Chapter 20

At a quarter of twelve o'clock a week later, I slip out of my office sheepishly, and, walking a half-block, take the elevator to the fifth floor of the Exchange Building, on the corner. The white enamel of Sandford's tiny box of an office glistens, as I enter the door, and the tiling looks fresh and clean, as though scrubbed an hour before.

"Doctor's back in the laboratory," smiles the white-uniformed attendant, as she grasps my identity.

On a tall stool, beside the laboratory lathe, sits Sandford, hard at work. He acknowledges my presence with a nod--and that is all.

"Noon, Sandford," I announce.

"Is it?" laconically.

"Thought I'd drop over to the club for lunch, and a little smoke afterward. Want to go along?"

"Can't." The whirr of the electric lathe never ceases. "Got to finish this bridge before one o'clock. Sorry, old man."

"Harry just 'phoned and asked me to come and bring you." I throw the bait with studied nicety. "He's getting up a party to go out to Johnson's, and wants to talk things over a bit in advance."

"Harry!" Irony fairly drips from the voice. "He's always going somewhere. Mustn't have much else to do. Anyway, can't possibly meet him this noon."

"To-night, then." I suggest tentatively. "He can wait until then, I'm sure."

"Got to work to-night, too. Things are all piled up on me." Sandford applies a fresh layer of pumice to the swiftly moving polishing wheel, with practised accuracy. "Tell Harry I'm sorry; but business is business, you know."

"_Purr-r-r!_" drones on the lathe, "_purr-r-r!_" I hear it as I silently slip away.

Yes, Sandford is sane; and will be for fifty-one weeks.

A FRONTIER ROMANCE: A TALE OF JUMEL MANSION

I

A new settlement in a new country: no contemporary mind can conceive the possibilities of future greatness that lie in the fulfilment of its prophecy.

A long, irregular quadrangle has been hewn from the woods bordering the north bank of the Ohio River. Scattered through the clearing are rude houses, built of the forest logs. Bounding the space upon three sides, and so close that its storm music sounds plain in every ear, is the forest itself. On the fourth side flows the wide river, covered now, firm and silent, with a thick ice blanket. Across the river on the Kentucky shore, softened by the blue haze of distance, another forest crowds down to the very water's edge.

It is night, and of the cabins in the clearing each reflects, in one way or another, the character of its builder. Here a broad pencil of light writes "Careless!" on the black sheet of the forest; there a mere thread escaping tells of patient carpentry.

At one end of the clearing, so near the forest that the top of a falling tree would have touched it, stood a cabin, individual in its complete darkness except for a dull ruddy glow at one end, where a window extended as high as the eaves. An open fire within gnawed at the half-green logs, sending smoke and steam up the cavernous chimney, and casting about the room an uncertain, fitful light--now bright, again shadowy.

It was a bare room that the flickering firelight revealed, bare alike as to its furnishings and the freshness of its peeled logs, the spaces between which had been "chinked" with clay from the river-bank. Scarcely a thing built of man was in sight which had not been designed to kill; scarcely a product of Nature which had not been gathered at cost of animal life. Guns of English make, stretched horizontally along the walls upon pegs driven into the logs; in the end opposite the wide fireplace, home-made cooking utensils dangled from the end of a rough table, itself a product of the same factory. In front of the fire, just beyond the blaze and the coals and ashes, were heaped the pelts of various animals; black bear and cinnamon rested side by side with the rough, shaggy fur of the buffalo, brought by Indians from the far western land of the Dakotas.

Upon the heap, dressed in the picturesque utility garb of buckskin, homespun, and "hickory" which stamped the pioneer of his day, a big man lay at full length: a large man even here, where the law of the fittest reigned supreme. A stubbly growth of beard covered his face, giving it the heavy expression common to those accustomed to silent places, and dim forest trails.

Aside from his size, there was nothing striking or handsome about this backwoods giant, neither of face nor of form; yet, sleeping or waking, working or at leisure, he would be noticed--and remembered. In his every feature, every action, was the absolute unconsciousness of self, which cannot be mistaken; whether active or passive, there was about him an insinuation of reserve force, subtly felt, of a strong, determined character, impossible to sway or bend. He lay, now, motionless, staring with wide-open eyes into the fire and breathing slowly, deeply, like one in sleep.

There was a hammering upon the door; another, louder; then a rattling that made the walls vibrate.

"Come!" called the man, rousing and rolling away from the fire.

A heavy shoulder struck the door hard, and the screaming wooden hinges covered the sound of the entering footfall.

He who came was also of the type: homespun and buckskin, hair long and face unshaven. He straightened from a passage which was not low, then turning pushed the unwieldy door shut. It closed reluctantly, with a loud shrilling of its frost-bound hinges and frame. In a moment he dropped his hands and impatiently kicked the stubborn offender home, the suction drawing a puff of smoke from the fireplace into the room, and sending the ashes spinning in miniature whirlwinds upon the hearth.

The man on the floor contemplated the entry with indifference; but a new light entered his eyes as he recognized his visitor, though his face held like wood.

"Evenin', Clayton," he greeted, nodding toward a stool by the hearth. "Come over 'n sit down to the entertainment." A whimsical smile struggled through the heavy whiskers. "I've been seeing all sorts of things in there"--a thoughtful nod toward the fire. "Guess, though, a fellow generally does see what he's looking for in this world."

"See here, Bud," the visitor bluntly broke in, coming into the light and slurring a dialect of no nationality pure, "y' can't stop me thataway. There ain't no use talkin' about the weather, neither." A motion of impatience; then swifter, with a shade of menace:

"You know what I came over fer. It's actin' the fool, I know, we few families out here weeks away from ev'rybody, but this clearin' can't hold us both."

The menace suddenly left the voice, unconsciously giving place to a note of tenderness and of vague self-fear.

"I love that girl better 'n you er life er anything else, Bud; I tell ye this square to yer face. I can't stand it. I followed ye last night clean home from the party--an' I had a knife. I jest couldn't help it. Every time I know nex' time it'll happen. I don't ask ye to give her up, Bud, but to settle it with me now, fair an' open, 'fore I do something I can't help."

He strode swiftly to and fro across the room as he spoke, his skin-shod feet tapping muffled upon the bare floor, like the pads of an animal. The fur of his leggings, rubbing together as he walked, generated static sparks which snapped audibly. He halted presently by the fireplace, and looked down at the man lying there.

"It's 'tween us, Bud," he said, passion quivering in his voice.

Minutes passed before Bud Ellis spoke, then he shifted his head, quickly, and for the first time squarely met Clayton's eyes.

"You say it's between you and me," he initiated slowly: "how do you propose to settle it?"

The other man hesitated, then his face grew red.

"Ye make it hard for me, Bud, 's though I was a boy talkin' to ye big here; but it's true, as I told ye: I ain't myself when I see ye settin' close to 'Liz'beth, er dancin' with your arm touchin' hern. I ain't no coward, Bud; an' I can't give her up--to you ner nobody else.

"I hate it. We've always been like brothers afore, an' it 'pears kinder dreamy 'n foolish 'n unnatural us settin' here talkin' 'bout it; but there ain't no other way I can see. I give ye yer choice, Bud: I'll fight ye fair any way y' want."

Ellis's attitude remained unchanged: one big hand supported his chin while he gazed silently into the fire. Clayton stood contemplating him a moment, then sat down.

By and by Ellis's head moved a little, a very little, and their eyes again met. A minute passed, and in those seconds the civilization of each man moved back generations.

The strain was beyond Clayton; he bounded to his feet with a motion that sent the stool spinning.

"God A'mighty! Are y' wood er are y' a coward? Y' seem to think I'm practisin' speech-makin'. D'ye know what it means fer me to come up here like this to you?" He waited, but there was no response.

"I tell ye fer the last time, I love that girl, an' if it warn't fer you--fer you, Bud Ellis--she'd marry me. Can ye understand that? Now will ye fight?--or won't ye?"

A movement, swift and easy, like a released spring, the unconscious trick of a born athlete, and Ellis was upon his feet. Involuntarily, Clayton squared himself, as if an attack were imminent.

"No, I won't fight you," said the big man, slowly. Without the least hesitation, he advanced and laid a hand upon the other man's shoulder, facing him at arm's length and speaking deliberately.

"It isn't that I'm afraid of you, either, Bert Clayton; you know it. You say you love her; I believe you. I love her, too. And Elizabeth--you have tried, and I have tried--and she told us both the same.

"God, man! I know how you feel. I've expected something like this a long time." He drew his hand across his eyes, and turned away. "I've had murder in my heart when I saw you, and hated myself. It's only in such places as this, where nothing happens to divert one's mind, that people get like you and me, Bert. We brood and brood, and it's love and insanity and a good deal of the animal mixed. Yes, you're right. It's between you and me, Bert,--but not to fight. One of us has got to leave--"

"It won't be me," Clayton quickly broke in. "I tell ye, I'd rather die, than leave."

For a full minute Ellis steadily returned the other man's fiery look, then went on as though there had been no interruption:

"--and the sooner we go the better. How do you want to settle it--shall we draw straws?"

"No, we'll not draw straws. Go ef you're afraid; but I won't stir a step. I came to warn ye, or to fight ye if y' wanted. Seein' y' won't--good-night."

Ellis stepped quickly in front of the door, and with the motion Clayton's hand went to his knife.

"Sit down, man," demanded Ellis, sternly. "We're not savages. Let's settle this matter in civilized fashion."

They confronted each other for a moment, the muscles of Clayton's face twitching an accompaniment to the nervous fingering of the buckhorn hilt; then he stepped up until they could have touched.

"What d' y' mean anyway?" he blazed. "Get out o' my road."

Ellis leaned against the door-bar without a word. The fire had burned down, and in the shadow his face had again the same expression of heaviness. The breathing of Clayton, swift and short, like one who struggles physically, painfully intensified the silence of that dimly lighted, log-bound room.

With his right hand Clayton drew his knife; he laid his left on the broad half-circle of wood that answered as a door handle.

"Open that door," he demanded huskily, "or by God, I'll stab ye!"

In the half-light the men faced each other, so near their breaths mingled. Twice Clayton tried to strike. The eyes of the other man held him powerless, and to save his life--even to satisfy a new, fierce hate--he could not stir. He stood a moment thus, then an animal-like frenzy, irresistible but impotent, seized him. He darted his head forward and spat in the heavy face so close to his own.

The unspeakable contempt of the insult shattered Bud Ellis's self-control. Prompted by blind fury, the great fist of the man shot out, hammer-like, and Clayton crumpled at his feet. It was a blow that would have felled the proverbial ox; it was the counterpart of many other blows, plus berserker rage, that had split pine boards for sheer joy in the ability to do so. These thoughts came sluggishly to the inflamed brain, and Ellis all at once dropped to his knees beside the limp, prostrate figure.

He bent over Clayton, he who had once been his friend. He was scarcely apprehensive at first, and he called his name brusquely; then, as grim conviction grew, his appeals became frantic.

At last Ellis shrank away from the Thing upon the floor. He stared until his eyeballs burnt like fire. It would never, while time lasted, move again.

Horror unutterable fell upon him.

II

In the year 1807 there were confined in a common Western jail, amid a swarm of wretches of every degree of baseness, two men as unlike as storm and sunshine. One was charged with treason, the other with murder; conviction, in either case, meant death.

One was a man of middle age, an aristocrat born; a college graduate and a son of a college graduate; a man handsome of appearance, passionate and ambitious, who knew men's natures as he knew their names. He had fought bravely for his country, and his counsels had helped mould the foundations of the new republic. Honored by his fellow-men, he had served brilliantly in such exalted positions as that of United States Senator, and Attorney General for the State of New York. On one occasion, only a single vote stood between him and the presidency.

His name was Aaron Burr.

The other was a big backwoodsman of twenty, whose life had been as obscure as that of a domestic animal. He was rough of manner and slow of speech, and just now, owing to a combination of physical confinement and mental torture altogether unlovely in disposition.

This man was Bud Ellis.

The other prisoners--a motley lot of frontier reprobates--ate together, slept together, and quarrelled together. Looking constantly for trouble, and thrown into actual contact with an object as convenient as Aaron Burr, it was inevitable that he should be made the butt of their coarse gibes and foul witticisms; and when these could not penetrate his calm, superior self-possession, it was just as inevitable that taunts should extend even to worse indignities.

Burr was not the man to be stirred against his calm judgment; but one day his passionate nature broke loose, and he and the offender came to blows.

There were a dozen prisoners in the single ill-lighted, log-bound room, and almost to a man they attacked him. The fight would not have lasted long had not the inequality appealed to Ellis on the second.

Moreover, with him, the incident was to the moment opportune. If ever a man was in the mood for war, it was the big, square-jawed pioneer. He was reckless and desperate for the first time in his life, and he joined with Burr against the room, with the abandon of a madman.

For minutes they fought. Elbows and knees, fists and feet, teeth and tough-skulled heads; every hard spot and every sharp angle bored and jabbed at the crushing mass which swiftly closed them in. They struggled like cats against numbers, and held the wall until the sound of battle brought the negligent guard running, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped through the grating. Burr and Ellis came out with scarce a rag and with many bruises, but with the new-born lust of battle hot within them. Ellis glowered at the enemy, and having of the two the more breath, fired the parting shot.

"How I'd like to take you fellows out, one at a time," he said.

From that day the two men were kept apart from the others, and the friendship grew. When Burr chose, neither man nor woman could resist him. He chose now and Ellis, by habit and by nature silent, told of his life and of his thoughts. It was a new tale to Burr, these dream products of a strong man, and of solitude; and so, listening, he forgot his own trouble. The hard look that had formed over his face in the three years past vanished, leaving him again the natural, fascinating man who had first taken the drawing-room of the rare old Jumel mansion by storm. It was genuine, this tale that Ellis told; it was strong, with the savor of Mother Nature and of wild things, and fascinating with the beauty of unconscious telling.

"And the girl?" asked Burr after Ellis finished a passionate account of the last year. Unintentionally, he touched flame to tinder.

"Don't ask me about her. I'm not fit. She was coming to see me, but I wouldn't let her. She's good and innocent; she never imagined we were not as strong as she, and it's killing her. There's no question what will happen to me; everything is against me, and I'll be convicted.

"No one understands--she can't herself; but she feels responsible for one of us, already, and will feel the same for me when it's over. Anyway, I'd never see her again. I feel different toward her now, and always would. I'd never live over again days like I have in the past year: days I hated a friend I'd known all my life--because we both loved the same woman. If the Almighty sent love of woman into the world to be bought at the price I paid, it's wrong, and He's made a mistake. It's contrary to Nature, because Nature is kind.

"Last summer I'd sit out of doors at night and watch the stars come out thick, like old friends, till I'd catch the mood and be content. The wind would blow up from the south, softly, like some one fanning me, and the frogs and crickets would sing even and sleepy, and I'd think of her and be as nearly happy as it was possible for me to be.

"Then, somehow, he'd drift into the picture, and it grated. I'd wonder why this love of woman, which ought to make one feel the best of everything there is in life; which ought to make one kinder and tenderer to every one, should make me hate him, my best friend. The night would be spoiled, and from then on the crickets would sing out of tune. I'd go to bed, where, instead of sleeping, I would try to find out, and couldn't.

"And at last, that night--and the end! Oh, it's horrible, horrible! I wish to God they'd try me quick, and end it. It makes me hate that girl to think she's the cause. And that makes me hate myself, for I know she's innocent. Oh, it's tangled--tangled--"

Of the trial which followed, the world knows. How Burr pleaded his own case, and of the brilliancy of the pleading, history makes record at length. 'T was said long before, when the name of Burr was proud on the Nation's tongue--years before that fatal morning on Weekawken Heights--that no judge could decide against him. Though reviled by half the nation, it would seem it were yet true.

Another trial followed; but of this history is silent, though Aaron Burr pleaded this case as well. It was a trial for manslaughter, and every circumstance, even the prisoner's word, declared guilt. To show that a person may be guilty in act, and at the same time, in reality, innocent, calls for a master mind--the mind of a Burr. To tell of passion, one must have felt passion, and of such Burr had known his full share. No lawyer for the defence was ever better prepared than Burr, and he did his best. In court he told the jury a tale of motive, of circumstance, and of primitive love, such as had never been heard in that county before; such that the twelve men, without leaving their seats, brought a verdict of "Not guilty."

"I can't thank you right," said the big man, with a catch in his voice, wringing Burr's hand.

"Don't try," interrupted Burr, quickly. "You did as much for me." And even Burr did not attempt to say any more just then.

III

The two men went East together, travelling days where now hours would suffice. Why Burr took the countryman home with him, knowing, as he did, the incongruity of such a step, he himself could not have told. It puzzled Ellis still more. He had intended going far away to some indefinite place; but this opportunity of being virtually thrust into the position where he most wished to be, was unusual; it was a reversal of all precedent; and so why demur?

On the way, Burr told much of his life--probably more than he had told before in years. He knew that the sympathy of Ellis was sincere, and a disinterested motive was with him a new thing, a key to confidence.

A woman was at this time, and had been for years, foremost in Burr's mind. He was going to see her now; beyond that his plans were dim. During a career of politics, there had crept into the man's life much that was hard and worldly; but this attachment was from ambition far apart--his most sacred thing.

She was a brilliant woman, this friend of Burr's; one whom many sought; but it was not this which influenced him. She had been his best friend, and had taken him into her own home during the darkest hour of his life, when condemnation was everywhere. Gossip had fluttered, but to no avail. Burr never forgot a friend, and in this case it was more than friendship: it was a genuine love that lasted; for years later, in his old age and hers as well, old Jumel mansion made gay at their wedding.

"What do you expect to do?" asked Burr of Ellis.

"Anything just now that will make me forget," answered the countryman, quickly. "So there's enough of it is all that I ask. I'm going to get a little more education first. Sometime I'll study law--that is, if I'm here 'sometime.' I've got to be where there's life and action. I'll never end by being common." He paused a moment, and on his face there formed the peculiar heavy look that had confronted Clayton; a mask that hid a determination, which nothing of earth could shake. He finished slowly: "I'll either be something, or nothing."

Biographers leave the impression that at this time Burr was devoid of prestige on earth. Politically, this is true; but respecting his standing with the legal fraternity, it is wholly false. He had influence, and he used it, securing the stranger a place in a New York office, where his risk depended only upon himself. More than this, he gave Ellis money.

"You can pay me any interest you wish," said he when the latter protested.

Ellis had been settled a week. One evening he sat in the back room of the city office, fighting the demon of homesickness with work, and the light of an open fire. It was late, and he had studied till Nature rebelled; now he sat in his own peculiar position, gazing into the glow, motionless and wide-eyed.

He started at a tap on the door, and the past came back in a rush.

"Come in," he called.

Burr entered, and closed the door carefully behind him. Ellis motioned to a chair.

"No, I won't sit down," said Burr. "I'm only going to stay a moment."

He came over to the blaze, looking down on the other man's head. Finally he laid a hand on Ellis's shoulder.

"Lonesome, eh?" he inquired.

The student nodded silent assent.

"So am I," said Burr, beginning to pace up and down the narrow room. "Do you know," he burst out at last, "this town is like hell to me. Every hand is against me. There's not one man here, beside you, whom I can trust. I can't stand it. I'm going to leave the country. Some day I'll come back; but now it's too much." There was the accumulated bitterness of months in his voice. "My God!" he interjected, "you'd think these people never did anything wrong in their lives." He stopped and laid his hand again on the other man's shoulder.

"But enough of this--I didn't come to make you more lonesome. I want you to meet my friends before I go. You'll go out with me to-morrow afternoon?"

There was silence for a moment.

"If you wish. You know what I am," said Ellis.

Burr's hand rested a moment longer.

"Good-night," he said simply.

Some eight or ten miles north of the beach, on the island of Manhattan, stood Jumel home; a fine, white house, surrounded by a splendid lawn and gardens. A generation had already passed since its erection, and the city was slowly creeping near. It was a stately specimen of Colonial domestic architecture, built on simple, restful lines, and distinguished by the noble columns of its Grecian front. Destined to be diminished, the grounds had already begun to shrink; but from its commanding position it had a view that was magnificent, overlooking as it did, the Hudson, the Harlem, the East River, the Sound, and upon every side, miles upon miles of undulating land.

On the way, and again upon the grounds, Burr related the history of the old landmark, telling much with the fascination of personal knowledge. The tale of the Morrises, of Washington and of Mary Philipse was yet upon his tongue, as he led Ellis through the broad pillared entrance, into the great hall.

Things moved swiftly, very swiftly and very dreamily, to the countryman in the next few hours. Nothing but the lack of ability prevented his vanishing at the sound of approaching skirts; nothing but physical timidity prevented his answering the greeting of the hostess; nothing but conscious awkwardness prompted the crude bow that answered the courtesy of the girl with the small hands, and the dark eyes who accompanied her--the first courtesy from powdered maid of fashion that he had ever known. Her name, Mary Philipse, coming so soon after Burr's story, staggered him, and, open-mouthed, he stood looking at her. Remembrance came to Burr simultaneously, and he touched Ellis on the arm.

"Don't worry, my friend," he laughed; "she's not the one."

Ellis grew red to the ears.

"We'll leave you to Mary," said Burr retreating with a smile; "she'll tell you the rest--from where I left off."

The girl with the big brown eyes was still smiling in an amused sort of way, but Ellis showed no resentment. He knew that to her he was a strange animal--very new and very peculiar. He did not do as a lesser man would have done, pretend knowledge of things unknown, but looked the girl frankly in the eyes.

"Pardon me, but it was all rather sudden," he explained. The red had left his face now. "I've only known a few women--and they were not--of your class. This is Mr. Burr's joke, not mine."

The smile faded from the girl's face. She met him on his own ground, and they were friends.

"Don't take it that way," she protested, quickly. "I see, he's been telling you of Washington's Mary Philipse. It merely happens that my name is the same. I'm simply a friend visiting here. Can't I show you the house? It's rather interesting."

If Ellis was a novelty to the woman, she was equally so to him. Unconventionality reigned in that house, and they were together an hour. Never before in his life had Ellis learned so much, nor caught so many glimpses of things beyond, in an equal length of time. His idea of woman had been trite, a little vague. He had no ideal; he had simply accepted, without question, the one specimen he had known well.

In an uncertain sort of way he had thought of the sex as being invariably creatures of unquestioned virtue, but of mind somewhat defective; who were to be respected and protected, loved perhaps with the love animals know; but of such an one as this he had no conception.

Here was a woman, younger than he, whose unconscious familiarity with things, which to him lay hidden in the dark land of ignorance, affected him like a stimulant. A woman who had read and travelled and thought and felt; whose mind met him even in the unhesitating confidence of knowledge--it is no wonder that he was in a dream. It turned his little world upside down: so brief a time had elapsed since he had cursed woman for bringing crime into his life, in the narrowness of his ignorance thinking them all alike. He was in the presence of a superior, and his own smallness came over him like a flood.

He mentally swore, then and there, with a tightening of his jaw that meant finality, that he would raise himself to her plane. The girl saw the look, and wondered at it.

That night, at parting, the eyes of the two met. A moment passed--and another, and neither spoke a word. Then a smile broke over the face of Mary Philipse, and it was answered on the face of the man. Equals had met equals. At last the girl held out her hand.

"Call again, please," she requested. "Good-night."

Years passed. Burr had gone and returned again, and Jumel mansion had waxed festive to honor his home-coming. Then he opened an office in the city, and drab-colored routine fell upon him--to remain.

Meanwhile Time had done much for Ellis--rather, it had allowed him to do much for himself. He had passed through all the stages of transition--confusion, homesickness, despondency; but incentive to do was ever with him.

At first he had worked to forget, and, in self-defence; but Nature had been kind, and with years memory touched him softly, as though it were the past of another.

Then a new incentive came to him: an incentive more potent than the former, and which grew so slowly he did not recognize it, until he met it unmistakably face to face. Again into his life and against his will had crept a woman, and this woman's name was Mary Philipse. He met her now on her own ground, but still, as of old, with honors even. She had changed little since he first saw her. As often as he called, he met the same frank smile, and the brown eyes still regarded him with the same old candid, unreserved interest.

Ellis was, as the town would have said, successful. He had risen from a man-of-all-work to the State bar, and an office of his own. He had passed the decisive line and his rise was simply a question of time. He was in a position where he could do as he chose. He appreciated that Mary Philipse was the incentive that had put him where he was. She appealed to the best there was in his nature. She caused him to do better work, to think better thoughts. He unselfishly wished her the best there was of life. Just how much more he felt he did not know--at least this was sufficient.

He would ask her to marry him. It was not the mad, dazzling passion of which poets sing; but he was wiser than of yore. Of Mary he was uncertain. That he was not the only man who went often to old Jumel mansion he was well aware, and with the determination to learn certainties, there came a tenderer regard than he had yet known.

* * * * *

Jumel was gay that night. There would be few more such scenes, for the owner was no longer young; but of this the throng in brocade and broadcloth and powder, who filled the spacious mansion, were thoughtless. Everywhere was an atmosphere of welcome; from the steady light of lanterns festooned on facade and lawn, to the sparkle of countless candles within.

It was that night that Ellis drew Mary Philipse aside and told her the tale that grew passionate in the telling. Fortune was kind, for he told it to the soft accompaniment of wine glasses ringing, and the slow music of the stately minuet.

Mary Philipse heard him through without a word, an expression on her face he had never seen before. Then their eyes met in the same frank way they had hundreds of times before, and she gave him her answer.

"I've expected this, and I've tried to be ready; but I'm not. I can't say no, and I can't say yes. I wouldn't try to explain to any one else, but I think you'll understand. Forgive me if I analyze you a little, and don't interrupt, please."

She passed her hand over her face slowly, a shade wearily.

"There are times when I come near loving you: for what you are, not for what you are to me. You are natural, you're strong; but you lack something I feel to be necessary to make life completely happy--the ability to forget all and enjoy the moment. I have watched you for years. It has been so in the past, and will be so in the future. Other men who see me, men born to the plane, have the quality--call it butterfly if you will--to enjoy the 'now.' It appeals to me--I am of their manner born." Their eyes met and she finished slowly, "It's injustice to you, I know; but I can't answer--now."

They sat a moment side by side in silence. The dancers were moving more swiftly to the sound of the Virginia reel.

Ellis reached over and took her hand, then bent and touched it softly with his lips.

"I will wait--and abide," he said.

THE CUP THAT O'ERFLOWED: AN OUTLINE

I

In a room, half-lighted by the red rays of a harvest moon, a woman lay in the shadow; face downward, on the bed. It was not the figure of youth: the full lines of waist and hip spoke maturity. She was sobbing aloud and bitterly, so that her whole body trembled.

The clock struck the hour, the half, again the hour; and yet she lay there, but quiet, with face turned toward the window and the big, red harvest moon. It was not a handsome face; besides, now it was tear-stained and hard with the reflection of a bitter battle fought.

A light foot tapped down the hallway and stopped in front of the door. There was gentle accompaniment on the panel to the query, "Are you asleep?"

The woman on the bed opened her eyes wider, without a word.

The step in the hall tapped away into silence. The firm, round arm in its black elbow-sleeve setting, white, beautiful, made a motion of impatience and of weariness; then slowly, so slowly that one could scarce mark its coming, the blank stupor that comes as Nature's panacea to those whom she has tortured to the limit, crept over the woman, and the big brown eyes closed. The moon passed over and the night-wind, murmuring lower and lower, became still. In the darkness and silence the woman sobbed as she slept.

In the lonely, uncertain time between night and morning she awoke; her face and the pillow were damp with the tears of sleep. She was numb from the drawing of tight clothing, and with a great mental pain and a confused sense of sadness, that weighed on her like a tangible thing. Her mind groped uncertainly for a moment; then, with a great rush, the past night and the things before it returned to her.

"Oh, God, Thy injustice to us women!" she moaned.

The words roused her; and, craving companionship, she rose and lit the gas.

Back and forth she crossed the room, avoiding the furniture as by instinct--one moment smiling, bitter; the next with face moving, uncontrollable, and eyes damp: all the moods, the passions of a woman's soul showing here where none other might see. Tired out, at last, she stopped and disrobed, swiftly, without a glance at her own reflection, and returned to bed.

Nature will not be forced. Sleep will not come again. She can only think, and thoughts are madness. She gets up and moves to her desk. Aimlessly at first, as a respite, she begins to write. Her thoughts take words as she writes, and a great determination, an impulse of the moment, comes to her. She takes up fresh paper and writes sheet after sheet, swiftly. Passion sways the hand that writes, and shines warmly from the big, brown eyes. The first light of morning stains the east as she collects the scattered sheets, and writes a name on the envelope, a name which brings a tenderness to her eyes. Stealthily she tiptoes down the stairs and places the letter where the servant will see, and mail it in the early morning. A glad light, the light of relief, is in her face as she steals back slowly and creeps into bed.

"If it is wrong I couldn't help it," she whispers low. She turns her face to the pillow and covers it with a soft, white arm. One ear alone shows, a rosy spot against the white.

II

Nine o'clock at a down-town medical office. A man who walks rapidly, but quietly, enters and takes up the morning mail. A number of business letters he finds and a dainty envelope, with writing which he knows at sight. He steps to the light and looks at the postmark.

"Good-morning," says his partner, entering.

The man nods absently, and, tearing open the envelope, takes out this letter:

"MY FRIEND:--

"I don't know what you will think of me after this; anyway, I cannot help telling you what to-night lies heavy on my heart and mind. I've tried to keep still; God knows I've tried, and so hard; but Nature is Nature, and I am a woman. Oh, if you men only knew what that means, you'd forgive us much, and pity! You have so much in life and we so little, and you torture us so with that little, which to us is so great, our all; leading us on against our will, against our better judgment, until we love you, not realizing at first the madness of unrequited love. Oh, the cruelty of it, and but for a pastime.

"But I do not mean to charge you. You are not as other men; you are not wrong. Besides, why should I not say it? I love you. Yes, you; a man who knows not the meaning of the word; who meant to be but a friend, my best friend. Oh, you have been blind, blind all the years since first I knew you; since first you began telling me of yourself and of your hopes. You did not know what it meant to such as I to live in the ambition of another, to hope through another's hope, to exult in another's success. I am confessing, for the first time--and the last time. Know, man, all the time I loved you. Forgive me that I tell you. I cannot help it. I am a woman, and love in a woman's life is stronger than will, stronger than all else together.

"I ask nothing. I expect nothing. I could not keep quiet longer. It was killing me, and you never saw. I did not mean to tell you anything, till this moment--least of all, in this way. But it is done, and I'm glad--yes, happier than I have been for weeks. It is our woman's nature; a nature we do not ourselves understand.

"My friend, I cannot see you again. Things cannot go on as they were. It was torture--you know not what torture--and life is short. If you would be kind, avoid me. The town is wide, and we have each our work. Time will pass. Remember, you have done nothing wrong. If there be one at fault it is Nature, for only half doing her work. You are good and noble. Good-bye. I trust you, for, God bless you, I love you."

The letter dropped, and the man stood looking out with unseeing eyes, on the shifting street.

A patient came in and sat down, waiting.

He had read as in a dream. Now with a rush came thought,--the past, the present, mingled; and as by a great light he saw clearly the years of comradery, thoughtless on his part, filled as his life had been with work and with thought of the future. It all came home to him now, and the coming was of brightness. The coldness melted from his face; the very squareness of the jaw seemed softer; the knowledge that is joy and that comes but once in a lifetime, swept over him, warm, and his heart beat swift. All things seemed beautiful.

Without a word he took up his hat, and walked rapidly toward the elevator. A smile was in the frank blue eyes, and to all whom he met, whether stranger or friend, he gave greeting.

The patient, waiting for his return, grew tired and left, and leaving, slammed the office door behind him.

UNJUDGED

The source of this manuscript lies in tragedy. My possession of it is purely adventitious. That I have had it long you may know, for it came to me at an inland prairie town, far removed from water or mountain, while for ten years or more my name, above the big-lettered dentist sign, has stood here on my office window in this city by the lake. I have waited, hoping some one would come as claimant; but my hair is turning white and I can wait no longer. As now I write of the past, the time of the manuscript's coming stands clear amid a host of hazy, half-forgotten things.

It was after regular hours, of the day I write, that a man came hurriedly into my office, complaining of a fiercely aching tooth. Against my advice he insisted on an immediate extraction, and the use of an anæsthetic. I telephoned for a physician, and while awaiting his coming my patient placed in my keeping an expansible leather-covered book of a large pocket size.

"Should anything go wrong," he said, "there are instructions inside."

The request is common from those unused to an operation, and I accepted without other comment than to assure him he need fear no danger.

Upon arriving, the physician made the customary examination and proceeded to administer chloroform. The patient was visibly excited, but neither of us attached any importance to that under the circumstances. Almost before the effect of the anæsthetic was noticeable, however, there began a series of violent muscular spasms and contractions. The inhaler was removed and all restoratives known to the profession used, but without avail. He died in a few moments, and without regaining consciousness. The symptoms were suspicious, entirely foreign to any caused by the anæsthetic, and at the inquest the cause came to light. In the man's stomach was a large quantity of strychnine. That he knew something of medicine is certain, for the action of the alkaloid varies little, and he had the timing to a nicety.

The man was, I should judge, thirty years of age, smooth of face and slightly built. Nerve was in every line of face and body. He was faultlessly dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch; but within the pocket of his vest was found a small jewel-case containing two beautiful white diamonds, each of more than a carat weight. One was unset, the other mounted in a lady's ring. There was money in plenty upon his person, but not an article that would give the slightest clue to his identity.

One peculiar thing about him I noticed, and could not account for: upon the palm of each hand was a row of irregular abrasions, but slightly healed, and which looked as though made by some dull instrument.

The book with which he entrusted me had begun as a journal, but with the passage of events it had outgrown its original plan. Being expansible, fresh sheets had been added as it grew, and at the back of the book, on one of these blanks, had been hastily scratched, in pencil, the message of which he spoke:

"You will find sufficient money in my pockets to cover all expenses. Do not take my trinkets, please! Associations make them dear to me. Any attempt to discover my friends will be useless."

Notwithstanding the last sentence the body was embalmed and the death advertised; but no response came, and after three days the body and the tokens he loved were quietly buried here in the city.

Meantime I had read the book, beginning from a sense of duty that grew into a passing interest, and ended by making me unaware of both time and place. I give you the journal as it stands, word for word and date for date. Would that I could show you the handwriting in the original as well. No printed page can tell the story of mood as can the lines of this journal. There were moments of passion when words slurred and overtook each other, as thought moved more rapidly than the characters which recorded; and again, periods of uncertainty when the hand tarried and busied itself with forming meaningless figures, while the conscious mind roamed far away.

* * * * *

_March 17._ Why do I begin a journal now, a thing I have never done before? Had another asked the question, I could have turned it off with a laugh, but with myself it will not do. I must answer it, and honestly. Know then, my ego who catechises, I have things to tell, feelings to describe that are new to me and which I cannot tell to another. The excuse sounds childish; but listen: I speak it softly: I love, and he who loves is ever as a child. I smile at myself for making the admission. I, a man whose hair is thinning and silvering, who has written of love all his life, and laughed at it. Oh, it's humorous, deliciously humorous. To think that I have become, in reality, the fool I pictured others in fancy!

_April 2._ Gods, she was beautiful to-night!--the way she came to meet me: the long skirt that hung so gracefully, and that fluffy, white, sleeveless thing that fitted her so perfectly and showed her white arms and the curves of her throat. I forgot to rise, and I fear I stared at her. I can yet see the smile that crept through the long lashes as she looked at me, and as I stumbled an apology she was smiling all the time. How I came away I swear I don't know. Instinct, I suppose; for now at last I have an incentive. I must work mightily, and earn a name--for her.

_April 4._ He says it is a strong plot and that he will help me. That means the book will succeed. I wonder how a man feels who can do things, not merely dream them. I expected he would laugh when I told him the plot, especially when I told whom the woman was; but he didn't say a word. He thinks, as I do, that it would be better to leave the story's connection with her a surprise until the book is published. He is coming up here to work to-morrow. "Keep a plot warm," he says: "especially one with a love in it." He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, so peculiarly I hardly knew whether he was laughing at me or not. I suppose, just now, my state of mind is rather obvious and amusing.

_May 3._ As I expected, the reaction is on. What a price we have to pay for our happy moments in this world! I'm tired to-night and a little discouraged, for I worked hard all day, and did not accomplish much. "Lack of inspiration," he said. "The heroine is becoming a trifle dim. Hadn't you better go and enthuse a little to-night?"

I was not in a mood to be chaffed; I told him shortly: "No, you had better go yourself."

He smiled and thanked me. "With your permission," he said, "I will."

Nature certainly has been kind to him, for he is handsome and fascinating beyond any man I ever knew. I wanted to use him in the story, but he positively refused. He said that I would do better. So we finally compromised on a combination. "The man" has his hair and my eyes, his nose and my mouth. Over the chin we each smiled a little grimly, for it is stubborn--square, and fits us both. After all, it is not a bad _ensemble_. The character has his weak points, but, all in all, he is not bad to look upon.

_June 10._ We went driving this evening, she and I, far out into the country, going and coming slowly. The night was perfect, with a full moon and a soft south wind. Nature's music makers were all busy. On the high places, the crickets sang loudly their lonesome song to the night, while from the distant river and lowlands there came the uncertain minor of countless frogs in chorus.

For two hours I tasted happiness, divine happiness, happiness so complete that I forgot time.

I have known many beautiful women, women splendid as animals are splendid, but never before one whose intense womanliness made me forget that she was beautiful. I can't explain; it is too subtle and holy a thing. I sat by her side, so near that we touched, and worshipped as I never worshipped at church. If but for this night alone, my life is worth the living.

_June 12._ It seems peculiar that he should be working with me at this story; strange that he should care to know me at all. Perhaps I stand a little in awe of the successful man; I think we all do. At least, he is the example _par excellence_. I have seen him go into a room filled with total strangers, and though he never spoke a word, have heard the question all about,--"Who is he?" Years ago, when he as well as I was an unknown writer, we each submitted a story to the same editor, by the same mail. Both were returned. I can still see the expression on his face as he opened his envelope, and thrust the manuscript into his pocket. He did not say a word, but his manner of donning his top-coat and hat, and the crash of the front door behind him betrayed his disappointment. His work was afterwards published at his own risk. The ink on my story is fading, but I have it still.

_July 2._ She is going to the coast for the season, and I called to-night to say _au revoir_. I could see her only a few minutes as her carriage was already waiting; something, I believe, in honor of her last night in town. She was in evening dress, and beautiful--I cannot describe. Think of the most beautiful woman you have ever known, and then--but it is useless, for you have not known her.

I was intoxicated; happy as a boy; happy as a god. I filled the few moments I had, full to overflowing. I told her what every man tells some woman some time in his life. For once I felt the power of a master, and I spoke well.

She did not answer; I asked her not to. I could not tell her all, and I would have no reply before. Her face was turned from me as I spoke, but her ears turned pink and her breath came quickly. I looked at her and the magnitude of my presumption held me dumb; yet a warm happy glow was upon me, and the tapping of feet on the pavement below sounded as sweetest music.

As I watched her she turned, her eyes glistening and her throat all a-tremble. She held out her hand to say good-bye. I took it in mine; and at the touch my resolution and all other things of earth were forgotten, and I did that which I had come hoping to do. Gently, I slipped a ring with a single setting over her finger, then bending low, I touched the hand with my lips--whitest, softest, dearest hand in God's world. Then I heard her breath break in a sob, and felt upon my hair the falling of a tear.

_August 5._ I am homesick to-night and tired. It is ten-thirty, and, I have just gotten dinner. I forgot all about it before. The story is moving swiftly. It is nearly finished now, moreover it is good; I know it. I sent a big roll of manuscript to him to-day. He is at the coast, and polishes the rough draft as fast as I send it in. He tells me he has secured a publisher, and that the book will be out in a few months. I can hardly wait to finish, for then I, too, can leave town. I will not go before; I have work to do, and can do it better here. He tells me he has seen her several times. God! a man who writes novels and can mention her incidentally, as though speaking of a dinner-party!

_August 30._ I finished to-day and expressed him the last scrap of copy. I wanted to sing, I was so happy. Then I bethought me, it is her birthday. I went down town and picked out a stone that pleased me. Their messenger will deliver it, and she can choose her own setting. How I'd like to carry it myself, but I have a little more work to do before I go. Only two more days, and then--

I have been counting the time since she left: almost two months; it seems incredible when I think of it.

How I have worked! Next time I write, my journal confessor, I will have something to tell: I will have seen her--she who wears my ring.... Ah! here comes my man for orders. A few of my bachelor friends help me celebrate here to-night. I have not told them it is the last time.

_September 5._ Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile, abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco, and of cookery!

The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It's easy to trace them--everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; the most beautiful woman they have ever seen--they all say the same. My God! and I'm hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I'll find them, they can't escape; and then they'll laugh at me, probably.

What can I do? I don't know. I can't think. I must find them first ... that cursed odor again!

Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in town pouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have that book, I will have it. To think how I trusted her--waited until my hair began to turn--for this!

But I must stop. This is useless, it's madness.

_September 9._ It is a beautiful night. I have just come in from a long walk, how long I don't know. I went to the suburbs and through the parks, watching the young people sitting, two and two, in the shadow. I smiled at the sight, for in fancy I could hear what they were saying. Then I wandered over to the lakefront and stood a long time, with the waves lapping musically against the rocks below, and the moonlight glistening on a million reflectors. The great stretch of water in front, and the great city behind me sang low in concord, while the stars looked down smiling at the refrain. "Be calm, little mortal, be calm," they said; "calm, tiny mortal, calm," repeated endlessly, until the mood took hold of me, and in sympathy I smiled in return.

Was it yesterday? It seems a month since I found them. Was it I who was so hot and angry? I hold up my hand; it is as steady as my mother's when, years ago, as a boy, she laid it on my forehead with her good-night. The murmur of this big hotel speaks soothingly, like the voice of an old friend. The purr of the elevator is a voice I know. It all seems incredible. To-day is so commonplace and real, and yesterday so remote and fantastic.

He was lounging in the lobby, a hand in either pocket, when I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, but neither hands nor face failed him by a motion.

"I presume you would prefer to talk in private?" I said, "Will you come to my room?"

A smile formed slowly over his lips.

"I don't wish to deprive my--" He paused, and his eyes met mine,"--my wife of a pleasant chat with an old friend. I would suggest that you come with us to our suite."

I nodded. In silence we went up the elevator; in equal silence, he leading, we passed along the corridor over carpets that gave out no telltale sound.

She was standing by the window when we entered. Her profile stood out clear in the shaded room, and in spite of myself a great heart-throb passed over me. She did not move at first, but at last turning she saw him and me. Then I could see her tremble; she started quickly to leave, but he barred the way. The smile was still upon his face.

"Pardon me, my dear," he protested, "but certainly you recognize an old friend."

She grew white to the lips, and her eyes blazed. Her hands pressed together so tightly that the fingers became blue at the nails. She looked at him; such scorn I had never seen before. Before it, the smile slowly left his face.

"Were you the fraction of a man," she voiced slowly, icily, "you would have stopped short of--this."

She made a motion of her hand, so slight one could scarce see it, and without a word he stepped aside. She turned toward me and, instinctively, I bent in courtesy, my eyes on the floor and a great tumult in my heart. She hesitated at passing me; without looking up I knew it; then, slowly, moved away down the corridor.

I advanced inside, closing the door behind me and snapping the lock. Neither of us said a word; no word was needed. The fighting-blood of each was up, and on each the square jaw that marked us both was set hard. I stepped up within a yard of him and looked him square in the eye. I pray God I may never be so angry again.

"What explanation have you to offer?" I asked.

His eye never wavered, though the blood left his face and lip; even then I admired his nerve. When he spoke his voice was even and natural.

"Nothing," he sneered. "You have lost; that's all."

Quick as thought, I threw back the taunt.

"Lost the woman, yes, thank God; the book, never. I came for that, not for her. I demand that you turn over the copy."

Again the cool smile and the steady voice.

"You're a trifle late. I haven't a sheet; it is all gone."

"You lie!" I flung the hot words fair in his teeth.

A smile, mocking, maddening, formed upon his face.

"I told you before you had lost. The book is copyrighted"--a pause, while the smile broadened--"copyrighted in my name, and sold."

The instinct of battle, primitive, uncontrollable, came over me and the room turned dark. I fought it, until my hands grew greasy from the wounds where the nails bit my palms, then I lost control; of what follows all is confused.

I dimly see myself leaping at him like a wild animal; I feel the tightening of the big neck muscles as my fingers closed on his throat; I feel a soft breath of night air as we neared the open window; then in my hands a sudden lightness, and in my ears a cry of terror.

I awoke at a pounding on the door. It seemed hours later, though it must have been but seconds. I arose--and was alone. The window was wide open; in the street below, a crowd was gathering on the run, while a policeman's shrill whistle rang out on the night. A hundred faces were turned toward me as I looked down and I dimly wondered thereat.

The knocking on the door became more insistent. I turned the lock, slowly, and a woman rushed into the room. Something about her seemed familiar to me. I passed my hand over my forehead--but it was useless. I bowed low and started to walk out, but she seized me by the arm, calling my name, pleadingly. Her soft brown hair was all loose and hanging, and her big eyes swimming; her whole body trembled so that she could scarcely speak.

The grip of the white hand on my arm tightened.

"Oh! You must not go," she cried; "you cannot."

I tried gently to shake her off, but she clung more closely than before.

"You must let me explain," she wailed. "I call God to witness, I was not to blame." She drew a case from the bosom of her dress.

"Here are those stones; I never wore them. I wanted to, God knows, but I couldn't. Take them, I beg of you." She thrust the case into my pocket. "He made me take them, you understand; made me do everything from the first. I loved him once, long ago, and since then I couldn't get away. I can't explain." She was pleading as I never heard woman plead before. "Forgive me--tell me you forgive me--speak to me." The grip on my arm loosened and her voice dropped.

"Oh! God, to have brought this on you when I loved you!"

The words sounded in my ears, but made no impression. It all seemed very, very strange. Why should she say such things to me? She must be mistaken--must take me for another.

I broke away from her grasp, and groped staggeringly toward the door. A weariness intense was upon me and I wanted to be home alone. As I moved away, I heard behind me a swift step as though she would follow, and my name called softly, then another movement, away.

Mechanically I turned at the sound, and saw her profile standing clear in the open window-frame. Realization came to me with a mighty rush, and with a cry that was a great sob I sprang toward her.

Suddenly the window became clear again, and through the blackness that formed about me I dimly heard a great wail of horror arise from the street below.

* * * * *

There was no other entry save the hasty scrawl in pencil.

THE TOUCH HUMAN

"Good-night." A lingering of finger tips that touched, as by accident; a bared head; the regular tap of shoes on cement, as a man walked down the path.

"Good-night--and God bless thee," he repeated softly, tenderly, under his breath, that none but he might hear: words of faith spoken reverently, and by one who believes not in the God known of the herd.

"Good-night--and God bless thee," whispered the woman slowly; and the south wind, murmuring northward, took the words and carried them gently away as sacred things.

The woman stood thinking, dreaming, her color mounting, her eyes dimming, as she read deep the mystery of her own heart.

They had sat side by side the entire evening, and had talked of life and of its hidden things; or else had remained silent in the unspoken converse that is even sweeter to those who understand each other.

She had said of a mutual friend: "He is a man I admire; he has an ideal."

"A thing but few of earth possess."

"No; I think you are wrong. I believe all people have ideals. They must; life would not be life without."

"You mean object rather than ideal. Does not an ideal mean something beautiful--something beyond--something we'd give our all for? Not our working hours alone, but our hours of pleasure and our times of thought. An ideal is an intangible thing--having much of the supernatural in its make-up; 'tis a fetish for which we'd sacrifice life--or the strongest passion of life,--love."

"Is this an ideal, though? Could anything be beautiful to us after we'd sacrificed much of life, and all of love in its attainment? Is not everything that is opposed to love also opposed to the ideal? Is not an ideal, when all is told, nothing but a great love--the great personal love of each individual?"

He turned to the woman, and there was that in his face which caused her eyes to drop, and her breath to come more quickly.

"I don't know. I'm miserable, and lonely, and tired. I've thought I had an ideal, and I followed it, working for it faithfully and for it alone. I've shown it to myself, glowing, splendid, when I became weary and ready to yield. I've sacrificed, in attempting its attainment, youth and pleasure--self, continually. Still, I'm afar off--and still the light beckons me on. I work day after day, and night after night, as ever; but the faith within me is growing weaker. Might not the ideal I worshipped after all be an earth-born thing, an ambition whose brightness is not of pure gold, but of tinsel? That which I have sought, speaks always to me so loudly that there may be no mistake in hearing.

"'I am thy god,' it says; 'worship me--and me alone. Sacrifice--sacrifice--sacrifice--thyself--thy love. Thus shalt thou attain me.'

"One day I stopped my work to think; hid myself solitary that I might question. 'What shall I have when I attain thee?' I asked.

"'Fame--fame--the plaudits of the people--a pedestal apart.'

"'Yes,' whispered my soul to me, 'and a great envy always surrounding; a great fight always to hold thy small pedestal secure.'

"Of such as this are ideals made? No. 'Twas a mistake. I have sought not an ideal, but an ambition--a worthless thing. An ideal is something beautiful--a great love. 'Tis not yet too late to correct my fault; to seek this ideal--this beautiful thing--this love."

He reached over to the woman and their fingers, as by chance, touching, lingered together. His eyes shone, and when he spoke his voice trembled.

"_You_ know the ideal--the beautiful thing--the love I seek."

Side by side they sat, each bosom throbbing; not with the wild passion of youth, but with the deeper, more spiritual love of middle-life. Overhead, the night wind murmured; all about, the crickets sang.

Turning, she met him face to face, frankly, earnestly.

"Let us think."

She rose, in her eyes the look men worship and, worshipping, find oblivion.

A moment they stood together.

"Good-night," she whispered.

"Good-night," his lips silently answered, pressing upon hers.

A DARK HORSE

Iowa City is not large, nor are the prospects for metropolitan greatness at all flattering. Even her most zealous citizen, the ancient of the market corner, admits that "there ain't been much stirrin' for quite a spell back," and among the broad fraternity of commercial travellers, the town is a standing joke. Yet, throughout the entire State, no community of equal size is so well known. It is the home of the State University.

In the year '90-something-or-other, there was enrolled in the junior class of the university, one Walter R. Chester, but it is doubtful whether five other students in the same classic seat of learning could have told you his given name. Away back in his freshman year he had been dubbed "Lord" Chester. And as "Lord" Chester alone is his name still preserved, and revered in university annals.

The reasons lying back of this exaltation to the peerage were not very complex, but quite as adequate as those usually inspiring college nicknames. He was known to be country-bred, and the average freshwater school defines the "country" as a region of dense mental darkness, commencing where the campus ends and extending thence in every direction, throughout the unchartered realms of space.

Each Friday afternoon, "Lord" Chester would carefully lock his room and disappear upon a bicycle; this much was plainly visible to everybody. On Monday he would reappear. The hiatus afforded a peg from which much unprofitable speculation was suspended. The argument most plausible was that he went home, while one romantic youth suggested a girl. The accusation was never repeated. What? The "Lord" a ladies' man? Tut! One would as soon expect a statue to drill a minstrel show.

Thus Chester's personal affairs remained a mystery. He never talked reflexively--rare attribute in a college man--and, moreover, curiosity never throve well in his presence. It utterly failed to bear fruit.

Another peculiarity distinguished him from all the rest of the student body: he roomed by himself. Although invariably courteous and polite to visitors, he was never known to extend an invitation for a second visit. He quite obviously wanted to be left alone, and the "fellows" met him more than half-way.

But what, more than anything else, probably helped to designate him "Lord," was the scrupulous way in which he dressed. There was no hint of the pastoral in his sartorial accomplishments, and it was his one extravagance. Though from the country and therefore presumably poor, no swell son of the Western _haute monde_ made an equally smart appearance.

We have been viewing the youth from the standpoint of his fellow-students. As a matter of fact, they never saw the real man, the man behind the closed door, at all. He was a terrific worker. When he decided to do a thing, he did it. Night was as day at such times, and meals were unthought of. He literally plunged out of sight into his work, and as yet he had never failed.

One reason for this uniform success lay in the fact that he was able to define his limitations, and never attempted the impossible. He was, indeed, poor; that is, relatively so. His earliest recollections were associated with corn rows and grilling suns; which accounted for the present cheerfulness with which he tackled any task, and for his appetite for hard work. When tired, he would think of the weight of a hoe in a boy's hand at six o'clock in the afternoon, and proceed with renewed vigor.

Such was "Lord" Chester: product of work and solitude; a man who knew more about the ideal than the real; a man who would never forget a friend nor forgive an injury; who would fight to the bitter end and die game--hero of "_the_" Marathon, whose exciting history is impossible to avoid in Iowa City.

By nature, Chester was an athlete, and by way of exercise he was accustomed to indulge in a few turns daily upon the cinder path. One evening in early spring he was jogging along at a steady brisk pace, when two men in training-suits caught up with him. They were puffing when they fell in beside him. Presently they dropped behind, and one, a tall important youth, of the name of Richards, called out:

"I say, me lud, aren't you going to clear the trail?"

Quick as a shot Chester halted and faced around.

"What's that?" he asked quietly.

The other two nearly bumped into him, but managed to come to a standstill, before precipitating that catastrophe. They lurched back upon their heels, nearly toppling backwards, too surprised for the moment to speak. Chester did not stir.

"Jiminy crickets!" Richards' companion exclaimed in a moment. "You're deuced sudden, Chester, I must say."

And Richards' manner promptly grew conciliatory.

"Old man," he said, smiling, "you really ought to train. You've got form--by George, you have! Besides, you wouldn't have any opposition to speak of, you know."

Richards was still smiling; but a smile, however warmly encouraged from within, is apt to take cold in a frost. The casual glance with which Chester took in the young man, from his light sprinting-pumps to his eyes, may be accurately described as frigid. Not until he had held the other's embarrassed look for an appreciable pause did he deign to speak.

"There really ought to be," he said without emotion, "at least one man in the field. I think I shall train."

Thus it came about that "Lord" Chester decided to enter athletics. Five minutes previously even the thought had not occurred to him; but he wasn't the man to quail before a bluff.

The track management of this particular university was an oligarchy; was governed by a few absolute individuals. Perhaps such a condition is not as rare as might be supposed. However that may be, it was here a case of being either "in" or "out." Chester was unpopular, and from the first had been out.

There were only four entries for the running events, the same names appearing in all; so he could not be kept from the field. But he well knew that various ways existed by which favoritism could be shown, and that these preferences, too trifling in themselves to warrant complaint, might prove a serious handicap in a close contest. He knew that, however honors might lie among the other entries, they would hesitate at nothing to prevent him from taking a place. In fact, Richards openly boasted that he would pocket "'is ludship" at the finish.

So Chester shaped his plans accordingly. He had never aimed at the impossible, nor did he now. He withdrew from all short-distance runs and yard dashes, and concentrated his mind upon the Marathon--thus dignified, although the faculty would permit nothing more arduous than two miles.

In saying trained, everything is meant that the word can be made to imply: the sort of hour in, hour out, to-the-limit-of-endurance training which either makes or kills. A fortnight before Field Day Chester was in perfect condition, and had his capabilities gauged to a nicety. He was now entered only in the Marathon; they virtually had forced him from the half-mile, and they should be made to pay the penalty.

One day before the race Chester went to the bank and inquired the amount of his balance. It was shown him: one hundred and six dollars and some odd cents. He drew a cheque for the amount, and thrust the bills into his pocket. From the bank he walked straight up Main Street for three blocks, then turned in at a well-kept brick house.

"Mr. Richards in?" he asked of the servant-girl.

"Yes, sir. Right upstairs--second door to the left. He's got company now."

The junior nevertheless resolutely mounted the stairs and knocked upon the door. The noise inside resembled a pocket-edition of the Chicago Board of Trade, so Chester hammered again, louder.

"Come!" some one yelled, and the noise subsided.

He opened the door and stepped inside. A half-dozen young fellows were scattered about, but as he knew none of them, except by name, he ignored their presence and walked directly up to Richards.

"I've come on business," he said; "can I speak with you a moment?"

"Sure!" Richards removed his feet from a chair, kicking it at the same time toward his visitor. "These fellows know more about my business now than I do myself, so get it off of your chest, Chester."

The company laughed, but Chester remained wholly unmoved.

"All right," said he, calmly. "You're in the Marathon: want to risk anything on it?"

Up went Richards' feet once more, this time to a table. He winked broadly at his friends, and replied with an air of vast carelessness,

"Why--yes; I don't mind. Guess I can cover you."

"How much?" demanded Chester. "Odds even, mind."

"I said I'd cover you, didn't I?" with some warmth. Richards fumbled in his trousers pockets, extracting therefrom a handful of loose change.

Chester advanced to the table. At sight of his roll of bills a sudden silence fell. All eyes were glued upon them while he counted.

"Five--ten--fifteen"--and so on, up to one hundred. He stowed the remaining five back in his pocket, pushed the pile into the middle of the table and looked coolly down at his host. Said he,

"One hundred, even, that I win the Marathon. Cover, or show these fellows the sort of piker you are."

And Richards came very near to showing them. His face was a study. He hadn't ten dollars to his name; he was painfully aware of the fact, and here were these six boys who would know it too in about two seconds. He was rattled, and sat looking at the pile of bills as though charmed. He racked his brain for some way out of the predicament, but the only thing he could think of was to wonder whether the portrait on the top note was that of Hendricks or Rufus Choate. "It can't be Choate," suddenly occurred to him. "But then it--"

There was a laugh in the back of the room. Richards stood up. A dozen fire alarms would not have recalled him so quickly. Whatever else might be said of the man he was game, and now his gameness showed.

"Give me an hour; I'll meet you then in front of the postoffice." While speaking he had gotten into his coat; now he walked toward the door. "Amuse yourselves while I'm gone, fellows," he said, and disappeared down the stairway.

Chester replaced the notes in his pocket, nodded gravely to the company and followed.

Not a boy spoke, but all sat staring blankly at the doorway.

An hour later, both Richards and Chester appeared at the postoffice. The former, by dint of much persistent circulation among his fellow athletes, had found enough of them who were willing to pool their funds in order to secure the necessary amount. The two young men had witnesses, the wager was properly closed and the money deposited. Neither spoke an unnecessary word during the meeting, but when Chester started to leave, Richards turned facetiously to his friends.

"'Is bloomin' ludship will start training Friday; bet he has his wheel in soak."

To which remark Chester paid not the slightest attention.

Whatever may be said to the contrary, six boys can no more retain a secret than can six girls, and inside of an hour the story of the big bet had spread over the town. In due course it penetrated to the city: one day a reporter appeared and interviewed the principals, and on the following Sunday their photographs adorned the pink section of a great daily. This was nuts for the university--but it is getting ahead of our own story somewhat.

Chester, naturally, was the centre of curiosity. He had not pawned his "bike," as was demonstrated when Friday rolled around; but had it been known that the last cent he owned in the world had been staked upon the issue, no doubt the interest would have been greater.

Field Day opened bright and clear, and early in the afternoon Athletic Park began to fill. A rumor had gone abroad that the two principal competitors had actually come to blows, and that each had sworn to die rather than lose the race. Long before the opening event the inclosure was crowded with spectators, all eagerly discussing the Marathon, to the exclusion of every other contest. The opinion was freely expressed that Richards would "put a crimp in that chesty Chester," and that he would "win in a walk." They made no bones about playing favorites.

It was a still, hot day, and if there is any advantage in atmospheric conditions each contestant should have been inspired with that absolute confidence of winning, without which the fastest race is but a tame affair. At two o'clock the band commenced playing. The judges tried to follow the programme, but the cries of "Marathon! Marathon!" grew so insistent and clamorous that they finally yielded, and the event was called.

Richards responded first. He was popular, and the grandstand gave him an ovation as he took his position under the wire. It seemed as though the handkerchief of every girl present was in the air. The two figureheads, friends of Richards, came next, and last of all Chester.

A feeble attempt at applause marked his passage in front of the grandstand; but he never looked up, and for any indication he gave to the contrary, he might have been the only person on the grounds. His track suit was hidden by a long black door curtain, in lieu of a bath-robe, and a pretty girl on the front row remarked audibly, "He's all ready for the funeral."

"Sure thing," answered her companion. "He knows his obsequies are about to take place."

"Peels well," a man by the rail critically commented. "But--rats!--Richards has pocketed this event ever since he's been here; you can't make the pace for him with anything slower than an auto."

The runners were in line at last, crouching low, tense, finger-tips upon the ground, the starting-pistol above their heads.

"Starters ready?" floated in a sing-song voice from the judges' stand. "Timers r-r-read-y-y?" A sharp crack from the pistol, and they were off.

Then a queer thing happened. Instead of dawdling along behind, as every one expected, Chester, without an instant's hesitation, pushed to the front and set the pace.

And what a pace! It was literally a race from the word go. Chester took the inside and faced the music, Richards and the others close in behind. Sympathy in the grandstand was beginning to turn; everybody appreciates pluck. The spectators, however, knew him to be a novice, and many supposed that he had lost his head; so when he passed the grandstand on the first lap, any amount of contradictory advice was shouted noisily.

"Let them set the pace!" "You're killing yourself!" "Oh, you bally Lord!--go it, kid!" "Don't let 'em nose you out, Chester, old scout!" "Save your air, old top, you'll need it!" and much more of a like kind was hurled at him, which reached his ears through the veil of singing wind, like the roar of distant breakers upon the seashore.

He kept his own counsel. He had followed that pace every day during the last two weeks of his training, and he knew precisely what he could do. Besides the air was quiet, and the disadvantage of being pace-maker was not so great as people thought.

In this formation they came round the half-mile oval the second time, each man working with the nice regularity of well-oiled machinery. Not a sound now from the grandstand; only the soft _pat_ of the runners' feet could be heard. The crowd had caught Chester's idea: but could he hold out?

They had passed the three-quarter pole on the third lap when a yell went up, and everybody rose excitedly to their feet. Space was growing rapidly between the leaders and those behind; it was now resolved to a duel between the principals.

As they dashed past, the crowd examined them closely, scores of field-glasses being trained upon them like so many guns.

Chester was still erect, his head well back, chest forward, arms working piston-like, close down at his sides, while his long, regular tread was as light and springy as an Indian's. His jaw was set grimly, but it was manifest that he was still breathing deep and regularly through his nostrils.

It was equally manifest that his opponent was in distress. The last of his strength and determination was dying away in a desperate effort to keep his pace; his face was colorless, eyes staring, his step irregular. Worst of all, his mouth was open, and his chest could be seen to vibrate as he panted.

"By Jove!" muttered the man at the rail, as amazed as though the blue canopy of heaven had suddenly fallen, "Chester'll take it, I do believe!" And the crowd was beginning to believe the same.

The rivals maintained their relative positions until, on the last lap, the three-quarter pole was once more reached. The two figureheads had dropped out and mounted a fence where they would not be too far away from the finish.

Every eye was trained upon the racers, the excitement was tense. Chester was pounding grimly away; sweat was pouring down his face until it glistened in the sun; his legs ached as though in a boot of torture. But he had no thought of allowing Richards to close the gap between them by an inch. He was counting the _pat-pat-pat!_ of his feet upon the track. "Seventy-three more, and it's won, old boy," he muttered. He could hear Richards' every breath. "One, two, three,--" he counted.

He heard a voice, so broken that the words could hardly be distinguished, and he glanced back.

"For God's--sake, Chester--hold--up!" gasped Richards. "I--can't lose--this race--now."

He was a pitiable figure, his white face drawn in lines of pain, his body swaying uncertainly, as he pressed despairingly on.

For one moment Chester's heart felt a throb of pity. Then he thought of his work in sun and rain; of Richards' contempt in the past; of the cheers for his rival and the open ridicule of his own pretensions; and last of all, but far from being the least consideration, the two hundred dollars absolutely necessary to carry him through his final year to graduation.

Ah, nobody knew about that two hundred dollars, save himself and one little girl, who had driven into town early in the afternoon, and who had slipped timidly into as good a seat as she could find in the stand. She showed one dot of pink among hundreds of fluffy white gowns; Chester was ignorant of her presence, but as he sped round and round the track, her eyes never once left him, nor did she cease praying silently that he might win!

Only for an instant did he hesitate; then his face settled into an expression not pleasant to look upon. He forgot that he was tired, that a grandstand full of howling maniacs was ahead of him. He thought only of the girl in pink--and made his spurt.

Richards tried to follow, but a haze was forming over his eyes. His heart was pounding until he believed that he must suffocate. Then he reeled suddenly, lost his balance and fell into darkness.

"So this is victory!" murmured Chester to himself a moment later, as he swayed unsteadily upon the shoulders of a howling mob. He was thinking of poor Richards lying back there upon the track. But just then he espied the transfigured face of the girl in pink.

"It is! It is!" he shouted joyfully.

THE WORTH OF THE PRICE

Nobody in a normal humor would dispute the fact that Clementine Willis was a strikingly handsome girl. One might even be moved, by a burst of enthusiasm, to declare her beautiful. There was about her that subtle, elusive charm of perfection in minute detail, possible only to the wealthy who can discriminate between art and that which is artificial, and who can take advantage of all of art's magic resources, without imparting the slightest suggestion of artificiality.

Her hair and eyes were dark--very dark; her skin bore the matchless, transparent tint of ivory; every line of her high-bred face, and of her hands and her slender, arched feet, bespoke the ultimate degree of refinement.

She was the sort of girl, in short, that a full-blooded man must needs stare at, perhaps furtively, but with no thought of boldness. Stupid, indeed, must be he who would attempt anything even remotely approaching familiarity with Miss Willis.

Her smart brougham waits in front of a new and resplendent down-town office building on a certain afternoon, while Miss Willis ascends in one of the elevators to the tenth floor. She proceeds with assurance, but leisurely--mayhap she is a trifle bored--to a door which somehow manages to convey an impression of prosperity beyond. It bears upon its frosted glass the name of Dr. Leonard, a renowned specialist in diseases of the throat, besides the names of a half-dozen assistants--in much smaller lettering--who, doubtless, are in the ferment of struggling for positions of equal renown.

The door opening discloses a neat, uniformed maid and a large and richly furnished reception-room. Five ladies, of various ages and all handsomely gowned, are seated here and there, manifestly forcing patience to relieve the _ennui_ which would have been tolerated with no other detail of the day's routine.

This cursory survey is sufficient, it is hoped, to demonstrate that Dr. Leonard's practice is confined among a class of which most other practitioners might be pardonably envious.

The white-aproned, white-capped maid smiled a polite recognition of the newest arrival. A bit flustered by the calmly impersonal scrutiny with which her greeting was received, she addressed Miss Willis in a subdued voice.

"I was to tell you, Miss Willis, that there is no occasion for Dr. Leonard to see you himself to-day. If you please, Dr. Carter will fill your engagement."

Miss Willis did not please. It was quite clear that she regarded this arrangement with considerable disfavor.

"You may inform Dr. Leonard that I shall not wait," she said coldly. "If I am so far improved that I do not require his personal attention, I shall not come again."

With that, she turned decisively to leave. The maid followed her, hesitantly, to the door, and Miss Willis could not repress a smile at the girl's consternation. The situation had ended in an altogether unexpected manner. And then, in the next instant, it became manifest that, however absolute Dr. Leonard might be, it was not a part of the maid's duties to discourage those who would seek his services. She was emboldened to protest.

"Just try him, please, Miss Willis," in a nervous murmur; "he--truly--he's--"

The assurance was left unfinished; but the speaker's flurry revealed her predicament, and Miss Willis smiled encouragement.

"Very well," she returned graciously.

The maid gave her a grateful look and conducted her though several rooms, all in accord with the sumptuous reception-room, to a tiny private office, where she opened the door and stood respectfully on one side.

The visitor's submissive mood all at once vanished. She stared resentfully at the cramped quarters, and entered reluctantly, as if with a feeling of being thrust willy-nilly into a labelled pill-box. A man was writing at a desk in a corner, and he continued writing.

"Take a chair, please," he said crisply, without looking up. And this was the only sign to indicate that he was aware that his privacy had been invaded.

Miss Willis's dark eyes flashed. She seemed about to make an indignant rejoinder, but thought better of it. She ignored the invitation to sit down, however, and by and by the circumstance caught the writer's attention; he bent a quick, surprised look round at her--then proceeded with his writing. He did not repeat the request.

He presently finished his task, noted the time, and made an entry upon a tabulated sheet beside him; he then filed the memorandum upon a hook, and swung round in his chair, facing the intruder--for such the girl felt herself to be.

Fortunately Miss Willis was not without a sense of humor, and she was able to perceive an amusing quality in her reception to-day. Such supreme indifference to her very existence was so wholly foreign to anything in her past experience, that she was acutely sensible of its freshness and novelty.

But now the man became all at once impressed with the circumstance that she was still standing, and he bounded guiltily to his feet.

"Pardon me!" he exclaimed in confusion. "I was--was very busy when you came in. Won't you please have this chair?" He awkwardly shoved one forward.

The man was young; Miss Willis was unable to determine whether he was good-looking, or ugly; whether he was the right sort, or impossible; so she accepted the proffered chair.

He resumed his own seat, and leaned one arm wearily upon the desk. Already he had forgotten his momentary embarrassment, and he was now regarding the girl simply as a patient.

"Dr. Leonard has given me the history of your case," he informed her in a matter of fact way. "He requests that I continue with it--unless, of course, you prefer that he treat you himself." He got up as he spoke, and Miss Willis decided that he was good-looking and young, and that he was tall and of a figure to appeal to the feminine eye.

Then she was guilty of a most reprehensible act of slyness. She turned full upon him the batteries of her lustrous dark eyes, and smiled dazzlingly, bewitchingly.

"I came to see Dr. Leonard," she said in a tone that made one think of dripping honey. "And I object to being turned over to an assistant--at least before consulting me."

Utterly at variance with all precedent, the bewitching look produced no effect whatever. The man bowed gravely, pressed a bell-button, and then went over to where Miss Willis was sitting. Before he could speak--if he had any such intention--a girl in starched cap and apron appeared in answer to his ring.

"Miss Willis has concluded not to remain," he informed the maid. "Show Number Twenty-seven into Room Four. Inform her that I will see her in two minutes." Producing his watch, he deliberately marked the time.

He turned to Miss Willis in a moment, with an air which said as plainly as words could have said it: "It's a terrible waste of precious time, but if necessary I'll sacrifice the two minutes to humoring any further caprices you may develop."

This was too much for the young lady's tranquillity: she laughed, and laughed frankly.

"Pray tell me," she managed to say, "what _my_ number is."

Without the slightest alteration in his serious mien, he consulted a list hanging beside his desk.

"Seven," he announced at length.

"Oh!"

"Why?" quickly. "Has there been some mistake?"

"No--oh, no"; Miss Willis was now perfectly composed. "I had a feeling, though, that it must have been nearer seven thousand."

"It would be impossible, you know," the man patiently explained, "to see that many patients in a day."

"Indeed? How interesting!" Her irony was unnoticed, and once more she laughed. To tell the truth, if anybody could associate such a frivolity with Miss Willis's dignity, she giggled.

She contemplated the man with undisguised curiosity. Naturally enough she had met more men than she could even remember, but never one anything like this particular specimen. To add to her quickened interest, he was not only positively good-looking, but every line of his face, the poise of his well-proportioned, upstanding figure, the tilt of his head and the squareness of his chin, all spoke of strength; of elemental strength, and of a purposeful, resolute character. And, too, she told herself that he had nice eyes. The nice eyes never wavered in their respectful regard of her.

He spoke again:

"I can assure you that Dr. Leonard meant no discourtesy. The new arrangement means nothing further than that your trouble is more distinctively within my province. It is his custom, once he has thoroughly diagnosed a case, to assign it to the one of his assistants best qualified to treat it. Dr. Leonard is a very busy man; he can't be expected to do more than supervise his aides."

And now he was actually rebuking her!

He bowed once more, and moved toward the door. His hand was upon the knob, when an imperious command brought him to a standstill.

"Wait," said Miss Willis. "Dr. Carter, if I remain here--"

He coolly interrupted. "Pardon me, Miss Willis, but my patient is waiting. I shall be at liberty in ten minutes, then I shall return."

This time he was gone.

Number Four must have been an adjoining room, for the next instant she could hear Dr. Carter's voice through the thin board partition. His speech was as unemotional and businesslike as when addressing her. She could not make up her mind whether to go or wait, and so sat pondering and presently forgot to go.

Here was a man such as she had never dreamed of as existing; one absolutely disinterested, who treated people--even people like Clementine Willis--as abstractly as a master mechanic goes about repairing a worn-out engine. Perhaps it was a characteristically feminine decision at which she presently arrived, but anyway she made up her mind, then and there, to know more of this man.

After a while Miss Willis fell to surveying the room; with an undefined hope, perhaps, that it would throw some further light upon the young doctor's character. It was essentially the home of a busy man. Every article had a use and a definite one. The spirit of the place was contagious, and presently she began to have a feeling that she was the one useless thing there.

In one corner of the room was the desk where he had been writing, upon which was a pile of loose manuscript. Reference books were scattered all about, some with improvised bookmarks, but mostly face downward, just as they had been left. The environment was that of one who seeks to overtake and outstrip Time, rather than to forget him.

Dr. Carter returned at last, entering quickly but quietly.

"Pardon my leaving you so abruptly," he apologized, the impersonal note again in his voice, and an inquiry as well. He seemed surprised that she had not departed.

The girl was manifestly at a loss for words; this was such an extraordinary predicament for her to find herself in that she determined to say something at any cost.

"Dr. Carter," she faltered, "I--have changed my mind; I--I--wish you to continue my treatment--if you will." It was not at all what she had intended saying, and she was chagrined to feel her cheeks grow suddenly hot; she knew that they must be rosy.

It was likely that young Dr. Carter was unused to smiling; but suddenly his eyes were alight. He spoke, and the dry, impersonal note was gone.

"I'm glad," he said. "We hard-working doctors can stand almost anything--without caring a snap of our fingers, too--but when it comes to doubting or questioning--not _our_ methods, but those that have been tried and proven, and of which we merely avail ourselves,--why, we can't be expected to waste much sympathy on the scoffers."

He rang the inevitable bell, and gave word to the maid: "Tell Dr. Leonard that Miss Willis has decided to continue her treatment with me."

Now, in the light of the foregoing experience, it was strange that during the next week Miss Willis's throat should require considerably more attention than it ever had under the celebrated specialist's personal ministrations. She made five visits to Dr. Carter, but it could not be said that he had advanced an inch toward the opening she had made. His voice and manner were a bit more sympathetic--and that was all.

Miss Willis seemed to find a keen delight in the fact that her identity, for the time being, was erased by a number; during each visit she made it a point to learn what this number was, treating the matter in a sportive spirit, unbending her wit to ridicule a practice which failed to discriminate among the host of patients who came to see Dr. Leonard.

"For our purposes," Dr. Carter tolerantly explained, "a number more conveniently identifies our patients; their differences are only pathological. A name is easily forgotten, Miss Willis, unless there is some unusual circumstance associated with it, to impress it upon the mind."

She was curious to learn what unusual circumstance had caused him to retain her name, but lacked the temerity to ask. She would have been amazed, unbelieving, had he told her that it was her beauty; that he was clinging rather desperately to the unlovely number, which had no individuality and whose features were altogether neutral and negative.

The change in his manner, when it came, almost took away her breath. It was on the occasion of her last visit. After the familiar preliminary examination, instead of proceeding at once with the treatment, as had been his invariable custom, Dr. Carter walked over to his desk and sat down. For a space he soberly regarded her.

"Miss Willis," said he, presently, "there is nothing whatever the matter with your throat."

She gasped. This calm statement brought confusingly to her mind the circumstance that she had forgotten her throat and its ailment, when, of all considerations, the afflicted member should have been uppermost in her mind. Dr. Carter had not, however, and he must be wondering why she continued to come after the occasion to do so no longer existed. He at once relieved her embarrassment, though.

"I suppose," he said, and she felt a thrill at the note of regret in his voice, "that you will be glad to escape from this hive?"

"No, I shan't," she said, with unnecessary warmth. This involuntary denial surprised even herself, and she blushed.

The smile left Dr. Carter's lips, but he said nothing--merely sat looking at her in his grave way.

Here was to be another period, which Miss Willis could look back upon as one of temporary inability to find words. She started to leave, furious with herself for her inaptness, and instead of going she paused and turned back.

Dr. Carter had risen; he was standing as she had left him. She drew a card from her cardcase.

"You may think what you please of me, Dr. Carter," she said with sudden impulse, extending the card and meeting his look steadily, "but I would be glad if you were to call."

It seemed to take him a long time to read the address. All at once his hands were trembling, and when he looked up the expression in the gray eyes brought a swift tide of color to the girl's face, where it deepened, and deepened, until she tingled from head to foot, and a mist obscured her vision.

"Nothing in all this world would give me more pleasure," said the man.

The girl turned and fled.

That very evening Dr. Carter availed himself of the invitation. Singularly enough, since she had been hoping all the afternoon that he would come, Clementine Willis was frightened when his name was announced. Her hand was shaking when he took it in his; but there was not a trace of expression on his face.

Miss Willis realized, for the first time, that she had been horribly brazen--or, at least, she told herself that she had been--and as a consequence, she was wretchedly ill at ease. Her distress was in marked contrast with the man's self-possession, which amounted almost to indifference. There was no spark visible of the fire which had flashed earlier in the day. It was as though he had steeled himself to remain invulnerable throughout the call.

And the usually composed girl prattled aimlessly, voicing platitudes, conventionalities, banalities, inanities--anything to gain time and to cover her embarrassment: to all of which the man listened in sober silence, watching her steadily.

Abruptly, Miss Willis grew angry with herself, and stopped. When angry she was collected.

Dr. Carter's face lit up humorously.

"You have no idea," he said, "how you have relieved my mind."

The girl looked a question.

"I supposed I was the embarrassed individual," he laughed.

"If you had only given me a hint," suggested the girl, reproachfully. She was now amazed that she had ever lost her grip upon herself, and wondered why she had.

"A hint!" he exclaimed. "I was dumb; I thought you'd see."

The tension was off, and they laughed together. From then on, both remained natural. In the midst of a lull, Dr. Carter suddenly said:

"You'll think me a barbarian, Miss Willis, but I have a request to make. I am in the mood to-night to be unconventional"--the corners of his serious mouth lifted humorously--"to be what I really am," he illuminated, "and to meet you in the same spirit." He paused with a little shrug. "It is a disappointing reversion to the primitive, I must admit." He glanced up whimsically. "May I ask you a question--any question?"

"Do you think it possible," the girl evaded, "for a modern woman to meet you--the way you say--naturally?"

He seemed to question her seriousness.

"I have seen little of women for a number of years," he returned, "but I'd hate to think it impossible."

"Little of women!" was the surprised comment.

"You misunderstand," he quickly corrected. "I go out so seldom that the woman I see is not the real woman at all; not the woman of home." His hand made a little motion of forbearance. "In his consultation-room the patients of a physician are--sexless."

"I think that a woman--that I--can still be natural, Dr. Carter," said Miss Willis, slowly, her eyes downcast. "What did you wish to ask?"

It was his turn to hesitate.

"I hardly know how to put it, now that I have permission," he apologized, with a deprecatory little laugh.

"We seldom do things in this world," he went on at once, "unless we want to, or unless the alternative of not doing them is more unpleasant." He merged generalities into a more specific assertion. "There was no alternative in your requesting me to call. Candidly, why do I interest you?"

His voice was alive, and the woman, now thoroughly mistress of herself, gazed into the frankest of frank gray eyes.

"I scarcely know," she said, weighing her answer. "Perhaps it was the novel experience of being considered--sexless; of being classified by a number, like a beetle in a case. Let me answer with another question: Why did I interest you sufficiently to come?"

He sat in the big chair with his chin in his hand, looking now steadily past and beyond her, one foot restlessly tapping the rug.

"I can't answer without it seeming so hopelessly egotistical." The half-whimsical, half-serious smile returned to his eyes. "Don't let me impose upon your leniency, please; I may wish to make a request sometime again."

"I will accept the responsibility," she insisted.

"On your head, then, the consequences." He spoke lightly, but with a note of restlessness and rebellion.

"To me you are attractive, Miss Willis, because you are everything that I am not. With you there is no necessity higher than the present; no responsibility beyond the chance thought of the moment. You choose your surroundings, your thoughts. Your life is what you make it: it is life."

"You certainly would not charge me with being more independent than you?" protested the girl.

"Independent!" he flashed upon her, and she knew she had stirred something lying close to his soul. His voice grew soft, and he repeated the word, musingly, more to himself than to her: "Independent!"

"Yes," with abrupt feeling, "with the sort of independence that chooses its own manner of absolute dependence; with the independence that gives you only so much of my time, so that the remainder may go to another; with the independence of imperative impartiality; the sort of independence that is never through working and planning for others--that's the independence I know."

"But there are breathing-spells," interrupted Miss Willis, smilingly. "To-night, for example, you are not working for somebody else."

"You compel me to incriminate myself," he rejoined, the whimsical, half-serious smile again lighting his gray eyes. "I should be working now, and I will have to make up the lost time when I go home." He bowed gallantly. "The pleasure is double with me, you observe; I do not think twice about paying a double price for it."

He spoke lightly, almost mockingly; but beneath the surface there was even the bitter ring of revolt, and constantly before the girl were the little gestures, intense, impatient, that conveyed a meaning he did not voice. She could feel in it all the insistent atmosphere of the town, where time is counted by seconds. She wondered that he felt as he did, ignorant that the disquiet had come into his life only during the past week. To her, the glimpse of activity was fascinating simply because it was in sharp contrast with her life of comparative, dull emptiness.

He caught the wistful look on her face.

"You wonder that I rebel," he said, with an odd little throaty laugh. "I couldn't well appear any more unsophisticated: I might as well tell you. It's not the work itself, but the lack of anything else but work that makes the lives of such as I so bare. We are constantly holding a stop-watch on time itself, fearful of losing a second; the scratch of a pen sealing the life of a Nation, commuting a death-sentence, defining the difference between a man's success and ruin can all be accomplished in a second. If we let that second get away from us, we have been deaf to Opportunity's knock. We stop at times to think; and then the object for which we give our all appears so petty and inadequate, and what we are losing, so great. We laugh at our work at such times, and for the moment hate it." But he laughed lightly, and finished with a deprecating little minor.

"You see, I'm relaxing to-night--and thinking."

"But," Miss Willis protested, "I don't see why you should have only the one thing in your life. It is certainly unnecessary, unless you choose."

He smiled indulgently.

"You have no conception of what it means to shape your life to your income. I am poor, and I know. Years ago I had to choose between mediocrity and"--he looked at her peculiarly--"and love, or advancement alone. I had to choose, and fixing my choice upon the higher aim, I had to put everything else out of my life. The thought is intolerable that my name should always be under another's upon some office-door. You know what I chose: you know nothing of the constant struggle which alone keeps me, mind, soul, and body, centred upon my ideal, nor how readily I respond to a temptation to turn aside.

"This," he completed listlessly, "is one of the nights when the price seems too large; in spite of me, regret will creep in."

"But," persisted the girl, "when you succeed--it will not be--too late?" There was a plaintive inquiry in the words; the tragedy of the man's life had awakened pity.

He spoke with a sudden passion that startled her.

"It is too late already; my work has refashioned my life. I am desperately restless except when doing something that counts; something visible; and doing it intensely. I'll never"--his voice was bitter with regret--"never conform--now."

The girl answered, almost unconsciously.

"I think you can," she hesitated, "and will."

For a long, long moment they searched each other's eyes.

"And this price you are paying," said the girl at last, "is it worth it?"

The man drew a long breath.

"Ah, I wonder! To-night doubt has undermined my resolution."

"If you question yourself so seriously," she said very softly, "then surely you can find but one answer."

"Again I wonder. I have wondered and--and hoped--God help me!--since the moment I looked into your eyes."

Suddenly he was out of his chair and coming toward her. Her heart leaped, her eyes shone; she extended her hands in welcome.

"Then you will come again," she whispered, as they drew together.

"If you will let me. I couldn't stay away now."

THE END