BOOK II

1

MARTIN STEELE came back to America after two years’ absence. He was known over there as the “Yankee Devil.” Danger seemed to attract him; he rushed through a rain of bullets and planted the flag in the face of the enemy. He was happy; the straining of nerve and sinew helped to quiet an inward restlessness. On landing he found a telegram from his mother; she wanted him to go up and see “The Museum” before coming to Boston. He tore up the telegram with an ugly scowl.

The corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street—gigantic waves of humanity passing, moving up, down, across—screeching automobiles emitting pestilential odors—rapidly changing electric signs—the only stagnation was in the air—it weighed on his chest, halted his breath. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets. There was something psychic going on within him; the boys who came home brought with them a strange consciousness: they had seen miracles.

He felt the leaden mentality oozing out from the crowd, became keenly conscious of the mixture of races; those tense, strained faces, looking straight ahead; the past forgotten; the future—who cares? “We build for today; the next man will build for his day.” “The Present” in electric letters of colored flames. “How am I to borrow or steal for—women—for wine. Prohibition?—ha! ha!—who takes that seriously; who takes anything seriously?”

Martin elbowed himself through the crowd; a soldier in khaki, people looked after him; a fine strong fellow from the prairies, seeing the sight of the Great White Way.

He mopped his forehead, saying to himself, “Where shall I go?”

He stood before the house where he was born, read the black and gold sign on the door.

“The Winthrop Museum. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday (admission free); other days fifty cents.” It was Friday.

The sleepy official handed him a card. Martin threw down his fifty cents and entered. There were a few stragglers strolling from case to case, mostly strangers. A large omnibus, “Seeing New York,” waited outside; the man on the box blew the horn.

“This is the house of the celebrated Winthrop family whose ancestors came over in the Mayflower. The owners have generously donated their historical relics to the city; ten minutes allowed for inspection.”

He looked at the old furniture, falling to pieces from want of repair; some were really family relics, but the parading of them—“who cares for other people’s old sticks”? The caretaker was putting on his hat to go when Martin spoke to him.

“I’m Mr. Steele. I’m going to close up this dugout.” He put ten dollars in the man’s hand. With one strong wrench he tore down the sign, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

He stopped before the Garrison home; it was lit up inside. He opened the gate, shut it with a sharp click, and went up toward Fifth Avenue. The row of small brick houses were in a sorry plight. On Maud Ailsworth’s window there was a sign, “Table Board”; on the Gonzola mansion, “For Sale.” “The mother and grandfather dead, Julie married.” Then he bought the biggest basket of red roses he could find, and followed on the heels of the messenger.

Floyd was in the nursery, revelling in the beauty of mother and child—a wonderful Murillo picture. Julie laughed at his caressing epithets, “Two angels to take care of”—etc., etc., and all the rest a man like Floyd would naturally say to the young mother of his child. She went to dinner leaning on his arm. Julie was one of the rare women who become beautiful with motherhood; from the first moment of its consciousness, she was a changed being. The grief and horror of her double misfortune vanished; her eyes became larger, more brilliant. The dead white of her skin changed into a soft pink; the rippling hair shone, getting more and more rebellious, escaping in soft curls about her face.

She gave a cry of pleasure at the roses on the table.

“Oh! how gorgeous! Floyd, you mustn’t spoil me like this.”

“I didn’t send them.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, my word of honor.”

“Then who? I can’t think of anyone, unless—”

“Who?”

She fastened a rose in her dress, forgetting to answer.

The table was faultlessly set with fine damask. The heavy cut glass sparkled in the candle light. A pine wood fire threw a soft glimmer over the room; there was no other light. Floyd felt a sense of æsthetic satisfaction. He hated the big flats of the West Side with their electric illumination; he was glad he didn’t have to live in them. The bell rang.

“Who can that be at this hour?”

“You needn’t announce me, I’ll go right in.”

“Martin!”

Julie was on her feet looking for a way of escape. Floyd put her back in her seat.

“Stay where you are.”

Floyd’s hand went out to meet Martin’s; he’d come back from the front, and they had known each other all their lives.

“I landed today. I feel like a stranger in a foreign land. Will you let me have a bite with you?”

He hadn’t changed; heavily tanned; a little more muscular; a little louder. He grasped Julie’s hand, and held it fast. There was a slight heaving under the red rose; her cheeks had lost their color. He absorbed everything with those eyes of his. She felt the loose gown hanging from her shoulders, and drew it around her full bosom. He turned to Floyd, with a laughing question in his eyes. Floyd laughed back; he couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph.

Martin was very entertaining, told amusing stories in French; there was something pathetic in his efforts to please. Julie took a childish delight in his medals. Floyd’s face clouded over; Martin took them from her hand.

“They mean nothing to me.”

“You should be proud of them,” insisted Julie. “They are a reward for bravery. You were brave. We read about you.”

“I wouldn’t give the others the satisfaction of thinking me a coward.”

“But you were afraid at first; it’s only natural.”

He turned and looked straight at her.

“No. What is there in life for me? It takes more courage to go on living.”

There was a long pause; Julie arose, said “good night.” Floyd went with her to the stairs, kissed her; Martin’s eyes followed them. Then Floyd threw himself into the big chair by the fire, forgetting everything but the dear woman, the dear child.

Martin sat puffing at his pipe; it was foul. Julie couldn’t bear a pipe. Floyd had given up his then he shut the door carefully, lit his pipe laughingly, saying something about a bad example. He was eager for more stories of war, carnage, murder.

“A wonderful experience. I envy you.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I couldn’t leave Julie in her condition.”

There was a silence; then Martin spoke in a hard voice which conveyed repression.

“Your experience has been more wonderful than mine.”

He threw down his pipe, pacing the room, muttering broken sentences; there was a strange glitter in his eyes. He cursed everything, everybody.

“Patriotism, bah! We punched holes in that lie, sitting in our dugout waiting for the death call. Love of the soil; bah! I was born next door; another year you also will be driven out. Our children won’t even know the spot where their parents lived; what does it matter, anyhow? The farmer, bah! He values the soil as he does his cow, for what he can get out of it; it isn’t his land. He came over, bought it, because he couldn’t steal it, mortgaged it, misused it. The boys won’t go back to the farm. They want money, they’ll get it the next few years. The rest of the world will starve—America will wallow in the filthy stuff—not you, nor I—we’re pikers, that’s what we are; our fathers thought they left us rich; I could plunge in, reconstruct, sell out, gamble with my money, and make a fortune. What then?” He stood glaring at Floyd, a desperate, hopeless creature, Martin’s ravings always depressed him; Julie’s voice broke the oppressive silence.

“Floyd, bring Martin up to see the baby.”

He stood in the doorway like a bashful boy, Floyd put the child in his arms; he looked down at the little dark head against his arm, bent and kissed it, giving Julie a look of lightning rapidity. It scorched her.

Martin became a frequent visitor at the Garrisons’, running in often at inopportune moments.

Julie was sitting over the fire in the dining-room, the child asleep in a little pink-lined basket beside her. She leaned back; there was a feeling of lassitude, weariness; she had every reason to be happy; no woman could ask more; but why that longing to get away from her child, her husband, from herself? Why did she feel the walls of her life? She knew there was something wrong with her; she felt too intensely. Martin! Why had he come back? She was happy with Floyd; he was good, gentle; kind, so different; but Martin! Martin!

She heard his voice outside, she must get upstairs; she went swiftly to the door—too late—he was in the room taking her in with those terrible eyes.

“Why did you break in like this? It’s very inconsiderate. I am not fit to see strangers.”

“Strangers, Julie!”

She raised her arms above her head, twisting the thick ropes of falling hair, trying to fasten them. Her shawl fell away, disclosing the corsetless form, the open neck.

Waves of passion rushed through him.

“Don’t go! Give me one moment more, just one!” He caught at her shawl. A terrible shame burnt her. She staggered out, slamming the door after her. Martin pressed the shawl, warm from her body, to his face; the hot tears rolled down.

He didn’t come again for some time. One day Floyd met him at the club.

“Why don’t we see you at the house? We miss you.”

Martin’s eyes had a look of abstraction.

“Your home is like a nest just now. There is room in it only for two—and the little bird.” It was a beautiful thought; but that humor never lasted long with him. He said abruptly:

“I’ve sold my house. They are going to build a skyscraper. It will take away your light.”

Floyd’s face darkened.

“That won’t drive us out.”

“Why stay there? You can get a big profit.”

“I was born there; I want to die there.”

Martin laughed mockingly.

“A man who dies in the house where he was born should be ticketed and put into a museum.”

2

The wreckers were at work tearing down the Steele house. Floyd, passing, found Martin in overalls, his hair, face, eyelashes, white with plaster dust, his tongue swinging with the hammer.

“You obstinate devil, I’ll show you who is the master.”

The wall was well built, too well; in the old days they built for the future. He gave it a blow, another, another; it didn’t yield. He worked himself into a purple rage. Blow after blow fell upon the unhappy partition; it trembled, the others jumped away; it fell. Martin stood triumphantly among the ruins.

Floyd’s eyes grew moist. Was there no feeling in the man? Did he realize he had made himself homeless? Now he must join the rich tramps, the poor tramps, that army of wanderers living here awhile, there awhile, places to sleep and eat; luxurious, tawdry, squalid imitations, according to their money value. New York was becoming a homeless city.

He related the incident to Julie.

“Martin looks seedy, he neglects his appearance, he’s a forsaken wretch.”

Julie had a sudden inspiration.

“I’m going to get him married.”

Floyd laughed.

“It takes two for that.”

Julie stood before her mirror; a pleasing picture flashed back. A smooth young face—not a trace of the physical agony she had been through, of the mental agony; her life was running now along smooth, conventional lines—a beautiful woman, bending forward, studying her expression. Is there a tell-tale line? No; the mask fits to the life.

“May I come in?”

It was Maud Ailsworth invited to dinner to meet Martin. Julie was going to see what she could do. Maud’s mother had been dead four years; she had known her only as an invalid propped up by pillows, with an ice bag on her head. Maud left school early to take the housekeeping, which was a sorry job, in her hands. Mrs. Ailsworth’s philosophy of living was that good things were cheapest in the end. The modest capital left by her husband melted, they sold the house, and lived on the money. When Mrs. Ailsworth died, Maud had five thousand dollars. She took a room on the top floor rear of a fashionable hotel, and spent her time looking for a husband. She wanted a nice man, she would wait another year; and then—there was always Tom Dillon. She didn’t have to act with him. He knew she was a beggar, she knew he was a rotter; but she wouldn’t do it until her last penny was gone. She still had hopes of someone better. She was pretty, quick with an answer, and much liked by men, but—they didn’t marry her.

“Why?”

She asked herself that question many a night, after a party, where the men went the limit. There she stopped; the other girls jumped the boundaries. She wondered if that was why she was single at twenty-five. Well, she couldn’t; it wasn’t her virtue, it was her misfortune.

She noticed at a first glance how much prettier Julie had become, but she didn’t compliment her. It wasn’t her way.

“You have had a hard time, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s worth all I suffered.”

Maud’s nostrils expanded, taking in the subtle essence of violet powder.

“Oh! I smell the baby.”

She flew to the crib and took the child in her arms.

“You handle it like a grandmother!” cried Julie. “Why don’t you get married?”

Maud laughed mirthlessly.

“Why? Because the only man I really want won’t ask me; it’s your fault, Julie—one wasn’t enough for you.”

“How can you say that?”

“What are you going to do with the other?” insisted Maud.

Julie answered with a touch of seriousness.

“I am going to get him for you, if I can. Do you like him?”

Maud spoke slowly, weighing her words.

“Liking is too neutral for Martin Steele; it is either love or hate; I think I hate him.” She gave a quick glance into the mirror as they went down to dinner.

The men were waiting in the parlor. Martin was ill at ease; he felt like a waiter in evening dress. Floyd wore it differently; he melted into it. Maud as the guest of honor was charming. All laughed heartily at her frank admissions, and keen enjoyment of the fruits so long forbidden.

“We’ve got a free hand. Politically, economically; the right to work—”

“You can have it,” interrupted Martin. “I’ll give you my share.”

“But we want more—Moral Equality.”

“Isn’t that a step backward?” said Floyd. “Until now, women were supposed to be morally superior to men.”

“Why should they be? Equal rights is all we want. We are no longer going to be ‘cast out’ for acting naturally.”

Martin took up the gauntlet.

“You mean you want to have children without being married?”

Maud’s eyes shot defiance.

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Haven’t you taken that privilege?”

“I? Not yet, but I don’t know what I may do.”

It was getting too personal, Julie arose from the table. Floyd lingered with Martin.

“She doesn’t mean a word of all that. She’s a fine woman; she’ll make a good wife and mother.”

Martin blew rings of smoke into the air.

“I’m quite sure she will, but I’m not interested.”

Maud was curled up in an armchair by the fire, one leg under her, the other hanging down; she was smoking a cigarette in a gold-mounted amber holder.

Julie put her arm in Floyd’s.

“Let’s go and say good night to baby.”

Martin smiled at her transparent subterfuge. He looked down at Maud; a well-shaped head, correct features, eyes curious; the black stuff she used gave them the requisite look of the demi-mondaine. The glass beads around her neck were cheap; what there was of the gown was evidently designed and put together by herself. Her thin silk stockings were going in the seams; he was sure there were holes in the feet. He’d like to dress her well. Yes, she was a nice girl; he could easily be single with her for six months—but marriage?

Julie’s laugh rang out upstairs. Maud was conscious of being checked up.

“Well, what’s the verdict?”

“Will you let me say what I think?”

“Yes, if you let me do the same.”

“You will say more than you believe, I less.”

There was something fascinating in the fellow’s insolence.

“Legs, neck, shoulders, bust, perfect; the symmetry of thighs and limbs—classic; but you leave me cold.”

“Why?” She bent over with a touch of eagerness.

“Because there is nothing of mystery about you.”

“Ha, ha; why should a woman be a mystery?”

Then came a flash which revealed depths unsounded.

“Because all holy things are mysterious; when a woman ceases to be holy to man, she kills love in him.”

Maud wouldn’t argue on those lines.

“Other men don’t think so.”

“They do. Have you ever been inside the Museum of Art in Central Park?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been to the receptions.”

“Will you come with me to see the pictures and statues?”

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

He sat on the arm of her chair.

“You will find in some of the mutilated Grecian goddesses the same length of limbs and lines of body; but they are modestly undraped—”

“Stop. I don’t like that expression; I believe in leaving something to the imagination.”

“A man’s imagination in that respect is a vile thing.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Think of it that way, will you?”

“Yes.”

It slipped out; she was sorry at once, but she didn’t recall it.

“When I look at the girl of today, I feel that I am passing with the rest of the crowd before those wonderful marble statues, which belong to everyone, to no one.”

She was on her feet now blazing at him.

“How dare you demand purity in us? Set the example; we’ll follow suit. We give what we receive; no more, no less.”

She made a rush for the door. He caught her two arms.

“You women! You women! You prate equality; you’d hate like the devil to have it. You know you’ve got the best of us.” Martin’s voice rang out; it was always too loud when he was excited. “The woman of today is gambling with every chance against her; if she wins, she loses; she’ll get everything she wants, even sexual equality; and when she has it, she’ll lose the glory of Life for the human race. Look at me. I’m the average man, no better, no worse; and the most miserable, lonely wretch that ever walked in a city overcrowded with beautiful women. I would marry any one of them—high, low, rich, poor, if she would give me the love I’m craving for. Tell me the truth now: can you love anybody but yourself?”

She tried to extricate herself from his iron grasp, his accusing eyes.

“Don’t, don’t! You hurt me.”

He released her with a bitter laugh.

When Julie came in, Maud was hysterical. Martin must have been saying something awful.

The Japanese announced:

“Miss Ailsworth’s car.”

“Oh! Have you a car?” exclaimed Julie.

“It belongs to Tom Dillon; he wants me to keep his chauffeur busy.” She was herself again, saucy, reckless, unthinking.

Martin bent over her, speaking in low tones.

“I’ll go home with you; we’ll make up on the way.”

She knew what he meant—she’d show him—he couldn’t love her for the moment.

“I don’t want you; a man’s escort is not a guarantee of safety.”

She kissed Julie and swept out, followed by Floyd. He stood at the door of the car; there was something wrong with Maud. He thought he saw tears in her eyes. He jumped into the car and went home with her. Julie was at the window as they drove off.

“Oh! Floyd’s gone with her. He’s so old-fashioned; he hates to see women roaming about alone at night; he won’t be long.”

She pulled down the blinds, put out the lights, leaving only the candles and the glow of the fire.

Martin stood watching her. She began to feel uncomfortable. Why didn’t he say something? She was afraid of his silence.

“Maud’s a nice girl, and very popular. I wonder why she doesn’t marry.”

He answered roughly.

“I’m not going to marry her; drop that idea, will you.”

He came close to her, leaning against the side-board.

“You’re disappointed?”

“I? Oh, no.”

“Confess.” He put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look at him. “You want to get rid of me?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why? Tell me!”

In the half light, her face was like ivory. Her eyes shone back into his. He started, and put his hand on her shoulder; what was it he saw there? She came closer to him, closer; he dared not move. She kissed him again, again, murmuring soft love words. Then he broke out, held her as if he would never let her go, calling her his beautiful Queen, his Oriental Pearl, his Song of Songs. She clung to him, her body responding to his; how long?—a moment, which goes back centuries, a century which is only a moment. He felt her tears on his face, as she caressed and kissed him; every drop of blood in him answered.

“I wanted you always. You know it—you know it. I thought the longing would wear away with time; my mother said it would. I believed her; but she lied to me, lied! It was always there, getting more and more unbearable.”

Martin closed her lips with a long kiss. This wonderful tempting, seductive creature; he would never let her go.

“I wanted you to marry Maud to save myself. When I saw you with her tonight, the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t go on—I couldn’t.” Then she drew away from him, and went over to the fire, her hands clasped together, her face convulsed; the red light enveloped her.

He came to her. She put out her hand to keep him back.

“Now it’s over.”

“Over?” How little she knew him.

“This is the end.”

“No, it is only the beginning. You were mine; I never forgot, never. They stole you from me; nothing can part us now. Nothing!”

She was in his arms again.

“It had to come, or I should have lost my reason; it’s over now. Go, before he comes back.”

She slipped away from him. He went out. She groped toward the door; where was it? She was blind; then she fell.

3

Martin entered his hotel; it was past twelve. The night orgy had commenced. He passed through the room thronged with dancers, his coat buttoned up to his neck, his soft hat drawn over his eyes; stood a moment looking on, a strange silent figure out of place in that decorative humanity.

He sat by the open window in his room; the noise from below was deadened by space into a soft humming sound. Waves of icy air enveloped him. He was unconscious of cold or heat. In the flash of a moment, life had taken on a different aspect; his entire being was one great pulsation. Floyd—the difficulties before him, the dishonor of it, came faintly from a distant perspective, but he thrust it fiercely behind him. The woman filled the world for him; he lived over and over that moment of tearing joy, her face transfigured with passion, her lips, her tears, the pressure of her body against his—a statue come to life, for him alone. He had been tricked out of his happiness by her mother—but now all the powers of Hell couldn’t keep him away from her.

A restless night fixed his resolve. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He dressed more slowly than usual, moving about in a kind of hushed manner; he was no longer alone; she was there, clinging to him. He jumped into a taxi and drove down to Twelfth Street. The shades were lowered in the Garrison house. Next door the wreckers had been clearing away the debris; there was now a large open space where his home had been. The Italian foreman came up to him, speaking in his pleasant broken English.

“A good job, eh? Everything gone, clean as a whistle. Tomorrow we commence to build.”

Martin opened the gate of the Garrison house; as he stood at the door, his hand on the knocker, he had a feeling of being mentally unstrung. Criminologists say when thieves go to commit a crime they are sustained by a strong sense of fatality, a fixed idea that it must be; they are drawn into the vortex of crime by an irresistible fascination—the lure of adventure, the justification of the equality of human rights, the spoils, the gambler’s risk. Martin felt vaguely all this; a sense of excitement stimulated him, like strong liquor. He caught his breath as he entered the room he had left the night before. She was coming to him again; now he would be the first to take her in his arms, to hold her until she would consent to go with him; he would have to coax, perhaps to threaten. He set his teeth; he had decided; it must be or he would kill himself and her.

The door opened; he turned with a smile. Floyd stood there, very pale.

“Julie is not well. When I came back last night, I found her lying unconscious on the ground. Did she complain to you?”

“No.”

“The doctor says it’s a serious nervous collapse. They have shut me out of the room.”

“Can I do anything?”

“No.”

“Keep me posted, will you?”

“Yes.”

He had counted with everything but that—

He waited, eating himself up with suppressed fury; grew thin, unbearable in his impatience; he would have her; nothing could prevent it but—death!

4

The telephone rang in Dr. McClaren’s office. The doctor was breakfasting, but he didn’t enjoy as usual his porridge with cream and heavy black bread made by his Scotch housekeeper; his mind was elsewhere. He had been up a greater part of the night with young Mrs. Garrison, who went off from one fainting spell into another; she complained of intense pains in her head. He left her sleeping under bromides; she worried him. Dr. McClaren had lived forty years in New York; a gigantic man, with bushy, iron-gray hair and eyebrows, a noble head, keen, kind eyes.

His friends had advised him to “take out his papers”; he did, and paid his taxes honestly, but never voted. He couldn’t understand the political rings; he let them fight it out without help from him. Born in Edinburgh, he studied medicine at its excellent severe university, went to London to practice, starved there five years, then turned his back on an “ungrateful country” that refused an able doctor a living.

Coming over to America, he made friends with some “natives,” and liked them—nice simple fellows, “they open their hearts to you, like a grab bag at a fair; everything in it is yours.”

“Medicine is a paying profession among Americans; they go about with boxes of pills in every pocket.”

“Doctor, my wife’s just been through an operation. She’s nervous, give her something to quiet her, will you?”

The doctor objected to sedatives when not absolutely necessary, but he found the frail American woman had her own chest of quieting drugs. She talked of her operation in professional terms, like a doctor. He wondered if she knew she could have no children. He wouldn’t tell her; it would break her heart, poor thing. He soon found out she did know, and didn’t break her heart about it.

With the help of his new friends, who went to unbelievable trouble and sacrifice of valuable time to show him “the ropes,” he was established in the spacious home in Thirty-fourth Street, which he eventually bought; it was the only permanent thing in his life. His simple Americans became complicated millionaires. The sands of humanity shifted from decade to decade. A great city in the making left him many a time bare of patients, but the winds of immigration blew them in again. The tidal wave of Europe’s overflow became a national industry—a weird wonderful gigantic machine; they put in a crazy combination of human beings, and it vomited—Americans.

The assistant put his head in the door.

“Mr. Garrison seems agitated. He would like you to come at once.”

The doctor threw down his napkin and jumped into his car; the Garrisons were one of the few old families left. He was very fond of young Garrison; he had brought him into the world; nothing like that baby had even been seen before; there was a controversy about the name; Mr. Garrison wanted James, according to tradition when it had ceased to be Jan, but she wouldn’t hear of anything so vulgar; she named the child Floyd, after the hero of Mrs. Holmes’ last novel.

“But,” said the doctor, “suppose he should develop into a strong individuality; that name would be too weak for him.”

“He won’t,” said Prudence. “He’ll be like all the men of the family, a perfect gentleman.”

If Floyd’s father had lived, he would never have consented to the marriage. Julie was a hysterical girl, with a tendency to epilepsy; that was a secret in a family of many secrets; she grew out of it, but there were always over developed emotional symptoms. He was called in one night. She had been taken ill at the opera; the music affected her; she was quite stiff; he brought her to with difficulty. He had a shock when he heard of Floyd’s marriage. He thought there was something going on between Julie and Martin Steele. The young couple seemed to be very happy; she was a passionate mother; such mothers don’t make good wives.

He stood looking down thoughtfully at the sick woman, tossing from one side of the bed to the other. He had assured Floyd it was only a nervous attack. The excavating going on in the neighborhood accounted for the chills alternating with fever. She was delirious for hours, and after, exhausted, lifeless. Floyd wanted to consult another doctor.

“No, no, not necessary yet; it would frighten the patient, but I’ll send for Miss Mary.”

Floyd was bewildered; Julie was in perfect health and high spirits when he left and drove with Maud to her hotel. Scarcely an hour had intervened; he found her unconscious. What did it mean?

Julie was not talkative about herself, although she drew every thought out of him. Was there anything worrying her? Could any woman have it better? He was her constant companion, anticipated her every wish; what more could he do?

He sat brooding, the breakfast before him untouched, his paper unopened. Someone was fumbling at the knocker outside; he went to the door; he had a vague impression of a very small person; a clear voice spoke; it was like a bell ringing in his ears.

“Mr. Garrison’s house?”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I’m going to try to do something for you.” She flew up the stairs.

He was a bit startled, as if a bird had suddenly fluttered past him. He followed her, she had already thrown off her cape, under which was a white linen dress. She took an apron and cap from her bag, quickly put them on without a mirror; they sat at just the proper angles; she was used to dressing in the dark. Julie was lying across the bed; the covering was in knots, the pillows all cavities. The girl bent over her, murmuring low sounds like a dove cooing. Floyd tried to distinguish the words.

“You’re very uncomfortable. Yes, I know how your head aches. Oh, what pretty hair! It’s heavy, isn’t it? Let me roll it up for you. How warm you are. No wonder.” She flew to the windows, let them down top and bottom, putting a screen at the bed to shield the patient from the draught.

She spoke in a low but extraordinarily clear voice, every syllable sharply cut.

“A bowl of cracked ice, please; now the linen. Don’t bother; I’ll find everything.”

She was already in the next room exploring. When Floyd came up with ice, she was changing the sheets; it was the most remarkable feat he had ever seen, she rolled one off and slipped on the other without disturbing the patient. Her hands were tiny, but flexible, strong; it was magic. How the room changed; everything in order, the bed fresh and clean, the patient soothed. She held Julie’s hand, whispering all kinds of encouraging things.

“Now I’m going to give you something to eat; you’re hungry, of course you are; that husband of yours starves you.”

She threw a smiling look at Floyd, who smiled back at her. She knew he spoilt his wife; he could see that.

“No, I won’t go away; I’ll stay right here.” She took a bottle of prepared food out of her bag, which she warmed on the electric heater, cooing all the time, going about noiselessly on the smallest feet Floyd had ever seen. A trained nurse from his experience was a loud, fat, middle-aged woman who upset the house, ate all day long, and had to be waited on by the family. This little fairy was so helpful, so executive; she knew it all, she hadn’t asked a question.

When Dr. McClaren came that day, he gave a quick glance around and said:

“Now everything will be all right.”

Floyd followed him down stairs. After a short silence the doctor spoke.

“Has your wife any worries?”

He tried to be quite truthful.

“Oh, no; at least, none that I know of.” Then he spoke about that “little girl” upstairs, remarking how wonderfully quick she was.

The doctor smiled.

“Isn’t she very young?”

“She’s had twenty-three years of hard experience. She was born in a hospital. Her mother died at her birth. The lot of us took care of her—the scrub woman, the nurses, the doctors, the patients; she grew up inhaling iodoform; it’s healthier than eau de cologne. Her dolls were little orphan babies. She learnt to sterilize instruments at an age when most children are being ‘perambulated’ in the park. She toddled after me, sat on the cots, watched the patients get well, watched them die. I could have made a good doctor out of her, but she thought nursing was more helpful. Her school graduates human beings.”

5

The patient improved. Miss Mary watched her drop into a quiet sleep, then flew over to see the doctor. She perched on the arm of a big chair; it wouldn’t do to sit in it when one is tired; it was too comfortable—

“What are you doing here? Anything wrong?”

“No. It’s that poor man.”

The doctor chuckled. Floyd Garrison, spoilt child of Fortune, husband of the prettiest woman of New York’s pretty women, belonging to an exclusive set, the happy father of a fine boy, and here comes this child of the gutter and calls him ‘a poor man.’ Ha! Ha!

“The house is going to ruin, the food spoilt; the butler steals his neckties, stockings, handkerchiefs; the cook falsifies the bills.”

“Well, how can we cure that?”

“By reforming the household; would it appear obtrusive?”

“I don’t know, but he’s a nice fellow and you might try.”

“Thanks, that’s what I came for. I want to make you my partner in crime.”

“Wretch.” He flung a writing pad at her, which she dodged with great dexterity, and flew out.

That night the dinner was uneatable. Floyd looked helpless.

“Things are going badly, since my wife’s illness.”

Here was Mary’s chance.

“Will you let me attend to that?”

Floyd thanked her, hoped she wouldn’t bother too much, put his car at her disposal, then followed her softly up the stairs, feeling that he had managed the house very well. Julie was asleep.

“Do you think I could go to the club for a couple of hours—that is, if I’m not wanted?”

“Oh yes, go; it will do you good. Take the latch key and come in as quietly as possible.”

The next morning Floyd enjoyed a good breakfast, waited on by a very pretty girl in black, with a dainty cap and apron. He had never liked a waitress—too much like a tearoom, but Ellen, the new maid, didn’t give him a chance to miss the butler; she hovered around watching Miss Mary, responding to her quick glances. This amused Floyd. Martin must come to dinner; he’d fire off witticisms about being under petticoat government.

Ellen was a girl-mother; her sweetheart promised to marry her, but he didn’t. Miss Mary saw her through her trouble, took her baby to Bridget, the wife of a coal heaver, who had seven babies. Mary encouraged Bridget to go on having them, but the cost of living was too high even for a coal heaver. She took the poor “bastard” to her wonderful bosom, and nursed it, happy because she didn’t have to dry up her milk. Mary put Bridget in the kitchen, Ellen in the dining-room; the little brat was smuggled in, and was so quiet, Mary was sure he knew he wasn’t wanted. She put a neighbor who was also “under obligations” in charge of the seven babies.

Floyd was allowed to go in every morning and sit with his wife; he noticed Mary remained in the room. He said the same thing, mechanically, every time.

“You feel better this morning, don’t you?” The atmosphere of the sick room struck him dumb; that ghostly silent creature lying there wasn’t Julie.

He sat at the breakfast table—well cooked, well served. There was a flutter on the stairs. Mary flew in and sat opposite him, giving him a quick glance.

“Miss Mary, we should have a night nurse.”

“Oh, no, there is no necessity of another nuisance in the house.”

“But, you get no sleep.”

“Oh, yes, I do.”

“I hear you moving about at night.”

“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I’ll get a pair of soft slippers.”

He went up as usual to see Julie. Mary met him at the door.

She said in a low tone:

“Just a minute and don’t stay.”

“You feel better this morning, don’t you?”

Her eyes were very wide open; she was looking beyond him; he turned; there was nobody in the room. Miss Mary was at the telephone calling the doctor.

The sick woman raised herself in the bed, holding out her arms like a child who wants to be taken up. He bent to lift her; she pushed him away with unbelievable force.

“I don’t want you. I want—Martin.”

Miss Mary came flying into the room.

“What is it?” said Floyd.

“She’s delirious again.”

The cry never ceased; over and over again, supplicating, in a pitiable voice:

“I want Martin!”

When the doctor came, she caught at him eagerly.

“What do you want, dear lady; tell me?”

“I want Martin!”

Floyd’s anguish was terrible; he was leaning against the door on the verge of a collapse. Mary signaled the doctor, who took him by the arm and led him into the next room.

“Is it Martin Steele?” said the doctor.

“Yes.”

“Send for him.”

“I will not. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Floyd’s voice was harsh. He was on his feet in a frenzy of rage.

The voice came again, louder, more despairing.

“I want Martin!”

“Do something, for God’s sake!” cried Floyd.

“There is nothing to be done but wait.”

The doctor went back into the room. The cry continued. Miss Mary came in.

“What is it, is she worse?”

“No, but the doctor says, ‘telephone.’”

Floyd took up the receiver. What could Martin do in that room? “No! no!”

“Martin! Martin!” It came again, that cry; it was terrible.

Mary put the receiver in his hand. He called up the hotel.

The answer came, “Out.”

He tried the club.

“Yes, Mr. Steele was there.”

“Who is it?”

“Floyd.”

“Julie?” came like a shot through the ’phone.

“She is about the same.”

Floyd heard the quick gasp of relief; wonderful how a wire can bear witness.

“She has intermittent attacks of fever, calls for her grandfather, her mother; she called your name once.”

“Mine?”

“It means nothing, of course, but the doctor thinks if she sees someone outside the family—”

In a short time, Martin was there. Floyd went down to meet him; neither spoke. Floyd led the way upstairs. They stopped at the door of the sick room, and heard the cry of the delirious woman.

“Martin! I want Martin!”

With a bound Martin flung himself on his knees beside the bed.

“Julie! Julie!”

She opened her eyes, heavy with fever; they wandered about, seeking! seeking!

“Julie!”

She lifted herself into his arms.

He held her close, whispering caressing words; she listened, her eyes fixed by the power of his; soon the tired lids drooped; she slept.

Martin felt the fluttering of her heart. He had no sense of time, place; the world was unpeopled; he was the only man, she the only woman. The doctor’s watch registered forty minutes. Mary looked at Floyd. His eyes never left them; his wife in his friend’s arms. The doctor laid the sleeping woman gently back on the pillow. Martin dropped his head down on the bed, helpless; Miss Mary led him downstairs; he fell in a heap in the chair. He was conscious now of Floyd, not the friend—a stranger, with a drawn face, an icy voice.

“What is there between you and my wife?”

The ticking of a clock became distinctly sharp. Should he tell the truth now? No; it would make it impossible for him to come again; he would wait until she got well. He put his hands on Floyd’s shoulders, looking him straight in the face.

Floyd repeated his question.

“What is there between you and my wife?”

“What there has always been, a deep affection.”

“You are trying to steal her from me.”

“How can you think that; you told me yourself she called the names of others.”

“I lied. She called no one but you.”

Martin’s face was telling tales; he went over to the fireplace.

“You are unjust to her, but, if you persist, I won’t come again.” His voice faltered; his eyes filled up. Floyd had never been able to resist him.

“You two are my only friends; if I lose you there is nobody, nobody.”

He went to the door, then turned and put out his hand. They were friends again—to all appearances.

6

Mary jumped into the doctor’s car, and held a consultation. She sat with her legs drawn up, her elbows on her knees, her little serious face puckered. He liked her like that; something was coming.

“Well, doctor,” said he.

She put her little head on the side and returned his glance. She didn’t smile as usual.

“It’s a psychosis. The fever is not physical; it’s a condition of the mind. I think she needs analysing.”

His Scotch wrath broke over her head.

“Stop that!—I won’t have it with her; this analysing has done too much mischief, dragging the wild beasts out of their caverns, showing the poor victims the horrors that are within them. I tell you, the people are playing with psycho-analysis like children with dynamite; they don’t understand it, nor do we, yet. Let that woman alone, do you hear!—unless you want to rob her of the little reason she has left. She’s the victim of heredity; we can’t change that, can we? She’s the victim of a certain physical tendency, inborn; we can’t change that; she’s the victim of the errors of her ancestors; we can’t change that.”

“No, Doctor, but we all are, if we knew it.”

“It’s a good thing we don’t. Now I hope this woman’s love for her child and her husband will counteract other influences; mind you, she’s a good, innocent woman; but she is obsessed by an evil spirit which must be exorcised.” There he was, the old Scotch Calvinist.

Julie was quiet until evening.

“Where is Floyd?”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Yes.”

Mary flew downstairs. Floyd was trying to read the evening paper; trying to be just to his wife, his friend. He hated to be suspicious; it turned the honey of life to gall; such thoughts made him ill; he couldn’t live with them. He heard a patter, patter. Mary put her head in the door, beckoning him. He found Julie crushed into the pillows.

“Miss Mary says I’ve been out of my head.”

Floyd was vexed. Why did Miss Mary tell her that?

“Did I say irrational things?”

“No, just babbled a bit.”

“What did I say?”

“Only disconnected words without meaning.”

She evidently didn’t know what had happened.

Floyd smoked his pipe that night, and read Emerson on Friendship. Martin was to be pitied; he was a lonely wretch; he’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Mary came in to say good night.

“Everything is all right. We’ll close up early. She’ll have a quiet night, I hope.”

The hope was not realized. The sick woman had a terrible night; her pulse was jumping like a frenzied thing, but her mind was clear. She clung frantically to Mary.

“I’m lost! save me! save me!” then she broke into convulsive sobbing, always begging to be helped. Mary shut the door carefully. It wouldn’t do for that “poor man” to hear.

Floyd tossed uneasily. He was sure there was something mentally wrong with Julie; he had heard of women getting “queer” after weaning a child. He had been too harsh with Martin. She had called him in her delirium; that meant nothing. Martin had wanted to marry her, but it was all long forgotten; she was his wife now, the mother of his child; it was foolish to make a fuss about a few moments of delirium. Julie would never know about it.

“What was that?”

He jumped out of bed and listened. He thought he heard somebody calling, “Martin! Martin!”

Julie’s door was shut; all was still. It was his own imagination; that cry was still in his ears. He went back to bed; he must get that idea out of his head; he wouldn’t let it become a mania with him. He would see Martin often, have him to dinner. It was low of him to keep on thinking evil of them both. The thought acted like a sedative; he slept.

He was up and dressed before seven. The night’s depression descended again over him like a black veil. There was a knock; Mary stood outside, pale, agitated.

“What is it? What is it?”

“Come and see.”

It was dark. He saw Julie’s figure lying across the bed; she was in a deep sleep. Mary opened a shutter gently. He stifled an exclamation. The long thick wavy hair flowing loosely over the pillow, over her heart, had turned white; she lay in an ocean of foam. What had happened to her in the night? What had been at work in her brain?—he had heard vaguely of a sudden shock turning the hair white. He gazed and gazed; it was as if an artist had dipped his brush into molten silver and drawn it through every hair in her head. Another long look; then he went downstairs, putting his hand on the balustrade to support himself.

Mary closed the shutter softly and followed him. His mind was confused. The ordeal with his wife, culminating in this, was too much; he needed help. She waited, standing quietly beside him. He felt her intense sympathy; then he said in a low, hushed voice:

“What could have caused it?”

“It can easily be accounted for. Your wife is subject to violent nervous headaches; she had an attack in the night.”

“Was she sobbing?”

“Yes, she suffered terribly. We must be brave for her sake.”

He looked at her standing there, her eyes shining, undaunted, courageous. Where did she get that spirit? She was no longer only a nurse; she was a comrade, a fellow-fighter; her voice was like a call to arms.

“I was always very happy,” he said. “I mean, I thought it was happiness, but I see now that it was like being under shelter when others were destitute; that kind of happiness is selfish, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “That’s why I try not to be too happy.”

“My parents were my only friends. They left me; I had only my wife. Perhaps I wanted too much from her; she was unfortunate in her family; I should have taken better care—I—can’t see ahead! I don’t know how this will affect her. I—I don’t know.”

“It will be a blow, but you can soften it for her.”

“I, what can I do?”

Mary hesitated. Why was she obliged to say what he should have known intuitively: did he love his wife?

“Her heart would be at rest if you would convince her it doesn’t matter to you what color her hair is.”

He was on his feet, his eyes averted.

“You want me to tell her?”

“Yes.”

He went to the door, then came back. “Will you come with me?”

“It’s better for you to go alone.”

He entered his wife’s room, sat down beside the bed, feeling like an intruder. She awoke startled, her eyes were deep with the sleep-shadows of opiates.

“Did I frighten you?”

“No, but I felt someone was here—Something has happened! Tell me?”

“Yes. Your hair.”

“What about my hair?”

“It has turned gray since last night.” She was out of bed with a bound, standing before the mirror.

“Let in the light.”

He went from window to window; the sun struck the surface of the looking glass, dancing in and out of the silver veil that enveloped her.

She gave a low cry, and shrunk away.

“Julie, don’t grieve about what can’t be helped; it often happens from such headaches; it’s your nerves.” He wanted to say, “You will always be the same to me because I love you.” He couldn’t.

“It is not a symptom, it is a punishment.”

“You have done nothing to deserve punishment.”

She looked at him, through him, past him. He didn’t know her thoughts; that door was closed to him.

“I want to see Miss Mary.”

Mary was surprised to find her patient sitting up in bed. She had wound her hair in a tight coil around her head, covering it with a heavy lace cap.

“Miss Mary, I am feeling better this morning; I don’t think I shall need you any longer.”

Mary gasped. Where was the exhausted creature of the night before, the helpless invalid?

“I’m very glad, Mrs. Garrison. Any time you send for me, I will come.” Then she took Julie’s hand, bent forward and kissed her; there was a slight quiver of the mouth.

“Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I couldn’t bear you to say anything; it’s unspeakable, good-bye.”

Floyd was waiting in the hall when Mary came down with her hat on, carrying her suitcase.

“You are not going?”

“There is nothing more for me to do here. Your wife is better; the shock will cure her.” Then she smiled at him. “I’m aching for the slums; my cradle stood there; there I learnt what life means; when I get thinking too much of myself, I go back and learn again.”

He went with her to the door, and held her hand in a strong grasp; he could think of nothing worth saying. A cloud of dust blew in their faces; they were pulling down the little row of brick houses on the other side.

Floyd stopped in the hall to brush himself off. The wreckers were working within him, scattering debris. He went up to his wife’s room again, listened; there was no sound. He turned the knob cautiously; the door was locked. There was a sense of relief; he wouldn’t have to spend the morning in that dark room. He jumped into a taxi and drove to his club.

7

Julie gradually recovered; there was a feeling of strength in her limbs, a desire for movement she hadn’t felt since the birth of her child; it was the strength of despair. One day she took out her pretty gowns and hung them one by one on silk hangers in the room next to her bedroom. It had been Floyd’s den; he used to sit there at night during the first year of their marriage, reading. He could see his darling in her lace-trimmed bed. She complained she had no place to hang the Paris creations he bought for her; he suggested putting racks around his den, which they did; those lace, gold and silver gowns seemed to him to hang on bodies which swayed to and fro in the draught. The face was always Julie’s, in her different moods. The perfume stifled him. He had an old-fashioned idea about perfume; his mother never used it. He gave up reading there at night.

She put her hats in boxes, her slippers, stockings, lingerie, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, in an old bureau, a family relic which Floyd refused to sell; it was two hours of fatiguing work, but she wasn’t tired. She opened the door and peered out; there was no one about; she crept down the stairs, went from room to room, covered furniture and mirrors with gray linen, and crept up again. When Ellen came home with the boy, she noticed her dark shining hair. She dismissed her on the spot, and rang up for the Japanese butler to come back.

Floyd was shocked to find the house so bare and cheerless.

“Why have you had the covers put on again?”

“It’s dusty. The furniture will be ruined, and we’re not going to entertain.”

He didn’t answer. When he saw the Japanese, he asked for Ellen.

“Oh! I sent her away.”

“Why! has she done anything wrong?”

“No! but she annoys me, she’s too good-looking.”

Floyd feared his wife’s mind was unbalanced; she brooded too much over her misfortune. He was very tender, very indulgent, but sometimes his patience gave out.

Days, weeks, months passed. Winter came with snow, ice, sleet. Julie spent most of the time in her room, rarely going down to dinner. Floyd tried to get her out for a walk, but had to compromise with the automobile. She’d wear a hat pulled down over her eyes, a thick veil, a long close-fitting coat, and avoided Fifth Avenue. The house remained covered. Floyd begged her to take off those ugly, depressing gray things, but she sat silent, antagonistic; it always ended in his dashing out, and spending the day at the club. But his anger never lasted. The pathetic figure, crouching in a big chair, those weary lustreless eyes, hurt him terribly; she had lost her beauty. What is the elusive thing we call beauty? It is not form, it is not color; it is something that pervades, like the perfume of a flower in fresh earth, or a haunting magic in the woods. In a woman it is a living spark that sets us aglow; that spark was dead in Julie; he had to admit it. The Image which he called by her name was blurred; she would be an old, miserable woman; he, an old, disappointed man.

He spent much of his time at the club. He’d read his morning paper there. He detested local politics. The society column annoyed him; Mrs. C. had run off with her chauffeur, Mrs. M. was going to marry her riding master, a well-known woman was suing her millionaire husband for more alimony. It was horrible to have one’s domestic horrors made attractive reading; he resolved no one should suspect his. Then the paper would drop from his hand, the green Park grow shadowy, fade away; he’d awaken with a sense of guilt; a young man dozing in his chair, and all the unrest in the world. He would look about furtively; the others didn’t notice—they too were dozing.

One day he went home earlier than usual. Julie, with the boy in her arms, was sitting at the window watching the workingmen on the iron frame of a building opposite; they were knocking, boring, climbing in and out like monkeys; it was fascinating. She was conscious of her flannel wrapper. Floyd was always well dressed, well groomed; his glance was like a sharp whip. He took the boy from her and put him on the bed.

“The child is heavy, you must not accustom him to be carried about; he makes the house unbearable with his cries. It’s all right to be a good mother, but you are overdoing it; you forget you have a husband.”

She was on her feet facing him indignantly.

“How can you speak to me like that? You have no pity for my misfortune!”

“I’m sorry if I have offended you, but I don’t see why you should be so sensitive about your hair. You have become very neglectful; you have lost all self-respect. I’m ashamed of the servants.”

“Floyd!”

“I want to have Colonel Garland for dinner; I have business with him.”

“No, no; I won’t see him.”

“Very well. It’s not very pleasant for a married man to be obliged to invite his friends to a restaurant, because his wife will not take the trouble to make herself presentable.”

“The dinner will be served whenever you order it, but I will not come down.”

“You can do as you please about that. I’ll ask him for Wednesday.”

“Not so soon?” She was panic-stricken.

“My mother never needed to prepare. Her table was always well supplied.”

With this parting shot he went out.

Julie stood aghast; her adoring slave was turning against her. A man loves only beauty in a woman; when she loses that, she loses everything. She was so young; what was she going to do with the rest of her life? She sat despairing, trying to think herself out of the network of misery which entangled her. She couldn’t, poor thing. The present was a horror to her; the future, a blank. She went back to the past, lived it all over again and again—Martin! the joy of those secret meetings; Hippolyte—the side-door which opened only wide enough to slip into the dark corridor; there, in Martin’s arms——

The child cried; she threw herself down beside him, pressing him violently to her. He struggled. She held him tightly—muttering unconsciously, “My body, my Soul, my little Martin,” peering into his face—as if seeking something to console her. These paroxysms of despair sapped her strength. She was no longer apathetic, but groping, groping for some remedy. She’d go back always to those wonderful days with Martin. She was religious at heart, but she would have gladly given her hopes of redemption to be able to look into the mirror and see once more her young face, her soft dark hair. Hippolyte had admired her hair; she saw him again, so suave, so handsome, heard his exquisite French, caught again the laughing significance of the looks which passed between the two men—It was madly fascinating; day and night it all repeated itself in her brain, revolving like an ever-turning wheel—Martin—Hippolyte—Pierrot—the sweet, pungent odor of the place; then the suggestion worked. Hippolyte had often told them of his wonderful salves, lotions, hair restorers—he might know a way to restore the color of her hair. She looked up his address—took the receiver in her hand, a moment of fear, irresolution, then she called the number.

“I want to speak to Hippolyte.”

“Oui, Madame, I am here.”

His voice set her nerves quivering.

“It’s Mrs. Garrison speaking. You don’t know my married name, I was Julie Gonzola.”

“Madame, I knew your voice. How could I forget it?”

“Will you come and see me today at four? Thank you.”

She was terribly excited. What would he think when he saw her now? He must help her—he must! It was her last hope.

Punctually at four, the boy knocked.

“A gentleman downstairs.”

She shrunk away—she couldn’t see him.

“He says you expect him.”

With a strong effort she controlled the impulse to send the man away.

“Show him up.”

Hippolyte looked curiously at Julie, not grasping what had happened to her. She was embarrassed, didn’t know what to say; then she slipped off her cap and let her hair down. It fell to the bottom of her dress. He gasped and broke into a shower of compliments. His admiration was evidently sincere. Julie’s spirits rose; it was not all over.

“My hair turned white when I was ill. I want it restored to its natural color; I can give you the shade—”

“Mais non! Madame, it is quite le dernier cri—we are bleaching the hair now, but we couldn’t do it like this, Madame. Your hair will be the sensation; it needs a little tonic oil and massage.” Then he looked at her again. “Madame is long indisposed?”

“Yes, I have been in the house all winter.”

“Madame needs fresh air and the Swedish treatment—the beauty will come back; put yourself in my hands, and you will see!”

8

The Wednesday agreed on, arrived. Floyd left the house without seeing Julie; he was getting used to that; the entire morning she would be occupied with the boy, always in a wrapper with that disfiguring cap on her. She bathed, dressed, undressed the child like a professional nurse. Floyd protested in vain.

On the way downtown he telephoned the house.

“Is Madame awake yet?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Connect me with her room, will you?”

Julie called “Hello.” He thought her voice had more life in it than usual.

“Julie, do you remember I was to ask Colonel Garland to dinner tonight, but if you are still against it, I can postpone it.”

“Oh, no! The dinner is ordered.”

“Thank you.”

He dropped the receiver with a guilty feeling. Perhaps he had been too harsh. He didn’t know what to do about her; he was quite helpless; life was becoming unbearable.

Colonel Garland greeted Floyd with delight. He was talking to a tall man in his private office who came up and shook hands.

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Garrison?”

Floyd took in the tired face, the dark-rimmed eyes, the deep lines.

“Yes, I do! Are you still ‘sweating blood’ for money?”

“No, I’m sweating blood to keep it.”

“Have you any left?”

“A few drops, but I’ll be bled white if this goes on.”

He laughed mirthlessly, said “So-long,” and left.

The Colonel looked after him, speaking with a touch of pity and contempt.

“That fellow made a million during the War; it’s been going the other way for some time, and—he’s got a handsome, extravagant wife. Now—if we pull down those old shanties near the river, and build up big warehouses—”

“No! no! I’m not a wrecker; they bring enough for my modest wants.”

“That’s just what your father said twenty years ago. You’re getting very much like him.”

Floyd didn’t take that as a compliment. The men of twenty years ago were a century behind the times. Then, rather timidly, hoping for a refusal, he said:

“Will you come and take pot-luck with me tonight? My wife’s not well; she can’t join us—I must find some congenial occupation. We’ll talk it over.”

The Colonel was all animation.

“Politics! We need young men. We’ve got a job on our hands to rebuild the world.”

Late in the afternoon they went to the Republican Club for a cocktail from the Colonel’s private stock. There were the usual jokes about Prohibition being a good law—for others. On alighting from the car, Floyd was surprised to see the soft red gleam of the colored glass fixture over the porch. The filmy lace window curtains through which the light shone were not there when he left the house that morning; before he could take out his latch key, the door was swung open. The Jap in spotless white smiled a welcome; they entered the parlor—

“By God,” cried the Colonel, “this is something like. A beautiful color, that velvet.”

Floyd smiled. “Mulberry, they call it.”

The chairs, the sofa with its cushions, were like old friends; he saw again those well-loved water colors; his mother looking down at him, and through the door, the glimpse of a beautifully set dinner table—a picture covered for a long time, once more in the light.

Julie came swiftly toward them, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was in a state of excitement, like an actress who makes her début in a new rôle. Her color came and went. A crescent of black plaster deepened the darkness of her eyes. The despised hair revenged itself with its beauty; it was mounted in shining, rippling masses on the top of her head. She wore a soft white gown, embroidered with seed pearls, a train of gold sweeping the ground. Her arms and neck were free of ornament; in her corsage a large red American Beauty rose. At dinner she kept up a flow of small talk accentuated by soft glances, winning smiles. The Colonel listened as if every word were a new truth, the usual platitudes taking on a mysterious significance. He was sixty, held himself very erect, could easily be taken for ten years younger, and he loved the ladies.

Floyd was silent, trying to overcome a queer feeling. Was this gracious, smiling woman his wife? Was he sitting at his own table? Who was he, anyhow? The Colonel’s stentorian voice with its agreeable Southern accent broke in on his confused mental condition.

“If you will permit me to tell you how much I admire your perfect taste in dress. You know what suits you—an inspiration to powder your hair.”

“Oh,” laughed Julie, “it’s not powdered, it’s natural. It runs in our family to turn gray early. My father was white at twenty-one.”

The gallant Colonel turned this to his credit.

“My dear Mistress Garrison, Nature has been your Fairy Godmother; she has waved her wand over your head, bestowing one charm more, the gift of original beauty.”

The evening passed quickly in light persiflage, Floyd listening as if he were in the auditorium of a theatre. At the door the Colonel gave one look back. He could have fought a duel for her.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk business,” said Floyd.

“Who could, with such a radiant vision before us?” laughed the Colonel. “Come down to the office.”

Floyd went back to Julie.

“Thank you for making such a sacrifice.” It sounded foolish, but he didn’t know what to say.

She came closer to him. He was afraid to touch her; she was like a strange woman in his house. That soft sensual smile set him on fire. She slid into his arms; he kissed her neck, hair, her lips; she let herself be adored. His love had been ideal in those early wonderful days of his marriage. He reverenced his wife; he was afraid to repel her. He had heard of some men whose wives hated them for their lack of consideration. Julie laughed at his innocence. He often wondered if she appreciated being his first love; he couldn’t answer that now, after four years. He ceased trying to probe her soul; he worshipped her body.

In the physical intoxication of the next few months, he forgot all his plans for future activity. Love can be a despot or a liberator; Floyd was in chains again.

9

When it was known the Garrisons had “come back,” they were deluged with invitations.

“Do you want to go?”

“Of course, what’s the use of Paris gowns if I can’t make the other women green?” She was in good humor now, caressed, spoilt, every wish fulfilled. He gave her a new car, a gorgeous thing fitted up like a boudoir, trying to shake off a sickening consciousness that he was buying her favors. He pulled wires for a box at the opera (it was an achievement to get one); she rewarded him with a long kiss; he developed a prodigality which astounded the Colonel.

“You’re going it, my boy. You’re beyond your income.”

“Oh, sell something,” laughed Floyd. “I must have money.”

The Colonel didn’t like the flippant answer, the restless way. He wasn’t quite certain, but it seemed once or twice the boy had been drinking. He had noticed since Prohibition many sober men had taken to drink; psychologically interesting, the resistance to personal restraint....

The opening night of the opera, Julie was the centre of attraction. She had taken the family jewels out of the safe deposit. A great cluster of diamonds set in antique silver shone on her velvet bodice of old wine, a glittering aigrette in her hair which was no longer an old gray—treatment had changed it into the mat silver which one sees on the head of a marble statue, with life added to its charm. She stood in the box in her velvet wrap; Floyd took it off with a feeling of excitement. He felt the sensation she created; he was running a blooded mare for the first prize.

Maud sat in front with Tom Dillon. She had played her last trump in the game of matrimony. It: wasn’t a King now, but a Knave who cared for her; she was sure of that. For the rest, she looked into her mirror and saw her future; it spelt wrinkles.

“Who is that gorgeous creature?”

“Don’t you know your friend Julie Garrison?” She put up her lorgnette.

“What has she done with her hair?”

“Bleached it. Catch up, Maudy. A celebrated cocotte in Paris has made white hair the rage; she looks like one, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she does—wonderful. I always said Julie had great possibilities; there’s something about her that attracts men. Look at Martin.”

He was standing against a post opposite the box. His eyes fastened on Julie, his mouth twisted into a derisive smile; the Colonel was there pouring out his usual compliments. Men were coming in and out, old club friends of Floyd’s, all eager to renew their acquaintance. Julie’s illness had upset all his calculations, but there was one cause for satisfaction: she had wanted him, he had saved her, she belonged to him, not Floyd. He was waiting for a propitious moment; she must tell Floyd the truth. He waited because he was not sure of her; after a long siege of fever, the blood cools off.

He dropped in one day at Hippolyte’s Parlor—he went there now to hear about Julie. “Madame was going to have a dinner party,”—he had made a supreme effort. The phenomenon of her hair had given him a great deal of thought. He was in his way a scientist; the psychic side of it interested him. “You must see her superb hair; it suits her to perfection. It gives the last touch of that ‘Je ne sais quoi’ which she lacked. It was caused in my opinion by some intense subconscious passion.” Martin bent over eagerly. “A psychic power which acts like the eruption of a volcano; it tears her, agonizes her, she struggles with it, is not quite able to translate it—yet— Her husband is a nice fellow, mais vous savez, Puritanism, the narrow path; he’ll never deceive her, nor pardon her if she deceives him. That little house is no frame for a woman like her. She needs life, sparkle, passion—Voila tout!”

During the next few months Hippolyte’s mademoiselle brought now and again a deep red rose, and set it in an exquisite glass vase on Julie’s dressing table. Julie asked no questions; her eyes glistened. She furtively put the rose to her lips; then she’d sit for hours under the hands of the French woman, massage, electric treatment, hot—cold, until her body exhaled an indefinable intoxicating perfume....

Maud and Tom made their way to the Garrison box. Julie, with a keen woman’s look, saw at once that Maud’s gown, jewelry, furs, were no longer imitations. Tom was evidently embarrassed and hung back. Floyd rather liked him; he was genuine; he didn’t disguise the fact that he was a rotter. He said, “I’m no good; take me as I am, or not at all.”

“What have you been doing all this time?”

“Oh! nothing much,” laughed Maud, “shopping, house hunting, getting married; we didn’t announce it, it wasn’t worth while.” Floyd grasped Tom’s hand.

“I couldn’t get her, any other way, so we called on the Judge—We’ve been married six weeks; so far it’s all right—I’m going to buy a house and put it in her name—If I don’t behave myself, she can kick me out.”

Maud was sitting in front with Julie, talking over joining the young matrons and giving a series of dinners.

Suddenly she said:

“Have you seen Martin Steele lately?”

“I’ve been ill a long time.”

“He’s here tonight.”

“Yes, I saw him standing at the back.”

“He looks awful, doesn’t he?”

Julie didn’t answer. Maud said afterwards to her husband: “Julie was always different from the rest of us; she was queer tonight, didn’t hear a word I said. I’m certain she’s not all there.”

As they were going out, they passed Martin.

“Come with us to the dancing club. Tom’s sure to take too much; you can help me get him home.”

Martin went, but it was Tom who had to take Martin home, abusingly drunk, fighting like a beast.

That night Julie had dreams, and talked in her sleep. She flung her arms around Floyd.

“I’m so glad you love me just the same.” Floyd was a happy man. He had finished his breakfast and was looking out of the front window, waiting for his wife to awaken.

“Floyd, Floyd.”

He went up the stairs three at a time.

She held out her arms to him.

“Floyd, we must move away from here; the street is getting impossible.” A crash of falling timbers next door strengthened her position.

“Julie! This is our home; you know how I love it. How can you ask me such a thing?”

He was losing his temper; she was on the verge of tears, and last night when he held her in his arms, he swore—they all do at those times.

“I’ll do anything for you, anything, but my home is a part of me; you don’t realize how I love it.”

“More than me?” She was pouting now, like a child.

“Oh, no!—different—you won’t ask me to leave it, will you?” It was pathetic, the appeal in the man’s voice.

“But I also loved my home; I left it for you.”

He was about to say, “It’s not the same. The roots of my life are here; you are an alien.” He didn’t want to offend her; then he went down to see the Colonel, and mentioned with much embarrassment that the street was getting unbearable.

“Yes, it’s very unhealthy for your wife and child to inhale all that dust. We’ve secured a house.”

“Oh, have you? My wife didn’t tell me.”

“No, she wanted to give you an agreeable surprise. It’s on Park Avenue. We’ve rented it for the winter.” He didn’t add, with the privilege of buying; that was to be kept secret. He liked to be in conspiracy with Julie against her husband.

“It’s perfection; we’ve secured it with servants, wine cellar, everything complete.”

Floyd went home and compromised with Julie. The furnished house for the winter only; he was grateful she had not insisted on going to a fashionable hotel!—A camp in the mountains for the summer, and in the autumn when the street was built up, to return to the old home. Julie was satisfied with the bargain. The house would be impossible shut in on both sides; the walls were cracking; everything was going to pieces. She would never go back.

Floyd stood at the door of the car waiting for the “bunch” to come down—the boy, the nurse, the Pekinese, countless bags, dress suit cases, last-minute bundles, and—Julie very much excited. She had gone back for the little glass vase which had been forgotten. He was physically tired, mentally agonized; he cast one look back and jumped into the car. He had a peculiar feeling: he was the automobile; Julie was driving.

10

The house in Park Avenue was the very last word; Floyd had to confess that. The walls tinted a cold gray, the light coming from invisible corners, telephones, a radio-cabinet, china closets hidden behind panels; the entire floor could be made into a dancing hall by pushing the doors into the wall; no fireplace, very little furniture, meals rolled in ready to serve by the “haughty” Swede hired with the house, everything cooked “à la mode” by a chef, also hired with the house.

Julie was hysterical with joy; she had been all her life the victim of antiques; this was all so exquisitely modern. Floyd thought with intense longing of his little home; he vowed to himself he would not desert it; he’d go there every day and read his evening paper.

The house-warming was to be a brilliant affair. Maud with her restless activity schemed various plans for a sensational success. Tom sampled the cellar; it was perfection. Floyd was dispatched here, there, and everywhere; Julie sat back and gave the others carte blanche.

“Don’t consult me,” she said; “you three will do it all right.”

On the day of the dinner, Julie had been the entire afternoon in the hands of Hippolyte’s skilled lieutenants. He himself was to come later and give her hair the last touches.

True to his resolve, Floyd had spent his afternoons in the little house, reading his paper; but he was beginning to feel a superstitious dread when he put the key in the door. That day the room seemed unbearably chilly; he lit the fire with great difficulty. The wood piled up in a basket was damp, it sputtered awhile, gave out sighs as if it were in pain. Soon the fretful flame died out. He couldn’t read, looked at his watch, and went home.

The perfume from his wife’s room pervaded the house. His room was on the floor above—they had become fashionable. He saw less and less of Julie, she had no time for him; she was wrapped up in herself, her looks, her gowns; vanity had developed in her to such an extent it staggered him; she sought admiration, was a slave to style, adopting the daily change no matter how extreme; a night at home was unbearable to her; he dragged himself along; he wasn’t jealous of the crowd of men always around her; but it wouldn’t look well for the husband to be absent.

He hadn’t seen Martin for a very long time. He was sure Julie had forgotten him, she couldn’t love anyone but herself; he pulled himself up; he mustn’t think that way. He remembered her as a girl, so yielding, so sweet. Illness changes the character of people sometimes. He must be patient with her; but life had become very hard; the nights were spent in carousing. He didn’t know what to do with his days until Julie woke up—and he was only thirty.

He dressed and went down to his wife’s door—his Mecca; it was open. Hippolyte, with a strand of her hair over his shoulder, was bending down talking confidentially. Floyd abominated him; a man who could make a fortune out of the vanity of women was despicable; but most fortunes are directly or indirectly made out of the vanity of women.

“Floyd, come in, I’ve such news for you. I’ve sold our house.”

“What house?”

“Our little house, to Hippolyte.”

“You’re mad.”

Julie gave him a quick surprised look, and got rid of Hippolyte.

“Floyd, you shouldn’t speak to me like that before Hippolyte; he’ll tell the next customer we quarrel.” There was a suspicion of tears.

“Julie! you’re mad! quite mad! What the devil can he do with our house?”

“He’ll make a fortune out of it, if he follows my advice; the first floor will be a fine Colonial tea room; the old furniture and our kitchen coppers will be just the thing; the second floor, a beauty parlor; and above, in your father’s workshop, a Turkish bath.”

And she could sit there calmly and say such things.

The Colonel came in early, poured out a volley of compliments which put her in good humor. She whispered to him.

“I’ve won; he’s getting used to it.”

The dinner was delayed until past ten, waiting for Maud and Tom who arrived with profuse apologies. Tom had been running all day from one shop to another trying to find a string of beads for Maud.

“Costly things, those glass beads,” said Tom. “Reminds me of the squaws up in the Reservation, when I was travelling with whiskey; they had them around the waist, neck, legs, through the ears and nose, and by God! they thought they were in full dress.”

When the dancing commenced, Julie was surrounded; she was the prettiest woman in the room, and a wonderful dancer. Floyd, in the next room among some loose fellows, was drinking heavily. The sedans were not ordered back; chauffeurs gossip among themselves, and after twelve, the guests were going “slumming.” Taxis were engaged—Masks and dominos were put on in the hall, one not knowing who the other was; Maud had done the pairing—she saw to it that husband and wife did not meet. Tom was to have Julie, Maud selected Floyd; he wouldn’t make love to her.

The masked figures in dominos slipped past the sentinel at the door; he was the devil who was sending souls to Hell that night.

Floyd wanted to fight everybody, then broke down and blubbered; Tom had a fellow feeling, put him in a chair, and told the haughty Swede to look after him. At the door he got mixed up in the crowd, found himself with someone in a taxi. A pair of soft lips met his, he shouted for joy.

“Maudy! where’s Julie?”

She laughed. “Oh, she’s in very good company.” She nestled up to him. “Don’t think of her, only ourselves. Let’s make believe we’re not married.”

The taxis were speeding downtown. Julie took off her mask, leaned back; she was excited, warm from dancing. Her companion bent over her. She looked into flaming eyes.

“Julie!”

That hour in Martin’s arms, she forgot her husband, her child, herself; promised him everything. This time, he swore, she should keep her word.

11

Floyd had an insane desire to smash things. He threw a bottle of wine into the glass and china on the table, overturning the electric candles; the fuse burnt out, putting the room in darkness. He laughed hysterically. He was on a ship, in a terrible storm, the ground was slipping away, billows were rising on all sides.

“Hey there, steward, damn it, where’s my cabin?”

The haughty Swede lifted him like a child, carried him into the elevator which took them up to the servants’ quarters, unlocked a small door at the extreme end of the hall; it was an unused room, with one lamp hanging from the ceiling. He put Floyd on the sofa, lit the lamp, and carefully shut the door—he didn’t want the “master’s” ravings to be heard. The caterer’s men were still in the house. Some might inform; a raid would lose him his place.

When Floyd awoke, the lamp sputtered in fitful gleams. His head was like lead, his tongue parched; there was a sense of deep humiliation, waves of shame, higher than the ocean. He looked about the room. It was in disorder—boxes piled up in a corner, a large desk strewn with papers; at the door stood the Swede.

“Where am I? Whose room is this?”

“This is a room we keep closed, sir.”

“Why?”

“The master killed himself here, the mistress locked the door and gave me the key; she ordered me not to open it until she came again. She didn’t come.”

“Where is she?”

“In Paris, sir.”

“He killed himself and she went to Paris?”

“Yes sir, shot himself. He was a fine man, sir, a very fine man. When I came in to announce dinner, he was lying on that sofa where you are, the blood pouring out.”

Floyd was on his feet, quite sober now. There were heavy dark stains on the gray rep. The man answered Floyd’s questioning look.

“That’s blood, sir, and this and this.” The gray rug was stained in dark red; there were splashes of it on the white wall.

“Why did you put me in here?”

“Because the house was full of strange people. I didn’t want them to see you like that.”

“Thank you, I’m much obliged to you.”

“Shall I bring you a little whiskey and soda?”

“No thank you, I’m not a drinker.”

“I see that, sir,” said the man. “A cup of strong black coffee will set you all right.”

“Thank you.”

Floyd looked about the room. On the desk there was a box half filled with cigars, stationery, postage stamps, everything just as the unhappy man had left them. The Swede came in with some strong black coffee which Floyd swallowed.

“Colonel Garland told me to give you this when you came to.” It was a large legal envelope; Floyd took it mechanically, flung it on the desk.

“When you are ready, sir, I’ll lock up here.”

Floyd stood fascinated. It was the only room in that big house that meant something more than wood—marble—The desk was littered, the pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, the deep armchairs, the heavy draperies belonged to former days, the man must have had trouble with his wife about it; she had put him and his “old sticks” in the garret.

The legal envelope was lying on the desk where he had thrown it. He took out a typewritten document. The little house was in his wife’s name. The Colonel had suggested it as a wedding gift. “It was only a matter of form, it was the custom for a man to put the home in the wife’s name,” Floyd laughingly assented. What did it matter? All he had was hers, himself included. Here it was in black and white, sold on easy terms to Hippolyte; at the bottom was written in her large clear hand, Julie Abravanel Gonzola Garrison; she had done it without consulting him; she had the right.

The monotonous voice of the Swede broke the silence.

“He was a very fine man, sir—and a liberal man. She was a beauty; that’s her picture.”

On the desk was a colored print of a woman in bridal costume, all lace, satin-orange blossoms, an enormous bouquet half hiding her face; it was like the wax models one sees in a show window.

The Swede took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Floyd.

“This is the master; I asked him for it the night before he died. I was very fond of him,” his voice broke.

Floyd knew that care-lined face: “The man who sweated blood.” He shivered. He tried to pull himself together; the horror of it struck him down. He staggered against the desk; on it lay an open letter, crushed together, as if thrown there in haste; his eye caught unconsciously what was written.

It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years scheming for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. Come back! Come back!

Floyd shuddered. He looked again at the blood stains; he saw the man with a pistol in his hand. It wasn’t a fair exchange—his soul for her body. He sat in the big chair; that other man must have crouched there with the pistol in his hand. He had usurped a sanctuary, bought with money what another had built with blood.

“I’m ready to lock up the room, sir.”

He staggered to his feet, thrust the legal envelope in his pocket, went downstairs and into the street.

The sedans rolled up and down the avenue. People stepped out in front of brilliantly lit residences, a happy care-free crowd, or were they like him, a lie?

He moved mechanically, elbowing his way through the mass of theatre-goers, gradually getting down into the business district, quiet, dark. He stood before his old home, huddled together as if shrinking away from the giant buildings on either side, unlocked the door; there was an odor like a crypt. He struck a match, lit the half-burnt candle on the hall stand, held it high, peering into the corners, through open doors, taking in every well-known detail—the straight-back mahogany chairs covered with mulberry velvet, the “tidies.” He could see the shuttle in his mother’s delicate fingers dancing in and out of the white thread—the rag rugs made by his grandmother. People were hunting for them in little country villages; antiquarians were reproducing them by thousands; but these were his rags. He went slowly up the narrow stairs; the creaking of the boards used to anger him when his mother was ill. He looked out at the desolate garden through little glass panes, just large enough for a boy’s face. He saw himself again gloating over the first snow-storm, running down to the cellar for his sled, his feet dancing impatiently whilst Prudence tied the soft warm shawl she had knitted for him about his head and neck.

He stopped at the first landing. The old clock was covered with dust; he found the key inside, wound it, set it right; its ticking echoed through the house; it seemed to him like a human thing whose heart had stopped for fright, then commenced to beat again in glad relief. He opened the door of the bedroom. Here he had brought his bride, here his boy was born, here he had watched Martin holding his wife in his arms. On the dressing-table was a faded rose; it fell to pieces in his hand. He went up to his father’s workshop; the images took on life in the flicker of the candle light—the Negro, the Italian shoe boy, his mother clasping him in her arms, an unfinished bust of his father, Rip Van Winkle with his head smashed—he took it all in; a life picture, the background stretching out in the full sunlight of generations, an old landscape. He was framed in it—he himself—that self, simple, sentimental, ideal, old-fashioned—the self that was not cynical, reckless, material, and all the things we call “modern.” He scented the smell of fallen plaster, felt the shaking of timbers; the wreckers had him under the hammer, destroying his foundations.

The table was littered with old newspapers and rags used in modelling; he stood for a moment motionless, like a man offering a sacrifice on the altar of his domestic gods, then he dropped the candle. Little flames started here, there, grew bigger; the illumination cast a glow over his mother’s face. She smiled at him. He shut the door, groping his way downstairs; at the gate he stopped to listen to the clear chime of the clock as it struck one, two, three....

There was no trace of the night orgy in the Park Avenue mansion. He went up to his wife’s room; she was in bed sleeping quietly. The soft-shaded lamp which burnt through the night—she had a horror of darkness—cast a soft rosy glow. “Was this beautiful creature lying there, his wife? No! No!—a legalized mistress, and he, a sensualist.”

In that moment passion burnt up in him—the body of love, the Idol, fell in ashes. He took the bill of sale from his pocket, put it beside her on the bed, then went slowly up to his room, shut the door, and burst into a loud laugh.

12

The next morning at breakfast he read the press headings.

“The old Garrison homestead destroyed by fire, a total loss, on account of Mr. Garrison’s neglect to renew the insurance. Fire caused by a cigarette or cigar stump thrown carelessly from one of the tall adjacent buildings. The house was a tinder box. Fortunately, the family had moved to their palatial residence on Park Avenue.”

He marked the notices with red pencil, and sent them up on his wife’s breakfast tray. He heard the maid knocking, and Julie’s voice saying “Come in.” He could see her opening the papers, reading the marked lines; there was a loud cry and a heavy fall; he went up quickly. She was lying on the floor rigid, the paper clutched in her hand; it was impossible to bring her to. He telephoned for Dr. McClaren, who came at once. Floyd told him about the fire in a few words.

“It must have been a great shock to her,” said the doctor.

“I don’t know,” answered Floyd. The doctor looked at him curiously, then went into Julie’s room.

He brought her to, insisted on her resting that day in bed, and said to Floyd, “She’ll be all right. There’s no cause for worry; I’ve seen her like that before.”

Julie believed with all her superstitious, secretive soul, that her hair turning white had been a punishment for giving in to her suppressed passion for Martin; and last night in that very hour of burning joy their house was in flames. “What did it mean? What was that unseen revengeful Power preparing for her?—perhaps another blow, a physical deformity?”

With a cry of terrible fear, she sprang out of bed, locked the door, stood before the long mirror examining herself closely, not like a beautiful woman exulting over her reflected beauty, but with the fear of a guilty soul seeking the brand of further punishment. “What now? What now?” Her body was spotless, like white marble with a delicate tracery of blue veins. She gave a long sigh of relief.

The reporters besieged the house. Floyd had the agony of seeing himself, his wife, his child in every newspaper. The weeklies had colored prints of the beautiful Mrs. Garrison. “She might have stepped out of a picture,” “a living Greuze,” “the grace of a French Dame de Salon,” “the Art of Conversation lives again”—then the Russian players arrived.