The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ewing's Lady
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Ewing's Lady

Author: Harry Leon Wilson

Release date: June 27, 2010 [eBook #32988]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EWING'S LADY ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









EWING'S LADY

    _B_y
    HARRY LEON WILSON

    Author of "The Spenders"

    D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
    NEW YORK
    1907


    COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
    D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

    COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
    AINSLEE MAGAZINE COMPANY

    _Published, November, 1907_




To N. B. T.




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                     PAGE

         I.--EWING'S KID                           1

        II.--A LADY LOSES HERSELF                 12

       III.--A PRIVATE VIEW                       20

        IV.--A PORTRAIT                           32

         V.--INTO THE PAST AND OUT                43

        VI.--THE LADY AND THE PLAN                55

       VII.--TWO SLEEPERS AWAKEN                  64

      VIII.--THE JOURNEY WONDER                   71

        IX.--A DINNER AT SEVEN-THIRTY             83

         X.--THE WAY OF THE LITTLE MAN            97

        XI.--A NIGHT AT THE MONASTERY            105

       XII.--THE NEW MEMBER                      124

      XIII.--SEARCHING THE WILDERNESS            131

       XIV.--THE TRICK OF COLOR                  140

        XV.--FLESH OF HER FLESH                  147

       XVI.--TEEVAN AS SPECIAL PROVIDENCE        156

      XVII.--AN ELUSIVE VENUS                    164

     XVIII.--MRS. LAITHE IS IN                   174

       XIX.--THE UNBLAZED WAY                    185

        XX.--A LADY BLUSHES                      196

       XXI.--THE DRAMA IN NINTH STREET           203

      XXII.--A REVOLT                            211

     XXIII.--THE LITTLE LAND                     222

      XXIV.--EWING INTERRUPTS                    231

       XXV.--MRS. LAITHE IS ENLIGHTENED          247

      XXVI.--THE SUNSET TRAIL                    256

     XXVII.--THE HILLS OF REST                   262

    XXVIII.--THE WHITE TIME                      273

      XXIX.--THE AWAKENING                       279

       XXX.--THE HARDEST THING                   290

      XXXI.--THE MISSION OF EWING                304

     XXXII.--THE TURNING OF COONEY               313




EWING'S LADY




CHAPTER I

EWING'S KID


Two weeks of instructive contact with the Bar-7 school of gallantry had
prepared Mrs. Laithe to be amazed at her first encounter with Ewing's
kid. Riding out from the ranch one afternoon and turning, for coolness,
up the wooded mesa that rises from the creek flat, she overwhelmed him
at a bend in the trail. Stricken motionless, he glared at the lady with
eyes in which she was compelled to believe that she read more horror
than admiration. There was a moment of this; then her pony neighed a
greeting to the statue--of dusty bronze--as if to say that things were
not so bad as they seemed, and the gazing youth broke the spell his
vision had laid upon him. He bowed his head doggedly and vanished beyond
some low-growing cedars that lined the way.

As he fled the lady laughed softly, yet was silent, with face austerely
set as she passed the point of his evanishment. His behavior recalled
that of a deer she had terrorized one day in this same green isle of the
woods; and she had laughed the same furtive laugh, as if in confidence
to herself, when the creature tossed its head in challenge, pawed the
earth with a dainty bravado, and then fled in such an ecstasy of panic
that she could hear it crashing through the underbrush long after it had
vanished. But this human woods-creature had gone silently; and no great
way, she suspected--far enough only to screen himself while his eyes
still held her through some opening in the green curtain. Wherefore let
us comprehend the mien of austerity as she passed.

Elusiveness in the male, be it bluntly said, was confounding to the
experience of Mrs. Laithe since she had ventured into the San Juan
Mountains under the nominal care of an inattentive brother, and her
belief was still firm that the men about her suffered little from
shyness. This latest specimen would be a single variation from type and
of slight value in determining the ways of his kind.

As her pony picked its way up the trail she mused over the not
unpleasant picture of the youth at bay. It was a thing to be caught at
the moment, for she would find him otherwise, she believed, at their
next meeting. She would come on him some day at Bar-7, or at one of the
ranches neighboring it, and find him quite like his fellows, rigidly
respectful, but with a self-confidence and a simple directness in his
gallantry that had entertained her not a little as practiced by local
courtiers. He would be like the others, from Beulah Pierce, owner of
Bar-7, down to Shane Riley, humble helper in the cookhouse.

An hour later, refreshed by the balsam-laden air of the upper reaches,
she left the woods at the foot of the mesa and rode out on the willow
flat, lush with grass for Bar-7's winter feeding. From the first bench
above the creek she descried the figures of two men in front of the
ranch house. One she saw to be Beulah Pierce, his incredible length
draped lazily over the gate that opened into his wife's flower garden.
Outside this gate, under the flow of his talk (Pierce would surely be
talking) stood one whom the lady, riding nearer, identified as the youth
who so lately had shirked a meeting with her. At this sight she warmed
with a little glow of pride in her powers of prophecy. Truly he had
waited no long time. His hat was off and he leaned restfully against the
withers of a saddled horse, a horse that drooped, head to the ground, in
some far low level of dejection.

She laughed again, comprehending the fellow at last. His variation from
type had been but seeming, due to an erratic but not constitutional
embarrassment. Brazenly enough now he contrived to await her coming,
craftily engaging the not difficult Pierce in idle talk. And Pierce, as
she rode up, would perform, with stiff importance, the orthodox ceremony
of presentation. Whereupon the youth would bow with visible effort,
shake her hand with a rigid cordiality, once up, once down, and remark,
after swallowing earnestly, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am!" or perhaps,
"Glad to make your acquaintance!" Then, tactfully affecting to ignore
her, he would demand if Pierce had seen anything of that buckskin mare
and colt that strayed off last Tuesday; or if anyone had brought mail up
from Pagosa Springs lately; or if Pierce happened to need two thousand
hemlock shakes. This query he would follow with a popular local
witticism concerning sheepmen or the Colorado climate--nominally
addressed to Pierce but intended for her own refreshment. And, in
readjusting the silk kerchief at his throat, he would manage a quick
side glance at her to see how she relished the jest. For Mrs. Laithe had
learned their ways in two weeks, and this was one of them--to favor one
another with witty sallies in her presence, and solely in her behalf.
All the men of Bar-7 practiced this amiable strategy. When a group of
them assembled within her hearing the swift exchange of repartee,
accompanied by the inevitable side glance, was a thing to wonder at.

Indeed, the lady had learned their ways. Even before she neared the gate
Alonzo Pierce, son of Beulah, appeared round the corner of the ranch
house to take her pony, sauntering with a flagrant _ennui_, in full
knowledge that Sandy Goodhue had started violently on the same gallant
mission, but from the farthest corral. Shane Riley, chained by his
labors to the doorway of the cookhouse, smirked genially out over a pot
that he polished; and Red Phinney, star rider at Bar-7, seated himself
on the step before the front door, so that he might have to arise with
flourishing apologies--a performance that would move the lady to ask
about his sprained wrist, now in bandage.

This familiar assembling of her court, professedly casual, was swiftly
detected by Mrs. Laithe. But she saw now, being near the gate, a quick
turning toward her of the strange youth. It was a brief, impersonal
survey that seemed not to disengage her from the background of gray road
and yellowish-green willows; but clearly it sufficed. With a curt nod to
Pierce he was mounted; in another breath his amazed and indignant horse,
spurred viciously from its trance, raged with protesting snorts over the
road to the east. As Mrs. Laithe reined up at the gate she beheld,
through a nimbus of dust, the rider's boots groping pathetically for
their stirrups.

She repressed a little gasp of astonishment in which the natural woman
might have betrayed her view of so headlong a retreat, although, had
Beulah Pierce been alone at the gate, she might have descended to speech
with him about this strangely retiring youth. But as 'Lon Pierce waited
for her pony, with a masterly taunt for Sandy Goodhue, who came up
breathless but late, and as Red Phinney had already risen from his
obstructive seat in the doorway, his wrist held cunningly forward to
provoke solicitous inquiry, the lady passed in with only such easy words
as the moment demanded. She was reflecting, with agreeable interest,
that the young man's avoidance of her would presently begin to seem
pointed.

This conjecture was to be abundantly confirmed. Returning from her ride
the following afternoon, she saw that the youth must pass her on the
public highway. They were out on the flat, with no arboreal sanctuary
for the timid one. The lady looked forward with genial malice to a
meeting which, it appeared, he was now powerless to avoid. But the
youth, perceiving his plight, instantly had trouble with a saddle girth.
Turning well out of the road, he dismounted on the farther side of his
horse and busied himself with the mechanics of proper cinching. As Mrs.
Laithe rode by she saw only the top of a wide-brimmed gray hat above the
saddle.

The day following, when, in an orderly sequence of events, they should
have met at the ford, he turned with admirable promptness down the
stream, where no trail was, sharply scanning the thinned edge of a wood
in the perfect manner of one absorbed in a search for lost stock.
Clearly, his was a mind fertile, if not subtle, in resource.

Not until a day later did he come truly to face her, and then only by
the circumstance of his being penned by her within the high-walled
corral where Red Phinney broke green horses to ride, work or carry.
Returning this day earlier than was her wont, and finding no one at the
front of the house to take her pony, she had ridden back to the corrals.
Here she delivered the animal to Phinney, but not before the timid one
had been compelled to pass her. He did this, she thought, only after
swiftly calculating the height of the walls that pent him. And though
his hat was doffed as he hurtled by, his eyes were on the ground. Mrs.
Laithe, feeling thus at liberty to stare brutally at him, felt a
prodigious heightening of that tower of amazement he had been rearing
within her mind, for she saw him blush most furiously; beheld it under
the brown of his beardless face.

Yet there was more in the young face than this flaunted banner of
embarrassment; and scanning it intently, she resolved forthwith to know
him.

Late that day she was pleased to come upon Beulah Pierce alone in the
big living room of the ranch house. Smoking a last pipe before the call
to supper, Beulah relaxed on the "lounge" after a toilsome season of
ditch-making.

"Oh, him?" he answered, luxuriously extending legs that seemed much too
long for any reasonable need of man, and pulling at his ragged red
mustache. "Why, that's Ewing's kid."

"Ewing?" retorted Mrs. Laithe, provocatively, winningly.

"Ewing," affirmed Pierce, with unaccustomed brevity, his mind at
dalliance with other matters.

"Ewing's kid," murmured the lady, as if in careless musing.

"Sure, Ewing's kid--Hi Mighty! I struck one o' them willow roots to-day,
on that piece o' ditch over on the west forty, an' say! it yanked me
clean over the plow handles. It did, fur a fact--straightened me out
like a whiplash. It scraped all the wall paper off'n this left shoulder
o' mine when I landed, too, say nothin' o' the jounce it give me. Ma,
whur's that embrycation fur man _and_ beast?" And Beulah laid a gentle
hand on the abraded member.

"After you've et a bite," called his wife from the next room. "Shane has
the things all on, so come along an' set up."

Beulah erected himself with an unctuous groan and spoke his favorite
jest: "Wa'al, le's go out an' see what the neighbors has brought in."

The meal over, Mrs. Laithe again found herself with Pierce in the living
room. She sat on the bearskin before the open fire, her hands clasped
about her knees. Through the dancing jets of flame she observed the kid
of Ewing with his downward, troubled face. Pierce, tucking shreds of
tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, glanced toward her, the light of
coming talk in his eyes.

"How'd you like that there little red roan you're ridin', Mis' Laithe?"
he began.

"Cooney? Oh, Cooney's a dear, generally. Sometimes he's stubborn and
pretends to know the way better than I do."

"Sound and kind, though, I bet you."

"Oh, yes; but when I want to ride down the east side of the valley, why
does he always try to go up that steep trail to the left? Sometimes I've
quite a struggle to keep him in the valley road."

"Wa'al, you see I bought him off'n Ewing's kid an' he wants to git back
home. Sure's ever we dast let him loose with the saddle band, he's over
to Ewing's place, come sun-up. You give him his head any time--he'll
carry you straight there."

"He will?"

"Surest thing _you_ know! When that kid breaks a pony he gits it all
gentled up so's it hones to git back to him."

"How interesting!"

"Naw--makes lashin's o' trouble fur them that buys off'n him. Say, Mis'
Laithe, you was askin' about Ewing's kid."

"Was I?" She looked politely blank.

"Sure you was--jest 'fore supper. Wa'al, Ewing's kid is the son of a man
named--now hear me _talk_! Course he's his father's son. Wa'al, anyway,
this man Ewing comes in here with this kid about fifteen, sixteen year
ago, an' takes that place over there by the lake to git cured up o' the
consumption. He was a painter, painted pitchers an' all sech,
understand?--puts up a big stoodio with a winder in it six feet high to
paint by. But he was puny. He couldn't fat up none. You never seen a
critter so gaunted as he was. Some said he never got over losin' his
wife. Anyway, 't wa'n't no surprise when he was took off, seven, eight
year ago. An' since he died that there kid has sort o' half run the
place along with a feller named Ben Crider that the old man had got fur
help. O' course we all kind o' looked in on the boy at first to make
sure he wa'n't in need, an' done a day's work now an' then, an' they
raised a few horses an' a few cattle an' one thing an' another. Trouble
with that boy, though, he's always putterin' round with his dad's paint
brushes, an' talkin' about portrayin' art an' all like that, understand?
I've told that kid time an' time again, 'Kid,' I says, 'never _you_ mind
about portrayin' art an' depictin' the linnerments an' the varied
aspecks o' nature,' I says; 'you jes' burn up them foolish little
long-shanked paint brushes in your Charter Oak cookstove,' I says, 'an'
ten' to portrayin' a good little bunch of cattle an' depictin' Ben
Crider to work also, an' you'll _git_ somewhur's,' I says. But him--why,
he jes' moons along. An' Ben Crider ain't much better. Ben ain't no
_stimulant_ to him. Ben had ort to been the only son of a tenderhearted
widow lady of means. That's what he'd ort to been. You give him a new
coon song out of a Sunday supplement an' his guitar, an' Ben's fixed fur
half a day at least. _He_ ain't goin' to worry none about a strayed
yearlin' or two. Why, one time, I rec'lect----"

"Then young Mr. Ewing is a painter, too?" she interrupted.

"Wa'al"--Pierce became judicial--"yes an' _no_. He ain't a reg'ler one,
like you might say--not like his pa was. Still, he can do hand
paintin'--if you want to call it that. Made a pitcher o' me this summer,
bein' buckjumped by old Tobe. Tobe was cert'n'y actin' high, wide an'
handsome, comin' down with his four hoofs in a bunch, an' me lookin'
like my works was comin' all apart the next minute. A _lively_
pitcher--yes; but, my Lord! it wa'n't a thing you could show! It made me
out that reediculous. Course, I ain't Mrs. Langtry, but you got to draw
the line somewhurs, hain't you? Now there"--Beulah pushed an informing
thumb toward crayon portraits of himself and Mrs. Pierce that graced the
opposite wall in frames of massive gilt, one on either side of the
organ--"that's what you can call art--drawn by a reg'ler one down to
Durango--everything showin' like it ort to, expressions _an'_ all, even
down to Ma Pierce's breastpin an' my watch chain, made out o' my own
mother's hair. They're _decent_ pitchers. That other one was plumb
indecent, I can tell you. Ma she up an' hid it away, quick as she seen
it."

"And has he done other things?"

"Hey?"

"Painted other pictures?"

"Slathers--horses an' animals an' Ben Crider with his gun an' all sech,
an' deer. Say now, I seen another artist down to the Durango fair last
fall that was a genuine wonder an' no mistake. He was writin' callin'
cards at a little table, an' he could draw a runnin' deer all in
flourishes an' curlycurves, without liftin' his pen from the card, all
slick an' natural as you'd want to----"

"Did you know his mother?"

"No-o-o--didn't even know him. I jest stopped to look an' he drawed a
fine big bird right while I watched, havin' a ribbon in its bill with my
name on it in red ink; about as tasty a thing as you'd care to see, fur
a quarter of a dollar. It's round the house somewhur now, I reckon, if
you----"

"Ewing's kid's mother?"

"Hey? Oh, no, I never knew that lady. She passed away sommers off up the
state before these other parties moved in."

"Does the boy resemble his father?"

"Ewing? Wa'al, not to _say_ resemble. In fact he didn't favor him, not
at all, that I can rec'lect. He must of been most like his ma."

The lady had been speaking as from a distance, staring fixedly into the
fire, with the distraction of one engaged in some hopeless feat of
memory. So intently aloof was she that Pierce had to repeat his next
remark.

"I say, you don't never want to let Cooney git you started up that trail
you was speakin' about. First place, it's steeper'n the side of a house.
Next place, ever let him git you to the top, he'd land you slambang over
to Ewing's, spite of all you could do."

"Thank you! I'll be sure to remember that. Good night!"

She left him, still with the far-centered, puzzled look on her face--the
shadow of some resemblance, indefinite, nameless, but insistent.




CHAPTER II

A LADY LOSES HERSELF


Only a few miles separate Bar-7 from the Ewing place; but they are
interesting miles and at least one of them will be found exciting by the
town-bred novice. There is a stretch where the trail leaves the valley
road and zigzags up the face of the east bench to a height from which
one may survey the whole sleeping valley of the Wimmenuche as through a
reducing glass. The way seems no broader than one's hand, and to Mrs.
Laithe, who approached it from across the flat and studied it for the
first time as a practicable thoroughfare, it looked to be impossibly
perpendicular; a climb that no horse in its right mind would attempt, an
angle of elevation that no rider could sustain.

Brought to incredulity by this survey, she pulled Cooney to a walk as
she neared the parting of the ways. Then, indecisively, she let the
bridle rein fall on his neck. The little horse loitered on, splashing
through the creek with a few leisurely sips of its icy water (taken
merely in the spirit of a connoisseur), and a moment later halted where
the bench trail turned out. At the beginning of his intimacy with his
present rider he had adopted rushing tactics at this point, leaping at
the trail in a fine pretense that no other way could have been thought
of, and showing a hurt bewilderment when the sudden pull brought him
about and into the valley road. For that was a road that led nowhere,
since it led away from his home. Day after day he had played this game,
seemingly with an untouched faith that some time he would win. Day after
day had he exercised all his powers of astonished protest when the
frustrating tug was felt. But these tugs had become sharper, to betoken
the rider's growing impatience, and it may be surmised that on this day
Cooney had lost his faith. If it were inevitable that one should be
whirled back into the broad, foolish way, one might save effort by
omitting that first futile rush; one might stop and let evil come.
Cooney stopped now, drooping in languid cynicism.

His rider waited, wishing that he had not stopped; wishing he had rushed
the trail as always before. She felt the need of every excuse for daring
the hazards of that climb. Cooney waited--and waited--morosely
anticipating the corrective jerk of a rider who refused to guide him
properly by pressing a rein across his neck. The shock was delayed.
Cooney thrilled, aspiring joyously. He waited still another uncertain
moment, bracing his slim legs. At last, with a quick indrawing of
breath, he sprang up the only desirable trail in all the world, with an
energy of scurrying hoofs that confined his rider's attention wholly to
keeping her seat. She hardly dared look down even when the little horse
stopped on a narrow ledge to breathe. Nor did Cooney tarry. Still
fearful, perhaps, of that deadly backward jerk, he stopped but once
again before the summit was reached. Doubtless he suspected that the
most should be made of this probably fleeting mood of compliance in one
who had hitherto shown herself inveterately hostile to his most
cherished design.

Looking back over the ascent while the stanch little animal panted under
her, Mrs. Laithe discovered that the thing had been worth while. The
excitement had been pleasurable and the view was a thing to climb for.
On the north the valley narrowed to a cañon, its granite sides muffled
in clouds of soft green spruce. To the south it widened away until,
beyond a broad plain, quickened with flying cloud shadows, a long,
low-lying range of blue hills showed hazily, far over the New Mexico
border. Straight before her, across the valley, were mountains whose
rough summits leaped gray and barren above their ragged hemming of
timber--mountains not to be seen from the ranch because of the
intervening mesa.

But the picture was not long to be enjoyed--no longer a time than Cooney
needed to recover his wind. He was presently off through a sparse grove
of aspen, breaking by his own will into a lope as they crossed a wide,
grassy meadow, level between the wooded hills that sloped to its edge on
either side. And this was the horse who, when he bore her lazily up and
down the valley, constantly cropped the good green stuff to right and
left, a horse always before willing to loiter, or to stand motionless
for an hour with his bridle rein on the ground, while she adventured
beyond him on foot. The rider caught his new spirit and laughed as she
felt herself hurried to the consummation of this mild adventure; hurried
up the long ridge, over a cross system of sudden gullies, through
another wide meadow of the mountains where strange cattle paused to
regard her rather disconcertingly; on through the gloom of other woods,
the trail worrying itself up another ascent, and then out upon an open
summit that looked down upon a tiny lake set in a cup of the hills. On
one side the water, its shining surface pierced only by the heaps of
hungry trout, flashed the green of chrysoprase up to the spruce trees
that crept to its edge; on the other it mirrored a scarred wall of rock
that rose sheer from the water to some far, incalculable height, its
summit carved into semblances of buttressed castles with gray and
splendid battlements.

But Cooney was still loath to linger over mere scenery. He hurried his
rider down the ridge and out on a flat of marshy grass, thickly starred
with purple gentians. Here he delayed only to recall, as it later
appeared, a duty familiar to him in the days before he was sold into
bondage. Standing across the trail where it neared the margin of the
lake, a sedate-looking cow grazed and was at peace with the world.

Looking up as the horse bore down upon her, and observing that she was
expected to move, the cow did so with but slight signs of annoyance in
the shaking of her head. The incident, however, was not thus simply to
be closed, for now began that which enabled the lady to regard the day
as one of red adventure. Cooney swerved from the trail with a suddenness
that was like to have unseated his rider. Then as the cow halted, head
down and forefeet braced, he swerved once more, heading so obviously for
the beast that she turned and trotted off on the trail, mumbling
petulant remonstrance. With a knowing shake of his head Cooney fell in
behind her.

His intention might no longer be mistaken. He meant to drive the cow.
Did she turn aside, Cooney turned aside, ever alert for her slightest
deviation. The trail now lay through a grove of spruce and balsam
that had been partially cleared, but the trees were still too many
for the lady to relish being hurtled among them by a volatile and
too-conscientious cow pony. She found herself eying their charge as
alertly as did Cooney himself, praying that the driven beast might
prove less reluctant. When she did break from the trail Mrs. Laithe
braced herself to meet Cooney's simultaneous detour, and thereafter,
until the indignant animal was again in the beaten way, the rider was
engaged in avoiding fearful impact with trees and entanglement with
low-growing branches. She debated the wisdom of dropping from the saddle
and abandoning herself to the more seemly fate of starvation in this
wooded fastness. To be sure, there was a chance that Cooney would rush
on to find his late master, who might return to solve the problem of the
empty saddle. But even so, that young man would only glance at her and
run swiftly away, after he had blushed. Moreover Cooney, whom she now
believed to be demented, had increased his speed, despite her
restraining pulls, while the cow, in a frenzy of desperation, became
more daring in her sorties.

Then, to the glad relief of the rider, an opening showed through the
trees close ahead, and in another moment Cooney had galloped her out
into an extensive clearing. Swiftly about its edge he circled, to thwart
a last dash of his prey for the glad, free grazing life from which she
had so summarily been withdrawn. Half round the clearing they went in
the startled gaze of a person who had been at work over a deer hide in
the shade of a mighty hemlock. Then, with lightning swerve pursued and
pursuers fled straight and swiftly across the clearing--Cooney close on
the flanks of his prize--into the astounded vision of Ewing's kid, who
had sauntered to the open door at the sound of flying hoofs.

Hereupon the little roan abandoned his task, halting before the figure
in the doorway. The halt was so abrupt that Mrs. Laithe never knew
whether she dismounted or was thrown.

They looked at each other helplessly, the lady's eyes still wide with
the dismay that had been growing in them since Cooney's mysterious
seizure. She felt herself trembling and she tried to smile. The young
man released the arm he had seized to support her and stepped back,
putting a hand up to Cooney, who had been mouthing his sleeve with
little whinnies of rejoicing.

Then the lady heard the voice of Ewing's kid, heard him say with quick,
embarrassed utterance, "It's too bad you went to all that trouble. We're
not milking Clara any more."

Still breathing rapidly, she turned half away, confused by this cryptic
utterance.

"Clara?--I didn't know--I don't--I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid I
don't understand."

"Yes, we don't drive her in any more. Midge came in fresh a few weeks
ago, and we let Clara run along with her calf again."

Pondering this item, she put her hands to her head. One of them found
her cap which a low branch had raked awry; the other grasped a tangle of
hair that muffled the other side of her head, regrettably out of place.
From this surprising touch of things she divined the picture she must be
making. More, she saw herself dash into this sylvan opening apparently
in mad pursuit of a frenzied cow; for, as a requisite to keeping her
seat in the saddle, she had been compelled to seem as eager in the chase
as Cooney himself. She sank--collapsed, rather--upon the broad slab of
stone before the door, laughing weakly.

The youth looked down at her with puzzled eyes in which she saw alarm
rising.

"But I didn't try to chase your cow--I didn't want to," she broke out.
"It was your horse; _his_ idea, his alone."

There was such fine, shy commiseration in his face as she rose that she
laughed again.

"Of course it must have been Cooney's fault," he said. "I might have
known that. He used to have to drive her in every day." He regarded her
for a moment with a sort of dumb chivalry, then politely offered his
hand, saying, with a curious little air of taught formality: "I'm very
glad to see you. Thank you so much for coming!"

In avoiding each other's eyes, as their hands fell apart, they both
looked out to the person who stooped busily over a deer hide in the
shade of the big hemlock. His view of the circumstance was revealing
itself. Only his rounded back could be seen, but this rose and fell in
the rapid, rhythmic convulsions of silent laughter. They turned quickly
back to each other and smiled in a sudden sympathy with his mirth.

"If I may have a glass of water--" she suggested, as a device for
establishing ease between them.

"Of course!" He called to the person under the tree, arresting the back
at the height of one of its recurrent spasms. The face turned upon them
was rigidly sad, a face of almost saturnine solemnity, the face of one
who has been brought to view life as an engine of woe. As he ambled
dejectedly toward them, his head bowed from his work-bent shoulders, the
lines of grief in his face seemed to deepen, and a gnarled hand tugged
at the already drooping ends of his long mustache, as if he would be
assured that they, also, testified to the world's objectionableness.

"Mr. Crider, this is Mrs. Laithe--she has come to see us." The youth
achieved this with austere formality. The sad one nodded and put forth
his hand with a funereal "Glad to know you, ma'am!" as if they met at
the open grave of a friend.

"Ben, won't you go to the spring and get her some fresh water? She's
thirsty. She's had a hard ride."

The other turned quickly away, and there was a sound as if he had
manfully stifled a sob. Ewing faced his guest with eyes that twinkled a
bit, she thought, beneath their apologetic droop.

"I'd be glad to have you come inside," he ventured.




CHAPTER III

A PRIVATE VIEW


From the first room, a kitchen and general living room, such as she had
learned to know in the other ranch houses, he conducted her up two steps
to a doorway, from which he pushed aside a Navajo blanket with its rude
coloring of black and red. There was disclosed beyond this an apartment
of a sort with which she was more familiar, a spacious studio with its
large window giving to the north. In the clear light her eyes ran
quickly over its details: the chinked logs that made its walls, the huge
stone fireplace on one side, the broad couch along the opposite wall,
covered with another of the vivid Navajo weaves, the skins of bear and
lynx and cougar on the stained floor, the easel before the window, a
canvas in place on it; the branching antlers over the fireplace,
contrived into a gun rack; a tall, roughly made cabinet, its single
shelf littered with half-squeezed tubes of paint, a daubed palette, and
a red-glazed jar from which brushes protruded. Above the couch were some
shelves of books, and between it and the fireplace was a table strewn
with papers, magazines, a drawing board with a sheet of paper tacked to
it, and half a dozen sharpened pencils.

He indicated the couch. "It will be a good thing for you to rest a
little," he said. She seated herself with a smile of assent. He rashly
began to arrange the pillows for her, but left off in a sudden
consciousness of his temerity, withdrawing a few paces to regard her.
He was still apprehensive, but his boy's eyes were full of delight,
amusement, curiosity, and, more than all, of a wistfulness like that of
a dumb creature. He stepped to the door for the pitcher of water and
glass that Ben now brought.

She had studied him coolly as he spoke--the negligent out-of-doors
carriage of the figure, not without a kind of free animal grace, the
grace of a trampling horse rather than that of soft-going panthers. The
floor boards reëchoed to his careless, rattling tread, and occasionally,
his attention being drawn to this reverberation, he was at great pains
for a moment to go on tiptoe. He was well set up, with a sufficient
length of thigh. Mrs. Laithe approved of this, for, in her opinion, many
a goodly masculine torso in these times goes for nothing because of a
shortness of leg. His hair was a lightish brown and so straight that a
lock was prone to come out behind and point uncompromisingly toward
distant things. This impropriety he wholly disregarded, whereas the more
civilized man would have borne the fault in mind and remembered
occasionally to apply a restrictive hand. His face was a long, browned
square, with gray eyes, so imbedded under the brow that they had a look
of fierceness. His lips showed only a narrow line of color, and trembled
constantly with smiles. These he tried to restrain from time to time,
with an air of pinning down the corners of his mouth.

She had noted so much while he poured out the water, and now he came to
her, walking carefully so as not to thunder with his boots.

"You must have been frightened," he said, and his eyes sought hers with
a young, sorry look.

"Not after we left the woods; it wasn't funny among those trees."

He brightened. "I'd always thought women don't like to look funny."

"They don't," said the lady incisively, "no more than men do."

"But you can laugh at yourself," he insisted.

"Can you?" She meditated a swift exposure of his own absurdity at their
meetings in the valley, but forbore and spoke instead of his pictures.

"You must show me your work," she said.

For a moment it seemed that she had lost all she had gained with him. He
patently meditated a flying leap through the door and an instant
vanishing into the nearest thicket. She had an impulse to put out a hand
and secure him by the coat. But he held his ground, though all his
geniality was suddenly veiled, while he vibrated behind the curtain,
scheming escape, like a child harried by invading grown people in its
secret playhouse.

She looked cunningly away, examining a rip in her glove.

"I tried to paint a little myself once," she essayed craftily. Nothing
came of it. He remained in ambush.

"But it wasn't in me," she continued, and was conscious that he at least
took a breath.

"You see, I hadn't anything but the liking," she went on, "and so I had
the sense to give it up. Still, I learned enough to help me see other
people's work better--and to be interested in pictures."

"Did anyone try to teach you?" he asked.

"Yes, but they couldn't make me paint; they could only make me see."

"Perhaps you could tell me some things," he admitted at last, "if you've
tried." He paltered a little longer. Then, "Ben Crider says this is the
best thing I've ever done," and he quickly took a canvas from against
the wall and placed it on a chair before her.

She considered it so quietly that he warmed a little, like a routed
animal lulled once more into security by the stillness.

"Do you get the right light?" he asked anxiously.

She nodded, and managed a faint, abstracted smile, indicative of
pleasure. She heard him emit a sigh of returning ease. He spoke in
almost his former confiding tone.

"That's our lake, you know, painted in the late afternoon. Ben is set on
my sending it down to the Durango fair next month."

It was the lake, indeed, but, alas! an elaborate, a labored parody of
it. The dead blue water, the granite wall evenly gray in shadow,
garishly pink where it caught the sun, the opaque green of the trees,
the carefully arranged clouds in the flat blue sky--all smirked
conscious burlesque. It recalled the things in gilt frames which Mrs.
Laithe remembered to have seen in front of "art emporiums," on
Fourteenth Street, tagged "Genuine Oil Painting," the "$12.00" carefully
crossed out and "$3.98" written despairingly below to tempt the alert
connoisseur.

She knew the artist's eyes were upon her in appeal for praise. She drew
in her under lip and narrowed her eyes as one in the throes of critical
deliberation.

"Yes, I should recognize the spot at once," she dared to say at last.
"How well you've drawn the rock."

"I hoped you'd like it. I don't mind telling you I put in a lot of time
on that thing. I 'carried it along' as my father used to say. I don't
believe I could better that. And here are some others."

He displayed them without further urging, his shyness vanished by his
enthusiasm, in his eye a patent confusion of pride and anxiety. She
found them in quality like the first. In one the valley of the
Wimmenuche from the east bench was as precisely definite as a
topographical map; in another the low-lying range of hills to the south
had lost all their gracious and dignifying haze.

"They are immensely interesting," observed his critic with animation,
"It may be"--she searched for a tempering phrase--"it is just possible
there's a trick of color you need to learn yet. You know color is so
difficult to convict. It's shifty, evasive, impalpable. I dare say that
lake isn't as flatly blue as you've painted it, nor that cliff as flatly
pink in sunlight. And those hills--isn't there a mistiness that softens
their lines and gives one a sense of their distance? Color is _so_
difficult--_so_ tricky!"

She had spoken rapidly, her eyes keeping to the poor things before her.
Now she ventured a glance at the painter and met a puzzled seriousness
in his look.

"You may be right," he assented at last. "Sometimes I've felt I was on
the wrong track. I see what you mean. You mean you could reach over a
mile and pick up the ranch house at Bar-7--that it's like a little
painted doll's house; and you mean you could push your finger into those
hills, though they're meant to be a hundred miles away. Well, it serves
me right, I guess. My father warned me about color. And I never saw any
good pictures but his, and that was years ago. I've forgotten how they
ought to look. He sold all his when I was young--all but one."

"You've done well, considering that."

"He said I must learn to draw first--really to draw--and he taught me to
do that. I _can_ draw. But black and white is so dingy, and these colors
are always nagging you, daring you to try them. If I could only learn to
get real air between me and those hills. I wonder, now, if my colors
seem like those Navajo blankets to you." He flung himself away from the
canvases like an offended horse.

"Let me see your black-and-whites," she suggested hastily.

"Oh, those! They don't amount to much, but I'll show you." He thrust
aside the canvases and opened a portfolio on the chair.

She saw at a glance that he had been right when he said he could draw.
She let her surprise have play and expanded in the pleasure of honest
praise. She had not realized how her former disappointment had taken her
aback. But he could draw. Here were true lines and true modeling, not
dead, as he had warned her, but quick with life, portrayed not only with
truth but with a handling all his own, free from imitative touches. He
had achieved difficult feats of action, of foreshortening, with an
apparently effortless facility--the duck of a horse's head to avoid the
thrown rope; the poise of the man who had cast it; the braced tension of
a cow pony holding a roped and thrown steer while his rider dismounted;
the airy grace of Red Phinney at work with a stubborn broncho, coming to
earth on his stiff-legged mount and raking its side from shoulder to
flank with an effective spur. There was humor in them, the real feeling
in one of the last. Mrs. Laithe lingered over this.

"It's Beulah Pierce's wife in that flower garden of hers," the artist
explained. "It seems kind of sad when she goes out there alone
sometimes. You know how tired she generally is, and how homesick she's
been for twenty years or so--'all gaunted up,' as Ben says, like every
ranchman's wife--they have to work so hard. And in the house she's apt
to be peevish and scold Beulah and the boys like she despised them. But
when she goes out into that garden----"

"Tell me," said his listener, after waiting discreetly a moment.

"Well, she's mighty different. She stands around mooning at the
hollyhocks and petunias and geraniums and things, the flowers that grew
in her garden back East, and I reckon she kind of forgets and thinks
she's a girl back home again. Her face gets all gentled up. I've watched
her when she didn't notice me--she's looking so far off--and when she
goes into the house again her voice is queer, and she forgets to rampage
till Shane Riley lets the stew burn, or Beulah tracks mud into the front
room, or something. I tried to show her there, looking soft, just that
way." He sounded a little apologetic as he finished.

"It's delightful," she insisted, "and they're all good--I can't tell you
how good. You must do more of them, and"--she paused and shot him a
careful glance to determine how wary it behooved her to be--"and I
believe you should let color alone for awhile, until you've had a
teacher show you some things. You must learn the trick."

"Oh, I'd try to learn fast enough, if I had the chance." His eyes
lighted with a kind of furtive wistfulness, as if he would not have her
wholly fathom his longing.

"Of course you could learn. I believe you can do something--something
fine."

She rose from the couch and glanced over his books, with an air of
wishing to touch other matters before they dwelt long on this. She
noticed with some surprise a set of Meredith.

"Do you read these?" she asked, taking down one of the volumes.

There was an instant return of his former shyness, a hint of the child
and the invaded playhouse. But she knew what to do. Without further
remark she calmly lost herself in "Diana."

"Those books were my father's," he said at last, with the air of
addressing an explanation to some third person. She ignored this, not
even glancing at him. "But I've read them," he added, still as if to
another person.

At last, after studying her face a bit, he ventured, "Have you read them
all?" He spoke low, so as not to interrupt her too pointedly. She did
not look up, but nodded, with a smile that said confidentially, "Well, I
should think so!" He edged nearer then, like one who would be glad, if
pressed, to share his secrets.

"I was sorry when I reached the last one," he began. "It was another
world. Oh, he's a great writer. He writes as if he was thinking all the
time in fireworks, and he makes you do the same thing. Every page or two
he sets off a bunch of firecrackers in your mind that you didn't know
you had there. But he writes as if he didn't care whether anybody
understood him or not. It's a blind trail, lots of the way, and on some
pages I just bog down."

She smiled sympathetically. "Many of us have that trouble with him." She
put "Diana" back on the shelf and held up the poems of Robert Browning.

"And this?"

"Oh, do you read that, too?" he counterquestioned with sparkling
curiosity. She could see that he was enlivened beyond his
self-consciousness for the moment. "Well, I do, too, in spots. He's
pretty good in spots. But other times he's choppy and talky and has a
hard time getting into the saddle. Why, sometimes when Ben Crider is
talking to himself, it would sound just like Browning, if you broke it
up into poetry lengths and gave it a good title."

"And this you like, too?" She was opening a volume of Whitman.

"_Sure!_" he rang out. "Don't you? There's the man." He began walking
about with a fine smile that was almost a friendly grin. She felt
suddenly sure that he had never talked about the books before, and that
it was a kind of feast day for him.

"Yes," he continued easily; "when I get to feeling too much alone up
here I pretend I see him striding in off the trail, his head up,
sniffing the air, his eyes just _eating_ these big hills, and he'd march
right in and sit down. Only I can't ever think of what we'd say. I
reckon we'd sit here without a word. He must have had wonderful eyes.
He's good in winters when you're holed up here in the snow and get on
edge with nothing to do for five or six months but feed the stock and
keep a water hole open. Sometimes I wonder if Ben and I won't come out
crazy in the spring, and then I read old Whitman and he makes me feel
all easy-like and sure of myself."

He paused again, but she only waited.

"I had a funny thought last winter," he pursued. "It seemed to me that
if people turn into other things when they die--the way some folks
believe, you know--that Whitman must have become a whole world when _he_
died, whirling away somewhere off in space; a fine, big, fresh world,
with mountains and valleys and lakes, with big rivers and little ones,
and forests and plains and people, good people and bad people, he just
liked all sorts--it didn't seem to make much difference to him what they
were, so they were people--and he'd carry them all on his back and
breathe in and out and feel great."

He laughed as if the idea still delighted him, and she laughed with him.

"I'd like to have told him that," he continued, almost meditatively.
"But I'll bet he often thought of it himself. I guess he wouldn't be
satisfied with anything less than that."

When he stopped they stood a moment smiling at each other. Then she went
back to the couch with rather a businesslike air.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"I'm twenty-four. How old are you?"

She smiled, quite disarmed by the artlessness of this brutality.

"I am twenty-seven."

"That's pretty old, isn't it?" he commented, gravely. "I shouldn't have
said you were older than I am. Some ways you look younger. And what a
lot you must have seen out yonder!"

"You should go there yourself, to work, to study." She felt that he was
curiously watching her lips as she spoke rather than listening to her.

"Now I see it's only your profile that's sad," he began in the same
detached, absent way he had spoken of the books, the way of one talking
in solitude. "Your full face isn't sad; it's full of joy; but there's a
droop to the profile. Here--I'll show you." He took a sketch-book from
the table.

"I'll show you this, now we're such good friends. I could only draw the
profile because--well, that was the only thing I could look at much."

She looked and saw herself on three pages of the book, quick little
drawings, all of the side face.

"I didn't dream you had seen me enough," she said. "And you have
everything from cap to boots, and Cooney----"

"I knew Cooney, and I've--well--I've watched you some when you didn't
know."

"Certainly you never watched me when I did know," she retorted.

"I should think not!" He laughed uneasily. "But you see the sadness
there. I tried to locate it, but I couldn't. I only knew it was there
because I found it in the sketches when they were done. I think I caught
the figure pretty well in that one. Stand that way now, won't you?"

She rose graciously.

"Here's your quirt, and catch your skirts the way you've done
there--that's it. Yes, I got that long line down from the shoulder. It's
a fine line. You are beautiful," he continued critically. "I like the
way your neck goes up from your shoulders, and your head has a perky
kind of a tilt, as if you wouldn't be easy to bluff."

She smiled, meditating some jocose retort, but he still surveyed her
impersonally, not seeing the smile. She dropped to the couch rather
quickly.

"Let us talk about you," she urged. But he did not hear.

"Your face, though--that's the fine thing--" He was scanning it with
narrowed eyes. But a protesting movement of hers restored him to his
normal embarrassment. He writhed in uncomfortable apology before her.
"I'd 'most forgot you were really here," he explained. "I've seen you
that way so often when you _weren't_ here. There now--I see that
sadness; it's in the upper lip. It showed even when you laughed then."

"Really, this must stop," she broke in. "People don't talk this way."

"Don't they? Why don't they? I'm sorry--but all that interested me." The
wave of his hand indicated the fluent grace of the lady impartially from
head to foot.

"Of course," he added, "I knew there must be people like you, out there,
but I never dreamed I'd have one of them close enough to look at--let
alone get friendly with. I hope you won't hold it against me."




CHAPTER IV

A PORTRAIT


Though she had made him tingle with an impulse to flee from her, he was
at the edge of the east bench early the next afternoon. He might see her
from a distance. If she came close upon him--well, it was worth risking;
he had a good horse. Her eyes were the best of her he thought, big gray
things under black brows, with a dark ring, well defined, about the
iris. He had seen no such eyes before. And how they lighted her face
when she spoke. Her face needed lighting, he thought. It was pale under
the dark hair--her hair stopped short of being black, and was
lusterless--with only a bit of scared pink in her cheeks, after that
ride of the day before. He thought of her hands, too. They were the
right hands for her, long, slender, and strong, he did not doubt, under
a tricky look of being delicate. It was not possible that they could
ever talk together again so easily. He could not make that seem true,
but he could look at her. He had hoped she would promise to come again,
but they had parted abruptly the afternoon before. Riding back with her,
as they breasted the last slope leading to the ranch, he had rejoiced
boldly at the chance that had led her up the lake trail that morning.
Then Beulah Pierce had hailed them from his station at the bars, hailed
them in a voice built to admirable carrying power by many cattle
drives. His speech began, "Didn't I _tell_ you where that upper trail
would----"

Whereupon the lady turned to dismiss her escort rather curtly.

"Thank you for riding back with me. I shall not trouble you any
further." And he, staring suddenly at her with the wild deer's eyes
again, had fled over the back trail.

He thought if there had been more time she might have said, "I will come
again soon--perhaps to-morrow." He liked to think she might have said
that, but he could not give it much reality.

He sprawled easily in the saddle, leaning his crossed arms on the pommel
and gazing out over the sun-shot valley to the group of buildings and
corrals at Bar-7. At least she rode somewhere every afternoon, and he
would see her leave. If she turned down the valley road or up the
cañon--well, that emergency could be met. He thought of speeches to make
it plain that he had not followed her, daring to approach her in his
mind, but knowing well that he would probably hide at sight of her.

A half hour he waited so, beholding visions of their accidental meeting.
Then his pulses raced. He saw the stocky-barreled Cooney led from the
corral to the front of the house by Red Phinney. He could almost discern
the Sabbath finery of Red across that crystal mile--for this was the
breathing day of the week, when faces were rasped cruelly by indifferent
razors, and fine raiment was donned, black trousers and gay, clean
shirts and neckerchiefs of flaming silk.

He could not see her mount. The ranch house hid that spectacle. But she
rode into view presently, putting Cooney first to his little fox trot
and then to a lope, as the road wound among the willows.

He straightened in the saddle as she reached the creek. He was eager to
retreat, yet feared to have his cowardice detected. And when Cooney
halted midway of the stream, pawing its rocky bed and making a pretense
of thirst, the woman looked up and saw her watcher on the trail. She
waved the gauntleted hand that held her quirt, and he found himself
holding his hat in his hand with an affectation of ease. Then each
laughed, and, though neither could hear the other, it was as if they had
laughed together in some little flurry of understanding. He could still
pretend to have happened there at that moment, he reflected. And this
brought him courage as he saw her give Cooney his way where the trail
branched. When the little horse had carried her to the summit and stood
in panting gratitude, the waiting youth evolved a splendid plan for
hiding his fright. He dismounted and forced himself to go coolly and
take her hand. Perhaps it was as well that he had not trusted himself to
remain in the saddle at that first moment. But when the thing was really
over he no longer made a secret of his delight at her coming. His first
anxious look at her face had shown him the cordial friendliness of the
preceding day. She was amused by him, he could see that, and did not
resent it; but she was kind, and in his joy at this he babbled, at
first, with little coherence.

"I rode right over here to make sure I would see you," he began, "and
then if you rode down the valley, or up, I was going to loaf along and
find you by accident, and pretend I was hunting a colt. I was going to
be afraid the mountain lions had got it." He laughed immoderately at
this joke. "And while I waited for you I kept trying to think how fine
it would have sounded last night if you had said, 'I think I shall go
over and look at your place again to-morrow.' I couldn't make your voice
sound true, though. It's a good thing we needn't try to paint voices."

They were riding together over the first stretch of meadow. It seemed to
have been agreed without words that they should ride to the lake cabin.

"To paint voices?" she queried.

"Voices, yes; how could yours be painted? It couldn't. You'll see that.
I thought of a jumble of things--wine and velvet, for instance; some
kind of rich, golden wine and purple velvet, and then, warm flickers of
light in a darkened room, and a big bronze bell struck with something
soft that would muffle it and yet make everything about it tremble. You
see, don't you?" he concluded with a questioning look of deep
seriousness.

His own voice was low and eager, with its undernote of wistfulness.
Already he had renewed upon her that companionable charm which she had
felt the day before, a charm compounded of half-shy directness, of
flashes of self-forgetfulness, of quick-trusting comradeship. She
rejected a cant phrase of humorous disclaimer that habit brought to her
lips. It would puzzle or affront his forthrightness.

"Very well, we'll agree that my voice can't be painted," she said at
last. "So let us talk of you."

"I guess I should like that pretty well," he answered after a moment's
pondering. "I don't believe I've ever talked much; but now I feel as if
I could tire you out, talking as we did yesterday. Queer, wasn't it?"

He fell silent, however, when the trail narrowed to climb the long
ridge, as if the acknowledgment of his desire to speak had somehow
quenched it. She fell in ahead, half turning in her saddle to address
him from time to time, but he would talk only about things of the
moment. In a marshy spot at the edge of the meadow he pointed out a bear
wallow, and farther on a deer lick. "It's a sulphur spring," he
exclaimed, "and deer come from miles around to drink there."

"Do you shoot them?" she asked.

"We always have fresh meat when we need. Ben Crider says he won't let a
deer come up and bite him without trying to defend himself."

"It's like murder, isn't it?"

"Well, I never murdered anyone myself, but I hit the first deer I ever
shot at, and I felt as if I'd lain in wait at a street corner and killed
a schoolboy on his way home. But I missed the next three or four, and
that made me blood-thirsty. I guess if you carried that feeling back far
enough a man could go out and shoot his little sister if he'd had to
still-hunt her over rough ground all day, and especially if he'd missed
two or three cousins or an uncle in the meantime. I think that would
raise the savage in him enough."

They were skirting the lake now, a glinting oval of sapphire in its
setting of granite. Beyond this they rode through the thinned
timber--where Cooney was dissuaded, not without effort, from pursuing
his ancient charge, and emerged into the glare of the clearing.

As they dismounted at the door of the cabin a melancholy of minor chords
from a guitar came to their ears, and a voice, nasal, but vibrant with
emotion, sang the final couplet of what had too plainly been a ballad of
pathos:

    "While they were honeymooning in a mansion on the hill,
     Kind friends were laying Nellie out behind the mill."

"That's one of Ben's best songs," said Ewing, with so genuine a gravity
that he stifled quite another emotion in the lady as she caught his
look.

"Indeed! I must hear him sing more," she managed with some difficulty.

The sorrowful one arose as they entered, hastily thrusting aside his
guitar as might an assassin have cast away his weapon. His face was
shaven to a bitter degree; in spots it was scarified. But the drooping
lines of woe unutterable were still there in opposition to his Sabbath
finery--a spreading blue-satin cravat, lighted by a stone of impressive
bulk, elegant black trousers, and suspenders of red silk embroidered
with pansies and a running vine of green. He greeted the visitor as one
who would say, "Yes, it's a sad affair--wholly unexpected," and, cocking
an eye of long-suffering negation on Ewing, he went out to the horses.

As they entered the studio Mrs. Laithe saw that the easel had been
wheeled into the light from the big window and that a woman's portrait
had been placed upon it. Had Ewing looked at her on the instant he might
have detected that her face seemed to ripple under some wind of emotion.
But his own eyes had been on the portrait.

"That's my mother," he said, unconsciously hushing his voice.

"I should have known it," she answered, with a kind of spurious
animation. "The face is so much like yours. It is a face one seems to
have known before, one of those elusive resemblances that haunt the
mind. It is well done." She ended the speech glibly enough.

"She was beautiful. My father did it. He had that trick of color, as you
call it, or he could never have painted her. She was so slight, but she
had color. And she was quick and fiery. I used to see her rage when I
was very small. I believed there were coals in her eyes, and that
something blew on them inside to make them blaze. I wouldn't know what
it was about, only that it wasn't us she raged at--not my father or me.
I could go up and catch her hand even when she frightened me. And
sometimes, after a while, my father would get excited, too. He was
slower to take fire, but he burned longer. And at last she would become
afraid and grow quiet herself and try to soothe him. I never could tell
what they were at war with."

They looked in silence at the vivid young face on the canvas, a thin,
daring, eager face, a face of delicate features, but strong in a perfect
balance. The eyes were darkly alive.

"You were young when she died?" the woman asked at last.

"Too young to understand. I was eight, I think. There was a lot I shall
never understand. Sometimes my father would tell me about their life
here in the West, but never of the time before they came here. It always
seemed to me that either he or she had quarreled with their people. They
were poor when they came here. We lived in Leadville when I first
remember. My mother sang in a church choir and made a little money and
nights--you'll think this queer--my father played a piano in a dance
hall. They had to live. Days, he painted. He had studied abroad in Paris
and Munich, but he wasn't selling his pictures then. It took him years
to do much of that. Sometimes they were hungry, though I didn't know
it." He paused, overwhelmed by a sudden realization that he was talking
much.

"Tell me more," she said very quietly. "I wish to hear the rest."

"Well, at the last my mother was in bed a long time, and my father
worked hard to get things for her, things she must have. But one night
she died--it was a cold night in winter. He and I were alone with her.
I'll not soon forget that. I sat up on the cot where I slept and saw my
father sitting on the bed looking down at my mother. They were both
still, and he wouldn't answer or turn his head when I spoke. Then I
cried, for it was cold in the little cabin and my father's stillness
scared me. But I don't think he heard me crying. He kept looking down at
my mother's face, even when I called to him as loud as I could. Then I
was afraid to see him that way any longer, so I pulled the blankets over
my head and I must have cried myself to sleep.

"He was sitting the same way when I woke in the morning, still looking
at my mother's face. Even when the people came to take her away he kept
silent--and while they put her in the ground in a great, snowy field
with little short waves all over it. And when we were back in the cabin
not a word could I get from him, nor a look. He just sat on the bed
again, looking at her pillow.

"In the evening some one brought a letter. I lighted a candle and took
this letter to him, crowding it into his hand. I wanted him to notice
me. I saw him study the envelope, then tear it open and look at a little
slip of green paper that fell out. It was money, you understand, for
pictures he had sent to New York. I knew this at once. I'd heard them
talk of its coming and of wonderful things they'd do with it when it
did come. I was glad in an instant, for I thought that now we could get
my mother back out of the ground. I was sure we could when he held the
green slip close to the candle and began to laugh. It wasn't the way he
usually laughed, it was louder and longer, but it was the first sound
I'd heard from him, and it made me happy. I began to laugh myself as
loud as I could, and danced before him, and his laugh went still higher
at that. I ran for my jacket and mittens and cap. I wanted him to stop
laughing and hurry along. I pulled his arm and he stopped laughing and
looked down at me. I shouted 'Hurry--let's hurry and bring her back--let
me carry the money!' He caught my shoulder and looked so astonished,
then he burst into that loud laugh again, after he'd made me say it
over. I ran for his overcoat, too, but when I came with it I saw he
wasn't laughing at all. He was crying, and it was so much like his laugh
that I hadn't noticed the change."

He had kept his eyes on the portrait while he spoke. He stopped abruptly
now, turning to the listening woman, searching her face with new signs
of confusion.

"I--I didn't know I was telling you all that."

She did not answer at once.

"And you came here after that?" she said at last.

"Yes; my father found this place. He wanted to be alone. I think he
began to die when my mother went. He couldn't live without her. He
taught me what he could, about books and pictures, but I couldn't have
been much to him. I think it hurt him that I looked like her--he said I
looked like her. He worked on that portrait to the very last, even on
the morning of the day he died."

"What was your father's name?"

"Gilbert Denham Ewing. I was named for him."

"And your mother's name before marriage was----"

"I'm ashamed that I never knew. It must have been spoken often, but I
was so young; it never stayed in my mind. And a little while before he
died my father burned all his letters and papers. I've wondered about
their life long ago before I came, but I think my father meant me not to
know. He had some reason."

"I am glad you have told me all you did know," she said.

"But you have made _me_ glad," he assured her, returning to his livelier
manner.

"Your mother's first name"--she asked--"what did your father call her?"

"Oh, that--Katharine. He called her Kitty."

"Kitty!" She repeated it after him, softly, as if she spoke it in
compassion to the portrait.

"But see," he continued, "it's late. Stay and eat with us and I'll take
you back by moonlight. I've ordered a fine, big, silver moon to be set
up in the sky at seven, and Ben is already getting supper."

He pulled aside the blanket portiére, and through the doorway she could
see the saturnine one--a man fashioned for tragedies, for deeds of
desperate hazard--incongruously busied with a pan of soda biscuits and a
hissing broiler.

When they rode back to Bar-7 the hills were struck to silver by the
moon. They were companionably silent for most of the ride, though the
youth from time to time, when the trail narrowed to put him in the rear,
crooned stray bits of a song with which Ben Crider had favored them
while he prepared the evening meal. The lines Mrs Laithe remembered
were:

    "Take back your gold, for gold it cannot buy me;
     Make me your wife, 'tis all I ask of you."

When they parted she said, "You must think about leaving here. It's time
you rode out into the world. I think my brother will be back from his
cattle-driving trip to-morrow, and I mean to bring him to see your
pictures very soon. Perhaps he will suggest something for you."

"This moonlight does such wonderful things to your face," he remarked.

"Good night! I'm sorry you have so far to go."

"It isn't far enough," he answered, still searching her face. "Not half
far enough--I have so much thinking--so much thinking to do."




CHAPTER V

INTO THE PAST AND OUT


It was not without concern that Mrs. Laithe awaited the return of her
brother the following day. The cattle drive that had beguiled him from
habits of extreme and enforced precision had occupied a fortnight, and
she understood the life to be sorely trying to any but the rugged.
Earnestly had she sought to dissuade him from the adventure, for
insomnia had long beset him, and dyspepsia marked him for its plaything.
Eloquently exposed to him had been the folly of hoping for sleep on
stony ground after vainly wooing it in the softest of beds with an air
pillow inflated to the nice degree of resiliency. And the unsuitability
of camp fare to a man who had long been sustained by an invalid's diet
had been shrewdly set forth. None the less he had persisted, caught in
the frenzy of desperation that sometimes overwhelms even the practiced
dyspeptic.

"It can't be worse, Sis," he had tragically assured her at parting. "If
I've got to writhe out my days, why, I shall writhe like a gentleman,
that's all. I can at least chuck those baby foods and perish with some
dignity."

"But you're not leaving your medicines, those drops and things?" she had
asked, in real alarm.

"Every infernal drop. I've struck all along the line--not another morsel
of disinfected zwieback nor sanitary breakfast food nor hygienic prunes
nor glutenized near-food--not even one pepsin tablet. It's come to where
I'd sooner have no stomach at all than be bullied night and day by one."

With which splendid defiance he had ridden desperately off, a steely
flash in his tired gray eyes and a bit of fevered color glowing in his
sallow cheeks.

When Mrs. Pierce loudly announced the return of the men early in the
afternoon, therefore, the invalid's sister was ready to be harrowed.
There would be bitter agonies to relate--chiefly stomachic. She had
heroically resolved, moreover, not immediately to flaw the surface of
her sympathy with any gusty "I told you so!" That was a privilege sacred
unto her, and not to be foregone; but she would defer its satisfaction
until the pangs of confession had been suffered; until the rash one
should achieve a mood receptive to counsel.

At the call of Mrs. Pierce she ran down the flower-bordered walk to join
that lady at the gate, and there they watched the cavalcade as it jolted
down the lacets of the mesa trail--four horsemen in single file, two
laden pack animals, another horseman in the rear. The returning invalid
was equal, then, to sitting a horse. The far-focused eyes of Mrs. Pierce
were the first to identify him. As the line advanced through the willow
growth that fringed the creek she said, pointing, "There's Mr.
Bartell--he's in the lead."

"But Clarence doesn't smoke; the doctors won't let him," his sister
interposed, for she could distinguish a pipe in the mouth of the
foremost horseman. "And, anyway, it couldn't be Clarence; it's too--" On
the point of saying "too disreputable," she reflected that the person
in front looked quite like the run of Mrs. Pierce's nearest friends and
might, indeed, be of her own household.

"It's sure your brother, though," insisted Mrs. Pierce, as the riders
broke into a lope over the level, "and he _don't_ look quite as--" Mrs.
Pierce forbore tactfully in her turn. She had meant to say "dandified."

"And I tell you, Mis' Laithe, he does look husky, too. Not no ways so
squammish as when he started. My suz! Here we've et dinner and they'll
be hungry as bears. I must run in and set back something."

The other men turned with the packhorses off toward the corrals, but
Bartell came on at a stiff gallop to where his sister waited. When he
had pulled his horse up before her with perilous but showy abruptness,
he raised himself in the saddle, swung his hat, and poured into the
still air of the valley a long, high yell of such volume that his sister
stepped hastily within the gate again. She had heard the like of that
yell as they passed through Pagosa Springs, rendered by a cowboy in the
acute stage of alcoholic dementia.

"Why, Clarence, _dear_!" she gasped, fearing the worst. But he hurriedly
dismounted and came, steadily enough, to kiss her. She submitted
doubtfully to this, and immediately held him off for inspection. He was
frankly disreputable. The flannel shirt and corduroy trousers were torn,
bedraggled, gray with the dust of the trail; his boots were past
redemption, his hat a reproach; his face a bronzed and hairy caricature;
and he reeked of the most malignant tobacco Mrs. Laithe had ever
encountered. Only the gold-rimmed spectacles, the nearsighted, peering
gray eyes, and a narrow zone of white forehead under his hat brim served
to recall the somewhat fastidious, sedate, and rather oldish-looking
young man who had parted from her.

He smiled at her with a complacency that made it almost a smirk. Then he
boisterously kissed her again before she could evade him, and uttered
once more that yell of lawless abandon.

"Clarence!" she expostulated, but he waved her to silence with an
imperious hand.

"Quickest way to tell the story, Nell--that's my pæan of victory. Sleep?
Slept like a night watchman. Eat? I debauched myself with the rowdiest
sort of food every chance I got--fried bacon, boiled beans,
baking-powder biscuit, black coffee that would bite your finger
off--couldn't get enough; smoked when I wasn't eating or sleeping; drank
raw whisky, too--whisky that would etch copper. Work? I worked harder
than a Coney Island piano player, fell over asleep at night and got up
asleep in the morning--when they kicked me the third time. And I
galloped up and down cliffs after runaway steers where I wouldn't have
crawled on my hands and knees two weeks before. And now that whole bunch
of boys treat me like one of themselves. I found out they called me
'Willie Four-eyes' when I first came here. Now they call me 'Doc,' as
friendly as you can imagine, and Buck Devlin told me last night I could
ride a streak of lightning with the back cinch busted, if I tried."

He broke off to light the evil pipe ostentatiously, while she watched
him, open eyed, not yet equal to speech.

"Now run in like a good girl and see if Ma Pierce has plenty of
fragments from the noonday feast. Anything at all--I could eat a deer
hide with the hair on."

Wavering incredulously, she left to do his bidding. As he led his horse
around to the corral he roared a snatch from Buck Devlin's favorite
ballad, with an excellent imitation of the cowboy manner:

    "Oh, bur-ree me _not_ on the lone prai-_ree-e_--"

After he had eaten he slouched into a hammock on the veranda with
extravagant groans of repletion, and again lighted his pipe. His sister
promptly removed her chair beyond the line of its baleful emanations.

"Well, Sis," he began, "that trip sure did for me good and plenty. Me
for the high country uninterrupted hereafter!"

She regarded him with an amused smile.

"I'm so glad, dear, about the health. It's a miracle, but don't overdo
it, don't attempt everything at once. And the trip 'sure' seems to have
'done' you in another way--how is it--'good and plenty'? You walk like a
cowboy and talk and sing and act generally like one----"

"Do I, really, though?" A sort of half-shamed pleasure glowed in his
eyes. "Well, you know they're good, companionable fellows, and a man
takes on their ways of speech unconsciously. But I didn't think it would
be noticed in me so soon. Do I seem like the real thing, honestly, now?"

She reassured him, laughing frankly.

"Well, you needn't laugh. It's all fixed--I'm going to be one."

"But, Clarence, not for long, surely!"

"It's all settled, I tell you. I've bought a ranch, old Swede Peterson's
place over on Pine River; corking spot, three half sections under fence
and ditch, right at the mouth of a box cañon where nobody can get in
above me, plenty of water, plenty of free range close at hand."

"Clarence Bartell, you're--what do you call it?--stringing."

"Not a bit of it. Wait till I come on in about two years, after selling
a train load of fat steers at Omaha or Kansas City--sashaying down
Fifth Avenue and rounding into Ninth Street with my big hat and
long-shanked spurs and a couple of forty-fours booming into the air.
_You'll_ see, and won't dad say it's deuced unpleasant!"

"But I'll not believe until I see."

He spoke ruminantly between pulls at the pipe.

"Lots of things to do now, though. Got to go down to Pagosa this week to
pay over the money, get the deed, and register my brand. How does
'Bar-B' strike you? Rather neat, yes? It'll make a tasty little monogram
on the three hundred critters I start with. I'm on track of a herd of
shorthorns already."

"And a little while ago you were off to the Philippines, and before that
to Porto Rico, and last summer you were going on one of those
expeditions that come back and tell why they didn't reach the North
Pole, and you came out here to be a miner and you've----"

There was an impatient, silencing wave of the pipe.

"Oh, let all that go, can't you?--let the dead past bury its dead. I'm
fixed for life. You and dad won't laugh at me any more. Come on out now
and see me throw a rope, if you don't believe me. I've been practicing
every day. And say, you didn't happen to notice the diamond hitch on
that forward pack horse, did you? Well, I'm the boy that did most of
that."

She followed him dutifully to the corrals and for half an hour watched
him hurl thirty feet of rope at the horned skull of a steer nailed to
the top of a post. When the noose settled over this mark his boyish
delight was supreme. When it flew wide, which was oftener, his look was
one of invincible determination.

As his sister left him he was explaining to Red Phinney, who had
sauntered up to be a help in the practice, that the range of Bar-B had a
lucky lie--no "greaser" could come along and "sleep" him.

She went back to her chair and book, shaping certain questions she would
put to this brother. But it was not until after the evening meal that
she could again talk with him, for the ardent novice found occupation
about the stable and corrals the rest of the afternoon, and even sat for
a time with the men in the evening, listening avidly to their small talk
of the range, watchful to share in it. When he dared ask a question
knowingly, or venture a swift comment couched in the vernacular, he
thrilled with a joy not less poignant because it must be dissembled.

But conscience pricked him at length to leave those fascinating
adventurers in the bunkhouse and to condescend for an interval to mere
brotherhood. He found his sister alone in the "front" room, ensconced on
the bearskin rug before a snapping and fragrant fire of cedar wood.

He drew up the wooden rocker and remarked that the fire smelled like a
thousand burning leadpencils. He would have gone on to talk of his great
experience, but the woman wisely forestalled him.

"Clarence," she began directly, "I've been thinking over that old affair
of Randall Teevan and his wife, Kitty Lowndes, you know. Do you happen
to recall the name of the man--the man Kitty went away with?"

"Lord, no! That was before I'd learned to remember anything. If you want
to rake that affair up, ask Randy Teevan himself. I'll wager he hasn't
forgotten the chap's name. But why desecrate the grave of so antique a
scandal? Ask me about something later. I remember he had a cook once,
when I was six----"

"Because--because I was thinking, just thinking. Are you certain you
remember nothing about it, not even the man's name, nor what sort of man
he was, nor what he did, nor anything?"

"I only know what you must know. Randall Teevan's wife decided that the
Bishop had made two into the wrong one. I doubt if I ever heard the
chap's name. I seem to remember that they took Alden with them--he was a
baby of four or five, I believe, and that Randy scurried about and got
him back after no end of fuss. I've heard dad speak of that."

"Did Kitty and that man ever marry?"

"No; you can be sure Teevan saw to that. He took precious good care not
to divorce her. They manage those things more politely nowadays;
everything formal, six months' lease of a furnished house in Sioux
Falls, with the chap living at a hotel and dropping in for tea every day
at five; and felicitations from the late husband when the decree is
granted in the morning and the new knot tied in the afternoon--another
slipknot like the first, so that the merest twitch at a loose end
will----"

"Please don't! And did you never know anything more about them, where
they lived or how they ended?"

"Never a thing, Sis. It's all so old, everybody's forgotten it, except
Teevan. Of course he'd not forget the only woman who ever really put a
lance through his shirt-of-mail vanity."

"You forget Kitty's mother. She remembers."

"That's so, by Jove. Teevan got what was coming to him, he got his
'cone-uppance' as the boys say; but old Kitty--yes, it was rough on her.
But she's always put a great face on it. No one would know if they
_didn't_ know."

"She's proud. Even though she's been another mother to me she rarely
lets me see anything, and she's tried so hard to find comfort in Kitty's
boy, in Alden. She's failed in that, though, for some reason."

Her brother glanced sharply at her. "I'll tell you why she's failed,
Nell. Alden Teevan wasn't designed to be a comfort to anyone, not even
to himself. There was too much Teevan in him at the start, and too much
Teevan went into his raising."

"They're back in town, you know."

"Yes; Teevan must have realized that old Kitty is getting on in years,
and has a bit of money for Alden. Say, Sis, I hate to seem prying, but
you don't--you're not thinking about Alden Teevan seriously, are you?
Come, let's be confidential for twenty seconds."

She mused a moment, then faced him frankly.

"There's something I like in Alden, and something I don't. I know what I
like and I don't know what I don't like--I only feel it. There!"

He reached over to take one of her hands.

"Well, Sis, you trust to the feeling. You couldn't be happy there. And
you deserve something fine, poor child! You deserve to be happy again."
His inner eye looked back six years to see the body of poor Dick Laithe
carried into the Adirondack camp by two silent guides who had found him
where a stray bullet left him.

She turned a tired, smiling face into the light.

"I _was_ happy, so happy; yet I wonder if you can understand how vague
it seems now. It was so brief and ended so terribly. I think the shock
of it made me another woman. Dick and I seem like a boy and girl I once
knew who laughed and played childish games and never became real. I find
myself sympathizing with them sometimes, as I would with two dear young
things in a story that ended sadly."

He awkwardly stroked and patted the hand he still held.

"Come and live with me, Nell. There's only a one-room cabin at that
place now, with a carpet of hay on the dirt floor. But I'll have a
mansion there next summer that will put the eye out of this shack at
Bar-7. I believe in getting back to Nature, but I don't want to land
clear the other side of her. You'd be comfy with me. And it's a great
life; not a line of dyspepsia in it. And think of _feeling_ yourself
sliding off to sleep the moment you touch the pillow, as plainly as you
feel yourself going down in an elevator. That reminds me, I'm going to
bed down with the boys in the bunkhouse to-night. I'm afraid to trust
myself in that bed upstairs again--I've lain awake there so many
nights."

For a time she lost the thread of his rambling talk, busied with her own
thoughts. She was faintly aware that for luncheon he had been eating a
biscuit, a thick, soggy, dangerous biscuit, caught up in the hurry of
the morning's packing, wrenched in half and sopped in bacon grease.
There was a word about shooting. He was learning to "hold down" the
Colt's 44, and had almost hit a coyote. Later, words reached her of a
cold night on the divide, when ice formed in the pail by the cooking
fire. What at last brought her back was a yawn and his remark that he
must "hole up" for the night.

"Clarence," she began, looking far into a little white-hot chamber
between two half-burned logs, "listen, please, and advise me. If you
were going to do something that might, just possibly, and not by any
means certainly, rake up rather an ugly mess, in a sort of remote
way--that might make some people uncomfortable, you understand--I mean
if you saw something that ought to be done, because the person deserved
it, and it was by no means that person's fault, not in the least, and
the person didn't even know about it nor suspect anything, would you
stop because it might be painful to some one else--just possibly it
might--or to a number of people, or even to the person himself, after he
knew it? Or would you go ahead and trust to luck, especially when
there's a chance that it mightn't ever come out?--though I'm quite sure
it's true, you see, and that's what makes it so hard to know what to
do."

She looked up at him with bright expectancy. Clutching his head with
both hands, he stared at her, alarm leaping in his eyes.

"Would you mind repeating that slowly?" he began, in hushed, stricken
tones. "No, no--I shouldn't ask that. One moment, please--now it all
comes back to me. I see in fancy the dear old home, and hear faithful
Rover barking his glad welcome. Ah, now I have the answer; I knew it
would come. It's because one is a toiler of the sea and the other is a
soiler of the tea--then the ball is snapped back for a run around the
end and the man on third must return to his base."

"I might have known you couldn't understand," she said regretfully; "but
I can't possibly be more explicit. I thought if I stated the case
clearly in the abstract--but I dare say it's a waste of time to ask
advice in such matters."

"You've wasted yours, my child, if that's the last chance I get. Do you
really want help about something?"

"No, dear, it wasn't anything. Never mind."

"All right, if you say so. And now, me for the blankets!"

When he had gone she stepped out into the night under the close, big
stars. She breathed deeply of the thin, sharp air and looked over at the
luminous pearl of a moon that seemed to hang above the cabin where
Ewing's kid would doubtless be dreaming. Her lips fell into a little
smile, half cynical, half tender.

"I'll do it anyway!" The inflection was defiant, but the words were
scarcely more than a whisper. She said them again, giving them tone.




CHAPTER VI

THE LADY AND THE PLAN


They were chatting the next morning over the late breakfast of Mrs.
Laithe. Her brother, summoned from the branding pen, where tender and
terrified calves were being marked for life, had come reluctantly, ill
disposed to forego the vivacity of that scene. He had rushed in with the
look of a man harassed by large affairs. His evil beard was still
unshorn, his dress as untidy as care could make it. He drew a chair up
to the oilcloth covered table and surveyed the meager fare of his sister
with high disapproval.

"What you need is food, Nell," he began abruptly. "Look at me. This
morning I ate two pounds of oatmeal, three wide slices of ham, five
chunks of hot bread, about two thousand beans, and drank all the coffee
I could get--and never foundered. How's that, against one silly glass of
malted milk two weeks ago? And I slept till seven. I woke up for just
eight seconds at four-thirty to hear the boys turning out. Oh, it was
gray and cold in that bunkhouse--with me warm in the blankets. That was
the one moment of real luxury I've ever known--not to turn out if I
didn't choose. And I did _not_ choose--if anyone should ride up hastily
and inquire of you. When we were on the drive I had to turn out with the
rest of the bunch and catch horses and unbuckle frosty hobbles with
stiff fingers, and fetch pails of ice water and freeze and do other
things, but this morning I just grinned myself asleep again. That was
worth living for, my girl."

But his sister was for once unresponsive. She had not seemed to hear
him.

"Clarence," she began, as if reciting lines she had learned, "there's a
chap over on the next ranch--Ewing's his name--that ought to have
something done for him. He's young, twenty-four, I believe, and boyish
even for that age, but he draws; draws well. His father was a painter
who died here years ago, and the boy has lived in these mountains ever
since. His father taught him to draw, but he has had no chance to study,
and he's reached a point where he must learn more or lose all he has.
I'm almost certain he can make something of himself. He ought to go to
New York, where he can study and see pictures and find out things. Now,
please advise me about it."

"How's his health--his stomach?"

"I believe we've never spoken of it. That's hardly the point."

"Well, I call it a big point. Suppose he went off to New York and got
plumb ruined, the way I did--no eats, no sleeps. If you want my advice,
he ought to stay right here where everybody's healthy. He shouldn't be
foolish."

"Clarence!" Her eyes shone with impatience. "It isn't whether he's to go
or not. He's _going_, and he's to have money to keep him there till he
makes himself known. It's on that point I need advice."

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't savvy at first. You're to tell me what
to advise and I'm to advise it? Well, tell me what to say."

"Don't be stupid, dear--just for a moment, please. You're bound to
agree with me when you see his work. And you might offer to lend him the
money--my money, though he's not to know that. Or perhaps you ought to
buy his pictures. I'm sure you'll want some of those things he has. Of
course that's the better way. It will let him feel independent. There,
it's fixed. It was simple, after all." She flashed him a look of
gratitude. "You're a help after all, dear, when you choose to be."

"But--one moment, my babe! Perhaps after listening to my advice so
meekly you'll let the poor chap say a word for himself. Perhaps he'd
rather stay right here in God's own country if he eats and sleeps well
now."

"Please, please, let's not be so--so foody! Of course he wants to go!"

"But what in Heaven's name would you ever have done without my help,
poor mindless child that you are?"

But she was oblivious to this subtlety.

"Yes, dear, you're always a comfort. We'll ride over this afternoon and
tell him he's to go. It will be a fine thing to do--he's so promising."

"Look here, Nell"--he glanced at her shrewdly--"is this to be his picnic
or yours?"

She burned with a little inner rage to feel her cheeks redden, but the
black fringe of her eyes did not fall before him.

"We'll ride over after luncheon," she repeated, "and I do wish,
Clarence, that you'd shave and wear a collar or a stock, and throw that
unspeakable coat away, and have your boots cleaned, and send for some
cigars."

He looked complacently down over the objectionable attire, pulled
sputteringly at the condemned pipe, then grinned at her.

"Say, Sis, if it's going to be _that_ much fun for you, I'll rope and
throw him, and send him on tied if he acts rough."

Late that evening the two inmates of the lake cabin sat before the big
fireplace in the studio to talk of a wondrous thing. They had survived
the most exciting half day in the life of either, and the atmosphere of
the room was still electrical with echoes of the big event. Through
their supper Ewing, unable to eat, had sat staring afar, helpless in the
rush of the current, inert as a bowlder in the bed of a mountain stream.
He, so long at rest, was to be swept down from the peace of his hill
nook to the ocean, to life itself. It was a thing to leave one aghast
with a consternation that was somehow joyous. Since supper he had stared
into the fire in dumb surrender to the flood, with intervals of dazed
floor-pacing, in which he tried to foresee his course.

Ben Crider, submerged by the waters of the same cloudburst, was giving
stouter battle to the current. His face drawn to more than its wonted
dejection, he strove to play the beacon. Between snatches of worldly
counsel he read with solemn inflection certain gems of guidance from
authors in whose wisdom he had long felt a faith entire. His ready mind
harked forward to direful emergencies, and he submitted devices for
meeting these.

"Remember what that says, Kid," he urged impressively, and he read once
more a saving passage from his well-thumbed "Guide to Polite Behavior."
"'If you cannot sing a song or tell a mirth-provoking story at an
evening ball or party you may well perform a few tricks in legerdemain.
The following are among the simplest and, when deftly performed never
fail to provoke loud applause and win you the undying gratitude of your
hostess.' Are you a-hearin' me? Well, I've turned down the pages at that
one with the coin and the hat, and the one where you must tell the right
card by a simple act of mind-readin'. And don't forget what he says
here, 'the hand is quicker'n the eye.'"

"Yes, Ben; I'm listening."

"Well, listen to this here other book. It's more serious."

He took up his treasured "Traps and Pitfalls of a Great City," and again
became a voice in the wilderness, waving a forefinger to punctuate and
warn.

"'It is the habit of these gentry to lie in wait for their intended
victims when they alight at the principal railway stations, and where,
by their plausible and insinuating advances, they ingratiate themselves
into the _confidence_ of those whom it is their purpose to fleece; hence
the name, "confidence men." Only by constant watchfulness and a thorough
knowledge of their methods may the stranger in the great city hope to
escape their wiles, since their ways of approach are manifold.' You hear
that, Kid--their ways is manifold. Here's a pitcher of one of 'em
tacklin' a countryman. See what an oily-lookin' feller he is, stovepipe
hat, fancy vest, big watchchain, long coat, striped pants. You'd say he
was a bank president. Oh, I bet they're slick ones. They'd have to be to
tog out like that every day in the week. Now remember, if one o' them
ducks comes up to you and starts to butter you up with fine words and
wants to carry your satchel, you just let out a yell for the police and
hand him over. That's the way to settle 'em!"

"I'll surely remember, Ben."

"And there's thugs and footpads. Always keep your coat buttoned over
your watch, it says, and if you're goin' along Broadway or Fifth Avenue
after dark, get out and walk in the middle o' the street, so's they
can't spring around a corner and slug you. And don't talk to strangers,
and don't look into store windows ner up at the high buildin's, else
they'll spot you fer a greeny and give you the laugh."

"I can't believe it yet, Ben." He rose to walk the floor again, his
hands sunk deep in his pockets, his head bent low.

"And don't git into no card game on the train with a couple o' smooth
strangers that ain't ever met each other before and want to pass away
the time pleasantly. And don't bet you can open the patent lock after
you think you found the secret spring. And don't buy any o' that money
you can't tell from real, that was printed from stolen Gov'ment plates."

"Think of his giving a hundred dollars for that drawing of 'Lon Pierce
on the pinto, throwing a steer, and all that money for the others."

"Serves him right!" Ben hissed this vindictively, having first
reluctantly laid aside "Traps and Pitfalls." "Serves him dead right!
That feller puts on a wise look that's about sixty-five years beyond his
real age, as I'd cal'late it. I tell you, son, it sure takes all kinds
o' fools to make a world."

"But he said they were worth the money," Ewing pleaded. "He said I would
do even better, some day."

"Sure--_sure_ he said it! An' didn't he ask me if I had dyspepsia, an'
did I sleep at night, an' I'd better remember to live an outdoor life of
activity if I ever got that a-way. An' he thinks he's learned how to
grain a deer hide after watching me do it three minutes, an' he's goin'
to pick up a live skunk next chanct he gits, because I told him jest how
to grab it. Oh, he _said_ things all right! He said a variety o'
things!" He glared at Ewing as he rounded out this catalogue of follies.

"I'm torn in two, Ben. I shan't be glad to leave here, and yet I'll be
glad to go. I've dreamed it so long. It seems as if I'd dreamed it so
hard I'd made it come true."

"Always pin your money to the inside of your vest, like I told you,"
came the voice of warning.

"I will, I will. But things _do_ happen, don't they? This is like a
fairy tale."

"Fairy tale!" The wise one uttered this with violent scorn. "Likely you
was the sleepin' beauty, an' this here princess comes along with an
alarm clock!"

"Not a princess, Ben." He laughed boyishly. "She's a sure-enough queen."

"Jest remember they's knaves in the deck. That's all _I_ ask."

"You like her don't you?"

Ben made an effort to be fair.

"Well, I do an' then I don't. She's saddle stock, fur looks, that lady
is, but she ain't serious. No, sir! When her eyes is on me I know as
well's I want to she's snickerin' inside; makes no difference if her
face does look like it was starched. You'll find, when all's said an'
done, that she's plumb levitous, an' levitous folks is triflin'."

"Have you seen how sorrowful she looks sometimes, a sort of glad-sorry,
as if she felt sorry for herself and glad for other people? She makes
me feel old when she looks that way--as if I must protect her."

"Yes, an' other times she's stiffer'n Lot's wife!"

"Other times she seems older than all the world, a woman who has always
lived and always will."

"Well, son, when you git put afoot there, you write on an' I'll manage
to scare up a git-away stake fur you."

"It's wonderful to think of going out into the world that _they_ knew,
Ben--my father and mother. It seems as if they must be out there now,
and that I'm going to meet them very quietly and naturally some day. I
think it wouldn't astonish me."

"Look a-here, Kid! That'll be about enough o' _that_! You go to bed."

The other smiled a little wanly.

"I can't. I'm afraid to. I'm going to sit here awhile and think, and
when the moon gets up I'm going outside to think. The hills haven't
heard the news yet, and the trail over to the lake doesn't know about
it. I've got to spread it before I sleep. You see, when I do sleep, I'm
afraid I'll wake up and find it was stuff I dreamed."

"Shucks, Kid, what's the use o' talking like that? It ain't no dream.
It's true as God made little apples." There was, at the moment, a
noticeable relaxation from the speaker's habitual austerity. An awkward
smile of affection melted the hardness of his face as he held out a hand
to Ewing. "An' I'm doggoned if I'd be so _all-fired_ amazed if
everything come out fur the best. Yes, sir, blame me, Kid, if I don't
almost half b'lieve you'll make good!"

"You can bet I'll try, Ben!"

"That's right; you do your damndest--'angels can do no more,' as the
feller said."

As he lighted a candle his face was grim once more--savagely grim, even
as he sang, in going to his rest:

    "Oh, 'twas on a summer's eve when I first _metter_,
       Swingin' on the garden ga-a-ate!"




CHAPTER VII

TWO SLEEPERS AWAKEN


It now befell that the imminent adventure of Ewing should bring him a
double rapture. The day after Mrs. Laithe secretly played special
Providence to that unsuspicious youth her brother found profit of his
own in the plan.

"I've a world of things to do here, Nell," he said. "I ought to stay
here this winter. I'd be that much forwarder with my work next spring."

"I shall be quite safe alone," she answered.

"Why go alone? If you insist on robbing the cradle, why not take the
innocent with you? Of course you'll have to see that he doesn't walk off
the train, or lose his hat out of the window, or eat too much candy, or
rough-house the other children on the way, but he'll serve every purpose
of a man and brother."

"To be sure!" she broke in with enthusiasm. "I worried last night about
his going. We'll put it that I'm in his charge, and he will really be in
mine."

"That's it. He'll feel important, and you'll be the tidy nurse. And with
both of you off my mind I can start those chaps to getting out logs for
the Bar-B mansion. I'll camp over there till a good tracking snow comes,
then I'll have an elk hunt--I want a good head for the dining room--then
I'll hole up here at Pierce's for the winter and learn how to handle my
stock. So that's settled."

Mrs. Laithe rode over to apprise Ewing of this plan. The little clearing
slept vacant in the sunlight. She left Cooney "tied to the ground" by
throwing the bridle rein over his head, and knocked on the open door of
the cabin with the handle of her quirt. There was no response save
echoes from the empty living room. Crossing this she drew aside the
blanket that curtained the door of the studio. The big room lay before
her in strange disorder. Pictures and hangings were gone from the wall.
Two yawning trunks stood by the door; canvases and portfolios lay about;
loose drawings and clothing littered the chairs and floor. Beyond this
disarray stood the easel, still holding the mother's portrait. In the
light from the window the eyes looked livingly into her own through the
silence. She was struck by some new glint of meaning in them, something
she read as an appeal, almost a prayer. Her own eyes fell and then she
first noticed the room's living occupant.

On the couch, in the shadow of the half-drawn curtain, Ewing lay asleep.
He had sprawled there easily, half turned on his side, one arm flung
about his head, the other hanging over to the floor. Now that she saw
him she heard his measured breathing. Some new, quick-born
interest--curiosity, sympathy, she knew not what--impelled her to scan
the sleeping face more closely. She stepped lightly across to the couch
and looked down at him, with a little air of carelessness against his
sudden awakening. It was the first time she had studied his face in
repose. Lacking the ready, boyish smile, it was an older face, revealing
lines of maturity she had not suspected in the arch of brow above the
deep-set eyes, in the lean jaws and sharply square chin, and in the
muscled neck, revealed by the thrown-back head. It was a new face, for
the unguarded faces of the sleeping, like the faces of the dead tell
many secrets. Ewing's face was all at once full of new suggestion, of
new depths, of unsuspected complexities. As she gazed, scarce breathing,
she was alive to a new consciousness of him. He had been a boy, winning
from her at once by his fresh, elemental humanness a regard that came
partly from the mother lying alert in her, and partly from the joyous,
willing and even wistful comrade which this woman was fitted to be. Now,
bending over the unmasked face, she divined with swift alarm that her
old careless attitude toward the sleeper might never be recovered. What
her new attitude must be she could not yet know, but she was conscious
of being swept by a great wave of tenderness for him; swept, too, by
fear of him; and the impact of these waves left her trembling before
him. Some flash of portent, some premonition born of instinct, warned
her with a clearness that was blinding. Tenderness and fear rolled in
upon her, though her reason weighed them as equal absurdities. Then her
look rose to the mother's portrait and she saw that the eyes had
followed her: they seemed now to challenge, almost fiercely. Only the
briefest of moments could she endure their gaze, a gaze that in some way
drew life to itself from the breathing of the sleeper. Instinctively she
brushed her hand before her own eyes, drew herself up with a little
flinching shudder and moved slowly backward to the door.

Then she was happily out in the sunlight, breathing deep of the
pine-spiced air, gratefully eying the familiar boundaries of the
clearing, the stumps, the huge pile of cut wood, and the fenced-in
vegetable garden. Over the line of green to the north a gray, bare
mountain shot above the lesser hills, rising splendidly from its
timbered base to a peak hooded in snow. It swam in her vision at first,
but presently something of its grounded sureness, something of the peace
that slept along its upper reaches, fell upon her own soul and her
serenity was restored.

Not pausing to review those amazing moments of inner tumult, she stepped
again to the door and with her old, careless, mildly amused laugh she
beat upon it, loudly this time. She heard an inarticulate call from the
studio, and again she assaulted the panel. Then the curtain was drawn
aside and Ewing stared at her from the doorway.

"I believe you were sleeping," she started to say, but he came quickly
to her with something between a laugh and a shout.

"Then it's true, it _is_ true--you're real! I just dreamed that you
became Ben Crider and made me walk in the middle of the street." He
fairly rushed her into the studio and waved excitedly to the open
trunks.

"There! I began to pack last night so I could see it when I woke up and
have a proof that things were true. I didn't sleep at all till about
eight this morning."

She sat on the couch, feeling that she was foolish beyond measure to
avoid the eyes of the portrait. Then she smiled at him with an effort to
recover the amused ascendancy of their first meetings.

"It's all true, I assure you, and I wonder if you'd mind taking charge
of me when you go East. My brother has suggested it, and I'll promise
not to be a trouble."

His look of wondering delight was so utterly boyish, his helpless
laughter so entirely without reserve that she regained for the moment
her old easy dominance.

"Would I mind--mind going with you? That's a joke, isn't it?" He seized
both her hands in a grasp from which she caught some thrill of his
deep-breathed, electric joy.

"But of course this is nonsense," he went on; "I'm still lying there."

"Enough of dreams," she broke in warningly. "You'll find it only too,
too real. You're going to work. It's simple."

He sat down on one of the trunks, trying to subdue his excitement, his
hands clenched.

"If this feeling lasts I can do anything, _anything_, you understand,
learn everything, do everything, be everything. I have power. Ever since
you left yesterday I've felt full of steel springs, all tightly coiled.
Only I must be careful. If they went off all at once there'd be an
explosion, and I'm afraid I couldn't ever be repaired."

She grimaced with an effort at mock dismay which was not wholly
successful. She divined the literal truth under his jesting. The springs
were coiled and their steel was not too well tempered, she believed. The
thought left a shadow on her face.

"You're not doubting anything?" he asked quickly.

"Not doubting, O youth! Only a little innocent wonder."

"But isn't life an enchantment? Isn't it all miracles? Oh, I understand
poets at last. They can't tell you their secret unless you already know
it. They sing in big numbers. They say a million is true, and you say,
'Yes, that's very pretty, but it's poetry--exaggeration; he really means
that a hundred is true,' and you never know any better till the light
comes. Then you see that the poet was literal and quite prosaic all the
time. The whole million was always true, in beauty and bigness and
wonder."

"Stop!" she protested. "You're making me feel as old as the world
itself, ancient and scarred with wisdom."

"You!" he burst in, "you're as young as the world. You are foolish and I
am the wise one if you can't see that. Indeed, you're looking
beautifully foolish this minute. You are thinking all kinds of doubts
underneath a lot of things you won't tell me. You're secretive. You hide
a lot from me."

She laughed, a little uneasily.

"You are a babe for wisdom," she retorted; "but you're not to be
enlightened in a day--nor by me. I'll give you a year. You shall tell me
then which of us two is the older. Now you must be at your packing. Can
you be ready by Monday?"

"Monday? and I'd been wondering what would be the name of the day. So
it's merely Monday? How many Mondays there have been, how many, many
Mondays, that were like any other day! And now this Monday steals
up--yes, I'll be ready."

"I see you are past reason----"

"Say above it----"

"Anyway, get on with your packing. So much is true." He would have
ridden back with her, but she demurred.

"It's so far," he urged.

"It isn't half far enough," she mocked him, "I have so much thinking to
do!"

"Monday, Monday, Monday, then!" he chanted, as he went out to lift her
into the saddle. But when he had done this he suddenly bowed his head to
kiss her hand, as he had seen his father long ago kiss his mother's
hand.

"You are all the world, just now, all I know of it," he said.

She looked back to where he stood, straight and buoyant, his head thrown
back in joyous challenge.

"And you are youth--dear, dear youth!" she cried; but this he could not
hear.

A little farther on she breathed softly, "Poor dead Kitty--don't be
afraid!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE JOURNEY WONDER


During those last days Ewing brushed only the airy slopes of illusion,
strive as he would to keep his feet to earth. Many were the tricks he
used to this end: vain tricks to forget the miracle of his going, of
going so soon, of going with her.

Ben Crider would not help him forget. When snatches of warning from
"Traps and Pitfalls" grew stale, Ben coined advice of a large and
general character.

"Want to be an artist, hey? Ask me? Go down to Durango--let that
professor learn you in ten lessons. Make yer five t' eight dollars a day
canvassin' fur enlargements. Gold frame throwed in. Yes, sir! Ask me?
Durango's fur enough. New York's too gosha-mighty fur!"

It was not possible to forget under the droppings of this counsel.
Wherefore his spirit tossed in tumult.

When Ben called him on the morning of the start it was still dark. He
lay a moment, his nerves tightening. This was the last time he would lie
in that bed--for how long? Well, on some unmarked night in the pregnant
future, lying there again, he would look back to this moment and tell
himself all the wonderful things that had come to him--tell his
ignorant, puzzled, excited self, who would, somehow, be waiting and
wondering there.

Juggling this conceit, he groped for matches and a candle. He could
hear the singing of the kettle in the outer room. Through the window he
saw a lantern swinging, and knew that Ben would be bringing around the
horses. It was a time to be cool, a time to gird himself.

He had breakfast on the table when Ben came in, and they ate by the
light of a smoky lamp, tacitly pretending that no miracle was afoot.
Saving the early hour, it was a scene they enacted whenever they drove
to Pagosa for supplies, up to the point when, the meal finished, they
carried two trunks from the studio out to the wagon. But they managed
this carelessly enough, with only a casual, indignant word or two about
the excessive weight of full trunks.

Only the faintest hint of light showed in the east as the chilled horses
stumbled awkwardly down the hill. A half hour they rode in a silence
broken but once, and then only by Ben's hoarse threat to "learn" the off
horse something needful but unspecified which it appeared not to know.

The light glowed from gray to rose and day was opened by the bark of a
frantic squirrel that ran half-way down a tree trunk, threatening
attack, in alarm for its store of spruce cones at the foot of the tree.
A crested jay at the same moment mocked them harshly from a higher
branch of the tree.

Ewing exhaled with gusto a breath of the warming, pine-spiced air.

"It's sunning up, Ben." Ben grunted unamiably.

A little distance ahead of them a doe and a half-grown fawn bounded
across the road.

"She seemed to be in a hurry," Ewing again ventured.

"She wanted t' git that child away from here, 'fore some one stuffed
its head full o' fool talk about goin' off to New York. Can't tell what
notions a young deer _might_ git." With this laborious surmise he shut
his jaws together with repellent grimness.

Their road now wound down a hill and out of the woods to join the valley
road.

"Yender's Beulah Pierce!" Ben snapped this out savagely. The wagon was
half a mile ahead. Pierce was driving, and in the rear seat were two
figures whom they knew to be Mrs. Laithe and her brother. As Ben had
pointedly ignored these Ewing did not refer to them.

They came to a gate in a wire fence that stretched interminably away on
either side, over brown, low-rolling hills. Pierce had left the gate
open for them, and Ewing got out to close it after they had passed
through.

"Larabie is building a lot of fence," he said, as they drove on. "At
this rate he'll have every school section in Hinsdale County wired in
pretty soon."

On this impersonal ground Ben seemed willing to meet him.

"Me? Know what I'm going to do if Wes' Larabie cuts off any more o' this
road with his barb wire? Stick a pair o' wire clippers in the whip
socket an' drive through. _That's_ all! You'd think he owned all
America, the way he makes people sidle along that fence till he gits
good an' ready to make a gate. Me? Make my own gates. Yes, sir! Wire
clippers!"

With this he was sufficiently cheered to insult vivaciously a couple of
dull, incurious Mexicans whom they presently passed, plodding behind a
laden burro train. To his opprobrious burst of weirdly entangled
Spanish and English he added the taunting bleat of a sheep and a
merrily malign gesture eloquent of throats to be slit--the throats of
unspeakable sheep herders. He observed with deep disgust that neither of
the threatened ones gave any sign of interest in their portended fate.
They passed with scarce a lift of their heads.

"They're takin' supplies up to that sheep outfit o' Rankin's," grumbled
Ben. "Pierce an' some o' the others is talkin' about gettin' in a car
load o' saltpeter an' dopin' the range if Rankin lets his herd work down
any closeter--have it billed in as hardware or pianos, an' unload the
car at night. Serve him right fur bein' a sheep man. An' yet I knowed
Nels Rankin, five, six years ago, when there wa'n't a more respectable
cuss in the hull San Juan."

In passing the Pulcifer ranch they made talk about the hay-cutting, for
a reaper sent its locustlike click from a brown stretch of bottom land.
Pulcifer had a good stand of hay, they agreed, and probably he wouldn't
have such a big winter kill this year if he didn't act the fool and sell
off too much of it. You couldn't expect to bring cattle through fat on
cottonwood browse.

So they lamely gossiped the miles away in strained avoidance of the big
event. Only once did Ewing look back, while Ben was occupied with the
horses at a ford. The rocky wall at the verge of their lake was
intimately near, despite the miles they had come, and below it, through
a notch in the hills, he could see a spot of yellow--the new shake roof
on a shed they had built that summer near the cabin. Then his eyes were
ahead to where Pierce's wagon crawled up a hill.

Ben whipped up the horses and burst into song:

    "One evening I was strolling through the city of the dead;
     I viewed where all around me their peaceful forms were spread."

He took the thing at a quick, rollicking tempo, as one resolved to be
gay under difficulties.

When they drew up to the station platform at Pagosa, Ewing hurried to
greet Mrs. Laithe and her brother. Pierce busied himself with the
trunks, cautiously watching the man check them.

Ben Crider, after a long, fervent look at Ewing's back, caught his
breath, sniffled, strangled this, and stepped quickly into his wagon.
Pulling the horses quietly away from the platform he whipped them into a
sharp trot toward the town. Ewing ran back, shouting. Ben would not
turn, but he thrust one arm back and upward with a careless wave.

Ewing stared hard at the bent head, the eloquent back, longing for a
further sign, but none came. He was at the gateway of the world, a mist
before his eyes.

A moment later their little train rattled into a narrow cañon where its
shrill whistle, battered from wall to wall, made the place alive with
shrieking demons.

Having seen his charge to a seat in the one squalid car, Ewing went out
to brace himself on the rear platform. She who was doing this thing had
seemed a strange lady again; in her manner, as in her dress, more
formal. The dark-blue, close-fitting gown, the small toque of blue
velvet, the secretive veil, the newish gloves, instead of the old, worn
riding gauntlets, the glossy-toed black boots so different from those of
scarred tan he knew, all marked a change that heightened the pangs of
homesickness he already suffered.

With burning eyes and tightened throat he saw the floor of the cañon
rush away from him, and watched old Baldy's snow hood flashing
momentarily as the train twisted, now sinking below a quick-rushing wall
of rock, now showing over a clump of cedars. It was as if the old peak
had become sprightly at his going, and sought to bob curtsies to him.

At intervals the train came to a jangling halt. The little locomotive
would leave it and ramble inconsequently off into the big pine woods, to
return with screeches of triumph, dragging a car load of new-sawn boards
from the mill. Or it would puff away to a siding and come back
importantly with a car of excited sheep. At these halts Ewing would leap
to the ground to feel the San Juan earth under his feet.

At the junction where they were to take the through train he reflected
that nothing had really happened yet. He could turn back and be out of
the dream. The little train would return up the cañon presently. The
conductor would be indifferent to his presence. To the brakeman, whom he
knew, he could say, "Yes, I thought some of going to New York this
morning, but I changed my mind." He would be back at Pagosa by five and
find Ben at the post office or the "Happy Days" saloon. Then there would
be no more of that curious sickness--a kind of sickish wanting. Yet,
when the through train drew in, he hurried aboard.

He stood on the rear platform and watched a horseman jogging over the
sandy plain to the west, picturing his ride from the junction to some
lonely ranch on a distant river bottom. He would have the week's mail in
a bag back of the saddle, and a stock of tobacco. He would reach the
place after dark, perhaps, from sheer _ennui_, shooting at a coyote or
two along the way. He knew that rider's life, the days of it and the
nights, and all of good or ill that might ever betake him. It was well,
he thought, to dare a bigger life, though he waved a friendly greeting
to the unconscious horseman, jogging at the head of his train of dust.
He flung a tender glance at the diminished junction, now a low, dull
blur on the level horizon, and went into the car.

For the moment the Pullman had no other occupant but himself and Mrs.
Laithe, and she was sleeping, he thought; but her eyes opened as he
would have passed her seat. She had replaced the toque with a brown cap
he knew, and as she smiled up at him she seemed again almost the
familiar godmother of his fairy tale. He passed on, however, after a
meaningless word or two and, sprawling in another section, surrendered
himself to the troubled pretentiousness of the Pullman school of
decoration.

He had left the lady grateful for his going. She was in no mood for that
artless lyric chant of youth in which he was so adept. Her brother that
morning had accused her of waning enthusiasm for her protégé.

"I believe you're funking, Nell," he had said shrewdly. "You're
discovering that mountain slumming is different from the city kind."

But she had protested that no discerning person of ordinary humanity
could have done less for the prisoned youth. "Of course"--and she had
sighed--"he's a mere bundle of untried eagerness, and we're responsible,
in a way, for Heaven knows what, but we had to do it, didn't we?"

"Not 'we' had to! _You_ had to. It's all yours, Nell--the credit and the
glory and all the rest. I prefer to get up my own responsibilities, if
you don't mind."

"But you agreed with me--you _did_--you advised when I asked you--it's
perfectly plain--you said, 'Of course!'"--But the train moved off in the
midst of his laugh at this, and he had doffed his hat to her with a
mocking gesture of freehanded relinquishment.

Now, as she closed her eyes again, her memory dived for some fairy tale
or fragment of mythology in which an unsuspecting humanitarian rescued
an insignificant woods thing, only to have it change on the instant into
a creature troublesome in more ways than one. She was certain some
primitive fabulist had foreseen this complication, but her mind was
weary and shadowed, and the historic solution evaded her. "Mountain
slumming" was truly more exigent than the town sort.

But this reflection aroused a defensive sympathy. The vision of
Ewing as he had passed glowed before her shut eyes, the active,
square-shouldered, slender figure, garbed in a decently fitting
suit of gray (she was glad to remember that), the quick eyes, ardent
for life, the thinned, brown face, the usual buoyance held down to an
easy self-possession that was new to her, the wild, reliant expectancy
of a boy tempered all at once by some heritage of insight. Outwardly,
at least, he would fit his new life. So reflecting, she dozed on the
look of the man in his eyes, and dreamed that she feared this and fled.
But after mad flight through the windings of an interminable corridor
she awoke to look squarely into his eyes, to cower instinctively under
his touch on her arm. Her waking thought took the thread of the dream,
her flight had been vain: he was there, and his voice throbbed fatefully
within a secret chamber of her mind, even though his words rang little
of portent.

"We are coming to the supper station."

She hastened to freshen herself with cold water, and they were presently
eating a hasty meal at a crowded table. Then they were out side by side
to pace the platform briskly.

There was green about the station, where water had taught the desert to
relent, but beyond this oasis the sand sea stretched far and flat to
murky foothills. Above these they could see a range of sharp-peaked
mountains that still caught the sunlight, some crystal white with snow,
others muffled by clouds turned to iris-hued scarfs of filmiest gauze.

"El Dorado is beyond those hills," said the youth fervently.

"It looks accessible from here," she answered, "but----"

"You're warning me again. You're afraid I'll be discouraged by the
hills."

"Not discouraged, but there are resting places on the way. They hold the
bulk of the pilgrims, I fear."

"I shall go on; not even you could stop me."

She caught a glint in his fierce young eyes that she thought he must be
unconscious of.

"I? Oh, I shall spur you--if you need spurring."

"I know; I'm only beginning to realize how much I owe you; I mean to
repay you, though."

There was an intimation of remoteness in his tone, as if he saw himself
removed from her, mounting solitary to his dream city, a free-necked,
well-weaponed pilgrim, sufficient unto himself. It was as if he had put
distance between them the moment he crossed the threshold of the world.
She drew a full breath. It came to her, as the upflashing of some
submerged memory, that all his frank adoration of her had been quite
impersonal. He had regarded her as a bit of line and color. It was
amazing to remember that he had made no effort to know her, save with
his eyes. She divined that she had stopped short of being human to him,
while he to her had been, more than anything else, a human creature of
freshness and surprises. Whatever difficulties might be in the way of an
easy friendliness between them, they would not be of his own making. She
was sure she felt a great relief.

Ewing awoke in the night at some jolting halt of the train, to feel an
exciting thrill of luxury as he stretched in his berth. Here was no
stumbling about in the dark to search for a lost trail; nor must he rise
in the chill dawn to worry a blaze from overnight embers, cook a
discouraging breakfast, catch horses, and lade unwilling beasts with
packs. Things would be done for him; and the trail was wide and level as
befits the approach to the world. He dozed royally off feeling that he
had bitten into the heart of his wonder at last.

The following day they sped through a land whose kind he knew, but after
another night he awoke to find their train breasting the brown waves of
a sea that rolled lazily to far horizons. No longer was there one of his
beloved mountain peaks to be a landmark: only an endless, curving
lowness, as of land that had once tried to lash itself into the fury of
mountain and crag, and then ceased all effort--to lie forever impotent
and sad.

He thought of Ben amid this disconsolate welter. Ben had beheld this
sight years ago, and had described it with aversion, as one relating a
topographical scandal. Ewing favored his companion with heartfelt
dispraise of this landscape, applauding the suggestion of a woman she
laughingly quoted that "there should be a tuck taken in the continent."
He was sure nothing would be lost by it.

The lady beguiled him over the inadequacies of Kansas by promising a
better land farther on. He gladly turned from the car window to watch
the pretty play of her mouth as she talked.

But the next day--they steamed out of St. Louis in the morning--he
scanned several hundred square miles of excellent farming land with
sheer dismay. From morning till night they ran through what, to Ewing,
was a dead, depressing flatness, a vast and clumsy jest of a
checkerboard, with cornfields for squares. The tiny groves of oak at
long intervals seemed only to satirize the monotony. The rolling plains
of the day before had been vivacious beside this flatness, and there had
been a certain mournful dignity in their solitude. But this endless
level lacked even solitude. To Ewing, indeed, the mystery of it lay in
its well-peopled towns. He wondered how men kept sane there. Mrs. Laithe
insisted that it was an important stretch of our country, that it fed
thousands and made useful objects in its tall-chimneyed factories
(things like wagons and watches and boots, she believed), and that it
ought not to be discountenanced. But he could feel nothing for it, save
an unconfessed pity that it would sleep that night in ignorance of his
glorious transit. He had never suspected there could be so many
thousands of people who took the world as a tame affair and slept
indifferent to young men with great things before them.

"If New York is like this," he said, with a flash of his old boyish
excitement, "what can I ever do without you?"

"But it isn't at all like this, and you'll do big things without me--or
with me, if I can help you."

"You will have to help me. Now that I've seen the beginning of the
world, I'm depending on you more than I thought I should when we
started."

"You will lose that."

"Will I? But it will be queer to see you as part of the world--no longer
the whole of it; to see how you stand out from the others. Perhaps the
rest of the world will be only a dingy background for you--you are all
color and life."

"You've made me feel like a lay figure," she laughed. Then, in a flash
of womanish curiosity, she ventured, "Have you ever thought me anything
but a shell of color?"

He stammered, blushing painfully.

"Oh, a real person--of course, certainly! A woman, yes--but when I think
of you as a woman, I'm scared, like those first times I saw you. I can't
help it. You may not believe it," he concluded with a burst of candor,
"but the truth is, I don't know women."

He was again embarrassed when she retorted, with her laugh:

"O youth! May you always know so much!"

"Well, to-morrow afternoon we shall be in New York," he said briskly,
when she had shut the deeps of her eyes from him. He had felt the need
to show that there were matters upon which he could speak with
understanding.




CHAPTER IX

A DINNER AT SEVEN-THIRTY


By five o'clock the next afternoon Ewing had ended his journey in an
upper room of the Stuyvesant Hotel. This hostelry flaunts an outworn
magnificence. Its hangings are dingy, its plenteous gilt is tarnished;
and it seems to live on memories of a past when fashion splendidly
thronged its corridors. But peace lies beyond the gloom of its portals,
and Ewing was glad to be housed from the dazing tumult outside. Nothing
reached him now but the muted rhythm of horses' feet on the asphalt
below, and this but recalled agreeably to him that his solitude was an
artificial thing of four walls. He had no wish to forget that the world
waited beyond his door.

He fell back on the sofa, a once lordly thing of yellow satin, now
frayed and faded, to eye the upper reaches of the room. The high,
blue-tinted ceiling was scarred and cracked. Depending from its center a
huge chandelier dangled glittering prisms of glass. An immense mirror in
a gilt frame, lavishly rococo, rested on the mantel of carved white
marble. Heavy lace curtains, shrouding the two broad windows, made a
restful half light.

He had awakened to hills that morning, wooded hills and well towned.
Then had come veritable cities, rich to him with all romance under their
angular, smoky ugliness. And at last had come the real city--the end of
the world and its center. He discovered it beyond a stretch of
white-flecked water alive with strange craft. Its clean, straight,
myriad-windowed towers glowed under a slanting sun in an air as crystal
clear as that of his own hills. A vista of heart-shaking surprises
unfolded ahead of the great boat they boarded, a boat with a heart
strongly beating in tune with his own. Too soon it nosed its way, with a
sort of clumsy finesse, into a pile-walled pocket. There followed the
keen, quick rattling of a cogged wheel and a rush of people who seemed
insufficiently impressed by the magnitude of the event. Then they
entered a cab, to be driven from a throng of other cabs and jostling
pedestrians through the maze of a dream come true. He tried not to
ignore his companion for glimpses of that strange life through the cab
window.

Very casually she had said at parting, "Thank you so much for all your
care of me--and dine with us at seven-thirty, won't you? I shall try to
have a friend here that I think may help you."

A long time he lay, reviewing that chaotic first hour in the world.
Everything throbbed here, it seemed. One lived more quickly. And how
long could the body endure it? Suddenly he felt his own pulses beating
at a rate to terrify. He caught his breath and listened. He could hear
the monstrous beats--they were actually shaking the sofa on which he
lay. He thought of heart disease. He might be dying there--and they
would wait dinner for him. He sprang up desperately. The sinister
beating ceased. He put his hand to his heart, listened tensely, and
heard again that which had alarmed him, the pulsing beat of a steam pump
somewhere far below. In his relief he laughed aloud.

As he set about opening his trunks he was marveling at clothes lines he
had seen stretched high between the rear walls of houses. How did people
ever hang clothes on lines fifty feet from the ground? Truly it was a
city of wonders.

He took out a suit of evening clothes that had been his father's. He had
found that the suit fitted him, and he and Ben had assured themselves by
reference to the pictured heroes in magazine advertisements that its cut
was nearly enough in the prevailing mode. Ewing had also found some
cards of his father's which would convey his own name to all who might
care to read it.

As he sauntered out at the dinner hour he wished that Ben could be
watching him. The Bartell house was in Ninth Street, less than a long
block from his hotel, a broad, plain-fronted, three-story house of red
brick trimmed with white marble. Caught in a little eddy from the stream
heading in Washington Square and sweeping north, it had kept an old-time
air of dignity and comfort. Ewing observed a cheering glow through the
muslin curtains at the windows as he ascended the three marble steps.
The old white door, crowned with a fanlight and retaining its brass
knocker, had suffered the indignity of an electric bell, but this was
obscurely placed at the side, and he lifted the knocker's lion head. As
no bell rang, he dropped it, and was dismayed by its metallic clamor. He
swiftly meditated flight, thinking to return for a seemlier
demonstration. But the door swung back and a person in evening dress
stood aside to bow him in.

"Ah, good evening!" exclaimed Ewing cordially. Then, embarrassed, he
felt for a card, recalling that he was in a land where, probably, one
could not be cordial to persons who opened doors.

"For Mrs. Laithe," he said, in grave tones, eying the man's bluntly cut
features with a severity meant to dispel any wrong impression. The
person received the card on a tiny silver plate, relieved him of hat and
coat with what seemed to Ewing an uncanny deftness, bowed him to the
gloom of a large apartment on the left, and vanished. An instant later
he reappeared, drew portiéres aside, revealing another warmly lighted
room, and Ewing beheld a white vision of his hostess.

"I'm glad to have a word with you," she began. "Sit here. You're to meet
a friend, Ned Piersoll, who will tell you a lot of things. I telephoned
him directly I came in, and he found he could come, though he must run
when he's eaten--some affair with his mother. But he'll have found out
about you."

"I'm much obliged to you," he stammered, having caught little of her
speech.

"Ned will tell you what to do. He knows everybody. He's on the staff of
the Knickerbocker magazine, and he had a novel out last spring, 'The
Promotion of Fools,' that you must have seen advertised everywhere, like
a medicine."

"Yes, I've read that book."

"You must tell him if you liked it--they all care to hear that--and
he'll see that you meet men of your own kind." For looking at her he had
been able to give her words little attention. She had revealed herself
anew in the dull white of a gown that brought out the elusive glow of
her face. Her eyes were deep wells, shaded but luminous, under the
lusterless dark of her hair, and her smile flashed a girlish benignity
upon him. Acutely alive was he to the line of neck and shoulder and
arm, a slender, supple neck, set on shoulders superbly but lightly
modeled, the small collarbone exquisitely muffled but not lost, and the
little hollow at the base of her throat prettily definite. And all was
white and lusterless save the warning dusk of her eyes and the flash
from her parting lips.

With such cold passion for line did his artist's eye wreak its joy upon
her that, as she talked, she found herself thinking him curiously dull
to the prospect she opened. It was the impersonal look she had come to
know; and his replies were languid, as if he thought of other matters.
It might have passed for the bored ease of a man of the world had she
not known him to be amid novel surroundings.

Feeling a slight discomfort under his look, she at length diverted his
eyes to the room in which they sat.

"It's the room I like best in all the house," she said. "That big
drawing room you came through is inhuman. It terrified me as a child,
and still refuses to make friends with me, but this library--don't you
feel that I've humanized it?"

He became aware that he had felt its easing charm of dark-toned wood and
dull-red walls. There were low book-shelves, low seats that invited, a
broad table with its array of magazines, and a lazy fire in the open
grate.

"It's a fine room to be in," he said, bringing his eyes back to her.

"There's not a chair in it," she continued, "that wasn't meant to be sat
in--most chairs nowadays are mere spectacles, you know--and no glass
doors before the books. Nothing enrages me like having to open a door
to get at books."

"It's the room you need," he replied. "You draw all the light to
yourself. It gives you color, turns your hair to black, and makes your
eyes look like----"

"Mr. Piersoll!" announced the man.

His look still engaged her as she floated forward to greet the tall,
pleasant-faced, alert young man with tumbled yellow hair who now
entered. Not until he heard his own name did he relinquish her to
acknowledge the word of introduction.

A moment later the father of Mrs. Laithe strolled in and Ewing was again
introduced, this time to a stoutish man with a placid, pink face, scanty
hair going from yellow to white--arranged over his brow with scrupulous
economy--and a closely cut mustache of the same ambiguous hue. He was a
man who gracefully confessed fifty years to all but the better informed.
Ewing felt himself under the scrutiny of a pair of very light gray eyes
as Bartell took his hand, tentatively at first, then with a grip of
entire cordiality. One may suspect that this gentleman had looked
forward with mild apprehension to a dinner meeting with the latest
protégé of his impulsive daughter. The youth's demeanor, however, so
quickly caused his barbaric past to be forgotten that, by the time they
were at table, his host had said to him, prefacing one of his best
anecdotes, "Of course you know that corner table on the Café de la Paix
terrace...."

Ewing floated dreamily on the stream of talk; laughing, chatty talk,
spiced with suggestive strange names; blithe gossip of random
happenings. He was content to feel its flow beneath him and rather
resented the efforts to involve him in it, preferring to listen and to
look. But he was courteously groped for by the others and compelled to
response as the dinner progressed.

Piersoll mentioned his drawings pleasantly and engaged him for dinner at
a club the following evening. "I'll call for you at the Stuyvesant about
six," he said, when Ewing had accepted. "I must have a look at your
stuff. Don't dress; we dine in our working clothes at the Monastery."

The father of Mrs. Laithe warned Ewing to beware of worry in his new
surroundings.

"Let life carry you, my boy. That's my physiology in a nutshell. Don't
try to lug the world about. The people who tell you that life in New
York is a strain haven't learned rational living. Worry kills, but I
never worry, and I find town idyllic. Clarence was born to worry:
result, dyspepsia and nervous breakdown. My daughter worries. She goes
into side streets looking for trouble, and when she finds it she keeps
it. That's wrong. Life is whatever we see it to be. Eleanor sees too
much of the black side, poverty, starvation, hard luck--all kinds of
deviltry, and it reacts on her. I look only on the cheerful side, and
that reacts on me. A good dinner, a glass of burgundy--there's an answer
to all that socialistic pessimism."

"Suppose one hasn't the answer at hand?" his daughter broke in.

"Keep smiling, my dear," retorted her father with Spartan grimness.
"Skipping a dinner or two can't overturn real philosophy. Down on the
Chesapeake last fall, duck shooting one day, we lost the luncheon hamper
overboard, and hadn't so much as a biscuit from four in the morning till
after nine at night, shooting from a chilly, wet blind all day. _There_
was a test! But I give you my word I never worried. I took it as so much
discipline. My dear, if I had fretted over tenement houses the way you
have, I should be a broken man. Thank the gods that be, I've had the wit
to let my agent do all that!"

His daughter received this with a shrug of despair. "But confess,
daddy--you _have_ a worry."

"'Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt!'" quoted Piersoll,
divining her mark.

"I admit, my dear, that legitimate worry has its uses. I only warn
against the too common abuse of it. I maintain," he went on, turning to
Ewing, "that a man with the feelings of a boy should, if there's any
moral balance in the world, retain the waistline of a boy; yet I've not
done it. I go to doctors--they all talk the same ballyrot about exercise
or they harangue you about diet. Why, I've heard them gibber of things
one mustn't eat till I writhed in anguish. Some day I know I shall chuck
it all and let Nature take her course." He glared defiantly about the
table.

"She's not waiting for you to let her, dear," observed his daughter
maliciously.

"It's my temperament, I suppose"--he sighed ruefully into his plate of
sweet stuff--"just as it's Randy Teevan's temperament to keep slender,
though I suspect Randy of stays."

Mrs. Laithe had glanced swiftly toward Ewing at the mention of this
name. She again looked at him alertly a moment later when the man
announced "Mr. Teevan and Mr. Alden Teevan."

"Alden told me this afternoon at the club, my dear, that he and his
father might stop for a moment on their way up town, just to say
'How-de-do.' We can have coffee in the library."

His daughter received this with a meditative under lip. Then she
brightened.

"I'm sure you men would rather sit here and smoke while I run in and see
them. They'll stay only a minute."

"Nonsense, child! I can't lose sight of you so soon again. We can smoke
in there as well."

"Coffee in the library, Harris." She gave the order with a submissive
shrug and led the way out.

Ewing saw two men come to greet her, alike enough of feature to reveal
their relationship at first glance. He detected, however, a curious
contrast they presented. The father, slight and short of stature, was a
very young-looking old man, while the son was an old-looking young man.
The father was dapper, effusive, sprightly, quick with smiling gestures;
the son restrained, deliberate, low-toned with a slow, half-cynical
smile of waiting. He gave the effect of subduing what his father almost
elfishly expressed.

Father and son greeted the men over the shoulders of Mrs. Laithe, and
Ewing was presented. There was an inclination of the son's head, and a
careless glance of his waiting eyes; from the father, a jerky, absent
"How-d'you do--How-d'you do!"

They moved by chatting stages to the library. The elder Teevan,
carefully pointing the ends of his small, dark mustache, stood with his
back to the dying fire, a coffee cup in one hand, a cigarette in the
other, twittering gallantly of a town's desolation wrought by the going
away of Mrs. Laithe; and of a town renewed by her great-hearted return.
"A preciously timed relenting," he called it, with a challenging sigh
toward the lady, as he gracefully flicked back a ringlet of the lustrous
brown hair that had fallen low on his brow. Ewing thought it wonderful
hair on a man whose face, though ruddy in hue, showed signs of age.
There were deep lines at the corners of those gallantly flashing eyes,
and their under lids drooped. The skin was shrunk tightly over the high,
thin nose, the cheeks were less than plump, and the neck revealed some
unhappy wrinkles. Sadly, too, his voice failed at supreme moments. It
was tragic, Ewing thought, to listen to a sentence valiantly begun, only
to hear the voice crack on a crucial word.

Mrs. Laithe received the little man's tribute with a practiced
indifference, chatting absently, meanwhile, with the son. Presently she
led Ewing and the younger Teevan to the drawing room to admire a huge
jar of roses for which she thanked Teevan.

Back in the library Piersoll was listening to a salmon-fishing story of
Bartell's. The elder Teevan genially overlooked the scene, humming
lightly to himself the catch air from a late musical comedy. He turned
to study a bit of Japanese bronze on the mantel behind him, screwing a
single glass into an eye. When he had scanned the bronze with a fine
little air of appreciation he replaced it, resumed his jaunty humming,
and idly picked up a card that had been thrown beside it. Carelessly
under the still fixed monocle he brought the words "Mr. Gilbert Denham
Ewing." A moment he held it so in fingers that suddenly trembled. His
head went sharply back, the glass dropped from his eye, dangling on its
silken ribbon, and his little song died. He glanced about him, observing
the two groups to be still inattentive. Placing a supporting hand on
the mantel he set the glass firmly again and studied the card a second
time. Another glance through the rooms, and he resumed his song,
crumpling the card in his hand. Then, turning, he stood once more before
the fire, his hands comfortably at his back. One of them tossed the card
into the grate, and his song again ceased.

Bartell looked up, having, after incredible finesse, slain and weighed
his giant salmon. Piersoll, recalling that the anecdotist had killed
other salmon in his time, made a hasty adieu and went to his hostess,
who lingered in the drawing room with the younger men. Teevan, before
the fire, breathed in smoke, emitted it from pursed lips, studied the
ash at the end of his cigarette from under raised, speculative brows,
and flashed search-light eyes upon his host.

"Who's the young chap, Chris?"

Bartell took up a liqueur glass and turned to his questioner.

"Name's Ewing, I believe. Some chap Eleanor picked up in the far West.
Painter, I believe, or means to be."

"Painter, yes, to be sure--quite right; painter...." He waited
pointedly.

"Paints cowboys and Indians, I fancy--the usual thing. Seems a decent
sort; rather a gentleman. You're looking a bit off. Randy."

"Am I, though? Queer! Never felt fitter. Walked to Fifty-ninth Street
and back to-day. Might have overdone a bit. That chap staying in town
long?"

"Have to ask Eleanor. It's her affair. By Jove, old boy, you _are_ a
wonder. I wish I could keep it off around here the way you do."

The little man drew himself up, expanded his chest, and bravely
flourished a smile of acknowledgment. This faded into a look of hostile
curiosity, discreetly veiled, as Mrs. Laithe and the two young men came
in from the drawing room.

"Time to be moving on, Governor," young Teevan remarked.

"I'm not going, my boy," the little man answered in crisp tones, with
the hint of a side look at Ewing and Mrs. Laithe. "Run on like a good
chap and make my excuses to the dear grandmother. Needn't lie, you
know. Say I chucked her theater party at the last moment because the
places are stuffy. Say that I loathe plush and those crumpy little
boxes where one sees nothing but the gas fellow in a gingham jumper
yawning in the wings. Say I'm whimsical, capricious, fickle as April
zephyrs--in all but my love for her. If you're quite honest she'll
disbelieve you and guess that I'd a reason for stopping away. Run,
like a good lad, while I quench a craving for tales of adventure from
the most charming of her sex and from our young friend here--will you
pardon my oversight--Ewing?--Ah, to be sure, from Mr. Ewing---Ewing. I
must remember that. I'm a silly ass about names."

But when his son had gone the little man appeared to forget the craving
that had prompted his stay. From his stand on the hearth rug he jauntily
usurped the talk, winging his way down the world stream of gossip from
capital to capital. Circuitous, indeed, was his approach to art; an
anecdote of studio life in Paris; a criticism of Rodin, "Whitman in
marble;" the vigor of our native art impulse, only now learning to
withdraw a slavish deference from the French schools. "And you--Mr.--Ah,
yes--Ewing, to be sure--our amiable and rotund host tells me that you
are to be a warrior in this fray of brush and chisel. Bravo! You shall
show me work."

Ewing had listened to his recondite discourse chiefly with a morbid
expectancy of that recurrent break in the voice, straining until it came
and relaxing until it quavered back to the hazardous masculine level.
Finding himself thus noticed he stammered, "Oh, I--I've done some work
in black and white. I hope--Mrs. Laithe has encouraged me."

"A charming modesty, yours; by no means the besetting sin of your craft,
but is Mrs. Laithe an ideal promoter of genius? I fancy you'll need a
sterner guide, one to be harsh as well as kind. Women can't be that,
least of all the charming specimen who has honored you with her
patronage. I shall be proud to supplement her deficiencies as
critic--her glorious, her fascinating deficiencies. Women, audacious
souls, are recklessly kind. They incur perils to chill the blood of
brave enough men, meaning monstrously well all the time"--his narrowed
eyes sought to read the face of Mrs. Laithe--"but I've yet to see one
worth a second look who had divined that there exists a certain
arbitrary relation between cause and effect. Need I word the
inference?... No?..." Relieved by his scrutiny of her face he broke off,
his heart leaping to the thought, "She doesn't know--doesn't know ...
the _fool_!"

"I'll be glad to show you what I have," Ewing answered, rejoicing at
this solicitude in a critic so obviously eminent. "I've been afraid all
along that Mrs. Laithe might be too kind."

"Kinder than she knew--kindness is no word for her excess. Women lack
fiber where their sympathies are involved. They'll not inflict pain
within scope of their imaginations--beyond that rather narrow field of
course they're merciless, bless them! But trust me to score your work if
it deserves that, and trust me to praise if it merits praise. You shall
exhibit to me. By the way"--he consulted a small enameled watch--"I've a
bit of time to spare. If you're stepping along I'll not mind looking at
your things this evening."

Ewing arose, glowing with pleasure. He felt drawn to this wonderful
little man who knew everything, and who was visibly kind--just, at any
rate--under that fantastic cloak of severity.

"You're very good," he said. "I'm staying close by, at the Stuyvesant."

"Drop in often, Ewing," urged Bartell as they shook hands. "And don't
let Teevan put you down. I dare say you'll come on, you know, if you
chuck worry."

As he parted from Mrs. Laithe he was aware of a new look in her eyes. He
had learned to read them. They sought now to tell him ... what? There
was a warning in them, and her glance seemed to enfold him almost
protectingly. But her words were not more than those of formal parting,
with a suggestion that he drop in for tea some afternoon soon.




CHAPTER X

THE WAY OF THE LITTLE MAN


They walked briskly to the Stuyvesant in silence, for Ewing could think
of nothing to say, and his companion seemed preoccupied. He showed,
indeed, the stress of some excitement, for Ewing once heard him mutter
heatedly. Suspecting this to be meant for himself, he evoked by inquiry
only an impatient "Not here--not here!" He believed that his
distinguished companion must be engrossed for the moment with something
profounder than the drawings of a novice.

At the hotel they ascended to Ewing's room. Indicating a chair to Teevan
he went to the mantel for matches. When he had set the room to sudden
light he stepped quickly back, for the little man, standing there,
glared at him in a panic of fear and disgust.

In the shock of his embarrassment Ewing fumbled at his overcoat and
slowly drew it off. Teevan's eyes now blazed rage upon him. His small,
withered, blue-veined hands were tightly clenched at his sides. His
attitude was almost a crouch. Ewing felt a furtive amusement above his
dismay, at sight of the dapper little figure in this incongruous battle
pose.

A moment they stood so, then the upper lip of Teevan lifted slowly to a
snarl. Seeing that he was about to speak, there ran with Ewing's
amazement an absurd apprehension of that break in the voice.

"What do you mean by it?" The swiftness, the intensity of the utterance
held the voice level thus far, but the break came with the next words,
and the speech ended in a wail.

"What do you think to gain by coming here--by hounding me--by hounding
_me_?"

Ewing constrained himself to quiet, with an impulse to soothe this
inexplicable fury.

"Please sit down, won't you? You were going to criticise my drawings,
you know. You suggested it a moment ago, and I thought--" He took up a
portfolio of sketches from one of the open trunks.

"Your trash! What's that to me? Do you think to pass this off? You've
learned effrontery in a fine school. Come to the point. What can you
make by this indecency--this----"

Ewing's look checked him--something genuine in his bewilderment.

"Come," began Teevan again, "is it possible you're no one, after all,
instead of being less than no one? You know me, don't you?"

"Of course I know you; Mrs. Laithe introduced us."

"Oh, don't juggle. You can't swagger it off with me. You shall not hound
me or mine."

"Hound?" Ewing sought for light, still trying to subdue this absurd
assailant.

"Hound, I said, you smug brat! You know me--you've not forgotten my name
so soon."

"Teevan, I believe. Really, Mr. Teevan--I----"

"Randall Gordon Teevan! The name meant something to you, didn't it?"

"No; it didn't mean anything to me."

"Ah! say that again!" He came toward the younger man to peer up into
his face with a grinning, incredulous scowl. "Say it again!"

Ewing drew back from his scrutiny with a slight impatience.

"Why say it again? Isn't once enough? You hear well, don't you? What
should your name mean to me?"

"You still try to carry _that_ off? Your game isn't ready to play?"

Ewing resumed his patient search.

"See here, Mr. Teevan, let's be very quiet and get at this. I never
heard your name until an hour ago. Perhaps it ought to mean something to
me, but it doesn't. I'm not well acquainted in New York; I only came
here to-day. Now"--his voice became cajoling--"suppose you sit down
there quietly and tell me all about yourself."

"Your name is Ewing, isn't it?"

"Of course!"

"What's your full name?"

"Gilbert Denham Ewing."

"Damn him!"

"Damn him? You are speaking of me?"

"Not you--you cub!"

"Another Ewing?"

"Another Gilbert Denham Ewing!"

"I never knew any other but my father. And you wouldn't be damning him."

He said this with a confident smile, and the peering little man at last
read him accurately. An impalpable veil seemed to screen his scowling
face. Erect from his peering stoop he passed a small hand dazedly across
his brow, and his face had become pleasantly ingenuous, alive with a
half-comprehending regret. With a rueful laugh he put out a hand to
Ewing, who took it, to say the least, doubtfully.

"A thousand pardons, my boy! I fear I've suffered an attack of nervous
aberration to which I am unhappily subject. It's most distressing. I'm
chagrined beyond measure by the annoyance I must have caused you, I give
no end of worry to my specialist by these seizures. My speech wandered
provokingly, I dare say. It always does. You'd not credit some of the
things I've said to my dearest friends at such times. But you can fancy
the mortification it is to me. You'll pardon me, I trust--youth's
charity for the failings of age. The horrid truth is that I'm a bit
oldish--not aged, not outworn, mind you--my years have come and gone
lightly--but at times like these I'm obliged to admit the count. Come,
you'll forget?"

Ewing delightedly pressed his hand. He could believe the little man's
tale of his years. The hair that he had remarked for its young look had
been uncannily twisted on the head of its wearer during the flurry of
his transport. An area of luminous scalp now showed above one ear.

He stammered awkward but heartfelt words of assurance.

"Doubtless it quite bowled you over," Teevan pursued--"though I never
can recall what I've said; but let us forget, and, if you'd not mind,
let us say nothing of it to anyone--to Mrs. Laithe, for example. If it
came to the ears of my son--he's over-anxious about me already."

"Certainly, I'll not speak of it, and I'm sorry, very sorry. Lay your
gloves on the mantel there and find a seat." He turned to his trunk,
hoping the little man would sight his head in the mirror. When he again
looked up the hair was in perfect adjustment, and Teevan beamed on him
from an armchair.

"Your father," he began, "I seem to recall your saying it--was a
painter. Doubtless he taught you much."

"I studied with him there in the mountains till he died. I've nothing
left of his but this portrait of my mother."

He took the unframed canvas from the tray of the trunk and held it
before his guest.

"Do you get the right light there?"

It had been a bad quarter of an hour for Ewing, and, as he adjusted the
picture, he felt a moment's satisfaction in having weathered it so
plausibly. And now that the curious little gentleman seemed restored, it
was pleasant to anticipate his cultured appreciation of that work of art
which was the boy's chief treasure.

"There isn't any shine across it now, is there?" he asked, and looked up
with a shy, proud, waiting smile.

But the agitations that had gone before were as nothing to what now
passed in front of his dismayed eyes. One moment his guest hung staring
at the canvas with a goblin horror; then, uttering a kind of sob, he
shot incontinently out of the door.

The harried Ewing dropped the picture and rushed in pursuit. He came up
with the little man at the head of the stairs. He was trembling, and his
face was ashen gray; but after a few deep breaths he smiled and waved a
hand jauntily to indicate humorous despair. It seemed to say, "I am
frequently like this--it's annoying past words." He spoke of needing a
restorative and suggested an advisable haste in the direction of the
café.

"They've some choice old cognac downstairs. Suppose we chat over a bit
of it. I'm rather done up. These absurd attacks of mine react on the
heart. A noggin of brandy will fetch me about. You'll come?"

They were presently at a table in the hotel café.

"We've the room to ourselves," said Teevan genially. "Delightful old
place, this; restful, reminiscent, mellow--and generally empty. I detest
the cheap glitter of those uptown places with their rowdy throngs. They
make me feel like a fish in a fiddle box, as our French cousins say.
You'll have soda with yours?"

Teevan drank his own brandy neat, and at once refilled his glass.

"Now for a chat about yourself, my young friend--for surely only a
friend could have borne with me as tenderly as you have this evening.
You're a fellow of promise--the future clamors for you--your drawings
enchant me."

Ewing reflected that his drawings had not been exposed, but the
intention was kind, and he was grateful for that. Teevan drank more
brandy with a dainty relish, and begged to hear of his young friend's
adventures in the far hills.

Ewing expanded in the warmth of this kindly concern. He told, little by
little, under adroit prompting, what he had to tell. Teevan displayed a
gratifying interest, especially in what he recounted of his mother's
death. But at intervals during this recital the young man became
conscious, with astonishment, that there was an inexplicable look on the
other's face, a look which he suddenly discovered to be an unbelievable
veiled pleasure.

He fell back with a quick, blind repulsion, and the two stared at each
other, the elder man dissolving with difficulty a monstrous smile. He
appeared to recover himself with an effort, finding the lines about his
mouth refractory, but his embarrassment was so poignant that Ewing felt
sorry for him.

"You _must_ forgive me, old fellow! These damned treacherous nerves of
mine! I shall see that specialist chap of mine directly in the morning.
I'm so weak that the sadness of that poor lady's death set me off into
something like hysteria."

It was one o'clock when they parted, and then only at a hint that the
place would close its old-fashioned doors for the night. Ewing rejoiced
to feel that he had made a desirable friend. He liked the little man
well. Teevan had said at the last. "You should move on to Paris, my boy.
You'll need the touch they give only in that blessed rendezvous of the
masters." Ewing went to his room realizing that the world of his dreams
did actually abound in adventure. His first day had been memorable.

Teevan walked through Ninth Street to his own home, a few doors beyond
the Bartell house. It was a place of much the same old-fashioned lines,
that had withstood the north-setting current.

He let himself in and went to the dining room at the rear. Here he
lighted a gas jet, took a decanter from the sideboard, and brought a
glass and a bottle of soda from the butler's pantry. He sipped the drink
and lighted a cigarette. His musings, as first reflected in his face,
were agreeable. His mouth twitched pleasantly, his eyes glistened. At
intervals he chuckled and muttered. With an increase of brandy in the
glass he became more serious.

When Alden Teevan entered an hour later he found his father in a mood
astonishingly savage. At sight of his son the little man became vocal
with meaningless abuse. It was as if the presence of a listener incited
him to continue aloud some tirade that he had pursued in silence. But
the younger Teevan, lounging in the doorway, only stared with polite
concern as he was greeted with these emotional phrases:

"--a damned milk-and-water Narcissus--a pretentious cub with the airs of
a cheap manikin of the world--a squeaking parasite--a toadlike, damned
obscenity----"

An easy smile came to the son's face as he noted the fallen tide in the
decanter.

"Night-night, my quaint, amiable father--and cheery dreams!"

They studied each other a moment. The elder man seemed to meditate some
disclosure, but stopped on the verge of it.

"That's all, my boy!"

The young man laughed again.

"It's enough, I fancy--but don't overdo it, Randy. You know one mustn't
at your age."

"I'm taking care, taking care of everything, my boy--never you fear----"

The other passed on, but stopped at the stairway and called back:

"I say, Randy!"

"Yes--yes----"

"Get to bed, you absurd little rat, you!"




CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT AT THE MONASTERY


Ewing awoke late the next morning, rejoicing that he need not cook his
breakfast. After feeding his hill-born hunger with novel and exciting
foods he sauntered out to become a wave on the tide that flooded those
strange, heart-shaking streets. He mentally blazed his trail as he went.
His soul marched to the swift and cheerful stepping of the life about
him. He remembered Ben's warnings and wished that expert in urban evil
could see how little menacing was this splendid procession. That the
Saturday throng of shoppers and pleasure seekers was unaware of the
greatness of the moment to him lent a zest of secrecy to his scouting.

Back and forth he wandered on Broadway, the moving crowds, volatile as
quicksilver, holding him with a hypnotic power. Often he stopped before
some shop, hotel, or theater that he had come to know in print. Not
until five o'clock did he find that he was leg weary. Then he took his
bearings and, in his own phrase, "made back to camp."

A boy brought him Piersoll's card at six, and Piersoll followed. He came
with that alert self-possession which Ewing had come to consider typical
of these dwellers in a crowd where each is the inconsiderable part of a
great organic body, and must yet preserve his unique oneship.

"Bully old place, this," Piersoll began. "My mother came to balls here
thirty years ago. Show me your stuff."

He dropped into one of the armchairs and lighted a cigarette.

Ewing opened a portfolio and placed drawings along the wall. Piersoll
slid his chair closer and studied them.

"They're only little things I've seen," murmured Ewing. "I haven't had a
chance to see much."

Piersoll blew out smoke and arose to put one of the drawings in a better
light. He gazed at this closely, swept his eye again over the others,
and exclaimed, "All right! Bully! Good drawing, and the real thing.
That's the point--you've drawn only what you've seen. They're not all
equally interesting, but they're all true. You'll do."

"I'm glad you like them. I never knew if they were good."

"They're better than I expected, from Mrs. Laithe's talk. She was so
keen about them, I made allowances."

"Mrs. Laithe seemed to think I might sell them."

"Some of those you can sell, undoubtedly. The others show what you can
do. They'll get your orders. The magazines are using a lot of Western
stuff. That ranchman's wife there in her poor little flower garden,
surrounded by a million miles of sage and cactus--fine! It's a story
picture, and the story's good. The Knickerbocker might use that. They
might want a series from you--six drawings or so--'Scenes of Ranch
Life.'"

"It sounds too good."

"It's not, and you'll get stories to illustrate. Can you draw a pretty
cowboy?"

"Pretty?"

"The kind in the magazine story. Harvard man, half-back, old New York
family, named Van-Something or other; unhappy love affair; tries ranch
life; fearless rider, dead shot 'six feet of clean-limbed, virile young
manhood,' is the approved phrase for him. He's a beautiful thing--his
man keeps his chaps pressed, and he never is seen needing a shave----"

Ewing grinned appreciatively.

"Girl comes out from New York," continued Piersoll--"_the_ girl, with
her fierce aunt--home on north side of Washington Square. I'm going to
do an article on the story people who've had fine old homes on the north
side of Washington Square--thousands! That one block would have to be
ten miles long to hold 'em. Girl in tea gown, fierce aunt with
lorgnon--threatened with death--flood, fire, Apaches, stage-robbers,
vicious bull, rattler--anything! Rescued by cool, daring, clean-limbed
Van-Soforth, who says 'By Jove!' as he risks his life. That is, if it's
in one of the respectable magazines. If it's only a young ten-center he
says 'Damn!' right out in print. Then, love scene on mesa, faithful cow
pony and mountains in background, and return to New York by next train,
with clean-limbed Harold in one of our gent's nobby sack suits that sets
off the unconscious grace of his slight but muscular figure--oh, you
know the story."

"I have read it somewhere--something like it."

"You'll go on reading it. But you'll have to pretty your cowboys if you
make the pictures for it. Hulston usually illustrates it. He can draw a
cowboy that would make a bunch of violets look coarse."

"I'm afraid I couldn't----"

"Of course you couldn't. But you'll find work. Some of the magazines
are becoming reckless and printing stories of cowboys that are almost
real. Come along to the club. You'll meet some fellows there. The chap
that printed my book is dining with me, but he'll slip off early and we
can have the evening together."

"I liked your book," Ewing ventured, when they were in the street.

"Well, that's comforting. I dare say it was easier to read than it was
to write. But about this club you're going to--it's a little place we've
started lately--illustrators, newspaper men, book writers and that ilk.
You must join. I believe I'll be safe in putting you up."

"I never joined a club," Ewing confessed. "Are there conditions?"

"Rigid ones--you must have ten dollars for the entrance-fee, and not be
a leper."

"Well"--Ewing debated--"I have the money----"

"That's all _you_ need think about. The other part is ours. We have you
in to dine and look you over. Lots of men go there with an idea that
they must be witty. One fellow was turned down last week for springing
'made' jokes at the table. I believe he spoke of 'quail on trust' as we
were served with that bird--and in the hearing of three members of the
board of Abbots. That settled him, of course. They didn't need his
imitations of a German dialect comedian, which he sought to convulse
them with later. Another man was turned down lately for saying, 'Oh, how
quaintly bohemian!' after he'd looked about the grill room. Another was
ejected for playing 'chopsticks' on the piano with the edges of his
hands. They didn't even let _him_ get to the table. That's the sort of
thing--and we're strict, even though we need the money. I'm bursar and
I know. There are weird jests about my decamping with the club funds,
but I've never had enough surplus yet to take me beyond Rahway."

They ascended the steps of a dingy-fronted brick house in Clinton Place,
a little out of the Broadway rush. Passing through a bare, echoing hall,
they entered one of the two dining rooms of the club, connected by
immense sliding doors, now thrown open. They were broad, lofty rooms
with stained floors, mantels of gray marble, and rich old doors of
polished mahogany framed in white casements--the drawing rooms of some
staid family of a bygone generation, before the trade army had invaded
this once quiet neighborhood.

Ewing at once noticed the walls. They had been covered with a
grayish-brown cartridge paper, and on this the members of the Monastery
had plied their charcoal in fancies more or less attuned to the spirit
of the organization. There were monks in most of the pictures, monks
combating or, alas! overborne by one or another of that meretricious
trinity which ever conspires against godly living. Over the mantel in
the first room a pink-fleshed nymph in simple garb of chef's cap allured
an all but yielding St. Anthony with one of the club's dinner _menus_
held before his hunger-lit eyes. On a panel to the right of this a
befuddled lay brother, having emptied a flagon of wine, perched on the
arm of a chair and angled fatuously in a jar of mocking goldfish, to the
refrain:

    "For to-morrow will be Friday, and
       We've caught no fish to-day!"

To the left, Brother Hilarius furtively ignored his breviary as he
passed a gay _affiche_, from which a silken-limbed dancer beguiled him
with nimble, worldly caperings, and smiles of the flesh and the devil.

"There's a vacant panel or two in the other room," said Piersoll. "We'll
save one for you. Come down to the grill room--it's early yet."

They went out through the hall and down a narrow stairway. They heard
the lively hum of voices, and Ewing found himself in a low, wainscoted
room, finished in dull gray, where a dozen or so men talked loungingly
in corners, awaiting the dinner hour.

Piersoll presented him to several of these in so quick a succession that
their names became a many-syllabled murmur in his ears. They found seats
on a red-cushioned corner bench of churchly pattern, and Piersoll
ordered cocktails.

Ewing tried to follow the talk running about him. A boyish-looking
reporter for a morning paper was telling at a nearby table how he had
been the first to reach the scene of a railroad wreck in Pennsylvania
late the night before by fording a swollen river. At another table a
successful playwright obligingly expounded the laws of dramatic
construction to a respectful novice, who seemed puzzled by their
simplicity. At their own table a youth of yellow melancholy confided to
Piersoll that the afternoon had witnessed an important transaction in
verse--the sale of his ballade, "She Was a Belle in the Days of
Daguerre." "The editor of 'Quips' took it and paid on acceptance--let's
have another," he added with deep significance.

The atmosphere of the place was unthinkingly democratic. The cub
reporter here met his city editor as man to man. Piersoll identified
various members of the gathering--the dramatic critic of an evening
paper in busy talk with the Wall Street man of the same sheet; a
promising young composer cornered by the star reporter of a morning
paper, a grizzled knight of the world of war, crime, flood, fire, and
all mischance of any news value, a man who had attained the dignity of
signing his "stuff." Old men and young, they were compacted of nerves,
vividly alive, even those in whom the desk stoop could be detected.

The movable feast of the cocktail waned and the groups drifted upstairs.
The publisher for whom Piersoll waited came at last, a bland but
keen-eyed gentleman of early middle age, introduced to Ewing as Mr.
Layton, of Layton & Company. They followed the others up to the dining
room, and Piersoll found a table for three under the drawing of the
earnest but miscalculating angler.

Ewing nervously apprehended talk of an abstruse literary character from
which he would be debarred. The talk assuredly became abstruse, but it
dealt in literary values solely as related to public taste in the novel
of commerce, and to the devices of Layton & Company for divining and
stimulating that variable quantity.

Instead of descanting on Shakespeare, as Ewing had supposed a publisher
would do, Layton, with the soup, plunged into a racy narrative of how he
had "boomed" sales of "The Mask of Malcolm" the year before. That had
been a success compounded of trifles. Witness Layton's chance view from
a car window of a "Mask of Malcolm" poster on a watering cart that
toiled through the dusty main street of a remote Western village. He had
written to the postmaster of that town for the name of the cart's
driver, sent him a copy of the novel inscribed by the author, and
enough more posters to cover his cart. Result: a sale in the aroused
village and surrounding country of two hundred and eighty "Masks," where
otherwise not more than half a dozen would have been sold. Further
result: the watering carts of the great mid-West were now cunningly
blazoned with incitements to purchase Layton & Company's fiction.

Ewing still feared Shakespeare or Chaucer, or George Eliot, at the
least; but the publisher clung to earth, launching into his plans for
Piersoll's next book. "The Promotion of Fools" was in its hundredth
thousand. The next book must go beyond this.

"You want a smashing good love scene at the end," urged the sapient
Layton, "and plenty of good, plain, honest heart feeling all through it.
Make a quaintly humorous character, simple-minded, trusting, but still
shrewd, and win the reader's sympathy for him by giving him some sort of
hard luck--a crippled child that dies isn't bad, if the father has been
harsh to him some time, not meaning to be, you know. And not too much
dialect; enough to contrast well with the Fifth Avenue people. Then,
with the kind of hero you know how to draw--swell family, handsome,
refined, a real gentleman, and all that sort of thing, with an English
valet--you'll have a story that will _go_. You can write a winner,
Piersoll, if you'll listen to your publisher. We keep our fingers on the
public pulse; we know the taste better than you can know it, shut up in
your office. And have a good, catchy dedication--people are interested
in your personality. Couldn't you have in the next book something like
'To my Mother in Heaven, whose Memory----'"

"Our people are all Unitarians," suggested Piersoll.

"What difference does _that_ make----"

"And my mother has been graciously spared to us----"

"Well, then, 'To my Gray-haired Mother, whose Loving Counsel has ever--'
_you_ know the sort of thing, short and snappy, but full of feeling. It
helps, let me tell you, with the people who pick up a book on the
stands."

Ewing lost the run of this talk for a time, entertaining himself with a
study of the other diners. The rooms had rapidly filled, and two waiters
scurried among the tables. His attention focused on a long table in the
center of the room, whose occupants made savage and audible comment on
diners at other tables, and confided to one another, in loud, free
tones, their frank impressions of late comers.

The door opened upon a goodly youth in evening dress. Seven pairs of
eyes from the big table fixed him coldly as he removed his overcoat.

A voice, affectedly mincing: "As I live--handsome Harold Armytage!"

Another voice, hoarse with rage: "Curse ye, devil that ye are, with yer
oily tongue and city ways! where's me daughter Letty, me little lass,
that ye took up to the big city and threatened to make a lady of?"

A voice, hushed and slow: "They--say--the--child--is--in--London."

The newcomer, flicking the ash from his cigarette, glowered at the last
speaker and hissed: "As for you, Black Bart, alias Jasper Vinton,
remember that one word from me would set all Scotland Yard on your
trail!"

A new voice from the table: "Stand back, Hector Walsingham! I would
rather be the poor working girl I am than the gilded toy your wealth
would make me--and besides, you wear made ties! I'll have to speak to
the stage manager about that," continued the speaker in less dramatic
tones. "Look, it's one of those horrible made things that fasten at the
back of his neck with a harness buckle--see his hand go up to it!"

The newcomer emitted a mocking laugh, but judiciously sought a seat in
the next room.

"Say--new idea for a melodrama," came another voice from the long table.
"The old thing with an Ibsen twist. Stern father ready to drive erring
daughter from his door in a snowstorm, but _it won't snow_! Of course he
can't send her off in pleasant weather. It clouds up every few days, and
the old man hopefully gets his speech ready--'Curse ye, ye are no longer
a daughter of mine!' but the sun comes out again. Girl gets nervous.
Young squire gets nervous, too, though he's married the girl in secret.
He begs the old man to put her out and have it over with, even if the
weather is pleasant. Old man won't hear of such a thing. Got to have a
howling snowstorm. His mind fails; he sits in the chimney corner
driveling about the horrible winters they used to have when you could
curse a daughter out almost any day in the week. Everybody disgusted at
the way things are dragging. Young people quarrel. Divorce! Young squire
sails for Labrador to try it again, where you can count on the winters.
Girl watches ship out of sight, and _it snows_! Snows hard. But too
late--ah, God, too late! She rushes back home to find the old man
delirious with joy. He starts in to do his speech at last, but she
slowly strangles him with her muscular young hands. Rather good
curtain, that--yes?" He looked around the table appealingly, but the
others had turned from him to another newcomer, a young man of dark and
sinister aspect, whom they greeted as Simon Legree. Ewing heard Eliza's
despairing cry, "Merciful Heavens, the river is choked with ice!" above
the deep baying of bloodhounds that issued from half a dozen able
throats. The newcomer was obliging enough to scowl and demand fiercely,
"Tom, you black rascal, ain't you mine, body and soul?"

A fair-haired youth at the table, with the face of an overfed Cupid,
responded pleadingly: "No--no, Massa! Mah body may b'long to yo' but mah
soul to de good Lawd who made it!"

"Crack! Crack! Crack! Take that, you black hound, and that, and that!"
Uncle Tom cringed under the blows of an imaginary lash, and Legree
seated himself at the long table. A bearded man at the head promptly
became little Eva, with a piping voice. "Uncle Tom, dear Uncle Tom, I
fear I am going to die in the last act."

The faithful slave gulped at his claret and water and replied tearfully,
"Dar, dar, Miss Eba, yo' bre'k dis pore ole man's heart!"

"And, dear Uncle Tom, remember that the colored quartet will slink in
and sing 'Rock of Ages' while I am dying on a camp bed in the parlor.
Think of that, you black hound!"

"Indeed, that is what I am apprehending, Miss St. Clair," returned Uncle
Tom, this time in polished accents and with marked urbanity. "And you
are doubtless aware that I shall have to be present and listen to it.
Come, then, little one! If you must die, come with me into the back yard
where the quartet can't find us, and I will feed you to the nice hungry
bloodhounds. They've had nothing since tea."

Ewing listened, aghast. He had once gone with Ben in Durango to see
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and both of them had wept at its heartrending
crisis. It embarrassed him now to hear its pathos blasphemed,
embarrassed him because he felt a sort of shamed mirth. He was glad that
Ben was not by.

Piersoll and his publisher still discussed literature. Layton was now
setting forth the superior state of the latter-day author over those of
the past.

"Those old fellows had no market--publishers were a sleepy lot. Think
what could have been done with 'Paradise Lost,' illustrated by Hulston
with about fifty half tones and marginal decorations, and an elegant
binding, properly advertised with testimonials from clergymen and
leading actresses and senators and prominent college presidents. I tell
you, gentlemen," he concluded, earnestly, "this is the golden age of
letters!"

This phrase unhappily reaching the big table in a moment of quiet, made
an instant sensation.

"The golden age of letters!" was echoed in concert by eight men who
arose solemnly and bowed to the embarrassed Layton. He tried to smile
tolerantly, as if he knew a joke when he saw one. They sat down and
turned to stare at him with extravagant awe, catching his eye when they
could and drinking to the golden age. Piersoll grinned cheerfully at
them. Ewing was puzzled.

"I like this place for its literary atmosphere," said one loudly, gazing
over the head of Layton. "Don't you all just love literature?" "Oh, I
simply adore it!" answered the next man. "I really can't say what I
should do without books. I think they improve the mind."

Now they hitched their chairs about so that they could regard Layton
more easily, though they affected to be unconscious of his presence.

"It _does_ seem to me that literature is good to read," ventured another
conservatively, "but then, _I_ love music and flowers and the little
birds."

"I should die without literature," insisted another--"it's so good and
excellent. Oh, why do not more people read literature and be decent!"

"Now you take Henry James," began another, judicially, "he's a bright
writer, but he can't touch the great throbbing heart of the public like
Hall Caine can."

"What _is_ a Hall Caine can?" demanded the whiskered person bluntly. "I
thought they kept 'em in jars."

Layton rose, genially bidding his host and Ewing good night. The men at
the long table rose with him, bowed ceremoniously, and chanted "the
golden age of letters" as he passed--all but one, who sobbed bitterly
because poor Shakespeare had not lived to see it.

Ewing was still dazed, but he had slowly been growing cheerful. He felt
that he could almost understand this strange fooling. He would have been
glad to observe it still from a distance, but Piersoll took him to the
long table when Layton had gone. The others made room for them, and
Ewing responded somewhat timidly to the introductions that Piersoll
performed. He was a little anxious lest he be made a part or target of
their sport and show himself awkward under the ordeal. For the moment,
however, there were remarks about the undesirability of "tradesmen" as
guests of the club.

"I know a lovely delicatessen merchant," said one brightly, "a most
interesting person. He says this is the golden age of cooked provisions.
I must have him round the next time Layton is brought in."

"I can get a plumber from over on Eighth Avenue," volunteered another.
"We might have a 'trade' night, if Layton will come. Of course they'll
talk about nothing but how to sell their wares, but they'll have a good
time together."

Presently they forsook this theme, and Ewing found himself talking to
Chalmers, an illustrator with whose work he had long been familiar.
Though Chalmers drew Western subjects, Ewing was amazed at his
confession that he had never been west of Jersey City. Chalmers, on the
other hand, was delighted to learn that Ewing had so long been a part of
that life which he had portrayed from afar, and was at once profuse with
offers of help when Ewing explained his situation. He was eager to see
his work, and would install him in a studio.

"I know the place for you," he exclaimed, after a moment's reflection.
"There's a vacant studio in our building on Forty-second Street. Billy
Glynn told me to sublet it and sell the stuff the first chance I had.
You can move in right off if you like it."

Ewing thanked him warmly. It was pleasant to find that the recent Simon
Legree had his human side. Two of the other men at the table had studios
in the same building: Crandall, who made pictures for a comic weekly,
and Baldwin, who was a magazine illustrator. They became, like Chalmers,
solicitous to oblige the newcomer, and were attentive to Piersoll when
he praised, with a quick word or two, the drawings of Ewing. He felt
immensely drawn to these men who had dropped their bantering to be kind
to him.

The crowd of diners had thinned out until only a few lingered over their
coffee. From one or another of these scattered groups would come a burst
of laughter at the climax of a story, or a bar of song from one who had
reached his playtime of the day, and recked not if he advertised this.
It was an hour of ease in the Monastery, when its inmates expanded in
the knowledge that Sunday lay before them. To some, at least, this could
be a day of rest.

A musical member came from the rear room to the piano near the long
table to play a Liszt rhapsody. When this performer had gone back to his
seat one of the men from the big table--he who had lately enacted Little
Eva, and whose title of "The Brushwood Boy" Ewing at once related to his
beard--seated himself at the instrument.

"Heard a great song over on Third Avenue last night," he began. "Wish I
could remember--something like this--" His fingers searched for the
melody. Ewing caught a transient strain of it and thrilled to recognize
Ben's favorite, a thing he might be singing to his guitar in the far-off
lonely cabin at that very moment.

"'The Fatal Wedding,'" he ventured to the performer.

"Sure--that's it! 'The Fatal Wedding.' Wish you fellows could have heard
it--rich! How did it go, now?"

Ewing recklessly hummed the opening bars.

"Go ahead, if you know it!" This came from several of the men. He
protested. He would have liked to sing it, yet feared to do so before an
audience whose ridicule he had learned to dread. He considered the song
to be irreproachable and could understand the apparent enthusiasm about
it, but he doubted his worth as a vocalist.

"I don't believe I'd better try it," he began; "I know the words--it's
the favorite song of an old-time cowboy I've lived with, and he does it
right. I couldn't give anything more than a poor imitation of him."

The inciting calls were renewed.

"Go on! Do your worst! Show us how your friend does it! Silence in the
back of the hall!"

Piersoll smiled encouragingly and the accompanist struck the opening
chords, having at last recalled the air. Ewing diffidently took his
place at the end of the piano, with apologetic protests. "I'll do my
best, but you should hear Ben Crider sing this."

The little audience listened with unfeigned delight as he sang of the
handsome stranger who wooed the village beauty, only to desert her for
"a lady proud and haughty" who had "houses, jewels, land, and gold at
her command." The words moved his hearers. Had he not promised them to
render the song in his friend's manner? They felt he was achieving this
with rare art. Almost unconsciously, indeed, he sang the song in Ben's
best manner, with a sob in the voice and even with Ben's strained, sad
face as he reached the pitiful climax:

    "While they were honeymooning in a mansion on the hill,
     Kind friends were laying Nellie out behind the mill."

He moved quickly back to his chair almost before the first shouts of
laughter dismayed him. He blushed and glanced appealingly from face to
face as the applause was swelled by the groups in the rear room. He and
Ben had considered this no song to be laughed at. It was too sad. Yet he
saw that the applause was a friendly tribute to his performance.
Piersoll was pounding him joyously between the shoulders and Chalmers
was urging him to do Ben Crider singing the "Fatal Wedding" at their
next club smoker. Baldwin demanded the last verse again, and Ewing sang
it, from his chair this time, redoubling his efforts to bring out its
pathos.

In the new applause that deafened him he felt reassured. At least they
were not laughing at _him_. He joined weakly in the merriment. The gods
had blessed him with a gift for silence at critical moments. He asked no
questions.

As the mirth subsided voices were heard unctuously rehearsing choice
lines from the song. A passion for the ballad pathetic had been aroused.
Some one called on Chalmers.

"Chalmers has written a song himself--give it to us, Chalmers--the one
you sang up at Needham's the other night." Chalmers took his place and
bowed low as the accompanist poised eager hands above the key-board.

"Gentlemen, with your kind attention, I'll give you a little thing
called 'Nothing but Mother'--words and music by a party that doesn't
want his real name known because the folks back home might hear of it.
Let her go, Professor!"

In a twangy, nasal voice, not unlike Ben's, enunciating his words with
the fastidious and strained precision of the music-hall balladist, he
began:

    "The courtroom, it was crowded,
       All the witnesses was there;
     The Judge he sat a-frowning
       In his highly cushioned chair.
     They was trying a old lady
       For the stealing of a horse;
     They had hauled her to the station,
       _They_ had dragged her there by force!"

The last line had been achieved with intense, passionate emphasis.
Ewing, listening intently, felt the pricking of a nameless suspicion.
The song seemed right enough, and yet some queer, ulterior emotion
stirred within him. The air continued in a stirring minor, adapted to
the dramatic action:

    "Then uprose a handsome lawyer,
       But would not give his name;
     He defended this old lady
       And well he done the same.
     The verdict was "Not guilty!"
       _Tears_ stood in the jury's eyes;
     When the unknown lawyer heard it,
       Then says he to their surprise:"

With secret consternation Ewing waited, trying to laugh with the others,
who had exploded at "_tears_," wrenched out in a high minor wail. The
air now took a graceful swinging waltz movement, and the puzzled youth
suffered an illumining flash:

    "She was my mother once
       In days of long ago;
     I'll not forsake her now,
       Her lots has fell so low.
     I have other mothers now
       To take me by the hand,
     But I'll not desert this one
       Just because I'm rich and grand."

Enlightened at last, Ewing joined in the applause, amid which Chalmers
resumed his seat. Instantly perceiving why they had laughed at his own
song, he burned at recalling how chance alone had saved him from
betraying a simple-hearted faith in the virtues of that gem. Now it was
funny, even to him. Other songs of Ben's rang in his ears; they were
_all_ funny--though he must never let Ben know that. He had unwittingly
betrayed Ben to a ribald crew, but he had learned a thing it was well to
know. He had learned of the world; he had aged in a leap.

They sat late at table, drinking beer from stone mugs, smoking
long-stemmed pipes and trifling with song. They blended their voices in
melting harmony at the climax of "Nelly's" woe and in the acuter parts
of "Nothing but Mother."

As they drifted out at midnight Chalmers made an appointment with Ewing
to inspect the vacant studio and make himself, if he liked, one of the
colony of not too serious workers housed by the Rookery.

Half a dozen men strolled with him to the Stuyvesant, and in the shadow
of its sober doors, as a parting testimonial to his worth, they sang
once more in blended pathos:

    "She was my moth-e-r-r once
       In days so long a-g-o-o-o!"

He watched them up the street a block, pouring out their hearts in song
to a watchful and cynical policeman.




CHAPTER XII

THE NEW MEMBER


When Ewing, a few days later, moved into the vacant studio on the top
floor of the Rookery, the men there made an affair of it, flocking from
their studios to receive him. They showed him the view from his windows,
a far stretch of dull-red roofs, with murky water butts stuck aloft like
giant cockades against the gray sky. They showed him where he would
sleep, in a little closet-like alcove screened from the big room by a
gay curtain. They exhibited the alcohol lamp left by Glynn, over which
water would be boiled for the morning coffee. And they superintended,
from their wider experience, the arrangement of his belongings.

He felt aloof from the friendly turmoil, unable to believe that the
place would be his own. The thing was too vast for his experience. It
would surely be for another that Baldwin spread the Navajo blankets on
the floor and couch; for some one else that Chalmers, of the beard--him
they called the Brushwood Boy or eke "the human ambush"--removed piles
of old magazines from the cot in the alcove; for some one else that
Dallas tucked brushes into a ginger jar; and for some one else that
Griggs tested water taps and the radiator.

When they had cheerfully discovered that no one could think of anything
further to do they trooped down Broadway to celebrate Ewing's advent in
a dinner at the Monastery. When this was over and the crowd had thinned
to a few late sitters they had him do a picture. The others watched him
as he worked, standing on a bare table drawn to the wall. Brother
Hilarius grew before their eyes, insecurely astride a bucking broncho,
narrowly observed by two figures in the background--a dismayed brother
of his order in gown of frieze and hempen girdle, and Red Phinney,
contorting himself in ribald glee.

The watchers applauded as the picture grew. They had not supposed that
the quiet, almost timid, boy, who betrayed his unsophistication by
countless little mannerisms, could have attained the sureness of line
his strokes revealed.

The heated air of the room rushed up to make a torrid zone of the region
about the worker's head, and from time to time one of the watchers
handed him a mug of creaming ale with which he washed the dust of the
charcoal from his throat. He lost himself in the work at last. The
voices, laughter, songs, strains of the piano, came but faintly to him,
and were as the echoes of street life that sounded in his ears each
night before he slept. It was after one o'clock when he stepped down
from the table to survey the finished drawing.

He knew he had done well, but he was glad to be told so by others. It
was clearly their opinion that the club had in no way descended from its
high standards of mural decoration. Baldwin brought a bottle of fixative
and sprayed the drawing through a blowpipe. Then they drained a final
bumper to the artist and the work and went out into the mild September
night, making the empty street, sleeping in shadow, resound to their
noisy talk.

The light of a car crept ghostlike toward them and they stood to board
it. As it moved on through Broadway Ewing thought of an empty creek bed
at the bottom of some ravine at home. This was the dry time, but with
earliest dawn would come the freshet, flooding the cañon, surging over
its rocky bed to some outlet as mysterious as its source. The image
brought him a sudden pang of homesickness. Despite the jovial
friendliness of the crowd he was still a detached spectator. There was
no intimacy for him, no real contact. He was glad to remember the bed
that awaited him and confessed this to Chalmers.

"Bed!" echoed Chalmers in righteous amazement. "What's the use of going
to bed? You only fall asleep!"

"He's right, old man," put in Baldwin warningly. "I've tried it."

Dallas turned a reproachful gaze on Ewing. "God has given you a
beautiful life and you sleep it away! Come, come, man!"

"We'll have a bite to eat, anyway," broke in Griggs. "Come on, here's
Clayton's."

They were presently about a table far back in a restaurant where
lingered many sitters-up of nights. They ordered Welsh rabbits and ale.
Ewing refused the ale and drank water.

Dallas put on an air of wishing to defend this choice of beverage. "Of
course, it's the stuff that made Noah famous," he submitted.

"Yes--and it made all that trouble at Johnstown, too," broke in Chalmers
with deep hostility in his look at Ewing's glass. "I can't forget that.
Water has never been the same to me since."

They fell to the food when it came. They smoked, they drank more ale,
they sang in tones enough subdued to avert public disfavor, and they
flung jests about to spice the endless gossip of their craft.

Ewing listened, yet with eager eyes for the people at other tables
about them. These men and women captivated him by their suggestions
of mystery--characters in the play he was forever beholding--
curious-looking men whose faces suggested lives of dramatic tension;
beautiful women, splendidly arrayed, with much of mystery and something
of daring in their animation. He scanned them all furtively as the talk
at his own table flowed on.

It was chiefly of their work that they talked. Chalmers related matters
exposing the inefficiency of an art editor to whose mercies fate now and
then betrayed him. Chalmers bitterly thought that this person should be
driving an ice wagon or helping about in a shipyard, or something of the
sort--not telling artists how to draw their pictures.

Baldwin sympathized. He had his own art editor. It came out that no man
present had ever even heard of a competent art editor. It stood to
reason that there could be none. A man of capacity to be an art editor
would have too much self-respect. He would starve in the gutter first.
But it took time and talk and replenished mugs to reduce this truth to
its beautiful, naked simplicity, and Ewing at last saw that day had
come. The lights inside were paling to an unwholesome yellow. He
mentioned the circumstance insinuatingly, for he was tired.

Baldwin scowled at his watch, then dropped it into his fresh mug of ale,
and glanced triumphantly about the table.

"A degenerate race," muttered Chalmers. "At the first sign of daylight
we scamper off to bed like scared rabbits. For me--thank God--there's
nothing like the glorious sunrise, the crisp air, the healthy glow.
There's magic in it--Nature's choicest gift. Yes, sir, the splendors of
dawn for me! D'you s'pose I'd miss _this_?" He glared about the room and
ecstatically sniffed the thick, smoky air. "What does that clod know of
beauty?" He indicated a waiter, dozing against the wall with practiced
equilibrium.

"Well, well," exclaimed Baldwin, "if I haven't gone and forgotten to eat
breakfast! How shiftless!" He aroused the waiter with snapping fingers.
"I hope we're not keeping you up, Claude, but bacon and eggs, please,
and coffee."

An hour later they went out to find the street already alive with early
workers. Baldwin appeared to consider that these, also, were night-long
revelers.

"'Stonishing how they can keep it up, night after night," he remarked,
frowning in wonder at the early procession. "You'd think they'd _have_
to sleep some time."

"It'll tell on their nerves sooner or later, you mark my words," said
Griggs sententiously.

Chalmers stared intently into the window of a florist adjoining the
restaurant. He turned to them with purpose in his fair face and spoke
again of his art editor.

"Only trouble with him--he's passed away, poor fellow, and doesn't know
it. He ought to be told--but not brutally. I see something here for
him."

He came out of the florist's presently with a sizable emblem of
mortality--a floral pillow with "Rest" worked on it in immortelles.

"Come on!"

At the corner they crowded into hansoms. It was a long ride, and Ewing
was asleep when they reached Park Row, but they aroused him to help
escort Chalmers and his offering to the elevator of a mighty building.
While they awaited his return Baldwin bethought him of his own art
editor. He seemed to believe that something fitting might be done. After
deep reflection he crossed the narrow street to a district messenger
office, to emerge a moment later followed by eight grinning messenger
boys. These he led to the elevator of another building near by.

Chalmers returned from his own mission, wiping his eyes.

"Poor fellow, he knows he's dead now. But I broke down and sobbed like a
child when I gave it to him--I'm all heart. It's over now, all but the
life insurance. And yet he didn't thank me. On the contrary he spoke
language I should blush to repeat."

The others put on looks of chastened gloom and were speaking in hushed
tones of the sad event when Baldwin returned. He dismissed his uniformed
attendants with largesse.

"Thing that needed to be done for his own good," he explained. "Max
believes he's an art editor, but nobody else does--nobody else ever
believed it in this whole wide, beautiful world. So I lined those
trusting little boys up in front of his door and said, 'Boys, look in
there and you will see a real art editor.' They looked in at old Max and
then at me. 'You believe it, don't you, boys?' I asked them, and they
all said, 'Yes, sir!' So I made them bow to him and say in concert, 'We
_do_ believe you are an art editor, no matter what other people say,'
and then we left. We had to. I'm ashamed to tell you--but old Max seemed
to forget that he was a gentleman. He'll thank me when he comes to his
senses, all the same. He can lay his head on his pillow to-night knowing
that there are others in the world besides himself who believe he's an
art editor. Oh, I love to do good!" he concluded with a benevolent
smirk.

Once more they were in the hansoms and Ewing slept again, to the strains
of "I have other mothers now," sung by Baldwin, who sat in his lap.

As they climbed the stairs of the Rookery Baldwin found the moment
suited for sage counsel to Chalmers.

"'T won't do, my boy--'t won't do! Can't burn candles both ends. Your
face this minute looks like one of those cheap apple pies in a
restaurant window."

Ewing mounted to his own floor and found himself in the curious
stillness of the big room. It had seemed to wait there for him, mutely,
but with desire. He stood a moment in the silence, his ears ringing with
after sounds of the night. He fell on the couch, too tired to go
formally to bed, and felt himself falling into sleep as into a
beneficent and welcoming abyss.




CHAPTER XIII

SEARCHING THE WILDERNESS


He awoke from a dream noisy with laughter and the ring of shod hoofs on
a stone roadway; a phantasma in which faces were gray and distorted
through smoke and people did wild things in sane ways. He lay long
enough to separate the fiction of this dream from the actual but not
more credible performances of the night before. Then he rose, yawning
away the last of his drowsiness, and looked out over the roofs. He saw
that it was late afternoon, for the shadows of the water butts ran well
to the east. The mute solitude of the scene gave his loneliness a new
pang. He felt more solitary in the multitude than he had ever felt in
his unpeopled hills. Yet the place still lured him, not less than in
days when he had hungered for it, a starved lover of life in the desert.
If only he could find some one to come near, some one to whom he could
be his unguarded self. Such a one must exist.

His eyes swept the reticent roofs, and his mind searched beneath them:
what felicitous possibilities did they not conceal? People doubtless
fasting like himself, longing for the friendly cry, eating their hearts
out in loneliness--men and women he might know or never know. He lifted
each roof as he gazed; under any one of them might be the companion;
under all were charms of adventurous search.

In this moment of homesick longing his mind caught at Mrs. Laithe. She
had told him to come soon. Did that mean in one day, or in ten? She was
his one link with an old life that had filled if it did not satisfy. And
sometimes she had met him. Chiefly she had been a woman for the eyes,
but there had been fleeting times when they touched in ways that brought
him a deeper satisfaction--times when invisible antennæ from each seemed
to be in communicative contact. These moments brought back the palsy of
shyness that had stricken him at his first glimpses of her; yet they
brought, too, some potent, strange essence that sustained him. He
resolved to go to her now. She mystified, she dismayed him, but her
kindness was dependable.

It was the memory of this that moved him to throw off his stale,
smoke-saturated garments, to bathe, to dress himself afresh, and to walk
briskly through the tonic sharpness of a September afternoon.

As he rang the bell a vague, delightful home-coming warmth rushed over
him.

"In a moment I shall see her," he said within himself. As the door swung
back he heard the din of many voices and caught a rush of heated air,
sweetish with the odor, as it seemed, of tired and fainting flowers. At
the entrance to the drawing room he faltered, for the place was thronged
with terrifying strange people who held teacups and talked explosively.

Longing to flee, he saw Mrs. Laithe across the room, turning somewhat
wearily, he thought, away from three or four voluble women, as if to
snatch at a moment of rest from her perfunctory smile. Almost instantly
her eyes swung to his, and he became aware, as she started toward him,
of some sudden flurry leaping behind their black-fringed curtains, a
quick play of lights that stirred and confused him. She gave him her
hand with half-formal phrases of greeting under which he detected a
rising nervousness.

"So good of you to come, and on my day! They're tiresome at best. You
are well? You shall have tea and know some people." She went to a table
between the two rooms, where a girl in white drew tea from a samovar
into many little cups. Ewing began to watch this girl, a slight but
rounded creature with yellowish hair curving down either side of her
tanned face. He caught a greenish light in her eyes, as she bent to her
task with a somewhat anxious concentration.

Mrs. Laithe brought him the tea, which he helplessly took, and presented
him to a vivid-hued young matron, who made room for him beside her. His
part in the talk that followed was confined to mutterings of agreement,
tinged now and then with a discreet sympathy. He heard the latest golf
and yachting news and sprightly chat of the lady's newest motor car. He
caught a blurred view of the Austrian Tyrol, and absorbed technical data
on the operation of smuggling silk stockings from Paris. He gleaned that
Airedales were difficult to raise; that Caruso would return; that all
coachmen were but hirelings of the sales stables, when you got at the
root of the trouble. He learned that Newport had been deadly, Bar Harbor
impossible, Tuxedo not half bad for a week end; and that New York would
be empty for another fortnight.

Upon none of these difficult matters had he anything of moment to offer.
The assertion that New York was empty bereft him, indeed, of even his
slender power of assent. The lady would have considered him stupid but
for the look with which he met her quick eyes from time to time. She
decided that he was merely bored--a thing not to be particularly
remarked. It was common enough in the men she met.

In one of the roving looks he permitted himself under his companion's
discourse his glance rested on two people far back in the library. One
was Mrs. Laithe's father. He stood, cup in hand, talking down to a
smartly attired, whitehaired woman who sat forward in her chair and
stared at Ewing. Her gown was black, and one white-gloved hand rested on
Bartell's arm. Her eyes did not waver as Ewing met them. He saw that
Bartell seemed to identify him in the throng and speak a few words to
the lady. Ewing turned to his companion, discomfort under that steady
survey. A moment later he was drawn to look again and saw Bartell coming
toward him.

"Ah, young man!" His greeting oozed cordiality, the soothing
friendliness of a man fitted to find only the pleasantness of life.

"And come with me, if Mrs. Dudley will let you off--" the lady smiled a
pretty but unreserved assent--"an old friend, Mrs. Lowndes, wants to
know you. She's a dear soul, always jolly. Tell her about cowboys and
things, won't you--something pleasant."

They stood before the woman in the chair, and Bartell uttered a few
words which Ewing did not hear, for at the moment he had glanced up to
see Mrs. Laithe watching him with eyes of such genuine dismay that
confusion overtook him. He wondered what wrong thing he could have done,
but recovered in time to bow and murmur a phrase of acknowledgment. His
new acquaintance indicated a seat beside her, but did not look at him.

"Thank you, Chris. Mr. Ewing will entertain me. Run off to someone as
young as yourself."

Bartell smiled himself back into the more crowded room, and Ewing
waited, apprehending talk like that he had lately undergone. But he
found that this woman who had stared at him so curiously was not
voluble. For a long time she remained silent. Once he glanced up to
observe that her eyes were closed, and seized the moment to study her
face. He thought she was very old--sixty at least. Yet the face showed
strength in its frailness. The cheeks, looking brown under the plenteous
white hair, were lined but not withered, and the curve from brow to chin
revealed more than a suggestion of self-will. A dainty but imperious old
lady he thought her. He might have believed himself forgotten but for an
intimation of waiting thrown out by her manner, a suggestion of leaning
toward him, breathless, one of the gloved hands poising as if to alight
on his arm. He found this less tiring than the compulsion he had lately
been under to agree with a livelier woman about matters strange to him.
And yet he was relieved when she opened her eyes as if to speak. He
regarded her with puzzled but kind expectancy. At last she said, and he
understood that her voice was unnaturally tight and hard:

"Mr. Bartell tells me that you are a painter, Mr. Ewing."

"I'm trying to be--they are very kind here."

"Your father was Gilbert Ewing--a painter?"

"Oh, you _knew_ him?" He thrilled at the thought, but was disappointed.

"Mr. Bartell mentioned his name--and yours."

"He was a painter, yes; he died out there in Colorado."

She seemed to shudder ever so slightly and her eyes closed again.

"And your--your mother?" The words were hardly more than a whisper.

"My mother died when I was very small."

Again she seemed to wince under a sting. But now she fell away from that
waiting tenseness with which she had held him. The hand that had hovered
over his arm fell limply into her lap, and she leaned back in her chair.

"I'm afraid you aren't very well," he ventured. "The rooms are close."

She opened her eyes, with no sign of having heard. Sitting forward in
her chair she gazed ahead with narrowed eyes.

"I am an old woman and dull, Mr. Ewing, but I should like to have you
come and see me."

"I'll be glad to come," he answered promptly enough, though he could not
keep surprise from his voice.

"Come to-morrow, if you will, and pardon an old woman's whim in asking
you with so little ceremony."

"I will come, of course." He wondered if she felt a city loneliness like
his own.

"Thank you. I shall be in after four." She gave him a card from a small
silver case at her belt. "The room _is_ close. You may fetch me tea."

He was certain her eyes were sharply on him as he went, and when he
returned, her full gaze swept him with a look in which he curiously read
incredulity, with something beside that might have been fear or
repulsion--he could not determine. She took the tea, but set it down
untasted. A very queer old lady he thought her. He stood by in
embarrassment, not knowing what to say. Glancing about for inspiration
he was relieved to see Bartell bearing down upon him from the side of
Mrs. Laithe. He came up jovially.

"I've been ordered to separate you two, Kitty. Young men aren't
plentiful at this time, and Eleanor wants one."

"Thank you for bringing him, Chris." She gave Ewing a little nod, which
he construed as his release, and he turned to meet Mrs. Laithe.

She sought his eyes with that swift look of apprehension which had
before puzzled him, and threw another glance toward Mrs. Lowndes, who
now chatted smilingly with Bartell. She seemed to be reassured.

"I do hope you've not been bored. No? I was afraid. Come and meet my
sister," and she momentarily swept away his memories of the queer old
lady by leading him to the girl in white who poured tea.

"Virgie, this is Mr. Ewing."

The girl looked up with that hint of shyness he had before observed in
her. The eyes instantly recalled his own mountain lake when the light
showed it to far, green depths. But they fell at once, for she inclined
her head toward him, seized a cup and demanded sternly, "Cream or
lemon--I mean I'm very glad to know you. Do you take sugar?"

In his own embarrassment he would have told her, but Mrs. Laithe broke
in with her low laugh.

"He doesn't want tea, child, he only wants----"

The girl interrupted defensively, with a flutter of eyelids toward
Ewing: "I can't remember _what_ they like when they come back the second
time. It's too much to expect."

"Your martyrdom is over, dear. No one wants more tea, and most of them
are escaping. Talk to Mr. Ewing while I speed them."

The girl sank wearily into a chair, with a rueful glance at the table's
disarray of cups and plates.

"I'll dream about tea to-night." Her hands met disconsolately in her
lap.

"I suppose there was a lot of it," Ewing replied sympathetically.

"Why do they do so many insane things here?" demanded the girl. "They're
always at something. Town is tiresome."

"But don't you live here?"

"Dear no! I went to live with mamma's sister up in New Hampshire when I
was small, after mamma died. There was no one here to raise me. And now
that I'm raised they want me back, but I shy at things so--dad says I'm
not city broke. I shall hold off another year before I get into this
sort of thing--" She waved an ably disparaging hand toward the backs of
several unsuspecting people who lingered. Then she looked up to meet his
laugh and laughed prettily with him. The two had found common ground by
some freemasonry of the shy.

"Does it seem like a play to you, too?" he asked; "everyone playing a
part and making you wonder how it's coming out?"

"Well"--she debated--"I used to have that, when I was at school and came
here for holiday times. I was always expecting great things to happen
then. But they never did. You'll be disappointed if you expect them.
Everybody rides down Broadway in the morning and back again at night,
and they make such a fuss about it that you think something worth while
is coming off, but it doesn't. _I_ know." She achieved this with an air
of mellowed cynicism that almost won his respect.

"But things _must_ happen where there's so much life," he insisted.

"You're very young, aren't you?" she retorted. "Quite a boy, I should
think. Sister said so. You'll see, though. It isn't one bit more a
happening life than ours up at Kensington. Yours must have been the
happening life, there in the West. Tell me about Clarence. Is he a real
cowboy yet? He says he's a real one, but I couldn't believe it. Those I
saw in the Wild West show looked as if they'd had to study it a long
time. Can Clarence lasso a wild cow yet?" She leaned toward him with
friendly curiosity. They were amazed half an hour later when they looked
up to find Mrs. Laithe standing by them, the only other occupant of the
room.

"You must come oftener," urged Mrs. Laithe. Her sister gave him her hand
with a grip that made him wonder at its force.

He pushed through the evening crowd of Broadway, pleasantly reviewing
his talk with the girl. At Forty-second Street it occurred to him that
this was the first time he had walked the street unconscious of its
throng. He had been self-occupied, like most of its members.

But the girl, he reflected, would go away. The friend, the near one, to
take and give, man or woman, was still to be found.




CHAPTER XIV

THE TRICK OF COLOR


The men of the Rookery toiled, in the season of toil, with that blithe
singleness of purpose they brought to their play. Ewing learned this the
following morning when, after an hour in his own place, correcting some
of those hasty first arrangements, he began an idling tour of the other
studios. These occupied the two upper floors of the building, those
beneath flaunting signs of trade on the ground-glass doors one passed in
the long climb from the street.

From Baldwin's studio--Baldwin was sketching in from the model a
kneeling Filipino prisoner with head thrown back and hands bound behind
him--Ewing descended to Chalmers's place to find its owner finishing,
with many swift pen strokes, the filmy gown of a débutante who underwent
with downcast eyes the appraisal of an elderly beau. This absorbed and
serious Chalmers was so unlike the frivolous night bird who reviled his
art editor that Ewing forbore to distract him.

Griggs, in the studio back of Chalmers, was soberly work-bent over the
wash-drawing of a sword fight, an illustration for what he confided to
Ewing was the latest "high boots and hardware novel."

"One lovely thing," explained the artist, "they all take the same
pictures--the plighted troth in the château garden; the lone hero
spitting eight low-browed mercenaries of the scoundrelly duke at the
end of the blind passage; 'nother fight on the main stairway of the
palace, girl in view back of the hero, who's still acting the village
cut-up with his little rapier; and the last picture, reward of hero in
front parlor of the château, my Lord the Cardinal standing by to bless
the happy pair, and the wicked Duke Bazazas being dragged out by loyal
serving men to be finished off in the woodshed. The caption for that one
always is, 'At Last, My Darling!' I just glance along the proofs until I
light on those scenes. It saves a lot of reading, and I think of getting
a set of rubber stamps to do the pictures with."

"You seem to be all black-and-white men here," remarked Ewing. "Aren't
any of you painters? I've thought I'd like to work in color--to learn
the trick of it."

Griggs glanced up at him, then smiled largely.

"The trick of color, eh? Sure! There's a boy upstairs next door to
you--old Pop Sydenham. I'll take you up now, but don't let him hear you
call it 'the trick of color.' Pop has been at that trick for over a
century now--I believe he's a hundred and nineteen years old to-morrow.
He's got a darned refined sense of color, too. I guess he's seen every
color in the world, except some of those he puts on his own canvases.
Some of those I don't believe he ever saw anywhere else. But Pop's worth
knowing if you're keen to paint. He's a whole Art Students' League in
himself. Come on, he'll be proud to have you notice him."

Wiping his hands neatly on his jacket--plainly a long-established custom
with him--Griggs led the way to a room across the hall from Ewing's. He
opened the door in answer to a call and pushed Ewing in before him.
Sydenham leaned back on his stool to peer at them around the corner of
his easel.

He was an old man, as Griggs had said. White hair fell in sparse locks
over his ears, and his short, roughly pointed beard was scant enough to
reveal sunken cheeks. But the face was tanned to a wholesome brown, and
the eyes that glanced over his gold-rimmed spectacles were full of fresh
good-humor. He nodded to Griggs and clambered down from his stool to
greet Ewing.

"He's a line man now," announced Griggs after the introduction, "but
some busybody has gone and told him that there's such a thing as real
color. Of course I don't pretend to know myself, but I told him you did.
He's your neighbor on this floor. Run in often and make yourselves at
home with each other," he concluded cordially. "I must hurry back and
finish a fight."

"May I look?" asked Ewing, his eyes running about the room to the many
canvases.

"My summer's work is there--Look? yes; but I can't promise what you'll
see. You bring your own eyes. I can't make eyes, too. If I only could--"
He spoke with a slow, soft gentleness, his blue eyes half shut and
dreamily distant. As Ewing turned to study a landscape leaning against
the wall on a table near by, the painter climbed to his stool and twined
his thin legs confusingly among its supports. Then facing his canvas and
working a brush into the color on his palette he continued:

"Line is a fact. Color is only a sensation. Anyone can prove line, but
to know color you must have imagination. If you lack that and do have a
gift for humorous abuse you can be an art critic and make quite a bit
of money, I'm told." He had begun to paint as he talked. He spoke with
the same slow gentleness, even when a hint of seasoned bitterness
betrayed itself.

One close look at the sketches about him had made Ewing rejoice that his
own paintings were safe with Ben Crider. He studied the canvases before
him with pleasure and dismay: wooded hills, grassy meadows, a park slope
with a single birch; mist rising over a marsh; a country road narrowing
into a blaze of sumach. They showed plainly enough, he thought, that
color must be conveyed rather by implication than by blunt directness,
and there, he felt, had been his own great blunder. He had been brutally
direct.

Some of the pictures before him left him wanting a sharper definition of
line, a more explicit modeling of surface, a treatment less timid, and
the color itself, though it never failed to interest him, often puzzled
or even irritated. He sought for words to disclose what he felt, his
admiration for some of the sketches, his doubt or his rank disbelief as
to others. But the old man suddenly swept the half-formed sentences from
his mind.

A crash of falling furniture had resounded from the room of Dallas,
forward on their own floor. From the studios below came other crashes,
the noise of falling bodies, and a ringing, metallic clangor. Sydenham
had paused at the first crash, then skipped nimbly from his stool,
shouting gleefully, "There goes Griggs's suit of armor!" Then, to
Ewing's amazement, he twitched the end of a cord that led to a high
mahogany sideboard, causing a cigar box, a copper kettle, and a heavy
volume of prints to fall with resoundings that must have carried to the
farthest studio. The old man faced him with the ecstatically deafened
look of a child amid exploding firecrackers. Then, as he discerned
Ewing's startled look, he explained:

"It's only a way the boys have every day at one o'clock. That Baldwin
boy started it by upsetting a musket and a brace of cavalry sabers. Then
Griggs followed with his armor. Then they all got to joining in. The
Chalmers boy pulls over his easel, and I understand there's been a
complaint from the people below; but it leaves us feeling rather
friendly, you know, and we're sure it's time to eat." He looked at Ewing
as if seeking to justify his complicity in so childish a performance.
And Ewing, reading the look, helped him to reload his sideboard for the
next day's disturbance. The copper kettle, book and cigar box--the
latter containing half a dozen lumps of coal--were replaced on a thin
board to which the string was attached.

Sydenham had meantime taken food from a curtained cabinet and was
munching before his easel. He waved the freedom of his larder to Ewing.
"There's bread and half a chicken, and pickles. There used to be ham,
but I forget if it's there yet. Anyway, it wasn't the most expensive
ham. I can't lose daylight by running out. The light changes while I
eat. I'm no Joshua. What did Griggs say of you--crazy boy, that Griggs.
Doing black and white, eh? Show me."

Ewing had helped himself to the bread and meat, and the two, eating
casually, crossed the hall to his own room. His drawings were at hand
and Sydenham looked at them as he munched, pausing critically now and
then, a bit of bread midway to his mouth.

"Not bad, not bad! If you can do that well you ought to do better. But
too many of you boys quit when you've learned to do something you can
sell. It's respectable, of course, but shoemakers do as much, and you've
no right to call yourselves artists for it. I'm afraid there isn't
anything made in the world that some one won't buy. And people _know_ if
their boots fit them, or if their bread is good, but they buy pictures
in the dark. There wouldn't be so many men calling themselves painters
if the public wasn't a better judge of sawed lumber or iron castings
than it is of pictures. Where did you study?"

"My father taught me drawing. He warned me to learn that first."

"Father, eh? Well--" His eyes rose from the drawings, ranged along the
top of the couch, to the portrait of Ewing's mother, hung between the
two windows, and the speech died on his lips. He stepped back, bit into
a reserve slice of bread and waved an inquiring chicken bone toward the
picture.

"My mother," explained Ewing. "My father painted it."

Sydenham's jaw fell, and looking again at the portrait he muttered some
low, swift phrase of bewilderment. Ewing waited for him to speak, but
the old man only stared.

"It has good color, don't you think?" he ventured at last, but even the
mention of color could not move Sydenham to speech. He absently consumed
the remainder of his food and flicked crumbs from his frayed jacket.

"You look like her," he said at last, with so much the air of speaking
to himself that Ewing made no answer. He moved toward the door with
bowed head. At the threshold he looked back at Ewing a brief moment,
then went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Ewing decided that his neighbor was a curious old man. Recalling other
curious people he had met in this strange new world, he was reminded of
the lady who had urged him to call on her. He was still ready to believe
that anyone might wish to talk to him, or to hear him talk. But in spite
of this, the old lady had been queer. From the table he picked up the
card she had given him, studying the name and wondering what they might
talk about.

He was still feeling this mild wonder when he rang the lady's bell at
five o'clock.




CHAPTER XV

FLESH OF HER FLESH


Two persons had waited for Ewing. Mrs. Lowndes was one of them, sitting
forward in her chair and braced on its arms, though her head dropped now
and then in forgetfulness. The other was a big, shambling old man, a
dark man gone gray, his face needing the kindly, yellowish-brown eyes to
save it from sternness. His thickets of eyebrows were joined in a
half-humorous scowl of perplexity.

"I had to send for you, Fred. You and Herbert Sydenham are the only two
left who were close to me then, and Herbert Sydenham--well--" she
laughed a laugh of exquisitely humorous pain--"Herbert would have
forgotten me any time these twenty years for a striking color scheme, a
streak of unpaintable moonshine. It was you, Fred, or no one, and it
hurt me so! All last night I was on the rocks being ground to bits. I
knew you would say the wise thing."

The big man had risen to walk the floor, his thick shoulders heaving as
if to throw off invisible burdens, his head shaking doggedly.

"Yes, Kitty, yes--" His voice was big but low, the voice of his whole
being bent to soothe. He came to her side and reached down to take one
of the frail, blue-veined hands between his own two, huge and hairy.
They closed upon hers with a kind of awkward effectiveness.

"Of course you had to come to me, but I'm afraid all I can do is to
brace you."

"I wanted you to be with me. I couldn't have borne it alone, Fred--his
being here--Kitty's child."

"And you say he doesn't know?"

"I'm certain of it, and Eleanor Laithe doesn't know; but those are
little things when I know."

"We'll see, Kitty--we'll see. Perhaps I can help. But I suspect it's one
of those matters where you must be your own guide. You'll act as you
feel; not as I think--not even as you think."

"Ellen is going to the door," she whispered, almost fiercely, bracing
herself in the chair.

As the maid held back the curtain at the doorway, Ewing advanced
uncertainly, an embarrassed smile on his lips, the look of one who would
be agreeable if he knew how. He saw Mrs. Lowndes stiffly fixed in her
chair, her white-crowned head thrown back, and he would have taken her
hand but she diverted him from this.

"Mr. Ewing, my old friend, Dr. Birley."

Her voice was no longer halting and shallow, as it had been the moment
before when her barriers were down. Ewing swiftly confirmed his
impression of the previous day: this was a lady of immeasurable pride, a
one-time beauty who perhaps treasured the authority her charms had once
conferred upon her, wielding it with little old-fashioned graces. She
seemed to him at the moment to be an almost excessively mannered person,
interesting, but unapproachable.

He stopped on his way to her chair and shook hands with the big man, who
had come forward. This person was quite as formidable as the curious old
lady, but he was eminently kind of look.

"Sit here, Mr. Ewing." He indicated a chair.

"I asked you to come and see me--" The old lady had begun in low, even
tones, but paused, and Ewing was again struck by this seeming of
agitation which had made him remark her the day before.

"Mrs. Lowndes was interested to hear of your life in the West," said the
big man easily, "and she was good enough to ask me to meet you also. We
were both interested in knowing of you from the Bartells."

"There is so much we do not understand here in New York," put in Mrs.
Lowndes, rather vaguely, Ewing thought. He looked from one to the other.
The lady puzzled him, but the big man drew him from his embarrassment,
helping him to an ease which he could hardly have achieved with his
hostess alone.

Without knowing quite how he began he was presently talking.
Unconsciously he directed his speech to the man, who kept kind eyes on
him and led him by questions when he paused. He was aware that the woman
listened and that her eyes searched his face, but he divined, without
meeting them, that they were more curious than kind, and several times,
as she moved in her chair, he seemed to feel sharp little points of
hostility radiating toward him.

But the big man drew him more and more from the consciousness of her
presence, so that he all but forgot her. It seemed entirely natural to
him that he should be telling this friendly inquirer of his early life,
the first memories of his father and mother, and of the queer, shifting
home they had known. As he told of the death of his mother--both
listeners had seemed strangely alert for that--he was startled by a
sound from the lady--a catching of breath and a gasp of pain. He turned
quickly, but observed only a stiffly courteous gesture bidding him
continue.

He stopped in confusion, feeling that a strange quiet had come upon the
room. The questions from the big man had ceased, and the woman drooped
in her chair until he could no longer distinguish her outline through
the deepening dusk. Nor was there any sound when his own voice ceased.
Neither figure stirred. He was oppressed by the awkwardness of it.

"I should have pulled up," he said, with an uneasy laugh. "I forgot I
wasn't on a lone road."

There was still no sign from the woman, shrunk far into her chair, but
the doctor rose at his speech with a half-muttered, "We're obliged to
you." Ewing rose at the same time, with an impulse to break some strain
that he felt himself sharing. The doctor reached out in the dusk and
turned on an electric light that hung above the table, looking quickly
at Mrs. Lowndes as he did so, for there had come from her a murmur of
protest at the light. Ewing also looked at her from where he stood on
the hearth rug. The lighting of the room had intensified some electrical
current that pulsed from each to each. The woman returned Ewing's gaze
with the absorption of one moved beyond all arts of convention. Her eyes
glistened, ominous of tears, and her small, lean chin trembled as her
lips parted. Ewing turned from her distress, appealing by look to the
big man, who watched them both, but his gaze was at once drawn back to
the woman. She rose from her chair with weak effort and faced him with
something like wild impulse rather than intention, a look, a waiting
poise, that shook him with fear of the unknown.

Slowly she brought her hands to a wringing clasp at her breast. Her
eyes were frankly wet now as she leaned and peered at him, holding him
immovable. Twice her lips parted with dry little gasps, her hands
working as if to ring the words from her choked throat.

"My boy!" It was so low that without the look of her lips as they shaped
the words he could not have been sure.

"My boy--oh, my boy!" This time they were sharper though no louder, and
Ewing's nerves tingled an alarm that ran to the roots of his hair. She
came a half step toward him, and he felt that he was drawing her,
divined that in another moment she would be throwing herself upon him in
surrender to some emotional torrent that raged within her. He was
powerless under this sudden, strange assault. Dumbly he watched her,
closer now by another step, the clasped hands, fighting blindly toward
him, with little retreats to her breast, her dry lips again shaping the
words, "My boy--my boy!"

And then, even as his own arms were half extended with an instinctive
saving movement--for the woman seemed about to totter--the stillness was
broken by quick steps along the hall, the rattle of curtain rings along
a rod, and the voice of the maid:

"Mr. Teevan, ma'am!"

There had been an instinctive wrenching asunder of the three at the
first sound of steps. Yet traces of the stress under which they had
labored were still evident to Randall Teevan as he entered. Mrs. Lowndes
had turned to search among the magazines on the table--not before the
little man had swept her with a comprehending eye flash.

Ewing, pleasantly delivered from a situation that had grown irksome, a
situation rising from what he considered the too-ready sympathy of an
emotional old woman, allowed his relief full play in the heartiness of
his response to Teevan's greeting. The doctor had squared his shoulders
to another pacing of the room.

Teevan, missing no item of the drama he had interrupted, chose for
himself the rôle of blind unconsciousness. So well did he enact this
that Mrs. Lowndes was convinced, and the belief aided her to recover a
proper equanimity. The doctor surveyed the new actor with a skeptic
keenness not so readily to be overcome.

One glance at Ewing's perturbed but mystified face assured Teevan that
the climax of exposure had not been reached. He bustled amiably about
the room, kissing the hand of Mrs. Lowndes, shaking the hand of the
doctor, straightening a picture on the wall, and, at last, lighting a
cigarette as he faced the room from his favorite post on the hearth rug.

"I ran in for a moment to see how my lady prospered," with a graceful
wave of the expiring match toward Mrs. Lowndes, "and all is well. I find
her holding court to youth and age, to wit and wisdom, all of which she
combines graciously in her own person. She is looking weary, perhaps,
but rejoiced. Gentlemen, you have served her well. Doubtless our young
friend here, Mr.--Ah, yes, Mr. Ewing--has talked enchantingly. I've had
an art evening with him myself." He bestowed a glance of benevolent
approval on Ewing, who smiled in return.

"By the way, my lady, I've sent you a brace of birds that lived their
little span of woods life between last spring and yesterday. Ah, but
they came to a fluent richness of body, brown and plump and tender as
first love, and tanged with autumn spices--so blessed be the piece that
brought them low. Doctor, you'd dissect them for their nerve centers or
the intricacies of their bone structure, but I find them admirable in
all aspects. They rejoice my scientific soul even as they lure my carnal
man. Isn't it Duceps, the falconer, friend of old Izaak, who speaks of
birds that both feed and refresh man--'feed him with their choice
bodies, and refresh him with their heavenly voices'? There was a normal
person, now--not one-sided."

The atmosphere cleared of its cloud wrack as his speech flowed, marked
by pointings of the small, crisp mustache and gracious little pauses of
appeal to each of the listeners in turn.

From edible songsters he progressed to the cooking of these, and thence
to speech on the art of cooking at large. There were pessimists, it
seemed, to bemoan the day when a _maître d'hôtel_ would die rather than
outlive the dishonor of his master's table, as when Vatel stabbed
himself because the fish for one of Condé's dinners failed to arrive on
time--proving, as Savarin observed, that the fanaticism of honor could
exist in the kitchen as well as in the camp. But in the opinion of the
speaker these were pinchbeck heroics. Vatel would have been the truer
Frenchman, certainly the better _chef_, if, instead of wreaking a messy
violence on himself in his master's kitchen, he had contrived an
_entrée_ to replace the missing fish. And we should remember, too, that
the French, good cooks as they are, have but elaborated an art for the
germinal principals of which they are indebted to Italian genius. Italy
first saw the revival of cookery as she first saw the revival of
learning. The land of Savarin lay in darkness until light was brought by
those incomparable artists in the train of Catharine de Medicis. One
might recall how Montaigne was captivated in the land of Horace by the
weighty manner of the _chef_ of Cardinal Caraffa in discoursing upon the
occultisms of his art. The Italians even then held the thing hardly
second to theology.

The little man here permitted a pause in which he discarded his
cigarette and readjusted the carnation in his lapel, with a sniff at its
spiciness. Then he turned graciously to Ewing.

"But I must be off--time races so in this little nook! If you're
stepping on, Mr.--Ah, yes--Ewing, to be sure--if you're leaving, I shall
be glad to join you as far as the avenue. My dutiful love, lady, and to
you, doctor, that virtue which superstition ascribes to your pellets.
The word 'health' could never have been coined by the healthy, could it?
I dislike to use the word baldly."

Ewing rose, glad of the exit thus provided. It was kind of people to
concern themselves about his affairs, but he wished they could be less
peculiar. He bowed to Mrs. Lowndes and shook hands with the doctor. He,
at least, was understandable.

When they had gone the old lady faced her friend with a calmness that
surprised him.

"Fred, what sorry, what terrible things can make us young again! I feel
now as I felt that other night--just at this hour so many years
ago--when I knew she'd gone--knew she'd gone."

"He's Kitty's boy." The big man fronted her as if for a feat of
persuasion.

"Don't, Fred! I've just weathered that point. I was weak, but
Randall--Randall saved me. He's dreadful, Fred, unnatural,
impossible--oh, terribly impossible!" She faced him dauntlessly, her
cheeks glowing with faint spots of color.

"I liked him, Kitty. He seems----"

"You're a physician, accustomed to monstrosities. He's something we
don't speak of, my friend. And see--you _must_ see--what he would suffer
if he knew."




CHAPTER XVI

TEEVAN AS SPECIAL PROVIDENCE


Ewing was delighted by an invitation from the little man to dine. They
had reached the avenue after walking in silence through a side street.
Such moments were rare with Teevan. Not often did he fail of speech,
even in his periods of calculation. But this was a moment requiring nice
adjustments. The suggestion about dinner came as they paused at the
corner.

"If you'd like to have me I'd be mighty glad," responded Ewing.

They turned toward Ninth Street, and Ewing told of his hour at Mrs.
Lowndes', scarce conscious of Teevan's questioning, for the little man
probed with an air of discreet condolence that would have won a far more
reticent talker. Ewing was gratified by this attention from a man who
knew the world of cities, and whose mind must usually be occupied with
affairs of importance. He felt himself drawn to Teevan by bonds of
sympathy that tightened momentarily.

"My dear mother-in-law is a sentimental thing," the little man confessed
with a delicate intimation of apology. "She makes any sad tale her own.
The theater affects her, the woes of stage creatures, quite as you tell
me your own very human little story did. My arrival must have saved you
from one of her rather absurd manifestations. She's a dear old soul,
with quantities of temperament, but she recovers with amazing facility,
I'm bound to say. If you met her to-morrow she'd likely freeze you with
a nod."

Ewing was not sorry to hear this, though he thought it hardly polite to
say so.

When they reached the house in Ninth Street Teevan ushered in his guest
with a charming hospitality.

"Come to the library. The man will bring you an _aperitif_ while I
escape from this accursed frock coat. Not a word about your own dress! I
took you as you were--but a jacket for me, if you'll pardon it." A
servant entered in answer to his ring.

"Sherry and bitters, Farrish, and Mr. Ewing will dine with us. Is my son
in?"

"Mr. Alden is dining out, sir."

"All the better, my boy. We shall be the chummier for Alden's absence.
Make the house yours while I change. There are the evening papers; or
perhaps you'll be interested by those cabinet bits--jades and scarabs
and junk of that sort; a few fairish pieces of Greek glass--that Tanagra
isn't bad, nor those Limoges enamels. The netsukes and sword guards are
rather good Japanese bits, and there are one or two exquisite etchings
on ivory--_un instant, n'est-ce pas?_"

Ewing lay back in his chair and sipped the sherry when it came. His
enjoyment of the room's ensemble was too nearly satisfying to require
examination of it by detail. It was a room of discreet and mellowed
luxury, with an air of jaunty ripeness that distinguished its composer.
The chairs solicited, the walls soothed, the broken light illumined
perfectly without dazzling. He was thrilling agreeably to his host's
evident interest in him when the latter returned, beaming with a smile
of rare good-fellowship.

They were presently at table in a dining room whose plain old mahogany
and thin silver produced, like the library, an impression of finished
luxury without flaunt. The dinner itself possessed an atmosphere of
sophistication, a temperament, even. It sated the exigent appetite of
Ewing--his luncheon with Sydenham had been a mere adventure in
meagerness--and sated without cloying, but it was more than food to him.
As he ate, and drank of a burgundy whose merit he was ill qualified to
appraise, he was conscious of a real fascination growing within him for
the man who favored him with so distinguished a notice; who talked,
seemingly, with the same nice care to please him that he would have
exercised for a tableful of more difficult guests.

Nor did Teevan lack the parts of a listener. Ewing found himself talking
much and enjoyably. With so tactful a listener, so good a friend, it was
no longer necessary to remember that he was new in this land and
unknowing of its smaller ways. It occurred to him, indeed, as he
reviewed this memorable evening, that he had talked more than his host.
But he was spared the youthful blush at this by remembering that he had
been questioned persistently--"toled," as Ben would have said, with
baits of inquiry. Incredible as it seemed, Teevan wished him to talk and
had neatly made him do so. He felt that the little man must know him
through and through. He had been, of course, a book in large print and
short words, but he was flattered to believe that Teevan had found him
worth opening.

And now he was certain he had discovered the longed-for friend; one soul
had come from the oblivious throng to touch his own, to call him out and
speak him fair. He was companioned by one as likable as he was learned,
by one who meant, it was intimated, to seek every opportunity to
befriend him.

And the need of such a friend became more and more apparent to Ewing as
they sat in the library after dinner over coffee and liqueurs. It was
brought upon him that he had never known his own rashness in braving so
difficult a world with so modest an equipment. The tragedy of failure
was a commonplace in the little man's experience. So many young dreamers
like his guest were rejected after bitter trials. It was an
inconsequential world, whose denizens chased butterflies and too often
permitted sober worth to perish by the wayside.

At times during the evening Ewing had feared a return of that
distressing malady to which his host was subject, but this he was
happily spared.

When he took a reluctant leave it was with two emotions: a fervent
liking for the wise man who had so generously befriended him, and doubt
of himself, the first he had known. It came like an icy blast out of
summer warmth and shine.

Teevan listened for the door to close on his guest. When he heard this
he sank into his chair and chuckled gaspingly. Presently he drank a
glass of brandy, smiled in remembering pleasure, lighted a cigarette,
and took his post on the hearth rug, his eyes dancing elfishly, his lips
moving.

His son found him so an hour later, for the little man was tireless even
when, lacking an audience, he merely dramatized his own reflections.
Seeing him to be familiarly engaged, Alden Teevan would have withdrawn
with a careless, half-contemptuous nod, but his father detained him with
a gesture, and a sudden setting of his face into purposeful hardness.

"Sit down." He looked into the hall, then closed the door and faced his
son. The latter regarded him with coolly impertinent interest.

"You'd make a ripping conspirator in a melodrama, Randy. What you going
to do now--steal the will?"

Teevan laughed grimly. He crossed back to the hearth rug and took a
fresh cigarette, which he lighted with studious deliberation. His words
followed swiftly upon the first exhalation of smoke, and his eyes
fastened venomously on his son's.

"I'll give you a morsel to jest with--conspirator, indeed!--yes, and a
will. See if that facile wit of yours is up to it, my bonny stripling."
He played with his moment, drawing on the cigarette with leisurely
relish, and gazing into the smoke with eyes of an absorbed visionary.

"Well?" The young man yawned ostentatiously.

"You missed dining with your brother this evening. He was good enough to
break bread at my table."

The young man took a cigarette from the lacquered bowl at his side and
lighted it with the same deliberation his father had shown.

"Really? I didn't know you had another son."

"Thank God I haven't--but your mother had, and that precious sniveling
grandmother of yours has another grandson. You might recall that when
you chatter of melodrama--and wills. I believe her estate is not one
you'd care to divide."

"What rot are you gibbering with those monkey airs of yours?"

"Delicate as ever in your raillery! Perhaps you think I'm drunk. Perhaps
I am. But I dropped in on your grandmother this afternoon in time to
prevent her clasping that nameless whelp to her breast. A lovely bit I
spoiled, my merry-andrew!--tears and fondlings to-night, a codicil
to-morrow. I'm none too sure there'd have been a codicil, though.
Likelier a new will--'give, devise, and bequeath the sum of one dollar
to my grandson Alden Teevan, who has already wheedled me out of more
than was good for him, and the residue of my estate, both real and
personal, to my beloved grandson, Gilbert Denham Ewing----'"

"Ewing! That chap Nell Laithe brought back with her--that rustic
lout----"

"Have I won your attention, lad? Another item I chance to recall--permit
me, since you've mentioned the lady's name--have you caught the look of
her eye as it rests upon the creature--how it follows him, runs to him,
hangs upon him with sweet tenacity? Have you felt the glow in her voice
as she speaks to him? A woman of the world, young, tender, romantic,
stormed by this Galahad of the hills, who first wins her solicitude by
his helplessness, and then, before the lady quite knows it, coerces her
whole being by sheer masculine dominance. Ah, you haven't read
that--only enough of it to puzzle you, perhaps enrage you. You haven't
your father's eyes. I read it all in three glances: one at him and two
at her. Decidedly, you've not your father's eyes."

"Nor his love of many words. So that's the son of my mother, of the
woman who failed to adore you after a brief but heroic effort?"

"Likewise, I dare say, the lover of a woman who will henceforth fail to
appraise you at anything like your extraordinary worth. Such blind
things they are, eh, my boy? She regards the two of you superficially,
_bien entendu_, and hence to your prejudice. There's a likeness between
you, the same cast of face, even a likeness of voice, and your noses are
identical--the nose of that woman--but the differences are all in his
favor. You have grace of a drawing-room sort, a certain boudoir polish
of manner, but his face is fresher, kinder, quicker of sympathy, more
compelling, and there's that out-of-doors look in his eye, the look of
readiness and power. You know what that sort of strength means with the
pretty animals."

"You speak bitterly--but then, you've competed with that sort."

"My unhappy infant! You'd at least have found a barren sort of dignity
in actual competition. As it is----"

"You got her by a trick, I've heard, from the man who took her away from
you when she'd found you out."

"Tell that to your grandmother--it may help you out of some money."

"Stop it, governor! I'll quit if you will. Come!" He spoke with a drop
of the voice, and lifted a hand in appeal.

"When you like--I've wasted no words."

"It's true, all you've said? Grandmother knows?"

"Thirty seconds later and I'd have had to bless the pair."

"And now?"

"It's safe for the present. She forgot. She'll remember to-morrow. I'd
trust him back there then. She'd see only an obscene excrescence."

"It's a pleasant situation!"

"It's hellish! Can you imagine _my_ feelings? You've touched on them
with your graceful, filial banter."

"What will you do?"

"'What will you do?'" He mimicked the other with a snarl. "Well, I begin
by having him to dine. I study him, I win him. I have him now. He will
dine with me other times. I'm not so sure he won't come to reverence me.
Oh, it's an ideal situation! Damn it! How they fall! _We_ couldn't
contrive them half so cunningly. The fool hath said in his heart 'There
is no God'--a fool, indeed! There is a God, and He has a devil in Him,
or He couldn't have given me this to play out. I have him, I tell you,
her son and his son, think of it--her lover's son that they both
loved--served up to me!"

"What can you do with him?"

"_Do_ with him?" The elder man eyed his son for a long minute, then
dropped into a chair, and for an interval the young man pursued his
rather uncomfortable reflections in silence. At last he broke this with
another query. As there was no response, and his father's face was
turned away, he rose and sauntered in front of him. The eyes met his
musingly, and he saw that the mouth was fixed in a rather hideous
smile.




CHAPTER XVII

AN ELUSIVE VENUS


The days that followed were marked for Ewing with a puzzling
discouragement; puzzling, because there had been no failure. A failure
would have left him reliant, however battered, but nothing good had been
disproved. He was fighting some black doubt of himself, insidiously
nursed, he knew not how.

His friend, Randall Teevan, almost an intimate since the night they
dined together, daily predicted great works of him. Where the careless
picture makers of the Rookery were content with assurances that he could
turn out marketable "stuff," Teevan showed him far and lofty eminences
that he might scale, had he a spirit for the feat.

Undoubtedly there were obstacles that would daunt a less spirited
novice, or one with less than the supreme powers of his young friend,
but he, the intrepid, the enduring one, could surmount them. The danger
in this time of 'prenticeship, Teevan suggested, was sluggish content
with a cheap facility. The tyro learns to do a thing that sells, and
remains commercially solvent but, spiritually, an example of arrested
development--artistically dead.

He left Ewing at these times with a sense of his present futility, but
also with a genial pity for the men who were doing things to sell--and
selling them; all unconscious of the remote, the vacant summits, of
true art. A little while before he would have rejoiced that his work
could appear beside the work of these men. That would have been a
triumph glorious enough. But he could no longer desire so mean a
success. He must strive for the higher things, if for no other reason,
because this fastidious critic expected him to accomplish them. He could
not affront that captious taste with things done for a dollar. Teevan,
it seemed, had found life wearing on his dearest illusions. Contact with
the world had left him little to believe in. Yet he confessed to believe
in Ewing; confessed it with a shamed, humorous _naívetée_, and with
pleasant half doubts, as a man of tried unbelief laying a bed to fall
back on at his next undeceiving.

Ewing was fired to high resolve by this witty, this tender betrayal of
confidence in his powers. He could not bear to think that his friend
should one day find him, too, a bit of specious insincerity. He
consecrated himself to guard this last illusion. It was a pleasure, a
duty, and an ambition whose rewards would magnify them both.

The hill boy no longer yearned solitary in the crowd for a day with Ben
Crider, or perhaps an evening with him of little easy silences. Teevan
filled his needs. In some sort the little man became his idol; a
constant presence before which every act of his days must be judged.
Teevan was a smiling but inexorable arbiter of his destiny: a judge
humane but incorruptible, a man experienced in the obliquities of human
nature, but never tolerant of these.

Teevan showed him pictures, the work of masters, piloting him through
galleries with instructive comment. Ewing instinctively felt the
accuracy of his taste, and divined the soundness of his technical
knowledge. Often he overlooked a blemish of bad drawing till Teevan
pointed it out. Often Teevan defined to his eye some masterly bit of
lining in a picture otherwise hopeless. And of color, that splendid
mystery, thing of trick and passion, the little man discoursed with rare
sanity.

After these provings of his expertness, Ewing was humble when Teevan
chose to point out the more striking deficiencies of his own work. If
Teevan made him feel that he must unlearn the vicious little he knew, he
performed the duty with a tact that left the youth as large with
gratitude as with discouragement. It was by Teevan's counsel that he
went to the school. The men of the Rookery tried to dissuade him from
that.

"They can't give you anything you haven't got," warned Baldwin. "And if
you don't act stubborn they may spoil what you have. You've learned your
A B C's, and they'll only tell you at the school to learn them another
way. They'll make you feel like a clumsy ass. Stay away."

Well-meant advice, but superficial, as Teevan observed when he heard of
it.

"Your friend confirms what I suspected," he went on, with a pleasant
glint in his eyes. "Those chaps would have you become a decent hack on
the pitiful facility you've already acquired. Pitiful, mark me, as
compared with your capacity. But I've learned to expect little in this
world of weak purpose. I dare say you won't endure it long at the
school. I grant you a fortnight there; then you'll tell me you give up."

He began his lessons at the League next day, fired with intent to
please his friend. He would fail, yes--fail seventy times seven, but he
would stand up.

He went, however, a little weighed down by the memory of his various
advisers. From the entrance he was directed above by an official-looking
person who yawned. Then he found himself in one of many cramped,
stall-like compartments, facing a plaster woman who crouched on one
knee. His position was between two youths who were annoyed by his
nearness. When he edged from the glowering of one the other nudged his
drawing board with an indignant elbow. There was no retreat, for the
students were packed closely about him. The one behind him made
disparaging remarks about the dimensions of his back, which seemed
unkind, considering that he did not hesitate to use the back from time
to time as an easel.

The air was hot and thick with charcoal dust. The crowded disorder
confused him. He tried to think only of the cast. He began at the head,
as was his custom, and felt a moment's exhilaration in studying the
delicate shadows beneath the filleted curls.

He was aroused by sounds of derision from behind, and ominous prophecies
of what "Old Velvet" would do to him when he caught sight of that
pompadour. He observed then that the other men were not working at the
head first, but mapping out the entire figure at once with long, raking,
angular lines that blocked the shadows in square masses. He half rose
and looked about. They were all working alike, with their drawing boards
far out, and with blunt charcoal. He had spent half an hour sharpening
his, and had hugged his drawing board.

He sat down again, impelled by protests from behind and drew the entire
figure, but he could not bring himself to do it in those rude angles. He
drew it with a single line--down the curving flank, about the gracious
knees, skirting the feet, and up once more to round the farther shoulder
that drooped above the nestling breast. Although he did not know it,
this was a feat; the swing of the body was almost perfect, yet he had
not skirmished a moment.

The youth behind him was now peering through spectacles above his
shoulder.

"You're a queer duck!" he said; "but he'll make you do it his way. What
do you mean by drawing like that?"

"Why?" asked Ewing, confused. "Let's see yours."

The other exhibited. There was no outline, there were no gracious
curves, only a suggestion of angular shadows, scratched across with
brutal straightness. Yet, when Ewing squinted his eyes a bit the thing
stood out.

"Wait till I get _my_ shadows in," he said.

"Cart before the horse!" rejoined the critic. "I see your finish with
the old man."

Ewing started to lay in his shadows as the other had done, but it seemed
as if that delicate body appealed for gentler treatment. He rubbed out
the vandal lines and began swinging around the figure in the curving
strokes habitual with him, strokes that nursed each lovely rondure like
caresses. Then, until the closing hour, he polished, picking out the
precious little reflected lights that saved her treasures from shadow.

"Red ruin for you, my boy!" exclaimed the spectacled one behind him.
"Ravage and slaughter! Old Velvet will scalp you."

Ewing stood up, released by his neighbors, who now rose in a clatter of
toppled stools.

"What's the matter with it?" he asked.

"Finicky! You've _fussed_ it to death. Velvet will slay you for those
reflected lights alone--and your nice curly lines--oh, Lord!"

"But they're there, those lights," protested Ewing. "And it's the way
I've always drawn. I suppose there are different methods."

"There's only one way with Velvet, and that's Velvet's way." Then with a
damnatory waving-away of the offensive drawing he sauntered off to put
his stuff in his locker.

Ewing dined alone that night. He was in no mood for Teevan.

Back in his place next day, still incredulous of defeat so swift, he
waited for the master. He watched him going the rounds of the other
students, the light playing on the purple velvet of the garment that
gave him his title. His beard was a rich growth, his mustaches curled
upward at the ends, his large, heavy eyelids drooped in a perpetual
_ennui_. His usual criticism was a weary "Rub it out!"

When at last he stood beside Ewing's work he gave an effect of
collapsing, as if his whole being cried out: "This is too much!" He took
the drawing from the board and stuck it to the wall with two thumb
tacks. Then, picking up a bit of charcoal, he wrote across it, "A
perfect example of how not to do it."

He did not return to Ewing, but, after examining a few other drawings,
he turned to leave the room. As he passed, Ewing reached across two
neighbors--who protested--and caught the velvet jacket.

"Perhaps you can give me an idea," he said. The other looked at him as
if he had not seen him before.

"Use intelligence! Good God--use intelligence!" he almost wailed, and
made his escape.

Ewing mechanically placed a fresh sheet before him and began again, but
he rubbed out as fast as he drew. The next morning he found the paper
foul from many erasures, and started afresh. He could see now that his
first drawing, posted in irredeemable ignominy, was not all that it
should be. It lacked the freedom of work he had done in his solitude. He
tried to conjure back that old free feeling, but the days passed and it
drew farther away. Some of the students changed places and began on
other casts. The better men went every other week into the life class.
But Ewing stayed desperately by his crouching woman. He studied her
until he loved and loathed her. The master came and went. Sometimes he
ignored Ewing. When he did notice him it was always with a fresh blow on
the sunk heart of the boy. Once he sat in his place and ran some of his
own brusque, effective lines along the figure, the lines that every
other youth in the room punctiliously imitated. They mingled with
Ewing's strokes as a driving rain mingles with a bed of flowers.

"If you'd only give up your damned little way," he complained.

"I wish you'd explain a bit," pleaded the boy.

"Old Velvet" turned to the spectacled young man. "Give him your study.
There, do it like that."

Then came the beginning of the end. He lost himself in a crawling
blindness of imitation. The old power that had made him draw without
knowing how he did it gathered its splendid garments and withdrew as
mysteriously as it had once come to possess him. He drew, but he would
no longer have recognized what he did as the work of his own hand. He
thought of Griggs, who had said, "Style?--I'd know a scrap of your stuff
if I found it in an ash barrel in Timbuctoo!"

The thought of those friendly men knowing his degradation was another
stone on the grave of his self-esteem. It was this that made him wait
when the others had gone one night, to take down that first crucified
drawing from the wall where it had remained, torn and hanging by one
tack.

"Will you give it to me?" said a voice, and, as he did not care one way
or the other, the spectacled young man put it in his portfolio.
Afterwards Ewing thought of asking him why he wanted it, but he did not
come back again. He had been advanced to the life class.

The master did not speak to Ewing again. He made, at intervals as he
passed, the pantomime of rubbing out. And Ewing obeyed, beginning each
time the task that grew day by day more hatefully useless. In the
beginning he had felt that if he could get that plaster woman off by
himself he could draw her. The long habit of solitude had left him
confounded by the crowd. There had been something almost shameful to him
about drawing publicly, and he had the impulse to curl an arm about his
sketch to hide it a little as he worked. He felt sick with the hot, dry
air and the breathing of the stallful of men. When the door was opened
the odor of turpentine came from the room where they were painting. It
had for him a familiar, happy smell.

"I wish I could go in there," he said once to a fat youth beside him.

"That's what the dubs always say," was the reply. "It's so much easier
to paint."

He spent a day going around, looking at the better students' work,
asking them how they had learned to draw as "Old Velvet" wanted them to.
They had a great many things to say that sounded technical, but he heard
nothing that opened a way to him.

He hated the school; he hated the street that led to it, with a quiet
ground swell of hatred. But, deepest of all, he hated his own despair.
He felt that his shattered courage would never heal. He was like a
dishonored soldier whose sword has been publicly broken. He remembered
the fine things he had said to Teevan about his ambition, and the blush
that suffused him ached. At the thought of Mrs. Laithe bringing him from
his wild beast's hole, as if he had been worth her splendid faith, his
heart withered within him. At intervals he started as if he suddenly
awoke, saying to himself, "And to think it could have ended like this!"

At the end of a fortnight he sat for three days without doing anything,
a stick of charcoal in his hand. He did not come again, and his fat
neighbor used up his charcoal paper, after putting fine mustaches on all
his crouching Venuses.

He had shunned his acquaintances during this time of travail. But twice
had he seen Teevan since his first day at the League. He had tried to be
cheerful at those meetings, still hoping the lines would come right, but
he felt each time that Teevan saw straight to his wretched heart of
doubt; and he would not risk another meeting until he could report an
overwhelming victory--or defeat, if it must be so.

That he did not for a day forget his good friend, there was ample
testimony; though this was of a nature that Teevan must remain oblivious
to. On the night of the day that saw his first buffeting he walked the
streets until late, rejoicing mournfully that there were still so many
people who did not know his shame. Half unwittingly he wandered into
Ninth Street, and stood a long time opposite Teevan's house, finding a
solace in his friend's possible nearness. Then, as the days of defeat
followed with so deadly a sequence, this walk and vigil became his
nightly habit. Sometimes the house was darkened. Then he felt free to
gaze at it. Sometimes there were lights, and his survey was brief and
furtive. Until the very last there was always a bit of hope to spice the
melancholy of this adventure: to-morrow the thing might be done as they
all did it, the master be moved from blame to praise, and himself be
free to enter this street bravely, noisily, careless of recognition, to
tell how the big way had been opened. He had pictured the pleasure that
would light Teevan's face as he heard this tale of conquest.




CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. LAITHE IS IN


On the ultimate night of defeat Ewing walked as usual into Ninth Street
for his vigil before Teevan's house. He had come to a wall that must be
scaled. He could no longer believe in any chance way round it or
gracious opening through it. Teevan would have to be told, and he was
sorry for Teevan. The little man had believed so.

He scanned the starred strip of sky above him as if for words to renew
the faith of his friend. His eye ran along the house fronts opposite,
but they were blunt, uninspiring masses with shut doors and curtained
windows, houses turned away from him. He wished for another friend, less
exacting than Teevan, who would take defeat lightly. Then one of the
houses stood out familiarly, the Bartell house, with its generous width
and its hospitable white door. He had not cared to go there in his time
of suspense, but now he was overwhelmed with a sudden longing to see
Mrs. Laithe, to feel her friendliness and confide to her, perhaps, a
hint of his plight. At least he could look at her a little while, even
if he told her nothing.

He crossed the street quickly, walked toward the avenue until he reached
the marble steps, and rang the bell. It occurred to him dismally while
he waited that she might not be in; still worse, that there might be
people about who would keep him from her. It had been so most of the
few times he had called. There was always friendliness in the look she
gave him across those shoreless seas of talk, but too often there had
been little beside this look.

The man admitted him and was not sure if Mrs. Laithe was in; he would
see. Ewing strolled back to the soothing snugness of the library and
dropped on the couch. Even to be there alone was something: the room was
alive with her, and the restful quietness of it made him conscious all
at once of the long strain he had been under. Leaning his head back, he
shut his eyes in a sort of desperate surrender, letting the tragedy of
his failure swirl about him. But something from the woman he awaited
seemed to have flowed in upon him, healing his hurt with gracious little
reminders of her. He breathed a long sigh of relief, and for a moment
almost lost himself in unconscious rest. It was good to stop thinking.

It was thus she saw him as she came softly in, with scarce a silken
rustle. Her face, as she gazed, lost its look of welcome and ready
speech, for she saw all his anguish uncovered there before her. It was
in his young face, gaunt and jaded and bleached to the city pallor; in
the closed eyes, the folded lips; and in the body wearily relaxed. So
little life he showed, it seemed to her he might be sleeping, and again,
as at the other time, she was shaken by a rush of tenderness for
him--tenderness and fear, alike terrible.

She could not speak. She hovered a half step toward him, with a hand
instinctively up to shelter and cherish, her eyes wide with pity and a
great gladness. Poised so, she waited, breathless.

Though she had made no sound, he thrilled suddenly to the knowledge of
her presence, and his eyes opened to hers. They stared dully an instant,
then shone with a quick light that held her exposed and defenseless,
while he came to himself--for the first time in her presence--as a man.
Helpless to stay it, she watched this consciousness unfolding within
him, traced it lucidly from its birth to the very leaping of it from his
lips in a smothered cry of want unutterable.

So he held her with his look. Though every nerve warned her to flight,
she was powerless even when he started toward her, raising himself
slowly from the couch with his hands; her own hand even groped a little
toward him, blindly fighting its way into both his own. It turned and
nestled there, unreasoningly, warming itself, clasping and unclasping.
He towered above her--she had never felt herself so small, so frail as
now. His two hands fiercely smothered her own, and his eyes were on her
with a look she had never seen there, a look she could not face. It was
then that her tenderness was lost in fear of him, and she forced herself
to laugh. She laughed in the desperate knowledge that his rising arm
threatened her with some crushing, blinding enfoldment where no striving
would avail her--laughed with a little easy, formal grace.

He fell back dazed, scanning her in uncomprehending dismay as they stood
apart. Then he seemed to recover himself and smiled foolishly as she
moved to a chair.

"I'm so glad you came," she began with nervous quickness. He dropped
back on the couch, his eyes still on her--the man's eyes.

She endured the look, but she could not suppress the color she felt
rising in her face. It seemed to her that her strength must go if the
moment lasted a little longer. She knew now that in the weeks of his
absence she had longed for this look--for the fearful joy of it--and the
realization left her overpowered.

At last, to her relief, he muttered some conventional phrase of his own
pleasure in seeing her. But the look of the man still held her, an
implacable look. She felt that the shy, embarrassed boy in him was gone
forever. She had aged him all in a moment. There was something
splendidly ruthless in his gaze, and in place of the confusion she was
wont to wreak on him he showed a strange, dogged coolness.

"You've changed," he continued. "You're not well." The wondrous deep
alarm of his tone warmed her through and through. She murmured a
careless disavowal, and her low laugh, like the little comprehending
chuckle of a pleased child, banished from her face for a moment its
almost haggard set. But the face was flatly white again under the dark
of her hair, and the white gown defined her frailness and drooping, as
of some pale, long-stemmed flower fainting of languor in the still heat
of late summer.

"You are whiter than ever," he insisted, "whiter and finer. You are like
a white rose that is beginning to let its petals fall. You--you are
beyond anything now." She laughed helplessly, as people laugh at
something insupportable.

"You're going to tell me that people don't talk that way here," he went
on, with his old fling of the head, like that of a horse about to gallop
off, "but you understand me." He sighed, remembering his trouble for the
first time. "But you understand me," he repeated, with a wistful
attenuation of the words.

"Yes, I understand--everything," she said, seeing again the amazing
sadness in him. Her look seized all the dejection of his attitude, the
listless lean of his head, once upheld so gayly on the strong neck. She
had to exert her will not to go nearer to him. She turned away and
closed her eyes for a moment to shut him out, then opened them quickly
and began to berate him charmingly for having neglected her. "I've
thought of you so much oftener than I've seen you," she concluded.

He floundered in the old shyness. It had come suddenly on him when he
thought of himself.

"I've been--at work."

"Your face shows it," she said, with a swift, unsteady look. "You have
changed, too. You actually look ill."

He reddened slowly under her scrutiny, stammering protestations, but her
eyes were open to him. She shrugged herself together and assumed a
brisk, motherly air.

"Is it as bad as _that_--truly? And you told me nothing of it! Come--I
want to know." There was a ring of authority in her voice as she leaned
toward him, her great eyes full of pity and succor. "Is the world
different from what you thought? Let me know--where does it hurt? That's
what they say to children."

Challenged thus directly, he felt shame at the thought of confession
equally direct. He would come to it only by winding ways, asserting at
first that there was no trouble; then that the trouble was but a little
one; and insisting at last that, though the trouble was great, it might
have been greater.

Her eyes beat upon him insistently while she drove him to these
admissions. Then she was eager with attention while he compelled himself
to details. He told of his two weeks' humiliation at the school, not
sparing himself, confessing his lack of power, and the pain this
discovery had cost him. When he had finished, with a self-belittling
shrug, she sat silent, bending forward, her hands loosely clasped, her
eyes fixed away from him.

Now that it was over he felt a sudden lightening of his mood, a swift
consciousness of reliance on the woman, a foreknowledge that her words
would profit him. At last she brought her eyes upon him and cut to the
heart of his woe with a single stroke.

"The thing is nothing in itself." He drew a long breath of relief. "It's
in the way you take it. If it weakens you, it's bad. If it strengthens
you, it's good. Call the thing 'failure' if you like--but what has it
done to you?"

"Why, of course"--he broke off to laugh under her waiting look--"of
course I'm still in the race. I see now that I haven't really doubted
myself at all." He looked at her with sudden sharpness. "I'd be ashamed
to doubt myself before you." He sprang to his feet in the excitement of
this discovery and stood alertly before her.

"It doesn't mean anything, does it?" he went on quickly. "You believe in
me?"

She laughed defensively. "I believe in you now. You look so much less
like a whipped schoolboy."

"I won't forget again. That school isn't for me. I can do things those
poor charcoal dusters won't do for years yet. I know that. Baldwin said
they'd spoil me if I wasn't stubborn, and I _was_ stubborn--I am. You
believe I'm stubborn, don't you?"

She smiled assurance. "You have it--can you use it?"

"You'll see!" He sat down, continuing almost apologetically, "I worried
more about the effect on others than on myself. It was that threw me
down, a fear that other people might think I was some pretentious fool
who had come here to get over big things and stumbled at the first
little one. I was deathly afraid of hurting other people."

His eyes had been steadily upon hers with an under-current of
consciousness for what he would have called the "queerness" of her look,
a baffling look that hinted of many things--of sympathy, consternation,
rejoicing, even of embarrassment, and yet it had not distinctly been any
one of these, so quick had been the play of light in her eyes to the
moment they fell before his.

She released her breath with a sound like a sigh, as if she had been
holding it, and there was another look in her eyes when she at last
raised them to his, one that he could not read, save that it was wholly
serious and, he felt, peculiarly a woman's look.

"I am sure," she began, "that no one--no one you consider in this way,
could think less of you for a failure. You ought to know that. I want
you to know it." She rose from her chair and stepped to the table with a
little shrug, turning over the leaves of a magazine, her back toward
him. At last she turned her head only, looking at him over one shoulder
and speaking with a laughing, reckless impatience.

"Oh, fail--fail--fail as often as you like--fail a hundred times and
then--fail." He felt his cheeks burning under her vehemence. She turned
about, facing him squarely.

"Have I said enough? Do you know what I think of failures now?"

He rose and stood before her. "You don't know what you've done for me.
You don't know--" Again came that crude impulse to take her in his arms.
It left him feeling like a criminal. As if she had discerned this she
resumed her seat, speaking quickly.

"Go back to that studio and do things. Do them your own way. It's a
better way for you than any they can teach you, and the next time----"

"The next time I have a hell----"

"--a hell of doubt--don't wait--come to me." She rose from her chair.

"You don't know all this has meant to me," he said feelingly as she gave
him her hand.

"Good night!" And though the gray eyes were hidden from his, there was
the look in them of one who knows more than she is thought to know.

As Ewing went out the man was admitting the younger Teevan, who asked
for Mrs. Laithe. Ewing wished it had been the father. He had much of
good to tell the little man now.

Neither Mrs. Laithe nor Teevan spoke of Ewing after their greeting,
though each was so busy in thought of him that their talk was scant and
aimless for the first five minutes. Alden Teevan was brought back to her
at length by noticing the drawn, tired look of her face, for the sparkle
that Ewing had left there was gone.

"Nell, you look done up. I'm no alarmist, but you really need to be
frightened. What is it you're doing to take you down so--the same old
round? Is it a visiting guild now, or the Comforters of the Worthy Poor,
or just amateur nursing of sin, sickness, and death?"

She smiled wanly.

"The same old round, Alden. I can't keep away from it when I am here. I
know it so well. No one could keep away who knew it well."

"Futile, futile, futile! Are you equal to a revolution?"

"More's the pity, no. And I've no time for one. I've a whole family of
consumptives on my hands at this moment, father, mother, two girls and a
boy."

"And you wear yourself out over a few minor effects like that, instead
of going at the cause. You may save one or two of those people--none of
them of any value, individually; while the same energy put to the root
of the evil might save thousands--and they _are_ of value in the mass.
Think me calloused if you like, but that's mere common sense economy of
effort. You and I--our class--make them live as they do, and we grow
maudlin over it and take them a little soup and many tracts. But we
won't remit our tithes. We keep them down to breed more misery for the
exercise of our little philanthropic fads. I'm radical, you see."

She turned her head away with a hand wave that seemed to dismiss an
argument familiar and outworn.

"I know--but I must do what I can."

He faced her with a sudden insistent energy.

"Come away, Nell--come farther off. You're too close to the ugly things
now--you lose the perspective. Come away--and come with me, won't you,
Nell? Come away and live. I must say it--I must ask it--come!"

He read the inexorable in the lift of her head.

"I understand, Alden--and I thank you--but no." She glanced across at
him and continued more lightly, "I wasn't meant to go far off--to go
above timber line, as Mr. Ewing would say."

He felt bitterness rising in him at her mention of the name, but he
laughed it away.

"You'll always do the hardest thing, Nell. I know that. But I--well, one
of the old heathen--Heraclitus, wasn't it?--remarked that the ass, after
all, would have his thistles rather than much fine gold."

She laughed. "Dad would say, the more ass he, if he wouldn't."

"I know--we'd rather have our own particular thistles, each of us. But
to live a day or two before we die, Nell! Come with me--stop trying to
mount the whirlwind. You'll only be thrown."

Again she shook her head, and gently shaped "No!" with her lips. It was
too unemotionally decisive to warrant of any further urging, and he
became silent, with something of pain in his face that her eye caught.

"I'm sorry, Alden--I've never liked you better--but I'd rather you
didn't ask."

"You wouldn't have come before, would you, Nell--three months ago?" And
she answered "No" again, very quickly.

"I must play my little game out in my own way," she continued. "I must
stay beside some one--beside people--who still have heart for trying."

"Someone, Nell?"

She caught her lip.

"Everyone who has fresh hope and stubbornness in defeat."

"If you'd let me, Nell--" There was the note of real pleading in his
tone.

"No, Alden."

"Friends, though?" he queried, seeming at last convinced.

She thought there was a trace of bitterness in his voice, but she
answered, "Friends, surely, Alden."

"We've skirted this thing often, Nell, but you never seemed certain
before."

"I didn't--I think I never was _quite_ so certain before, Alden--but now
I'm driven all one way."

"I believe that." He rose and spoke in a livelier manner. "But if you
won't be wise for me, Nell, be wise for some one else. For God's sake
feel a little worry about your health. I say you look unpromising at
this moment."

"I've always been well," she insisted brightly.

"And, Nell, I've wanted to be so much more than a friend to you that my
feelings are a bit blurred just now--but I believe I'll always do what a
friend should."




CHAPTER XIX

THE UNBLAZED WAY


Ewing was loath to sleep that night, for in sleep he must leave the
thought of her who, having been only a picture to him, had come suddenly
to life. The magic would have seemed no greater if his own mother had
issued livingly from the canvas. How it had happened he knew not, but
this woman was all at once the living spring of his life. The thought of
her was a golden mist enveloping him. He did not once call it love, but
he thought of the gracious women he had loved in books, and knew she was
all of them in one.

And once he had been almost careless in her presence! How he marveled at
that now, when he knew that henceforth every approach to her would be an
event. He shuddered at the memory of what he had been saved from--that
swift brute impulse to hold her close against his breast. Must he feel
that always--fight it always, to be blasted if he lost? At least in his
own secret world he was free to treasure each memory of her dearness.
And he could make her glad. He could work as man had not worked before.
He could make her a little glad.

He feverishly began a drawing for the _Knickerbocker_ the next morning.
Craig, the art editor, had said that he could use six drawings as good
as the two he was shown, and they had decided on scenes that would give
variety to the series. But that was before a Teevan had come into his
life, and now he had lost a month in the dream of satisfying that patron
critic.

It was good to prove that he could still draw in his own way; he had
suffered so long in that rage of impotence; and he kept to the work
until dusk, making no stop for food, even when the noise of falling
bodies came to mark the luncheon hour.

When Teevan sauntered in at six the two went to dine at a restaurant.
Ewing had no longer dreaded the meeting. He was ready to show Teevan
that there had been no true failure. But Teevan merely listened to the
bare outline of fact as they threaded a way through the evening crowd.
He made no comment, and Ewing thought this might be due to the
difficulty of conversing in a noisy street.

But after ordering dinner with a nice deliberation, Teevan spoke
determinedly of other matters. Ewing ventured a humorous reference to
his despair when he left the school, meaning to compel the inference
that he no longer despaired. Teevan languidly mentioned a violinist he
had heard the evening before.

"--Two Bach numbers, the suite in F minor rather exquisitely done. Bach
wrote tremendously well for the fiddle. Technical skill in the
performer, you ask? Yes, entirely adequate; indeed, he gave rather a
warm reading, really not lacking a certain elevation of style, even a
nobility of utterance. That was quite all of interest, though. The
Dvorak _humoresque_--a thing transcribed from a piano piece and made
sentimental--has one of those effective passages in double notes,
certain to win an encore from the mob; and the twenty-fourth caprice of
Paganini was merely a smart exhibition of harmonic playing--mere squibs
and firecrackers and rockets, the veriest fireworks. Ah, it's small
wonder the world has so few artists when it demands so little." And
Teevan sighed significantly.

Ewing was chilled by this avoidance of himself, though he could not yet
believe it intentional.

"I haven't given up," he declared, by way of reminding Teevan. "You
shall see that I'm stubborn."

Teevan affected to study a group of diners at a neighboring table as he
replied:

"Oh, yes, I gather that you left the school when you found it
difficult."

"But you see----"

"This soup is worth while, really. Soup is surprisingly difficult. Yet
the world believes perfect soups to be plentiful." He sighed again. "It
merely shows the vitality of error."

Ewing felt his woman-given courage leaving him at this attack, or rather
at this lack of attack. He had been prepared to have his friend exhibit
doubt, disbelief, chagrin--anything that would still show an
undiminished esteem. But the intimate note had gone from Teevan's
speech. He talked at large as Ewing had heard him talk to roomfuls of
people.

"Ah, yes, the vitality of error. Give the world a lie about soup or
souls, and you'll not soon worry that lie away. It's clutched with a
bulldog jaw. Say good soup is common--God-fearing Christians echo the
lie. Say Berkeley denies the existence of matter, and men with Berkeley
at hand repeat you. Say Locke denies all knowledge except through the
medium of the senses, and students of Locke pass on the absurdity. Bacon
was by no means the first thinker to proclaim the deficiencies of the
Aristotelian philosophy--a system already in disrepute when he wrote the
'Instauration.' Yet in our crude yearning for concreteness, for specific
idols, we laud him as the father of the inductive philosophy--as if
induction weren't an inevitable process in any mind grown beyond
primitive concepts. Gad! I had a dog once that used induction a dozen
times a day, and he'd never so much as heard of Bacon."

Thus he wandered afield during the dinner, with airs of a bored but
conscientious host, and Ewing fell lower of heart at each of his
periods. He hoped for his chance when the coffee came, but Teevan gave
him no opening. The brandy sufficed for his text. We were not
brandy-drinkers, unhappily enough--"the wholesomest of all spirits, the
distilled essence of cognac grapes, the magic cup of Circe, 'her Orient
liquor in a crystal glass'--and we know as little how to drink a liqueur
brandy as we know how to buy it. We gulp it from these straight glasses,
when it should be taken in sips from a glass small at the top, a glass
first warmed in the palm of the hand. Only so may we capture the
bouquet, that elusive fragrance of the May-vine blossom, that wraith of
spring-perfumes."

Ewing was still unjustified when the waiter helped them on with their
coats, and then he was dismayed to observe that Teevan apparently meant
to leave him. The little man held out his hand with "So glad to have had
your company--another time--I shall see you again, I hope."

"Please come back with me. I'd like to talk to you--to ask your advice."
He felt himself an outcast.

Teevan's response, a surprised but coldly polite assent, did not lighten
his dejection as they walked back to the studio in silence.

But once there the little man no longer avoided talk of his young
friend's fiasco. He let it be seen that another illusion, one fondly
cherished, he need not say, had been shattered. He gave the impression
that he had talked of other things to forget this--an inadequate device,
he let it be inferred.

Ewing confessed his own despondency of the night before, but told how a
woman had given him new courage.

"Not the least injury they do us," remarked Teevan of women, somewhat
snappishly, "is to wheedle us into taking our failures lightly." That
were especially baneful to the artist, it seemed; by his very
temperament was he exposed to their blandishing sophistries. The artist
cult should be a priesthood, aloof, austere, celibate--deaf to the woman
cries of "Never mind!" and "Courage!" and "Another day!" All very well
that, but they shut their pretty eyes to real failures, or, at most,
survey them with a tender air of belittlement that leaves the defeated
one blind to their significance. Speaking largely, the society of women
should be shunned by earnest men intent on achievement.

Ewing began to feel that possibly he had taken heart too readily. He was
willing to believe this if it would restore him to the little man's
esteem. He pointed timidly to the drawing he had begun that morning,
eager for the word of praise he believed it to merit.

"Oh, _that_!" Teevan drawled the words, with lifted brows; then went on
to speak of Jean François Millet, unprosperous villager of Barbizon. He
tried--unsuccessfully--to recall an instance when that painter had
debased his art. Not once had he made a cheap picture for a magazine. He
had never put his Muse to the streets. Millet was not pigeon-livered.

Ewing leaned forward in his chair, his head between his hands. He saw
that the mere sale of drawings would be a savorless success, if it
bereft him of this plain-speaking but just friend. More, it would leave
him small in the eyes of a woman who was now even more than Teevan. He
got up doggedly, seized the drawing and began to break the tough bristol
board, getting it into four pieces at length and flinging these into the
grate. He was unable to resist a secret fond look at the lines he had
made with such loving care. Teevan's eyes glistened now, and he held out
a hand to Ewing.

"Ah--you give me hope. Bravo!"

"Then you do believe in me; you think I have it in me?"

"Power? Yes; I've seen that. I judge men rather accurately. But I saw
that you'd be tempted to rest. The more power, the greater the
temptation. It's not so hard to fast in a desert--the less gifted man is
less tempted. But to fast with plenty at hand for the reaching, and fair
women to counsel content--to refuse apples and flagons, waiting for the
ultimate jewel--that takes a _man_. It demands one--there's a certain
street saying--who can 'stand the gaff.'"

"And you really think I can stand it? I feel more than ever that I want
to succeed."

Teevan beamed on him almost affectionately. "I almost suspect----"

"You shall see that I can," Ewing broke in, but what he thought was,
"_She_ will see it."

"It's a matter of endurance," resumed Teevan genially. "Genius is no
endowment of supreme gifts. Every man of us has something latent that
would set him apart. Genius is only the capacity for expressing
that--that phase of yourself which differentiates you from all other
selves. Of course only a few succeed. Most of us succumb to the general
pressure to be alike. Yet--I almost believe in you."

Ewing regarded him with glad eyes, touched by this stanch yet discerning
adherence.

Returning home that night Teevan, in his library, took down a Bible and
searched for a passage he only half recalled. He found it at last, one
wherein the God of Israel thunders, not without humor, against the foes
of His chosen tribe.

"I will send a faintness into their hearts in the land of their enemies;
and the sound of a shaken leaf shall chase them; and they shall flee as
fleeing from a sword; and they shall fall when none pursueth." He
chuckled delightedly as he read it, and wiped tears of mirth from his
eyes.

So it befell that Ewing forsook the beaten road of minor achievement
that winter, and labored toward the far, high peaks. In his own phrase,
the trail was rough and blind. Preceding climbers had not been
thoughtful to "blaze" it. But he grudged no effort while he had the
little man's applause. And this was not lacking, though it was discreet
applause, promoting no slothful content.

It was Ewing who suggested that he paint under the criticism of
Sydenham. The little man looked at him in doubt, seeming to suspect a
jesting insincerity, then burst into hearty, hand-clapping laughter,
crying, "Splendid! An inspiration, indeed! On my word, I hadn't thought
of anything half so brilliant."

And Ewing began to paint; to paint like Sydenham, if he might--cloud
studies, bits of street perspective, stretches of river, a realistic
view of the roofs from his window, with their water butts, chimney pots,
and clothes lines. Baldwin looked in once, and carried a word below to
the men who sold things: the word "Awful!" He also ventured a friendly
remonstrance to Ewing. "If you're going to paint, for God's sake go to
some man who knows how!"

Ewing referred to Teevan's conviction that Sydenham was the ideal master
for him, and to the attested fact that Teevan knew painting and
painters.

"Then I don't understand Teevan," was Baldwin's puzzled response.

"But I'm coming on--Teevan says so."

Baldwin ventured another look at the canvas in hand and fled below.

Teevan was watchful and permitted few chances for meddling of this sort.
He contrived to be with Ewing most of the time when Sydenham was not.
And Ewing never tired of Sydenham. If they walked the streets together
the old man would direct his eye to some unnoticed felicity of color on
the walls that shut them in, to bits of enchanting perspective, to
subtle plays of light and shade in unpromising spots. Or if they sat
alone at night the painter told of color in the world beyond the sea;
how from the top of Mont Blanc the stars are seen at midday, points of
vivid light in a dark blue-violet field; of the purple nights of the
desert, the stars but an arrowshot above; of the cold, pale silvers of
dawn in the desert, and the heated gold and scarlet of evening; of the
impossible blue of the bay of Naples. His face glowed to such
youthfulness at these times that Ewing would forget his futile years
until the sigh came.

"But I've always seen too much. Only the fountain of Juventius could
have given me time enough. I'm like the lad in the school-reader tale
who reached into the jar of nuts and tried to withdraw his hand
full--and lost them all."

Between Ewing and Teevan there was even a new bond. Ewing discovered
that money inevitably left one's pocket in New York, even if it vanished
under auspices less violent and less obscure than Ben had so gloomily
feared. The steady dribble was quite as effective. When he awoke to this
great fiscal truth he saw that some condescension of effort would be
required. He must sell enough drawings to sustain him modestly. He
broached this regrettable necessity to Teevan, wishing the little man to
understand that, in making a few things for money, he was guilty of no
treachery to the Teevan ideal. But Teevan, much to his embarrassment,
had extended the full hand of bestowal.

He was hurt when Ewing demurred; then annoyed that so petty an obstacle
should retard a progress so splendid. He never dared to suspect a
decadence in the resolution of his young friend.

Ewing was cut by his distress, stung by his doubt, and persuaded by his
logic. He accepted Teevan's money, though not without instinctive
misgiving. There were moments when he traitorously wondered if it might
not be better for him to lack a friend with ideals so rigid. And more
than once he suffered the disquieting suspicion of some unreality in and
through it all--his intimacy with Teevan, and his desertion of a trail
whose beginnings, at least, he knew. There was sometimes a faint ring of
artificiality in the whole situation. Yet Teevan's heartiness and his
certainty--the felicitous certainty of a star in its course--always
dispelled this vague unquiet, and at last it brought Ewing a new
pleasure to remember that an actual, material obligation--one increasing
at measured intervals--now existed between them.

He had never spoken openly to Mrs. Laithe of his intimacy with Teevan.
The little man had conveyed his wish of this by indirect speech. He
would have liked to tell her of the solace and substantial benefits of
their comradeship, to dwell upon the shining merits of this whole-souled
but modest benefactor--for Teevan caused his charge to infer that a
shame of doing good openly inspired his hints--but he had, perforce, to
let the praise die unspoken.

Nor did he speak often of Mrs. Laithe to Teevan, for the little man was
not only bitter as to woman's influence on the life artistic, but
inclined to hold the sex lightly, it seemed, in a much wider aspect. And
he spoke, Ewing was sure, out of a ripe experience. He had no difficulty
in detecting, under the little man's self-depreciating talk, that Teevan
had ever been a power among women, and was not even yet invincibly
averse to gallant adventure; not yet a man to be resisted. He was far
from bluntly confessing this, but sometimes, when the brandy was low in
the decanter, he would tacitly admit a romantic past; romantic, perhaps,
to the point of turbulence. And once, when there was no brandy left, he
spoke of specific affairs, particularly of one the breaking off of which
was giving him the devil's own worry.

"Gad! She's bent on sacrificing everything for me!"

Ewing innocently murmured words about marriage as an honorable estate.

"Marriage!" said Teevan, and Ewing blushed, noting his tone and the lift
of his brows.

"Poor, silly, romantic fools!" sighed Teevan. "One would find it
difficult to say what they see in me, I fancy."

Ewing murmured polite protestations. But less than ever did he feel
moved to speak of Mrs. Laithe to the little man. It did not seem
fitting. "Don Juan" had been among the verse with which the lake cabin
was supplied.

Not even when Mrs. Laithe was taken off to Florida by her father did he
speak her name, though he was filled with her good-by to him. There had
seemed to be so much between them, and yet so little of it that could
come to words. But he carried for long the last look of her eyes, and he
set to his work with a new resolve. There was incentive enough. Teevan
never let him forget that he required signs and miracles, like the
doubting ones of old. And she--she knew he would perform them.




CHAPTER XX

A LADY BLUSHES


As the winter wore on Ewing fell into doubt and dread. Vague enough they
were, but they rested on a sickening effect of emptiness, a time blank
of achievement. He still regarded Teevan as quite all of the seven
pillars of the house of wisdom. Yet instinct was rebelling. There were
tired afternoons when he hungered to eat of the fruit of his own way.

This feeling could not but show in his occasional letters to Mrs.
Laithe. She read through all his protestations of cheerfulness to the
real dejection beneath them, and was both troubled and mystified, raging
at his secretiveness.

When she returned to New York on a day in April and found a note from
Mrs. Lowndes asking her to dine that evening, she accepted with a plan
in mind. Before she saw Ewing she would try to learn something about him
from Sydenham, for Sydenham would also dine with Mrs. Lowndes, and she
knew that Ewing had been painting with the old man.

She found Birley the other guest, and that, too, was customary. Birley
and Sydenham preserved for their hostess a certain aroma of her youth.
Both had wooed her in the long ago; Sydenham in a day when Long Branch
was. On its sands in the light of a July moon she had prettily hoped
they might always be friends. Birley had heard her intone the same
becoming sentiment at Saratoga later in the season. And both rejected
ones had been present at St. Paul's on a day in the following June when
Kitty Folsom and Jack Lowndes had consented together in holy wedlock.

The girl's hope, perfunctory enough at the time, one may fear, had seen
long years of fruition. She liked to have them at her table now. Only,
when the three were alone, they remembered too vividly and became, in
the silences, too fantastically unlike their aged selves to the misty
eyes of one another. The one-time belle found a little of that
forgetting and remembering to be salutary, so little as ensued when a
fourth guest was present. And Eleanor Laithe had often been that fourth,
a saving reminder of the present, to recall them when they had loitered
far enough back into the old marrying years.

But she came this night with a reason beyond her wish to please. So
eager was she to ask Sydenham about Ewing that she gave scant attention
to the searching looks and queries of Birley when she entered the
drawing room. The big man rallied her on her pallor and frailness, but
with a poor spirit that hardly concealed his real misgiving. She
silenced him with impatient denials of illness, but his eyes lingered
anxiously on her face.

She sat at table with but half an ear for their old-time gossip, the
bantering gallantries of the aged swains, and the outworn coquetries of
the one-time beauty. And when they fell silent--oftener now than was
their wont, for each was thinking of that other Kitty Lowndes, who had
taken matters into her own hands--she forgot to make talk, silent
herself for thinking on the son of that Kitty. The dinner lacked the
sparkle she had been expected to give it.

As they were about to rise, after coffee, she playfully petitioned for a
chat with Sydenham.

"Herbert wants to smoke, and I want to sit here with him. We need a
little talk together," she explained. And the other two left them, the
old lady leaning on the arm of Birley.

Sydenham lighted a cigar, pushed his chair back, and faced the woman who
looked eagerly at him across the disordered table, her arms along its
edge, her head tilted to a questionable angle. She flew to her point.

"What about Gilbert Ewing--what trouble is he having?"

Sydenham stared vacantly. He seemed to find it necessary to translate
the question into some language of his own.

"Trouble? Oh, all sorts--chrome and indigo, yellow ocher, burnt umber,
rose madder, Chinese white--composition, light and shade, vanishing
points. You'd have to be one of us to understand."

"Other trouble," she insisted sharply--"personal--not about his
painting."

Sydenham stared again, clutching his beard in a dazed search for
inspiration. He did not consider people apart from painting. It was
impossible that anyone should wish to discuss Ewing except in relation
to colors and canvas.

"Well, he has trouble with everything--composition, tone-values,
everything."

"But something _not_ painting."

He looked up at the ceiling helplessly.

"Well, I fancy Randy Teevan worries him."

"Randall Teevan!" She was amazed and alarmed at once.

"Sometimes I get the idea that Randy badgers him, though they're thick
as thieves. The boy wouldn't breathe if Randy said it was bad for the
lungs."

"How long have they been friends?"

By quick, nervous, point-blank queries she drew from him all that he
knew of this intimacy. She puzzled over it.

"Can he know?" She had not meant him to hear this, but he caught the
words, and betrayed something like human interest.

"Trust Randy for that! I found it out myself. He had Kitty's
portrait--Kitty to the life--stunning brush work. Randy has begged the
picture of him for a while. I fancy he didn't want it hanging there for
others to see. And he found the fellow here one afternoon. Kitty told
me. She was nearly taken off her feet by his story but Randy happened in
and cooled things down. It's queer, Randy's setting himself to win over
the chap. It's a puzzle-mix. I wonder about it sometimes when the light
goes."

She had listened in consternation, a rage for battle rising in her. She
was sure Teevan must have some end in view hurtful to Ewing. Yet this
was cunningly hidden. She was still puzzling over this when Sydenham
recalled her. He had forgotten Ewing, and studied the red light that
fell across the table through a shade of silk.

"What fools we are to think of painting shadows! If heaven's the place
it's said to be they'll have real shadows put in up tubes, and
then--well, _think_ of it!"

She laughed at him, her brief laugh, with a sigh to follow.

"We must go to the others. But, Herbert, you'll watch him as well as
you can, won't you? I feel responsible for him in a way."

He hesitated, but the light came. "Oh, you mean Ewing? Of course I'll
watch him. I dare say he'll paint some day, after a fashion." He fumbled
for the knob and awkwardly opened the door for her.

When the men went Mrs. Laithe asked if she might not linger a moment.

"Dear Aunt Kitty!" she said, going to the other's chair. "_Old_ Kitty!"
she repeated meaningly. The elder woman glanced quickly at her in faint
alarm, half questioning, half defiant.

"Oh, Aunt Kitty! I know--I _know_! and I must talk of him. I suspected
something almost from the first, and then I made sure. But I thought
that perhaps no one else would find it out. And he was worth it--he is
worth it. I couldn't have left him there, even if I'd been sure that
everyone would know. He was a man--he had the right to live."

"My child, my child! Oh, you didn't know what you were doing! It was a
monstrous thing, an impossible thing!"

"He's Kitty's son. You must feel for him."

"Feel? What haven't I felt since that day he came here?" There had been
a break in her voice, but she went quietly on. "I can't make you know,
dear. You've torn me--it will hurt to the end. Can you understand that
in a terrible, an unspeakable way, my Kitty is still alive, is near me,
and yet is not to be known? But you can't understand it. You've never
had a child."

"Ah! but I've been one. I know what he would feel."

"Please, dear!" She put up a hand in protest. "As if I don't feel his
hurt and Kitty's as well as mine. I shall be ground between the two
every day of my life. Do you think my old arms didn't cry out to be
around the mother in him? But think if I had yielded! Picture his own
suffering--his own shame. Can you see us meeting, our eyes falling? Even
for his own sake, he must never know."

"Isn't there a way, Aunt Kitty? Some way? He's worth finding a way for."
She leaned over to stroke the other's hand.

"No way, my girl. Be the world a moment, be cool. He's a nameless thing.
You might know him, but nothing more. Could he make a life? Could a
woman--come, face it without prejudice--could you see your own sister
marry him?" Mrs. Laithe looked blank.

"You see how impossible it is. You, yourself, could _you_ stand before
the world with him? Could you face the shame?"

The younger woman dropped the hand she held and turned away. The elder
regarded her shrewdly.

"There--you see how impossible----"

But the other faced her suddenly, clear-eyed and defiant, her head back.

"Eleanor!" It was a cry of consternation that was yet softened by
tenderness, an amazed but comprehending tenderness, for the face of the
younger woman was incarnadined, flagrantly, splendidly.

A moment they held each other. But there was no mistaking the thing,
for, though the blush had quickly faded, an after glow lingered.

The older woman rose quickly to throw her arms about the other.

"My mad, mad child!" She stood off to search her face incredulously.

"He's alone, Aunt Kitty, and he's so defenseless. He believes in
everyone more than in himself. He'll be cured of that some time, but
just now I'm his only defender. Others are against him or stand neutral
with talk of the 'world.' I can't blame you, dear, I think you must be
right for yourself. But when he does awaken"--she narrowed her eyes on
the other a moment in calculation--"then I shan't be ashamed to have him
know it was always safe to believe in me--whether he was boy or man or
no one at all--or less than no one. I'd never bother about names,
dear--I'd never bother about names."

She smiled and drew the other close with little reassuring caresses.
"You see names aren't much--the directory is full of them, and dreary
enough reading they'd make. No, I'd not care for that. I'd only ask that
he believe in himself as much as I believe in him, and care as little
for names. And I warn you I mean to help him to that if I can."

The eyes of the other sparkled now. There was in her glance the excited
admiration of a timid child who watches a reckless playmate dare some
dark passage of evil repute for goblins.

"You mad--dear mad girl!" she said.




CHAPTER XXI

THE DRAMA IN NINTH STREET


Ewing knew that his lady had come back. She had sent him a note the
first day: "I am dining to-night with an old friend. But come to-morrow
night."

The next day, while he was saying, "To-night I shall see her--actually
see her...." there had come another note in her careless, scrawled
writing: "I find, after all, that I shall be engaged to-night. Can you
not come to-morrow night instead? I am eager for a talk with you."

"Could" he come! He laughed as he put the thing tenderly away. Could he
come, indeed! Could he stay away?

But early in the evening of that same forbidden day he walked to Ninth
Street, entering that thoroughfare furtively. He might not see her for
another day, but at least he could look fondly at the door by which she
had entered, and gaze on the stanch house that enfolded her, even on the
steps that must have felt her light, quick tread, perhaps within the
hour.

These things would help him to believe in her actuality--she had so come
to seem but a dream lady to him.

Thrice he passed the house on the opposite side of the street. A dim
light glowed through the curtained windows. Beyond them, he thought, she
would be talking; laughing, perhaps; perhaps even thinking of him at
that very moment as she gazed absently at some speaker who thought to
have her attention. If only she, too, could be counting the hours! But
that was too unlikely. He warned himself not to imagine that. He
recalled some of Teevan's speeches about women--"Shallow, pretty fools,
for man's amusing--the Oriental alone, my boy, has a sane theory of
women; creatures to be kept as choice cabinet bits--under lock and key."
Poor Teevan, not to have known the one woman who could have illumined
his darkness! Poor Teevan, indeed! He idly wondered if his affair--that
troublesome affair of which the little man had spoken so feelingly--had
been "broken off."

He slowly walked once more past the Bartell house, beholding a splendid
vision of himself as he would leap up those steps the next evening. Then
he continued on past Teevan's house, regarding that, also, with great
kindness. He stopped a little beyond this, meaning to return. As he did
so the door opened and a woman came out. He thought there was something
furtive in her glance up and down the street as she paused to gather up
her skirts. Then something familiar in the feminine grace of that
movement chained him. Surely, but one person had ever done the thing in
just that way. There could be no other. He stood staring while she came
down the steps and into the light of a street lamp. It was Mrs. Laithe,
walking briskly now, toward her own home. He could not mistake that
free-swinging, level, deliberate stride, with the head so finely up.

He almost cried out to her in his gladness. He felt as a lost child who
wildly claims its own again in some crowded street. He walked back
quickly, watching her until her own door swallowed her up.

He felt a lively rejoicing. The unpromising evening had done well by him
after all. Thinking but to look tenderly at a house front he had
veritably seen his lady--watched her with secret, unrestrained fondness.
He had an impulse to follow now and demand her at the door. But he
remembered in time; she would be engaged and he would see her soon. That
long look was adventure enough for one night.

But he could ring Teevan's bell. That would be a fine thing to do, for
Teevan had seen her. Teevan would speak of her, little knowing how his
words were hungered for. He was admitted and found the little man on the
hearth rug in the library, talking to himself with great animation. He
showed surprise, but his welcome was warmer than usual, Ewing thought.
He seated his guest and proffered him brandy, pouring a glass for
himself from a decanter almost empty. As he drank he beamed shrewdly on
Ewing--kindly but shrewdly. "He must have seen her--he must have seen
her ..." the little man was saying. Then a vagrant, elfish vanity smote
him. He smiled inscrutably on Ewing--Ewing, who had been waiting to say
lightly, "I happened to see Mrs. Laithe leaving...." But he did not say
this, for the little man's smile came to life in speech.

"Gad! my boy--I'm deuced glad you came. You can make me forget a most
distressing half hour I've just gone through."

The light in Ewing's eyes changed perceptibly.

"Oh, these women!" grumbled Teevan pleasantly, with the fine, humorous
resignation of a persecuted gallant.

"Women--women?" muttered Ewing, slightly aghast. Teevan's heart beat
blithely within his breast.

"Silly, romantic fools! What _do_ they see in a man of my years?" He
flourished a gesture of magnificent deprecation. "I think I once
mentioned a very irksome affair--" How he blessed, now, that bit of
boasting, vague and aimless at the time! "The lady, I blush to say it,
becomes exigent. But I'm rightly served. Heaven knows I've seen enough
of that sort of thing to know how it ends. But come"--he rose to a
livelier manner--"I shouldn't bore you with a matter I'm half ashamed
of, man of the world as I am. You'll sound the ennui of it, all in your
own good time, when you've lost a few of those precious illusions." He
broke off to ring, and directed the man to replenish the decanter.

Ewing gazed stupidly at him, failing of speech. The little man drank
again when the brandy came, and Ewing wondered if he could be drunk. He
feared not. The men he had known in the hills were noisy in drink--they
chiefly yelled. And Teevan was quiet. If his eyes stared vacantly at
intervals, if he clipped syllables from his words, and seemed to attack
his speech with extreme caution, those might be only the results of his
emotion. But what monstrous stuff was this he uttered! What unbelievable
stuff! In a fever of apprehension he wondered what Teevan would say
next.

But the little man dismissed woman, dismissed her with an exquisite
shrug, to speak of his young friend's work, and of painting at large.

"A suggestion of the true manner in that late thing of yours, my boy,
really, a hint of Dupré, and he was a colorist of the first rank. And
there are fewer colorists, genuine masters of tone, than you'd think.
Turner was one, to be sure, but Millet had a restricted sense of color.
Corot was great only within a narrow range. Rousseau was only a bit
broader, robuster. There's a wretchedly defective color sense in many of
the old masters, and in heaven knows how many of the young ones. France
must take the blame for that, I'm sure you'd agree with me. The academic
sentiment there runs to form and against color. They insist that
colorists do little work. It's not an unplausible sophism. One has only
to begin counting to see that--counting the host of little niggling,
mechanical stipplers it's responsible for. It's true, color has its
pitfalls and its gins. There's a temptation to shirk form. Many an
aspiring colorist has become at last a mushy mannerist, as vicious in
his influence as the chaps who never get beyond smart drawing and clever
grouping." The little man was "squeezing" his eyes now as if he judged a
row of paintings. He talked on and drank frequently.

But Ewing left as soon as he could do so. Teevan pressed his hand with
rare cordiality at parting, as if Ewing were one person in the world
still worthy of belief. He wandered blindly home, awkwardly trying to
mold this new chaos into an understandable scheme of things. He fell
instinctively back on his studies of the drama.

Many nights he had sat before the painted curtain to feast a questing
mind on the life it lifted to reveal. He had found its revelations more
intimate, more specific, than those of the life outside, and he had
seemed to learn many things. Lacking this study he would not have
divined that actual men and women might be leading lives of domestic
adventure, of romantic vicissitude, of sinister intrigue, lives crowded
with love and hate and fear and a thousand lawless complexities.

He had studied the street crowds in the light thus thrown on their inner
motives. It had been a fine thing to detect the plotting scoundrel under
the placid, dissembling mask of some fellow who bought an evening paper
and boarded a street car with elaborate airs of innocence; to probe the
secret of the unhappy wife whose white face stared blankly from a
passing brougham; to identify the handsome but never culpable hero,
unconscious of third-act toils tightening about him; to know the
persecuted heroine, or the manly but comic chap who loved her with
exquisite restraint, divining that she could never be his.

But, though he had stripped the masks from these mummers in the street
crowds, and read their secrets of guilt or innocence, he had not
supposed that the people he actually knew could be leading lives
complicated in that way. And if Teevan had talked, then Teevan must have
been drunk. He would see her to-morrow night, and she would speak
casually of her call at Teevan's upon some trifling errand.

Yet, when night came again and he stood in her presence, the first
devouring look at her shocked him momentarily out of all thought of
Teevan's maunderings. She was drooping and wasted and flatly pale. He
scarcely knew her face, with the eyes burning at him from black rings.
He took her hand, nursing it gently, standing helpless and hurt before
her.

"You are so changed," he said fearfully, "so changed! Oh, you are so
changed!"

But she laughed with her familiar gayety, tossing her head in denial. He
still scanned her face. Some resemblance there, some sinister memory of
her look on another face, was stirring him. He could almost remember
what it meant. At last her eyes fell before his and she drew her hand
quickly away.

"Really, I won't have any talk of myself. I hear too much of that. I'm a
bit run down, that's all. We found Florida enervating. Even dad was
affected by it and forgot his philosophy. So, an end to that. I must
hear of you, of your work."

She sat down, drawing a white scarf about her shoulders, and leaning
toward him in the old inviting way.

"Tell me what you have done--everything there is to tell about it."

All at once he remembered.

"Last night," he began uneasily--"I wanted to see you last night--"

"You couldn't have seen me last night." She smiled in a way that brought
out all the weak, wasted look of her face. "I was busy--I was trying to
adjust something that has troubled me more than I can tell you."

He stared at her, incredulous, believing he could not have heard.

"... an affair that has worried me," she repeated, noticing his blank
look.

Stupefied as he was, he felt a great pity rush over him, an instant
longing to be her knight and give battle for her--to be her squire, if
she herself must be knight. Yet, if Teevan had spoken truly must it not
be a thing in which he was powerless to help her ever so little? A
sudden sickness of rage came over him at thought of Teevan. He had
almost made a jest of her.

He could not talk of himself after that. She could get nothing from him
of his own worries, though she could see that he had these in abundance.
At last she tired of striving against him and let him go, out of sheer
longing for the touch of his hand at parting. He had regarded her with a
moody, almost savage tenderness that made her weak.

As he walked home he felt new to the streets again. They were strange
streets in a strange world. But one thing he was sure of; one thing
stood clearly out of the puzzle: he must not intrude, must not bother
her; must not see her often. In a drama so alien to him he could not act
without direction. He knew his own longing too well to trust himself. He
sat a long time with his arms clasped across his breast. The anguish in
it seemed physical; it was as if a beast were devouring his heart.




CHAPTER XXII

A REVOLT


He turned furiously to his work, but, as the summer came on, he realized
that he was working with a desperation entirely heartless. He was not
only sure, now, that he had taken a wrong road, but that nameless
distress of his lady had left his desire benumbed. A fountain had gone
dry in him.

At the beginning of the warm days he went into the country on sketching
trips with Sydenham. To vales and little rivers north of the city, to
flat, green stretches on Long Island, to the Jersey hills, they had gone
with sketch traps wherever trolley or steam car could find Nature
quickly for them.

Ewing had looked forward to this. He had felt hampered in the studio,
where he must pass whole days in futile messing with colors, in rash
trials of this or that trick of tint, like an idling schoolboy playing
with slate and pencil. Once in the open, he had felt, there would
quickly show forth those gifts which Teevan was certain he possessed.

But day by day these excursions with the old painter had brought him to
believe that he had lost his way. That trick of color was not to be
learned, it was clear, by rough-and-ready advances. Teevan, who was ever
watchful of him, who betrayed, indeed, a strange little jealousy of any
other influence than his own, scanned his first studies eagerly, and
turned an inscrutable face on his young friend. He did not praise
loosely; he did not condemn outright. And he talked not too specifically
of the canvases before him. He showed little consciousness of a change
in the demeanor of his disciple, though Ewing's eye rested on him with a
long, unaccountable regard. Perhaps the boy was turning a little sullen.
This amused him. Meanwhile, the youth stood aghast before the dreadful
thing he saw in his heart. Hatred of a benefactor! All the good in him
struggled against it; all his gratitude pleaded with him to be fair to
the friend he had revered so long. Teevan talked more of Corot or
Constable, Diaz or Millet than he talked of Ewing; and the young man
came at last to the amazing conclusion not only that he was on a wrong
road, but that Teevan knew it--that the little man must long have known
it. This put him again in that rage of impotence that had seized him in
those last days at the League. But he bore it longer now. He felt there
was something final about this.

There were long days in the open to think on it, weigh it, and wring the
meaning from it. Sydenham placidly criticised his work; but Sydenham
could not feel his tragedy of defeat. A man who, at seventy, suffered
his own despairs with the poignant ecstasy of youth, could not take a
boy's failings seriously. Ewing now saw, moreover--for he was beginning
to use another pair of eyes than Teevan's--that Sydenham himself was a
hopeless mannerist, a color-mad voluptuary, painting always
subjectively, refusing all but the merest hints from his subject.

His last day of confessed futility, his last hour of inner rebellion,
came early in June. He carried his sketch trap out that day, but did not
unpack it. He lay, instead, pondering, resolving, raging, while
Sydenham, a little distance off, delicately corrected the errors of
Nature in a vista of meadow. Ewing chewed the juicy ends of long-stemmed
grasses and made phrases of disparagement for this sketch of Sydenham's,
picturing himself with the courage to utter them. He told himself
frankly what he thought of the old man's work--his "brush doddering," he
nerved himself to call it.

Immensely refreshed by this exercise in brutality, he rolled over on his
grassy bed to follow the shade of the oak under which he lay, and
dramatized a meeting with Teevan, in which the little man strangely
listened more than he spoke. He uttered his mind again concerning the
work of Sydenham, the master Teevan had prescribed, asserting that
unsuspecting toiler to be hopelessly "locoed" in the matter of color. He
saw Teevan's fine brows go elegantly up at this term, and he explained
it to him with a humble sort of boldness.

From this he warmed to sheer audacity, disclosing further to his
imagined hearer that the time had come for him to go his own way--still
grateful for advice, still yearning for that friendly intimacy, but
determined to be done with dreams. He saw Teevan applauding this mild
declaration of revolt, with his fine, dark little smile, and a courteous
inclination of the head, and he thereupon amplified it. He must go back
to himself and stay there stubbornly, wheresoever that self led him.
Millet might have a restricted sense of color, Corot might have had his
faults, and Rousseau have been less than Teevan could have wished him;
but these were dead men. And Ewing was alive, determined to do those
things that permitted him to feel the little power he might have. He was
through with efforts that brought him nothing but a sense of the folly
of all effort. And it was to this conviction, he made it plain, that his
amazed but still respectful listener had led him. He worked himself into
a glow of defiant self-assertion, feeling his own respect, and Teevan's
as well, mounting with his heat.

When the light faded he strolled over to look at Sydenham's sketch, bent
on testing his self-inspired temerity.

"I wonder if you've gotten that sky?" he began judicially, as the old
man invited his comment. Sydenham looked up in some surprise, but
Ewing's eyes were still on the sketch.

"Too gray above, isn't it? I thought the gray was only down near the
horizon. By the way, I wish I'd roughed in that cow for you. A cow isn't
the easiest thing in the world to draw. They look easy, but they're not.
That bit of stone wall isn't bad, and your clover effect is first rate."
He paused. He had meant only to practice speaking his own mind against
the next interview with Teevan. He did not want to hurt Sydenham. The
latter was roping his stool and easel together. He had been a little
amazed at his pupil's outburst, but he looked up with a smile entirely
placid.

"That's the way they all say it. You've caught the trick of art
criticism, my boy, if you've caught nothing else."

Ewing saw that he was laughed at. There was a cool little flash to his
retort.

"I can make that into a real cow for you, if you like, after we get
home."

But the old man only chuckled at him, making him regret that he had ever
so little curbed his criticism. He had an impulse to fight, a craving
to arouse resistance. But he saw that Sydenham was no target for him,
save in a sort of subcaliber practice. He hoped this novel combativeness
would not wither under the first glance of Teevan's sharp little eyes.

It was dusk when they reached the city, and Ewing went to the Monastery
to dine. He had long shunned the place, for the men there talked of
things they had done or were doing, and they had made him, without
meaning to, feel "out of it," as he told himself. For he, if he talked,
could tell only of wonders he meant to do, and, lacking an audience
composed of Teevans, he was shrewd enough to see that these would sound
too wonderful and the future too distantly vague.

He had always been glad, however, of his drawing on the east wall. They
could not believe him wholly lacking after that, nor refuse him
fellowship if he sought it. He avoided the crowd when he entered the
room--the men he knew best were at a long table on the rear veranda just
outside the open windows--and chose a small table opposite his drawing.
He had thought of it often during the afternoon while he harangued
Teevan in imagination. It had occurred to him that this was the only
thing he had really done since coming to New York, and he had been
seized with a longing to look at it again, to prove to his own eyes that
the thing which was really his own--not Corot's nor Millet's nor even
Sydenham's--was not an inconsiderable thing, not a thing he need despair
of building on.

As he ate, his eyes eagerly retraced the lines. After the soup he had to
look down to his plate to know if his fork brought him fish or flesh.
The sketch delighted him. He was surprised that he had been able to do
it. He began to doubt his present mastery of the technique it
displayed, fearing he had wandered too long in the Teevan-prescribed
maze, dawdled too long in the little man's palace of illusions. One
thing he knew: he would not dare mount a table and try another such
drawing before them all. He had done this one as unthinkingly as he
would have saddled a horse or sighted a rifle, indifferent to observers.
It rushed upon him sickeningly that all his association with Teevan had
tended to destroy his belief in himself. The coffee found him
afraid--ragingly afraid.

The voices from the group outside came to him murmurously, and at
intervals he would listen to the careless, bantering talk. One voice
related that its wielder had smoked opium in Cairo. He heard cries of
mock horror, and the drawl of Chalmers--"Cairo--that's where the
'streets' come from." Griggs was presently extolling some ancient and
wonderful sherry. "Great stuff! You take a sip and you don't swallow
it--it just floats off through your being like a golden mist. He only
has about a dozen bottles--out of a lot that was put down for Napoleon
or somebody in 1830." Baldwin's voice floated in: "All right, old man,
but they had to put it down a long way to reach Napoleon in 1830."

There was a laugh at this, and it came to the lone listener as the
care-free echo of a world he had tried for and lost. Lost thus far--but
there was farther to go, other days to live, other wise men to counsel
with. He could have believed it heartily, if it were not for that
thought of Mrs. Laithe, the thought that was always like a beast
devouring his heart. Meantime, if he could only have a breathing spell,
some days of quiet. He wished his own hills were not so far away. He
was sure that a little time back in the cabin studio would give him his
old bearings.

His thought ran to Mrs. Laithe's brother, who had come to town the week
before, bronzed and bearded and violent with enthusiasm for his Western
life. He decided that a talk with Bartell would be tonic to his mood;
the bare mention of familiar names and places would hearten him--of the
Wimmenuche and Bar-7, Old Baldy and Dry Fork. And perhaps he had seen
Ben lately; the two might even have driven down to Pagosa together.

And it would be an excuse for seeing her. For two months he had sought
her only thus, with something he could hold in his mind as an excuse,
for he was abashed by that nameless thing that troubled her, and
troubled, as well, the little man who had meant so much to him--for
Teevan, when the brandy was low, continued to speak of women.

He walked quickly round to the house in Ninth Street, where he asked for
Bartell. But only Mrs. Laithe was at home. This embarrassed him, great
as was his solicitude for her. She had sought his confidence more than
once of late, but he could not tell her of doubts only half defined, of
fears vague to absurdity, of anxieties that might well be baseless. He
thought that now he could have talked, finding her alone, but for once
she seemed rather curiously preoccupied. They sat together in the
library with only a half light, the two windows opened for random
breezes. Suddenly, as her face was toward him, dim though the light was,
he caught the look that had troubled him so hauntingly in the spring. He
knew that look now; it was the look he had seen on his father's face in
the last year of his life--the look of a spirit divesting itself of the
flesh.

"You _are_ ill," he said, trying to speak lightly under his sudden
alarm. "Let me have a better look at you." He turned the light to a full
blaze. Her wonted paleness was warmed to a sinister flush about the eyes
and the upper face, and, though her eyes flashed bravely at him in
denial, the bones were sharp above her hollowed cheeks, and her once
rounded chin had become lean. She shivered as she spoke.

"I'm a little exhausted by the heat; nothing more. Lower the light,
please. I don't care to be studied just now."

"But I know you're not well. You ought to go off some place. Get out to
pasture at once. You've been 'over-packed,' kept too long on the trail."

"You, too? They all say it. It's so easy to say."

"And easy to do."

"It's hard to do, and yet I'm afraid I must. I've felt that I ought to
be here with my charges--you have been one of them." She brightened with
a sudden inspiration. "You need rest yourself. Your face shows it.
You've been depressed a long time, you are worried now. Let us both
rest. My aunt up at Kensington has wanted me there--the aunt my sister
is with. She'd be glad to have you as well. It's a big house and she
likes young people. There! Will you go with me?"

She rose, waiting, electrified, for his answer. Instantly he felt that
he wished this above all things. There he could find himself, fortify
his soul for any number of Teevans--perhaps fortify her own.

"I'll go," he answered heartily. "It will be good for us both."

She fell into her chair with a long "Ah!" then she gave the purring
little laugh, like that of a child made happy. "We shall go for two
blessed weeks and forget this place with its wretched tangles."

"I'm your man!" he said, rising and taking her hand with his old boyish
enthusiasm. "Can we start early?"

She kept her hand in his while she laughed again. "The train goes from
the Grand Central at one. I'll wire Aunt Joyce."

Outside Ewing met Bartell, but he did not talk of the San Juan.

"You must see to your sister," he said. "She looks the way my father
did. You ought to get her out of here. She's going off for two weeks,
but that won't set her right. Go look at her!"

Bartell found his sister where Ewing had left her.

"Well, Nell, how is it now? What did Birley say?"

She stirred impatiently in her chair. "He wouldn't commit himself. He
told me to rest away from here for two weeks and then come back to see a
specialist he'd send me to, a man who knows--such things."

"I just met Ewing--he spoke of how badly you look. I'm worried, Nell.
You're not going to be left here."

"I must tell you something, dear--oh, a ghastly joke, if ever there was
one: You know that one death trap of a tenement I've had so much trouble
with----"

"Where all those consumptives were? Yes."

"They've died there like sheep. I had it inspected--I wanted to have the
owner compelled to build it over or something, but we always found that
the law had been cunningly met with--not the spirit of it, but the
letter. The airshafts and drains were bad enough to kill, but not bad
enough to hurt the owner. Yesterday I determined to find out who the
owner was, to make a personal appeal. I was willing to buy the place
myself."

She stopped in a fit of coughing, a dry, hard, tearing cough that left
her exhausted.

"Well, Sis?"

"I went to the agents--this will make you cry or laugh; I did both--and
I found they were my agents--the house was my house."

"Poor Sis!"

"One of those Dick left--_mine_, you understand. I've been spending the
blood of those people, eating, wearing, amusing myself with it."

"Yes, and going down there to get caught in the same trap. I don't see
anything funny about that."

"Alden Teevan would. I must tell him of it--my own dungeon closing in on
me."

"Nonsense! You're morbid, girl. Tenements have got to be dirty. Trinity
Church itself has a fine bunch of the worst kind."

"I'm not a church, dear. This tenement is coming down. I gave orders
to-day."

"Well, you stay away from it. You're in bad shape, my girl."

"Two weeks at Kensington will put me right."

"Two weeks nothing! See here, if you act up, I'll rope you and hustle
you out to the ranch and close herd you there for about six months."

She smiled weakly at him.

"I shall be all right, dear--but you can help me upstairs now."

"Too tired for a roof garden?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Or a broiled lobster?"

"Not to-night, dear."

He helped her up the stairs, alternately scolding her for her weakness
and protesting that broiled lobsters were all that kept him from
forgetting the existence of Manhattan.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE LITTLE LAND


Ewing found Kensington like a village dropped from the clouds of
stageland, its wide, grass-bordered streets arched with giant elms and
flanked by square old houses, drowsing behind their flower gardens and
green lawns. The house to which he went was equally a stage house. Only
in that land of pretense had he seen its like: a big, square, gray
house, its drab slate roof and red chimneys all but hidden by the elms
that towered above it like mammoth feather dusters, its wide piazzas
screened from the street by a hoary hedge of lilac. The house seemed to
drowse in a comfortable lethargy, confident of the rectitude of builders
long dead who had roughhewn its beams and joined them with wooden pins
before a day of nails. In Ewing's own room, far up between the hunched
shoulders of the house, the windows gave closely on one of the elms, so
that he could hear its whispers night and morning from his canopied bed
of four posts. The other rooms were broad and low of ceiling, and there
were long, high-backed sofas, slim-legged chairs, and tables of mahogany
or rosewood, desks, cabinets, and highboys of an outlandish grace, that
charmed with hints of a mellowed past--of past overlaying past in
sleeping strata.

The woman whose house this was seemed to Ewing to be its true spirit.
She, too, drowsed anciently, a thing of old lace and lavender, yet of a
certain gentle and antique sprightliness, of cheeks preserving a hint of
time-worn pink, mellowed like the scrap of her flowered wedding dress
shut between the leaves of an "Annual" half a century old.

And Ewing found in the house, too, the girl who had once talked half
an hour with him by an exigent tea table. She had been a thing of shy
restraint then, showing with an almost old-fashioned simplicity
against her background of townish sophistication. Now he found her
demurely modern in this huddle of mellowed relics. She it was who
interpreted for him the antique mysteries of house and town. She
paraded before him the treasures of her aunt, from the pewter plates
and silver-gilt candelabra to camphor-scented brocades long hidden in
cedar chests in the ghostly attic. But she performed her office with
irreverence; as when, in the attic's gloom, she held the festal gown
of some departed great-grandmother before her own robust figure to
show how tiny were grandmothers in those days, for the yoke but a
little more than half spanned her breadth as she smirked above it in
scorn of its narrowness.

In that subdued light the girl's skin was flawless, her eyes were shaded
to murkiness, and a mote-ridden shaft of sunlight struck her hair to a
radiant yellow. But out of doors these matters could be seen to another
effect. The hair was only a yellowish brown, the eyes lost their shadows
and became the lucid green of sea waves, and the face was spotted with
tiny freckles, like a bird's egg. He liked her best out of doors,
breathing as she did of wood and field and sky. Skirts she seemed to
wear under protest, as a wood nymph might humor, a little awkwardly, the
prejudice of an indoor tribe with which she chose to tarry. When she
raced over the lawn with her dog, it was not hard to see that clothing
was an ungraceful impediment, even the short-skirted gowns she wore by
day. In the longer affairs of evening, though she strove to subdue her
spirits to them, she still had an air of the open, as if she but played
at being a lady and might forget at any moment. Ewing was shyer of her
when evening brought this change of habit. At such times he found it
easier to talk to Mrs. Laithe, who sat--or, oftener, lay--with her eyes
turned from the light, speaking but little.

"I'm glad to be away from town," she said to him, as he sat a moment
beside her one day, "and I'm glad you're away. I need to be quiet, and
you shall do as you like. Virginia will go about with you and make you
gay. Virginia always makes us gay."

Unconsciously her hand had fallen on his sleeve, curling and fastening
there, and when he rose he was disturbed to see that he had shaken off
so tender a thing.

"I didn't know you were holding me," he said, in apology, and lifted the
fallen hand.

"Such foolish hands! Your sister's are tiny, too, but they look as if
they could turn a doorknob." He leisurely turned it this way and that to
see its lines, and compared the fingernails with his own to show how
absurd they were. And all the time it seemed to the woman that her hand
had a little heart in it that was beating to suffocation.

"There, Virginia is beckoning to you from the path--perhaps you can
finish my hand another time." She laughed. "I hope you're not seriously
annoyed about it."

"It's foolish," he insisted, and replaced it with elaborate care. Then
he ran to join his ruddy cicerone. He found the girl a good comrade, who
helped him to forget those things he wished to forget. Somehow in the
quiet air, that nameless secret thing that had been eating his heart
drew off a little. Almost he could believe it had all been some hideous
mistake.

He tried at first to join Virginia in her sports. Tennis looked
foolishly easy, but after sending four of the balls beyond recovery he
suspected that the game might demand something more than willingness and
strength, and relinquished his racquet to watch the girl. He felt the
glow of the sport in following her swift movements, and he envied the
young men who could play with her.

Golf looked not only easy but useless; and it was with only half a heart
that he essayed it. He splintered a driver at his first attempt, and he
did not venture a second. Still, he liked golf better than tennis, he
decided, for he could carry the bag of things she played with and hunt
lost balls, and wander over the course alone with her. He was never able
to believe that a stroke more or less in holing the ball could be a
matter of real moment, but the girl was worth watching while she
believed it. He had never seen a real girl near before, and he was
surprised to find it so fine a sight.

In the canoe he was more successful, contriving to accomplish by sheer
strength of arm what the girl did more adroitly. They would paddle far
up the little river, to float down in the late afternoon. The river,
too, was a stage river, running between low, willow-fringed banks, or
winding among hay fields that sloped back to the upland, or lush green
meadows where cows were posed effectively. The girl became part of the
picture when they turned to float homeward, facing him from the bow, her
hair glinting yellow and her skin crystal clear against the crimson
cushion she leaned upon.

They rode together, too--he could join her there--over the upland and
far into the little hills, between tangled hedge rows, past little farms
with orchards of ripening fruit. They passed many deserted places,
mournful in their stagnation, overgrown with wild things, the houses
forlornly dismantled, perhaps with the roof sunken, the chimney toppled,
and the weather-beaten walls in ruinous decay. He was touched by these
places. The houses must have been built with high hope, and once have
been alive with full-hearted effort. Their walls had enclosed dreams and
joyous dramas. Then discouragement had fallen and the search for another
place of beginning. He wondered what had become of all the people who
had built these homes. He hoped they had begun in another place with
undimmed resolve and had found peace. Yet there were sinister hints that
their ghosts haunted these spots of their first failures, beseeching of
the ruins something of the first freshness of impulse.

He tried to tell Virginia Bartell that he, too, was like a deserted
farm, falling into ruin. But this only made her laugh. She could not
believe in failure, it seemed. And he laughed with her, after a little.
It was not possible, after all, to suppose that he could go on being a
ruin forever. These frustrated home makers must have succeeded at last,
and so would he. In some manner the girl herself became an assurance of
this. Her mere buoyancy uplifted him.

These times alone with the girl were not always to be had for the
asking. There abounded other youths who prized her companionship; able,
dauntless youths and skilled with accomplishments.

There was one of these, a tall young man, spectacled, of a high shiny
forehead, a student of a youth, who haunted the gray house like a
malignant wraith of erudition, and condescended to the girl almost as
flagrantly as he did to Ewing. His talk, whether of machinery or morals,
socialism or chemistry, was meant to instruct. Wherefore the girl slunk
from him, not always so skilfully as might have been wished--with far
less subtlety, indeed, than her aunt wished.

"I'm almost certain you offended him this afternoon," she remarked on a
day when they had fled flagrantly to the river, "though why you should
wish to avoid him is beyond me. You know that he's from one of the very
oldest families in West Roxbury." The girl's tone was penitent as she
answered: "But I'd promised to go in the canoe with Mr. Ewing." There
was no penitence, however, in the look she flashed at Ewing over her
aunt's shoulder, daring him to prove if he were a man. He nerved himself
in the glance.

"But you see, Mrs. Ranley, I'm from one of the very oldest families in
Hinsdale County, Colorado." The girl applauded him with her eyes, and
the incident was closed with a word of mild gratification from the old
lady. She was pleased to observe that he felt a family pride, even
though any county in Colorado was, of course, beyond consideration.

Their favorite walk home from the golf links led them through a
churchyard, and here they often rested in the cool of the afternoon; not
in the new part where monument and mound were obtrusively recent, but
up the hill from these, where death was so ancient as to be touched
with the grace of the antique. Here, in a pleasant gloom of oak shade,
cypress and elm, they loitered among the drab stones that headed mounds
worn down and overgrown with sweetbrier, wild rose, and matted grass;
and here Mrs. Laithe sometimes joined them for the homeward stroll,
walking too much, Ewing thought, like one who had risen from the
forgotten multitude under foot. Yet, when he spoke of her health she
always responded with her gay assurances, and seemed, indeed, to be more
concerned about his welfare than her own. He had not been able to talk
to her freely. There was so much about Teevan that he felt she would not
understand. Besides, he could not speak to her about Teevan.

At the end of the first week he had written to Teevan to say that he
must talk with him. The little man had replied from his favorite sea
place, naming a day when he would be back in town.

The prospect depressed Ewing anew. It had been easy to lie on his back
in a field, nettled by disgust with himself, and frame speeches of
self-mastery. But reflection had brought him doubt. The speeches would
have to be made, and yet, in a way, he was Teevan's property; Teevan had
invested money in him. This added to his depression. And this was why
the girl reported him to her sister as a youth joyful in odd moments of
forgetting, but sunk in some black despair when he remembered; a young
man she could not at all understand. And Mrs. Laithe, puzzling over his
trouble, divining that Teevan would somehow be at the bottom of it,
determined on a move to aid him, a move that would take her once more to
Teevan himself. She had sought him the night after her talk with
Sydenham, but the interview had come to nothing. Teevan had been so
plausibly solicitous about Ewing's success that she had found herself
unready to tax him with a knowledge of Ewing's identity, or with motives
inimical to him. His excessive amiability, his air of unsuspecting
sincerity, had disarmed her. But this time, she determined, there would
be no more fencing. She would attack straightforwardly.

The day they left the girl lightly bade Ewing farewell with talk of
meetings in town. He had not told her of a resolve formed the day before
when they had ridden to a hill above the village from which they could
see veritable mountains in the distance--his own delectable mountains
they had seemed, calling to him. Instantly he had determined to go back
to his own. Not in defeat, but for fresh courage. He would stay there
working as he could, until Teevan was paid. Then the Rookery would know
him again, and the men of the Monastery--know him going his own way.

He was meditating gloomily on his retreat as the train bore him back to
town with Mrs. Laithe. And she, alive to the distress that showed in his
face, forgot everything but him, the one she had helplessly and
irrevocably taken for her own, half her entreating child, half her
master, terrible and beloved. She watched his face from half-closed
eyes, finding it unutterably sad, and, without her being able to
withhold it, her mind constantly repeated the image of an embrace, to
soothe and sustain him. Incessantly this unsubstantial enfoldment took
place in her inner sense, like some wild drama among ocean-bed things,
far below an unrippled surface. Over and over the phantom woman beat
down his enemies, encircled him from harm, consoled him against her
heart, cherished him like the dear walls of a home. And she could not
halt this phantom play. Once she divided her arms and raised them a
little, as one in a dream faintly acts his vision. Ewing thought she was
drawing her chiffon boa about her, and he replaced it on her shoulders.

Floating about this obsession in her mind was the dismayed thought of
Teevan. She was fixed on going to him for the truth, and this disturbed
her like a coming battle. She was not used to the feeling of antagonism,
she, with her gentle woman's life, but she felt an unknown energy
welling up in her--the fierceness of the defender. She would have the
truth from Teevan.




CHAPTER XXIV

EWING INTERRUPTS


Eleanor Laithe started from a half sleep. She had begun to dream while
still conscious of the library walls, the couch on which she lay, the
curtains swelling in and out of the opened windows with a heated breeze
of late afternoon, the rattle of a wagon through the street, and the
shrilling of boys at a game.

She turned her face from the wall, fixed the pillows more easily under
her head, and stared into the room, her eyes narrowing in calculation as
she went lucidly back for the hundredth time since she had flung herself
there, to check off the details of that half hour with the man who
healed--or did not heal.

She had shrewdly rejected the specialist Birley had named for another
who would not know her. She wanted no mistaken kindness, no polite
reluctance or glossing, and she feared to find this in one who might
regard her as something more than a casual human body in evil case. She
had felt bound to have plain words. She would know what she faced as one
knows heat or cold.

And she had gained the full of her wish. The man had taken her as
casually as she offered herself. His questions were few, his examination
mechanically impersonal, his diagnosis cool and informing. She had felt
herself a culprit, listening to sentence.

"You think I have a year to live?"

"Longer, perhaps, if you take it this way, without worry. Worry eats the
tissue even faster than those little vegetable parasites. I take it you
eliminate worry?" He drew on his gloves.

She smiled now, with pride in her cunning. Her simulation of unconcerned
curiosity had been perfect, as if it were another's wasting body she
brought him. She had hidden all that fond love of life, her life of
action, sensation; of hope ever enlarging, of fruitions certain,
innumerable, and dear. No sign had the practiced eyes read of the inner
rage that maddened her at thought of so much life unlived--life of mirth
and tears, height and depth, grief, ecstasy and common levels. She was
avid of them all, dared them all, wished only to play the game, vaunting
a fine zest for the sport with all its hazards.

She had found in her hour alone there that she did not fear death--only
detested it. She feared it as little as a child fears sleep; hated it as
a child, torn untimely from play, hates to go to bed.

"Longer, perhaps, if you take it this way--eliminate worry." But she
knew she could not take it "this way;" could not give up as this judge
believed she had done. She must rebel to the last. As long as she played
she must play in the true spirit. She might be vanquished, but she would
not debase the sport. She smiled at a reminiscence of her brother's
college life, catching at a phrase. "It seems I'm not a 'quitter,'" she
thought.

Then she halted this race of thought in sudden amusement. She felt her
evening fever rising, the sinister warmth and false glow that burned
like a red flame below the outer corners of her eyes. It had come
earlier than usual, hurried, doubtless, by the very passion of her
rebelling. The man had been right. But she would have no waiting,
half-hearted conflict, for all that.

She sat up quickly. A certain battle was set for this day, one that
would test her gameness. She rose to look at a clock, and knew that
Teevan probably awaited Ewing. But she could be first there, and she
felt equal to the clash. The very fever would sustain her. And she would
be wary once more that day, cunning to learn what she had to oppose.
Then she would be valiant. If the fever only gave her strength, small
matter the fuel that fed it.

She smoothed her hair, flung a scarf over her shoulders, and stepped out
into the early twilight. She felt a slight giddiness as she walked the
short distance to Teevan's door, but she had shrugged this away by the
time she rang the bell. There was a wait, and she rang again. Then, when
she began to fear that she assailed an empty house, she heard rapid
steps; the door swung back, and Teevan himself stood before her, Teevan
jaunty in summer negligee of flannels and silken shirt, who deftly
covered with his froth of gallantry whatever surprise he felt at sight
of her.

"My dear lady! So neighborly of you, and what luck I was in! I'm off
Neville's yacht for the evening only on a bit of business. Come up to my
den. It's stifling down here."

She followed him up the stairs, feeling a reckless strength for combat.
He took her to a room at the front of the house where there was a desk,
a few lounging chairs, and an air of mannish comfort.

"I'll not keep you long, Randall," she said, hesitating at first to sit,
illogically fearing that weakness might seize her if she relaxed her
body. After a moment, however, she took the chair he pushed forward.

"As long as you like, Eleanor. The breeze comes cooler through those
south windows while you're here. Let me offer you a brandy and soda. No?
You'll let me take this alone, then? Thanks! I'm feeling a bit done up
by the heat." He seated himself at the desk, sipped from his glass and
looked a question at her. She debated her beginning.

"It's about Gilbert Ewing."

His dark little eyes narrowed upon her with agreeable interest.

"Ah, to be sure--Ewing."

"You know he's been staying a fortnight with us at Kensington."

He nodded a gracious assent, still waiting, still veiled with an effect
that aroused all her caution.

"He came back to town yesterday."

"He must have enjoyed the place immensely. I'm nowhere so strongly
reminded of rural England, saving the architecture, of course. Ewing
painted, doubtless?"

"Oh, no, he did nothing. He played with my sister, chiefly. Virginia
took him about. They were inseparable. He had heart for nothing but
her--no work, nothing else." She had deliberately lengthened the speech,
wishing him not to see that she watched for an opening. Teevan seemed to
feel a leading. He searched her face as he asked:

"They liked each other immensely, eh?"

"Oh, yes, I couldn't tell you----"

He felt the weariness of her tone, almost a faintness. The color burned
darkly high on her cheeks, her eyes showed an exotic and painful
splendor. He suddenly saw that she must have sustained some blow; that
her luster was a fevered glitter sad and terrible, and that she was
nerving herself to some ordeal. He sank back in his seat, all acuteness.
Had she betrayed herself in the beginning, struck open the secret for
him by her first words? A jealous woman, then--a flouted woman come to
turn on the man? It was no conclusion to leap at; rather a piquant
suspicion to verify.

He set his glass down and picked up a slender-bladed dagger from the
desk before him, absently bending the steel. He knew they were both
veiled for the moment. His eyes challenged her to open speech of Ewing
as he held the dagger up to her and said lazily, "A beauty,
that--undoubted Toledo work. Picked it up in a shop at Newport
yesterday. They knew how to temper steel in those days. See its edge--"
He tore a bit of paper from a pad and slashed it into strips, his eyes
rising to hers at each cut, interrogatory, through the complacence of a
man exhibiting a fine property.

"Randall, you've been friendly with him, and yet you know who he is;
you've known it a long time. And you--you _can't_ like him."

He still toyed with his plaything, prickling its needle-like point into
the pad of paper under his hand. Then he turned on her with a sudden,
insinuating droop of the eyelids.

"Very well--and you've been friendly with him, say until two weeks ago.
And you're no longer so. I name no reason. But you detest him now. Am I
wrong? Can I still read a woman?" He leaned toward her, peering nearer
with each query. He meant them to be like thrusts of the dagger which
he now threw on the desk. Her eyes fell in unfeigned confusion under his
look, her mind running many ways to come on the meaning beneath this
preposterous guess. She looked up to him, seeking a hint, but his eyes
were inscrutable, his mouth set in a sagacious smile, intimating,
accusing. She looked down again, suddenly feeling it wise to let him
think as he did--whatever absurd thing it might be. She sighed deeply,
relaxed in her chair and met his eyes again. Teevan beheld a woman
defenseless to his insight; one too proud to confess in words, but too
weak, too vindictive, perhaps, to attempt denial.

"I see, my girl--don't trouble to speak." He replenished his glass from
the decanter. He was delighted with his penetration; pleased, also, to
believe that here was an ally, if one should be needed. He glanced at
her again. She sat silent and drooping.

"You did well to come to me, Eleanor. I fancy you'll be interested to
know what our young friend is about to encounter."

"Oh, I shall, I shall! Tell me, please." He smiled at her eagerness, so
poorly subdued, recording in a mental footnote the viperish fury of a
woman in her plight. Still, he thought she carried it off rather well.
There had been need for his keenness to read her secret.

"I'll tell you, my girl, and I'm jolly glad to find some one who can
enjoy it with me. What am I going to do with him?" He rose and paced the
room for so long a time that she felt she could not bear it. She was
about to speak when he abruptly halted and faced her with a petrifying
burst of malignance. "What am I going to do with him?--wring him, wreck
him, choke him, fling the fool back on his dung heap to rot!" She
stared at him, panting; then, summoning all her ingenuity she smiled
slowly above the sickening fear that had rushed over her. Teevan glowed.
That smile of hers--he could detect something relentless in it--was a
tribute to his prowess no less than a confirmation of his power to read
her.

"I don't understand," she half whispered, still with that restrained
fierceness that gave him joy.

"Of course you don't. Am I to be read as a primer? I'm subtler, I trust,
than an earthquake, a cyclone, a deluge. You don't understand, but you
shall." He paced the floor again with a foppish air of pride. "Ah, it
has worked so beautifully. Really, I've regretted there was no one I
could let in to enjoy a work of art with me. But you, I see, will have
the taste to applaud it, Nell, now that your eyes are opened. Oh, the
thing has gone ideally! Only applause was lacking."

"I don't understand, Randall." She could hardly manage the words. She
was afraid her heart would beat them into some wild cry of impatience.

"You shall--you shall." He gazed meditatively at her. "Yes, and you'll
have to know it all to understand perfectly, even my--my humiliation."
He unlocked the door of a closet and brought out something she did not
recognize until he had placed it across the arms of a chair and stepped
back. It was the portrait of Ewing's mother. His face was contorted now
in a most unpleasant sneer.

"There's the _motif_." He resumed his seat at the desk, facing the
picture. The sneer had gone, and whatever dignity of soul was in him
sounded in the next words.

"You can't know what that meant to me when I saw it, when I knew who
had done it, when I thought of the creature who carried it about
parading his own shame and hers--and _mine_!"

"I think I can understand that, Randall."

"You can't, I say. No woman could. You can't begin to know the
humiliation, how it tore me, knowing this fellow walked the earth at
all, a nameless spawn, holding my shame over me--over _me_! threatening
every instant to cover me again with it. As if I'd not survived enough!
Good God! was I to go through it again, and know that this puling whelp
was the instrument--a thing to torture me, hold me up to ridicule, to
make men smile and titter and mock me in club corners? Wasn't _her_
insult enough? Must she breed obscene things to echo it?" He groaned and
turned away with a gesture of warding off. In the mist of her besetment
the woman found herself thinking that the fine little hands in this
gesture should have been lace-beruffled at the wrist. He was the figure
of stabbed vanity, the bleeding coxcomb. He flung an arm toward the
picture with bitter vehemence.

"Ah, my lady! my fine, loose lady, with your high talk and your low way!
I hope you've watched me with those painted eyes of yours. Did you think
I'd never strike back?"

"But now, Randall--_how_?" He replenished his glass and turned slowly
away from the picture.

"How, indeed? That's where you meet me at last. Not every one could have
carried it through, but it was simple for me. Difficult in a way, yes.
It's been hard to stomach the fool, with his conceit and his whining.
Oh, he fancies himself tremendously, for all his ways of a holy
innocent, his damned airs of a sugar-candy Galahad. But I've won him, I
tell you, by that very innocence of his. I'm the one soul in the world
he truly reveres. His sun rises and sets in me. And now he's where I
want him. I've worn out his hope, kept him from doing the thing he
wanted to do, kept him on the edge of despair out of respect and fear
and love of me. The beggar _has_ a certain devilish sort of genius, but
he doesn't know where it lies, and I've taken precious good care he
shouldn't find out. Oh, but I've had a rich time of it--disgusting and
rich. Nearly a year it is now that he's led me this dance, but I've
hooked him beautifully, and to-night I'll pull him in." She had been
watching the play of spite on his face, and it was with difficulty that
she moistened her lips to say:

"But what will you do to-night--what can you say?"

"Everything I've laid a train for saying, this year past. Tell him how I
despise him for his empty pretensions, his constant, wretched failures.
Show him to himself as a conceited dawdler and a cheat who has lived on
my bounty--oh, I saw to that--a cheat who has defrauded me of time and
money and faith in man. Never fear but I'll know the things to say. I've
told them to _her_ often enough." He thrust viciously at the portrait.
"And you'll hear it all, my Lady Disdain, with your face to the wall to
hide its belated blushes."

Again she tried to speak but her lips were dry. At last she achieved a
few rather husky words.

"Randall, if you please, might I have a glass of something--water, I'd
like."

"To be sure, my child. You're certain you won't join me in a brandy and
soda? No? I'll get you something below."

She clutched at the moment to quiet, if she could, that tumult of heart
and brain. Her mind dwelt chiefly on Ewing's dejection as she had left
him the day before. Teevan came back, bearing a carafe and a bottle of
soda water. She drank a glass of the water greedily, and murmured her
thanks as he gave her more. It refreshed her and she seemed to feel a
renewal of strength. Her fever was heating her brain to wild activity.
She felt a crazy desire to cool her head, to lean it against snow or
cold metal. She thought fleetingly of cold things she had touched, of
marble, icicles, a brass rail with frost on it. She was goading her mind
for a way to reach Teevan. She drank the second glass of water, and
again he refilled it, protesting against so poor a tipple as he took
more brandy for himself.

She watched him narrowly as he prepared his drink. The decanter was so
low that she thought he must be feeling what he had taken, and she
wondered if it might not have softened him, released some generosity in
his poor soul.

"You must have suffered, Randall, in all this. But won't it hurt you
still more, doing what you mean to do--when you make _him_ suffer?"

"His suffering!" He waved a deprecating hand. "What can he suffer
compared to me? Disgust I've suffered, yes, and mortification. He could
feel nothing approaching that if I flayed him here. Why, Nell, I pulled
a rose from its bush this morning in Neville's garden, and crushed a
worm crawling on its stem. A poor, tiny green thing, yet it had lived,
and had its successes and failures after a fashion. But you can't
imagine its actual suffering in death to equal my own mere disgust at
crushing it."

The brandy had not softened him, she thought. Could it have made him
cautious?

"Have you never suspected, Randall, that there may be a sleeping fighter
in him?" There was a glitter in her tormented eyes, a sudden fierce wish
to behold battle between this puny insulter and Ewing aroused to his
might.

"Bah! a fighter!" He snapped contemptuous fingers. "There's the look in
his eye sometimes, but I've disarmed him. He _can't_ fight me, his
benefactor, his best friend. Never fear; he'll wilt, wither, shrivel up.
Oh, trust me for that. And suppose the impossible, suppose the worm
turns in some fit of wormish desperation. I've the _coup_, have I not?
You know what his mother is to him, a damned romantic memory of pure
womanhood and all that rot. Suppose him capable of so much as an
eye-flash of defiance. Why, then, my child, he'll know who--he'll know
_what_--his mother was; and he'll know my right to describe her. He'll
know what _he_ is. And the words won't puzzle him: he'll need no
lexicon--crisp, Anglo-Saxon words. Do you think that will leave any
fight in him--her shame and his? By Gad! Nell, it's too good to keep
from him. He shall have it anyway, though I'd meant to keep it back for
my own sake. But that shall be the clincher. Before her face there I'll
tell him what she was."

"Not that, Randall, surely not that!" Her veil of calmness had flown on
the wind of his hate. She knew she must reveal herself. Her words had
been so near a cry that he turned on her in amazement.

"Listen, Randall, don't--don't do that. Let him off. I promise to take
him away. It's all true; you've handled him well, and you can break him
now--but don't. Please, please let him go. I'll take him away, I tell
you. I promise he shall never bother you again."

He looked at her, incredulous.

"You're asking me to consider _him_--really?"

"No, no--to consider me. Please, please listen--please consider me."

"But you--I thought you----"

"Randall"--she had regained a little of her first coolness--"I'm done
for. I found that out to-day. I've a year to live, at most. A scant
year, if it's to be like this. Try to grasp it. I've wanted so much, had
so little of life. But, I must go, they tell me. Can you understand what
that means, as well as I understood what this meant to you--a sentence
of death, a few little months to snatch at happiness?"

He stared at her uncertainly, but half comprehending. She saw that the
drink was affecting him at last. His eyes were dulled, his face had lost
its centered look.

"Going to die, Eleanor? Die in a year? What rot! Don't talk rot. Nobody
dies in a year." He spoke carefully, with a deliberate attack on each
word, as if he mistrusted his tongue.

"But it's true, Randall, I swear it's true. Can you understand?"

"Understand?" he repeated, and through her tense absorption she was
astonished to see on his face an incredible look of pity. "Understand?
Why, of course! And it's too bad, my girl. Poor Eleanor! Die in a
year--why wouldn't I understand? But never mind"--he seemed to search
clumsily for words of cheer. "Death isn't anything but an incident in
the scheme of life--a precious contemptible one, I've no doubt. We live,
and that's a little thing--but death's littler. I dare say we live as
long as we need to. Who was the old chap--Plotinus, wasn't
it?--conceived the body to be a penitential mechanism for the soul? All
the better if we expiate early. Gad! I must have had a quantity of
things to atone for--though I'm really younger than you may think, Nell.
Poor girl--poor girl!" He brightened as he drained his glass to her.
"Here's to you, wherever you are. Come, be cheerful anyway. What was it
struck in my mind yesterday?--a sentence from one of Arbuthnot's letters
to Swift--just the meat for you--'A reasonable hope of going--a
reasonable hope of going to a good place and an absolute certainty of
leaving a bad one.' That's the sentiment--keep it in mind, my dear."

She was nerving herself to new appeals, half fearing she could not hold
his attention. She seized on that unprecedented look of compassion.

"But, Randall, you'll let him off--let him off for me--for my sake." In
her eagerness she rose and fluttered to the desk, standing before him.
He whirled his chair about, and the look of commiseration had gone.

"No, no, no! You can't understand, Nell. I couldn't let him off if I
wanted to. It's fate, its retribution--the sins of the father--it's
scriptural, I tell you--" His eyes were gleaming again with steely
implacability.

"But for me, Randall, for my sake, for me alone--not thinking of him?"

"Ah, lady, set me a harder task, but one of dignity--as difficult, as
dangerous as you like, so it has some dignity. But not that. Here"--he
gracefully extended the handle of the dagger to her--"slay me an' you
will--the blade is keen--a toy, but deadly--I'll die smiling if you
wish. But don't ask for that cub's happiness. Don't rob me of my pay,
Nell, my pay for all I've endured from him, his boastings and
snivelings, and his detestable handshakes. Don't talk rot, I say,
even if you must die."

Again she set herself to plead, desperation feeding the fire in her head
until she knew not her words. She was conscious only of a torrent of
speech, coaxing, imploring, wheedling, even threatening. But all she
evoked was the steady, smiling negative, his head shaken unwittingly to
the rhythm of her phrases.

She stopped at last, panting, striving to keep back the passionate words
of entreaty that still formed, crushing them down in a maddened
consciousness of their impotence. She stared wildly, feeling only a
still stubborn determination. Ewing would soon come--yet it seemed that
she had no resource save appeal. She felt this and raged against it,
striding away from Teevan across the room. For the first time in her
gentle life she was feeling the sensation she thought a man must feel in
fighting. She had an impulse to strike blindly, to wound, to beat down
with her hands. Without volition she measured her antagonist and
wondered deliriously if she could throw him to the floor. He seemed so
small to her, and hateful--hateful and small enough to kill. She closed
her eyes to shut him out, but opened them again quickly, for everything
rocked in the darkness. She incessantly pictured this creature, naked in
his poverty of manhood, smiling up at Ewing, the friendly one, who stood
bowed down, blighted and broken of heart. Sometimes Ewing had his arm
over his face, and she felt that he would never take it away--move on
thus forever, like a figure in an anguished dream.

Constantly beside her thoughts, like a little refrain, went the
remembrance that she had brought him there, torn him from his youth and
splendid dreams to give him to this--she the betrayer! The fever waxed,
the tortured blood trampled in her head like hurrying hoofs.

But she could not strike Teevan, extinguish him with blows, and she set
herself again to play the beggar. And she could not beg across the room.
Bit by bit she crept to the entreated one, her great eyes full of flame
and fear, and laid pitiful hands on his shoulder. Still the shaken head
met her, the icy smile, the dulled eyes.

"No good talking, Nell! No good! You mortify me, my word you do. Demand
something great, something to task a man; ask me----"

Again he picked up the dagger with a return to that extravagant air of
the sighing gallant.

"--here, I point it to my heart, see! A mere thrust--your beautiful hand
is still equal to it. I'd be proud of the blow. I'd give you my life
gladly--but not my self-respect. You're too stunning a woman, Nell, to
waste yourself on that cub--a woman to die for indeed. You were never
finer than at this moment." In the excess of his emotion he threw an arm
about her waist. She started back but he held her.

"Never finer, Nell, on my soul--too fine for that damned----"

She put out her hands in an instinctive, shuddering movement of
repulsion. Still he clung to her, muttering his insupportable phrases.
He clung and she could not release herself without doing what she had
thought was impossible--exert her unused hands in striking, thrusting,
beating off. She hesitated: she did not like to touch him. He looked
very small and low in his chair. How low he seemed from her dizzy
height! And yet he held so well. His voice came faintly, too, as if from
afar, floating up faint and hateful. So he would hold Ewing and slay him
with his voice. He was playing with the dagger again and proffering his
heart with maudlin eyes. Prisoning her still with his right arm, he took
her hand in his left and clumsily set it on the dagger's hilt.

"It would be a sweet death, Nell. Press home!" He drew her closer, so
that she staggered on his shoulder. "Gad! your eyes are fine. What a
woman you are! Too great, Nell, for that beaten whelp, even before he
took to your sister----"

She gave a desperate little cry and struck out to free herself. It was
hardly more than a gesture to have him away, but she was conscious, with
a lightning shock, that the blade moved under her hand. She heard
Teevan's shrill scream of fright and pain----

"You're killing me--you're killing me!"

But she saw only Ewing with covered face, and pushed the harder, lost to
all but her blind sense of opposition. Then she heard a new note in
Teevan's cry.

"Ewing! Ewing!"

She turned quickly, while Teevan retreated round a corner of the desk,
snarling his rage--turned to see Ewing.




CHAPTER XXV

MRS. LAITHE IS ENLIGHTENED


He stood just inside the door, hat in hand, regarding the scene with a
look that was troubled yet cool. She felt her way cautiously back to a
chair, afraid of fainting, and grasped it for support. Finding that her
hand still clutched the dagger, she dropped it with a shudder of
disgust.

Ewing shrewdly noted where the dagger fell, then his eyes flashed to
Teevan. There was a stain of blood on the silken shirt, and the little
man was staring down at this, incredulous.

"By God! she meant it!" he muttered. Then his eyes rose to meet Ewing's,
and a look of sudden malignance blazed into them.

"So you've come!" The cry, like the look, was full of hate. "You've come
in time, you whelp! Now you'll hear something you might have heard that
first night when I had to fuddle you with tales of a seizure. Now you'll
know----"

But the woman started toward him with a suddenness that broke his
speech.

"If you tell him he'll kill you--" The words came with a quick,
whispering intensity, and there was a rapt, almost rejoicing look on her
face, as of one eager for the deed.

Teevan looked scornfully to Ewing again, but was chilled by a certain
sharp, cold light in his eyes, the look of one alert and ready. His
words gave meaning to this look.

"If you tell me, I'll kill you," said Ewing. The sentence was evenly
uttered, and the tone was low, almost deferential, but the intention was
not to be mistaken.

Teevan laughed, flourishing a gesture of scorn for the threat.

"I'm no coward"--but he broke off, waiting, watching, with fear in his
eyes.

"I'll take this," said Ewing. He lifted the portrait tenderly from the
chair and thrust it under his arm with a protecting movement. Teevan
stared at this with an air of fine disdain, but did not speak.

The woman had been waiting for his words with parted lips. Now she
breathed a long, trembling sigh of relief and turned to Ewing.

"You see, he has nothing to say. Let us go."

He opened the door for her and closed it after them without looking
again at Teevan.

"There's a reason why I can't do it for you now," he said, as they went
down the stairs. She wondered what he could mean, but was too little
alive to ask. When they reached the street she became at once interested
in a belated laborer going home with a loosely tied bundle over his
shoulder, odds and ends of small boards, refuse from some building. He
whistled in a tired way as he trudged on, not looking at them. She felt
pleased at the thought that his wife was going to have wood with which
to cook the poor fellow's supper. The dark was fast gathering, but
children still romped in the street. An elderly stout man passed, his
hat off, wielding a palm-leaf fan. She was surprised at this, for the
outer air had fallen on her with icy clutch, making her draw the scarf
more closely about her.

Ewing would have left her at her door, but she urged him to go in. She
took him to sit in the unlighted library, and there, when he could no
longer see her face, he was astounded to hear her talk of her girlhood,
her schooldays, of the few people they knew in common, of Piersoll's new
book, of her brother's ranch life; of a score of little gossipy matters
that would occur to the untroubled mind in a twilight chat. But when he
rose to go after a little time, she was in an instant wild panic of
protest, seizing one of his hands with a convulsive grip. He covered her
poor hand with his own and regarded her with pity. She lifted her face
to him with a sudden wild entreaty for shelter. "Oh, stay with
me--stay--stay--and comfort me. I am so ill, and I--I would comfort
you." He soothed her as best he could, protesting that he would stay,
and in a few moments she was talking cheerfully of Kensington and of
Virginia. She tried to amuse him with tales of Virginia's childhood--how
she had been such a droll and merry little creature. She still retained
his hand, gripping it with an intensity through which he could feel the
quivering of her whole body.

Only once did she refer to Teevan. "Please don't see him again," she
urged. "Promise me, promise never to let him tell you--anything. Please,
please promise that!"

Believing she pleaded for herself, he felt that old longing to lift her
in his arms and show her there without words how little she had to fear.
But he controlled himself to answer simply, "I promise; I'll never let
him speak to me again. Don't be afraid; he shall never say anything to
me."

Her father came in presently, grumbling about the lack of light as he
stumbled against a chair. He let it be known that he had returned to the
city in some alarm about her, inspired by a letter from her aunt. She
hastily assured him that she was well--never better. But he demurred at
her remaining longer in town.

"You'll have to get out, daughter. It's beastly unpleasant doing those
slum things in summer. You need life and gayety. You come with me and
dance, play bridge, swim, sail--enjoy yourself with your own kind for a
while. You're going on Tom Neville's yacht to-morrow. He's to pick us up
about noon with Randy Teevan."

"Will he be there?" she asked.

"He will, and he'll be one of a jolly crowd that will 'liven you up.
Here's Clarence--he must come, too."

Her brother had felt his way through the darkness, and before she
guessed his intention he had found one of the electric lights and turned
it on. She shrank back with a strange, smothered cry, under the sudden
light, her hand before her face as if to ward off invisible horrors, her
eyes staring at them under it, wild with appeal. They were speechless
for the moment, alarmed by her manifest illness, her frightened, haggard
face, in which the fever raged. Her brother was the first to speak,
going to her and taking the blind, defending hand she had put out. She
clung to him when she felt his touch, but turned her face away.

"See here, Nell," he began, in tones of savage decision, "no yachting
trip for you, my girl. 'Twon't do, governor, you can see that for
yourself. But I'll tell you what she's going to do--she's going to pack
up and go back to the mountains with me and stay there till she's well."

She still clung to him, drawing his arms around her with an effect of
hiding.

"Yes, yes, that's it--let's go there--out where there's room. It's
stifling here. Have you noticed how curiously stifling it is? Too many
people, dead people and live people, and all hobnobbing. We must get
away, brother."

"You hear that, dad? She'll go back with me. How soon, Nell?--I say, how
soon?" he repeated, for she had not seemed to hear him.

"How soon?" She raised her eyes to them with sudden intelligence, then
sprang wildly to her feet.

"Oh, soon, at once!--Well, not to-night, perhaps,"--she sank back
again--"but to-morrow, next day. We'll all go. Mr. Ewing is going." Her
eyes rested on Ewing a moment, then, with a difficult smile, she turned
to her brother. "And Virgie must go, too. Telegraph her to-night. She'll
make us gay, she'll make us--as we used to be. We couldn't go without
Virgie. She will--comfort us."

"She'll go, too, Sis. It's all right. I'll telegraph. But what are you
afraid of? You'll be a well woman there in a month."

"Afraid--I afraid?" She looked up at him in wonder. "I don't know. Oh,
yes I do. Why, I just tried to kill--I've just killed--killed a hundred
people--killed----"

"Good Lord--there--she's fainted! Get some water and a drop of brandy,
dad!"

"Poor child--it's so fearfully unpleasant," murmured Bartell as he came
back with a glass and decanter. "It's that tenement house thing that's
got on her nerves."

"An unpleasant business," returned his father, "all that rot--mighty
unpleasant!"

Ewing waited in the outer room until he heard the broken murmur of her
voice and knew that she had recovered. Then he went quickly out, the
portrait under his arm. He had the feeling that it had been contaminated
by Teevan's touch.

He began dismantling his studio that night. He stopped in the work once
to look out over the roofs, glowing luridly under a half moon. This was
because the pleading of the woman still rang in his ears--"Don't let him
tell you anything"--and the whole entreating look of her flashed back to
him. Then the big, slow tears of pity gathered in his eyes to set the
chimney pots dancing before him.

"If only I hadn't owed him money!" he muttered, beside himself with pity
and hatred.

It was not until the day before they started West that Mrs. Laithe
learned the secret of this pity of Ewing's that had so puzzled her.
Alden Teevan begged a moment with her in the afternoon of that day, and
she, sunk in the languor of her sickness, received him where she lay, in
her own sitting-room.

He swept her with a long, knowing look as he entered, reading, she saw,
the truth about her condition.

"I'd gladly go with you, Nell," he began--"let my own walls close at the
same time." But she would have no bald admissions.

"I'm not going, Alden--I'm only a bit run down. I shall pick up in a
month out there." He detected her insincerity but only smiled in a hurt
way.

"That's one of your rules of the game, isn't it, to keep up the
pretense? Of course I can't expect you to break rules for me." She faced
him stanchly, looking denial.

"But I must tell you something," he went on quickly, "something horrible
and absurd and unbelievable." She listened, and grew faint in an agony
of unbelief, while he told her what had inspired Ewing's behavior the
night before. She made him repeat it, testing each detail, weighing its
credibility against Ewing's inexperience; dazedly trying to see herself
as he must see her now. Alden Teevan regarded her with quickening
sympathy.

"It wasn't a pretty thing to do, Nell, but I saw he had some deviltry
afoot, and I got it from him--I half choked and half wheedled it from
him. Fortunately he was drunk or I couldn't have got it either way. But
now you know. It began, as nearly as I could gather, one night last
spring when Ewing saw you leaving the house. The vain little fool
guessed he'd seen you, and told him the tale about a woman who'd been
harassing him because he was trying to break off an affair with her."

"I remember----"

"And then last night----"

"Last night--ah, last night!" She laughed weakly, recalling the scene
that had met Ewing's eyes, perceiving what he must have thought. "I'd
have done it for you," she heard him say again, and shuddered. She
recalled, too, her own later urging, "Never let him tell you anything."
How pitiful she must have seemed to him, and how monstrous! She laughed
again wildly, suddenly struck by the cunning of this satire on truth.
Alden Teevan recalled her from the picture.

"It was like him, wasn't it, Nell?--like both of them--like him to say
it, and like the other to believe. But the harm can be undone. You can
explain--a word or two."

She stared at him in sudden consternation. It had flashed upon her that
no half truth would satisfy Ewing. She knew she would be unequal to any
adequate fiction; she would falter and he would see to the heart of her
lie. She must let him think as he did--or blacken his dearest memory.
But to Alden Teevan she only said:

"Ah, yes--a word will explain--and I'm so grateful to you." She was
wondering then if she were glad or sorry that he had told her. She might
have lived out her time without knowing, she thought.

"Of course, if you'd like me to tell him, Nell----"

"No, no, Alden, thank you; but that's for me."

They had not spoken Ewing's name, but his concern in the matter, the
meaning of his faith in the woman, was a matter that seemed to lie open
to them both. Alden Teevan had assumed it and she had made no denial.
His recognition of it colored his leave-taking.

"All happiness for you, Nell. The game ought to be worth playing with
you--and with him. You both live so hard." He found it difficult to say
as little, there was such gratitude and such misery in her eyes as they
fell before his, trying to veil at least a part of what she felt. But he
left her so.

She lay a long time trying to realize Ewing in this new light. She had
never read anything in his eyes but the fullest devotion, and yet for
months he had believed this sinister thing. She caught again his young,
sorry, protesting look, and the poignancy of it brought her tears.
There came into the tenderness she had felt for him something of awe for
his unquestioning allegiance, a thing that had not wavered under the
worst he could believe. Then the monstrous absurdity of what he did
believe came upon her once more and she laughed; but her tears still
fell. And so, with laughter and tears, she set him up anew in her heart,
her beloved child and her terrible master. She was glad now that she
knew. It made him more to her. And the time would be so short.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE SUNSET TRAIL


Ewing had looked forward pleasantly to meeting Virginia Bartell again,
but it was a new Virginia who met him with a nod when he joined the
party on the evening of the start. She had eyes only for her sister, the
white, weak, phantom thing who smiled terribly as her brother half
carried her into the stateroom of their car. Through the days of the
journey he sought to cheer her, wistfully making jests about the flat
land and its people as they sped through the little wooden towns,
promising her a land that would be "busy every minute." But she would
only say, "I'll like your land when it makes sister well."

"It's bound to," he assured her. "Nobody dies there unless he gets
careless. Here, this is the way it happens. Here's Ben Crider's last
letter. You'll like Ben. Listen to this and see if it doesn't make you
hopeful." He opened the scrawled sheet and read:

"'Dear Kid, I thought it about time to write you a few lines. If you
seen the lake now you would want to of been here. Life and nature seems
very complete here. I heard Chet Lynch shot Elmer Watts. I been building
a haystacker for Pierce. Plenty deer sign around the lick. Lee Jennings
was killed by a bucker falling back on him. I can sell your saddle for
twenty-two dollars to Ben Lefferts. I put a new latigo on it. Let me
know. Say, Kid, I sent two dollars to the Mystic Novelty Company. The
address is Lock Box 1347. The ad. said they would send you a book how to
read past, present and future from the hand and a genuine ten-karat
Persian diamond pin set in solid gold, if you sent on one dollar in
stamps or P. O. order. Well, the diamond may be all right enough
Persian, but the solid gold setting has turned black. You go there and
ask for the head man and raise particular--'" He broke off the reading.

"You see, they only die by getting shot, or falling off a horse."

The girl shuddered and turned to him with a sudden helpless yielding.

"I can hardly bear it," she said, almost in a whisper. "You don't know
what she is to me, how I've loved her and loved her and loved her. And
yet I've accepted her as a matter of course, a thing that couldn't be
taken from me, like the world itself. How could I think she might be
like--like those others? Oh, I never dreamed I could lose my dearest--my
dearest!"

He waited a moment, and at last said gently, "You won't lose your
dearest--we won't lose her."

"Oh, but she's going, before our eyes."

"Listen to me, listen now! She's going to get well. She'll be strong
again--I know it. I say she can't die; but you must be sure of it--as
sure as I am--do you hear?--as sure as I am."

"Yes, yes--I will be sure." She tried to look at him through her
tear-wet lashes. He smiled at her confidently.

"If we're both sure, we can have your sister crying in a month because
Ben won't let her work in the garden."

"Oh, if you only--" She broke off to look at him in wondering gratitude.

"And I'll go in and tell her so now," he added, rising.

"Yes, yes, make her feel sure, too," she implored. She turned quickly to
the car window, where twilight was blurring the fields to a far, dreamy
horizon, level and vast. He stood a moment, tracing with mental point
the line of her profile under the boyish cap pinned to her yellow hair.

Mrs. Laithe lay on a narrow sofa in the stateroom. She had moved from
that only to the berth at night since their start, and had betrayed a
preference for being alone in the little compartment. Ewing had felt,
however, that she liked to talk with him as evening drew on. She had
sent for him at this hour the day before and they had sat together in
the dusk. He was reassured by the cheerfulness of her tone as she
greeted him now.

"We're flying so fast," she said joyously.

"To make you well the sooner. I've just been telling Virginia what we'll
do for you even in a month. You'll be riding and climbing, and you'll
cry because you can't fell trees or rive out shakes, or something."

"I'm not worrying about that. It will come right very soon."

"We'll make it come right. No one ever dies a natural death there, you
know. I was just reading your sister a letter from Ben. Lee Jennings
killed breaking a horse, Elmer Watts shot by Chester Lynch. Of course,
in a way, that was a natural death for Elmer. He was bound to go that
way sooner or later, but you're not going to ride a bucker, and you're
not a gunfighter. Oh, you'll thrive, with a little stall feeding."

"And there's so much room out there." She smiled. "So much room to--to
live. And life is so full. I like to hear it, through Virgie and through
you. You are shells that give me the roar of it."

He was sensitive to some pathos of aloofness which her whole being
expressed for him, and he strove to meet this with pictures of herself
returning, a well woman; but she turned her face from him at length, and
did not speak for so long that he thought she might be sleeping. He went
carefully out, with a last enveloping look.

When he had gone the woman laughed in a helpless, shuddering way, then
raised herself far enough toward the window to see the fields rushing by
outside. There was timidity in her look until she had seen a mile of
that relentless earth rush back and away from her. She seemed to need
this assurance that she was going away from the trouble in the crude,
literal sense of earthly distance--going off where there was room "to
live," she had told Ewing; "to die," she had amended the phrase to
herself. For death was now a solace she faced. She who had been so hot
for the fight, so avid of life, had been cheated of a combatant's
privileges. She could not tell Ewing the truth, and she could not live
while he believed the lie. It was well, she thought, to know that she
had only to let herself float down that placid current of the white
death. She was amazed at her own calmness and tested it in all subtle
ways, making sure of its foundations. She could find no weak spot. She
craved only a moderate speed in the descent. Too long a wait would be
wearisome, and the wise man had assured her against that. Yet she felt
that she had the right to be a little glad when her brother told her the
next day of a change in the plan.

"It will be better for you and Virgie to go to Ewing's place, Nell.
It's always quiet there, and my place is pretty busy and noisy. I'll
manage to stay over there with you a good deal, and we'll get a woman to
come and do for you--I know one that will be glad to come. It will only
be for a little while, you know."

She smiled at that well-worn fiction, but applauded the plan.

"I shall like it, dear, and Virgie will, too, I'm sure, if you think it
best, and if Mr. Ewing----"

"Ewing suggested it, and he didn't waste any words telling what a good
plan he thought it was. We'll have some extra things brought up from
Pagosa to make you comfortable, and you can have a bully long rest
there."

"A long rest, yes--and let us have a piano. I'd like to hear some music
while I'm resting."

"Sure! we'll have one up from Durango. You might need to stay there
until--well--into the winter, you know."

"I think so, Clarence." She was tempted sometimes to confide to him the
truth about her sickness, but refrained.

"Well, it won't be very long. All you want is a rest."

Her mind echoed it when he had gone. Yes, a rest. She looked up at
Virginia, who had entered softly. Her face still shone with the thought
of rest and release, and she smiled up at the girl, who had laid a cool
hand on her flushing cheek, and now regarded her with devouring eyes.
She stood so a moment, then knelt to peer at the wasted face. She looked
a long time without speaking, looked shrewdly and, at last, accusingly.

"What is it, dearest? I saw it in your face yesterday. What is it I see?
Something has frightened you--beaten you."

The other smiled protestingly, chidingly, with a raised finger; but the
girl was not to be appeased.

"You won't tell me, Nell; I know you; you'll keep it in. But, oh,
dearest!" She suddenly gathered the sick woman into her strong young
arms, raising her head from the pillow, holding the fevered face to her
breast, pressing her own cool cheek to the hot brow.

"Dearest dear, let me in. Trust me. Tell me where it hurts. Let me
mother you."

"There, there, dear! Everything is all right. Lay me down again and be
easy in that mind of yours."

But once more on the pillow she had to endure again the girl's accusing
eyes.

"Nell, someone hasn't loved you enough. That's what I feel. Who is it?"

"Nonsense! You're only worried because I'm a little run down. Everyone
loves me enough--all I deserve. There, dear, I think I can rest." The
girl kissed her shut eyes, and went out, after a long, doubting look.
The sick woman raised her arms once, like a child who would be taken,
but they fell back, and she painfully laughed the old low laugh of
secrecy.

She mused on her brother's words. "A little rest." Yes, a rest. "Yet a
little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep."
She remembered now that it would come to her in the shelter of those
hills, perhaps in that room to which her thoughts had flown so many
times, where she had seen the awakening man in the sleeping boy, and
caught misty shadowings of the portent he bore for her. Her eyes might
fall before his now, but they need not fall before the eyes of his
mother.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE HILLS OF REST


Ben Crider waited for them on the station platform at Pagosa. He was
excited to a point of feverish unrest until the train warned its way out
of the last cañon. Then, by a masterful effort, he became elaborately
nonchalant. That train had brought Ewing back to him, but he constrained
himself to handle the occasion as one rising hardly to common levels. He
would have considered any other demeanor "shameless."

He nodded to Bartell, who supported his sister from the car, and stared
politely at the pretty but anxious-looking girl who followed them. But
when Ewing appeared, burdened with handbags, Ben ignored him, and rushed
to shake the hand of Beulah Pierce, returning from a three-days' trip to
Durango. So effusive was his greeting that Pierce mentally convicted him
of having lingered at the "Happy Days" bar for one too many drinks, and
broke from his affectionate grasp with some embarrassment.

Ben strolled forward to the baggage car, humming lightly, and, with the
bored air of a man creating diversion for himself, laid listless hands
on the trunks as they were unloaded. He was whirling one of the heaviest
of these to the waiting wagon when Ewing fell on him with a glad shout.
Ben paused briefly, balancing the trunk on a corner, glanced up with
moderate surprise, and spoke his welcome.

"Oh, that you, Kid? Howdy!" He resumed his struggle with the trunk,
blind to the other's outstretched hand, and when Ewing thereupon hissed
at him, "You damned Mexican sheep herder!" he allowed pleasure to show
but faintly in his face. But when he was seized by the collar, hurled
half across the platform, and slammed brutally against the wall of the
station, he protested with pleased annoyance as he picked up his hat,
"Aw, quit yer foolin', now, Kid! I got to hustle them trunks." He was
sufficiently refreshed by the attack, however, to sing to himself as he
labored. And when the start was made he insisted that Ewing should
drive. Ben sat in the rear seat. He wanted to look at Ewing's back for
five hours.

The sick woman, in another and easier conveyance, rejoiced that she was
going still farther into the peace of her last refuge. As they left the
brown-floored valley and began to climb the mountain road, she was glad
that the green walls closed in behind them; glad of every difficult
ascent; every stream forded; every confusing turn of the way. She was
hiding herself, cunningly insuring the peace of her last hours.

She was troubled now only by Virginia, who hung upon her with an
agonized solicitude. But she promised herself to wear this down by her
own cheerfulness and expressed certainty. Virginia would see her
peaceful, hopeful, happy; she would become used to the idea of her
wasting; and the actual going out would come gently to her as something
fit and benign. Life so abounding as Virginia's could not long droop
under the shadow of death.

Made at home in the lake cabin, she still felt the world rushing back
from her as had the fields rushed by when she looked from the car
window. And she rested in this. Affairs went on about her, plans were
made, talk of the future or of the day; all went by her unheeded, save
for a blurred and pleasant effect of swiftness. Outwardly she was
serene, languorous, incuriously placid. Inwardly she thrilled with a
luxury of inertness. She had loosed herself in the ebbing tide, and she
folded her hands and smiled from this with the assured indolence of one
who knows that some earned reward will not long be delayed. The
slow-paced even life was a balm to her, the gathering about the table at
mealtimes, the evenings in the studio, when her sister played or talked
with Ewing; when she could lie still on the couch and try to make
herself forgotten, regretting only the short dry cough that racked her
night and morning and brought her to the minds of the others.

She had thought that she could adjust herself, after a little, to the
new look in Ewing's eyes, knowing as she did its secret spring. It was a
look of blind acceptance, of unquestioning adoration--and mingled with
it was a maddening pity. But there flashed from him, too, at times, a
look of purpose and assurance, steady, secret, determined. She detected
this chiefly when he glanced up to her from his drawing. He had brought
with him a story to illustrate for the _Knickerbocker_, and he was, at
last, to finish that series of Western scenes for the same periodical.
And he had flown to this work with a frantic haste, with the look, as he
bent over the board, that seemed to say: "This is for you. Be patient
with me, it will soon be done."

When the work did not claim him he stayed by her side, watchful for
service, jealous of Virginia for little acts he might not himself
perform. His eyes seldom left her, she thought, though she could not
long endure their look, and she knew that he read this evasion of hers
in the light of what Teevan had told him. Through all his devotion there
was a gentle aloofness, a constant withdrawing, as if he knew that he
must never come close.

She had laughter and tears again for this when she was alone, though
there were times when, in her weakness, her wild craving for the
fullness of what she might not have, she would have told it all in one
surrendering cry to him but for the eyes of Kitty Teevan. They were
always upon her now--Ewing had hung the portrait in the studio--holding
her with passionate entreaty, the mother pleading for herself in the
son's memory. She could never tell him, she knew, under those eyes. She
must live out her few days in content with that wondrous thing his own
eyes revealed for her. She thought it comic and tragic and beautiful.
One night she dreamed that she was not to die, and woke in horror of
what his belief would then mean. But morning restored her serenity, and
she reposed placidly again on the unquestioned sureness of her going.

Best of all times she liked the late morning and midday, when she could
be alone in the sun-heated nook out of doors and give her body to the
warmth. She knew it was a primal, sensuous pleasure, but she surrendered
to it; turned and bathed writhingly in the sun flood, feeling herself
transparent to it. And the pleasure had its reverse side. Autumn came
presently in these upper reaches; a less splendid autumn than would set
the Eastern woods ablaze with flaunts of gold and scarlet, but an autumn
more eloquent of death, the faded yellow of the aspen groves, broken but
rarely by some flaming shrub that only emphasized the monotone. This,
the unending, lifeless yellow, and the dead green of spruce and
hemlock--a false green, she felt, with its tale of ever-living--made a
coloring of nice symbolism for her state.

Had she felt the need of a death's head at her sun feast, this neutral,
denying flatness would have sufficed. The end had come home to her. It
was her unseen familiar, voiceless, but ever present, with a look
unhurrying but constant.

And there were the mountains themselves, things that had once leaped
alive and tortured themselves into frenzied furies of striving only to
be stricken and left at last in all the broken tossing of their folly.
They had tried the fighting death, and it had availed only to fix their
last agonies. Their scarred hulks testified to the wisdom of submission.

Yet her mind was normal in these sun-warmed hours of musing. She knew
that those dead hills with their dying leafage told another tale to the
pair of young lives housed with her. To them they were but inspirations
to life vital and triumphant; eminences to be scaled in joyous effort,
offering to youth's dreaming, half-true clairvoyance, unending reaches
to provoke; near enough to seem attainable; far enough to be plausible
with promise of delights.

Nor did she fail to rejoice in the fervor of this fresh view so unlike
her own. She was conscious of its truth to untouched souls like theirs,
and she sought to throw them together, urging them to excursions through
the hills. She thought of them at first as her pair whom she had set in
a garden where the fruit of no tree was forbidden.

She coolly studied Ewing on the days when he worked indoors, detaching
herself from his life as one about to go on a long journey. From her
shadowed couch she scanned his face as he bent over the drawing board.
It had filled in the year since she first saw it, and was an older face,
the strength of it more conscious, the promise of it almost kept in its
well-controlled, level-eyed maturity. Much of the boy remained to flash
out, but she saw that this would never go; that it would kindle his eyes
when the brown hair had gone white. It was this eternal boyishness, she
saw, that made him quick of response to another's interest; this that
had made him seem too ductile under Teevan's manipulation, when in truth
he had merely been loath to hurt, fearing nothing so much as another's
pain. The forward line of the nose and the smoldering fierceness of eye
should have been more informing. That was the face, vital, fearless,
patently self-willed for all its kindly immaturities of concession, that
Teevan had thought to prevail over by his stings of waspish contempt.
She smiled pityingly for Teevan, until she recalled that she also had
misread its lines. There were moments when her beaten spirit fluttered
up at thought of Teevan's being blasted by what he had thought to blast.
But a look at the mother's restraining face, or, still more, a look at
Ewing as he would glance from his work up to the portrait, stilled this
craving for battle. It was well, she thought, as it had fallen.

Ewing had set to work doubtingly at first, but with laughing energy when
he found that the lines came again at his call. He felt, indeed, that
his facility had been increased, and he confided this to Mrs. Laithe one
day as she lay watching him.

"I don't have to 'squeeze' the way I did," he said. "Perhaps I really
learned something there in spite of myself, in all that messing with
colors. I didn't learn to paint, but I seem to have a new line on
bucking bronchos and bucked cowboys." He stopped in sudden thought.

"There, I've forgotten that old painting of mine. I'll treat us both to
a look at it."

He went off to Ben's room beyond the kitchen and came back with the
dusty canvas. He wiped it with a cloth and placed it on the easel.

She did not look at this. She knew it too well. Her look was for his
face as he studied it. She saw surprise there, bewilderment,
incredulity, and then, slowly dawning, a consternation of dropped jaw
and squinting scowl. Yet this broke at length, and, to her great relief,
he laughed, heartily, honestly. She smiled, not at the poor painting,
but in sympathy with him. Then he remembered that she had looked at this
same canvas once before, and that neither of them had laughed. His face
sobered, and he went over to her.

"You had nerve, didn't you--after seeing that thing?"

"You remember I didn't praise it."

"But you saw I didn't know any better, and you never let me see that
_you_ did. You must have thought highly of me, I can see that." He
stooped and laid one of his hands on hers with a friendly, thanking
pressure.

"I saw plainly enough what you could do," she protested.

He went to stand again before the despised canvas, playing upon it with
humorous disparagement.

"But if you see now," she said, "that it's so--if it seems so----"

"Say the word--do!"

"If it seems bad to you now, that's a good sign. It means that you've
learned something about color. Suppose it had still seemed good."

He took the thing off the easel.

"If I've learned as much about color as I think this is bad--well
there's only a little left for me to learn."

"Now you will paint others that will seem faultless at the time and bad
a year later. That's the penalty of growth, but it's the proof. Make
your prayer to the god of painting: 'May everything I do seem bad when
it's a year old!'"

"I'll try to," he returned gravely. Then, "Let's put this out of sight
quick, before Virginia sees it."

"You didn't burn it," she asked, when he returned.

"I should think not. I'd have to fight Ben if I burned that. Of course I
didn't know any better when I gave it to him, any more than I knew about
his songs. That's another thing you must have laughed at me for."

He laughed himself as she looked up at him with puzzled inquiry, and
went on to confess how he had sung Ben's choicest ballad at the
Monastery.

"Of course it's a funny song," he continued, as he returned to the
drawing board, "but it isn't so very much funnier than a lot that aren't
supposed to be funny at all. Come, now," he rallied her, "don't they all
rub in the sadness, even the ones you might think serious? There must be
a million songs about 'Dreaming,' 'I Dreamed that You Were with Me,
Love!' and 'It was All a Dream!' and 'Could I but Recall that Day!' and
'Alas, It was not so to be!' and 'Must We, then, Part Forever!' Always
crying about something! Always moaning 'if only' something or other.
They're about as teary a lot as Ben's songs. I told Virginia last night
I never wanted to hear another 'Could I but--' song; they're as bad as
'The Fatal Wedding.'"

Though he had rushed at the drawings with a powerful incentive--to make
himself free so that he could perform one great service for his lady--he
yielded often to the persuasions of Mrs. Laithe and took Virginia out
for adventures. They explored box cañons that she believed to be
impenetrable until he nonchalantly opened a way to their secret
recesses. They whipped trout streams and he complacently caught fish
from holes she would angle in without result. He tried to persuade her
that certain brown patches he professed to detect off through the forest
from time to time were deer; but vainly each time, until there would be
a sudden terrific shattering amid the underbrush, and perhaps a fleeting
glimpse of the brown patch with its white center, flying in swift rebuke
to her unbelief. They climbed hills together, and he irritated her by
his continued ease of breath under the strain, while her own "wind" that
she had thought so well of in Kensington was exhausted by the first
moments of effort. She believed him guilty of a polite fiction when he
explained that the altitude made all the difference. She disbelieved his
tale of the lake water's coldness--it was annoying to be told that even
he wanted no more than a single plunge in it--and bathed there one day
to her undoing. She refused to believe that he could shoot accurately
with a rifle that made so much noise, or with a revolver that wobbled
when one tried to hold it still, until he had demonstrated these
matters. And she refused to concede that she could not ride a certain
half-broken little mare--which Ewing rode without apparent
difficulty--until the mare proved it to the satisfaction of all
concerned.

These little disbeliefs were not unpleasant to Ewing. He revenged
himself for having been proved a "duffer" at her own games.

It was on their return from an afternoon's fishing one day that they
found Bartell bestowing Cooney on his sister.

"I bought him for you from Pierce," he was explaining. "Of course Virgie
can ride him until you're fit again."

The sick woman greeted her old friend formally in the presence of the
others. But when they had gone inside she led the little roan around to
the corral, and there, sheltered by its wall, she put an arm tightly
over his lowered neck and laid her face to his with fond little words of
greeting and remembrance. He had carried her so well on a day when
nothing had happened; when she was a girl herself, it almost seemed,
more curious of the world than knowing.

That had been an age--a year--ago. The little horse had been bravely
doing his work, carrying his inconsequent burdens as they listed, while
she had been losing herself in protests. She had begun doing that, it
seemed, the first day he brought her there. She wondered if he could
remember it. She doubted that; but at least he remembered Ewing and
loved him. She clasped the arm more tightly about his neck, and the
little horse whinnied, pawing the earth with a small forefoot, and
moving his head up and down in a knowing way. To the woman he had the
effect of seeking to return her caress, so that in a moment she was
sobbing in a sudden weakness of love for him.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WHITE TIME


The days went, shortening. She kept to her couch through all but those
hours when the sun was high. Then she lay to be warmed in the open while
the year died before her. She could not see another year. She must read
all her meanings into this one. September went and October waned. The
sky was often overcast. They had ceased to talk of her going back. Her
brother reminded her cheerfully that he had half expected a long stay
for her. She must be patient. She spoke in his own vein of hopefulness,
promising patience, and smiled as ever on her pair, who still wandered
in that garden, bantering comrades, tasting the fruit of every tree but
one.

And one day she knew that all her imaginings about this pair had been
vain, caught it in the deepened look of Ewing as he turned from Virginia
to herself. It was a thing to bask in--that look--like the fervid sun
itself. But it hurt her, too; made it harder to let go of life. Yet
always before her was the face of Kitty Teevan with its beseeching eyes:
"You have so little time to live, and I must live in his memory always!"
And so she put the thing away, letting him think as he must, wincing
under his look of pity, and that devouring thing that lurked always back
of his pity, and striving for lightness when she talked with him.

"I understand why our land seemed unreal to you," she said to him while
they loitered in the blue dusk of the pine woods near the cabin one day.
The peaks beyond were misty behind gray clouds that lay sullenly along
the horizon. "I understand why you called our land a stage land, for
this is unreal to me, painted, theatrical, impossible. I keep hearing
the person who's seen the play telling his neighbor what's to come
next."

"It's real enough," he answered, looking away from her. "I have a way of
telling when a land is real."

"You have?"

"Any land is real where you are. New England or Colorado or Siberia
or----"

"There, there!" she soothed him mockingly--"or India's coral strand.
That's quite enough. You have learned your geography lesson. What a busy
traveler you must have been!"

"And no land can be real where you are not," he went on gravely. "I go
where you go, follow you around the world and out into the stars beyond
the moon, up and down and on forever, and it all seems real to me--all
except you."

"Oh, I--I'm real, real enough, but this land is a sad, fearful,
threatening land, so heartless." She shivered. "Let us go in!"

"That's only because it's closing up now for the winter; that's why the
sky is sorry. The leaves are nearly gone, and the fat old bears are
slouching down from the high places to curl up in the holes, and the
deer are moving down into the valleys, and pretty soon the hills will
crawl under white blankets and go to sleep. And we shall have to do the
same. We shall be shut in before you know it, snowed in, frozen in, like
the bears. But the winter--it can't take you from me."

"There, there!" But she could not finish. She flashed a helpless smile
at him and fled indoors. He went after her, crying that winter was upon
them.

And then, all in a day and a night, winter came. The wind fell to an
ominous hush one midday, and a leaden quiet lay over the hills. Blurred
masses of cloud rose slowly above the peaks, shaping themselves with
ponderous sloth. Below these a white mist formed. Then one tiny snow
crystal fell. It was followed presently by another, and then by more,
floating down with unhurried ease. Meaningless wisps they seemed,
fugitive bits of wool, perhaps, from a sheep losing its fleece in some
nearby shearing pen. More of them came with the same slow, loitering
grace, as if they would lull suspicion of the fury they heralded.

By night the storm had shut off the hills so that the cabin might have
been set in a plain, for all the eye could see. The flakes no longer
came saunteringly, but swiftly now, in a slant of honest fervor, frankly
threatening.

By morning the land was muffled in white. The sun shone pale and cold
through the mist, and the wind began a game with its new plaything,
still light and dry, and quick to dance to any piping. Spruce and
hemlock seemed to have darkened their green, and their arms drooped
wearily under the white burdens they bore. The second day's fall buried
their lowest branches so that not even the circle of bare earth was left
about them.

Inside the cabin they sought the peace of the earth under its cover, the
trustful repose of the live things sleeping there. The days sped by
almost unmarked. Scarcely ever were they certain of the day of week or
month, especially after Ben forgot to mark his calendar on the days he
and Ewing devoted to getting deer for their winter's meat. There were
but opinions as to the date after that.

Ben, after his work with the stock each morning, hibernated gracefully
in a chair by the kitchen stove, sleeping with excited groans, like a
dreaming dog. Or, awake, he stared at the wall with dulled eyes. At
times he would touch his guitar to life and sing very softly, or hold it
affectionately in his lap, a hand muting its strings, while he pondered
dreamily of far-off matters, of cities and men, and the folly of
expecting ever to receive treasure such as the advertisements promise.

Ewing and Virginia, after the snow packed, went forth on snowshoes far
into the white silence; over open spaces so glaring that the eyes closed
in defense; through ravines where once-noisy streams were stilled; and
under forest arches of green where the snow was darkened to hints of
blue--they agreed that Sydenham would paint it blue without
condescending to hints--and where the hush was so intense that they
instinctively lowered their voices. They passed long times without
speech, as they would have done in a church, worshiping the still beauty
about them, beauty of buttressed peak, of snow-choked cañon, of
green-roofed cathedral, of pink light at sunset on endless snow-quilted
slopes.

Mrs. Laithe, too, sought the open when the sun was high, and one day in
midwinter she walked as far as the lake in the path beaten by the stock.
It did not occur to her then that this was no feat for a dying woman nor
even on the succeeding days when this walk became her habit. It was a
change for her eyes from the cabin prospect; the sun warmed her
genially, despite the intense cold, and she liked the stillness, all the
movements of life going on in a strange, muffled silence. This helped
her to remember her own plight. Life still abounded with all its warmth
and glad clashing, but she must have only eyes for it--no heart of
desire. She had been so sure of this from the first that she gave but
heedless smiles to the others when they told her she was better. They
had always said such things.

She slept the long nights through now, seeking bed like a tired child,
and waking in strange refreshment. And milk no longer appeased her
hunger as it had wholly done when she arrived. The savor of baked meats
was now sweet to her. She was presently walking to the lake both morning
and afternoon, breathing deep of the dry air that ran fire in her veins
as she absorbed it. And the flush on her face when she returned was not
that of fever.

But more eloquent than these physical symptoms was a sullen current of
rebellion rising slowly within her, the old fighting instinct, a lust
for sheer living, a thing she had believed was long since extinct.

She did not lose her certainty of death all in a day. For weeks she was
haunted merely by an unquiet suspicion. The cough still racked her night
and morning, and the fever came each evening, but the old potency seemed
to have gone from both. She tried to believe at first that this was one
of those false rallies so common before the end.

The full, maddening realization came to her on a day when Ewing walked
with her to the lake. He turned on her suddenly when they had mounted a
slope, seized both her hands, and looked long into her eyes with a
certain grave wonder.

"You are made new," he said at last. She trembled in a sudden panic,
divining the truth of it, feeling, as he spoke, a great rush of life
overwhelming her.

"You are living again, you are going to live. I knew you would live." He
still gripped her hands. It was as if he had drawn her, warm and
pulsing, out of all the wintry death about them. She could not face him,
but released her hands and turned away. He had seen truly. She had
relaxed utterly when she came, to waver unresistingly down into the cool
abyss of her despair. But some indomitable brute thing had risen in her
while she slept, to fight for life, and to fire her whole being with its
triumph. While she had rested and waited in that luxury of
self-abandonment she had been cheated of her victory--betrayed back to
life.

Trying now to think what life would mean to her, she was overwhelmed
with shame and dismay. With death so near things had been simple. But
how could she live on and face Ewing, shaming herself and shaming him in
the darkness of his belief about her?

They walked back to the cabin in silence. Ewing, too, she felt, saw the
future to be less simple now.

"I shall know what to do," he said, as they reached the door; and there
was again in his eyes that puzzling look of some fixed purpose. For the
first time this vaguely alarmed her now, and she questioned him swiftly
with her eyes. But he only pointed to his mother's portrait--they had
entered the studio--and said, "Do you think I'd do less for you than I
would for her?"

She could endure neither his own look nor the mother's, and fled to her
room. There she studied her face in the glass. It was all true. She was
going to live, and she sickened at the thought. Again it was a time for
tears and laughter.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE AWAKENING


The white giant, sun-stricken, drooping languidly, crumbled and
dissolved before their eyes. The air softened. The streams rushed full,
the southern hillsides showed bare and gaunt.

In the lake cabin they felt aged by their imprisonment. It had been so
long, so remote from the world rush. Like prisoners long confined, they
were loath to leave a dungeon where life had been well ordered if not
exhilarating. Benumbed in the first days of the change, they returned
indoors to the soothing evenness of their six months' hibernation. They
found those first changes unbelievable. Winter would surely go on
forever; too mighty a jailer it was to be vanquished by a mere breath of
honey and flowers. They stayed in to warn one another against false
appearances.

But there came a day when, in the blaze of noontime, Ben Crider moved
his chair out by the door and sang softly to the strains of his guitar.
His eyes blinked in the sunlight as he sang, yet they did not fail to
detect the signs of spring so plentiful about the clearing in bud and
leaf and tiny grass shoot, even though patches of snow still lay in the
shaded spots.

The woman who cooked came also to the door as Ben sang. He had spoken of
her the winter through as "the woman," dimly perceiving her as a spirit
that mumbled endless complainings as she toiled, for she was one who
had been disillusioned by much cooking. She cooked acceptably, and Ben
had burgeoned in the uncanny luxury of food prepared by another hand
than his own, but he had given her little attention beyond discovering
her opinion that cooking was a barren performance, since people
perversely ate and thereby destroyed, and the thing must be done again
endlessly. He had vaguely observed that this woman was not beautiful,
and now, as she faced him with a sudden joviality in the spring
sunshine, he saw that she could never have been beautiful. She beamed
amicably on the balladist, and he, turning casual eyes on her, was
stricken to dismayed silence; the tuneful praise of young love fainted
on his lips as he stared, aghast, and his startled hand hushed the
vibrant strings. A moment he looked, recovering from the shock. Then, in
swift recoil, he grasped his chair and went resolutely out under the big
hemlock, there to resume his song and his absent contemplation of
Nature's awakening--his back to the cabin door. In this sensitive mood
he wished not to incur again a vision that blighted song.

It was no longer disputable that spring was real; no baseless tradition,
but an unfolding reality. Ben had divined it, and the other prisoners
were not long in proving it.

One of them surveyed it in panic wonder, turning in upon herself to face
the ordeal of enforced living. They wandered in the open, three of them,
now, finding it good to feel the bare, elastic earth under their feet
again, and prove the noiseless but sensational life of growing things
all about them. They plucked buds to see their secret hearts, and
exposed the roots of peeping herbs that had begun their strivings
before the snow went.

When the sunny places had been dried and warmed, and were pulsing in
their myriad hidden hearts, so that winter began to fade in their minds
as some dream of night, they would penetrate the sunless depths of a
narrow cañon where the snow yet lay deep and the stream was a mere
choking of ice in a gorge.

It was in the flush of this exultation over winter's downfall that they
planned camp life in a vale at the edge of the lake, where the spruces
thinned to leave wide-vaulted arches, and spread the floor with yielding
brown rugs of the pine needle. They began it as a play, and finished
with a permanent camp into which they moved from the cabin. There were
tents and beds, a table, a sheet-iron stove, chests for their stores,
and hammocks in which to be fanned by the south wind.

Bartell promised his sister vast benefits from this life.

"This will put the finishing touches to you, Sis. A month here and
you'll be loping over the range, high, wide, and handsome. It'll take an
elk-high fence to hold you after you've slept awhile out here."

She felt the truth of what he said, and was appalled by it. Almost daily
she dismayed herself by recalling some unpremeditated feat of strength
or endurance. Life had crept back to her like a whipped dog, and
bitterly she felt the sting of its satire. She was loath to leave the
cabin in which she had so long nursed death. She had impregnated the
very walls with an atmosphere of dissolution. But she understood now
that that prison house could no longer suffice her. Stubborn life had
prevailed over all its powers of suggestion. There she had clung
stubbornly to the old solution, cherishing a hope of some sudden
relapse, despite the new life that taunted her with its animal buoyance.
But once in the open, her brain was washed of that. Her mind was as
clear as the fathomless blue above them at noon; and the stars at night
were not more coldly luminous than the reasoning she bent upon herself,
nor sharper than a certain deduction she made.

Ewing brought his drawing to the camp and spent the mornings in work. He
had finished his series for the _Knickerbocker_ during the winter, and
these drawings, with the illustrations for the story previously made,
had brought him enough to discharge the Teevan debt. He had reported
this transaction significantly to Mrs. Laithe, and was now busy on
pictures for another story for the _Knickerbocker_.

"Only a little longer," he said, with a meaning she could not fathom,
and he returned to his work with a singular absorption. Not even Ben
could distract him when he sauntered up for his daily criticism. Ben was
respectful to the drawings after he saw the checks they brought, but his
summing up of the purchaser's acumen never varied.

"Well, well--fools and their money! The idee of payin' out cash for a
thing that looks as much like Red Phinney as that there does!"

When work was done for the day Ewing would turn to Mrs. Laithe with a
smile of release, and they would stray along some dim trail or off into
pathless, shaded silences of the wood, lingering in grassy mountain
meadows, or skirting the base of bleak crags where streaks of snow in
shadow still clung to the gray walls. She was conscious then of a tumult
throbbing wonderfully beneath the surface of their companionship--a
tumult of life aching for release. In little chance moments of silence
this rumbled ominously, leaving her fearful, but curiously resigned,
moved to blind flight, yet chained and submissive as were the hills
themselves.

One afternoon they sought their cañon of delayed winter after many days'
neglect of it. They wondered if spring might not have reached even that
secret recess at last. They left the trail that skirted the edge and
descended a rocky way that Ewing found, emerging at last through a
fringe of the stunted cedars into the gloom of the depths.

At first glance this last stronghold of winter seemed to have remained
impregnable. Snow lay deep along the bottom, enormous stalactites of ice
depended from overhanging ledges, and the stream itself appeared to be
still only a riven glacier. But, listening intently, they heard a steady
liquid murmur, the very music of spring come at last to sing the gorge
awake. As they stood, listening, there was a shivering crash; one of the
huge icicles had dropped, shattering on a lower ledge and raining its
fragments into the soft snowbed below.

"It's the very last of winter," said Ewing mournfully. "That snow is
eaten through and through. See how those bits of ice drove into it. And
hear that running water. It will be off with a rush now. It's the very
last of it--all I shall have to look back to--that winter of ours
together." His tone was full of a meaning she dared not question. They
climbed in silence to the summer above and traversed, still silently,
the stretch of green woods that grew beyond the cañon wall. Only at the
first mountain meadow, a dazzle of emerald under the slanting sun, did
they halt to gaze at each other. His eyes were wonderfully alight with
sadness and rejoicing as she faced him, radiant in a moment of
forgetfulness, flagrant in her beauty's renewal.

"You're wonderful again," he said, almost whisperingly, "you're all in
flower now!" She quickened under his look, feeling the glow on her
cheeks. But that faded at his next words.

"I finished the last of those drawings to-day. Now I must go."

"Ah--go?" It was a little cry, half of question, half of understanding.

"Yes--I can go now. I couldn't go before, but I have the money now."

She sickened as they walked on in silence, fearing to question him, and
when they reached the camp she ran to throw herself on the bed in her
tent, covering her eyes with her hands, pressing the lids down, but
making no sound.

As they sat about their camp fire that evening Ewing was struck by a
certain view he caught of her. She sat in shadow on a stool at the foot
of a towering hemlock, and once when he rose to stir the waning fire a
flame shot up from a half-burned log, with a volley of sparks that fell
back in a golden rain. He glanced over to be sure that she escaped
these, and saw her sharply revealed in the sudden light, unconscious of
it, unaroused by the crackling explosion. She was staring fixedly into
the darkness, her body relaxed, her hands half clasped, her head, the
profile toward him, leaning wearily against the tree. Before this
background she seemed frail again, her face pallid under the dark of
her hair and against the rough, ruddy brown of the tree bole, her whole
body contrasting in its fragile lines with the tree's strength--human
weakness showing starkly against the vigor of the woods.

To dull the sudden wanting of his heart for her he walked off alone over
the path that bordered the lake, to reduce the amazing actuality of
things, if he could, to proportions seemly with normal life. But the
lake was a mirror of enchantment, the booming of an owl was a magic
portent, the shadowed wall of granite was a turreted castle of
mysteries, vague in the starlight, and the very stars themselves huddled
down on him excitingly. He was in a world of the unreal, and must do an
unreal thing. He stumbled blindly back to camp. He was surprised to find
Mrs. Laithe as he had left her, still drooping against the rough-barked
tree, weak, submissive, overborne. He touched her arm gently to recall
her from some troubled distance. She looked at him with eyes unseeing at
first.

"Isn't it bedtime?" he suggested.

She smiled and stood up to shrug away the spell of her dreaming. She
spoke with such clear strength of tone that he was at once reassured of
her vigor.

"Yes, it's sleeping time--in a moment. I haven't said much to you, but
there's really little to say. You feel that you must go?"

"How could I stay here--after that?"

She repressed a sudden spasm of wild, weeping laughter that threatened
to overcome her.

"And you'll not come back?" She waited breathless.

"There isn't much chance of it."

"You dear, dear fool!" was on her lips, but she held back the words and
said very quietly:

"Go out, then, and live as you must. Only don't let life cow you. Don't
ever fear that living is intricate or hard or tragic--a thing to be gone
about warily. The wary people make the same mistakes as the careless
ones, and feel them ten times more. Don't be afraid to dream--afraid to
believe. I'm glad I've dreamed every dream of mine--false or true. Never
be afraid to want." She turned half away as if to go, but halted, and he
thought she had grown suddenly weak.

"You're going----"

"To-morrow, I'd thought--the sooner the better."

"Ah, but that's so soon. Can't we have one more day here? One more day
to think of it?"

"I've thought of it all winter, days and nights as well; but I'd like
another day--" He watched her longingly as she went beyond the
firelight.

"Not a day to think about it," he called softly--"a day to forget."

They made it a day of forgetting, as he had said. In the morning they
planned to ride, and their spirits were such as they rode off that Ben
was moved to regard them knowingly, as one who had taken a fling at life
in his time.

The day long they rode or rambled, talking of all but obvious
things--making it, indeed, a day of forgetting and a day to remember.
Deep in the woman's heart stirred an instinct of primal coquetry, an
impulse to wield her charm upon him, to make the woman prevail over the
man, beating all reason down, blindly, madly. And she yielded to this,
watching its effect on him, divining the power of her freshened beauty
each time she compelled his eyes. Instinctively she would have had him
say, "I give up. I can't go. Let me stay--stay by you!" The natural
woman in her fought for that. But reason reigned above the conflict. She
knew he would not surrender and knew she would not have him surrender.
Still she could not resist that impulse to enchain him, and exulted each
time she made him tremble at their nearness.

Not until night had come did the imminence of his going seem to lie upon
them. But then it lay with a weight. Together they left the camp and
felt a way over the darkened trail to the cabin. Ewing had spoken of
packing he must do, of matters in which she might help him.

But when they were in the studio, and he had started a great blaze in
the fireplace he sat before it with her, silent. She spoke at length of
the packing.

"There's none to do," he answered. "I'm taking scarcely anything--only
what I can carry back of the saddle."

Her blood leaped with a quick hope.

"Then you're not going for long--you _will_ come back--" But he only
shook his head.

"I can't expect to come back." He looked at her with a sudden lighting
of his eyes. "Come near to me this once." He moved a stool in front of
him. "Sit here, this once."

She sat on the low stool at his feet and felt herself drawn slowly
forward until her arms rested on his knees. She laid her head on them,
shaken to the heart. Then she felt him bending over her, hovering,
sheltering her, and at last, with a long sigh, come to rest, his face
buried in her hair. They remained so, immovable, without further speech.

The absurdity of the thing between them had never seemed so egregious
to her. The words rang in her mind, burning behind her closed
eyes--"It's all a mistake, that. How could you believe it, even you,
unused to the world though you are?" But she knew the questions this
would bring from him, the doubt that would stay with him; knew she could
never satisfy him with less than the truth. For a moment she heard
herself telling him this truth, gently, delicately, tenderly. But he
spoke, even while she was thinking this.

"I wanted to be here to-night with you, and with her." He raised his
head at last, to look at the portrait of his mother. "She understands,
I'm sure. And she would have me go--she would have me do as I am doing."

She knew finally, then, that she could never tell him. She ceased all
vain considering of that. He was going away from her because of the lie
he believed. The truth might come to him some day, but it must never
come from her. The certainty brought her a kind of rest. She could fall
back on laughter and tears for the thing.

A long time they sat there, speaking little, her head still cradled on
his knees. But when the fire died they knew it must be late and rose to
go. Ewing looked long at the portrait, then turned to her.

"I'm doing what I would do for her," he said, "and I'm glad I had you
both with me this last time. You'll always keep that for me, won't you?"
He raised a hand toward the portrait.

"If you wish it," she said.

When they came in sight of the camp fire they stopped and turned to each
other. He caught her by the shoulders.

"Good night and good-by!" he whispered.

She tried to speak, but could not for the trembling of her lips. She
turned to go, and took a few faltering steps, then flew back, and with a
wild gesture, drew him down and pressed his head against her heart.

Ben came sleepily from the cabin next morning as Ewing was about to
mount his horse. He had felt at ease about this journey, because of the
slender equipment with which Ewing was setting out. An early return was
to be inferred.

Ewing held out his hand, and Ben, observing that it was scarce daylight,
and that the act could in no way be considered a public scandal, grasped
it cordially.

"So long, Kid--and good luck, whatever you're goin' to do!"

"There's a man down in New York needs killing, Ben."

"Now, look a here, Kid, you better look out"--but the practical aspects
of the affair at once seized his mind, and he broke off with, "Got your
gun?"

"No--a gun's too good for him."

Ben considered this, and became again solicitous.

"Well, look a here, now, you be darned careful. If it's needed, why, do
it. But you jest want to remember that New York ain't Hinsdale County.
You want to be mighty careful you don't git into some trouble over it."




CHAPTER XXX

THE HARDEST THING


The zest had gone from camp life with Ewing's departure, and the cabin
was again occupied. Mrs. Laithe filled the days with a sort of blind
waiting. It could not end so, she felt, despite the eyes of Kitty
Teevan, so watchful of her, and so certain that it had ended. Something
must happen. That was the burden of her hope--as vague as a child's
hope. She would set no time, nor would she name the thing. But come it
must, and she could wait.

When Beulah Pierce rode by on his way from Pagosa and left their mail
one afternoon, she felt no eagerness about it. There could be nothing so
soon, she was sure. Virginia brought her some letters and read aloud one
from the aunt at Kensington. Then Mrs. Laithe looked through her own
letters and found one from Ewing. She did not open it, but rose after a
few moments, and walked swiftly over to the lake camp. Only there,
alone, could she trust herself.

She read the thing staringly, haltingly, testing each phrase as if it
were worded in some strange tongue.

"I can tell you now what I came for," the letter ran, "because the thing
will be done before this letter can reach you. It's a thing you want
done, but if you had known I meant to do it you would have tried to
prevent me, and that would only have distressed us both. But now, when
it is all over, you will see that I was the one person in the world to
do it for you. Think if you had killed him yourself that night, the pain
you would have brought to yourself and to others. It wasn't a woman's
work. I would have done it for you then, but I owed him money. I
couldn't kill him till I had paid that.

"I used to dream of doing things for you always, many things, big and
little, but it has turned out that I can do only this. So won't you try
to believe that I am putting all my heart into it for you, all that
thing I would have tried to show you if it had been scattered over the
rest of our lives? I must put it all into this one act.

"Ben seemed to suspect that such affairs could be managed here with the
informality that often marks them in the San Juan, but you and I know
better. I cannot expect to return, nor to see you again. Yet I shall see
you always; see no one else--while they let me see at all. We must take
life as it falls, do the next thing without complaining, even if it is
the hardest thing. And be sure of this--I shall do it so quickly that he
will have no chance to tell me anything. He will not even speak your
name. Afterwards you can have this to remember, that I did it gladly,
knowing what the consequences would be. I hope that will be, in time,
the happiness to you that it is to me. It is enough for me."

Over and over she read it, and at last she mastered it--all the horror
of it. A long time she gazed dumbly at the sheets, then once more she
laughed the old, low laugh, with a sinister note in it now. Ben Crider
found her there an hour later, staring blankly out over the flawed
surface of the lake. The breeze was swirling many finely torn bits of
paper about her feet.

As they walked back to the cabin she reflected that the letter had lain
four days in the postoffice at Pagosa. It had been written nine days
before. Then Ewing had done the thing. She no more believed that Randall
Teevan still lived than she believed that the mountains about her were
phantoms. A sentence from the letter ran in her mind. "We must take life
as it falls--do the next thing without complaining, even if it is the
hardest thing."

"The hardest thing!"

She pleaded fatigue and lack of appetite to Virginia and sought her bed
to lie and think in the dark. She saw her own hardest thing, the thing
she must do.

She had caused a man to be put to death; a vicious, mischievous fool, it
was true, but still a man. That was sad and horrible. But of another
man, one she had thought to guard and cherish and care for in all of
woman's ways--she had made a murderer, and she had murdered him. For she
knew that Ewing must die. It was as if he were already dead. Perhaps out
there in the agonized void of the world he had already killed himself,
his work being done. Or, if not, they would kill him. She felt a blind,
hollow sickness, as if her heart had broken and was bleeding away inside
her. She had made her beloved a slayer and had slain him. She could not
live with it. She hungered for her own death with intolerable desire.

She arose with a despair-cleared mind the next morning, her resolve
made. Only the smaller details were to be worked out. She walked by the
lake, resolving these. Once she wept, from the very abundance and color
of life about her. Life was so full, and she had taken it from him in
his splendid youth. But she would not shirk the penalty of her
blood-guiltiness. She looked out to the hills beyond the valley that
fell away from the lake, studying headland and wooded slope and cañon
opening, choked with green. Some spot far out there would be secret and
gracious to her--welcome her with a finger on its lips--take her and
keep. Death, to her, was no longer terrible. There had been a long
intimacy with it. She rushed to the idea of it as to a home--a benignant
succor from the unendurable thought.

Back in the cabin she lay counting the minutes as they rushed--thinking
and counting. She must not let herself be prisoned by a mere body that
exulted blindly, basely, in its vigor. She could make everything right.
She could conform to the law of a life for a life.

"The hardest thing," she murmured. "I must do the hardest thing." That
would be her expiation, though not a sufficing one; she recognized that.
She longed for it too avidly, for the relief from thought, from
torturing visions. Yet it was formally perfect as a punishment,
according to the world's standards. She would be her own executioner,
and it would satisfy the world if the world knew. And despite her
longing for release, it was still, she thought, the hardest thing,
although it saved--saved her from that old man and that young man slain:
that young beloved one, lying dead with blood upon his hands. Poor
sacrificed, poor betrayed, poor ruined one! Again, the hollow sickness,
as if her heart were bleeding away inside her. To expiate--to do the
hardest thing. She came back to that always. It was the hardest thing,
although it saved.

When her brother rode up in the afternoon, she instantly saw her plan
completed. There came an hour in which she walked and talked and laughed
in a waking dream, without sensation, except as she could imagine it
felt by a creature she seemed to watch from afar, a creature who had
looked strangely like herself. She saw this woman greet the others and
sit at table with them to laugh and talk with acceptable ease. Their
voices were soundless as voices in a dream, their shapes and flittings
as illogical. So benumbed was her spirit that she suffered little even
at the moment of hurried parting from Virginia. Her rôle was played with
flawless detachment. She studied herself coolly and guarded against
wrong speeches.

"I shall go home with Clarence; I haven't seen that magnificent ranch
yet," she remarked carelessly, and Virginia and her brother had
applauded this.

"I'll show you a ranch that is a ranch," Bartell had answered.

Ben led Cooney around, saddled. She kissed Virginia lightly and was on
the little horse. She turned to wave gayly as she fell in ahead of
Bartell on the trail to the lake.

The moon had sailed up over the eastern hills with the going down of the
sun, and the shadows were sharply cut in its light. They reined in at
the lake, lingering there a moment in its charm. Under the slanting moon
rays it shone like another moon, radiantly silver in its setting of
cloudlike leafage. She drew a long breath as her brother started on, and
called to him.

"Clarence!" He pulled up his horse, looking back at her.

"You'll think me absurd, but I've decided not to go with you, after all.
I believe I'd rather stay with Virginia. She'll be lonesome."

He came back to her, scolding whimsically.

"I know I'm foolish," she persisted, "but you're so dreadfully busy and
noisy over there."

"Nonsense! And Virgie will be all right. She doesn't need you for a few
days."

"I'm sure she'll need me. No--go on alone, there's a dear. I can ride
over myself and bring you back for a few days, after your rush is over."

"Well, if you're really set." He submitted, grumbling.

"And kiss me, dear!"

He did so, still grumbling. "And you skip back, if you're going back.
You're cold as ice. So long, weathervane! And come over when you feel
like it."

"I'll be warm, dear--and good-by."

She watched him down the slope and across the meadow until he vanished
into the black of the forest wall. Then she rode on to the camp. Without
dismounting she took from the end of a broken branch a revolver in its
holster that she had hung there earlier in the day. She made sure again
that it was loaded and buckled the holster about her waist.

Turning from the ranch trail, then, she found another that led off to
the north and away from the Pagosa road--off into a wooded wilderness of
hills where she would be safe from discovery. She halted again on the
first ridge above the camp, sitting motionless in the shadow, her eyes
on the little moon-flooded opening across the lake where the cabin trail
came down to the shore. That was a walk for lovers, but they could not
walk there now. After a little time she whirled Cooney about in a sudden
gust of fierceness and sent him along the winding ridge, keeping close
within the shadow.

When the trail fell away into the first of the unknown valleys she
breathed a sigh of relief and release. Her burden was falling from her.
She could not again be cheated back from her refuge.

She began to rejoice in the wide, wild sweetness of the night, its piny
fragrance, the soft-footed scurryings of its lesser people, the gloom of
its sharply defined shadows, and the silvering haze that enveloped the
peaks. She came on a deer feeding in the open, and was delighted when it
did not run. It only lifted its head to look at her.

She began to rejoice, also, in the cleverness of her plan. As well as
she might she had preserved the decencies. A week might ensue before
they missed her. Cooney, stripped of his trappings, would appear at the
lake cabin, to be laughed at and chided for his desertion of the Bar-B
ranch, a week before she was missed; and then she would never be found.
There was, indeed, small chance of their having the pain of that. She
would keep to the trail as long as the night hid her; then a climb up
some unpathed slope, over rocks that would show no trace of her passage;
then a tangled thicket, remote, secret, improbable--and the tale of a
lost woman, a woman who wandered confusingly far on a night of tempting
splendor. She thought of Virginia's pain with a feeble pity. It seemed
as if humanity was dead in her.

The narrow trail wound beckoningly before her, the land stretched off to
peaks of silver or barren gray slopes or shadowed promontories, glooming
above ravines where little rivers turned restlessly in their beds; and
over all hung the mystic shimmer of moon rays, softening all angles and
picking the fronds of trees with dancing lights as she passed.

An owl boomed from a dead pine, and a little off the trail she heard the
scream of a cougar, like the scream of a woman in some strange terror.
But all sounds were indifferently alike to her, the shrilling of the
beast, the sibilance of running water, the bellow of the owl, the
whistle of a deer, or the throaty mutterings of an awakened bird. She
heard them as receding echoes of a life already remote.

She kept Cooney moving as rapidly as the trail permitted, checking his
little snatches at the wayside herbage. He could fast with her for one
night, she told him. To-morrow he could feast his way home harassed by
no rider. He stopped at times to test some doubtful bit of trail with a
cautious forefoot; or slowed to feel a sure way down a gullyside of
loose stones; or lingered knee deep in a melody of swift water, to
drink, with swelling sides. She was glad to have this last night with
the little horse that had been Ewing's. Ewing--only not to think of
him--for one cannot ride with the heart all bled away.

The light faded from the lower ways after a while. The moon had
completed its short arc and fell below the mountain ahead of her;
defining sharp little notches in its rim.

The hills seemed to steal upon her in the darkness then, huddling close
about her, muffling her with their black plumage. But she was glad of
this--surmounting the mere physical oppression of it--for she felt that
it doubled the secrecy of her going; and Cooney's eyes, with his skilled
feet, sufficed for the trail.

At times she shrank as under the touch of a palpable hand reached out to
her from the darkness, a thing that frantically protested, pleaded,
expostulated--but she knew it for the hand of mere brute life, a
cowardly, blind, soulless thing, that would subvert all fitness. She
shook it off, knowing herself its superior by right of mind, with power
to inflict justice upon it. And _he_ was dead, he, the young and
strong--alas, poor slayer, poor slain! How her heart bled away. To
expiate----

She clung to that: it was an obligation that lay on her, a secret
obligation, but the more imperative for that. She could not hold a
forfeited life. She must redeem herself. The hardest thing was demanded
of her. And then, one could not go on with this bleeding heart.

"The hardest thing--the hardest thing!" she murmured, shutting her lips
tightly on the words, with a sudden inexplicable fear of some flaw in
her logic. Again and again she forced the words from her lips with
stubborn, deaf insistence, to still some mental voice of inquiry, a
passionless, cold thing that lifted itself in her brain, but which she
could beat down with this bludgeon of her phrase. She was even bold
enough to cross-examine herself presently. The hardest thing was
demanded of her, and she was doing the hardest thing. Her hand fell on
the laden holster at her side with a panic impulse to rush the thing
through. But the touch reassured her and she laughed in the
consciousness of her security. She could not be thwarted now, and she
need not hurry. She could afford to the very end that deliberate
thoroughness with which she had begun. Her will for the thing had lost
none of its iron.

An hour or so after the darkness had crowded the hills in upon her she
rode into a dense mist, chilling to the bone after the dryness of the
early night. The range of her vision was again shortened, and even the
little horse halted more frequently to feel his way. Once he seemed to
have wandered, and stood a moment in uncertainty. She let him rest, then
flicked his shoulder with the bridle rein, and he struggled stanchly on
over the ridge of loose gravel where he had halted, feeling for the
trail with expert hoofs. He found it a moment later, and was moving
forward again. She patted his neck and blessed him for being so "trail
wise." He, too, was doing the hardest thing, and doing it faithfully.

She fell again into the rhythm of her battle cry--"The hardest
thing--the hardest thing!"

And yet it was not hard. She was so near to it now that she could afford
the luxury of this admission. It required only a sense of justice, of
moral symmetry. She had taken a life--two, doubtless--and by the law she
must pay. But no debtor could have had a willinger spirit. And she would
not be paying too much. She recalled certain homely words of an old man
whose life she had watched out, a man whose worn, seamed face showed his
right to speak.

"Experience, lady, a dear thing sometimes--yes--but never too dear. It
is worth always just what we pay for it. It is had at slightest cost,
high or low. No other thing is like it thus. All else of the world may
cheat us in their price, but not experience. Our fee shall vary as we
are quick to learn, but the good God teaches us what we must know at
flat cost, as says the merchant, with never the penny of profit. This it
saves much to know--much sorrowing, much whining. It would make us
wise--so!"

"So!" She echoed his rich guttural imitatively and laughed as she drew
in a deep breath of the damp air. She was numb with the cold now, and
laughed at foolish life for registering so petty a discomfort at such a
moment. The humor of it came home to her--that she should sensually feel
the cold.

Another span of hours the little horse strode on at his quick step,
valiantly lifting her up steep ascents, or descending the sides of
ravines with devoted sureness of foot, treading narrow ways where she
could feel that he hugged the bush-lined bank, and knew that a fall lay
the other side.

"The hardest thing--the hardest thing!" Again she muttered it, beating
at her purpose. And again, that mental, passionless query lifted its
head. Strike it down as she would, its cool, curious eyes were always on
her, not denying, not disputing, only questioning, calmly but
implacably, until her soul seemed to writhe in loyalty to her motives,
holding them sacred even from questioning.

"The hardest thing"--but her brain rang with the relentless
question--"are you doing it because it is the hardest thing or because
you want to do it?"

"I am doing it because I want to do the hardest thing."

"A quibble!"

She set her lips, shut her eyes, even to the darkness, and tried to
deafen her ears to the sounding thing. A long time she rode so. And then
she wept because she was alone and cold and dying and unsuccored by the
only one who could have comforted her.

"I would never, never have left _you_!" she called back toward Ewing,
with the first reproach she had ever given him. Her voice had a broken
sweetness like that of a child speaking through tears. "I'd never have
let you be so cold! I'd have stayed--stayed by you--warmed
you--comforted you!"

But after a little her tears ceased, as an unpitied child wears out its
crying, and her eyes closed again as she laughed at her own sad lack of
reason.

When she opened her eyes again she gave a little gasping cry of relief.
The black of the night had faded to gray. A dull, dark, opaque gray it
was, but ghosts of the land already bulked massively through it;
shrouded, vague shapes without line. And the spirit of her purpose
quickened as she looked.

Slowly the mist lightened, still opaque but silver now, and presently
she saw the murky face of a nearby rock and could trace the cedar that
twisted outward from its summit. They were amazing shapes to her, so
long had she seemed to live in the dark, and she named them over,
wonderingly--"A tree, a rock--a rock, a tree!"

Again the question struck at her: "You want to do the hardest thing?"

"I _must_ do the hardest thing--it only happens that I also wish to."

"Is there nothing harder than what you are doing?"

Again she shut her eyes and set her lips, but the voice came with
merciless insistence.

"_What_ would be harder than dying?"

Then she threw back her head and challenged the voice.

"_Living!_ To live would be harder." She made the confession without
flinching, even with a laugh, and a weight dropped from her.

"Then you are not doing the hardest thing--not doing it--not doing the
hardest thing!"

She coolly scanned the descending bed of a creek that the trail now
crossed. The ravine widened below, and she saw that an ascent would be
practicable farther down. It was time, then, to leave the trail. If the
impossible should happen, if by some chance or trick of woodcraft they
tracked her all the miles of her night-long ride, they must lose her
here.

She turned Cooney down the shallow stream with a furtive smile of pride
in her own craft. He splashed through the water, stumbling over the
submerged bowlders, but always recovering himself, and picking a sure
way over the creek bed.

The cool gray of the mist-steaming water reminded her that she was
thirsty, but she would stop for nothing now. She knew herself for a
coward at last, guilty of a cowardice hideously selfish. She had planned
her act to be remote, secret, undiscoverable. But now she faced squarely
the grief her loss would be to others.

But the sting would pass. And she had her own right--her own obligation
to meet. She had killed--she had killed her love--and she could not
live. There was service she might have performed through the years, but
others would perform it now, quite as acceptably. A gnat dropping from
the ephemeral human swarm could be nothing but a gnat the less. She no
longer pretended to call it the hardest thing. "But it's the next
hardest," she pleaded to herself. Her lips quivered, but she stilled the
spasm with a gust of fierce resolving to be done with the thing quickly.

The shelving bank along which the stream had wound now fell away, and
she could dimly make out a draw between two hills where she might
ascend. She chose a place of broken stone and loose gravel for Cooney to
clamber out, so that he might leave no sign even to a searcher who had
come this far. Then, ascending the draw a little distance, she turned
and sent him up the side of the lesser hill. The mist still shut her in,
but she could make out that the woods were denser on this hill.

Cooney made his way through a growth of the thick, wet buck brush, then
between white files of the quaking aspen, and at last into the heavier
wooded forest where his feet slipped and slid on the yielding pine
needles as he climbed. The hill lengthened before her in gradual
ascents, broken by terraces, and the way was rough with bowlders and
fallen trees and the clutching tangle of undergrowth. But the mist,
receding before her, revealed aisles of the wood farther on that allured
her. She would be thorough. Ahead of her were ruddy, yellow hints of the
sun, striking down through the green arches of the forest.

At last she saw that she had reached the summit of the hill. "It is the
place," she said, then reined in and dismounted by a clump of bushes.
She found herself stiffened by the cold, and a sudden fear of failing
force seized her. She stamped on the ground until she felt warmth in her
feet again, and the stirred blood mounting through her. She drew a great
breath and straightened her body with a consciousness of its strength
and wealth of life. "It is the place," she repeated.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE MISSION OF EWING


In a dingy little bedroom of a dingy little hotel in one of the lesser
avenues of New York Ewing sat waiting for his hour. He had sealed his
letter to Mrs. Laithe with the feeling that this was the last
intelligible word he could say to anyone. Henceforth he must be silent;
refuse reasons. He must let them devise reasons for him. Any but the
true reason would suffice.

When darkness came on he went out into the noisy street, mailing the
letter as he passed through the hotel office. Then, by unfamiliar
thoroughfares he made his way to Ninth Street and resumed his old vigil
in front of Teevan's house.

There were lights in the house, both above and below. The thing was not,
then, to be attempted at the moment. He walked for an hour through
squalid streets to the west and came back to his post. The house was
still alight. Teevan, apparently, was entertaining. He watched but a
moment, then returned to his hotel and went to bed. He could be patient,
and he must be thorough. Before extinguishing his light he made sure
that he had not lost what was now his most important possession: a key
to Teevan's door. Teevan had bestowed it on him the year before, in
order that he might obtain books during the little man's absence from
town. Ewing had forgotten the key until he set on his present mission;
then he had perceived a use for it.

He fell asleep, despite the recurrent tumult of elevated trains outside
his window; fell asleep thinking of Teevan. There was no bitterness in
his heart toward the little man. It was only necessary that he die.

He kept closely to his room the next day, wishing not to be recognized
by any of his acquaintances, and he was at his post early in the
evening. This time the house was dark. Teevan was out, but he would
return. So he paced back and forth through Ninth Street, going only so
far as would let him keep the house in view. He felt no impatience. It
was his last work, and he could bide the time when it might be well
done. A little after midnight two men entered the street from Fifth
Avenue, strolling leisurely in the warm June night, and ascended the
steps of the Teevan house. Ewing felt a slight tingling of relief when
he recognized Teevan, but then he saw the other take a key from his
pocket, and he knew that this would be Teevan's son. They went in
together, and the watcher left his post. He must have Teevan alone in
the house.

He walked on with strange echoes from another time--from another world,
it seemed, sounding in his ears. The sight of Teevan, the tones of his
voice, faintly heard, seemed to awaken him from some dream in which he
walked, awaken him to a time when the little man was his good friend. He
felt a sudden nausea, but then he raised his eyes to the Bartell house
opposite and was himself again. He crossed the street and stood a moment
before the door, seeing his lady there, seeing her again as he had seen
her that night in Teevan's grasp, striving with Teevan, weakly, but with
the killing light in her eyes. The vision convinced him. The other time
had been the time of dream. He had not been awake until now.

Again he slept and again he passed a day of waiting. That night there
were no lights in the house, but also no returning master, though he
waited until the night was far on. Yet he went to sleep in all patience,
knowing he had only to wait.

On the fourth night there were lights again, but about ten o'clock he
saw Teevan's two servants leave. He walked on, to avoid recognition by
them. When he returned a man was leaving the house. He thought this
might be Teevan, but when the figure had descended the steps and passed
under the street lamp he saw it to be Teevan's son. Still he waited. He
must be sure.

After half an hour the lights in the lower part of the house went out,
save one that shone dimly through the fanlight over the door. A moment
later two windows on the floor above leaped ruddily into view and he saw
a shadow pass across them. This was Teevan's room, and Teevan was
doubtless there, alone at last.

He did not cross the street directly, but walked east to the end of the
block and came back on the other side. As he passed the Bartell house he
opened and closed his hands tensely, recalling Ben's suggestion about a
weapon. His bare hands were sufficing weapons.

He went up the steps and softly turned his key in the lock. The door
yielded noiselessly to his push and he was in the hall. Unconsciously he
took off his hat and was about to leave it, but then he smiled and
replaced it firmly on his head. He stood listening a moment. There was
no sound. Then, very slowly, taking each step with caution, he mounted
the thickly carpeted stairs.

So intent was he on his purpose that he felt no anxiety, no excitement.
As he halted at the head of the stairs to listen again, he thrilled
only with the need for perfect silence, a thing he would have felt in
the same degree if his quarry had been a deer in some green cover of the
hills. Still without a sound he felt his way to the door of Teevan's
room. The door was open and light from it glowed dimly into the hall. He
paused within the shadow and peered into the room. He could see the desk
but not the man who sat before it. Of him he could see only an arm and
hand--writing at the moment. Presently the hand dropped its pen and took
up a tall glass that stood near. The glass ascended and passed beyond
the watcher's range of vision. The hand brought it back, empty, a moment
later, and resumed the pen once more.

He took a step forward and brought the room into view. Teevan sat at the
desk, his head bent and half turned away. Ewing coolly noted his
position. He seemed smaller than ever, smaller and older. But now no
time must be wasted.

Ewing stepped through the doorway with noiseless tread and took one long
step toward the desk. Teevan turned his head and looked up. His eyes
rested on Ewing, at first vacantly, his mind still busied with the
matter of his writing. Ewing thrilled with a sudden alertness, his
purpose growing in his eyes, his hands tensely closing and unclosing.
Teevan started back from the desk, conscious now of the intruder's
menace. Yet such was the cool fixedness of Ewing's gaze, the hypnotic
tenseness of his crouch, that the little man made no sound; only stared
as one under a spell, the pen still held in his poised hand.

Only when the crouching figure leaped toward him did his lips open. But
then, what would have been a cry of terror became a mere gurgling
snarl, for Ewing's hands had met about his throat with unerring
deftness. Teevan was half-raised from the chair, his head was forced
back, and for an instant his eyes met Ewing's in full consciousness.
Then his mouth opened wide, but not for speech, and his eyes rolled in
the agony of that choking grip. Ewing felt the thing writhe in his
clutch, then felt a sudden terrible relaxation, and his pressure ceased
in unthinking response to this. He stood a moment, holding the limp
form, then dropped it in the chair, feeling himself sicken at the sheer
physical horror of what he was doing. There was no pity for Teevan--only
for the animal that suffered. He had had to kill a dog once and his
loathing of that deed was like this. Teevan's head lay over on his
shoulder, his face distorted and purple, his eyes upturned and fixed in
a hideous stare. The fine little hands hung limply down.

At the moment Ewing believed his task was done, but then he was dismayed
by a gasping, indrawn breath and the convulsive shuddering of Teevan's
chest. The little man was breathing again, though still unconscious. The
dog had shown this same horrible tenacity. He must do the thing all over
again. He bent over the figure, again fixing his grip nicely at the
throat. He would make sure this time. Then nerving himself to exert the
needed pressure, he turned his eyes away--he could not look at the face
in its death agony--turned his eyes away and found himself staring
stupidly at Alden Teevan, who stood inside the door. They gazed at each
other a moment until Ewing had appraised the significance of this
interruption. It meant only that he would be swiftly apprehended, for he
knew that Alden Teevan could not save his father. He had not changed
his position, still bending over the little man, still fingering his
throat. He was conscious of an increase in his purpose; this hint of
opposition would enable him to kill Teevan with a better spirit. He
spoke and his voice was only a little hoarse under the strain.

"I'm killing your father. I don't want to hurt you, but you mustn't try
to stop me. If you do, by God! I'll kill both of you. If you keep away
I'll go with you after I've done it. I promise that."

He turned again to the livid face beneath him. But the younger Teevan
called sharply to him, though with only irritation in his voice:

"Stop! Don't be an ass! You're making an ass of yourself!"

Ewing only stared at him. The other came a step nearer in his eagerness.

"You'll be sorry if you don't listen to me. You're a fool, I tell you."

Ewing smiled confidently, bitterly, not relaxing his hold of the little
man's throat.

"I'm not doing it for myself."

"All the more fool!"

"For some one who couldn't do it--who has reason to do it."

The other came nearer, clutching Ewing's sleeve with gentle persuasion
and speaking with quick intensity.

"Ah, so that's it--she never told you! But you're a fool. She had no
reason--she was merely trying to save you from the truth about your
mother, and she has let you believe his lies about herself. What a
rotten fool you were to think that contemptible little mucker could ever
have been anything to her. He lied to you, do you hear me? Lied to you
about her, and she let you believe it--a fool herself for doing that--so
you wouldn't know the truth about your own mother."

Slowly Ewing unclasped his hands from the throat of Teevan and stood
facing the son. Two phrases rang in his ears: "He lied to you about
her--the truth about your mother." He put up a hand to loosen his
collar. It seemed now as if he himself were being choked.

"The truth about my mother--_what_ truth about my mother?"

"Sit down there."

"_What_ truth about my mother?"

"Come--get hold of yourself. The truth that your mother happened to be
my mother."

Ewing passed a hand over his face, as if to awaken himself from some
trance in which he had moved.

"Sit down there."

He felt for a chair now and sank awkwardly into it, repeating dazedly:

"My mother was your mother--" He could get no meaning from the words.
The other answered sharply:

"Your mother married my father. She left him for your father when I was
a baby. Do you understand that? Mrs. Laithe knew it. He knew it--" He
pointed toward the limp but breathing figure in the chair--"and she was
afraid he would tell you."

He tried to take it in.

"My mother--his wife? Ah--you--you are my brother."

"That's beside the point; but if it means anything to you, listen to
me--try to understand."

Again and again he told the thing point by point, as simply as he could,
while his listener stared curiously at him. The figure in the chair
stirred, the head rolled, the breathing became quieter and more even,
but neither gave any heed to this.

At last the incredible thing began to shape itself in Ewing's mind, but
it was not until the very last, and then it came as a sudden blinding
illumination. The man in the chair drew a long, shuddering breath and
opened his eyes on them. Ewing at the same moment caught the full force
of the little man's deceit. He had felt no anger toward Teevan before,
but now rage grew within him as he remembered what the woman had
suffered. He sprang toward Teevan, feeling no longer a specific desire
to kill, but only a mad impulse to beat down and blindly destroy.

"You lied about her!" he cried, towering above the little man with
clenched, threatening fists. If Teevan had retorted, had raised a hand,
or betrayed anything but abject fear, shrinking in his chair, turning
eyes of appeal to his son, Ewing would have vented his rage. But this
died into mere loathing as he looked. Teevan was near to whimpering, in
his fear. Ewing turned away with a gesture of repulsion.

"That's best, after all," remarked the son coolly.

"Doubtless he deserves kicking more than any unkicked man alive, but
you'll be glad you didn't do it."

Ewing shot another look at Teevan, and then said, almost as if to
himself.

"How wise my mother was!" He turned again to the little man with a
sudden blaze of scorn.

"And you believed I could think less of her for leaving you--leaving you
for a _man_!" Teevan merely closed his eyes and cautiously raised a hand
to his neck.

"You'll be glad you let him off," repeated the son, "and so will she.
She wouldn't have you----"

"Ah--she!" It was a cry of remembrance. "Why--she's--" He broke off,
glowing with a strange illumination. "Why, I left her----"

A moment longer he stood, like a sleeper wakened, then rushed from the
room.




CHAPTER XXXII

THE TURNING OF COONEY


When she again felt sure of her strength she began to unsaddle Cooney.
The cinches bothered her stiffened fingers, but she had them worked
loose at last, and lifted the heavy saddle off, smiling grimly at her
own strength. When she took off the blanket she warmed her hands a
moment in its heat. Then she stripped off the bridle, and the little
horse, after a moment's mouthing to rest his jaws from the bit, fell to
grazing. As he seemed inclined to stay by her, she broke a switch from
one of the nearby bushes and cut him sharply. Even after this he
galloped off but a little way, with astonished, resentful shakings of
his head. She had wanted him to be on his way back over the miles he had
come before the thing was done.

She glanced shrewdly about her. She was far away from the cabin, a
night's ride at Cooney's best trail pace, and in a region rough and
untraveled, except as an occasional way to the lower valleys. There were
no trails about her, no dead camp fires, no trees rimmed by the axe or
scarred by a "blaze." There was life enough of a sort; jays called
harshly, and squirrels barked their alarm; and half a dozen grouse eyed
her from a few yards' distance, with a sort of half-timid stupidity. But
there was no life to touch hers. She walked about the chosen thicket,
admiring its denseness, not notable in any way, but casual, improbable
to the searching eye.

"The hardest thing!" It was satire now, and she murmured it as such,
done with all fighting. It was good to anticipate the thing, the
restfulness of extinction--or not, as that might be. That was no matter.
She was beaten in this life. It was good to know that in a moment she
would feel as little as Randall Teevan--or as much. She unconsciously
drew herself up at the thought of facing that withered fop.

She rejoiced in the warming air. She would take a long breath of it, and
then the triumphant exit. She stepped a few paces forward to peer about
a low-growing spruce that had shaded her. She had a last fancy for
following the echo of her shot to the farther valley wall.

As she lifted the curtain boughs the sun dazzled her. She would see its
golden points, she thought, when she shut her eyes in the thicket. She
shut them quickly now, to prove this, and saw the myriad dancing lights.

As she opened her eyes again and turned to draw back into the wood there
was imprinted curiously on her recovering vision a silhouette of the
lake cabin. She shut them quickly again, dreading memories she was
forever done with, and laughing in the certainty that the cabin was
miles away. Then she looked again, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, and
the cabin loomed before her across the clearing.

As she stared desperately, her mind roused to frantic denials, her eyes
straining to banish this monstrous figment, the door of the cabin opened
and Ewing came out. She sprang forward with an impulse to shatter the
illusion by some quick movement. But her eyes still beheld him,
bareheaded, turning his face up to the sun. He stretched his arms and
drew deep breaths. He had never seemed so tall. His look had a kind of
triumph in it.

She swayed under the shock of the thing, feeling herself grow faint.
Cooney had betrayed her. Some time in the night, at one of those
confusing bends in the trail, he had turned. He had brought her home.

Ewing's head had turned as she moved; his eyes were on her. She saw the
rapt gladness in his face and beheld him approach her across the
clearing. She managed another step or two and gained the support of a
felled tree. As Ewing came up she essayed a little smile of nonchalance.

"Cooney--" she begun. The word came itself, but she felt easier under
the sound of her own voice and went on--"Cooney came with me. I didn't
go at all. I rode--but you see--" She beamed on him with explanatory
embarrassment--"I took an early morning ride--it was so pleasant--and I
thought I was lost--indeed I did, and I took off his saddle. I left it
right there--" She pointed with the literal exactness of a child in its
narrative of adventure--"right there behind that tree, and then I found
I was--found I was closer to home than I thought."

He had not seemed to hear her, but stood looking narrowly, as if she
were still far away. Gradually his eyes widened, as if he were drawing
her close to him. He took a step toward her, with arms half raised.

"I'm so ashamed--" he muttered; "but you--you let me think that."

His voice brought her to sudden agonized alarm. The blood ebbed from her
face and she almost staggered toward him.

"Did you do it--do _that_?" she whispered, ready to fall.

"No; I found out in time. I found out everything--everything you didn't
tell me." He was shaken with longing, yet shamed into restraint before
her.

"I'm so ashamed--I came as soon as I could to tell you. I rode all night
to be here, to tell you as soon as I could."

"You didn't do it--you didn't do it?" she insisted pitifully.

"I stopped in time." She muttered this over and over, and at last the
truth struggled into her chilled brain.

"You dear, dear fool!" she said with a little sobbing laugh.

Again his arms were half raised to her, but she turned swiftly and ran
to Cooney, who had fallen to grazing a little way off, throwing her arms
about his neck and weeping out incoherent words of endearment.

Ewing gathered his strength, like a wrestler who has been pressed to the
ground, but lifts himself with infinite effort, and went resolutely
toward her. Gently he unclasped her arms from Cooney's neck.


THE END




A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE

David Harum.

Illustrated Edition. With 70 full-page and text pictures by B. West
Clinedinst, and other text designs by C. D. Farrand, and a biography of
the author by Forbes Heermans. 12mo. $1.50.


"What seems to us to be the final judgment of 'David Harum' is given in
the _North American Review_ by no less a personage than John Oliver
Hobbes. This review strikes at the root of the matter.

"'It would not be presumptuous to say,' opines Mrs. Craigie, 'well
remembering the magnificent ability of certain English authors of the
present day, that not one could create a character which would win the
whole English population as David Harum has won the American public. The
reason is plain. With so many class distinctions, a national figure is
out of the question. A national hero--yes; but a man for "winterin' and
summerin' with"--no. Social equality and independence of thought, in
spite of all abortive attempts to introduce the manners and traditions
of feudal Europe, are in the very air of the United States. One could
not find an American man or woman of the true stock who had not known
intimately, or who did not count among his or her ancestors, connections,
relatives, a David Harum. The type, no doubt, is getting old: becoming
more and more "removed" from the younger generation. In the course of
the next twenty years it may become so changed as to seem extinct, but
it is a national figure--certainly the most original, probably the
purest in blood. And the spirit of Harum is the undying spirit--no
matter how much modified it may eventually become by refinement,
travel, and foreign influence--of the American people. Individuals
may change, but the point of view remains unalterable.'"--_New York
Mail and Express._

"'David Harum' is one of those extremely rare and perfectly fresh
creations in current fiction which really enrich our literature. In
brief, it is a masterpiece, and one that deserves an immense popularity.
No words can adequately describe its wholesome, sparkling humor, its
quaint and endearing originality, its genuine Yankee wit and native
shrewdness. A well-nigh perfect work it is--a creation which will take a
permanent place among American literary portraits."--_Literary Review._


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.




THE LEADING NOVEL OF TODAY.

The Fighting Chance.

By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. Illustrated by A. B. Wenzell. 12mo. Ornamental
Cloth, $1.50.


In "The Fighting Chance" Mr. Chambers has taken for his hero, a young
fellow who has inherited with his wealth a craving for liquor. The
heroine has inherited a certain rebelliousness and dangerous caprice.
The two, meeting on the brink of ruin, fight out their battles, two
weaknesses joined with love to make a strength. It is refreshing to find
a story about the rich in which all the women are not sawdust at heart,
nor all the men satyrs. The rich have their longings, their ideals,
their regrets, as well as the poor; they have their struggles and
inherited evils to combat. It is a big subject, painted with a big brush
and a big heart.

"After 'The House of Mirth' a New York society novel has to be very good
not to suffer fearfully by comparison. 'The Fighting Chance' is very
good and it does not suffer."--_Cleveland Plain Dealer._

"There is no more adorable person in recent fiction than Sylvia
Landis."--_New York Evening Sun._

"Drawn with a master hand."--_Toledo Blade._

"An absorbing tale which claims the reader's interest to the
end."--_Detroit Free Press._

"Mr. Chambers has written many brilliant stories, but this is his
masterpiece."--_Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph._


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.




Transcriber's Note:

Spelling, grammar, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as
in the original publication except as follows:

    Page 9
    you'll _git_ somewhur's, I says _changed to_
    you'll _git_ somewhur's,' I says

    Page 14
    comsummation of this mild adventure _changed to_
    consummation of this mild adventure

    Page 23
    considered is so quietly _changed to_
    considered it so quietly

    front of "art emporiums." on _changed to_
    front of "art emporiums," on

    Page 33
    rainment was donned _changed to_
    raiment was donned

    Page 48
    sasshaying down Fifth Avenue _changed to_
    sashaying down Fifth Avenue

    Page 50
    that man every marry _changed to_
    that man ever marry

    Page 84
    vista of heartshaking surprises _changed to_
    vista of heart-shaking surprises

    Page 133
    latest golf and yatching news _changed to_
    latest golf and yachting news

    Page 243
    slay me an you will _changed to_
    slay me an' you will

    Page 292
    walked by the lake, revolving _changed to_
    walked by the lake, resolving

    Page 311
    with a gesture of replusion _changed to_
    with a gesture of repulsion







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EWING'S LADY ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.