[Illustration: "We have met"]

THE PURPLE HEIGHTS

By

MARIE CONWAY OEMLER

Author of "Slippy McGee. " "A WomanNamed Smith, " etc. 

NEW YORK1920

 _To_

 JOHN NORTON OEMLER FROM THE LADY HIS SON USED TO CALL "MRS. DADDY"

 CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I THE RED ADMIRAL II THE PROMISE III AT GRIPS WITH LIFE IV THE SOUL OF BLACK FOLKS V THE PURPLE HEIGHTS VI GOOD MORNING, GOOD LUCK! VII WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDED VIII CINDERELLA IX PRICE-TAGS X THE DEAR DAM-FOOL XI HIS GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE XII "NOT BY BREAD ALONE" XIII THE BRIGHT SHADOW XIV SWAN FEATHERS XV "I, TOO, IN ARCADIA" XVI THE OTHER MAN XVII THE GUTTER-CANDLE XVIII KISMET! XIX THE POWER XX AND THE GLORY

 CHARACTERS

 PETER CHAMPNEYS: _Of Riverton, South Carolina, and Paris, France_. MARIA CHAMPNEYS: _His Mother_. CHADWICK CHAMPNEYS: _The God in the Machine_. EMMA CAMPBELL: _A Colored Woman_. ANNE CHAMPNEYS, NÉE NANCY SIMMS: _Cinderella_. MRS. JOHN HEMINGWAY: _Peter's First Teacher_. JOHN HEMINGWAY: _An American_. JASON VANDERVELDE: _An Attorney at Law_. MRS. JASON VANDERVELDE: _Anne's Mentor_. MRS. MacGREGOR: _A Disciple of Hannah More_. GLENN MITCHELL: _A Bright Shadow_. BERKELEY HAYDEN: _The Other Man_. GRACIE: _A Gutter-Candle_. DENISE: _A Perfume_. THE QUARTIER LATIN. RIVERTON, SOUTH CAROLINA. THE CAROLINA COLORED FOLKS. MARTIN LUTHER: _A Gray Cat_. SATAN: _A Black Cat_. THE RED ADMIRAL: _A Fairy_. 

THE PURPLE HEIGHTS

CHAPTER I

THE RED ADMIRAL

The tiny brown house cuddling like a wren's nest on the edge of thelongest and deepest of the tide-water coves that cut throughRiverton had but four rooms in all, --the kitchen tacked to the backporch, after the fashion of South Carolina kitchens, the shed roomin which Peter slept, the dining-room which was the generalliving-room as well, and his mother's room, which opened directlyoff the dining-room, and in which his mother sat all day andsometimes almost all night at her sewing-machine. When Peter tiredof lying on his tummy on the dining-room floor, trying to drawthings on a bit of slate or paper, he liked to turn his head andwatch the cloth moving swiftly under the jigging needle, and thewheel turning so fast that it made an indistinct blur, and sang witha droning hum. He could see, too, a corner of his mother's bed withthe patchwork quilt on it. The colors of the quilt were pleasantlysubdued in their old age, and the calico star set in a squarepleased Peter immensely. He thought it a most beautiful quilt. Therewas visible almost all of the bureau, an old-fashioned walnutaffair with a small, dim, wavy glass, and drawers which you pulledout by sticking your fingers under the bunches of flowers thatserved as knobs. The fireplaces in both rooms were in a shockingstate of disrepair, but one didn't mind that, as in winter a fireburned in them, and in summer they were boarded up with fireboardscovered with cut-out pictures pasted on a background of blackcalico. Those gay cut-out pictures were a source of never-endingdelight to Peter, who was intimately acquainted with every flower, bird, cat, puppy, and child of them. One little girl with a pinkparasol and a purple dress, holding a posy in a lace-paper frill, hewould have dearly loved to play with. 

Over the mantelpiece in his mother's room hung his father's picture, in a large gilt frame with an inside border of bright red plush. Hisfather seemed to have been a merry-faced fellow, with inquiringeyes, plenty of hair, and a very nice mustache. This picture, underwhich his mother always kept a few flowers or some bit of livinggreen, was Peter's sole acquaintance with his father, except when hetrudged with his mother to the cemetery on fine Sundays, and tracedwith his small forefinger the name painted in black letters on awhite wooden cross:

 PETER DEVEREAUX CHAMPNEYS _Aged 30 Years_

It always gave small Peter an uncomfortable sensation to trace thatname, which was also his own, on his father's headboard. It was asif something of himself stayed out there, very lonesomely, in thedeserted burying-ground. The word "father" never conveyed to him anyidea or image except a crayon portrait and a grave, he being aposthumous child. The really important figures filling thebackground of his early days were his mother and big black EmmaCampbell. 

Emma Campbell washed clothes in a large wooden tub set on a benchnailed between the two china-berry trees in the yard. Peter lovedthose china-berry trees, covered with masses of sweet-smellinglilac-colored blossoms in the spring, and with clusters of hardgreen berries in the summer. The beautiful feathery foliage made apleasant shade for Emma Campbell's wash-tubs. Peter loved to watchher, she looked so important and so cheerful. While she worked shesang endless "speretuals, " in a high, sweet voice that swoopedbird-like up and down. 

 "I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, Jacob's la-ad-dah, I wants tuh climb up Ja-cob's la-ad-dah, But I cain't-- Not un-tell I makes my peace wid de La-a-wd, En I praise _Him_--de La-a-wd! I 'll praise Him--tell I di-e, I 'll praise Him--tell I die! I 'll si-ng, Je-ee-ru-suh-lem!"

Emma Campbell would sing, and keep time with thumps and clouts ofsudsy clothes. She boiled the clothes in the same large black ironpot in which she boiled crabs and shrimp in the summer-time. Peteralways raked the chips for her fire, and the leaves and pine-conesmixed with them gave off a pleasant smoky smell. Emma had a happyfashion of roasting sweet potatoes under the wash-pot, and you couldsmell those, too, mingled with the soapy odor of the boilingclothes, which she sloshed around with a sawed-off broom-handle. Other smells came from over the cove, of pine-trees, and sassafras, and bays, and that indescribable and clean odor which the windsbring out of the woods. 

The whole place was full of pleasant noises, dear and familiarsounds of water running seaward or swinging back landward, alwayswith odd gurglings and chucklings and small sucking noises, and runsand rushes; and of the myriad rustlings of the huge live-oaks hungwith long gray moss; and the sycamores frou-frouing like ladies'dresses; the palmettos rattled and clashed, with a sound like rain;the pines swayed one to another, and only in wild weather did theyspeak loudly, and then their voices were very high and airy. Peterliked the pines best of all. His earliest impression of beauty andof mystery was the moon walking "with silver-sandaled feet" overtheir tall heads. He loved it all--the little house, the trees, thetide-water, the smells, the sounds; in and out of which, keepingtime to all, went the whi-r-rr of his mother's sewing-machine, andthe scuff-scuffing of Emma Campbell's wash-board. 

Sometimes his mother, pausing for a second, would turn to look athim, her tired, pale face lighting up with her tender mother-smile:

"What are you making now, Peter?" she would ask, as she watched hislaborious efforts to put down on his slate his conception of thethings he saw. She was always vitally interested in anything Petersaid or did. 

"Well, I started to make you--or maybe it was Emma. But I thoughtI'd better hang a tail on it and let it be the cat. " He studied theresult gravely. "I'll stick horns on it, and if they're _very_ goodhorns I'll let it be the devil; if they're not, it can be Mis'Hughes's old cow. "

After a while the things that Peter was always drawing began to bearwhat might be called a family resemblance to the things they wereintended to represent. But as all children try to draw, nobodynoticed that Peter Champneys tried harder than most, or that hecouldn't put his fingers on a bit of paper and a stub of pencilwithout trying to draw something--a smear that vaguely resembled atree, or a lopsided assortment of features that you presently madeout to be a face. 

But Peter Champneys, at a very early age, had to learn things lesspleasant than drawing. That tiny house in Riverton represented allthat was left of the once-great Champneys holdings, and the littlewidow was hard put to it to keep even that. Before he was sevenPeter knew all those pitiful subterfuges wherewith genteel povertytries to save its face; he had to watch his mother, who wasn'trobust, fight that bitter and losing fight which women of her sortwage with evil circumstances. Peter wore shoes only from the middleof November to the first of March; his clothes were presentable onlybecause his mother had a genius for making things over. He wasn'treally hungry, for nobody can starve in a small town in SouthCarolina; folks are too kindly, too neighborly, too generous, foranything like that to happen. They have a tactful fashion of comingover with a plate of hot biscuit or a big bowl of steamingokra-and-tomato soup. 

Often a bowl of that soup fetched in by a thoughtful neighbor, or anapronful of sweet potatoes Emma Campbell brought with her when shedid the washing, kept Peter's backbone and wishbone from rubbingnoses. But there were rainy days when neighbors didn't send inanything, Emma wasn't washing for them that week, sewing was scanty, or taxes on the small holding had to be paid; and then PeterChampneys learned what an insatiable Shylock the human stomach canbe. He learned what it means not to have enough warm covers on coldnights, nor warm clothes enough on cold days. He accepted it allwithout protest, or even wonder. These things were so because theywere so. 

On such occasions his mother drew him closer to her and comfortedhim after the immemorial South Carolina fashion, with accounts ofthe former greatness, glory, and grandeur of the Champneys family;always finishing with the solemn admonition that, no matter whathappened, Peter must never, never forget Who He Was. Peter, who wasa literal child in his way, inferred from these accounts that whenthe South Carolina Champneyses used to light up their big house fora party, before the war, the folks in North Carolina could see toread print by the reflection in the sky, and the people over inGeorgia thought they were witnessing the Aurora Borealis. 

She was a gentle, timid, pleasant little body, Peter's mother, withthe mild manners and the soft voice of the South Carolina woman; andalthough the proverbial church-mouse was no poorer, Riverton wouldtell you, sympathetically, that Maria Champneys had her pride. Forone thing, she was perfectly convinced that everybody who had everbeen anybody in South Carolina was, somehow, related to theChampneyses. If they weren't, --well, it wasn't to their credit, that's all! She preferred to give them the benefit of the doubt. Herown grandfather had been a Virginian, a descendant of Pocahontas, ofcourse, Pocahontas having been created by Divine Providence for thespecific purpose of ancestoring Virginians. Just as everybody in NewEngland is ancestored by one of those inevitable two brothers whocame over, like sardines in a tin, in that amazingly elastic_Mayflower_. In the American Genesis this is the Sarah and these bethe Abrahams, the mother and fathers of multitudes. They begin ourBegats. 

Mrs. Champneys sniffed at _Mayflower_ origins, but she was firm onPocahontas for herself, and adamant on Francis Marion for theChampneyses. The fact that the Indian Maid had but one bantling toher back, and the Swamp Fox none at all, didn't in the leastdisconcert her. If he _had_ had any children, they would haveancestored the Champneyses; so there you were!

Peter, who had a fashion of thinking his own thoughts and thenkeeping them to himself, presently hit upon the truth. His was oneof those Carolina coast families that, stripped by the war andirretrievably ruined by Reconstruction, have ever since beensteadily decreasing in men, mentality, and money-power, eachgeneration slipping a little farther down hill; until, in the caseof the Champneyses, the family had just about reached rock-bottom inhimself, the last of them. There had been, one understood, an uncle, his father's only brother, Chadwick Champneys. Peter's mother hadn'tmuch to say about this Chadwick, who had been of a roving andrestless nature, trying his hand at everything and succeeding innothing. As poor as Job's turkey, what must he do on one of hisprowls but marry some unknown girl from the Middle West, as poor ashimself. After which he had slipped out of the lives of every onewho knew him, and never been heard of again, except for the reportthat he had died somewhere out in Texas; or maybe it was Arizona orIdaho, or Mexico, or somewhere in South America. One didn't know. 

Behold small Peter, then, the last of his name, "all the sisters ofhis father's house, and all the brothers, too. " Little, thin, darkPeter, with his knock-knees, his large ears, his shock of blackhair, and, fringed by thick black lashes, eyes of a hazel so clearand rare that they were golden like topazes, only more beautiful. Leonardo would have loved to paint Peter's quiet face, with its shy, secret smile, and eyes that were the color of genius. Rivertonthought him a homely child, with legs like those of one'sgrandmother's Chippendale chair, and eyes like a cat's. He was soquiet and reticent that nearly everybody except his mother and EmmaCampbell thought him deficient in promise, and some even consideredhim "wanting. "

Peter's reputation for hopelessness began when he went to school, but it didn't end there. He really was somewhat of a trial to anaverage school-teacher, who very often knows less of the humannature of a child than any other created being. Peter used thecarelessly good-and-easy English one inherits in the South, but hecouldn't understand the written rules of grammar to save his life;he was totally indifferent as to which states bounded and borderedwhich; and he had been known to spell "physician" with an f and twoz's. But it was when confronted by a sum that Peter stood revealedin his true colors of a dunce!

"A boy buys chestnuts at one dollar and sixty cents the bushel andsells them at ten cents the quart, liquid measure. --Peter Champneys, what does he get?"

Peter Champneys stood up, and reflected. 

"It all depends on the judge, and whether the boy's a white boy or anigger, " he decided. "It's against the law to use liquid measure, you know. But I should think he'd get about thirty days, if he's anigger. "

Whereupon Peter Champneys went to the principal with a note, andreceived what was coming to him. When he returned to his seat, whichwas decidedly not comfortable just then, the teacher smiled a real, sure-enough schoolma'am smile, and remarked that she hoped ourbrilliant scholar, Mister Champneys, knew now what the boy got forhis chestnuts. The class laughed as good scholars are expected tolaugh on such occasions. Peter came to the conclusion that Herod, Nero, Bluebeard, and The Cruel Stepmother all probably began theirbright careers as school-teachers. 

Peter was a friendly child who didn't have the useful art of makingfriends. He used to watch more gifted children wistfully. He wouldso much have liked to play familiarly with the pretty, impertinent, pigtailed little girls, the bright, noisy, cock-sure little boys;but he didn't know how to set about it, and they didn't in the leastencourage him to try. Children aren't by any means angels to oneanother. They are, as often as not, quite the reverse. Peter wasloath to assert himself, and he was shoved aside as the gentle andthe just usually are. 

Being a loving child, he fell back upon the lesser creatures, anddiscovered that the Little Brothers do not judge one upon hearsay, or clothes, or personal appearance. Theirs is the infallible test:one must be kind if one wishes to gain and to hold their love. 

Martin Luther helped teach Peter that. Peter discovered MartinLuther, a shivering gray midget, in the cold dusk of a Novemberevening, on the Riverton Road. The little beast rubbed against hislegs, stuck up a ridiculous tail, and mewed hopefully. Peter, whoneeded friendliness himself, was unable to resist that appeal. Hebuttoned the forlorn kitten inside his old jacket, and, feeling thegrateful warmth of his body, it cuddled and purred. The wise littlecat didn't care the tip of a mouse's tail whether or not Peter wasthe congenital dunce his teacher had declared him to be, only thatmorning. The kitten knew he was just the sort of boy to showcompassion to lost kittens, and trusted and loved him at sight. 

His mother was doubtful as to the wisdom of adopting a third memberinto a family which could barely feed two without one going halfhungry. Also, she disliked cats intensely. She was most horriblyafraid of cats. She was just about to say that he'd have to give thekitten to somebody better able to care for it, but seeing theresigned and hopeless expression that crept into Peter's face, shesaid, instead, that she reckoned they could manage to feed thelittle wretch, provided he kept it out of her room. Peter joyfullyagreed, washed the cat in his own basin, fed it with a part of hisown supper, and took it to bed with him, where it purred itself tosleep. Thus came Martin Luther to the house of Champneys. 

When Peter had chores to do the cat scampered about him with, sidewise leapings and gambolings, and made his labor easier byseasoning it with harmless amusement. When he wrestled with hislessons Martin Luther sat sedately on the table and watched him, every now and then rubbing a sympathetic head against him. When hewoke up at night in the shed room, he liked to put out his hand andtouch the warm, soft, silky body near him. Peter adored his cat, which was to him a friend. 

And then Martin Luther took to disappearing, mysteriously, forlonger and longer intervals. Peter was filled with apprehensions, for Martin Luther wasn't a democratic soul; aside from his affectionfor Peter, the cat was as wild as a panther. The child was almostsick with anxiety. He wandered around Riverton hunting for the beastand calling it by name, a proceeding which further convincedRiverton folk that poor Maria Champneys's boy was not what one mightcall bright. Fancy carrying on like that about nothing but a cat!But Peter used to lie awake at night, lonesomely, and cry because hewas afraid some evil had befallen the perverse creature of hisaffections. Then he prayed that God would look out for MartinLuther, if He hadn't already remembered to do so. The world of asudden seemed a very big, sad, unfriendly place for a little boy tolive in, when he couldn't even have a cat in it!

The disappearance of Martin Luther was Peter's first sorrow that hismother couldn't fully share, as he knew she didn't like cats. MartinLuther had known that, too, and had kept his distance. He hadn'teven made friends with Emma Campbell, who loved cats to the extentof picking up other people's when their owners weren't looking. Thiscat had loved nobody but Peter, a fact that endeared it to him athousandfold, and made its probable fate a darker grief. 

One afternoon, when Martin Luther had been gone so long that Peterhad about given up hopes of ever seeing him again, Emma Campbell, who had been washing in the yard, dashed into the house screechingthat the woodshed was full of snakes. 

Peter joyfully threw aside his grammar--snakes hadn't half theterror for him that substantives had--and rushed out to investigate, while his mother frantically besought him not to go near thewoodshed, to get an ax, to run for the town marshal, to run and ringthe fire-bell, to burn down that woodshed before they were all stungto death in their beds!

Cautiously Peter investigated. Perhaps a chicken-snake had crawledinto the shed; perhaps a black-snake was hunting in there for rats;over there in that dark corner, behind sticks of pine, something wasmoving. And then he heard a sound he knew. 

"Snakes nothin'!" shouted Peter, joyfully. "It's Martin Luther!" Hegot on his hands and knees and squirmed and wriggled himself behindthe wood. There he remained, transfixed. His faith had received ashocking blow. 

"Oh, Martin Luther!" cried Peter, with mingled joy and relief andreproach. "Oh, Martin Luther! How you've fooled me!" Martin Lutherwas a proud and purring mother. 

Peter was bewildered and aggrieved. "If I'd called him Mary orMartha in the beginning, I'd be glad for him to have as many kittensas he wanted to, " he told his mother. "But how can I ever trust himagain? He--he ain't Martin Luther any more!" And of a sudden hebegan to cry. 

Emma Campbell, with a bundle of clean wet clothes on her brawny arm, shook her head at him. 

"Lawd, no, Peter! 'T ain't de cat whut 's been foolin' you; it 's youwhut 's been foolin' yo' own self. For, lo, fum de foundations obdis worl', he was a she! Must n' blame de cat, chile. 'Cause ef youdoes, " said Emma, waving an arm like a black mule's hind leg forstrength, "ef you does, 'stead o' layin' de blame whah it natchellyb'longs--on yo' own ig'nance, Peter--you'll go thoo dis worl' widevery Gawd's tom-cat you comes by havin' kittens on you!"

"I feel like a father to those kittens, " said Peter, gravely. But itwas plain that Martin Luther's furry fourlegs had put Peter's noseout of joint!

Things were getting worse and worse at school, too, although Peterconsiderately concealed this from his mother. He didn't tell herthat the promotions she was so proud of had come to him simplybecause his teachers were so desperately anxious to get rid of him!And only to-day an incident had happened that seared his soul. Hehad been forced to stand out on the floor for twenty cruel, gruelingminutes, to be a Horrible Example to a tittering class. It had beena long, wearisome day, when one's head ached because one's stomachwas empty. Peter's eyes stung and smarted, his lip was bruisedbecause he had bitten it to keep it from trembling, and his heartwas more like a boil in his breast than a little boy's heart. Whenhe was finally released for the day he didn't linger, but got awayas fast as his thin legs would carry him. Once he was sure he wasout of sight of all unfriendly eyes he let himself go and cried ashe trudged along the Riverton Road. And there, in the afternoonsunlight, he made the acquaintance of the Red Admiral. 

Just at that spot the Riverton Road was tree-shaded andbird-haunted. There were clumps of elder here and there, and cassenabushes, and tall fennel in the corners of the old worm-fencebordering the fields on each side. The worm-fence was of a polished, satiny, silvery gray, with trimmings of green vines clinging to it, wild-flowers peeping out of its crotches, and tall purple thistlesswaying their heads toward it. On one especially tall thistle theRed Admiral had come to anchor. 

He wore upon the skirts of his fine dark-colored frock-coat ared-orange border sewed with tiny round black buttons; across themiddle of his fore-wings, like the sash of an order, was a broad redribbon, and the spatter of white on the tips may have been his ideaof epaulets; or maybe they were nature's Distinguished Servicemedals given him for conspicuous bravery, for there is no moregallant sailor of the skies than the Red Admiral. 

When this gentleman comes to anchor on a flower he hoists his gaysails erect over his fat black back, in order that his under wingsmay be properly admired; for he knows very well that the cunningestcraftsman that ever worked with mosaics and metals never turned outa better bit of jewel-work than those under wings. 

It was this piece of painted perfection that caught PeterChampneys's unhappy eyes and brought him to a standstill. Peterforgot that he was the school dunce, that tears were still on hischeeks, that he had a headache and an empty stomach. His eyes beganto shine unwontedly, brightening into a golden limpidity, and hislips puckered into a smile. 

The Red Admiral, if one might judge by his unrubbed wings and thenew and glossy vividness of his colorings, may have been some ninehours old. Peter, by the entry in his mother's Bible, was nine yearsold. Quite instinctively Peter's brown fingers groped for a pencil. At the feel of it he experienced a thrill of satisfaction. Down onhis knees he went, and crept forward, nearer and nearer; for onemust come as the wind comes who would approach the Red Admiral. Peter had no paper, so a fly-leaf of his geography would have to do. All athrill, he worked with his bit of pencil; and on the fly-leafgrew the worm-fence with the blackberry bramble climbing along itscorners, and the fennel, and the elder bushes near by; and in theforeground the tall thistle, with the butterfly upon it. The RedAdmiral is a gourmet; he lingers daintily over his meals; so Peterhad time to make a careful sketch of him. This done, he sketched inthe field beyond, and the buzzard hanging motionless in the sky. 

It was crude and defective, of course, and a casual eye wouldn'thave glanced twice at it, but a true teacher would instantly haverecognized the value, not of what it performed, but of what itpresaged. For all its faults it was bold and rapid, like theAdmiral's flight, and it had the Admiral's airy grace and freedom. It seized the outlines of things with unerring precision. 

The child kneeling in the dust of the Riverton Road, with an oldgeography open on his knee, felt in his thin breast a faint flutter, as of wings. He looked at the sketch; he watched the Red Admiralfinish his meal and go scudding down the wind. And he knew he hadfound the one thing he could do, the one thing he wanted to do, thathe must and would do. It was as if the butterfly had been a fairy, to open for Peter a tiny door of hope. He wrote under the sketch:

 Jun. 2, 189- This day I notissed the red and blak buterfly on the thissel. 

He stared at this for a while, and added:

 P. S. In futcher watch for this buterfly witch mite be a fary. 

Then he went trudging homeward. He was smiling, his own shy, secretsmile. He held his head erect and looked ahead of him as if in thefar, far distance he had seen something, a beckoning something, toward which he was to strive. Barefooted Peter, poverty-stricken, lonely Peter for the first time glimpsed the purple heights. 

CHAPTER II

THE PROMISE

It is written in the Live Green Book that one may not stumble uponone of its secrets without at the same discovering something aboutothers quite as fascinating and worth exploring. This is a wise andblessed law, which the angels of the Little Peoples are alwaystrying to have enforced. Peter Champneys suspected the Red Admiralof being a fairy; so when he ran fleet-footed over the fields andthrough the woods and alongside the worm-fences after the Admiral, the angels of the Little Peoples turned his boyish head aside andmade him see birds' wings, and bees, and the shapes of leaves, andthe colors of trees and clouds, and the faces of flowers. It isfurther written that one may not intimately know the Little Peopleswithout loving them. When one begins to love, one begins to grow. Peter, then, was growing. 

Lying awake in the dark now wasn't a thing to be dreaded; the darkwas no longer filled with shapes of fear, for Peter was beginning todiscover in himself a power of whose unique and immense value he wasnot as yet aware. It was the great power of being able clearly tovisualize things, of bringing before his mind's eye whatever he hadseen, with every distinction of shape and size and color sharplypresent, and accurately to portray it in the absence of theoriginal. If one should ask him, "What's the shape of the milkweedbutterfly's wing, and the color of the spice-bush swallowtail, PeterChampneys? What does the humming-bird's nest look like? What's thecolor of the rainbow-snake and of the cotton-mouth moccasin? What'sthe difference between the ironweed and the aster?"--Ask Peterthings like that, and lend him a bit of paper and a pencil, and heliterally had the answers at his finger-tips. 

But they never asked him what would, to him, have been naturalquestions; they wished him, instead, to tell them where the OnionRiver flows, and the latitude of the middle of Kamchatka, and tospell phthisis, and on what date the Battle of Somethingorother wasfought, and if a man buys old iron at such a price, and makes itover into stoves weighing so much, and sells his stoves at suchanother price, what does it profit him, and other such-likeilluminating and uplifting problems, warranted to make anyschool-child wiser than Solomon. It is a beautiful system; only, God, who is no respecter of systems, every now and then delights toflout it by making him a dunce like Peter Champneys, to be thetorment of school-teachers--and the delight of the angels of theLittle Peoples. 

Those long, silent, solitary hours in the open gave Peter the powerof concentration, and a serenity that sat oddly on his slightshoulders. Thoughts came to him, out there, that he couldn't putinto words nor yet set down upon paper. 

On warm nights, when his mother's sewing-machine was for a timestill and the tired little woman slept, Peter slipped out of theshed room into a big, white, enchanted world, and saw things thatare to be seen only by an imaginative and beauty-loving little boyin the light of the midsummer moon. Big hawk-moths, swift andsudden, darted by him with owl-like wings. Mocking-birds broke intosilvery, irrepressible singing, and water-birds croaked and rustledin the cove, where the tide-water lipped the land. The slim, blackpine-trees nodded and bent to one another, with the moon lookingover their shoulders. Something wild and sweet and secret invadedthe little boy's spirit, and stayed on in his heart. Maybe it wasthe heart-shaking call of the whippoorwill, or the song of themocking-bird, truest voices of the summer night; or perhaps it wasthe spirit of the great green luna-moth, loveliest of all thedaughters of the dark. Or perhaps the Red Admiral was indeed afairy, as Peter said he was. 

Peter was superstitious about the Red Admiral. He was a good-lucksign, a sort of flying four-leaf clover. Peter noticed that wheneverthe Red Admiral crossed his path now, something pleasant alwaysimpended; it meant that he wouldn't be _very_ unhappy in school; ormaybe he'd find a thrush's nest, or the pink orchid. Or the meetingmight simply imply something nice and homey, such as a little treathis mother contrived to make for him when sewing had been somewhatbetter-paying than usual, and she could sit by the table and enjoyhis enjoyment as only one's mother can. Decidedly, the Red Admiralwas good luck!

So, all along, quietly, persistently, not exactly secretly but stillall by himself, Peter had been learning to use his fingers, as hehad been learning to use his eyes and ears. He was morbidly shyabout it. It never occurred to him that anybody might admireanything he could do, as nobody had ever admired anything he haddone. 

On his mother's last birthday--though Peter didn't know then that itwas to be her last--he made for her his first sketch inwater-colors. By herculean efforts he had managed to get hismaterials; he had picked berries, weeded gardens until his headwhirled and his back ached, chopped fire-wood, run errands, caughtcrabs. Presently he had his paper and colors. 

It was a beautiful surprise for Peter's mother, that sketch, whichwas a larger copy of the one on the fly-leaf of his geography. Therewas the gray worm-fence, a bit of brown ditch, an elder in flower, atall purple thistle, and on it the Red Admiral. Peter wished to makehis mother personally acquainted with the Red Admiral, so he printedon the back of his picture:

 My buterfly done for mother's burthday by her loveing son Peter Champneys the 11th Year of his Aige. 

The little woman cried, and held him off the better to look at him, with love, and wonder, and pride, and drew his head to her breastand kissed his hair and eyes, and wished his dear, dear father hadbeen there to see what her wonder-child could do. 

"I can't to save my life see where you get such a lovely gift from, Peter. It must be just the grace of God that sends it to you. Yourdear father couldn't so much as draw a straight line unless he had aruler, I'm sure. And I'm not bright at all, except maybe aboutsewing. But you are different. I've always felt that, Peter, fromthe time you were a little baby. At the age of five months you cuttwo teeth without crying once! You were a _wonderful_ baby. I _knew_it was in you to do something remarkable. Never you doubt yourmother's word about _that_, Peter! You'll make your mark in theworld yet! God couldn't fail to answer my prayers--and you the lastChampneys. "

Peter was too innately kind and considerate to dim her joy with anydoubts. He knew how he was rated--berated is the better word for it. He knew acutely how bad his marks were: his shoulders too often borewitness to them. The words "dunce" and "sissy" buzzed about his earslike stinging gnats. So he wasn't made vainglorious by his mother'spraise. He received it with cautious reservations. But her faith inhim filled him with an immense tenderness for the little woman, anda passionate desire, a very agony of desire, to struggle toward heraspirations for him, to make good, to repay her for all theprivations she had endured. A lump came in his throat when he sawher place the little sketch under his father's picture, where hereyes could open upon it the first thing in the morning, and close toit at night. 

"Ah, my dear! God's will be done--I'm not complaining--but I wish, oh, how I wish you could be here to see what our dear child can do!"she told the smiling crayon portrait. "Some of these days the littleson you've never seen is going to be a great man with a greatname--_your_ name, my dear, _your_ name!"

Her face kindled into a sort of exaltation. Two large tears ran downher cheeks, and two larger ones rolled down Peter's. His heartswelled, and again he felt in his breast the flutter as of wings. Far, far away, on the dim and distant horizon, something glimmered, like sunlight upon airy peaks. 

Peter's mother wasn't at all beautiful--just a little, thin, sallowwoman with mild brown eyes and graying hair, and a sensitive mouth, and dressed in a worn black skirt and a plain white shirt-waist. Herfingers were needle-pricked, and she stooped from bending soconstantly over her sewing-machine. She had been a pretty girl; nowshe was thirty-five years old and looked fifty. She wasn't in theleast intellectual; she hadn't even the gift of humor, or shewouldn't have thought herself a sinner and besought Heaven toforgive sins she never committed. She used to weep over theFifty-first Psalm, take courage from the Thirty-seventh, and whenshe hadn't enough food for her body feed her spirit on theTwenty-third. She didn't know that it is women like her who manageto make and keep the earth worth while. This timid and modest soulhad the courage of a soldier and the patience of a martyr under thedaily scourgings inflicted upon the sensitive by biting poverty. Peter might very well have received far less from a brilliant andbeautiful mother than he received from the woman whose only giftsand graces were such as spring from a loving, unselfish, and pureheart. 

For Peter's sake she fought while she had strength to fight, enduring all things, hoping all things. She didn't even know she wassacrificing herself, because, as Emma Campbell said, "Miss Maria'sjes' natchelly all mother. " But of a sudden, the winter that Peterwas turning twelve, the tide of battle went against her. Theneedle-pricked, patient fingers dropped their work. She saidapologetically, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm too sick to stay upany longer. " Nobody guessed how slight was her hold upon life. Whenthe neighbors came in, after the kindly Carolina custom, she wascheerful enough, but quiet. But then, Maria Champneys was alwaysquiet. 

There came a day when she was unusually quiet, even for her. Towarddusk the neighbor who had watched with her went home. At the doorshe said hopefully:

"You'll be better in the morning. "

"Yes, I'll be better in the morning, " the sick woman repeated. Aftera while Emma Campbell, who had been looking after the house, wentaway to her cabin across the cove. Peter and his mother were alone. 

It was a darkish, gusty night, and a small fire burned in the openfireplace. Shadows danced on the walls, and every now and then thewind came and tapped at the windows impatiently. On the closedsewing-machine an oil lamp burned, turned rather low. Peter sat in arocking-chair drawn close to his mother's bedside and dozedfitfully, waking to watch the face on the pillow. It was very quietthere in the poor room, with the clock ticking, and the soft soundof the settling log. 

Just before dawn Peter replenished the fire, moving carefully lesthe disturb his mother. But when he turned toward the bed again shewas wide awake and looking at him intently. Peter ran to her, kissedher cheek, and held her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, and hechafed them between his palms. 

"Peter, " said she, very gently, "I've got to go, my dear. " There wasno fear in her. The child looked at her piteously, his eyes big andfrightened in his pale face. 

"And now I'm at the end, " said she bravely, "I'm not afraid to leaveyou, Peter. You are a brave child, and a good child. You couldn't bedishonorable, or a coward, or a liar, or unkind, to save your life. You will always be gentle, and generous, and just. When one is whereI am to-night, that is all that really matters. Nothing but goodnesscounts. "

Peter, with her hand against his cheek, tried not to weep. Toconceal his terror and grief, and the shock of this thing come uponhim in the middle of the night, to spare her the agony of witnessinghis agony, was almost intuitive with him. He braced himself, andkept his self-control. She seemed to understand, for the hand heheld against his cheek tried, feebly, to caress it. It didn't tireher to talk, apparently, for her voice was firm and clear. 

"You're a gifted child, as well as a good child, Peter. But--ourpeople here don't understand you yet, my dearest. Your sort ofbrightness is different from theirs--and better, because it's rarerand slower. Hold fast to yourself, Peter. You're going to be a greatman. "

Peter stroked her hand. The two looked at each other, a long, long, luminous look. 

"My son, --your chance is coming. I know that to-night. And when itcomes, oh, for God's sake, for my sake, for all the Champneyses'sake, take it, Peter, take it!" Her voice rose at that, her handtightened upon his; she looked at him imploringly. 

"Take it for my sake, " she said with terrible earnestness andintensity. "Take it, darling, and prove that I was right about you. Remember how all my years, Peter, I toiled and prayed--all for you, my dearest, all for you! Remember me in that hour, Peter, and don'tfail me, don't fail me!"

"Oh, Mother, I won't fail you! I won't fail you!" cried Peter, andat that the tears came. 

His mother smiled, exquisitely; a smile of faith reassured and hopefulfilled, and love contented. That smile on a dying mouth stayed, with other beautiful and imperishable memories, in Peter's heart. Presently he ventured to ask her, timidly:

"Shall I go for somebody, Mother?"

"Are you afraid, dear?"

"No, " said Peter. 

"Then stay by me. Just you and me together. You--you are all Ihave--I don't need anybody else. Stay with me, Son, --for a littlewhile. "

Outside you could hear the wind moving restlessly, and the treescomplaining, and the tide-water whispering. The dark night wasfilled with a multitudinous murmuring. For a long while Peter andhis mother clung to each other. From time to time she whispered tohim--such pitiful comfortings as love may lend in its extremity. 

The black night paled into a gray glimmer of dawn. Peter held fastto the hand he couldn't warm. Her face was sharp and pale andpinched. She looked very little and thin and helpless. The bedseemed too big for so small a woman. 

More gray light stole through the windows. The lamp on the closedmachine looked ghostly, the room filled with shifting shadows. MariaChampneys turned her head on her pillow, and stared at her son witheyes he didn't know for his mother's. They were full of a flickeringlight, as of a lamp going out. 

"'Though I walk--through the valley--'" Here her voice, a mere thintrickle of sound, failed her. As if pressed by an invisible hand herhead began to bend forward. A thin, gray shade, as of inconceivablyfine ashes, settled upon her face, and her nostrils quivered. Theeyes, with the light fading from them, fixed themselves on Peter ina last look. 

"'--of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art withme; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. '" Peter finished it forher, his boyish voice a cry of agony. 

A light, puffing breath, as of a candle blown out, exhaled from hismother's lips. Her eyes closed, the hand in Peter's fell limp andslack. The awful and mysterious smile of death fixed itself upon herpale mouth. 

So passed Maria Champneys from her tiny house in Riverton, in thedawn of a winter morning, when the tide was turning and the worldwas full of the sound of water running seaward. 

CHAPTER III

AT GRIPS WITH LIFE

The best or the worst thing that can happen to a boy in this countryis to be poor in it for a while, to be picked up neck and crop andflung upon his own resources; not always to remain poor, of course, for one may be damned quite as effectually and everlastingly uponthe cross as off it; but to be poor long enough to acquire a senseof proportion by coming to close grips with life; to learn whatthings and people really are, the good and the bad of them together;to have to weigh and measure cant and sentimentality and Christiancharity--which last is a fearsome thing--in the balance with truthand common sense and human kindness. It is an experience that makesor breaks. 

Peter had always adored his mother; but it wasn't until now that herealized how really wonderful she had been. How she had kept theroof over his head, and his stomach somehow satisfied, and had senthim to church and to school decently enough clad, Peter couldn'timagine. 

There was no possibility now of regular schooling. Nature hasn'tprovided as providently for the human grub as for the insect one. Ahuman grub isn't born upon a food-plant that is a house as well, nor is nature his tailor and his shoemaker. Peter wasn't blood kinto anybody in Riverton, so there was no home open to him. He wasdeeply sensible of the genuine kindness extended to him in his darkhour, but he wouldn't, he couldn't, have gone permanently into anyof their homes had he been asked to do so, which of course hewasn't. He clung to the little house on the big cove. His mother'spresence lingered there and hallowed the place. 

There was some talk of sending him to an orphanage--he was barelytwelve, and penniless. But when Mrs. Cooke, the minister's wife, mentioned it to Peter, gently enough, the boy turned upon her withflaming eyes, and said he wouldn't stay in any asylum; he'd runaway, and keep on running away until he died! Mrs. Cooke lookedtroubled, and said that Mr. McMasters, a vestryman in the church, was really the head and front of that project. 

Peter went after Mr. McMasters, and found him in his grocerystore--one of those long, dim country stores that sell everythingfrom cradles to coffins. Mr. McMasters came from behind the counter, rubbing his hands. 

"Well, Peter, what can I do for _you_ this mawnin'?" he asked, jovially. He was that sort. 

"You can let me alone, please, " said Peter, succinctly. 

"Eh? What's that?" The large man stared at the little man. 

"I said you can let me alone, please, " said Peter, patiently. "Ihear it's you doing most of the talking about sending me to anorphanage. "

"I try to do my duty as a man and a Christian, " said the vestryman, piously. "You can't be allowed to run loose, Peter. 'T aint right. 'T ain't moral. 'T ain't Christian. You'll be better off in a goodorphan-asylum, bein' taught what you'd ought to learn. That's theplace for you, Peter!"

"I want to stay in my own house, " said Peter. 

"Shucks! You can't eat and wear a measly little house, can you?That's what I'm askin' the town right now. Sure you can't! The thingto do is to sell that place for what it'll fetch, sock the money inbank for you, and it'll be there--with _interest_--when you've grownup and aim to start in business for yourself. Yes, sir. That's myidea. "

"Mr. McMasters, " said Peter, evenly, "I want you to know one thingsure and certain. If you send me to any orphan-asylum, I'll send_you_ to some place where you'll be better off, too, sir. "

"Meanin'?"

Peter Champneys shot at the stout vestryman a glance like the thrustof a golden spear. 

"The cemetery, Mr. McMasters, " said he, with the deadly SouthCarolina gentleness. 

The two stared at each other. It wasn't the boy's glance that fellfirst. 

"Threatenin' me, hey? Threatenin' a father of a family, are you?"Mr. McMasters licked his lips. 

"Oh, no, Mr. McMasters, I'm not threatening you, at all. I'm justtelling you what'll happen. "

The vestryman reflected. He knew the Champneyses. They had all beenmen of their word. And fine marksmanship ran in the family. He hadseen this same Peter handle a shot-gun: you'd think the little devilhad been born with a gun in his fist! He had a thumb-nail vision ofMrs. McMasters collecting his life-insurance--getting new clothes, and the piano she had been plaguing him for, too, and her motheralways in the house with her. He turned purple. 

"You--why, you beggarly whelp! You--you damned Champneys!" heroared. Peter met the angry eyes unflinchingly. 

"I reckon you'd better understand I'm not going to anyorphan-asylum, Mr. McMasters. I'm going to stay right here at home. And you are not going to get my cove lot, " he added shrewdly. 

"What do I care where you go? And who wants your old strip of sandand cockspurs? Get to hell out o' here!" yelled Mr. McMasters, violently. 

Peter marched out. He knew that victory perched upon his banners. Hewouldn't be sent away, willy-nilly, to a place the bare thought ofwhich had made his mother turn pale. And she had wished him to keepthe place on the cove, the last poor remnant of Champneys land. Tothis end had she pinched and slaved. When Peter thought of McMastersintriguing to take from him even this poor possession, his lips cametogether firmly. Somehow he would manage to keep the place. If hismother had been able to manage it, surely a man could do so, too! Hehadn't the faintest doubt of his ability to take care of himself. 

But the town was troubled and perplexed, until Peter solved hisproblem for himself with the aid of Emma Campbell. Emma had alwaysbeen his friend, and she had been his mother's loyal and lovingservitor. She and Peter had several long talks; then Emma called inCassius, an ex-husband of hers who so long as he didn't live withher could get along with her, and had him widen the shed room, Petertaking in its stead his mother's bedroom. Cassius built a betterwash-bench, with a shelter, under the china-berry trees in the yard, and strung some extra clothes-lines, and Emma Campbell moved in. Emma would take care of the house, and look after Peter. Rivertonsighed, and shrugged its shoulders. 

It was a sketchy sort of arrangement, but it worked very well. Sometimes Peter provided the meals which Emma cooked, for he wasexpert at snaring, crabbing, shrimping, and fishing. Sometimes thespirit moved Cassius to lay an offering of a side of bacon, a bushelof potatoes, a string of fish, or maybe a jug of syrup or a hen athis ex-spouse's feet. Cassius said Emma was so contrary he speckedshe must be 'flicted wid de moonness, which is one way of sayingthat one is a bit weak in the head. But he liked her, and she washedhis shirts and sewed on a button or so for him occasionally, oroccasionally cracked him over the sconce with the hominy-spoon, justto show that she considered her marital ties binding. Emma had beenmarried twice since Cassius left her, but both these ventures hadbeen, in her own words, "triflin' niggers any real lady 'd jes'natchelly hab to throw out. " When Cassius complained that his thirdwife was "diggin' roots" against him, Emma immediately set him todigging potatoes for herself, to offset the ill effects of possibleconjure. She was a strategical person, and Peter didn't fare verybadly, considering. 

The boy fell heir to all those odd jobs that boys in his positionare expected to tackle. When a task was too tiresome, toodisagreeable, or too ill-paying for anybody else, Peter was sent forand graciously allowed to do it. It enabled people to feelcharitable and at the same time get something done for about afourth of what a man would have charged. Half the time he made hisliving out of the river, going partners with some negro boatman. They are daring watermen, the coast negroes. They took Peter ondeep-sea fishing-trips, and at night he curled up on a furled sailand went to sleep to the sound of Atlantic waves, and of negro mensinging as only negro men can sing. Sometimes they went seining atnight in the river, and Peter never forgot the flaring torches, thelights dipping and glinting and sliding off brawny, half-nakedfigures and black faces, while the marshes were a black, long lineagainst the sky, and the moon made a silver track upon the waters, and the salty smell of the sea filled one's nostrils. 

Now that he could no longer attend school, Peter snatched at anybook that came his way, getting all sorts and conditions ofreading-matter from all sorts and conditions of people. His was theunappeasable hunger and thirst of those who long to know; and hewished to express what he learned, by making pictures and thusinterpreting it for himself and others. It wasn't easy. Life turneda rather harsh face to him. He wasn't clothed like the birds of theair and the lilies of the field: he had to provide his own coveringsas best he might. He wouldn't accept charity. He would wear his ownold clothes but he wouldn't wear anybody else's. 

"Peter, " said Emma Campbell, anxiously, "yo' rind is comin' out o'doors. Dem britches o' yourn looks like peep-thoo-de-winduh;daylight 's comin'. " She added anxiously: "Don't you let a heavy rainketch you in dem pants, Peter, or it 'll baptize you plum nekked toyo' shirt-tail. "

Peter looked alarmed. One may with decency run barefooted only tothe knees. Upon reflection, he sold his mother's sewing-machine--itwas an old machine and didn't bring much--and bought enough to coverhimself with. 

"I wish I'd been born with my clothes on me, like you were, " heconfided to the Red Admiral. "Gee, you're lucky!"

The Red Admiral flirted his fine coat vaingloriously. _He_ didn'thave to worry about trousers, nor yet shoes for his six feet! Andall he had to do was to fly around a bit and he was sure to find hisdinner waiting for him. 

"Fairy, " said Peter, soberly, "I'm not sniffling, but I'm not havingwhat you'd call a good time. It's hard to be me, butterfly. Nothingnice has happened in such a long time. I wish you'd think upsomething pleasant and wish it to happen to me. "

If you'll hold out your first and second fingers and wiggle them inthe friendliest way you know how, you'll see how the Red Admiralmoved his feelers just then. 

When Peter Champneys went home that night, after a long afternoon ofweeding an old lady's garden and whitewashing a long-sufferingchicken house, Emma Campbell spread before him, on a hot platter, and of a crispness and brownness and odorousness to have made St. Simon Stylites slide down his pillar and grab for a piece of it, afat chicken with an accompaniment of hot biscuit and good browngravy. She didn't tell Peter how she had come by the chicken, nordid he wait to ask. He crammed his mouth, and Emma leaned againstthe door and watched him with profound satisfaction. When he hadpolished the last bone to an ivory whiteness, Emma reached behindher and handed Peter the book she had that morning wrested from apeddler whose shirt she had washed and ironed. Emma knew Peter likedbooks. 

Now, Emma Campbell couldn't by any stretch of imagination beconsidered a beautiful person. She had pulled almost all of her hairout by the roots, from a fashion she had of twisting and winding ittightly around a tin spoon, or a match stem, to "pull her palateup. " The colored people suffer from a mysterious ailment known as"having your palate down, " for which the one specific is to take awisp of your hair and wrap it as tightly around a tin spoon, or amatch stem, as you can twist it; that pulls your palate up. It is, of course, absolutely necessary for you to have your palate up, even though you scalp yourself in the process of making it stay up. Emma generally had a couple of spoons and two or three matches inwhat was left of her wool. She could screw her mouth up until itlooked like a nozzle, and she could shoot her eyes out like acrab's. She was so big that most folks were afraid of her. But asshe stood there beaming at Peter with the book in his hand, theloveliest lady in the land couldn't have looked better or kinder. 

Peter laid the Collection of Poetic Gems on the table, and blinkedat Emma Campbell. Then, because he was only a boy, and becausenothing so pleasant as this had happened to him for a long, longtime--not since his mother died--he put his head down on thegreen-covered book and cried as only a boy can cry when he lets go. 

Emma Campbell seemed to grow about nine feet tall. "Peter, " saidshe, in a terrifying voice, "I axes you not to lemme see you cryin'like dat! When I sees Miss Maria's chile cryin', jes' 'cause a olenigger woman gives 'im a book, I wants to go out an' bust dis townwide open wid a ax!"

When he had time to examine his Collection of Poetic Gems, Peter wasoverjoyed. The paper was poor, the cuts atrocious, the binding apoisonous green, but many of the Gems were of purest ray serenedespite their wretched setting. Old-fashioned stuff, most of it, butwoven on the loom of immortality. Peter, of course, had Simms's "WarPoems of the South. " He knew much of Father Ryan by heart. He, aswell as another, could wave his brown stick of an arm and bidsomebody "Take that banner down, 'tis tattered. " He had been broughtup on the story of the glory of the men who wore the gray, and forhim the sword of Robert Lee would never dim nor tarnish. But thesethings were different. They talked to something deep down in him, that was neither Yankee nor Southerner, but larger and better thanboth. When Peter read these poems he felt the hair of his scalpprickle, and his heart almost burst with a rapture that was agony. 

But one can't exist on a collection of gems in a vile binding. Shirts and shoes wear out, and trousers must be replaced whenthey're too far gone to stand another stitch. Peter was too small todo any responsible work, and he was getting too big to be paid inpennies and dimes. People didn't exactly know what to do with him. One can't be supercilious to a boy who is a Champneys born, but canone invite a boy who runs errands, is on very familiar footing withall the colored people in the county, and wears such clothes asPeter wore, to one's house, or to be one of the guests when a childof the family gives a birthday party? Not even in South Carolina!

For instance, when Mrs. Humphreys gave a birthday party for herlittle girl, she was troubled about Peter Champneys, who hadn't beeninvited. Peter had weeded her garden the day before, and mowed herlawn; and he had looked such a little fellow, running thatlawn-mower out there in the sun! And now, while all the otherchildren were playing and laughing, dressed in their party finery, Peter was splitting wood for old Miss Carruthers, a little fartherdown the street. Mrs. Humphreys could see him from her bedroomwindow. It was a little too much for the good-hearted woman, who hadliked his mother. She compromised with herself by taking a plate ifice-cream and a thick slice of cake, slipping out of her back door, and hurrying down to Miss Carruthers's back yard. 

Peter stood there, leaning on his ax. Seated on a larger woodpilewas old Daddy Christmas, one of the town beggars. Daddy Christmaswas incredibly old, wrinkled, ragged, and bent. His grizzled, partlybald head nodded while he tried to talk to Peter. 

"Peter, " said Mrs. Humphreys, hastily, "here's some ice-cream andcake for you. " She blushed as she spoke. "It's a hot day--and you'reworking. I thought you'd like something cool and nice. " She thrustthe plate upon him. 

Peter smiled at her charmingly. 

"You're mighty kind, Mis' Humphreys, " he told her. 

"I'll come back for the plate and spoon, after a while, " she said, hurrying off. But at the gate, beside the thick crape-myrtle bushes, she paused and looked back. Somehow she wanted to see MariaChampneys's boy eating that ice-cream and cake. 

"Daddy Christmas, " said a voice, gaily, "if there'd been two platesand two spoons, and if you'd had any sort of a dinner to-day, I'd beperfectly willing to share this treat with you. As it is, you'llhave to eat it all by yourself. " A second later the voice added:"Funny, you just saying the Lord would provide; but I bet you didn'tthink He'd provide ice-cream and cake!" Followed the brisk strokesof the ax, swung by a wiry, nervous little arm. 

Mrs. Humphreys walked down the lane to her house, with a verythoughtful face. 

CHAPTER IV

THE SOUL OF BLACK FOLKS

The negro to the white man, as the moon to the earth, shows one sideonly; the other is dark and unknown. It is an instinct with him toconceal the truth--any truth--from white men; who knows to what usethey will put it and him? So deeply have ages of slavery andoppression ingrained this upon black men's subconsciousness, thatonly one white man in a thousand ever knows or suspects what hisdark brethren think, or know, or feel. Peter Champneys happened tobe the thousandth. 

There wasn't a cabin in all that countrywide in which thisbarefooted last scion of a long line of slave-holding gentry wasn'tknown and welcome. There wasn't a negro in the county he didn't knowby name: even "mean niggers" grinned amiably at Peter Champneys. They remembered what he had once said to a district judge whom heheard bitterly inveighing against their ingratitude, immorality, shiftlessness, and general worthlessness. Peter had lifted his quieteyes. 

"I've often thought, Judge, what a particularly mean nigger I'd havebeen, myself, " he said, and studied the judge with disconcertingdirectness. "If you'd been born a colored man, and some folks talkedand behaved to you like some folks talk and behave to colored men, don't you reckon you'd be in jail right this minute, Judge?"

The white men who heard Peter's remark smiled, and one of them said, spitting out a mouthful of tobacco juice, that it was just anotherpiece of that boy's damfoolishness. But the negroes, who knew thatjudge as only negroes can know white men, chuckled grimly. They havean immense respect for intelligence, and they made no mistake wherePeter's was concerned. 

They knew him, too, a mild-eyed, brown-faced child reading out of aBook by the light of a kerosene lamp to groups of gray-headed, reverent listeners in lonely cabins. And Peter was always makingpictures of them--Mindel at the wash-tub, Emma Campbell picking achicken, old Maum' Chloe churning, Liza playing with her fat blackbaby, Joe Tuttle plowing, old Daddy Neptune Fennick leaning on hisax. Sometimes these sketches caught some fleeting moment of fun, andwere so true and so amusing that they were received with shouts ofdelighted laughter, passed from hand to hand, and cherished byfortunate recipients. 

Now, no simple and natural heart can even for a little while beat inunison with other hearts, encased in whatsoever colored skin mayplease God, without a quickening of that wisdom which is one of thekeys of the Kingdom to come. To be able really to know, truly tounderstand and come human-close to the lowly, to men and women underthe bondage of age-old prejudice, or outcast by the color of theirskin, is a terrible and perilous gift. This is the much knowledge inwhich there is much grief. 

Peter Champneys saw both sides. He saw and heard and knew thingsthat would have made his mother turn in her grave had she known. Heknew what depths of savagery and superstition, of brute sloth andignorance, lay here to drive back many a would-be white helper indespair, and to render the labor of many a splendid negro reformerall but futile. But he knew, too, the terrible patience, theincredible resignation, with which poverty and neglect and hungerand oppression and injustice are borne, until at times, child as hewas, his soul sickened with shame and rage. He relished the sweetearthy humor that brightens humble lives, the gaiety and charityunder conditions which, when white men have to bear them, go to themaking of red terrorists. Some of the things he saw and heardremained like scars upon Peter's memory. He will remember until hedies the June night he spent with Daddy Neptune Fennick in his cabinon the edge of the River Swamp. 

That early June day had been cloudy from dawn; Peter was glad ofthat, for he meant to pick black-berries, and a sunless day forberry-picking is an unmixed blessing. The little negroes are suchnimblefingered pickers, such locust-like strippers of all near-bypatches, that Peter had bad luck at first, and was driven fartherafield than he usually went; his search led him even to the edge ofthe River Swamp, a dismal place of evil repute, wherein cane as tallas a man grew thickly, and sluggish streamlets meandered in and outof gnarled cypress roots, and big water-snakes stretched themselveson branches overhanging the water. On the edges of the swamp theunmolested vines were thick with fruit. In the late afternoon Peterhad filled his buckets to overflowing with extra-fine berries. 

It had been a sultry day for all its sunlessness, and Peter wastired, so tired that his head and back ached. He looked at the heavybuckets doubtfully; it would be a man-size job to trudge the longsandy road home, so laden. While he sat there, hating to move, DaddyNeptune Fennick came in sight, hoe and rake and ax on his sturdyshoulder. The old man cast a shrewd, weather-wise eye at thedarkening sky. 

"Gwine to hab one spell o' wedder, " he called. "Best come on homewid me, Peter, en wait w'ile. "

Even as he spoke a blaze of lightning split the sky and lighted upthe swamp. A loud clap of thunder followed on the heels of it. DaddyNeptune seized one bucket, Peter the other, and both ran for theshelter of the cabin, some eighth of a mile farther on. They reachedit just as the rain came down in swirling, blinding sheets. 

The old man built a fire in his mud fireplace, and prepared theevening meal of broiled bacon, johnny-cake, and coffee. He and hiswelcome guest ate from tin plates on their knees, drinking theircoffee from tin cups. Between mouthfuls each gave the other whatcounty news he possessed. Peter particularly liked that orderlyone-roomed cabin, and the fine old man who was his host. 

He was an old-timer, was Daddy Neptune, more than six feet tall, andmassively proportioned. His bald head was fringed with a ring ofcurling gray wool, and a white beard covered the lower portion of anunusually handsome countenance. He had a shrewd and homely wit, anunbuyable honesty, and such a simple and unaffected dignity ofmanner and bearing as had won the respect of the county. 

The old man lived by himself in the cabin by the River Swamp. Hiswife and son had long been dead, and though he had sheltered, fed, clothed, and taught to work several negro lads, these had gone theirway. Peter was particularly attached to him, and the old manreturned his affection with interest. 

The dark fell rapidly. You could hear the trees in the River Swampcrying out as the wind tormented them. On a night like this, withlightning snaking through it and wild wind trying to tear the heartout of its thin cypresses, and the cane-brake rustling ominously inits unchancy black stretches, one might believe that the place washaunted, as the negroes said it was. Daddy Neptune was moved to tellPeter some of his own experiences with the River Swamp. He spoke, between puffs of his corn-cob pipe, of the night Something had comeout of it--_pitterpat! pitterpat!_--right at his heels. It hadfollowed him to the very edge of his home clearing. Daddy Neptunewasn't exactly _afraid_, but he knew that Something hadn't anybusiness to be pitterpattering at his heels, so he had turned aroundand said:

"Ef you-all come out o' hebben, you 's wastin' good time 'yuh. EfDey-all lef' you come out o' hell, you bes' git right back whah youb'longs. One ways, _I_ ain't got nothin' I kin tell you; t'otherways, _you_ ain't got nothin' I 's gwine to let you tell me. I 'saxin' you to _git_. En, " finished Neptune, "dat t'ing done wentright _out_--whish!--same lak I 's tellin' you! Yessuh! hit wentspang _out_!" He threw another chunk of fatwood on the fire, andwatched the smoky flame go dancing up the chimney. In the red glowhe had the aspect of a kindly Titan. 

"It never bothered you again, Daddy Nep?" Peter was always curiousabout these experiences. He had a glimmer that negroes are nearer tocertain Powers than other folks are, and although he wasn'tsuperstitious, he wasn't skeptical, either. 

"Never bothered me a-tall, less'n dat 's whut 's been meddlin' widmy fowls, whichin ef I catches it, I aims to blow its head plum off, ghostes or no ghostes, " said the old man, stoutly. 

"Ghosts don't steal chickens. I reckon it's a wild-cat gets yours. Iheard one scream in the swamp not so long since. "

"Well, I aims to git Mistuh Wildcat, den. I done got me a couple o'guinea-fowls for watch, en dey sho does set up a mighty potrackin'w'en anything strange comes a-snoopin' roun' de yahd. "

After a while Daddy Neptune put away his pipe and took down from ashelf his big battered Bible, and Peter read the Twenty-first andTwenty-second chapters of Revelation, to which the old man listenedwith clasped hands and an uplifted face, his lips moving soundlesslyas he repeated to himself certain of the words:

 And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away. .. . He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God and he shall be my son . .. 

"I was born in slaveryment, " said the old man, audibly. 

Peter lay on his straw bed before the fire, sleepily watchingNeptune finish his prayers. He still had a child's faith, but he wasbeginning to wonder how a laboring negro could retain it. One thinghe was sure of; if there was such a thing as a Christian man, endowed with ideal Christian virtues, that old man kneeling in hiscabin, pouring out his heart to his Maker, was a Christian. Andremembering comfortable, complacent white Christians--well fed, wellhoused, well clothed; with education and all that it implies astheir heritage; with all the high things of the world open to themby reason of their white skin; praying decorously every Sunday to awhite man's God--Peter felt confused. How should the white man andthe white man's God answer and account to the Daddy Neptunes, whohad been "born in slaveryment, " had lived and would die inslaveryment to poverty and prejudice? Where do they come in, thesedispossessed dark sons of the Father? Surely, the Father has a verygreat deal to make up to them!--Then the firelighted cabin walls, the wavering figure of the kneeling old man, the soft sound of lightrain on the roof, faded and went out. Peter fell asleep. 

He slept a tired boy's dreamless slumber. The night deepened. Therain ceased, and a wan and sad moon climbed the sky, wearily, like atired old woman. In the River Swamp frogs croaked, a whippoorwill atintervals gave its lonesome and lovely call, the shivering-owl's crymaking it lovelier by comparison. The cypresses shook blackly in theblacker swamp water which licked their roots. From the drenchedvegetation arose a fresh and penetrating odor, the smell of theclean June night. And presently, he didn't know why, Peter awokewith every sense instantly alert. It was as if his soul had sensed asound, knew it for what it was, and was on guard. 

A few red embers glowed in the big mud chimney. Save for these, theone-room cabin was in darkness. Somebody was moving about. Petermade out the figure of big Neptune standing with his head bent in alistening attitude at one of the shuttered windows. A bit of fatwoodin the fireplace burst for a moment into an expiring flame, whichflickered dully on the barrel of the gun in the negro's hands. Peterscrambled up, and stole noiselessly across the floor. 

"Dem guineas potracked en waked me up, Son, " whispered Neptune. "NowI aims to git whut 's been sneakin' off wid my fowls. "

At that moment a low knock sounded on the door. At such an hour, and in that lonely place, it gave the old man and the boy a distinctsensation of fear: who should come knocking so stealthily at thedoor of the cabin by the River Swamp at that eerie hour? Neptune, his gun gripped in his hands, twisted his head sidewise, listening. The knock came again, this time more insistent. Then a thick voicespoke, muffled by the intervening door:

"Daddy Nepshun, is you awake? For Gawd A'mighty's sake, DaddyNepshun, lemme in!"

The old man stepped to the door and flung it wide. The figure thathad been crouching against it tumbled in and lay panting on thefloor. 

"Light me dat lamp, please, Peter, " said Neptune, peering down athis visitor. 

Peter, who had recovered from his momentary fear, lighted thekerosene lamp. By its light they perceived a stained, muddy, disheveled wretch, in the last state of terror and exhaustion. Twowild eyes glared at them out of a gray, grimed face. 

"Why, Jake! Lawd 'a' mussy, hit 's Jake!" burst from Daddy Neptune. Peter recognized in the intruder a negro to whom the old man hadbeen, as was his wont, fatherly kind. On a time he and his wife hadsheltered and fed Jake. 

Peter didn't know why, but something in the man's aspect, in hisrolling eyes, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his torn clothes, his desperate look of a hunted beast, made him recoil. He had neverbefore seen any one with just that look of brute cunning andterror. Daddy Neptune's steady eyes took in every detail. Hestiffened in his tracks. 

"Whut you been doin'?" he demanded. Jake turned his head from sideto side; he refused to meet the direct old eyes. He mumbled:

"Is you got any w'isky, Da' Nepshun? For Gawd's sake, Da' Nepshun, gimme a drink en don't ast me no questions twell I 's able toanswer. " His voice was hoarse and shaking; his whole body shook. 

"I ain't got no w'isky, but I got coffee en bittles. Whichin you iswelcome to, " said Neptune. "You ain't say yit whut you been doin'. Whut you been up to, Jake?"

Jake writhed off the floor. Again Peter recoiled instinctively. Asthe negro got upon his feet his coat fell open, and the torn sleeveand cuff of a gingham shirt showed. On it was a dark stain which wasnot swamp water or mud. Peter's eyes fastened upon that dark redsmear. 

"Gimme a bite o' bittles so 's I kin git on, " implored Jake. 

"I axes you once mo', Jake: whut you been doin'?" demanded Neptune. His voice was stern, and his face began to set. 

"En I axes you to lemme git dem bittles fust, en I'll tell you, soon's I gits back mah wind, " returned Jake, sullenly. 

Still retaining his gun, Neptune went to the corner cupboard, fromwhich he took a loaf of bread. Without cutting it he handed it toJake, who began to tear it with his teeth. All the while he ate, hekept turning his head, listening, listening. 

"Cain't wait for no coffee. Gimme drink o' water, please, suh. " Insilence Neptune handed him a gourd of water. When Jake had gulpedthis down, Neptune asked again, inexorably:

"Whut you been doin', Jake?"

Jake shifted from one foot to the other. He thrust his bullet headforward. His hands, hanging at his sides, opened and closed, thefingers twitching. 

"Dem w'ite mens is atter--somebuddy--en dey say hit 's me, " hemuttered hoarsely. His eyes rolled toward the door, which, nothaving been barred after his entrance, swung slightly ajar. 

"Whut dey atter somebuddy _for_?" Neptune demanded. Outside, in thewet night, the screech-owl cried. The sweet wind danced on airy feetin and out of the cypresses and the gums, kissed them, stole theirbreath, and tossed it abroad odorously. Stars had come out to keepthe pale moon company, and a faint light glinted on wet grass andbushes. Crickets and katydids and little green tree-frogs kept up aharsh concert. And then, above all the minor, murmuring noises ofthe night arose another sound, very faint and far off, butunmistakable and unforgetable--the deep, long, bell note of a houndupon the trail. 

The three in the cabin stood like figures turned to stone in theattitude of listening. Jake's teeth chattered audibly. He edgedtoward the open door, but Neptune stepped in front of him, andflung up an arresting hand. 

"_Whut for_?" His voice was like a whip-lash. 

"Somebuddy--done meddled wid a w'ite gal--een de cawn-field. En dey'low--hit wuz me. "

A gasp, as if his heart had been squeezed, came from Neptune. Of asudden he seemed to grow in height, to tower unhumanly tall abovethe cringing wretch he confronted. His eyes narrowed into red pointsthat bored into the other's eyes, and plunged like daggers into hisheart and mind. Before that glance, like a vivisectionist's knife, Jake wilted; he seemed to shrink, dwindle, collapse. And with agrowing, cold, awful horror, a suspicion so hideous that his mindrevolted from it, Peter Champneys stood staring from one black faceto the other. 

"You--you--" Neptune gulped, strangling. A long, slow shudder, as ofone confronting unheard-of torture, went over his big frame. Thefringe of hair on his bald head rose, his beard bristled. Sparksseemed to shoot from his eyes, burning with a terrible flame. 

"Da' Nepshun--" Jake put out clawing, twitching hands. "Dey 's--dey's--gwine to git me. " His voice broke into a half-scream. 

"Whut you do hit for?" This from Neptune, in a heart-shaken, anguished, rattling whisper. He asked no further questions. He hadno doubt. Jake's rolling eyes had told him the unspeakable truth. 

"I 'clah to Gawd, Da' Nepshun, I wuz n't meanin' no hahm--I neverhad no idea--She came down de cawn-field paff--wid de cow followin''er--en--en--I don't know _whut_ mek me meddle wid dat gal. Seemslak hit wuz de debbil, 'stead o' me. "

"Is de gal done daid?"

"Yas, suh, she done daid. " Jake rocked himself to and fro, mutteringher name. 

Peter Champneys looked at the torn shirt-sleeve with the red stainupon it. The room shook and wavered, wind was in his ears. And thered of that girl's blood got into his eyes, and he saw thingsthrough a scarlet mist. The most horrible rage he had everexperienced shook him like a mortal sickness. Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God! That girl!

In the momentary silence that fell upon that tragic room, a soundshivered. Long, slow, bell-like. Nearer. It galvanized Jake intoterror-stricken action. He started for the door. 

"Dey 'll git me, dey 'll git me!" he croaked. 

Peter would have flung himself upon the wretch, to reach for histhroat with bare hands; but something in Neptune's face stopped him. Neptune's bigness seemed to fill the whole room. He drew a deepbreath, and with one movement jerked the door wide. 

"Run down de paff by de fowl-house, " he said sharply. "Den--hit 'sde swamp for you. "

Peter turned sick. Was Neptune like all other--niggers? Hadn't hethe--proper sense of what this devil had done?

Jake leaped for the door, cleared the steps at a bound, and wasflying down the path. Neptune took one forward step, filling thedoorway. He lifted the shot-gun to his shoulder. Just as thefugitive neared the fowl-house, the gun spoke. The flying figureleaped high in the air, and then sprawled out and was suddenly stilland inert. The guinea-hens set up a deafening potracking, and thecooped fowls squawked and flapped. Above all the noise they maderose the bloodhound's note. 

It was done so quickly, it was so inevitable, that Peter could onlystand and blink. He thought, sickly, that the very earth shouldshudder away from the soiling touch of that appalling carrion. Butthe earth was the one thing that would receive Jake unprotestingly. He lay on his face, his arms outflung, and from the gaping holebetween his shoulders a dark stream welled. The indifferent earth, the uncaring grass, received it. The wind came out of the swampon mincing feet and danced over him, and fluttered his tornshirt-sleeve. 

Stonily, voicelessly, Neptune stood in the cabin door, staring atthat which lay in the pathway. Then he lowered the smoking gun, andleaned on it. His bald head drooped until his gray beard swept hisbreast, and his throat rattled like a dying man's. Shudders wentover him. And stonily young Peter Champneys stood beside him, hisboyish eyes hard in a dead-white face, his boyish mouth a grim, paleline. 

"Peter, " said the old man presently, in a thin whisper, "I helpedraise dat boy. Wuz n't sich a bad boy, neither. Used to sing enwissle roun' de house, en fetch water en fiah-wood. Chloe, she loved'im. Used to say Ouah Fathuh right in dis same room 'fo' he went tosleep. Ef I 'd 'a' knowed--

"En dat po' lil w'ite chile's daddy en mammy, _dey_ done raise'er--used to say 'er prayers--en laff en sing--en trus' de AlmightyGawd--"

He raised his sinewy arms and shook the gun aloft. 

"Ah, Gawd Almighty! Gawd Almighty! Whah is You dis night? Whah isYou?" cried the old man. And of a sudden he began to weepdreadfully; heart-broken cries of pain and of protest, the torturedcries of one suffering inhumanly. 

"And all this while God said not a word. "

Shaken to the soul, full of sick horror, and loathing, and rage, Peter Champneys yet had a swift, intuitive understanding of oldNeptune; and as if through him he had caught a glimpse of the nakedand suffering soul of the black people, the boy began to weep withhim. With understanding merging into pity he crept nearer and puthis slender, boyish arm around the big, shaking, agonized figure, and the old man turned his head and looked long and sorrowfully intothe white child's face. He put out the big, seamed, work-hardenedhand that had labored since it could hold an implement to laborwith, and laid it on the child's shoulder. 

Then, bareheaded and empty-handed, Neptune sat down on his cabinsteps to wait for what should happen, and Peter Champneys sat besidehim, the gun between his knees. Over there by the fowl-house layJake, a horrid blotch in the moonlight. 

Presently, echoing through the River Swamp, the hunting hounds setup their thrilling, deep-mouthed belling. They were closing in ontheir quarry and the nearness of it excited them. A few minuteslater, and here they were, a posse of some thirty or forty mountedmen struggling pell-mell after them. One great hound leaped forward, stood rigid by that which lay in a heap in the cabin clearing, pointed his nose, and gave tongue. Other dogs bunched around him, sniffed, and joined in. 

The mounted men came to an abrupt standstill, the horses, like thedogs, bunching together. Neptune had risen and Peter Champneys stoodon the top step, his head about level with the old man's shoulder. He looked in vain for the sheriff; evidently, this was anindependent posse. One of the men rode up to the door, shouting tomake himself heard above the din of the dogs, and Peter recognizedhim, with a sinking of the heart--a tenant farmer named Mosely, of aviolent and quarrelsome disposition. 

"Shet up them damn dogs!" he yelled. And to Neptune, savagely: "Nowthen, nigger, talk! What's been doin' here?"

It was Peter Champneys who answered. 

"Daddy Neptune's been worried by something or somebody stealing hisfowls. He's been on the watch. So when he saw that--that nigger overthere running by the chicken-house, he just blazed away. Got himbetween the shoulder-blades. "

A yell so ferocious that Peter's marrow froze, burst from the posse, which had dismounted. 

"It's him!" howled a farm-hand, and kicked the corpse in the face. "What in hell did that big nigger shoot him for, anyhow?" he roared. "He'd ought to be strung up himself, the old black--" And he cursedNeptune vilely. He felt swindled. There would be no burning, withinterludes of unspeakable things. Nothing but senseless carrion towreak vengeance upon. And all through a damned old meddling nigger'sfault! A nigger taking the law into his own hands!

Somebody, discovering Daddy Neptune's woodpile, had kindled afatwood torch. Others followed his example, and the red, smoky lightflared over enraged faces and glaring eyes of maddened men; over thesweating horses, the baying dogs, and the black corpse with itsbruised face. The guinea-hens, after their insane fashion, kept up adeafening potracking, flapping from limb to limb of the tree inwhich they roosted. The indifferent swamp chorus joined in, katydidsand crickets shrilling all the while. And over it all the moon wentabout its business; the awful depths of the sky were silent. Thewind from the swamp, the night, the earth, didn't care. 

Somebody whipped out a knife and bent over Jake's body. A yellgreeted this. Dogs and men moved confusedly around the thing on theground, in a sort of demoniac circle upon which the hissing, flaringpitch-pine torches danced with infernal effect. Peter Champneyswatched it, his soul revolting. He had no sympathy for Jake; he feltfor him nothing but hatred. He couldn't think of that gay andinnocent girl coming down the corn-field path, unafraid--to meetwhat she had met--without a suffocating sense of rage. She had been, Peter remembered, a very pretty girl, a girl who, as Neptune hadsaid, used to sing, and laugh, and say her prayers, and trustAlmighty God. 

But Peter was seeing now the other side of that awful cloud whichdarkens the horizon of the South--the brute beast mob-vengeance thatfollows swiftly upon the heels of the unpardonable sin. There mustbe justice. But what was happening now wasn't justice. It was starkbarbarism let loose. 

Neptune, who had "helped raise" Jake, had meted out to him justicefull and sure. He had avenged both the wronged white and the wrongedblack people. Peter looked at the men in the cabin clearing, and sawthe thing nakedly, and from both angles. For instance, considerMosely, who had done things--with a clasp-knife. And that other man, the farm-hand, shifty-eyed and mean, always half drunk, a badcitizen: _they_ would be sure to be foremost in affairs like this. They had precious little respect for the law as law. And here theywere, making the holy night indecent with bestial behavior. Again asick qualm shook Peter: Mosely was calmly putting four severed blackfingers into his coat pocket. Oh, where was the sheriff? Why didn'tthe sheriff come?

Peter caught a glimpse of a shapeless, battered, gory mass undertrampling feet. Maddened by the little they were able to accomplish, and with the torture-lust that is as old as humanity itself rousedto fury by frustration, the posse turned from that which had beenJake, to old Neptune, standing motionless by his doorway. Neptunehad not moved or spoken since Peter had answered the posse'squestions. He had not even appeared to hear the vile abuse heapedupon him. He was not in the least afraid for his life: He was beyondthat. That which had happened, which was happening, had dealt thestern, simple-hearted old man so mighty a blow that his facultieswere stunned. He couldn't think. He could only suffer a bewildered, baffled torment. He stood there, dumb as a sheep before theslaughterers, and the sight of his black face maddened the men whowere out to avenge a black man's monstrous crime. 

"Hang the damn nigger!" screamed Mosely, and the crowd surgedforward ominously. You could see, by the shaking torch-light, facesin which the eyes glared wolf-like, brandished fists, glints ofguns. Neptune, without a flicker of fear, regarded them with hissorrowful gaze. But Peter Champneys stepped in front of him, andthrust the cold muzzle of the shot-gun against Mosely's face. Theman, a coward at heart, leaped back, trampling upon the toes ofthose behind him, who cursed him shrilly and vindictively. 

Then spoke up small Peter Champneys, standing barefooted andbareheaded, clothed in a coarse blue blouse and a pair of patchedand faded denim trousers, but for all that heir to a long line ofdead-and-gone Champneyses who had been, whatever their faults, fearless and gallant gentlemen. 

"Get back there, you, Mosely!" Peter Champneys spoke in the voicehis grandfather had on a time used to a recalcitrant field-hand. 

"Chuck that little nigger-lover in the swamp!"

"Knock him down an' git the nigger, Mosely!"

"Burn down the house!"

But the shot-gun in that steady young hand held them in check for abreathing-space. They knew Peter Champneys. 

"Mosely!" snapped Peter. "You, too, Nicolson! Stand back, youwhite-livered hounds! First one of you lays a hand on me or DaddyNep gets his head blown off! Damn you, Mosely! don't make me tellyou again to get back!"

And Mosely saw that in the boy's eyes that drove him back, swearing. 

The huge farm-hand, who had shifted and squirmed his way to the backof the crowd, now lifted his arm. A rope with a noose at the endsnaked over the tossing heads, and all but settled over blackNeptune's. It slipped, writhing from the old man's shoulder and downhis shirt. The mob set up a disappointed and yet hopeful howl. 

"Try it again! Try it again!" they shrieked. Then a sort of waitinghush fell upon them. The farm-hand, to whom the rope had beentossed, was again making ready for a throw, measuring the distancewith his eyes. Peter, his lips tightening, waited too. The farm-handwas a tall man, and the posse had shifted to allow him space. Hisarm shot up, the noosed rope whizzed forward. But even as it did soPeter Champneys's trigger-finger moved. The report sounded like aclap of thunder, and was followed by a roar of rage and pain. Therope-thrower, with the rope tripping his feet and impeding hismovements, danced about wildly, shaking the hand from which threefingers had been cleanly clipped. At that instant another posse rodeup, with a baying of hounds to herald it. One saw the sheriff on alarge bay horse, a Winchester in the crook of his arm. With a merestglance at what had been Jake, he pushed his way through the throng, and was confronted by Peter Champneys standing in front of oldNeptune Fennick, with a smoking shot-gun in his hands. 

"You better do something, quick! If you let anything happen to DaddyNep, you've got to kill me first, " panted Peter. 

"He'd ought to be shot for a nigger-lover, Sheriff!" shouted thefarm-hand. 

"All right. Do it. But you'll get your neck stretched for it! Myname's _Champneys_, " shouted Peter. 

The sheriff moved restlessly on his bay. A Champneys had fed hisparents. Chadwick Champneys had given him his first pair of shoes. The sheriff was stirred to the depths by the crime that had beencommitted, and he had no love for a nigger, but--

He turned to the menacing crowd. "Here, boys, enough o' this! Theright nigger's dead, and that's all there is to it. No, you don't dono hangin'! I'm sheriff o' this county, an' I aim to keep the law. Let that old nigger alone, Mosely! If that young hell-cat puts abullet in your chitlin's, it'll be your own funeral. "

He straightened in the saddle, touched the rein, and in a second thebig bay had been swung around to stand between Neptune and the whitemen. The muzzle of Peter's gun touched the sheriff's leg. 

"Put that pop-gun up, Son, " said he, turning his head to look downinto the boy's face. Their eyes met, in a long look. 

"I knew that girl since she was bawn, " he said, and his hard facequivered. "Hell!" swore the sheriff, and the hand on his bridleshook. He knew old Neptune, too, and in his way liked him. But itwas hard for the sheriff, who had seen the dead little girl, to lookinto any black face that night and retain any feeling of humanity. 

"Yes, sir. I knew her, too, " said Peter Champneys, gulping. "But--Iknow Neptune, too. And--what happened--wasn't his fault. It's gotnothing to do with Neptune--and--and things that Mosely--" His voicebroke. 

"Hell!" swore the sheriff again. And he whispered, more gently, "Allright, Peter. An' I reckon you better stay by the old nigger for aday or two until this thing dies down. " After all, the sheriffthought relievedly, Neptune's swift action, actuated by whatsoevermotive, had saved the county and himself from a rather frightfulepisode. Turning to the crowd, he yelled:

"Get them dogs started for home! They're goin' plum crazy! Get onyour hawse, Mosely! You, over there, with your fist shot up, ridenext to me. Mount, all o' you! Mount, I say! No, I'll come last. 

"What's that you're sayin', Briggs? No, suh, not by a damn-sight youwon't! Not while I'm sheriff o' this county an' upholdin' law an'order in it, you won't drag no dead nigger behind _my_ hawse--noryet in front of him, neither! Let the nigger lay where he is androt--what's left of him. "

"Do you want us to bury--it?" quavered Peter. 

"Bury it or burn it. What the hell do I care what you do with it?"growled the sheriff. "He's dead, that's all I got to think about. "He ran his shrewd eyes over the posse, saw that not one stragglerremained to do further mischief, and drove them before him, willy-nilly. In five minutes the trampled yard was clear, and thesound of the horses' hoofs was already dying in the distance. In thesky all other stars had paled to make room for the morning star. 

Peter and Neptune, left alone, looked at each other dumbly. A thingremained to be done. The sun mustn't rise upon the horror that layin the cabin yard. Neptune went to his small barn and trundled out awheelbarrow, in which were several gunny-sacks, a piece of rope, anda spade. 

Peter turned his head away while the old man covered the thing onthe ground with sacking, rolled it over, floppily, and tied it asbest he could. The sweat came out on them both as they saw thestains that spread on the clean sacking. Neptune heaped the bundleinto his wheelbarrow. At a word from him Peter went into the houseand returned with a lighted lantern, for the River Swamp was stillvery dark. The sun wouldn't be up for an hour or two yet. Peter heldthe lantern in one hand, and carried spade and shot-gun over theother shoulder. In the ghostly light they entered the swamp, everyturn and twist of whose wide, watery acreage was known to Neptune, and was fairly familiar to Peter. They had to proceed warily, forthe ground was treacherous, and at any moment a jutting tree-rootmight upset the clumsy barrow. Despite Neptune's utmost care itbumped and swayed, and the shapeless bundle in it shook hideously, as if it were trying to escape. And the stains on the coarse shroudgrew, and spread. 

In a small and fairly dry space among particularly large cypresses, Neptune stopped. At one side was a deep pool in whose depths thelantern was reflected. About it ferns, some of a great height, grewthickly. Neptune began to dig in the black earth. Sometimes hestruck a cypress root, against which the spade rang with a hollowsound. It was slow enough work, but the hole in the swamp earth grewwith every spade-thrust, like a blind mouth opening wider and wider. Peter held the lantern. The trees stood there like witnesses. 

Presently Neptune straightened his shoulders, moved back to thebarrow, and edged it to the hole. Swiftly and deftly he tipped it, and the shapeless bundle slid into the open mouth awaiting it. Itwas curiously still just then in the River Swamp. 

When they emerged into the open, the sun was rising over a clean, fresh world. The dark tops of the trees were gilded by the firstrays. Every bush was hung with diamonds, the young grass rippledlike a child's hair, and birds were everywhere, voicing the glory ofthe morning. 

The old negro dropped his wheelbarrow, and lifted a supplicatingface and a pair of gnarled hands to the morning sky. His lips moved. One saw that he prayed, trustingly, with a childlike simplicity. 

Peter Champneys watched him speculatively. He tried to reason thething out, and the heart in his boyish breast ached with a new pain. Thoughts big, new, insistent, knocked at the door of his intellectand refused to be denied admittance. 

He thought it better to take the sheriff's advice and stay withNeptune for a few days, but nobody troubled the good old man. Theverdict of the whole county was in his favor. He went his harmless, fearless, laborious way unmolested. That autumn he died, and thecabin by the River Swamp was taken over by nature, who gave it toher winds and rains to play with. Her leaves drifted upon its floor, her birds built under its shallow eaves. 

Nobody would live there any more. The negroes said the place washaunted: on wild nights one might hear there the sound of a shot, the baying of a hound; and see Jake running for the swamp. 

CHAPTER V

THE PURPLE HEIGHTS

Emma Campbell had one of her contrary fits, and when Emma wascontrary, the best thing to do was to keep out of her way. Her"palate was down, " her temper was up; she'd had trouble with theYoung Sons and Daughters of Zion, in her church, and hot words witha deacon who said that when he passed the cup Emma Campbell lappedup nearly all the communion wine, which was something no lady oughtto do. And Cassius had taken unto himself a fourth spouse, and, without taking Emma into his confidence, had gotten her to wash andiron his wedding-shirt for him. So Emma's "palate was down, " and noteven three toothpicks and two spoons in her hair had been able toget it up. Peter, therefore, took a holiday. He filled his pocketswith bread, and set out with no particular destination in mind. 

At a turn in the Riverton Road he met the Red Admiral. 

He stopped, reflectively. He hadn't seen the Admiral in some time, and it pleased him to be led by that gay adventurer now. The Admiralflitted down the Riverton Road, and Peter ran gaily after him. Heled the boy a fine chase across fields, and out on the road again, and then down a lane, and along the river, and through the pines, and finally to the River Swamp woods. Peter came fleet-footed toNeptune's old cabin, raced round it, and then stopped, in utterconfusion and astonishment. On the back steps, with an umbrellabeside her, and an easel in front of her, sat a young woman so busygetting a bit of the swamp upon her canvas that she didn't hear orsee Peter until he was upon her. Then she looked up, with herpaint-brush in her hand. 

"Hello!" said she, in the friendliest fashion, "where did _you_ comefrom?"

She was a big girl, blue as to eyes, brown as to hair, and with afresh-colored, good-humored face. Her glance was singularly clearand direct, and her smile so comradely that Peter took aninstantaneous liking to her. He wondered what on earth she meant bycoming here, to this lonely place, all by herself. But she wasmaking a picture, and his interest was more in that than in thepainter. 

"May I look at it, please?" he asked politely. He smiled at her, andPeter had a mighty taking smile of his own. 

"Of course you may!" said the lady, genially. Hands behind his back, Peter stared at the canvas. Then he stepped back yet farther, liftedone hand, and squinted through the fingers. The young lady regardedhim with growing interest. 

"Well, what do you think of it?" she asked. 

The young woman wasn't a quick worker, but she was a careful one, and very exact. Unfinished though it was, the picture showed that;and it showed, too, a lack of something vital; there was nospontaneity in it. 

"I've never seen anybody paint before, though I've always wantedto, " said Peter, and fetched an unconscious sigh of envy. 

"You haven't said whether or not you like it, " the girl remindedhim. 

"It isn't finished, " said Peter. His eyes went to the familiarwoods, the beloved woods, and came back to her canvas. "I think whenit's finished it will be like a photograph, " he added. 

Claribel Spring--for that was the big girl's name--knew her ownlimitations; but to meet a criticism so exact and so just, from abarefooted child in the South Carolina wilds wasn't to be expected. She took a longer look at the boy and thought she had never beforeseen a pair of eyes so absolutely, clearly golden. Those eyes wouldcreate a distinct impression upon people: either you'd like them, oryou'd find them so strange you'd think them ugly. She herselfthought them beautiful. 

"You seem to know something about pictures, even unfinished ones, "she told him comradely. "And may I ask who you are, and why and howyou come flying out of the nowhere into the here of these forsakenwoods?"

"Oh, I'm only Peter Champneys, " said the boy with the golden eyes, shyly. "I hope I didn't startle you? It's my butterfly's fault. Yousee, I never know where I've got to follow him, or what I'm goingto find when I get there. "

"Your butterfly? You mean that Red Admiral that just whizzed by? Heskimmed over my easel, " said the young lady. 

"Is that his real name?" Peter was enchanted. "A black fellow withred on his coat-tails, and a sash like a general's? Then that's mybutterfly!" said Peter, happily. He smiled at the girl again, andfinished, naïvely: "I owe that butterfly a whole heap of good luck!"

She told him she was spending some time with the Northern people whohad lately bought Lynwood Plantation, a few miles down the river. She liked to prowl around and paint things. 

"And now, " she asked, "would you mind telling me something moreabout that butterfly of yours? And where some more of the good luckcomes in?" She was growing more and more interested in Peter. 

Peter dropped down beside the easel, his hands clasped looselybetween his knobby knees. It seemed the most natural thing in theworld that he should find himself talking freely to this Yankeegirl; it was the most natural thing in the world that she shouldunderstand. So Peter, who, as a rule, would have preferred to bebeaten with rods rather than divulge his feelings, told her exactlywhat she wished to know. This must be blamed upon the Red Admiral!

She caught a sharp outline of the child's life, poor in materialcircumstances, but crowded to the brim with thought and feeling andemotion, and colorful as the coast country was colorful. He had kepthimself, she thought, as sweet and limpid as a mountain spring. Hewas wistful, eager, and mad to know things. His eyes went back againand again, with a sort of desperate hunger in them, to the canvas onher easel, as if the secret of him lay there. The girl sat with herfirm white chin in her firm white hands, and looked down at Peterwith her bright blue Yankee eyes, and understood him as none of hisown people had ever understood him. She even understood what hisinnate reticence and decency held back. Who shall say that theAdmiral wasn't a fairy?

"I'd like to see that first little sketch, " she said, when he hadfinished. Her eyes were very sweet. 

For a second he hesitated. Then he rose, went into the desertedcabin, and took from the cupboard a dusty bundle of papers--piecesof white cardboard, sheets of letter-paper, any sort of paper he hadbeen able to lay his hands on. Riverton and the surrounding country, as Peter Champneys saw it, unrolled before her astonished eyes. Itwas roughly done, and there were glaring faults; but there wassomething in the crude work that wasn't in the canvas on her easel, and she recognized it. She singled out several sketches of an oldnegro with a bald head and a white beard, and a stern, fine faceinnate with dignity. She said quietly:

"You are quite right, Peter: the Red Admiral is undoubtedly afairy. " And after a moment, studying the old man's face: "He'srather a remarkable old man, isn't he?"

Peter looked around him. On that terrible night Daddy Neptune hadstood just where the easel was standing now; over there by thetumble-down chicken house, Jake had fallen; and the space that wasnow green with grass had been full of vengeful men, and howlingdogs, and trampling horses. Peter took the sketch from her, lookedat it for a long moment, and, as briefly as he could, and keepinghimself very much in the background, he told her. 

Claribel Spring looked around her, almost disbelieving that such athing could happen in such a place. She looked at the quiet-facedboy, at the sketches, and shook her head. 

When she was ready to go, Peter helped pack her traps, picked up herpaint-box, and slung her folding-easel and camp-stool across hisshoulder. Lynwood was some three miles from the River Swamp, andshall a gentleman allow a lady to lug her belongings that distance?

"Miss Spring, " said Peter, anxiously, as they reached the porch ofLynwood, "Miss Spring, do you expect to go about these woodsmuch--by yourself?"

"Why, yes! Nobody here has time to prowl with me, you see. And Ican't stay indoors. I've got to make the most of these woods while Ihave the opportunity. "

Peter looked troubled. His brows puckered. "I wonder if you'd mindif I just sort of stayed around so I could look after--I mean, so Icould watch you painting? May I? _Please_!"

Claribel sensed something tense under that request. She longed toget at Peter's thought processes. She was immensely interested inthis shabby little chap who made astonishing sketches and whosepersonality was so intriguing. 

"Why, of course you may, Peter. But would you mind telling me just_why_ you want to come with me--aside from the painting?"

Peter shifted from one bare foot to the other. 

"Because somebody's _got_ to go with you, " he blurted flatly. "Don'tthe people here know you mustn't go off like that, by yourself?There--well, Miss Spring, there are bad folks everywhere, I reckon. Our niggers"--Peter's head went up--"are the best niggers, in theworld. But--sometimes--And--and--" He looked at her, trying to makeher understand. 

Claribel Spring considered him. He might be about fourteen. His headjust reached her shoulder. And he was offering to take care of her, to be her protector! That's what his anxiety meant. "Oh, you darlinglittle gentleman!" she thought. 

"I see. And I'll be perfectly delighted if you can manage to comewith me, Peter, " said she, sincerely. "And listen: I've beenthinking about those sketches of yours, while we were walking home, and I've got the nicest little plan all worked out in my mind. Youshall take me around these woods, which you know and I don't. You'llbe my guide, philosopher, and friend. In return I'll teach you whatI can. You needn't bother about materials: I have loads of stuff forthe two of us. What do you say?"

It was so unexpected, so marvelous, that an electrified andtransformed Peter looked at her with a face gone white from excessof astonished rapture, and a pair of eyes like pools in paradisewhen the stars of heaven tremble in their depths. 

Claribel Spring was a better teacher than artist, as she discoveredfor herself. She had the divine faculty of imparting knowledge andat the same time arousing enthusiasm; and she had such a pupil nowas real teachers dream of. It wasn't so much like learning, withPeter; it was as if he were being reminded of something he alreadyknew. He had never had a lesson in his whole life, he didn't goabout things in the right manner, and there were grave faults to beovercome; but he had the thing itself. 

She taught him more than the rudiments of technique, more than themere processes of mixing colors, more than shading and form, andperspective, and flat surfaces, and high lights, and foreshortening. She was the first person from the outside world with whom Peter hadever come into real contact, the first person not a Southerner withwhom he had ever been intimately friendly. And oddly enough, Petertaught _her_ a few things. 

Riverton learned that Peter Champneys had been engaged as a sort offetch-and-carry boy by that big Vermont girl who was stopping atLynwood. They thought Miss Spring charming, when they occasionallymet her, but when it came to trapesing about the woods like a gipsy, quite as irresponsible as Peter Champneys himself--"Birds of afeather flock together, " you know. 

Claribel Spring was just at that time passing through a Gethsemaneof her own, and she needed Peter quite as badly as he needed her. Peter was really a godsend to the girl. Her quiet self-control keptany one from discovering that she was cruelly unhappy, but Peter didat times perceive the shadow upon her face, and he knew that thesilence that sometimes fell upon her was not always a happy one. Atsuch times he managed to convey to her delicately, without words, his sympathy. He piloted her to lovely places, he made her pause tolook at birds' nests, at corners of old fences, at Carolinawild-flowers. And when he had made her smile again, he was happy. ToPeter that was the swiftest, happiest, most enchanted summer he hadever known. 

It ended all too soon. He went up to Lynwood one morning to findClaribel packing for a hasty departure. It was a new Claribel thatmorning, a Claribel with a rosy face and shining eyes and smilinglips. She had gotten news, she told Peter joyously, that called heraway at once--beautiful news. The most wonderful news in the world!

She turned over to Peter all the material she had on hand, and gavehim painstaking directions as to how he was to proceed, what he wasto strive for, what to avoid. And she said that when he had becomea great man in the big world, one of these days, he wasn't to forgetthat she'd prophesied it, and had been allowed to play her littlepart in his career. Then she kissed Peter as nobody had ever kissedhim except his mother. And so she left him. 

He was turning fifteen then, and getting too big for the penny jobsRiverton had in pickle for him. Nothing better offering, he hiredout that autumn to a farmer who fed his stock better than he did hismen. Peter's mouth still twists wryly when he remembers that firstmonth of heavy farm work. The mule was big and Peter wasn't, theplow and the soil were heavy, and Peter was light. Trammell, thefarmer, held him to his task, insisting that "a boy who couldn'tlearn to plow straight couldn't learn to do nothin' else straight, and he'd better learn now while he had the chanst. " Peter would havecheerfully forfeited his chance to learn to plow straight; but thething was there to do, and he tried to do it. 

Sunday, his one free day, was the only thing that made life at allendurable to Peter. It was a day to be looked forward to all throughthe heavy week. Early in the morning, with such lunch as he couldcome by, his worn Bible in his coat pocket and a package of paperunder his arm, Peter disappeared, not to return until nightfall. Thefarmer's over-burdened wife was glad enough to see him go; thatmeant one less for whom to cook and to wash dishes. 

All the week, after his own fashion, Peter had been observingthings. On Sundays he tried to put them down on paper. He had thegreat, rare, sober gift of seeing things as they are, a gift givento the very few. A negro plowing in a flat brown field behind ahorse as patient as himself; an old woman in a red jacket and aplaid bandana, feeding a flock of turkeys; a young girl milking; aboy driving an unruly cow--all the homely, common, ordinary thingsof everyday life among the plain people, Peter, who had been setdown among the plain people, tried to crowd on his scanty supply ofdrawing-paper on Sunday in the woods. 

Peter had learned to draw animals playing, and birds flying, andbutterflies fluttering, and folks working. But he couldn't draw adecent living-wage for his daily labor. He was only a boy, and itseemed to be a part of the scheme of things that a boy should beasked to do a man's work for a dwarf's wages. And the food they gavehim at the Trammell farm-house was beginning to tell on him. Peterasked for more money and was refused with contumely. He asked for achange of diet, and was informed violently that this country isundoubtedly going to the dogs when folks like himself "thinktheirselfs too dinged uppidy for good victuals. Eat 'em or leave'em!"

Peter couldn't eat them any more, so he left them. He dischargedhimself out of hand, and went back to Riverton and Emma Campbellwith forty dollars and a bundle of sketches. 

The doctor in Riverton got most of the forty dollars. However, as heneeded a boy in his drug store just then, he gave the place toPeter, who took it willingly enough, as he was still feeling theeffects of bad food and heavy farm work. He learned to roll pillsand weigh out lime-drops and mix soft drinks, and to keep hispatience with women who wanted only a one-cent stamp, and expectedhim to lick it for them into the bargain. 

Grown into a gawky chap of sixteen, Peter didn't impress people toofavorably. They felt for him the instinctive distrust of theconservative and commercial mind for the free and artistic one. ThePeter Champneyses of the world challenge the ideal of commercialsuccess by their utter inability to see in it the real reason forbeing alive, and the chief end of man. They are inimical to smugnessand to complacent satisfaction. Naturally, safe and sane citizensresent this. 

There was one person in Riverton who didn't share the generalopinion that Peter Champneys was trifling, and that was Mrs. Humphreys. Mrs. Humphrey still tasted that ice-cream and cake Peterhad given to old Daddy Christmas on a hot afternoon. It was she whopresently persuaded her husband to take Peter into his hardwarestore, at a better salary than the doctor paid him. 

Everybody agreed that it was noble of Sam Humphreys to take Peteron. Of course, Peter was as honest as the sun, but he wasn'tbusinesslike. Not to be businesslike is the American sin against theHoly Ghost. It is far less culpable to begin with the first of thedeadly sins on Sunday morning and finish up the last of the seven onSaturday night, than to have your neighbors say you aren'tbusinesslike. Had Peter taken to tatting, instead of to sketchingniggers in ox-carts, and men plowing, and women washing clothes, Riverton couldn't have been more impatient with him. Artists, so faras the average American small town is concerned, are ineffectualpersons, godless creatures long on hair and short on morals, menwhom nobody respects until they are decently dead. It disgustedRiverton that Peter Champneys, who had had such a nice mother andcome from a good family, should follow such examples. 

But Peter meant to hold fast to his one power, though every hand inthe world were against it, though every tongue shouted "Fool, "though for it he should go hungry and naked and friendless to theend of his days. He wished to get away from Riverton, to study insome large city under good teachers. Claribel Spring had stressedthe necessity of good teachers. Grimly he set himself to work toobtain at least a start toward the coveted end. 

By incredible efforts he had managed to save one hundred and tendollars, when Emma Campbell fell ill with a misery in her legs. Although she had a conjure bag around her neck, a rabbit foot in herpocket, and a horseshoe nailed above the door, she was helpless fora while, and Peter had to hire another colored woman to care forher. 

Emma was just on her feet when Cassius took it into his head to die. There was a confusion of husbands and wives between Emma andCassius, but she mourned for him shrilly. What deepened herdistress was the fact that in repudiating him his last wife hadcarried off all his small possessions, and there was no money leftto bury him. Now, not to be buried with due and fitting ceremoniesand the displayed insignia of some churchly Buryin' Society, is acalamity and a disgrace. Emma felt that she could never hope to holdup her head again if Cassius had to be buried by town charity. 

Peter Champneys hadn't lived among and liked the colored people allthese years for nothing. He looked at big Emma Campbell sittingbeside the kitchen table with her head buried in her arms, a prey towoe. Then he went to the bank and drew what remained of his savings. Cassius was gathered to his father's with all the accustomedtrappings, and Emma's grief was turned to proud joy. But it wasanother proof of the unbusinesslike mind of Peter Champneys. Hissmall savings were gone; he had to begin all over again. 

Decidedly, the purple heights were a long, long way off!

CHAPTER VI

GOOD MORNING, GOOD LUCK!

On a particular Sunday Peter Champneys was making for his favoritehaunt, the grass-grown clearing and the solitary and deserted cabinby the River Swamp. It was to him a place not of desolation but ofsolitude, and usually he fled to it as to a welcome refuge. Butto-day his step lagged. The divine discontent of youth, therebellion aginst the brute force of circumstance, seethed in himheadily. Here he was, in the lusty April of his days, and yet lifewas bitter to his palate, and there was canker at the heart of therose of Spring. Nothing was right. 

The coast country, always beautiful, was at its best, the air sweetwith the warm breath of summer. The elder was white with flowers, and in moist places, where the ditches dipped, huge cat-tails swayedto the light wind. Roses rioted in every garden; when one passed thelittle houses of the negroes every yard was gay with pinkcrape-myrtle and white and lilac Rose of Sharon trees. All along theworm-fences the vetches and the butterfly-pea trailed their purple;everywhere the horse-nettle showed its lovely milk-white stars, andthe orange-red milkweed invited all the butterflies of SouthCarolina to come and dine at her table. There were swarms ofbutterflies, cohorts of butterflies, but among all the People of theSky he missed the Red Admiral. 

Peter particularly needed the gallant little sailor's heartening. Itwas a bad sign not to meet him this morning; it confirmed his ownopinion that he was an unlucky fellow, a chap doomed to remain anonentity, one fitted for nothing better than scooping out anickel's worth of nails, or wrapping up fifty-cent frying-pans!

He walked more and more wearily, as if it tired him to carry soheavy a heart. Life was unkind, nature cruel, fate a trickster. One was caught, as a rat in a trap, "in the fell clutch ofcircumstance. " What was the use of anything? Why any of us, anyhow?

And still not a glimmer of the Admiral! At this season of the year, when he should have been in evidence, it was ominously significantthat he should be missing. Peter trudged another half-mile, andstopped to rest. 

"Let's put this thing to the test, " he said to himself, seriously. "That little chap has always been my Sign. Well, now, if I meet one, something good is going to happen. If I meet two, I'll get my littlechance to climb out of this hole. If I meet three, it's me for theopen and the big chance to make good. And if I don't meet any atall--why, I'll be nobody but Riverton Peter Champneys. "

He didn't give himself the chance that on a time Jean Jacques gavehimself when he threw a stone at a tree, and decided that if itstruck the tree he'd get to heaven, and if it missed he'd go tohell--but so placed himself that there was nothing for that stone todo but hit the tree in front of it. Peter would run his risks. 

And still no Admiral! It was silly; it was superstitious; it waschildish; Peter was as well aware of that as anybody could be. Buthis heart went down like a plummet. 

He had turned into the grassy road that led to the River Swamp. Thepathway was bordered with sumac and sassafras and flowering elder, and clumps of fennel, and thickets of blackberry bramble. In clearspaces the tall candle of the mullein stood up straight, a flame ofyellow flowers flickering over it. Near by was the thistle, shakingits purple paint-brush. 

Peter stopped dead in his tracks and stared as if he weren't willingto believe his own eyesight. He went red and white, and his heavyheart turned a cart-wheel, and danced a jig, and began to sing as ayoung heart should. On the farthest thistle, as if waiting for himto come, as if they knew he must come, with their sails hoisted overtheir backs, were three Red Admirals!

Peter dropped in the grass, doubled his long legs under him, andwatched them, his mouth turned right side up, his eyes golden in hisdark face. Two of them presently flew away. The third walked overthe thistle, tentatively, flattened his wings to show his sash andshoulder-straps. 

"Good morning, good luck! You're still my Sign!" said Peter. 

The Red Admiral fluttered his wings again, as if he quiteunderstood. He allowed Peter to admire his under wings, thefore-wings so exquisitely jeweled and enameled, the lower like aminiature design for an oriental prayer-rug. He sent Peter a messagewith his delicate, sensitive antenna, a wireless message of hope. Then, with his quick, darting motion, he launched himself into hisnative element and was gone. 

The day took on new loveliness, a happy, intimate, all-pervadingbeauty that flowed into one like light. Never had the trees been socomradely, the grass so friendly, the swamp water so clear, so cool. 

For a happy forenoon he worked in Neptune's empty cabin, whose openwindows framed blue sky and green woods, and wide, sunny spaces. Heate the lunch Emma Campbell had fixed for him. Then he went over tothe edge of the River Swamp and lay under a great oak, and slippinghis Bible from his pocket, read the Thirty-seventh Psalm that hismother had so loved. The large, brave, grave words splashed over himlike cool water, and the little, hateful things, that had been likefestering splinters in his flesh, vanished. There were floweringbay-trees somewhere near by, diffusing their unforgetable fragrance;the flowering bay is the breath of summer in South Carolina. Hesniffed the familiar odor, and listened to a redbird's whistle, andto a mocking-bird echoing it; and to the fiddling of grasshoppers, the whispers of trees, the quiet, soft movement of the swamp water. The long thoughts that came to him in the open crossed his mind asclouds cross the sky, idly, moving slowly, breaking up and driftingwith the wind. A bee buzzed about a spike of blue lobelia; antsmoved up and down the trunk of the oak-tree; birds and butterfliescame and went. With his hands under his head, Peter lay somotionless that a great brown water-snake glided upon a branch notten feet distant, overhanging a brown pool whose depths a spear ofsunlight pierced. The young man had a curious sense of personaldetachment, such as comes upon one in isolated places. He felthimself a part of the one life of the universe, one with thewhistling redbird, the toiling ants, the fluttering butterflies, thechirping grasshoppers, the great brown snake, the trees, the water. The earth breathed audibly against his ear. He sensed the awefulnessand beauty of this oneness of all things, and the immortality ofthat oneness; and in comparison the littleness of his own personalexistence. With piercing clarity he saw how brief a time he had towork and to experience the beauty and wonder of his universe. Then, healingly, dreamlessly, wholesomely, he fell asleep, to wake atsunset with a five-mile tramp ahead of him. 

Long before he reached Riverton the dark had fallen. It was anevening of many stars. The wind carried with it the salty taste ofthe sea, and the smell of the warm country. 

A light burned in his own dining-room, which was sitting-room aswell, and a much pleasanter room than his mother had known, forbooks had accumulated in it, lending it that note books alone cangive. He had added a reading-lamp and a comfortable arm-chair. EmmaCampbell's flowers, planted in anything from a tomato-can to an oldpot, filled the windows with gay blossoms. 

Peter found his supper on a covered tray on the kitchen table. Emmaherself had gone off to church. The Seventh Commandment had nomeaning for Emma, she was hazy as to mine and thine, but she clungto church membership. She was a pious woman, given to strenuousspells of "wrastlin' wid de Speret. "

Peter fetched his tray into the dining-room, and had just touched amatch to the spirit kettle, when a motor-car honked outside hisgate. 

Peter's house was at some distance from the nearest neighbour's, andfancying this must be a complete stranger to have gotten so far offthe beaten track as to come down this short street which was nothingbut a road ending at the cove, he went to his door prepared to givesuch directions as might be required. 

Somebody grunted, and climbed out of the car. In the glare of thelamps Peter made out a man as tall as himself, in a linen dusterthat came to his heels, and with an automobile cap and gogglesconcealing most of his face. The stranger jerked the gate open, anda moment later Peter was confronting the goggled eyes. 

"Are you, " said a pleasant voice, "by good fortune, PeterChampneys?"

"Well, " said Peter, truthfully, "I can't say anything about thegood fortune of it, but I'm Peter Champneys. "

The stranger paused for a moment. He said in a changed tone: "I havecome three thousand miles to have a look at and a talk with you. "

"Come in, " said Peter, profoundly astonished, "and do it. " And hestepped aside. 

His guest shook himself out of dust-coat and goggles and stoodrevealed an old man in a linen suit--a tall, thin, brown, verydistinguished-looking old man, with a narrow face, a drooping whitemustache, bushy eyebrows, a big nose, and a pair of fine, melancholybrown eyes. He stared at Peter devouringly, and Peter stared back athim quite as interestedly. 

"Peter Champneys: Peter Devereaux Champneys, I have come across thecontinent to see you. Well! Here you are--and here I am. Have youthe remotest idea _who_ I am? what my name is?" Peter shook his headapologetically. He hadn't the remotest idea. Yet there was somethingvaguely familiar in the tanned old face, some haunting likeness tosomebody, that puzzled him. 

"My name, " said the old gentleman, "is Champneys--ChadwickChampneys. Your father used to call me Chad, when we were boystogether. I'm his brother--and your uncle, Nephew--and glad to makeyour acquaintance. I'll take it for granted you're as pleased tomake mine. Now that I see you clearly, let me add that if I met yourskin on a bush in the middle of the Sahara desert, I'd know it for aChampneys hide. Particularly the beak. You look like _me_. " Peterstared. It was quite true: he did resemble Chadwick Champneys. Thetwo shook hands. 

"But, Uncle Chad--Why, we thought--Well, sir, you see, we heard youwere dead. "

"Yes. I heard so myself, " said Uncle Chad, serenely. "In themeantime, may I ask you for a bite? I'm somewhat hungry. "

Peter set another plate for his guest, and brewed tea, and the twodrew up to the table. Emma Campbell had provided an excellent meal, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys plied an excellent knife and fork, remarking that when all was said and done one South Carolina niggerwas worth six French chefs, and that he hadn't eaten anything soaltogether satisfactory for ages. 

The more the young man studied the elder man's face, the better heliked it. Figure to yourself a Don Quixote not born in Spain but inSouth Carolina, not clothed in absurd armor but in a linen suit, andwho rode, not on Rosinante but in a motor-car, and you ll have afair enough idea of the old gentleman who popped into Peter's housethat Sunday night. 

Peter asked no questions. He sat back, and waited for suchinformation as his guest chose to convey. He felt bewildered, and atthe same time happy. He who was so alone of a sudden found that hepossessed this relative, and it seemed to him almost too good to betrue. That the relative had never before noticed his existence, thathe was supposed to be a trifler and a ne'er-do-weel, didn't cloudPeter's joy. 

His relative put his feet on a chair, lighted and smoked a cutty, and presently unbosomed himself, jerkily, and with some reluctance. His wife Milly--and whenever he mentioned her name the melancholy inhis brown eyes deepened--had been dead some twelve years now. Theyhad had no children. He had wandered from south to west, from Mexicoand California and Yucatan to Alaska, always going to strike itlucky and always missing it. To the day of her death Milly had stoodby, loyally, lovingly, unselfishly, his one prop and solace, hisperfect friend and comrade. There was never, he said, anybody likeher. And Milly died. Died poor, in a shack in a mining-town. 

He had done something of everything, from selling patent medicinesto taking up oil and mining-claims. He couldn't stay put. He reallydidn't care what happened to him, and so of course nothing happenedto him. That's the way things are. 

Three years after Milly's death he had fallen in with Feilding, theEnglishman. Feilding was almost on his last legs when the two met, and Champneys nursed him back to life. The silent, rather surlyEnglishman refused to be separated from the man who, he said, hadsaved his life, and the two struck up a partnership of mutualmisfortune. They tramped and starved and worked together, untilFeilding died, leaving to his partner his sole possessions--amining-claim and a patent-medicine recipe. He had felt about downand out, the night Feilding died, for the Englishman was the onereal friend he had made, the one person who loved him and whom heloved, after Milly. 

But instead of his being down and out, the tide had even then turnedfor Chadwick Champneys. His friendless wanderings were about done. The mining-claim was worth a very great deal; and the patentmedicine did at least some of the things claimed for it. He took itto a certain firm, offering them two thirds of the first and half ofthe second year's profits for handling the thing for him. Theyclosed with the offer, and from the very first the medicine was amoney-maker. It would always be a best-seller. 

And then the irony of fate stepped in and took a hand in ChadwickChampneys's affairs. The man who had hitherto been a failure, theman whose touch had seemed able to wither the most promisingbusiness sprouts, found himself suddenly possessed of the Midastouch. He couldn't go into anything that didn't double in value. Hewasn't able to fail. Let him buy a barren bit of land in Texas, say, and oil would presently be discovered in it; or a God-forsaken tractin the West Virginia mountains, and coal would crop out; or a huddleof mean houses in some unfashionable city district, and immediatelycommerce and improvement strode in that direction, and what he hadbought by the block he sold by the foot. 

Because he was alone, and growing old, Champneys's heart turned tohis own people. He learned that his brother's orphaned son was stillin the South Carolina town. And there was a girl, Milly's niece. These two were the only human beings with whom the rich and lonelyman could claim any family ties. 

Peter was so breathless with interest and sympathy, so moved by thewanderings of this old Ulysses, and so altogether swept off his feetby the irruption of an uncle into his uncleless existence, that hehadn't time for a thought as to the possible bearing it might haveupon his own fortunes. When, therefore, his uncle wound up with, "I'll tell you, Nephew, it's a mighty comforting thing for a man tohave some one of his own blood and name close to his hand to carryon his work and fulfil his plans, " Peter came to his senses with ashock as of ice-water poured down his backbone. He knew it wasn't in_him_ to carry out any business schemes his uncle might have inmind. 

"Uncle Chad, " said he, honestly. "Don't be mistaken about me, anddon't set your heart on trying to train me into any young Napoleonof Finance. It's not in me. " And he added, gently, "I'm sorry I'm adub. I'd like to please you, and I hate to disappoint you; but youmight as well know the truth at once. "

Uncle Chad looked him up and down with shrewd eyes. 

"So?" said he, and fell to pulling his long mustache. "What's thewhole truth, Nephew? If you don't feel equal to learning how to runa million-dollar patent-medicine plant, what _do_ you feel you'd begood at, hey?"

"I'm good in my own line: I want to be an artist. I am going to bean artist, if I have to starve to death for it!" said Peter. Hespread out his hands. "I have one life to live, and one thing todo!" he cried. 

"Oh, an artist! I've never heard of any Champneys before you whohad such a hankering, though I'm quite sure it's all right, if youlike it, Nephew. There's no earthly reason why an artist shouldn'tbe a gentleman, though I could wish you'd have taken over thepatent-medicine business, instead. Have you got anything I cansee?"

Shyly and reluctantly, Peter began to show him. There were two orthree oils by now; powerful sketches of country life, with its humorand pathos; heads of children and of negroes; bits of the RiverSwamp; all astonishingly well done. 

"Paintings are curious things; some have got life and some haven'tgot anything I can see, except paint. There was one I saw in NewYork, now. I thought at first it was a mess of spinach. I stood offand looked, and I walked up close and looked, and still I couldn'tsee anything but the same green mess. But--will you believe it, Nephew?--that thing was The Woods in Spring! Thinks I, Theyevidently _boil_ their Woods in Spring up here, before painting 'em!The things one paints nowadays don't look like the things they'repainted from, I notice. I'm afraid these things of yours look toomuch like real things to satisfy folks it's real art. --You sure theLord meant you to be an artist?"

Peter laughed. "I'm sure I mean myself to be an artist, Uncle Chad. "

"Want to get away from Riverton, don't you? But that costs money?And you haven't got the money?"

"I want to get away from Riverton. But that costs money, and Ihaven't got the money, " admitted Peter. 

"I see. Now, Nephew, when it gets right down to the thing he reallywants to do, every man has some horse sense, even if he happens tobe a fool in everything else. I'll talk to your horse sense and savetime. "

Peter, in the midst of scattered drawings, and of the few oilsbacked up against the dining-room wall, paused. 

"I could wish, " said his uncle, slowly, "that you were--different. But you are what you are, and it would be a waste of time to try tomake you different. You say you have one thing to do. All right, Peter Champneys, you shall have your chance to do it, --with aprice-tag attached. Do you want to be what you say you want to behard enough to be willing to pay the price for it?"

"You mean--to go away from here--to study? To see real pictures--andbe a student under a real teacher?" Peter's voice all but failedhim. His face went white, and his eyes glittered. He began totremble. His uncle, watching him narrowly, nodded. 

"Yes. Just that. Everything that can help you, you shall have--time, teachers, money, travel. But first you must pay me my price. "

Peter could only lean forward and stare. He was afraid he was goingto wake up in a minute. 

"Let me see if I can make it quite clear to you, Peter. You neverknew Milly--my wife Milly. You're not in love, Son, are you? No?Well, you won't be able to understand--yet. "

"There was my mother, sir, " said Peter, gently. 

"I'm sorry, " said the other, just as gently. "I wish it had comesooner, the luck. But it didn't, and I can't do anything forMilly, --or for your mother. They're gone. " For a moment he hung hishead. 

"But, Peter, I can do considerable for you, and I mean to do it. Only I can't bear to think Milly shouldn't have her share in it. Wenever had a child of our own, but there's Milly's niece. "

"Oh, but of course, Uncle Chad! Aunt Milly's niece ought to come infor all you can do for her, even before me, " said Peter, heartily, and with entire good faith. 

"You are your father's son, " said Uncle Chad, ambiguously. "Butwhat I wish to impress upon you is, that neither of you comesbefore the other: you come together. " He paused again, and fromthis time on never removed his eyes from his nephew's face, butwatched him hawk-like. "You will understand there is a great dealof money--enough money to found a great American family. Whyshouldn't that family be the Champneyses? Why shouldn't theChampneyses be restored to their old place, put where theyrightfully belong? And who and what should bring this about, except you, and Milly's niece, and my money!"

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, " said Peter, and looked asbewildered as he felt. He wasn't a quick thinker. "What is it youwish me to do?"

Still holding his eyes, "I want you to marry Milly's niece, " saidChadwick Champneys. "_That's my price_. "

"Marry? I? Oh, but, Uncle Chad! Why, I don't even know the girl, norshe me! I've never so much as heard of her until this minute!" criedPeter. 

"What difference does that make? Men and women never know each otheruntil after they're married anyhow, " said his uncle, sententiously. "Peter, do you really wish to go abroad and study? Very well, then:marry Milly's niece. I'll attend to everything else. "

"But _why_? My good God! why?" Peter's eyes popped. 

"Nephew, " said his uncle, patiently, "you are the last Champneys;she is Milly's niece--my Milly's niece. And Milly is dead, and I ampractically under sentence of death myself. I have got to put myaffairs in order. I'd hardly learned I was a very rich man before Ialso learned my time was limited. On high authority. Heart, Nephew. I may last for several years. Or go out like a puff of wind, beforemorning. "

Peter was so genuinely shocked and distressed at this that his unclesmiled to himself. The boy was a true Champneys. 

"There is no error in the diagnosis, so I accept what I can't help, and in the meantime arrange my affairs. Now, Nephew Peter, businessman or artist the Champneys name is in your keeping. You are thehead of the house, so to speak. I supply the funds to refurnish thehouse, we'll say, and I give you your opportunity to do what youwant to do, to make your mark in your own way. In exchange youaccept the wife I provide for you. When I meet Milly again, I wantto tell her there's somebody of her own blood bearing our name, taking the place of the child we never had, enjoying all the goodthings we missed, and enjoying them with a Champneys, _as_ aChampneys. If there are to be Champneys children, I want Milly'sniece to bear them. I won't divide my money between two separatehouses; it must all go to Peter Champneys and his wife, that wifebeing Milly's niece. " His eyes began to glitter, his mouth hardened. "It is little enough to ask!" he cried, raising his voice. "I giveyou everything else. I do not ask you to change your profession. Imake that profession possible by supplying the means to pursue it. In payment you marry Milly's niece. "

His manner was so passionately earnest that the astonished boy tookhis head in his hands to consider this amazing proposition. 

"But how in heaven's name can I study if I'm plagued with a wife?"he demanded. "I want to be foot-loose!"

"All right. You shall be foot-loose, for seven years, let's say, "said his uncle, quietly. "I reason that if you are ever going to beanything, you'll at least have made a beginning within seven years!You're twenty now, are you not? When you marry my girl, you shall goabroad immediately. She'll stay with me until her education iscompleted. Your wife shall be trained to take her proper place inthe world. On your twenty-seventh birthday you will return and claimher. I do not need anything more than the bare word of a Champneysthat he'll be what a man should be. Milly's niece will be safe inyour keeping. --Well?"

"Let me think a bit, Uncle. "

"Take until morning. In the meanwhile, please help me get my carunder shelter, and show me where I turn in for the night. " Being insome things a very considerate old man, he did not add that he hadfound the day strenuous, and that his strength was ebbing. 

Peter, lying on the lounge in the dining-room, was unable to sleep. Was this the chance his mother had said would come? Wasn't matrimonyrather a small price to pay for it? Or was it? And--hadn't hepromised his mother to take it when it came, for the sake of allthe Champneyses dead and gone, and for her own sake who had lovedhim so tenderly and believed in him against all odds?

At dawn he stole out of the house, and walked the three miles to thecountry cemetery where his mother slept beside his father. He satbeside her last bed, and remembered the cold hand that had creptinto his, the faltering whisper that prayed him to take his chancewhen it came, and to prove himself. 

If he refused this miraculous opportunity, there would be Riverton, and the hardware store, or other country stores similar to it, tothe end of his days. No freedom, no glorious opportunities, no workof brain and hand together, no beauty wrought of thought andexperience; the purple peaks fading into farther and fartherdistances until they faded out of his sky altogether; and himself asorry plodder in a path whose dust choked him. Peter shuddered. Anything but that!

Mr. Chadwick Champneys was sitting by the dining-room table talkingto astonished Emma Campbell, and stroking the cat, when Peter cameswinging into the room. 

"Well?" with a keen glance at his nephew's face. 

"Yes, " said Peter, deliberately. 

The old man went on stroking the cat for a moment or so, while EmmaCampbell, the hominy-spoon in her hand, watched them both. Sheunderstood that something momentous portended. Not for nothing hadthis shrewd, imperious old man whom she had known in his youth aswild Chad Champneys, led Emma on to tell him all she knew about thefamily history since his departure, years ago. When Emma hadfinished, Chadwick Champneys felt that he knew his nephew to thebone; and it was Champneys bone!

"Thank you, Nephew, " said he, in a deep voice. "You're a good lad. You won't regret your bargain. I promise you that. "

He turned to Emma Campbell:

"If my breakfast is ready, I'm ready too, Emma. " And to Peter: "Wewere renewing our old acquaintance, Emma and I, while you were out, Nephew. She hasn't changed much: she's still the biggest nigger andthe best cook and the faithfulest friend in all Carolina. "

"Oh, go 'long, Mist' Chad! Who you 'speck ought to look after MissMaria's chile, 'ceptin' ole Emma Campbell? Lawd 'a' mussy, ain't Iwiped 'is nose en dusted 'is britches sense he bawn? Dat Peter, hebelonged to Miss Maria en me. He's we chile, " said Emma Campbell. 

Over his coffee Mr. Champneys outlined his plans carefully andsuccinctly. Peter was to hold himself in readiness to proceedwhither his uncle would direct him by wire. In the meantime he wasto settle his affairs in Riverton. 

"Uncle Chad, " said Peter, to whom the thought had just occurred, "Uncle Chad, now that I have agreed to do what you wish me to do, what is the young lady's name? You didn't tell me. "

"Her name? Why, God bless my soul, I forgot, I forgot! Well! Hername's Anne Simms. Called Nancy. Soon be Nancy Champneys, thankHeaven!" And he repeated: "Nancy Champneys! Anne Champneys!"

"Uncle, " said Peter, deprecatingly, "you'll understand--I'm a littleinterested--excuse me for asking you--but what does the young ladylook like?"

Mr. Chadwick Champneys blinked at his nephew. 

"Look like? You want to know what Milly's niece looks like?"

"Yes, sir, " said Peter, modestly. "I--er--that is, the thoughtoccurred to me to ask you what she looks like. "

Mr. Champneys scratched the end of his nose, pulled his mustache, and looked unhappy. 

"Nephew Peter, " said he, "do what I do: take it for granted Milly'sniece looks like any other girl--nose and mouth and hair and eyes, you know. But I can't describe her to you in detail. "

"No? Why?" Peter wondered. 

"Because I have never laid eyes on her, " said his uncle. 

"Oh!" Peter looked thunderstruck. 

"I came to you first, " explained his uncle. "I gave you first whack. Now I'm going to see her. "

"Oh!" said Peter, still more thunderstruck. 

"I'll wire you when you're to come, " said his uncle, briskly, andgot into dust-coat, cap, and goggles. A few minutes later, beforethe little town was well awake, he vanished in a cloud of dust downthe Riverton Road. 

CHAPTER VII

WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDED

Emma Campbell stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, lips pursed, eyes fixed on vacancy, a dish-cloth dangling from one hand, acarving-knife clutched in the other, and projecked. And the more sheprojecked about what was happening in Peter's house, the less sheliked it. It had never occurred to Emma Campbell that Peter might goaway from Riverton. Yet now he was going, and it had been taken forgranted that she, Emma, who, as she said, had "raised 'im from apuppy up'ards, " wouldn't mind staying on here after his departure. Fetching a cold sigh from the depths of an afflicted bosom, Emmamoved snail-like toward the work in hand; and as she worked shehowled dismally that nobody knew the trouble she saw, "nobody knewbut you, Lawd. "

When Peter came in to dinner, she addressed him with distantpoliteness as Mistuh Champneys, instead of the usual Mist' Peter. When he spoke to her she accordion-plaited her lips, and stuck hereyes out at him. Her head, adorned with more than the usual quota oftoothpicks, brought the quills upon the fretful porcupine forciblyto one's mind. 

Nobody but Peter Champneys could or would have borne with EmmaCampbell's contrary fits, but as neither of them realized this theymanaged to get along beautifully. Peter was well aware that when thecar that had suddenly appeared in the night had just as suddenlydisappeared in the morning in a cloud of dust on the Riverton Road, Emma's peace of mind had vanished also. He understood, and waspatient. 

She clapped a platter of crisp fried chicken before him, and stoodby, eyeing him and it grimly. And when hungry Peter thrust his forkinto a tempting piece, "You know who you eatin'?" she demandedpleasantly. 

Peter didn't know whom he was eating; fork suspended, he looked atEmma questioningly. 

"You eatin' Lula, dat who you eatin', " Emma told him with grislyunction. "Dem 's de same laigs use to scratch roun' we kitchen do'. Dat 's de same lovin'-hearted hen I raise fum a baby. But, Lawd!Whut _you_ care? _You 's_ de sort kin go trapesin' off by yo'se'fover de worl'. You dat uppidy dese days, whut _you_ care 'bouteatin' up po' lil Lula? _She_ ain't nobody but us-all's chicken, nohow!"

Peter looked doubtfully at "po' lil Lula's" remains, and laid downhis fork. Somehow, one can't be keen about eating a loving-heartedhen. 

"But, Emma, we eat our chickens all the time! You've fried me many achicken without raising a row about it!" he protested. 

"Who tol' you dey wuz ours?"

As Peter hadn't a fitting reply in return for this ambiguous query, Emma bounced out of the dining-room, to return in a moment with thetea-pot; when Peter held out his cup, she poured into it plainboiling water. At that she set the tea-pot hastily upon the table, threw her gingham apron over her head, and plumped upon the floorwith a thud that made the house shake. It frightened the cat intogoing through the window at a leap, taking with him all the flowersplanted in tomato-cans. 

"Emma, " said Peter, severely, "I'm ashamed of you! Take that sillyapron off your head and listen to me. You know very well you aren'tbeing left to shift for yourself. You'll be provided for better thanyou've ever been. Why, all you'll have to do--"

"All I 'll hab to do is jes' crawl into my grave en stay dere. Idone raised 'im fum de egg up, en now he 's got comb en kin crow it's tail-feathers over de fence en fly off wid 'im! Ah, Lawd! Youdone made 'em en You knows whut roosters is like!"

"Emma! Look here, confound it!--"

"Who gwine look after 'im? I axes you fum my heart, who gwine doit?--Never did hab no mo' sense dan a rabbit widout I 's by, en nowdey aims to tun 'im loose! Ah, Lawd!"

"Emma, listen! Emma, what the--"

"Dem furrin women 'll do 'im lak dem women done po' old Cassius. _Dey 'll conjure 'im_! En widout I by, who gwine make 'im put onelive frawg on 'is nekked stummick, so 's to sweat de speret o' datfrawg een, en de speret o' dat conjure out? No-buddy. Den he 'll upen die. Widout one Gawd's soul o' 'is own folkses to put de copperson 'is eyes en' tie up de corpse's jaws. --Ah Lawd, ah Lawd!"

"Oh, shut up, you old idiot! I'm not coming home to my meals anymore, if this is how you're going to behave!" This from Peter, disgustedly. 

"Ain't you, suh? All right, suh, Mistuh Champneys, you 's be boss. But I glad to my Gawd Miss Maria ain't 'yuh to see dis day!" AndEmma began to sniffle. 

Peter pushed his untouched dinner aside, and reached for his hat. Helooked at Emma Campbell irefully. 

"Damn!" exploded Peter. 

Emma Campbell got to her feet with astounding quickness, ran intothe kitchen, and returned in a moment with another platter ofchicken, rice, and gravy. 

"'Yuh, chile. Set down en eat yo' bittles. You ain't called on tohab no hard feelin's 'bout _dis_ chicken. 'T ain't none o' ours, nohow. " Peter resumed his chair and waived cross-examination. 

Mr. Champneys having come, so to speak, between dark and daylight, Riverton knew nothing about his visit, for Peter hadn't thought toinform them. This affair seemed so unreal, so improbable, so up inthe air, that he dared not mention it. Suppose it mightn't be true, after all. Suppose fate played a cruel joke. Suppose Mr. Champneyschanged his mind. So Peter, who had a horror of talk, and writhedwhen asked personal questions by people who felt that they had aperfect right to know all about his business, kept strict silence, and enjoined the same silence upon Emma Campbell, who could betrusted to hold her tongue when bidden. 

Now, one simply cannot remember the price of pots and pans andsheet-iron and plows and ax-handles, when one is living in thebeginning of an astounding fairy story, when the most momentouschange is impending, when one's whole way of life is about to bediverted into different channels. The things one hates, like being ahardware clerk, for instance, automatically slide into thebackground when the desire of the heart approaches. 

But Mr. Humphreys, whose mind and fortune naturally enough centeredin his hardware store, couldn't be expected to know that theimpossible had happened for Peter Champneys. He would hardly be ableto take Peter's bare word for it, even if Peter should tell him: hedidn't know that his absent-minded clerk really liked him, andlonged to tell him that he was leaving Riverton shortly--he hopedfor years and years--and was only awaiting the message that shouldspeed his departure. Mr. Humphreys, then, cannot be blamed forcomplaining with feeling and profanity that of all the damidjits hehad ever seen in his life, Peter Champneys was about the worst. Loony was no name for him, and what was to become of such a chump hedidn't know. "If this thing keeps up, he'll be drooling before he'sforty, and we'll have to hire a nigger to feed him out of apapspoon, " said Mr. Humphreys, forebodingly. 

And in the meanwhile the days dragged and dragged--two whole weeksof suspense and expectancy. On the Monday of the third week the endof Peter's waiting and of Mr. Humphreys's patience came together. One, in fact, brought about the other. The postman who drove in withthe daily mail brought for Peter Champneys the yellow envelopetoward which he had been looking with such feverish impatience. 

He was really to go! The young man experienced that reeling, ecstatic shock which shakes one when a long-delayed desire suddenlyassumes reality. He stood with the telegram in his fingers, andstared about the dusty, dingy, uninteresting store, and saw as withnew eyes how hopelessly hideous it really was; and wondered andwondered if he were really himself, Peter Champneys, who was goingto get away from it. 

At that moment stout old Mrs. Beach entered the store and waddled upto him. Mrs. Beach was a woman who never knew what she reallywanted, or if, indeed, she really wanted anything in particular; butthen again, as she said, she _might_. She didn't like to leave herhouse often; and when she did finally make up her mind to dress andgo out, she popped into every store she happened to pass, on thechance that she _might_ want something from it, and would thus saveherself an extra trip to get it. She would say to a perspiringclerk:

"Now, let me see: there's something I wanted to get from thisstore. I know it, because on Tuesday last something happened to putme in mind of it--or was it Wednesday, maybe? I know it's somethingI need about the house--or maybe the yard. You'll have to help meout. I've got a poor memory, but you just sort of run over a list ofthings folks would be most likely to need and maybe you'll hit onthe right thing, and if it's that I want, I'll get it right now. Don't stand there like a hitching-post, boy! Why can't you suggestsomething, and help out a woman old enough to be your mother?"

If by some fortuitous chance you happened to hit upon an article shethought she might happen to need, and it suited her, she would buyit. But it never occurred to her to thank you for your help, or toapologize for the nerve-racking strain to which she subjected you. 

"Young man, " said her testy voice in Peter's ear, "I've got to getsomething and I can't remember what it is. You've got to help me. Ican't be wasting my time at my age o' life running around tohardware stores. "

Peter thrust the miraculous telegram in his pocket, where he couldfeel it burn and tingle. Oh, it was true, it was true! He was goingto get away from all this!

"For heaven's sake, boy, don't stand there gawping at me like athunderstruck owl! You surely know about everything you've got inthis store, don't you? Well, then, Peter Champneys, look about youand see if you can't light on what I'm most likely to need!"

Peter, mind on the telegram in his pocket, did indeed look at theold lady owlishly. Hazily he remembered certain grueling, sweatinghalf-hours spent in trying to discover what Mrs. Beach thought shemight want to buy. Hazily he looked from her to the litteredshelves, and reached for the first object upon which his eyeshappened to fall. 

"Yes 'm, Mrs. Beach. I reckon this is what you'd most likely_need_, " said Peter, gently, and placed in her hand a fine newmuzzle. (Paris, maybe Rome; and Florence! Oh, names to conjure with!And he should see them all, walk their historic streets, viewimmortal work, stand before immortal canvases, and say withCorreggio: "And I, too, am a painter!")

"Oh, my dear Lord, save me from bursting wide open! Why, youimpudent young reprobate!" Mrs. Beach's outraged voice banished hisdream. "For two pins, Peter Champneys, I'd take you across my kneesand spank the seat off your breeches! I need a muzzle, do I? I'm tobe insulted by a little squirt that's just learning to keep his earsclean! Well! Girl and woman I've been dealing with Sam Humphreys andhis father before him, but from this day forth I put no foot of mineacross this store door!" All the while she spoke she brandished themuzzle at Peter and kept backing him off into a corner. 

Mr. Humphreys came hurriedly out of his office upon hearing theuproar, and sought with soothing speech to placate his irate oldfriend and customer. But Mrs. Beach wasn't to be placated. She wentout of the door and down the street like a hat on a windy day. 

Mr. Humphreys watched her go. Then he turned and looked at PeterChampneys, ominously:

"Peter, "--Mr. Humphreys, carefully restraining himself, spoke in lowand dulcet tones--"Peter, I have tried to do my duty as a Christianman; now I have to do it as a hardware man, and right here is whereyou and I say good-by. I have passed over, " said Mr. Humphreys, swallowing hard, "your sending gravel to the grocer and a bellows tothe minister by mistake; but this is the limit. If there is anybodyadvertising for a gilt-edged failure as a salesman, you go apply forthe job and say I recommend you enthusiastically. I hate like thedevil to fire you, Peter, but it's a plain case of self-defense withme: I have to do it. You're fired. Now. Come on in the office, " saidMr. Humphreys, eagerly, "and I'll pay you off. "

Peter slid his hand into his pocket and pinched that precious slipof paper. Then he smiled into Mr. Humphreys's empurpled visage. 

"Why, thank you, Mr. Humphreys, " said he, gratefully. "I know justhow you feel, and I don't blame you in the least. I've been wantingto tell you I had to quit, and you've saved me the trouble. "

Sam Humphreys knew that Peter Champneys had no right to stand thereand smile like that at such a solemn moment. He should have appearedashamed, downcast, humanly perturbed; and he didn't in the least. 

"I've been wondering ever since the first day I hired you how I wasgoing to keep from firing you before nightfall. Now the end's come. Say--suppose you go on home, right now. Because, " said Mr. Humphreys, softly, "I mightn't be able to refrain from committingjustifiable homicide. I'll send you your salary to-night. Go onhome. Please!"

To his horror, Peter Champneys of a sudden laughed aloud. It wasgenuine laughter, that rang true and gay and glad. His eyessparkled, and a dash of good red jumped into his sallow cheeks. 

"Good-by, then, Mr. Humphreys. And thank you for many kindnesses, and for real patience, " said Peter. He waved his hand at the dustystore in a wide-flung gesture of glad farewell. 

"Oh, my God! He's run plumb crazy!" cried Mr. Humphreys, mopping hisbrow. "I always said that boy wasn't natural!"

But Peter, walking home in the bright afternoon sunlight, for thefirst time in his life felt young and free and happy. He wanted tolaugh, to sing, to shout, to skip. Emma Campbell was just bringingthe washed-and-dried dinner dishes back into the dining-room when hebounced in. 

"Emma, " said he, sticking his thumbs into the armholes of hiswaistcoat, and beaming at her, "Emma, I'm out of a job. Kicked outneck and crop. Fired, thank God!"

Emma stacked her dishes on the old deal dresser. 

"Is you?"

"I sure am. And, Emma, listen. I--I'm sort of waked up. Even ifthings shouldn't turn out as I hope they will, I'll manage to goahead, somehow. I'd get out, now, under any circumstances. Pike'sPeak or bust!" said Peter. 

"When you 'speck to go?"

"Just as soon as I can get out. I'm expected in New York within tendays at the latest. And then, Emma, the wide world! No morelittle-town tittle-tattle! All I've got to do, in the big world, isto deliver the goods. And I'm going to deliver the goods!" saidPeter. 

But Emma Campbell put her grizzled head on the dining-room table andbegan to cry. 

"I nussed you w'en you had de croup en de colic. I used to tromp upen down dis same no' wid you 'crost my shoulder. It was me dressedMiss Maria de day she married wid yo' pa, en it was me dressed 'erfor de coffin. You en me been stannin' togedder ever sence. How Igwine stan' by my alonese 'f now? I ole now, Mist' Peter. "

"Emma, " said Peter, after a pause, "tell me exactly what you want meto do for you and if I can I'll do it. "

"I wants to go wid you. I jes' natchelly ain't gwine stay 'yuh by myalonese 'f, " wept Emma. 

Peter looked at her with the sort of tenderness one must be born inthe South to understand. Born in the last years of slavery, broughtup in wild Reconstruction days, Emma couldn't read or write. Shewasn't amenable to discipline. She was, as Cassius had complained, "so contrary she mus' be 'flicted wid de moonness. " She wore arabbit foot and a conjure bag and believed in ha'nts and hoodoos. But, as far back as he could remember, Emma Campbell had formed alarge part of the background of his life. He wondered just what hewould have done if it hadn't been for Emma, after his mother'sdeath. There slid into his mind the picture of a shabby youngsterweeping over a cheap green-and-gold Collection of Poetic Gems; andhe reached over and laid a brown hand upon a black one. 

"Well, and why not?" mused Peter. "You stood by me when I hadn't anymoney; why should you leave me the minute I get it? But are you sureyou really want to go along, Emma? I'm going into a foreign country, remember. You won't be able to understand a word anybody says. You'll be a mighty lonesome old nigger over there. "

"I can talk wid my cat, can't I?"

"Holy Moses! What, the cat, too?" Peter ran his hands through hishair, distractedly. 

"Whah you goes, I goes. En whah I goes, dat cat goes. Dat cat 'swe-all's folks. "

"Oh, all right, " said Peter, resignedly. After all, Emma Campbelland the cat _were_ all the folks he had. 

He went to Charleston the next morning, in accordance with theinstructions his uncle had given him in their last talk, and thebank at which he presented himself treated him with distinguishedconsideration. Peter heard for the first time the dulcet accents ofMoney. 

Like Mr. Wilfer in "Our Mutual Friend, " Peter had never hadeverything all together all at once. When he had a suit his shoeswere shabby, and when it got around to shoes his coat was shiny inthe seams and his hat of last year's vintage. He was boyishlydelighted to buy at one time all that he wanted, but asmade-to-order clothes were altogether outside of his reckoning asyet, he bought ready-made. His taste was too simple to beessentially bad, but you knew he was a country boy in store clothesand a made tie. 

He had never been in Charleston before, and he reveled in theineluctable charm of the lovely old town. No South Carolinian isever disappointed in Charleston. Peter thought the city resembledone of her own old ladies, a dear dignified gentlewoman in reducedcircumstances, in a worn silk gown and a mended lace cap and a cameobrooch. It might be against the old gentlewoman's religiousconvictions to bestow undue care upon her personal appearance, buthers was a venerable, unforgetable, and most beautiful old face forall that, and perhaps because of it. She knew that the kingdom ofGod is within; and being sure of that, she was sure of herself, serene, unpainted, unpretentious. 

Peter wandered by old walled gardens in which were set wrought-irongates that allowed the passer-by a glimpse of greenery and flowers, but prevented encroachments upon family privacy. Every now and thena curving balustrade, a gable, a window, or an old doorway ofsurpassing charm made his fingers itch for pencil and paper. Hereflected, without bitterness, that the doors of every one of thesefine old houses had on a time opened almost automatically to aChampneys. Some of these folk were kith and kin, as his mother hadremembered and they, perhaps, had forgotten. This didn't worry himin the least: the real interest the houses had for Peter was thatthis one had a picturesque garden gate, that one a door with afan-light he'd like to sketch. 

He climbed St. Michael's belfry stairway and looked over the city, and toward the sea; and later wandered through its historicchurchyard. One very simple memorial held him longest, because it isthe only one of its kind among all those records of state honor andfamily pride, and seems rather to belong to the antique Greek andRoman world which accepted death as the final fact, than to aCarolina churchyard. 

 SARAH JOHNSTON born in this province 29th May 1690 Died 26th April 1774 In the 84th year of her age. 

 How lovd how valu'd once avails Thee not To whom related or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of Thee. 

That covered the Champneyses, too. To whom related or by whom begot, a heap of dust alone remained of them. So much for all human pride!Peter left St. Michael's dead to slumber in peace, and walked foran hour on the Battery, and in Legare Street, where life isbrightest in the old city. All good Charlestonians think that afterthe final resurrection there may be a new heaven and a new earth forothers, but for themselves a house in Legare Street or on theBattery. 

Peter presently reappeared in Riverton, discreetly clad in hiscustomary clothes, the habits of thrift being yet so firmlyingrained in him that he couldn't easily wear his best clothes on aweek-day. 

"Peter! You Peter Champneys! Look here a minute, will you?" Mrs. Beach called, as he was passing her house. 

Peter stopped. His smiling countenance somewhat astonished Mrs. Beach. 

"Peter, I've heard about Sam Humphreys firing you on account of megetting mad at you about that muzzle. Now, while I know in my heartyou'd have been fired about something or other, sooner or later, Ido wish to my Lord it hadn't been on account of me. Not that I don'tthink you're an impudent young rapscallion, that never sets his noseinside a church door, and insults old women with muzzles. But I knewyour mother well, and I wish it wasn't on account of me SamHumphreys discharged you. " There was real feeling in the testy oldlady's face and voice. 

"Don't you bother your head about it one minute more, Mrs. Beach. All I'm sorry for is that I appeared to be impertinent to you, whenI hadn't any such notion. I was thinking about something else atthe time. So you'll just have to forgive me. "

"I do, " said the old lady, mollified. After all, Maria Champneys'sboy couldn't be altogether trifling! "Is what I hear true, thatyou're going away from Riverton? Folks say you've got a job in thecity. "

"Yes 'm, I'm going away. "

"I reckon it's just as well. You'll do better away from Riverton. You'll have to. "

"Yes 'm, I'll have to, " agreed Peter. He held out his hand, and theold lady found herself wringing it, and wishing him good luck. 

At home he found Emma Campbell carefully packing up all theworthless plunder it had taken her many years to collect. When hehad heartlessly rejected all she didn't need, she had one smalltrunk and a venerable carpet-bag. Everything else was nailed up. Thehouse itself was to be looked after by the town marshal, who wasalso the town real-estate agent. Peter was very vague as to hisreturn. 

No railroad runs through Riverton, but the river steamers come andgo daily, the town usually quitting work to foregather at the pierto welcome coming and speed departing travelers. All Riverton madeit a point to be on hand the morning Peter Champneys left home toseek his fortune. 

Peter never did anything like anybody else. There was always somediverting bit of individual lunacy to make his proceedingsinteresting. This morning Riverton discovered that Emma Campbell wasgoing away, too. Emma appeared in a black cashmere dress, ablue-and-white checked gingham apron on which a basket of flowerswas embroidered in red cross-stitch, and a white bandanahandkerchief wound around her head under a respectable black sailorhat. She carried a large, square cage that had once housed amocking-bird, and now held the Champneys big black cat. Laughter anddelighted comments greeted the bird-cage, and her carpet-bagreceived almost as much attention and applause. Riverton hadn't seena bag like that since Reconstruction, and it made the most of itsopportunity. 

"Emma! Aren't you afraid you'll let the cat out of the bag?"

Emma remained haughtily silent. 

"Emma, where you-all goin'?"

"We-all gwine whah we gwine, dat 's whah we gwine. " This from Emma, succinctly. 

"What you goin' to do when you get there?" persisted the wag. 

"Who, us? We gwine do whut you-all ain't know how to do: we gwinemin' our own business, " said Emma, politely. 

"Good-by, Peter! Don't set the world on fire, old scout!"

When the boat turned the bend in the river that hid the small townof his birth from his view, Peter felt shaken as he had neverthought to be. Good-by, little home town, where the slings andarrows of outrageous fortune had rained upon him!

The boat swung into a side channel to escape a sand-bar. She was indeep water, but very close to the shore, so close that he could seethe leaves on the trees quivering and shimmering in the river breezeand the late summer sunlight. Over there, as the crow flies, lay theRiver Swamp, and Neptune's gray, deserted cabin. They had been hisrefuge. No other place, no other woods in all the world could quitetake their place, or be like them. And he knew there would be many aday when he must ache with homesick longing for the coast country, for the tide-water, and the jessamines, and the moon above thepines, and the scent of the bay in flower on summer nights. Theworld was opening her wide spaces. But the Carolina coast was_home_. 

"I wish, " said Peter, and his chin quivered, "I wish there were someone thing that typified you, something of you I could take with mewherever I go. I wish you had a spirit I could see, and know. "

Out from the shore-line, where the earliest golden-rod was justbeginning to show that it intended to blossom by and by, and theironweed was purple, and the wild carrot was white and lacy, and theorange-red milkweed was about ready to close her house for theseason, came fluttering with a quick, bold sureness the gallantestcraft of all the fairy sail-boats of the sky, hovered for a brightsecond over the steamer's rail, and scudded for the other shore. 

Peter Champneys straightened his shoulders. Youth and courage andhope flashed into his wistful face, and brightened his eyes thatfollowed the Red Admiral. 

CHAPTER VIII

CINDERELLA

It wasn't a pleasant house, being of a dingy, bilious-yellowcomplexion, with narrow window eyes, and a mean slit of a doorwayfor a mouth; not sinister, but common, stupid, and uninteresting. Ifone should happen to be a house-psychologist, one would know thatbehind the Nottingham lace curtains looped back with soiled redribbons, was all the tawdry, horrible junk that clutters suchhouses, even as mental junk clutters the minds of the people whohave to live in them. One knew that the people who dwelt in thathouse didn't know how to live, how to think, or how to cook; andthat if by any chance a larger life, a real thought, or a bit ofgood cooking confronted them, they would probably reject it withsuspicion. 

The elderly gentleman in white linen who made acquaintance with thisparticular house on a very sultry noon in early August, hesitatedbefore he rang the bell. He glanced over his shoulder at the hot, dusty street where a swarm of hot, dusty children were shrilling andshrieking, or staring at him round-eyed, dived into his pockets, fished up a handful of small change, whistled to insure theirgreater attention, and flung the coin among them. While they weresnatching at the money like a flock of pigeons over a handful ofgrain, the elderly gentleman rang the bell. He could hear itjangling through the house, but it brought no immediate response. After a decent interval he rang again. This time the door was jerkedopen, and a girl in a bungalow apron, upon which she was wiping herhands, confronted him. She was a very young girl, a very hot, tired, perspiring, and sullen girl, fresh from a broiling kitchen and ared-hot stove. 

She looked at the caller suspiciously, her glance racing over hislinen suit, his white shoes, the Panama hat in his hand. She waspuzzled, for plainly this wasn't the usual applicant for board andlodging. Perhaps, then, he was a successful house-to-house agent forsome indispensable necessity--say an ice-pick that would pull nails, open a can, and peel potatoes. Or maybe a religious book agent. Sherather suspected him of wanting to sell her Biblical PropheciesElucidated by a Chicago Seer, or something like that. Or, stay:perhaps he was a church scout sent out to round up stray souls. Whatever he might be, she was bitterly resentful of having beentaken from the thick of her work to answer his ring. She wasn'tinterested in her soul, her hot and tired body being a much moreimmediate concern. Heaven is far off, and hell has no terrors andless interest for a girl immured in a red-hot kitchen in a MiddleWestern town in the dog-days. 

"If it's a Bible, we got one. If it's sewin'-machines, we ain't, but don't. If it's savin' our souls, we belong to church reg'lar an'ain't interested. If it's explainin' God, nothin' doin'! An' if it'stack-pullers with nail-files an' corkscrews on 'em, you can saveyour breath, " said the girl rapidly, in a heated voice, and with ahalf-dry hand on the door-knob. 

Mr. Chadwick Champneys's long, drooping mustache came up under hisnose, and his bushy eyebrows twitched. 

"I am not trying to sell anything, " he said hurriedly, in order toprevent her from shutting the door in his face, which was herevident intention. 

She said impatiently: "If you're collectin', this ain't our day forpayin', an' you got to call again. Come next week, on Tuesday. Ormaybe Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or Sattiday. " The door beganto close. 

He inserted a desperate foot. 

"I wish to see Miss Simms--Miss Anne, or Nancy Simms. My informationis that she lives in this house. I should have stated my errand atonce, had I been allowed to do so. " He looked at the girlreprovingly. 

Before she could reply, a female voice from a back region rosestridently:

"Nancy! You Nancy! What in creation you mean, gassin' this hour o'day when them biscuits is burnin' up in the oven? Send that fellerabout his business, whatever it is, and you come tend to yours!"

The girl hesitated, and frowned. 

"If you come to see Anne Simms, same as Nancy Simms, I'm her--Imean, she's me, " said she, hurriedly. "I got no time to talk withyou now, Mister, but you can wait in the parlor until I dish updinner, and whilst they're eatin' I'll have time to run up and seewhat you want. Is it partic'ler?"

"Very. "

"Come on in an' wait, then. "

"Nancy! You want I should come up there after you? Oh, my stars, an'that girl _knows_ how partic'ler Poppa is about his biscuits; theygotta be jest so or he won't look at 'em, an' her gassin' and himlikely to raise the roof!" screamed the voice. 

"Oh, shut up! I'm comin', " bawled the girl in reply. "You better sitover there by the winder, Mister, " she told her visitor, hastily. "There's a breeze there, maybe. You'll find to-day's paper an' a fanon the table. " She vanished, and he could hear her runningkitchenward, and the shrieking voice subsiding into a whine. 

Mr. Chadwick Champneys slumped limply into a chair. Everything helooked at added to his sense of astonishment and unease. 

The outside of the house hadn't lied: the inside matched it. Mr. Champneys found himself staring and being stared at by the usualcrayon portraits of defunct members of the family, --at least hehoped they were defunct, --the man with a long mule face and neckwhiskers; and opposite him his spouse, with her hair worn likemustard-plasters on the skull. "Male and female created He them. "Placed so that you had to see it the moment you entered thedoor, on a white-and-gold easel draped with a silkoline scarftrimmed with pink crocheted wheels, was a virulently coloredlandscape with a house of unknown architecture in the foreground, and mother-of-pearl puddles outside the gate. Mr. Champneysstudied those mother-of-pearl puddles gravely. They hurt hisfeelings. So did the ornate golden-oak parlor set upholstered inred plush; and the rug on the floor, in which colors fought likeKilkenny cats; and a pink vase with large purple plums bunched onit; and the figured wall-paper, and the unclean lace curtains, and the mantel loaded with sorry plunder, and the clothespinbutterflies, the tissue-paper parasols, and the cheap fans tackedto the walls. It was a hot and dusty room. The smell of badcooking, of countless miserable meals eaten by men whosedigestion they would ruin, clung to it and would not be gainsaid. Mr. Champneys thought the best thing that could happen to suchhouses would be a fire beginning in the cellar and ending at theroof. 

His mind went back to another house--an old white house in SouthCarolina, set in spacious grounds, with high-ceilinged, cool, largerooms filled with fine old furniture, a few pictures, glimpses ofbrass and silver, large windows opening upon lawns and trees andshrubs and flowers, a flash of blue river, a vista of green marshesmelting into the cobalt sky. A stately, lovely, leisurely old house, typifying the stately, leisurely life that had called it into being;both gone irrevocably into the past. He sighed. 

He looked about this atrocious room, and his jaw hardened. This, for Milly's niece! Poor girl, poor friendless girl! He had known, ofcourse, that the girl was poor. He and Milly had been poor, too. But, oh, never like this! This was being poor sordidly, vulgarly. He had seen and suffered enough in his time to realize howsoul-murdering this environment might be to one who knew nothingbetter. He himself had had the memory of the old house in which hewas born, and of low-voiced, gentle-mannered men and women; he hadhad his fine traditions to which to hold fast. He reflected that hewould have a great deal to make up for to Nancy Simms!

The noon whistle had blown. People had begun to come in, men whosefirst movement on entering was to peel off collars and coats. Theybarely glanced at the quiet, white-clad figure as they passed theopen parlor door, but stampeded for the basement dining-room. Mr. Champneys could hear the scraping of chairs, the rattling of dishes, the hum of loud conversation; then the steady clatter of knives andforks, and a dull, subdued murmur. Dinner was in full swing, adinner of which boiled cabbage must have formed the _pièce derésistance_. 

Came a hurried footstep, and Nancy Simms entered the room. He wassitting with his back to the window; she sank into the chairfronting him, so that the light fell full upon her. 

She was strong and well-muscled, as one could see under theenveloping apron. Her hands bore the marks of dish-washing andclothes-washing and floor-scrubbing and sweeping. They were shapelyenough hands, even if red and calloused. The foot in the worn, down-at-the-heels shoe was a good foot, with a fine arch; and thethroat rising from the checked gingham apron was full and strong;her face was prettily shaped, if one was observant enough to noticethat detail. 

She was not pretty; not even pleasant. Her discontented face wasliberally peppered with the sort of freckles that accompany red andrebellious hair; her mouth was hard, the lips pressed tightlytogether. Under dark, uncared-for eyebrows were grayish-green eyes, their expression made unfriendly by her habit of narrowing them. Shehad good teeth and a round chin, and her nose would have passedmuster anywhere, save for the fact that it, too, was freckled. Unfortunately, one didn't have time to admire her good points; onesaid at first sight of her, "Good heavens, what a disagreeablegirl!" And then: "Bless me, I've _never_ seen so many perfectlyunnecessary freckles and so much fighting-red hair on one girl!"

"You'll hafta hurry, " she admonished him, fanning herself vigorouslywith a folded newspaper. She wiped her perspiring face on her arm, tilted back her chair, revealing undarned stockings, and waited forhim to explain himself. 

He handed her his card, and at the name Champneys a faint interestshowed in her face. 

"I had a aunt married a feller by that name, " she volunteered. "Wasyou wishin' to find out somethin' about him or Aunt Milly? Becauseif so I don't know nothin' about him, nor yet her. I never set eyeson neither of 'em. "

"I am your Aunt Milly's husband, " he told her. "And I have come tofind out something about _you_. "

"It's took you a long time to find your way, ain't it?" Her mannerwas not cordial. 

"We will waive that, " said he, composedly. "I _am_ here, and myvisit concerns yourself. To begin with, do you like living with yourmother's step-sister? That is her relationship to your mother and tomy wife, I believe?"

"No: I don't like livin' with no step-aunt, though she ain't that, bein' further off: an' no real kin. If you want to know why I don'tlike it, it's all work an' no pay, that's why. First off, when I wastoo little to do anything else, I minded the children an' runerrands an' washed doilies an' towels an' stockin's an' sich, an'set table an' cleared table an' washed dishes an' made beds an'emptied slops. Then I helped cook. Now I cook. Along with plentyother things. How'd you like it yourself?" Her tone was suddenlyfierce. The fierceness of a strong and young creature in gallingcaptivity. 

His wandering life had given him an insight into such conditions andsituations; and once or twice he had seen orphan children raised inhomes where they "helped out. " Chattel slavery is easier bycomparison and pleasanter in reality. 

Before he could answer, "Nan-cy! You Nan-cy! Come on here an' setthem pie-plates! My Gawd! that girl's goin' to run me ravin' crazy, tryin' to keep her on her job! Nancy!"

Nancy looked at Mr. Champneys speculatively. 

"Is what you got to say worth me tellin' her to set them platesherself?" she asked. 

"Well worth it, " said Mr. Champneys, emphatically. 

She jumped for the door with cat-like quickness. Also, she liftedher voice with cat-like ferocity. 

"I'm busy! I can't co-ome. Set 'em yourself!"

"Can't come! What you doin'?" shrieked the other voice. 

"I'm entertainin' comp'ny in the parler, that's what I'm doin'! It'ssomebody come to see _me_. An' I'm goin' to wait right here till Ifind out what they come _for_!"

On the heels of that, Nancy slammed the parlor door, and sat down. 

"Now say what you got to say, an' don't waste no time askin' if I'mstuck on livin' here with somethin' like that!"

"You wish, then, to leave your aunt?"

"She ain't no aunt of mine, I tell you. She ain't nothin' but mymother's stepfather's daughter by his first wife. Sure I want toleave her. She took me because she needed a servant she didn't haveto pay reg'lar wages to. I don't owe her nothin'. Nor him, neither. He's worse 'n her. "

"They are not kind to you?"

"No, they ain't what you'd call kind to me. But you ain't come hereto talk about them, I take it. What was you wantin' to see meabout, Mister?"

"Suppose, " said he, leaning forward, "that you should be offered, inexchange for _this_, " his gesture damned the whole room, "abeautiful home, travel, culture, ease, all that makes lifebeautiful; would that offer appeal to you?" He looked at herearnestly. 

"No housework, no cooking! Clothes made for me especial? Nothand-me-downs an' left-overs? No kids to mind, neither day nornight?"

"Housework? Old clothes? Minding children? Certainly not! I am nothiring a servant! What are you thinking of?"

"I'm thinkin' of _me_, that's what I'm thinkin' of! I'm wearin' herold clothes on Sundays now. I hate 'em. They look like her an' theysmell like her and they feel like her--mean an' ugly an' tight. If Icould ever get enough money o' my own together, an' enoughclothes--" she stopped, and looked at him with the sudden ferocitythat at times flashed out in her--"earned honest, though, and comeby respectable, " said she, grimly, "then I'd get out o' here an' trysomething else. I'm strong, an' if I had half a chanst I could earnmy livin' easy enough. "

His jaw hardened. He couldn't blind himself to the fact that he wasdisappointed in Milly's niece; so disappointed that he feltphysically sick. Had he been less fanatical, less obstinate, lessfixed upon his monomaniacal purpose, he would have settled asufficient sum upon her, and gone his way. His disappointment, sofar from turning him aside, hardened his determination to carry thething through. He had so acutely felt the lack of money himself, that now, perhaps, he overestimated its power. Whatever money couldaccomplish for this girl, money should do. The zeal of the reformergathered in him. 

"I wish, " he explained, "to adopt you--in a sense. I have nochildren, and it is my desire that you should bear the Champneysname--for your Aunt Milly's sake. I propose, then, to take you awayfrom these surroundings, and to educate you as a lady bearing thename of Champneys should be educated. You will have to study, and towork hard. You will have to obey orders instantly and implicitly. Doyou follow me?"

"As far as you go, " said she, cautiously. "Go on: I'm waitin' tohear more. "

"Aside from yourself, I have but one close relative, my brother'sson. You two, then, are to be my children. "

"How old is he?"

"About twenty. "

"But if you got a real heir, where do I come in?" she wondered. 

"Share and share alike. He's my nephew: you're Milly's niece. "

She reflected, a puzzled frown coming to her forehead. 

"You're aimin' to give us both a whole lot, ain't you? But I'vefound out nobody don't get somethin' for nothin' in this world. Where's the nigger in the woodpile? What do I do for what I get?"

"You make yourself worthy of the name you are to bear. Youplace yourself unreservedly in the hands of those appointed toinstruct--and--ah--form you. Make no mistake on this head: it willbe far from easy for you. "

"Nothin' 's ever been easy for me, first nor yet last, " said NancySimms. "So _that_ 's nothin' new to me. I want you should speak outplain. What you really mean I'm to do?"

For a moment the iron-willed old man hesitated; he remembered youngPeter, eager, hopeful, crystal-clear young Peter, back there inSouth Carolina. He looked challengingly and fiercely at the girl, asif his bold will meant to seize upon her as upon a piece of clay andmold it to his desire. Then, "I mean you're to marry, " he saidcrisply. 

"Me? Who to? You?" asked Nancy, blankly. 

"_Me_!" gasped Mr. Champneys. "Are you demented?"

"Well, then, who?" she asked, not unnaturally. "And why?"

"The other heir. My nephew. Peter Champneys. Because such is my willand intention, " said he, peremptorily and haughtily, bending hiseagle-look upon her. 

"What sort of a feller is he? He ain't got nothin' the matter withhim, has he?"

A wild desire to slap Milly's niece came upon Chadwick Champneys atthat. 

"He is my nephew!" he said haughtily. "Why on earth should he haveanything the matter with him?"

It occurred to him then that it mightn't be such an easy matter toget a high-spirited young fellow, with ideals, to take on trust thisyoung female person with the red hair. He felt grateful that he hadexacted a promise from Peter. The Champneyses always kept theirpromises. 

"I'm wonderin'!" said Nancy, staring at him. "Why are you so bent onhim an' me marryin'? You say it's just because you want it, but thatain't no explanation, nor yet no reason. After all, it's me. I gotthe right to ask why, then, ain't I? You can't expect to walk inunbeknownst an' tell a girl you want she should marry a feller she'snever laid eyes on, without bein' asked a few questions, can you?"

He knew he must try to make it clear to her, as he had tried to makeit clear to Peter. Peter, being Peter, had presently understood. Whether this girl would understand remained to be seen. 

"I wish you to marry, because, as I have already told you, you aremy wife's niece, and Peter is my brother's son. I have of late yearsbecome possessed of--well, let's say a great deal of money, and Ipropose that this money shall go to my own people--but on my ownconditions. These conditions being that it shall all be kept in theChampneys name. It is an old name, a good name, it was once awealthy and an honored name. It must be made so again. I say, itmust be made so again! There are but you two to make it so. The boyis the last, on my side; and you're Milly's. Milly must have hershare in the upbuilding--as if you were her child. Now, do yousee?"

"Good Lord! ain't you got funny notions, though! Who ever heard thebeat? One name's about as good as another, seems to me. But seein'you've got the money to pay for your notions, them that's willin' totake your money ought to be willin' to humor 'em. " Nancy, in herway, had what might be called a sense of ethics. 

"You agree?"

"Well, I just got to make a change, Mr. Champneys. I can't standthis place no more. If I was to say 'No' to you, an' stay here, an'have time to think it over, down in that sizzlin' kitchen, with hersquallin' at me all day, I'd end up in a padded cell. If I was toleave just so, I'd maybe get me a job in a shop at less than I couldlive on honest. You see?"

He nodded, and she went on somberly:

"So I'm most at the end of my tether. It's real curious you shouldcome just now, with me feelin' that desperate I been minded to walkout anyhow an' risk things. You sure that feller ain't got nothin'ails him? Not crazy, nor a dope, nor nothin'?"

"My nephew is perfectly normal in every respect, " said Mr. Champneys, frigidly. 

"What's he look like in the face?" she demanded. "Is he as ugly asme?"

"He is a gentleman, " said Peter's uncle, even more frigidly. "As tohis appearance, I believe he resembles me. At least, he looks likewhat I used to look like. "

"Well--I've seen worse, " said she, and fetched a sigh. 

A sudden thought struck him. "Perhaps, " he suggested, makingallowance for the sentimentality of extreme youth, "perhaps you havesome notion about--er--ah--marrying for love, or something likethat? There may be some young fellow you think you fancy? Youngpeople in your--ah--that is, in the circumstances to which youunfortunately have been subjected, often rush into ill-consideredentanglements. "

"In _love_? Who, me? Who with, for Gawdsake? One feller means justas much to me as another feller: they're all alike, " said she, contemptuously. "I just asked about him for--for references. Youknow what you're gettin', an' I got a right to know what I'mgettin'. "

"You have: so please remember that you are getting a considerableportion of the Champneys money for doing what you're told to do, "said he. 

"I never knew till you told me so that the Champneyses had anymoney. But if it's there, I'm willing to do what I'm told, for myshare. Why not? There ain't nothin' better for me, nowheres, nohow. "

"I am to understand, then, that you agree?"

"What else can I do but agree?" she asked, twisting a fold of herapron. 

The parlor door opened with violence; a thick-set man with a baldhead and a red face, followed by a shrewish, thin woman with pinchedlips, appeared on the threshold. 

"I s'pose, " said the woman, with elaborate courtesy, "we kin comein our own parler, Miss Simms? Has you resigned your job that yougotta pick out the parler to set in whilst I'm doin' your work foryou?"

Nancy's visitor rose, and at sight of the tall old gentleman an avidcuriosity appeared in both vulgar faces. 

"Mr. Champneys, this is the lady an' gentleman I live with and workfor without wages, Mister an' Missis Baxter. Mister an' MissisBaxter, this gentleman is Aunt Milly's husband, an' he's come to seeme; an' you ain't called to show off the manners you ain't got!"

"Well, why couldn't you say who he was at first, an' have done withit?" grumbled the man. "But no, you gotta upset the whole house!She's the provokin'est piece o' flesh on the created earth, when shestarts, " he explained to the visitor. 

"To aggravate an' torment them that's raised her an' kept her out ofthe asylum an' fed an' clothed an' learned her like a daughter, iswhat Nancy Simms 'd rather do than eat an' drink, " supplemented Mrs. Baxter, acridly. 

Nancy snorted. Mr. Champneys said nothing. 

"Well! An' so you're poor Milly's husband!" said the woman, staringat him. "You wasn't so awful anxious to find out nothin' about herkith an' kin, was you? Not that I'm any kin, " she added, hastily. "When all's said an' done, Nancy ain't no real kin, neither. You an'her's only connected by marriage, but bein' as you have come atlast, I hope she'll have more gratefulness to you than she's got for_me_. As you ain't never done nothin' by her, an' I have, she's sureto. "

"You make me so sick!" Nancy, with her hands on her hips, glared atthe pair. "Anything you ever done for me you paid yourself fordouble. If you don't owe me nothin', like you said this mornin', Idon't owe you nothin', neither, so it's quits. You'd oughta be gladI'm goin'. "

"Goin'? Who's goin'? Goin' where?" Mrs. Baxter's voice rose shrilly. "Now, ain't it always so? You take a orphan child to your bosom an'after many days it'll grow up like a viper, an' the minute your back's turned it'll spit in your face!"

"Goin', hey? Where you goin' to when you go?" demanded Mr. Baxter, hoarsely. 

"She is going with me, " said Mr. Champneys. The whole situationnauseated him; he felt that if he didn't escape from that red-plushparlor very soon, he was going to be violently sick. "I am now in aposition to look after my wife's niece, and I propose to do so. Fromwhat I have heard from you both, I should think you would be ratherglad than sorry to part with her. "

"You won't gain nothin' by raisin' a row, " put in Nancy, in a hardvoice. "I'm goin'. Make up your minds to _that_. "

"Oh, you are, are you, Miss Simms? That's all the thanks I mightaexpected from you, you red-headed freckle-face! I sure hope he'llget his fill of you before he's done! Walkin' off like a niggerwithout a minute's notice, an' me with my house full of men comin'to their meals they've paid for an' has to have!"

"Hire another nigger an' pay 'em somethin', so's they won't quitwithout notice, then, " suggested the girl, unfeelingly. 

"How you know this feller's Milly Champneys's husband?" asked Mr. Baxter. "Who's to prove it?"

Nancy looked at him and laughed. But Milly Champneys's husband saidhastily: "Let us go, for God's sake! If there's a telephone here, ring for a cab or a taxi. How soon can you be ready?"

"I can walk out bag and baggage in ten minutes, " she replied, anddarted from the room. 

The South Carolina Don Quixote looked at the sordid, angry pairbefore him. He felt like one in an evil dream, a dream that degradedhim, and Milly's memory, and Milly's niece. 

"If you wish to make any inquiries, I shall be at the Palace Hoteluntil this evening, " he told them. "And--would a hundred dollarssoothe your feelings?"

The woman's eyes slitted; the man's bulged. 

"You musta come by money since Milly died, " said Mrs. Baxter. "Yes, sure we'll take the hundred. We ain't refusin' money. It's littleenough, too, considerin' all I done for that girl!"

Mr. Champneys counted out ten crisp bills into the greedy hand, andthe three waited silently until Nancy appeared. Champneys almostscreamed at sight of her. His heart sank like lead, and the task hehad set for himself of a sudden assumed monumental proportions. 

"I ain't took nothin' out of this house but the few things belongin'to my mother. You're welcome to the rest, " she told the woman, briefly. The man she ignored altogether. 

A cab rattled up to the door. In silence the aristocratic old man inwhite linen, and the red-headed girl in a cheap embroideredshirt-waist, a dark, shabby skirt, and a hat that was an outrage onmillinery, climbed in. There were no farewells. The girl settledback, clutching her hand-satchel. "Giddap, " said the driver, andcracked his whip. The cab rolled away from the dingy, smelly house, and turned a corner. So rode Nancy Simms out of her old life intoher new one. 

CHAPTER IX

PRICE-TAGS

When Mr. Chadwick Champneys had visualized to himself Milly's niece, it had always been in Milly's image and likeness--sweet, fair, brave, merry, gentle, and strong. Milly's niece, of course, would becompanionable. He would only have to put upon her the finishingtouches, so to speak, embellish her natural graces with a finersocial polish. At the very worst, he hadn't dreamed that anybodybelonging to Milly could be like this red-headed Nancy. Perhaps, though, she would be less objectionable when she was properly clad. 

"Drive to the best department store in town, " he told the driver, briefly. 

Once in the store he summoned the manager and briefly stated hisneeds. The young lady must be furnished with everything she needed, and as quickly as possible. She needed, it appeared, abouteverything. The shrewd young Jew looked her over with his trainedeyes. 

"Should you prefer our Miss Smith to proffer aid and advice? MissSmith is an expert. "

Mr. Champneys reacted almost with terror against Nancy Simms'sprobable choice. 

"See that the young lady gets the best you have; and make MissSmith the final authority, " he said, briefly. 

At the end of two hours Nancy returned, the two clerks and themanager accompanying her. The store people were slightly flushed, Nancy herself sullenly acquiescent. For the first time in her lifeshe had had the opportunity to buy enough clothes of her own, andyet she hadn't been allowed to choose what she really wanted. Gentlybut inexorably they had rejected the garments Nancy selected, smoothly insisting that these weren't "just the thing" for her. Theyslid her into quiet-colored, plainly cut things that she wouldn'thave looked at if left to her own devices. It took their unitedtact, firmness, and diplomacy to steer Nancy over the reefs of whatthe manager called hired-girl taste. 

Nancy was silent when she appeared before Mr. Champneys in her newclothes. She thought that if she had been allowed to pick them outfor herself, instead of having been hypnotized--"bulldozed" is whatshe called it--into plain old dowdy duds by two shopwomen and a Jewmanager, she'd have given him more for his money. 

Mr. Champneys, looking her over critically, admitted that the girlwas at least presentable. From hat to shoes she gave the impressionof being well and carefully dressed. But her aspect breatheddissatisfaction, her bearing was ungraciousness itself; nor did thetwo women clerks, trained to patience, tact, and politeness as theywere, altogether manage to conceal their unfavorable opinion ofher; even the clever, smiling young Jew, used to managing womenshoppers, failed to hide the fact that he was more than glad to getthis one off his hands. 

Nancy hadn't taken time to eat her dinner before leaving the Baxterhouse, nor had Mr. Champneys had his lunch. They drove to his hotel, both hungry, and had their first meal together. Nancy hadn't beentrained to linger over meals: one ate as much as one could get, inas short a space of time as possible. Mr. Champneys was grateful toa merciful Providence that he had ordered that repast served in hisprivate sitting-room. 

Her hunger quite satisfied, she shoved her plate aside, sighed, stretched luxuriously, and yawned widely, like the healthy animalshe was. 

"What we got to do now? Them women at the store said they'd get therest of my things here, along with the travelin'-bags, in a couplahours. I got a swell suit-case, didn't I? And oh, them toiletthings! But between now and then, what you want I should do?"

It was then half-after four, and the train they were to take didn'tleave until half-after seven. 

"What would you like to do?" he asked. 

"Can I go to the movies?"

He thought it an excellent idea. It would give him some idea of thegirl's mental processes; the psychology of the proletariat, hethought, could be studied to advantage in their reaction to themovies. 

He sat beside her for an unhappy hour while a famous screencomedian did the things with his feet and his backbone for which hismanagers paid him more in one year than the United States pays itsPresidents in ten. At each impossible climax Nancy shrieked withlaughter, the loud, delighted laughter of a pleased child. Herenthusiasm for the slapstick artist provoked him, but at the sametime that gay laughter tickled his ears pleasantly. There's plentyof good in a girl who can laugh like that! After the grimacinggenius there followed a short drama of stage mother-love, in whichthe angel-child dies strenuously in his little white bed. Nancydabbled her eyes, and blew her nose with what her captious companionthought unnecessary vigor. 

"Ain't it movin'?"

"Yes. Moving pictures, " was the cold response. And to himself he wassaying, defiantly: "Well, what else could I expect? She's not a whitworse than the vast majority! She's got the herd-taste. That'sperfectly natural, under the circumstances. When I get her well inhand, she will be different. "

"You don't like funny things, an' you got no feelin' for sadthings, " she ruminated, as they left the theater. In silence theywalked back to their hotel. 

The bulk of her purchases had been sent from the store, and a hugeparcel awaited her in her room. It enchanted her to go over thesenew possessions, to gloat over her new toilet articles, to sniff atthe leather of her traveling-kit. The smell of new leather wasalways to linger subconsciously in Nancy's memory; it was the smellof adventure and of change. 

They dined together in Mr. Champney's sitting-room, although shewould have preferred the public dining-room. Mr. Champneys was anabstemious man, but the girl was frankly greedy with the naïve greedof one who had been heretofore stinted. She had seldom had what shereally craved, and at best she had never had enough of it. To beallowed to order what and as much as she pleased, to be servedfirst, to have her wishes consulted at all, was a new, amazing, andaltogether delightful experience. Everything was brand-new to her. 

She had never before traveled in a sleeping-car. It delighted her towatch the deft porter make up the berths; she decided that thepeculiar etiquette of sleeping-cars required that all travelers, male and female, should be driven to bed by lordly colored men inwhite jackets, and there left in cramped misery with nothing but anuncertain, rustling curtain between them and the world; this, too, at an hour when nobody is sleepy. Nancy wondered to see free whitecitizens meekly obey their dusky tyrant. She got into her own lowerberth, grateful that she hadn't to climb like a cat into an upper. 

She lay there staring, while the train whizzed through the night. This had been the most momentous day of her life. That morning shehad been the hopeless slavey in the Baxter kitchen, an unpaid drudgewith her hand against every man and every man's hand against her. She had been bullied and beaten, she had eaten leavings, and worncast-offs. Since her mother's death she had known the life of anuncared-for child, the minimum of care measured against the maximumof labor squeezed out of it. Until to-day her fate had been the fateof those who approach the table of Life with unshod feet andunwashen hands. 

And to-night all that was changed. She was here, flying farther andfarther away from all she had known. She wondered if she were notdreaming it. Panicky at that, she sat up in her berth, pressed thebutton that turned on the electric light, slipped her new kimonoabout her, and looked long and earnestly at the new clothes withinreach of her hand. There they were, real to her touch; there was herfine new hand-bag; and most real of all was the feel of the money init. Nancy fingered the money, thoughtfully smoothing out the bills. "As soon as we are settled, you will have your allowance, and Ishall of course provide you with a check-book, " Mr. Champneys hadtold her. "In the meanwhile you will naturally want money for suchlittle things as you may need. " And he had given her twentyfive-dollar bills. She had received the money dumbly. This had beenthe crowning miracle--for she had never in the whole course of herlife had so much as one five-dollar bill to do as she pleased with. She sat looking at the money, concrete proof of the reality of thechange that had befallen her, and wondered, and wondered. With asigh of content she thrust the hand-bag under her pillow, foldedher kimono at the foot of her berth, switched out the light, andpresently fell asleep. 

In his berth opposite hers, Mr. Chadwick Champneys, more sleeplesseven than Nancy, was tabulating his estimate of the young woman hehad acquired. It ran something like this:

Looks: bad; _may_ improve. 

Manners: worse; _must_ improve. Particularly in speech. 

Appetite: that of the seventeen-year locust. Must be restrained, toprevent an early death. 

Character in general: suspend judgment until further study. 

General summary of personal appearance: Nice teeth on which a littledentistry will work wonders. Not a bad figure, but doesn't know howto carry herself; has a villainous fashion of slouching, with herhands on her hips. Plenty of hair, but of terrifying redness; sullenexpression of the eyes; fiendish profusion of freckles: may have tobe skinned. Excellent nose. Speaks with appalling frankness at timesbut is not talkative. 

What must be done for her? _Everything_. 

He groaned, turned over, and after a while managed to sleep. Sufficient to the day was the red hair thereof; he couldn't affordto lie awake worrying about to-morrow. 

He had long since decided upon New York as a residence until all hisplans had matured. One had greater freedom to act, and far moreprivacy, in so large a city. They would stay at some quiet hoteluntil after the marriage; then he and Nancy would occupy the househe had recently purchased, in the West Seventies. It was a fine oldhouse with a glimpse of near-by Central Park for an outlook, andwhat he had paid for it would have purchased half Riverton. Hewanted its large, high-ceilinged rooms to be furnished as the oldhouse in Carolina had been furnished, this being his standard of allthat was desirable. He wished for Peter's wife such a background asPeter's forebears had known; and Peter's wife must be trained toappreciate and to fit into it, that's all!

The New York hotel, with its deft and deferential servants whoseemed to anticipate her wishes, its luxury, its music, itsshifting, splendidly dressed patrons, its light and glitter, filledNancy with the same wonder that had fallen upon Aladdin when hefound himself in the magic cave with all its treasures gleamingbefore his astounded, ignorant young eyes. 

She hadn't thought the whole world contained so many people as shesaw in New York in one day. Fifth Avenue amazed and absorbed morethan it delighted her. The expressionless expressions of the women, their hand-made faces, their smart shoes, the way they wore theirhair, the way they wore their clothes; the men's air of being welldressed, of having money to spend, of appearing importantly busy atany cost; a certain pretentiousness, as if everything were shown atonce and there were no reserve of power, nothing held in disciplinedabeyance, interested her profoundly. She had a native shrewdness. 

"They're just like the same kind of folks back home, but there'smore of 'em here, " she decided. 

The huge policemen she saw at every turn, lordly and massivemonoliths rising superbly above lesser humanity, filled her with thedeepest respect and admiration. The mere policemen in her home townwere to these magnificent beings as daubs to Titians, as pigmies toTitans. If in those first days the girl had been called upon to dothe seven bendings and the nine knockings before the one New Yorkinstitution which impressed her most profoundly, she undoubtedlywould have singled out one of those mastodons a-bossing everythingand everybody, with a prize-ham paw. 

She was cold to the Woolworth Building, as indifferent to theSherman monument as Mr. Chadwick Champneys was acridly averse to it, and not at all interested in the Public Library. The Museum ofNatural History failed to win any applause from her; theMetropolitan Museum bored her interminably, there was so much of it. Most of the antiquities she thought so much junk, and the Egyptianand Assyrian remains were so obviously the plunder of old graveyardsthat she couldn't for the life of her understand why anybody shouldwish to keep them above ground. 

Mr. Champneys explained, patiently. He wished, by way of aiding andabetting the education he had in view for her, to arouse herinterest in these remains of a lost and vanished world. 

She stood by the glass case that contains the old brown mummiedpriest with his shaven skull, his long, narrow feet, his flattenednose and fleshless hands, and the mark of the embalmer's stone knifestill visible upon his poor old empty stomach. And she didn't likehim at all. There was something grisly and repellent to her in theidea that living people should make of this poor old dead man aspectacle for idle curiosity. 

"There was a feller in our town used to keep stuffed snakes an'monkeys an' birds, an' dried grasshoppers an' bugs an' things likethat in glass cases; but I never dreamed in all my born life thatanybody'd want to keep dried people, " she commented disgustedly. "Idon't see no good in it: it's sickenin'. " She turned her back uponmummied Egypt with a gesture of aversion. "For Gawdsake let's go seesomethin' alive!"

He looked at her a bit helplessly. Plainly, this young person'seducation wasn't to be tackled off-hand! Agreeably to her wishes hetook her to a certain famous shop filled at that hour withfashionable women wonderfully groomed and gowned. Here, seated at asmall table, lingering over her ice-cream, Nancy was all observanteyes and ears. Not being a woman, however, Mr. Champneys was notaware that her proper education was distinctly under way. 

A day or two later he took her to the Bronx Zoo. Here he caught aglimpse of Nancy Simms that made him prick up his ears and pull hismustache, thoughtfully. He had discovered how appallingly ignorantshe was, how untrained, how undisciplined. To-day he saw how reallyyoung she was. She ran from cage to cage. Her laughter made thecorners of his mouth turn up sympathetically. 

There was something pathetic in her eager enjoyment, something sofresh and unspoiled in that laughter of hers that one felt drawn toher. When she forgot to narrow her eyes, or to furrow her forehead, or to screw up her mouth, she was almost attractive, despite herfreckles! Her eyes, of an agaty gray-green, were transparentlyhonest. She had brushed the untidy mop of red hair, parted it in themiddle, and wore it in a thick bright plait, tied with a blackribbon. She wore a simple middy blouse and a well-made blue skirt. Altogether, she looked more like a normal young girl than he had yetseen her. 

The Zoo enchanted her. She hurried from house to house. Once, shetold him, when she was a little kid, a traveling-man had taken herto a circus, because he was sorry for her. That was the happiest dayshe had ever spent; it stood out bright and golden in her memory. There had been a steam-piano hoo-hooing "Wait till the clouds rollby, Jenny. " Wasn't a steam-piano perfectly grand? She liked itbetter than anything she'd ever heard. She'd long ago made up hermind that if she was ever really rich and had a place of her own, she'd have a big circus steam-piano out in the barn, and she'd playit on Sundays and holidays--_hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo_--likethat, you know. 

And to-day reminded her of that long-ago circus day, with even moreanimals to look at! She had never seen as many different animals asshe wanted to see, until now. She admitted that she sort of lovedwild things--she even liked the wild smell of 'em. There wassomething in here--she touched her breast lightly--that felt kin tothem. 

There was not the usual horde of visitors, that day being a pay-day. A bearded man with a crutch was showing one or two visitors around, and at a word from him a keeper unlocked a cage door, to allow ayoung chimpanzee to leap into his arms. It hugged him, exhibitingextravagant affection; it thrust out its absurd muzzle to kiss hischeek, and patted him with its small, leathery, unpleasantly humanhands. 

"It's just like any other baby, " said the keeper, petting it. 

"I sure hope it ain't like any _I_'ll ever have, " said Nancy, sonaïvely that the man with the crutch laughed. He looked at herkeenly. 

"Go over and see the baby lion, " he suggested; and he added, smiling, "It's got red hair. "

"It can afford to have red hair, so long as it's a lion, " saidNancy, sturdily; and she added, reflectively: "I'd any day ratherhave me a lion-child with red hair, than a monkey-child with anykind of hair. "

Somehow that blunt comment pleased Mr. Champneys. When he took hischarge back to their hotel that evening, it was with something likea glimmering of real hope in his heart. 

The next day, as he joined her at lunch, he said casually:

"I had a message from my nephew this morning. He will be here in afew days. "

She turned pale; the hand that held her fork began to tremble. 

"Is it--soon?" she asked, almost unaudibly. 

"The sooner the better. I think we'd better have it here, in oursitting-room, say at noon on Wednesday. Don't be seared, " he added, kindly. "All you have to do is just to stand still and say, 'Iwill, ' at the right moment. "

"An'--an' then?"

"My nephew's boat sails at about two. He drives to the pier. You andI go to our apartment, until our own house is ready for us. You seehow nicely it's all arranged. "

"I ain't--I mean, I don't have to see him nor talk to him before, doI?" She looked panic-stricken. "Because I won't! I can't! There'ssome things I just can't stummick, an' meetin' that feller beforethe very last minute I got to do it, is one of 'em. "

"Of course, of course! You sha'n't meet him until the very lastminute. Though he's a mighty nice chap, my nephew Peter is--a mightynice chap. "

"He must be! We're both of us a mighty nice pair, ain't we? Himgoin' one way an' me goin', another way, all by our lonesomes!"

"The arrangement does not suit you?" he inquired politely. 

"Oh, it suits me all right, " she said, after a moment. "I said I'ddo what I was told, an' I'll do it--I ain't the sort backs down. ButI ain't none too anxious to get any better acquainted with thisfeller than what I am right now. I ain't stuck on men, noways. "

"You are only sixteen, my dear, " he reminded her. 

"Women know as much about men when they're sixteen as they do whenthey're sixty, " said she, coldly. "There ain't but one thing tobelieve about 'em--an' that is, you best not believe any of 'em. "

"I hope, " said he, stiffly, "that you have no just cause todisbelieve me, Nancy? Have I been unkind to you?"

"It ain't _me_ you're either kind or yet unkind to, " she told him. "It's Aunt Milly's niece: you're a little crazy on that head, Iguess. It's Aunt Milly's niece you aim to marry to that nephew ofyours. If I was just me myself without bein' any kin to her, youwouldn't wipe your old shoes on me. " She gave him a clear, levellook. "Let's don't have any lies about this thing, " she begged. "I'ma poor hand for lies. I know, and I want you should know I know, anddeal with me honest. "

She surprised him. Her next question surprised him even more. 

"What about my weddin'-dress?" she demanded. "I got nothin' fittin'to be married in. "

"I should think a plain, tailored suit--" he began. 

"Then you got another think comin' to you, " she said, in a hardvoice. "I got nothin' to do with pickin' out the groom: you fixedthat to suit yourself. But I don't let no man alive pick out mydress. I want a weddin'-dress. I want one I want myself. I want itshould be white satin' an' real bride-like. I've saw pictures ofbrides, an' I know what's due 'em. I ain't goin' to resemble just memyself, standin' up to be married in a coat-suit you get somefloor-walker to pick out for me. White satin or nothin'. An' a veiland white satin slippers. "

He looked at her helplessly. "White satin, my dear? And a veil?"

"Yes, sir. An' a shower bokay, " said she, firmly. "I got to insiston the shower bokay. If I got to be a bride I'll be my kind of brideand not yours. "

"My dear child, of course, of course. You shall choose your ownfrock, " said he, hastily. "Only--under the circumstances, I can'thelp thinking that something plain, something quite plain andsimple, would be more in keeping. "

"With me? 'T wouldn't, neither. It'd be something fierce, an' Iwon't stand for it. I don't mind bein' buried in somethin' plain, but I won't get married in it. Ain't it hard enough as it is, without me havin' to feel more horrid than what I do already? I wantsomething to make me feel better about it, and there ain't anythingcan do that except it's a dress I want myself. "

Mr. Champneys capitulated, horse and foot. 

"We will go to some good shop immediately after lunch, and you shallchoose your own wedding-dress, " he promised, resignedly, marvelingat the psychology of women. 

It was a very fine forenoon, with a hint of coming autumn in theair. Even an imminent bridegroom couldn't altogether dampen thedelight of whizzing through those marvelous streets in a taxi. Thencame the even more marvelous world of the department store, which, "by reason of the multitude of all kind of riches, in all sorts ofthings, in blue clothes, and broidered work, and in chests of richapparel, " put one in mind of the great fairs of Tyre when Tyre was aprince of the sea, as set forth in the Twenty-seventh Chapter ofEzekiel. 

Nancy would have been tempted to marry Bluebeard himself for thesake of some of the "rich apparel" that obliging saleswomen weresetting forth for her inspection. Getting married began to assume arosier aspect, due probably to the reflection of the filmy and lacymiracles that she might have for the mere choosing. She would almosthave been willing to be hanged, let alone married, in a pink-silkcombination. 

The saleswomen scented mystery and romance here. The girl was nobeauty, but then, she was astonishingly young; and the old gentlemanwas very distinguished-looking--quite a personage. They thought atfirst that he was the prospective bridegroom; learning that hewasn't deepened the mystery but didn't destroy the romance. Americans are all but hysterically sentimental. Sentimentality is anational disease, which rages nowhere more virulently than amongwomen clerks. Would they rush through the necessary alterations, setan entire force to work overtime, if necessary, in order to havethat girl's wedding-dress at her hotel on time? _Wouldn't_ they, though! And they did. Gown, gloves, veil, shoes, fan, everything;all done up with the most exquisite care in reams of soft tissuepaper. 

She was to be married on the noon of Wednesday. On Tuesday nightNancy locked her door, opened her boxes, and spread her weddingfinery on her bed. The dress was a magnificent one, as magnificent adress as a great store can turn out; its lines had been designed bya justly famous designer. There was a slip, with as much lace ascould be put upon one garment; such white satin slippers as she hadnever hoped to wear; and the texture of the silk stockings almostmade her shout for joy. Achilles was vulnerable in the heel: fly, O man, from the woman who is indifferent to the lure of a silkstocking!

Nancy got into her kimono and turned on the hot water in her bath. At Baxters' there had never been enough hot water with which to washthe dishes, not to mention Nancy herself. Here there was enough toscald all the dishes--and the people--on earth, it seemed to her. She could hardly get used to the delight and the luxury of all thehot water and scented soap and clean towels she wanted, in abath-room all to herself. Think of not having to wait one's turn, avery limited turn at that, in a spotted tin tub set in afive-by-seven hole in the wall, with an unshaded gas-jet sizzlingabout a foot above one's head! The shower-bath was to her anadventure--like running out in the rain, when one was a child. Shecouldn't get into the tub, and slide down into the warm, scentedwater, without a squeal of pleasure. 

She skipped back to her bedroom, red as a boiled lobster, a rope ofdamp red hair hanging down her back, sat down on the floor, and drewon those silk stockings, and loved them from a full heart. Shewiggled her toes ecstatically. 

"O Lord!" sighed Nancy, fervently, "I wish You'd fix it so's folkscould walk on their hands for a change! My feet are so much prettierthan my face!"

Slipping on the satin slippers, she teetered over and reverentlytouched the satin frock. All these glories for her, Nancy Simms, whohad worn Mrs. Baxter's wretched old clothes cut down for her!

She was afraid to refold the dress, almost afraid to touch it, lestshe rumple it. It looked so shining, so lustrous, so fairy-like andglorious and almost impossible, glistening there on her bed!Carefully she smoothed a fold, slightly awry. Reverently she placedthe thin tulle veil beside it, as well as the rest of her Cinderellafinery, including the satin slippers and the fine silk stockingswhich her soul loved. 

She took the two pillows off her bed, secured two huge bath-towelsfrom her bath-room by way of a mattress and a coverlet; and with alast passionate glance at the splendors of her wedding-frock, andnever a thought for the unknown groom because of whom she was to donit, the bride switched off her light, curled herself up like a cat, and in five minutes was sound asleep on the floor. 

CHAPTER X

THE DEAR DAM-FOOL

"Dis place, " said Emma Campbell, as the snaggle-toothed sky-line ofNew York unfolded before her staring eyes, "ain't never growed upnatchel out o' de groun'; it done tumbled down out o' de sky en gotbusted uneven in de fall. "

Clinging to the bird-cage in which her cat Satan crouched, shefurther remarked, as the taxi snaked its sinuous way toward thequarters which a friendly waiter on the steamship had warmlyrecommended to her:

"All I scared ob is, dat dis unforchunit cat 's gwine to lose 'ismin'. Seein' places like dis is 'nough to make any natchel cat runcrazy. "

Whereupon Emma relapsed into a colossal silence. She was fed up onsurprises and they were palling upon her palate, which fortunatelywasn't down. Things had been happening so fast that she couldn'tkeep step with them. To begin with, Peter had preferred to comenorth by sea, and although Emma had been raised on the coast, although she was used to the capricious tide-water rivers which thismorning may be lamb-like and to-night raging lions, although shehad crossed Caliboga Sound in rough weather and been rolled aboutlike a ninepin, that had been, so to speak, near the shore-line. This was different: here was more water than Emma had thought was inthe entire world; and she had been assured that this wasn't abucketful to what she was yet to see! Emma fell back upon silentprayer. 

Then had come this astounding city jutting jaggedly into the clouds, and through whose streets poured in a never-ceasing, turgid flow allthe peoples of the earth. And, more astounding than waterful sea andpeopleful city, was the last, crowning bit of news: _Peter was goingto be married_! And he didn't know the young lady he was to marry, except that she was a Miss Anne Simms. He knew no more about hisbride than she, Emma, knew. 

That was all Emma needed to reduce her to absolute befuddlement. When food and drink were placed before her, she partook of both, mechanically. If one spoke to her, she stared like a large blackowl. And when Peter had driven away in the taxi, leaving her for thetime being in the care of a highly respectable colored family, whosechildren, born and raised in New York, looked upon the old SouthCarolina woman as they might have looked upon a visitor from Mars, Emma shut and locked her door, took the cat out of his cage, cuddledhim in her arms, tried to projeck, --and couldn't. The feel ofSatan's soft, warm body comforted her inexpressibly. He, at least, was real in a shifting universe. She began to rock herself, slowly, rhythmically, back and forth. Then the New York negroes heard ashrill, sweet, wailing voice upraised in one of those speretuals inwhich Africa concentrates her ages of anguish into a half-articulatecry. In it were the voices of their fathers long gone, come backfrom the rice-fields and the cane-brakes and the cotton-rows, voicesso sweet and plaintive that they were haunted. 

 "I we-ent out een de wilderness, En I fell upon--mah--knees, En I called upon--mah--Savior, Whut sh-all I do--for--save? He replied: _Halleluian!_ Sinnuh, sing! _Halleluian!_ Ma-ry, Mar-tha, _halle_-- _Hallelu_-- _Halleluian_!"

"Good Lord!" breathed the oldest boy, who was a high-school scholar. 

"How weird and primitive!" said the daughter, who was to be ateacher. 

But the father's eyes narrowed, and the hair of his scalp prickled. 'Way back yonder his mother had sung like that, and his heart leapedto it. If he hadn't been afraid of his educated and modern children, he would have wept. Emma didn't know that, of course. She kissed thebig cat, placed him carefully on the bed, and lay down beside him inthe attitude of a corpse. She was resigning herself to whatevershould happen. 

Peter, upon telephoning his uncle, had been advised to prowl aboutuntil noon, when they were to lunch together. Wherefore he foundhimself upon the top of a bus, rolling about New York, seeing thatof which he had read. He didn't see it as Nancy saw it; the cityappeared to him as might some subtle, hard, and fascinatingly plainwoman whose face had flashes of piercing and unforgetable beauty, beauty unexpected and unlike any other. Unlike the beauty of theCarolina coast, say, which was a part of his consciousness, therewas here something sinister and splendid. 

He got off at the Metropolitan Museum. He wished to see with his owneyes some of those pictures Claribel Spring had described to him, among them Fortuny's "Spanish Lady. " He stood for a dazzled intervalbefore her, so disdainful, passionate, provocative, and soprofoundly human. When he moved away, he sighed. He wasn't wonderingif he himself should ever meet and love such a lady; but rather whenhe should be able so to portray in a human face all the secrets ofthe body and of the soul. 

At lunch his uncle, remarking his earnest face, said regretfully:

"Oh, Peter, why couldn't you be content to be a rich man and playthe game according to Hoyle? Art? Of course! You could afford to buythe best any of 'em could do, instead of trying to sell somethingyou do yourself. Art is a rich man's recreation. Artists exist inorder that rich men may buy their wares. "

"Rich men were invented for the use of poor artists: it's the onlyexcuse they have for existing at all, that I can see, " said Peter, composedly. 

"But you'd have a so much better time buying, than selling--orrather, trying to sell, " said one of the rich men, smilinggood-humoredly. 

"I'll have a better time working, than in either buying or selling, "said Peter, and looked at his uncle with uncompromising eyes. 

Mr. Chadwick Champneys sighed, face to face with Champneysobstinacy. Peter would keep his promise to the letter, but asidefrom that he would live his own life in his own way. 

He had stared, and his jaw dropped, when he was calmly informed thatPeter intended to take old Emma Campbell and a black cat along withhim. Then he had laughed, almost hysterically, and incidentallydiscovered that being laughed at didn't move Peter in the least; hewas too used to it. He allowed you to laugh at him, smiled a bitwryly himself, and went right ahead doing exactly what he had setout to do. This sobered Mr. Champneys. 

"Peter, " said he, after a pause, "allow me to ask you a singlequestion: do you propose to go through life toting old niggers andblack cats?"

"Uncle Chad, " replied Peter, "do you remember how sweet potatoesroasted in the ashes of a colored person's fire used to taste, whenyou were a little boy?"

A reminiscent glow spread over Uncle Chad's face. He shaded his eyeswith his hand, and stared under it at Peter. Something quizzicaland tender was in that look. 

"I see you do, " said Peter, with the same look. "Well, Uncle Chad, Emma used to roast those potatoes--and provide them too. Sometimesthey were all the dinner I had. Besides, " mused Peter, "when all'ssaid and done, nobody has more than a few friends from his cradle tohis grave. If I've got two, and they don't want to part with me, whyshould they have to?"

Mr. Chadwick Champneys spread out his hands. "Put like that, " headmitted, "why should they, indeed! Take 'em along if you like, Nephew. " And of a sudden he laughed again. "Oh, Peter!" he gasped, "you dear dam-fool!"

Peter had a strenuous afternoon. Reservations had to be secured forEmma, for whom he also purchased a long coat and a steamer rug. Hehimself had to have another suit: his uncle protested vehementlyagainst the nice new one he had bought in Charleston. 

At dusk he watched New York's lights come out as suddenly and asgoldenly as evening primroses. Riverton drowsing among itsimmemorial oaks beside the salty tide-water, the stars reflected inits many coves, the breath of the pines mingling with the wildbreath of the sea sweeping through it, the little, deserted brownhouse left like a last year's nest close to the water--how farremoved they were from this glittering giantess and her pulsatingpower! The electric lights winked and blinked, the roar of trafficarose in a multitudinous hum; and all this light and noise, therestless stir of an immense life, went to the head like wine. 

The streets were fiercely alive. Among the throngs of well-dressedpeople one caught swift glimpses of furtive, hurrying figures, andfaces that were danger signals. More than once a few words hissedinto Peter's ears made him turn pale. 

It was nearing midnight, and the street was virtually empty, when agirl who had looked at him sharply in passing turned and followedhim, and after a glance about to see that no policeman was in sight, stepped to his side and touched him on the elbow. Peter paused, andhis heart contracted. He had seen among the negroes the carelessunmorality as of animals. There was nothing of the prude in him, but, perhaps because all his life there had been a Vision before hiseyes, he had retained a singularly untroubled mental chastity. Hismind was clean with the cleanliness of knowledge. He could notpretend to misunderstand the girl. She was nothing but a child inyears. The immaturity of her body showed through her extremeclothes, and even her sharp, painted little face was immature, forall its bold nonchalance. She was smiling; but one sensed behind herdeliberate smile a wolfish anxiety. 

"Ain't you lonesome?" she asked, fluttering her eyelids, and givingthe young man a sly, upward glance. 

"No, " said Peter, very gently. 

"Aw, have a heart! Can't you stand a lady somethin' to eat an' maybesomethin' to drink?"

The boy looked at her gravely and compassionately. Although herparticular type was quite new to him, he recognized her for what shewas, a member of the oldest profession, the strange woman "whosemouth is smoother than oil, but whose feet go down to death. Hersteps take hold on hell. " Somehow he could not connect thoseterrible words with this sharp-featured, painted child. There wasnothing really evil about her except the brutal waste of her. 

"Will ten dollars be enough for you?" asked Peter. The wolfish lookin her eyes hurt him. He felt ashamed and sad. 

"Sure! Come on!" said she, and her face lighted. 

"Thank you, I have had my dinner, " said Peter. But she seized hisarm and hurried him down a side street, willy-nilly. "Seen a cop outof the tail of my eye, " she explained, hurriedly. "They're fierce, some of them cops. I can't afford to be took up. "

When they had turned the corner, Peter stopped, and took out hispocket-book. With another searching glance at her, he handed her onefive, and two ten-dollar bills. Perhaps that might save her--for awhile at least. He lifted his hat, bowed, and had started to walkaway, when she ran after him and clutched him by the arm. 

"Take back that fiver, " said she, "an' come and eat with me. If yougot a heart, come an' eat with me. I know a little place we can getsomethin' decent: it's a dago caffay, but it's clean an' decentenough. Will you come?" Her voice was shaking; he could see herlittle body trembling. 

"But why?" he asked, hesitatingly. 

"Not for no reason, except I--I got to make myself believe you'rereal!" She said it with a gasp. 

Peter fell in beside her and she led the way. The small restaurantto which she piloted him wasn't pretentious, but it was, as she hadsaid, clean, and the food was excellent. 

She said her name was Gracie Cantrell, and Peter took her word forit. While she was eating she discoursed about herself, pleased atthe interest this odd, dark-faced young fellow with the soft, drawling voice seemed to take in her. She had begun in a boxfactory, she told him. And then she'd been a candy-dipper. Now, youwork in a lowered atmosphere in order not to spoil your chocolate. For which reason candy-dippers, like all the good, are likely to dieyoung. Seven of the girls in Gracie's department "got the T. B. " Thatmade Gracie pause to think, and the more she thought about it, theclearer it seemed to her that if one has to have a short life, onemight at least make a bid for a merrier one than candy-dipping. Soshe made her choice. The short life and merry, rather than the T. B. And charity. 

"And has it been so merry, Gracie?" asked Peter, looking at the hardyoung face wonderingly. 

"Well, it's been heaps better than choc'late-dippin', " said Gracie, promptly. "I don't get no worse treated, when all's said an' done. I've got better clothes an' more time an' I don't work nothin' likeso hard. An' I got chanst to see things. You don't see nothin' inthe fact'ry. Say I feel like goin' to the movies, or treatin' myselfto a ice-cream soda or a choc'late a-clair, why, I can do it withoutnobody's leave--when I'm lucky. You ain't ever lucky in the fact'ry:you never have nothin', see? So I'd rather be me like I am than beme back in the fact'ry. "

"And do you always expect to be--lucky?" Peter winced at the word. 

"I can't afford to think about that, " she replied, squinting at thered ink in her glass. "You got to run your risks an' take yourchances. All I know is, I'll have more and see more before I die. An' I won't die no sooner nor no painfuller than if I'd stayed on inthe fact'ry. "

Peter admitted to himself that she probably wouldn't. Also, that hehad nothing to say, where Gracie was concerned. He felt helpless inthe face of it--as helpless as he had felt one June morning long agowhen he had seen old Daddy Neptune praying, after a night of horror, to a Something or a Somebody blind and indifferent. And it seemed tohim that life pressed upon him menacingly, as if he and Neptune andthis lost child of the New York streets had been caught like rats ina trap. 

The girl, on her part, had been watching him with painful intensity. 

"You're a new one on _me_, " she told him frankly. "I feel likepinchin' you to see if you're real. Say, tell me: if you're real, are you the sort of guy that'd give twenty-five dollars, fornothin', to a girl he picked up in the street? Or, are you just asofty fool that a girl that picks him up in the streets can trim?There's more of _him_ than the first sort, " she finished. 

"You must judge that for yourself, " said Peter. "I may tell you, though, that I am quite used to being called a fool, " he finished, tranquilly. 

"So?" said she, after another long look. "Well, I--what I mean tosay is, I wish to God there was more fools like you. If there was, there'd be less fools like me. " After a pause she asked, in asubdued voice:

"You expect to stay in this town long?"

"I leave in the morning. "

"I'm sorry, " said she. "Not, " she added hastily, "that I want totouch you for more money or anything like that, I don't. ButI--well, I'd like to know you was livin' in the same town, see?"

Peter saw. But again he had nothing to say. Young as he was, he knewthe absurdity of all talk of reform to such as Gracie. As things arethey can't reform, they can't even be prevented. He looked at her, thoughtfully. 

"I'm not only leaving New York, I'm leaving America to-morrow, " hesaid at last. "I wish there was something I could do for you. "

She shook her head. Her little painted face looked pinched. Therewere shadows under the eyes that should have been soft and dewy. "You can't do nothin'. I'll tell you why. Somehow--I--I'd like youto know. "

And she sat there and told him. 

"You see?" said she, when she had finished. 

"I see, " said Peter; and the hand that held his cigarette trembled. The thing that struck him most forcibly was the stupid waste of itall. 

"Look here, Gracie, " he said at last, "if you ever get--veryunlucky--and things are too hard for you--sort of last ditch, youknow, --I want you to go to a certain address. It's to my uncle, " heexplained, seeing her look blank. "You'll send in the card I'm goingto give you, and you will say I sent you. He'll probably investigateyou, you know. But you just tell him the truth, and say I told youhe'd help. Will you do that!"

She in her turn reflected, watching Peter curiously. Then she fellto tracing patterns on the table-cloth with the point of her knife. 

"All right, " she said. "If ever I have to, an' I can find him, Iwill--an' say you sent me. "

Peter took out his pocket memorandum, wrote his uncle's name and theaddress of the house in the Seventies which he was presently tooccupy, added, "I wish you'd do what you can, for my sake, " andsigned it. He handed the girl the slip of paper, and she thrust itinto her low-necked blouse. 

"And now, " he finished kindly, "you'd better go home, Gracie, go tobed, and sleep. " He held out his brown hand, and she, rising fromher chair, gripped his fingers as a child might have done, andlooked at him with dog's eyes. 

"Good-by!" said she, huskily. "You _are_ real, ain't you?"

"Damnably so, " admitted Peter. "Good-by, then, Gracie. " And he lefther standing by the table, the empty wine-glass before her. Thestreets stretched before him emptily. --That poor, done-for kid! What_is_ one to do for these Gracies?

"Mister! For God's sake! I'm hungry!" a hoarse voice accosted him. Adirty hand was held out. 

Mechanically Peter's hand went to his pocket, found a silver dollar, and held it out. The dirty hand snatched it, and without so much asa thank you the man rushed into a near-by bakery. Peter shuddered. 

When he reached his room, he sat for a long time before his openwindow, and stared at the myriads and myriads of lights. From thestreets far below came a subdued, ceaseless drone, as if the hugecity stirred uneasily in her sleep--perhaps because she dreamed ofthe girls she prostituted and the men she starved. And it was likethat everywhere. If the great cities gave, they also took, wastefully. Peter was tormented, confronted by the inexorablequestion:

"What am _I_ going to do about it?"

He couldn't answer, any more than any other earnest and decent boycould answer, whose whole and sole weapon happened to be apaint-brush. One thing he resolved: he wouldn't add to the sumtotal; nobody should be the worse off because he had lived. Sothinking, the bridegroom fell asleep. 

When he awoke in the morning, he lay for a moment staring at thestrange ceiling overhead; his mind had an uneasy consciousness thatsomething impended. Then he sat up suddenly in his bed, and clutchedhis head in his hands. 

"Lord have mercy on me!" cried Peter. "I've got to get up and getmarried!"

By ten o'clock his luggage was on its way to the steamer. Dressed inhis new clothes, ring and license carefully tucked away in hispocket, Peter took an hour off and jumped on a bus. It delighted himto roll around the streets on top of a bus. He felt that he couldnever see enough of this wonderful, terrible, beautiful, ugly, cruel, and kind city. Everywhere he turned, something was being torndown or up, something was being demolished or replaced. New York waslike an inefficient and yet hard-working housekeeper, foreverhouse-cleaning; her house was never in order, and probably neverwould be, hence this endless turmoil. Yet, somehow, Peter liked it. She wasn't satisfied with things as they were. 

He stopped at Grant's Tomb, looked at the bronze tabletcommemorating the visit of Li Hung Chang, then went inside andstared reflectively at the torn and dusty flags. 

"It was worth the price, " he decided. "But, " he added, with acertain deep satisfaction, "I'm glad we gave them a run for theirmoney while we were at it!" The Champneyses, one remembers, were onthe other side. 

When he got back to his hotel the car that his uncle had sent forhim had just arrived. Deferential help brought out his remainingbelongings, were tipped, and stood back while the door was slammedupon the departing one. The car was held up for seven minutes onForty-second Street, while Peter leaned forward to get his firstview of congested traffic. He had once seen two Ford cars and anox-cart tie up the Riverton Road. 

Arrived at Emma Campbell's quarters, he found her sitting stifflyerect, her foot upon her new suit-case, her new cloak over her arm, and the bird-cage under her hand. The expressman who had called forher trunk early that morning had good-naturedly offered to carry thebird-cage along with it, but Emma had flatly refused to let the catget out of her sight. Even when she climbed into the car she heldfast to the cage. 

"I don't say nothin' 'bout _me_. All I scared ob is, dat disunforchnate cat's gwine to lose 'is min' before we-all finishes up. "

It was with difficulty that Peter persuaded her to leave the cage inthe car when they reached his uncle's hotel. 

"Mistuh, " said Emma to the chauffeur, "is you-all got any famblydependin' on you?"

"One wife. Three kids, " said the chauffeur, briefly. 

"I ain't de kin' ob lady whut makes threats agin' a gent'man, " saidEmma, looking him unblinklngly in the eye. "All I says is, dat Istarted whah I come fum wid dat cat an' I 'specks to lan' up whah I's gwine to wid dat same cat in dat same cage. Bein' as you 's gotdem chillun en dat wife, I calls yo' 'tenshun to dat fac', suh. "

The chauffeur, a case-hardened pirate, laughed. "All right, lady, "said he, genially. "It ain't in my line to granny cats, but that onewill be the apple of me good eye until you git back. I wouldn't likethe missus to be a widder: she's too darn good-lookin'. "

With her mind at ease on this point, Emma consented to leaveSatan in the car and follow Peter. Emma looked resplendentlyrespectable, and she knew it. She was dressed as well as if shehad expected to be buried. By innate wisdom she had retained thesnowy head-handkerchief under her sailor hat, and she wore her biggold hoop-earrings. Smart colored servants were common enough atthat hotel, but one did not often see such as this tall and erectold woman in her severe black-and-white. Emma belonged almost toanother day and generation, although her face, like the faces ofmany old colored women, was unwrinkled. She had a dignity that thenewer generation lacks, and a pride unknown to them. 

Peter and Emma went up in an elevator and were ushered into aprivate sitting-room, where were awaiting them Mr. ChadwickChampneys, a gentleman who was obviously a clergyman, another whowas as obviously a member of the Bar, and the latter's wife, a veryhandsome lady handsomely and expensively panoplied. There was theusual hand-shaking, as Peter was introduced, and the handsome ladystared openly at Emma; one doesn't often see a bridegroom come inaccompanied by an old colored woman. Emma courtesied, with theinimitable South Carolina bending of the knees, and then took amodest seat in the background and faded into it. She had goodmanners, had Emma. 

Mr. Champneys glanced at his watch, and presently left the room. Theclergyman, book in hand, stepped into the middle of the floor, andlooked importantly religious. The lawyer smilingly invited Peter totake his place beside him. Everybody assumed a solemn look. 

And then the door opened and the bride appeared, leaning on heruncle's arm. Emma Campbell, leaning forward, got one glimpse of theface but slightly concealed by the thin, floating tulle veil pinnedon with a wreath of orange-blossoms, caught one gleam from thenarrowed eyes; and her own eyes bulged in her head, her mouth fellopen. Emma wished to protest, to cry, to pray aloud. 

The bride was magnificently dressed, in a gown that was much tooelaborate for her angular and undeveloped young figure. It made herlook over-dressed and absurd to a pitiful degree, as if she weremasquerading. The hair-dresser whom she had called to her aid haddone her worst. Nancy had an unusual quantity of hair, and it hadbeen curled and frizzed, and puffed and pulled, until the girl'shead appeared twice its natural size. Through the fine lace of hersleeves were visible her thin, sunburned arms. Her naturally darkeyebrows had been accentuated, and there was a bright red patch oneach cheek, her lips being equally crimson. Out of the rouged andpowdered face crowned by towering red hair, the multitude offreckles showed defiantly, two fierce eyes lowered. 

As Peter met the stare of those narrowed eyes, to save his life hecouldn't keep from showing his downright consternation. His aversionand distaste were so manifest, that a deeper red than rouge stainedthe girl's cheek and mottled her countenance. Her impulse was toraise her hand and strike him across his wincing mouth. 

What Nancy saw was a tall, thin, shambling young fellow whose facewas pale with an emotion not at all complimentary to herself. Hedidn't like her! He thought her hideous! He despised her! So sheread Peter's expressive eyes. She thought him a fool, to stand therestaring at her like that, and she hated him. She detested him. Puppy!

She saw his glance of piteous entreaty, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys'sbland, blind ignoring of its silent reproach and appeal. And thenthe long-legged young fellow pulled himself together. His head wentup, his mouth hardened, and his voice didn't shake when he promisedto cherish and protect her, until death did them part. 

All the while Peter felt that he was struggling in a hideous dream. That bride in white satin wasn't real; his uncle wouldn't play himsuch a trick! Peter cringed when the defiant voice of the girlsnapped her "I do" and "I will. "

The clergyman's voice had trailed off. He was calling her "Mrs. Champneys. " And Mr. Vandervelde and his handsome wife were shakinghands with her and Peter, and saying pleasant, polite, conventionalthings to them both. She signed a paper. And that old nigger-womankept staring at her; but Peter avoided meeting her eyes. And heruncle was saying that she must change her frock now, my dear:Peter's boat sailed within the hour, remember. And then she was backin her room, tearing off the dress that only last night she had sofondly fingered. 

It lay on the floor in a shimmering heap, and she trampled on it. She had torn the tulle veil and orange-blossoms from her hair, andshe stamped on those, too. The maid who had been engaged to help herstood aghast when the bride kicked her wedding-gown across the room. She folded it with shaking hands and smoothed the torn veil as bestshe could. The beautiful lace-and-ivory fan was snapped and tornbeyond hope of salvage. Nancy tossed it from her. With round eyesthe maid watched her tear hair-pins out of her hair, rush into thebath-room, and with furious haste belabor her head with a wet brushto remove the fatal frizzings; but the work had been too thoroughlydone to hope to remove all traces of it so easily. Nancy brushed itas best she could, and then rolled it into a stout coil on the topof her head. Her satin slippers came hurtling across the room asshe kicked them off, and the maid caught them on the fly. 

Back into the bath-room again, and the maid could hear her splashingaround, as she scrubbed her face. When she came out, it wasbrick-red, but powderless and paintless. She got into her bluetailored suit without assistance, and, sitting on the floor, buttoned her shoes with her own fingers, to the maid's disgust. Thenshe jerked on her hat, stuck a hat-pin through it carelessly, snatched up gloves and hand-bag, and was ready for departure. Theexpression of her face at that moment sent the maid cowering againstthe wall, and tied her tongue; the bride looked as if she were quitecapable of pitching an officious helper out of a ten-story window. 

"My God!" said the girl to herself, as Nancy, without so much as aword or a look in her direction, slammed the door behind her. "MyGod, if that poor fellow that's just been married to _her_ was anykin to me, I'd have a High Mass said for his soul!"

The brick-red apparition that swept into the room put the finaltouch upon Peter's dismay. He thought her the most unpleasant humanbeing he had ever encountered, and almost the ugliest. TheVanderveldes had taken the clergyman off in their car, and onlyPeter, his uncle, and Emma remained. 

"I'm ready!" snapped the bride. She didn't glance at the bridegroom, but the look she bestowed upon Emma made that doughty warrior quail. Emma conceived a mortal terror of Peter's wife. She took the placeof the Boogerman and of ha'nts. 

Chadwick Champneys had his hand on his nephew's shoulder, and wastalking to him in a low and very earnest voice--rather like aclergyman consoling a condemned man with promises of heaven afterhanging. Peter received his uncle's assurances in resigned silence. 

Two cars were waiting outside the hotel for the wedding-party. AsEmma Campbell stepped into the one that was to convey her and Peterto the boat, Nancy saw her stoop and lift a large bird-cagecontaining, of all things, an immense black cat, which mewedplaintively at sight of her. It was the final touch of grotesquenessupon her impossible wedding. The two Champneyses wrung handssilently. The older man said a few words to the colored woman, andshook hands with her, too. 

Then the two cars were rolling away, Nancy sitting silent beside heruncle. At the corner Peter's vanished. The bride hoped from thebottom of her heart that she would never lay eyes upon herbridegroom again. She didn't exactly wish him any harm, greatly asshe disliked him, but she felt that if he would go away and die hewould be doing her a personal favor. 

Peter and Emma made their boat ten minutes before the gang-plank waspulled in. A steward took Emma in charge, and carried off thebird-cage containing Satan. Emma, who had been silent during thedrive to the pier, opened her mouth now:

"Mist' Peter, " said she, "ef yo' uncle 's wuth a million dollars, heought to tun it over to you dis mawnin'. 'T ain't for me, " saidEmma, beginning to tremble, "to talk 'bout Mis' Champneys whut youdone got married to. But I used to know Miss Maria. And dat 'show-come, " finished Emma, irrelevantly, "dat 's how-come I mightyglad we 's gwine to furrin folkses' countries, whichin I hopes toGawd dey 's a mighty long way off fum dat gal. " And Peter's heartechoed Emma's sentiments so fully that he couldn't find it in him toreprove her for giving utterance to them. 

With a sense of relief, he watched New York receding from his sight. Hadn't he paid too high a price, after all? Remembering his bride'seyes, pure terror assailed him. No woman had ever looked at Peterlike that before. He tried to keep from feeling bitter toward hisuncle. Well! He was in for it! He would make his work his bride, byway of compensation. For all that he was a bridegroom of an hour orso, and a seeker bound upon the quest of his heart's desire, Peterturned away from the steamer's railing with a very heavy heart. 

A tall, fair-faced woman turned away from the railing at the sameinstant, and their eyes met. Hers were brightly, bravely blue, andthey widened with astonishment at sight of Peter Champneys. Shestared, and gasped. Peter stared, and gasped, too. 

"Miss Claribel!" cried Peter. 

"Mrs. Hemingway, " she corrected, smiling. "It isn't--Yes, it is, too! Peter! Oh, that Red Admiral _is_ a fairy!"

CHAPTER XI

HIS GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE

"It is rather wonderful to turn around and find _you_ here, Peter, --and to find you so unchanged. Because you haven't changed, really; you've just grown up, " said Mrs. Hemingway, holding hishand. Her face was excited and glad. "I should have known youinstantly, anywhere. "

"I am told my legs are quite unmistakable. Some have said I appearto be walking on fishing-poles, " said Peter. 

Mrs. Hemingway laughed. "They seem to be good, long, serviceablelegs, " she said, gaily. "But it is your eyes I recognized, Peter. One couldn't mistake your eyes. "

Peter smiled at her gratefully. "The really wonderful thing is thatyou should remember me at all, " he told her happily, and his faceglowed. That her reappearance should be timed to the outset of hisgreat adventure into life seemed highly significant. One mightalmost consider it an omen. 

As if they had parted but yesterday, they were able to resume theirold sympathetic friendship, with its satisfying sense of comradelyunderstanding. Her heart warmed to him now as it had warmed to theshabby boy she had first seen running after the Red Admiral in thefields beyond the river swamp. No, she reflected appraisingly, hehad not changed. He had somehow managed to retain a certain qualityof childlikeness that made her feel as if she were looking throughcrystal. She was grateful that no contact had been able to blunt it, that it remained undimmed and serene. 

Briefly and rather baldly Peter outlined his years of struggle, dismissing their bleak hardships with a tolerant smile. What heseemed chiefly to remember was the underlying kindness and goodhumor of the folk back there in Riverton; if they had ever failed tobe kind, it was because they hadn't understood, he thought. Therewas no resentment in him. Why, they were his own folks! His mother'sgrave was one of their graves, his name one of their names, theirtraditions and heritages were part and parcel of himself. Thetide-water was in his blood; his flesh was dust of the SouthCarolina coast. 

She saw that, while he was speaking. And against the vivid, colorfulcoast background she caught haunting glimpses of a tireless smallfigure toiling, sweating, always moving toward a far-off goal aswith the inevitable directness of a fixed law. She marveled at thepatience of his strength, and she loved his gentleness, hissweetness that had a flavor of other-worldliness in it. 

He was telling her now of Chadwick Champneys and how his coming hadchanged things. But of the price he had had to pay he said nothing. He tried not to think of the bride his uncle had forced upon him, though her narrowed eyes, her red hair, her mouth set in a hard redline haunted him like a nightmare. His soul revolted against such amockery of marriage. He could imagine his mother's horror, and hewas glad Maria Champneys slept beside the husband of her youth inthe cemetery beside the Riverton Road. She wouldn't have asked himto pay such a price, not for all the Champneyses dead and gone! ButChadwick Champneys had held him to his bargain, had forced him togive his name, his father's name, of which his mother had been soproud. 

Peter smarted with humiliation. It was as if he had been bought andsold, and he writhed under the disgrace of such bondage. He felt thehelpless anger of one who realizes he has been shamefully swindled, yet is powerless to redress his injury; and what added insult toinjury was that a Champneys, his father's brother, had inflicted it. 

Yet he had no faintest notion of breaking or even evading hispledged word; such a thought never once occurred to him. He meant tolive up to the letter of his bargain; his honor would compel him tofulfil his obligation scrupulously and exactly. 

"And so my uncle and I came to terms, " he told Mrs. Hemingway. Andhe added conscientiously: "He is very liberal. He insisted uponplacing to my credit what he says I'll need, but what seems to metoo much. And so here I am, " he finished. 

"Yes, here you are. It had to be, " said she, thoughtfully. "It'syour fate, Peter. "

"It had to be. It's my fate, " agreed Peter. 

"And that nice, amusing old colored woman who kept house foryou--what became of her?"

"Emma? Oh, she wouldn't stay behind, so she came along with me. Andshe couldn't leave the cat, so he came along, too, " said Peter, casually. 

Mrs. Hemingway laughed as his uncle had laughed. 

"There's an odd turn to your processes, Peter, " she commented. "Onesees that _you'll_ never be molded into a human bread pill! I'm gladwe've met again. I think you're going to need me. So I'm going tolook after you. "

"I have needed you every day since you left, " he told her. 

He didn't as yet know what deep cause he had to feel grateful forMrs. John Hemingway's promise to look after him; he didn't as yetknow what an important person she was in the American colony inParis, as well as in certain very high circles of French societyitself. And what was true of her in Paris was also true of her inLondon. Mrs. John Hemingway's promise to look after a young manhall-marked him. She was more beautiful and no less kind than ofold, and absence had not had the power to change his feelings forher. As simply and whole-heartedly as he had loved her then, heloved her now. So he looked at her with shining eyes. Reticence wasingrained in Peter, but the knowledge that she liked and understoodhim had the effect of sunlight upon him. 

"He's as simple as the Four Gospels, " she thought, "and aselemental as the coast country itself. One couldn't spoil him anymore than one could spoil the tide-water. 

"Yes, indeed! I'm going to look after you, " she repeated. 

He discovered, from what she herself chose to tell him, that therehad been some unpleasant years for her too. But that had all endedwhen she married John Hemingway, then with a New York firm and latersent abroad to represent the interests of the company of which hewas now a member. His chief office was in Paris, though he had tospend considerable time in London. When she spoke of John Hemingwayhis wife's face glowed with quiet radiance. The one drop ofbitterness in her cup was that there were no children. 

"I hope you marry young, Peter, and that there'll be a houseful oflittle Champneys, " she said, and sighed a bit enviously. 

At that the face of Mrs. Peter Champneys rose before her bridegroomand the very soul of him winced and cringed. He averted his face, staring seaward. 

"I know so many charming young girls, " said Mrs. Hemingway, musingly, as if she were speaking to herself. 

"They don't come any prettier than they come in Riverton, " Peterparried. "And you're to remember I'm coming over here to _work_. "

"I'll remember, " said she, smiling. "But all the same, I mean you togo about it the right way. I'm going to introduce you to some verydelightful people, Peter. "

Then Peter took her to see Emma Campbell and the cat. 

Emma would have crawled into her berth and stayed there until theship docked if it hadn't been for the cat. Satan had to be given adaily airing; he had to be looked after by some one she could trust, and Emma rose to the occasion. She crawled out of her berth and ondeck, where, steamer rug over her knees, her head tightly bound in aspotless white head-handkerchief, she sat with her hand on the bigbird-cage set upon a camp-stool next her chair. 

"I don' say one Gawd's word about _me_, dough I does feel lak I doneswallahed my own stummick. All I scared of is dat dis po'unforch'nate cat 's gwine to lose 'is min' befo' we-all lan's, " shetold Mrs. Hemingway, and cast a glance of deep distaste at thetumbling world of waters around her. Emma didn't like the sea atall. There was much too much of it. 

"I got a feelin' heart for ole man Noah, " she concluded pensively. 

When they sighted the Irish coast, Emma discovered a deep sense ofgratitude to the Irish: no matter what they didn't have, they didhave _land_; and land and plenty of it, land that you could walk on, was what Emma craved most in this world. When they presently reachedEngland, she was so glad to feel solid earth under her feet oncemore that she was jubilant. 

"Cat, we-all is saved!" she told Satan. "You en me is chillun o'Israel come thoo de Red Sea. We-all got a mighty good Gawd, cat!"

They went up to London with Mrs. Hemingway, and were met byHemingway himself, who gave Peter Champneys an entirely newconception of the term "business man. " Peter knew rice- andcotton- and stock-men, even a provincial banker or two--allsuccessful men, within their limits. But this big, quiet, vitalman hadn't any limits, except those of the globe itself. A tall, fair man with a large head, decided features, chilly gray eyes, and an uncompromising mouth adorned with a short, stiff mustache, his square chin was cleft by an incomprehensible dimple. His wifedeclared she had married him because of that cleft; it gave her anobject in life to find out what it meant. 

Hemingway studied Peter curiously. He had a great respect for hiswife's nice and discriminating judgment, and it was plain that thislong-legged, unpretentious young man was deeply in her good graces. Evidently, then, this chap must be more than a bit unusual. Going tobe an artist, was he? Well, thank God, he didn't _look_ as if hewere afflicted with the artistic temperament; he looked as if hewere capable of hard work, and plenty of it. 

People liked to say that John Hemingway was a fine example of theAmerican become a cosmopolitan. As a matter of fact, Hemingwaywasn't. He liked Europe, but in his heart he wearied of itsover-sophistication, its bland diplomacy. His young countryman'sunspoiled truthfulness delighted him. He was proud of it. A mantrained to judge men, he perceived this cub's potential strength. That he should so instantly like his wife's protégé raised thatcharming lady's fine judgment even higher in his estimation. A manalways respects his wife's judgment more when it tallies with hisown convictions. 

The Hemingways insisted that Peter should spend some time inEngland. Mrs. Hemingway was going over to Paris presently, and hecould accompany her. In the meantime she wanted him to meet certainEnglish friends of hers. Peter was perfectly willing to wait. He wasenchanted with London, and although he would have preferred to beturned foot-loose to prowl indefinitely, his affection for Mrs. Hemingway made him amenable to her discipline. At her command hewent with Hemingway to the latter's tailor. To please her heduteously obeyed Hemingway's fastidious instructions as tohabiliments. He overcame his rooted aversion to meeting strangers, and when bidden appeared in her drawing-room, and there met smart, clever, and noted London. 

Hemingway thereafter marked his progress with amusement not unmixedwith amazement. It came to him that there was a greater difference, a deeper divergence between himself and Peter than between Peter andthese Britishers. The earmark of your coast-born South Carolinian isthe selfsame, absolute sureness of himself, his place, his people, in the essential scheme of things. Wasn't he born in South Carolina?Hasn't he relatives in Charleston? Very well, then!

In Peter's case this essential sureness had developed into acourtesy so instinctive, a democracy so unaffectedly sincere, thatit flavored his whole personality with a pleasing distinctiveness. The British do not expect their very young men to be too knowingor too fatally bright; they mark the promise rather than theperformance of youth, and spaciously allow time for the process ofdevelopment. And so Peter Champneys found himself curiously at homein democratically oligarchic England. 

"I feel as if I were visiting my grandmother's house, " he confidedto a certain lady next whom he was seated at one of Mrs. Hemingway'ssmall dinners. 

"And where is your mother's house?" wondered the lady, who foundherself attracted to him. 

"Over home in Riverton, " said Peter Champneys. And his face wentwistful, remembering the little town with the tide-water gurgling inits coves, and its great oaks hung with long gray swaying moss, andthe sinuous lines of the marshes against sky and water, and thesmell of the sea--all the mellow magic of the coast that was Home. It didn't occur to him that an English lady mightn't know just where"over home in Riverton" might be. She was so great a lady that shedidn't ask. She looked at him and said thoughtfully:

"I wonder if you wouldn't like to see an old place of ours. I'mhaving the Hemingways down for a week, and I should like you to comewith them. " And she added, with a charming smile: "As you are anartist, you'll like our gallery. There's a Rembrandt you shouldsee. "

Peter's eyes of a sudden went deep and golden, and their dazzlingdepths had so instant and so sweet a recognition that her heartleaped in answer. It was as if a young archangel had secretlysignaled her in passing. 

When the formal invitation arrived, Mrs. Hemingway was delightedwith what she termed Peter's good fortune. The invitations to thathouse were coveted and prized she explained. Really, Peter Champneyswas unusually lucky! She felt deeply gratified. 

Peter hadn't known that there existed anywhere on earth anythingquite so perfect as the life in a great English country house. Hethought that perhaps the vanished plantation life of the old Southmight have approximated it. His delight in the fine old Tudor pile, in its ordered stateliness, its mellowed beauty, pleased his hostessand won the regard of the rather grumpy gentleman who happened to beher husband and its owner. To her surprise, he took Peter under hiswing, and showed himself as much interested in this modest guest ashe was ordinarily indifferent to many more important ones. It washis custom to take what he called a stroll before breakfast--amatter of a mere eight or ten miles, maybe--and he found to his handa young man with walking legs, seeing eyes, and but a modicum oftongue. He showed Peter that country-side with the thoroughness of aboy birds'-nesting, as Peter had once showed the Carolinacountry-side to Claribel Spring. They went over the venerable housewith the same thoroughness, and Peter sensed the owner'simpersonally personal delight in the stewardship of a pricelesspossession. He held it in trust, and he loved it with a quietpassion that was as much a part of himself as was his Englishspeech. Every now and then he would pause before some rusty sword, or maybe a tattered and dusty banner; and although he was of a veryflorid complexion, and his nose was even bigger than Peter's, insuch moments there was that in the eye and brow, in the expressionof the firm lips, that made him more than handsome in the youngman's sight. Through him he glimpsed that something silent and largeand fine that is England. 

"And we're going, " said the nobleman, pausing before the portrait ofa gentleman who had fallen at Marston Moor. "Oh, yes, we arevanishing. After a while the great breed of English gentlemen willbe as extinct as the dodo. And this house will be turned into aDispensary for Dyspeptic Proletarians, or more probably an Americannamed Cohen will buy it and explain to his guests at dinner just howmuch it cost him. "

Peter remembered broken and vine-grown chimneys where stately homeshad stood, the extinction of a romantic plantation life, thevanishing of the gentlemen of the old South, as the Champneys hadvanished. They had taken with them something never to be replaced inAmerican life, perhaps; but hadn't that vanished something made roomfor a something else intrinsically better and sounder, because basedon a larger conception of freedom and justice? The American lookedat the cavalier's haughty, handsome face; he looked at theEnglishman thoughtfully. 

"Yes. You will go, " he agreed presently. "All things pass. That isthe law. In the end it is a good law. "

"I should think it would altogether depend on what replaces us, "said the other, dryly. 

"And that, " said Peter, "altogether depends upon you, doesn't it?It's in your power to shape it, you know. However, if you'll notice, things somehow manage to right themselves in spite of us. Now, overhome in Carolina we haven't come out so very badly, all thingsconsidered. "

"Got jolly well licked, didn't you?" asked the Englishman, whoseoutstanding idea of American military history centered uponStonewall Jackson. 

"Just about wiped off the slate. Had to begin all over, in a worldturned upside down. Yet, you see, here I am! And I assure you Ishouldn't be willing to change places with my grandfather. " With ashy friendliness he laid his fingers for a moment on his host's arm. "Your grandson won't be willing to change, either, because he'll bethe right sort. _That's_ what your kind hands down. " He spokediffidently, but with a certain authority. Each man is a sievethrough which life sifts experiences, leaving the garnering of grainand the blowing away of chaff to the man himself. Peter had garneredcourage to face with a quiet heart things as they are. He had neveraccepted the general view of things as final, therefore he escapeddisillusionment. 

"They thought the end of the world had come--my people. So ithad--for them. But not for us. There's always a new heaven and a newearth for those who come after, " he finished. 

The Englishman smiled twistedly. After a while he said unexpectedly:

"I wish you'd have a try at my portrait, Mr. Champneys. I think I'dlike that tentative grandson of mine to see the sort of grandfatherhe really possessed. "

"Why, I haven't had any training! But if you'll sit for me I'll dosome sketches of you, gladly. "

"Why not now?" asked the other, coolly. "I have a fancy to see whatyou'll make of me. " He added casually: "Whistler used the north roomover the stables when he stayed here. You've seen his pastels, andthe painting of my father. "

"Yes, " said Peter, reverently. And he stared at his host, round-eyed. 

"We've never changed the room since his time. Should you like tolook over it now? You'll find all the materials you are likely toneed, --my sister has a pretty little talent of her own, and itpleases her to use the place. "

"Why, yes, if you like, " murmured Peter, dazedly. And like one in adream he followed his stocky host to the room over the stables. Onesaw why the artist had selected it; it made an ideal studio. A smallcanvas, untouched, was already in place on an easel near a window. One or two ladylike landscapes leaned against the wall. 

"She has the talent of a painstaking copyist, " said her brother, nodding at his sister's work. "Shall you use oils, or do you preferchalks, or water-colors?"

"Oils, " decided Peter, examining the canvas. "It will be rough work, remember. " He made his preparations, turned upon his sitter thepainter's knife-like stare, and plunged into work. It was swiftwork, and perhaps roughly done, as he had said, but by the miracleof genius he managed to catch and fix upon his canvas the tenaciousand indomitable soul of the Englishman. You saw it looking out atyou from the steady, light blue eyes in the plain face with itscraggy nose and obstinate chin; and you saw the kindness anddelicacy of the firm mouth. There he stood, flat-footed, easy in hiswell-worn clothes, one hand in his pocket, the other holding theblackthorn walking-stick he always carried, and looked at you withthe quiet sureness of integrity and of power. Peter added a few lasttouches; and then, instead of signing his name, he painted in asmall Red Admiral, this with such exquisite fidelity that you mightthink that gay small rover had for a moment alighted upon the canvasand would in another moment fly away again. 

His lordship studied his painted semblance critically. 

"I rather thought you could do it, " he said quietly. "I usuallymanage, as you Americans say, to pick a winner. You'll be a greatpainter if you really want to be one, Mr. Champneys. Should you saysixty guineas would be a fair price for this?"

"That's something like three hundred dollars, isn't it?" askedPeter, interestedly. "Suppose we call this a preliminary sketch fora portrait I'm to paint later--say when I've had a few years oftraining. "

"You will charge me very much more than sixty guineas for aportrait, two or three years from now, " said the other, smiling. Helooked at the swiftly done, vivid bit of work. "_This_ is what Iwant for my grandson; it is his grandfather as nature made him. Itis as true and as homely as life itself. " And he looked at Peterrespectfully, so that that young man blushed to his ears. And thatis how and when Peter Champneys painted his first ordered picture, signed with the Red Admiral; and how he won the faithful friendshipof a crusty Englishman. It was a very real friendship. His lordshiphad what he himself called a country heart, and as Peter Champneyshad the same sort, and neither man outraged the other by too muchtalk, they got along astonishingly well. 

"He's deucedly intelligent, " his lordship explained, with quietenthusiasm. "We'll tramp for miles, and I give you my word that foran hour on end he won't say three words!"

Hemingway, to whom this confidence was given, chuckled. It amusedhim to watch his wife's wild goose putting on native swan feathers. Yet it pleased him, for he knew the boy appealed to her romantic aswell as to her maternal instinct. She handled him skilfully, and itwas she who passed upon his invitations. She wished him to meetclever and brilliant men and women; and at times she left him in thehands of young girls, pink-and-white visions who troubled as well asinterested him. He felt that he was really meeting them under falsepretenses. Their youth called to his, but he might not answer. Between him and youth stood that unloved and unlovely girl inAmerica. 

Mrs. Hemingway watched him with the eyes of the woman who has ayoung man upon her hands. His reactions to his contacts interestedher immensely. His worldly education was progressing with entiresatisfaction to her. 

"I want him to marry an English wife, " she confided to her husband. They were to leave for Paris that night, and she was summing up theresults of his stay in London, the balance being altogether in hisfavor. "A well-bred, normal English girl with good connections, agirl entirely untroubled by temperament, who will love him tenderly, look out for his physical well-being, and fill his house withhealthy children, is exactly what Peter Champneys needs. And thesooner it happens to him the better. Peter has a lonely soul. Itshouldn't be allowed to become chronic. "

Hemingway looked at her apprehensively. "Sounds to me as if you weretrying to make Peter pick a peck of pickled peppers, " he commented. And Peter coming in at this opportune moment, he grinned at the boycheerfully. 

"Peter, " he smiled, "the sweet chime of merry wedding-bells in thedistance falls softly on mine ear; my wife thinks you should bealtar-broke. Charming domestic interior, happy fireside clime, flagof our union fluttering from the patent clothes-line! Futuristpainting of Young Artist Pushing a Pram! Don't look at me with suchan agonized expression of the ears, Peter!"

But Peter had no answering smile. His face had changed, and therewas that in his eyes which gave Hemingway pause. 

"Why, old chap, I was merely joking!" he began, with real concern. 

"Peter!" said the woman, softly. "You have had--a disappointment?But, my dear boy, you are so _very_ young. Don't take it too much toheart, Peter. At your age nothing is final, really. " And she smiledat him. 

A flush suffused the young man's forehead. He felt shamed andmiserable. He _couldn't_ flaunt his price-tag before these unbuyablesouls whose beautiful and true marriage was based upon love, andsympathy, and mutual ideals! He _couldn't_ rattle his chains, orexplain Anne Champneys. He couldn't, indeed, force himself to speakof her at all. The thing was bad enough, but to talk about it--No!He lifted troubled eyes. 

"I am afraid--in my case--it is final, " he said, in a low voice. And after a pause, in a louder tone: "Yes--please understand--it isfinal. "

"Oh, Peter dear, I'm sorry! But--"

"You're talking nonsense. Why, you're barely twenty-one!" protestedHemingway. "Much water must flow under the bridge, Peter, before youcan say of anything: it is final. You've got a long life ahead ofyou to--"

"Work in, " finished Peter. "Yes, I know that. I have my chance towork. That is enough. " At that his head went up. 

Mrs. Hemingway puckered her brows. She leaned toward him, her eyeslighting up. 

"Peter!" said she, mischievously, her cheek dimpling. "Peter, aren'tyou rather leaving the Red Admiral out of your calculations?"

CHAPTER XII

"NOT BY BREAD ALONE"

Mrs. Peter Champneys drove away from the scene of her wedding, feeling as if boiling water had been poured over her. No man of allthe men she had ever met had looked at her with just such anexpression as she had encountered in Peter Champneys's eyes, and thememory of it filled her with a rankling sense of injustice. He hadmarried her for the same reason she had married him, hadn't he? Thenwhy should he think himself a whit better than she was? It seemed toher that all the unkindness, all the slights she had ever endured, had come to a head in Peter's distressed and astonished glance. 

Nancy had no illusions as to her own personal appearance, but itoccurred to her that her bridegroom left considerable to be desiredin that respect, himself. With his hatchet face and his outstandingears and his big nose--why, he was as homely as that dried oldpriest in the glass case in the museum!--and him looking down onpeople every mite as good as he was! That was really the crux of thething: Nancy had her own pride, and Peter had managed to trampleupon it roughshod. She felt she could never forgive him, and hersense of injury included Chadwick Champneys as well. She hadn'tasked him to make his nephew marry her, had she? The suggestion hadcome from the Champneys, not from her. Yet it was plain to her thatboth these men considered her a very inferior person. She couldn'tunderstand them. 

She liked the furnished apartment she and Mr. Champneys were tooccupy until their house was ready, better than she had liked thehotel, though the Japanese butler, Hoichi, overawed her. She wasn'tused to Japanese butlers and she didn't know exactly how to treatthis suave, deft, silent yellow man who was so efficient and soubiquitous. It was different where the maids were concerned; she whohad been so lately an unpaid drudge was afraid these trained, cleverservants might suspect her former state of servitude and she coveredher fear with a manner so insupportable that Mr. Chadwick Champneys, who looked upon arrogant rudeness to social inferiors as a sort ofeighth deadly sin, was presently forced to remonstrate. 

"Nancy, " he ventured one morning, "I have been observing yourmanner to the servants with--er--disapproval. A habitual lack ofconsideration is a serious deficiency. It is really a lack ofbreeding--and of heart. A lady"--he fixed his large dark eyes uponher--"is never impolite. "

He touched her on the quick. She _knew_ these Champneys didn't thinkshe was a lady, but for this old man to come right out and say so toher face--"Say, I guess I know how to be a lady without you havin'to tell me!"

"I am more than willing to be convinced, " said the South Carolinian, pointedly. 

At that, of a sudden, Nancy flared. She lifted a pair of sullen andmutinous eyes, and her lips quivered. He saw with surprise that shewas trembling. 

"Say, you look here--I done what you told me to do, didn't I? Iain't no more nor no less a lady than I was before I done it, am I?What you pickin' on me for, then? What more you want?"

He sighed. Milly's niece was distinctly difficult, to say the least. How, he asked himself desperately, was one to make a dent in herappalling ignorance? She irritated him. And as is usual with peoplewho do not understand, he took exactly the wrong course with her. 

"I want you at least to try to live up to your position, " he saidwith cold directness, beetling his brows at her. "I want you to dowhat you're told--and to keep on doing it! Do you understand that?"He felt that he was allowing himself to be more wrought up than wasgood for him, and this added to his annoyance. 

She considered this, sullenly. "I'm not exackly straight in my mindwhat I understand and what I don't understand, yet, " she replied. "But I got this much straight: If I done what I done to please you, I done it to please me, too!"

This was logical enough; it had even a note of common sense andjustice. But her crude method of expressing it filled him with coldfury. The Champneys temper strained at the leash. 

"Ah!" said he, a dark flush staining his face, "ah! Then get thisstraight, too: you'll please me only _if_ you carry out your part ofour contract. What! do you dream I would ruin my nephew's life for aself-willed, undisciplined minx? Nothing could be farther from mythoughts! Nancy, _I_ made you Mrs. Peter Champneys: you will qualifyfor the position--or lose it!" He tapped his foot on the floor, andglared at her. 

Nancy gave him glare for glare. "Yeah, you said it! You made me Mrs. Peter Champneys, and all I got to do is to do what I don't want todo, to hold down the job! What you askin' _him_ to do to please_me_? How's _he_ qualifyin'? Is he so much I'm nothin'? Becausethat's what he thinks! Oh, you needn't talk! I guess I got eyes, atleast!"

"I suggest that you use them to your own advantage, then, " said he, disgustedly. "Let us have done with such squabbling! You agreed toobey. Very well, then, you will do so, or I shall take steps to putyou outside of my calculations. In other words, I will wash my handsof you. Is that perfectly clear to you?" How else, he asked himself, was he to make her understand?

She saw that he was in a towering rage, and she reflected that ifshe had made Baxter that mad he'd have banged her with his fists. For a long minute the two stared at each other. She was about tomake a defiant reply and let come what might, when a sort of spasmdistorted his face. His mouth opened gaspingly, his eyes rolled backin his head like a dying man's. He seemed to crumple up, and shecaught him as he fell. Her terrified shriek brought Hoichi, who tookinstant charge of the situation. He made the unconscious mancomfortable on a divan, applied such restoratives as were at hand, and directed a frightened maid to telephone for physicians. 

Nancy fled to her own room, and sat on the edge of her bed, frightened and subdued. That quarrel and its serious effect made aturning-point in her life, though she attached no blame to herselffor the man's illness. She had no love for him, but her heart wasnot callous to suffering, and his distorted and agonized face hadterrified and shocked her. 

The suddenness of the seizure made his words more impressive. Suppose he died: what of her? She was not sure that any definiteprovision had as yet been made for her. What, then, should she do?

Suppose he recovered: what then? She had cause for serious thought. All this luxury and ease, this pleasant life of plenty, in which shereveled with the deep delight of one quite unused to it, hung upon acontingency--the contingency of absolute obedience. She was notnaturally supine, and her spirit rose against an unconditionalself-surrender to a hot-tempered, imperious old man, who would moldher to his will, make her over to his own notions, quite ashigh-handedly as if she'd been a lump of putty and not a humanbeing. Nancy tasted the bitterness of having no voice in the makingof her own destiny. 

Well, but suppose she defied him? He was quite capable of washinghis hands of her, just as he had threatened. And then? Before thatpossibility Nancy recoiled. No. She couldn't, she wouldn't go backto that old life of squalid slavery--eating bad food, wearingwretched clothes, suffering all the sodden and sordid misery of theignorant, abjectly poor, a suffering twice as poignant now that sheknew better things. She knew poverty too well to have any illusionsabout it. The Baxter kitchen rose before her. Why! while she wassitting here now, in this luxurious room, back there they'd begetting ready for the noonday dinner. The close kitchen would bereeking with the odor of boiling potatoes and cabbage, from which agreasy steam would be arising, so that one saw things as through ahot mist. One of the children would be screaming, somewhere aboutthe house, and Mrs. Baxter, in an unsavory wrapper, her facestreaming with perspiration, her hair in sticky strands on her hotforehead, would be shrilly threatening personal chastisement: "Youshut up, out there! Just you wait till I get this batch o' biscuitsoff my hands an' I bet I fix _you_! didn't I say shut up?" Thehateful voice seemed so close to Nancy's ear that the girl shrankback, shivering with distaste. 

She fingered the soft, fine stuff of the frock she was wearing. Shestared about the room, --_her_ room, which she didn't have to sharewith one of the Baxter children, who squirmed and kicked all nightin summer, and pulled the bed-coverings off her in winter. She wentover to her dressing-table and fingered its pretty accessories, sniffing with childish pleasure the delicately scented powder andcologne. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and scowled. Then she began to walk restlessly up and down the room. She had tothink this thing out. 

Why should she go, and leave the road clear for Peter Champneys? Itoccurred to her that, seen from his point of view, her eliminationfrom the scene might be regarded somewhat in the light ofprovidential interference in his behalf. She flushed. It wasn'tfair! The thought of Peter Champneys was gall and wormwood to her. 

Nancy wasn't a fool. Her honesty had a blunt directness, a sort ofcave-woman frankness. In her, truthfulness was not so much a virtueas an energy. The hardness of her unloved life had bred a likehardness in her sense of values; she was distrustful and suspiciousbecause she had never had occasion to be anything else. In thatsuspicion and distrustfulness had lain her safety. She had no senseof spiritual values as yet. Religion had meant going to church onSundays when you had clean clothes in which to appear. Morals hadmeant being good, and to Nancy being good simply meant not beingbad--and you couldn't be bad, go wrong, if you never trusted anyman. A girl that trusted none of 'em could keep respectable. Nancyhad seen girls who trusted men, in her time. Nothing like that for_her_! But she knew, also, the price the woman pays whether shetrusts or distrusts, and the matrimony which at times rewarded thedistrustful didn't appear much more alluring than the potter'sfield which waited for the credulous. Anyway you looked at it, whathappened wasn't pleasant. And it was worse yet when you knew therewas something better and different. You had to pay a price to getthat something better and different, of course. The fact that onepays for everything one gets was coming home to Nancy withincreasing force; the problem, then, was to get your money's worth. 

She took her head in her hands, and tried to concentrate all herfaculties. She wasn't a shirker, and she realized that she mustdecide upon her course of conduct now and stick to it. If she didn'tlook out for herself, who would? And presently she had reached theconclusion that when Mr. Peter Champneys reappeared upon the scene, he must find Mrs. Peter Champneys occupying the foreground, andoccupying it creditably, too. She'd do it! When Mr. ChadwickChampneys recovered, she'd come to terms with him. She'd keep faith. 

She spent three or four anxious days, while specialists came andwent, and white-capped, starched, authoritative personagesrelieved each other in the sick-room, their answers to all queriesbeing that the patient was doing quite as well as could beexpected. At the end of the fifth day they admitted that thepatient was recovering, --was, in fact, out of danger, though hewouldn't leave his room for another week or ten days; and hewasn't to be worried or disturbed about anything. 

Satisfied, then, that he was on the highroad to recovery, andhaving made up her mind as to her own course of procedure, Nancyrather enjoyed these few days of comparative freedom. She suppliedherself with a huge box of bonbons, "Junie's Love Test" and "TheWidowed Bride, "--books begun long ago, but wrested from her untimelyby the ruthless Mrs. Baxter, on the score of takin' her time off:her rightful work for them that'd took her in, and fillin' her redhead with the foolishest sort o' notions. She had had so much to dothat to have nothing to do but lie around in a red silk kimona andnibble chocolates and read love stories, seemed to her the supremeheight of felicity. 

She reveled in these novels. They represented that somethingdifferent toward which her untutored and stinted heart gropedblindly. Otherwise her mind, by no means a poor one, lay fallow anduntilled. The beauty and wonder of the world, the pity and terror offate, the divine agony of love which sacrifices and endures, did notas yet exist for her. She merely sensed that there was somethingdifferent, somewhere--maybe on the road ahead. And so she wept overthe woes of star-crost lovers, and sentimentalized over husky heroesutterly unlike any male beings known to nature, and believed shedidn't believe that disinterested and unselfish love existed in theworld. As she hadn't the faintest gleam of self-knowledge, in allthis she was perfectly sincere. 

She did not see Mr. Champneys for two weeks or so. In his nervouscondition he evinced a singular reluctance to have her come nearhim, although others saw him daily. For instance, Mr. JasonVandervelde appeared at half after ten o'clock every morning duringhis client's convalescence, was immediately admitted to Mr. Champney's room, and left it upon the stroke of eleven. 

Nancy watched this man curiously. When he met her in the hall, hespoke to her in a nice, full-toned, modulated voice, exceedinglypleasing to the ear. His eyes were small but of a deep and brightblue, and although he was heavily built he wore his clothes so wellthat he gave the effect of strength rather than of clumsiness. Hewas clean-shaven and ruddy, and his large, well-shaped mouth wasdeeply curled at the corners. His hands were not fat and white, asone might expect, but tanned and muscular, and slightly hairy. Hisglasses gave him a certain precision, and his curled lips suggestedirony. Nancy liked to look at him. He discomfited her understandingof men, for, she couldn't tell why, she both liked and trusted him. There was nothing romantic about him, --a well-fed, well-groomedlawyer-man in his late thirties, with a handsome wife in a handsomehouse, --yet he had the faculty of making her wonder about him, andwonder with kindness at that. She wished she knew just how much heknew about her, her early upbringing, her sad lack of education. What had Mr. Champneys told him? Or had he really told him anything?

When her uncle finally overcame his reluctance and sent for her, sheentered his room quietly and stood looking at him with an honestconcern that was in her favor. She was always honest, he reflected. There was nothing of the hypocrite or the coward in those warygray-green eyes that always met one's glance without flinching. 

The change in his appearance shocked her. His eyes were hollow, histall form looked meager and shrunken. He was growing to be an _old_man. She said awkwardly:

"I'm real sorry you been so sick. " And she made no attempt toapologize for her share in the quarrel that had led to his seizure. She ignored it altogether, and for this he was grateful. 

"Thank you. I am getting along nicely, " he said civilly. And with aslightly impatient gesture he dismissed all further mention ofillness. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the betterto collect his thoughts. He wished to make his wishes perfectlyclear to her. But she surprised him by saying quietly:

"I been thinking things over while you was sick, and I come to theconclusion you was right. I got to have more education. There'sthings I just got to know--how to talk nice, and what to wear, andwhat fork you'd ought to eat with. Forks and things drive me realwild. "

"I had thought, at first, of sending you to some particularly fineboarding-school--" he began, but Nancy interrupted him. 

"If I was six instead o' sixteen, you might do it. As 't is, Iwouldn't learn nothin' except to hate the girls that'd be turnin'up their noses at me. No. I don't want to go to boardin'-school. I've saw music-teachers that come to folks' houses to give lessons, and I been thinkin', why can't you get me a school-teacher that'llteach me right at home!"

"As I was saying when interrupted, "--he looked at herreprovingly--"I had at first thought of sending you to somefinishing school. I gave up that idea almost at once. I agree withyou that it is best you should be taught at home. In fact, I havealready engaged the lady who will be your companion as well as yourteacher. "

"I don't know as I'm crazy about a lady companion as a steady job, "said Nancy, doubtfully. She feared to lose her new liberty, toforego the amazing delight of living by herself, so to speak. "Butnow you've done it, I sure hope you've picked out somebody _young_. If I got to have a lady companion, I want she should be young. "

"Mr. Vandervelde attended to the matter for me, " said Mr. Champneys, in a tone of finality. "He is sure that the lady in question isexactly the person I wish. Mrs. MacGregor is an Englishwoman, thewidow of a naval officer. She is in reduced circumstances, but ofirreproachable connections. She has the accomplishments of a lady ofher class, and her companionship should be an inestimable blessingto you. You will be governed by her authority. She will be hereto-morrow. "

"A ole widder woman! Good Lord! I--" here she stopped, and gulped. An expression of resignation came over her countenance. "Oh, allright. You've done it an' I'll make the best of it, " she finished, not too graciously. 

"It is not proper to refer to a lady as 'a ole widder woman'. "

"Well, but ain't she?" And she asked: "What else you know abouther?"

"Mr. Vandervelde attended to the matter, " he repeated. "He isthoroughly satisfied, and that is enough for me--and for you. I sentfor you to inform you that she is to be here to-morrow. See that youreceive her pleasantly. Your hours of study and recreation will bearranged by her. She will also overlook your wardrobe. And, I do notwish to hear any complaints. "

"I can't even pick out my own clothes?"

"You lack even the rudiments of good taste. "

"What's wrong with my clothes?" she demanded. 

"Everything, " said he, succinctly, and with visible irritation. Heremembered the wedding-gown, and his face twitched. She watched himintently. 

"Oh, all right. I said I'd obey, an' I will. I ain't forgettin', "said she, wearily. 

"Very well. I am glad you understand. " He closed his eyes, andunderstanding that the interview was at an end, Nancy withdrew. 

Mrs. MacGregor arrived on the morrow. The attorney had been givenexplicit orders and instructions by his exacting client, who had hisown notions of what a teacher for his niece should and shouldn't be. Vandervelde congratulated himself on having been able to meet themso completely in the person of the estimable Mrs. MacGregor. 

Mr. Champneys demanded a lady middle-aged but not too middle-aged, not overly handsome, but not overly otherwise; an excellentdisciplinarian, of a good family, and with impeccable references. 

For the rest, Mrs. MacGregor was a tall, spare, high-nosed lady, with a thin-lipped mouth full of large, sound teeth of a yellowishtinge, and high cheek-bones with a permanent splash of red on them. Her eyes were frosty, and her light hair was frizzled in front, andworn high on her narrow head. She dressed in plain black silk ofgood quality, wore her watch at her waist, and on her wrist a large, old-fashioned bracelet in which was set a glass-covered, lozenge-shaped receptable holding what looked like a wisp ofbristles, but which was a bit of the late Captain MacGregor's hair. 

Mr. Champneys had wanted a lady who was a church member. He had avague idea that if a lady happened to be a church member you weresomehow or other protected against her. Mrs. MacGregor was orthodoxenough to satisfy the most rigid religionist. Mr. Champneys gatheredthat she believed in God the father, God the son, and God the HolyGhost, three in One, and that One a dependable gentleman beautifullyBritish, who dutifully protected the king, fraternally respected theArchbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister, and was heartily infavor of the British Constitution. Naturally, being a devout woman, she agreed with Deity. 

An American family domiciled for a while in England had secured herservices as companion to an elderly aunt of theirs, fetching heralong with them, on their return to America. The aunt had been afamily torment until the advent of Mrs. MacGregor, but in the handsof that disciplinarian she had become a mild-mannered old body. Onher demise the grateful family settled a small annuity upon her whomthey couldn't help recognizing as their benefactor. FindingAmericans so grateful, Mrs. MacGregor decided to remain among themand with her recommendations secure another position of trust insome wealthy family. This, then, was the teacher selected by Mr. Jason Vandervelde, who thought her just what Mr. Champneys wantedand his ward probably needed. 

Mrs. MacGregor never really liked anybody, but she could respectcertain persons highly; she respected Mr. Chadwick Champneys atsight. His name, his appearance, the fact that Jason Vandervelde wasacting for him, convinced her that he was "quite the rightsort"--for an American. She was as gracious to him as naturepermitted her to be to anybody. And the salary was very good indeed. 

It was only when Nancy put in her appearance that Mrs. MacGregor'ssatisfaction withered around the edges. The red on her high cheeksdeepened, and she fixed upon her new pupil a cold, appraising stare. She made no slightest attempt to ingratiate herself; that wasn't herway; what she demanded, she often said, was Respect. The impossibleyoung person who was staring back at her with hostile curiositywasn't overcome with Respect. The two did not love each other. 

Strict disciplinarian though she might be where others wereconcerned, Mrs. MacGregor treated herself with lenientconsideration. She was selfish with a fine, Christian zeal thatmoved Nancy to admiring wonder. Nancy's own selfishness had beensuperimposed upon her by untoward circumstances. This woman'sselfishness was a part of her nature, carefully cultivated. Shebelieved her body to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and she madeherself exceedingly comfortable in the building, quite as if theHoly Ghost were an obliging absentee landlord. Nancy observed, too, that although the servants did not like her, they obeyed herwithout question. She got without noise what she wanted. 

But she really could teach. Almost from the first lesson, Nancybegan to learn, the pure hatred she felt for her instructress addingrather than detracting from her progress. Had the woman beenbroader, of a finer nature, she might have failed here; but beingwhat she was, immovable, hard as nails, narrow and prejudiced, sticking relentlessly to the obviously essential, she goaded andstung the girl into habits of study. 

Her reaction to Mrs. MacGregor really pushed her forward. She knewthat the woman could never overcome a secret sense of amaze thatsuch a person as herself should be a member of Chadwick Champneys'sfamily--the man was a _gentleman_, you see. And she called Nancy"Anne. " Her lifted eyebrows at Nancy's English, her shocked, patient, parrot-like, "Not 'seen him when he done it, ' _please_. You_saw_ him when he _did_ it!--No, 'I come in the house' isn'tcorrect. Try to remember that _well-bred_ persons use the past tenseof the verb; thus: 'I _came_ into the house. '--What _do_ I hear, Anne? You '_taken'_ it? No! You TOOK it!" And she would look atNancy like a scandalized martyr, ready to die for the noble cause ofEnglish grammar! Rather than endure that look, rather than facethose uplifted eyebrows, Nancy, gritting her teeth, set herselfseriously to the task of making over her method of speech. 

It was Mrs. MacGregor who, discovering the girl's unstintedallowance of candy, cut off the supply. She didn't care much forcandies herself, but she did like fruit, and fruit was substitutedfor the forbidden sweets. She had the healthy, wholesome Englishhabit of walking, and unless the weather was impossible she forcedher unwilling charge to take long tramps with her, generallyimmediately after breakfast. They would set out, Nancy dressed in aplain blue serge, her pretty, high-heeled pumps discarded forflat-heeled walking-shoes, Mrs. MacGregor flat-footed also, tall, bony, in a singular bonnet, but nevertheless retaining an inherentstateliness which won respect. Sometimes they tramped up RiversideDrive, their objective being Grant's tomb. Mrs. MacGregor respectedGrant; and the stands of dusty flags brought certain old Britishshrines to her mind. On stated mornings they visited the Library, while Mrs. MacGregor selected the books Nancy was to read, booksthat Nancy looked at askance. They had their mornings for themuseums, too. Mrs. MacGregor knew nothing of art, except that, asshe said to Nancy, well-bred persons simply _had_ to know somethingabout it. After their walk came lessons, grueling, dry-as-dust, nose-to-the-grindstone lessons, during which Nancy's speech wasvivisected. At two o'clock they lunched, and Nancy had furthercritical instructions. The dishes she had once been allowed to orderwere changed, greatly to her annoyance; Mrs. MacGregor liked suchhonest stuff as mutton chops and potatoes, just as she insisted uponoatmeal for breakfast. Porridge, she called it. In the afternoonthey motored; Mrs. MacGregor, who detested speed, became the bane ofthe hard-faced chauffeur's life. 

They dined at seven, and for an hour thereafter Mrs. MacGregoreither read aloud from some book intended to edify the young person, or forced Nancy to do so. She was possibly the only person alive whodelighted in Hannah More. She said, modestly, that at an early ageshe had been taught to revere this paragon, and whatever happyknowledge of the virtues proper to the female state she possessed, she owed in a large measure to that model writer. Nancy conceivedfor Hannah More a hatred equaled in intensity only by that cherishedfor Mrs. MacGregor herself. 

Mrs. MacGregor's notions of dress and her own were asunder, even asthe poles. But here again that rigid duenna did her invaluableservice, for if she didn't look handsome in the clothes selectedfor her, she didn't, as that lady said frankly, look vulgar in them. No longer would you be liable to mistake her for somebody'ssecond-rate housemaid on her day out. The simple diet and theinexorable regularity of her hours also told in her favor, althoughshe herself wasn't as yet aware of the change taking place. Alreadyyou could tell that hers was a supple and shapely young body, withpromise of a magnificent maturity; you glimpsed behind the fadingfreckles a skin like a water-lily for creamy whiteness; and that redhair of hers, worn without frizzings, began to take on a glossy, coppery luster. 

That spring they moved into the new house. It was so different fromthe average newly-rich American home that it moved even Mrs. MacGregor to praise. Nancy thought it rather bare. It hadn't colorenough, and there were but few pictures. Yet the old rosewood andmahogany furniture pleased her. She remembered that golden-oak, red-plush parlor at Baxter's with a sort of wonder. Why! she hadthought that parlor handsome! And now she was beginning tounderstand how hideous it had been. 

She saw little of Mr. Champneys, who seemed to be plunged to theeyes in business. Occasionally he appeared, looked at hersearchingly, said a few words to her and Mrs. MacGregor, andvanished for another indefinite period. Mr. Jason Vandervelde wasalmost a daily visitor when Mr. Champneys happened to be in thecity. At times Mr. Champneys went away, presumably to look afterbusiness interests, and Nancy thought that at such times the lawyeraccompanied him. She had no friends of her own age, and Mrs. MacGregor wasn't, to say the least, companionable. And the books shewas compelled to read bored her to distraction. She took it forgranted they must be frightfully good, they were so frightfullydull! The deadliest, dullest of all seemed to be reserved forSunday. She didn't mind going to church; in church you could watchother people, even though Mrs. MacGregor sat rigidly erect by yourside, and expected you to be able to find your place in a Book ofCommon Prayer entirely unfamiliar to you. While she sat rapt duringwhat you thought an unnecessarily long sermon, you could look aboutyou slyly, and take note of the people within your immediate radius. 

Nancy liked to observe the younger people. Sometimes a bitter envywould almost choke her when she regarded some girl who was bothpretty and prettily dressed, and, apparently, care-free and happy. She watched the younger men stealthily. Some of them pleased her;she would have liked to be admired by at least one of them, and shefelt jealous of the fortunate young women singled out for theirattentions. Think of being pretty, and having beautiful clothes, andswell fellows like that in love with you! That any one of these fineyoung men should cast a glance in her own direction never enteredher mind. No. Loveliness and the affection and gaiety of youth werefor others; for her--Peter Champneys. At that she fetched a deepsigh. She always went home from church silent and subdued. Mrs. MacGregor thought this a proper attitude of mind for the Sabbath. 

The girl was vaguely disturbed and uneasy without knowing why. Thenewness and glamour of the possession of creature comforts, theabsence of want, was wearing thin in spots. She was conscious of alack. She was beginning to think and to question, and as there wasno one in whom she might confide, she turned inward. Naturally, shecouldn't answer her own questions, and all her thoughts were as yetchaotic and confused. She wanted--well, what did she want, anyhow?She repeated to herself, "I want something different!" Thatsomething different should not include a dreary round of Mrs. MacGregor, a cold inspection by Mr. Chadwick Champneys; nor thethought of Peter Champneys. It _would_ include laughter and--andpeople who were neither teachers nor guardians, but who were gay, and young, and kind. She began to be conscious of her own isolation. She had always been isolated. Once poverty had done it; and nowmoney was doing it. Those girls she saw at church--she'd bet theywent to parties, had loads of friends, had a good time, were loved;plenty of people wanted their love. For herself, as far back as shecould look, she had never had a friend. Who cared for her love?Sometimes she watched the new maid, a distractingly pretty littleIrish girl, black-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-faced. The girl tried tobe demure, to restrain the laughter that was always near thesurface; but her eyes danced, her cheek dimpled, she had what onemight call a smiling voice. And the handsome young policeman on thecorner was acutely aware of her. Nancy remembered one afternoon whenshe and Mrs. MacGregor happened to be coming in at the same timewith Molly. It was Molly's afternoon off and she was dressed trimly, and with taste. Under her little close-fitting hat her hair was likeblack satin, her face like a rose. The young policeman managed topass the house at that moment, and lifted his cap to her; Nancy sawthe look in the young man's eyes. She followed Mrs. MacGregor intothe house, rebelliously. Nobody had ever looked at _her_ like that. Nobody was ever going to look at her like that. She remembered PeterChampneys's eyes when they had first met hers. A dull flush stainedher face, and bitterness overwhelmed her. 

Mr. Champneys was busy; Mrs. MacGregor was satisfied--she had aposition of authority; her creature comforts were exquisitelyattended to; her salary was ample. The man saw his plans beingcarried forward, if not brilliantly at least creditably; the womansaw that her tasks were fulfilled. It never occurred to either thatthe girl might or should ask for more than she received, or that shemight find her days dull. But Nancy was discovering that the body ismore than raiment, and that one does not live by bread alone. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE BRIGHT SHADOW

The Champneys chauffeur, greatly to Mrs. MacGregor's terror anddisapproval, seemed to live for speed alone; in consequence, oneafternoon Mrs. MacGregor and Nancy very narrowly escaped dying forit. Whereupon Mr. Champneys summarily dismissed the chauffeur andengaged in his place young Glenn Mitchell, accidentally brought tohis notice. Mr. Champneys congratulated himself upon the discoveryof Glenn Mitchell. To begin with, he was a South Carolinian, one ofthose well-born, penniless, ambitious young Southerners who come toNew York to make their fortune. One of his forebears had married aChampneys. That was in ante bellum days, but South Carolina has along memory, and this far-off tie immediately established the youngfellow upon a footing of family relationship and of cousinlyfriendliness. He was a personable youth of twenty, who had workedhis way through high school and meant presently to go through theCollege of Physicians and Surgeons, --his grandfather had been adistinguished physician, Mr. Champneys remembered. The boy proposedto use his skill in handling a motor-car as a means toward that end. 

Mr. Chadwick Champneys would gladly have paid Glenn's collegeexpenses out of his own pocket, but the young man, delicatelysounded, politely but sturdily declined. The next best thing thekindly old Carolinian could do, then, was to make the boy a memberof his own household. Hoichi had orders to prepare a room for Mr. Mitchell, and Mrs. MacGregor was advised that he would take hismeals with the family. She was at first inclined to be scandalized:to bring your chauffeur to your own table was Americanism with avengeance! But when she met the young man, she was mollified. Thischauffeur was a gentleman, and in Mrs. MacGregor's estimation agentleman may do many things without losing caste. She rememberedthat the perfectly decent younger son of a certain poverty-strickennobleman had driven a car. This young Mitchell was exceptionallygood-looking in a nice, boyish, fresh-faced way, and she saw in hismanner a youthful reflection of the courtliness which distinguishedMr. Chadwick Champneys. He had a great deal of that indefinablesomething we call charm, and before she knew it Mrs. MacGregor waswon over to him, and looked upon his presence as a distinct additionto the Champneys menage. 

When he had been introduced to Nancy, she was mentioned as "Myniece, Mrs. Champneys. " Mrs. MacGregor called her "Anne. " Mr. Champneys spoke to her as "Nancy, " and Glenn thought he must havebeen mistaken as to that "Mrs. " There was no sign of a husbandanywhere; neither was there any indication of widowhood. Nobodymentioned Peter--Mr. Champneys because he was more interested intalking about Glenn's business than his own, on the occasions whenhe had time to talk about anything; Mrs. MacGregor, because she hadnever seen Peter, knew nothing at all about him, except that therewas a nephew somewhere in the background of things, and wasn't inthe least interested in anything but her own immediate affairs;besides, it never would have occurred to her to talk about heremployer's affairs, even if she had known anything about them. Anemployer who was a gentleman, and very wealthy, belonged to theEstablished Order, and Mrs. MacGregor had the thorough-going Britishrespect for Established Order. Nancy, for her part, wished to forgetthat Peter existed. She never by any chance mentioned him, or eventhought of him if she could help it. So when young Glenn Mitchell, after the pleasant South Carolina fashion, addressed her as "MissNancy" it seemed perfectly all right to everybody. 

Nancy was a little over eighteen then. She had grown taller, but sheretained the pleasant angularity of extreme youth. Because shedidn't know how to arrange her hair, Mrs. MacGregor sternlyforbidding frizzing and curling, and insisting upon a "modestsimplicity becoming to a young girl" she wore her red mane in a hugeplait. She had been so teased and badgered about her red hair, hadhated it so heartily, been so ashamed of it, that she didn't realizehow magnificent it was now, after two years of care and cleanliness. It wasn't auburn; it wasn't Titian; it was a bright, rich, glittering, unbuyable, undeniable red, and Nancy wore her plait asa boy wears a chip on his shoulder. Young Glenn Mitchell was seizedwith a wild desire to catch hold of that braid that was like a cableof gleaming copper, and wind it around his wrists. For the firsttime, he thought, he was seeing the true splendor and beauty of redhair; and the girl had the wonderfully white skin that accompaniesit. He suspected that she must have been pretty badly freckled whenshe was a child, for the freckles were still fairly visible, thoughone saw that they would presently vanish altogether. The curve ofher throat and chin, the "salt-cellars" at the base of the neck, left nothing to be desired. Altogether there was that about thisgirl that caught and held his boyish attention. It wasn't that shewas pretty, --he had at first thought her plain. It was rather thathere lay a tantalizing promise of unfoldment by and by, a sheathedhint of something rare and perilous. 

He didn't quite know what to make of Mr. Champneys's niece. She wasabnormally silent, unbelievably unobtrusive, singularly still. Watching her, he found himself wishing she would smile, at leastoccasionally: he longed to see what her mouth would look like if itshould curve into laughter. She had exquisite teeth, and her eyes, when one was allowed to get a glimpse of them, were of a curious, agaty, gray green, with one or two little spots or flecks in theiris. Hers was an impassive, emotionless face; yet she gave adistinct impression of feeling, emotion, passion held in check; itwas as if her feelings had been frozen. But suppose a spring thawshould set in--what then? Would there be just a calm brook flowingunderneath placid willows, or a tempestuous torrent sweeping allbefore it? He wondered!

She sat opposite him at table three times a day, and never addresseda word to him, or to Mrs. MacGregor, who carried on whateverconversation there might be. Mrs. MacGregor liked to give details ofentertainments "at home, " at which she herself had been present, orof events in which A Member of My Family had participated. "I saidto the dear Bishop, "--"His Lordship remarked to My Cousin. "Sometimes during these recitals the thin, fine edge of a smiletouched Nancy's lips. It was gone so quickly one wasn't quite sureit had been there at all; yet its brief passage gave her a strangeexpression of mockery and of weariness. She offered no opinions ofher own about anything; she made no slightest attempt to keep theconversation alive; you could talk, or you could remain silent--itwas all one to her. Yet dumb and indifferent though she appeared tobe, you felt her presence as something very vital, listening, andimmensely honest and natural. 

He wished she would speak to him, say something more than a mere"Yes" or "No. " Girls had always been more than willing to talk toGlenn Mitchell--very much prettier and more fascinating girls thanthis silent, stubborn, red-headed Anne Champneys. He began to feelpiqued, as well as puzzled. 

And then, one day, he happened to glance up suddenly and in thatinstant encountered a full, straight, intense look from her--a lookthat weighed, and wondered, and searched, and was piercingly, almostunbearably eager and wistful. He felt himself engulfed, as it were, in the bottomless depths of that long, clear gaze, that went overhim like the surge of great waters, and drenched his consciousnessto the core. Brand-new Eve might have looked thus at brand-new Adam, sinlessly, virginally, yet with an avid and fearful questioning andcuriosity. For the second his heart shook and reeled in his breast. Then the dark lashes fell and veiled the shining glance. Her facewas once more indifferent and mask-like. 

As a matter of fact, Nancy was avidly interested in Glenn, in whomfor the first time she encountered youth. He came like a freshbreeze into an existence in which she stifled. From his firstappearance in the house she had watched him stealthily, looking athim openly only when she thought herself unobserved. Conscious ofher own defects, she was timid where this good-looking young man wasconcerned. It never occurred to her that she might interest him, butshe did not wish him to think ill of her. She kept herself in thebackground as much as possible. 

She had none of the joyousness natural to a girl of her age. She hadno young companions. Was there some reason? Wasn't she happy? Hefelt vaguely troubled for her. She aroused his sympathy, as well ashis curiosity. He couldn't forget that look he had surprised. Itstayed in his memory, perilously. At night in his room, when heshould have been studying, that astonishing glance came before himon his book, and cast a luminous spell upon him. 

He surprised no more such glances. She still relegated to Mrs. MacGregor the full task of talking to him; a task that ladyperformed nobly. Just as she walked every morning with Mrs. MacGregor, she took her place in the car every afternoon, apparentlyobeying orders. Sometimes, twisting his head around, he couldglimpse her profile turned toward the moving panorama of the crowdedstreets through which he was skilfully manoeuvering his way. But ifshe were interested in what she gazed at so fixedly, she made nocomment. One never knew what she thought about anything. 

One memorable evening she appeared at dinner in a yellow frock, instead of the usual serge or plain blue silk. It wasn't anelaborate dress, but its prettily low neck allowed one to admire herfull throat, with a string of amber beads around it. Her hair hungin two thick braids across her shoulders, and the straight lines ofthe yellow satin accentuated the youthfulness of her figure. Glenn'sheart behaved unmannerly. 

She appeared not to see his quick, pleased glance, but turnedinstead to Mrs. MacGregor, who was regarding her critically. Mrs. MacGregor hadn't been consulted about the yellow frock, and sheviewed it with distinct disapproval. Glenn found himself solidlyaligned against Mrs. MacGregor, and siding with the girl. He likedthat yellow frock; somehow it suited her coloring, enabled one tosee how unusual she really was. He wondered that he had thought herso plain, at first. She agitated him. He wished intensely that shewould look at him; and just then she did, and for the first time sawadmiration in a young man's eyes, not for another girl, but forherself! She held his glance, doubtfully, timidly; but she couldn'tdoubt the evidence of her senses. Glenn was pleased with her, headmired her! His ingenuous face beamed the fact, from frank eyes andsmiling lips. There was somewhat more than admiration in his look, but Nancy was more than content with what appeared on the surface. Her eyes widened, a flush rose to her cheek, a naïve and pleasedsmile transformed her dissatisfied young mouth. When he ventured tospeak to her presently, she ventured to reply, shyly, but with newfriendliness. Once, when Mrs. MacGregor said something sententious, and Glenn laughed, Nancy laughed with him. 

That frank and boyish admiration restored to her, as it were, somerightful and precious heritage long withheld, an indispensablebirthright the lack of which had beggared and stripped her. She hada sense of profound gratitude to this likable and handsome youngman, a moved and touching interest in him. He made her feel glad tobe alive; through him the world seemed of a sudden a kindlier place, full of charming surprises. And when she accompanied Mrs. MacGregorto church on the following Sunday, she looked with a secretsisterliness at the girls she had envied and disliked. It was as ifshe had been elected to their ranks, been made one of them; shewasn't on the outside of things any more; somebody--a verydesirable and handsome somebody--admired her, too. She didn'tanalyze her feelings. Youth never thinks or analyzes, it feels andrealizes; that is why it is divine, why it is lord of the earth. Hergrowing liking for him was so shy, so naïve, so touchingly sincere, that Glenn was profoundly moved when he became aware of it. He hadthe old South Carolina chivalry; to him women were still investedwith a halo, and one approached them with a manly reverence. He hadliked girls, many girls; he would have told you, himself, that henever met a pretty girl without loving her some! But this was thefirst time Glenn had ever really fallen in love, and he fellheadlong, with an impetuous ardor that all but swept him off hisfeet, and that was like strong wine to Nancy, whose drink heretoforehad been lukewarm water. 

He didn't know whether or not she was Mr. Champney's sole heir, andhe didn't care: what difference could that make? He was as well bornas any Champneys, wasn't he? And if he wasn't blessed with much ofthis world's goods just now, he took it for granted he was going tobe, after a while. As for that, hadn't Chadwick Champneys himselfonce been as poor as Job's turkeys? And hadn't Mr. Champneysacknowledged the relationship existing between them, slight anddistant though it was? Who'd have the effrontery to look down on oneof the Mitchells of Mitchellsville, South Carolina? He'd like toknow! Glenn began to dream the rosy dreams of twenty. 

It took Nancy somewhat longer to discover the amazing truth. She was more suspicious and at the same time very much morehumble-minded than Glenn. But suspicion faded and failed before hishonest passion. His agitation, his eagerness, his face that alteredso swiftly, so glowingly, whenever she appeared, would have told thetruth to one duller than Nancy. If Mrs. MacGregor could havesuspected that anybody could fall in love with Anne Champneys, shemust have seen the truth, too. But she didn't. She was serenelyblind to what was happening under her eyes. 

Nancy never forgot the day she discovered that Glenn loved her. Mrs. MacGregor had one of her rare headaches. She was a woman who hatedto upset the fixed routine of life, and as their afternoon outingwas one of the established laws, she insisted that Nancy should go, though she herself must remain at home. Half fearful, halfdelighted, Nancy went. Glenn had looked at her, mutely entreating;in response to that entreaty she took the seat beside him. For sometime neither spoke--Glenn because he was too wildly happy, Nancybecause she hadn't anything to say. She was curious; she waited forhim to speak. 

"I wonder, " gulped Glenn, presently, "if you know just how happy Iam. "

Nancy said demurely that she didn't know; but if he was happy shewas glad: it must be very nice to be happy!

"Aren't _you_ happy?" he ventured. 

Nancy turned pink by way of answer. As a matter of fact, she wasnearer being happy then than she had ever been. They fell into anintimate conversation--that is, Glenn talked, and the girl listened. He explained his hopes, ambitions, prospects. He talked eagerly andimpetuously. He wished her to understand him, to know all abouthim, --what he was, what he hoped to be. A boy in love is like that. 

In return for this confidence Nancy explained that she hatedoatmeal, and Hannah More; some of these days she meant to buy everycopy of Hannah More she could lay her hands on, and burn them. Ofherself, her past, she said nothing. 

"And so you're going to be a doctor!" she turned the conversationback to him, as being much more interesting. 

"Yes. Or rather, I'm going to be a great surgeon. " And then heasked, smilingly:

"And you--what do _you_ want to be?"

"I want to be happy, " said Nancy, half fiercely. 

"There isn't any reason why you shouldn't be--a girl like you. "

Nancy looked a bit doubtful. But no, he wasn't poking fun. And aftera pause, he asked, as one putting himself to the test:

"Miss Anne--Nancy--do you think you could be happy--with _me_?"

"_You_?" breathed Nancy, all a-tremble. She thought she could behappier with Glenn than with anybody else. Why! there _wasn't_anybody else! That is, nobody that cared. She was afraid to say so. But her moved and changed face said it for her. 

"Because, if you could be happy with me, why shouldn't you be?"asked Glenn, brilliantly. But Nancy understood, and her heartcrowded into her throat with delight, and terror, and a sort ofagony. She felt that she loved and adored this boy to distraction. She would have adored anybody who loved and desired her, who foundher fair. But she didn't understand that; neither did Glenn. 

"You care?" said the boy, leaning toward her. They were runningslowly, along a road high above the river. "Nancy, you care?"

Care? Of course she cared! She considered him the most beautiful anddesirable of mortals; she was so enraptured, so thrilled with theastounding fact that he cared for her, that she couldn't speak, butlooked at him with swimming eyes. He brought the car to a stop, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and drew her close. She knewthat something momentous was going to happen to her, and looked athim, full of a sweet terror. "I love you!" said Glenn, and kissedher on the mouth. 

His beard was the ghost of down on his cheek; her hair hung in abraid to her waist; their kiss was the kiss of youth, --tender, passionately pure. Everything but that morning face, pale with youngemotion, looking at her with enamored eyes, vanished from her mind;everything else counted for nothing, went like chaff upon the wind. The one fact alone remained: _Glenn loved her_! Her senses were in adelicious tumult from the power and the glory of it: _Glenn lovedher_! It was as if a skylark sang in her breast, as if she walked ina rosy and new-born world. Had Nancy been called upon to die for himthen, she would have gone to her death shining-eyed, fleet-footed, joyous. 

"I love you, I love you!" Glenn repeated it like a litany. "Nancy!Does it make you as happy because I love you as it makes me becauseyou love me?"

"Oh, ten thousand times ten thousand times more!" she saidfervently. 

"I think it was your hair I fell in love with, first off, " he toldher presently. "I have never seen a girl with such hair, and such alot of it. I'm crazy about your hair, Nancy. "

"I think you must be, " she agreed whole-heartedly. She wasn't vain, his girl!

They had no more plans than birds or flowers have. Plenty of timefor sober planning by and by, when one grew accustomed to the sweetmiracle of being beloved as much as one loved! Glenn simply took itfor granted he was going to marry her. He had known her all of threemonths--a lifetime, really!--and she had allowed him to kiss her, had admitted she cared. He supposed they would have to wait until hehad been through his training and won that coveted degree. Untilthen, they would keep their beautiful secret to themselves; theydidn't wish to share it with anybody, yet. 

It was only when she was alone in her room that night that Nancyrealized the true situation that confronted her. On the one sidewas Glenn, dear, wonderful Glenn, who loved her. On the other wasPeter Champneys, who had married her as she had married him, for theChampneys money. Peter Champneys! who despised her, and whom shemust consider a barrier between herself and whatever happiness lifemight offer her! She could understand how Glenn had made hismistake. Nobody had explained Peter to him. To tell him the truthnow meant to lose him. She was like a person dying of thirst, yetforbidden to drink the cup of cold water extended to her. 

Wasn't it wiser to take what life offered, drain the cup, and letcome what might? Why not snatch her chance of happiness, even thoughit should be brief? Suppose one waited? Deep in her heart was thehope that something would happen that would save her; youth alwayshopes something is going to happen that will save it. Wasn't itpossible Peter might fall in love with somebody, and divorce her?One saw how very possible indeed such a thing was! For the present, let Glenn love her. It was the most important and necessary thing inthe world that Glenn should love her. What harm was she doing inletting Glenn love her? Particularly when Peter Champneys didn't, never would, any more than she ever could or would love PeterChampneys. 

Even Mrs. MacGregor noticed the change taking place in AnneChampneys. The girl had more color and animation, and at times sheeven ventured to express her own opinions, which were strikinglyshrewd and fresh and original. Her eyes had grown sweeter andclearer, now that she no longer slitted them, and her mouth waslearning to curve smilingly. Decidedly, Anne was vastly improved!And her manner had subtly changed, too; she was beginning to show anindividuality that wasn't without a nascent fascination. 

Mrs. MacGregor plumed herself upon the improvement in her pupil, which she ascribed to her own civilizing and potent influence, forshe was a God-fearing woman. She didn't understand that the greatestPower in heaven and earth was at work with Nancy. 

But although Glenn became daily more enamored of the girl, he wasn'tso satisfied with things as they were. He couldn't say that Nancyreally avoided him, of course. He drove her and Mrs. MacGregor, whomat times he wished in Jericho, out in the car every afternoon. Hesat opposite her at table thrice daily. Sometimes in the evening hespent an hour or two with her and Mrs. MacGregor, before going tohis own room to study. But it so happened that he never was able tosee her alone any more; and Nancy certainly made no effort to bringabout that desirable situation. This made him restive and at thesame time increased his passion for her. 

For her part, she was perfectly content just to look at him, to knowthat he was near. But Glenn was more impatient. He wanted thefragrance of her hair against his shoulder; he wanted the straight, strong young body in his arms; he wished to kiss her. And she heldaloof. Although she no longer veiled her eyes from him, although hewas quite sure she loved him, she was always tantalizingly out ofhis reach. She didn't seem to understand the lover's desire to bealone with the beloved, he thought. He grew moody. The weeks seemedyears to his ardent and impetuous spirit. One night, happening toneed a book he had noticed in the library, he went after it. Andthere, oh blessed vision, sat Nancy! She had been sleepless andrestless, and had stolen out of her room for something to read thathadn't been selected by Mrs. MacGregor. It was rather late, butfinding the quiet library pleasanter to her mood than her own room, she curled up in a comfortable chair and began to read. The book wasHardy's "Tess, " and its strong and somber passion and tragedy filledher with pity and terror. Something in her was roused by the story;she felt that she understood and suffered with that simple andpassionate soul. 

She looked up, startled, as Glenn entered the room. He came to herswiftly, his arms outstretched, his face alight. 

"You!" he cried, radiant and elate. "You!"

Nancy rose, torn between the desire to retreat, and to fling herselfinto those waiting arms. Glenn left her no choice. He seized her, roughly and masterfully, and held her close, pressing her againsthis body. His lips fastened upon hers. Nancy closed her eyes andshivered. She felt small and helpless, a leaf before the wind, andshe was afraid. 

"Nancy!" he whispered. "Nancy! You've got to marry me. We'll justhave to risk it, degree or no degree! What's the use of waiting allour lives, maybe, when we love each other? When will you marry me, Nancy?"

She knew then that she had to tell him the truth, and she trembled. 

"Glenn, I--I--" she stammered. Her tongue seemed to cleave to theroof of her mouth. 

"Soon? Say yes, Nancy! I'm crazy about you, don't you know that? Whydon't you say when, Nancy?"

She felt desperate, as if some force were closing in upon her, relentlessly. She had to speak, and yet she couldn't. She tried toescape from the arms that held her, but they clasped her all thecloser. His eager lips closed on hers. 

"Nancy! Ah, darling, why not let everything go and marry me atonce?"

Ah, why not, indeed? As if Peter Champneys had reached across thesea to divide her and Glenn, a stern voice answered Glenn'squestion. 

"Because she has a husband already, " it said harshly. Chalky white, with blazing eyes, Chadwick Champneys confronted Peter's wife inanother man's arms. "She is married to my nephew, Peter Champneys. Is it possible you do not know?"

Glenn's arms dropped. Intuitively he moved away from her. His visageblanched, and he stared at her strangely. 

"Nancy, is this thing true?"

Nancy nodded. She said in a lifeless voice: "Oh yes, it's true. Iwas trying to tell you, but--" And then she broke into a cry:"Glenn, you don't understand! Glenn, listen, please listen! I didlove you, I do love you, Glenn! You--you don't know--you don'tunderstand--"

The boy staggered. He was an honorable, clean-souled boy, heir toold heritages of pride, and faith, and chivalry. A dull, shamed redcrept from cheek to brow, replacing his pallor. His gesture, as heturned away from her, made her feel as if she had been struck acrossthe face. She winced. She saw herself judged and condemned. 

"Mr. Champneys, " stammered Glenn, painfully, "surely you know Ididn't understand--don't you? I--we--fell in love, sir. We'd meantto wait--that's why I didn't come to you at once--but I--that is, Iwas very much in love with her, and I was going to make a cleanbreast of it and ask you what we'd better do. And you're not tothink I'm--dishonorable--" he choked over the word. 

Knowing the boy's breed, Champneys laid a not unkindly hand on hisshoulder. 

"I see how it was, " he said. "And--I guess you're punished enough, without any reproaches from me. "

Glenn turned to Nancy. "Why did you do it?" he cried. "I loved you, I trusted you. Nancy, why did you do such a thing--to _me_?"

She twisted her fingers. Well, this was the end. She was to bethrust out of the new brightness, back into the drab dreariness, theemptiness that was her fate. She lifted tragic eyes. 

"I never expected you to love me. But when you did--I just _had_ tolet you! Nobody else cared--ever. And I loved you for loving me--Icouldn't help it, Glenn; I couldn't help it!" Her voice broke. Shestood there, twisting her fingers. 

An old, wise, kind woman, or an old priest who had seen and forgivenmuch, or men who knew and pitied youth, would have understood. Neither of the men to whom she spoke realized the significance ofthat childishly pitiful confession. Champneys felt that she hadshamed his name, belittled the sacred Family which was his fetish;Glenn thought she had made a fool of him for her own amusement. Never again would he trust a woman, he told himself. And in his painand shame, his smarting sense of having been duped, his hideousrevulsion of feeling, he spoke out brutally. Nancy was left in nodoubt as to the estimation in which he now held her. And sheunderstood that it was his pride, even more than his love, thatsuffered. 

She made no further attempt to explain or to exculpate herself; whatwas the use? She knew that had they changed places, had Glenn beenin her shoes and she in his, her judgment had not been thus swiftand merciless. Her larger love would have understood, and pitied, and forgiven. Pride! They talked of Pride, and they talked of Name. But she could only feel that the one love she had ever known, orperhaps ever was to know, was going from her, must go from her, unforgiving, as if she had done it some irreparable wrong. Shelooked from one wrathful, accusing face to the other, like a childthat has been beaten. How could Glenn, who had seemed to love herso greatly, turn against her so instantly? Not even--PeterChampneys--had looked at her as Glenn was looking at her now! And ofa sudden she felt cold, and old, and sad, and inexpressibly tired. So this was what men were like, then! They always blamed. And theynever, never understood. She would not forget. 

She checked the impulse to cry aloud to Glenn, to try once more tomake him understand. Her eyes darkened, and two bright spots burntin her cheeks. Without a further word or glance she walked out ofthe room and left the two standing close together. So stepped AnneChampneys into her womanhood. 

She locked her door upon herself. Then she went over, after herfashion, and stared at herself in her mirror. The herself staringback at her startled her--the flushed cheeks, the mouth like coral, the eyes glowing like jewels under straight black brows. The ropesof red hair seemed alive, too; the whole figure radiated apersonality that could be dynamic, once its powers should be fullyaroused. 

She viewed the woman in the glass impersonally, as if it had been astranger's face looking at her. That vivid creature couldn't beNancy Simms, not quite three years ago the Baxter slavey, the sameNancy that Peter Champneys had shrunk from with aversion, and thatGlenn had repudiated to-night!

"Yes, --it's me, " she murmured. "But I ain't--I mean I am not reallyugly any more. I'm--I don't know just _what_ I am--or whether Iought to like or hate me--" But even while she shook her head, theface in the glass changed; the mouth drooped, the color faded, thelight in the eyes went out. "But whatever I am, I'm not enough tomake anybody keep on loving me. " Then, because she was just a girl, and a very bewildered, sad, and undisciplined girl, she put her redhead down on her dressing-table and wept despairingly. 

The next morning Mr. Champneys explained to the concerned andregretful Mrs. MacGregor that Mr. Mitchell had been called awaysuddenly, last night, and didn't think he would be able to return. The ladies were to accept Mr. Mitchell's regrets that he hadn't beenable to bid them good-by in person. Mr. Champneys bowed for Mr. Mitchell, in a very stately manner. He went on with his breakfast, while Nancy made a pretense of eating hers, hating life and wishingwith youthful intensity that she was dead, and Glenn with her. Hisempty place mocked and tortured her. He had gone, and he didn't, wouldn't, couldn't understand. She could never, never hope to makeGlenn understand! She rather expected Mr. Champneys to sit injudgment upon her that morning, but a whole week passed beforeHoichi brought the message that Mr. Champneys wished to see her inthe library. Her uncle was standing by the window when she entered, and he turned and bowed to her politely. He was thinner, gaunter, more Don Quixotish than usual. If only he had been kind! But hisface was set, and hers instinctively hardened to match it. 

"Nancy, " he began directly, "I have not sent for you to load youwith reproaches for your inexplicable conduct. But I must say this:deliberately to deceive and befool an honest gentleman, to triflewith his affections out of mere greedy vanity, is so base that Ihave no words strong enough to condemn it. "

"I didn't mean to fool him. He fooled himself, and I let him do it, "said she, dully. He thought her listlessness indifference, and anybluntness in moral tone in a woman, scandalized him. He couldunderstand a Mrs. MacGregor, who was without subtleties; or soft, loving, courageous women like Milly and his sister-in-law, Peter'smother. But this girl he couldn't fathom. He beat his handstogether, helplessly. 

"I--you--" he groaned. And then: "Oh, Peter, what have I done toyou!"

"I can't see you've done anything to him, except pay him to go awayand learn how to make something out of himself, " returned Nancy, practically. It brought him up short. "Uncle Chadwick, please keepquiet for a few minutes: I want you to listen to me. " She met hiseyes fully. "I didn't do Glenn Mitchell any real harm: he'll fall inlove with somebody else pretty soon. I suppose it's easy for Glennto love people because it's easier for people to love Glenn. Andhe's done me this much good: I won't be so ready to believe it'seasy for folks to love _me_, Uncle Chadwick. I guess I'm the sortthey mostly--_don't_. I'll not forget. " She spoke withoutbitterness, even with dignity. "One thing more, please. If everPeter Champneys finds out he loves somebody, and he'll let me know, I'll give him his freedom. Fortune or no fortune, I won't hold him. I know now--a little--what loving somebody means, " she finished. 

Her voice was so steady, her eyes so clear and direct, her manner socontained, that he was uncomfortably impressed. He felt put upon thedefensive. As a matter of fact, in his first anger and surprise atwhat he still considered her shameless behavior, he had seriouslyconsidered the advisability of having Peter's marriage annulled. Assoon as he had become calmer, his pride and obstinacy rejected sucha course. After all, no harm had been done. She was very young. Andhe hoped Glenn's outspoken condemnation had taught her a needed andsalutary lesson. Looking at her this morning, he realized that shehad been punished. But that she should so calmly speak of divorcingPeter, of making way for some other woman, horrified him. 

"You are talking immoral nonsense!" he said, angrily. "Let him go, indeed! Divorce your husband! What are we coming to? In my daymarriage was binding. No respectable husband or wife ever dreamed ofdivorce!"

"But they were real husbands and wives, weren't they?" asked Nancy. 

"All husbands and wives are real husbands and wives!" he thundered. 

She considered this--and him--carefully. "Then you don't want Mr. Peter Champneys and me ever to be divorced? I thought maybe youmight. "

"I forbid you even to _think_ such wickedness, " cried he, alarmed. "A girl of your age talking in such a manner! It's scandalous, that's what it is, --scandalous! Shows the dry-rot of our nationalmoral sense, when the very children"--he glared at Nancy--"gabbleabout divorce!"

"Then I--I mean, things are just to go along, the same as they havebeen?" She looked at him pleadingly. 

For a few minutes he drummed on the library table with his thinbrown fingers. His bushy brows contracted. He asked unexpectedly:

"Would you like to go away for a while? To travel?"

"Where?"

"Where? Why, anywhere! There's a whole world to travel in, isn'tthere? Well, take Mrs. MacGregor and travel around in it, then. "

She shook her head. 

"What's the use? Anywhere I went I'd have to go with _me_, wouldn'tI? And I can't seem to like the idea of traveling around with Mrs. MacGregor, either. "

"What _do_ you want, then?"

"I don't know, " said she, in a low voice. And she added: "So I thinkI might just as well stay right on here at home, if it's all thesame to you. "

"Well, if it pleases you, of course--" he began doubtfully. 

"If I do stay, you needn't be afraid I'll fall in love with anybodyelse you hire, " said she, with a faint flush. "I'm only a fool thesame way once. " Her bomb-shell directness all but stunned him. Hestammered, confusedly:

"Why--very well then, very well then! Quite so! I see exactly whatyou mean! I--ah--am very glad we understand each other. " But as thedoor closed behind her, he mumbled to himself:

"Now, that was a devil of an interview, wasn't it! What's come overthe girl? And what's the matter with _me_?" After a while hetelephoned Mr. Jason Vandervelde. 

Everything went on as usual in the orderly, luxurious house, forsome ten quiet months or so. And then one memorable morning at thebreakfast-table Mr. Champneys suddenly gasped and slid down in hischair. Nancy and Hoichi carried him into the library and placed himon a lounge. He opened his eyes once, and stared into hers withsomething of his old imperiousness. She took his hand, pitifully, and bent down to him. 

"Yes, Uncle Chadwick?"

But he didn't speak--to her. His eyes wandered past her. His lipstrembled, into a whisper of "_Milly_!" With that he went out to thewife of his youth. 

CHAPTER XIV

SWAN FEATHERS

While Mr. Chadwick Champneys was alive, Nancy had been able to feelthat there was some one to whom she, in a way, belonged. Now that hewas gone, she felt as if she had been detached from all human ties, for she couldn't consider Peter as belonging. Peter wasn't cominghome, of course. He was content to leave his business interests inthe safe hands of Mr. Jason Vandervelde, and the trust company thathad the Champneys estate in charge. A last addition to Mr. Champneys's will had made the lawyer the guardian of Mrs. PeterChampneys until she was twenty-five. 

While he was putting certain of his late client's personal affairsin order, Mr. Vandervelde necessarily came in contact with youngMrs. Peter. The oftener he met her, the more interested the shrewdand kindly man became in Anne Champneys. When he first saw her inthe black she had donned for her uncle, the unusual quality of herpersonal appearance struck him with some astonishment. 

"Why, she's grown handsome!" he thought with surprise. "Or maybeshe's going to be handsome. Or maybe she's not, either. Whatevershe is, she certainly can catch the human eye!"

He remembered her as she had appeared on her wedding-day, and hisrespect for Chadwick Champneys's far-sighted perspicacity grew: theold man certainly had had an unerring sense of values. The girl hada mind of her own, too. At times her judgment surprised him with itselemental clarity, its penetrating soundness. The power of thinkingfor herself hadn't been educated out of her; she had not beenstodged with other people's--mostly dead people's--thoughts, therefore she had room for her own. He reflected that a littlewholesome neglect might be added to the modern curriculum with greatadvantage to the youthful mind. 

Her isolation, the deadly monotony of her daily life, horrified him. He realized that she should have other companionship than Mrs. MacGregor's, shrewdly suspecting that as a teacher that lady hadpassed the limit of usefulness some time since. Somehow, theimpermeable perfection of Mrs. MacGregor exasperated Mr. Vanderveldealmost to the point of throwing things at her. She made himunderstand why there is more joy in heaven over one sinner saved, than over ninety and nine just persons. He could understand just howwelcome to a bored heaven that sinner must be! And think of thatpoor girl living with this human work of supererogation!

"Why, she might just as well be in heaven at once!" he thought, andshuddered. "I've got to do something about it. "

"Marcia, " he said to his wife, "I want you to help me out with Mrs. Peter Champneys. Call on her. Talk to her. Then tell me what to dofor her. She's changed--heaps--in three years. She's--well, I thinkshe's an unusual person, Marcia. "

A few days later Mrs. Jason Vandervelde called on Mrs. PeterChampneys, and at sight of Nancy in her black frock experiencedsomething of the emotion that had moved her husband. She feltinclined to rub her eyes. And then she wished to smile, rememberinghow unnecessarily sorry she and Jason had been for young PeterChampneys. 

Marcia Vandervelde was an immensely clever and capable woman;perhaps that partly explained her husband's great success. Shelooked at the girl before her, and realized her possibilities. Mrs. Peter was for the time being virtually a young widow, she had norelatives, and she was co-heir to the Champneys millions. Properlytrained, she should have a brilliant social career ahead of her. Andhere she was shut up--in a really beautiful house, of course--withnobody but an insufferable frump of an unimportant Mrs. MacGregor!The situation stirred Mrs. Vandervelde's imagination and appealed toher executive ability. 

Mrs. Vandervelde liked the way she wore her hair, in thick redplaits wound around the head and pinned flat. It had a medievaleffect, which suited her coloring. Her black dress was soft andlusterless. She wore no jewelry, not even a ring. There were shadowsunder her grave, gray-green eyes. Altogether, she lookedindividual, astonishingly young, and pathetically alone. Mrs. Vandervelde's interest was aroused. Skilfully she tried to draw thegirl out, and was relieved to discover that she wasn't talkative;nor was she awkward. She sat with her hands on the arms of herchair, restfully; and while you spoke, you could see that sheweighed what you were saying, and you. 

"I am going to like this girl, I think, " Marcia Vandervelde toldherself. And she looked at Nancy with the affectionate eyes of thecreative artist who sees his material to his hand. 

"Jason, " she said to her husband, some time later, "what would youthink if I should tell you I wished to take Anne Champneys abroadwith me?"

"I'd say it was the finest idea ever--if you meant it. "

"I do mean it. My dear man, with proper handling one might makesomething that approaches a classic out of that girl. There'ssomething elemental in her: she's like a birch tree in spring, andlike the earth it grows in, too, if you see what I mean. I want totry my hand on her. I hate to see her spoiled. "

"It's mighty decent of you, Marcia!" said he, gratefully. 

"Oh, you know how bored I get at times, Jason. I need something realto engage my energies. I fancy Anne Champneys will supply the neededstimulus. I shall love to watch her reactions: she's not a fool, andI shall be amused. If she managed to do so well with nobody but poorold Mr. Champneys and that dreary MacGregor woman, think whatshe'll be when _I_ get through with her!"

Vandervelde said respectfully: "You're a brick, Marcia! If shepatterns herself on you--"

"If she patterns herself on anybody but herself, I'll wash my handsof her! It's because I think she won't that I'm willing to helpher, " said his wife, crisply. 

Some six weeks later the Champneys house had been closedindefinitely, the premises put in charge of the efficient Hoichi, and Mrs. MacGregor bonused and another excellent position securedfor her, and Mrs. Peter Champneys was making her home with herguardian and his wife. 

She might have moved into another world, so different waseverything, --as different, say, as was the acrid countenance of Mrs. MacGregor from the fresh-skinned, clear-eyed, clever, handsome faceof Marcia Vandervelde. Everything interested Nancy. Her senses wereacutely alert. Just to watch Mrs. Vandervelde, so calm, so poisedand efficient, gave her a sense of physical well-being. She hadnever really liked, or deeply admired, or trusted any other woman, and the real depths of her feeling for this one surprised her. Mrs. Vandervelde possessed the supreme gift of putting others at theirease; she had tact, and was at the same time sincere and kind. Nancyfound herself at home in this fine house in which life moved largelyand colorfully. 

A maid had been secured for her, whom Mrs. Vandervelde pronounced atreasure. Then came skilful and polite persons who did things toher skin and hair, with astounding results. After that came theselection of her wardrobe, under Mrs. Vandervelde's criticalsupervision. Although the frocks were black, with only a whiteevening gown or two for relief, Nancy felt as if she were clothed ina rosy and delightful dream. She had never even imagined such thingsas these black frocks were. When she saw herself in them she wassilent, though the super-saleswomen exclaimed, and Mrs. Vanderveldesmiled a gratified smile. 

"I am going to keep her strictly in the background for the timebeing, Jason, " she explained to her husband. "As she's alreadymarried, she can afford to wait a year--or even two. I mean her tobe perfect. I mean her to be absolutely _sure_. She's going to be asensation. Jason, have you ever seen anything to equal herteam-work? When I tell her what I want her to do, she looks at mefor a moment--and then does it. One thing I must say for old Mr. Champneys and that MacGregor woman: they certainly knew how to lay afirm foundation!"

Nancy was perfectly willing to remain in the background. She wasinterested in people only as an on-looker. She responded instantlyto Mrs. Vandervelde's suggestions and instructions, and carried themout with an intelligent thoroughness that at times made her mentorgasp. It gave her a definite object to work for, and kept her fromthinking too much about Glenn Mitchell. And she didn't want tothink about Glenn Mitchell. It hurt. She watched with a quietwonder--quite as if it had been a stranger to whom all this washappening--the change being wrought in herself; the immensedifference intelligent care, perfectly selected clothes, and thebackground of a beautiful house can make not only in one'sappearance but in one's thoughts. Sometimes she would stare at theperfectly appointed dinner-table, with its softly shaded lights; shewould look, reflectively, from Marcia Vandervelde's smartlycoiffured head to her husband's fine, aristocratic face; thereflective glance would trail around the beautiful room, restappreciatively upon the impressive butler, come back to the food setbefore her, and a fugitive smile would touch her lips and linger inher eyes. There were times when she felt that she herself was theonly real thing among shadows; as if all these pleasant things mustvanish, and only her lonesome self remain. She watched with acertain wistfulness the few people she knew. Marcia, now--soadmired, so sure, with so many interests, so many friends, and withJason Vandervelde's quiet love always hers--did _she_ ever have thathaunting sense of the impermanence of all possessions; of having, inthe end, nothing but herself?

"What are you thinking, when you look at me like that?" Marcia askedher one evening, smilingly. She was as curious about Nancy as Nancywas about her. 

"I was just--wondering. "

"About what?"

"I was wondering if you were ever lonely?" said Nancy, truthfully. "I mean, as if all this, "--they were in the drawing-room then, andshe made a gesture that included everything in it, --"just _things_, you know, all the things you have--and--and the people youknow--weren't _real_. They go. And nothing stays but just _you_. _You_, all by yourself. " She leaned forward, her eyes big andearnest. 

Marcia Vandervelde stared at her. After a moment she said, tentatively: "There are always things; things one has, things onedoes. There are always other people. "

"Yes, or there wouldn't be you, either. But what I mean is, they go. And you stay, don't you?" She paused, a pucker between her brows, "All by yourself, " she finished, in a low voice. 

"Does that make you afraid?" asked Mrs. Vandervelde. 

"Oh, no! Why should it? It just makes me--wonder. "

Mrs. Vandervelde said quietly: "I understand. " Nancy felt gratefulto her. 

A few days later Mrs. Vandervelde said to her casually: "An oldfriend of ours dines with us to-night, Anne, --Mr. Berkeley Hayden, one of the most charming men in the world. I think you will likehim. "

Mrs. Vandervelde always said that Berkeley Hayden was the mostcritical man of her acquaintance, and that his taste was infallible. He had an unerring sense of proportion, and that miracle of judgmentwhich is good taste. He was one of those fortunate people who, asthe saying goes, are born with a gold spoon in the mouth. Unlikemost inheritors of great wealth, he not only spent freely but addedeven more freely to the ancestral holdings. He was moneyed enough todo as he pleased without being considered eccentric; he could evenafford to be esthetic, and to prefer Epicurus to St. Paul. He had ahighly important collection of modern paintings, and an even morevaluable one of Tanagra figurines, old Greek coins, and medievalchurch plate. He had, too, the reputation of being the most gun-shyand bullet-proof of social lions. At thirty he was a handsome, well-groomed, rather bored personage, with sleekly-brushed blondhair and a short mustache. He looked important, and one suspectedthat he must have been at some pains to keep his waist line soinconspicuous. For the rest, he was as really cultivated andpleasing a pagan as one may find, and so wittily ironical he mighthave been mistaken for a Frenchman. 

Mrs. Vandervelde had planned that he should be the only guest. Sheknew this would please him, as well as suit her own purpose, whichwas that he should see young Mrs. Peter Champneys. She was curiousto learn what impression Anne would create, and if Berkeley Hayden'sjudgment would coincide with her own. She had informed him thatJason's ward was stopping with them; would, in fact, go abroad withher shortly. Mr. Hayden was not interested. He thought a ward rathera bore for the Vanderveldes. 

He was standing with his back to the mantel, facing the door, whenNancy entered the room. In the filmy black Mrs. Vandervelde hadselected for her, tall and slim, she paused for the fraction of asecond and lifted her cool, shining, inscrutable green eyes to hislazy blue ones. Mrs. Vandervelde had prevailed upon her to retainher own fashion of wearing her hair in plaits wound around her head, and the new maid had managed to soften the severity of the style andso heightened its effectiveness. A small string of black pearls wasaround her throat, and pendants of the same beautiful jewels hungfrom her ears. Berkeley Hayden started, and his eyes widened. Mrs. Vandervelde, who had been watching him intently, sighedimperceptibly. 

"I wasn't mistaken, then, " she thought, and smiled to herself. 

She could have hugged Anne Champneys for her beautifullyunconscious manner. Of course the girl didn't understand she wasbeing signally honored and favored by Hayden's openly interestednotice, but Marcia reflected amusedly that it wouldn't have mademuch difference if Anne had known. He didn't interest her, exceptcasually and impersonally. She thought him a very good-lookingman, in his way, but rather old: say all of thirty:--and GlennMitchell had been handsome, and romantic, and twenty. Young Mrs. Champneys, then, didn't respond to Mr. Berkeley Hayden's noticegratefully, pleasedly, flutteringly, as other young women--andmany older ones--did. This one paid a more flattering attention toMr. Jason Vandervelde than to him. But he had seen other womenplay that game; he wondered for a moment if this one weredesigning. But he was himself too clever not to understand thatthis was real indifference. Then he wondered if she mightbe--horrible thought!--stupid. He was forced to dismiss thatsuspicion, too. She wasn't stupid. The truth didn't occur tohim--that he himself was spoiled. It provoked him, too, that hecouldn't make her talk. 

Mrs. Vandervelde smiled to herself again. Berkeley was deliberatelytrying to make himself agreeable, something he did not often have totrouble himself to do. He was at his best only when he was reallyinterested or amused, and he was at his best to-night. He arousedher admiration, drew the fire of her own wit and raillery, stungeven quiet Jason into unwonted animation. Anne Champneys lookedfrom one to the other, concealing the fact that at times theirconversation was over her head. She didn't always understand them. The sense of their unreality in relation to herself came upon her. She turned to watch this strange man who was saying things thatpuzzled her, and he met her eyes, as Glenn Mitchell had once metthem. She wasn't looking at him as she had looked at Glenn, butBerkeley Hayden's sophisticated, well-trained, wary heart gave anunprecedented, unmannerly jump when those green eyes sought tofathom him. 

Marcia spoke of their proposed stay abroad. She had gone to schoolin Florence, and she retained a passionate affection for the oldcity, and showed her delight at the prospect of revisiting it. 

"This will be your first visit to Italy, Mrs. Champneys?" askedHayden. 

"Yes. "

"I envy you. But you mustn't allow yourself to be weaned away fromyour own country. You must come back to New York. " He smiled intoher eyes--Berkeley Hayden's famous smile. 

"Yes, I suppose I must, " said Nancy, without enthusiasm. 

He felt puzzled. Was she unthinkably simple and natural, or was sheimmeasurably deep? Was her apparent utter unconsciousness of theeffect she produced a superfine art? He couldn't decide. 

He usually knew exactly why any certain woman pleased him. He hadusually demanded beauty; he had worshiped beauty all his life. Butbeauty must go hand in hand with intellectual qualities; he hated afool. To-night he found himself puzzled. He couldn't tell exactlywhy Anne Champneys pleased him. Studying her critically, he decidedthat she was not beautiful. He could not even call her pretty. Perhaps it was her unusualness. But wherein was she so unusual? Hehad met women with red hair and white skin and gray-green eyesbefore--women far, far more seductive than Jason's ward. Yet not oneof them all had so potently gripped his imagination. 

Mrs. Vandervelde was a brilliant pianist, and after dinner Haydenbegged her to play. Under cover of the music, he watched Mrs. Champneys. She was sitting almost opposite him, and he could observeher changing countenance. Nancy was beginning to love and understandgood music. Men create music; women receive and carry it as theyreceive and carry life. It is quite as much a part of themselves. 

Nancy's eyes shadowed. She leaned back in her chair, and the manwatched the curve of her white cheek and throat, and the thickbraids of her red hair. She had forgotten his presence. He wassaying to himself, with something of wonder, "No, she's notbeautiful: but, my God! how _real_ she is!" when, subtly drawn bythe intensity of his gaze, she turned, looked at him with herclouded eyes, and smiled vaguely. Still smiling, she turned her headagain and gave herself up to listening, unconscious that destiny hadclapped her upon the shoulder. 

The man sat quite still. It had come to him with, the suddenness ofa lightning stroke, and his first feeling was one of stunnedamazement, and an almost incredulous resentment. He had gone to andfro in the earth and walked up and down in it, comfortably immune, an amused and ironic looker-on. And now, at thirty, without rhyme orreason he had fallen in love with a red-haired young woman of whomhe knew absolutely nothing, beyond the bare fact that she was JasonVandervelde's ward. A woman who didn't conform to any standard hehad ever set for himself, whose mind was a closed book to him, ofwhose very existence he had been ignorant until to-night. Old DameDestiny must have sniggered when she thrust Mrs. Peter Champneys, née Nancy Simms, into the exquisitely ordered life of Mr. BerkeleyHayden!

He presently discovered from Jason all that the trustee of theChampneys estate knew of Mrs. Peter, which really wasn't very much, as the lawyer and his wife had never seen Nancy until the morning ofher marriage. And he didn't have much to say about her as she wasthen. Hayden gathered that it was a marriage of convenience, forfamily reasons--to keep the money in the family. He asked a fewquestions about Peter, whom Vandervelde thought a likely youngfellow enough, but whom Hayden fancied must be a poor sort--probablya freak with a pseudo-artistic temperament. There couldn't have beenvery much love lost between a husband and wife who had consented toso singular a separation. Hayden had a _very_ poor opinion of Mr. Peter Champneys! But he was fiercely glad it hadn't been alove-match, glad that that other man's claim upon Anne was at thebest nominal, that theirs was a marriage in name only. 

He saw her several times before her departure, and came no nearer tounderstanding her. The night before they sailed, he gave a dinner inhis apartment, an old aunt of his, more enchanting at sixty than atsixteen, being the only other guest. That apartment with itsbrocaded walls and its marvelous furniture was a revelation toNancy. It was like an opened door to her. 

She looked at her host with a new interest. He appeared to greateradvantage seen, as it were, against his proper and naturalbackground. And that background had the glamour of things strange, exciting, and alluring, smacking somewhat of, say, an ArabianNight's entertainment. Over the dining-room mantel hung a curiousand colorful landscape, in which two brown girls, naked to the waistand from thence to the knees wrapped in straight, bright-coloredstuff, raised their angular arms to pluck queer fruit from exotictrees. 

He knew all that, she thought; he had seen that strange landscapeand those brown women, and tasted the fruit they reached to pluck. Just as he knew those tiny terra-cotta figurines over there, andthat pottery which must have been made out of ruby-dust. Just as heknew everything. All this had been in his world, always. A worldfull of things beautiful and strange. He had had everything that shehad missed. It seemed to her that he incarnated in his proper andhandsome person all the difference and the change that had come intoher life. 

And quite suddenly she saw Nancy Simms dusting the Baxter parlor, pausing to stand admiringly before a picture on a white-and-goldeasel, that cherished picture of a house with mother-of-pearlpuddles in front of it. A derisive and impish amusement flickeredlike summer lightning across her face, and with an inscrutable smileshe mocked the mother-of-pearl puddles and her old admiration ofthem. She lifted her eyes to the painting over Berkeley Hayden'smantel, and the smile deepened. 

"Perhaps it is her smile, " thought he, watching her. "Yes, I am sureit must be her smile. I am rather glad Marcia is taking her abroad. I do not wish to make a fool of myself, and there'd be that dangerif she remained. " Yet the idea of her absence gave him anunaccustomed pang. 

He filled her quarters aboard ship with exquisite flowers. She wasnot yet used to graceful attentions, they had been for other women, not for her. She had no idea at all that she was of the slightestimportance, if only because of the Champneys money; her comparativefreedom was still too recent for her to have changed her estimate ofherself. She thought it touchingly kind and thoughtful of thishandsome, important man to have remembered just _her_, particularlywhen there wasn't anybody else to do so, and she looked at him witha pleased and appreciative friendliness for which he felt absurdlygrateful. While Marcia was busied with the other friends who hadcome to see her off, he stood beside Mrs. Champneys, who seemed toknow no one but himself, and this established a measure of intimacybetween them. 

"It occurs to me, " said he, tentatively, "that it has been some timesince I saw Florence. All of two or three years. "

They stood together by the railing, and she leaned forward thebetter to watch a leggy little girl with a brickdust-red pigtail ina group on the pier. 

"Yes?" said she, absently. The leggy girl had just thrust out hertongue at an expostulating nurse. She seemed to be a highlyunpleasant child; one of those children of whom aunts speak as "poorMary" or whatever their name may be. Anne Champneys, watching her, put her hand up and touched her own hair, that gleamed under herclose-fitting black hat. Her eyes darkened; she smiled, secretly, mysteriously, rememberingly. 

In that instant Berkeley Hayden made his decision. There was nolonger any doubt in his mind. When she turned away from the railing, he said pleasantly:

"You and Marcia have put me in the humor to see Florence again. If Icome strolling in upon you some fine day, I hope you'll be glad tosee me, Mrs. Champneys?"

"Oh, yes!" said she, politely. And then Marcia and Vandervelde cameup, and a few minutes later the two men went ashore. Hayden's facewas the last thing Nancy saw as the steamer moved slowly outward. There were hails, laughter, waving of hand-kerchiefs. He alonelooked at _her_. And so he remained in her memory, standing a littleapart from all others. 

CHAPTER XV

"I, TOO, IN ARCADIA"

If Riverton was his mother's house and England his grandmother's, France was peculiarly his own. Peter Champneys felt that he had comehome, and even the fact that he couldn't speak understandable Frenchdidn't spoil the illusion. Nobody laughed at his barbarous jargon;people were patient, polite, helpful. He thought the French thepleasantest people in the world, and this opinion he never changed. Later, when he learned to know them better, he concluded that theywere very deliberately and very gallantly gay in order to concealfrom themselves and from the world how mortally sad they were atheart. They eschewed those virtues which made one disagreeable, andthey indulged only in such vices as really amused them, and inconsequence they made being alive a fine art. 

The Hemingways knew Paris as they knew London, and they smoothed hispath. In their drawing-room Peter met that dazzling inner circle ofParisian society which includes talent and genius as well as rank, beauty, and wealth. Then, Mrs. Hemingway having first seen to itthat he met those whom she wished him to meet, Peter was permittedto meet those whom he himself wished to meet. He was introduced totwo deceptively mild-mannered young Englishmen, first cousins namedCheckleigh, students in one of the great ateliers, who were by wayof being painters; and to a shock-headed young man from California, a sculptor, named Stocks. The Englishmen were closely related to alarge-toothed, very important Lady Somethingorother, high up in thediplomatic sphere, and the Californian possessed a truly formidableaunt. Hence the three young men appeared in fashionable circles atdecent intervals. Later, Peter learned to know their redoubtablerelatives as "Rabbits" and "The Grampus, " and he once saw aterrifyingly truthful portrait of "Rabbits" sketched on a skittishmodel's bare back, and a movingly realistic little figure of "TheGrampus" modeled by her dutiful nephew in a moment of diabolicalinspiration. It was explained to him that God, for some inscrutablepurpose of his own, generally pleases himself by bestowing only themost limited human intelligence upon the wealthy relatives of poorbut gifted artists; but that if properly approached, and at not toofrequent intervals, they may be induced to loosen their tightpurse-strings. Wherefore one must somehow manage to keep on goodterms with them. Witness, Stocks said, his forgiving--nay, kindly--attitude toward The Grampus; see how he went to her houseand drank her loathly tea and ate her beastly little cakes, eventhough she regarded a promising sculptor as a sort of unpromisingstone-cutter who couldn't hold down a steady job, and hadvehemently urged him to go in for building and contracting inSacramento, California. "And yet that woman has got about all themoney there is in our family!" finished Stocks, bitterly. 

"Rabbits takes you aside and talks to you heart to heart, " said theyounger Checkleigh, gloomily. The elder Checkleigh's face took on alook of martyrdom. 

"We have Immortal Souls, " said he, in a tone of anguish andaffliction. "I ask you, as man to man: Is it our fault?"

It was these three Indians, then, who took Peter Champneys undertheir wing, helped him find the pleasantest rooms in the Quartier, helped him furnish them at about a third of what he would have paidif left to his own devices, and also helped him to shed his skin ofa timid provincial by plunging him to the scalp in that bubblingcauldron in which seethes the creative brain of France. Serious andsad young men who were going to be poets; intense fellows who weregoing to rehabilitate the Drama, or write the Greatest Novel;illustrators, journalists, critics, painters, types in velvet coats, flowing ties, flowing locks, and astonishing hats, sculptors, makersof exquisite bits of craftsmanship, models, masters, singers ofsorts, actors and actresses, sewing-girls, frightful old concièrges;students from the four corners of the earth driven hither by thefour winds of heaven, came and went in the devil-may-care wake ofStocks and the Checkleighs and disported themselves before thereflective and appreciative eyes of Peter Champneys. These gayBohemians laughed at him for what Stocks called his spinterishness, but ended by loving him as only youth can love a comrade. 

In six months he knew the Quartier to the core. He met men who wereutter blackguards, whose selfish, cold-blooded brutality filled himwith loathing; he met women with the soul of the cat. But theQuartier as a whole was sound-hearted; Peter himself was toosound-hearted not to know. He met Youth at work, his own kind ofwork. They were all going to do something great presently, --andpresently many of them did. The very air he breathed stimulated him. Here were comrades, to whom, as to himself, art was the onesupremely important thing in the universe. They, too, were climberstoward the purple heights. 

Shy young men who work like mules are as thick as hops in any artcenter; but shy young men who are immensely talented, who have agenius for steady labor, and who at the same time have not only theinclination but the opportunity to be generous, are not numerousanywhere. 

Peter Champneys never talked about himself, made no parade, was sosimple in his tastes that he spent very little upon himself, andwhile he could say "No" to impudence, he had ever a quick, warm"Yes" for need. That he should be able to become an artist had beenthe top of his dream; that by a very little self-denial he couldhelp others to remain artists, left him large-eyed at his own goodfortune. He experienced the glowing happiness that only the generouscan know. 

On Sundays he went to see Emma Campbell, for whom he had found alittle house on the summit of Montmartre, on the very top of theButte. It had a hillside garden, with a dove-cote in it, and alittle kiosk in which Emma liked to sit, with the cat Satan on herlap, and projeck at the strange world in which she found herself. She shared the house with a scene-painter and his wife, and as thescene-painter was an Englishman, Emma could talk to somebody and beunderstood. Emma's idea of happiness was leisure to sew squares ofpatchwork together for quilts. She had brought her cut-out quiltscraps with her, and she sat in the kiosk and sewed little pieces ofcolored calico together, while the big cat scampered about thegarden, or lay and blinked at her, and all Paris lay spread out farbelow, the spires of Notre Dame showing as through a mist. 

On Sundays she cooked for Peter, --old homely Riverton dishes, --andwaited on him while he ate. Because she couldn't read, she lookedforward to Peter's reading what she reverently called "de Book. "Peter had been reading the Bible to old darkies all his life, and heaccepted it as a matter of course that he should take the longclimb, and give up a part of his Sundays, to save Emma Campbell frombeing disappointed now. Afterward, Emma spoke of his mother, and ofold, familiar things they both remembered. Then he went back to theQuartier feeling as refreshed and rested as if he'd had a swim inthe river "over home. "

At regular intervals he appeared at Mrs. Hemingway's, and kept uphis acquaintance with her friends. When she told him to accept aninvitation, he resignedly obeyed, looking, the elder of theCheckleigh boys told him, as if he were doing it for God's sake. Hewas beginning to speak French less villainously, and this madethings easier for him. He could carry on a simple conversation, bygoing slowly; and he _almost_ understood about half of whatstrangers said to him. He interested one or two fine ladies greatly, and they were extremely gracious to him. Artists--that is, young andunknown artists in the Quartier--are more or less pleasant to readabout in the pages of Mürger and others, but they are too oftenbeggarly and quite impossible persons in real life. But this youngAmerican who lived in the Quartier was at the same time on a footingof intimacy in the exclusive home of those so charming Hemingways, who were, one knew, of the _grand monde_. Was it true that theAmerican painter was very wealthy? Yes? Ah, _cièl_! That droll youngman was then amusing himself by living in the Quartier? But what anoriginal! His family approved? He was an _orphan_? With no relationssave that old uncle whose heir he was? Ah, _mon Dieu_! That touchedone's heart! One must try to be very pleasant to that so lonelyyoung man! And that so lonely young man was extended mead and balmin the shape of invitations to very smart affairs. To some of whichhe found, at the last minute, he couldn't go, for the simple andcogent reason that Checkleigh or Stocks had appropriated his dresssuit. 

"It's infernally unlucky, Rabbits having an affair on to-night. Butyou know how it is, Champ--she'd never forgive me if I didn't showup. Big-wigs from home, and all that, and she feels it's her duty tomake me show 'em I haven't become an Apache. And my togs are out atinterest--one has to pay one's rent _sometimes_, you understand, "explained Checkleigh, who was dressing before Peter's mirror. "_You_don't have to care: _you_ aren't compelled to keep in her goodgraces!"

"Oh, all right. I don't mind. I only accepted to please Mrs. Hemingway. "

"Mrs. Hemingway is my very good friend. At the first opportunity Ishall explain to her. She can readily understand that

 "One may go without relatives, cousins, and aunts-- But civilized man can_not_ go without pants. 

I wish you hadn't such deucedly long legs, Champ. Regularhop-poles!" grumbled Checkleigh, ungratefully. 

"They are poor things, but mine own, " said Peter, mildly. "You willfind a five-franc piece in the waistcoat pocket, Checkleigh, if youhappen to want it. I keep it there for cab fare. "

"If I happen to want it!" shrieked Checkleigh. "Oh, bloatedplutocrat, purse-proud millionaire, I always happen to want it!" Hewaved an eloquent hand to the circumambient air. "He has five-francpieces in his waistcoat pocket--and no Rabbits in his family!" criedCheckleigh. "Now, have you a presentable pair of gloves, Croesus?--Oh, damn your legs, Champneys! Look at these beastlybreeches of yours, will you? I've had to turn 'em up until you'dfancy I was wearing cuffs on the ankles, and still they're toolong!"

"You should have cut 'em off a bit--then you wouldn't look as thoughyou were poulticing your shins. And they'd fit me, too, " commentedStocks, who had sauntered in. 

Checkleigh looked at Peter's watch--his own was "out at interest"along with his dress suit--and shook his head dolefully. 

"If you'd just suggested it sooner, I could have done it--now it'stoo late. " he lamented. "Your progeny will probably resemble herons, Champneys, and serve 'em right!--Are those _new_ gloves? I _am_ acredit to Rabbits!" And he rushed off. 

 "What a friend we have in Champ-neys, All his gloves and pa-ants to wear!"

Stocks sang in a voice like the scraping of a mattock over flint;one saw that he had been piously raised. Then he hooked his arm inPeter's and the two went forth to join the joyous hordes surging upthe Boul' Miche, and to dine in their favorite restaurant, where thewaiters were one's good friends, and Madame the proprietressaddressed her Bohemians as "mes enfants. " Having dined, one joinedone's brother workers who waged the battle of Art with jaws andgestures. Bawling out the slang of the studios, they grimaced, sneered, shrugged, praised, demolished. Nothing was sacred to theseyoung savages but the joy of the present. They had no past, and thefuture hadn't arrived. They lived in the moment, worked, laughed, loved, and, when they could, dined. When one had a handful ofsilver, how gay the world was! How one wished to pat it on the backand invite it to come and be merry with one!

In the full stream of this turbulent tide, behold Peter Champneys;with a lock of his black hair falling across his forehead; his headcocked sidewise; and his big nose and clear golden eyes giving himthe aspect of a benevolent hawk, like, say, Horus, Hawk of the Sun. Those golden eyes of his saw tolerantly as well as clearly. Thisquiet American worked like a fiend, yet had time to look on andlaugh with you while you played. He was gravely gay at his best, buthe didn't neglect the good things of his youth. And he had a geniusfor playing impromptu Providence when you were down on your luck andabout all in. Maybe you hadn't dined for a couple of days, or maybeyou were pretty nearly frozen in your room, as you had no fire; andyou were wondering whether, after all, you weren't a fool to starveand freeze for art's sake, and whether, all things considered, lifewas worth living; and there'd be a gentle tap at your door, andPeter Champneys would stick his thin dark face in, smilingly. He'dtell you he'd been lonely all day, and would you, if you hadn't doneso already, kindly come and dine with him? He spoke French with aSouth Carolina accent, in those days, but an archangel's voice couldnot then have sounded more dulcet in your ears than his. Presently, over your cigarettes, you found yourself telling him just howthings were with you. Maybe you slept on a lounge in his studio thatnight, because it was warmer there. And next morning you could facelife and work feeling that God's in his heaven, all's right with theworld. That's what Peter Champneys meant to many a hard-pressedyoungster. 

With his immense capacity for work, at the end of a year PeterChampneys had made great strides. But he was troubled. Like Millet, he couldn't take the ordered direction. He felt that he was merelymarking time, that he wasn't on the right track. His robust andoriginal talent demanded heartier food than was offered it. Reluctantly enough, Peter withdrew from the official studio to whichhe was attached, and went on his own. It was a momentous step. 

One Sunday afternoon he said to Emma Campbell, seriously:

"You've never laid eyes on a goddess, Emma, have you? Or a nymph?Well, neither have I. And I can't paint what I don't know. " Hewalked up and down the little graveled garden path. And he burstout: "That is not life. It is not truth. I don't want gods. I onlysee _men_! I don't want goddesses. I want _women_!"

Emma Campbell said in a scandalized voice:

"Dat ain't no kind o' way to talk! Leastwise, " she compromised, "noton Sundays. "

Peter burst out laughing. Emma wore her usual Sunday cashmere, witha snowy apron and head-handkerchief. Satan lay upon the small tablebeside her, in the attitude of a sphinx, his black, velvety pawsstretched in front of him, his inscrutable eyes watching therestless young man. Peter paused, and his eyes narrowed. Then hesnapped his fingers, as he had done when he was a little boy back inRiverton and something had pleased him. 

"I've got it!" he shouted. "Emma, you're It!"

No one ever had a more patient model. She couldn't exacklyunderstan' why Mist' Peter should want to paint a ole nigger likeher, but if Peter Champneys had wanted to bury her alive in theground, with only her head sticking out, Emma would have known ithad to be all right, somehow. So she sat for weary hours, whilePeter made rough sketches, and tried out many theories, before hesettled down to work in dead earnest. 

And presently Emma saw herself as it were alive on a square ofcanvas, so alive that she was more than a bit afraid. She said itlooked like her own ha'nt, and Emma wasn't partial to ha'nts. Thereshe sat in her plain black dress and her plain white apron andhead-handkerchief, and her gold hoop ear-rings. On the table besideher were the vegetables she was to prepare. She had forgotten workfor the time being. Emma projecked, one hand resting idly on thetable, the other on the great black cat in her lap. She looked atyou, with the wistfully animal look of a negro woman, who is loving, patient, kind, long-suffering, imbued with a terrible patience, andof a sound, sly, earthy humor; and who at the same time ischildishly credulous, full of dark passions, and with the fires ofsavagery banked in her heart. There she sat, that sphinx that isAfrica, who has seen the white races come, and who will probably seethem go; you could almost sense the half-slumbrous brain of herthrobbing under her head-handkerchief. She wasn't a mere coloredwoman; she was a symbol and a challenge. And her eyes that had seenso much and wept so much were as inscrutable as fate, as sphinx-likeas the cat's who watched you from her knee. The whole picturebreathed an amazingly bold and original power, and was soarrestingly vital that it gripped and held one. Down in one corner, painted with exquisite care and delicacy, was a Red Admiral. 

The Quartier came, squinted through the fingers, and praised anddispraised, after its wont. The Symbolists sneered and told Peter tohis teeth he was a Philistine; they said you can't boot-lick Nature:you've got to bully her, demand her soul, _make_ her give you herSign! Quieter men came and studied Emma Campbell and her cat, andclapped Peter on the back; the more exuberant Latins kissed him, noisy, hearty, hairy kisses on both cheeks. Undoubtedly, it would beaccepted, they said!

It was, and hung conspicuously. There were always small groupsbefore it, for it created something like the uproar that Manet's"Olympia" had raised in its time. Peter learned from one critic thathis technique was magnificent, his picture a masterpiece ofpsychology and of portraiture, and that if he kept on he'd soon beone of the Immortals. He learned from another that while heundoubtedly had technique, his posing was commonplace, his subjectbanal, his imagination hopelessly bourgeois; that he was a painterof the ugly and the ordinary, without inspiration or imagination;that the one pretty and delicate note in the whole canvas was thebutterfly in the lower left-hand corner, and that _that_ wasobviously reminiscent of Whistler, who on a time had used abutterfly signature! But on the whole the criticisms were highlyfavorable; it was admitted that a young painter of promise hadarisen. 

Peter Champneys went about his business, indifferent to praise orblame. _He_ knew he was a way-faring man whose business it was tofollow his own road, a road he had to hack out for himself; andsomewhere on the horizon were the purple heights. 

The unbounded delight, the disinterested pride of the Hemingways, couldn't have been greater had he been their son. Mrs. Hemingwaygave a brilliant entertainment in his honor, and he was fêted andmade much of. Young ladies who danced divinely found his stork-likehopping pleasing, and his stammering French delightful. Thischarming Monsieur Champneys, you see, was not only invested with theglamour of art; he was the heir of an American millionaire! Ah, thedear young man!

The picture was sold to a Spanish nobleman, who said it reminded himof Velasquez's "Æsop"; he was so delighted with the painter's powerthat he commissioned Peter to portray his own long, pale, melancholyvisage. Whereupon the two Checkleighs and Stocks called loudly fora proper celebration, and Peter honored their clamorous demand. Itwas a memorable affair, graced by the Quartier's darlingest models, who had long since voted M'sieu Champnees a _bon garçon_. A Spanishstudent, in a velvet coat and with long black hair, insisted uponcharcoaling mustachios and imperial upon his host's countenance, inhonor of his countryman who had distinguished himself as a patron ofart. Later, a laughing girl whose blue-black hair was bandedMadonna-wise around a head considerably otherwise, washed it offwith a table napkin dipped in wine. She sat on his knee to performthe operation, scanned his clean face with satisfaction, and takinghim by the ears as by handles, kissed him gaily. Then she went backto her own _chèr ami_, who wasn't in the least disturbed. 

"It is like kissing thy maiden aunt, Jacques, " she told him. "Now, with thee--" They looked at each other eloquently, and PeterChampneys, whose eyes had followed the girl, smiled crookedly. Anunaccountable gloom descended upon him. All these lusty young menshouting and laughing around him, all these handsome, ardent youngwomen, snatched what joy from life they could; they lived theirhour, knowing how brief that hour must be. They ate to-day, starvedto-morrow; but they were rich because they loved, because theylaughed, because theirs was the passionate unforced comradeship, theintoxicating joy of youth. Peter Champneys, whose good luck wasbeing celebrated, looked at his penniless, hilarious comrades, andtwisted a smile of desperate gaiety to his lips. He had never inhis life felt more utterly alone. 

The affair ended at six o'clock the next morning, in a last glad, mad romp up the Boul' Miche. Peter and Stocks waved good-by to thelast revelers, looking somewhat jaded in the fresh morning air. Thetwo young men, both rather tired, walked slowly. Venders in clackingsabots pushed their carts ahead of them, shouting their wares. Crowds of working-people poured through the streets. At a littlerestaurant they knew, they had coffee and rolls. While they weredrinking, a girl came in. Peter looked up and saw Denise. 

His first thought was that she would have been lovely if she hadn'tbeen so thin. Then he saw how shabby she was, and how neat. Nothingcould have been more charming than her chestnut hair, or her blueeyes that had a look of innocence, or her fair and transparentcomplexion, though one could have wished she were rosier. She didnot look around with the quick, alert, bright glance of theParisienne whom everything interests and amuses; she had theabstracted and sad air of a child who suffers, and whom sufferingbewilders. 

Stocks said, in a low voice, tinged with pity:

"_L'amie de Dangeau_. "

Peter received that announcement with a shock of surprise anddistaste. Dangeau was such an utter brute! Handsome in his way, without conscience or pity, Dangeau would have eaten his mother'sheart to satisfy his own hunger, or wiped his feet upon hisfather's beard. The gifted, intellectual, and rapacious savageseized whatever came near him that pleased his fancy or aroused hiscuriosity, extracted the pith, and tossed aside what no longeramused or served him. There was no generosity in him, only aninsatiable and ferocious demand that life should give him more, always more! Peter, who both admired and detested him, was sorry forthis gentle creature fallen into his remorseless claws. And hewondered, as decent men must, at the fatal fascination animals likeDangeau seem to possess for women. 

He saw her occasionally after that, always alone. Plainly, thingswere not well with her. Her pale face grew paler and thinner; herdress shabbier. The look of bewilderment was now a look of pain. Hereyes were heavy, as if they wept too much. Peter watched her with atroubled heart. One day Henri, the garçon, murmured confidentially, as she left the café after a particularly slim meal:

"These thin little blondes, they do not last long. That one was likea rose when I first saw her. _Pauvre enfant_!" And he looked afterher with a compassionate glance. 

"She seems--different, " said Peter. "It is not well with her?"

"Alas, no! She is from the provinces, Monsieur, come to Paris toearn more. And so she wearied her _ami_. You know him, Monsieur; heis a restless man, quickly tiring--that sculptor! Also, he fearedshe would fall sick upon his hands--you see how frail she is, and heabhors all that is not robust. " And Henri made an expressivegesture. He added: "_She_ is of the sort that love, Monsieur; and, you understand, that is fatal!"

"And how does she manage now?" asked Peter. 

Henri shrugged significantly. Peter drummed on the table andscowled. A little girl, from the provinces! One understood now howshe had fallen into Dangeau's hands, and how, inevitably, he hadtired, and tossed her aside like a wilted flower. And now she wasfacing slow starvation--Oh, damn!

Peter slipped some change into Henri's palm. "You are a man ofsense, Henri. Also, I see that you have a good heart, " said he. "Nowwe must see what we can do for this poor little Mademoiselle, youand I. You will place before her the best the house affords--I leavethat to you. And when she protests you will say to her: 'Yourvenerable godfather has arranged for it, Mademoiselle. His ordersare, that you come here, seat yourself, tap once with yourforefinger upon the table, --and your orders will be obeyed. '"

"And if she questions further, Monsieur?"

"Explain that you obey orders, but do not know her godfather, " saidPeter, gravely. 

"Trust me, Monsieur!" cried the delighted Henri. And from thatmoment the kindly fellow adored Peter Champneys. 

The little game began the next day. Denise gave her tiny order;Henri came back with a loaded tray, whose savory contents he placedbefore her. Out of the corner of his eye Peter could see the girl'sastonished face when Henri politely insisted that the meal washers--that her venerable godfather had ordered it for her! Shelooked timidly and fearfully around; but nobody was paying theslightest attention to her, and after deftly arranging the dishes, Henri had whisked himself off. She waited for a few minutes; butHenri hadn't come back. And then, because she was almost famished, she ate what had been given her. Peter felt his eyes blur. 

Henri came back to her presently with wine. He dusted the bottlelovingly, and filled her glass with a flourish. She looked up with atremulous smile:

"My godfather's order, Henri?"

"Your venerable godfather's order, Mademoiselle, " he repliedsedately. When she had finished her dinner, he glibly, and with anexpressionless countenance repeated Peter's instructions: she was tocome in, seat herself, tap with her forefinger, and give her orders, which would be instantly obeyed! No, he did not know her godfather. Nor did Monsieur le patron. No, he might not even take the sous sheoffered him: all, all, had been arranged, Mademoiselle!

She hesitated. Then she called for pen and paper, and scribbled inviolet ink:

 MONSIEUR MY GODFATHER, I see that the good God still permits miracles. You are one. Accept, then, a poor girl's thanks and prayers! Thy godchild, DENISE. 

She gave this to Henri, who received it respectfully. Then she wentout, feeling very much better and brighter because of a sadly neededdinner. She was bewildered, and excited; but she wasn't afraid. Sheaccepted her miracle, which had come just in the nick of time, gratefully, with a childlike simplicity. But she used her blue eyes, and one day they met Peter Champneys's, regarding her with a goodand kind satisfaction; for indeed she looked much better andbrighter, now that she was no longer half starved. Denise hadencountered other eyes, men's eyes; but none had ever met hers withjust such a look as she saw in these clear and golden ones. A flashof intuition came to her. Only one person in the world could haveeyes like that--it must be, it was, he! And she watched him with anabsorbed and breathless interest. 

In these small restaurants of the Quartier one sits so close toone's neighbors, in a busy hour, that conversation isn't difficult;it is, rather, inevitable. 

"Monsieur, " said the young girl, bravely and yet timidly, on anoccasion when they almost touched elbows, "Monsieur, --is it you whohave a god-daughter?"

"Mademoiselle, " stammered Peter, who hadn't expected the question. "I do not know your godfather!" And then he turned red to his ears. 

Her face broke into a swift and flashing smile. She looked so like ahappy child that Peter had to smile back at her, and presently theywere chatting like old acquaintances. After that they always managedto dine together. 

They found each other delightful. That gloomy sense of lonelinesswhich had oppressed Peter vanished in the girl's presence. As forDenise, no one had ever been so kind, so gentle, so generous to heras this wonderful Monsieur Champneys. She grew quite beautiful; hereyes were a child's eyes, her face like one of those little sweetpinkish-white roses one sees in old-fashioned gardens. 

She had no relations; neither had Peter. And so he took Denise intohis life, just as he had once taken a lost kitten out of the dusk onthe Riverton Road: there really was nothing else for him to do! Hehad for her something of the same whimsical and compassionateaffection that had made him share his glass of milk with the littlecat. She belonged to him; there was nobody else. 

She was rather a silent creature, Denise. She had none of that Latinvivacity which wearies the listener, but her love for him showeditself in a thousand gracious ways, in innumerable small services, in loving looks. Just to touch him was a never-failing joy to her. She delighted to stroke his face, to trace with her small fingersthe outline of his features. "That is the pattern on the inside ofmy heart, " she told him. She had a quick, light tread, pleasant tolisten to, and her rare and lovely laughter was always a delicioussurprise, as if one heard an unexpected chime of little bells. 

Her housewifely ways, her pretty anxiety about spending money, amused him tenderly. When she could perform some small service forhim, she hummed little hymns to the Virgin. Her ministrationsextended to Stocks and the Checkleighs, whose shirts she mended soexpertly that they didn't have to borrow so many of Peter's. She wasso happy that Peter Champneys grew happy watching her. It hadn'tseemed possible to Denise that anybody like him could exist; yethere he was, and she belonged to him!

Nobody had ever loved Peter Champneys in quite the same way. She hadso real and true a genius for loving that she exhaled affection as aflower exhales perfume. Loving was an instinct with Denise. Shewould steal to his side, slip her arm around his neck, kiss him onthe eyes--"thy beautiful eyes, Pierre!"--and cuddle her cheekagainst his, with so exquisite a tenderness in touch and look thatthe young man's kind heart melted in his breast. He couldn't speak. He could only gather her close, pressing his black head against hersoft young bosom. 

Her cruel experience with Dangeau was not forgotten; but that hadbeen capture by force, and she remembered it as a black backgroundagainst which the bright colors of this present happiness showedwith a heavenlier radiance. Peter himself didn't guess how whollyhis little comrade loved him, though he did realize her utterselflessness. She never asked him troublesome questions, neverannoyed him with irritating jealousy, made no demands upon him. Washe not himself? Very well, then: did not that suffice? Denise didn'tthink: she felt. She had the exquisite wisdom of the heart, and inher small hands the flower of Peter Champneys's youth opened andblossomed. He was young, he was loved, he was busy. Oh, but it was agood world to be alive in! He whistled while he worked. And how heworked! To this period belong those angelic heads, chestnut-haired, wistfully smiling, with blue eyes that look deep into one's heart. The airy butterfly that signs these canvases is not so much a symbolas a prescience. 

When was it he first noticed that for all his love and care hewasn't going to be able to keep Denise? How did he learn that thegreat last lover was wooing her away? She was not less happy. A deepand still joy radiated from her, her eyes had the clear andcloudless happiness of a child's. But he observed that on theirpleasant excursions into the country she tired quickly. Her littlelight feet didn't run any more. She preferred to sit cuddled againsthis side, holding his hand in both hers, her head pressed againsthis shoulder. She didn't talk, but then, he was used to her silence;that was one of her sweetest charms. Her cheek grew thinner, but therose in it deepened. Then the pretty dresses he loved to lavish uponher began to hang loosely upon her little body. 

It was a frightened young man who called in doctors and specialists. But, as Henri had once told him, they do not last long, these frailblondes. Also, she was of the sort that loves--and that, youunderstand, is fatal!

Stocks, who had made a great pet of Peter's pretty sweetheart, blubbered when he learned the truth, and the younger Checkleigh, who delighted to sketch her, left off because his hand shook so, andhe couldn't see clearly. The Spanish student in the velvet coat, whocould sing lustily to a guitar, came and sang for her, not theribald songs the Quartier heard from him, but the beautiful and softlove songs he had heard as a child in Andalusia--how love is animmortal rose one carries through the gates of the grave into thegates of paradise. And the Quartier, which knows so much sorrow aswell as so much joy, came with its gayest gossip to make her smile. Peter himself lived in a sort of tormented daze. --It was Denise, hislittle Denise, who was going!

Denise herself was the calmest and cheerfulest of them all. Her highdestiny had been to love Peter Champneys, and she had fulfilled it. The good, the kind God had given her that which in her estimationoutweighed everything else. She had lived, she had loved. Now shecould go, and go content. 

"It is better so, " she told him, with that piercing good sense ofthe French which is like a spiritual insight. "Very dear one, suppose _I_ had been called upon to let _thee_ go: how could I haveendured that?" And she added, pressing his fingers, "Do not grieve, my adored Pierre. Observe that I am but a poor little one to whom inthy goodness of heart thou hast been kind: but thou art all mylife--all of me, Pierre. "

He put his head against her side, and she stroked it, whispering, "I had but a little while to stay, beloved. Because of thee, thatstay has been happy--oh, very, very happy!"

"You have given me all I ever had of youth and love, " said Peter. 

"Ah, but I am glad!" she said naïvely. "Because of _that_, I thinkyou must remember!" She looked at him with her blue eyes suddenlyfull of tears. "It is only when I think you may forget that I amafraid, it is then as if the dark pressed upon me, " she said in awhisper sharp with pain. "I lie still and dream how great you willbecome, how much beloved--for who could fail to love you, Pierre?And I am glad. It rests my heart, which is all yours. But when Ibegin to remember how I have been but a little, little part of yourlife, who have been all of mine, when I think you may forget, then Iam afraid, I am afraid!" And she looked at him like a frightenedchild who is being left alone to go to sleep in the dark. 

Peter picked her up, wrapped in the bedquilt, and held her in hisarms. She was very light. It was as if he held a little ghost. Sheshook her bright hair over his shoulders and breast, and he hid hisquivering face in it, as in a veil. Presently, in a soft voice:

"Godfather!"

"Yes, my little sweetheart. "

"Very dear and precious godfather, --a long, long time from now, when_She_ comes, She whom you will love as I love you, tell her aboutme. "

"Denise, Denise!" cried poor Peter, straining her to him. 

"Tell her I had blue eyes, and a fair face, and bright, brighthair, Godfather. She will like to know. Say, 'Her whole wisdom layin loving me with all her heart--that poor Denise!' Then tell herthat she cannot love you more, my Pierre, --but that in my grave Ishall despise her if she dares to love you less. "

"I--Oh, my God!" strangled Peter, and he felt as if his heart werebeing wrenched out of his breast. He was in his twenties, and thegirl in his arms was all he knew of love. 

Some six weeks later Denise died as quietly as she had lived, hersmall cold hands clinging to Peter Champneys's, her blue eyes withtheir untroubled, loving gaze fixed upon his face. When that belovedface faded from her the world itself had faded from Denise. 

He hadn't dreamed one could suffer as he was called upon to sufferthen. The going of little Denise seemed to have torn away a livingand quivering part of his spirit. She had loved him absolutely, andPeter couldn't forget that. His gratitude was an anguish. It is notthe duration but the depths of an experience which makes itsineffaceable impression upon the heart. 

Mrs. Hemingway saw his changed looks with concern. If she and herhusband suspected anything, they did not torment him with questions;they didn't even appear to notice that he was silent and abstracted. 

"What on earth is the matter with the boy?" worried Mrs. Hemingway. "John, do you think it's a--"

"Petticoat? What else should it be?"

"I can't bear to think of Peter getting himself into some sort ofscrape with possibly some miserable woman--who will prey upon him, "murmured Mrs. Hemingway. 

"Peter's not the sort that falls for adventuresses. He might fall inlove with some girl, and be cut up if she didn't reciprocate. That'swhat's the matter with him now, if I'm not mistaken. "

Hemingway took Peter fishing with him. It is a pleasant place, theSeine near Poissy. Hemingway let Peter sit in a boat all day, anddidn't seem to observe that the line wasn't once drawn in. The riverwas rippling, the sky bright blue, the wind sweet. All around themwere other boats, full of people who appeared to be happy. AndHemingway's silent companionship was strong and kind and serene. Insensibly Peter reacted to his surroundings, to the influence ofthe shining day. When they were returning to Paris that evening, helooked at his big compatriot gratefully. Then he told him. Hemingwaylistened in silence. Then:

"I'm damned glad she had you, " said he, and polished his eyeglasses, and put his hand on Peter's shoulder with a consoling andsympathetic touch. Hemingway understood. He was that sort. 

Youth departs, love perishes, faith faints; but that we may never beleft hopeless, work remains and saves us. Peter's work came to hissuccor. Just at this crucial time his Eminence the Austrian Cardinalappeared, and Peter hadn't time to mope. 

The cardinal had seen the picture of Emma Campbell and her cat. Hehad seen an enchanting sketch of the Spanish student in the velvetcoat, recently purchased by a friend of his. And now his ownportrait must be painted. He was so great a cardinal, of so strikinga personality, that his own noble family had an immense pride inhim, and the Vatican, along with certain great temporal powers, tookhim very seriously. So the painting of the cardinal's portraitwouldn't be a light undertaking, to be given at random. This andthat great painter was urged upon him. But the astonishing portraitof that old colored woman and her cat decided his Eminence, who hada will of his own. Here was his artist! Also, he insisted upon thecat. 

The anticlerical press of Paris was insisting that the cardinal'sstay in the French capital was of sinister import. The cardinalsmiled, and Peter Champneys besought his gods to let him get thatsmile on canvas. His Eminence was an ideal sitter. He spoke Englishbeautifully, and it pleased him to converse with the lanky youngAmerican painter in his mother tongue. He felt drawn to the youngman, and when the cardinal liked one, he was irresistible. Peter wasso fascinated by this brilliant and versatile aristocrat, so deeplyinterested in the psychology of a great Roman prelate, a prince ofthe Church, that he forgot everything except that he was a creativeartist--and a great sitter, a man worthy of his best, was to beportrayed. 

He gave his whole heart to his task, and he brought to it a newsense of values, born of suffering. When he had finished, you couldsee the cardinal's soul looking at you from the canvas. The smilePeter prayed to catch curves his lips, a smile that baffles andenchants. He wears his red robes, and one fine, aristocratic handwith the churchly ring on it rests upon the magnificent cat lying onthe table beside him. That superb "Cardinal with the Cat" put theseal upon Peter Champneys's reputation as a great artist. 

He knew what he had achieved. Yet his lips quivered and his eyeswere smileless when, down in the left-hand corner, he painted in theRed Admiral. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE OTHER MAN

In Florence the nascent swan-feathers of Anne Champneys grew intoperfect plumage. She was like a spirit new-born to another world, with all the dun-colored ties of a darker existence swept away, andonly a residue of thought and feeling left of its former experience. This bright and rosy world, enriched by nature and art, was so new, its values were so different, that at first she was dazed intodumbness by it. 

She came face to face with beauty and art made a part of dailylife. She thought she had never seen color, or flowers, or even areal sky, until now. An existence unimaginably rich, vistas thatreceded into an almost fabled past, opened and spread before herglamourously. The vividness of her impressions, her reaction tothis new phase of experience, the whole-souled ardor with whichshe flung herself into the study of Italian, her eagerness to knowmore, her delight in the fine old house in which they had set uptheir household gods, amused and charmed Mrs. Vandervelde. Shefelt as if she were teaching and training an unspoiled, delighted, and delightful child, and contact with this fresh and eager spiritstimulated her own. 

Many of her former school friends, girls belonging to fineFlorentine families, some now noble matrons, mothers of families, one or two great conventual superioresses, still resided in thecity, and these welcomed their beloved Marcia delightedly. Therewere, too, the American and English colonies, and a coterie ofwell-known artists. Marcia Vandervelde was a born hostess, a centeraround which the brightest and cleverest naturally revolved. Shechanged the large, drafty rooms of the old palace into charmingreflections of her own personality. A woman of wide sympathies andcultivated tastes, she delighted in the clever cosmopolitan societythat gathered in her drawing-room; and it was in this opalescentsocial sea that she launched young Mrs. Champneys. 

Mrs. Champneys was at first but a mild success, a sort of paleluminosity reflected from the more dominant Mrs. Vandervelde. But itso happened, that a gifted young Italian lost his heart at sight toher red hair and green eyes, and discovering that she had no heartof her own--at least, none for him--he wrote, in a sort of frenzy ofinspiration, a very fine sonnet sequence narrating his haplesspassion. The poet had been as extravagantly assertive as poets inlove usually are, and the sonnets were really notable; so the youngman was swept into a gust of fame; all Italy read his verse andsympathized with him. The object of a popular poet's romantic andunfortunate love is always the object of curiosity and interest, asAnne Champneys discovered to her surprise and annoyance. 

"He was such a little idiot!" she told Marcia Vandervelde, disgustedly. "Always sighing and rolling his eyes, and looking atone like a sick calf, --more than once I was tempted to catch him bythe shoulders and shake him!"

"He's a poet, my child, " said Mrs. Vandervelde, mischievously, "andyou're the lady in the case. It's been the making of him, and ithasn't done you any harm: you'll be a legend in your own lifetime. "

Marcia was quite right. The poet's love clung to Anne like anintangible perfume, and a halo of romance encircled her red head. The Florentines discovered that she was beautiful; the English andAmericans, cooler in judgment, found her charming. And a notedGerman artist came along and declared that he had found in her hisideal Undine. 

Mrs. Peter remained unchanged and unimpressed. She shruggedindifferent shoulders; she wasn't particularly interested in herselfas the object of poetic adoration. 

She was, however, immensely interested in the beauty and romance ofFlorence. The street crowds, so vivacious, so good-humored, thevivid Florentine faces, enchanted her. More astonishing than storiedbuildings, or even imperishable art, were the figures that movedacross the red-and-gold background of the city's history, --figureslike Dante, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that great prior of SanMarco whose "soul went out in fire. " Curiously enough, it wasSavonarola who made the most profound impression upon her. It seemedto her that the immortal monk still dominated Florence, and whenshe saw his old worn crucifix in his cell at San Marco, somethingawoke in her spirit, --a sense of religious values. Religion, then, was not a mere fixed convention, subscribed to as a sort of proof ofconservatism and respectability; religion was really a fixedreality, an eternal power. She read everything that she could layher hands on covering the history of Fra Girolamo. Then she bought apicture of his red Indian-like visage, and hung it up in her room. The titanic reformer remained, a shadowy but very deep power, in thebackground of her consciousness, and it was this long-dead preacherwho taught her to pray. He won her profoundest reverence and faith, because he had been true, he had sealed his faith with his life; shefelt that she could trust him. His honesty appealed to her own. 

It was such curious phases as this of the girl's unfoldingcharacter, that made her a never-failing source of interest toMarcia Vandervelde. Under her superimposed, surface indifference, Marcia reflected, Anne had a deep strain of pure unworldliness, vastpossibilities. Give Anne an ideal, once arouse her enthusiasm, andshe was capable of tossing aside the world for it. Marcia was vastlyinterested, too, in the serene detachment of the girl's attitudetoward all those with whom she came in contact. One might evokeinterest, sympathy, compassion, even a quiet friendliness, but herheart remained quiet, aloof, secure from invasion. Handsome youngmen who fell in love with her--and there were several such--seemedunable to stir any emotion in her, except perhaps, an impatientresentment. Marcia, of course, knew nothing of Glenn Mitchell. ButAnne Champneys remembered him poignantly. She had learned herlesson. 

They had been some six or eight months in Florence when Mr. BerkeleyHayden put in his appearance, somewhat to Mrs. Vandervelde'ssurprise. She had not expected this! She studied her old friendspeculatively. H'm! She remembered the pale face of the youngItalian poet whose sad sonnets all Italy was reading with delight. Then she looked at the red-headed source of those sonnets, --and shehad no doubt as to the cause of Mr. Hayden's appearance in Florenceat this time, --and wondered a bit. The situation gave a fillip toher imagination; it was piquant. One wondered how it would end. 

Peter Champneys? Marcia scented disruption, where that impalpablerelationship was concerned. She was ignorant as to Anne's realfeelings and intentions in regard to her absentee husband. Annenever mentioned him. She bore his name, she held herself rigidlyaloof from all lovers; herein one saw her sole concessions to thetie binding her. Marcia didn't see how it was possible that the twoshould avoid hating each other; the mere fact that they had beenarbitrarily forced upon each other by the imperious will of oldChadwick, would inevitably militate against any hope of futureaffection between them. And now here was Berkeley Hayden, quite asimperious as Chadwick Champneys had ever been, and who was quite assuccessful in getting what he wanted. 

Anne had welcomed Mr. Hayden gladly. She was honestly delighted tosee him. Florence had taught her, signally, the depths of her ownlack of culture, and this biting knowledge increased her respect forMr. Berkeley Hayden. Marcia was immensely clever, charminglycultivated, a woman of the world in the best sense, but Anne'snative shrewdness told her that Marcia's knowledge was not equal toHayden's. His culture was surer and deeper. He was more than a mereamateur; he _knew_. He stood apart, in her mind, and just a littlehigher than anybody else. She turned to him eagerly, and there wasestablished between them, almost unconsciously, the most potent, perfect, and dangerous of all relationships, because it is the mostbeautiful and natural, --that, in which the man is the teacher andthe woman the pupil. 

Hayden saw her, too, to greater advantage, here under thisFlorentine sky, against the background of perhaps the most beautifulcity in the world. She glowed, splendidly young and vivid. She didnot laugh often, but when she did, it was like a peal of music; itcame straight from her heart and went direct to yours. It was ascatching as fire, as exhilarating as the chime of sleigh-bells on afrosty Thanksgiving morning, as clear and true as a redbird'swhistle; and it had tucked away in it a funny, throaty chuckle soirresistibly infectious that suspicious old St. Anthony himself, would have joined in accord with it, had he heard its silver echoin his wilderness. Berkeley Hayden's immortal soul stood on thetiptoe of ecstasy when Anne Champneys laughed. 

She no longer thought of herself as Nancy Simms; she knew herselfnow as Anne Champneys, a newer and better personality dominatingthat old, unhappy, ignorant self. If at times the man glimpsed thatother shadowy self of hers, it was part of her mysterious appeal, her enthralling, baffling charm. It invested her with a shade ofinscrutable, prescient sorrow, as of old unhappy far-off things. Hehadn't the faintest idea of Nancy Simms, a creature utterly foreignto his experience. And because she did not love him, Anne Champneysnever spoke of that old self, never confided in him. He did not knowher as she had been, he only knew her as she was now. That, however, fully satisfied his critical taste. The marvel of her alabasterskin, fleckless and flawless, the glory of her glittering red hair, the sea-depths of her cool, gray-green eyes, the reserve of herexpression, the virginal curve of her lip, enchanted him. He likedthe tall, slender strength of her, the lightness of her step, hergrace when she danced, her spirited pose when she rode. Here was thewoman, the one woman, to bear his name, to be the mistress of hishouse. She was the only woman he had ever really wished to marry. And she was nominally married to Peter Champneys. 

Hayden was honorable. Had hers been a real marriage, had she been ahappy wife, he would have respected the tie that bound her, andgone his way. But the situation was exceptional. She wasn't really awife at all, and like Mrs. Vandervelde, he could see in such amarriage nothing but a cause for mutual disgust and dislike. Well, then, if he loved her, and Peter Champneys didn't, he certainly wasnot working Peter Champneys any harm in winning away from him a wifehe didn't want. Why should he stand aside and let her go, for such ashadow as that ceremony had been? The Champneys money? That meantnothing weighed in the balance with his desire. He could give her asmuch, and more, than she would forego. Mrs. Berkeley Hayden wouldeclipse Mrs. Peter Champneys. 

Deliberately, then, but delicately, after his fashion, Hayden sethimself to win Anne Champneys. He felt that his passion for her gavehim the right. He meant to make her happy. She could have hermarriage annulled. Then she would become Mrs. Berkeley Hayden. Eventhe fact that he really knew very little about her did not troublehim. He coveted her, and he meant to have her. 

He read the young Italian's sonnets, which she had inspired, andthey made him thoughtful. He could readily understand the depths offeeling such a woman could arouse. Had she no heart, as the Italianlamented? He wondered. It came to him that she was, in truth, detached, sufficient to herself, an ungregarious creature movingsolitarily in a mysterious world all her own. What did she think?What did she feel? He didn't know. He was allowed to see certainaspects of her intelligence, and her quickness of perception, thedelicacy of her fancy, her childlike and morning freshness, and apungently shrewd Americanism that flashed out at odd and unexpectedmoments, never failed to delight him. But her deeper thoughts, herreal feelings, her heart, remained sealed and closed to him. 

He saw half-pleasedly, half-jealously the interest she aroused inother men. Nothing but her almost unbelievable indifference held hisjealousy in check. He reflected with satisfaction that she wason a friendlier footing with him than with any other man of heracquaintance, that she had a more instant welcome for him than forany other, and for which cause he was cordially hated by severalotherwise amiable gentlemen. And then he waxed gloomy, rememberinghow emotionless, how impersonal, that friendship really was. Attimes he laughed at himself wryly, recalling the passionatefriendship other women had lavished upon him, and how wearisome ithad been to him, how he had wished to escape it. If but a modicum ofthat passion had been bestowed upon him by this girl, how changedthe world would be for him!

And in the meantime Anne Champneys liked him serenely, was gratefulto him, aware that his intellect was as a key that was unlocking herown; welcomed him openly and was maddeningly respectful to him. Thismade him rage. What did she think he was, anyhow? An old professor, an antiquarian, an archæologist? She might as well consider him anantediluvian at once!

"Marcia, " he said to Mrs. Vandervelde one evening, "I want you totell me all you know about this Champneys business. Just exactly howdoes the affair stand?" Anne had been carried off by some Americanfriends, the smart throng that had filled Mrs. Vandervelde's roomshad gone, and Hayden and his hostess had the big, softly lighteddrawing-room to themselves. At his query Mrs. Vandervelde turned inher chair, shading her eyes with her hand the better to observe him. 

"Why, you know as much as I do, Berkeley! You know how and why themarriage was contracted, and what hinges upon it, " said she, cautiously. 

He made an impatient gesture. "I want to know what she's going todo. Surely she isn't going to allow herself to be bound by that oldlunatic's will, is she?"

"He wasn't an old lunatic; he was an old genius. Jason had an almostsuperstitious reverence for his judgment. Somehow, his plans alwaysmanaged to come out all right, --in the end. Even when they seemedwild, they came out all right. They're still coming out all right. "

"And you think this insane marriage is likely to come out all rightin the end, too?" he asked sharply. 

"I don't know. Stranger things have happened. Why shouldn't this?"

"Why should it? That fellow Champneys--"

"Is said to be a great painter. At least, he is certainly a verysuccessful one. Whether or not he can make good as Anne Champneys'shusband remains to be seen. " Mrs. Vandervelde was not above theinnate feminine cattiness. Hayden rose abruptly and began to pacethe room. He was vaguely aware that he had been astrally scratchedacross the nose. 

"And you think a girl like Anne will be willing to play patientGriselda?" he asked, scornfully. 

"I don't know. You think she shouldn't?"

"I think she shouldn't. I tell you frankly he doesn't deserve it. "

"Oh, as for that!" said Mrs. Vandervelde, airily. 

Hayden paused in his restless walk, and looked at her earnestly. 

"Berkeley, " said she, changing her light tone, "am I to understandthat you are--really in earnest?"

"I am so much in earnest, " he replied, deliberately, "that I do notmind telling you, Marcia, that I want this girl. More, I mean tohave her, if I can make her care for me. "

She considered this carefully. He had never known what it meant tohave his wishes thwarted, and now he would move heaven and earth towin Anne Champneys. Well, but!--She liked Hayden, and she didn'tthink, all things considered, that Anne Champneys could do better, if she wished to have her marriage to Peter annulled, than to marryBerkeley. But how would Jason consider such a move? Jason had beengreatly attached to old Mr. Champneys. Indeed, his connection withthat astute old wizard had just about doubled their income. Jasonwouldn't be likely to look with friendly eyes upon this bringing tonaught, what he knew had been Champneys's fondest scheme. She said, after a pause:

"Does Anne know?"

"Who knows what Anne knows? But on the face of it, I should sayshe doesn't. At least, she doesn't appear to. I have beenvery--circumspect, " said he, moodily. And he added angrily: "Sheseems to regard me as a sort of cicerone, a perambulating, vocalBaedeker!"

Mrs. Vandervelde smiled openly. "It is your surest hold upon her. Ishouldn't cavil at it, if I were you. To Anne you are the sum totalof human knowledge. Your dictum is the last word to be said aboutanything. "

But Berkeley still looked sulky. The idea of being what Sydney Smithsaid Macaulay was--_a book in breeches_--didn't appeal to him atall. 

"What would you advise me to do?" he asked, after a pause. 

She said reflectively: "Let her alone for a while, Berkeley. If herliking for you grows naturally into affection, --and it may, youknow, --that would be best. If you try to force it, you may drive herfrom you altogether. I tell you frankly, she is not in the leastinterested in any man as a lover, so far as I can judge. "

He was forced to admit the truth of this. She wasn't. She seemed todislike any faintest sign of loverliness from any man toward her. Hayden had observed her icy attitude toward the painter who hadfancied he found in her his ideal Undine, and who showed too openlyhis desire to help her gain a soul for herself. The idea that shemight look at him as she had looked at the painter was highlyunpleasant to him. He asked again:

"But what am I to do?"

"Nothing, " said Mrs. Vandervelde, succinctly. 

"But suppose she falls in love with somebody else. "

"She is more likely to fall in love with you, I should imagine, ifyou keep quiet for a while and allow her to do so. Just remain herguide, philosopher, and friend, can't you?"

The clever, cosmopolitan Mr. Berkeley Hayden tugged at his shortmustache and looked astonishingly like a sulky school-boy. 

"Well, if you think that's the best thing I can do--" he began. 

"I know it is, " said she. And she reflected that even the cleverestman, when he is really in love, is something of a fool. 

Here Anne herself came in and the three dined together, a statuesquemaid in a yellow bodice and a purple skirt waiting on them. Agata's"Si?" was like a flute-note, and the two women loved to see hermoving about their rooms. It was like having Hebe wait on them. 

Anne turned to Hayden eagerly. She wished his opinion of a piece oftapestry an antiquarian in the Via Ricasoli wished to sell her. Would he go and look at it with her? And there was an old lamp shefancied but of the genuineness of which she wasn't sure. And sheadded, dropping her voice, that she'd gotten a copy of one of FraGirolamo Savonarola's sermons, beautifully done on vellum, evidentlyby some loving monkish follower of his. Didn't he want to see it?She looked at him eagerly. Mrs. Vandervelde, catching his eye, smiled. 

Hayden played his part beautifully, concealing the tumult of hisfeelings under the polished surface of the serene manner that Anneso greatly admired. He made himself indispensable; he gave her hisbest, unstintedly, and Hayden at his best was inimitable. MarciaVandervelde regarded him with new respect and admiration. Berkeleywas really wonderful!

When he took his departure, Anne Champneys felt that the glamour ofFlorence had departed with him. It was as if the sunshine had beenwithdrawn, along with that polished presence, that gem-like mind. She missed him to an extent that astonished her. She thought thateven Giotto's Campanile looked bleak, the day Berkeley Hayden left. 

"I'm going to miss you hideously, " she told him truthfully. 

"I hope so, " he said guardedly. He did not wish to show too plainlyhow overjoyed he was at that admission. "And I'm going to hopeyou'll find me necessary in New York. I'm looking forward to seeingyou in New York, you know. I have two new pictures I want you tosee. "

Her face brightened. "Your being there will make me glad to go backto New York, " she said happily. And Hayden had to resist a wildimpulse to shout, to catch her in his arms. He went away with hopein his heart. 

But Mrs. Vandervelde, watching her closely, thought she was tooopen in her regret. N-no, Anne wasn't in love with Hayden--yet. Shepicked up her studies, to which he had given impetus, with toohearty a zest. And when he wrote her amusing, witty, delightfulletters, she was too willing to have Marcia read them. 

They remained in Italy six months or so more; and then one day Annereturned from a picnic, and said to Marcia abruptly:

"Would you mind if I asked you to leave Florence, --if I should wantto go home?"

Marcia said quietly: "No. If you wish to go, we will go. Are youtired of Italy?"

Anne Champneys looked at her with wide eyes. For a moment shehesitated, then ran to Marcia, and clung to her with her headagainst her friend's shoulder. 

"You're so good to me--and I care so much for you, --I'll tell youthe truth, " she said in a whisper. "I--I heard something to-day, Marcia, --_he's_ coming to Rome--soon. And of course he'll come here, too. "

"He?--Who?"

"Peter Champneys, " said Peter's wife, and literally shook in hershoes. Her clasp tightened. Marcia put her arms around her, andfelt, to her surprise, that Anne was frightened. 

"You are sure?"

"Yes. I heard it accidentally, but I am sure. You know how prettythe Arno is at the spot where we picnicked. We strolled about, andI--didn't want to talk to anybody, so I slipped away by myself. There were a couple of English artists painting near by, and just asI came up I overheard what they were saying. Marcia, --they weretalking about--_him_. They said he'd been called to Rome to paintsomebody's picture, --the pope's, maybe, --and they'd probably see himhere, later. They seemed to be--friends of his, from the way theyspoke. " She shivered. "Italy isn't big enough to hold us two!" shesaid, desperately. "Marcia, I can't--run the risk of meeting PeterChampneys. Not until I have to. I--I've got to get away!" Her voicebroke. 

"All right, dear. We'll go, " said Marcia, soothingly. "Jason's aboutfinished his work in Brazil, and he'll be back in New York by this. Do you want to go directly home?"

"Yes, " said Anne Champneys. "Italy's a very little place comparedwith America. Let's go back to America, Marcia. "

Mrs. Vandervelde stroked the red head. It seemed to her that fatewas playing into Mr. Berkeley Hayden's hands. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE GUTTER-CANDLE

Although the Champneys house was tightly closed, with the upper doorand windows boarded up, the blonde person in shoddy fineries rangthe area bell on the chance that there must be a caretaker somewhereabout the premises. She felt that when one has come upon such anerrand as hers, one mustn't leave any stone unturned; and shecouldn't trust to a haphazard letter. An impassive and immaculateJapanese opened the door, and stood looking at her without anyexpression at all. Had the blonde person baldly stated her errand, the Japanese would probably have closed the door and that would havebeen the end of it. But she didn't speak; after a sharp glance athim she opened her gay hand-bag, extracted a slip of paper, handedit to him, and stood waiting. 

The Japanese read: "I wish you'd do what you can, for my sake, " andsaw that it was addressed to Mr. Chadwick Champneys and signed byMr. Peter Champneys. It had evidently been carefully kept, and for along time, as the creases showed. The Japanese stood reflecting fora few moments, then beckoned the blonde person inside the house, ushering her into a very neat basement sitting-room. 

"For you?" he asked, glancing at the slip of paper. 

"Me? No. I come for a lady friend o' mine. You might tell 'em she'sawful sick an' scared, --just about all in, she is, --or she wouldn'tof sent. But he said she was to come here an' hand in that slip I'vejust gave you. That's how I come to bring it. "

"All right. You wait, " said the Japanese, and glided from the room. It was the first time Hoichi had received any message from the newmaster, as he knew Mr. Peter Champneys to be; if the message wasgenuine, he was sure that Mr. Chadwick Champneys, had he been alive, would have investigated it. Hoichi couldn't imagine how the blondeperson had gotten hold of such a slip of paper, signed by Mr. PeterChampneys. If there was some trick behind it, some ulterior motiveunderlying it, then Hoichi proposed to have the trickster taught aneeded lesson. He was a suspicious man and visions of clever robbersplanning a raid on the premises rose before him. He would run norisks, take no chances. He rang up Mr. Jason Vandervelde, fortunately caught the lawyer at home, and faithfully repeated theblonde person's message. He insisted that the signature was genuine;he had seen many letters addressed to the late Mr. Champneys by hisnephew, and he would recognize that writing anywhere. He asked to beinstructed. 

"Tell her to wait half an hour and I'll be there, " said the lawyerupon reflection. 

The blonde person was leaning back in a Morris chair, tiredly, whenVandervelde was ushered into the basement sitting-room. Herecognized her type with something of a shock. She was what might becalled--charitably--a peripatetic person, and she reeked of verystrong perfume. The lawyer's eyes narrowed, while he explainedbriefly that he represented the Champneys interests. Would sheexplain as concisely as possible just why and for whom she had come?

She explained ramblingly. Mr. Vandervelde gathered that a certain"lady friend" of hers, one Gracie Cantrell, now in the hospital, said her prayers to Mr. Peter Champneys, whom she had met on a time, and who had advised her if ever she needed help to apply to hisuncle, and to tell him that he had sent her. Feeling herself _downand out_ now, she had done so. 

"Honest to Gawd, the poor little simp thinks this feller's a angel. Why, --when she gets out o' her head, she don't rave about nothin'but him, beggin' him to help her. Ain't it somethin' fierce, though?" The blonde person dabbed at her eyes with a scentedhandkerchief. 

Mr. Vandervelde rubbed his nose thoughtfully. A girl down and out, awaif in a city ward, in her delirium calling upon Peter Champneysfor help, didn't sound at all good to him. In connection with thatpenciled slip which seemed to imply that she had a right to expecthelp, it smacked of possible heart-interest--sob-stuff--so dear toenterprising special writers for a yellow press. He couldn'tunderstand how or where Peter had met the girl; possibly someyouthful foolishness back there in Carolina. Maybe she'd followedhim north, to become what her friendship with such as the blondeperson indicated. Vandervelde was a cautious man and he thought hehad better investigate that message, written before ChadwickChampneys's death. 

"My car's outside, " he told the blonde person briefly. "We'll seethis Gracie at once and find out just what's to be done. "

It was past the hour for visitors, but Vandervelde's card procuredthem admittance to the ward where Gracie lay. At sight of thebig-eyed, white-faced, wasted little creature who looked at him withsuch a frightened and beseeching stare, Vandervelde's suspicions ofher died. No matter what she had been, --and the house-physician'sbrief comment on her case left him in no doubt, --this poor wreckedbit of humanity beached upon the bleak shore of a charity ward washarmless. He absolved her of all evil intent, of any desire toobtain anything under false pretenses. He even absolved the blondeperson, who despite her brassy hair, her hectic face, had of asudden become a kind, gentle, and soothing presence. "Well, dearie, you got a straight tip from that feller. All I had to do was to showthat piece o' paper he give you, and this kind gent'man come rightoff to see you, " said the blonde cheerfully. "An' now maybe he'll bewantin' to talk with you, so I'll leave you be. Good night, dearie, "and she stepped away quietly, a trail of perfume in her wake, sothat Vandervelde's nose involuntarily wrinkled. 

Gracie lay and looked at her visitor. 

"You ain't his uncle. You don't look nothin' at all like him, " saidshe, disappointedly. 

"No. His uncle is dead. I'm the lawyer who has the estate in charge. So you can tell me just exactly what you know about Mr. PeterChampneys, and then tell me what I can do for you. "

He spoke so kindly that Gracie's spirits revived. She told him justexactly what she knew about Mr. Peter Champneys, which of course wasvery, very little. Yet this much was luminously clear: of all themen Gracie had ever encountered, of all her experiences, PeterChampneys and the hour he had sat and talked with her stood outclearest, clean, touched with a soft and pure light, a solitarysweet remembrance in a sodden and sordid existence. 

"Like a angel, he was. I never seen nobody with such a way o'lookin' at you. Never pretended he didn't understand, but treated melike a lady. I couldn't never forget him. I kep' the piece o' paperhe give me, mostly because it was somethin' belongin' to him an' itsort o' proved I hadn't dreamed him. I never meant to ask for nohelp--but when I come here--an' there wasn't nothin' else to do, Ikep' rememberin' he said I was to go to his uncle an' say he'd sentme. I--I'm scared! My Gawd!--I'm scared!"

He remembered once seeing a trapped rabbit die of sheer terror. Thisgirl, trapped by the inevitable, reminded him unpleasantly of therabbit. His kind heart contracted. He asked gently:

"What is it you are so afraid of, Gracie? Try to tell me just whatyou want me to do for you. " Perspiration appeared upon her forehead. She clutched him with a skeleton hand. 

"I'm scared o' bein' cut up!" she whispered fearfully. "Oh, forGawdsake, save me from bein' cut up!" Her eyes widened; in her thinbreast you could see her laboring heart thumping. "I want you keep'em from cuttin' me up!" she repeated feverishly. 

"Cutting you up!" Vandervelde looked at her wonderingly. 

"Yes. I heard 'em say I didn't have no chanst. They put you in themorgue--afterward--when you're folks like me, and then the doctorscome and get you and cut you up. I don't want to be cut up! ForChrist's sake, don't you let 'em cut me up!"

Vandervelde felt a sort of sick horror. He couldn't quite understandGracie's psychology; her unreasoning, ignorant terror. 

"Why, my poor girl, what a notion! You--" he stammered. 

"I been treated bad enough alive without bein' cut up when I'mdead, " said she, interrupting him. "I get to thinkin' about it, wakin' up here in the night. He said his folks'd help me if I asked'em. "

"Of course, of course! Certainly we'll help!" said Vanderveldehastily. 

"If I had any money saved up, 't wouldn't be so bad. But I ain't. Wenever do. I--I been sick a long time. What clothes I had they kep'against the rent I was owin', when they told me to get out. An' Iwalked an' walked, --an' then one o' them cops in Central Park, heseen me, an' next thing I knew I was here. "

She was getting hysterical, and he saw that it was quite useless totry to reason with her; the one way to allay her terror was to makethe promise she implored. 

"Well, now that your message has reached us, Gracie, you need not beafraid any more, because what you fear won't happen; it can'thappen. There!--Put it out of your mind. "

She stared at him intently, and decided that this large, fair manwas one to be implicitly trusted. 

"You bein' one o' his people, if you say it won't happen, then itwon't happen, " she told him, and fetched a great sight of relief. "Oh! I was that scared I 'most died! I--I just naturally can't bearthe idea o' bein' turned over to them doctors. " And she shuddered. 

"Well, now that you're satisfied you won't be, suppose you tell mesomething more immediate that I can do for you. Isn't theresomething you'd like?"

"I'd like it most of anything if you'd tell me somethin' about_him_, " she said timidly. "I know I got no right to ast, me bein'what I am, " she added, apologetically. "You see, nobody ever behavedto me like he did, an' I can't forget him. "

She looked so pathetically eager, her look was so humble, thatVandervelde couldn't find it in his heart to deny the request. Hefound himself telling her that Peter Champneys had become a greatpainter, that he had never returned to America, and that his wifealso was abroad. 

"Is the lady he's married to as nice as him? I sure hope she's goodenough for him, " was Gracie's comment. 

Seeing how mortally weak she was, Vandervelde took his departure, promising to see her again. He had a further interview with thehouse-physician and the head nurse. Whatever could be done for herwould be done, but they had handled too many Gracies to beoptimistic about this particular one. They knew how quickly thesegutter-candles flicker out. 

Commonplace as the girl was, she managed to win Vandervelde'sinterest and sympathy. That she had won young Peter Champneys'sdidn't surprise him. He was glad that she had had that onedisinterested and kindly deed to look back to. The boy's quixoticbehavior brought a smile to the lawyer's lips. Fancy his wishing tosend such a girl to his uncle and being sure that old Chadwickwouldn't misunderstand! Gracie cast a new light upon PeterChampneys, and a very likable one. Vandervelde had seen in the unclesomething of that same unworldliness that the nephew displayed, andit had established the human equation between Peter and the shrewdold man. 

Busy as he was, he managed to see Gracie again. She had refused tobe put into a private room; she preferred the ward. 

"It's not fittin', " she said. "Anyhow, I don't want to stay bymyself. When I wake up at night I want to feel people aroundme, --even sick people's better than nobody. It's sort o' comfortin'to have comp'ny, " and she stayed in the ward, sharing with lessfortunate ones the fruit and flowers Vandervelde had sent to her. Once the gripping fear that had obsessed her had been dispelled, once she was sure of a protecting kindness that might be reliedupon, she proved a gay little body. As the blonde person said, Gracie wasn't a bad sort at all. As a matter of fact, neither wasthe blonde person. Vandervelde saw that, and it troubled hiscomplacent satisfaction with things. He saw in the waste of thesewomen an effect of that fatally unmoral energy ironically calledmodern civilization. He wondered how Marcia, or Peter's wife, wouldreact to Gracie. Should he tell them about her? N-no, he ratherthought not. 

Marcia had cabled that she and Anne were leaving Italy--were, infact, on their way home. During his wife's absence he had had tomake two or three South American trips, to safeguard certainvaluable Champneys interests. The trips had been highly successfuland interesting, and he hadn't disliked them, but Vandervelde wasincurably domestic; he liked Marcia at the household helm. 

"I wanted to hire half a dozen brass-bands to meet you, " he told hiswife the morning of her arrival, and kissed her brazenly. "Marcia, you are prettier than ever! As for Anne--" At sight of AnneChampneys his eyes widened. 

"Why, Anne!--Why Anne!" He took off his glasses, polished them, andstared at his ward. Marcia smiled the pleased smile of the artistwhose work is being appreciated by a competent critic. She wasimmensely proud of the tall fair girl, so poised, so serene, sodecorative. 

"As a target for the human eye, " said Vandervelde, fervently, "you're more than a success: you're a riot!"

Anne slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "I'm glad you likeme, " said she, frankly. "It's so nice when the right people likeone. "

Hayden was not in town. He didn't, as a matter of fact, know thatthey had left Italy, for Anne's last letter had said nothing of anyintention to return to America shortly. Anne felt curiouslydisappointed that he wasn't at the pier with Jason to meet them. Shewas surprised at her own eagerness to see him. He pleased her morethan any man she had ever met, and her impatience grew with hisabsence. 

Marcia, a born general, was already planning with masterly attentionto details the social career of Mrs. Peter Champneys. With theforces that she could command, the immense power that BerkeleyHayden would swing in her favor, and the Champneys money, thatcareer promised to be unusually brilliant, when one considered Anneherself. 

The Champneys house was to be reopened. In the main, as ChadwickChampneys had planned it, it pleased Marcia's critical taste. Anneherself appreciated as she had been unable to do when she first cameto it. She liked its fine Aubusson carpets, its lovely old rosewoodand mahogany furniture, its uncluttered stateliness. But there werecertain changes and improvements she wished made, and she took abusinesslike pleasure in supervising the carrying out of her orders. The portrait of Mr. Chadwick Champneys, painted the year before hisdeath hung over the library mantel and seemed to watch herthoughtfully, critically, with its fine brown eyes. The girl he hadsnatched from obscure slavery liked to study the visage of the oldmonomaniac who had been the god in the machine of her existence. Herjudgment of him now was clear-eyed but cold. He had been liberalbecause it fell in with his plans. He had never been loving. 

She was sitting in the library one morning, looking up at him rathersomberly. Workmen came and went, and somewhere in the back regions ahammer kept up a steady tapping. 

"Mr. Hayden, " said Hoichi, as he ushered that gentleman into theroom. 

She turned her head and looked at him for a full moment, beforerising to greet him: one of Anne Champneys's long, still, mysteriouslooks, that made his heart feel as if it were a candle, blown andshaken by the wind. Then she smiled and held out her hand. It wasgood to see him again! She was prouder of his friendship than ofanything that had yet come to her. It gave her a sense of security, raised her in her own estimation. 

She explained, eagerly, the changes and improvements she wasplanning, and he went over the house with her. He liked it as Marcialiked it; once or twice he offered suggestions; the relationship ofpupil and master was at once resumed, --but this time the pupil wasmore advanced. 

Then he took her out to lunch. It was with difficulty that herestrained the exuberant delight he felt; just to have her with himwent to his head. "Marcia's advice was wise, but my behavior's goingto be otherwise, if I don't keep a tight hold upon myself, " he toldhimself. 

He jealously watched her social progress, and he contributed not alittle toward it. He had a sense of proprietorship in her, and hedid not mean that she should be just one among many; he wished herto be a great luminary around which lesser lights revolved. UnderMarcia Vandervelde's wing, then, Mrs. Peter Champneys was launched, and from the very first she was a success. She played her partbeautifully, though she was curiously apathetic about her triumphs. The incense of adulation did not make as sweet an odor in hernostrils as one might have supposed. Anne Champneys was oddlylacking in personal vanity, and she retained her sense of values, she was able to see things in their just proportions. That she hadcreated a sensation didn't turn her red head. But she had a feelingthat she had, in a sense, kept her word to Chadwick Champneys, discharged part of her debt. This was what he had wished her toaccomplish. Very well, she had accomplished it. She was glad. Butshe sensed a certain hollowness under it all. Sometimes, alone inher room, she would stand and look long and earnestly at the redIndian face of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, brought from Florence andnow hanging on her wall. That room had changed. It was plain andsimple, almost austere; the "honest monk" who had died in the fire, and the wooden crucifix under him, seemed to dominate it. Thattreasure of a maid whom Marcia had secured for her, secretly sniffedat Mrs. Champneys's bed-chamber. She couldn't understand it. Itwasn't in keeping with the rest of the house. For, it was abrilliant house, as the home of an exceedingly fashionable, wealthy, and handsome woman should be. 

Anne bore the name of Champneys like a conquering banner. What hadhappened on a smaller scale in Florence, happened on a large scalehere at home. Something of the Champneys story had crept out, --theearly marriage, which had kept all the wealth in the family; thedeparture of the bridegroom to become an artist, and the fact thathe had really become a noted one. The halo of romance encircled herhead. She was considered beautiful and clever, and the glamour ofmuch money added to the impression she created; but she was alsoconsidered cold, inaccessible, and perhaps, as the Italian had said, without a heart. She became, as Marcia had laughingly predicted, alegend in her own lifetime. 

Jason Vandervelde watched her speculatively. He adored Anne, and hehoped she wasn't going to be spoiled by all the pother made overher. And he watched with a growing concern Berkeley Hayden's quiet, persistent, deliberate pursuit of her. Jason wasn't under anyillusions about the Champneys marriage, but he had, as his wifesaid, an almost superstitious respect for Chadwick Champneys, andthat marriage had been the old man's darling plan. It was upon thathe had builded, and Vandervelde hated to see that plan brought tonaught. Anne wouldn't really lose, of course, --Hayden could give heras much as she might forego, --but Vandervelde somehow didn't relishthe idea. That girl Gracie, lingering on in the hospital ward, hadbrought the real Peter Champneys poignantly close to his trustee. Hecouldn't help thinking that if Anne could know that real Peter, there might be a hope that old Chadwick's judgment would be oncemore vindicated. At the same time, he cared a great deal forBerkeley Hayden, and the latter wanted Anne. And when Hayden wantedanything, he generally got it. What Anne herself thought, or whatshe might know, he couldn't determine. And Marcia, when he venturedto speak to her about the matter, said cryptically:

"Why worry? What is to be, will be. Kismet, Jason, kismet!"

 * * * * *

On a certain afternoon the house-physician telephoned Mr. Vandervelde that the girl Gracie was very low, and that she hadasked for him. Vandervelde finished the letter he was dictating tohis secretary, gave a few further instructions to that faithfulanimal, and had himself driven to the hospital. He couldn't explainhis feelings where Gracie was concerned. There was something toblame, somewhere, for these Gracies. It made him feel a bitremorseful, as if he and his sort had left something undone. 

The house-physician said that Gracie's hold upon life was a mysteryand a miracle; by all the laws she should have been gone some monthssince. She had certainly taken her time about dying! Her little, sharp, immature face had lost all earthliness; only the eyes werealive. They looked at Vandervelde gratefully. He had been very kind, and Gracie was trying to thank him. 

"Good-by, " said Gracie. "You been white. Tell _him_--I couldn'tnever forget him. " She put out a claw of a hand, and the big mantook it. 

"Is there--anything else I can do for you, Gracie? Isn't theresomething you'd like?" The business of seeing Gracie go wasn't atall pleasant. 

Her eyes of a sudden sparkled. She smiled. 

"There's one thing I been wanting awful bad. But I ain't sure Iought to ask. "

"Tell me, my child, tell me. "

"I want to see _her_, " said Gracie, unexpectedly. 

"Her?"

"His wife. I got no right to ast, but I want somethin' awful to seehis wife. Just once before I--I go, I want to see her. "

Vandervelde felt bewildered. He had never spoken of Gracie toMarcia, or to Anne. They were so far removed from this poor littlederelict that he was not sure they would understand. He said after amoment's painful reflection:

"My poor child, I will see what I can do. But if I--that is, ifshe--" He paused, not knowing exactly how to put his dilemma intowords without wounding her. But Gracie understood. 

"You mean if she won't come? That's what I want to know, " said she, enigmatically. So weak was she that with the words on her lips shedropped into sudden slumber. He stood looking down upon herirresolutely. Then he tiptoed away, meeting at the door thehouse-physician. 

"How long?" asked the lawyer, jerkily. 

"Probably until morning. Or at any minute, " said the doctor, indifferently. He thought it the best thing Gracie could do. 

Vandervelde nodded. Then, moved by one of those impulses under theinfluence of which the most conservative and careful people dothings that astonish nobody more than themselves, he got into hiscar and went after Anne Champneys. 

 * * * * *

Anne was for the moment alone. The spring dusk had just fallen, andshe was glad to sit for a breathing-space in the shadowy room. Berkeley Hayden had just left. His visit had been momentous, and asa result she was shaken to the depths. She had come face to facewith destiny, and she was called upon to make a decision. 

For the first time Hayden had broken the rigid rule of conduct hehad set for himself. He felt that he could endure no more. He had toknow. They had chatted pleasantly, idly. But of a sudden Berkeleyhad risen from his chair, gone to the window, looked out, turned andfaced her. 

"Anne, " said he, directly, "what are you going to do about PeterChampneys?"

She started as if she had received an electric shock. After amoment, looking at him with a confused and startled stare, shestammered:

"W-why do you ask!"

"I have to know, " said Hayden, and his voice trembled. "You must beaware, Anne, that I love you. I have loved you from the first momentof our meeting. You are the only woman I have ever really wished tomarry. That is why I must ask you: What are you going to do aboutPeter Champneys?"

"I--I don't know, " said she, twisting her fingers. 

"Do you fancy you might be able to love him, --later?"

"No, " said she, violently. "No!"

"Why, then, do you not have this abominable marriage annulled?" hedemanded. "I know nothing of Champneys, except that he's anartist, --and, truth forces me to say, a great one. But if he doesn'tlove you, if you do not love him, do you think anything but miseryis ahead for you both, if you decide to carry out the terms of thatpromise extorted from you?"

She shrank back in her chair. She made no reply, and Hayden came andstood directly before her, looking down at her. 

"And I--am I nothing to you Anne? I love you. What of me, Anne?"

"What can I say?" said she, falteringly. "I am not free. "

"If you were free, would you marry me? For that is what I am askingyou to do, --free yourself, and marry me. "

She lifted her troubled eyes. "If I were free, " she said, "if I werefree--Berkeley, give me time to consider this. It isn't only theannulling of my marriage to a man I had never seen until the day Imarried him, and have never seen since, --it's the breaking of mypromise to Uncle Chadwick--" They were in the library, and shelooked up at the portrait above the mantel. Hayden's glance followedhers. 

"He had no right to extort any such promise from you!" he cried. "Anne, think it over! Weigh Peter Champneys and me in the balance. And, --let the best man win, Anne. Will you?"

She regarded him steadfastly. "Yes, " she said. 

"And when you have decided, you will let me know?"

"I will let you know, " said she, smiling faintly. 

Berkeley took her hand and kissed it. He looked deep into her eyes. Then he left her. He had been very quiet, but his passion for herglowed in his eyes, rang in his voice, and was in the lips thatkissed her palm. 

She had not been in the least thrilled by it, but she was notdispleased. She liked him. As for loving him, she didn't think itwas really in her to love anybody. Looking back upon her youthfulinfatuation for Glenn Mitchell, she smiled at herself twistedly. She knew now that she had been in love with the bright shadow oflove. 

But, she reflected, if she did not love Hayden, she respected him, she was proud of him; he represented all that was best and mostdesirable in her present life. Life with Berkeley Hayden wouldn't beempty. And life as she faced it now was as empty as a shell that haslost even the faintest echo of the sea. Despite its outward glitter, its mother-of-pearl sheen, she was beginning to be more and moreaware of its innate hollowness. Her young and healthy naturecried out against its futility. She was in the May morning of herexistence, and yet the joy of youth eluded her. 

She had, perhaps, one more year of freedom. Then, --Peter Champneys. Berkeley might well ask what she was going to do about it! Was sheto accept as final that contract which would make her the unlovedwife of an unloved husband? Now that she had grown somewhat olderand considerably wiser, now that her horizon had widened, her senseof values broadened, she perceived that she owed to herself, to hersacredest instincts, the highest duty. She did not like to break herpledged word; but that pledge wronged Berkeley, wronged her, wrongedPeter. 

Her feeling toward that unknown husband was one of stark terror, asick dislike that had grown stronger with the years. In her mind heremained unchanged. She saw him as the gawky, shrinking boy, hislips apart, his eyes looking at her with uncontrollable aversion. Oh, no! Life with Peter Champneys was unthinkable! There remained, then, Berkeley Hayden. It wasn't unpleasant to think of BerkeleyHayden. It made one feel safe, and assured; there was a glamour ofgratified pride about it, --Nancy Simms, --Mrs. Peter Champneys, --Mrs. Berkeley Hayden. A little smile touched her lips. 

Into these not unpleasant musings Mr. Jason Vandervelde irruptedhimself, with the astounding request that she come with him now, immediately, to a hospital where a girl unknown to her prayed to seeher. Hoichi had turned the lights on upon Mr. Vandervelde'sentrance, and Anne looked at her visitor wonderingly. 

"I do sound wild, " admitted Jason, "but if you could have seen thepoor thing's face when she asked to see you--Anne, she'll be deadbefore morning. " The big man's glance was full of entreaty. 

"But if she doesn't know me, why on earth should she wish to seeme, --at such a time?" asked Anne, still more astonished. 

Flounderingly Vandervelde tried to tell her. A questionable girl, towhom Peter Champneys had been kind, --she couldn't exactly gatherhow. Dying in a hospital, and before she went wishing to see PeterChampneys's wife. 

Peter Champneys's wife, fortunately for herself, was still too nearand close to the plain people to consider such a request anoutrageous impertinence, to be refused as a matter of course. Theterrible power of money had not come to her soon enough to make herconsider herself of different and better clay than her fellowmortals. She wasn't haughty. The heart she was not supposed topossess stirred uncomfortably. She looked at Vanderveldequestioningly. 

"You wish me to go?"

"I leave that to you entirely, " said he, uncomfortably. "But, " heblurted, "I think it would be mighty decent of you. "

"I will go, " she said. 

When they reached the hospital, the blonde person was with Gracie. The blonde person had been crying, and it had not improved herappearance. Her nose looked like a pink wedge driven into the whitetriangle of her face. Screens had been placed around the bed. Apriest with a rosy, good-humored face was just leaving. 

Gracie turned her too-large eyes upon Peter Champneys's wife with asort of unearthly intensity, and Anne Champneys looked down at herwith a certain compassion. Anne had a bourgeois sense ofrespectability, and she had involuntarily stiffened at sight of theblonde drab sitting by the bedside, staring at her with soddeneyes. She hadn't expected the blonde. She ignored her and looked, instead, at Gracie. One could be decently sorry for Gracie. 

A faint frown puckered Gracie's brows. Her hand in the blondeperson's tightened its grasp. After a moment she said gravely:

"You came?"

"Yes, " said Anne, mechanically. "I came. You wished to see me?" Hertone was inquiring. 

"I wanted to see if you was good enough--for _him_, " said thegutter-candle, as if she were throwing a light into the secretplaces of Anne Champneys's soul. "You ain't. But you could be. "

Vandervelde had the horrid sensation as of walking in a nightmare. He wished somebody in mercy would wake him up. 

Anne's brows came together. She bent upon Gracie one of her long, straight, searching looks. 

"Thank you--for comin', " murmured Gracie. "You got a heart. " Hereyelids flickered. 

"I am glad I came, if it pleases you to see me, " said Anne. "Is thatall you wished to say to me!"

"I wanted to see--if you was good enough for _him_, " murmured Gracieagain. "You ain't. But remember what I'm tellin' you: you couldbe. " Her eyes closed. She fell into a light slumber, holding theblonde person's hand. Vandervelde touched Anne on the arm, and theywent out. 

As they drove home Vandervelde told her, as well as he could, allthat the little wrecked vessel which was now nearing its last harborhad told him. He was deeply moved. He said, patting her hand. 

"It was decent of you to come. You're a little sport, Anne. "

For a while she was silent. Peter Champneys, then, was capable ofkindness. He could do a gentle and generous deed. And perhaps healso was finding the heavy chain of his promise to his uncle, of hismarriage to herself, galling and wearisome. She reached a woman'sswift decision. 

"I'm going to be a better sport, " said she. "I'm going to rewardPeter Champneys by setting him free. I shall have our marriageannulled. "

CHAPTER XVIII

KISMET!

Peter Champneys was packing up for a summer's work on the coast whenhe received Vandervelde's letter, advising him that Mrs. Champneyshad instituted proceedings to have her marriage annulled. Theattorney added that by this action on Anne's part the entireChampneys estate reverted to him, Peter Champneys, with theexception of fifty thousand dollars especially allotted to Anne byChadwick Champneys's will. Vandervelde took it for granted therewould be no opposition from Peter. He hoped his client would find itpossible to visit America shortly, there being certain details heshould see to in person. 

Opposition? Peter's sensation was one of overwhelming relief. Thiswas lifting from his spirit the weight of an intolerable burden: hefelt profoundly grateful to that red-haired woman who had had thecourage to take her fate in her own hands, forego great wealth, andsever a bond that threatened to become an iron yoke. He couldn't butrespect her for that; he determined that she shouldn't be too greata loser. He thought she should have half the estate, at the veryleast. 

He had never had the commercial mind. He had never asked that theallowance settled upon him by his uncle should be increased. As hisown earnings far outstripped his modest needs, that allowance hadbeen used to allay those desperate cases of want always confrontingthe kindly in a great city. The Champneys estate back there inAmerica had bulked rather negligently in his mind, obscured anddarkened by the formidable figure of the wife who went with it. Shehad loomed so hugely in the foreground that other considerations hadbeen eclipsed. And now this ogress, moved thereto God knew why, hadof a sudden opened her hand and set him free!

That strenuous and struggling childhood of his, whose inner lifeand aspirations had been so secret and so isolated, had taken theedge off his gregariousness. He did not continuously feel theherd-necessity to rub shoulders with others. The creative mind isessentially isolated. Peter loved his fellows with a quiet, tolerantaffection, but he remained as it were to himself, standing a littleapart. His heart was like a deep, still, hidden pool, in which a fewstars only have room to shine. 

A successful man, he had been romantically adored by many idle womenand angled for by many an interested one. At times he had lightlylent himself to those amiable French arrangements of goodcomradeship which end naturally and without bitterness, leaving bothparties with a satisfied sense of having received very good measure. He had never been able to deceive himself that he loved. He hadloved Denise, but there had been in his affection for her more ofcompassion than passion, as Denise herself had known. She remainedin his memory like a perfume. That had been his one serious liaison. But the woman he could really love with his fullest powers, and towhom he could give his best, had not yet appeared. 

Mrs. Hemingway had been troubled by his celibacy. She had persistedin her desire to have him marry young, his wife being some one ofher girl friends. She wished to see Peter set up an establishment, which would presently center around a nursery full of adorablebabies who would bring with them that tender and innocent happinessyoung children alone are able to confer. To dispel these pleasantday-dreams of hers, Peter had found it necessary to tell her of hisAmerican marriage. 

Mrs. Hemingway was astonished, a little chagrined, but not hopeless. He should bring his young wife to Paris. To make her understand_that_ marriage as it really was, to explain his own attitude towardit, Peter made a swift and frightfully accurate little sketch ofNancy Simms as she had appeared to him that memorable morning. 

His friend was appalled. It took Peter some time to explain hisuncle to Mrs. Hemingway. At the best, she thought, he had beeninsane. Not even the fact that Peter was co-heir to the Champneysfortune consoled her for what she considered a block to hishappiness, a blight upon his life. The more she thought about thatmarriage, the more she disliked it; and as the time approached forPeter literally to sacrifice himself upon the altar, Mrs. Hemingwaygrew more and more perturbed, though she wasn't so troubled about itas Emma Campbell was. Emma's terror of "dat gal" had grown with theyears. Neither of them ventured to question Peter, but Emma Campbellbegan to have frequent spells of "wrastlin' wid de sperit, " and herlong, lugubrious "speretuals" were dismal enough to set one's teethon edge. She would howl piercingly:

 "Befo' dis time anothuh yeah, I ma-ay be gone, Een some ole lone-some graveyahd, O Lawd, ho-ow long?"

She had left the high Montmartre cottage and had come down to keephouse for Peter, his being a very simple menage. Oddly, the denizensof the Quartier didn't faze her in the least. She chuckled overthem, an old negro woman's sinful chuckle. She made no slightestattempt to conquer the French language, which she didn't in theleast admire. She learned the equivalents for a few phrases of herown, --"I hongry, " "How much?" "Gimme dat, " and "Mistuh Peter goneout, " and on this slight foundation she managed to keep a fairlyfirm footing. The frequenters of Peter's studio were delighted withEmma Campbell; they recognized her artistic availability, and sheand her black cat were borrowed liberally. 

As a rule, she was willing to lend herself to art, and was a patientmodel, until one rash young man took it into his head, that he musthave Emma Campbell as a favorite old attendant upon the _Queen ofSheba_ he proposed to paint. He was a very earnest young German, that painter, speaking fairly good English. Emma had liked him morethan most; but her faith received a blow from which it neverrecovered. That young man wished to paint her _au naturel_--her, Emma Campbell, who had been a member in good standing of the YoungSons and Daughters of Zion, the Children of Mary Magdalen, and theBurying Society of the Sons and Daughters of the Rising Star in theBonds of Love! In the altogether! Emma Campbell gasped like a hookedfish. She made a nozzle of her mouth and protruded her eyes. Shesaid ominously:

"I bawn nekked, but I ain't had nuttin' to do wid dat. Dat de fusten de last time I show up wid mah rind out o' doors. I been livin'in clo'es evuh sence, en I 'speck to die in clo'es. "

The artist, who wanted Emma in his picture, tried to make herunderstand. He reasoned with her manfully:

"Ach, silly nigger-woman! Clothes, clothes! What are clothes! See, now: you are the Queen of Sheba's old slave. Your large black feetand legs are bare, a glittering amulet swings between your witheredbreasts of an old African, you wear heavy bracelets and anklets, around your lean flanks is a little, thin striped apron, and youhold in your hand the great fan of peacock feathers! Magnificent!You are the queen's old slave, imbecile!"

"Is I? Boy, is you evuh hear tell o' Mistuh Abe Linkum? AftuhGin'ral Sherman bun down de big house smack en smoove, en tote offall de cow en mule en hawg en t'ing, en dem Yankees tief all defowl, en we-all run lak rabbit, Mistuh Linkum done sen' word we 'sfree. En jus' lak Mistuh Linkum say, hit 's so; aftuh us git shet o'Gin'ral Sherman, we 's free. All dat time I been a-wearin' clo'es, en now you come en tarrygate me, sayin' I got to stan' up in denekked rind en wave fedders 'cause I in slaveryment? You bes' ain'tlet Mistuh Peter Champneys hear you talkin' lak dat!"

The bewildered and baffled young man raved in three languages, butEmma Campbell flatly refused either to be in "slaveryment" or in the"nekked rind. " Visions of herself being caught and paintedbare-legged, with a trifling little dab of an apron tied around herwaist even as one ties a bit of ribbon around the cat's neck, and ofthis scandal being ferreted out by the deacons, sisters, andbrethren, of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in Riverton, SouthCarolina, haunted her and made her projeck darkly. When she venturedto voice her opinion to Mist' Peter, he clapped her on the back andgrinned. Emma Campbell began to look with a jaundiced eye upon artand the votaries of art. 

She was relieved when Peter decided to spend the summer on thecoast; she was a coast woman herself, and she longed for the smellof the sea. And then, to add to her joy, had come this last, astonishing news: "dat gal" was going to divorce Mist' Peter! Thatincomprehensible marriage would be done away with, that grim, red-headed dragoness would go out of their lives! Emma's speretualstook a more hopeful trend; and Peter whistled while he worked. 

He had written Vandervelde that he couldn't forego his summer'swork, but would probably be in New York that autumn. In themeantime, let Vandervelde look after his interests as usual and seeto it that Mrs. Champneys was more adequately and liberally providedfor. He forgot to inquire as to the real value of his possessions. He did say to himself soberly:

"Jingo! This thing sounds like money--as if I were a mighty richman! I'll have to do something about this!"

But he wasn't overly upset, or even very greatly interested. Hisreal concern had never been money; it had been, like Rousseau's andMillet's, to make the manifestation of life his first thought, tomake a man really breathe, a tree really vegitate. 

And so he went to the coast, as happy as a school-boy on a holiday. The sea fascinated him, and the faces of the men who go down to thesea in ships. It was going to be the happiest and most fruitfulsummer he had known for years. He bade the Hemingways a gayfarewell. Mrs. Hemingway, he noted, looked at him speculatively. Hermatrimonial plans for him had revived. 

He worked gloriously. He ate like a school-boy, and slept like one, dreamlessly. What was happening in the outside world didn't interesthim; what he had to do was to catch a little of the immortal and yetshifting loveliness of the world and imprison it on a piece ofcanvas. He didn't get any of the newspapers. When he smoked at nightwith his friend the curé, a gentle, philosophic old priest who hadknown a generation of painter-folk and loved this painter with afatherly affection, he heard passing bits of world gossip. Thepriest took several papers, and liked to talk over with his artistfriend what he had read. It was the priest, pale and perturbed, whotold him that war was upon the world. Peter didn't believe it. Inhis heart he thought that the fear of war with her great neighborhad become a monomania with the French. 

"It will be a bad war, the worst war the world has ever known. Weshall suffer frightfully: but in the end we shall win, " said thecuré, walking up and down before his cottage. He fingered his beadsas he spoke. 

France began to mobilize. And then Peter Champneys realized that theFrench fear hadn't been so much a monomania as a foreknowledge. Thething stunned him. He wished to protest, to cry out against themonstrousness of what was happening. But his voice was a reed in ahurricane; he was a straw in a gigantic whirlpool. He felt hishelplessness acutely. 

He couldn't work any more; he couldn't sleep; he couldn't eat. Thereis a France that artists love more than they may ever love anywoman. Peter Champneys knew that France. Nobody hated and loathedwar more than he, born and raised in a land, and among a people, stripped and darkened by it. And that had been but a drop in thebucket, compared with what was now threatening France. He couldn'tidly stand by and see that happen! He thought of all that France hadgiven him, all that France meant to him. The faces of all thosecomrades of the Quartier rose before him; and gently, wistfullyappealing, the sweet face of little lost Denise. He packed hispaintings finished and unfinished, and went to tell his friend thecuré farewell, bending his pagan knees to receive the old man'sblessing. The curé, too, was part of that which is the spirit ofFrance. 

They were enlisting in the Quartier. Peter was one of very many. When the preliminaries were passed and he had put on the uniform ofa private soldier of the republic, he felt rather a fool. He wasn'tin the least enthusiastic. There was a thing to be done, and hemeant to help in its accomplishment; but he wasn't going to shoutover it or pretend that he liked doing it. 

When he went to tell Mrs. Hemingway good-by, just before hisregiment left, she put her arms around him and kissed him. She wasgoing to stay in Paris, and Emma Campbell would stay in her house. Emma Campbell had been very silent. She had acute and veryunpleasant recollections of one war. She didn't understand what thisone was about, but she didn't like it. And when she saw Peter inuniform, saying good-by, going away to get himself killed, maybe, she broke into a whimper:

"Oh, Miss Maria! Oh, Miss Maria! Look at we-all chile! Oh, my Gawd, Miss Maria, we-all 's chile 's gwine to de war!"

Peter put his arm around her shoulder. His face twitched. Emma saidin a low voice: "I help Miss Maria wean 'im, en he bit me on deknuckles wid 'is fust toofs. Nevuh had no trouble wid 'im, 'cept todust 'is britches wunst in a w'ile. Ah, Lawd! I sho did love datchile! Use to rake chips for de wash-pot fire, en sit roun' en waitfor ole Emma Campbell to fix 'is sweet 'taters for 'im. Me en MissMaria's chile. En now he soldier en gwine to de war! Me en 'im farfum home, en he gwine to de war!" She threw her white apron over herhead. Emma hated to have anybody see her cry. 

So Peter Champneys went to the war, along with the other artists ofFrance, and was made use of in many curious ways. Presently he wastaken out of his squad, and set at other work where the quick andsure eye, and deft, trained hand, of the painter were needed. 

He saw unbelievable, unimaginable things, things so unspeakablethat his soul seemed to die within him. The word _glory_ made himshudder. There was a duty to do, and he did it to the best of hisability, without noise, without fear. Wherever he looked around him, other men were doing the same thing. Every now and then, after someparticularly nightmarish experiences, he would be called out--hehimself questioned why--and kissed on both cheeks, and a medalor so would be pinned upon him. He accepted it all politiely, apathetically; it was all a part of the game. And the game itselfseemed never-ending. It went on and on, and on. 

It seemed to him that he wasn't Peter Champneys the artist any more, the lover of beauty, the man who was to rebuild the house of hisforebears, and for whom a great fortune was waiting over there inAmerica. He was just a soul in torment, living his bit of hell, hating it with a cold impatience, an incurable anger. One thing onlykept him from losing all hope for mankind: at times he had piercing, blinding glimpses of the soul of plain men laid bare. With torment, a humanity larger even than his art was born in him. 

At the end of the third year a sniper got him. He was wounded sobadly that at first it was thought a leg would have to be amputated. But even in that hideous welter of the nations, Peter Champneyswasn't unknown. Overburdened and busy as they were, doctors andnurses fought for the life of the American artist. He came to tohear a poilu in his ward praising the saints that it was _his_ handand not the painter's that had gone, and another say philosophicallythat if one of two _had_ to be blinded, he was glad M. Champneys'seyes had been saved. 

"You will see for us, Monsieur, " said he cheerfully. And in hisheart Peter swore to himself that he would. He would see for theplain people, the common people of God. 

As soon as he was able to be moved, the Hemingways and Emma Campbellcame and took him home. Now, a spirit like his cannot see and hearand know such things as Peter had been experiencing for three years, without showing signs of the conflict. Peter had changed physicallyas well as spiritually. His face had paled to an ivory tone, thefeatures had a cameo sharpness and purity of outline; cheeks andchin were covered with a heavy, jet-black beard, --as if hiscountenance were in morning for its lost boyishness. And out of thisthin, quiet, black-haired, black-bearded face looked a pair ofgolden eyes of an almost intolerable clarity. _Don Pedro_ Mrs. Hemingway called him laughingly, and _El Conquistador_. Secretly, she was immensely proud of him. 

Peter didn't recuperate as quickly and completely as had been hoped. He was weary with an almost hopeless weariness, and Mrs. Hemingway, who watched him with the affection of an older sister, was worriedabout his condition. She didn't like his apathy. He was as gentle, as considerate, and even more exquisitely sympathetic than ofold. But in all things that concerned himself, he was quietlydisinterested. She and Hemingway had several long talks. ThenHemingway began to get busy. Presently he suggested, that it mightbe a very good idea if Peter should go over to America for a while, and look after those interests to which he hadn't given a thoughtsince he had put on a uniform. After all, Hemingway reminded him, his uncle had placed considerable trust in him. It was only fair nowthat Chadwick Champneys's wishes should come in for at least alittle attention, wasn't it?

Peter pondered this idea, and found it just. Besides, he wasn'tunwilling to go back to America now that he didn't have to face thatgirl. He wondered, vaguely, what had become of her. Had she foundhappiness for herself? He hoped so. Yes, he'd rather like to see NewYork again. He couldn't be of any further use here now, and hecouldn't do his own work, for all inspiration seemed to have lefthim. He felt empty, arid, useless. 

He might just as well act upon Hemingway's suggestion, and find outhow things were over there. And after he'd seen Vandervelde, he'd godown south and visit that tiny brown house on the cove, and theRiver Swamp, and Neptune's old cabin, and the cemetery alongside theRiverton Road. It seemed to him that he smelled the warm, salt-waterodors of the coast country again, saw the gray moss swaying in theriver breeze, heard a mocking-bird break into sudden song. Ahomesick longing for Carolina came upon him. Oh, for the flat coastcountry, the marsh between blue water and blue sky, the swamp baysin flower, a Red Admiral fluttering above a thistle in a corner ofan old worm-fence!

Emma Campbell discovered this homesick longing in herself, too. Emmawas hideously afraid of the passage across, but she was willing torisk it, just to get "over home" once more. She thought of herselfsitting in her place in Mount Zion Church, with ole Br'er ShadrachTimmons liftin' up de tune, fat Sist' Mindy Sawyer fanning herselfwith a palm-leaf fan and swaying back and forth in time to thesperetual, and busybody Deacon Williams rolling his eye to see thatnobody took too long a swallow out of the communion cup he passedaround. She thought of possum parties, with accompaniments of sweet'taters and possum gravy. Her lip trembled, tears rolled down herblack cheeks. She had been living in the midst of air raids, herears had been stunned with the roar of _Big Bertha_. Now she nevuhwanted to hear nuttin' louder dan bull-frawg in de river so long asshe lived. She was sorry to leave Mrs. Hemingway, for whom she hadacquired a great affection. And she had one real grief: Satan hadgone to the heaven of black cats, so she couldn't take him back toCarolina. She wouldn't replace the dear, funny, cuddly beastie witha French cat. French cats were amiable animals, very nice in theirway, but they weren't, they couldn't be, "we-all's folks" as theCarolina cat had been. 

Hemingway arranged everything. And so one morning, Peter Champneyswalking with a stick, and old Emma Campbell, stiffly erect andrustling in a black silk frock that Mrs. Hemingway had bought forher, turned their faces to America once more. 

Vandervelde, who met them in response to Hemingway's cable, knewEmma Campbell at sight, but failed to recognize in the tall, distinguished, very foreign-looking gentleman, the gangling PeterChampneys he had seen married to Nancy Simms. He kept staring atPeter, and the corners of his mouth curled more than usual. And heliked him, with the instantaneous liking of one large-natured manfor another. Vandervelde had never approved of the annulment of theChampneys marriage, although Marcia did. Not even the fact that Annewas going to marry Berkeley Hayden, had been able to convinceVandervelde that the bringing to naught of Chadwick Champneys'splans could be right. And looking at Peter Champneys now, he wasmore than ever convinced that a mistake had been made. That littlegutter-girl, Gracie, had been right about Peter Champneys; and Annehad been wrong. 

Vandervelde asked, presently, if Peter wished to see the reporters. Once they scented him, they would be clamoring at his heels. Andthen Peter learned to his surprise and annoyance that he wassomething of a hero and very much of a celebrity. His expressionmade Vandervelde chuckle. But, the attorney demanded, could a famousartist, a man who for distinguished and unusual service had beendecorated by two governments, the heir to the Champneys millions, and one of the figures of a social romance, hope to hide his lightunder a bushel basket? Nothing doing! He was a figure ofinternational importance, a lion whom the public wanted to hearroar. 

Peter shuddered. The thought of being interviewed by one of thoseNew York super-reporters made him feel limp. Couldn't theyunderstand he didn't want to talk? Didn't they understand that thosewho had really seen, those who knew, weren't doing any talking?Why, --they couldn't! As for himself, his nerves were rasped raw. Luckily, Vandervelde understood. 

He asked Vandervelde a few perfunctory questions, and learned thatthings were very much all right. He signed certain papers presentedto him. Then he asked abruptly if Mrs. Champneys had been asliberally provided for as she should have been, and learned thatMrs. Champneys had flatly refused to accept a penny more than theactual amount given her by Chadwick Champneys's will. Vanderveldeadded, after a moment, that he thought Mrs. Champneys intended toremarry. At that Peter looked somewhat surprised. He thought him abold man who of his own free will ordained to marry Nancy SimmsChampneys! He murmured, politely, that he hoped she would be happy, but failed to ask the name of his successor. What was Hecuba to himor he to Hecuba?

He was in Vandervelde's office, then, and the telephone began toring. Three several times Vandervelde answered the questions where, when, how might the reporter at the other end of the wire get intouch with Mr. Peter Champneys. Had he really returned to New York?Been decorated several times, hadn't he? What was his latestpicture? What were his present and future plans? Could Mr. Vandervelde give any information? In each case Mr. Vandervelde saidhe couldn't. He hung up the receiver and looked at the celebrity, who seemed gloomy. 

The lawyer was a tower of strength. He started Emma Campbell, whodidn't want to linger in New York, on her way to Riverton. Emmawanted to get home as fast as the fastest train could carry her. But Peter didn't want to go back to Riverton--yet. And thenVandervelde made a suggestion which rather pleased Peter. Why not goto a little place he knew, a quiet and very beautiful place on theMaine coast? Very few people knew of its existence. Vandervelde hadstumbled upon it on a motor trip a few years before, and he wasrather jealous of his discovery. The people were sturdy, independentMaine folk, the climate and scenery unsurpassed; Peter would be welllooked after by the old lady to whom Vandervelde would recommendhim. And to make perfectly sure that he'd be undisturbed, to dropmore completely out of the world and find the rest he needed, whynot call himself, say, Mr. Jones, or Mr. Smith, letting PeterChampneys the artist hide for a while behind that homely disguise?Vandervelde almost stammered in his eagerness. His eyes shone, hisface flushed. He leaned across his desk, watching Peter with acurious intensity. 

Peter liked the idea of the Maine coast. Sea and forest, openspaces, quietude; plain folk going about their own business, lettinghim go about his. Long days to loaf through, in which to reorganizehis existence in accordance with his newer values. Isolation was thebalm his spirit craved. Let him have that, let it help him to becomehis own man again, and he'd be ready to face life and work like agiant refreshed. 

"You'll go?" Vandervelde's voice was studiously restrained; he hadlowered his lids to hide the eagerness of his eyes. 

"I think such a place as you describe is exactly what I need, " saidPeter. 

"I'm quite sure it is. And the sooner you go, the better. "

Peter got up and walked around the office. A typewriter was clackingmonotonously, the telephone bell was constantly ringing. Peterturned his head restlessly. 

Vandervelde had made his suggestion at precisely the right moment. Peter felt grateful to him. Very nice man, Vandervelde. Kind as hecould be, too! One liked and trusted him. Clever of him to have soinstantly understood just what Peter most craved!

"I quite agree with you, " said Peter. "I'll start to-night. "

Vandervelde leaned back in his chair. His heart thumped. He drew adeep breath, the corners of his mouth curling noticeably, and beamedat Peter Champneys through his glasses. He said aloud, cheerfully, "Well, why not?"

CHAPTER XIX

THE POWER

Grandma Baker's cottage formed the extreme right horn of thecrescent that was the village. The middle of the crescent backed upagainst a hill, the horns dipped toward the shore-line and thewater. Near Grandma Baker's front gate were currant bushes, and apath bordered with dahlias and gillyflowers led to the door, whichhad two stone slabs for steps, and on both sides of which were largelilac bushes, --she called them "lay-locks. " Behind the house wereapple-trees, and more currant bushes, as well as gooseberries andraspberries. A herb garden grew under her kitchen windows, so thather kitchen and pantry always smelled of thyme and wintergreen, andher bedrooms were fragrant with lavender. 

The quiet gentleman to whom she had given an upper room that lookedout upon woods and waters, a bit of pasture, a stretch of coast, anda pale blue sky full of sudsy clouds, thought that Mr. JasonVandervelde's fervent praises hadn't done justice to this bit ofuntouched Eden tucked away in a bend of the Maine coast. It gave himwhat his heart craved--beauty, fragrance, stillness. A fewweather-beaten old men, digging clams, dragging lobster-pots, orhandling a boat. A few quiet women, busy with household affairs. Noone to have to talk to. No one to ask him questions. There was butone other visitor in the village, Grandma Baker told him, a youngwidow, --"a nice common sort of a woman, " who was staying up thestreet with Mis' Thatcher. 

Mr. Johnston, as the gentleman called himself, hadn't seen the "nicecommon sort of a woman" yet, though he had been here a whole week, and he wasn't in the least curious about her. He didn't know thatwhen you're a "nice common sort of a woman" to these Maine folk, you're receiving high praise from sturdy democrats. The phrase, tohim, called up a good, homely creature, amiably innocuous, placidlycow-like. 

Mr. Johnston slept in a four-poster, under a patchwork quilt thataroused poignant memories. At his own request he ate in a corner ofthe big kitchen, near the window opening upon the herb garden. Already he had struck up a firm friendship with his brisk, strongold landlady. 

"Fit in the war, didn't ye?" asked the old lady, genially. 

Mr. Johnston's face took on a look of weariness and obstinacy. Grandma Baker smiled cheerfully. 

"Tell the truth and shame the devil, " she chirped. "You fit, but youneedn't be scared I'll ask you any questions about it. I mind Abner, my husband, comin' back from Virginia after he'd fit the hulldratted Civil War straight through and helped win it. And hewouldn't open his trap. Couldn't bear havin' to talk about it. Somemen's like that. Ornery, o' course, but you got to humor 'em. Youput me a hull lot in mind o' my Abner. " And she looked with greatkindliness upon the taciturn person known to her as Mr. Johnston. True to her word, she asked him no questions. She fed him, and lethim alone. 

He was so weary, at first, that he didn't want to do anything butlie under a tree idly for long drowsy hours, as he had lain underthe trees on the edge of the River Swamp years before. This Mainelandscape, so rugged and yet so tender, had a brooding andintrospective calm, as of a serene and strong old man who has liveda vigorous, simple, and pure life, and to the jangled nerves andtired mind of Peter Champneys it was like the touch of a healinghand. With every day he felt his strength of mind and bodyreturning, and the restless perturbation that had tormented himreceding, fading. These green and gracious trees, bathed in a lucentlight, this sweet sea-wind, and the voice of the waters, a voicemonotonously soothing, helped him to find himself, --and to findhimself newer, fresher, a more vital personality. This newer PeterChampneys was not going to be, perhaps, so easy-going a chap. He wasmore insistent, he was sterner; to the art-conscience, in itself atroublesome possession, he was adding the race-conscience, whichquestions, demands, and will have nothing short of the truth. He hadbeen forced to see things as they are, things stripped of pleasanttrappings and made brutally bare; and his conscience and hiscourage now arose to face facts. Any misery, rather than be slave toshams! Any grief to bear, any price to pay, but let him possess hisown soul, let him have the truth!

He could not sit in judgment upon himself as an artist only; he hadto take himself seriously as a very wealthy man in an hour when verywealthy men stood, so to speak, before the tribunal of theconscience of mankind. He could not afford to be crushed by theburden of much money. Neither could he ignore the stern question:what was he going to do with the Champneys wealth? He wished thatthat red-headed woman had taken half of it off his hands!

The Champneys money made him very thoughtful this morning, walkingwith his hands behind his back, his head bare to the wind. The waterrippled in the sunlight. Out on the horizon a solitary sailglimmered. The semicircle of village houses resembled the whitebeads of a broken necklace, lying exactly where they'd fallen. Heturned a small headland, and the village vanished. 

He had a pleasant sense of being alone with this rocky coast, withits salty-sweet wind, its blue water, its limitless sky, from whichpoured a flood of clear, pale golden sunlight. And then, as if outof the heart of them all, came a figure immensely alive, the lightfocusing upon her as if she were the true meaning of the picture inwhich she appeared; as if this background were not accidental, buthad been chosen and arranged for her with delicate and deliberatecare. 

He thought he had never seen any woman's body so superbly free inits movement: she had the grace of a birch stirred by a spring wind. The poise of her shoulders, the sweep of her garments blown by thesea-breeze, the joyous and vigorous grace of her whole attitude, reminded him of the winged Victory. So might that splendid visionhave walked upon the glad Greek coast in the bright light of theworld's morning. 

The woman walked swiftly, lightly, her head held high, her longloose hair blown about her like flame. Where the rough path narrowedbetween two large boulders, he had paused to allow her to pass; andso they came face to face, he the taller by a head. She lifted hercool, gray-green eyes that had in them the silvery sparkle of thesea, and met his golden gaze. Her face framed in her flaming manewas warmly pale, the brow thoughtful, the mouth virginal. For a longmoment they regarded each other steadily, wonderingly; and in thatsingle moment the eternal miracle occurred by which life and theface of the world changed for them. 

That long, clear, grave gaze pierced her heart like a goldenponiard. He was of a thin body and visage, but the effect was ofvirility, not weakness, --as if the soul of him, like a blade in ascabbard, had fretted the body fine. There was a quiet statelinessin his bearing, a simple and unaffected dignity, to which the thick, blue-black hair, the foreign beard, and the aquiline features lentan added touch of distinction. One was reminded of those dangerouslymild and rather sad faces of Spanish soldiers which look at onefrom Velasquez's canvases. This man might wear a ruff and a velvetdoublet, or, better yet, a coat of mail, she reflected, instead ofthe well-cut but rather worn gray tweeds that clothed him. 

She was not conscious of her flying hair, or the wind-blown disorderof her skirts. She was conscious, rather, that for the first time aman was looking at her as from a height, and she was filled with abeautiful astonishment, a sort of divine amazement, as if it weretoward this that always, inevitably, she had been moving, --and nowit was here! Her blood leaped to it, and went racing fierily throughher veins, as if there had been poured into it the elixir of life. She was gloriously conscious of her youth and her womanhood. A quickand vivid rush of warm blood stained her, brow to bosom. Herevery-day mind was saying, "It is the stranger who's staying atGrandma Baker's--the gentleman who's been ill. " But beyond andbehind her every-day mind, her heart was shouting, exultant, ecstatic, and very sure: "It is You! It is You!"

In quick sympathy with that bright flush of hers the blood showedfor an instant in his pale face. He had been staring at her! Anagitation new to him, an emotion to which all others he had everexperienced were childishly mild, filled him as the resistless sweepof the sea at flood tide fills the shallows of the shores. Love didnot come to him gently and insidiously, but as with the overwhelmingrush of great waters. This, then, must be that "nice, common sortof a woman" staying with the Widow Thatcher, at the other end of thevillage--this woman clothed with the sun of her red hair, and withthe sea in her eyes! A smile curved his lips. His kindling glanceplayed over her like lightning, and said to her: "I know you. I havealways known you. Do you not recognize me? I am I, --and you areYou!"

Had he obeyed his instincts, he would have flung himself before herand clasped her around the knees. Being a modern gentleman, he hadto stand aside, bowing, and let her pass. She, too, bowed slightly. She went by with her quick and resilient tread, her cheek royallyred. A wind roared in her ears, her heart beat thickly. 

When she had turned the little headland she paused, andmechanically braided her hair. Her fingers shook, and she breathedas if she had been running. The incredible, the unbelievable, hadpounced upon her as from a clear sky, and the world was never againto be the same. She had been so sure, so safe, with her pleasantlife all mapped out before her, like the raked and swept paths of anordered and formal garden; a life in which reason and convention andculture and wealth should rule, and from which tumultuous andtormenting passions and disorderly emotions should be rigidlyexcluded. In that ordered existence, she would be, if not happy, atleast satisfied and proud. And now! A strange man in passing hadlooked into her eyes; love had come, and the gates of her formalgarden had been pulled down, wild nature threatened to invade andoverrun her trimmed and clipped borders and her smooth lawns. 

The Widow Thatcher commented approvingly upon her fine color whenshe appeared at the house. 

"You just stay here a leetle mite longer, Mis' Riley, and you'll bethat changed you won't know yourself, " said the kindly woman, heartily. 

"I'm sure of that!" murmured her guest. 

The red-haired lady who called herself Mrs. Riley--Riley had beenher mother's name--had been, up to this time, an altogethersatisfying guest, simple, friendly, with a sound and healthyappetite, and well deserving that praiseful "nice, common sort of awoman" bestowed upon her. Now, mysteriously, she changed. She wasn'tless friendly, but her appetite was capricious and she would fallinto reveries, sudden fits of gravity, sitting beside the window, staring somberly out at the waters. She would snatch up her hat andgo out, get as far as the gate, and return to the house. Mrs. Thatcher heard her pacing up and down her room, when she should havebeen sound asleep. She would laugh, and then sigh upon the heels ofit, break into fitful singing, and fall into sudden silence in themidst of her song. 

"She's gettin' religion, " the widow reflected. "The Spirit's workin'on her. 'T ain't nothin' I can do except pray for her. " And thesimple soul got on her knees and besought Heaven that the strangerunder her roof might "escape whatever trouble 't is that'sthreatenin' her, O Lord, an' save her soul alive!"

Although the widow didn't know it, her guest had come to thedividing of the ways. She had come to this quiet place to findpeace, to rest, to escape from the world for a breathing-space. Andin this quiet place that which had missed her in the great outsideworld had come to her, the most tremendous of all powers had seizedupon her. The situation was not without a sly and ironical humor. 

She wondered what Marcia would say if she should write to her: "Ihave fallen in love at sight, hopelessly, irremediably, head overears, with, a strange man who passed me on the shore. He wears graytweeds. His name, I am told, is Johnston. That's all I know abouthim, except that I seem to have known him since the beginning of allthings. He is as familiar to my heart as my blood is, and all he hadto do to make me love him was to look at me. Yes! I love him as Icould never love anybody but him. He's the one man. "

She could fancy Marcia's astonishment, her shocked "Oh, but Anne, there's Berkeley Hayden!"

And indeed, there was Berkeley Hayden!

When Anne had determined to have her marriage to Peter Champneysannulled, Marcia had upheld her, though Jason hadn't liked it atall. If he hadn't exactly opposed her course, he had tried todissuade her from it. But she had persisted, and as the case wassimple and quite clear her freedom was a foregone conclusion, thoughthere were, of course, the usual formalities, the usual wearisomedelays. 

She had closed the Champneys house, and gone to Marcia, who wantedher. Jason, too, had insisted that she should make her home withthem for the time being. And then had come the war, and she andMarcia found themselves swept into the whirlpool of work itinvolved. But not even the tremendous news that filled all thenewspapers had kept the Champneys romance from being featured. Hercase received very much more notice than pleased her. She was wearyof her own photographs, sick of the interest she aroused. 

Hayden kept discreetly in the background. He behaved beautifully. But he knew that Anne was going to marry him. Jason and Marcia knewit. Anne herself knew it. Now that the war was on, a good many ofhis plans would have to be postponed, but when Anne had secured herfreedom, and things had righted themselves, they two would take uplife as he wished to live it. All the women of his family hadoccupied prominent social positions: _his_ wife should surpass themall. She should be the acknowledged leader, the most brilliantfigure of her day. Nothing less than this would satisfy him. 

For all his esthetic tastes, Hayden was an immensely able andcapable man of business. He had not the warmth of heart that attimes obscured Jason Vandervelde's judgment, nor the touch ofunworldliness that marked the behavior of the Champneys men. His intellect had a cold, clear brilliancy, diamond-bright, diamond-hard; to this he added tact, and the power of organizing anddirecting and of getting results. In certain crises such men areinvaluable. 

Hayden hated war. It was, so to speak, an uncouth and barbarousgesture, a bestial and bellowing voice. He felt constrained to offerhis services, and even before America became actually involved hewas able to render valuable aid. There were delicate and dangerousmissions where his tact, his diplomacy, and his shrewd, cold, unimpassioned intelligence won the stakes for which he played. Thisin itself was good; but for the time being it took him away fromAnne. He saw her only occasionally. She, like him, was immersed inwork. Once or twice he was able to snatch her from the thick ofthings and carry her off with him to lunch or to dinner. She enjoyedthese small oases in the desert of work. She liked to watch hisclever, composed face, to listen to his modulated voice. The sereneease of his manner soothed her. She was tremendously proud ofHayden. She was glad he cared for her. This seemed to her anexcellent foundation for their marriage. They would please andinterest each other; neither would be bored! And when, leaningacross the table one day at lunch, he looked at her with unwontedfire in his quiet eyes, and said in a low voice: "Just as soon asthis business is finished, as soon as we've cleaned up the mess, I'mgoing to claim you, Anne. It's all I can do to wait!" Anne met hiseyes, smiled slightly, and nodded. A faint flush rose to her cheek, and a deeper one rose to his. For a moment he touched her hand. 

"You understand you are promised to me, " he said. "If I dared showyou what I really feel, Anne--" and he glanced around the crowdeddining-room, and smiled. 

She smiled in return, tranquilly. She was not stirred. His touch hadno power to thrill her. She was comfortably content that thingsshould be as they were, that was all. Yet her very lack of emotionadded to her charm for him. He disliked emotional women. Excess ofaffection would have bored him. It smacked of crudeness, and he hadan epicurean distaste for crudeness. 

Busy as he was, he found time to select the ring he wished her towear. He was fastidious and hyper-critical to a degree, and hewished her ring to suit her, to be flawless. It was really a workof art, and Anne Champneys wondered at her own coolness when shereceived the exquisite jewel. She understood his feeling, sheappreciated the beauty of the gem, yet it left her unmoved. Itgratified her woman's vanity; it did not stir her to oneheart-throb. She accepted it, not indifferently, but placidly. After a while she would accept a plain gold ring from him just asplacidly. This was her fate. She did not quarrel with it. 

Marcia watched her pleasedly. She loved Anne Champneys, she admiredHayden exceedingly, and that they should marry each other seemednatural and inevitable. Hayden was just the man she would havechosen for Anne. Even the fact that Jason wasn't altogether happyabout it couldn't dampen Marcia's delight in the affair. Jason wouldcome around, in time. He was too fond of Anne not to. 

"Well, you're free, " he had told Anne, the day that the Champneysmarriage was declared null and void, and both parties had receivedthe right to remarry, as a matter of course. "You are free. I'm sureI hope you won't regret it!"

"Why should I regret it?" wondered Anne, good-humoredly. But the bigman shook his head, remembering Chadwick Champneys. 

Hayden had become more and more involved in war work; he was inconstant demand, he was sent hither and thither to attend to thisand that troublesome affair. Twice he had to go abroad. At home, Anne's work called her into the homes of soldiers; she came in closecontact with the families of the men who were fighting, and what shesaw she was never able to forget. She got down to bed-rock. Her ownearly life made her acutely understanding. Where Marcia would havebeen blind, Anne saw; where the woman who had never known povertyand hardship would have remained deaf, the woman who had slaved inthe Baxters' kitchen, who had been an overworked, unloved child inbondage, heard, and understood to the core of her soul what she washearing. These voices from the depths were not inarticulate to Anne!

When Berkeley came back from his second voyage abroad, he was moreimpatient than she had ever seen him. The end was in sight then, ashe knew, and he saw no reason for further delay. He urged Anne tomarry him. Why should they waste time? When he consulted Marcia, sheagreed with him. Everybody, she said, was getting married. Whyshouldn't he and Anne? Already the rumor of their engagement hadcrept out. There were hints of it in the social chatter of thepapers. Why not announce it formally, and have the marriage followimmediately?

But Anne Champneys found herself in a curious mood. The nervousstrain of war work, perhaps, was accountable. She meant to marryBerkeley; but she didn't want to marry him at once. She did notobject to having their engagement announced. He could shout itfrom the housetops if that pleased him. But in the meanwhileshe wanted a little rest, a little freedom. She wished to befetterless, free to come and go as she pleased. No work, nointerviews, no photographers, no weary hours with dressmakers andtailors. No envy because Berkeley Hayden was going to marry her, no wearisome comments, idle flattery hiding spite, no gossipviolating all privacies. A raging impatience against it allassailed her. It seemed to her that she had never been allowedreally to think or to act for herself disinterestedly, that shehad never been free. Always she had been in bondage! Oh, for justa little hour of freedom, in the open, to be just as ordinary andinconspicuous as in her heart of hearts she would have preferredto be, left to herself!

Marcia said her nerves were unstrung, and no wonder, consideringhow she'd worked, and what she'd seen. Jason came vigorously to herrescue. He advised her to go off somewhere and get acquainted withherself. To drop out of things for a while, and treat herself to therest she needed. Cut and run! Scuttle for cover!

"You've been overdoing things, of course. You've been LadyBountiful, and first-aider, and last-leaver. Like the Lord and athumping good lie, you've been a very present help in time oftrouble. But there's such a thing as being too steady on the job. You need a change of people, scene, and mind. Take it. "

This conversation occurred on a morning in his office, where she hadgone on some slight business, and with concern he had noticed hertired eyes. At his advice she brightened. 

"Marcia thinks I should marry Berkeley, immediately, and let himtake me away, but--"

"But you aren't ready to rush into matrimony just yet?" Vanderveldegrowled. "I should think you wouldn't be! If Hadyen's managed toexist this long without a wife, I take it for granted he can existunwed a little longer. You are certain you mean to marry him?"

"Oh, yes, I am certain I mean to marry him, " said Anne, flatly. "ButI--that is, not so soon. "

"I think I understand, Anne, " said the big man, kindly. "Look here, you just tell 'em all to wait! Tell 'em you're tired. Then you pickyourself up and light out for a while, by yourself. Chuck themadding throng and all that, Anne, and beat it for the open!"

"Oh, how I wish I could!" she sighed. "You don't know how I long fora chance to be just me by myself! I want to stay with people whohave never heard the name of Champneys or Hayden and who wouldn'tcare if my name happened to be Mudd! I want plain living and plainthinking and plain people. I--I'll come back to--everything I shouldcome back to, afterward. But first I want to be free! Just for alittle while I want to be free!"

"But how could you manage it?" mused Vandervelde. "The lady whodivorced Peter Champneys and is going to marry Berkeley Hayden can'tpick herself up 'unbeknownst' and hope to get away with it. Not inthese days of good reporting! You're copy, you understand. "

"But I don't want to be Mrs. Peter Champneys! I don't want to be thewoman Berkeley Hayden's going to marry! I want to be just me!" shecried. "I want to go to some place where nobody's ever heard eitherof those names! Some little place where there are water andtrees--and not much else. Like, say, --Jason! Do you remember thatplace you found, in Maine, I think? You _babbled_ about it. Said youwere going to go there if ever you wanted to get out of the world. Said it was Eden before the serpent entered. Where's that place, Jason? Why can't I go there, just as myself--" she paused, andlooked at him hopefully. 

"I don't see why you can't, " said he, cheerfully. 

And so Anne, who didn't wish to be Mrs. Peter Champneys, or thewoman whom Berkeley Hayden was to marry, or anybody but herself, came to the out-of-the-way nook on the Maine shore, and was welcomedby the Widow Thatcher. 

She found the place idyllic. She liked its skies unclouded by smoke, translucent skies in which silver mountains of clouds rearedthemselves out of airy continents that shifted and drifted beforethe wind. She liked its clean, pure, untainted air. And she likedcontact with these simple souls, men who labored, women who knewbirth and death and were not afraid of either. It came to her thather own contacts with and concepts of life--and death--had always, been more or less artificial. Perhaps these simple and laboriousfolk had the substance of things of which she and her sort had butthe shadow. And then she asked herself: Well, but couldn't one, anywhere, in any circumstances, make life real for oneself, meetfacts unafraid? Get at the truths, somehow? That's what she had tofind out!

And of a sudden she had been answered. The reality, the truth, thereal meaning of life was made plain to her when a man she didn'tknow, and yet knew to the last fiber of her soul, had paused to lookinto her eyes. 

For two or three days she went no further than the rambling gardenat the back of the house. She tried to read, and couldn't. Fromevery page those eyes looked at her. There was more in thatremembered glance than in any book ever written, and she was tornbetween the desire to meet it again and the fear of meeting it. 

On the night of the third day she sat with her elbows on herwindowsill, looking out at the moonlight night. A sweet wind touchedher face, like the breath of love. There arose the scent of quietplaces, of trees and flowers and herbs, mingled with the vastbreathing of the sea. And she thought the sea called to her, animperious and yet caressing voice in the night. She stirredrestlessly. Down there on the shore-line, where she had met him, therocks would glint with silvery reflections, the water would comefawning to one's feet, the wind would pounce upon one like a roughlover. She stirred restlessly. The small bedroom seemed to hold herlike a cage. And again the sea called, a wild and compelling voice. 

Her blood stirred to the magic of the night. Her eyes gleamed, hercheek reddened. She listened for a moment, intently. The WidowThatcher slept the sleep of the good housekeeper. No one wasstirring. She could have the night, the wind, the sea, to herself. Noiselessly she stole downstairs and let herself out. 

Out there, with the scent of the summer night greeting her, withbushes brushing her lightly with their green fingers, her heartleaped joyously. She flung her arms over her head and went runningdown the path to the water, a tall white figure with flying hair. Then she turned the small headland, and the village dropped behindher. Overhead the big gold lamp of the moon lighted shore and sea. And here came the sea-wind, bracing, strong, and sweet. At the rushof it she laughed aloud, and the wind seized upon her laughter andtossed it into the night like airy bells. 

She slackened her wild race when she neared the great bouldersshutting in the little narrow path where she had met him, and stoodflushed, panting, her shining glance uplifted, her bright hairframing the sweetness of her face. And even as she paused, hestepped out of the shadow and confronted her. As if he had beenawaiting her. As if he had known she must come. He said, in a voicevibrant with fierce joy:

"It is You!"

She answered, in a shaking tone, like a child: "Yes, I had to come, "and stood there looking at him, face uplifted, lips apart. 

He drew nearer. "Why?" said he, in a whisper. "Why?"

She did not reply. For a long moment they regarded each other, passion-pale in the moonlight. 

"Was it because--you knew I must be here!" he asked. 

Her hands went to her leaping heart. She had no faintest notion ofconcealing the truth, for there was no coquetry in her. These twofacing each other were as honest as the rocky coast, as unabashed asthe wind. They had no more thought of subterfuges and conventionsthan the sea had. They were as real as nature itself. 

He bent upon her his compelling glance, which seemed to lift her asupon golden pinions. She was thrillingly conscious of his nearness. 

"You knew I would be here?" he repeated. 

She drew a deep breath. "Yes!" she sighed. 

And at that, inevitably, irresistibly, they rushed together. Hecaught her in a mighty embrace and she gave him back his kiss with aheavenly shamelessness, a glorious passion, naïve and pure. It wasas if she were born anew in the fire of his lips. For she was sure, with a crystal clarity. This man whose heart beat against hers washer high destiny. Body and soul, she was his. His kiss was thechrism of life. And he, fallen into the same divine lunacy, wasequally sure. He had been born a man to hold this strong sweet bodyin his arms, to meet this spirit that complemented his own. Not inhigh and lonely altitudes whose cold stillness chilled the heart, but by simple paths to peace, in a simple and passionate woman'slove, could he gain the purple heights!

CHAPTER XX

AND THE GLORY

He had said quietly: "You are going to marry me!"

And she had replied, as if there could be no possible doubt aboutit:

"Yes, I am going to marry you. "

"Because you love me better than anything or anybody else in all theworld, even as I love you. "

"Because I love you better than anything or anybody else in all theworld, " she repeated. 

"So far, so good. When, Beloved Lady?"

At that she hesitated for a space and fell silent. He pressed herhead closer, and bending his tall head laid his cheek to hers. 

"When?"

"Presently. But before that, dearest and best of men, there are somany, many things I wish to tell you, so many things I wish you toknow! I wish you to know me. Everything about me! For once upon atime there was a sad, neglected child, a piteous child I must makeyou acquainted with. There was an ignorant and undisciplined younggirl--"

"You?"

She nodded sorrowfully. His clasp tightened. He slipped a handbeneath her chin, tilted her face upward, and kissed her eyes thathad suddenly filled with tears, her lips that quivered. 

"Beloved Lady, I understand: for there was once upon a time a sad, neglected child, an ugly little lad, barefooted and poverty-strickenafter his mother's death. There was an ignorant and undisciplinedboy--"

"You?" Her arms went around him protectingly, in a mothering andtender clasp. 

"Who else? And being very ignorant indeed, he sold himself intobondage for a mess of pottage, and was thrall for weary years. Hegot exactly what he paid for. And life was ashes upon his head andwormwood in his mouth, and his heart was empty in his breast, because he snatched at shadows. And then one day the door of hisprison was opened by the keeper, and he said, 'Now I am free!' Butit was his fate to go down into hell for a season. There were timeswhen he asked himself, 'Why don't I blow out my brains and escape?'Nothing but the simple faith and heroism of common men about himsaved him from despair. One day a blinded soldier said, 'See forus!' So he began to see, --but still without hope, still withouthappiness, until he came here and found--_you_. " His voice wasmelted gold. 

She had listened breathlessly. And after a pause she asked:

"Who was--the keeper of his prison?"

"The woman to whom he had been married. "

Her arms fell from him. She tried to draw herself away, but he heldher all the closer. 

"Do not think unkindly of her. I don't think she really knew shewas an ogress! After all, she did unlock the door and say, 'Go!'And--well, here I am, darling woman. And I'm going to marry _you_!"

"Did you _never_ love her?"

"Never. I was so frightfully unhappy that the best I could do wasnot to hate her. I'm afraid she hated me--poor ogress! Well! That'sall over and done with. Like an evil dream. I'm here, and _you_'regoing to marry me. " Very gently he drew her arms around him again. "Ah, hold fast to me! Hold fast! I have waited for you so long, Ineed you so much!" he breathed. 

"I don't seem able to help myself!" she sighed. And she askedseriously: "What do the people who love you most call you when theyspeak to you?"

The brown and bearded faces of comrades rose before him, theirvoices sounded in his ears. 

"Pierre. "

"Pierre, " said she, bravely, as if to call him by his nameemboldened her, "I too have been freed from a hateful marriage. Sometime I will tell you all about it. But--oh, do not let us talkabout it now! I cannot bear to think of him! I cannot bear to havehis shadow, even, fall upon me now, or come near _you_!" Thatgangling bridegroom in his ill-fitting suit, with his wincing mouth, his eyes full of disgust and aversion, his air of a man sentenced todeath--or marriage with herself--came before her, and she shivered. 

Despite her words a horrible jealousy of that unknown man assailedhim. He asked fiercely:

"You loved him, once?"

"Oh, no! Oh, no! Never! I--why, Pierre, until you came, I didn'teven know what love meant! Once that ignorant, undisciplined girl Ispoke of, thought she loved a boy. She didn't. She loved the idea oflove. And once again, Pierre, because my life was so empty, andbecause I didn't know any better, I thought I should be willing tomarry somebody else. I thought that somebody else could fill mylife. But now I know that could never be. You are here. "

He looked at her with infinite tenderness. There were things he, too, would have to tell her, by and by. And he was sure that thewoman whose coming little Denise had seemed to foreknow, wouldunderstand. He said gravely:

"Yes, we have found each other. That is all that really matters. Nothing, nobody else, counts with you and me. " And then, of asudden, he laughed happily: "And, Beloved Lady, I do not know yourname! I can't call you 'Mrs. Riley, ' can I? By what name, then, shall the one who loves you most call you?"

"Anne. " And she asked eagerly: "Do you like it?"

He started. Anne! Strange that the name that had been his chiefestunhappiness should now become his chiefest joy! Strange that hehadn't guessed Anne could be the most beautiful of all names for awoman! Like it? Of course he liked it! Wasn't it hers?

"Anne, you haven't yet said when you will marry me. "

"Oh, but you are sure of _that_!" she parried. 

"I am so sure of it that I am quite capable of taking you by thehair and dragging you off to the parson's, if you try to make mewait. Anne! Remember that ever since I was that barefooted, lonelychild I have been waiting for you. My dear, I need you so greatly!"

She said passionately: "You cannot need me as I need you. You areyourself. You couldn't be anything else. You were you before youever saw me. But I--I couldn't be my real self until you came andlooked at me and kissed me. "

He felt humble, and reverent, and at the same time exultant. Whenshe said presently, "I must go now, " he released her reluctantly. They walked hand in hand, pausing at the small headland beyond whichthe village came in sight. She took both his hands and held themagainst her breast. 

"You are my one man. I love you so much that I am going to give mywhole life into your hands, as fully and as freely as I shall someday give my spirit into the hands of God. But, Pierre, there arethose who have been very, very kind to me, those to whom Iowe--well, explanations. When I have made those explanationsand--and settled my accounts, --then all the rest of my life isyours. "

"You are very, very sure, Anne?" His voice was wistful. 

"My love for you, " she said proudly, "is the one great reality. Iam surer of that than I have ever been of anything in this world. "And she stood there looking at him with her heart in her eyes. Of asudden, with a little cry, she pulled his head down to her, kissedhim upon the mouth, pushed him from her, and fled. 

When she reached her room again, she couldn't sleep, but knelt byher window and watched the skies pale and then flush like a younggirl's face, and the morning-star blaze and pale, and the sun comeup over a bright and beautiful world in which she herself was, shefelt, new-born. Far in the background of things, unreal as a dream, hovered the unlovely figure of Nancy Simms, and nearer, but stillalmost as unreal, the bright, cold figure of Anne Champneys, thatAnne Champneys who had wished to marry Berkeley Hayden to gratifypride and ambition. The woman kneeling by the window, watching theglory of the morning, looked back upon those two as a wingedbutterfly might remember its caterpillar crawlings. 

All that glittering life Anne Champneys had planned for herself?Swept away as if it had been a bit of tinsel! Money? Position? Shelaughed low to herself. She didn't care whether her man hadpossessions or lacked them. All she asked was that he shouldbe himself--and hers. All that Milly had been to ChadwickChampneys--the passionate lover, the perfect comrade, the friendnothing daunted, no wind of fortune could change--Anne could be, would be to Pierre. 

There was but one shadow upon her new happiness: she hated todisappoint Marcia. Marcia had set her heart upon the Haydenmarriage. It was toward that consummation, so devoutly to be hoped, that Marcia had planned. And just when that plan was nearingperfection Anne was going to have to frustrate it. She hated to hurtHayden himself, and the thought of his angry disappointment waspainful to her. She _liked_ Hayden. She would always like him. Butshe couldn't marry him. To marry Hayden, loving Pierre, would havebeen to work them both an irremediable injury. A sort of horror ofwhat she had been about to do came upon her. The bare thought of itmade her recoil. 

Her native shrewdness told her that Hayden's immense pride wouldcome to his aid. The fact that she had dared to desire somebodyelse, to prefer another to his lordly self would be enough to proveto Hayden that she wasn't worthy of his affections. He would feelthat he had been deceived in her. She couldn't help hoping that hewouldn't altogether despise her. She hoped that Marcia wouldn't betoo angry to forgive her. And then her thoughts merged into aprayer: Oh dear God, help her to make Pierre happy, to grow to hisstature, to be worthy of him!

 * * * * *

Back there on the beach he lay with his head in his arms, humblebefore the power and the glory that had come to him. This, this wasthe face he had always sought, the beauty that had so long eludedhim! Beauty, mere physical beauty, appealed to him as it alwaysappeals to an artist, but it had never had the power to hold himfor any length of time. It had palled upon him. To satisfy hisdemand, beauty must have upon it the ineffable imprint of the soul. This woman's face was as baffling, as inexplicable, in its way, aswas Mona Lisa's. One wasn't sure that she was beautiful; one wasonly sure that she was unforgetable, and that after other faces hadfaded from the memory, hers remained to haunt the heart. And thatred hair of hers, like the hair of a Norse sun-goddess!

He fell into pleasant dreams. He was going to take her down southwith him; he wanted her to see that little brown house in SouthCarolina, to know the tide-water gurgling in the Riverton coves, andmocking-birds singing to the moonlit night, and the voice of thewhippoorwill out of the thickets. She must know the marshes, and thelive-oaks hung with moss. All the haunts of his childhood she shouldknow, and old Emma Campbell would sit and talk to her about hismother. They would stay in the little house hallowed by his mother'smild spirit. And he would show her that first sketch of the RedAdmiral. And afterward they two would plan how to make the best useof the Champneys money. He was very, very sure of her sympathy andher understanding. Why, you couldn't look into her eyes withoutknowing how exquisite her sympathy would be!

He was so stirred, so thrilled, that the creative power that hadseemed to fail him, that had left him so emptily alone these manybitter months, came to him with a rush. He got to his feet and wenttramping up and down the strip of shore, his eyes clouded withvisions. Before his mind's eye the picture he meant to paint tookshape and form and color. And as he walked home he whistled like ahappy boy. 

He had brought his materials along with him as a matter of habit. With his powers at high tide, in the first glamour of a greatpassion, he set himself to work next morning to portray her as hisheart knew her. 

He worked steadily, stopping only when the light failed. He was soabsorbed in his task that he forgot his body. But Grandma Baker wasa wise old woman, and she came at intervals and forced food uponhim. Then he slept, and awoke with the light to rush back to hiswork. His old rare gift of visualizing a face in its absence hadgrown with the years; and this was the face of all faces. There wasnot a shade or a line of that face he didn't know. And after a whileshe appeared upon his canvas, breathing, immensely alive, with theinmost spirit of her informing her gray-green eyes, her virginalmouth, her candid and thoughtful brow. There she stood, Anne asPeter Champneys knew and loved her. 

He had done great work in his time. But this was painted with theblood of his heart. This was his high-water mark. It would take itsplace with those immortal canvases that are the slow accretions ofthe ages, the perfectest flowerings of genius. He was swaying on hisfeet when he painted in the Red Admiral. Then he flung himself uponhis bed and slept like a dead man. 

When he awoke, she seemed to be a living presence in his room. Hegasped, and sat with his hands between his knees, staring at heralmost unbelievingly. He looked at the Red Admiral above hissignature, and fetched a great, sighing breath. 

"We've done it at last, by God!" said he, soberly. "Fairy, we'vereached the heights!"

But when he appeared at the breakfast-table Grandma Baker regardedhim with deep concern. 

"My land o' love!" she exclaimed. "Why, you look like you beenburied and dug up!"

"Permit me, " said he, politely, "to congratulate you upon yourperspicacity. That is exactly what happened to me. "

"Eh!" said Grandma, setting her spectacles straight on her old nose. 

"And let me add: It's worth the price!" said the resurrected one, genially. "Grandma Baker, were _you_ very much in love?"

"Abner tried his dumdest to find that out, " said Grandma Baker. "Hewas the plaguedest man ever was for wantin' to know things, butsomehow I sort o' didn't want him changed any. You got ways put memightily in mind o' Abner. " The old eyes were very sweet, and awintry rose crept into her withered cheek. She added: "I know what'sailin' _you_, young man! Lord knows I hope you'll be happy as Abnerand me was!"

He went back to his room and communed with his picture. It was thesort that, if you stayed with it a little while, _liked_ to communewith you. It would divine your mood, and the eyes followed you withan uncanny understanding, the smile said more than any words couldsay. You almost saw her eyelids move, her breast rise and fall toher breathing. The man trembled before his masterpiece. 

His heart swelled. He exulted in his genius, a high gift to be laidat the feet of the beloved. All he had, all he could ever be, belonged to her. She had called forth his best. He said to herpainted semblance:

"You are my first love-gift. I am going to send you to her, andshe'll know she hasn't given her love, her beauty, her youth, to anunworthy or an obscure lover. She's given herself to me, PeterChampneys, and because she loves me I'll give her a name she canwear like a crown: I'll set her upon the purple heights!"

She was at the far end of the Thatcher garden, behind the house andhidden from it, when he arrived with the canvas, which he hadn'tdared entrust to any other carrier--he was too jealously careful ofit. No, he told Mrs. Thatcher, it wasn't necessary to disturb herguest. Just allow him to place the canvas in Mrs. Riley'ssitting-room. She would find it there when she returned. 

Mrs. Thatcher complied willingly enough. She liked the tall, black-bearded man whom shrewd old Grandma Baker couldn't praisesufficiently. 

"Excuse me for not goin' up with you, on account of my hands bein'in the mixin'-bowl. It's a picture, ain't it? You just step rightupstairs and set it on the mantel or anywheres you like. I'll tellher you been here. "

And so he placed it on the mantel, where the north light fell fullupon it, waved his hand to it, and went away. It would tell her allthat was in his heart for her. It would explain himself. The RedAdmiral would assure that!

Anne had been having rather a troublesome time. She had written toMarcia and to Berkeley Hayden the night before, and the letters hadbeen posted only that morning. She had had to be very explicit, tomake her position perfectly plain to them both, and the letters hadnot been easy to write. But when she had finally written them, shehad really succeeded in explaining her true self. There was no doubtas to her entire truthfulness, or the finality of this decision ofhers. When she posted those letters, she knew that a page of herlife had been turned down, the word "Finis" written at the bottom ofit. She had tossed aside a brilliant social career, a high position, a great fortune, --and counted it all well lost. Her one regret wasto have to disappoint Marcia. She loved Marcia. And she hoped thatBerkeley wouldn't despise her. 

She was agitated, perturbed, and yet rapturously happy. She wishedto be alone to hug that happiness to her heart, and so she had goneout under the apple-trees at the far end of the Thatcher orchard, and lay there all her long length in the good green grass. The placewas full of sweet and drowsy odors. Birds called and fluted. Butterflies and bees came and went. She had never felt so close toMother Earth as she did to-day, never so keenly sensed the joy ofbeing alive. 

After a while she arose, reluctantly, and went back to the house andher rooms. She was remembering that she hadn't yet written to Jason, and she wanted Jason to know. Inside her sitting-room door shestopped short, eyes widened, lips fallen apart. On the mantel, glowing, jewel-like in the clear, pure light, herself confrontedher. Herself as a great artist saw and loved her. 

She stood transfixed. The sheer power and beauty of the work, thatspell which falls upon one in the presence of all great art, heldher entranced. Her own eyes looked, at her as if they challengedher; her own smile baffled her; there was that in the pictured facewhich brought a cry to her lips. Oh, was she so fair in his eyes?Only great love, as well as great genius, could have so portrayedher!

This was herself as she might be, grown finer, and of a largerfaith, a deeper and sweeter charity. A sort of awe touched her. Thisman who loved her, who had the power of showing her herself as shemight pray to become, this wonderful lover of hers, was no mereamateur with a pretty gift. This was one of the few, one of thetorch-bearers!

And then she noticed the Red Admiral in the corner. She stared at itunbelievingly. That butterfly! Why--why--She had read of one whosigned with a butterfly above his name pictures that were calledgreat. A thought that made her brain swim and her heart beatsuffocatingly crashed upon her like a clap of thunder. She walkedtoward the mantel like one in a daze, until she stood directlybefore the painting. 

And it was his butterfly. And under it was his name: _PeterDevereaux Champneys_. 

The room bobbed up and down. But she didn't faint, she didn'tscream. She caught hold of the mantel to steady herself. Shewondered how she hadn't known; she had the same sense of wildamazement that must fill one who has been brought face to face witha stupendous, a quite impossible miracle. Such a thing couldn'thappen: and yet it is so! And oddly enough, out of this welter ofher thoughts, there came to her memory a screened bed in a hospitalward, and a dying gutter-girl looking at her with unearthly eyes andtelling her in a thin whisper:

"I wanted to see if you was good enough for _him_. You ain't. Butremember what I'm tellin' you--you could be. "

Pierre--Peter Champneys! She slipped to her knees and hid her facein her shaking hands. Peter Champneys! As in a lightning flash shesaw him as that girl Gracie had seen him. Pierre--Pierre, with hiseyes of an archangel, his lips that were the chrism of life--_this_was Peter Champneys! And she had hated him, let him go, allunknowing, she had wished to put in _his_ place Berkeley Hayden. Thehandsome, worldly figure of Hayden seemed to dwindle and shrink. Pierre stood as on a height, looking at her steadfastly. Her headwent lower. Tears trickled between her fingers. 

_You ain't good enough for him, but you could be_. 

"I can be, I can be! Oh, God, I can be! Only let him love me--whenhe knows!"

She heard Mrs. Thatcher's voice downstairs, after a while. Then adeeper voice, a man's voice, with a note of impatience and eagernessin it. 

"No, don't call her. I'll go right on up, " said the voice, over thefeminine apologies and protests. "I have to see her--I must see hernow. No, I can't wait. "

Somebody came flying up the steps. She hadn't closed her door, andhis tall figure seemed to fill it. He stopped, with a gasp, at sightof the weeping woman kneeling before the picture on the mantel. 

"Anne!" he cried. "Anne!" And he would have raised her, but sheclung to his knees, lifting her tear-stained face, her eyes full ofan adoration that would never leave them until life left them. 

"Peter!" she cried. "Peter! That--that butterfly! I know now, Peter!"

Again he tried to raise her, but she clasped his knees all thecloser. 

"You mean you know my name is really Peter Champneys, dearest?"

But she caught his hands. "Peter, Peter, don't you understand?" shecried, laughing and weeping. "I--I'm the ogress! I'm Nancy Simms!I'm Anne Champneys!"

He looked from her to her portrait and back again. He gave a greatringing cry of, "My wife!" and lifted her in a mighty grip thatswept her up and into his arms. "My wife!" he cried. "My wife!"

Undoubtedly the Red Admiral was a fairy!

 * * * * *

On a certain morning Mr. Jason Vandervelde was sitting at his desk, disconnectedly dictating a letter to his secretary. He was findingit very difficult to fix his mind upon his correspondence. What themischief was happening up there in Maine, anyhow? She hadn't writtenfor some time; and he hadn't had a word from Peter Champneys. Andwhen Marcia came home and found out he'd been meddling--well, themeddler would have to pay the fiddler, that's all!

The office boy came in with a telegram. Mr. Vandervelde paused inhis dictation, tore open the envelop, and read the message. And thenthe horrified secretary saw an amazing and an awesome sight. Mr. Jason Vandervelde bounced to his feet as lightly as though he hadbeen a rubber ball, and performed a solemnly joyful dance around hisoffice. His eyeglasses jigged on his nose, a lock of his sleeklybrushed hair fell upon his forehead. Meeting the fixed stare of thesecretary, he winked! And with a sort of elephantine religiosity hefinished his amazing measure, caught once more the glassy eye of thesecretary, and panted:

"King David danced before the ark--of the Lord. For whichreason--your salary is raised--from to-day. "

He stopped then, snatched the telegram off his desk, and read itagain:

 We have met and I have married my wife. Anne sends love. Thank you and God bless you, Vandervelde! PETER CHAMPNEYS. 

"Put up that note-book. Take a day off. Go and enjoy yourself. Behappy!" said Vandervelde to the secretary. Then he snatched up thedesk telephone. 

"The florist's? Yes? How soon can you get six dozen bride roses uphere, to Mr. Vandervelde's office? Yes, this is Mr. Vanderveldespeaking. You can? Well, there's a thumping tip for somebody whoknows how to rush! Half an hour? Thank you. I'll wait for 'em here. "

He hung up the receiver and turned his beaming countenance to thestunned secretary. His eyes twinkled like little blue stars, thecorners of his mouth curled more than usual. 

"Anne and Peter Champneys have been and gone and married eachother!" he chuckled. "I'm going to take a carful of bride rosesaround to the Champneys house and put 'em under old ChadwickChampneys's portrait!"

THE END