morning, a heavenly morning in May. It was the kind of morning to persuade a woman into happiness even against her will, but I was wild with discon- tent. The sunshine pouring across the floor, the scent of the syringa-bushes outside the window, didn’t soothe me a bit. It irritated me even to hear the birds singing in the apple-trees. Life was out of harmony with it all, or life represented by Millicent Rives. “Juliet,” I blurted out, sewing desper- ately, “is there such a thing as love, actual love?” A painful-looking blush spread over Juliet’s face. “How can you ask such a question,” she answered, “when you have Philip?” “Oh, yes, Philip,” I said uncomfortably. Then I gathered up courage. “Do you call the humdrum relations between Philip and me love?” I flashed forth angrily. Juliet’s delicate skin still burned. “I don’t see why you want to talk on such a strange subject,” she complained. “Every woman believes in love.” “Oh, does she?” I muttered over my work. “Or is it a pretense that she hangs to?”’ Something came over me all of a sudden, and I left the room abruptly and went up to my own chamber, where I sat down by the window and cried bitterly. ‘Fool, fool, fool,” I said between my sobs, to cry my heart out because there was no love in the world, reallove. But what a great, empty place this world is, even on a beautiful May morning, when love is cut out, when you realize that you’ve been led on by illusions, when everything has gone wrong. I believe I should have cried all day, but I heard carriage-wheels in the yard and knew that Philip had returned unexpectedly. And not a glad throb over his return. “T’m not asking any questions,” Philip said when, after lunch, he got me alone in the library. “But if your cousin worries you, why don’t you send her home?” This obtuseness was so like a man, or so like Philip, that I laughed. “Juliet!” I ejaculated. “Why; I worry her!” Philip looked hard at me. “I never knew you to cry over worrying other people,”’ he said dryly. Poor old Phil! Why didn’t I tell him all? The straight, quick cut would have been easier to bear, quicker to heal, than the ragged thrust I dealt him later. “Put on your hat, Milly, and come out with me,” he said somewhat peremptorily. “Tt will do you good. You stay in the house too much.” And so in this commonplace way the first outbreak was settled, and I rode all the afternoon while Philip, who is a doctor, made professional calls and talked to me about mumps and measles—a fine prescrip- tion for overwrought nerves and an aching heart. And Juliet haunted me with her big, watchful eyes and disapproving mouth. It seemed almost as though she was falling in love with Philip while I was falling out. The satire of it! I stole a look at my hus- band’s face. It was a picture of manlike, serene unconsciousness. The evil desire came over me to hurt him, to make him feel as badly as I did myself. “Philip,” I said, “you bore me to death!” Written down it looks petty and inconse- quential, but I remember that I said it seriously enough. “Heavens!” Philip replied. ‘What ails the child now!” He placed the whip back in the socket and put his arm around me, drawing me close and kissing me on the cheek. I was petted like a spoiled child— and that was all he understood. 467

Page 36

What the Heart Knoweth * Dear man,” I said, “I've been making you a lot of trouble, but I'm going to get strong now. And I'm going to try to make you happy “Milly,” he said, “your eyes are just the color of chicory flowers, and you are irre- sistible when you sulk. Do you know it?” It is hard to write of small things which happen day after day and explain how they finally culminate in something fateful and unexpected. There was a peaceful routine in the old red-brick house that did not vary much, Philip’s grandmother established it, I dare say. And Philip was perfectly con- tented with being a doctor in a country town where he knew every man, woman, and child and was willing to be burdened with their ailments. He had all the money he needed, and cared nothing for fame. His idea of happiness was to wear an old coat, forget to shave himself, and smoke a pipe under the rose-arbor while he counted the cabbages in the kitchen-garden. And he seemed to like me best in a faded muslin with my hair braided down my back. In this pose Juliet thought him adorable, while I, his wife, thought him stupid. If the baby had lived I might have settled down and given myself up, heart and soul, to taking care of him. But my little, blue- eyed baby boy died almost without living at all. And I almost died over his loss. It ought to have brought Philip and me closer together. But it didn’t. He had wanted a boy—how much I did not know till he took that little dead baby up in his arms and I saw the disappointment on his face. It seemed as though he, too, had found a tragedy in our marriage. There on the table by my bed was the basket tied with blue ribbons, fitted up with the little clothes I had stitched by hand, the fluffy white powder-puff, the delicate soap, all the things I had planned during those few delicious hours when I had forgotten the cloud and thought only of the coming joy. And it had been used once. “Take it away!” I cried. “I never want to see it again. And take away the cradle! Oh, Philip! you were rocked in that cradle, and now it will—always be empty. Why couldn’t I have had this one thing left me —this one thing out of life!” But when the nurse began packing away the things I cried for her to stop, for no one should touch them but myself. And so for days they lay around me till I gathered strength enough to rest on my elbow and fold up all the small belongings my baby would never wear. And all the time Juliet was watching me

Page 37

as if she were saying to herself, “It serves her right.” Ah, did it serve me right? This is what I wanted to know, what I tried to decide. But how about Philip? The first time he took me down-stairs in his arms and carried me out under the shade of the apple-trees, I lay back in my chair under the cool greenness, a wave of thank- fulness sweeping over me just to be alive, and I determined to battle with life strongly and make Philip happy, if I could not be happy myself. A woman’s fallacy! As though a man could not pierce through such a gauzy pretense as that. “Dear man,” I said, “I’ve been making you a lot of trouble, but I’m going to get strong now. And I’m going to try to make you happy.” Philip sighed. “I’d rather see youhappy,”’ he answered soberly. And then I noticed the change in him, the gray that had begun to show in the straight lock of hair on his forehead, the pucker between his eyebrows, a kind of dead look in his eyes as though—dear Lord! the truth flashed over me in an instant. Philip was tired of it all, too. He no longer loved me. “Philip,” I whispered, “you don’t care for me any more!” ‘The words slipped out be- fore I had time to think and hold them back. “Ves, I care,” Philip replied. But there was no spontaneity in his voice. It was just the same as if he said, “ Yes, I thank you,” for a cigar, or “the weather’s fine,” when it was pouring pitchforks and he was drenched to the skin. But a man hates to display his feelings. A woman generally has to take his love for granted and draw her conclusions from signs and portents instead of any actual statement. And I think I should have called myself mistaken had not Philip turned with evident relief to Juliet, who was coming out across the yard to join us. It struck me that there was significance in the looks they exchanged, and I sank down among my cushions wondering what it all meant and how it would all end. I had some sort of a relapse after this, and my strength came back so slowly that it was fall before I was around the house again. Juliet had taken my active place, and I seemed like a shadow in my own home. “You need your baby,” Philip said com- passionately. “He would have brought the roses back to your cheeks. But, Milly, the Mary Germaine 469 little fellow’s gone, and your grieving can’t bring him back again. I’m sharing the sorrow with you, dear.” Yes, he was sharing the sorrow with me, and that other sorrow, too, the one that counted more even than my little boy’s death. The mark of it was on his face as well as on mine. A terrible dread of the future came over me. “T want to go away!” I cried, shrinking back from the firelight. We were sitting in the library before some blazing apple-wood logs. The harvest moon hung, yellow-red, in the blue sky and shone in through the window as it might on lovers. “Philip, I want to go away.” “Yes, I’ve thought of it,” he answered slowly. “The change will do you good. I wrote to Aunt Harriet up in Philadelphia last night.” “Without telling me!” “T knew you would want to go.” It was true. I could hardly wait for the day to come that was going to take me away from the dear old red-brick house, and from Philip. “Tt is selfish for you to be going away in this fashion and leave him here alone,” Juliet said. “He feels as badly about the baby’s death as you do. He will be miser- able here alone.” I did not know that Juliet’s mild eyes could flash so hotly. “T’m not going to leave him here alone,” I answered coolly. “You will be here with him. Your mother is coming, and you two are going to stay here with him.” “Ah!” Juliet murmured. She could not hide the flood of joy that transformed her face. I plunged with feverish energy into my preparations. Philip drove me to the station. The leaves had begun to fall, and the road was a russet carpet over which we wheeled noise- lessly. And it was a still day which made the silence between us all the more notice- able. Our good-by, as I boarded the train, was almost a mute one. I gave him a limp hand, which he squeezed and then dropped heavily. I looked hopelessly into his eyes, and he looked back hopelessly into mine. “Milly, take good care of yourself,” he whispered. “Phil, don’t—worry,” I replied. And then Istumbled to my seat and stared out the car window into actually nothing | |

Page 38

470 but a gray mist that clouded my eyes all the way till I stumbled out of the train at Philadelphia into Aunt Harriet’s arms. Aunt Harriet is a great big woman who has the reputation of being awfully kind hearted. She heaps goodness on one all the time. She heaped goodness on me till I felt that I was smothering under blankets. She cried with me over the lost baby, and she cried by herself over my hollow eyes and white cheeks. And she wept because I was parted even temporarily from Philip, and she wept again because Philip was parted even temporarily from me. Such exuber- ance of emotion was enough to drive all the emotion out of me. I could think coldly of Philip living in the warmth of Juliet’s smiles, of my dear old room empty and for- saken, of that empty cradle stored away in the garret, even of my own empty arms. I think my heart was frozen. There was no love in it to keep it warm. “You'll be going back before long, child,” Aunt Harriet said, eying me benevolently over the breakfast-table one morning after my visit had extended over several weeks. “You’ve behaved like an angel, though I could see that it worried you to be away from your own home and your husband. Well, my pet, cheer up; I hate to have you leave, but Philip will be coming after you soon now. Deary me! I hope I haven’t done wrong telling you. Perhaps the dear boy meant to surprise you.” “Td rather know,” I answered. “But I shall go home myself—to-morrow.” And Aunt Harriet did not notice that the hand which held my coffee-cup shook as though I had a fit of ague. I arose at dawn the next morning and did my packing. I had planned to take an early train to escape Aunt Harriet. Her happy advice was more than I could stand. But she too arose early and contrived an innocent surveillance, disarranging the hab- its of a lifetime to breakfast an hour earlier than usual and attend me to the station. And she prolonged her affectionate adieus till I was obliged to jump rashly for the train after it was in motion. I almost wished that I could be crushed beneath the wheels and avoid this hated return home, to Philip and the future. But some one took me by the arm and pulled me up the steps. I was bewildered for an instant. Then I heard some one speak my name. “Milly! Milly!” What the Heart Knoweth All was confusion, but my pulse gave a quick leap. That voice! It rang in my ears with the old familiar ring. The years of my married life dropped away, and I was a girl again. For my old friend Robert Farnham was holding my hands, Robert, my old lover. He seemed metamor- phosed into some sort of a heavenly mes- senger of hope, and I fell, nearly fainting, into his arms. “How strange!” I exclaimed weakly, as I struggled for consciousness. “It’s fate,” he replied. When I looked up I met the comprehension in his eyes. It was Robert, the same old Robert who had mended my broken dolls and who now was going to try to mend my broken heart. He took me to a seat and sat down beside me. “Are you going home?” I asked. “Yes,” Robert said sadly. “There’s no place like the old plantation. I shall work there till I die, I reckon.” I wonder if he knew what a tumult those words raised in me. He was going back to the old place where I had lived as a girl, where I had been happy. I shot a tremulous look at him. Oh, to go back there and begin over again! To bea girl again and have one more try at life! “Is everything the same there?” I ques- tioned. “I wish—I was going, too.” “Just the same,” he replied, with a quick look at my face. But I could not bear pity from the man I had thrown over to marry Philip. A kind of proud shame rose in me, and I began to talk of my new home—and of Philip. But all the time that tantalizing picture of the old place, painted in inviting colors, danced before my eyes, till finally it possessed me completely with the desire to go back again, and be lulled once more into peace of mind and the joy of life. I tried to cast off the spell and resume the little farce I had been acting for Robert’s benefit, but my words rang so false that I stopped in despair. The familiar station was drawing near, and I pretended absorp- tion in picking up my belongings and getting myself ready to leave the train; but my mind was still possessed with the desire to go on, on and on, away from my troubles into the West Virginia hills. The very train I was on would take me there, would take me almost to the door of the old home. Why, when I was already on the way, must I stop? I tried to overcome the overwhelming im-

Page 39

pulse as the train slowed up. I rose dizzily, intent upon wrenching myself free from the temptation. I swayed irresolutely. Robert leaned forward and grasped my hand. ‘“ Milly,” he said, bending over me, “if things go wrong, write to me—or come. I'll help you.” An intolerable repulsion blotted out my affection for the old red-brick house, for living innumerable days there with Philip. I did not want to see the room again, with its memories of the little baby who never cuddled on my arm, but lay cold and dead in the cradle. I dropped back into the seat. “T can’t go back,’ I said. “I can’t. There’s no use trying.” I sat with clenched hands while the train stopped, giving a short glimpse of the little station and village road, then laboriously got under way and pulled out. I was going back to my old home, my girl- hood home, going back to the time before Philip had come, before he had courted me and married me, before I had heard those solemn words, “Until death us do part.” They knelled in my ears, again and again, while I gazed into the whirling landscape of blurred russet and gray and tried to com- prehend what had happened. We were parted, but not by death. Life itself had parted us. And I was free. It was a cold, dreary night when I reached the old home.. Nothing had been touched since mother’s death, and I groped my way through shuttered rooms peopled with ghosts—ghosts of the dear ones who were gone, ghosts of days and pleasant hours and hopes, and the ghost of Philip. He seemed more dead to me than those that had gone beyond. The old caretaker threw open the windows, and while she was preparing some- thing for me to eat I sat down on the old mahogany sofa in the sitting-room and tried to think. But I could not think. My mind was on fire. I jumped up and began pacing from one end of the floor to the other. A letter must be written to Philip. Yes, I must write to Philip. I stretched out a sheet of paper on the desk of the old secretary, and stared at it. What should I write? I lived over the two years of my married life, lived minutely the last two weeks that marked the end. I suffered a torment of doubt. At length I deliberately took up the pen from the tar- nished silver ink-stand, and wrote Philip the truth. It was a cruelly frank letter. But Mary Germaine Siatin hee a, @ MBAR ne Robert, my old lover, seemed metamorphosed into some sort of a heavenly messenger of hope, and I fell, nearly fainting, into his arms

Page 40

472 I finished it and signed myself, firmly: “‘Good-by forever. I am no longer—Your Millicent.”” For I had written him that I would not consent to our being miserable together, as so many married people were; that I was going to give us both a chance for . happiness; and that he must not come to me. “Juliet will help,” I said, “for she thinks the world of you, and I don’t.” It was easy to slip back into old habits. The former régime was soon restored. I found a young colored girl to help the care- taker. I superintended the cleaning of the house. I put a pony into the stable, and took long horseback rides through the bare November woods. Those were not un- pleasant days, in spite of the shadow that always followed me, the shadow of the life Ihad discarded. I grew physically buoyant again and happy—neutrally, at least. It gave me a peculiar shock to meet Robert again. I had been riding, and had stopped before some deserted negro cabins when a horse came pounding over the hard ground and, turning, I saw that its rider was Robert. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said and lifted his hat stiffly. I struck my horse a sharp little cut with the riding-crop, and rode on. Robert galloped after me. “Hold on there, Mil—Mrs. Rives,” he called. “What have I done to make you angry? Can’t you wait a moment?” Yes, I could wait a moment and show him a haughty profile when he gained my side. I knew it would give him a wrench of dismay and, oh, dear me, I didn’t stop to analyze reasons. I wanted to talk with him. I was once more discontented and longing for some element in my life I had so far missed. I cannot remember what we talked about. It was not so much what we said as what we thought and occasionally looked. Our talk turned on the most trivial subjects, yet all the while I was wondering if there ever could be that rare quality between us which I had disbelieved and yet inherently de- manded. Would he understand? We looked curiously at each other when we reached the driveway gate, and I bade him good-by and turned up the drive. I knew he was sitting stock-still instead of riding on. And [I lis- tened, presently to hear the hoof-beats of his horse following those of my own. In an instant he overtook me. “Milly,” he said, “what’s the use! We’ve What the Heart Knoweth been friends for years—I’m coming back. You look just as you used to before—you left us, and I can’t stand it. Are you going to send me off?” I did not answer at all, just flicked a brown leaf from the boxwood hedge. Then an impulse caught me, and I waved my old friend back. There was a choke in my throat when I spoke. “We can’t be friends now—it’s too late. Of course we’ll always be friends, but—you know what I mean—” “Don’t temporize,” Robert interrupted impatiently. “You know how matters are. Even though you turn me away I shall come back.” He gave his own horse a cut, wheeled, and galloped off down the road. Discontent again. Somehow, after seeing Robert and feeling the warmth of his sym- pathy, my pseudo-calm went rather cold. I wanted to sun myself in this warmth. As a human being I wanted my dues. But the child who has been burned dreads the fire, and so when Robert called to see me, I shut myself in my room and pleaded a headache. I sent down my regrets by Polly, my small black handmaiden, and then, with tears in my eyes,stood behind the window curtain and watched him ride away. He came again the next day—came with a great bunch of pale hothouse roses that, I knew, he had ridden ten miles over country to procure. I lifted them out of the box— pale pink Lady Chatenay roses—and looked at them while Robert looked at me. “So it’s—friends again,” he said. In this way Robert came back—came back to mend my broken heart, and we drifted on together. Drifted—I can think of no other word to use. Apparently there was no definite purpose in our companion- ship. We drifted on smooth waters, smooth but opaque, and we kept within sight of land Just for a season, then we both awoke to the actual state of affairs. We landed on terra-firma again, no longer to dream and drift, but to face each other and fight out the problem that confronted us. Robert’s love, the old, passive love that might have died an honorable death, had not fate thrown me across his path again, had re- vived into something new and hard to handle. He loved me with a man’s passion, and I—I knew nothing whatever about my- self. Few women do, I think, till a crisis comes. We are queer creatures. I loved,

Page 41

Mary Germaine and yet I did not love. And the shadow still followed me. Many hours I sat alone, gazing out across the wintry valley, trying to think things out. Such intelligence as I possessed balked at the task. And my heart?—Dumb. “Oh, I haven’t any heart,” I said one day to Robert. “I’ve got feelings. Yes, I’m not devoid of feelings.” “Would you let me kiss you?” Robert asked quickly. “No.” “But wouldn’t you like to have me?” “Ves,” Robert put his arm around me—we were sitting on the old mahogany sofa—and tried to reach my face with his lips. But I pushed him away. “Ves,” I said again definitely, “I have feelings. But with them the heart has nothing to do. I’m waiting.” Robert drew away his arm impatiently. He got up and walked across the floor, then came back and stood looking at me. “Have you heard from your husband?” he asked. No, I had not heard from Philip. ‘“ Every- thing is over between him and me,” I an- swered. “You want to go back,” Robert said hotly. “T know you do.” “T shall never go back,” I stated coldly. “Milly,” Robert went on, “this sort of thing can’t be kept up any longer. You must either go back or come with me. Why can’t you throw the whole thing over and come with me? I’ll give up my life to make you happy.” “Why should I do either? I can keep on staying here. I’m happy enough.” “You’re not happy,” Robert said vehe- mently. “You were never meant to live alone. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever seen, Milly. Any man who is a man would veto such foolishness—you living here alone, year after year. And—don’t you care anything for me? Is it all put on?” And then little black Polly came in with a letter. She had put it on an old silver salver, and she bobbed across the floor, her black eyes searching my face for approval. “Good, Polly,” I commended. “Very good. You'll be able to fill a fine situation soon.” And I took the letter from the tray. Juliet’s handwriting! The veins in my forehead began to throb. What was Juliet writing to me? What was there she could write to me? I kept asking myself such 473 questions and looked at the envelope. I seemed to be afraid to read her letter. To delay the reading I arose and walked over to the secretary, and taking up a paper- cutter began deliberately cutting open the envelope. I glanced across to Robert. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t mind me. You’ve heard from him, I suppose. I’ve been expecting it. Read your letter.” Two closely written sheets in Juliet’s small, neat handwriting. I sank down in the chair before the secretary and read. When I was through I was no longer a small baby of a woman ready to cry and sink down under disappointment. A deadly anger possessed me. I threw the letter down passionately on the desk and sprang to my feet. My face, I knew, was like a fire at white heat. I went over and took both of Robert’s hands in a tense, taut clasp. “Robert,” I said, “I’m going to Phila- delphia—now. I want you to come with me. I’ll—go with you. It’s yes, yes, yes to all those questions you’ve been asking me. I’m going to a lawyer. I’m going to get free, absolutely free of—Philip.” Robert sat very still. Through the dizzy throbs of my anger I could see him, as from a long way off, hanging desperately to his self-control and losing rapidly. “Tt may take years,” he said in a muffled voice. “Then we will go somewhere and wait.” “You're crazy, Milly,” he said. “You’re beside yourself about something. What has won you over so quickly? I haven't. You’re hit and reeling round. What was your letter?” “T’m going now,” I retorted. “There’s a train at eleven. Good-by.” Robert caught me in his arms. He kissed me and held me tight. I wrenched myself free and looked at him, feeling as though, for the first time, I was actually aware of his presence—a tall, dark chap, full of impulse and passion. I remembered Philip’s gray, analytical eyes, which had often been full cf amusement at my expense. The woman to one, the spoiled child to the other. Which was right? And which man was real? “You'll find me at the station,” Robert said. He rushed away. I went up to my room and dressed for the journey with frantic haste. Whirling again through a brown country, not a fading and inert country settling for the winter frosts, but a country just waking

Page 42

474 to the first tinge of a new spring. The com- parison got into my veins, and I looked at Robert. I put my hand inside of his. “We'll be happy,” I whispered. Robert’s clasp tightened. Finally he turned to me. “What was in the letter, Milly?” he asked simply. I pulled away my hand and began to quiver again with suppressed anger. “Juliet is going to marry Philip,” I answered, mak- ing my voice even and cold. “She wrote you so?”’ “Yes, they’re waiting. Philip hates to take the necessary steps to gain his freedom, though he couldn’t be expected to have his whole life wrecked on my account.” Robert stared out the window, avoid- ing my eyes. Suddenly he took my hand again and crushed it in his. “ Milly, I can’t stand it,” he said. “I’m going to take you with me. The law will be slow business. You’ve got to choose now, quick.” “T’ll go, Robert,” I gasped. I leaned back, my heart beating tosuffoca- tion, my crushed hand still in Robert’s clasp. We flashed by vague hills and trees, houses and towns. I saw, as through smoked glasses, the little, familiar station where Philip and I bade each other good-by. Yes, it had been good-by forever. We reached Philadelphia. Next I was sitting alone in a hotel room. I was tired. The room seemed stuffy and dreary. I wished that Robert would stop his pacing up and down the next room and come to me. The situation was blank and dull. Somehow the color of romance had faded. The pacing ceased, the half-closed door was pushed open, and Robert entered my room. He came over to me, knelt down at my feet, and hid his facein my lap. Then he looked up at me—that long, long look while his eyes seemed to melt into my own and his lips seemed approaching mine by an irresist- ible attraction. Inch by inch I yielded, but just as Robert’s lips brushed my own, just as I was about to fall into his arms, I -wrenched myself back. Robert. laughed. “A woman always fights, even after she’s won,” he said. “Go back into the other room,” I whis- pered. “Shut the door! I want to be— alone.” And there was something in my look that made Robert obey and leave me to myself. I sat like a stick or stone. Was it fifteen What the Heart Knoweth minutes or twenty? One hour or two? Then in a dead kind of way I got up, put on my coat and hat and veil, took up my travel- ing-bag, went out into the hall, and rang for the elevator. When I got outside the hotel I stepped into a taxi and tried to mut- ter Aunt Harriet’s address. Perhaps the driver misunderstood me, perhaps I mut- tered something else, for the taxi rolled off rapidly and took me to the railroad station. Somehow I got a train. And somehow the train took me home. I hardly collected my bewildered senses before I was standing on the old platform, the waiting-room closed and deserted, the clock on the village church striking the twelve slow strokes of midnight. There was something ghostly and solemn in the little sleeping town. I felt as though I had come back into a tomb. My nerves collapsed. I sat down on the lonesome plat- form, lit by its one kerosene-lamp. Fool again! poor, impulsive fool! Why hadIrun . away from Robert, who was ready to lay his life at my feet? Why had I come back to this tomb of buried passions and hopes, a tomb on which flourished the new-blown flower of Juliet’s love and of—my hus- band’s? For he was still my husband, dead although he was to me. What strange, strange secrets of the human heart was I un- earthing? What was leading me on? I jumped to my feet and started down the dark road to the old red-brick house. I don’t know what I thought about as I tramped through the mud. Once I won- dered if I was crazy. But I knew I was sane, beautifully and humanly sane. In spite of the vision of Juliet’s face beatified by her love for Philip, in spite of Philip’s cold eyes and alienated affections, my heart was pounding with joy. I was going home! And yet when I reached the gate of the dear old yard I hung over it, not daring to enter. The house was still and dark, except for a faint light in the library. To- ward this I finally stole. I crept through the leafless syringa-bushes and looked in. The room was empty. But even as I looked there was a sound of carriage-wheels on the road. I crouched down out of sight. Trem- bling, I waited for the familiar horse and carriage to curve round the driveway to the stable, waited for the tread of Philip’s feet across the yard to the house. He was long in putting up the horse, and his footsteps dragged wearily across the plot of turf to the door. I thought he must hear my breathing

Page 43

Mary Germaine as he passed, that he must see my poor, trembling figure huddled behind the syringa- bushes. But no, he went into the house. I heard him fumbling in the hall. I straight- ~ ened up and looked once more through the library window in time to see him raise his hand and turn up the light. “Philip!” The gray in his hair! the hag- gard look on his face! Where was Juliet? 475 Had he sent her away? for me? I did not stop to reason. With a little cry that I could not smother, in some way I flung myself into the room. Philip was sitting by the gray embers of the fire, his head in his hands. He did not seem to notice the rush of my entry. I was palsied by a terrifying doubt that I was throwing away my last chance of happi- ness, but it could not stem the tide of my emotions, the full, throbbing, over- powering conviction of my heart. It was my heart that at last told me the truth. “Philip,” I said, as he raised his head and looked at me with his tired eyes, “I love you, and I’ve come back.” I can’t tell the rest. That hour, while I lay in my hus- band’s arms and kissed his tired eyes and his worn face and his silvered hair and told him all, was the sweetest and_ holiest hour of my life. And Juliet? Juliet passed into the shad- ows. But why should I blame her? She helped me to learn the secrets of my own heart. Was he waiting eS Johuiilonae $ ea 5. Philip was sitting by the gray embers of the fire, his head in his hands, and did not seem to notice the rush of my entry

Page 44

" Thyself (‘Anow aa ere e one strong and great, And then th Vv 2 oe foe ~ S os v Ye A os 4 O - -v f° 3 a ~~ uv Ms 2 © ° ~ ° 5 HARLES A, WINTEH DRAWN BY

Page 45

BY ANGELA MORGAN ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES AWINTER EINED by an unseen tyrants hand, Spurred by an unseen tyrants will, Aquiver at the fierce comma That goads you up the danger hill. You ery: “O Fate, O Life, be kind! Grant but an hour of respite— give ne moment to my suffering mind! I cannot keep the pace and live.” But Fate drives on and will not heed The lips that beg, the feet that bleed. Drives, while you faint upon the ro rives, with a menace for a go With fiery reins of shined. Urging his terrible advance he while you cry in your despair. he pain is more than I can bear!” Fear not the goad, fear not the pace, Plead not to fall from out the race— It is your own Self driving you, Your Self that you have never known, Seeing your little self alone. Your Self, high-seated charioteer, Master of cowardice and ear, Your Self that sees the shining length Of all the fearful road ahead, Knows that the terrors that you dread re pigmies to your splendid strength; Strength you have never even guessed, Streng th that has never needed rest. Your ‘Sclf that holds the mastering rein, Seeing beyond the sweat and pain And anguish of your driven soul The patient beauty of the goal!

Page 46

Fighting upon the terror field ere man and Fate come breast to breast. Pressed by a thousand foes to yield, ortured and wounded without rest, You cried: “ Be merciful, O Life! The strongest spirit soon must break efore this all-unequal strife, This endless fight for failure’s sake!” But Fate, unhkeeding, lifted high His sword, and thrust you through to die. nd then there came one strong and great, Who towered high oer Chance and Fate, Who bound yourwound and eased your pain And bade you rise and fight again. And from some source you did not guess Gushed a great tide of happiness— A courage mightier than the sun— You rose and fought and, fighting, won! It was your own Self saving you, Your Self no man has ever known, Looking on flesh and blood alone. The Self that lives as close to God As roots that feed upon the sod. That one who stands behind the screen, Looks through the window of your eyes— A being out of Paradise. The Self no human eye has seen, The living one who never tires, Fed by the deep eternal fires. Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword, Made in the likeness of the Lord. ° Angel and guardian at the gate, Master of Death and King of Fate!

Page 47

The Foundlings ANOTHER *“ROMANCE AT RANDOM” SEEKS OUT LORD DE LYS By H. B. Marriott Watson Author of “Galloping Dick,” ‘Captain Fortun ».” “Hurricane Island,” etc. Illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg ORD DE LYS turned in his chair and listened. There was cer- tainly the bell, and as certainly a knock on the door. He looked at his watch, which showed him the hour was not yet nine; and he did not expect the Marchmonts or Jardine before ten. It was not likely that they would break up the din- ner-party till then. It might conceivably be Peter Bale or— He listened, and heard Jacob’s deliberate steps approach from the kitchen. His own house was in the hands of the dec- orators, who were lingering beyond their con- tract, and he was occupying Jack Hazlitt’s luxurious flat during an unexpected visit to town in May. He settled back in his arm- chair, and lifted his cigarette again, as he lifted also his book. Suddenly there inter- vened on his senses a sound, a familiar sound, and an unexpected sound, the sound of rustling silk and low, murmuring voices. He got to his feet just as the door of the room opened, and the immaculate Jacob appeared in the. opening. “The Misses Selkirk!” he evenly. De Lys, his cigarette half-way to his mouth, stared. Through the doorway en- tered two rather tall, fair, and quite young ladies who were utterly unknown to him. They were in gala dress, equipped cap-a-pie for conquest, and their pretty flushed faces were wreathed in fine silk mufflers. De Lys stared in amazement; and beholding him suddenly the young ladies came to a halt and stared also. “We thought Mrs.—” began the elder one, and then turned swiftly to Jacob, who was disappearing through the door. “It was Mrs. Bellamy we wanted,” she called in distressed confusion. “Oh, Delia, you never told him; you just walked in,” protested the younger. announced Jacob had gone; it was de Lys who spoke. ‘““Mrs. Bellamy?” he said sweetly. “Now I wonder who Mrs. Bellamy is?” “Don’t you know who she is? Isn’t she here?”’ exclaimed the Misses Selkirk breath- lessly. De Lys shook his head. “My dear young ladies,” he said pleasantly, “it grieves me to disappoint you; but I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Bellamy, and she certainly does not live here.” “Oh!” Dismay gasped at him from two pretty mouths. “Have you got the letter, Delia?” asked the younger and fairer one. “No-o,” responded Delia faintly. “I left it behind. But I know it was Audley Court.”” -She looked at de Lys appealingly. “This is certainly Audley Court,” he said. “What was the number?”’ “One hundred and ten,” said the younger girl promptly. That was the identical number of Jack Hazlitt’s flat in which they were standing at the moment. “This is one hundred and ten,” said de Lys after a slight pause, and then, “Come, please sit down, and let us talk it over. If I can be of help, command me,” he said, smiling, and under his smile, or his offer, their timid reluctance melted. “Oh, Delia!” said the younger girl tragic- ally. “Whatever shall we do? You got the wrong address.”’ “T’m sure, Marjorie, I’m sure it was the right address,” protested the accused. “T don’t suppose there will be any ter- rible difficulty in finding the correct ad- dress,” de Lys assured them, “but I think you must tell me first a little more.” “Mrs. Bellamy was to take us to a dance,” said Miss Marjorie plaintively. “Where?” de Lys cross-questioned the innocents. 479

Page 48

480 “We don’t know,” they answered in a breath. “Somewhere in Mayfair,” said Marjorie. “Don’t be silly, Marjorie; it wasn’t—it was somewhere in Westminster,” corrected Delia, ‘or Bayswater,” she added as an afterthought. “T see,” said de Lys. ‘Well, we ought to be able to hunt up Mrs. Bellamy’s name in a post-office directory, or a Red Book, shouldn’t we? I think Hazlitt’s got the latter.” He went out, and returned presently with the book, to find the girls apparently ex- changing sisterly recriminations, which, however, died away on his entrance. He had found the place in the Red Book, and began to read the various addresses of Bel- lamys alouc’ The girls shook their heads at each initial with growing reluctance to part with hope as the tally dwindled. “That’s all, I’m afraid,” said de Lys at last. They looked at him sadly, and then at each other. “Delia, I think that one beginning F. C. might be the one,” suggested Marjorie, unwilling to despair. “Twenty Stanthope Square,”’ read out de Lys promptly. “No, it was Something Court, and his name is Arthur,” said Delia dolefully; and then added quickly, .‘‘ Besides, the address wouldn’t be there, as they’ve only lived there a few months.” ““H’m! That settles it, I fear,” remarked de Lys. “Well, never mind. It’s a nui- sance, but I’m afraid you'll have to go home, and make a new start. I wish I could have—” “But we can’t go home,” deplored Mar- jorie, plaintively earnest. “We can’t pos- sibly.” De Lys looked at Delia for an explana- tion. ‘You see, we came by train from Halstead, and the trains don’t run later than—”’ De Lys rushed off hastily for an A. B. C. guide, and returned with it. He consulted his watch. “If you started now in a cab you would just miss the last train by five minutes,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Oh, Delia!” Marjorie fell back on the tragic. She clasped her hands over her knees. In her pretty ball-dress, she was a living picture of despair. “Well, we’re not beaten yet,” said de Lys cheerfully, and rang the bell. To Jacob The Foundlings on his appearance he said, “I want you to go down to the porter, and make inquiries as to the number of Mrs. Bellamy.” The door shut after the servant, and Marjorie beamed at de Lys. “How silly! I never thought of that. It’s the number you got wrong, Delia. Perhaps it was ten.” Delia looked as if she were anxious to be convinced, and so until Jacob’s return they chatted of other things, of London, which they knew only very slightly, of the modest country home from which they came, of the brilliance and romance and wonder of the London season, and, generally, of the nice- ness of most things. It was Marjorie who talked most, for she did not show the same sense of uneasiness at the unusual position which obsessed her elder sister. She was telling him about her terrier when Jacob entered. “Tf you please, my lord, the porter says no one oi the name of Bellamy lives here.” “Oh, Delia!” Marjorie broke out again in distress. It was manifestly by an effort that Delia retained her composure. On de Lys it began to dawn for the first time that the situation had a serious aspect. “Oh, we’re not beaten yet,” he said, feel- ing in his heart that they were. Marjorie, easily encouraged, threw her burden of doubt and care on his shoulders with the promptness of a child, and waited on his words. As she watched him she re- called the manner of his man’s address. He had said, “my lord.” Was this then a real live lord, such as she had read of and wanted often to see? She examined him with new interest. He was not so very old, about thirty-five, she thought; at any rate not fifty, and he was quite good looking. She liked the way his mustache went, and he had a beautiful smile. Delia had seized the Red Book, and was feverishly turning the pages in a vague hunt for a Bellamy and an unknown address. She knew it was Some- thing Court, and she was certain of coming to itin time. Audley Court caught her eye as she ran through the pages, and she went down the list of names, stopping at No. 110. “Captain J. F. Hazlitt.” Delia re- flected. She, like Marjorie, had noticed the “my lord” in Jacob’s report. But this was Captain Hazlitt’s flat. She had read, like Marjorie, of lords often enough, but she had also read of bogus lords, as well as of wicked lords, who were not to be trusted, and whom, particularly, innocent and pretty

Page 49

~~ . as ike FAS * But we can’t go home,” deplored Marjorie, plaintively earnest. young girls should avoid like poison. Out of the tail of her eye she scrutinized de Lys. Was he one of the wicked ones? She won- dered what his name was. He did not look wicked just then as he mused over the prob- lem that confronted him. “They can’t go home,” he was reflecting, “and they can’t go to Mrs. Bellamy. I suppose they must go to some other friend whose address they do know.” be * We can't possibly ~ He put this suggestion before them, and learned that they did not know any friends in London, except some one at Hampstead, and they didn’t know more definitely where she lived. He decided at last in despair that the foundlings must spend the night at a friendly hotel, and he broke it to them. It was obvious that he had thrown up the problem, and as the girls recognized it their discom- 481

Page 50

| } | | . | | } 482 The Foundlings fiture showed. Delia was the more re- strained, but she was manifestly agitated, and Marjorie was frankly on the border of tears. “But we can’t—we haven’t any money,” she wailed. “Oh, you must let me be your banker for the nonce,” he answered lightly. A certain terror seized Delia, who seemed to recollect the way wicked lords spoke. ‘“‘Marjorie!”’ she said in rebuke, and to de Lys, “Thank you, that will not be neces- sary.” “But we can’t go without money,” pro- tested Marjorie tearfully, “or else we will be arrested. And besides we can’t go at all,” she decided more firmly, as she suddenly remembered. ‘Delia, how could you for- get? We’ve got to wait for some one.” “Oh!” cried Delia startled. ““Some one?” said de Lys hopefully. “Yes, she’s to be here at ten. She missed our train,” said Marjorie, now quite restored to calm. De Lys’s spirits sank, but rose again as he said, “Oh, then she will look after you.” He doubted not that this was news of some more convincingly adult person at least than now conversed with him. But Marjorie’s next words staggered him. “Oh, no, Lois is only eighteen.” “Eighteen!” he said weakly. Marjorie nodded. ‘She’s a year younger than me.” “Just wait a moment,” he got out. “T’ll be back in a very little. Meanwhile see if these magazines are at all amusing.” In the next room he mixed himself a glass of whiskey and soda. ‘The innocents!” he murmured. ‘But heavens, what am I to do? And a still greater innocent coming!” He glanced at the clock. Lois would be here, landed from a cab, in ten minutes. He all but groaned, gulped down his whiskey, and went back to his charges. Marjorie was sunk in the pictures, as if there was never a problem in the world; but Delia sat by the fire, frightened now, her heart beating fast. Her silk wrap still veiled her hair, but disclosed a bewildered, scared, and pretty face. Marjorie’s wrap had fallen, and she sat in her chair over her pictures, a slim and beautiful nymph in white. “T propose,” said de Lys cheerfully, “that we wait until Miss Lois comes, and then take action. In the meantime, why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves?” Poor Delia’s terrible misgivings recurred. To her he did not seem so old as to Marjorie; and she was able, by her superiority of three years or so, to recognize the obvious experi- ence and command of the handsome man before her. She began to tremble. It was plain he wanted them all; he would wait for Lois! That often happened in books. What was to be done? Here was poor, silly Marjorie, leaning familiarly and trust- ingly over the picture-book, just a tit-bit for the ogre. And Lois— “I don’t think we need worry over it,” the cool, pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I haven’t any doubt we shall pull through.” As a matter of fact de Lys had just re- membered, and had called himself a fool for not remembering before, that Mrs. March- mont was a woman, and that she would be arriving almost at once with her husband. It was a little bridge-party to while away a few late hours. But the very ease of his manner and his obvious enjoyment served to start fresh fears in Delia’s breast. His smile was wicked. Oh! She cast about for a means of deliverance, but saw none. Wild panic suddenly seized her, and she rose. “Thank you, we must go now,” she got out all in one word. “Marjorie!” Marjorie looked up. “Oh, Delia, we can’t. Where are we going? And we can’t leave Lois.” “T don’t see what you could do if you went,” said de Lys mildly. ‘You see, you don’t know anyone, and the trains are gone. If you will allow me to propound my plans perhaps—” He was interrupted by the sound of the bell. “Lois!” cried Marjorie. De Lys was afraid it might be Peter Bale or Connor or another of the card-party. The situation would have its comic aspects, but on the whole he would prefer that Peter Bale, Connor, and the rest did not meet these innocents in the present circum- stances. On the other hand, it might be the Marchmonts, in which case honor was saved, and he could breathe more freely. “Please come this way,” he said hastily, ushering them from the room as a hen might its chickens. Marjorie went with confi- dence, Delia with black doubt. Whither was this specious and bogus lord leading them? He conducted them at a quick rate, which showed his guilt, down a broad corridor, and opened a door, switching on

Page 51

H. B. Marriott Watson the light. spacious and comfortable. Delia found her- self in a fine chamber which might have passed for a study if it had been supplied with more books, and would have been called a boudoir if it had belonged toa woman. As it was, it was a luxurious nondescript room, which made it the more suspicious. “That’s right,” said de Lys. “Make yourselves comfortable, and if it’s Miss Lois Ill bring her to you at once.” He vanished, and the door shut. “Marjorie!” panted Delia, white faced and large eyed. Marjorie was walking about the room inspecting it with youthful inquisitiveness. “Oh, what a dear little cupboard!” she ex- claimed. “It’s Sheraton, Delia.” “Come away, Marjorie.” Delia clutched her sister’s hand feverishly, as if to pull her from a source of danger. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked the younger girl in surprise. “Oh, Delia, don’t say you think we sha’n’t get home,” she pleaded. “I’m sure this Mr.—this Lord Something, will see we are all right. Don’t you think he’s rather handsome, though rather old, of course?” It was the handsomeness that Delia dis- trusted. Meanwhile Jacob had admitted a middle- sized, thick-set young man with dark eyes and dark hair, who entered the card-room with an ingratiating grin. “Servant, my lord,” said he, touching his forelock. “Peter Bale!” exclaimed de Lys in dis- may. Sir Peter Bale was an empty-headed, good-natured, larky young man with a bias toward practical jokes and an appreciation of elementary forms of wit and humor. “Why not Peter Bale?” he retorted. “Overslept myself this morning, and I’ve been a couple of hours late for everything ever since.” “My dear Peter,” said de Lys gravely, “let me call your attention to the fact that you’re not late but early.” “Yes,” said Bale coolly, “but I cut out the Van-Webber’s dinner, so as to get even, and came on to you. I flatter myself I’ve caught up with my engagements now; and I’m awfully hungry.” “If you think you’re going to get dinner here,” said de Lys violently, “you’re jolly well mistaken.” Jack Hazlitt’s flat was very ° 483 “Don’t lose your hair, old man. Tl hunt round and forage. Where do you keep the grub?” “Go to—the kitchen,” said de Lys. “Right-o!” The young man had marched out of the room and was half-way down the hall before de Lys realized that he had sent him toward the room in which the girls were. He had caught Peter up with the intention of seeing that no harm resulted when there was another ring at the door. “Hulloa! Bet that’s old Jardine,” said Peter, coming to a pause on his way to the larder and Jacob. “You get on,” remarked de Lys. “T want to see if old Jardine—” began the refractory youth, but he was seized in a nervous grip and urged forward. “Jacob!” called his master to that indi- vidual on his way to answer the door. “Take Sir Peter Bale and put him in the kitchen, and get him something to eat. I'll see to the door.” “Ves, my lord,”’ Jacob’s immobility suf- fered no eclipse. Reassured for the mo- ment, de Lys hurried back and threw open the door of the flat. It was lucky indeed that he had taken strong measures with Peter Bale—there in the doorway was quite a small girl in all the familiar wrappings of dancing-gear. “Please come in,” he said pleasantly. “Miss Selkirk and Miss Marjorie are wait- ing for you.” “Oh!” She gave vent to a pretty little laugh, and followed without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Another innocent!” reflected de Lys, as he led the way toward Jack Hazlitt’s bou- doir. He opened the door, and introduced his companion. “Lois!” cried Marjorie ecstatically. “Oh, Lois!” said Delia dismally. “Did you find any difficulty in getting here?”’ asked Marjorie. “No, I had the. address you gave me. Where’s Mrs. Bellamy?” said Lois, looking at de Lys with a certain wonder and a little coquetry. Like a coward he left the explanation to the two girls, and retired to reconnoiter in the vicinity of the kitchen. He heard Peter Bale conversing cheerfully as he ate, and returned. Miss Lois was a little red of face, but he did not think she was very much dis- tressed by the news she had received. Mar- jorie had evidently thrown all her burden on

Page 52

484 him. It was necessary for him to justify her confidence. “You hear we’re in a bit of a stew, Miss Lois,” he began. ‘‘ Your sisters—” “She’s not our sister. She’s the rector’s daughter,” interposed Marjorie, anxious to have important facts clear. “Well, the three of you have made a bad shot at an address,”’ he resumed, “‘and owing to the crass stupidity of the London Directory and the Red Book and the Court Guide, and other things, it is impossible to correct your mistake. However, I have an old friend, Mrs. de Courcy Marchmont, of Hill Street, coming to me presently with her husband; and I’m going to ask her to take you back with her. She’s plenty of room, and she would love to. I’m sorry you should miss your fun, but if you will do me the honor to put up with this room and what you can find in it for half an hour, we will do our best to give you some sort of enter- tainment.” His smile was distributed among the three of them, but Marjorie got most of it. Lois was beaming, and there were murmurs as to his kindness, and his trouble. “T’ll see you have books, and Jacob shall make you tea or coffee and sandwiches, or whatever you will. Here are some choco- lates to go on with. I believe there are some ices, too. And now, please excuse me for a little,’ he ended hastily, as he became aware of the bell once more. If only this should prove to be the Marchmonts! But it didn’t: it was old Jardine, old Jardine who was just over thirty and a merry money-spender admired of Sir Peter Bale. “We can start a rubber when the next man comes,”’ he said cheerfully. “Shall I drag Peter out?”’ “No, no,” said de Lys. him.” He was duly rung for, and entered the card-room with a huge sandwich in one hand and a glass of whiskey and soda in the other. When de Lys left the boudoir Delia stepped to the door. She listened intently to the voices that came down the hall. More men were coming. It was awful. She turned the key desperately. “Oh, Delia, what’s that for? Why are you locking us in?” Marjorie asked plain- tively. Delia put her finger to her lips. “Hush!” she whispered dramatically. The others “We'll ring for The Foundlings drew to her in fear and wonder. “Did you see his face?” she asked. ‘‘ His eyes?” “No, tell us,” said Lois eagerly. “T thought he looked very nice. I like his eyes,’ commented Marjorie dispassionately. “Oh, you don’t understand,” said Delia despairingly. “I don’t trust him. Don’t you see? Who are those people coming in? Why does he put us here? They’re all men,” she said passionately. ‘All men. We're lost.” Marjorie looked a little concerned at this announcement, but Lois did not seem upset. She had found a mirror on the wall in which her small face appeared, and was examining it critically and approvingly. “There!” | Delia clutched her sister. “That’s another ring and more men.” “But,” said Marjorie with her mouth full of chocolate, “he said he was going to get Mrs. Marchmont to take us.” “T don’t mind if they are men,” said the rector’s eighteen-year-old daughter de- murely. ““Chocs, Lois?” inquired Marjorie, hold- ing out a box. “I say, Delia, sha’n’t we have some tea or lemonade or something? He promised, only you’ve locked the door. I wonder if he has got ices.”’ “Child, don’t be a fool!” commanded poor Delia desperately. ‘Hark, what’s that?”’ “Let me—I’ll go out and explore,” vol- unteered Lois. Delia was violently opposed to this bold suggestion, but the two younger girls car- ried the day. The kcy was turned, and the door opened gingerly and allowed Lois to squeeze through. She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, while her friends waited in breathless suspense. In _ the kitchen was a composed-looking, clean- shaven man, who did not seem at all stag- gered by this unexpected apparition. “‘T say—oh, are you Jacob?” opened Miss Lois brightly. “Would you please bring us some tea and coffee and—”’ her eyes wan- dered round the kitchen on a voyage of dis- covery, “and sandwiches and—ices, you know.” “Yes, miss,” said the staid Jacob. Lois lingered. “How many has Lord— Lord, you know, got here?” she asked con- fidentially. “Two bridge-tables, miss,” said Jacob. “Oh!” This conveyed no meaning to Lois, who, seeing no further use for Jacob,

Page 53

ONC OWER DRAWN BY JAMES MONTGOMERY PLAGG The door opened gingerly and allowed Lois to squeeze through. She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen

Page 54

486 left him with an affable nod and a smile. She retraced her steps, went past the bou- doir, and reached the door of the card-room from behind which issued the sound of male voices. The door was slightly ajar, and softly she pushed it wider open, till she could peep in through a murky, smoky atmosphere. Eight men sat at two tables playing hard, with glasses at their hands. One rose and frightened Lois into flight; she fled noise- lessly back, entered the boudoir, and slammed the door. Delia locked it promptly. “What did you see?” she asked eagerly. “What are they doing there?” Lois was breathless. “Oh, they’re all smoking like anything,” she said, ‘and drinking awfully.” “Drinking what?” demanded Marjoric. “Out of long glasses,”’ said Lois. “* Whis- key and things like that.” “T knew it,” said Delia. do to you?” “Nothing,” said Lois in surprise. “I ran away. Oh, and I say, Jacob’s coming with some ices and things. I believe that’s him,” she said as a knock fell on the door. “No,” said Delia resisting, but Lois was first; the door opened and admitted Jacob with a delightful silver tray, which he depos- ited onatable. Delia locked the door again after his retreat. The two younger girls drifted frankly to the table and the tray. “Oh, Delia, pink ices,” cried Marjorie. De Lys, having given Jacob his instruc- tions, and, as he imagined, having quieted and reassured his accidental guests, was kept busy with the arrival of the bridge- players. Presently he was absorbed in his game, and only when he was dummy re- membered the three girls. He got up, left the room, and paused outside the boudoir. The cheerful voices of Marjorie and Lois, evidently talking with their mouths full, reassured him, and he returned to the card- room. So far the Marchmonts had not put in an appearance, but he expected them every moment. Now it fell out that Peter Bale, experi- encing renewed pangs of hunger, and serv- ing his turn as dummy, made an excursion to the kitchen in search of another sandwich. On his way back he was arrested by the sound of female voices. Pausing, he made exploration: the voices came from behind a door just near him. Who the deuce was it? He returned to his seat, and the rubber “What did they The Foundlings was won in the next deal. De Lys was playing at the other table. “TI say, Jardine,’ Peter beckoned his partner mysteriously from the room. “There’s some girls here,” he said know- ingly. “Where?” asked Jardine. “Over there,” said Peter, nodding at the boudoir door. “Nonsense,” said Jardine. “ Jack Haz- litt’s household’s evacuated, and de Lys has only his man.”’ “That’s what I thought, but come and listen.”’ They listened. “Do you like- the pink or the white best?’’ came muffled through the door to the listeners. “Oh, Marjorie, how can you?”’ followed. Jardine gave a low whistle. “I say, it ain’t a bedroom, this, I know,” said Peter. “Tt was old Jack’s bureau, he called it. Let’s go in.” He turned the handle, but the door would not budge; turned again, and stared at Jardine. “Locked!”” he commented. “I say, ain’t de Lys a Bluebeard, what?”’ They returned to the card-room, having sent Delia intoa panic of terror. There they found that de Lys’s table had broken up, and Peter Bale took him aside with Jardine. “T say, old man,” he said reproachfully, “if I'd -known your real character earlier I wouldn’t have come, nor would Jardine. We’re going to keep this scandal quiet for the present for the sake of our former friendship. But you must thoroughly un- derstand that our acquaintance ends after to-night.” “Tf, Peter, you would explain more defi- nitely what I have to thank for that blessed news I should be grateful,” said de Lys urbanely. “That Bluebeard chamber, old man—I mean, you ogre. Who’s in there?” “Oh!” De Lys suddenly understood. “Why, the maids, of course. = “First place, you haven’t got any maids,” said Peter. “Second place, you don’t lock maids in.” “Lock!” De Lys was surprised, but re- plied promptly, “7 always do.” “T’Il tell you what they are, de Lys,” said the incorrigible Peter. “They’re either your respective wives by their several marriages, or your second cousins by your first.”

Page 55

‘Peter, this is serious,” said de Lys. “You’re the last person I wanted to find out. The fact is they’re angels unawares, and I’m waiting for Mrs. Marchmont.”’ He briefly related the circumstances. “Mrs. Marchmont!” echoed Jardine sud- denly. ‘By Jove, I clean forgot. They’re not coming. Mrs. Marchmont’s got a chill and—” “Not coming!” screamed de Lys. ‘“‘ Why the—oh, Jardine, I’ll be even with you some day for this.” “Where are you going?” called Peter Bale as he sped. “We can’t make up a table without you.” “Oh, go and make hay,” retorted de Lys. “T’m going to ring up Marchmont.” He escaped to the little r8om in which the telephone apparatus was installed, and he gave the Marchmont’s number. “That you, Marchmont?” he inquired. “Yes, who is it? Oh, de Lys! Sorry we had to forego—” “Oh, shut up, I don’t want you. Ask Mrs. Marchmont to come—what? In bed, is she? Oh, in dishabille! Well, ask her if she’ll be good enough to come. My dear dunderhead, I sha’n’t be able to see her. All right. That you, Mrs. Marchmont? I say, I’ve got- three beautiful and visible angels here on my hands, and I want you to take them off. What? I'll tell you all about it. I’ve just had the greatest fright of my life hearing you weren’t coming. I want you to take a cab and drive here at once. Oh, yes, finish dressing, of course. Don’t be so sarcastic. I’m in desperate straits. Three beautiful angels, all fair, all fluffy, and rang- ing from eighteen to sweet and twenty. Oh, yes, I'll tell you.” When a little later de Lys, relieved in mind, emerged from the telephone-room, he went to the boudoir, and turned the handle. The door was not locked; it opened easily. There was no one inside. In some wonder and a little anxiety he made search in the other rooms. In the kitchen he found Peter Bale solemnly eating ices with Miss Lois; in the dining-room he discovered Jardine teaching Miss Marjorie how to play dominoes. There was no trace of Miss Delia. Neither of the culprits seemed ashamed, or even disturbed, on being thus run to earth. Peter Bale greeted his host in a cheerful, offhand way, and in- vited him to eat his own ices. “Do, they are so nice,”’ urged Miss Lois. H. B. Marriott Watson 487 “The pink ones are best,” said Peter critically. “How many have you eaten?” inquired de Lys of the girl gravely. “I only ask, because I am responsible for you for the time, not this egregious glutton here, against whom I solemnly warn you.” Miss Lois laughed, and lifted her spoon. “Six,” she said with deliberate defiance. Jardine paid him even less attention. ‘I wish you’d go away, my dear fellow,” he said testily. ‘Looking over my hand always makes me nervous. And Miss Marjorie simply hates it, don’t you?”’ Miss Marjorie looked guiltily at de Lys, and then said loyally: “No, I don’t mind at all. Please, do I put this crossways?”’ “T suppose,” meditated de Lys aloud, “I suppose that I shall find Miss Delia in the card-room playing bridge with the others.” Marjorie looked up seriously from her dominoes. ‘Oh, no,” she said, ‘ Delia’s gone.” “Gone!” he echoed. ‘‘ Where?” Marjorie colored slowly. ‘“Oh,”’ she said in confusion, “‘she—she got frightened, at being lost, don’t you know, and she—-she went to get help.” “Went to get help!” he repeated feebly, as visions of a nymph in ball-room wraps flying down the ringing corridors of Audley Court flashed upon him. Went to get help! Now what did that mean? And what sort of help did she expect? He began dimly to guess at the sub-currents that had flowed in poor Delia’s mind. As he moved toward the card-room to see that his guests were all right there was a loud rap on the door of the flat. “Mrs. Marchmont!” he cried as he dashed forward. But it was not Mrs. Marchmont; it was an elderly gentleman of austere appearance and a stout, buxom matron who fronted him. “T demand,” began the elderly gentleman in severe tones, “I demand the release of the two unfortunate young ladies who have fallen into your clutches.” “Wretch!” cried the stout, buxom matron indignantly. “My dear sir, my dear madam,” stam- mered de Lys, “I don’t understand—”’ “Oh, yes—you do,” declared the lady excitedly. “‘The poor girl has told us all about it. I shall inform the police. You can’t hide them from them.”

Page 56

488 “The point is,” said the elderly gentleman with extreme precision, “do you deny that you have two young ladies in your flat?” “Well, no, not quite,” said de Lys, who was beginning to recover from the first shock of the attack. “Ah!” said the gentleman. “Shameful!” ejaculated matron. “My dear good people,” said de Lys, “will you kindly tell me who you are?”’ “T am Mr. Robert Baxter, and this is Mrs. Baxter, from number one hundred and five,” said the elderly gentleman with judi- cial severity, “and a young lady has just taken refuge with us from you—”’ “Oh, my dear Mr. and Mrs. Baxter,” broke in de Lys heartily, “how I wish I’d known you were there and what you are. You would have saved me a terrible even- ing, and incidentally allowed me to get some bridge,” he added. “Bridge!”” said Mr. Baxter disapprov- ingly. Mrs. Baxter sniffed censoriously at the smell of tobacco which the card-room ex- haled into the hall. It was evident they regarded the scene as one of terrible dissipa- tion, and the company as abandoned de- bauchees. “Will you give them up?” demanded Mrs. Baxter fiercely. ““My dear lady, you shall enter and seek them. They shall do just as they think fit,” he said mildly. Mrs. Baxter seemed afraid to step over the threshold of such a den of iniquity, but her husband’s presence encouraged her, and she entered. ‘‘Second on the right, and the kitchen,” he directed them. He remained to close the door, when something white in the dim-lit passage caught his attention. He knew it. She was hanging about, anx- ious for the rescue of the lambs. “Oh, Miss Delia, Miss Delia!’ he called out softly. “And I thought you believed in me. But come, my claws are cut. I can do no harm. I do not raven any longer. I can lie down with the lambs, and a little child may lead me.” The white shadow seemed to shrink against the wall of the passage; but it did the buxom The Foundlings stopped at the floor and two figures emerged and walked toward him. ““My dear lady,” he welcomed them with both hands. “You have come in the nick of time to save my character. I was des- perate. Miss Delia,” he raised his voice, “here is Mrs. Marchmont to take you home with her. I hope she won’t give me a very bad character when you're alone.” The white figure moved a little way, and Mrs. Marchmont, a tall, handsome woman of forty, went back. The two figures met. ‘““Marchmont, your wife is a brick, and you are an ass, and I’m thirsty. I’ve been wrestling with—with angels all the evening. Come, you can take a hand, now you are here.”’ De Lys pushed his friend into the card- room, and then espied Mr. and Mrs. Baxter returning each with a young lady as captive, Peter Bale and Jardine in the background with bewilderment registered on their faces. “Oh, Lord de Lys, must we go? Are we really to go?” inquired Lois as they came up with him. Marjorie’s look was reluctant, and rueful, and plaintive. “Your sister, my dear, is waiting,”’ said Mrs. Baxter, firmly retaining her hold of the youthful arm. That sisterat the moment wasentering the flat from the hallway with Mrs. Marchmont. “Delia!” cried Marjorie, making a rush forward. “My dear, you’re all to come with me,” said Mrs. Marchmont affectionately, pat- ting her head soothingly. “Tt’s really me chat should be treated like that,”” murmured de Lys. Under the electric light he caught Delia’s abashed and timid eye. “Oh, Miss Delia!” he murmured reproachfully. She hastily moved away to the protection of Mrs. Marchmont, who was explaining the situation tersely to the Baxters. “Mrs. Marchmont,” he cried, breaking in, “I have already told you you are an angel. But I don’t think I’ll see you into the brougham. Jacob shall. Good-by, Miss Marjorie, Miss Lois, and Miss Delia. Forget an aged, battered Bluebeard. I really must have that whiskey.” He en- tered the card-room.

Page 57

THE NEW ADVENTURES OF Get - Rich- Quick Wallingford WHO BECOMES A PIKER ON A BET By George Randolph Chester Author of *Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford,” ** The Cash Intrigue,” ete, Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers HE chinless lout with the goggle- eyes and the flop-rimmed straw hat at last recovered from his astonishment enough to yell, “Whoa!” Inasmuch as the spotted gray mule upon which he was seated had been standing stock-still for a solid two minutes, it natur- ally resented this insulting order and turned squarely around, whereupon its rider promptly dismounted and kicked it in the ribs. Both the man and the animal seemed much refreshed by this operation and re- stored to normality, for the mule content- edly cropped a bunch of sweet wayside grass, and the man sidled up beside the tall gentleman who was eating a leg of chicken and gazing interestedly down at a pair of stout legs which protruded from beneath a motor-car so large and so elaborately fur- nished as to be better termed a motor- house. “Broke down?” asked the mule-rider, after listening appreciatively to the vigorous mechanical and vocal sounds from beneath the car. “No,” replied the tall gentleman, thought- fully wiping his jet-black mustache; “we merely paused by the wayside to crochet a few pink buttonholes in yon crimson sun- set. What is the name of your mule, please, and is he a family pet?” : “No, he’s jes’ a mule,” the man stated. ‘Jes’ Mule, eh? Simple name; handy, sensible, and easily remembered. Do you mind if I look Mule squarely in the eye and see if he’ll do?” He was engaged in this test when there was an extra-strong clank of metal from beneath the car, a snapping sound, and an extra-strong expletive, and then the owner of the legs slowly and painfully wriggled into view. He was a man big of girth and broad of chest and wide of shoulders, and his big, pink face, usually jovial, was just now drip- ping with perspiration and grimed with oil. “Broke,” he said, embellishing that bit of information with thorns of speech. “Never mind, J. Rufus,” soothed the tall gentleman; “we'll not spend the night in the cold, cold world, for I’ve secured you a new motor,” and he waved his hand toward the grazing beast of burden. The big man looked at the animal and then at the car in huge discontent. “It might be a wise move to trade the car for the mule,” he suggested scornfully. “Tt hain’t my mule, though,” hastily pro- tested the goggle-eyed one, whose counte- nance was further embellished with. pro- truding teeth. ““Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?” demanded the thin gentleman, with well-assumed indignation. ‘‘You’ve been fooling me. I’ve been addressing you as a gentleman of property.” “T never said I owneded the mule,” pro- tested the other, aggrieved. “I’d ’a’ tole you right away, if you’d ’a’ asked me, that it’s Jone Squibble’s mule. He owns nigh everythin’ aroun’ Squibbleville yonder; this mule, an’ these fiel’s, an’ the gris’-mill, an’ the grain-elevator you see stickin’ up above the town there.” “Sounds like a live one, Jim,” commented the tall gentleman, who had taken the mule by the bit. “Come on, Mule.” “Look here,’ warned the native, “I dunno whether Jone Squibble ’d like it if I hired out his mule.” “He'll be tickled stiff,’ declared the black-mustached one, leading the mule to the front of the machine. “You just tell him that it’s us, and it’ll be all right. He’ll hand you money for it,” and with the assist- ance of the gloomily silent big man, he began to attach the mule’s heavy chain traces to the car.

Page 58

, \ Zs ln ag, a ats oee et DRAWN BY CHARLES E. CHAMBERS “Sue and be jiggered!” answered Wallingford, turning vigorously to his work again—Page 496 490

Page 59

George Randolph Chester The countryman laughed. “Jone won’t han’ me no money, I vow an’ declare,” he asserted. ‘Jone Squibble’s so stingy he only breathes with one lung at a time; but if it’ll make any difference [’ll tell him who y are. Who are you?” “Do you hear that, Jimmy?” demanded the tall one, apparently hurt beyond meas- ure. “This man don’t know who we are; perhaps never even heard of us. Why, son, that gentleman is J. Rufus Wallingford. Wait a minute; take off your hat. That’s right. Now what’s your name?” “Henry—Henry Hant; jes’ short.” “Mr. Wallingford, shake hand with Hen. Hen, Mr. Wallingford. Now shake hands with me. I’m Horace G. Daw; Mr. Daw, for short. Now we’re all properly intro- duced, except Mule. Giddap, Mule!” Hen, for II Jonas SQUIBBLE sat upon the steps of “the store,” and viewed the approaching proces- sion with mild curiosity. The others, the young and the idle, might jump off the porch in their eagerness and even run up the road to meet the oncoming excitement, but no sensible man would waste shoe-leather or a good smoke. Jonas, as a prudent and fru- gal man, allowed himself but one pipe of tobacco a day, and the only way to obtain the full worth of his money from that pipe- ful was to sit quietly and smoke it, and think of nothing else. “Toad’’ Jessop, however, an urchin so thick with freckles that he looked like a shrimp omelette, came running from far up the road with a deadly. blow to Mr. Squib- ble’s tranquillity. “‘Hey!” he gasped, tug- ging at his one gingham suspender-strap to draw his breath together. ‘They’re a-usin’ your mule!” Jonas sprang immediately from the steps and hurried out into the road. ‘That is my mule, by Jehoshaphat!” he declared in astonishment, and, working himself into a proper state of indignation, he advanced to meet the procession at the edge of the village. “Whoa!” he yelled. ‘Hen Hant, don’t you know no better than to wear that mule out to-night, when I got such important haulin’ to-morrow? He’s plumb wore out now! Whoa!” “Giddap!” said Blackie Daw. “Fellow countryman, if you stop Mule now he’ll 491 never start again. We wore out two fence- rails and built a fire under him to set him going in the first place.” “Them was my fence-rails,” declared Mr. Squibble, adding instantly to his list of damages. “Did you make the fire with the same rails you pounded the mule with?” “Same rails,” Blackie assured him cheer- fully; ‘‘but we furnished our own gasoline and our own match.” “Well,” figured Mr. Squibble thought- fully, “‘I’ll look over the mule and see what damage you’ve done, and then I’ll make out my bill.” “Just a moment,” begged Blackie. “‘We’ll discuss that trifling detail upon our arrival, but in the meantime I wish to ar- range the grand entry. Which one of you boys can whistle?” “Toad” Jessop came immediately to the front with an avowal that he could whistle a little bird off a tree. “Can you whistle ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ or ‘Marching through Georgia’?” asked Blackie with grave anxiety. “Betcher life!” declared “Toad,” pulling his suspender as far forward from his round chest as possible. “But I k’n whistle ‘ Hot Time’ better.” ; “All right,” agreed Blackie with enthu- siasm. ‘‘That’s a good, live, thoroughly American air, and you may whistle us about ten cents’ worth of it.” “Toad” started whistling before Blackie could shove the money into his hand, a loud, clear, piercing whistle which was a good substitute for any band; and Blackie, after listening with critical approval, led him up about ten paces ahead of the plodding mule. ““Now you're the band,” he instructed; “and you want to save your best wind for the grand tableau on the village green. Do you get me?” The boy nodded his head, but he never stopped whistling. “Now you four other boys grab cat-tails from the swamp down yonder along the road, and shoulder them, and fall in behind the band. Hen, please take your position just in front of Mule. Mr. Squibble, you may keep to the side of Mule, just as you are now, and watch for damages. The rest of the villagers will string along behind the chariot in loose array, much as they are now, although I would take it as a great favor if the gentlemen would march by twos in time to the music. Jimmy, my baton, please.”

Page 60

492 Laughing indulgently, the fastidious Wal- lingford, who was in the machine “ washing up,” handed Blackie his cane, and Mr. Daw, long and lank, and clad in his linen duster, automobile-goggles, and cap, hurried up ahead of ‘‘Toad” Jessop, where he twirled his “baton” most extravagantly. Thus the procession entered Squibbleville, with “Toad” whistling birds off the trees at every step. Wondering women and gig- gling girls came to doors and ran down to gates, and every able-bodied man not in the fields swelled with his presence the concourse when it came to a pause in the vacant lot between the grist-mill and ‘‘the store,” just across from the Auditorium Hotel. It was here that Wallingford first emerged from the car, clean shaven, brushed, his linen duster laid aside and his automobile-cap replaced by a soft gray felt hat. The village drew an admiring breath as he stepped down and, in a careless tone, inquired the amount of the damages. Jonas Squibble had, with some labor, worked up the sum total of his bill to thirteen dollars and sixty cents, but the moment he saw Wallingford he stopped figuring and said: “Twenty dollars. Haulin’, Hen Hant’s time, two fence-rails, wear and tear an’ lastin’ damage to the mule, an’ the rent of my field that your contraption’s a-standin’ on now.” The “villagers” heard this itemized state- ment with awe and admiration, which was increased to amazement when Wallingford, without ‘“‘dickering,” calmly abstracted and paid over a twenty-dollar bill from an obese roll. Mr. Squibble’s first step was to seize the money, which he folded into a compact little wad and inserted in a shiny old leather wallet; his next step was to edge away from Hen Hant, and try to lose himself in the very circumference of the crowd. At this juncture, Blackie Daw, viewing his fellow citizens over, decided that it would be a pity to waste a crowd like this, and he mounted the steps of the car. “Friends, Romans,eand free-born American voters,” he declaimed, with his right hand in the bosom of his duster and his left hand out- stretched as if holding a scroll, ‘‘we came not here for our own selfish ends, but for the honor and glory of Squibbleville. We came to scatter—say, will the band please stop playing until after the exercises?” “Toad” Jessop slowly unpuckered his stiff lips, and heaved a sigh of relief. From The New Adventures of Wallingford the moment that Blackie had started him upon the tune, he had valiantly whistled “There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night” without an instant’s pause for wind or water. “We came, I repeat,’”’ resumed Blackie, “to scatter peace and plenty amongst your midst; to offer you the blessings of protec- tion and free trade; to provide you with contented firesides and the well-paid labor which delights the heart of the honest American workingman—God bless him and his dear old mother and the glorious Ameri- can flag which waves over us all! Thanking you one and all for your kind attention, all those who have witnessed the complete per- formance will please pass out to the left. Those who did not arrive in time for the beginning of the pictures will receive rain- checks good for to-morrow’s matinée.” With this he waved Wallingford into the car, followed, and closed the door after them, leaving the crowd to gape and wonder at the acetylene light which flared up within, and the automatic shutters which popped up without. Nothing more grandly mysteri- ous had been seen in Squibbleville since the genuine stuffed mermaid. In the meantime, Jonas Squibble had taken advantage of Hen Hant’s temporary absorption to hobble swifily homeward. He had not reached his own lonely doorstep, however, when Hen caught up with him. “Got you a good priste for that job, didn’t I?” Hen pleasantly observed. “Twenty dollars clean as a whistle, I made you.” “You!” retorted Jonas indignantly. “I made the bargain with him myself.” “T got you the job and done the work,” urged Hen; “‘an’ I’d ort to have part of the money. Come on now, Jone. How much you goana gi’ me?” Jonas shrank more than usual into his clothes, and plucked nervously at his few straggling hairsof chin whiskers. ‘‘ Nothin’!” he snapped, and jerked away from Hen’s detaining hand. “You'd ’a’ never had-a cent of it if it hadn’t a-been for me,” persisted Hen. “Tt was my mule, an’ your time was my time, an’ you was a-comin’ home anyhow; so go on away about your business.” “Then I don’t get nothin’?” “Not a blamed shilling.” “Then you listen to me, Jone Squibble! Listen to me well! You're a stingy ole cuss!”

Page 61

George Randolph Chester “Tf it wasn’t for your crippled ole mother, Hen Hant, I’d discharge you this minute!”’ cried Jonas in deep resentment. “Tf it wasn’t that I do more work for less money than anybody in Squibbleville, you’d ’a’ fired me long an’ long ago; an’ you won’t do it now,” retorted Hen with equal resent- ment. ‘‘You’re a stingy ole cuss! You’re a stingy ole cuss!” and he repeated that ter- rible accusation until Jonas had gone into the house, slammed the door after himself, and locked it. Even then Hen walked up the steps and bawled through the keyhole, “Stingy ole cuss!” III HavING tried to eat a “supper” at the Auditorium Hotel, Wallingford and Blackie “Hey!” gasped “ Toad" Jessop. tugging at his one gingham suspender-strap, “they're a-usin’ your mule! ™ 493 decided not to risk the rooms at that hos- telry, but sadly purchased a pair of fowl, and, returning to their car, cooked them- selves a square meal. They were just sit- ting down to eat it when the shrill strains of “There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night” burst forth upon their step, and Blackie, opening the door, discovered the faithful “Toad” Jessop, with tired but brave lips, working out his appointed task. “Smother ‘it, Spots,” begged Blackie. “As it is, I'll have shreds of that tune in my ears for hopeless months to come.”’ “ But [ ain’t whistled my ten cents’ worth yit,” protested “Toad.” “True, too true,” admitted Blackie. “I see I bought an oversupply. How much should you say you’ve delivered? About seven cents’ worth?” “Oh, seven, or mebby about six,’ “Toaa:”’ “Well, we’ll call it seven, and won’t take any more,’ returned Blackie with decision; “so you may just give me back three cents, and we'll call it square.” Real distress was apparent amidst the freckles of “Toad.” “I can’t; I ain’t got it,” he ab- jectly confessed. ‘‘Paw found it on me an’ poked it in my dime-bank to buy me some durned old shoes an’ wool mittens for my Christ- mas; an’ it won’t open till it’s got five dollars in it.” “Tsee,” said Blackie soberly. “I suppose I could loan you forty- nine more dimes to open it with, but the interest on the money would cost you too much; so you come around in the morn- ing, and I'll figure some way for you to work out that three cents.” “T k’n play a jew’s- harp purty good,” offered “Toad”’ hope- fully. “No!” declined Blackie emphatically. “Til take out that ’ guessed

Page 62

three cents in ‘Hot Time,’ and pay you this nickel extra not to whistle it. Now, hurry up and spend that nickel before Paw turns you upside down and shakes you,” and he gently shut “Toad” out into the night. One more visitor came upon them as they were enjoying their coffee and cigars; Hen Hant. “‘Why, it is none other than our deliverer, the friend and driver of Mule,” Blackie exclaimed, when he opened to Hen’s hesi- tant knock. “Friend Hen, put your hat on the roof and come in. Now, out with the startling news.” Hen, seating himself quite carefully upon the corner cushion, took an open-mouthed survey of the wonderful car, with its folding gasoline-stove, its brilliant lights, its folding- table, and all its other comforts of home, then he drew a long sigh, pulled his forelock down upon his sloping forehead, placed his hands upon his knees, and leaned forward confidentially. “Jone Squibble,” he said impressively, “is a stingy ole cuss!” “What! Did he only give you half of that twenty?” exclaimed Blackie in appar- ently pained surprise. “Half!” gasped Hen. even gi’ me a red copper.” Wallingford gave the man a dollar and was for letting him go, but Blackie, who took his amusement where he found it, sud- denly obeyed a whim to hand Hen a cigar and a drink of cognac, and invite him to stay a while. “T wouldn’t call Mr. Squibble really stingy,” said Blackie judicially; ‘possibly a little near, or even close, but not stingy, or else he’d have docked you for bringing Mule home late.” “He’s the stingiest man in the world,” declared Hen. ‘“‘He’s the man that made the county build a poorhouse so he could send his mother to it. Ain’t that stingy, hey? You remember how he charged you for them fence-rails? Well, last spring a tall feller with nose-spectacles picked up a little piece of blue rock from this very field and took it away with him, and Jone Squibble made him pay a nickel for it. Think a’ that! Jes’ crumbly blue rock, that ain’t even fit to drown cats with! An’ there’s four acre of it here! Squibble’s stone-farm, they callit. Firs’ Jone thought mebbe it might be wuth somethin’, ’cause the feller said somethin’ about lithtograft “He wouldn’t The New Adventures of Wallingford stone bein’ almos’ wuth its weight in money, but nothin’ ever come of it. Funny-lookin’ man this feller was, with a red beard that growed out, here an’ there, in little curly patches.” Blackie nodded his head wisely. “‘Wil- liams,” he said to Wallingford, inventing a name, upon the spot, for the unknown man. “Careful chap, Williams; one of the best we have, I think.” “Was he workin’ for you?” Hen eagerly wanted to know. “Well, we wouldn’t care to have it talked about,” replied Blackie with a great air of mystery; “‘sowe’ll just consider that subject as dropped. Your friend Squibble is about the richest man in the county, I suppose?” “‘He’s got cash money buried an’ hid all over his house, an’ his barn, an’ his gris’- mill, I reckon. He mus’ have, because he don’t trust no banks, an’ ary dollar that he chases down an’ ketches says good-by to this vain world.” Wallingford turned the gasoline-stove into a sink and washed the dinner dishes, and put them away in a wonderful hamper which he uncovered in the floor of the car; he wrote a letter; he slid away the folding- table; he shifted Hen, with polite apologies, to the steps of the car and began to make down the wonderful bed into which the seats were transformed; but still Hen, once started, talked on, and on, and on, until finally Blackie took him outside to show him how impressive the machine looked in the dark, and left him there. “Be brave, Jimmy. All is not yet lost,” admonished Blackie when he returned. “See, I smile, though all seems black.” “You smile because you’re a blooming idiot and don’t know any better,” retorted Wallingford. “I’ve just written to the manufacturers for a new part to replace the broken one. This touring-van idea of yours was a lovely thought, I guess! I think you had a bean on the day you planned it, and I was crazy the day I listened to you.” “Happiest thought of my life,” insisted Blackie airily. “Pure country atmosphere, all the comforts of home, grace, style, and impressiveness, and no rent man to face. Think, too, Jimmy, of the delightful treat in store for your wife and boy-child when they return from Paris next month. Think, just think, and be grateful!” “Do you never run down?” demanded Wallingford. “You chatter away like a

Page 63

FF ww Ve we George Randolph Chester 495 parrot. Do you know that, at the very quickest time in which a letter can go to New York and a package return, we shall have to stay in this God-forsaken burg for four horrible days?” “Then why not be happy?” protested Blackie. ‘I haven’t seen nruch of the ham- let, but I’m free to say that I intend to like it. I can like anything I have to.” “T don’t like anything I have to,” Walling- ford stated savagely. ‘I think I’ll make this place pay me for having to sojourn here.” Blackie carefully deposited one of his shoes in each of the rear corners of the car and giggled conspicuously. “There isn’t enough money in the town to pay one day’s interest on a borrowed postage-stamp,” he declared; “that is, unless you count old Jone Squibble; and you couldn’t get a dol- lar out of him without a surgical operation, for he keeps his coin stuffed in the hollows of his bones.” “Well, am I not a good surgeon?”’ Blackie paused in the delicate and pains- taking operation of cursing his collar-button to stare at Wallingford in astonishment. “Look here, comfort of my declin- ing years,” he said, “you don’t mean to tell me youhave evil designs on Squibble’s moldy money.” “T feel just as spiteful as that,” admitted Wallingford, smiling for the first time. “Go right to it,” invited Blackie. “T’ll admire to see you fall down for once in your life. I bet you my jade fob pendant which you want, against that scarab Cravat-pin which you won’t give up, that you break your finger-nails and 5) “ Stingy ole cuss!" don’t loosen anything unless it’s all on the level. Understand, Jimmy, I expect to win or I wouldn’t offer the bet. Here’s one Hick that you can’t skin for amusement, practice, or a thousand dollars.” “Tl take the bet,” agreed Wallingford. “The biggest cinches in the world are the village misers. Gold-brick factories are entirely supported by tightwads.” IV WALLINGFORD was up early the next morn- ing, and made a careful inspection of the field upon which his car stood. It was almost void of verdure except for a few tufts of scattered rock-grass, and everywhere, espe- cially in a steep bank about fifty feet back, there were outcroppings of the shale blue stone of which Henry Hant had spoken. He picked up a piece of the rock and scraped it with his pocket-knife. It was surpris- ingly soft, and it cut as smoothly as butter. Well pleased, he walked back to the car to find “Toad” Jessop, a bright new tin flute in his hand, waiting patiently for Blackie Daw. Walling- ford immediate- ly drew a quar- ter from his pocket and gave it to the boy. “Son, can you find me a spade?” he in- quired, and found himself looking at the spot where “Toad” had stood. The boy, who knew, by item and history, the contents of every garden, barn, and alley of the village, was back with a rusty spade be- fore Wallingford had picked out a favor- able spot for his oper- ations, and with him he brought an equally rusty pick-ax, which had one point broken.

Page 64

1 - j i. / j iii tsi dima — A rr ae SyEEEaINES EET PEppernnerat reenter 496 The New Adventures of Wallingford “Tf you want to dig,” “Toad” helpfully informed him, “I reckon you’ll need this here pick. Le’ me dig some, will you, mister? I’m a good digger.” Wallingford looked down at the boy, and his customary good humor came back to him in a blessed flood of relief. All the laugh wrinkles sprang about his eyes, and he chuckled until “‘ Toad” laughed with him out of sheer sympathy. “Come right on, Speckles,”’ he invited heartily; “we'll dig together,” and, taking the pick, he began with a will. Wallingford, however, being rather heavy for this sort of work and somewhat short of breath, was very much relieved when Jonas Squibble came at last and gazed into the incipient ditch, with wrinkles of cupidity corrugating his nose and almost closing his eyes. “What are you diggin’?”” he demanded. “A hole,” returned Wallingford calmly, spitting upon his hands and taking a fresh grip on the pick-ax. “Sick ’em, Jimmy,” encouraged Blackie Daw from the steps of the car, where he sat smoking a morning cigarette in the placid enjoyment known only to the man who likes to see another work. “It’s the right of any free-born American to dig a hole. Defend it with your life!” “T’ll have to have damages for that,” Jonas quickly decided. J. Rufus sank his pick viciously into the ground and loosened a huge spadeful, with which “Toad” immediately began strug- gling. “Tl not pay for it,” declared Walling- ford. ‘The rent of this ground was in- cluded in the twenty dollars I gave you.” “That didn’t include injurin’ my prop- erty,’ Jonas severely told him. “You'll have to pay me damages, or else I'll sue you.” “Sue and be jiggered!”’ answered Wal- lingford, turning vigorously to his work again; then he suddenly straightened up in an apparent flash of anger. “‘What’ll you take for your old field?” he asked. “Well, I been holdin’ that site back for a town hall, when the town grows up to it,” Jonas declared. “The wooden plank with your name on it will be rotted down among the weeds before that happens,” Wallingford sourly re- torted. “I'll give you two hundred dollars for the field.” Jonas almost had palpitation of the heart. Except for use as a building site, which was the most remote of chances, the four acres were absolutely worthless. Still, a bargain was a bargain. ‘“‘I’d ort to have two hun- dred an’ twenty-five,” he declared, in much seeming reluctance. “All right,” agreed Walliigford, so quickly that Jonas was almost reluctant in good earnest. “Have it your own way. I’m willing to pay any price to do as I please, if it’s only to dig a hole. FHlere’s your two hundred and twenty-five dollars,” and from a fat wallet he produced the money and thrust it upon the astounded Squibble. ‘““Now come on in and sign a bill of sale, pending a deed.” “‘Just one moment, gentlemen,” begged Blackie, holding them off with his out- stretched palm. “Please remain where you are and enjoy the fresh air and beautiful mountain scenery, while I engross the legal- est bill of sale that ever fooled a jury.” Pleased hugely with the opportunity, Blackie let down the writing-table, .and, with many a flourish, drew up a lengthy document, including every “aforesaid” and “whereas” and “be it understood” and ‘‘witnesseth”’ with which his memory would supply him, beginning the screed with ‘““Greetings—Know All Men By These Presents,” interlarding it plentifully with ‘party of the first part” and “party of tke second part,” and winding it up with two circular red seals cut from postage-stamps. Half-way through the preparation of this important paper, young Jessop came in to watch, and, for ‘‘Toad’s” exclusive benefit, Blackie gravely bound a wet handkerchief about his frowning brow. When he had finished, he read the agreement to his sole auditor in his deepest and most solemn tones, carefully instructing ‘‘Toad” to say, “Hear, hear!” at each pause, which that youth did with great seriousness. The writing set forth, with as much cir- cumlocution as a real lawyer could have put into it to preserve the mystery of his calling, how one Jonas Squibble, being the party of the first part, did therewith and thereby and therein convey to J. Rufus Wallingford, the party of the second part, his heirs, assigns, administrations, and estate, a piece of land of approximately four acres, situate between the grist-mill and the store in the village of Squibbleville, naming its county and state, for and in consideration of the sum of two

Page 65

hundred and twenty-five dollars, then in hand paid and receipted by this instrument; also it set forth that, furthermore, the afore- said party of the first part did agree to de- liver to the aforesaid party of the second part, within certain days, a clear deed and title to the aforesaid property, and so forth and so forth and so forth, up hill and down dale through all the technicalities of speech which have clung to legal instruments, and clogged their clarity, since attorneys first began to make money out of the quarrels of their fellow men, and frame documents to increase their strife. Flushed with pride in his achievement, Blackie called in the parties of the first and second parts, and made them listen to his gem of composition, and showed them where to sign it, after which himself and “Toad” Jessop signed their names in the proper places as witnesses, and Blackie, after a vain onslaught upon Jonas, com- pelled Wallingford to pay him fifty cents in real money. “An’ now,” said Jonas triumphantly, pat- ting his leather money-pouch in his pocket to make sure that it was still safe, “you may go ahead an’ dig all the holes you want to.” “Thanks,” returned Wallingford, with equal triumph. “I don’t care to dig a hole now. By the way, Mr. Squibble, are you going over past the post-office?” “TI might,” replied Jonas cautiously. “Then kindly mail this letter for me, will you?” and Wallingford handed him a stamped, addressed, and sealed envelope. “Now, sonny,” he said to “Toad,” “get me a carpenter, a load of straw, and all the men in the town who have crowbars, pick-axes, and spades, and who are willing to work for two dollars a day.” “Yessir,” said “Toad,” and immediately became a cloud of dust. Jonas turned away with Wallingford’s letter, and of course he read the inscription. It was addressed to the International Litho- graph Stone Company. Jonas, in deep thought which was rapidly becoming pain- ful, slowly walked half-way across to the store, which was also the post-office, then turned and came back. “Lookit here,” he charged in a sudden panic, “you dug that hole on a purpose to make me think you was a-buyin’ that prop- erty jes’ because you was mad!” _ “How dare you suspect me?” said Wal- lingford, smiling. George Randolph Chester 497 “You come here a purpose to buy my stone-field!” Jonas further charged, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘“‘T’ll make no admissions,” stated Wal- lingford, stiffening. “What do you want o’ my field, anyhow?” Jonas demanded, now sure that he had been swindled. “That’s my affair, sir,” announced Wal- lingford crisply. ‘‘ Moreover, I can’t waste time talking about it. I’ve a great deal of work to do in Squibbleville, and very little time in which to doit. Ill take that letter, if you please,” and rescuing it from Jonas’s nerveless fingers, he walked across to the post-office and mailed his request for a cat- alogue. When he returned, “Toad” Jessop was back with a carpenter, reported that he had ordered a load of straw, and was on his way to secure men with crowbars and picks and spades. “TI’ll bring Paw, first off,” he stated confidently. “He'll work till the first pay-day, anyways.” “Jimmy,” said Blackie, watching the re- treating legs of “Toad” with vast admira- tion, “if you don’t make that kid foreman of the works, at regular foreman’s pay, I’ll never draw up another legal document for you.” V BEFORE noon Squibbleville was the busi- est town on the map. The blacksmith, the cooper, and even the proprietor of the Auditorium Hotel, to say nothing of pale- eyed and pale-haired and red-faced Ben Jessop and all the other idlers in the village, quit their respective occupations in a hurry, even to theancient and honorable.one of loaf- ing, to secure that unprecedented two dol- larsa day. Even Hen Hant appeared with his crowbar and pick and spade, but it trans- pired that Jonas Squibble was merely sub- letting him, and making six dollars a week profit from his labor, a fact which completed the dire work of making a thorough anarch- ist of Hen. He would have spent most of his time in expounding his reactionary views to his fellow workmen had it not been for the activity of the foreman. “Toad” Jessop was on the job from the first stroke of the pick in the morning until the echo of the last clank of the crowbar had dic 1 away at night, and he was continuously at the side of every individual man of the near a score employed, giving his slow-moving and listless “Paw”

Page 66

498 the same attention as any other careless workman who needed driving. He knew exactly how everything should be done, and he had no hesitancy whatsoever in impart- ing information. He drew two dollars and a half a day, and he was worth every cent of the money. It was the keenest delight Blackie Daw knew to watch him. At any moment “‘Toad’s” voice could be heard. “Here, you, Bill Hawkins,” his shrill treble would pipe out, “whadghe think you’re handlin’ there—common mud? That ain’t no way to lif’ a rock that’s worth a dollar a pinch! No, an’ don’t jam your crowbar under that thin corner; you'll break it off sure! That’s right, down there nigh the middle where it’s thicker; but easy, now, easy! Easy, I tell you! There, by gravy, I knowed you’d bust it! Tha’s an- other hundred-dollar slab we’re a-losin’! You git out o’ that hole an’ go over there with Jimmy Taylor, an’ shovel. You ain’t fit to handle nothin’ but jes’ dirt. Hen Hant, I been keepin’ time on you to-day,” and he drew out Blackie Daw’s gold watch. “You spent a hour an’ a half talkin’ since I blowed the whistle this mornin’. Tha’s thirty cents, an’ I’m goana take it out o’ your wages; an’ Jone Squibble ’Il take it out o’ yourn!” It was upon this particular scene that Jonas himself came, and the tongue-lashing which he gave to Hen was the most artistic and complete to which Squibbleville had been treated since the day Mrs. Deacon Elder caught that hussy from Simpsonville wear- ing her husband’s real moonstone scarf-pin. Jonas was in no particularly pleasant mood anyhow, for his worthless field was become the golden mine from which the rich Mr. Wal- lingford was increasing his already aggravat- ing riches. Men were excavating the slabs of crumbly blue rock with as much tender care as if they had been rocs’ eggs and laying them gently upon beds of straw, where Dan Calvin, the village carpenter with the phe- nomenal assortment of glass eyes—one for each day in the week—measured each slab, and made an individual box for it, into which box other careful hands bedded the slab in straw, and nailed it firmly in. Not one stone was packed, however, until Wal- lingford himself, grave and preoccupied and as prosperous looking as the diamond booth at a jewelers’ fair, had measured it, and computed its weight, and examined it for flaws, and tested its quality by scraping The New Adventures of Wallingford a precious edge of it with his pocket-knife and studying the scrapings solemnly under a pocket magnifying-glass. He was the business man of the concern, the serious and responsible manager, the lucky prospector in a new and fascinating form of mining; and men, women, and children gazed upon him and his resplendent clothing in awe and admiration. Blackie Daw was the manager of the works, and after the first day the occupa- tion was so dull that it almost drove him to tears. By way of relief, he was driven to all sorts of expedients, including a roll-call, the adoption of red hat-bands to distinguish workmen from visitors, and even, upon the fifth day, the inauguration of a fire drill, this last. being very much to the annoyance of “Toad” Jessop, who insisted that there was no time for such foolishnessin working hours, and that the men, to be effective, needed their rest during their off time; and, be- sides, what was the use of a fool fire drill anyhow ‘where they was nothin’ to ketch fire?” Blackie, looking down upon the earnest mite of freckled humanity from his vantage height of six feet one, argued the matter out with him very soberly. ‘True enough, ‘Toad,’” he admitted. ‘There is sense in what you say; that is, there seems to be sense. What you don’t understand is the psychological value of a fire drill in implant- ing discipline. Suppose now we had the stone field full of combustibles and had no fire drill, and a fire should happen to break out, then what would we do? You see now, don’t you, that we ought to be prepared for all emergencies?” “Toad” dug a round hole in the clay with the big toe of his right foot, then candor overcame courtesy. “All I know about it is that it’s blamed foolishness,” he protested. “It might seem so,” Blackie confessed. “No doubt it does seem so to you; but they have fire drills in all mines of any conse- quence; and shall we let it be thought that our mine is a cheap one, just because we don’t afford a fire drill? No! Perish the thought, ‘Toad!’” “Well, have it your own way,” sighed “Toad,” picking nervously at a wart; “but it looks like blamed foolishness to me.” “The first step,” Blackie went on, with the fine light of creation kindling in his eyes, “will be to organize a company, of course. To do that, we must number the men; or,

Page 67

aus € — Se “He mus’ have, because he don't trust no banks, an’ ary dollar that he chases down an’ ketches says good-by to this vain world ~ no, we’ll rename them in alphabetical order, so they’ll know their exact places in the drill. For instance, number one will be Absolom; then will follow Benedict, Cesar, Dietrich, Eschylus, Francisco, Gregory, Hapworth, Ichabod, and soon. Neat little plan, isn’t it? You go right on and look over your company, ‘Toad,’ while I go in and dig out a complete list of names. I think I can improve on those a little; make them more gaudy and effective; and at the same time Ill work out a few evolutions and fancy steps for the drill.” With perfect seriousness, both of face and whimsical intent, he went into the van to carry out his program, while “Toad,” deeply distressed, stood rooted stock-still for full two minutes. Suddenly he broke his paral- ysis and rushed over to the bank where Hen Hant, presumably digging carefully about a particularly fine specimen of blue rock with a hand-trowel, was expounding his theory of how the iniquity of riches could be purged from the land. “Tt’s blamed foolishness!” “Toad ” yelled at him. “You couldn’t even understand what I’m a-talkin’ about,” retorted Hen patronizingly. “T understand you're talkin’ again, don’t I?” demanded “Toad.” “The las’ time I tole you about that, I tole you that’d be the las’ time, didn’t I? Well, you’re fired!” Hen straightened up, and with a smile of calm triumph stated the fundamental law of local employment. “Only them that does the hirin’ does the firin’,” he stated, and, secure in the protection of this mighty principle, he turned confidently to his work. A chunk of blue rock knocked off his hat. Turning, startled, he beheld “Toad” with another and larger piece poised in his practised hand. “You're fired,” repeated “Toad.” . “You got three full days an’ six hours comin’ to you, less thirty cents. Now you git right out o’ our mine, or I’ll slam this dornick clean through you! Git!” Hen considered the matter for one brief 499

Page 68

500 moment, then he “got,” heading, however, straight for Wallingford, who sat before a little kitchen table at the front of the lot, writing letters and casting up long strings of figures, presumably the weights and meas- ures of priceless blue rock, keeping a watch- ful eye on everything, and generally “look- ing the part.” “Well, what do you want?” Wallingford inquired, glancing up sharply. Hen laughed with care-free gaiety. ‘That young-un you got out there playin’ fore- man, he tells me I’m fired,” he informed his employer, and waited for the boss to enjoy the joke. “Then you’re fired,” Wallingford unex- pectedly replied. “But ‘Toad’ Jessop can’t do no firin’,” protested Hen, aghast at this high-handed disregard of the laws of employment. “Only them that hires, fires; an’ you was the one that hired me.” -“Very well,” replied Wallingford, smil- ing, “if you insist that I do the firing, I’ll doit. You're fired. How much have you coming to you?” “Well, this is the mornin’ o’ the fifth day,” began Hen hopefully. Wallingford, who knew men as students know books, saw both the hesitation and the hope, and smiled. “Wait just a minute,” he said, ‘here comes ‘Toad’ with your time.” This being his first occasion for preparing such a statement, “Toad” had delayed a trifle to study out a proper form, and to set down the figures upon a scrap of paper torn from the bag which had that morning held a cent’s worth of gum-drops. Now he came racing across the field, slammed the paper upon Wallingford’s table, and turned to go without even stopping to ask whether Hen had stayed “fired.” As a matter of fact, however, doubt upon that subject had never entered his mind. Was he not the foreman? Wallingford read the paper with deep in- terest: “We O. Hennery Hant 3 days six ours thirty cents off $6.90 he’s fired Theodore Roosevelt Jessop fourman.”’ “Hold on,”’ called Wallingford. “T can’t,” returned “Toad,” pausing some thirty feet away with distended eyes. “ Bill Hawkins is a-goana bust another slab, durn ’im.” “Allright,” assented Wallingford. “TIonly want to know what this thirty cents is for.”’ “TI docked him,” explained “‘Toad”’ The New Adventures of Wallingford briefly, and hurried on, and Wallingford, respecting authority when he came face to face with it, was very careful to pay Hen exactly six dollars and ninety cents, despite all Hen’s pleadings, and even despite Hen’s dire threat, at the last, to call him “‘as stingy a cuss as old Jone Squibble.” It was this loyal support of his foreman which precipitated matters for Wallingford; for Hen, in high dudgeon, went immediately to his friend and employer, Jonas, and laid ninety cents in the hand of that strangely excited gentleman. “Where’s the rest of it?’’ demanded Jo- nas, who had already heard of the “firing”’ through one of the swiftly hobbling old men whose business it was to keep the town posted. “Well, I jes’ kep’ out my week’s wages. It’s due to-morrow, anyhow,” explained Hen. “You know me a sight better than to try anything like that,” responded Jonas promptly. “T’ll enjoy the interest on that six dollars myself till to-morrow, an’ then it’ll be thirty cents less. Fork it right over!” Reluctantly Hen “forked” it, but his resentment toward Wallingford was still keener than his resentment at this treatment of Squibble’s, which, after all, was entirely expected. “This Wallingford feller’s the stingiest cuss I ever see,” he declared. “He’s a skinner, too. Say, you know that fellow Williams that was here last spring that you charged a nickel for a piece 0’ that rock?” “His name wasn’t Williams; it was Dick- erson. He made me give him a receipt for that nickel,’ corrected Jonas. “Well, he might ’a’ been travelin’ under an assumed name,” suggested Hen. “ Any- how, he was workin’ for that old skinflint feller Wallingford. His partner, that part- fool feller he calls Blackie, tole me so. You been done up good an’ brown, Jone Squib- ble.” “Don’t I know it?” snarled Jonas. “Don’t every Jack Patch evil-wisher of mine in the town come an’ laugh in my face about it? Does anybody in Squibbleville talk about anything else than how much lithographt stone is worth a pound, and what a fortune this man Wallingford is a-diggin’ out o’ my old stone-farm? Well, I’m all fixed for ’im now, and I’m a-goana put a’ end to it. We'll see who does the

Page 69

George Randolph Chester nex’ laughin’. Go hitch up my yaller mare to the buckboard, an’ be quick about it.” VI WALLINGFORD, inspecting the new part which had come that day to replace the broken one in his machine, felt the touch of a friendly hand upon his shoulder, and looked up to find Blackie pointing gloomily up the road. “Shall we bluff, run, or fight?” asked Mr. Daw. Wallingford, following the direction of the pointing hand, saw Jonas riding down the road in his buckboard, and with him was a gaunt man who wore a dark blue suit and a dark blue soft hat with a cord and tassels in place of aband. He was so gaunt of face that his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks made four perfectly symmetrically placed black dots upon his yellow-gray counte- nance, and upon his breast he displayed a highly burnished tin star. Wallingford arose with a most cheerful smile. ‘‘ None of the three, Blackie,” he re- turned placidly. “This isn’t a pinch; it’s a compromise; only it’s about two days later than I expected. Here’s where I win that jade fob pendant.” Turning from Blackie, he assumed an atti- tude of great dignity, as Jonas and the county sheriff jumped out of the buckboard and hurried to him. “That’s him; the big one there!’ di- rected Jonas in a fever of excitement, and the sheriff, without a word, thrust a folded paper into Wallingford’s hands. “Now I’ve served it according to the law in such cases made an’ provided fur,” de- clared the gaunt one in a bass voice so sur- prisingly deep that it seemed to make the ground tremble. ‘That there’s aninjunction restrainin’ you from diggin’ any more of this here bluestone, orremovin’ any of it from this here field ontil the case of Squibble against Wallingford, now pending in the Squawmus County Court, is settled, dismissed, and the costs paid; an’ this here other paper’s a notice o’ the aforesaid suit.”” Here he thrust upon Wallingford another document, and, his official mission concluded, he mopped his brow with a flaming yellow handkerchief which gave an extra jaundice to his already squashlike complexion, and became his own agreeable self again, by adding, “Fine growin’ weather we’re havin’, ain’t it?” 501 _ “Tt grows splendidly,” admitted Walling- ford. ‘‘What’s this suit about, anyhow?” “About a dog-gone swindle!” interjected Jonas, unable longer to remain silent under his wrongs. ‘‘ You bought my lithographt- stone mine under false pretenses.” ‘‘T never said it was lithograph stone, and I’m not saying so now,” declared Walling- ford, for whom the law had no nets of fine- enough mesh. ‘No, you was too slick,”’ returned Jonas. “That’s jes’ the point. You bought that land as jes’ plain land, at a reg’lar land price. I got a lawyer over in Squawmus tells me he k’n make a case o’ general swindlin’ out o’ that, especially before a good honest farmer jury, me bein’ a reg’lar citizen here, an’ you a blamed stranger, an’ a slick- lookin’ one at that. So now you see where you're at.” “Ves, I see,” admitted Wallingford, ap- parently much crushed. ‘What would you suggest that I do about it?” ‘There ain’t but one thing for you to do,” replied Jonas eagerly. “You'll have to sell me back my property. Here’s your two hun- dred and twenty-five dollars. Gi’ me back my bill o’ sale, an’ I’ll call off the suit. The costs up to now won’t only be a little bit.” “And you propose to let me pay those costs?” inquired Wallingford with a curious smile. “Well,” decreed Jonas, “you’d ought to be punished some ways for tryin’ to horn- swoggle a poor lone old man like me.” “And who would pay for all these men? Wallingford further wanted to know. “That’s your lookout,” Tonas responded laconically. “I didn’t hire ’em.” Wallingford smiled sweetly but sadly. “What do you think of that, Blackie?” he asked of Mr. Daw. “Isn’t he the limit?” Blackie walked entirely around Mr. Squibble, surveying him from head to foot and from all angles with the eye of a connoisseur. “Most complete and perfect specimen of Squawmus County, Jimmy,” he announced. ‘‘Want me to do anything with it?” “Not unless he refuses to get off of my property,” returned Wallingford, starting to move away. “You're a blame Jonas. The bass voice at this point shook itself into the conversation in a word of friendly advice. “Comin’ to a pussonal quarrel ” swindler!” shrieked

Page 70

502 ain’t a-goana smooth out matters none, gen- tlemen,” it said; “‘an’, moreover, as a repre- sentative of the law I’m boun’ to prevent it. On the other hand; Jonas, if this here gentle- man orders you off of his property, you got to go. That’s the law, in such cases made an’ provided.” “Tf he tries to throw me off it’ll only make my suit that much stronger,” Jonas replied, being perfectly willing to be thrown off bod- ily, if by that means he could regain his valuable lithograph-stone mine. “T may lose the suit,” admitted Walling- ford with a wink at Blackie, “but I will not be bullyragged. If he had come at me with an offer of a compromise I might have con- sidered it; but now I shall fight. I don’t believe the farmers of Squawmus County love Jonas Squibble so well that they’d give him an unfair advantage, even of a decently dressed stranger.” Jonas winced at that painful truth. The gaunt stranger surveyed the impres- sive-looking Wallingford with admiration, and gaged correctly his heaven-born abil- ity to make friends ‘where he choose; and the truth burst from him. “You bet they don’t,” he agreed. “They all got it in for Jone, because he’s so slick himself.” Jonas winced again. “Gentlemen,” continued the gaunt sher- iff, settling his hat on the back of his knobby head, spraddling his legs apart, and raising his right forefinger above his left palm in the favorite attitude of Circuit Judge Bungleby, by whom the sheriff swore and expectorated, “if you'll listen to me, I'll tell you that a compromised lawsuit’s better than a fit-out one in any court of the land, no matter what the rights of it is; besides, it don’t heat up the blood so much. Gentlemen, come on now, let’s compromise,” and he smiled with benevolent intention, adding a thin, straight line beneath the two columns of dots in his countenance, like a sum in simple arithmetic. “Well, I’m willin’ to hear what Mr. Wal- lingford has to offer,” ventured Jonas, after waiting a slightly more than reasonable time for Wallingford to speak first. “Oh, confound it,” snapped Wallingford as one driven against his will, “I suppose I'll be compelled in the end to let Mr. Squib- ble in on at least a portion of this enterprise, and I might as well do it now and have a little peace. Mr. Squibble, I’ll resell you a half interest—mind you, only a half inter- est—in this field for—” He hesitated just The New Adventures of Wallingford a moment. This was the crucial point: How much would Jonas Squibble stand? —‘‘for two thousand dollars.” “T’ll go you,” returned Squibble so quickly that Wallingford could scarcely repress an exclamation of triumph for Blackie’s hu- miliation. ‘ You’re a witness to this, Lem Potter,” went on Jonas. “It’s a bargain that he sells me back a half-interest in this four-acre field, and all that’s in it, or under it, or on top of it, mind you, excep- tin’, o’ course, Mr. Wallingford’s automo- bile wagon, for two thousand dollars. Now don’t you go away from here, Mr. Walling- ford, an’ I’ll go right straight an’ get you the cash money. Come on, Lem.” He streaked back to the buckboard with the sheriff, while Blackie and Wallingford looked at each other with grins suited to their respective states of mind. “T knew I was putting up an awful strong game, but I didn’t believe I was enough of an artist to make this old penny-squeezer fall as hard as two thousand dollars’ worth,” exulted Wallingford. “Be careful, Jimmy,” cautioned Blackie, “don’t swell yourself all up till you get your fingers on the actual coin and drive over the county line with it.” “He’ll bring us the money, all right,” said Wallingford confidently, though now he was frowning; ‘but it worries me stiff to think that I could have had more. I'll never play another piker game as long as I live.” “T’d rather be a piker at four hundred dollars a day than a real sport at a loss,” comforted Blackie. What more he might have said was cov- ered up in the hubbub which at that mo- ment arose in the “mine,” and walking out that way they discovered “Toad” Jessop directing an emergency movement with great vigor and decisiveness. “Tear some o’ them ole planks off’n the fence back o’ the store there,” he was order- ing as they came up. “Never mind the damages! We k’n afford to pay for a new fence ruther than have that soft mud all run down an’ gum up them stones. It’s a-goana rain inside o’ ten minutes, I tell you! I been a-fishin’ enough to know what that kine of a black cloud means. Ben Jessop, I ast you not to loosen thatrock. We can’t move it before this rain comes up. You run over there an’ git some o’ them boxin’- boards an’ make a good, tight shed over the place you’re a-workin’ at!”

Page 71

George ‘Randolph Chester The foreman’s father squinted a pale-blue eye up at the approaching cloud, and chucked a roller under his stone. ‘It ain’t a-goana rain for nigh an hour, an’ mebbe not at all,” he calmly announced. ‘I reckon that storm’s goana pass around.” “Lookit here, Paw,’ remonstrated “Toad,” “I don’t allow no back talk nor argument from none o’ the other han’s, an’ you ortn’t to rub it in on me jes’ because you’re my dad. You ain’t got no right to even guess whether it’s goana rain or not when I say you’re to cover up that job. Now you git right over there an’ git them boxin’-boards!” Ben Jessop jammed his crowbar into the earth, and brushed his hands together to knock off the clay. ‘I’m tired o’ all this sass,” he declared, “‘an’ I’m a-comin’ up there an’ lam the everlastin’ daylights out 0’ you!” In that painful moment “Toad” be- trayed no instant of weakness or hesitation. He bent over the edge of the bank and shook a warning finger backward and forward at his father. “If you give me a lickin’, I’ll have to take it,” he acknowledged; “but if 503 you use up our time a-doin’ it before we git this job covered up from the rain, I'll fire you as sure as the Lord made little apples, an’ you'll stay fired! Hey, Bill Hawkins, run that lean-to toward the ditch, dang it! not toward the bank!” Ben Jessop looked up at his son with the dawning of a new light in his eyes, and then he slowly grinned. ‘You little cuss!” he said in delighted admiration, and lumbered awkwardly across after the boxing-boards. The sheriff’s voice, booming easily both over and under a roll of thunder, at that moment called across the field to Walling- ford. Jonas Squibble was back with the money. “Go get it quick!” urged Blackie. “I never believe money until I have it in my jeans and the padlock clamped on it.” His fears, if he really had any, were al- layed as soon as they joined Jonas at the car, for Mr. Squibble thrust the money into Wallingford’s hands as soon as he was near enough. “Count it!” ordered Jonas in a voice positively squeaky withexcitement. ‘“ You'll find it all there—two thousand dollars. “That s him; the big one there!“ directed Jonas Squibble in a fever of excitement

Page 72

504 Some of it’s a little tore, an’ some of it’s a little musty an’ moldy mebby, but it’s good money. I got some more of it right here, too. I got another two thousand jes’ like it, that I'll give you, solid spot cash, right this minute, for the other half o’ that field!” Wallingford felt his heart thump up in his throat, and was conscious of Blackie patting him encouragingly upon the back, but there was something about the nervous eagerness of Jonas, who was exceptionally lacking in self-control for so shrewd an old bargainer, which made Wallingford pause and stiffen. “Make it three thousand and I’ll go you,” he offer€d. ‘‘That’s my last word; take it or leave it.” To his immense surprise Jonas immedi- ately produced the money. “Here it is,” he said. ‘Now gi’ me back my bill o’ sale an’ we don’t need any more documents, ’ceptin’ jes’ to write ‘null and void’ acrost the face of this’n’.” “Come right inside and we’ll wind up the business,” invited Wallingford as one in a daze, and led the way into the car, where he surrendered the bill of sale, invalidated as directed, and turned Jonas and the sheriff loose just about one minute before the heavi- est rain-storm of the season broke upon them in all its fury. Wallingford was still crowing over Blackie when “Toad”’ Jessop, dripping wet but triumphant, threw open the door, injected himself into the nice dry car and shook himself with all the smiling assurance of a wet dog at a lawn party. “Well, I tole ’em so,” declared ‘‘Toad,” justly puffed with pride. “I got ever’ las’ stone covered up, an’ now it’s a-rainin’!” Blackie regarded the foreman sorrow- fully, and turned to Wallingford. ‘Would you believe it, Jimmy, that there is one thing in Squibbleville you’d hate to leave behind?” he wanted to know. “*Toad,’ you’ mean?” inquired Walling- ford, smiling. ‘‘It does seem rather a pity.” “You ain’t a-goin’ away!” protested *Tond.” “At once,” Wallingford told him; ‘ pos- sibly to-night, if the rain stops long enough for me to adjust the machine. We've sold back the field to Jonas Squibble.” “T woan’ work for ’m,”’ declared “‘ Toad” instantly. “I think I'll jes’ go right along with you. You’ll need a foreman any place you go, I reckon; won’t you?” Blackie looked at Wallingford, and find- The New Adventures of Wallingford ing upon the face of J. Rufus only the affectionate smile with which he was regard- ing “Toad,” proceeded to hire young Mr. Jessop upon the spot. “We don’t need a foreman, ‘Toad,’ for a foreman costs too much money,” he said, “but we do need a manager, at about four dollars a week, board, clothes, and smoking tobacco; so just go get your Sunday clothes and be ready to pull right out with us.” “Don’t fool the boy that way, Blackie,”’ remonstrated Wallingford. “His father never would let him go.” “He wouldn’t, eh?” retorted “Toad,” and, opening the door of the car, he shrilled out into the rain, “Hey, you, Paw!” The father of “Toad,” squatted on a pile of bricks under a dripping tree, with his coat thrown over his head for protection, waved a yellow hand briefly by way of answer. “Hey, you, Paw, come here!” This time the tone was peremptory. The elder Jessop hesitated a moment, and then came plodding stolidly across in the rain. ““Whadghe want?” he inquired with his head protruding forward, and utterly oblivi- ous of the thin stream of water which was running down the back of his neck. ‘“‘Where’s my buck-handled knife?” With a sigh Jessop senior produced the knife in question from his pocket, and handed it to his son. ‘‘ Whadghe want of it?” “T’m a-goin’ away with Mr. Wallingford and Blackie. I got a job bein’ manager for ‘em. Mebbe we'll pull our freight to-night yet.” “Well,” said the elder Jessop reflectively, “it had orter be a good job, an’ I reckon you'll do well at it. I guess if your maw was alive she’d be plumb tickled you got it. She’d be mighty sorry to see you go, though, an’ I am, too. By jinks! we ain’t washed out your other shirt yet!” “Tl take it the way it is,” decided “Toad” promptly. “Come on; we'll go right over to the house an’ git my duds, an’ my dime-bank, an’ my six-shootin’ revolver —I’m a-goana git a barrel for that some time—an’ my fishin’-tackle, an’ my sled, an’ my tame garter snake, an’ my banty rooster. I’ll be right back, Blackie.” “Well, we got him,” declared Blackie, almost embarrassed by the suddenness with which “Toad” had attached himself per- manently to them. ‘“He’s ours, and now I suppose we'll have to take care of him.” “He’s more likely to take care of us,”

Page 73

George Randolph Chester laughed Wallingford. “I’m glad you signed him on. This town’s been good to me; and, by the way, Blackie, while I think of it, I'll bother you for that jade fob pend- ant.” Blackie silently unfastened his pet bit of jewelry from his fob and passed it over. “You win,” he confessed; ‘and you ,win running easy, ahead of seven lengths of day- light. But, Jimmy, if I had it to do over again I’d still bet my life against three cents’ worth of tripe that nobody could skin Jonas Squibble out of five dollars, let alone five thousand.” “You'll go broke picking long shots some day,” commented Wallingford dryly, chang- ing his coat for a mackintosh and hunting out his “slicker” hat. “The rain’s slacking up, cheerful loser, and if this car isn’t stand- ing in three or four feet of water, I’m going to screw this attachment in place and we'll hike right on to that good town they tell us about where there’s a real hotel.” They smoked a contemplative cigar while they waited for the rain to die down. Be- fore it had quite ceased, Jonas Squibble was out on the field again, and with him, be- sides his friend, the sheriff, was a tall man in gum boots and yellow cravanette. “You fellers kin git right off the job an’ go home,” shouted Jonas, as soon as he was near enough to the sheltered workmen to make them hear. ‘“ You’re fired, an’ if I want to hire any of you to-morrow it’ll be at a different price.” Slowly the men left the field and filed regretfully past the steps of the car, where Wallingford paid them off from the time- slips furnished him by his careful foreman. While he was doing this, Jonas Squibble and the tall man were over inspecting the rock 505 which had already been excavated and packed, and now they, too, sauntered over to the car. “This is Mr. Wallingford, Mr. Dicker- son,” introduced Jonas, rubbing his hands together and grinning a grin of pure delight. ““Mr. Dickerson, Mr. Daw. Mr. Dickerson is from the International Lithograph Stone Company. He was here last spring lookin’ at my stone; an’ as soon as I seen the ad- dress on that letter you gi’ me to mail, I wrote to ’im, an’ Mr. Dickerson come right on. I had him hid in the hotel ever since las’ night.” “T couldn’t see why Mr. Squibble wouldn’t let me come out,” laughed Mr. Dickerson, who wore queer little tufts of curly red beard; “but now I understand it. I want to compliment you on the care you’ve taken in mining and packing the rock, Mr. Wallingford. Of course, this isn’t high- grade lithograph stone, but it’s the best I could find in the three months’ trip which I have just ended, and it’s a very good sort for a variety of commoner work. I should judge the deposit to be worth in the neigh- borhood of fifty thousand dollars.” “Let me shake you by the hand again, Mr. Dickerson,” said Blackie with gurgling enthusiasm. ‘Let me shake you by both hands. You’re a pleasant stranger and a welcome stranger! You must come in and have a pipe and a glass of grog with me, while my friend Jimmy sits upon the wet step and mourns. J. Rufus, I'll trouble you for my jade fob pendant again, and also for my scarab scarf-pin.”’ Wallingford slowly unfastened those arti- cles of adornment and passed them over to Blackie with a sigh. “That’s what I get for being a piker,” he said. The next story of ‘‘Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford ’’ will appear in the April issue.

Page 74

“Nature has been planning for ten million years to make your baby a success; nobody can prevent its being so except yourself “ Nursery Danger-Signals By Woods Hutchinson, M.D. Author of ** The Dangers of Undereating,”’ HAT little pink bunch of folded human rose-leaves which we call a baby, soft and tiny and feeble though it seems, is in reality charged to bursting with elemental force and ready to grow as surely and as irresistibly as the planet whirls in its orbit. All we have to do is to provide the simple neces- sary surroundings, and nature will do the rest. Even babies do not die of themselves, but from definite and usually preventable causes. If the triumphant swing of the tiny life-impulse be brought to a standstill, it is not by failure from within, but by interfer- ence from without, which it is our business and usually within our power to prevent. Some of this prevention must begin, in Oliver Wendell Holmes’s witty phrase, ‘‘with the grandparents,” or at least with the parents. Chief and most fundamental of the rights of the child is the right to be well born. From a biological point of view one of the greatest, if not the greatest, of all crimes is to bring into the world, or to permit to be brought into the world, a child unfit, dis- eased, defective, handicapped in any way for the race of life. No act which prevents this will ultimately stand as a crime: in the con- science of the race, no matter what church or 506 ‘Fat and Its Follies," etc. state may say, with their purblind intelligence and antiquated morals. We hear much from pulpit and bench alike of the sin of failing to produce our kind, but too little of its alterna- tive, the sin of bringing into the world chil- dren who are physically, mentally, or morally crippled from birth, an offense, not less against the child than the community, which must be faced as an alternative by upholders of ‘‘until death do us part” or denouncers of attempts to control fertility. Two-thirds of our failures in every class of life, of our paupers and our criminals, are the off- spring of parents who ought never to have been permitted to marry at all, or divorced as soon as one found the other out! Fortunately the birthright of good breed- ing, the proud privilege of being well born, is, like most things worth having, fairly common, ninety-five per cent. of all babies being born with all the possibilities of full manhood and true womanhood. There is scarcely a limit to the shipwreck which we may work upon our own bodies, but when it comes to passing on these masterpieces of disaster to our chil- dren, nature intervenes. We inherit an en- tailed estate. We have only the spending of the interest and, save by most fiendish ingenu-

Page 75

Woods Hutchinson, M.D. ity, cannot impair the principal, which we pass on to our children. The torch of life which we hand on is the same which has been passed down to us from hand to hand through all the ages. Its light it is which flickers in the eye and glows in the cheek of the baby in its cradle. Nature has been planning for ten million years to make your baby a success; nobody can prevent its being so except your- self. The best policy in baby-raising is watch- ful and masterly inactivity. The first and most important thing to be done is to watch the baby, the second is to watch the baby, and the third is to watch the baby! For the first three weeks of his existence he does not know that he has anything but a mouth, and nobody else should either. All openings of that rosy portal should be exclusively for food. His evident and most absorbing desire is to shut his eyes, open his mouth, and take what nature sends him, and then go to sleep again till next time. Let him! If a baby’s eyes come open oftener than his mouth does in the first weeks of his existence it isa bad sign. He is “‘geared”’ to sleep twenty-three hours out of the twenty- four and to grow every minute that he sleeps. A healthy baby during his first half-month should scarcely make more noise than a potato and should be treated like one: planted ina warm, sunny spot, watered well, and disturbed as little as possible. When he wants anything he will wake up and mention it, but only just loud enough for you to notice it, unless you are inattentive enough to require him to repeat his remark. But this will seldom happen if you are politely attentive to his first sugges- tion. A baby never cries just to expand his lungs or to hear himself. SLEEP AND GROWTH INSEPARABLE The first danger-signal in the nursery is wakefulness, especially if combined with rest- lessness; and the second is noise. We hardly realize how closely and inseparably connected sleep and growth are. We work while we are awake, but we grow while we are asleep. We earn our money in the daytime, but we spend it at night in infancy—as some- times in adult life. When we are doubling our weight every eight months in babyhood we sleep eighteen to twenty hours a day. As long as we can sleep ten or more hours a day we continue to grow. When we reach the dead-line of nine hours, our growth stops; and when we fall to eight, seven, or six, each hour 507 less marks a step in our descent into the val- ley of the shadow. A baby is the visible em- bodiment of ‘‘rosy sleep,”’ and anything that ‘‘murders sleep” is death to him. But do not imagine that because he sleeps so much he does not need much to eat. He sleeps so that he can devote his undisturbed attention to the business of growth, and such a success does he make of his business that he grows five times as fast as he ever will again, and re- quires three times as much food in proportion to his body-weight as you do, or nearly one- fourth as much as a full-grown man. Almost the only thing that will make him wakeful or noisy is hunger, either because he does not get enough food or because what he gets is not digestible. BABIES MUST HAVE FRESH AIR This huge food-intake and the body-build- ing that he is doing with it mean two other things which it is most important to remember. Like an engine at full steam, he is giving off a huge amount of heat and requires an abun- dant supply of air. Why should we be so anxious to keep the baby warm and so fearful that he will get chilled, when he is manufac- turing nearly twice as much heat in propor-- tion to his weight as we are? The explana- tion is simple: He has so much more surface in proportion to his bulk that while he is heated hot in a moment he is as quickly cooled. The way to keep a baby warm, then, is not to overheat the room, but to keep his body well covered. Only do that, and you will find him a perfect little furnace. But like any other furnace, if he is going to keep up a hot fire he must have an open draft, so whatever you do don’t cover his face or you will ‘‘chill” him, precisely as you would a stove by shutting the draft and turning down the damper. There is absolutely no danger of a baby’s ‘catching cold” by the exposure of its face, or through its nose, unless the air that it has to breathe contains germs, gases, or dust. Babies are exceedingly sensitive to foul or overheated air, not at all so to cool, fresh air. Keep the nursery windows open day and night, and if by so doing you make the room too cool to be comfortable for the fussy old nurse and the neighborhood busybody, so much the better. You cannot give a baby too much fresh air; if he has plenty of fuel under his boilers he will turn half of it into heat. After the first two weeks his daytime sleeps should be taken in the open air in some

Page 76

508 sheltered, sunny spot, provided the tempera- ture be above freezing. Babies are little clouds of water-vapor, shot through and through with sunlight and whiz- zing with the whirl of the southwest wind; they revel in the sunshine and dance with the wind and fade and die if they are cut off from either. Yet we bury them in deep coffin- like cradles, imprison them in air-tight, over- heated rooms poisoned by our breaths, and when we at last venture to let them ‘‘take the air,” in half-hour doses, when they should be getting it every hour of the twenty-four, we wrap and swaddle and swathe them as if they were Egyptian mummies. It is little short of a crime to cover a baby’s face at any tempera- ture above zero. Veils and face wraps of all sorts, save in the coldest weather, are an abomination, a relic of barbarism, and a mark of superstition, in infancy, as well as in later life. When asleep at any temperature above fifty degrees one light, soft, fleecy blanket and one light coverlet made of cheese-cloth filled with three or four sheets of surgeon’s cotton—not the ordinary cotton- batting of the shops—will be abundant for cover, with an additional coverlet in case of a cold night or wind. SUN BATHS SHOULD BE FREQUENT For the first few days the baby has not got accustomed to this wonderfully light, new world that he has come into, and should be allowed to keep in the shade most of the time, but always in a well-lighted, well-sunned room. No air can be kept pure and fit for human beings unless it is exposed to sunlight frequently. As the shrewd old Italian prov- erb has it, “‘where the sunlight. never comes the doctor often does.” After exposure to the light of day has colored his eyes and de- veloped the protective pigment in his little skin he can be brought more and more into the sunshine, until finally, by about the fifth or sixth week, he should be out in it for several hours every day—always, of course, remembering to see that his eyes and face are protected from the direct glare of the sun. After he is about five weeks old, in addition to being taken outdoors at least twice a day, he should be lifted out of his cot, stripped to his pajamas, and laid on a mattress in the sun- light in fr mt of a window and allowed to kick and wriggle and play with his toes, and bang himself in the nose with his fists to his heart’s content. A little later he should be stripped to the buff and put through this sun dance at Nursery Danger-Signals least twice a day, the room, of course, being kept comfortably warm if the weather be cold. In summer time the window can be opened, or better still, the mattress be laid out of doors under a tree. Remember it is not necessary to pile clothing or covers upon a baby, to keep the cold out. All that is needed is one or two or at most three layers to keep in the heat which, if healthy and well fed, he is pouring, out like a little blast-furnace. Now as to the fuel for our little human auto, just starting out on his long-distance endur- ance run through life. Babies are like fledge- lings in the nest. The first thing they both know how to do is to open their mouths. Like the nestlings also, no matter what their par- ents may eat, babies. are of the primitive type, carnivorous, and want nothing but meat—living flesh—white and liquid instead of red and solid, but meat, nevertheless, and alive. Now where is the baby to get such a supply of white, liquid protein, still warm and living ? Old Mother Nature smiles and says, ‘‘ Why, { invented a supply of that sort of material two million years ago, and it is still ten times better than anything ever invented to take its place!” And nature, as usual, is abso- lutely right. The baby knows what it wants, the mother knows what to give it. How over- whelmingly sound both the instincts are may be vividly glimpsed in the cold and gruesome fact that the death-rate in children under one year of age is from three to twenty times as great among bottle-fed children as among those breast-fed! BOTTLE-FEEDING IS DANGEROUS We have become so accustomed to the bottle as a part of the regular furniture of the nursery that it comes with something of a shock to realize what a broken reed and source of positive danger it is. Here are the solid, brutal facts. In spite of the lightly and even cheerfully accepted delusion that the milk-gland is dwindling to disappearance under civilization, and that the bottle is taking its place, from sixty-five to seventy-five per cent. of all children in all civilized commu- nities are still breast-fed. Two-thirds is a conservative estimate, three-fourths nearer the truth. Yet the appalling death-rate which occurs during the first year of life, and which averages from fifteen to twenty per cent., draws three-fourths of its victims from the bottle-fed one-fourth! In other words, the death-rate among bottle-fed children'the world

Page 77

FROM THE PAINTING, ** THE MOTHER,“ BY GARI MELCHERS, COPYRIGHT BY THE DETROIT PUBLISHING Cv, “ Old Mother Nature smiles and says, * Why, two million years ago I invented a supply of liquid protein, warm and living, and it is still ten times better than anything ever invented to take its place *™ over is three times as great as among those breast-fed. : But even this comparison is too favorable to the bottle, from the fact that a large per- centage of the bottle-fed children are found in the comfortable and well-to-do classes, who have corresponding advantages in the way of abundance and purity of food, sanitary surroundings, intelligent nursing, and medi- cal care. When the contrast is made between bottle-fed and breast-fed children of the same social or economic class, then the danger looms up in its true porportions. In the par- ish of St. Pancras, London, for instance, of the 779 children dying under one year of age in 1905 the proportion of the breast-fed dying was twenty-four per thousand and of the hand-fed, ninety-two per thousand, nearly four times as great. Dr. Robertson found in Birmingham over thirty times as many hand- ou?

Page 78

510 fed babies dying as breast-fed. In Hudders- field it is stated that before ‘the age of three months, fifteen hand-fed babies die to one breast-fed. In Brighton Dr. Newsholme, now chief officer of health of the British govern- ment, found that of babies dying from diar- rhea only six and a half per cent. were breast- fed, while eighty per cent. were hand-fed. [en European observers report the same startling contrasts, and our American infant death-rates corroborate these figures save that the difference is not quite so great, be- cause food and housing are better. There is abundant and undisputed statistical basis for the statement that the baby who can be breast-fed has ten times the chances of sur- vival under average circumstances and three times under the most favorable he would have if he were bottle-fed. It is a most serious responsibility to refuse to nurse a child when even the barest possibility of ability to do so exists. In fine, the bottle is as deadly in infancy as it is at any age in life. It is one of the gravest danger-signals in the nursery and one of the most easily avoidable. STILL ABLE TO NURSE THEIR BABIES MOTHERS ARE But what is the use of warning against the bottle when ‘‘ modern mothers have become only half capable of feeding their own chil- dren and are rapidly becoming less so”? There could hardly be a more baseless de- lusion. Nature has not spent two million years perfecting that wondrous structure, so fundamental that it is the one feature which marks us off from all other living things as mammals, to have it dwindle and fade out of existence in a few decades of fashionable neglect. ‘Though there is nowhere any uni- versal registration of this important fact, scores of individual series of observations, each covering thousands of cases, by observers from all over the civilized world, show the gratifying fact that in the working classes as a whole—except those in which the mothers themselves are employed in industrial occu- pations—and in the rural and small-town population generally, from fifty to ninety per cent. of all children are still nourished by nature’s method, the general average being about sixty-five per cent. The lowest per- centage is to be found in the two social ex- tremes—the very rich, where the poor mother is prevented, by the pressure of her social duties, from attending to such vulgar and insignificant details-as the nourishing of her Nursery Danger-Signals own children; and the very poor, where even the mother’s wage is needed to keep body and soul together and she has neither the time to nurse her baby nor the food that would make her milk of value to it if she did. In both these unfortunate classes the percentage of breast-fed children may fall as low as fifteen or twenty per cent., but it is only in the latter one that the death-rate rises in proportion. A high infant mortality is one of the many ‘‘blessednesses”’ of the poor. It might, at first sight, be supposed that much if not all of this decline of breast-feeding was involuntary and due to inability. But again the figures refute our fears of degen- eracy. This question, as becomes its vital importance, has been taken up by investiga- tors in all parts of the civilized world, and in all classes of society, with astonishingly uni- form conclusions; 772, that between ninety and ninety-five per cent. of all human mothers are still abundantly able to nurse their children, if they are willing and have the time and the proper food and rest to enable them to do so. From Berlin, from Dresden, from Florence, from Paris, from London and Liverpool, from New York and Boston, come the cheering re turns that in no instance has it been found that more than ten per cent. of the mothers in any class of society are unable to nurse their children, and seldom more than five per cent. Not only so, but sinceswithin the past five or six years, the vital importance of this proceeding has been recognized and insisted on accordingly, physicians at maternity hos- pitals and at children’s clinics all over the world are reporting that, whereas ten years ago only forty, fifty, or sixty per cent. of the mothers under their control nursed their children, now, under proper advice and as- sistance, seventy, eighty, and ninety per cent. do so, with corresponding reductions of the death-rate and sickness-rate in the children. The returns are just as favorable from phy- sicians whose practice is among the wealthiest classes in London, Berlin, and New York as from those in dispensaries and clinics. COWS’ MILK MEANT FOR CALVES—NOT BABIES The reason the modern mother does not nourish her own child is that for various causes she finds it inconvenient to do so, not because she has lost the power. First and foremost among these reasons for disinclina- tion is the lamentable delusion that babies can be raised ‘just as well” on cows’ milk, or

Page 79

Woods Hutchinson, M.D. some modification of it. When this false premise has once been accepted any trifling matter—convenience, indisposition, pressure of other engagements, esthetic considerations, and, last but most powerful of all, a singular sense of false modesty, a notion that the carry- ing out of the function is something to be ashamed of—is sufficient to turn the balance in favor of the bottle. The modern mother is just as devoted to her baby and not only would, but does, sacrifice herself for it as un- hesitatingly as the mother of any age, but, believing that the baby is just as well off on cows’ milk, she has allowed minor and even trivial considerations to divert her from the dis- charge of her most important duty. This is hardly to be wondered at, for to most of us milk is milk. Indeed, it is only since our laboratories have begun their more careful analytical study of cows’ milk that we have begun to realize its enormous differences from real food for babies. It ought to have been sufficient to remember that one milk is fitted to grow a calf, the other to grow a baby; that, for instance, while the human baby grows about eighty per cent. bigger dur- ing the first six months of its life, the bovine baby grows nearly four hundred per cent. in the same time. Nature would be a fool if she provided the same kind of food for both. As a matter of fact, as we should have expected, the two milks vary nearly one hundred per cent. in every respect except the fat. It is, of course, impossible to enter into the details, but fortunately it is not necessary. It may be roughly summed up in two state- ments: First, the amount of protein or ‘“‘meat”’ in cows’ milk is double that in hu- man milk, and the proportion of it which is in the form of tough, indigestible casein is nearly six times as great. This is why it makes such a tough, hard, indigestible curd in the unfortunate baby’s stomach, which is not in the least fitted to digest it. No amount of dilution, or modification, will overcome this radical defect. Incidentally, the amount of sugar in cows’ milk is only half that re- quired hy a baby, so that as you get the protein right by diluting, you get the sugar wrong, but this can be remedied by adding milk-sugar. The other general statement is more fundamental yet. Every single ingre- “ After the first two weeks a baby’s daytime sleeps should be taken in the open air in some sheltered, sunny spot, provided the temperature be above freezing. —The daily “swim” is an essential part of the healthy baby’s activity Sit

Page 80

512 dient of cows’ milk is wrong for the baby’s stomach—its protein is bovine protein, its fat is bovine fat, its salts are of the kind and in the proportions required for a calf instead of a baby. What the delicate stomach of the baby needs and is ‘‘geared for” is human protein, human fat, and humanized sugar and salts. It can hardly be overstated how vitally important it is, not merely for the baby’s sur vival, but for his future vigor and growth, that he should obtain during the first three or four weeks of his life a humanized supply of food. Even if it be possible, for physical reasons, for him to receive only one-half or one-third or even one-fifth of his nourishment in this form, it is worth every effort made to obtain it. After he has reached the fourth week he becomes capable of tackling the tough curd of cows’ milk with comparative ease, and this can be made an increasing element in his diet if circumstances demand it. If the mother’s milk be deficient in richness, it can be sup- plemented by cream. But the feeling of thoughtful pediatrists, or specialists in children’s diseases, is coming more and more to the view that the very per- fection of our methods for modifying cows’ milk and controlling its purity have now become a source of danger, in that they lead us to think that we may neglect breast-feeding with impunity. The best and most successful ‘“‘milk-depots” in England and “‘gouttes de fait” in Europe are devoting themselves more and more exclusively to the encourage- ment and promotion of breast-feeding, and are finding, not only that the babies are thrivt ing much better, but that it actually costs less to feed the mother than it does to feed the child directly. The municipalities of France, where babies are getting scarce and valuable in proportion, provide, instead of milk for infants, restaurants for mothers where they can get a hot meal for about four cents. The best milk-depot nowadays is the one that uses the least cows’ milk; and as Dr. Sykes puts it, “the only way to humanize cows’ milk is to pass it through the body of the mother.” BABIES SHOULD BE WEIGHED OFTEN If the human budlet is given plenty of sun- light and fresh air and sound food he will grow as irresistibly as the cherry-sapling lifted the millstone, through whose central hole it sprouted up. A most important danger-signal is failure or arrest of this growth. Every baby should be weighed at least once a Nursery Danger-Signals week during his first six months, and once or twice a month for the next three years. Nothing will furnish a better test of the vigor of his health and the adequacy of the care that he is getting. Roughly speak ing, he should gain about a pound a month during his first year (fourteen pounds); dur ing his second year a little more than half a pound a month (eight pounds). His growth in length, or height, should be about half an inch a month during his first year, a little over a quarter of an inch a month during his second, and about two inches a year after that. If your baby is elongating and increas- ing in specific gravity at about this rate, or indeed, ordinarily, within twenty per cent. of it, you may set your mind at rest about his future. A baby should be able to hold up his head at four months and to sit up unsupported at nine, but there is no reason to fear for either his intellect or his bodily vigor if these tri- umphal feats be delayed until six and twelve months respectively. The triumphant art of navigation should be mastered by about twelve months of age, but practically it varies over wide limits. Some children start dart- ing about like little water-bugs at ten months, while others as perfectly healthy and vigorous stolidly content themselves with the slower methods of the wriggle and the crawl until fifteen, sixteen, or eighteen months, and then within a week are running all over the house. In any case it is a matter of growth, not train- ing, and nothing that can be done in the way of teaching or helping the child to walk will expedite matters in more than the slightest degree, and the more successful such inter- ference is the greater the danger of doing the child harm in the direction of bow-leggedness or weak knees. CONVULSIONS One other dread in the nursery might be mentioned, fortunately a rare one, whose pos- sibility is much worried over by anxious mothers, and that is convulsions. If any proof were needed that our nervous systems are not going to rack and ruin under civil- ization it would be furnished by the diminish- ing frequency of convulsions and spasmodic croup in children. As compared with adults convulsions occur more easily in children, simply because their little powers of express- ing irritation or removing its cause have not been fully developed, and the energy which, in a grown-up, would be used for swearing or

Page 81

** When he is a few months old a baby should, at least twice a day, be stripped to the buff, laid in the sunlight in front of a window, and allowed to kick and wriggle to his heart's content ~ fighting, ‘‘explodes” in this aimless outburst of muscular twitching. Even so they do not occur in more than a small percentage of children, but when they do occur are rather significant. Far the commonest cause of them is that they are the first symptom of some fever, or other infection. Scarlet fever, measles, whooping cough, diphtheria, diar- rhea, cholera infantum, bronchitis, or pneu- monia may be ushered in by convulsions. It was long, and is yet, believed that convulsions “come from the stomach” and that exces- sive amounts or indigestible articles of food would give rise to a convulsion. ‘This belief, however, is not standing the test of investiga- tion, but was based on the fact that as the commonest source of infection in the infant is through its food, these convulsions “ of di- gestive origin ”’ are really due to germs or their toxins which have been taken in the food. They are found, in fact, often to be the first warning of a sharp attack of infantile diar- rhea, which is usually an infectious disease. Diseases which are ushered in by convul- sions are likely to be of a severe and fatal type; hence the impression which has grown up that convulsions in children are apt to be fatal. As a matter of fact, only a small per- centage are so, and even in these death is due to the disease of which the convulsion was only a symptom. The effect of convulsions upon the mental development of the child has also been mis- interpreted. It was quite commonly believed until recently that an attack of convulsions in infancy might blight a child’s whole future “Every baby should be weighed at least once a week during his first six months, and once or twice a month for the next three years™ development and leave it either epileptic or feeble minded. ‘The real fact of the matter is just the reverse; viz., that a certain percent- age of cases of epilepsy begin in infancy and early childhood, and that the convulsion, which ‘‘caused”’ the succession of fits following it all through life, was itself only the first seizure. The absurd stories, for instance, of children having been ‘thrown into convul- sions” and made epileptic or feeble minded ever after from some particular food given them—most commonly meat—simply put the cart before the horse. The convulsion was the first sign of the brain defect and the food a coincidence or the spark that fired the mine. Convulsions are danger-signals of grave import, but if intelligently heeded nine- tenths of them will be promptly recovered from and leave no injurious effects whatever. 513

Page 82

Hubbard the Homo, Plus By Harold Bolce LBERT HUBBARD, unlike Ponce de Leon, has found the Fountain of Youth. He realized long ago that he was an heir of the ages, and he has foreclosed. He is rich, happy, healthy, and wise. He has the woman he loves. As I told him last sum- mer in East Aurora, he is, in the language of a contemporary, “a hog for happiness.”’ 5i4 He has struck pay-dirt on Parnassus. And thus a dreamer, a poet with five hun- dred people on his pay-roll, recalls the days and business genius of Voltaire. In addi- tion to two hotels uniquely conducted, and a group of factory buildings, artistic, ivy- covered, arranged like college buildings around a campus, he has a great farm with increasing herds of cattle and swine. He

Page 83

has four thousand chickens. He has his own electric-light plant and water-works. He owns a long stretch of wooded wilder- ness, and in far ravines has a cabin bunga- low or two where frequently he retires to write. But most of his work is done in a superbly equipped office within sight of gigantic presses constantly at work. Hubbard has two automobiles. He never stops to take a local train to Buffalo, twenty miles away. In addition to fac- tories and fields, the Fra has at least a quarter of a million followers. His enemies say that his leading industry is to work his disciples. This is a libel, even if his left hand is not always aware of the indus- try of the right. Known as an iconoclast, Hubbard is a builder. Instead of living in Philistia, he dwells in an Eden where he eats all the fruit he wants and laughs back at Adam. Hubbard is a Philistine without a grouch, except that he has some disciples difficult to endure. But when they become a burden he saddles a horse, gallops afield, and is gone. Hubbard is fifty-four years old, but has the sap and spirit of twenty-four. Some people think that at one time he had too much urge in his cosmos. He is a human embodiment of the brook of Tennyson. Recently the Fra went into vaudeville and in explanation says that he is able, from the stage, to preach to the kind of people he prefers; which provoked the irreverent comment that Hubbard did not have to apologize for going into vaude- ville, as he has never been in anything else. Wherever he is, Hubbard takes the center of the stage and never lets the limelight die. Roosevelt has been charged with pre- empting the decalogue. Hubbard has filed a caveat on the whole cosmos and _ has capitalized his conception of God. But Hubbard does not show his teeth, except in smiles. At the Roycroft Inn they have added an eleventh commandment to the ten. It reads, “Don’t take yourself too — seriously.” Some of his followers are as solemn as the dying, and are convinced that Hubbard is one of them. But when he gets the chance, he laughs behind his hand, like the soothsayers of Rome. Yet there is no caste in Roycroft Inn. One night, after an address by a United States senator, we adjourned to a village Harold Bolce 515 restaurant, and included in the party was a bright girl who waited at the table at the Roycroft Inn. A famous extremist with a new economic gospel hailed Hubbard as comrade. The Fra, in reality a rich landed proprietor, manufacturer, and publisher, led his friend to the great cow-sheds and stables, agreed with him that labor makes the whole world kin, and handed him a manure-fork. Then the Fra recollected an appointment— he has a great memory—and the economist strained all day long at the reeking task. Thus simply the stables were rid of accumu- lations and the Fra of a dreamer. Hubbard is not a crank. ‘Whom do you represent?” was asked of Harriman when that great financier was beginning his re- markable career. ‘I represent myself,” was the reply. Similarly Hubbard does. He does not even constitute a part of the movements his writings have helped to provoke. A New Thought convention was in ses- sion at his Inn, the delegates paying full rates—and getting their money’s worth. A reporter from New York sought an inter- view with the Fra. “What is New Thought?” asked the journalist. “Blamed if I know,” said the busy man and passed into the building where are housed a hundred or more typewriter girls, a printing establishment, giant presses, mod- ern offices, and a bank. Mr. Hubbard is sane—as sane as a cash register. In many ways he is perhaps the most roundly gifted genius since Benjamin Franklin, whom he much resembles in humor, in industry, in versatility, in looks, in wisdom, in sunny cheer, and in length of hair. It cannot be said in defense of the Prince of Philistia, as Franklin said in support of a plagiarizing clergyman, that it was better to use good things belong- ing to some one else than to inflict upon the people poor compositions of his own. Stevenson said that God forgives every- thing except stupidity. Hubbard is never commonplace. He is a trick rider on Pegasus and is always galloping. He is a Raisuli or a Robin Hood ranging the woods of Helicon. Hubbard, like Homer, takes what he thinks he may require, and he needs a lot! No one can quarrel with the Fra. In his presence you have the consciousness of

Page 84

eed oan ea ee ee poe 516 Hubbard the Homo, Plus abiding calm; but it is the calm of a vol- canic mountain with the date of eruption to come indefinite. He is known at times to let loose the lava and lightning of pro- found feeling. At such times he adds a chapter or two to profane history. It is Hubbard’s humor that saves him eternally. He got out a book with nothing in it, which, in itself, is not a feat; but all the pages in this volume, which he called ““Silence,’’ were blank, and he sold it and advertised it fearlessly with the satiric com- ment of some critic that it was the best thing Hubbard had produced! Hubbard has fine health, for health, he teaches, is a form of harmony, and he is a grand opera with comic phases, harmoni- ous from first to last, with intermissions for silent prayer. But if Hubbard did not completely embody the secret of cheerful thinking and suffered, for instance, the re- curring curses of hay-fever, he would copy- right every sneeze! I was talking about China with one of his followers. ‘“‘We exclude these people,” I said, “and if Confucius should land at Seattle, he would be deported, and yet,” I insisted, “there is no man in America worthy to rank with the great Chinese sage unless,” I added, “it is Elbert Hubbard.” ““Yes,”’ she assented seriously, ‘that’s 9 Hubbard says that when he cites Herbert Spencer’s declaration that the ages have produced six great men, his disciples some- times ask who were the other five. The Fra, contrary to popular appraise- ment, is not a Bohemian. He is the very antipodes of the vagabond troubadour. True, he wears long hair; and paintings, flowers in costly vases, and epigrams that make you stop to smile or think or both, illumine his establishments. Jim Hill also wears long hair and lives among the mas- ters; but the Empire Builder arrives on schedule time. So does the Fra. Cut off his halo, as he calls it, and other things that advertise, and the residuum would be a methodical man of business—a strong man dealing in dynamos and engines, presses and pay- rolls, turning out books and furniture and andirons by the ton. He does not loiter in the peristyle of the Inn dreaming about great things; he does them. “Say what you want to say, but cut out the gabfest,” he says. so Hubbard is a great advertiser. He says that so was Moses, so was Plutarch, and so was the poet who placed Horatius at the bridge. “Plutarch,” he says, “wrote of the men he liked, some of whom we know put up good mazuma to cover ex- penses.” The Fra is, in all truth, a seer who be- lieves that all human services are divine; and in the Roycroft religion, the collection is the supreme sacrament! The first letter in “Sincerely yours,” they say, is spelled with a dollar-sign. He teaches that art is the expression of joy in labor, and the contagion of that spirit animates the workers in his estab- lishments—establishments that are them- selves creations of beauty. Into his writ- ings and material works there is breathed the best of his intellect and soul, and he then hitches his prices to the stars. He produces books which actually sell for no less than five hundred dollars apiece. If P.T. Barnum returned and went to East Aurora, he would, in comparison, in the language of Mr. Dooley, look like an old-clothes man. The great thing about it all is that every- one is satisfied. Thousands upon thou- sands of admiring pilgrims in the course of the year find their way to the shrine of the Roycroft, pay their vows and their bills and go their way rejoicing, telling everyone all that the home of the Fra and the free has done for them. The Fra is lovable. He is as human as Bobbie Burns and as humorous as Inger- soll. The only mortgage on his home is one held by Happiness. He proclaims that “polygamy is an attempt to get out of life more than there is in it.” He has done things which the world at large has not understood, but love, radiant and lasting, has illumined his way. A Western wit has said that the Giant Se- quoias are so tall that you have to look twice to see the top. No man can appraise Hubbard at a glance. His many-sidedness would fill volumes, and it has, to which, some day, some one may add a concordance. He is a semi-comic reincarnation of Leo- nardo, teaching anew that “all good things may be had at the price of labor.” Hubbard is a Moses, turned real-estate promoter, and booming lots in the promised land. He is a vaudeville performer with a message—a jester pointing the way to the Infinite!

Page 85

Gab rielle Ray “Gaby™ Deslys Three favorites of London and Paris, where a beauty is merely a beauty, is accepted and applauded as such, and both she and the public are content Stage Beauty and Brains By Alan Dale UPPOSE you were an awfully pretty girl (I don’t say you are, but suppose that you were) and were anxious, as you naturally and certainly would be, to go on the stage, to which nationality would you prefer to belong? Would you rather be a Gabrielle Deslys, with kings as audience; a Lantelme, a Lily Elsie, a Ga- brielle Ray, or would you select the Amer- ican synonym, and prefer to be a Julia Sanderson, a Bessie McCoy, or half a dozen others whom I could name? This may be a “‘poser,”’ and perhaps you can’t make up your mind on the spur of the moment. Still, I fancy that, in most cases, the average girl would scent more glory in being a European favorite (perhaps because she thinks she could count on Amer- ica as a supplement), and it is because I fancy this that I’m going to tell you my own views on the matter. They are just my views. I do not attempt to foist them upon you as law, my dear ones. But this ques- tion has come up so often, and is so invari- ably “on the carpet,” that it is quite timely. The average girl studies the long list of stage beauties that adorn Europe, and very glowing it looks. She sees a great deal of notoriety which she mistakes for fame, just as she might mistake a lump of chalk for a piece of cheese. She reads of magnificent marriages contracted with “peers of the realm.” She discovers that the Duchess of So-and-So was once little Miss Three-Stars of the Empire, and that Lady Clara Vere de Vere once did a dance in a George Ed- wardes show. And the imagination of the average girl is fired. It is all so very lovely, she thinks, and so overweeningly romantic. It is such a splendid climax, and so perfectly satisfactory. Moreover, it doesn’t happen to the pretty American girl, because there are no kings, and dukes, and lords here— nothing but sane and sensible men, with plenty of amiable reasoning faculties. So, at first consideration, there does seem to be a little more “glory” for the European fa- vorite, even if it be the glory of aristocracy rather than that of intelligence. Not that I blame kings and dukes and lords for marry- St

Page 86

Madame Lantelme, a statuesque Parisienne whose business is to be beautiful, and only beautiful. As long as she succeeds she will be a favorite ing stage girls. I don’t. I think they are exceedingly sensible, for they get wives that are worth possessing for every reason. You would rather be Gabrielle Deslys than Bessie McCoy, or Lily Elsie than Julia Sanderson? Well, I don’t agree with you at all. I think you are quite wrong. The American girl who is pretty to begin with is rarely satisfied with that asset. Of course beauty is a gift of the gods, always has been, and always will be, but in this country it is not permitted to rest on its 518 Peo Ce ae wt = me iT} z PIT ST Tt] ee FL SNM Bialiaiiaiaiaieianaiaianaianal, fg TT TT OT COMM OI 2 en 2 laurels; it is looked upon asa stepping- stone to higher things. Abroad, the beauty is al- ways the beauty, even if the baptis- mal register includes her in the forties. If she is not Lady So-and-So, she is still on the stage, doing the eternally same_ things in the eternally same way. Miss McCoy, for example, was a very cunning little dan- cer. Had the fates decreed for her a career in London, a dancer she would have remained for the rest of her days; until she married, at any rate. She would have had dances interpolated for her in all the George Ed- wardes shows. She would have whizzed on for five minutes, just like Letty Lind and Topsy Sinden used to do, and then— whizzed off again. As it is, Miss McCoy had very different ambitions. Instead of remaining a com- parative nobody, she is now at the head of a company of her own, establishing a “‘ trade- mark”’ that is bound to be valuable later on. She sings and she acts and she dances quite intelligently, and she will probably do more than this before she is very much older. Miss Julia Sanderson, instead of staying just “pretty,” made an almost legitimate

Page 87

Alan Dale 519 hit in ‘‘The Arcadians,” and has developed her, according to their own ideas of her into a personality that is worth something. ability—generally very low ones. She can She is distinctly more than a pretty girl. do only this or that. She can look well only Other American girls who were pretty under certain circumstances. She is enough for musical comedy hopelessly at their mercy. They (and every manager is a keep her down, by their judge of feminine beauty, AA yeastless efforts. She is even if he doesn’t ¢ satisfied, because she know the difference SN is terribly pretty. between Maeter- Q\ Take Gabrielle linck and Theo- oO Ray, for in- dore Kremer) stance. She is have actually ‘fi a= beauty ' for become‘legiti- — //f sure, and she is much clev- ma te-=.ae=) 4 tresses, and id erer than she good ones. || is allowed to be. She has Ay | been before fy} | the London j/ public for sev- Ly) eral years, but {j/ except as an ex- y/ ceedingly pretty girl she is unrecog- Es nized. Lily Elsie has probably done as much as she will ever be permitted to do. She probably thinks she has achieved a great deal, in which idea I venture to dis- agree with her. All these foreign girls re- main pretty until the last gasp—and then what hap- pens? They die out, and nobody ever hears of In fact, this | has always \\e seemed ex- traordinary to me. Here are these girls who have learned to dance, and sing, and be lovely, actually dis- porting themselves as ex- ~ cellent actresses in comedy and even in emotional réles. The legitimate actress could not conceivably enter mu- sical comedy, but the musical-comedy actress can, and does, successfully undertake the legitimate. Abroad, the pretty girl is disciplined—but only with regard to her beauty. them. The shifting sands Her beauty is so empha- of mere beauty have sized that if she had te ee shifted in other directions, much intelligence it ‘ for be quite sure that a would sicken her. For- : pretty girl is born every ‘tunately for her, she r minute. Be as sure of usually hasn’t. She is that as you are that an pictured in all styles. intelligently pretty girl Dressmakers, milli- is born only every ners, and jewelers vie hour! I could name with one another in you adozen London efforts to advertise their and Paris celebri- goods by her means. ties who were Her attire, in each new once ecstatically production, is a matter beautiful, and of profound thought, to who are now do- ing any old thing the exclusion of every } higher idea. Stay pretty, and just cater to beauty—never ! for a livelihood. Librettists and song- Bessie McCoy, a singer, a dancer, a beauty, And it is rather pathetic, when writers endeavor to fit who now heads a company of her own

Page 88

Stage Beauty and Brains ing lines in-an un-chorus-girl way, and then—she does things. She refuses to listen to a discipline that keeps a girl in the back- ground until she isn’t a girl. She also has to realize the fact that this is not a loyal public. Abroad, a girl who has once been a beauty is accepted as such until she is a fright. Here we are feverish and _ fickle. We know how old everybody isn’t; and we have a horrible knack of searching for new blood. We are not particularly addicted to the “old songs”; we prefer the new. If a woman has been before the pub- lic for ten years, we credit her with at least twenty. I al- ways think that it is rather inde- cent to publish the ages of ac- tresses in alma- BS ee PHOTOGRAPHS BY SAKONY Julia Sanderson, who, instead of staying just “pretty,” has developed into a personality that is worth something. She is com- petent, not merely pretty you come to think of it, isn’t it? They banked upon the most perishable of all commodities, and the result might have been foreseen, even by them. The salvation of the pretty American girl is that she isn’t satisfied, and won’t be satisfied, and won’t allow anybody to tell her that she should be satisfied,” unless she happens to be a fool—and she loesn’t happen to be. She may owe her original position to her beauty, but she is not inane enough to stop there. She has her voice cultivated; she takes danc- ing lessons; she acquires the art of speak-

Page 89

= oh rv i 7 >— ao —— Ap ~——ee a ee 4} y ae | nacs. However ridiculously young have been a riot || inBerlin,andthey ‘\" they may make themselves, the time will assuredly come when even that will be old. And then we transfer our affections, which is sad. If I had my choice of the future of such girls as Julia Sanderson and Lily Elsie, I should unhesitatingly choose the former. Just at present Miss Elsie, as a pallid beauty, is ahead, but I’d back the other in the race. In fact, the race be- tween the English and would have been obliged to call out the militia. In the matter of beauty, of course, we are horribly spoiled. We have so much of it that sometimes it cloys. We are epicures. We are embarrassed with riches. It nearly hap- pens that when one of these much-advertised foreign beauties visits our shores we are cold and unappreciative. We do not quite see where the much-lauded beauty.comes in. The the American girl is a ayer poor thing poses and sure thing. You can ODP poses in the apparel] take my tip, and back the latter to the last dollar. She will win. She will be at the head of a company of her own while the English girl is still being draped in gorgeous gowns, and pictured in monumental hats, and postal-carded all over the universe. She may have forsaken the music and dance, and have entered the ranks of the legitimate, which to the English girl would be sheer im- possibility. Of course one can’t help gloating over some of these foreign girls. It is such a joy to watch little Gabrielle Ray, who can look so much and do so precious little; or the statuesque Lantelme, in Paris. Deslys I have never seen, and I assure you it wasn’t my fault. I never miss ’°em when I get a chance. Seriously, though—and of course perfectly impartially—one finds many more of them here, even in the lowly ranks of the chorus. That is a positive fact. When I was in Berlin a couple of years ago, I nearly laughed myself sick at the girls I saw in a Kerker show there. They were too gor- geously grotesque. The figures were like suet puddings, and their feet would have supported the Pennsylvania station or the (Jueensborough Bridge. They were consid- ered quite pretty in Germany. Honestly I think that if a set of our girls had been transported into that show, there would Gabrielle Deslys, Paris favorite. ‘Here the pretty girl has a future. There she has only a present ™ that has delighted kings, but it doesn’t seem to delight brokers and bankers and vulgar people here. This has happened time and again. We invariably say, “‘Yes, she is beautiful, but we could pick out much more beautiful girls from the chorus.” It is the smirking pose that irritates us. The American girl seldom seems to know that she is pretty. She is animated, lively, “gingery,” and she has a sense of humor. Her object is to get somewhere! She may be glad to be pretty, but only because it is a valuable stepping-stone. Stay pretty, and just cater to beauty—never! That doesn’t chime in with her temperament at all. And yet, the un-pretty girl has even less of a chance in the United States than she has abroad. Hers is a hard hill to climb. She may have the voice of a nightingale and the equipment of a Bernhardt, but unless she has beauty of some sort she will have to fight, tooth and nail, for her first chance. This is not as heartlessly invariable abroad as it is here. They are not so particular over there. Perhaps the public is less sensual. No pretty American girl need feel the least desire to try her luck abroad. The glamour that seems to surround a European career is but glamour. At best it is notoriety rather than fame. It means a great deal of 521

Page 90

522 attention until beauty wanes, and then it means desperation and solitude. Here it meansall sorts of profitable and busy things— splendid réles in beautiful productions, the appreciation of those who are not looking for mere physical charms, and the plaudits “of the multitude.” So, little Miss Know- It-All, pause before you leap. Look in your glass, ‘‘see”’ yourself clad like Cinderella at the Prince’s ball, and remember that, when the witching hour sounds, as it sounded for Cinderella, you’ll be back in your rags again, all the more desolate for your experience. That may be your fate abroad. The American stage girl has the best of it by long odds. There is no “ring” that keeps any girl out of any particular spot. She is not obliged to wait until the reigning favor- ite has dropped by the wayside. I could tell you of English girls who have been kept out of London, and doomed to the dismal provinces, because one particular beauty re- fused to retire. No chance for them until she had retired. There are only a certain number of recognized beauties in London and Paris. Those who think themselves more beautiful, and who perhaps are, have to wait. There is a long waiting list. It is rather doleful. Here any girl may dare to be pretty. Pérhaps an exultant star may object to some overweening beauty, but the O. B. will not wait long. The manager rules, and the American manager, as I said before, may not know the difference between Maeter- linck and Theodore Kremer, but does know a pretty girl when he sees one. And she will get there! She may, to begin with, have the Life . voice of a raven, and the poise of an ele- phant, but she’ll get there, and she’ll work herself up. All the intelligence of her am- bitious little nature will be exerted to supple- ment a beauty that was useful only as a starter. Seasons later, she will be starring, and none will say her nay! So there you are! Here the pretty girl has a future. There she has only a present. It may be an ex- pensive present, but it never merges into a future. Where will be Gabrielle Deslys ten years from to-day? Can you imagine? I can, but won’t. Where will be the beaute- ous Lantelme, Miss Elsie, or Miss Ray? If they were Americans, it wouldn’t be at all difficult to anticipate. One could prophesy their whereabouts pretty accurately. The European beauty is fool enough to fade. Why fade? Why sit still and let the bloom die from the cheeks, and the curves elimi- nate themselves from the figure? (I feel I am getting pathetic; a thousand pardons.) It is absurd to envy the hectic career of the professional beauty abroad. It may glow and glitter. It may look like pomp and circumstance. In reality it is Dead- Sea fruit—bitter fruit. The American girl uses her beauty for what it is worth—and, believe me, I appreciate its sterling quality —and then she gets through with it, and laughs in its face. It was just a means of getting there, and it had small intrinsic value. It was the ladder reaching to the heights. It was exceedingly useful as a means to an end. But in itself it was not the end, and that is to the eternal credit of the American girl. Life By Coningsby Dawson Out of the blackness into the light, From birth to death—a swallow’s flight. Stars burning fainter, onward we strive. Caldron of dawn! The east’s alive. Joy in the journey, joy at the last; Day in its splendor—darkness past! In life’s beginning clouds to be trod, At its brave ending, sunrise—God.

Page 91

_ BNE 1 mopolitan a Portfolio o Stage Beauties Three portraits of Jane Cowl, who, as Catherine Darwin, plays the leading réle in “The Gamblers,” the successful new play by Charles Klein, author of “The Lion and the Mouse,” “The Music Master,” etc. Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios, New York

Page 92

Winona Winter, one of the “ gorgeous girls in gorgeous clothes and hats who helped Sam Bernard to make ** He Came from Milwaukee,” a musical comedy in two acts, a success dur- ing the four months it stayed in New York. She is now playing with Bernard on the road Portraits s ecially posed for the Cosmopolitan P by the Campbell Studios

Page 93

Daisy Le Hay, in “The Dollar Princess,” a musical play which, originating in Vienna, charmed the foreign theatergoing public for several seasons, New-Yorkers for a season, and is now meeting with tremendous success on the road. Miss Le Hay has one of the leading roles Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

Page 94

5s Large portrait, Zelda Sears, leading woman in “The Nest Egg.” Blanche Hall (left), in “The Nest Egg.” Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios and Zelda Sears. Other portrait, Elsie Leslie, leading woman with H. B. Warner, in “Alias Jimmy Valentine”

Page 95

Three portraits of Blanche Bates. who is Roxana Clayton in *“ Nobody's oe ee ek Widow,” a farcical romance Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios by Avery Hopwood. Bruce McRae, who plays the part of the Duke of Moreland in “Nobody's Widow”

Page 96

Frances Demarest, in “Madame Sherry,” an adapted French vaudeville which has been delighting New-Yorkers since early autumn. Miss Demarest plays one of the leading rdles Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

Page 97

Felice Lyne, who plays the part of Lisbeth in “Hans, the Flute Player.” the opera comique with which Oscar Hammerstein dedicated his Manhattan Opera House to light opera Portraits specially posed for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

Page 98

FiiLDA Vel eHee LUA The First Valentine By Burges Johnson Drawing by Hilda Belcher ’D like to write a valentine— It mustn’t be all hearts and birds Not like the kind one sees about; And paper lace—the sissy kind; It mustn’t have a single line I don’t want any silly words That folks could ever tease about. The lovely, dovey, kissy kind. But certainly it mustn’t be A cheap and common penny one, And it must sort of make her see I like her best of anyone!

Page 99

ade The Common Law A STORY OF LOVE AND THE STRUGGLE AGAINST TRADITION By Robert W. Chambers Author of ‘The Fighting Chance,’ ‘‘ The Younger Set,” “The Danger Mark,” etc. Illustrated by Charles Dana Gibson SyNopsIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS: Louis Neville, a wealthy and well-known young artist, is disturbed by a ring at his studio bell. Answering it, he finds at the door a young woman, Valerie West, seeking employment as a model. He gives a negative answer, but something about her touches him to sympathy, and he invites her in to leave her name and address. He indifferently begins to tabulate her qualifications when her lifted veil discloses an unusual beauty. ‘‘How much time can you give me, provided your figure is as beautiful as your face?"’ is his next question. The answer being satisfactory, she is shown into the dressing-room to disrobe. A long time passes and many tears have been shed before she is ready for his critical judgment. She is pronounced practically faultless, and work is begun at once. He paints rapidly on until a gasp of pain from her warns him that she is about to fall, and he rushes to her. Then he learns that she has never posed before, and is all commiseration as he realizes how much it must have hurt her finer sensibilities to pose as she did. The incident puts them on a footing of camaraderie at once, for her education and culture are evident, as is his desire to shield her. There is luncheon in the studio and a long talk in which she discloses that she has had no real girlhood and is starved for a chance to have intellectual friends and make a decent living. She has tried the theater and left it—because she has principles. Thus begins her career, followed by happy days in Neville’s studio, in posing for friends of his, in gaieties and innocent sentimentalities shared with more or less gay devotees of art. Neville—Kelly, his friends call him—alone is always serious, but as the days pass a note of tenderness creeps into his talk with her and more than a shade of annoyance when she tells him of associating with other men. He begins work on her portrait, but his hand seems to have lost its cunning, and he becomes perturbed and irritable. He goes with a popular brother artist, José Querida, for a week-end at his sister’s country home. In the gay party there is Stephanie Swift, who, according to Neville’s sister, considers herself engaged to him. She, with the others, banters him about his pretty model. His defense of her angers his sister, who upbraids him. His reply is unyielding, and its spontaneous warmth reveals to him that he is beginning to like the girl immensely, He decides to return to town that night, and when he realizes that he will arrive too late to talk to Valerie, he leaves a téte-a-téte with Stephanie to call her up in town, Light hearted, he goes back to Stephanie, plunges into the matter of their relationship and clears that up, then is whirled away to the city. Early in the summer Valerie and Rita, a fellow model, go, for a holiday, to a mountain hotel, where their freshness and gaiety distract not only the spinsterly summer boarders, but vacationing youths as well. The quiet soon palls, and Valerie writes to Neville, urging him to come up for a day or two. He comes; there is a long talk on the way from the station, but in the quiet of darkness, when they go for a row on the pond, they drift almost in silence. While returning to the hotel they kneel at a wayside spring to drink from her cupped hands, and there he kisses her. In town again he sees less of her, for his work does not require her. His lack of self-confidence grows, and his manner finally becoming a mat- ter of serious concern to his friends, they advise a trip abroad. He is seriously considering it when he starts out fora lonely dinner on New Year’s Eve. Two friends intervene, and the dinner-hour finds him one of a merry crowd that has gatherel to celebrate the passing of the year. VI (ContTINUED) ROUND every table, rosily illumi- nated, laughter rang. White throats and shoulders glim- mered, jewels sparkled, the clear crystalline shock of glasses touching glasses rang continual accompani- ment to the music and the breezy confusion of voices. Here and there, in premonition of the eventual, the cometlike passage of streaming confetti was blocked by bare arms upflung to shield laughing faces; arms that flashed with splendid jewels on wrist and finger. Neville, coolly surveying the room, recog- nized many, responding to recognition with a laugh, a gesture, or with glass uplifted. “Stop making goo-goos,” cried Mazie, dropping her hand over his wrist. “Listen, and I'll be imprudent enough to tell you the very latest toast.’’ She leaned nearer, opening her fan with a daring laugh; but Ogilvy wouldn’t have it. “This is no time for single sentiment!” he shouted. ‘Everybody should be perfectly plural to-night—everything should be plural, multiple, diffuse, all-embracing, general, polydipsiatic, polygynyatic, polyandryatic!” ‘“What’s polyandryatic?”’ demanded Ma- zie in astonishment. “Tt means everybody is everybody else’s! I’m yours and you’re mine, but everybody else owns us and we own everybody!” “Hurrah!” shouted Annan. “Hear! hear! Where is the fair and total stranger who is going to steal the first kiss from me? Somebody count three before the rush be- gins—” A ball of roses struck him squarely in the mouth; a furious shower of confetti followed. For a few moments the volleys became * This story began in the November issue of the Cosmopolitan COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY. COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN

Page 100

general, then the wild interchange of civil- ities subsided, and the cries and laughter died away and were lost in the loud ani- mated. hum which never ceased under the gay uproar of the music. Neville, surveying the vicinity, recognized people he never dreamed would have ap- peared in such a place—here a celebrated architect and his pretty wife entertaining a jolly party, there a weil-known lawyer and somebody else’s pretty wife; and there were men well known at fashionable clubs and women known in fashionable sets, and men and women characteristic of quieter sets, plainly a little uncertain and surprised to find themselves there. And he recognized assorted lights of the “profession,”’ mascu- line and feminine; and one or two beautiful meteors that were falling athwart the under- world, leaving fading trails of incandescence in their jeweled wake. The noise began to stun him; he laughed and talked and sang with the others, dis- tinguishing neither his own voice nor the replies, for the tumult grew as the hour advanced toward midnight, gathering stead. ily in strength, in license, in abandon. And now, as the minute hands on the big gilded clock twitched nearer and nearer to midnight, the racket became terrific, swelling, roaring into an infernal din as the raucous blast of horns increased in the streets outside and the whistles began to sound over the city from Westchester to the Bay, from Long Island to the Palisades. Sheer noise, stupefying, abom inable, incredible, unending, greeted the birth of the new year; they were dancing in circles, singing, cheering, amid the crash of glasses. Table-cloths, silken gowns, flowers, were crushed and trampled under foot; flushed faces looked into strange faces, laughing; eyes strange to other eyes smiled; strange hands exchanged clasps with hands unknown; the whirl had become a’madness. And suddenly, in its vortex, Neville saw Valerie West. Somebody had set her on a table amid the silver and flowers and splin- tered crystal. Her face was flushed, eyes and mouth brilliant, her gown almost torn from her left shoulder and fluttering around the lovely arm in wisps and rags of silk and lace. Querida supported her there. They pelted her with flowers and confetti, and she threw roses back at everybody, snatching her ammunition from a great basket which Querida held for her. The Common Law Olgilvy and Annan saw her and opened fire on her with a cheer, and she recognized them and replied with volleys of rose-buds, was in the act of hurling her last blossom, caught sight of Neville where he stood with Mazie on a chair behind him, her hands rest- ing on his shoulders. And the last rose dropped from her hand. Querida turned, too, inquiringly; recog. nized Neville, and for a second his olive cheeks reddened; then with a gay laugh he passed his arms around Valerie and, coolly facing the bombardment of confetti and flow. ers, swung her from the table to the floor. A furious little battle of flowers began at his own table, but Neville was already lost in the throng, making his way toward the door, pelted, shouldered, blocked, tor- mented, but indifferent, unresponsive, forc- ing his path to the outer air. Once or twice voices called his name, but he scarce ly heard them. Then a hand caught at his, and a breathless voice whispered, “Are you going?” “Yes,” he said dully “Why?” ‘I’ve had enough of the new year.” Breathing fast, the color in her face com ing and going, she stood, vivid lips parted regarding him. Then, in a low voice, “1 didn’t know you were to be here, Louis.” “Nor I. It was an accident.” ‘Who was the—girl?”’ ‘What girl?” ‘She stood behind you with her hands on your shoulders.” “How the devil do I know?” he said savagely. “Her name’s Mazie Something or-other.”’ “Did you bring her?”’ “Ves. Did Querida asked insolently. She looked at him in a confused, bewil- dered way, laid her hand on his sleeve with an impulse as though he had been about to strike her. He no longer knew what he was doing in the sudden surge of unreasoning anger that possessed him; he shook her hand from his sleeve and turned. And the next moment, on the stairs, she was beside him again, slender, pale, close to his shoulder, descending the great staircase beside him, one white-gloved hand resting lightly within his arm. Neither spoke. At the cloak-room she turned and looked at him, stood a moment bring you?’ he

Page 101

slowly tearing the orchids from her breast and dropping the crushed petals underfoot. A maid brought her fur coat—his gift; a page brought his own coat and hat. “Will you call a cab?” He turned and spoke to the porter. they waited, side by side, in silence. When the taxicab arrived he turned to give the porter her address, but she had forestalled him. And he entered the narrow vehicle, and they sat through the snowy journey in utter si- lence until the cab drew up at his door. Then he said, “Are you not go- ing home?” “Not yet.” They descended, stood in the falling snow while he set- tld with the driver, then en- tered the great building, ascended in the elevator, and stepped out at his door. He found his latch-key; the door swung slowly open before them. Then Vil AN electric lamp was burning in the hallway; he threw open the connect- ing doors of the studio, where a light gleamed high on the ceiling, and stood aside for her to pass him. She stepped across the threshold into the subdued radiance, stood for a moment undecided, then, “Are you coming in?” she asked cheerfully, quite aware of his ill temper. ‘Because if you are, you may take off my coat for me.” He crossed the threshold in silence, and divested her of the fur garment, which was all sparkling with melting snow. “Do let’s enjoy the firelight,”’ she said, turning out the single ceiling lamp; “and please find some nice, big crackly logs for the fire, Kelly, there’s a treasure!” His frowning visage said, “Don’t pretend that it’s all perfectly pleasant between us”’; but he turned without speaking, cleared a Robert W. DRAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON Mazie Gray Chambers 533 big armchair of its pile of silks, velvets, and antique weapons, and pushed it to the edge of the hearth. Every movement he made, his every attitude, was characterized by a sulky dignity which she found rather funny, now that the first inexplicable consternation of meeting him had subsided. And already she was wondering just what it was that had startled her; why she had left the café with him; why he had left; why he seemed to be vexed with her. For her conscience, in regard to him, was perfectly clear and serene. “Now the logs, Kelly dear,” she said, “ the kind that catch fire in a sec- ond and make fry- ing-pan music, please.” He laid three or four logs of yellow birch across the bed of coals.’ The blaze caught swiftly, mounting ina broad sheet of yellow flame, making their faces brilliant in the darkness; and the tall shadows leaped across floor and wall, and towered, wavering, above them from the ruddy ceiling. “Kelly!” “What?” “JT wish you a happy new year.” “Thank you. I wish you the same.” “Come over here and curl up on the hearth and drop your head back on my knees, and tell me what is the trouble, you sulky boy!” He did not appear to hear her. “Please?” with a slight rising inflection. “What is the use of pretending?” he said shortly. “Pretending!” she repeated, mimicking him delightedly. Then with a clear, frank laugh: “Oh, you great, big infant! The idea of you being the famous painter Louis Neville! I wish there was a nursery here. I’d place you in it and let you pout!” “That’s more pretense,” he said, “and you know it.”

Page 102

534 “What silly things you do say, Louis! As though people could find life endurable if they did not pretend. Of course I’m pre- tending. And if a girl pretends hard enough it sometimes comes true.” ‘What comes true?” “Ah, you ask me too much. Well, for example, if I pretend I don’t mind your ill temper it may come true that you will be amiable to me before I go home.” There was no smile from him, no response. Che warmth of the burning logs deepened the color in her cold cheeks. Snow-crystals on her dark hair melted into iris-rayed drops. She stretched her arms to the fire, and her eyes fell on Gladys and her kitten, slumbering, softly embraced. “Oh, do look, Kelly! How perfectly sweet and cunning! Gladys has her paws right around the kitten’s neck.” Impulsively she knelt down, burying her face in the fluffy heap; the kitten partly opened its bluish eyes; the mother-cat stretched her legs, yawned, glanced up, and began to lick the kitten, purring loudly. For a moment or two the girl caressed the drowsy cats; then, rising, she resumed her seat, sinking back deeply into the armchair and casting a sidelong and uncertain glance at Neville. The flames burned steadily, noiselessly, now; nothing else stirred in the studio; there was no sound save the ghostly whisper of driving snow blotting the glass roof above Her gaze wandered over the silken disorder in the studio, arrested here and there as the firelight gleamed on bits of armor, on pol- ished corselet and helmet and the tall hilts of swords. Then she looked upward where the high canvas loomed, a vast expanse of gray, untouched except for the brushed-in outlines of men in shadowy processional. She watched Neville, who had begun to prowl about in the disorder of the place, stepping over trailing velvets, avoiding man- ikins armed cap-a-pie, moving restlessly, aimlessly. And her eyes followed his inde- cision with a smile that gradually became perplexed and then a little troubled. For even in the uncertain firelight she was aware of the change in his face—of features once boyish and familiar that seemed now to have settled into a sterner, darker mold; a visage that was too lean for his age, a face already haunted of shadows; a mature face—the face of a man who had known unhappiness. He had paused, now, head lifted, eyes The Common Law fixed on the vast canvas above. And for a long while he stood there, leaning sideways against a ladder, apparently oblivious of her. Time lagged, halted, then sped forward, slyly robbing him of minutes of which his senses possessed no record. But minutes had come and gone while he stood there thinking, unconscious of the trick time played him, for the fire was already burning low again and the tall clock in the shadows pointed with stiff and ancient hands to the death of another hour and the birth of yet another; and the old-time bell chimed im- partially for both with a shift and slide of creaking weights and wheels. He lifted his head abruptly and looked at Valerie, who lay curled up in her chair, eyes closed, dark lashes resting on her cheeks. As he passed her chair and returned to place more logs on the fire she opened her eyes and looked up at him. The curve of her mouth grew softly humorous. “T’d much prefer my own bed,” she said “if this is all you have to say to me.” “Had you anything to say to me?” he asked, unsmiling. “About what, Kelly dear?” “God knows; I don’t.” “Listen to this very cross and cranky young man!” she exclaimed, sitting up and winking her eyes in the rushing brilliance of the blaze. “He is neither a very Zracious host nor a very reasonable one; nor yet particularly nice to a girl who left a per fectly good party for an hour with him.” She stole a glance at him and her gaze softened. “Perhaps,” she said aloud to herself, “he is not really very cross; perhaps he is only tired—or in trouble. Otherwise his voice and manners are scarcely pardonable—even by me.” He stood regarding the flames with nar rowing gaze for a few moments, then, hand: in his pockets, walked over to his chair once more and dropped into it. A slight flush stole into her cheeks; but it went as it came. She rose, crossed to where he sat, and stood looking down at him. “What is the matter?” “With me?” in crude pretense of sur prise. “Of course. Jam happy enough. What troubles you?” “Absolutely nothing.” “Then, what troubles us?” she persisted “What has gone wrong between us, Kelly

Page 103

dear? Because we mustn’t let it, you know,” she added slowly, shaking her head. “Has anything gone wrong with us?” he asked sullenly. “Evidently. I don’t know what it is. I’m keeping my composure and controlling my temper until I find out. You know what that dreadful temper of mine can be?” She added, smiling: ‘Well, then, please beware of it unless you are ready to talk sensibly. Are you?” ‘What is it you wish me to say?” ‘How perfectly horrid you can be!”’ she exclaimed. “I never knew you could be like this! Do you want a girl to go on her knees to you? I care enough for our friend- ship to do it, but I won’t!” Her mood was altering. “You’re a brute, Kelly, to make me mis- erable. I was having such a good time at the Gigolette when I suddenly saw you, your expression, and—I don’t. even yet know why, but every bit of joy went out of everything for me—” “7 was going out, too,”’ he said, laughing. “Why didn’t you remain? Your gay spirits would have returned untroubled after my departure.” There was an ugly sound to his laugh which checked her, left her silent for a mo- ment. Then, “Did you disapprove of me?” she asked curiously. ‘‘ Was that it?” “No. You can take care of yourself, I fancy.” “T have had to,” she said gravely. He was silent. She added with a light laugh not per- fectly genuine, ‘I suppose I am experien- cing with you what all mortals experience when they become entangled with the gods.”’ “What is that?” “Unhappiness. All the others experi- enced it—Proserpine, Helen, poor little Psyche—every nice girl who ever became mixed up with the Olympians had a bad half-hour of it sooner or later. And to- night the great god Kelly has veiled his face from me, and I’m on my knees at his altar sacrificing every shred of sweet temper to propitiate him.. Now, mighty and sulky oracle, what has happened to displease you?” He said, “If there seems to be any con- straint, if anything has altered our pleasant intimacy, I don’t know what it is any more than you do, Valerie.” “Then there is something!” “T have not said so.” Robert W. Chambers 535 “Well, then, J say so,” she said impa- tiently. “And I say, also, that whatever threatens our excellent understanding ought to be hunted out and destroyed. Shall we do it together, Louis?” He said nothing. “Come to the fire and talk it over like two sensible people. Will you? And please pull that sofa around to the blaze for me. Thank you. This, Kelly, is our bed of jus- tice.” She drew the cushions under her head and nestled down in the full warmth of the hearth. “Le lit de justice,” she repeated gaily. “Here I preside, possessing inquisitorial power and prerogative, and exercising here to-night the high justice, the middle, and the low. Now hale before me those skulk- ing knaves, Doubt, Suspicion, and Distrust, and you and I will make short work of them. Pull ’em along by their ears, Louis! This court means to sit all night if necessary!” She laughed merrily, raised herself on one arm and looked him straight in the eyes. “Louis!” “What?” “Do you doubt me?” ‘Doubt what?” “That my friendship for you is as warm as the moment it began?” He said, unsmiling: “People meet as we met, become friends—very good, very close friends—in that sort of friendship which is governed by chance and environment. The hazard that throws two people into each other’s company is the same hazard that separates them. It is not significant either way. I liked you—missed you. Our companionship had been pleasant.” “Very,” she said quietly. He nodded. ‘‘Then chance became busy; your duties led you elsewhere, mine set me adrift in channels once familiar—” “Ts that all you see in our estrangement?” “What?” he asked abruptly. ‘“‘Estrangement,” she repeated tranquilly. “‘That is the real word for it. Because the old intimacy is gone. And now we both admit it.” ““We have had no opportunity to be to- gether this—” “We once made opportunities.” “We have had no time—”’ “We halted time, hastened it, dictated to it, ruled it—once.” “Then explain it otherwise if you can.”

Page 104

Querida sup- elke IY - gz AY : SR iby Be Wa Fs Somebody had set her on a table amid the silver and flowers and 536 A a ° a) a = a - 8 ~ ° ° 2 ® u a vs ue uv x= B 2 = > Zz i] ° ~ c wD = a ee) = w s os 8 £ % a °o = a ke 4 on - ve a ‘op a = be 3 ° B uv cc te ~~ i 3 by « ‘t vu $ 3 a y q «6 ML uv ~ a 3 ° a a ee 3 = Suddenly Neville saw Valerie West. DRAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON

Page 105

Her face was flushed, eyes and mouth brilliant, her gown almost torn from her etti. and she threw roses back at everybody, d the last rose dropped from her hand splintered crystal. ported her there. They pelted her with flowers and conf, chair behind him, her arms resting on his shoulders. An 537

Page 106

538 The Common Law “T am trying to—with God’s help. Will you aid me, too?” Her sudden seriousness and emotion startled him. ‘Louis, if our estrangement is important enough for us to notice at all, it is important enough to analyze, isn’t it?”’ “T have analyzed the reasons ‘Truthfully? ” ‘“‘T think so—as far as I have gone.”’ “Let us go farther, then—to the end.” ‘But there is noparticular significance ‘“Tsn’t there?” “T don’t know.’ “After all, why did you leave that café? Why did 1? Why are we together, now, here in your studio, and utterly miserable at one o’clock of the new year’s morning? For you and I are unhappy and ill at ease; and you and J are talking at cross purposes, groping, evading, fencing with words. If there is nothing significant in the friendship we gave each other from the hour we met it is not worth the self-deception you are content with.” “*Self-deception!” he repeated, flushing. ‘Yes. Because you do.care more for me than what you have said about our friend- ship indicates. And I care more for your regard than you seem willing to recognize.” “T am very glad to—” “Listen, Kelly. Can’t we be honest with ourselves and with each other? Because our being here, now—my leaving that place in the way I did—surprises me. I want to find out why there has been confusion, con- straint, somewhere—there is something to clear up between us—I have felt that, vaguely, at moments; now I know it. Let us try to find out what it is, what is steadily undermining our friendship.” “Nothing, Valerie,” he said, smiling. “T am as fond of you as ever. Only you have found time for other friendships. Your life has become more interesting, fuller, happier.” “Not happier. I realize that now, as you say it.” She glanced around her; swiftly her dark eyes passed over things familiar. ‘I was happier here than I have ever been in all my life,” she said. “I love this room and everything in it. You know [ do, Louis. But I couldn’t very well come here when you were using all those models. If you think that I have neglected you, it is a silly and unfair thing to think. If I did neglect you, I couldn’t help it. And you didn’t seem to care.” ” He shrugged and looked up at the out- lined men’s figures partly covering the canvas above them. Her gaze followed his, then again she raised herself on one elbow and looked around her, searching with quick eyes among the shadows. “Where is my portrait?” ‘Behind the tapestry.” “Have you abandoned it?” “T don’t know.” Her smile became tremulous. ‘Are you going to abandon the original, too?” “T never possessed very much of you, did I?” he said sulkily; and looked up at her quick exclamation of anger and sur- prise. “What do you mean? You had all of me worth having.” There came a quick catch in her throat. ‘‘ You had all there is to me—confidence in you, gratitude for your friendship, deep, happy response to your every mood, my unquestioning love and esteem.”’ “Your love?” he repeated, with an un- pleasant laugh. ‘What else do you call it?” she demanded fiercely. “Is there a name less hackneyed for it? If there is, teach it tome. Yes, if ever a girl truly loved a man, I have loved you. And I do love you dearly, honestly, cleanly, without other excuse than that, until to-night, you have been sweet to me and made me happier and better than I have ever been.” He sprang to his feet confused, deeply moved, suddenly ashamed of his own inex- plicable attitude that seemed to be driving him into a bitterness that had no reason. “Valerie,” he began, but she interrupted him. “T ask you, Kelly, to look back with me over our brief and happy companionship, over the hours together, over all you have done for me.”’ “Have you done less for me?” “TI? What have I done?” ‘You say you have given me love.’ “T have, with all my heart and soul. And now that I think of it, I have given you more—I have given you all that goes with love—an unselfish admiration, a quick sym- pathy in your perplexities, quiet solici- tude in your silences, in your aloof and troubled moments.”’ She leaned nearer, a brighter flush on either cheek. ‘Louis, I have given you more than that. I gave you my bodily self for your work—gave it a

Page 107

Robert W. to vou first of all—came first of all to you- came as a novice, ignorant, frightened; and what you did for me then, what you were to me at that time, I can never, never forget. And that is why I overlook your injustice to me now!”’ She sat up on the sofa’s edge, balanced forward between her arms, fingers nervously working at the silken edges of the uphol- stery. ‘You ought never to have doubted my interest and affection,” she said. “In my heart I have not doubted yours—never except to-night. And it makes me per- fectly wretched.” “T did not mean—” “Ves, you did! There was something about you, your expression, when you saw me throwing roses at everybody, that hurt me—and you meant to.”’ “With Querida’s arm around you did you expect me to smile?” he asked savagely. “Was it that?”’ she demanded, aston- ished. “What?” “Querida’s arm She hesitated, gaz ing straight into his eyes in utter amaze- ment. “It wasn’t that,” she repeated, “was it? You never cared about such petty things, did you? Did you? , Do you care? Because [ never dreamed that you cared. What has a little imprudence, a little silly mischief, to do with our friendship? Has it anything to do with it? You’ve never said anything, and—lI’ve flirted, I’ve been spoons on men—you knew it. Besides, I’ve nearly always told you. I’ve told you with- out thinking it could possibly matter to you—to you of all men! What do you care what I do—as long as I am to you what I have always been?” “‘1—don’t—care.” “Of course not. How can you?” She leaned nearer, her dark and curious gaze searching his. Then, with a nervous laugh voicing the impossible, “* You are not in love with me that way, are you?” she asked, scarcely realizing what she was saying. “No,” he said, forcing a smile. ‘Are you with me?” She flushed scarlet. ‘Kelly, I never thought, dreamed, hoped’”—her voice caught in her throat a moment—‘ I—such a matter has not occurred to me.” She looked at him partly dismayed, partly con- fused, unable now to understand him, or even herself. “You know—that kind of love,” she began, “‘real love, never has hap- Chambers 539 pened to me. You didn’t think that, did you?—because—just because I did flirt a little with you? It didn’t mean anything serious, anything of that kind. Kelly dear, have you mistaken me? Is that what annoys you? Were you afraid I was silly enough mad enough to—to really think of you—in that way?” +. No.”’ “Oh, I was sure you couldn’t believe it ot j me. See how perfectly frank and honest | have been with you. Why, you never were sentimental, and a girl isn’t unless a man begins it! You never kissed me—except last summer when you were going away and both our hearts were pretty full “Wait,” he said, suddenly exasperated, “are you trying to make me understand that you haven't the slightest real emotion concerning me—concerning me as a man like other men?” She looked at him, still confused and dis tressed, still determined he should not mis- understand her. “I don’t know what you mean; truly I don’t. I’m only trying to make you believe that I am not guilty of thinking—wishing—of pretending that in our frank companionship there lay concealed anything of—of deeper significance.” ‘Suppose it were true?” he said. “But it is vot true!” she retorted angrily and looked up, caught his gaze, and her breath failed her. ‘Suppose it were true, for example,” he repeated. ‘Suppose you did find that you and I were capable of deeper “Louis! Louis! Do you realize what you are saying tome? Do you understand what you are doing to the old order of things be- tween us—to the old confidences, the old content, the happiness, the—the innocence of our life together? Do you? Do you even care?”’ “Care? Yes, I care.” “ Because,”’ she said ex¢ itedly, “if it is to be-—that way with you—I—I cannot help you—be of use to you here in the studio as I have been. Am I taking you too seriously? You do not mean that you really could ever love me, or [ you, do you? You mean that that you just want me back again—as I was—as we were—perfectly content to be together. That is what you mean, isn’t it, Kelly dear?”’ she asked piteously. He looked into her flushed and distressed face. “Yes,” he said, “that is exactly what I mean, Valerie, you dear, generous, clear-

Page 108

540 The Common Law seeing girl! I just wanted you back again. I miss you; I am perfectly wretched without you, and that is all the trouble. Will you come?” “T—don’t—know. Why did you say such a thing?” “Forgive me, dear!’ She slowly shook her head. ‘“You’ve made me think of—things,’’ she said. ‘‘ You shouldn’t ever have done it.” “Done what, Valerie?” “What you did—what you said—which makes it impossible for me to—to ever again be what I have been to you—to even pose for you as I did.” “You mean that you won’t pose for me any more?” he asked, aghast. “Only in costume.” She sat on the edge of the sofa, head averted, looking steadily down at the hearth below. There was a pink spot on either cheek. He thought a moment. “Valerie,” he said, ‘‘I believe we had better finish what we have only begun to say.”’ “Ts there anything more?”’ she asked, un- smiling. “Ask yourself. Do you suppose things can be left this way between us—all the happiness and the confidence and the inno- cence, as you say, destroyed?” “What more is there to say,’’ she de- manded coldly. “Shall—I—-say it?” he stammered. She looked up, startled, scarcely recog- nizing the voice as his—scarcely now recog- nizing his altered features. ‘‘What is the matter with you!” she exclaimed nervously. “Good God,” he said hoarsely, “can’t you see I’ve gone quite mad about you!” “About me/” she said blankly. “About you, Valerie West. Can’t you see it? Didn’t you know it? Hasn’t it been plain enough to you—even if it hasn’t been to me?” “Louis! Louis!” she cried in hurt aston- ishment, “what have you said to me!” “That I’m mad about you, and I am. And it’s been so for months—always—ever since the very first! I must have been crazy not to realize it. I’ve been fool enough not to understand what has been the matter. Now you know the truth, Valerie!” He sprang to his feet, took a short turn or two before the hearth, then, catching sight of her face in its colorless dismay and consterna- tion, “I suppose you don’t care for me— that way!” he said, with a mirthless laugh. > “What!” she whispered, bewildered by his violence. Then, “Do you mean that you are in Jove with me!” “Utterly, hopelessly—” his voice broke, and he stood with hands clenched, unable to utter a word. She sat up very straight and pale, the fire- light gleaming on her neck and shoulders. After a moment his voice came back te his choked throat. “T love you better than anything in the world,” he said in unsteady tones. “And that is what has come between us. Do you think it is something we had better hunt down and destroy—this love that has come between us?” “Is—is that true?” she asked, in the awed voice of a child. “Tt seems to be,” he managed tosay. She slid stiffly to the floor and stood leaning against the sofa’s edge, looking at him wide eyed as a schoolgirl. “Tt never occurred to you what the real trouble might be, did it?” he asked. She shook her head mechanically. “Well, we know now. Your court of in- quiry has brought out the truth, after all.” She only stared at him, fascinated. No color had returned to her cheeks. He began to pace the hearth again, lip caught savagely between his teeth. ‘You are no more amazed than I am to learn the truth,” he said. “I never supposed it was that. And it’s been that from the moment I laid eyes on you. I know it now. I’m learning, you see—learning not to lie to my- self or to you. Learning other things, too— God knows what—if this is love, this utter suffering.”’ He swung on his heel and began to pace the glimmering tiles toward her. “Discontent, apathy, unhappiness, loneli- ness, the hidden ache which merely meant I missed you when you were not here, when I was not beside you—all these are now ex- plained before your bed of justice. Your court has heard the truth to-night; and you, Valerie, are armed with justice—the high, the middle, and the low.” Pale, mute, she raised her dark eyes and met his gaze. In the throbbing silence he heard his heart heavy in his breast; and now she heard her own, rapid, terrifying her, hurrying her she knew not whither. And again, trembling, she covered her eyes with her hands. “Valerie,” he said, in anguish, “come

Page 109

back to me. I will not ask you to love me if you cannot. Only come back. I can’t endure it without you.”’ There was no response. He stepped nearer, touched her hands, drew them from her face—revealing its pal- lid loveliness—pressed them to his lips, to his face; drew them against his own shoul- ders—closer, till they fell limply around his neck. She uttered a low cry, “Louis!”” Then, “Tt—it is all over—with us,” she faltered. ‘“T—had never thought of you—this way.” “Can you think of me this way, now?” “T—can’t help it.” “Dearest, dearest,’ he stammered, and kissed her unresponsive lips, her throat, her hair. She only gazed silently at the man whose arms held her tightly imprisoned. Under the torn lace and silk one bare shoul- der glimmered; and he kissed it, touched the pale veins with his lips, drew the arm from his neck and kissed elbow, wrist, and palm, and every slender finger; and still she looked at him as though dazed. A lassitude, heavy, agreeable to endure, possessed her. She yielded to the sense of fatigue, to the confused sweetness that invaded her; every pulse in her body beat its assent, every breath consented. “Will you try to care for me, Valerie?” “You know I will.” “With all your heart?” he asked, trem- bling. “TI do already.”’ “Will you give yourself to me?”’ There was a second’s hesitation; then with a sudden movement she dropped her face on his shoulder. After a moment her voice came, very small, smothered, “What did you mean, Louis?” “By what, my darling?”’ “By—my giving myself—to you?” “T mean that I want you always,” he said in a happy, excited voice that thrilled her. But she looked up at him, still unenlight- ened: “I don’t quite understand,” she said, “but ”’—and her voice fell so low he could scarcely hear it—‘*I am—not afraid—to love you.” “Afraid!’? He stood silent a moment, then: “What did you think I meant, Val- erie? I want you to marry me!”’ She flushed and laid her cheek against his shoulder, striving to think amid the ex- cited disorder of her mind, the delicious bewilderment of her senses; strove to keep Robert W. Chambers 541 clear one paramount thought from the heav- enly confusion that was invading her, carry- ing her away, sweeping her into paradise; struggled to keep that thought intact, unin- tluenced, and cling to it through everything that threatened to overwhelm her. Her slim hands resting in his, her flushed face on his breast, his words ringing in her ears, she strove hard, hard, to steady herself. Because already she knew what her decis- ion must be, what her love for him had always meant in the days when that love had been as innocent as friendship. And even now there was little in it except inno- cence; little yet of passion. It was still only a confused, heavenly surprise, unvexed and, alas! unterrified. The involuntary glimpse of any future for it or for her left her gaze dreamy, curious, but unalarmed. The future he had offered her she would never accept; no other future frightened her. * Louis?” * Dearest,”’ he whispered, his lips to hers. “It is sweet of you, it is perfectly dear of you, to wish me to be your—wife. But let us decide such questions later.”’ “Valerie! What do you mean?” “T didn’t mean that I don’t love you,” she said tremulously. ‘I believe you scarcely understand how truly I do love you. As a matter of fact, I have always been in love with you without knowing it You are not the only fool,” she said, with a confused little laugh. ‘You darling!” She smiled again uncertainly and shook her head. “I truly believe I have always been in love with you. Now that I look back and consider, I am sure of it.’’ She lifted her pretty head and gazed at him, then with a gay little laugh of sheer happi ness almost defiant, ““You see, I am not afraid to love you,” she said. “Afraid? Why should you be?” he re- peated, watching her expression. ‘Because—I am not going to marry you,” she announced gaily. He stared at her, stunned. “Listen, you funny boy,” she added, framing his face with her hands and smiling confidently into his troubled eyes. “I am not afraid to love you, because I never was afraid to face the inevitable. And the in- evitable confronts me now. And I know it. But I will not marry you, Louis. It is good of you, dear of you, to ask it. But it is too utterly unwise. And I will not.”

Page 110

542 The Common Law “cc Why? 99 - “Because,” she said frankly, “I love you better than I do myself.” She forced an- other laugh, adding, ‘Unlike the gods, whom I love I do not destroy.” “That is a queer answer, dear.” “Ts it? Because I say I love you better than I do myself? Why, Louis, all the his- tory of my friendship for you has been only that. Have you ever seen anything selfish in my affection for you?” ““Of course not, but—”’ “Well, then! There isn’t one atom of it in my love for you, either. And I love you dearly—dearly! But I’m not selfish enough to marry you. Don’t scowl and try to per- suade me, Louis. I’ve a perfectly healthy mind of my own, and you know it; and it’s absolutely clear on that subject. You must be satisfied with what I offer—every bit of love that is in me—”’ She hesitated, level eyed and self-possessed, considering him with the calm gaze of a young goddess. “Dear,” she went on slowly, “‘let us end this marriage question once and for all. You can’t take me out of my world into yours without suffering for it, because your world is full of women of your own kind—mothers, sisters, relatives, friends. And all your loyalty, all your tact, all their tact and phi- losophy, too, could not ease one moment in life for you if I were unwise enough to go with you into that world and let you try to force them to accept me.” “T tell you,” he began excitedly, “that they must accept—” “Hush!” she smiled, placing her hand gently across his lips; “with all your man’s experience you are only a man; but I know how it is with women. I have no illusions, Louis. Even by your side, and with the well-meant kindness of your family to me, you would suffer; and I have not the courage to let you—even for love’s sake.” “You are entirely mistaken,” he broke out; but she silenced him with a pretty ges- ture, intimate, appealing, a little proud. “No, I am not mistaken, nor am [I likely to deceive myself that any woman of your world could ever consider me of it—or could ever forgive you for taking me there. And that means spoiling life for you. And I will not!” “Then they can eliminate me also!” he said impatiently. “What logic! When I have tried so hard to make you understand that I will not accept any sacrifice from you!” “It is no sacrifice for me to give up such a “You say very foolish and very sweet things to me, Louis, but I could not love you enough to make up to you your unhappiness at seeing me in your world and not a part of it. Ah, the living ghosts of that world, Louis! Yet J could endure it for myself— a woman can endure anything when she loves; and find happiness, too—if only the man she loves is happy. But, for a man, the woman is never entirely sufficient. My position in your world would anger you, humiliate you, finally embitter you. And I could not live if sorrow came to you through me.” “You are bringing sorrow on me with every word—” “No, dear. It hurts for a moment. Then wisdom will heal it. You do not be- lieve what I say. But you must believe this, that through me you shall never know real unhappiness if I can prevent it.” “And I say to you, Valerie, that I want you for my wife. And if my family and my friends hesitate to receive you, it means severing my relations with them until they come to their senses.” “ That is exactly what I will not do to your life, Louis! Can’t you understand? Is your mother less dear to you than mine was to me? Iwill not break your heart; I will not humiliate either you or her; I will not ask her to endure, or any of your family, or one man or woman in that world where you belong. I am too proud—and too merciful to you!” “T am my own master!” he broke out angrily. “Tam my.own mistress—and incidentally yours,” she added in a low voice. “Valerie!” , “Am I not?” she asked quietly. “How can you say such a thing, child?” “Because it is true—or will be. Won’t it?” She lifted her clear eyes to his, unshrinking—deep brown wells of truth untroubled by the shallows of sham and pretense. His face burned a deep red; she con- fronted him, slender, calm eyed, composed. “T am not the kind of woman who loves twice. I love you so dearly that I will not marry you. That issettled. I love you so deeply that I can be happy with you unmar-

Page 111

OOS SS ORAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON Valerie was busy, exceedingly busy, arranging matters, in view of the great change impending ried. And if this is true, is it not better for me to tell you? I ask nothing except love; I give all I have—myself.” She dropped her arms, palms outward, gazing serenely at him; then blushed viv- idly as he caught her to him in a close em- brace, her delicate, full lips crushed to his. “Dearest, dearest,” he whispered, “you will change your ideas when you understand me better.” “IT can love you no more than I do. Could I love you more if I were your wife?” “Yes, you wilful, silly child!” She laughed, her lips still touching his. “I don’t believe it, Louis. ‘I know I couldn’t. Besides, there is no use thinking about it.” “Valerie, your logic and your ethics are terribly twisted.” “Perhaps. All I know is that I love you, I’d rather talk of that.” “Than talk of marrying me?” “Ves, dear.” “But you’d make me so happy, so proud—”’ 543

Page 112

544 “You darling, tosay so! Think so always, Louis, because I promise to make you happy anyway.” He had encircled her waist with one arm, and they were slowly pacing the floor before the hearth, she with her charming young head bent, eyes downcast, measuring her steps to his. She said thoughtfully: “I have my own ideas concerning life. One of them is to go through it without giving pain to others. To me, the only real wickedness is the wilful infliction of unhappiness. That covers all guilt. Other matters seem so trivial in comparison—I mean the forms and ob- servances, the formalism of sect and creed. To me they mean nothing—these petty laws designed to govern those who are willing to endure them. So I ignore them,” she con- cluded smilingly; and touched her lips to his hand. “Do you include the marriage law?” he asked curiously. “Tn our case, yes. I don’t think it would do for everybody to ignore it.” “You think we may safely ?” “Don’t you, Louis?” she asked, flushing. “Tt leaves you free in your own world.” ‘‘How would it leave you?” She looked up, smiling adorably at his thought of her. “Free as I am now, dearest of men—free to be with you when you wish for me, free to relieve you of myself when you need that relief, free to come and go and earn my living as independently as you gain yours. It would leave me absolutely tran- quil in body and mind.” She laid her flushed face against his. ‘Only my heart would remain fettered. And that is now inevitable.”’ He kissed her and drew her closer. “You are very, very wrong, dear. The girl who gives herself without benefit of clergy walks the earth with her lover in heavier chains than ever were forged at any earthly altar.” She bent her head thoughtfully; they paced the floor for a while in silence. Presently she looked up. “You once said that love comes unasked and goes un- bidden. Do vows at an altar help matters? Is divorce more decent because lawful? Is love more decent when it has been officially and clerically catalogued?” “Tt is safer.” “For whom?” “For the community—for all of us.” - ing embers for a while in silence. The Common Law She considered as she timed her slow pace to his. ‘But, Louis, I can’t marry you, and I love you! What am I to do? Live out life without you? Let you live out life without me, when my loving you would not harm you or me? When I love you dearly—more dearly, more deeply every minute? When life itself is—is begin- ning to be nothing in this world except you? What are we to do?” And, as he made her no answer, “Dear,” she said, hesitating a little, “I am perfectly unconscious of any guilt in loving you. Iam glad I love you. I wish to be part of you before I die. I wish it more than anything in the world! How can an unselfish girl who loves you harm you or herself or the world if she gives herself to you —without asking benefit of clergy and the bureau of licenses?” Standing before the fire, her head resting against his shoulder, they watched the fad- Then, irresistibly drawn by the same impulse, they turned toward each other, trembling. “T’ll marry you that way—if it’s the only way,” he said. “Tt is the—only way.” She laid a soft hand in his; he bent and kissed it, then touched her mouth with his lips. “Do you give yourself to me, Valerie?”’ ——-" “From this moment?” he whispered. Her face paled. She stood resting her cheek on his shoulder, eyes distrait, think- ing. Then, in a voice so low and tremulous he scarce could understand, “ Yes, now,” she said, ‘“‘I—give—myself.” He drew her closer; she relaxed in his em- brace; her face, white as a flower, upturned to his, her dark eyes looking blindly into his. There was no sound save the feathery rush of snow against the panes—the fall of an em- ber amid whitening ashes—a sigh—silence. Twice logs fell from the andirons, shower- ing the chimney with sparks; presently a little flame broke out amid the débris, light- ing up the studio with a fitful radiance; and the single shadow cast by them wavered high on wall and ceiling. His arms were around her; his lips rested on her face where it lay against his shoulder. The ruddy resurgence of firelight stole under the lashes on her cheeks, and her eyes slowly unclosed. Standing there gathered close in his em- “ Perhaps.”

Page 113

ee brace, she turned her head and watched the flame growing brighter among the cinders. Thought, which had ceased when her lips met his in the first quick throb of passion, stirred vaguely, and awoke. And, far within her, somewhere in confused obscurity, her half-stunned senses began groping again toward reason. Louis!” ‘Dearest one!” “Tought togo. Will you take me home? It is morning—do you realize it?” She lifted her head, cleared her eyes with one slender wrist, pushing back the disor- dered hair. Then gently disengaging her- self from his arms, and still busy with her tumbled hair, she looked up at the dial of the ancient clock, which glimmered red in the firelight. “Morning—and a strange new year,’ she said aloud, to herself. She moved nearer to the clock, watching the stiff, jerking revo- lution of the second-hand around its lesser dial. Hearing him come forward behind her, she dropped her head back against him with- out turning. ‘Do you see what Time is doing for us? Time, the incurable, killing us by seconds, Louis; eating steadily into the new year, devouring it hour by hour—the hours that we thought belonged to us.’ She added, musingly, ‘“‘I wonder how many hours of the future remain for us.”’ He answered in a low voice, “That is for you to decide.”’ “T know it,’”’ she murmured. She lifted one ringless hand and, still without looking at him, pressed the third finger backward against his lips. ‘So much for the be- trothal,”’ she said. ‘* My ring-finger is con- secrated.”’ “Will you not wear any ring?’’ he asked. “No. Your kiss is enough.” “Yet—if we are—are—”’ “Engaged?” she suggested calmly. “ Yes, call it that. I really am engaged to give myself to you—ex cathedra—extra muros.” “When?” he said under his breath. “IT don’t know. I must think. A girl who is going to break all conventions ought to have time to consider the consequences” —she smiled faintly—‘“a little time to pre- pare herself for the—the great change. I think we ought to remain engaged for a while, don’t you?” “Dearest,” he broke out pleadingly, “the Robert W. Chambers 245 old way is the best way! I cannot bear to take you, to have you promise yourself with- out formality or sanction.” “But I have already consented, Louis. Volenti non fit injuria,” she added with a faint smile. ‘‘ Voluntas non potest cogi, dear- est, dearest of lovers! I love you dearly for what you offer me—I adore you for it. And how long do you think you ought to wait for me?”’ She disengaged herself from his arm, walked slowly toward the tall old clock, turned her back to it, and faced him with clear, level eyes. After a moment she laughed lightly, “Did ever an engaged gentleman face the prospect of impending happiness with such a long face as this suitor of mine is wearing!” His voice broke in the protest wrung from his lips: ‘‘ You must be my wife, I tell you! For God’s sake marry me and let the future take care of itself!” “You say so many sweet, confusing, and foolish things to me, Louis, that while you are saying them I almost believe them. And then that clear, pitiless reasoning power of mine awakens me, and [ turn my gaze inward and read written on my heart that irrevocable law of mine, that no unhap- piness shall ever come to you through me.” Her face, sweetly serious, brightened slowly to a smile. “Now I am going home, monsieur home to think over my mad and incredible promise to you, and I’m wondering whether I’ll wake up scared to death. Daylight is a chilly shower-bath. No doubt at all that I'll be pretty well frightened over what I’ve said and done to-night. Louis dear, you simply must take me home this very minute!”’ She came up to him, placed both hands on his shoulders, kissed him lightly, looked at him for a moment, humorously grave. ‘Some day,” she said, “a big comet will hit this law-ridden, man-regulated earth, or the earth will slip a cog and go wobbling out of its orbit into interstellar space and side- wipe another planet—or it will ultimately freeze up like the moon. And who will care then how Valerie West loved Louis Neville or what letters in a forgotten language spelled ‘wife’ and what letters spelled ‘mis- tress’? After all, I am not afraid of words. Nor do I fear what is in my heart. God reads it as I stand here; and he can see no selfishness in it. So if merely loving you all

Page 114

546 my life—and proving it—is an evil thing to do, I shall be punished; but I’m going to do it and find out what celestial justice really thinks about it.” Vill exceedingly busy, of the great was busy, in view VALERIE arranging matters, change impending. She began by balancing her check-book, comparing stubs with canceled checks, add- ing and verifying sums total, filing away paid bills and paying the remainder— a financial operation which did not require much time, but to which she applied herself with all the seriousness of a wealthy man hunting through a check-book which will not balance, for a few pennies that ought to be his. For, since she had any accounts at all to keep, she had kept them with method and determination. Her genius for order was inherent, even when she _ possessed nothing except the clothes she wore. She had always kept them in perfect condition. And now that her popularity in business gave her a bank-balance and permitted some of the intimate little luxuries that make for a woman’s self-respect, a perfect passion for order and method possessed her. The tiny bedroom which she inhabited, and the adjoining bathroom, were always immacu- late. Every week she made an inventory of her few but pretty garments, added or subtracted from her memorandum, went over her laundry list, noted and laid aside whatever clothing needed repairs. Once a week, too, she inspected her hats, foot-wear, furs; dusted the three rows of books, emptied and cleaned the globe in which a‘solitary goldfish swam, goggling its eyes in the sunshine, and scrubbed the porce- lain perching-pole on which her parrot sat all day in the bathroom window making limited observations in French, Spanish, and Eng- lish, and splitting red peppers and dried watermelon seeds with his heavy curved beak. He was a gorgeous bird,with crimson and turquoise blue on him, and a capacity for deviltry restrained only by a silver ank- The next instalment of ‘‘ The Common Law The Common Law let and chain, gifts from Querida, as was also the parrot. So Valerie, in view of the great change impending, began to put her earthly house in order—without any particular reason, however, because the great change would not affect her quarters or her living in them. Nor could she afford to permit it to interfere with her business career, for which perfect independence was necessary. She had had it out with Neville one stormy afternoon in January, stopping in for tea after posing for John Burleson’s Psyche fountain ordered by Penrhyn Car- demon. She had demanded from Neville acquiescence in her perfect freedom of ac- tion, absolute independence; had modestly requested non-interference in her business affairs and the liberty to support herself. “There is no other way, Louis,” she ex- plained very sweetly. “Ido not think I am going to lose any self-respect in giving my- self to you; but there would not be one shred of it left to cover me if I were not as free as you are to make the world pay me fairly for what I give it.”” And, another time, she had said to him: “It is better not to tell me all about your personal, private, and financial affairs—better that I do not tell youabout mine. Isit necessary to burst into financial and trivial confidences when one is in love? I have an idea that that is what spoils most marriages. To me there is a certain respectability in reticence when a girl is very much in love. I would no more open my personal and private archives in all their petty disorder to your inspection than I would let you see me dress—even if we had been married for hundreds of years.” And still, on another occasion, when he had fought her for hours in an obstinate determination to make her say she would marry him—and when, beaten, chagrined, baffled, he had lost his temper, she won him back with her child-like candor and self- control. “Your logic,” he said, “is unbaked, un- mature, unfledged. It’s squab-logic, I tell you, Valerie; and it is not very easy for me to listen to it. ’? will appear in the April issue.

Page 115

RNR RAS AN RO ee SE NI a iL r r i u r a (ASA re NN ee eaten US ERENESESE EEE SEES EE EES Portrait of General Miles taken in London in 1908, when the General, on a trip through Europe, was revisiting scenes previously officially visited by him as commander of the United States army The Last Days of Rebellion FINAL SCENES OF THE WAR DESCRIBED BY THE COMMANDER WHOSE DIVISION LED IN THE PURSUIT OF LEE FROM RICHMOND TO APPOMATTOX By General Nelson A. Miles, U.S.A. FELL in command of the First Divi- sion of the Second Army Corps in the month of July, 1864, by reason of the fact that General Barlow, who had become disabled as a result of the severe campaign, had to leave the field for several months. The division to whose chief com- mand I thus succeeded had had a remark- able career as part of the heroic Second Corps, whose history is unparalleled by that of any other organization of our army, or, in fact, of any army, even if we were to go back to the legions of Cesar. The First Division of the Second Army Corps, consisting of four brigades, was the largest of any in the army. It was organ- ized by the veteran general, Edwin V. Sumner, who inspired it with his indomita- ble courage and strong patriotism. Wil- liam F. Fox, in his invaluable history of the regimental losses of the Civil War, speaks of: this division as follows: The first chapter of General Miles’s Memoirs appeared in the December Cosmopolitan 547

Page 116

548 But the hardest fighting and greatest loss of life occurred in the First Division of the Second Corps— Hancock’s old division—in which more men were killed and wounded than in any other division in the Union army, East or West. Its losses aggre- gated 2287 killed, 11,724 wounded, and 4833 miss- ing; total, 18,844. This division was the one which Richardson, its first commander, led on the Peninsula, and at whose head he fell at Antietam; the one which, under Hancock, made the bloody assault on Marye’s Heights (Fredericksburg, Vir- ginia); which, under Caldwell, fought so well in the Gettysburg wheat-field; which, under Barlow, surged over the enemy’s works at Spottsylvania; and which, under Miles, was in at the death in 1865. Within its ranks were the Irish Brigade and crack regiments like the 5th New Hampshire, the 140th Pennsylvania, and the 64th New York. Over 14,000 men were killed or wounded in this division during the war; yet it never numbered 8000 muskets, and often could muster only half of that. After the charge on Marye’s Heights, it numbered only 2800. And he might have added that it was this division that broke through the enemy’s lines near Petersburg, routed a division of the enemy at Sutherland Station, made most important captures at Sailor’s Creek, and led the pursuit so vigorously-and tenaciously that General Lee rode up to our very lines on the morning of April 9th to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia. In speaking of the Second Army Corps, the same author says: The Second Army Corps was prominent by rea- son of its longer and continuous service, larger or- ganization, hardest fighting, and greatest number of casualties. Within its ranks was the regiment which sustained the largest percentage of losses in any one action; also the regiment which sustained the greatest numerical loss in any one action; also the regiment which sustained the greatest numerical loss during its term of service; while, of the roo regiments of the Union army which lost the most men in battle, 35 of them belonged to the Second Corps. He also refers to its achievements at Spottsylvania, where it captured two divi- sions of the Confederate army, with twenty pieces of artillery, thirty colors, and nearly 4000 prisoners. Up to that time its record was most remarkable, in the fact that it had not lost a color nor a gun, although it had previously captured forty-four stands of colors and thousands of prisoners; in fact, it captured in a single day more battle-flags, cannon, and prisoners than it lost in the entire four years of war. Major- General Winfield Scott Hancock says, in a letter dated August, 1864, before Peters- burg, Virginia, and addressed to Lieuten-* ant-General Grant: The Last Days of Rebellion It is perhaps known to you that this corps had never lost a color or a gun previous to this cam- paign, although oftener and more desperately en- gaged than any other corps in this army, or per- haps in any other in the country. I have not the means of knowing exactly the number of guns and colors captured, but I, myself, saw nine in the hands of one division at Antietam, and the official reports show that 34 fell into the hands of that corps at Gettysburg. Before the opening of this campaign, it had at least captured over half a hun- dred colors, although at a cost of over 25,000 cas- ualties. During this campaign, you can judge how well the corps has performed its part. It has cap- tured more guns and colors than all the rest of the army combined. Its reverses have not been many, and they began only when the corps had dwindled to a remnant of its former strength; after it had lost 25 brigade commanders and over 125 regi- mental commanders, and over 20,000 men. It was my good fortune to serve in that division and corps during the entire war. Although wounded four times, being young and strong, I recovered quickly, and was therefore enabled to be on almost contin- uous duty during the four years. The severe casualties during the desperate bat- tles gave promotion to the survivors. I, therefore, by seniority, became the com- manding general of the First Division at the age of twenty-four. On August 25th of that year I was made a brevet major- general and assigned to duty with that rank, and in February following, during the absence of the corps commander, Ma- jor-General Humphreys, I fell in temporary command of the Second Army Corps at the age of twenty-five, when it numbered up- ward of 26,000 men, and was actively engaged against the Army of Northern Virginia. The signal Union victories in the West gave great gratification and encouragement to the Army of the Potomac. Every vic- tory won by their brothers in the West and South was hailed with great rejoicing by the men who were in the trenches and con- stantly under fire before Richmond and Petersburg. But when the Confederates learned of the disastrous defeat of their armies by Thomas and Sherman, the fall of Atlanta, Savannah, Charleston, Fort Fisher, and the victorious march of Sherman’s tri- umphant army up the coast, it produced a demoralizing effect and convinced them of the utter hopelessness of their efforts, and their army never again fought with the same dash and indomitable fortitude that had marked its conduct during the three pre- vious years. The Army of the Potomac had

Page 117

DRAWN BY W. HERBERT DUNTON PROM A DESCRIPTION FURKNIFHED BY GENEKAL MILES “The guns of the captured redoubt “ [at Fort Stedman] “‘were turned upon the Union troops; but the strong support which was expected to occupy the lines was delayed in coming up, and a counter-attack was promptly made, which resulted in the recapture of the Union works ™ 349

Page 118

550 The Last Days of Rebellion been increased by the return of thousands of men who had been disabled by wounds or sickness, and by additional recruits, so that the personnel was in splendid condi- tion, and the equipment was never better at any time in its history. This was the condition of the two armies at the opening of the campaign in 1865. The closing campaign of the war was commenced in the spring as early as it was possible to move an army in that country with success. During the previous autumn and winter, the Union line had been ex- tended from the right in front of Richmond to the extreme left, on the Weldon and Petersburg Railroad, thirty-five miles in, extent. A line of formidable field fortifi- cations had been constructed, including enclosed forts built of timber and earth, surrounded by wide and deep ditches, con- nected by lines of earthworks pro- General George H. Thomas, the “Rock of Chicka- mauga.” who completely destroyed Hood's army at the battle of Nashville tected by every device in the way of obstructions— slashed timber, abatis, chevaux-de- frise, etc. The Confederate army occupied a line parallel to that of the Union army. Should the Con- federate army withdraw and unite its force with that of Johnston, who had been re- instated and wes Meade's shoulder. then opposing HuTvenaPhe Faus tbe Council of war Church, Virginia, Grant is in the left foreground, leaning over The problem was to flank Lee, who persistently kept in front Sherman in North Carolina, it might prove serious for the latter. Therefore the great- est activity was exercised along the whole Union line to keep as near to Lee’s army as possible and prevent his escape. For four long years we had tried to drive the Con- federates away from Richmond and out of Virginia. Now we were most anxious to keep them there. Lee evidently realized the hopeless condi- tion of his position, and, in order to with- draw successfully, adopted the tactics of diversion in his effort to accomplish that purpose. This was done by a bold assault ‘near the center and key of the position in his attack on Fort Stedman. This plan was well conceived and admirably executed under the lead of one of their ablest gen- erals, Gordon, who succeeded in capturing this most important position, with its garrison, as well as the adjacent line General George Gordon Meade, who, under Grant. commanded the Army of the Potomac in the last year of the war of rifle-pits, occu- pied by one brigade of the Ninth Corps, many of whom were cap- tured. The guns of the captured redoubt were turned upon the Union lines, and three batteries oc- cupying adjacent positions were abandoned by the Union troops and taken possession of by the Con- federates. The MeSEKVA CULLEUTION near Massaponax May 21, 1864.

Page 119

assaulting column was necessarily somewhat confused in the desperation of the close engage- ment, and the strong support which was expected to render the most important service in occupying the lines was delayed in coming up, there- by giving the Union troops on the right and left time to re- effort at a diversion had only hastened the opening of the campaign. After in accomplishing the ebject aimed at in the vicinity of Lynchburg, Sheri- dan took position on the extreme left of the Union army. The 29th of March was occupied in mov- ing strong bodies of the Second and Fifth cover from the shock. A counter-attack was promptly made by General Hart- ranft, a gallant, young, and very able oficer, which re- Battery ready for action—one of the many that pounded the defenses of Petersburg and Richmond during the winter of "64 and “65.—Interior of Fort Sedgwick, nicknamed by the soldiers Fort Hell, because it was so constantly under fire. The barrel at the left is part of a chimney leading to a little fireplace underground, where the soldiers often made merry while Rebel shells screamed above corps well toour left, with the object of turning the right flank of the Confed- erate army, and con- siderable ground was gained in that direc- tion during the day. sulted in the recap- ture of the Union works and lines, with some two thousand prisoners. Wherever the Confederate forces had made a simul- taneous advance they were whipped back by the Union troops and the offense re- sumed. This resulted in quite an advance of our lines, thus tightening the strangle- hold at all points, rather than slackening it, as was hoped by the Confederates. As prearranged, the entire army was to advance on the 29th of March, and this On the 3oth, Lee, discovering the Union maneuvers and divin- ing their object, assumed the offensive, as was his custom. He concentrated all his forces available for the purpose, and made a strong advance in three lines of battle against the Fifth Corps under General Warren. This offensive movement took two divisions of the Fifth Corps by surprise in the thickly wooded country, and was so spirited that the two divisions were forced to retreat, not so much from the destructive 551

Page 120

552 The Last Days of Rebellion effect of the blow as from the audacity of the advance of the Confederates. Fortunately my division was in a favor- able position on the right of the point of attack, and while the Confederate forces were advancing with their attention fixed on the Fifth Corps in their front, by quickly changing my line by a left half-wheel, I struck their three lines full upon the left flank and rolled them up, driving them from the field, capturing two colors and several hundred prisoners. While this was being done, the two divisions of the Fifth Corps rallied on the line of the third divi- sion and made an advance, the united forces succeeding in driving the enemy back to their old position on the White Oak Road. On the 31st, the Union line was extended still farther to the left. Sheridan had occu- pied Dinwiddie Court House and Five Forks. The latter being of great impor- tance as the most available line of retreat of the Confederate army, two divisions of infantry were sent to that position, which soon dislodged the two Union cavalry divi- sions there, and drove them back in much confusion to Dinwiddie Court House. The position of the cavalry was somewhat jeopardized. General Warren’s corps was ordered to move to its support, and a good part of the night of the 31st was thus occu- pied. They formed a junction with the cavalry between Five Forks and Dinwiddie Court House at seven A. M. of April rst, and the advance of the Fifth Corps, ably commanded and gallantly led by Warren in conjunction with the advance of the cavalry, resulted in a crushing defeat of the Confederate forces, with a loss of many colors and guns, and 5000 prisoners, of whom 3244 were taken by the Fifth Corps. The historian, Swinton, speaking of this battle and General Warren, says: “The history of the war presents no equally splendid illustration of personal magnetism. Warren led the van of the rushing lines; his horse was shot within a few feet of the breastworks, . . . ” Soon after this bril- liant achievement he was cruelly relieved of his command, and died a_broken- hearted man. That night after dark I was ordered to move my division from the left of the Army of the Potomac to Five Forks and report to General Sheridan, which I did, arriving there about three o’clock in the morning, and remaining until daylight. General Sheridan then concluded that he would not require the assistance of my division, and directed me to retrace my steps in part and attack the enemy’s line near where it crossed the Boynton Plank Road. This was accomplished. The works were carried by assault at that point, the enemy retreating in the direction of Sutherland Station, pur- sued by my division. Sheridan, with cav- alry, moved to the northwest, and the whole line of the Army of the Potomac and the Army of the James, under Generals Meade and Ord, early on that morning as- Edwin V. Sumner (left), organizer of the First Division of the Second Army Corps: Joseph E. Johnston. by many regarded as the ablest Confederate general; and Winfield S. Hancock, who com- manded the Second Corps at Gettysburg and in the 1864 campaign against Lee PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE COLLECTION OF FREDERICK H. MESERVE, ESQ.

Page 121

9% SHERMAN PORTRAIT (BY BRADY) FROM THE General Sherman and his staff in the rendered to him September 1, 1864. breech of the gun with his right saulted the entire line of the enemy’s works before Peters- burg and Richmond. Thus my division was left entirely alone. I followed the enemy on my front to Sutherland Station, where I found Cook’s, formerly Heath’s, division of four brigades occupying a strong position on a smooth open crest, at the foot of which, some eight hundred yards, ran a small stream. These Confederate troops had thrown up intrench- ments to defend their position. The enemy’s left flank was concealed by a forest. Notwithstanding the numbers and strength of the position, my division at- tacked in excellent order and with impetu- osity, but was repulsed with some loss, includ- ing General Madill, one of my brigade com- manders, severely wounded. A short time after, a second assault was made, with the assistance of a powerful concentration of artillery fire, with the same result and the second brigade commander, General Mc- Dougall, wounded. Two gallant attacks having failed, the third was successful. By making a formidable demonstration against the extreme right of the enemy’s line with a cloud of skirmishers, who charged with COLLECTION OF PREDERICK H. MESERVE, ESQ, trenches before Atlanta, which sur- General Sherman is standing at the arm upon it.—General Sherman wild shouts, strongly sup- ported by artillery fire, the effect, as could be plainly ob- served from our side, was to draw a considerable force from the Confederate left to their ex- treme right, just what was desired. While this was being done, a bri- gade was moved under cover of the tim- ber across Hatcher’s Run and around the extreme left flank, where it made a vigorous and successful assault, rolling up the enemy’s line. This assault was supported by the effective fire of two batteries of artillery, then with the division, and by the advance of the entire command, which swept the enemy from the field, leaving in our hands two guns, a battle-flag, and some six hun- dred prisoners. Never shall I forget the exultation that thrilled my very soul as our troops swept over the line of fortifications soon after dawn on that memorable day of April 2, 1865. It was apparent to all that the su- preme crisis of the Confederacy had been reached, and that the hour of its downfall had arrived. Every saldier, from the hum- blest drummer-boy to the highest com- manding general, realized the overwhelming oo5

Page 122

554 The Last Days of Rebellion power of the Union armies. A line of bat- tle forty miles in extent moved with irresisti- ble force under the general direction of Grant. All knew, however, that the master mind of humanity, President Lincoln, was with the army, more intensely interested than any of us. This gave additional strength to every nerve and loyal heart. Every officer and soldier was in his place, full of enthusiasm. Every sword, rifle, and cannon flashed brighter and stronger in its force and action. The fierce Union on- slaught was met by the strongest defense. One instance alone illustrates the Southern fortitude and sacrifice. The garrison of one Confederate field fortification fought until its force of 250 was reduced to 30 men, but before it surrendered, it had placed 500 Union soldiers hors de combat. As line after line of rifle-pits, intrenchments, and _ field fortifications was captured by the Union troops, the stars and stripes of the national colors waved in triumph. The thunders of artillery from the advancing batteries alone broke the continuous chorus of the vic- torious host as they shouted their triumph along the entire line. LINCOLN’S TRIUMPH IN RICHMOND For four long years the Confederate forces had held their capital at Richmond; had there planned, plotted, and maintained their rebellion; created and directed their armies against the federal government. Their power and fame were now crumbling be- neath the iron hail and amid the blackest turmoil of terrible war. After the Confed- erate flag had been lowered and the na- tional colors were flying, with the Confed- erate army well on its retreat, and while the smoldering fires foolishly lighted by the flying troops were still doing their work of destruction, Abraham Lincoln entered the city. No Roman triumph, nor the splendor of any conqueror’s march or achievement, could equal in sublimity and significance the scene then enacted at Richmond. With a few officers and a small escort of marines, that care-worn patriot, weary with the labors and burdens of a nation, weighted down with the welfare and responsibilities of a great people, the commander of armies of a million men, slowly and silently walked up the street of Richmond toward the Capitol building. Few white people met or greeted him. They looked on from the housetops and windows. Yet he was not alone; every avenue, street, and alley was packed with an excited, jubilant mass of humanity; a great congregation of freed people, in wild ecstasy, singing, shouting, chanting, praying; they strewed his path- way with leaves and flowers; they fell on their knees, thanking their God that their deliverer and liberator had come. No smile was seen on that sad and wrinkled face, but tears of sympathy moistened those benevolent eyes. He sat down to rest his weary frame, and then passed on, the mur- murings of the grateful multitude his only salutation. With the fall of Richmond and Petersburg, the enemy, closely. pursued by the Union army, retreated to Chesterfield Court House, Amelia Court House, Jetersville, Deatonsville, and Sailor’s Creek. Wher- ever they made a halt or a stand, they were attacked and routed. After the success of Sutherland Station, my command was fortunately placed to continue the pursuit, and was most actively engaged. In advancing toward the enemy, then reported to be at Amelia Court House, on the morning of April 6th, being on the left, we soon discovered the Confederate columns escaping around our left flank. The artillery with my division opened fire, and we made an entire change of route. For sixteen miles, over a rolling country of field and forest, my division marched in line of battle. On every crest or command- ing piece of ground, when the enemy made a stand, they were charged and routed. Many times during the day we could see in the distance a heavy wagon train with the retreating army. At Sailor’s Creek the enemy made a final stand. Without a mo- ment’s hesitation the division charged the enemy’s line, capturing the entire train of 250 wagons, two pieces of artillery, twelve battle-flags, and upward of 1000 prisoners. COMEDY IN THE MIDST OF DEATH Then, as night mantled the battle-field, a scene of comedy was enacted about the bivouac fires. After the troops were in posi- tion for the night, and the soldiers had par- taken of their sparse meal of coffee and crackers, they gratified their curiosity by a rigid inspection of the day’s trophies. Sev- eral of the wagons were found loaded with the assets of the Confederate treasury, which had been brought out from Rich- mond. Then followed a most extraordinary ?

Page 123

DAWN BY W. HERBERT DUNTON PROM A DESCRIPTION FURNISHED BY GENERAL MILES “For sixteen miles, over a rolling country of field and forest, my division marched in line of battle. On every crest or commanding piece of ground, when the enemy made a stand, they were charged and routed ~

Page 124

556 spectacle of -jollity and good humor. A Monte Carlo was suddenly improvised in the midst of the bivouac of war. ‘“‘Here’s the Confederate treasury, as sure as you are a soldier,” shouted one. “Let’s all be rich,” said another. “Boys, fill your pockets, your hats, your haversacks, your handkerchiefs, your arms, if you please,” was the word, and the Confederate notes and bonds were rapidly disbursed. If they were at a discount, they were crisp and new and in enormous denominations. Spreading their blankets on the ground by the bivouac fires, the veterans proceeded with the comedy, and such preposterous gambling was probably never before witnessed. Ten thousand dollars was the usual “ante.” Often twenty thousand to “come in”; a raise of fifty thousand to one hundred thou- sand was not unusual, and frequently from one million to two millions of dollars were in the “pool.” They were seemingly as light hearted and oblivious to what might follow as it is possible for soldiers to be. They kept up the revelry during most of the night, though some were to make the soldier’s sacrifice on the morrow, while others were to witness the scene of final triumph. The following day the enemy were pur- sued on to High Bridge, where the railroad crosses the Appomattox River, and where they were again driven from their position. A slight repulse occurred at Farmville, but the division maintained the closest proxim- ity to the enemy, and that night the first demand of General Grant to General Lee for the surrender of his army passed through my line of battle. The reply and subse- quent correspondence between them on the same subject passed through my division. THE ADVANCE TO APPOMATTOX The following morning the enemy was pursued along the Richmond and Lynch- burg road in the direction of the Appomat- tox Court House. While the enemy was being vigorously pressed in this direction, the cavalry, under General Sheridan, made a forced march and reached Appomattox Station, followed by the army corps com- manded by General Ord. Our troops were fighting and pressing the enemy at every point, and just as the sun went down on the evening of April 8th, we heard the guns of the cavalry on the other side of-the Con- federate army. We knew then that our vigorous pursuit and sharp fighting had de- The Last Days of Rebellion layed the enemy a sufficient time to enable the cavalry to get into position on the other side. The advance was resumed on the morning of the oth, my division leading, as it had done during the last eight days, ow- ing to its close proximity at the close of the previous day’s march. We had not marched far, pressing the enemy at all points, when a flag of truce appeared on the enemy’s line, and orders were given to cease firing. A report was received that General Lee was there in person and desired to meet General Grant, who, up to that time, had been with the Army of the Potomac. This report was forwarded to army headquar- ters, and the news received and conveyed to General Lee that General Grant had left that morning and had gone around to the left to General Sheridan’s front. Had General Grant remained with the Army of the Potomac, he would have received the surrender some two hours earlier than it was actually received. LEE’S SURRENDER TO GRANT General Lee appeared very much dis- appointed at not meeting General Grant, and apparently overwhelmed with respon- sibility and anxiety. He left his staff officer, Colonel Marshall, to represent him, with the earnest request that hostilities be suspended until he could see General Grant in person and surrender his army. Turn- ing back, he rode through the shattered remnants of his army to the opposite side. A meeting was arranged between the two commanders, and the formal surrender made. As soon as it was completed, officers galloped in different directions to notify ihe great cordon of troops then surround- ing the army of Lee. The announcement was hailed with enthusiasm and the wildest demonstration. All the bands immediately struck up the national airs, and black- mouthed cannon that for four years had been discharging their iron hail against Americans thundered the voice of peace, and the hills and valleys re-echoed the wel- come sound. We then realized that there was no longer an army to conquer; that the nation was reunited in the strongest bonds of brotherhood; that our country was now without a slave and without an enemy; that the great cause for which we had given the best years of our lives and hundreds of thousands of our comrades, the flower of American manhood, had at last triumphed;

Page 125

and that the nation, by heroism and sacri- fice, was stronger, freer, and purer than ever before. As our hearts were overflowing with thanksgiving, we put away every ele- ment of prejudice and hostility toward our former enemies, but now our fellow citi- zens. Beneath the last war-scarred battle- field was buried all the animosity engen- dered by the prolonged, desperate struggle, and as the victorious troops gladly shared their rations with the destitute and almost starving Confederates, so they cheerfully shared all the advantages, blessings, privileges, and political rights ofareunited country. From aig PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE Generals Grant and Lee and the April 9, 1865, Lee surrendered the rere, seu HY Pee 7 General Nelson A. Miles, U.S.A. 557 and others, and staff officers most active and fearless. The end of the war found the North bur- dened with a colossal debt and grave in- ternational complications looming up. Our commerce had been swept from the seas by ships built in British shipyards, manned by British seamen, and commissioned and officered by the Confederacy. The soil of Canada had been used as a safe refuge and rendezvous for conspiracies against the gov- A French army had been landed in Mexico, which overran that ter- ritory, took possession of its capital, and established an ernment. SS ~ ME-ERVE COLLECTION house at Appomattox where, on handful of discouraged and defeated troops called the Army of Northern Virginia, which had for four years defended Richmond against overwhelming odds and inflicted defeat after defeat upon the Army of the Potomac the hills of Appomattox there went forth a new dispensation. A new day dawned upon human progress. In the great drama that was now so happily ended I had been exceedingly suc- cessful. In fact, anyone who lived through such a prolonged tragedy was most fortu- nate; yet I never could have succeeded had I not had the confidence and good- will of my superiors and the best sup- port of my brave and accomplished _bri- gade and regimental commanders, Gen- erals George N. Macy, C. D. McDougall, H. J. Madill, John Ramsey, James A. Beaver, Robert Nugent, George W. Scott, John Fraser, George Van Schack, O. K. Broady, H. Boyd McKeen, Augustin Lynch, The next instalment of General Miles’s Memoirs will appear in the April issue. imperial government in place of the republic. Many of the strongest statesmen and ablest generals were in favor of forming two great armies of the veterans, composed from both the Union and Confederate armies, and marching one to Montreal and the other to the City of Mexico. Had this action been taken, no one could have foretold the result, especially as affecting our territory, sea power, and commerce, or the destiny of the great Republic. It would have solved some problems that will yet vex the American people. Our people had, however, seen so much of war, with its horrors and devasta- tions, that they dreaded the thought of continued carnage and were more anxious for peace than for all else.

Page 126

E & i 4 A PRAWN BY WILL FOSTER “No, Close,” said Craig, * violence won't do now. The doors are locked—and see, we are four to two” (‘The Deadly Tube")

Page 127

OF HIS OWN OUT CUNNING RASCAL WHO DESTROYS HIS WIFE’S BEAUTY WITH RADIUM. FOURTH OF THE SERIES OF UNIQUE MYSTERY STORIES The Deadly Tube MOUTH CRAIG KENNEDY CONDEMNS A By Arthur B. Reeve Author of ‘‘The Case of Helen Bond,” “The Silent Bullet,” ‘The Bacteriological Detective,” etc. Illustrated by Will Foster * OR Heaven’s sake, Gregory, what is the matter?” asked Craig Ken- nedy as a tall, nervous man stalked into our apartment one evening. “Jameson, shake hands with Dr. Gregory. What’s the matter, Doctor? Surely your X- ray work hasn’t knocked you out like this?”’ The doctor shook hands with me mechan- ically. His hand was icy. “The blow has fallen,” he exclaimed, as he sank limply into a chair and tossed an evening paper over to Kennedy. In red ink on the first page, in the little square headed “Latest News,’ Kennedy read the caption, “Society Woman Crippled for Life by X-Ray Treatment.” “A terrible tragedy was revealed in the suit begun to-day,” continued the article, “by “Mrs. Huntington Close against Dr. James Gregory, an X-ray specialist with offices at —— Madison Avenue, to recover damages for injuries which Mrs. Close al- leges she received while under his care. Several months ago she began a course of X-ray treatment to remove a birthmark on her neck. In her complaint Mrs. Close alleges that Dr. Gregory has carelessly caused X-ray dermatitis, a skin disease of a cancerous nature, and that she has also been rendered a nervous wreck through the effects of the rays. Simultaneously with filing the suit she left home and entered a private hospital. Mrs. Close is one of the most popular hostesses in the smart set, and her loss will be keenly felt.” “What am I to do, Kennedy?” asked the doctor imploringly. ‘You remember I told you the other day about this case—that there was something queer abcut it, that after a few treatments I was uiraid to carry on any more and refused to do so? She really has dermatitis and nervous prostra- tion, exactly as she alleges in her complaint. But, before Heaven, Kennedy, I can’t see how she could possibly have been so affected by the few treatments I gave her. And to-night, just as I was leaving the office, I received a telephone call from her husband’s attorney, Lawrence, very kindly informing me that the case would be pushed to the limit. I tell you, it looks black for me.”’ “What can they do?” “Do? Do you suppose any jury is going to take enough expert testimony to out- weigh the tragedy of a beautiful woman? Do? Why, they can ruin me, even if I get a verdict of acquittal. They can leave me with 2 reputation for carelessness that no mere court decision can ever overcome.” “Gregory, you can rely on me,” said Kennedy. ‘Anything I can do to help you I will gladly do. Jameson and I were on the point of going out to dinner. Join us, and after that we will go down to your office and talk things over.” “You are really too kind,” murmured the doctor. The air of relief that was written on his face was pathetically eloquent. “Now not a word about the case till we have had dinner,” commanded Craig. “I see very plainly that you have been worry- ing about the blow fora long time. Well, it has fallen. The next thing to do is to look over the situation and see where we stand.” Dinner over, we rode down-town in the subway, and Gregory ushered us into an office-building on Madison Avenue, where he had a very handsome suite of several rooms. We sat down in his waiting-room to discuss the affair. “Tt is indeed a very tragic case,” began Kennedy, “almost more tragic than if the victim had been killed outright. Mrs. Huntington Close is—or rather I suppose I 559

Page 128

560 should say was—one of the famous beauties of the city. From what the paper says, her beauty has been hopelessly ruined by this dermatitis, which, I understand, Doc- tor, is practically incurable.”’ Dr. Gregory nodded, and I could not help following his eyes as he looked at his own rough and scarred hands. “Also,””» continued Craig, with his eyes half closed and his finger-tips together, as if he were taking a mental inventory of the facts in the case, ‘‘her nerves are so shat- tered that she will be years in recovering, if she ever recovers.” “Yes,” said the doctor simply. ‘I my- self, for instance, am subject to the most unexpected attacks of neuritis. But, of course, I am under the influence of the rays fifty or sixty times a day, while she had only a few treatments at intervals of many days.”’ “Now, on the other hand,” resumed Craig, ‘I know you, Gregory, very well. Only the other day, before any of this came out, you told me the whole story with your fears as to the outcome. I know that that lawyer of Close’s has been keeping this thing hanging over your head for a long time. And I also know that you are one of the most careful X-ray operators in the city. If this suit goes against you, one of the most brilliant men of science in America will be ruined. Now, having said this much, let me ask you to describe just exactly what treatments you gave Mrs. Close.” The doctor led us into his X-ray room ad- joining. A number of X-ray tubes were neatly put away in a great glass case, and at one end of the room was an operating- table with an X-ray apparatus suspended over it. “How many treatments did you give Mrs. Close?” asked Kennedy. “Not over a dozen, I should say,” re- plied Gregory. “I have a record of them and the dates, which I will give you pres- ently. Certainly they were not numerous enough or frequent enough to have caused a dermatitis such as she has. Besides, look here. I have an apparatus which, for safety to the patient, has few equals in the country. This big lead-glass bowl, whichis placed over my X-ray tube when in use, cuts off the rays at every point except exactly where they are needed.”’ He switched on the electric current, and the apparatus began to sputter. The pun- gent odor of ozone from the electric dis- The Deadly Tube Through the lead- glass bowl I could see the X-ray tube inside suffused with its peculiar, yellowish-green light, divided into two hemispheres of differ- charge filled the room. ent shades. That, I knew,.was the cathode ray, not the X-ray, for the X-ray itself, which streams outside the tube, is invisible to the human eye. The doctor placed in our hands a couple of fluoroscopes, an ap- paratus by which X-rays can be detected. It consists simply of a closed box with an opening to which the eyes are placed. The opposite end of the box is a piece of board coated with a salt such as platino-barium cyanide. When the X-ray strikes this salt it makes it glow, or fluoresce, and objects held between the X-ray tube and the fluoro- scope cast shadows according to the density of the parts which the X-rays penetrate. With the lead-glass bowl removed, the X-ray tube sent forth its wonderful invisi- ble radiation and made the back of the fluoroscope glow with light. I could see the bones of my fingers as I held them up be- tween the X-ray tube and the fluoroscope. But with the lead-glass bowl in position over the tube, the fluoroscope was simply a black box into which I looked and saw nothing. So very little of the radiation escaped from the bowl that it was negligible—except at one point where there was an opening in the bottom of the bowl to allow the rays to pass freely through exactly on the spot on the patient where they were to be used. “The dermatitis, they say, has appeared all over her body, particularly on her head and shoulders,” added Dr. Gregory. ‘Now I have shown you my apparatus to impress on you how really impossible it would have been for her to contract it from her treat- ments here. I’ve made thousands of expos- ures with never an X-ray burn before— eXcept to myself. As for myself, I’m as careful as I can be, but you can see I am under the rays very often, while the patient is only under them once in a while.” To illustrate his care he pointed out to us a cabinet directly back of the operating- table, lined with thick sheets of lead. From this cabinet he conducted most of his treat- ments as far as possible. A little peep-hole enabled him to see the patient and the X-ray apparatus, while an arrangement of mirrors and a fluorescent screen enabled him to see exactly what the X-rays were disclosing, without his leaving the lead-lined cabinet. “T can think of no more perfect protec-

Page 129

We found the patient reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages, a wreck of her former self tion for either patient or operator,” said Kennedy admiringly. “By the way, did Mrs. Close come alone?”’ “No, the first time Mr. Close came with her. After that, she came with her French maid.” The next day we paid a visit to Mrs. Close herself at the private hospital. Ken- nedy had been casting about in his mind for an excuse to see her, and I had suggested that we go as reporters from the Star. I had called up my editor and had obtained permission to use the Star’s name. For- tunately after sending up my card on which I had written Craig’s name we were at length allowed to go up to her room. We found the patient reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages, a wreck of her S61

Page 130

The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Close I had best watch a very wealthy Western divorcee about whom the smart set were much excited former self. I felt the tragedy keenly. Ail that social position and beauty had meant to her had been suddenly blasted. “You will pardon my presumption,”’ be- gan Craig, “but, Mrs. Close, I assure you that I am actuated by the best of motives. We represent the New York Star—” “Isn’t it terrible enough that I should suffer so,’ she interrupted, “but must the newspapers hound me, too?” “T beg your pardon, Mrs. Close,” said Craig, “but you must be aware that the news of your suit of Dr. Gregory has now become public property. I couldn’t stop the Star, much less the other papers, from talking about it. But I can and will do this, Mrs. Close. I will see that justice is done to you and all others concerned. Be- lieve me, I am not here as a yellow journalist to make newspaper copy out of your mis- fortune. Iam here to get at the truth sym- pathetically. Incidentally, I may be able to render you a service, too.”’ “You can render me no service except to expedite the suit against that careless doc- tor—I hate him.”’

Page 131

~~ ~2- “Perhaps,” said Craig. “But suppose some one else should be proved to have been really responsible? Would you still want to press the suit and let the guilty person escape?” She bit her lip. ‘What is it you want of me?” she asked. ‘“T merely want permission to visit your rooms at your home and to talk with your maid. I do not mean to spy on you, far from it; but consider, Mrs. Close, if I should be able to get at the bottom of this thing, find out the real cause of your misfortune, perhaps show that you are the victim of a cruel wrong rather than of carelessness, would you not be willing to let me go ahead? I am frank to tell you that I suspect there is more to this affair than you yourself have any idea of.” “No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy. I know the cause of it. It was my love of beauty. I couldn’t resist the temptation to get rid of even a slight defect. If I had left well enough alone I should not be here now. A friend recommended Dr. Gregory to my husband, and he took me there. My hus- band wishes me to remain at home, but I tell him I feel more comfortable here in the hospital. I shall never go to that house again—the memory of the torture of sleep- less nights in my room there when I felt my good looks going, going’’—she shuddered— “is such that I can never forget it. He says I would be better off there, but no, I can- not go. Still,” she continued wearily, “there can be no harm in your talking to my maid.”’ Kennedy noted attentively what she was saying. “TI thank you, Mrs. Close,” he replied. ‘I am sure you will not regret your permission. Would you be so kind as to give me a note to her?”’ She rang, dictated a short note to a nurse, signed it, and languidly dismissed us. I don’t know that I ever felt as depressed as I did after that interview with one who had entered a living death to ambition, for while Craig had done all the talking I had absorbed nothing but depression. I vowed that if Gregory or anybody else was responsi- ble I would do my share toward bringing on him retribution. The Closes lived in a splendid big house in the Murray Hill section. The presentation of the note quickly brought Mrs. Close’s maid down tous. She had not gone to the hospital because Mrs. Close had considered the serv- ices of the trained nurses quite sufficient. Arthur B. Reeve 563 ‘ Yes, the maid had noticed how her mis- tress had been failing, had noticed it long ago, in fact almost at the time when she had begun the X-ray treatment. She had seemed to improve once when she went away for a few days, but that was at the start, and directly after her return she grew worse again, until she was no longer herself. “Did Dr. Gregory, the X-ray specialist, ever attend Mrs. Close at her home, in her room?”’ asked Craig. “Yes, once, twice, he call, but he do no good,” she said with her French accent. “Did Mrs. Close have other callers?” ‘But, m’sieur, everyone in society has many. What does m’sieur mean?” “Frequent callers—a Mr. Lawrence, for instance?”’ “Oh, yes, Mr. Lawrence frequently.’ ‘“When Mr. Close was at home?” ‘““Yes, on business and on business, too, when he was not at home. He is the attor- ney, m’sieur.” “How did Mrs. Close receive him?” ‘He is the attorney, m’sieur.” ‘And he, did he always call on business?” “Oh, yes, always on business, but—well, madame, she was a very beautiful woman. Perhaps he like beautiful women—eh bien? That was before the Doctor Gregory treated madame. After the doctor treated madame M’sieur Lawrence do not call so often. That is all.” ; “Are you thoroughly devoted to Mrs. Close? Would you do a favor for her?” asked Craig pointblank. “Sir, I would give my life, almost, for madame. She was always so good to me.”’ “T don’t ask you to give your life for her, Marie,” said Craig, “but you can do her a great service, a very great service.” “T will do it.” “To-night,” said Craig, “I want you to sleep in Mrs, Close’s room. You can do so, for I know that Mr. Close is living at the St. Francis Club until his wife returns from the sanitarium. ‘To-morrow morning come to my laboratory’’—Craig handed her his card—“and I will tell you what to do next. By the way, don’t say anything to anyone in the house about it, and keep a sharp watch on the actions of any of the servants who may go into Mrs. Close’s room.” “Well,” said Craig, “there is nothing more to be done immediately.” We had once more regained the street and were ?

Page 132

564 The Deadly Tube walking up-town. We walked in silence for several blocks.” “Yes,” mused Craig, “there is something you can do, after all, Walter. I would like you to look up Gregory and Close and Lawrence. I already know something about them. But you can find out a good deal with your newspaper connections. I would like to have every bit of scandal that has ever been connected with them, or with Mrs. Close, or,” he added significantly, “with any other woman. It isn’t necessary to say that not a breath of it must be pub- lished—yet.” I found a good deal of gossip, but very little of it, indeed, seemed to me at the time to be of importance. Dropping in at the St. Francis Club, where I had some friends, I casually mentioned the troubles of the Huntington Closes. I was surprised to learn that Close spent little of his time at the club, none at home, and only dropped into the hospital to make formal inquiries as to his wife’s condition. It then occurred to me to drop into the office of Society Squibs, whose editor I had long known. The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulk- ington, a very wealthy Western divorcée about whom the smart set were much ex- cited, particularly those whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of society as it was going at present. “And before the tragedy,” said the editor with another nameless look, as if he were imparting a most valuable piece of gossip, “it was the talk of the town, the attention that Close’s lawyer was paying to Mrs. Close. But to her credit let me say that she never gave us a chance to hint at any- thing, and—well, you know us; we don’t need much to make snappy society news.” The editor then waxed even more con- fidential, for if I am anything at all, lama good listener, and I have found that often by sitting tight and listening I can get more than if I were a too-eager questioner. “Tt really was a shame the way that man Lawrence played his game,”’ he went on. “T understand that it was he who intro- duced Close to Mrs. T. They were both his clients. Lawrence had fought her case in the courts when she sued old Tulkington for divorce, and a handsome settlement he got for her, too. They say his fee ran up into the hundred thousands—contingent, you know. I don’t know what his game was” —here he lowered his voice to a whisper— “but they say Close owes him a good deal of money. You can figure it out for your- self as you like. Now, I’ve told you all I know. Come in again, Jameson, when you want some more scandal, and remember me to the boys on the Star.” The following day the maid visited Ken- nedy at his laboratory while I was reporting to him on the result of my investigations. She looked worn and haggard. She had spent a sleepless night and begged that Kennedy would not ask her to repeat the experiment. “TI can promise you, Marie,” he said, “that you will rest better to-night. But you must spend one more night in Mrs. Close’s room. By the way, can you arrange for me to go through the room this morning when you go back?”’ Marie said she could, and an hour or so later Craig and I quietly slipped into the Close residence under her guidance. He was carrying something that looked like a miniature barrel, and I had another package which he had given me, both carefuily wrapped up. The butler eyed us suspici- ously, but Marie spoke a few words to him and I think showed him Mrs. Close’s note. Anyhow he said nothing. Within the room that the unfortunate woman had occupied Kennedy took the coverings off the packages. It was nothing but a portable electric vacuum cleaner, which he quickly attached and set running. Up and down the floor, around and under the bed he pushed the cleaner. He used the various attachments to clean the cur- tains, the walls, and even the furniture. Particularly did he pay attention to the base board on the wall back of the bed. Then he carefully removed the dust from the cleaner and sealed it up in a leaden box. He was about to detach and pack up the cleaner when another idea seemed to occur to him. ‘Might as well make a thorough job of it, Walter,” he said, adjusting the apparatus again. “I’ve cleaned everything but the mattress and the brass bars under the mattress on the bed. Now I'll tackle them. I think we ought to go into the suction-cleaning business—more money in it than in being a detective, I’ll bet.” The cleaner was run over and under the mattress and along every crack and cranny —————— >=

Page 133

—__—__@——— of the brass bed. This done and this dust also carefully stowed away, we departed, very much to the mystification of Marie and, I could not help feeling, of other eyes that peered in through keyholes or cracks in doors. “At any rate,” said Kennedy exultingly, “T think we have stolen a march on them. I don’t believe they were prepared for this, not at least at this stage in the game. Don’t ask me any questions, Walter. Then you will have no secrets to keep if anyone should try to pry them loose. Only remember that this man Lawrence is a shrewd character.” The next day Marie came, looking even more careworn than before. “What’s the matter, mademoiselle?” asked Craig. ‘‘Didn’t you pass a better night?” “Oh, mon Dieu, I rest well, yes. But this morning, while I am at breakfast, Mr. Close send forme. He say that I am discharged. Some servant tell of your visit and he ver-ry angr-ry. And now what is to become of me —will madame his wife give a recommenda- tion now?” “Walter, we have been discovered,” ex- claimed Craig with considerable vexation. Then he remembered the poor girl who had been an involuntary sacrifice to our investigation. Turning to her he said: “Marie, I know several very good families, and I am sure you will not suffer by what you have done by being faithful to your mistress. Only be patient a few days. Go live with some of your folks. I will see that you are placed again.” The girl was profuse in her thanks. “T hadn’t anticipated having my hand forced so soon,” said Craig after she had gone, leaving her address. “‘However, we are on the right track. What was it that you were going to tell me when Marie came in?” “Something that may be very important, Craig,” I said, “though I don’t understand it myself. Pressure is being brought to bear on the Star to keep this thing out of the papers, or at least to minimize it.” “T’m not surprised,” commented Craig. “What do you mean by pressure being brought?”’ “Why, Close’s lawyer, Lawrence, called up the editor this morning—I don’t suppose that you know, but he has some connection with the interests which control the Star— and said that the activity of one of the re- Arthur B. Reeve 565 porters from the Star, Jameson by name, was very distasteful to Mr. Close and that this reporter was employing a man named Kennedy to assist him. “T don’t understand it, Craig,” I con- fessed, “but here one day they give the news to the papers, and two days later they almost threaten us with suit if we don’t stop publishing it.” “Tt is perplexing,” said Craig, with the air of one who was not a bit perplexed, but rather enlightened. He pulled down the district telegraph messenger lever three times, and we sat in silence for a while. “However,” he resumed, “I shall be ready for them to-night.” I said nothing. Several minutes elapsed. Then the messenger rapped on the door. “‘T want these two notes delivered right away,” said Craig to the boy; “here’s a quarter for you. Now mind you don’t get interested in a detective story and forget the notes. If you are back here quickly with the receipts I’ll give you another quarter. Now scurry along.” Then, after the boy had gone, he said casually to me: “Two notes to Close and Gregory, asking them to be present with their attorneys to-night. Close will bring Lawrence, and Gregory will bring a young lawyer named Asche, a very clever fellow. The notes are so worded that they can hardly refuse the invitation.” Meanwhile I carried out an assignment for the Star, and telephoned my story in so as to be sure of being with Craig at the crucial moment. For I was thoroughly curious about his next move in the game. I found him still in his laboratory attaching two coils of thin wire to the connections on the outside of a queer-looking little black box. ““What’s that?” I asked, eying the sinis- ter-looking little box suspiciously. “An in- fernal machine? You’re not going to blow the culprit into eternity, I hope.” “Never mind what it is, Walter. You’ll find that out in due time. It may or it may not be an infernal machine—of a different sort than any you have probably ever heard of. The less you know now the less likely you are to give anything away by a look or anact. Come, now, make yourself useful as well as ornamental. Take these wires and lay them in the cracks of the floor, and be careful not to let them show. A little dust over them will conceal them beautifully.’ ’

Page 134

566 The Deadly Tube Craig now placed the black box back of one of the chairs well down toward the floor, where it could hardly have been per- ceived unless one were suspecting something of the sort. While he was doing so I ran the wires across the floor, and around the edge of the room to the door. “There,” he said, taking the wires from me. ‘Now I'll complete the job by carry- ing them into the next room. And while I’m doing it, go over the wires again and make sure they are absolutely concealed.” That night six men gathered in Kennedy’s laboratory. In my utter ignorance of what was about to happen I was perfectly calm, and so were all the rest, except Gregory. He was easily the most nervous of us all, though his lawyer Asche tried repeatedly to reassure him. “Mr. Close,” began Kennedy, “if you and Mr. Lawrence will sit over here on this side of the room while Dr. Gregory and Mr. Asche sit on the opposite side with Mr. Jameson in the middle, I think both of you opposing parties will be better suited. For I apprehend that at various stages in what I am about to say both you, Mr. Close, and you, Dr. Gregory, will want to consult your attorneys. ‘That, of course, would be em- barrassing, if not impossible, should you be sitting near each other. Now, if we are ready, I shall begin.” Kennedy placed a small leaden casket on the table of his lecture hall. ‘In this casket,”’ he commenced solemnly, “there is a certain substance which I have recovered from the dust swept up by a vacuum cleaner in the room of Mrs. Close.” One could feel the very air of the room surcharged with excitement. Craig drew on a pair of gloves and carefully opened the casket. With his thumb and forefinger he lifted out a glass tube and held it gingerly at arm’s length. My eyes were riveted on it, for the bottom of the tube glowed with a dazzling point of light. Both Gregory and his attorney and Close and Lawrence whispered to each other when the tube was displayed, as indeed they did throughout the whole exhibition of Ken- nedy’s evidence. “No infernal machine was ever more subtle,” said Craig, “‘than the tube which I hold in my hand. The imagination of the most sensational writer of fiction might well be thrilled with the mysteries of this fatal tube and its power to work fearful deeds. A larger quantity of this substance in the tube would produce on me, as I now hold it, incurable burns, just as it did on its dis- coverer before his death. A smaller amount, of course, would not act so quickly. The amount in this tube, if distributed about, would produce the burns inevitably, pro- viding I remained near enough for a long- enough time.” Craig paused a moment to emphasize his remarks. “Here in my hand, gentlemen, I hold the price of a woman’s beauty.” He stopped again for several moments, then resumed, “And now, having shown it to you, for my own safety I will place it back in its leaden casket.”’ Drawing off his gloves, he proceeded, “T have found out by a cablegram to-day that seven weeks ago an order for one hundred milligrams of radium bromide at thirty-five dollars a milligram from a cer- tain person in America was filled by a cor- poration dealing in this substance.” Kennedy said this with measured words, and I felt a thrill run through me. “At that same time, Mrs. Close began a series of treatments with an X-ray specialist in New York,” pursued Kennedy. ‘Now, it is not generally known outside scientific circles, but the fact is that in their physio- logical effects the X-ray and radium arequite one and thesame. Radium possesses this ad- vantage, however, that no elaborate appa- ratus is necessary for its use. And, in addi- tion, the emanation from radium is steady and constant, whereas the X-ray at best varies slightly with changing conditions of the cur- rent and the vacuumin the X-ray tube. Still, the effects on the body are much the same. “* A few days before this order was placed I recall the following despatch which appeared in the New York papers. I will read it: “‘Tiege, Belgium, Oct. —, 1910. What is be- lieved to be the first criminal case in which radium figures as a death-dealing agent is engaging public attention at this university town. A wealthy old bachelor, Pailin by name, was found dead in his flat. A stroke of apoplexy was at first believed to have caused his death, but a close examination re- vealed a curious discoloration of his skin. A spe- cialist called in to view the body gave as his opinion that the old man had been exposed for a long time to the emanations of X-ray or radium. The police theory is that M. Pailin was done to death by a systematic application of either X-rays or radium by a student in the university who roomed next to him. The student has disappeared.’ at

Page 135

‘Now here, I believe, was the suggestion which this American criminal followed, for I cut it out of the paper rather expecting sooner or later that some clever person would act on it. I have thoroughly exam- ined the room of Mrs. Close. She herself told me she never wanted to return to it, that her memory of sleepless nights in it was too vivid. That served to fix the impression that I had already formed from reading this clipping. Either the X-ray or radium had caused her dermatitis and nervousness. Which was it? I wished to be sure that I would make no mistake. Of course I knew it was useless to look for an X-ray machine in or near Mrs. Close’s room. Such a thing could never have been concealed. The alternative? Radium! Ah! that was dif- ferent. Idetermined onan experiment. Mrs. Close’s maid was prevailed on to sleep in her mistress’s room. Of course radiations of brief duration would do her no permanent harm, although they would produce their effect, nevertheless. In one night the maid became extremely nervous. If she had stayed under them several nights no doubt the beginning of a dermatitis would have affected her, if not more serious trouble. A systematic application, covering weeks and months, might in the end even have led to death. “The next day I managed, as I have said, to go over the room thoroughly with a vacuum cleaner—a new one of my own which I had brought myself. But tests of the dust which I got from the floors, cur- tains, and furniture showed nothing at all. As a last thought I had, however, cleaned the mattress of the bed and the cracks and crevices in the brass bars. Tests of that dust showed it to be extremely radioactive. I had the dust dissolved, by a chemist who understands that sort of thing, recrystallized, and the radium salts were extracted from the refuse. Thus I found that I had re- covered all but a very few milligrams of the radium that had been originally purchased in London. Here it is in this deadly tube in the leaden casket. “Tt is needless to add that the night after I had cleaned out this deadly element the maid slept the sleep of the just—and would have been all right when next I saw her but for the interference of the unjust on whom I had stolen a march.” Craig paused while the lawyers whispered again to their clients. Then he continued: Arthur B. Reeve 567 “Now three persons in this room had an opportunity to secrete the contents of this deadly tube in the crevices of the metal work of Mrs. Close’s bed. One of these per- sons must have placed an order through a confidential agent in London to purchase the radium from the English Radium Cor- poration. One of these persons had a com- pelling motive, something to gain by using this deadly element. “The radium in this tube in the casket was secreted, as I have said, in the metal work of Mrs. Close’s bed, not in large enough quantities to be immediately fatal, but mixed with dust so as to produce the result more slowly but no less surely, and thus avoid suspicion. At the same time Mrs. Close was persuaded—I will not say by whom—through her natural pride, to take a course of X-ray treatment for a slight defect. That would further serve to divert suspicion. The fact is that a more horrible plot could hardly have been planned or executed. This person sought to ruin her beauty to gain a most selfish and despicable end.” Again Craig paused to let his words sink into our minds. “Now I wish to state that anything you gentlemen may say will be used against you. That is why I have asked you to bring your attorneys. You may consult with them, of course, while I am getting ready my next disclosure.” As Kennedy had developed his points in the case I had been more and more amazed. But I had not failed to notice how keenly Lawrence was following him. With half a sneer on his astute face, Law- rence drawled: “I cannot see that you have accomplished anything by this rather ex- traordinary summoning of us to your lab- oratory. The evidence is just as black against Dr. Gregory as before. You may think you’re clever, Kennedy, but on the very statement of facts as you have brought them out there is plenty of circumstantial evidence against Gregory—more than there was before. As for anyone else in the room, I can’t see that you have anything on us— unless perhaps this new evidence you speak of may implicate Asche, or Jameson,” he added, including me in a wave of his hand, as if he were already addressing a jury. “It’s my opinion that twelve of our peers would be quite as likely to bring in a verdict of guilty against them as against anyone else

Page 136

568 even remotely connected with this case, ex- cept Gregory. No, you'll have to do better than this in your next case, if you expect to maintain that so-called reputation of yours for being a professor of criminal science.”’ As for Close, taking his cue from his attor- ney, he scornfully added: ‘‘I came to find out some new evidence against the wretch who wrecked the beauty of my wife. All I’ve got is a tiresome lecture on X-rays and radium. I suppose what you say is true. Well, it only bears out what I thought be- fore. Gregory treated my wife at home, after he saw the damage his office treat- ments had done. I guess he was capable of making a complete job out of it—covering up his carelessness by getting rid of the woman who was such a damning piece of evidence against his professional skill.” Never a shade passed Craig’s face as he listened to this tirade. ‘Excuse me a mo- ment,” was all he said, opening the door to leave theroom. “TI have just one more fact to disclose. I will be back directly.” Kennedy was gone several minutes, dur- ing which Close and Lawrence fell to whis- pering behind their hands, with the assur- ance of those who believed that this was only Kennedy’s method of admitting a de- feat. Gregory and Asche exchanged a few words similarly, and it was plain that Asche was endeavoring to put a better interpreta- tion on something than Gregory himself dared hope. As Kennedy reentered, Close was button- ing up his coat preparatory to leaving, and Lawrence was lighting a fresh cigar. In his hand Kennedy held a notebook. ““My stenographer writes a very legible shorthand; at least I find it so—from long practice, I suppose. As I glance over her notes I find many facts which will interest you later—at the trial. But—ah, here at the end—let me read: Well, he’s very clever, but he has nothing against me, has he?’ “No, not unless he can produce the agent who bought the radium for you.’ “But he can’t do that. No one could ever have recognized you on your flying trip to London dis- guised as a diamond merchant who had just learned that he could make his faulty diamonds good by applications of radium and who wanted a good stock of the stuff.’ “Still, we’ll have to drop the suit against Gregory after all, in spite of what I said. That part is hopelessly spoiled.’ “Ves, I suppose so. Oh, well, I’m free now. The next mystery story, ‘‘The Adventure of the Seismograph,’’ will appear in the April number. The Deadly Tube She can hardly help but consent to a divorce now, and a quiet settlement. She brought it on herself —we tried every other way to do it, but she—she was too good to fall into it. She forced us to it.’ ““*Ves, you'll get a good divorce now. But can’t we shut up this man Kennedy? Even if he can’t prove anything against us, the mere rumor of such a thing coming to the ears of Mrs. Tulkington would be unpleasant.’ “*Go as far as you like, Lawrence. what the marriage will mean to me. my debts to you and all the rest.’ ‘Pll see what I can do, Close. a moment.’”’ You know It will settle He'll be back in Close’s face was livid. “It’s a pack of lies!” he shouted, advancing toward Ken nedy, ‘‘a pack of lies! You are a fakir and a blackmailer. I'll have you in jail for this by God—and you too, Gregory.” “One moment, please,” said Kennedy calmly. “Mr. Lawrence, will you be so kind as to reach behind your chair? What do you find?” Lawrence lifted up the plain black box and with it he pulled up the wires which I had, so; carefully concealed in the cracks of the floor. “That,” said Kennedy, “‘is a little instru- ment invented by Thomas A. Edison. It is called the acoustiphone. Its chief merit lies in the fact that it will magnify a sound sixteen hundred times, and carry it to any given point where you wish to place the receiver. Originally Mr. Edison invented this device for the aid of the deaf, but I see no reason why it should not be used to aid thelaw. One needn’t eavesdrop at the key- hole with this little instrument about. In- side that box there is nothing but a series of plugs from which wires, much finer than a thread, are stretched taut. Yet a fly walk- ing near it will make a noise as loud as a draft-horse. If the acoustiphone is placed in any part of the room, especially if near the persons talking—even if they are talking in a whisper—a whisper such as occurred several times during the evening and par- ticularly while I was in the next room get- ting the notes made by my stenographer— a whisper, I say, is like shouting your guilt from the housetops. “You two men, Close and Lawrence, may consider yourselves under arrest for con- spiracy and whatever other indictments will lie against such creatures as you. The police will be here in a moment. No, Close, vio- lence won’t do now. The doors are locked —and see, we are four to two.”

Page 137

my GPECIALLY POSED FOR THE COSMOPOLITAN E can tell you all about the spanking breeze, the flying foam, and the sunlight on the waves, and when it comes to adoring the ocean he has the romantic Lord Byron, poet of love and salt water, tied to the anchor at the bottom of the sea. _ Next to sailing a boat, his chief delight is beautiful and striking poetry, and in this line he considers Rudyard Kipling a king. Every evening he has to wrestle with his imagination, vault nimbly into the flowery fields of unreality, and tell a brand-new tale of magic to his daughter Nancy, whose eight-year-old wisdom makes her a stern critic of things that happen in fairyland. These statements about Franklin Knight Lane, outspoken member of the Interstate Commerce Commission, may not give the impression that he is a fighter, but, ac- The Fighting Commissioner By James Hay, Jr. curately speaking, he has been busy all his life as a warrior, with vizor down and lance in hand, demonstrating that his parents knew what they were doing when they hit on his middle name. In the matter of real, classy, hand-to-hand fighting, he can give the bulldog lessons on aggressiveness and teach the panther new tricks in fast foot-work. From time to time in his career he has taken a political “gang” to an exceeding high place and pushed it off into utter dark- ness, taking care, however, to wait with listening ear lest some noise from the black abyss indicate that he had best climb down and finish the job with his trusty snick- ersnee. Once or twice he has encountered grafters who, after a conflict with him, decided that they had been born in the dark of the moon and were poor, luckless wretches pursued by Lane and a hoodoo. 569

Page 138

570 The Fighting Commissioner Although a Democrat, he just missed being elected governor of California at a time when that state was _ considered “hopelessly Republican.” Soon after that he appeared in Washington to argue a case before the United States Supreme Court. Theodore Roosevelt, then President, was full of admiration for a man who, under the Democratic handicap, had made such a stir in California, and he invited Lane to lunch at the White House. The sequel to the meal was that in 1905 he appointed the Californian to the Interstate Commerce Commission. The biggest thing in the forty-six years of Lane’s life has been his work on the commission, where he has achieved fame as a strident voice and clarion call for popu- larrights. He is always battling with heavy vocal artillery for the people and their dues. Before he went on the commission, he had been a journalist and a lawyer. In 1897 he wrote the San Francisco city charter, under which the affairs of the town are now operated, and, in framing that docu- ment, he did the thing up brown. He put into it the initiative and referendum and the strictest kind of civil-service require- ments for the office-holders. The “gang” that had controlled the city took one look at the charter, emitted a loud cry of distress, and went to work to prevent its adoption. But its warlike author out- fought the opposition, made speeches, told jokes, organized clubs, and wrote pieces for the papers until victory was his. Then his friends told him he would have to run for the position of corporation coun- sel to insure a proper construction and ap- plication of the new laws and regulations. He was a Democrat, and the “gang” was against him, but he took a long breath, hoped the licking would riot be too severe, and leaped into the fray. He was elected by a majority of 800. The next time he was up for the place his majority was 10,000, and the third race gave him a clear lead of 13,500. In 1902 he stepped out of the corporation counsel’s office and was hurled into the fight of his life. He ran for the governor- ship, scared the Republicans into connip- tion fits, carried San Francisco by more than 10,000 votes, but was beaten by the vote in the southern part of the state. He believes now that he was “counted out” of the victory, and he laughingly claims he really had a majority of the people’s votes. That is one good thing about him—he is always able to laugh. In 1903 he got his party’s vote in the Legislature for the United States Senate, but, as the Demo- crats did not have many ballots at their command, all he cashed in on the per- formance was the compliment paid him. Lane has a big brain and an unusual capacity for hard and sustained work. His training as a lawyer and a newspaper writer taught him much about human nature, and this, perhaps, is one reason why the dust of legal opinions and the dry bones of railroad cases have not dried up his sense of humor. He impresses those who know him as being, above all else, a good fellow. He is one of the few who, having started out in life as precocious wonders, did not take their brains too seriously. At the age of three he was toddling to school alone every day in Oakland, California. When he was thirteen, he graduated from the high school of that city. His career at the University of California is still held up as a record. He made the three-year academic course in two sessions, and completed the two-year law course in a session and a half. While in college, he worked for the San Francisco newspapers, and, after gradua- ting in law, he was the Eastern representa- tive of several California journals. From 1891 to 1893 he owned a half-interest in the Tacoma, Washington, News, and it was during this period that he chased the “boss” of the city out of town after show- ing him up as a professional gambler. From 1893 until his appointment to the Interstate Commerce Commission, he prac- tised law in San Francisco. He cannot sail a boat on the ocean wave while he is in Washington, but he rides horseback when he has the time. And his love of poetry has full vent. He keeps in the drawer of his desk copies of the poems which have struck him as particularly forceful. Not long ago President Taft offered him a position on the new Commerce Court, but he declined it on the ground that his present position gives him the opportunity for more important work. And officialdom in Washington said that he was right. This man Lane loves wit, but he is strong on doing his duty as he sees it. He likes to hear a good joke, but, as a fighter, he is no joke at all. He is a cross between a tarantula and a pile-driver. SE —~ yp seceenneneees

Page 139

Ne “o> Skating on Thin Ice By E. W. Kemble \ \ or ~ WS =— NNN \\\ \ Sas eae * OF all spotes dis is de mos delightful, Mistah Smif. “If yo’ is a man. save me!™

Page 140

Skating on Thin Ice ‘Fo’ de Lo'd, Mistah Smif, don't let me drownd!™ * Be calm, Miss Tucker, an’ yo life will be spared.

Page 141

E. W. Kemble —»—___ “ Yes, Mistah Smif, yo bet ma life will be spared.” > — | VI * An’ she gibs me de cole shoulder when I's froze ter my berry gizzard.”

Page 142

prea OPES ae eens pron art nage eer ence rere rare he WILLIAM McADOO, former police commis- sioner of New York, and once assistant secre- tary of the navy, tells a good story of an experience he had while stopping at the hotel in a small town in Nova Scotia. “You froth New York?” asked the owner of the hotel. “T am,” said McAdoo. “Know anybody down there who kin run a hotel?” “Several people.” “Well, I wish you would tell me the name of a good man I can get to come up here and run this hotel for me. I ain’t got time to attend to it, and I want an honest, sober, respectable man to take hold of it for me.” “How much will you pay?” asked McAdoo. ‘“‘Twenty-five dollars a month, or, if he’s espe- cially good, I might go to thirty.” McAdoo promised to think it over, and that night he told the owner a good man to write to. A few days later Mr. George C. Boldt, proprietor of the Waldorf-Astoria in New York and the Bellevue- Stratford in Philadelphia, was highly astonished to receive an offer of twenty-five dollars a month and board to go up to Nova Scotia to run a hotel, with the promise of a raise to thirty, but no more, if he made good. (GEORGE A. HILL, of the United States Naval Observatory, be- fore leaving on a trip for the purpose of studying a solar eclipse, remarked with a sigh: “I have high WILLIAM Mc ADOO hopes for the success of this expedition, but think how often the highest hopes are blasted! Think how many boys begin their careers with full confidence of becoming presidents, governors, or senators at the very least, and look what happens to them. “A boy, and he was GEORGE A, HILL 574 Story —Telers Favorite Yarns Epitor’s Note.—Everybody has a “pet” story. In the case of noted men and women especially it will be discovered that at least one good story is a part of each une’s social equipment. The thing is to draw out the bright particular yarn which is cherished for occasions. In this department we strive to print only the best. The requirements of “The Story-Tellers’ a bright boy, too, left his father’s farm, near my native town of Elizabeth, New Jersey, and went to New York to seek his fortune. None of his family seemed to doubt in the least that his fortune would meet him at the ferry witha brass band. WILTON LACKAYE But six months passed without a word from the adventurous youth. At last, one cold winter after- noon, his father received this note scribbled in pen- cil on an old scrap of wrapping-paper: “*TDear Pa, meet me under the old bridge to- morrow night after dark. Bring with you a blanket or a suit of clothes. I have a hat.’”’ CHARLES M. FLOYD WILTON LACKAYE, the actor-editor, has’a friend named Brady, a press-agent, who in summer precedes a circus and in winter goes ahead of an opera company. He works mostly in the West. “Recently,” said Mr. Lackaye, ‘Brady was en- abled to visit his beloved New York, the place of his birth. Shortly after his arrival I ran across him on Broadway. ‘Well, old man,’ I said to him, ‘1 suppose you’re glad to be back in New York again?’ “*Wilton,’ he answered earnestly, ‘it’s like a glimpse into another world. But I’ve been away so long that I have to rehearse to cross Broadway.’” ‘“HARLES M. FLOYD, while he was governor of New Hampshire, lost Colonel Ward, of his staff, and there was an unseemly scramble for the office, even while the colonel’s body was awaiting burial. One candidate even called upon Governor Floyd. “Governor,” he asked, “have you any objection to my taking Colonel Ward’s place?” “No,” replied the governor, “I have no objection if the undertaker is willing.”

Page 143

> ——

HM AS of Famous People Hall of Fun” are few. We want genuinely funny or told about living men and women whose names are universally familiar. We are glad to pay liberally for those that are found available. If you know a truly famous person ask him for his favorite anecdote and send it to the Anecdote Editor of the CosMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE. NM AURICE ROS TAND, the son of the famous author of ‘*Chantecler,” is well known as a wit, and his bon-mots are the delight of his friends. He loves to joke about his father’s play, and he whimsically declares that the curtain rises on the following eo MAURICE ROSTAND scene from ‘“Chante- cler”’: Chantecler, the roost- er, is discovered in com pany with his wives. In the background a quar tette of clergymen are seen feasting on young pullet. Chantecler asks his favorite spouse, “Where are our two eldest daughters?” “‘Alas!” says Mrs. Chantecler, “they have en tered the ministry.” “Oh, all right,” the rooster replies. ‘They were poorly qualified for lay members, anyhow.”

UDGE LINDSEY, of the famous Denver juvenile Y¥ court, said in the course of a recent address on charity: “Too many of us are inclined to think that, one misstep made, the boy is gone for good. Too many of us are like the cowboy. An itinerant preacher talked to a cowboy audience on the prodigal son. He described the foolish prodigal’s extravagance and dissipation; he described his penury and his husk- eating with the swine in the sty; he described his return, his father’s loving welcome, the rejoicing and the preparation of the fatted calf. “The preacher in his discourse noticed a cowboy staring at him very hard. He thought he had made a convert, and addressing the cowboy personally he said from the pulpit, “¢My dear friend, what would you have done if you had had a prodigal son returning home like that?’ “* Me?’ said the cowboy, promptly and fiercely, ‘I'd have shot the boy and raised the calf.’”

stories as narrated by

}X-GOVERNOR PATTERSON, of Tennessee, * tells this story: *“ Down in Nashville there is a darky, a carpenter by trade, with a local reputation for quickness at repartee. Not many months ago Ephraim was sub- poenaed as witness before a justice of the peace at Nashville. Under severe cross-examinaticn the wit- ness displayed great patience and self-control, and all went smoothly until Ephraim was questioned as to his occupation. “*T’s a cahpenter, sah,’ he answered. “What kind of a carpenter?’ “Dey call me a jack-leg cahpenter, sah.’ ***Jack-leg carpenter?’ repeated the prosecuting attorney sharply. ‘What is a jack-leg carpenter?’ *** Well, sah, a jack-leg cahpenter is what us cullud fokes calls a cahpenter what ain’t a fust-class cah- penter.’ “<T fail to understand you,’ said the lawyer, with growing severity. ‘You'll have to be more exact What is the difference between a first-class carpen- ter and a jack-leg carpenter?’ ‘**Well, sah, mebbe it might be explanationed by saying dat de dif’rence is jest about de same as between you and a fust-class lawyer, sah,’ respond- ed Ephraim with a grin.” J OGDEN ARMOUR . said recently that the public seemed to think the beef-packers make money as easily as did the country boy who witnessed the killing of a calf by an automobile. “No use of talking,” he drawled to a passer- by, “thar certainly is money in cattle.”

MALCOLM R. PATTERSON “In the stock-raising business, do you mean?” asked the stranger. “No, not exactly. An automobile ran over that calf a few minutes ago, an’ the driver got out an’ handed me five dollars.” “Five dollars? That’s not much for a_ good- sized calf.” “Yes, but, mister, the

calf wasn’t mine.”’ I. OGDEN ARMO

Page 144

a IERIE SSS EE 4 Mj i | i W A New Story by Charlotte Bronté HE CosMopo.itaNn has a curious “find” to share with its readers. It is nothing less than a hitherto unpublished story by Charlotte Bronté, the author of “Jane Eyre.” Psychologists declare that had Shake- speare’s teeming imagination been turned in upon itself, had the power of his mind not been externalized in the passion and pag- eantry of his dramas, it is quite probable that the immortal poet would have been a rav ing madman instead of the world’s greatest dramatist. If it be true that genius, the power that creates under the light of the imagination, must find vent or consume itself, then we may see why the gifted Bronté family were spared to sanity by their lifelong habit of outpouring their thoughts in stories and poems and plays. For never was a group of children more distinctly touched with the sorrowful great gift of genius. Each sister was a wonder in her way. This may be accounted for by the mixture in them of the Irish and the Cornish blood, the blood of two tribes of earth ever touched by the mystic meanings, ever listening to the voices of fairies, ever flinging aside the tyranny of the fact to seek the free, high air of poesy. The father, the minister of the little parish, was a strange spirit, a bookish man given to moods and gusty tempers. They all lived in a lonely stone parsonage at Ha- worth, England, on the edge of a lonely moor. The motherless little brood grew up, shut away from their strange, silent father and from contact with the outside world. This isolated group of girls created for themselves a spacious and splendid world of imagination, where they took refuge from the grimness and grayness of the life about them. Dreaming and writing filled their spare hours. Some of the manuscripts of those early days are still unpublished. One of them, “Tales of the Islanders,” has lately come into the possession of the COSMOPOLITAN, > PS SSS > eS2n => SSS Hppy and in its pages will first see the light. Al- most a hundred years ago this tale was written by Charlotte Bronté, then a child of thirteen, the one of the Bronté sisters des- tined to become famous in after years as the author of that immortal novel, “ Jane Eyre.” This famous novel, written in secrecy and published anonymously, has gone to the four corners of the world. It is a story not free from artistic faults, and yet it is so charged with individuality, so flushed with feeling, so alive with reality, so energized by the flame of poesy, that it falls into perma- nent place as an authentic expression of cer- tain wild moods of the heart of man. To one who knows “ Jane Eyre,” a book that lay on our grandmothers’ tables, and who knows the curious ill-starred lives of the Bronté sisters, all dead ere their prime, there will be a pathetic interest in this little “Tales of the Islanders,” soon to appear in the CosMOPOLITAN after nearly a century of waiting. A Big Art Problem AMONG the problems flashing to the sur- face of Robert W. Chambers’s story of artist life running in the COSMOPOLITAN is the question, What is needed to make a man’s art-work live? The critics say of Neville, the artist of the story, that his work is “inhumanly and coldly perfect,” that it is not founded on any deep personal experience, any great emotion. What, then, is necessary to make an artist’s work seize and shake the heart? To answer this question we must know what art is. Is it mere imitation of nature? If so, no one has ever surpassed the Greek painters. For Apelles painted horses so realistically that other horses neighed when they beheld the painted canvas. And we hear that Zeuxis painted grapes so well that the credulous birds flew down to peck at them. And so true to life are the figures on the frieze of the Parthenon that some critics have deduced from them the theory

Page 145

that the aim of art is only the imitation of the finest natural forms. If art is the mere imitation of nature, then no artist could be criticized for lack of feel- ing, nor for lack of inner experience. For merely to copy nature the artist would need to have only a correct eye, a skilled hand, and a patient purpose, together with bunches of bristles and pots of paints. Art is Nature Plus the Artist But art is not the imitation of nature: it is the interpretation of nature, the comple- tion of the incomplete designs of nature. The artist catches the hint that nature gives, and rounds it out by adding to it a precious something from his own soul. He adds to nature the costly residuum of his experience—the glints of remembered rap- ture, the gleams of rising hopes, the shades of old sorrows, old despairs, the star-light of vanished dreams. Art is nature after it has touched the artist and taken on the glory or the gloom of his spirit. Art is more than nature: it is nature plus a man. Perfect Technique the Grave of Art Indeed Neville’s art is too “coldly per- fect” to possess perfection. For it is the paradox of art that perfection of technique is petrifaction of idea. In all great art there is a sense of carelessness, there is a touch of wildness. But a man must be a master before he knows enough to dispense with the crutch of perfect technique. This fine careless mastery is seen in the incomparable songs of the Shakespeare dramas. Many of the lines do not scan perfectly: there are many interruptions and ripples in the meter. But what a sense of freedom, of wild rapture! Woe unto an artist when all men speak well of his technique! It is likely that he has bartered the soul of his art for a mess of technical pottage—that he has come to care more for form than for feeling, more for execution than for import. The Infinite that is agonizing to manifest itself in art can only be suggested, hinted at. It is too big for the grasp of our mortal powers. The huge heaving of the marbles of Michelangelo is the vain struggle of genius to cram eternity into time. It is the attempt to achieve the impossible. So art is only a whisper of the wilder beauty beyond. The artist seeks only to stir the imagination of the beholder—to Edwin Markham 577 make fim also a creator. The artist sug- gests, and the imagination of the beholder must build upon the frugal lines and colors. Velasquez paints Christ hanging on the cross, alone in the spectral night. His head is sunken forward, and the long hair has fallen down across the heroic face. That half-veiled countenance is suddenly more wonderful to us than any unveiled face could ever be. Moth-Holes in Mormonism "THE “Book of Mormon” was a success- ful literary steal and hoax. In 1812 Solomon Spalding, of New York (a would- be Jules Verne), anticipating some of our own sensational romancing, made up his mind to create an atmosphere of mystery by naming one of his stories “* Manuscript Found,” and by claiming that the pages had been discovered in a cave in Ohio. This romance was based on the notion, then prevalent, that ancient America with its Aztecs and Indians was peopled by the de- scendants of “the lost tribes of Israel.” A manuscript copy of this story is known to have fallen into the hands of Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism. This historical romance (with the addition of a few pious phrases and a few texts of Scrip- ture) was soon printed and distributed as the new Koran of a new Mohammed. Spalding’s widow and friends at once recognized and denounced this crude and huge imposture. But the snowball had commenced rolling; and its momentum still carried it on, enlarging it at every revolu- tion. From only six followers in the be- ginning, the resultant sect of Mormonism has grown to an immense hierarchy and a swarming people—all of whom have the enormous egotism to call themselves “‘latter- day saints.” A Light on Brigham Young Mr. Alfred Henry Lewis, in his Cosmo- POLITAN article on Mormonism, says, “‘ The Gentile papers in Utah, even in moments most full of anti-Mormon froth and fury, speak well of Brigham Young.” But one who knew Brigham describes him differ- ently, saying: “There never was a wickeder man since the earth was made. Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon sect, possessed the will but not the ability; the fire but not the structure to hold the fire.

Page 146

SEIT 2 A i, 0 a INS OTF RTS SL TS | 578 Magazine Shop-Talk Brigham Young solidified what Smith could not solidify. The Mormon is a madman when he enters into his faith; for that faith is one absolute infernality.” Testimony of Two Apostles Now Mr. Lewis makes some rather sur- prising statements as to the teachings and purposes of Mormonism—statements that recall the affidavit concerning the Mormons made by Thomas B. March and Orson Hyde, two of their Twelve Apostles. This affi- davit, made in 1838 while the Mormons were in Missouri, runs as follows: “They have among them a company, con- sisting of all that are considered true Mor- mons, called the Danites, who have taken an oath to support the heads of the church in all things that they say or do, whether right or wrong. The plan of the said Smith, the prophet, is to take this state; and he professes to his people to intend taking the United States, and ultimately the whole world. This is the belief of the church, and my own opinion of the prophet’s plan and intentions. “The prophet inculcates the notion, and it is believed by every true Mormon, that Smith’s prophecies are superior to the law of the land. I have heard the prophet say that he would yet tread down his enemies and walk over their dead bodies; that if he were not let alone he would be a second Mohammed to this generation, and make it one gore of blood from the Rocky Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean.” Should We Ever Compromise ? ‘THE difficulty a straightforward man finds in carrying on clean politics under the ordinary rule of the “machine” of the “system” or the “interests,” or whatever we may call the moneyed powers that now dominate elections and legislations—this is the central theme of David Graham Phil- lips’s story in this number of the Cosmo- POLITAN. Mr. Phillips takes his story situa- tions from political conditions in the Middle West, conditions similar to those set forth by Judge Lindsey in “The Beast” and by Charles Edward Russell in “What Are You Going to Do About It?” What catches my keen interest in this political story is the constant seesaw of the characters between principle and policy. This calls up the big questions: Can a young man in public life take as his slogan, “No compromise with evil”? Shall he stand firm and immovable as granite for the ideal right, let the conse- quences fall as they may? Compromises Everywhere It is the instinct of every fine spirit never to bend a jot, never to yield a tittle; and this is a noble dream. It is the only course that satisfies the divine in man. Yet life is so far from normal that we are often veered from our North Star path. Indeed, life seems crowded with big and little compro- mises. Even famous truthtellers have been caught sending word to the bore at the door, “Not at home.” It is said of burly old Doctor Johnson that he never gave an equivocal answer to any question; but the mass of men are not so eager to step on thorns. And this raises the question why the ancient prophets al- ways carried a staff. The answer is plain— being accustomed to speak truths to the great, they always kept themselves in readi- ness for exile. The Principle at Stake But to our problem: Can the honest man compromise? If you mean, Can he ever yield his high aim, can he ever go over to the enemy ? of course the answer is an iron no. To the central fact of right a man must hold through life and death, and the worlds that are after death. On this holding depends the integrity and destiny of the soul. But this does not mean that a man may not yield in the matter of ways and means for reaching his worthy end, when forced to give way under the pressure of circumstance. A man may be forced to drink brackish water when the pure wellsrun dry. He may throw meat to snarling dogs while he is trying to make his way into the camp of the enemy. He may even join at times with rogues in order to crush roguery. It was in this spirit, perhaps, that Jesus became a rabbi in order to overthrow the despotism of the rabbis. And it was in this spirit that he uttered the great mandate: “Be ye wise as serpents, but harmless as doves.” The vital point is that in all this mortal battle we must follow the gleam of the pure intent. We must never lose sight of the humane purpose for which we live and labor; and we must learn to take the short step with the long look. Epwin MARKHAM.

Page 147