That Fortune ........................................................................................................................................................1

Charles Dudley Warner ............................................................................................................................1

On a summer day, long gone among the summer days that come but to go, a lad of twelve years was idly and

recklessly swinging in the top of a tall hickory, the advance picket of a mountain forest. The tree was on the

edge of a steep declivity of rocky pastureland that fell rapidly down to the stately chestnuts, to the orchard,

to the cornfields in the narrow valley, and the maples on the bank of the amber river, whose loud, unceasing

murmur came to the lad on his aerial perch like the voice of some tradition of nature that he could not

He had climbed to the topmost branch of the lithe and tough tree in order to take the full swing of this free

creature in its sport with the western wind. There was something exhilarating in this elemental battle of the

forces that urge and the forces that resist, and the harder the wind blew, and the wider circles he took in the

free air, the more stirred the boy was in the spring of his life. Nature was taking him by the hand, and it might

If you had asked him why he was there, he would very likely have said, "To see the world." It was a world

worth seeing. The prospect might be limited to a dull eye, but not to this lad, who loved to climb this height,

in order to be with himself and indulge the dreams of youth. Any pretense would suffice for taking this hour

of freedom: to hunt for the spicy checkerberries and the pungent sassafras; to aggravate the woodchucks,

who made their homes in mysterious passages in this gravelly hillside; to get a nosegay of columbine for the

girl who spelled against him in school and was his gentle comrade morning and evening along the river road

where grew the sweetflag and the snapdragon and the barberry bush; to make friends with the elegant gray

squirrel and the lively red squirrel and the comical chipmunk, who were not much afraid of this unarmed

naturalist. They may have recognized their kinship to him, for he could climb like any squirrel, and not one of

them could have clung more securely to this bough where he was swinging, rejoicing in the strength of his

lithe, compact little body. When he shouted in pure enjoyment of life, they chattered in reply, and eyed him

with a primeval curiosity that had no fear in it. This lad in short trousers, torn shirt, and a frayed straw hat

above his mobile and cheerful face, might be only another sort of animal, a lover like themselves of the

It was a gay world up here among the tossing branches. Across the river, on the first terrace of the hill, were

weatherbeaten farmhouses, amid apple orchards and cornfields. Above these rose the wooded dome of

Mount Peak, a thousand feet above the river, and beyond that to the left the road wound up, through the

scriptural land of Bozrah, to high and lonesome towns on a plateau stretching to unknown regions in the

south. There was no bar to the imagination in that direction. What a gracious valley, what graceful slopes,

what a mass of color bathing this lovely summer landscape! Down from the west, through hills that crowded

on either side to divert it from its course, ran the sparkling Deerfield, from among the springs and trout

streams of the Hoosac, merrily going on to the great Connecticut. Along the stream was the ancient highway,

or lowway, where in days before the railway came the stagecoach and the big transportwagons used to

sway and rattle along on their adventurous voyage from the gate of the Sea at Boston to the gate of the West

Below, where the river spread wide among the rocks in shallows, or eddies in deep, dark pools, was the

ancient, long, covered, wooden bridge, striding diagonally from rock to rock on stone columns, a dusky

tunnel through the air, a passage of gloom flecked with glints of sunlight, that struggled in crosscurrents

through the interstices of the boards, and set dancing the motes and the dust in a golden haze, a stuffy passage

with odors a century oldwho does not know the pungent smell of an old bridge?a structure that groaned

in all its big timbers when a wagon invaded it. And then below the bridge the lad could see the historic

meadow, which was a cornfield in the eighteenth century, where Captain Moses Rice and Phineas Arms came

suddenly one summer day to the end of their planting and hoeing. The house at the foot of the hill where the

boy was cultivating his imagination had been built by Captain Rice, and in the family buryingground in the

orchard above it lay the body of this mighty militiaman, and beside him that of Phineas Arms, and on the

headstone of each the legend familiar at that period of our national life, "Killed by the Indians." Happy

Phineas Arms, at the age of seventeen to exchange in a moment the tedium of the cornfield for immortality.

There was a tradition that years after, when the Indians had disappeared through a gradual process of

intoxication and pauperism, a red man had been seen skulking along the brow of this very hill and peering

down through the bushes where the boy was now perched on a tree, shaking his fist at the hated civilization,

and vengefully, some said pathetically, looking down into this valley where his race had been so happy in the

natural pursuits of fishing, hunting, and war. On the opposite side of the river was still to be traced an Indian

trail, running to the western mountains, which the boy intended some time to follow; for this highway of

warlike forays, of messengers of defiance, along which white maidens had been led captive to Canada,

The boy lived in these traditions quite as much as in those of the Revolutionary War into which they

invariably glided in his perspective of history, the redskins and the redcoats being both enemies of his

ancestors. There was the grave of the envied Phineas Armsthat ancient boy not much older than heand

there were hanging in the kitchen the musket and powderhorn that his greatgrandfather had carried at

Bunker Hill, and did he not know by heart the story of his greatgrandmother, who used to tell his father that

she heard when she was a slip of a girl in Plymouth the cannonading on that awful day when Gage met his

In fact, according to his historybook there had been little but wars in this peaceful nation: the War of 1812,

the Mexican War, the incessant frontier wars with the Indians, the Kansas War, the Mormon War, the War

for the Union. The echoes of the latter had not yet died away. What a career he might have had if he had not

been born so late in the world! Swinging in this treetop, with a vivid consciousness of life, of his own

capacity for action, it seemed a pity that he could not follow the drum and the flag into such contests as he

And yet this was only a corner of the boy's imagination. He had many worlds and he lived in each by turn.

There was the world of the Old Testament, of David and Samson, and of those dim figures in the dawn of

history, called the Patriarchs. There was the world of Julius Caesar and the Latin grammar, though this was

scarcely as real to him as the Old Testament, which was brought to his notice every Sunday as a necessity of

his life, while Caesar and AEneas and the fourth declension were made to be a task, for some mysterious

reason, a part of his education. He had not been told that they were really a part of the other world which

occupied his mind so much of the time, the world of the Arabian Nights and Robinson Crusoe, and Coleridge

and Shelley and Longfellow, and Washington Irving and Scott and Thackeray, and Pope's Iliad and Plutarch's

Lives. That this was a living world to the boy was scarcely his fault, for it must be confessed that those were

very antiquated book shelves in the old farmhouse to which he had access, and the news had not been

apprehended in this remote valley that the classics of literature were all as good as dead and buried, and that

the human mind had not really created anything worth modern notice before about the middle of the

nineteenth century. It was not exactly an ignorant valley, for the daily newspapers were there, and the

monthly magazine, and the fashion plate of Paris, and the illuminating sunshine of new science, and enough

of the uneasy throb of modern life. Yet somehow the books that were still books had not been sent to the

garret, to make room for the illustrated papers and the profound physiological studies of sin and suffering that

were produced by touching a scientific button. No, the boy was conscious in a way of the mighty pulsation of

American life, and he had also a dim notion that his dreams in his various worlds would come to a brilliant

fulfillment when he was big enough to go out and win a name and fame. But somehow the old books, and the

family life, and the sedate ways of the community he knew, had given him a fundamental and not unarmed

Every Sunday the preacher denounced the glitter and frivolity and corruption of what he called Society, until

the boy longed to see this splendid panorama of cities and hasting populations, the seekers of pleasure and

money and fame, this gay world which was as fascinating as it was wicked. The preacher said the world was

wicked and vain. It did not seem so to the boy this summer day, not at least the world he knew. Of course the

boy had no experience. He had never heard of Juvenal nor of Max Nordau. He had no philosophy of life. He

did not even know that when he became very old the world would seem to him good or bad according to the

In fact, he was not thinking much about being good or being bad, but of trying his powers in a world which

seemed to offer to him infinite opportunities. His namePhilip Burnettwith which the world, at least the

American world, is now tolerably familiar, and which he liked to write with ornamental flourishes on the

flyleaves of his schoolbooks, did not mean much to him, for he had never seen it in print, nor been

confronted with it as something apart from himself. But the Philip that he was he felt sure would do

something in the world. What that something should be varied from day to day according to the book, the

poem, the history or biography that he was last reading. It would not be difficult to write a poem like

"Thanatopsis" if he took time enough, building up a line a day. And yet it would be better to be a soldier, a

man who could use the sword as well as the pen, a poet in uniform. This was a pleasing imagination. Surely

his aunt and his cousins in the farmhouse would have more respect for him if he wore a uniform, and treat

him with more consideration, and perhaps they would be very anxious about him when he was away in

battles, and very proud of him when he came home between battles, and went quite modestly with the family

into the village church, and felt rather than saw the slight flutter in the pews as he walked down the aisle, and

knew that the young ladies, the girl comrades of the district school, were watching him from the organ

gallery, curious to see Phil, who had gone into the army. Perhaps the preacher would have a sermon against

war, and the preacher should see how soldierlike he would take this attack on him. Alas! is such vanity at the

bottom of even a reasonable ambition? Perhaps his town would be proud of him if he were a lawyer, a

Representative in Congress, come back to deliver the annual oration at the Agricultural Fair. He could see the

audience of familiar faces, and hear the applause at his witty satires and his praise of the nobility of the

farmer's life, and it would be sweet indeed to have the country people grasp him by the hand and call him

Phil, just as they used to before he was famous. What he would say, he was not thinking of, but the position

he would occupy before the audience. There were no misgivings in any of these dreams of youth.

The musings of this dreamer in a treetop were interrupted by the peremptory notes of a tin horn from the

farmhouse below. The boy recognized this not only as a signal of declining day and the withdrawal of the sun

behind the mountains, but as a personal and urgent notification to him that a certain amount of disenchanting

drudgery called chores lay between him and supper and the lampillumined pages of The Last of the

Mohicans. It was difficult, even in his own estimation, to continue to be a hero at the summons of a tin

horna silver clarion and castle walls would have been so differentand Phil slid swiftly down from his

Recalled to the world that now is, the lad hastily gathered a bouquet of columbine and a bunch of the tender

leaves and the red berries of the wintergreen, called to "Turk," who had been all these hours watching a

woodchuck hole, and ran down the hill by leaps and circuits as fast as his little legs could carry him, and,

with every appearance of a lad who puts duty before pleasure, arrived breathless at the kitchen door, where

Alice stood waiting for him. Alice, the somewhat feeble performer on the horn, who had been watching for

"Oh, Alice!" cried the boy, eagerly, having in a moment changed in his mind the destination of the flowers;

"I've found a place where the checkerberries are thick as spatter." And Phil put the flowers and the berries in

his cousin's hand. Alice looked very much pleased with this simple tribute, but, as she admired it,

This was a cruel dilemma. Phil was more devoted to his sweet cousin than to any one else in the world, and

he didn't want to hurt her feelings, and he hated to tell a lie. So he only looked a lie, out of his affectionate,

"Yes, long ago. He called and looked all around for you to unharness the horse, and he wanted you to go an

"He asked if you had weeded the beets. And he said that you were the master boy to dream and moon around

he ever saw." And she added, with a confidential and mischievous smile: "I think you'd better brought a

Phil had a great respect for his uncle Maitland, but he feared him almost more than he feared the remote God

of Abraham and Isaac. Mr. Maitland was not only the most prosperous man in all that region, but the man of

the finest appearance, and a bearing that was equity itself. He was the first selectman of the town, and a

deacon in the church, and however much he prized mercy in the next world he did not intend to have that

quality interfere with justice in this world. Phil knew indeed that he was a man of God, that fact was

impressed upon him at least twice a day, but he sometimes used to think it must be a severe God to have that

sort of man. And he didn't like the curt way he pronounced the holy namehe might as well have called Job

Alice was as unlike her father, except in certain race qualities of integrity and commonsense, as if she were

of different blood. She was the youngest of five maiden sisters, and had arrived at the mature age of eighteen.

Slender in figure, with a grace that was half shyness, soft brown hair, gray eyes that changed color and could

as easily be sad as merry, a face marked with a moving dimple that every one said was lovely, retiring in

manner and yet not lacking spirit nor a sly wit of her own. Now and then, yes, very often, out of some

paradise, no doubt, strays into New England conditions of reticence and selfdenial such a sweet spirit, to

diffuse a breath of heaven in its atmosphere, and to wither like a rose ungathered. These are the New England

nuns, not taking any vows, not selfconsciously virtuous, apparently untouched by the vanities of the world.

Marriage? It is not in any girl's nature not to think of that, not to be in a flutter of pleasure or apprehension at

the attentions of the other sex. Who has been able truly to read the thoughts of a shrinking maiden in the

passing days of her youth and beauty? In this harmonious and unselfish household, each with decided

individual character, no one ever intruded upon the inner life of the other. No confidences were given in the

deep matters of the heart, no sign except a blush over a sly allusion to some one who had been "attentive." If

you had stolen a look into the workbasket or the secret bureaudrawer, you might have found a treasured

note, a bit of ribbon, a rosebud, some token of tenderness or of friendship that was growing old with the

priestess who cherished it. Did they not love flowers, and pets, and had they not a passion for children? Were

there not moonlight evenings when they sat silent and musing on the stone steps, watching the shadows and

the dancing gleams on the swift river, when the air was fragrant with the pink and the lilac? Not melancholy

this, nor poignantly sad, but having in it nevertheless something of the pathos of life unfulfilled. And was

there not sometimes, not yet habitually, coming upon these faces, faces plain and faces attractive, the shade of

Phil loved Alice devotedly. She was his confidante, his defender, but he feared more the disapproval of her

"And you were away the whole afternoon. It is a pity the days are so short. And you don't know what you

"I don't know. She didn't say anything about it. What a dear little thing she is!"

"Oh, can she? Perhaps you'd better run down to the village before dark and take her these flowers."

"I'm not going. I'd rather you should have the flowers." And Phil spoke the truth this time.

Celia, who was altogether too young to occupy seriously the mind of a lad of twelve, had nevertheless gained

an ascendancy over him because of her willful, perverse, and sometimes scornful ways, and because she was

different from the other girls of the school. She had read many more books than Phil, for she had access to a

library, and she could tell him much of a world that he only heard of through books and newspapers, which

latter he had no habit of reading. He liked, therefore, to be with Celia, not withstanding her little airs of

superiority, and if she patronized him, as she certainly did, probably the simpleminded young gentleman,

who was unconsciously bred in the belief that he and his own kin had no superiors anywhere, never noticed

it. To be sure they quarreled a good deal, but truth to say Phil was never more fascinated with the little witch,

whom he felt himself strong enough to protect, than when she showed a pretty temper. He rather liked to be

ordered about by the little tyrant. And sometimes he wished that Murad Ault, the big boy of the school,

would be rude to the small damsel, so that he could show her how a knight would act under such

circumstances. Murad Ault stood to Phil for the satanic element in his peaceful world. He was not only big

and strong of limb and broad of chest, but he was very swarthy, and had closely curled black hair. He feared

nothing, not even the teacher, and was always doing some daredevil thing to frighten the children. And

because he was dark, morose, and made no friends, and wished none, but went solitary his own dark way,

Phil fancied that he must have Spanish blood in his veins, and would no doubt grow up to be a pirate. No

other boy in the winter could skate like Murad Ault, with such strength and grace and recklessnessthin ice

and thick ice were all one to him, but he skated along, dashing in and out, and sweeping away up and down

the river in a whirl of vigor and daring, like a black marauder. Yet he was best and most awesome in the

swimming pond in summerthough it was believed that he dared go in in the bitter winter, either by

breaking the ice or through an airhole, and there was a story that he had ventured under the ice as fearless as

a cold fish. No one could dive from such a height as he, or stay so long under water; he liked to stay under

long enough to scare the spectators, and then appear at a distance, thrashing about in the water as if he were

rescuing himself from drowning, sputtering out at the same time the most diabolical noises curses, no

doubt, for he had been heard to swear. But as he skated alone he swam alone, appearing and disappearing at

the swimmingplace silently, with never a salutation to any one. And he was as skillful a fisher as he was a

swimmer. No one knew much about him. He lived with his mother in a little cabin up among the hills, that

had about it scant patches of potatoes and corn and beans, a garden fenced in by stumproots, as ill cared for

as the shanty. Where they came from no one knew. How they lived was a matter of conjecture, though the

mother gathered herbs and berries and bartered them at the village store, and Murad occasionally took a hand

in some neighbor's hayfield, or got a job of chopping wood in the winter. The mother was old and small and

withered, and they said evileyed. Probably she was no more evileyed than any old woman who had such a

hard struggle for existence as she had. An old widow with an only son who looked like a Spaniard and acted

Celia had been brought to Rivervale by her mother about a year before this time, and the two occupied a neat

little cottage in the village, distinguished only by its neatness and a plot of syringas, and pinks, and

marigolds, and roses, and bachelor'sbuttons, and boxes of the tough little exotics, called

"henandchickens," in the dooryard, and a vigorous fragrant honeysuckle over the front porch. She only

dimly remembered her father, who had been a merchant in a small way in the city, and dying left to his

widow and only child a very moderate fortune. The girl showed early an active and ingenious mind, and an

equal love for books and for having her own way; but she was delicate, and Mrs. Howard wisely judged that

a few years in a country village would improve her health and broaden her view of life beyond that of

cockney provincialism. For, though Mrs. Howard had more refinement than strength of mind, and passed

generally for a sweet and inoffensive little woman, she did not lack a certain true perception of values, due

doubtless to the fact that she had been a New England girl, and, before her marriage and emigration to the

great city, had passed her life among unexciting realities, and among people who had leisure to think out

things in a slow way. But the girl's energy and selfconfidence had no doubt been acquired from her father,

who was cut off in midcareer of his struggle for place in the metropolis, or from some remote ancestor.

Before she was eleven years old her mother had listened with some wonder and more apprehension to the

eager forecast of what this child intended to do when she became a woman, and already shrank from a vision

of Celia on a public platform, or the leader of some metempsychosis club. Through her affections only was

the child manageable, but in opposition to her spirit her mother was practically powerless. Indeed, this little

sprout of the New Age always spoke of her to Philip and to the Maitlands as "little mother."

The epithet seemed peculiarly tender to Philip, who had lost his father before he was six years old, and he

was more attracted to the timid and gentle little widow than to his equable but more robust Aunt Eusebia,

Mrs. Maitland, his father's elder sister, whom Philip fancied not a bit like his father except in sincerity, a

quality common to the Maitlands and Burnetts. Yet there was a family likeness between his aunt and a

portrait of his father, painted by a Boston artist of some celebrity, which his mother, who survived her

husband only three years, had saved for her boy. His father was a farmer, but a man of considerable

cultivation, though not collegebredhis last request on his deathbed was that Phil should be sent to

collegea man who made experiments in improving agriculture and the breed of cattle and horses, read

papers now and then on topics of social and political reform, and was the only farmer in all the hill towns

It was all scattered at the time of the winding up of the farm estate, and the only jetsam that Philip inherited

out of it was an annotated copy of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Young's Travels in France, a copy of

The Newcomes, and the first American edition of Childe Harold. Probably these odd volumes had not been

considered worth any considerable bid at the auction. From his mother, who was fond of books, and had on

more than one occasion, of the failure of teachers, taught in the village school in her native town before her

marriage, Philip inherited his love of poetry, and he well remembered how she used to try to inspire him with

patriotism by reading the orations of Daniel Webster (she was very fond of orations), and telling him war

stories about Grant and Sherman and Sheridan and Farragut and Lincoln. He distinctly remembered also

standing at her knees and trying, at intervals, to commit to memory the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. He had

learned it all since, because he thought it would please his mother, and because there was something in it that

appealed to his coming sense of the mystery of life. When he repeated it to Celia, who had never heard of it,

and remarked that it was all made up, and that she never tried to learn a long thing like that that wasn't so,

Philip could see that her respect for him increased a little. He did not know that the child got it out of the

library the next day and never rested till she knew it by heart. Philip could repeat also the books of the Bible

in order, just as glibly as the multiplicationtable, and the little minx, who could not brook that a country boy

should be superior to her in anything, had surprised her mother by rattling them all off to her one Sunday

evening, just as if she had been born in New England instead of in New York. As to the other fine things his

mother read him, out of Ruskin and the like; Philip chiefly remembered what a pretty glow there was in his

mother's face when she read them, and that recollection was a valuable part of the boy's education.

Another valuable part of his education was the gracious influence in his aunt's household, the spirit of candor,

of affection, and the sane commonsense with which life was regarded, the simplicity of its faith and the

patience with which trials were borne. The lessons he learned in it had more practical influence in his life

than all the books he read. Nor were his opportunities for the study of character so meagre as the limit of one

family would imply. As often happens in New England households, individualities were very marked, and

from his stern uncle and his placid aunt down to the sweet and nimblewitted Alice, the family had

developed traits and even eccentricities enough to make it a sort of microcosm of life. There, for instance,

was Patience, the maiden aunt, his father's sister, the newsmonger of the fireside, whose powers of

ratiocination first gave Philip the Greek idea and method of reasoning to a point and arriving at truth by the

process of exclusion. It did not excite his wonder at the time, but afterwards it appeared to him as one of the

New England eccentricities of which the novelists make so much. Patience was a homekeeping body and

rarely left the premises except to go to church on Sunday, although her cheerfulness and social helpfulness

were tinged by nothing morbid. The story wasPhilip learned it long afterwardsthat in her very young

and frisky days Patience had one evening remained out at some merrymaking very late, and in fact had been

escorted home in the moonlight by a young gentleman when the tall, awful faced clock, whose face her

mother was watching, was on the dreadful stroke of eleven. For this delinquency her mother had reproved

her, the girl thought unreasonably, and she had quickly replied, "Mother, I will never go out again." And she

never did. It was in fact a renunciation of the world, made apparently without rage, and adhered to with

But although for many years Patience rarely left her home, until the habit of seclusion had become as fixed as

that of a nun who had taken the vows, no one knew so well as she the news and gossip of the neighborhood,

and her power of learning or divining it seemed to increase with her years. She had a habit of sitting, when

her household duties permitted, at a front window, which commanded a long view of the river road, and

gathering the news by a process peculiar to herself. From this peephole she studied the character and

destination of all the passersby that came within range of her vision, and made her comments and

deductions, partly to herself, but for the benefit of those who might be listening.

"Why, there goes Thomas Henry," she would say (she always called people by their first and middle names).

"Now, wherever can he be going this morning in the very midst of getting in his hay? He can't be going to the

Browns' for vegetables, for they set great store by their own raising this year; and they don't get their

provisions up this way either, because Mary Ellen quarreled with Simmons's people last year. No! "she would

exclaim, rising to a climax of certainty on this point, "I'll be bound he is not going after anything in the eating

Meantime Thomas Henry's wagon would be disappearing slowly up the sandy road, giving Patience a chance

to get all she could out of it, by eliminating all the errands Thomas Henry could not possibly be going to do

"They do say he's courting Eliza Merritt," she continued, "but Eliza never was a girl to make any man leave

his haying. No, he's never going to see Eliza, and if it isn't provisions or love it's nothing short of sickness.

Now, whoever is sick down there? It can't be Mary Ellen, because she takes after her father's family and they

are all hearty. It must be Mary Ellen's little girls, and the measles are going the rounds. It must be they've all

If the listeners suggested that possibly one of the little girls might have escaped, the suggestion was

"No; if one of them had been well, Mary Ellen would have sent her for the doctor."

Presently Thomas Henry's cart was heard rumbling back, and sure enough he was returning with the doctor,

"Why, all her little girls have the measles," replied Thomas Henry, "and I had to leave my haying to fetch the

Being the eldest born, Patience had appropriated to herself two rooms in the rambling old farmhouse before

her brother's marriage, from which later comers had never dislodged her, and with that innate respect for the

rights and peculiarities of others which was common in the household, she was left to express her secluded

life in her own way. As the habit of retirement grew upon her she created a world of her own, almost as

curious and more individually striking than the museum of Cluny. There was not a square foot in her tiny

apartment that did not exhibit her handiwork. She was very fond of reading, and had a passion for the little

prints and engravings of "foreign views," which she wove into her realm of natural history. There was no

flower or leaf or fruit that she had seen that she could not imitate exactly in wax or paper. All over the walls

hung the little prints and engravings, framed in wreaths of moss and artificial flowers, or in elaborate square

frames made of pasteboard. The pasteboard was cut out to fit the picture, and the margins, daubed with paste,

were then strewn with seeds of corn and acorns and hazelnuts, and then the whole was gilded so that the

effect was almost as rich as it was novel. All about the rooms, in nooks and on tables, stood baskets and

dishes of fruitapples and plums and peaches and grapesset in proper foliage of most natural appearance,

like enough to deceive a bird or the Sundayschool scholars, when on rare occasions they were admitted into

this holy of holies. Out of boxes, apparently filled with earth in the corners of the rooms, grew what seemed

to be vines trained to run all about the cornices and to festoon the pictures, but which were really strings,

colored in imitation of the real vine, and spreading out into paper foliage. To complete the naturalistic

character of these everlasting vines, which no scalebugs could assail, there were bunches of wonderful

grapes depending here and there to excite the cupidity of both bird and child. There was no cruelty in the

nature of Patience, and she made prisoners of neither birds nor squirrels, but cunning cages here and there

held most lifelike counterfeits of their willing captives. There was nothing in the room that was alive, except

the dainty owner, but it seemed to be a museum of natural history. The rugs on the floor were of her own

devising and sewing together, and rivaled in color and ingenuity those of Bokhara.

But Patience was a student of the heavens as well as of the earth, and it was upon the ceiling that her

imagination expanded. There one could see in their order the constellations of the heavens, represented by

paper gilt stars, of all magnitudes, most wonderful to behold. This part of her decorations was the most

difficult of all. The constellations were not made from any geography of the heavens, but from actual nightly

observation of the positions of the heavenly bodies. Patience confessed that the getting exactly right of the

Great Dipper had caused her most trouble. On the night that was constructed she sat up till three o'clock in

the morning, going out and studying it and coming in and putting up one star at a time. How could she reach

the high ceiling? Oh, she took a beanpole, stuck the gilt star on the end of it, having paste on the reverse

side, and fixed it in its place. That was easy, only it was difficult to remember when she came into the house

the correct positions of the stars in the heavens. What the astronomer and the botanist and the naturalist

would have said of this little kingdom is unknown, but Patience herself lived among the glories of the

heavens and the beauties of the earth which she had created. Probably she may have had a humorous

conception of this, for she was not lacking in a sense of humor. The stone step that led to her private door she

had skillfully painted with faint brown spots, so that when visitors made their exit from this part of the house

they would say, "Why, it rains!" but Patience would laugh and say, "I guess it is over by now."

I'm not going to follow you about any more I through the brush and brambles, Phil Burnett," and Celia,

emerging from the thicket into a clearing, flung herself down on a knoll under a beechtree.

Celia was cross. They were out for a Saturday holiday on the hillside, where Phil said there were oceans of

raspberries and blueberries, beginning to get ripe, and where you could hear the partridges drumming in the

"Why, I'm not a bit tired," said Phil; "a boy wouldn't be." And he threw himself down on the green moss, with

his heels in the air, much more intent on the chatter of a gray squirrel in the tree above him than on the

"Why don't you go with a boy, then?" asked Celia, in a tone intended to be severe and dignified.

"A boy isn't so nice," said Philip, with the air of stating a general proposition, but not looking at her.

"Oh," said Celia, only half appeased, "I quite agree with you." And she pulled down some beech leaves from

"Who are you making that for?" asked Philip, who began to be aware that a cloud had come over his holiday

"Nobody in particular; it's just a wreath." And then there was silence, till Philip made another attempt.

"Celia, I don't mind staying here if you are tired. Tell me something about New York City. I wish we were

"Much you know about it," said Celia, but with some relaxation of her severity, for as she looked at the boy

in his country clothes and glanced at her own old frock and abraded shoes, she thought what a funny

"Would I rather? What a question! Everybody would. The country is a good place to go to when you are

tired, as mamma is. But the city! The big fine houses, and the people all going about in a hurry; the streets all

lighted up at night, so that you can see miles and miles of lights; and the horses and carriages, and the lovely

dresses, and the churches full of nice people, and such beautiful music! And once mamma took me to the

theatre. Oh, Phil, you ought to see a play, and the actors, all be autifully dressed, and talking just like a

party in a house, and dancing, and being funny, and some of it so sad as to make you cry, and some of it so

droll that you had to laughjust such a world as you read of in books and in poetry. I was so excited that I

saw the stage all night and could hardly sleep." The girl paused and looked away to the river as if she saw it

all again, and then added in a burst of confidence: "Do you know, I mean to be an actress some day, when

"Playactors are wicked," said Phil, in a tone of decision; "our minister says so, and my uncle says so."

"I never asked her, but she said once that she supposed it was wrong, but she would like to see a play."

"There, everybody would. Mamma says the people from the country go to the theatre always, a good deal

more than the people in the city go. I should like to see your aunt Patience in a theatre and hear what she said

"Mamma says it is as good as a play to hear her go on about people, and what they are like, and what they are

going to do, and then her little rooms are just like a scene on a stage. If they were in New York everybody

This was such a new view of his home life to Philip that he could neither combat it nor assent to it, further

than to say, that his aunt was just like everybody else, though she did have some peculiar ways.

"Well, she acts," Celia insisted, "and most people act. Our minister acts all the time, mamma says." Celia had

plenty of opinions of her own, but when she ventured a startling statement she had the habit of going under

the shelter of "little mother," whose casual and unconsidered remarks the girl turned to her own uses. Perhaps

she would not have understood that her mother merely meant that the minister's sacerdotal character was not

exactly his own character. Just as Philip noticed without being able to explain it that his uncle was one sort of

a man in his religious exercises and observances and another sort of man in his dealings with him. Children

often have recondite thoughts that do not get expression until their minds are more mature; they even accept

contradictory facts in their experience. There was one of the deacons who was as kind as possible, and Philip

believed was a good and pious man, who had the reputation of being sharp and even tricky in a horse trade.

And Philip used to think how lucky it was for him that he had been converted and was saved!

"Are you going to stay here always?" asked Philip, pursuing his own train of thought about the city.

"Here? I should think not. If I were a boy I wouldn't stay here, I can tell you. What are you going to do, Phil,

"Oh, I don't know," said Philip, turning over on his back and looking up into the blue world through the

leaves; "go to college, I suppose." Children are even more reticent than adults about revealing their inner

lives, and Philip would not, even to Celia, have confessed the splendid dreams about his career that came to

"Of course," said this wise child, "but that's nothing. I mean, what are you going to do? My cousin Jim has

been all through college, and he doesn't do a thing except wear nice clothes and hang around and talk. He

"If he doesn't like you, then I don't like him," said Philip, as if he were making a general and not a personal

"So should I, and see things and find things. Jim says he's going to be an explorer. He never will. He wouldn't

find anything. He twits me, and wants to know what is the good of my reading about Africa and such things.

Phil, don't you love to read about Africa, and the desert, and the lions and the snakes, and bananas growing,

and palmtrees, and the queerest black men and women, real dwarfs some of them? I just love it."

"So do I," said Philip, "as far as I have read. Alice says it's awful dangerousfevers and wild beasts and

"Of course you wouldn't. But it costs like everything to go to Africa, or anywhere."

"I guess," said Celia, reflecting upon this proposition, "I'd be an engineer or a railroad man, or something like

that, and make a heap of money, and then I could go anywhere I liked. I just hate to be poor. There!"

"No; he can do what he pleases. I asked him, then, why he didn't go to Africa, and he wanted to know what

was the good of finding Livingstone, anyway. I'll bet Murad Ault would go to Africa."

"I wish he would," said Philip; and then, having moved so that he could see Celia's face, "Do you like Murad

"Well, I don't care," said Philip, who was nettled by this implication. And Celia, who had shown her power of

"You don't think I'd be seen going around with him? Aren't we having a good time up here?"

"Bully!" replied Philip. And not seeing the way to expand this topic any further, he suddenly said:

"We can get that on the way home. I know a place." And then there was a pause. "Celia, you didn't tell me

"Of course they do. I don't know whether I'll write or be a doctor. I know one thingI won't teach school.

It's the hatefulest thing there is! It's nice to be a doctor and have your own horse, and go round like a man. If

it wasn't for seeing so many sick people! I guess I'll write stories and things."

"Why, you make 'em up. Mamma says they are all made up. I can make 'em in my head any time when I'm

"I don't know," Philip said, reflectively, "but I could make up a story about Murad Ault, and how he got to be

"Oh, that wouldn't be a real story. You have got to have different people in it, and have 'em talk, just as they

"Well, there are such stories in The Pirate's Own Book, and it's awful interesting."

"I'd be ashamed, Philip Burnett, to read such a cruel thing, all about robbers and murders."

"I didn't read it through; Alice said she was going to burn it up. I shouldn't wonder if she did."

"Boys make me tired!" exclaimed this little piece of presumption; and this attitude of superiority exasperated

Philip more than anything else his mentor had said or done, and he asserted his years of seniority by jumping

"Down in the meadow," said Philip, making one more effort at conciliation, "we can get some tigerlilies, and

"She doesn't like things fussed up," was the gracious reply. And then the children trudged along homeward,

Traits that make a child disagreeable are apt to be perpetuated in the adult. The bumptious, impudent, selfish,

"hateful" boy may become a man of force, of learning, of decided capacity, even of polish and good manners,

and score success, so that those who know him say how remarkable it is that such a "knurly" lad should have

turned out so well. But some exigency in his career, it may be extraordinary prosperity or bitter defeat, may at

any moment reveal the radical traits of the boy, the original ignoble nature. The world says that it is a

"throwing back"; it is probably only a persistence of the original meanness under all the overlaid cultivation

Without bothering itself about the recondite problems of heredity or the influence of environment, the world

wisely makes great account of "stock." The peasant nature, which may be a very different thing from the

peasant condition, persists, and shows itself in business affairs, in literature, even in the artist. No marriage is

wisely contracted without consideration of "stock." The admirable qualities which make a union one of

mutual respect and enduring affectionthe generosities, the magnanimities, the courage of soul, the

crystalline truthfulness, the endurance of ill fortune and of prosperityare commonly the persistence of the

We can get on with surface weaknesses and eccentricities, and even disagreeable peculiarities, if the

substratum of character is sound. There is no woman or man so difficultto get on with, whatever his or her

graces or accomplishments, as the one "you don't know where to find," as the phrase is. Indeed, it has come

to pass that the highest and final eulogy ever given to a man, either in public or private life, is that he is one

"you can tie to." And when you find a woman of that sort you do not need to explain to the cynical the

The traits, good and bad, persist; they may be veneered or restrained, they are seldom eradicated. All the

traits that made the great Napoleon worshiped, hated, and feared existed in the little Bonaparte, as perfectly

as the peapod in the flower. The whole of the First Empire was smirched with Corsican vulgarity. The world

always reckons with these radical influences that go to make up a family. One of the first questions asked by

an old politician, who knew his world thoroughly, about any man becoming prominent, when there was a

There are exceptions to this general rule, and they are always noticeable when they occurthis deviation

from the traits of the earliest years and offer material fox some of the subtlest and most interesting studies

It was impossible for those who met Philip Burnett after he had left college, and taken his degree in the

lawschool, and spent a year, more or less studiously, in Europe, to really know him if they had not known

the dreaming boy in his early home, with all the limitations as well as the vitalizing influences of his start in

life. And on the contrary, the error of the neighbors of a lad in forecasting his career comes from the fact that

they do not know him. The verdict about Philip would probably have been that he was a very nice sort of a

boy, but that he would never "set the North River on fire." There was a headstrong, selfish, pushing sort of

boy, one of Philip's older schoolmates, who had become one of the foremost merchants and operators in New

York, and was already talked of for mayor. This success was the sort that fulfilled the rural idea of getting on

in the world, whereas Philip's accomplishments, seen through the veneer of conceit which they had

occasioned him to take on, did not commend themselves as anything worth while. Accomplishments rarely

do unless they are translated into visible position or into the currency of the realm. How else can they be

judged? Does not the great public involuntarily respect the author rather for the sale of his books than for the

The period of Philip's novitiatethose most important years from his acquaintance with Celia Howard to the

attainment of his professional degreewas most interesting to him, but the story of it would not detain the

reader of exciting fiction. He had elected to use his little patrimony in making himself instead of in making

moneyif merely following his inclination could be called an election. If he had reasoned about it he would

have known that the few thousands of dollars left to him from his father's estate, if judiciously invested in

business, would have grown to a good sum when he came of age, and he would by that time have come into

business habits, so that all he would need to do would be to go on and make more money. If he had reasoned

more deeply he would have seen that by this process he would become a man of comparatively few resources

for the enjoyment of life, and a person of very little interest to himself or to anybody else. So perhaps it was

just as well that he followed his instincts and postponed the making of money until he had made himself,

though he was to have a good many bitter days when the possession of money seemed to him about the one

It was Celia, who had been his constant counselor and tormentor, about the time when she was beginning to

feel a little shy and longlegged, in her short skirts, who had, in a romantic sympathy with his tastes, opposed

his going into a "store" as a clerk, which seemed to the boy at one time an ideal situation for a young man.

"A store, indeed!" cried the young lady; "pomatum on your hair, and a grin on your face; snip, snip, snip,

calico, ribbons, yardstick; 'It's very becoming, miss, that color; this is only a sample, only a remnant, but I

shall have a new stock in by Friday; anything else, ma'am, today?' Sho! Philip, for a man!"

Fortunately for Philip there lived in the village an old waif, a scholarly oddity, uncommunicative, whose

coming to dwell there had excited much gossip before the inhabitants got used to his odd ways.

Usually reticent and rough of speechthe children thought he was an old bearhe was nevertheless

discovered to be kindly and even charitable in neighborhood emergencies, and the minister said he was about

the most learned man he ever knew. His history does not concern us, but he was doubtless one of the men

whose talents have failed to connect with success in anything, who had had his bout with the world, and

retired into peaceful seclusion in an indulgence of a mild pessimism about the world generally.

He lived alone, except for the rather neutral presence of Aunt Hepsy, who had formerly been a village

tailoress, and whose cottage he had bought with the proviso that the old woman should continue in it as

"help." With Aunt Hepsy he was no more communicative than with anybody else. "He was always readin',

when he wasn't goin' fishin' or off in the woods with his gun, and never made no trouble, and was about the

easiest man to get along with she ever see. You mind your business and he'll mind his'n." That was the sum of

Aunt Hepsy's delivery about the recluse, though no doubt her old age was enriched by constant "study" over

his probable history and character. But Aunt Hepsy, since she had given up tailoring, was something of a

The house was full of books, mostly queer books, "in languages nobody knows what," as Aunt Hepsy said,

which made Philip open his eyes when he went there one day to take to the old man a memorandumbook

which he had found on Mill Brook. The recluse took a fancy to the ingenuous lad when he saw he was

interested in books, and perhaps had a mind not much more practical than his own; the result was an

acquaintance, and finally an intimacyat which the village wondered until it transpired that Philip was

studying with the old fellow, who was no doubt a poor shack of a schoolteacher in disguise.

It was from this gruff friend that Philip learned Greek and Latin enough to enable him to enter college, not

enough drill and exact training in either to give him a high stand, but an appreciation of the literatures about

which the old scholar was always enthusiastic. Philip regretted all his life that he had not been severely

drilled in the classics and mathematics, for he never could become a specialist in anything. But perhaps, even

in this, fate was dealing with him according to his capacities. And, indeed, he had a greater respect for the

scholarship of his wayside tutor than for the pedantic acquirements of many men he came to know

afterwards. It was from him that Philip learned about books and how to look for what he wanted to know, and

it was he who directed Philip's taste to the best. When he went off to college the lad had not a good

preparation, but he knew a great deal that would not count in the entrance examinations.

"You will need all the tools you can get the use of, my boy, in the struggle," was the advice of his mentor,

"and the things you will need most may be those you have thought least of. I never go fishing without both

Philip was always grateful that before he entered college he had a fine reading knowledge of French, and that

he knew enough German to read and enjoy Heine's poems and prose, and that he had read, or read in, pretty

He used to recall the remark of a lad about his own age, who was on a vacation visit to Rivervale, and had

just been prepared for college at one of the famous schools. The boys liked each other and were much

together in the summer, and talked about what interested them during their rambles, carrying the rod or the

fowlingpiece. Philip naturally had most to say about the world he knew, which was the world of books

that is to say, the stored information that had accumulated in the world. This more and more impressed the

"By George! I might have known something if I hadn't been kept at school all my life."

Philip's career in college could not have been called notable. He was not one of the dozen stars in the

classroom, but he had a reputation of another sort. His classmates had a habit of resorting to him if they

wanted to "know anything" outside the textbooks, for the range of his information seemed to them

encyclopaedic. On the other hand, he escaped the reputation of what is called "a good fellow." He was not so

much unpopular as he was unknown in the college generally, but those who did know him were tolerant of

the fact that he cared more for reading than for college sports or college politics. It must be confessed that he

added little to the reputation of the university, since his name was never once mentioned in the public

printssearch has been made since the public came to know him as a writeras a hero in any crew or team

on any game field. Perhaps it was a little selfish that his muscle developed in the gymnasium was not put into

advertising use for the university. The excuse was that he had not time to become an athlete, any more than

he had time to spend three years in the discipline of the regular army, which was in itself an excellent thing.

Celia, in one of her lettersit was during her first year at a woman's college, when the development of

muscle in gymnastics, running, and the vigorous game of ball was largely engaging the attention of this

enthusiastic young ladytook him to task for his inactivity. "This is the age of muscle," she wrote; "the brain

is useless in a flabby body, and probably the brain itself is nothing but concentrated intelligent muscle. I don't

know how men are coming out, but women will never get the position they have the right to occupy until

Philip had replied, banteringly, that if that were so he had no desire to enter in a physical competition with

But later on, when Celia had got into the swing of the classics, and was training for a part in the play of

"Antigone," she wrote in a different strain, though she would have denied that the change had any relation to

the fact that she had strained her back in a rowingmatch. She did not apologize for her former advice, but

she was all aglow about the Greek drama, and made reference to Aspasia as an intellectual type of what

women might become. "I didn't ever tell you how envious I used to be when you were studying Greek with

that old codger in Rivervale, and could talk about Athens and all that. Next time we meet, I can tell you, it

will be Greek meets Greek. I do hope you have not dropped the classics and gone in for the modern notion of

being real and practical. If I ever hear of your writing 'real' poetryit is supposed to be real if it is in dialect

Whatever this decided young woman was doing at the time she was sure was the best for everybody to do,

Now that the days of preparation were over, and Philip found himself in New York, face to face with the fact

that he had nowhere to look for money to meet the expense of rent, board, and clothes except to his own daily

labor, and that there was another economy besides that which he had practiced as to luxuries, there were

doubtless hours when his faith wavered a little in the wisdom of the decision that had invested all his

patrimony in himself. He had been fortunate, to be sure, in securing a clerk's desk in the great lawoffice of

Hunt, Sharp Tweedle, and he had the kindly encouragement of the firm that, with close application to

business, he would make his way. But even in this he had his misgivings, for a great part of his acquirements,

and those he most valued, did not seem to be of any use in his officework. He had a lofty conception of his

chosen profession, as the right arm in the administration of justice between man and man. In practice,

however, it seemed to him that the object was to win a case rather than to do justice in a case. Unfortunately,

also, he had cultivated his imagination to the extent that he could see both sides of a case. To see both sides is

indeed the requisite of a great lawyer, but to see the opposite side only in order to win, as in looking over an

opponent's hand in a game of cards. It seemed to Philip that this clear perception would paralyze his efforts

for one side if he knew it was the wrong side. The argument was that every cause a man's claim or his

defenseought to be presented in its fullness and urged with all the advocate's ingenuity, and that the

decision was in the bosom of an immaculate justice on the bench and the unbiased intelligence in the

jurybox. This might be so. But Philip wondered what would be the effect on his own character and on his

intellect if he indulged much in the habit of making the worse appear the better cause, and taking up

indifferently any side that paid. For himself, he was inclined always to advise clients to "settle," and he

fancied that if the occupation of the lawyer was to explain the case to people ignorant of it, and to champion

only the right side, as it appeared to an unprejudiced, legally trained mind, and to compose instead of

encouraging differences, the law would indeed be a noble profession, and the natural misunderstandings,

"Stuff!" said Mr. Sharp. "If you begin by declining causes you disapprove of, the public will end by letting

you alone in your self conceited squeamishness. It's human nature you've got to deal with, not theories about

law and justice. I tell you that men like litigation. They want to have it out with somebody. And it is better

From Mr. Hunt, who moved in the serener upper currents of the law, Philip got more satisfaction.

"Of course, Mr. Burnett, there are miserable squabbles in the law practice, and contemptible pettifoggers and

knaves, and men who will sell themselves for any dirty work, as there are in most professions and

occupations, but the profession could not exist for a day if it was not on the whole on the side of law and

No doubt it needs from time to time criticism and reformation. So does the church. You look at the characters

of the really great lawyers! And there is another thing. In dealing with the cases of our complex life, there is

no accomplishment, no learning in science, art, or literature, that the successful practitioner will not find it

very advantageous to possess. And a lawyer will never be eminent who has not imagination."

Philip thought he had a very good chance of exercising his imagination in the sky chamber where he slepta

capital situation from which to observe the world. There could not have been an uglier view createda

shapeless mass of brick and stone and painted wood, a collected, towering monstrosity of rectangular and

inharmonious lines, a realized dream of hideousnessbut for the splendid sky, always changing and doing

all that was possible in the gleams and shadows and the glowing colors of morning and evening to soften the

ambitious work of man; but for the wide horizon, with patches of green shores and verdant flats washed by

the kindly tide; but for the Highlands and Staten Island, the gateway to the ocean; but for the great river and

the mighty bay shimmering and twinkling and often iridescent, and the animated life of sails and steamers,

the leviathans of commerce and the playthings of pleasure, and the beetlelike, monstrous ferryboats that

pushed their noses through all the confusion, like intelligent, businesslike saurians that knew how to keep an

appointed line by a clumsy courtesy of apparent yielding. Yes, there was life enough in all this, and

When Philip came home from the office at sunset, through the bustling streets, and climbed up to his perch,

he insensibly brought with him something of the restless energy and strife of the city, and in this mood the

prospect before him took on a certain significance of great things accomplished, of the highest form of human

energy and achievement; he was a part of this exuberant, abundant life, to succeed in the struggle seemed

The little room had space enough for a cot bed, a toiletstand, a couple of easychairsan easychair is the

one article of furniture absolutely necessary to a reflecting studentsome wellfilled bookshelves, a small

writingdesk, and a tiny closet quite large enough for a wardrobe which seemed to have no disposition to

grow. Except for the books and the writingdesk, with its heterogeneous manuscripts, unfinished or rejected,

there was not much in the room to indicate the taste of its occupant, unless you knew that his taste was

exhibited rather by what he excluded from the room than by what it contained. It must be confessed that,

when Philip was alone with his books and his manuscripts, his imagination did not expand in the directions

that would have seemed profitable to the head of his firm. That life of the town which was roaring in his ears,

that panorama of prosperity spread before him, related themselves in his mind not so much as incitements to

engage in the quarrels of his profession as something demanding study and interpretation, something much

more human than processes and briefs and arguments. And it was a dark omen for his success that the world

interested him much more for itself than for what he could make out of it. Make something to be sure he

mustso long as he was only a law clerk on a meagre salaryand it was this necessity that had much to do

with the production of the manuscripts. It was a joke on Philip in his clubbytheway, the halfyearly

dues were not far offthat he was doing splendidly in the law; he already had an extensive practice in

The law is said to be a jealous mistress, but literature is a young lady who likes to be loved for herself alone,

and thinks permission to adore is sufficient reward for her votary. Commonsense told Philip that the jealous

mistress would flout him and land him in failure if he gave her a halfhearted service; but the other young

lady, the Helen of the professions, was always beckoning him and alluring him by the most subtle arts,

occupying all his hours with meditations on her grace and beauty, till it seemed the world were well lost for

her smile. And the fascinating jade never hinted that devotion to her brought more drudgery and harassment

and pain than any other service in the world. It would not have mattered if she had been frank, and told him

that her promise of eternal life was illusory and her rewards commonly but a flattering of vanity. There was

no resisting her enchantments, and he would rather follow her through a world of sin and suffering, pursuing

her radiant form over bog and moor, in penury and heartache, for one sunrise smile and one glimpse of her

sunset heaven, than to walk at ease with a commonplace maiden on any illumined and welltrod highway.

It is the desire of every ambitious soul to, enter Literature by the front door, and the few who have patience

and money enough to live without the aid of the beckoning Helen may enter there. But a side entrance is the

destiny of most aspirants, even those with the golden key of genius, and they are a long time in working their

way to be seen coming out, of the front entrance. It is true that a man can attract considerable and immediate

attention by trying to effect an entrance through the sewer, but he seldom gains the respect of the public

whom he interests, any more than an exhibitor of fireworks gains the reputation of an artist that is accorded to

Philip was waiting at the front door, with his essays and his prose symphonies and his satirical novelthe

satire of a young man is apt to be very bitterbut it was as tightly shut against him as if a publisher and not

There was a fellowboarder with Philip, whose acquaintance he had made at the common table in the

basement, who appeared to be free of the world of letters and art. He was an alert, compact, neatly dressed

little fellow, who had apparently improved every one of his twentyeight years in the study of life, in gaining

assurance and confidence in himself, and also presented himself as one who knew the nether world

completely but was not of it. He would have said of himself that he knew it profoundly, that he frequented it

for "material," but that his home was in another sphere. The impression was that he belonged among those

brilliant guerrillas of both sexes, in the borderland of art and society, who lived daintily and talked about life

with unconventional freedom. Slight in figure, with very black hair, and eyes of cloudy gray, an olive

complexion, and features trained to an immobility proof against emotion or surprise, the whole poised as we

would say in the act of being gentlemanly, it is needless to say that he took himself seriously. His readiness,

self confidence, cocksureness, Philip thought all expressed in his nameOlin Brad.

Mr. Brad was not a Bohemianthat is, not at all a Bohemian of the recognized type. His fashionable dress,

closely trimmed hair, and dainty boots took him out of that class. He belonged to the new order, which seems

to have come in with modern journalismthat is, Bohemian in principle, but of the manners and apparel of

the favored of fortune. Mr. Brad was undoubtedly clever, and was down as a bright young man in the list of

those who employed talent which was not dulled by conscientious scruples. He had stood well in college,

during three years in Europe he had picked up two or three languages, dissipated his remaining small fortune,

acquired expensive tastes, and knowledge, both esoteric and exoteric, that was valuable to him in his present

occupation. Returning home fully equipped for a modern literary career, and finding after some bitter

experience that his accomplishments were not taken or paid for at their real value by the caterers for

intellectual New York, he had dropped into congenial society on the staff of the Daily Spectrum, a mighty

engine of public opinion, which scattered about the city and adjacent territory a million of copies, as

prodigally as if they had been auctioneers' announcements. Fastidious people who did not read it gave it a bad

name, not recognizing the classic and heroic attitude of those engaged in pitchforking up and turning over the

Mr. Brad had a Socratic contempt for this sort of faultfinding. It was answer enough to say, "It pays. The

people like it or they wouldn't buy it. It commands the best talent in the market and can afford to pay for it;

even clergymen like to appear in its columnsthey say it's a providential chance to reach the masses. And

look at the Morning GooGoo" (this was his nickname for one of the older dailies), "it couldn't pay its paper

Mr. Brad, however, was not one of the editors, though the acceptance of an occasional short editorial,

sufficiently piquant and impudent and vivid in languageto suit, had given him hopes. He was salaried, but

under orders for special service, and was always in the hope that the execution of each new assignment would

Philip was impressed with the ready talent, the adaptable talent, and the facility of this accomplished

journalist, and as their acquaintance improved he was let into many of the secrets of success in the profession.

"It isn't an easy thing," said Mr. Brad, "to cater to a public that gets tired of anything in about three days. But

it is just as well satisfied with a contradiction as with the original statement. It calls both news. You have to

watch out and see what the people want, and give it to 'em. It is something like the purveying of the

manufacturers and the drygoods jobber for the changing trade in fashions; only the newspaper has the

advantage that it can turn a somersault every day and not have any useless stock left on hand.

The public hasn't any memory, or, if it has, this whirligig process destroys it. What it will not submit to is the

lack of a daily surprise. Keep that in your mind and you can make a popular newspaper. Only," continued Mr.

"You'd laugh," this artist in emotions went on, after a little pause, "at some of my assignments. There was a

run awhile ago on elopements, and my assignment was to have one every Monday morning. The girl must

always be lovely and refined and moving in the best society; elopement with the coachman preferred, varied

with a teacher in a Sundayschool. Invented? Not always. It was surprising how many you could find ready

made, if you were on the watch. I got into the habit of locating them in the interior of Pennsylvania as the

safest place, though Jersey seemed equally probable to the public. Did I never get caught? That made it all the

more lively and interesting. Denials, affidavits, elaborate explanations, two sides to any question; if it was too

hot, I could change the name and shift the scene to a still more obscure town. Or it could be laid to the zeal of

a local reporter, who could give the most ingenious reasons for his story. Once I worked one of those

imaginary reporters up into such prominence for his clever astuteness that my boss was taken in, and asked

"Oh, yes, we have to keep up the domestic side. A paper will not go unless the women like it. One of the

assignments I liked was 'Sayings of Our Little Ones.' This was for every Tuesday morning. Not more than

half a column. These always got copied by the country press solid. It is really surprising how many bright

things you can make children of five and six years say if you give your mind to it. The boss said that I

"'Psychological Study of Children' had a great run. This is the age of science. Same with animals,

astronomyanything. If the public wants science, the papers will give it science.

"After all, the best hold for a lasting sensation is an attack upon some charity or public institution; show up

the abuses, and get all the sentimentalists on your side. The paper gets sympathy for its fearlessness in

serving the public interests. It is always easy to find plenty of testimony from illused convicts and

Undoubtedly Olin Brad was a clever fellow, uncommonly well read in the surface literatures of foreign

origin, and had a keen interest in what he called the metaphysics of his own time. He had many good

qualities, among them friendliness towards men and women struggling like himself to get up the ladder, and

he laid aside all jealousy when he advised Philip to try his hand at some practical work on the Spectrum.

What puzzled Philip was that this fabricator of "stories " for the newspaper should call himself a "realist."

The "story," it need hardly be explained, is newspaper slang for any incident, true or invented, that is worked

up for dramatic effect. To state the plain facts as they occurred, or might have occurred, and as they could

actually be seen by a competent observer, would not make a story. The writer must put in color, and idealize

the scene and the people engaged in it, he must invent dramatic circumstances and positions and language, so

as to produce a "picture." And this picture, embroidered on a commonplace incident, has got the name of

"news." The thread of fact in this glittering web the reader must pick out by his own wits, assisted by his

memory of what things usually are. And the public likes these stories much better than the unadorned report

of facts. It is accustomed to this view of life, so much so that it fancies it never knew what war was, or what a

Mr. Brad was in the story stage of his evolution as a writer. His light facility in it had its attraction for Philip,

but down deep in his nature he felt and the impression was deepened by watching the career of several bright

young men and women on the pressthat indulgence in it would result in such intellectual dishonesty as to

destroy the power of producing fiction that should be true to life. He was so impressed by the ability and

manifold accomplishments of Mr. Brad that he thought it a pity for him to travel that road, and one day he

"Literature!" exclaimed Mr. Brad, with some irritation; "I starved on literature for a year. Who does live on it,

till he gets beyond the necessity of depending on it? There is a lot of humbug talked about it. You can't do

anything till you get your name up. Some day I will make a hit, and everybody will ask, 'Who is this daring,

clever Olin Brad?' Then I can get readers for anything I choose to write. Look at Champ Lawson. He can't

write correct English, he never will, he uses picturesque words in a connection that makes you doubt if he

knows what they mean. But he did a daredevil thing picturesquely, and now the publishers are at his feet.

When I met him the other day he affected to be bored with so much attention, and wished he had stuck to the

livery stable. He began at seventeen by reporting a runaway from the point of view of the hostler."

"Well," said Philip, "isn't it quite in the line of the new movement that we should have an introspective

hostler, who perhaps obeys Sir Philip Sidney's advice, 'Look into your heart and write'? I chanced the other

night in a company of the unconventional and illuminated, the 'poster' set in literature and art, wildeyed and

anaemic young women and intensely languid, 'nil admirari' young men, the most advanced products of the

studios and of journalism. It was a very interesting conclave. Its declared motto was, 'We don't read, we

write.' And the members were on a constant strain to say something brilliant, epigrammatic, original. The

person who produced the most outre sentiment was called 'strong.' The women especially liked no writing

that was not 'strong.' The strongest man in the company, and adored by the women, was the poet artist

Courci Cleves, who always seems to have walked straight out of a fashionplate, much deferred to in this set,

which affects to defer to nothing, and a thing of beauty in the theatre lobbies. Mr. Cleves gained much

applause for his wellconsidered wish that all that has been written in the world, all books and libraries,

could be destroyed, so as to give a chance to the new men and the fresh ideas of the new era."

"My dear sir," said Brad, who did not like this caricature of his friends, "you don't make any allowance for

"You would hit it nearer if you said I didn't make allowance for the eccentricities without genius," retorted

"Well," replied Mr. Brad, taking his leave, "you don't understand your world. You go your own way and see

And when Philip reflected on it, he wondered if it were not rash to offend those who had the public ear, and

did up the personals and minor criticisms for the current prints. He was evidently out of view. No magazine

paper of his had gained the slightest notice from these sublimated beings, who discovered a new genius every

A few nights after this conversation Mr. Brad was in uncommon spirits at dinner.

"Oh, nothing much. I've thrown away the chance of the biggest kind of a novel of American life. Only it

wouldn't keep. You look in the Spectrum tomorrow morning. You'll see something interesting."

"No, not a bit. And the public is going to be deceived this time, sure, expecting a fake. You know Mavick?"

"A good many times. Used to be minister or consul or something at Rome. A great swell. It's about his

"No, no; she's all right. It's the way she's brought upshows what we've come to. They say she's the biggest

heiress in America and a raving beauty, the only child. She has been brought up like the Kohinoor, never out

of somebody's sight. She has never been alone one minute since she was born. Had three nurses, and it was

the business of one of them, in turn, to keep an eye on her. Just think of that. Never was out of the sight of

"Why, the parents are afraid she'll be kidnapped, and held for a big ransom. No, I never saw her, but I've got

the thing down to a dot. Wouldn't I like to interview her, though, get her story, how the world looks to her.

Under surveillance for sixteen years! The 'Prisoner of Chillon' is nothing to it for romance."

"Yes, facts make a good basis, sometimes. I've got 'em all in, but of course I've worked the thing up for all it

is worth. You'll see. I kept it one day to try and get a photograph. We've got the house and Mavick, but the

girl's can't be found, and it isn't safe to wait. We are going to blow it out tomorrow morning."

The Mavick mansion was on Fifth Avenue in the neighborhood of Central Park. It was one of the buildings in

the city that strangers were always taken to see. In fact, this was a palace not one kind of a palace, but all

kinds of a palace. The clever and ambitious architect of the house had grouped all the styles of architecture he

had ever seen, or of which he had seen pictures. Here was not an architectural conception, like a sonnet or a

wellconstructed novel, but if all the work could have been spread out in line, in all its variety, there would

have been produced a panorama. The sight of the mansion always caused wonder and generally ignorant

admiration. Its vastness and splendor were felt to be somehow typical of the New World and of the

The cost, in the eyes of the spectators, was a great part of its merits. No doubt this was a fabulous sum. "You

can form a little idea of it," said a gentleman to his country friend, "when I tell you that that little bit there,

that little corner of carving and decoration, cost two hundred thousand dollars! I had this from the architect

The interior was as fully representative of wealth and of the ambition to put under one roof all the notable

effects of all the palaces in the world. But it had, what most palaces have not, all the requisites for luxurious

living. The variety of styles in the rooms was bewildering. Artists of distinction, both foreign and native, had

vied with each other in the decoration of the rooms given over to the display of their genius. All paganism

and all Christianity, history, myth, and the beauties of nature were spread upon the walls and ceilings. Rare

woods, rare marbles, splendid textures, the product of ancient handiwork and modern looms, added a certain

dignity to the more airy creations of the artists. Many of the rooms were named from the nations whose styles

of decoration and furnishing were imitated in them, but others had the simple designation of the gold room,

the silver room, the lapislazuli room, and so on. It was not only the showrooms, the halls, passages,

stairways, and galleries (both of pictures and of curios) that were thus enriched, but the boudoirs,

retiringrooms, and more private apartments as well. It was not simply a house of luxury, but of all the

comfort that modern invention can furnish. It was said that the money lavished upon one or two of the noble

apartments would have built a Statehouse (though not at Albany), and that the fireplace in the great hall cost

as much as an imitation mediaeval church. These were the things talked about, and yet the portions of this

noble edifice, rich as they were, habitually occupied by the family had another characterthe attractions and

conveniences of what we call a home. Mrs. Mavick used to say that in her apartments she found refuge in a

sublimated domesticity. Mavick's own quartersnot the study off the library where he received visitors

whom it was necessary to impresshad an executive appearance, and were, in the necessary appliances,

more like the interior bureau of a board of trade. In fact, the witty brokers who were admitted to its mysteries

Mr. Brad's article on "A Prisoned Millionaire" more than equaled Philip's expectations. No such "story" had

appeared in the city press in a long time. It was what was called, in the language of the period, a work of

artthat is, a sensation, heightened by all the words of color in the language, applied not only to material

things, but to states and qualities of mind, such as "purple emotions" and "scarlet intrepidity." It was also

exceedingly complimentary. Mavick himself was one of the powers and pillars of American society, and the

girl was an exquisite exhibition of woodland bloom in the first flush of springtime. As he read it over, Philip

That morning, before going to his office, Philip strolled up Fifth Avenue to look at that now doubly, famous

mansion. Many others, it appeared, were moved by the same curiosity. There was already a crowd assembled.

A couple of policemen, on special duty, patrolled the sidewalk in front in order to keep a passage open, and

perhaps to prevent a too impudent inspection. Opposite the house, on the sidewalk and on doorsteps, was a

motley throng, largely made up of toughs and roughs from the East Side, goodnatured spectators who

merely wanted to see this splendid prison, and a moving line of gentlemen and ladies who simply happened

to be passing that way at this time. The curbstone was lined with a score of reporters of the city journals, each

with his notebook. Every window and entrance was eagerly watched. It was hoped that one of the family

might be seen, or that some servant might appear who could be interviewed. Upon the windows supposed by

the reporters to be those from which the heiress looked, a strict watch was kept. The number, form, and

location of these windows were accurately noted, the stuff of the curtains described in the phrase of the

upholsterer, and much good language was devoted to the view from these windows. The shrewdest of the

reporters had already sought information as to the interior from the flower dealers, from upholsterers, from

artists who had been employed in the decorations, and had even assailed, in the name of the rights of the

public whom they represented, the architects of the building; but their chief reliance was upon the waiters

furnished by the leading caterers on occasions of special receptions and great dinners, and milliners and

dressmakers, who had penetrated the more domestic apartments. By reason of this extraordinary article in

the newspaper, the public had acquired the right to know all about the private life of the Mavick family.

This right was not acknowledged by Mr. Mavick and his family. Of course the object of the excitement was

wholly ignorant of the cause of it, as no daily newspaper was ever seen by her that had not been carefully

inspected by the trusted and intelligent governess. The crowd in front of the mansion was accounted for by

the statement that a picture of it had appeared in one of the low journals, and there was naturally a curiosity to

see it. And Evelyn was told that this was one of the penalties a man paid for being popular.

Mrs. Mavick, who seldom lost her head, was thoroughly frightened and upset, and it was a rare occasion that

could upset the equanimity of the late widow, Mrs. Carmen Henderson. She gave way to her passion and

demanded that the offending editor should be pursued with the utmost rigor of the law. Mr. Mavick was not

less annoyed and angry, but he smiled when his wife talked of pursuing the press with the utmost rigor of the

law, and said that he would give the matter prompt attention. That day he had an interview with the editor of

the Daily Spectrum; which was satisfactory to both parties. The editor would have said that Mavick behaved

like a gentleman. The result of the interview appeared in the newspaper of the following morning.

Mr. Mavick had requested that the offending reporter should be cautioned; he was too wise to have further

attention called to the matter by demanding his dismissal. Accordingly the reporter was severely

The editorial, which was written by Mr. Olin Brad, and was in his best Macaulay style, began somewhat

humorously by alluding to the curious interest of the public in ancient history, citing Mr. Froude and Mr.

Carlyle, and the legend of Casper Hauser. It was true, gradually approaching the case in point, that

uncommon precautions had been taken in the early years of the American heiress, and it was the romance of

the situation that had been laid before the readers of the Spectrum. But there had been really no danger in our

chivalrous, free American society, and all these precautions were long a thing of the past (which was not

true). In short, with elaboration and great skill, and some humor, the exaggerations of the former article were

minimized, and put in an airy and unsubstantial light. And then this friend of the people, this exposer of

abuses and champion of virtue, turned and justly scored the sensational press for prying into the present life

Incidentally, it was mentioned that the ladies of the family had before this incident bespoken their passage for

their annual visit to Europe, and that this affair had not disturbed their arrangements (which also was not

true). This casual announcement was intended to draw away attention from the Fifth Avenue house, and to

The country press, which had far and wide printed the interesting story, softened it in accordance with the

later development. Possibly no intelligent person was deceived, but in the estimation of the mass of the

people the Spectrum increased its reputation for enterprise and smartness and gave also an impression of its

fairness. The manager, told Mr. Brad that the increased sales of the two days permitted the establishment to

give him a vacation of two weeks on full pay, and during these weeks the manager himself set up a neat and

All of which events, only partially understood, Mr. Philip Burnett revolved in his mind, and wondered if what

The name of Thomas Mavick has lost the prominence and significance it had at the time the events recorded

in this history were taking place. It seems incredible that the public should so soon have lost interest in him.

His position in the country was most conspicuous. No name was more frequently in the newspapers. No other

person not in official life was so often interviewed. The reporters instinctively turned to him for information

in matters financial, concerning deals, and commercial, which were so commonly connected with political,

enterprises. No loan was negotiated without consulting him, no operation was considered safe without

knowing how he was affected towards it, and to ascertain what Mavick was doing or thinking was a constant

anxiety in the Street. Of course the opinion of a man so powerful was very important in politics, and any

church or sect would be glad to have his support. The fact that he and his family worshiped regularly at St.

Agnes's was a guarantee of the stability of that church, and incidentally marked the success of the Christian

But the condition of the presence in the public mind of the name of a great operator and accumulator of

money who is merely that is either that he go on accumulating, so that the magnitude of his wealth has few if

any rivals, or that his name become synonymous with some gigantic cleverness, if not rascality, so that it is

used as an adjective after he and his wealth have disappeared from the public view. It is different with the

reputation of an equally great financier who has used his ability for the service of his country. There is no

Valhalla for the mere accumulators of money. They are fortunate if their names are forgotten, and not

Mavick may have been the ideal of many a selfmade man, but he did not make his fortunehe married it.

And it was suspected that the circumstances attending that marriage put him in complete control of it. He

came into possession, however, with cultivated shrewdness and tact and large knowledge of the world, the

world of diplomacy as well as of business. And under his manipulation the vast fortune so acquired was

reported to have been doubled. It was at any rate almost fabulous in the public estimation.

When the charming widow of the late Rodney Henderson, then sojourning in Rome, placed her attractive self

and her still more attractive fortune in the hands of Mr. Thomas Mavick, United States Minister to the Court

of Italy, she attained a position in the social world which was in accord with her ambition, and Mavick

acquired the means of making the mission, in point of comparison with the missions of the other powers at

the Italian capital, a credit to the Great Republic. The match was therefore a brilliant one, and had a sort of

Those who knew Mrs. Mavick in the remote past, when she was the fascinating and not definitely placed

Carmen Eschelle, and who also knew Mr. Mavick when he was the confidential agent of Rodney Henderson,

knew that their union was a convenient and material alliance, in which the desire of each party to enjoy in

freedom all the pleasures of the world could be gratified while retaining the social consideration of the world.

Both had always been circumspect. And it may be added, for the information of strangers, that they

thoroughly knew each other, and were participants in a knowledge that put each at disadvantage, so that their

wedded life was a permanent truce. This bond of union was not ideal, and not the best for the creation of

individual character, but it avoided an exhibition of those public antagonisms which so grieve and disturb the

even flow of the current of society, and give occasion to so much witty comment on the institution of

When, some two years after Mr. Mavick relinquished the mission to Italy to another statesman who had done

some service to the opposite party, an heiress was born to the house of Mavick, her appearance in the world

occasioned some disappointment to those who had caused it. Mavick naturally wished a son to inherit his

name and enlarge the gold foundation upon which its perpetuity must rest; and Mrs. Mavick as naturally

shrank from a responsibility that promised to curtail freedom of action in the life she loved. Carmenit was

an old saying of the danglers in the time of Hendersonwas a domestic woman except in her own home.

However, it is one of the privileges of wealth to lighten the cares and duties of maternity, and the enlarged

household was arranged upon a basis that did not interfere with the life of fashion and the charitable

engagements of the mother. Indeed, this adaptable woman soon found that she had become an object of more

than usual interest, by her latest exploit, in the circles in which she moved, and her softened manner and

edifying conversation showed that she appreciated her position. Even the McTavishes, who were inclined to

be skeptical, said that Carmen was delightful in her new role. This showed that the information Mrs. Mavick

got from the women who took care of her baby was of a kind to touch the hearts of mothers and spinsters.

Moreover, the child was very pretty, and early had winning ways. The nurse, before the baby was a year old,

discovered in her the cleverness of the father and the grace and fascination of the mother. And it must be said

that, if she did not excite passionate affection at first, she enlisted paternal and maternal pride in her career. It

dawned upon both parents that a daughter might give less cause for anxiety than a son, and that in an heiress

there were possibilities of an alliance that would give great social distinction. Considering, therefore, all that

she represented, and the settled conviction of Mrs. Mavick that she would be the sole inheritor of the fortune,

It happened that about the time Evelyn was christened there was a sort of epidemic of stealing children, and

of attempts to rob tombs of occupants who had died rich or distinguished, in the expectation of a ransom. The

newspapers often chronicled mysterious disappearances; parents whose names were conspicuous suffered

great anxiety, and extraordinary precautions were taken in regard to the tombs of public men. And this was

the reason that the heiress of the house of Mavick became the object of a watchful vigilance that was

probably never before exercised in a republic, and that could only be paralleled in the case of a sole heir

These circumstances resulted in an interference with the laws of nature which it must be confessed destroyed

one of the most interesting studies in heredity that was ever offered to an historian of social life. What sort of

a child had we a right to expect from Thomas Mavick, diplomatist and operator, successor to the rights and

wrongs of Rodney Henderson, and Carmen Mavick, with the past of Carmen Eschelle and Mrs. Henderson?

Those who adhered to the strictest application of heredity, in considering the natural development of Evelyn

Mavick, sought refuge in the physiological problem of the influence of Rodney Henderson, and declared that

something of his New England sturdiness and fundamental veracity had been imparted to the inheritor of his

But the visible interference took the form of Ann McDonald, a Scotch spinster, to whom was intrusted the

care of Evelyn as soon as she was christened. It was merely a piece of good fortune that brought a person of

the qualifications of Ann McDonald into the family, for it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Mavick had given

any thought to the truth that the important education of a child begins in its cradle, or that in selecting a

caretaker and companion who should later on be a governess she was consulting her own desire of freedom

from the duties of a mother. It was enough for her that the applicant for the position had the highest

recommendations, that she was prepossessing in appearance, and it was soon perceived that the guardian was

truthful, faithful, vigilant, and of an affectionate disposition and an innate refinement.

Ann McDonald was the only daughter of a clergyman of the Scotch Church, and brought up in the literary

atmosphere common in the most cultivated Edinburgh homes. She had been accurately educated, and always

with the knowledge that her education might be her capital in life. After the death of her mother, when she

was nineteen, she had been her father's housekeeper, and when in her twentyfourth year her father

relinquished his life and his salary, she decided, under the advice of influential friends, to try her fortune in

America. And she never doubted that it was a providential guidance that brought her into intimate relations

with the infant heiress. It seemed probable that a woman so attractive and so solidly accomplished would not

very long remain a governess, but in fact her career was chosen from the moment she became interested in

the development of the mind and character of the child intrusted to her care. It is difficult to see how our

modern life would go on as well as it does if there were not in our homes a good many such faithful souls. It

sometimes seems, in this shifting world, that about the best any of us can do is to prepare some one else for

Miss McDonald had a pretty comprehensive knowledge of English literature and history, and, better perhaps

than mere knowledge, a discriminating and cultivated taste. If her religious education had twisted her view of

the fine arts, she had nevertheless a natural sympathy for the beautiful, and she would not have been a

Scotchwoman if she had not had a love for the romances of her native land and at heart a "ballad" sentiment

for the cavaliers. If Evelyn had been educated by her in Edinburgh, she might have been in sentiment a young

Jacobite. She had through translations a sufficient knowledge of the classics to give her the necessary literary

background, and her study of Latin had led her into the more useful acquisition of French.

If she had been free to indulge her own taste, she would have gone far in natural history, as was evident from

She inspired so much confidence by her good sense, clearheadedness, and discretion, that almost from the

first Evelyn was confided to her sole care, with only the direction that the baby was never for an instant, night

or day, to be left out of the sight of a trusty attendant. The nurse was absolutely under her orders, she selected

the two maids, and no person except the parents and the governess could admit visitors to the nursery. This

perfect organization was maintained for many years, and though it came to be relaxed in details, it was

literally true that the heiress was never alone, and never out of the sight of some trusted person responsible

for her safety. But whatever the changes or relaxation, in holidays, amusements, travel, or education, the

person who formed her mind was the one who had taught her to obey, to put words together into language,

It is not necessary to consider Ann McDonald as a paragon. She was simply an intelligent, disciplined

woman, with a strong sense of duty. If she had married and gone about the ordinary duties of life at the age of

twentyfour, she would probably have been in no marked way distinguished among women. Her own

development was largely due to the responsibility that was put upon her in the training of another person. In

this sense it was true that she had learned as much as she had imparted. And in nothing was this more evident

than in the range of her literary taste and judgment. Whatever risks, whatever latitude she might have been

disposed to take with regard to her own mind, she would not take as to the mind of another, and as a

consequence her own standards rose to meet the situation. That is to say, in a conscientious selection of only

the best for Evelyn, she became more fastidious as to the food for her own mind. Or, to put it in still another

way, in regard to character and culture generally, the growth of Miss McDonald could be measured by that of

When, from the time Evelyn was seven years old, it became necessary in her education to call in special

tutors in the languages and in mathematics, and in certain arts that are generally called accomplishments,

Miss McDonald was always present when the lessons were given, so that she maintained her ascendency and

her influence in the girl's mind. It was this inseparable companionship, at least in all affairs of the mind, that

gave to this educational experiment an exceptional interest to students of psychology. Nothing could be more

interesting than to come into contact with a mind that from infancy onward had dwelt only upon what is

noblest in literature, and from which had been excluded all that is enervating and degrading. A remarkable

illustration of this is the familiar case of Helen Keller, whose acquisitions, by reason of her blindness and

deafness, were limited to what was selected for her, and that mainly by one person, and she was therefore for

a long time shielded from a knowledge of the evil side of life. Yet all vital literature is so close to life, and so

full of its passion and peril, that it supplies all the necessary aliment for the growth of a sound, discriminating

mind; and that knowledge of the world, as knowledge of evil is euphemistically called, can be safely left out

of a good education. This may be admitted without going into the discussion whether good principles and

standards in literature and morals are a sufficient equipment for the perils of life.

This experiment, of course, was limited in Evelyn's case. She came in contact with a great deal of life. Her

little world was fairly representative, for it contained her father, her mother, her governess, the maids and the

servants, and occasional visitors, whom she saw freely as she grew older. The interesting fact was that she

was obliged to judge this world according to the standards of literature, morals, and manners that had been

implanted in her mainly by the influence of one person. The important part of this experiment of partial

exclusion, in which she was never alone' an experiment undertaken solely for her safety and not for her

trainingwas seen in her when she became conscious of its abnormal character, and perceived that she was

always under surveillance. It might have made her exceedingly morbid, aside from its effect of paralyzing her

selfconfidence and power of initiation, had it not been for the exceptionally strong and cheerful nature of

her companion. A position more hateful, even to a person not specially socially inclined, cannot be imagined

than that of always being watched, and never having any assured privacy. And under such a tutelage and

dependence, how in any event could she be able to take care of herself? What weapons had this heiress of a

great fortune with which to defend herself? What sort of a girl had this treatment during seventeen years

To the private apartment of Mr. Mavick, in the evening of the second eventful day, where, over his

afterdinner cigar, he was amusing himself with a French novel, enters, after a little warning tap, the mistress

"So you didn't horsewhip and you didn't prosecute. You preferred to wriggle out!"

"Yes," said Mavick, too much pleased with the result to be belligerent, "I let the newspaper do the wriggling."

"Oh, my dear, I can trust you for that. Have you any idea how it got hold of the details?"

"Well, everybody knew it already, for that matter. I only wonder that some newspaper didn't get on to it

"Nothing more than what you heard at dinner. She thought it amusing that there should be such a crowd to

gaze at the house, simply because a picture of it had appeared in a newspaper. She thought her father must be

a very important personage. I didn't undeceive her. At times, you know, dear, I think so myself."

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Mavick, with a goodnatured laugh, in which Carmen joined, "and those times

"You ought to be ashamed to take me up that way. I just wanted to talk about the comingout reception. You

know I had come over to your opinion that seventeen was perhaps better than eighteen, considering Evelyn's

"But don't you see this affair upsets all our arrangements? It's very vexatious."

"I don't see it exactly. Bytheway, what do you think of the escape suggested by the Spectrum, in the

assertion that you and Evelyn had arranged to go to Europe? The steamer sails tomorrow."

"Think!" exclaimed Carmen. "Do you think I am going to be run, as you call it, by the newspapers? They run

everything else. I'm not politics, I'm not an institution, I'm not even a revolution. No, I thank you. It answers

"I suppose you can keep indoors a few days. As to the reception, I had arranged my business for it. I may be

"Carmen, I don't care a rap what the public thinks or says. The child's got to face the world some time, and

"Very likely. Perhaps I liked it because I had to fight it. Evelyn never will do that."

"Don't you be too sure of that, my dear; you don't understand yet what a woman feels and knows. You think

she only sees and thinks what she is told. The conceit of men is most amusing about this. Evelyn is deeper

than you think. The discrimination of that child sometimes positively frightens mehow she sees into

things. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if she actually knew her father and mother!"

"Then she beats me," said Mavick, with another laugh, "and I've been at it a long time. Carmen, just for fun,

"Well"there was a Madonnalike smile on her lips, and she put out the toe of her slender foot and

"Just a plain nun. But mamma would not hear of it. Mamma was just a bit worldly."

"I never should have suspected it," said Mavick, with equal gravity. "But how did you live in those early

"Oh!" and Carmen looked up with the most innocent, openeyed expression, "we lived on our income."

"Naturally. We all try to do that." The tone in Mavick's voice showed that he gave it up.

"But, of course," and Carmen was lively again, "it's much nicer to have a big income that's certain than a

"Ah, deary me, it's such a world! Don't you think, dear, that we have had enough domestic notoriety for one

"Arrange as you like." And Mavick stretched up his arms, half yawned, and took up another cigar.

"It will be such a relief to McDonald. She insisted it was too soon." And Carmen whirled out of her chair,

went behind her husband, lifted with her delicate fingers a lock of grayish hair on his forehead, deposited the

lightest kiss there"Nobody in the world knows how good you are except me," and was gone.

And the rich man, who had gained everything he wanted in life except happiness, lighted his cigar and sought

refuge in a tale of modern life, that was, however, too much like his own history to be consoling.

It must not be supposed from what she said that Mrs. Mavick stood in fear of her daughter, but it was only

natural that for a woman of the world the daily contact of a pure mind should be at times inconvenient. This

pure mind was an awful touchstone of conduct, and there was a fear that Evelyn's ignorance of life would

prevent her from making the proper allowances. In her affectionate and trusting nature, which suspected little

evil anywhere, there was no doubt that her father and mother had her entire confidence and love. But the

likelihood was that she would not be pliant. Under Miss McDonald's influence she had somewhat abstract

notions of what is right and wrong, and she saw no reason why these should not be applied in all cases. What

her mother would have called policy and reasonable concessions she would have given different names. For

getting on in the world, this state of mind has its disadvantages, and in the opinion of practical men, like

Mavick, it was necessary to know good and evil. But it was the girl's power of discernment that bothered her

On the other hand, it must not be supposed that the singular training of Evelyn had absolutely destroyed her

inherited tendencies, or made her as she was growing into womanhood anything but a very real woman, with

the reserves, the weaknesses, the coquetries, the defenses which are the charm of her sex. Nor was she so

ignorant of life as such a guarded personality might be thought. Her very wide range of reading had

liberalized her mind, and given her a much wider outlook upon the struggles and passions and failures and

misery of life than many another girl of her age had gained by her limited personal experience. Those who

hold the theory that experience is the only guide are right as a matter of fact, since every soul seems

determined to try for itself and not to accept the accumulated wisdom of literature or of experienced advisers;

but those who come safely out of their experiences are generally sound by principle which has been instilled

in youth. But it is useless to moralize. Only the event could show whether such an abnormal training as

When Mrs. Mavick went to her daughter's apartments she found Evelyn reading aloud and Miss McDonald at

"I don't see, mamma, how we could be doing less; I've only an audience of one, and she is wasting her time."

"Your father cannot arrange it. He has too much on hand this season, and may be away."

The Scotch woman smiled, and only said, "Then I shall have time to finish this."

Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother's lap, and began to smooth her hair and pet her. "I'm awfully

"Yes." And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her stand up to measure. "See, McDonald,

"And see, mamma"the girl was pirouetting on the floor" I can do those steps you do. Isn't it Spanish?"

"You are only a little brownie, after all." Her mother was holding her at arm'slength and studying her

The girl was slender, but not tall. Her figure had her mother's grace, but not its suggestion of yielding

suppleness. She was an undoubted brunettecomplexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in the

sunlight, and low on her foreheadchin a little strong, and nose piquant to say the least of it. Certainly

features not regular nor classic. The mouth, larger than her mother's, had full lips, the upper one short, and

admirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled. A face not handsome, but interesting.

And the eyes made you hesitate to say she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel and

changeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness under the long eyelashes; and it would not

be safe to say that they could not blaze with indignation. Not a face to go wild about, but when you felt her

"I do wonder where she came from? "Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself, as she threw herself upon a couch

Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the days when they quarreled and made up

on the banks of the Deer field. And a fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a

woman in whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if her advice was not always

followed. In the years of student life and preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and

painstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the running chronicle of his life, and poured out his

heart and aspirations. Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most important part of

his education. For, though in this way he might never hope to understand woman, he was getting most

As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhat uncertain. She kept before him a very

high ideal; she expected him to be distinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time.

Now she would have him take one path and now another. And Philip learned to read in this varying advice

the changes in her own experience. There was a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar: there was

no position so noble as that of a university professor or president. Then she turned short round and extolled

the business life: get money, get a position, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like and be

independent. Then came a timethis was her last year in college when science seemed the only thing.

That was really a benefit to mankind: create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.

"Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, the necessity of pure air, you would

deserve a monument. And, besidesthis is an appeal to your lower naturescience is now the thing that

pays." Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in its direction. Law she had finally

approved; it was still respectable; it was a very good waitingground for many opportunities, and it did not

absolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had a sneaking fondness.

Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself. She had tried teaching, she had devoted

herself for a time to work in a College Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked of learning

telegraphy, she had been interested in women's clubs, in a civic club, in the political education of women, and

It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, in one of the old ruts, feeling his way,

like a true American, into the career that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakened

American woman, who does not know exactly what she wants. To be sure, she wants everything. She has

recently come into an open place, and she is distracted by the many opportunities. She has no sooner taken up

one than she sees another that seems better, or more important in the development of her sex, and she flies to

that. But nothing, long, seems the best thing. Perhaps men are in the way, monopolizing all the best things.

Celia had never made a suggestion of this kind, but Philip thought she was typical of the women who push

"I have just been," Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was an active club woman, "out West to a

convention of the Federation of Women's Clubs. Such a striking collection of noble, independent women!

Handsome, lots of them, and dressedoh, my friend, dress is still a part of it! So different from a man's

convention! Cranks? Yes, a few left over. It was a fine, inspiring meeting. But, honestly, I could not exactly

make out what they were federating about, and what they were going to do when they got federated. It sort of

came over me, I am such a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in this world with no object

A more recent letter:"Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep the little threadandneedle and

candy shop in Rivervale? Such a dear, sweet, contented old soul! Always a smile and a good word for every

customer. I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy in the dish that she could afford to give

for a little fellow's cent. It never came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in the world. I

remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her. Well, I am getting into a frame of mind to want to be

an Aunt Hepsy. There is so much sawdust in everythingNo, I'm not lowspirited. I'm just

philosophicalI've a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let the world see what a real useful life is."

And here is a passage from the latest:"What an interesting story your friendI hope he isn't you friend,

for I don't half like himhas made out of that Mavick girl! If I were the girl's mother I should want to roast

Of course I read it, as everybody did and read the crawl out, and looked for more. So it is partly our fault, but

what a shame it is, the invasion of family life! Do tell me, if you happen to see herthe girl driving in the

Park or anywhere of course you never willwhat she looks like. I should like to see an unsophisticated

millionaireess! But it is an awfully interesting problem, invented or not I'm pretty deep in psychology these

days, and I'd give anything to come in contact with that girl. You would just see a woman, and you wouldn't

know. I'd see a soul. Dear me, if I'd only had the chance of that Scotch woman! Don't you see, if we could

only get to really know one mind and soul, we should know it all. I mean scientifically. I know what you are

thinking, that all women have that chance. What you think is impertinentto the subject."

Indeed, the story of Evelyn interested everybody. It was taken up seriously in the country regions. It absorbed

New York gossip for two days, and then another topic took possession of the mercurial city; but it was the

sort of event to take possession of the country mind. New York millionaires get more than their share of

attention in the country press at all times, but this romance became the subject of household talk and church

and sewingcircle gossip, and all the women were eager for more details, and speculated endlessly about the

Alice wrote Philip from Rivervale that her aunt Patience was very much excited by it. "'The poor thing,' she

said, 'always to have somebody poking round, seeing every blessed thing you do or don't do; it would drive

me crazy. There is that comfort in not having anything muchyou have yourself. You tell Philip that I hope

he doesn't go there often. I've no objection to his being kind to the poor thing when they meet, and doing

neighborly things, but I do hope he won't get mixed up with that set.' It is very amusing," Alice continued, "to

But you cannot say, Philip, that you are not warned (!) and you know that Patience is almost a prophet in the

way she has of putting things together. Celia was here recently looking after the little house that has been

rented ever since the death of her mother. I never saw her look so well and handsome, and yet there was a

sort of air about her as if she had been in public a good deal and was quite capable of taking care of herself.

I think she is a good friend of yours. Well, Phil, if you do ever happen to see that Evelyn in the opera, or

The story had not specially interested Philip, except as it was connected with Brad's newspaper prospects, but

letters, like those referred to, received from time to time, began to arouse a personal interest. Of course

merely a psychological interest, though the talk here and there at dinnertables stimulated his desire, at least,

to see the subject of them. But in this respect he was to be gratified, in the usual way things desired happen in

When Mr. Brad came back from his vacation his manner had somewhat changed. He had the air of a person

who stands on firm ground. He felt that he was a personage. He betrayed this in a certain deliberation of

speech, as if any remark from him now might be important. In a way he felt himself related to public affairs.

In short, he had exchanged the curiosity of the reporter for the omniscience of the editor. And for a time

Philip was restrained from intruding the subject of the Mavick sensation. However, one day after dinner he

"I see, Mr. Brad, that your hit still attracts attention." Mr. Brad looked inquiringly blank.

"Ah, that! Yes, it gave me a chance," replied Brad, who was thinking only of himself.

"Yes? Well, I suppose," said Brad, modestly, "that a little country notoriety doesn't hurt a person."

Philip did not tell his interlocutor that, so far as he knew, nobody in the country had ever heard the name of

"Certainly. And, besides, there is a great curiosity to know about the girl. Did you ever see her?"

"Only in public. I don't know Mavick personally, and for reasons," and Mr. Brad laughed in a superior

"Watch out for a Wagner night, and go to the opera. You'll see where Mavick's box is in the bill. She is pretty

sure to be there, and her mother. There is nothing special about her; but her mother is still a very fascinating

woman, I can tell you. You'll find her sure on a 'Carmen' night, but not so sure of the girl."

On this suggestion Philip promptly acted. The extra expense of an orchestra seat he put down to his duty to

keep his family informed of anything that interested them in the city. It was a "Siegfried" night, and a full

house. To describe it all would be very interesting to Alice. The Mavick box was empty until the overture

was half through. Then appeared a gentleman who looked as if he were performing a public duty, a lady who

looked as if she were receiving a public welcome, and seated between them a dark, slender girl, who looked

Behind them, in the shadow, a middleaged woman in plainer attire. It must be the Scotch governess. Mrs.

Mavick had her eyes everywhere about the house, and was graciously bowing to her friends. Mr. Mavick

coolly and unsympathetically regarded the house, quite conscious of it, but as if he were a little bored. You

could not see him without being aware that he was thinking of other things, probably of farreaching

schemes. People always used to say of Mavick, when he was young and a clerk in a Washington bureau, that

he looked omniscient. At least the imagination of spectators invested him with a golden hue, and regarded

him through the roseate atmosphere that surrounds a many millioned man. The girl had her eyes always on

the orchestra, and was waiting for the opening of the world that lay behind the dropcurtain. Philip noticed

that all the evening Mrs. Mavick paid very little attention to the stage, except when the rest of the house was

Fortunately for Philip, in his character of country reporter, the Mavick box was near the stage, and he could

very well see what was going on in it, without wholly distracting his attention from Wagner's sometimes very

There are faces and figures that compel universal attention and admiration. Commonly there is one woman in

a theatre at whom all glances are leveled. It is a mystery why one face makes only an individual appeal, and

an appeal much stronger than that of one universally admired. The house certainly concerned itself very little

about the shy and dark heiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a moment's curiosity. But

the face instantly took hold of Philip. He found it more interesting to read the play in her face than on the

stage. He seemed instantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with her. So intense was his

regard that it seemed as if she must, if there is anything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling,

have been conscious of it. That she was, however, unconscious of any influence reaching her except from the

stage was perfectly evident. She was absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost in

darkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence that there was at least animal life

responsive to the continual pleading, suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra. In the semigloom and

groping of the underworld, it would seem that the girl felt that mystery of life which the instruments were

At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that other world of the past, to a practical

unconsciousness of her immediate surroundings. Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her? Perhaps

only the latter, for it is Wagner's gift to reach by his creations those who have little technical knowledge of

music. At any rate, she was absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the drama repeated in her face that

But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student of her face. She was not merely

discovering the poet's world, she was finding out herself. As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interested

in this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation. To see her eyes sparkle and her

cheeks glow with enthusiasm during the swordsong was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried

began his idyl, that nature and bird song of the awakening of the whole being to the passion of love. Then it

was that Evelyn's face had a look of surprise, of pain, of profound disturbance; it was suffused with blushes,

coming and going in passionate emotion; the eyes no longer blazed, but were softened in a melting tenderness

of sympathy, and her whole person seemed to be carried into the stream of the great life passion. When it

ceased she sank back in her seat, and blushed still more, as if in fear that some one had discovered her secret.

Afterwards, when Philip had an opportunity of knowing Evelyn Mavick, and knowing her very well, and to

some extent having her confidence, he used to say to himself that he had little to learnthe soul of the

As the curtain went down, Mrs. Mavick, whose attention had not been specially given to the artists before,

"Oh, mother," was all the girl could say, with heaving breast and downcast eyes.

All winter long that face seemed to get between Philip and his work. It was an inspiration to his pen when it

ran in the way of literature, but a distinct damage to progress in his profession. He had seen Evelyn again,

more than once, at the opera, and twice been excited by a passing glimpse of her on a crisp, sunny afternoon

in the Mavick carriage in the Park always the same bright, eager face. So vividly personal was the influence

upon him that it seemed impossible that she should not be aware of itimpossible that she could not know

Fortunately youth can create its own world. Between the secluded daughter of millions and the law clerk was

a great gulf, but this did not prevent Evelyn's face, and, in moments of vanity, Evelyn herself, from belonging

to Philip's world. He would have deniedwe have a habit of lying to ourselves quite as much as to

othersthat he ever dreamed of possessing her, but nevertheless she entered into his thoughts and his future

in a very curious way. If he saw himself a successful lawyer, her image appeared beside him. If his story

should gain the public attention, and his occasional essays come to be talked of, it was Evelyn's interest and

approval that he caught himself thinking about. And he had a conviction that she was one to be much more

interested in him as a man of letters than as a lawyer. This might be true. In Philip's story, which was very

slowly maturing, the heroine fell in love with a young man simply for himself, and regardless of the fact that

he was poor and had his career to make. But he knew that if his novel ever got published the critics would

call it a romance, and not a transcript of real life. Had not women ceased to be romantic and ceased to indulge

Was it that Philip was too irresolute to cut either law or literature, and go in, singleminded, for a fortune of

some kind, and a place? Or was it merely that he had confidence in the winning character of his own qualities

and was biding his time? If it was a question of making himself acceptable to a womansay a woman like

Evelynwas it not belittling to his own nature to plan to win her by what he could make rather than by what

Probably the vision he had of Evelyn counted for very little in his halting decision. "Why don't you put her

into a novel?" asked Mr. Brad one evening. The suggestion was a shock. Philip conveyed the idea pretty

plainly that he hadn't got so low as that yet. "Ah, you fellows think you must make your own material. You

are highertoned than old Dante." The fact was that Philip was not really halting. Every day he was less and

less in love with the law as it was practiced, and, courting reputation, he would much rather be a great author

than a great lawyer. But he kept such thoughts to himself. He had inherited a very good stock of

commonsense. Apparently he devoted himself to his office work, and about the occupation of his leisure

hours no one was in his confidence except Celia, and now and then, when he got something into print, Alice.

Professedly Celia was his critic, but really she was the necessary appreciator, for probably most writers

would come to a standstill if there was no sympathetic soul to whom they could communicate, while they

The winter wore along without any incident worth recording, but still fruitful for the future, as Philip fondly

hoped. And one day chance threw in his way another sensation. Late in the afternoon of a spring day he was

sent from the office to Mavick's house with a bundle of papers to be examined and signed.

"You will be pretty sure to find him," said Mr. Sharp, "at home about six. Wait till you do see him. The

Mr. Mavick was in his study, and received Philip very civilly, as the messenger of his lawyers, and was soon

busy in examining the documents, flinging now and then a short question to Philip, who sat at the table near

Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and, not waiting for a summons, a young girl entered, and stopped after

"What is it, dear?" said Mr. Mavick, looking up a moment, and then down at the papers.

"Why, about the coachman's baby. I thought perhaps" She had a paper in her hand, and advanced towards

Philip rose involuntarily. Mr. Mavick looked up quickly. "Yes, presently. I've just now got a little business

It was not an introduction. But for an instant the eyes of the young people met. It seemed to Philip that it was

a recognition. Certainly the full, sweet eyes were bent on him for the second she stood there, before turning

away and leaving the room. And she looked just as true and sweet as Philip dreamed she would look at home.

He sat in a kind of maze for the quarter of an hour while Mavick was affixing his signature and giving some

directions. He heard all the directions, and carried away the papers, but he also carried away something else

unknown to the broker. After all, he found himself reflecting, as he walked down the avenue, the practice of

What was there in this trivial incident that so magnified it in Philip's mind, day after day? Was it that he

began to feel that he had established a personal relation with Evelyn because she had seen him? Nothing had

really happened. Perhaps she had not heard his name, perhaps she did not carry the faintest image of him out

of the room with her. Philip had read in romances of love at first sight, and he had personal experience of it.

Commonly, in romances, the woman gives no sign of it, does not admit it to herself, denies it in her words

and in her conduct, and never owns it until the final surrender. "When was the first moment you began to love

me, dear?" "Why, the first moment, that day; didn't you know it then?" This we are led to believe is common

experience with the shy and secretive sex. It is enough, in a thousand reported cases, that he passed her

window on horseback, and happened to look her way. But with such a look! The mischief was done. But this

Looking back, we like to trace great results to insignificant, momentary incidentsa glance, a word, that

turned the current of a life. There was a definite moment when the thought came to Alexander that he would

conquer the world! Probably there was no such moment. The great Alexander was restless, and at no initial

instant did he conceive his scheme of conquest. Nor was it one event that set him in motion. We confound

events with causes. It happened on such a day. Yes, but it might have happened on another. But if Philip had

not been sent on that errand to Mavick probably Evelyn would never have met him. What nonsense this is,

and what an unheroic character it makes Philip! Is it supposable that, with such a romance as he had

developed about the girl, he would not some time have come near her, even if she had been locked up with all

The incident of this momentary meeting was, however, of great consequence. There is no such feeder of love

as the imagination. And fortunate it was for Philip that his romance was left to grow in the wonderworking

process of his own mind. At first there had been merely a curiosity in regard to a person whose history and

education had been peculiar. Then the sight of her had raised a strange tumult in his breast, and his fancy

began to play about her image, seen only at a distance and not many times, until his imagination built up a

being of surpassing loveliness, and endowed with all the attractions that the poets in all ages have given to the

sex that inspires them. But this sort of creation in the mind becomes vague, and related to literature only,

unless it is sustained by some reality. Even Petrarch must occasionally see Laura at the church door, and

dwell upon the veiled dreamer that passed and perhaps paused a moment to regard him with sad eyes. Philip,

no doubt, nursed a genuine passion, which grew into an exquisite ideal in the brooding of a poetic mind, but

it might in time have evaporated into thin air, remaining only as an emotional and educational experience.

But this moment in Mr. Mavick's library had given a solid body to his imaginations, and a more definite turn

If, in some ordinary social chance, Philip had encountered the heiress, without this previous wonderworking

of his imagination in regard to her, the probability is that he would have seen nothing especially to

distinguish her from the other girls of her age and newness in social experience. Certainly the thought that she

was the possessor of uncounted millions would have been, on his side, an insuperable barrier to any advance.

But the imagination works wonders truly, and Philip saw the woman and not the heiress. She had become

now a distinct personality; to be desired above all things on earth, and that he should see her again he had no

This thought filled his mind, and even when he was not conscious of it gave a sort of color to life, refined his

perceptions, and gave him almost sensuous delight in the masterpieces of poetry which had formerly

He had not yet come to a desire to share his secret with any confidant, but preferred to be much alone and

muse on it, creating a world which was without evil, without doubt, undisturbed by criticism. In this so real

dream it was the daily office work that seemed unreal, and the company and gossip of his club a kind of vain

show. He began to frequent the picturegalleries, where there was at least an attempt to express sentiment,

and to take long walks to the confines of the cityconfines fringed with all the tender suggestions of the

opening spring. Even the monotonous streets which he walked were illumined in his eyes, glorified by the

fullness of life and achievement. "Yes," he said again and again, as he stood on the Heights, in view of the

river, the green wall of Jersey and the great metropolis spread away to the ocean gate, "it is a beautiful city!

And the critics say it is commonplace and vulgar." Dear dreamer, it is a beautiful city, and for one reason and

another a million of people who have homes there think so. But take out of it one person, and it would have

for you no more interest than any other huge assembly of ugly houses. How, in a lover's eyes, the woman can

Celia had come up to town for the spring exhibitions, and was lodging at the Woman's Club. Naturally Philip

saw much of her, indeed gave her all his time that the office did not demand. Her company was always for

him a keen delight, an excitement, and in its way a rest. For though she always criticised, she did not nag, and

just because she made no demands, nor laid any claims on him, nor ever reproached him for want of

devotion, her society was delightful and never dull. They dined together at the Woman's Club, they

experimented on the theatres, they visited the galleries and the pictureshops, they took little excursions into

the suburbs and came back impressed with the general cheapness and shabbiness, and they talkedtalked

about all they saw, all they had read, and something of what they thought. What was wanting to make this

It may have occurred to Philip that Celia had not sufficient respect for his opinions; she regarded them simply

One afternoon, in the Metropolitan PictureGallery, Philip had been expressing enthusiasm for some

paintings that Celia thought more sentimental than artistic, and this reminded her that he was getting into a

"Yes, she is domestic. I admit that. But I'm not sure I do not prefer an impressionistic girl, whom you can't

"I'm not obliged to live with either. In fact, I'd rather live with myself. If it's art, I want art; if it's cooking and

sewing, I want cooking and sewing. If the artist knew enough, he'd paint a woman instead of a cook."

"Real life! There is no such thing. You are demonstrating that. You transform this uninteresting piece of

domesticity into an ideal woman, ennobling her surroundings. She doesn't do it. She is level with them."

"So it would. And that is what I complain of in such 'art' as this. I don't know what has got into you, Phil. I

never saw you so exuberant. You are pleased with everything. Have you had a rise in the office? Have you

"Neither. No rise. No novel. But Tweedle is getting friendly. Threw an extra job in my way the other day. Do

"Well, one of our clients is one of the great publishing firms, and Tweedle often dines with the publisher."

Philip laughed. "At any rate, that is no meaner than a suggestion of Brad's. He says if I will just weave into it

a lot of line scenery, and set my people traveling on the great trunk, stopping off now and then at an attractive

branch, the interested railroads would gladly print it and scatter it all over the country."

"No doubt," said Celia, sinking down upon a convenient seat. "I begin to feel as if there were no protection

for anything. And, Phil, that great monster of a Mavick, who is eating up the country, isn't he a client also?"

"And that daughter of his, about whom such a fuss was made, I suppose you never met her?"

"Oh, she's rather a little thing; rather dark, I told you that; seems devoted to music."

"Yees; has that effect. You'd notice her eyes." If Philip had been frank he would have answered,

"I don't know. She's simply adorable," and Celia would have understood all about it.

"And probably doesn't know anything. Yes, highly educated? I heard that. But I'm getting tired of 'highly

educated'; I see so many of them. I've been making them now for years. Perhaps I'm one of them. And where

am I? Don't interrupt. I tell you it is a relief to come across a sweet, womanly ignoramus. What church does

"That's goodthat's devotional. I suppose you go there too, being brought up a Congregationalist?"

"At vespers, sometimes. But, Celia, what is the matter with you? I thought you didn't caredidn't care to

"I? I belong to everything. Didn't I write you reams about my studies in psychology? I've come to one

conclusion. There are only two persons in the world who stand on a solid foundation, the Roman Catholic

and the Agnostic. The Roman Catholic knows everything, the Agnostic doesn't know anything."

Philip was never certain when the girl was bantering him; nor, when she was in earnest, how long she would

"The truth is, Celia, that you know too much to be either. You are what they call emancipated."

"Emancipated!" And Celia sat up energetically, as if she were now really interested in the conversation.

"Become the slave of myself instead of the slave of somebody else! That's the most hateful thing to be,

emancipated. I never knew a woman who said she was emancipated who wasn't in some ridiculous folly or

another. Now, Phil, I'm going to tell you something. I can tell you. You know I've been striving to have a

career, to get out of myself somehow, and have a career for myself. Well, todaymind, I don't say

tomorrow"(and there was a queer little smile on her lips)"I think I will just try to be good to people and

"No, no. I get my living by education, just as you do, or hope to do, by law or by letters; it's all the same. But

wait. I haven't finished what I was going to say. The more I go into psychology, trying to find out about my

mind and mind generally, the more mysterious everything is. Do you know, Phil, that I'm getting into the

supernatural? You can't help running into it. For me, I am not sidetracked by any of the nonsense about

magnetism and telepathy and mindreading and other psychic imponderabilities. Isn't it queer that the further

Now, don't be shocked, I mean it reverently, just as an illustration. Do you think any one knows really

anything more about the operation in the world of electricity than he does about the operation of the Holy

Ghost? And yet people talk about science as if it were something they had made themselves."

"No, I've talked enough. We are in this world and not in some other, and I have to make my living. Let's go

into the other room and see the old masters. They, at least, knew how to paintto paint passion and

character; some of them could paint soul. And then, Phil, I shall be hungry. Talking about the mind always

Philip was always welcome at his uncle's house in Rivervale. It was, of course, his home during his college

life, and since then he was always expected for his yearly holiday. The women of the house made much of

him, waited on him, deferred to him, petted him, with a flattering mingling of tenderness to a little boy and

the respect due to a man who had gone into the world. Even Mr. Maitland condescended to a sort of equality

in engaging Philip in conversation about the state of the country and the prospects of business in New York.

It was July. When Philip went to sleep at nighthe was in the front chamber reserved for gueststhe loud

murmur of the Deerfield was in his ears, like a current bearing him away into sweet sleep and dreams in a

land of pleasant adventures. Only in youth come such dreams. Later on the sophisticated mind, left to its own

guidance in the night, wanders amid the complexities of life, calling up in confusion scenes long forgotten or

repented of, images only registered by a subconscious process, dreams to perplex, irritate, and excite.

In the morning the same continuous murmur seemed to awake him into a peaceful world. Through the open

window came in the scents of summer, the freshness of a new day. How sweet and light was the air! It was

indeed the height of summer. The corn, not yet tasseled, stood in green flexible ranks, moved by the early

breeze. In the rivermeadows haying had just begun. Fields of timothy and clover, yellowing to ripeness,

took on a fresh bloom from the dew, and there was an odor of newmown grass from the sections where the

scythes had been. He heard the call of the crow from the hill, the melody of the bobolink along the meadow

brook; indeed, the birds of all sorts were astir, skimming along the ground or rising to the sky, keeping watch

especially over the garden and the fruittrees, carrying food to their nests, or teaching their young broods to

fly and to chirp the songs of summer. And from the woodshed the shrill note of the scythe under the action of

Philip stole out the unused front door without disturbing the family. Whither? Where would a boy be likely to

go the first thing? To the barn, the great cavernous barn, its huge doors now wide open, the stalls vacant, the

mows empty, the sunlight sifting in through the high shadowy spaces. How much his life had been in that

barn! How he had stifled and scrambled mowing hay in those lofts! On the floor he had hulled heaps of corn,

thrashed oats with a flaila noble occupationand many a rainy day had played there with girls and boys

who could not now exactly describe the games or well recall what exciting fun they were. There were the

racks where he put the fodder for cattle and horses, and there was the cuttingmachine for the hay and straw

In the barnyard were the hens, just as usual, walking with measured step, scratching and picking in the

muck, darting suddenly to one side with an elevated wing, clucking, chattering, jabbering endlessly about

nothing. They did not seem to mind him as he stood in the open door. But the rooster, in his oriental

iridescent plumage, jumped upon a fence post and crowed defiantly, in warning that this was his preserve.

They seemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers; all the hens and flaunting roosters

he knew had long ago gone to Thanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made a pet. It

forms no attachments. Man is no better acquainted with the hen, as a being, than he was when the first

chicken was hatched. Its business is to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this reminded Philip

that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he did, in the mows, in the stalls, under the

floorplanks, in every hidden nook. The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded nest of her own,

and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a wise hen who knows her own chicken. Nobody

denies to the hen maternal instincts or domestic proclivities, but what an ill example is a hen community!

And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grassplot and the orchard, to the rocks and the forest

edge, and the great view. It had more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was more beautiful. In a

certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere in the world like it. Partly this was because his boyish

impressions, the first fresh impressions of the visible world, came back to him; but surely it was very

When he descended, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs. Maitland declared, with an approving

smile on her placid, aging face, that he was the same goodfornothing boy. But Alice said, as she sat down

to the little table with Philip, "It is different, mother, with us city folks." They were in the middle room, and

the windows opened to the west upon the rivermeadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through one a tall

What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good of him to come to them. Had he slept

well? Did it seem like home at all? Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so. Such

coffeeyes, a real aroma of the berry! Just a little more, would he have? And as Alice raised the silver

pitcher, there was a deep dimple in her sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh and

cool, and the delicious eggsby the way, he had left a hatful in the kitchen as he came in. Alice explained

that she did not make the eggs. And then there was the journey, the heat in the city, the grateful sight of the

Deerfield, the splendid morning, the old barn, the watering trough, the view from the hill everything just as

"Dear Phil, it is so nice to have you here," and there were tears in Alice's eyes, she was so happy.

After breakfast Philip strolled down the country road through the village. How familiar was every step of the

way!the old houses jutting out at the turns in the road; the glimpse of the river beyond the little meadow

where Captain Rice was killed; the spring under the ledge over which the snapdragon grew; the dilapidated

ranks of fence smothered in vines and fireweeds; the cottages, with flowerpots in front; the stores, with low

verandas ornamented with boxes and barrels; the academy in its green on the hill; the old bridge over which

the circus elephant dared not walk; the new and the old churches, with rival steeples; and, not familiar, the

And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways, in the fields or gardens, and had for every one a hail

and a greeting. How he enjoyed it all, and his selfconsciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung along in

his wellfitting city clothes, broadshouldered and erectit is astonishing how much a tailor can do for a

man who responds to his efforts. It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in real life, and not have to

invent him, as the saying is, out of the whole cloth. Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because

it was not quite his old self, the farmer's boy going on an errand. There must be knowledge all along the street

that he was in the great law office of Hunt, Sharp Tweedle. And, besides, Philip's name must be known to all

the readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than one list of "contributors." That was

fame. Translated, however, into country comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heard the

"Yes, that's Phil Burnett, sure enough; but I'd hardly know him; spruced up mightily. I wonder what he's at?"

"I heard he was down in New York trying to law it. I heard he's been writin' some for newspapers. Accordin'

Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about the new inn, the Peacock Inn.

"Why, I forgot to tell you about it. It's the great excitement. Rivervale is getting known. The Mavicks are

"A week. There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, and two maids, and a young fellow in

uniformyes, liveryand a coachman in the same, and a stableful of horses and carriages. It upset the

village like a circus. And they say there's a French chef in white cap and apron, who comes to the sidedoor

"Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer in the country. But you will laugh.

Patience first discovered it. One day, sitting at the window, she saw a twohorse buggy driven by the

landlord of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side. 'Well, I wonder who that iscity man certainly. And

wherever is he going? May be a railroad man. But there is nothing the matter with the railroad. Shouldn't

wonder if he is going to see the tunnel. If it was just that, the landlord wouldn't drive him; he'd send a man.

And they keep stopping and pointing and looking round. No, it isn't the railroad, it's scenery. And what can a

He does look like a railroad man. It may be tunnel, but it isn't all tunnel.' When the team came back in the

afternoon, Patience was again at the window; she had heard meantime from Jabez that a city man was

stopping at the Peacock. 'There he goes, and looking round more than ever. They've stopped by the bridge

and the landlord is pointing out. It's not tunnel, it's scenery. I tell you, he is a city boarder. Not that he cares

about scenery; it's for his family. City families are always trying to find a grand new place, and he has heard

of Rivervale and the Peacock Inn. Maybe the tunnel had something to do with it."'

"No, Patience says it's just judgment. And she generally hits it. At any rate, the family is here."

The explanation of their being thereit seemed to Philip providential was very simple. Mr. Mavick had

plans about the Hoosac Tunnel that required him to look at it. Mrs. Mavick took advantage of this to

commission him to look at a little inn in a retired village of which she had heard, and to report on scenery and

climate. Warm days and cool nights and simplicity was her idea. Mavick reported that the place seemed made

Evelyn was not yet out, but she was very nearly out, and after the late notoriety Mrs. Mavick dreaded the

regular Newport season. And, in the mood of the moment, she was tired of the Newport palace. She always

said that she liked simplicitya common failing among people who are not compelled to observe it. Perhaps

she thought she was really fond of rural life and country ways. As she herself said,

"If you have a summer cottage at Newport or Lenox, it is necessary to go off somewhere and rest." And then

it would be good for Evelyn to live outofdoors and see the real country, and, as for herself, as she looked

in the mirror, "I shall drink milk and go to bed early. Henderson used to say that a month in New Hampshire

Oh, to find a spot where we could be undisturbed, alone and unknown. That was the program. But Carmen

simply could not be anywhere content if she were unnoticed. It was not so easy to give up daily luxury, and

habits of ease at the expense of attendants, or the ostentation which had become a second nature. Therefore

the "establishment" went along with her to Rivervale, and the shy, modest little woman, who had dropped

down into the country simplicity that she so dearly loved, greatly enjoyed the sensation that her coming

produced. It needed no effort on her part to produce the sensation. The carriage, and coachman and footman

in livery, would have been sufficient; and then the idea of one family being rich enough to take the whole

The liveries, the foreign cook in his queer cap and apron, and all the goingson at the Peacock were the

inexhaustible topic of talk in every farmhouse for ten miles around. Rivervale was a selfrespecting town,

and principled against luxury and selfindulgence, and judged with a just and severe judgment the world of

fashion and of the grasping, wicked millionaires. And now this world with all its vain show had plumped

down in the midst of them. Those who had traveled and seen the ostentation of cities smiled a superior smile

at the curiosity and wonder exhibited, but even those who had never seen the like were cautious about letting

their surprise appear. Especially in the presence of fashion and wealth would the independent American

citizen straighten his backbone, reassuring himself that he was as good as anybody. To be sure, people flew to

windows when the elegant equipage dashed by, and everybody found frequent occasion to drive or walk past

the Peacock Inn. It was only the novelty of it, in a place that rather lacked novelties.

And yet there prevailed in the community a vague sense that millions were there, and a curious expectation of

some individual benefit from them. All the young berrypickers were unusually active, and poured berries

into the kitchen door of the inn. There was not a housewife who was not a little more anxious about the

product of her churning; not a farmer who did not think that perhaps cordwood would rise, that there would

be a better demand for garden "sass," and more market for chickens, and who did not regard with more

interest his promising colt. When he drove to the village his rig was less shabby and slovenly in appearance.

The young fellows who prided themselves upon a neat buggy and a fast horse made their turnouts shine, and

dashed past the inn with a selfconscious air. Even the stores began to "slick up" and arrange their

miscellaneous notions more attractively, and one of them boldly put in a window a placard, "Latest New

York Style." When the family went to the Congregational church on Sunday not the slightest notice was

taken of themthough every woman could have told to the last detail what the ladies worebut some of the

worshipers were for the first time a little nervous about the performance of the choir, and the deacons heard

Mrs. Mavick was quite equal to the situation. In the church she was devout, in the village she was affable and

friendly. She made acquaintances right and left, and took a simple interest in everybody and everything. She

was on easy terms with the landlord, who declared, "There is a woman with no nonsense in her." She chatted

with the farmers who stopped at the inn door, she bought things at the stores that she did not want, and she

speedily discovered Aunt Hepsy, and loved to sit with her in the little shop and pick up the traditions and the

gossip of the neighborhood. And she did not confine her angelic visits to the village. On one pretense and

another she made her way into every farmhouse that took her fancy, penetrated the kitchens and dairies, and

She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice. And on this legitimate errand she one day carried her

fluttering attractiveness and patchouly into the Maitland house. Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more. Alice

was civil but reserveda great many people, she said, came to see the graves in the old orchard. But Mrs.

Mavick was not a bit abashed. She expressed herself delighted with everything. It was such a rest, such a

perfectly lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable! And Aunt Hepsy had so interested her in the

However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway. She had heard so much of Miss Maitland's

apartments. She herself was interested in decorations. She had tried to do something in her New York home.

But there were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be natural and artificial at the same time. She

had no doubt she could get some new ideas from Miss Maitland. Would it be asking too much to see her

apartments? She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale. Patience was only too delighted, and took

"She might have gone to the graveyard without coming into the house," Alice remarked.

"Oh, well," said her mother, "I think she is very amusing. You shouldn't be so exclusive, Alice."

"How curious, how very curious and delightful it is! Such knowledge of nature, such art in arrangement."

"Oh, I just put them up," said Patience, "as I thought they ought by rights to be put up."

"That's it. And you have combined everything here. You have given me an idea. In our house we have a

Japan room, and an Indian room, and a Chinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don't know whatEgyptian,

Greek, and not one American, not a really American. That is, according to American ideas, for you have

everything in these two rooms. I shall write to Mr. Mavick." (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)

When she came away it was with a profusion of thanks, and repeated invitations to drop in at the inn. Alice

accompanied her to the first stone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing her away, when

Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the woodshed, with a shot gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left

hand a gray squirrel by its bushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.

Mrs. Mavick had an eye for a fine young fellowshe never denied that and Philip's manly figure and easy

"We are here for a good part of the summer. Mr. Mavick's business keeps him in the city and we have to poke

about a good deal alone. Now, Miss Alice, I am so glad I have met your cousin. Perhaps he will show us

some of the interesting places and the beauties of the country he knows so well." And she looked sideways at

"I am sure I shall be delighted to do what I can for you whenever you need my services," said Philip, who had

"That's so good of you! Excursions, picnics oh, we will arrange. You must come and help me arrange. And I

hope," with a smile to Alice, "you can persuade your cousin to join us sometimes."

Alice bowed, they all bowed, and Mrs. Mavick said au revoir, and went swinging her parasol down the

driveway. Then she turned and called back, "This is the first long walk I have taken." And then she said to

herself, "Rather stiff, except the young man and the queer old maid. But what a pretty girl the younger must

Mrs. Mavick thought herself fortunate in finding, in the social wilderness of Rivervale, such a presentable

young gentleman as Philip. She had persuaded herself that she greatly enjoyed her simple intercourse with the

inhabitants, and she would have said that she was in deep sympathy with their lives. No doubt in New York

she would relate her summer adventures as something very amusing, but for the moment this adaptable

woman seemed to herself in a very ingenuous, receptive, and sympathetic state of mind. Still, there was a

limit to the entertaining power of Aunt Hepsy, which was perceived when she began to repeat her annals of

the neighborhood, and to bring forward again and again the little nuggets of wisdom which she had evolved

in the small circle of her experience. And similarly Mrs. Mavick became aware that there was a monotony in

the ideas brought forward by the farmers and the farmers' wives, whether in the kitchen or the best room,

which she lighted up by her gracious presence, that it was possible to be tired of the most interesting

"peculiarities" when once their novelty was exhausted, and that socalled "characters" in the country fail to

satisfy the requirements of intimate or long companionship. Their world is too narrowly circumscribed.

The fact that Philip was a native of the place, and so belonged to a world that was remote from her own,

made her free to seek his aid in making the summer pass agreeably without incurring any risk of social

obligations. Besides, when she had seen more of him, she experienced a good deal of pleasure in his

company. His foreign travel, his reading, his life in the city, offered many points of mutual interest, and it

was a relief to her to get out of the narrow range of topics in the provincial thought, and to have her allusions

understood. Philip, on his part, was not slow to see this, or to perceive that in the higher intellectual ranges,

the serious topics which occupied the attention of the few cultivated people in the neighborhood, Mrs.

Mavick had little interest or understanding, though there was nothing she did not profess an interest in when

occasion required. Philip was not of a suspicious nature, and it may not have occurred to him that Mrs.

Mavick was simply amusing herself, as she would do with any agreeable man, young or old, who fell in her

On the contrary, it never seemed to occur to Mrs. Mavick, who was generally suspicious, that Philip was

making himself agreeable to the mother of Evelyn. In her thought Evelyn was still a child, in leading

strings, and would be till she was formally launched, and the social gulf between the great heiress and the law

clerk and poor writer was simply impassable. All of which goes to show that the most astute women are not

To one person in Rivervale the coming of Mrs. Mavick and her train of worldliness was unwelcome. It

disturbed the peaceful simplicity of the village, and it was likely to cloud her pleasure in Philip's visit. She

felt that Mrs. Mavick was taking him away from the sweet serenity of their life, and that in everything she

said or did there was an element of unrest and excitement. She was careful, however, not to show any of this

apprehension to Philip; she showed it only by an increased affectionate interest in him and his concerns, and

in trying to make the old home more dear to him. Mrs. Mavick was loud in her praise of Alice to her cousin,

and sought to win her confidence, but she was, after all, a little shy of her, and probably would have

It so happened that day after day went by without giving Philip anything more than passing glimpses of

Evelyn, when she was driving with her mother or her governess. Yet Rivervale never seemed so ravishingly

beautiful to all his senses. Surely it was possessed by a spirit of romance and poetry, which he had never

perceived before, and he wasted a good deal of time in gazing on the river, on the gracious meadows, on the

graceful contours of the hills. When he was a lad, in the treetop, there had been something stimulating and

almost heroic in the scene, which awakened his ambition. Now it was the idyllic beauty that took possession

of him, transformed as it was by the presence of a woman, that supreme interpreter of nature to a youth. And

yet scarcely a womanrather a vision of a girl, impressible still to all the influences of such a scene and to

the most delicate suggestions of unfolding life. Probably he did not analyze this feeling, but it was Evelyn he

was thinking of when he admired the landscape, breathed with exhilaration the fresh air, and watched the

white clouds sail along the blue vault; and he knew that if she were suddenly to leave the valley all the light

would go out of it and the scene would be flat to his eyes and torturing to his memory.

Mrs. Mavick he encountered continually in the village. He had taken many little strolls with her to this or that

pretty point of view, they had exchanged reminiscences of foreign travel, and had dipped a little into current

popular books, so that they had come to be on easy, friendly terms. Philip's courtesy and deference, and a

certain wit and humor of suggestion applied to ordinary things, put him more and more on a good footing

with her, so much so that she declared to McDonald that really young Burnett was a genuine "find" in the

It seems a pity that the important events in our lives are so commonplace. Philip's meeting with Evelyn, so

long thought of and dramatized in his mind, was not in the least as he had imagined it. When one morning he

went to the Peacock Inn at the summons of Mrs. Mavick, in order to lay out a plan of campaign, he found

Evelyn and her governess seated on the veranda, with their books. It was Evelyn who rose first and came

forward, without, so far as Philip could see, the least embarrassment of recognition.

"Mr. Burnett? Mamma will be here in a moment. This is our friend, Miss McDonald."

The girl's morning costume was very simple, and in her short walking skirt she seemed younger even than

in the city. She spoke and moved Philip noticed thatwithout the least selfconsciousness, and she had a

way of looking her interlocutor frankly in the eyes, or, as Philip expressed it, "flashing" upon him.

Philip bowed to the governess, and, still standing and waving his hand towards the river, hoped they liked

"We pretend to," said Evelyn, who had resumed her seat and indicated a chair for Philip, "but the singing of

that river, and the bobolinks in the meadow, and the light on the hills are almost too much for us. Don't you

"It would be," the governess replied, "if it rained when it didn't mist, and there were moors and heather,

"Oh, I didn't mean all that, but a feeling like that, sweet and retired and sort of lonesome?"

"Perhaps Miss McDonald means," said Philip, "that there isn't much to feel here except what you see."

Miss McDonald looked sharply around at Philip and remarked: "Yes, that's just it. It is very lovely, like

almost any outdoors, if you will give yourself up to it. You remember, Evelyn, how fascinating the Arizona

desert was? But there was a romantic addition to the colored desolation because the Spaniards and the Jesuits

had been there. Now this place lacks traditions, legends, romance. You have to bring your romance with

"One reason. Especially romances. This charming scenery and the summer sounds of running water and birds

"But mamma says," Evelyn interrupted, "there is plenty of legend here, and tradition and flavor, Indians and

"Well, I confess they don't appeal to me. And as for Indians, Parkman's descriptions of those savages made

me squirm. And I don't believe there was much more romance about the early settlers than about their

descendants. Isn't it true, Mr. Burnett, that you must have a human element to make any country interesting?"

Philip glanced at Evelyn, whose bright face was kindled with interest in the discussion, and thought, "Good

heavens! if there is not human interest here, I don't know where to look for it," but he only said:

"And why don't you writers do something about it? It is literature that does it, either in Scotland or Judea."

"Well," said Philip, stoutly, "they are doing something. I could name half a dozen localities, even sections of

country, that travelers visit with curiosity just because authors have thrown that glamour over them. But it is

"Of course, but it took time to transform a Highland sheepstealer into a romantic personage."

Miss McDonald laughed. "That is true. Take a modern instance. Suppose Evangeline had lived in this valley!

"Or," thought Philip, "some Evelyn." But he replied, looking at Evelyn, "I believe that any American

community usually resents being made the scene of a romance, especially if it is localized by any approach to

"The realists say no. They say that people dislike to see themselves as they are."

"Very likely," said Miss McDonald; "no one sees himself as others see him, and probably the poet who

expressed the desire to do so was simply attitudinizing. [Robert Burns: "Oh! wha gift the Giftie gie us; to

see o'rselves as others see us. D.W.] By the way, Mr. Burnett, you know there is one place of sentiment,

religious to be sure, not far from here. I hope we can go some day to see the home of the 'Mountain Miller.'"

"Yes, I know the place. It is beyond the river, up that steep road running into the sky, in the next adjoining

hill town. I doubt if you find any one there who lays it much to heart. But you can see the mill."

"A tract that, when I was a girl," answered Miss McDonald, "used to be bound up with 'The Dairyman's

Daughter' and 'The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.' It was the first thing that interested me in New England."

"Well," said Philip, "it isn't much. Just a tract. But it was written by Parson Halleck, a great minister and a

sort of Pope in this region for fifty years. It is, so far as I know, the only thing of his that remains."

"Goodmorning, Mr. Burnett. I've been down to see Jenkins about his picnic wagon. Carries six, besides the

driver and my man, and the hampers. So, you see, Miss Alice will have to go. We couldn't go rattling along

half empty. I'll go up and see her this afternoon. So, that's settled. Now about the time and place. You are the

director. Let's sit down and plan it out. It looks like good weather for a week."

"Miss McDonald says she wants to see the Mountain Miller," said Philip, with a smile.

"Ah, something religious. I never heard of it. Well, perhaps we had better begin with something secular, and

So an excursion was arranged for the next day. And as Philip walked home, thinking how brilliant Evelyn

All excursions are much alike, exhilarating in the outset, rarely up to expectation in the object, wearisome in

the return; but, nevertheless, delightful in the memory, especially if attended with some hardship or slight

disaster. To be free, in the open air, and for a day unconventional and irresponsible, is the sufficient

justification of a country picnic; but its common attraction is in the opportunity for bringing young persons of

the opposite sex into natural and unrestrained relations. To Philip it was the first time in his life that a picnic

The two persons to whom this excursion was most novel and exciting were Evelyn and the elder maiden,

Alice, who sat together and speedily developed a sympathy with each other in the enjoyment of the country,

and in a similar poetic temperament, very shy on the part of Alice and very frank on the part of Evelyn. The

whole wild scene along the river was quite as novel to Alice as to the city girl, because, although she was

familiar with every mile of it and had driven through it a hundred times, she had never in all her life before,

of purpose, gone to see it. No doubt she had felt its wildness and beauty, but now for the first time she looked

at it as scenery, as she might have looked at a picture in a gallery. And in the contagion of Evelyn's outspoken

enthusiasm she was no longer afraid to give timid expression to the latent poetry in her own soul. And daring

to express this, she seemed to herself for the first time to realize vividly the nobility and grace of the

landscape. And yet there was a difference in the appreciation of the two. More widely read and traveled,

Evelyn's imagination took a wider range of comparison and of admiration, she was appealed to by the large

features and the grandiose effects; while Alice noted more the tenderer aspects, the wayside flowers and

bushes, the exoticlooking plants, which she longed to domesticate in what might be called the Sunday

garden on the terraces in front of her house. For it is in these little cultivated places by the doorstep, places

of dreaming in the summer hours after meeting and at sunset, that the New England maiden experiences

something of that tender religious sentiment which was not much fed in the barrenness of the Congregational

The Pulpit Rock, in the rough pasture land of Zoar, was reached by a somewhat tedious climb from the lonely

farmhouse, in a sheltered nook, through straggling woods and gray pastures. It was a vast exposed surface

rising at a slight angle out of the grass and undergrowth. Along the upper side was a thin line of bushes, and,

pushing these aside, the observer was always startled at the unexpected sceneas it were the raising of a

curtain upon another world. He stood upon the edge of a sheer precipice of a thousand feet, and looked down

upon a green amphitheatre through the bottom of which the brawling river, an amber thread in the summer

foliage, seemed trying to get an outlet from this wilderness cul de sac. From the edge of this precipice the

first impulse was to start back in surprise and dread, but presently the observer became reassured of its

"I suppose," said Philip, "the name was naturally suggested to a religious community, whose poetic images

are mainly Biblical, and who thought it an advantageous place for a preacher to stand, looking down upon a

"So it is," exclaimed Evelyn. "I can see John the Baptist standing here now, and hear his voice crying in the

"Very likely," said Mrs. Mavick, persisting in her doubt, "of course in Zoar. Anywhere else in the world it

"That is odd," said Alice; "there was a party of college girls came here two years ago and made up a story

about it which was printed, how an Indian maiden pursued by a white man ran up this hill as if she had been a

deer, disappeared from his sight through these bushes, and took the fatal leap. They called it the Indian

"So you see, Miss McDonald," said Philip, "that writers cannot graft legends on the old stock."

"That depends upon the writer," returned the Scotch woman, shortly. "I didn't see the schoolgirl's essay."

When the luncheon was disposed of, with the usual adaptation to nomadic conditions, and the usual

merriment and freedom of personal comment, and the wit that seems so brilliant in the open air and so flat in

print, Mrs. Mavick declared that she was tired by the long climb and the unusual excitement.

"Perhaps it is the Pulpit," she said, "but I am sleepy; and if you young people will amuse yourselves, I will

Presently, also, Alice and the governess withdrew to the edge of the precipice, and Evelyn and Philip were

left to the burden of entertaining each other. It might have been an embarrassing situation but for the fact that

all the rest of the party were in sight, that the girl had not the least selfconsciousness, having had no

experience to teach her that there was anything to be timid about in one situation more than in another, and

that Philip was so absolutely content to be near Evelyn and hear her voice that there was room for nothing

else in his thought. But rather to his surprise, Evelyn made no talk about the situation or the day, but began at

once with something in her mind, a directness of mental operation that he found was characteristic of her.

"It seems to me, Mr. Burnett, that there is something of what Miss McDonald regards as the lack of legend

"I fancy everybody feels that who travels much elsewhere. You mean life seems a little thin, as the critics

"Yes, lacks color and background. But, you see, I have no experience. Perhaps it's owing to Miss McDonald.

I cannot get the plaids and tartans and Jacobins and castles and whatnot out of my head. Our landscapes are

"But don't you think we are putting history and association into them pretty fast?"

"Yes, I know, but that takes a long time. I mean now. Take this lovely valley and region, how easily it could

"Well, I was thinking about it last night." And then, as if she saw a clear connection between this and what

"Of course, that's business. That reminds me of what papa said once: 'It's lucky there is so much law, or half

the world, including the lawyers, wouldn't have anything to do, trying to get around it and evade it.' And you

won't mind my repeating itI was a mite of a girlI said, 'Isn't that rather sophistical, papa?' And mamma

"Write a story about itwhat Miss McDonald calls 'invest the region with romance.'"

The appeal was very direct, and it was enforced by those wonderful eyes that seemed to Philip to discern his

powers, as he felt them, and his ambitions, and to express absolute confidence in him. His vanity was touched

in its most susceptible spot. Here seemed to be a woman, nay, a soul, who understood him, understood him

even better than Celia, the lifelong confidante. It is a fatal moment for men and women, that in which they

feel the subtle flattery of being understood by one of the opposite sex. Philip's estimation of himself rose 'pari

passu' with his recognition of the discernment and intellectual quality of the frank and fascinating girl who

seemed to believe in him. But he restrained himself and only asked, after a moment of apparent reflection

"Well, Miss Mavick, you have been here some time. Have you discovered any material for such use?"

"Why, perhaps not, and I might not know what to do with it if I had. But perhaps you don't mean what I

mean. I mean something fitting the setting. Not the domestic novel. Miss McDonald says we are vulgarized

in all our ideals by so much domesticity. She says that Jennie Deans would have been just an ordinary,

"No. I don't know exactly what I do want. But I know it when I see it." And Evelyn looked down and

appeared to be studying her delicate little hands, interlacing her taper, ivory fingersbut Philip knew she did

"I'll tell you. This morning as we came up I was talking all the way with your cousin. It took some time to

break the ice, but gradually she began to say things, half stories, half poetic, not out of books; things that, if

said with assurance, in the city would be called wit. And then I began to see her emotional side, her pure

imagination, such a refinement of appreciation and justiceI think there is an immovable basis of justice in

her natureand charity, and I think she'd be heroic, with all her gentleness, if occasion offered."

"I see," said Philip, rather lightly, "that you improved your time in finding out what a rare creature Alice is.

But," and this more gravely, "it would surprise her that you have found it out."

"I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualities are, or her capacities of doing or of

suffering, and the world will never knowthat is the pointunless some genius comes along and reveals

"Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out her whole self. Some act it out in society.

She never will. Such sweetness and strength and passionyes, I have no doubt, passion under all the

reserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven't imagination to make you see what I feel."

"You come very near it," said Philip, with a smile. And after a moment the girl broke out again:

"Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just as painters do, fit for your genius."

"But don't you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, the thing close to you?"

"I dare say. But you won't mind? It is just an illustration. I went the other day with mother to Alice's house.

She was so sort of distant and reserved that I couldn't know her in the least as I know her now. And there was

the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the Old Testament; and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the

New Testament; and then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don't know what, maybe a blind attempt

through nature and art to escape out of Puritanism; and the typical old frame farmhousewhy, here is

material for the sweetest, most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. In another generation people would

come long distances to see the valley where Alice lived, and her spirit would pervade it."

There could be but one end to such a burst of enthusiasm, and both laughed and felt a relief in a merriment

that was, after all, sympathetic. But Evelyn was a persistent creature, and presently she turned to Philip, again

Philip hesitated a moment and betrayed some embarrassment under the questioning of the truthful eyes.

"Not that exactly. I couldn't, don't you see, betray and use my own relatives in that way."

"It isn't much. I cannot tell how it will come out. I tell youI don't mean that I have any right to ask you to

keep it as a secret of mine, but it is this way: If a writer gives away his imagination, his idea, before it is fixed

in form on paper, he seems to let the air of all the world upon it and it disappears, and isn't quite his as it was

"Well" and Philip found himself launched. It is so easy to talk about one's self to a sympathetic listener. He

told Evelyn a little about his life, and how the valley used to seem to him as a boy, and how it seemed now

that he had had experience of other places and people, and how his studies and reading had enabled him to

see things in their proper relations, and how, finally, gradually the idea for a story in this setting had

developed in his mind. And then he sketched in outline the story as he had developed it, and left the misty

The girl listened with absorbing interest, and looked the approval which she did not put in words. Perhaps she

knew that a bud will never come to flower if you pull it in pieces. When Philip had finished he had a

momentary regret for this burst of confidence, which he had never given to any one else. But in the light of

Evelyn's quick approval and understanding, it was only momentary. Perhaps neither of them thought what a

dangerous game this is, for two young souls to thus unbosom themselves to each other.

A call from Mrs. Mavick brought them to their feet. It was time to go. Evelyn simply said:

As they drove home along the murmuring river through the golden sunset, the party were mostly silent. Only

Mrs. Mavick and Philip, who sat together, kept up a lively chatter, lively because Philip was elated with the

event of the day, and because the nap under the beechtree in the open air had brightened the wits of one of

If the valley did seem different to Evelyn, probably she did not think so far as to own to herself whether this

was owing to the outline of the story, which ran in her mind, or to the presence of the young author.

Alice and Philip were set down at the farmhouse, and the company parted with mutual enthusiasm over the

"She is a much more interesting girl than I thought," Alice admitted. "Not a bit fashionable."

"And I can tell you another thing. I had a long talk while you were taking your siesta. She takes an abstract

view of things, judging the right and wrong of them, without reference to conventionalities or the practical

obstacles to carrying out her ideas, as if she had been educated by reading and not by society. It is very

"Philip," and Alice laid her hand on his shoulder, "don't let it be too interesting."

When Philip said that Evelyn was educated in the world of literature and not in the conflicts of life he had hit

the keynote of her condition at the moment she was coming into the world and would have to act for herself.

The more he saw of her the more was he impressed with the fact that her discrimination, it might almost be

called divination, and her judgment were based upon the best and most vital products of the human mind. A

selection had evidently been made for her, until she had acquired the taste, or the habit rather, of choosing

only the best for herself. Very little of the trash of literature, or the ignoblethat is to say, the ignoble view

of life had come into her mind. Consequently she judged the world as she came to know it by high

It might be supposed that this sort of education would have its disadvantages. The word is firmly fixed in the

idea that both for its pleasure and profit it is necessary to know good and evil. Ignorance of the evil in the

world is, however, not to be predicated of those who are familiar only with the great masterpieces of

literature, for if they are masterpieces, little or great, they exhibit human nature in all its aspects. And, further

than this, it ought to be demonstrable, a priori, that a mind fed on the best and not confused by the weak and

diluted, or corrupted by images of the essentially vulgar and vile, would be morally healthy and best fitted to

cope with the social problems of life. The Testaments reveal about everything that is known about human

nature, but such is their clear, high spirit, and their quality, that no one ever traced mental degeneration or low

taste in literature, or want of virility in judgment, to familiarity with them. On the contrary, the most vigorous

It is not likely that Philip made any such elaborate analysis of the girl with whom he was in love, or

attempted, except by a general reference to the method of her training, to account for the purity of her mind

and her vigorous discernment. He was in love with her more subtle and hidden personality, with the girl just

becoming a woman, with the mysterious sex that is the inspiration of most of the poetry and a good part of

the heroism in the world. And he would have been in love with her, let her education have been what it

might. He was in love before he heard her speak. And whatever she would say was bound to have a quality of

interest and attraction that could be exercised by no other lips. It might be argueda priori again, for the

world is bound to go on in its own waythat there would be fewer marriages if the illusion of the sex did not

suffice for the time to hide intellectual poverty, and, what is worse, ignobleness of disposition.

It was doubtless fortunate for this particular lovemaking, though it did not seem so to Philip, that it was very

much obstructed by lack of opportunities, and that it was not impaired in its lustre by too much familiarity. In

truth, Philip would have said that he saw very little of Evelyn, because he never saw her absolutely alone. To

be sure he was much in her presence, a welcome member of the group that liked to idle on the veranda of the

inn, and in the frequent excursions, in which Philip seemed to be the companion of Mrs. Mavick rather than

of her daughter. But she was never absent from his thought, his imagination was wholly captive to her image,

and the passion grew in these hours of absence until she became an indispensable associate in all that he was

or could ever hope to be. Alice, who discerned very clearly Mrs. Mavick and her ambition, was troubled by

Philip's absorption and the cruel disappointment in store for him. To her he was still the little boy, and all her

But what could she do? Philip liked to talk about Evelyn, to dwell upon her peculiarities and qualities, to hear

her praised; to this extent he was confidential with his cousin, but never in regard to his own feeling. That

was a secret concerning which he was at once too humble and too confident to share with any other. None

knew better than he the absurd presumption of aspiring to the hand of such a great heiress, and yet he nursed

Alice was still more distracted and in sympathy with Philip's evident aspirations by her own love for Evelyn

and her growing admiration for the girl's character. It so happened that mutual sympathywho can say how

it was related to Philip?had drawn them much together, and chance had given them many opportunities for

knowing each other. Alice had so far come out of her shell, and broken the reserve of her life, as to make

frequent visits at the inn, and Mrs. Mavick and Evelyn found it the most natural and agreeable stroll by the

riverside to the farmhouse, where naturally, while the mother amused herself with the original eccentricities

As for the feelings of Evelyn in these daysher first experience of something like freedom in the

worldthe historian has only universal experience to guide him. In her heart was working the consciousness

that she had been singled out as worthy to share the confidence of a man in his most secret ambitions and

aspirations, in the dreams of youth which seemed to her so noble. For these aspirations and dreams concerned

If Philip had talked to her as he had to Celia about his plans for success in life she would have been less

interested. But there was nothing to warn her personally in these unworldly confessions. Nor did Philip ever

seem to ask anything of her except sympathy in his ideas. And then there was the friendship of Alice, which

could not but influence the girl. In the shelter of that the intercourse of the summer took on natural relations.

For some natures there is no nurture of love like the security of family protection, under cover of which there

It was fortunate for Philip that Miss McDonald took a liking to him. They were thrown much together. They

were both good walkers, and liked to climb the hills and explore the wild mountain streams. Philip would

have confessed that he was fond of nature, and fancied there was a sort of superiority in his attitude towards it

to that of his companion, who was merely interested in plantsjust a botanist. This attitude, which she

"If you American students," she said one day when they were seated on a fallen tree in the forest, and she was

expatiating on a rare plant she had found, "paid no more attention to the classics than to the world you live in,

"Oh, some fellows go in for that sort of thing," Philip replied. "But I have noticed that all English women

"Fad!" exclaimed the Scotchwoman. "Yes, I suppose it is, if reading is a fad. It is one way of finding out

about things. You admire what the Americans call scenery; we, since you provoke me to say it, love nature

I mean its individual, almost personal manifestations. Every plant has a distinct character of its own. I saw the

other day an American landscape picture with a wild, uncultivated foreground. There was not a botanical

Just a confused mass of rubbish. It was as if an animal painter should compose a group and you could not tell

"I beg your pardon, I want nature. You cannot give character to a bit of ground in a landscape unless you

know the characters of its details. A man is no more fit to paint a landscape than a cage of monkeys, unless he

knows the language of the nature he is dealing with down to the alphabet. The Japanese know it so well that

"Yes, if there is genius to transform it into art. You must know the intimate habits of anything you paint or

write about. You cannot even caricature without that. They talk now about Dickens being just a caricaturist.

He couldn't have been that if he hadn't known the things he caricatured. That is the reason there is so little

"Do you think that if Raphael had known nothing of anatomy the world would have accepted his Sistine

"I see it is interesting," said Philip, shifting his ground again, "but what is the real good of all these botanical

Miss McDonald gave a weary sigh. "Well, you must put things in order. You studied philology in Germany?

The chief end of that is to trace the development, migration, civilization of the human race. To trace the

distribution of plants is another way to find out about the race. But let that go. Don't you think that I get more

pleasure in looking at all the growing things we see, as we sit here, than you do in seeing them and knowing

Philip said that he could not analyze the degree of pleasure in such things, but he seemed to take his

ignorance very lightly. What interested him in all this talk was that, in discovering the mind of the governess,

he was getting nearer to the mind of her pupil. And finally he asked (and Miss McDonald smiled, for she

knew what this conversation, like all others with him, must ultimately come to):

"Oh yes. Mrs. Mavick is intimate with all the florists in New York. And Miss Evelyn, when I take home these

specimens, will analyze them and tell all about them. She is very sharp about such things. You must have

"Yes, of poetry that she understands. She has not much of the emotional vagueness of many young girls."

All this was very delightful for Philip, and for a long time, on one pretext or another, he kept the conversation

revolving about this point. He fancied he was very deep in doing this. To his interlocutor he was, however,

very transparent. And the young man would have been surprised and flattered if he had known how much her

When they returned to the inn, Mrs. Mavick began to rally Philip about his feminine taste in woodsy things.

He would gladly have thrown botany or anything else overboard to win the good opinion of Evelyn's mother,

but botany now had a real significance and a new meaning for him. Therefore he put in a defense, by saying:

"Botany, in the hands of Miss McDonald, cannot be called very feminine; it is a good deal more difficult to

"Maybe that's the reason," said Mrs. Mavick, "why so many more girls are eager to study law now than

"Certainly. Don't you think that a bright, clever woman, especially if she were pretty, would have an

"Portia," said Evelyn; "yes, but that is poetry; and, McDonald, wasn't it a kind of catch? How beautifully she

talked about mercy, but she turned the sharp edge of it towards the Jew. I didn't like that."

"Yes," Miss McDonald replied, "it was a kind of trick, a poet's law. What do you say, Mr. Burnett?"

"Why," said Philip, hesitating, "usually it is understood when a man buys or wins anything that the

appurtenances necessary to give him full possession go with it. Only in this case another law against the Jew

"Not yet, but I think there are plenty of lawyers who would be willing to take Portia for a partner."

"Make her what you call a consulting partner. That is just the way with you menas soon as you see women

"Oh, the poor things are easily hypnotized. And I'm glad they are. The funniest thing is to hear the Woman's

Rights women talk of it as a state of subjection," and Mrs. Mavick laughed out of her deep experience.

"Don't you know, Evelyn," the governess explained, "that we have always said that women had a right to

"Oh, that, of course; I thought everybody said that. That is natural. But I mean all this fuss. I guess I don't

understand what you all are talking about." And her bright face broke out of its look of perplexity into a

"Why, poor thing," said her mother, "you belong to the downtrodden sex. Only you haven't found it out."

"But, mamma," and the girl seemed to be turning the thing over in her mind, as was her wont with any new

proposition, "there seem to be in history a good many women who never found it out either."

"You look it, mamma," replied Evelyn, who perfectly understood when her mother was chaffing.

"But I think I don't care so much for the lawyers," Mrs. Mavick continued, with more air of conviction; "what

I can't stand are the doctors, the female doctors. I'd rather have a female priest about me than a female

This was not altogether banter, for there had been times in Carmen's career when the externals of the Roman

Church attracted her, and she wished she had an impersonal confidant, to whom she could confesswell, not

everythingand get absolution. And she could make a kind of confidant of a sympathetic doctor. But she

"To have a sharp woman prying into all my conditions and affairs ! No, I thank you. Don't you think so,

"They do say," the governess admitted, "that women doctors haven't as much consideration for women's

"But, for all that, women ought to understand about women better than men can, and be the best doctors for

"So it seems to me," said Evelyn, appealing to her mother. "Don't you remember that day you took me down

to the infirmary in which you are interested, and how nice it was, nobody but women for doctors and nurses

"Oh, you child!" cried Mrs. Mavick, turning to her daughter and patting her on the head. "Of course there are

exceptions. But I'm not going to be one of the exceptions. Ah, well, I suppose I am quite behind the age; but

Evelyn was silent. She was often so when discussions arose. They were apt to plunge her into deep thought.

To those who knew her history, guarded from close contact with anything but the world of ideas, it was very

interesting to watch her mental attitude as she was day by day emerging into a knowledge of the actual world

and encountering its crosscurrents. To Philip, who was getting a good idea of what her education had been, an

understanding promoted by his knowledge of the character and attainments of her governess, her mental

processes, it may be safely said, opened a new world of thought. Not that mental processes made much

difference to a man in his condition, still, they had the effect of setting her personality still further apart from

that of other women. One day when they happened to be teteatete in one of their frequent excursionsa

"How strange it is that so many things that are selfevident nobody seems to see, and that there are so many

"That is the way the world is made," Philip had replied. She was frequently coming out with the sort of ideas

and questions that are often proposed by bright children, whose thinking processes are not only fresh but

undisturbed by the sophistries or concessions that experience has woven into the thinking of our race.

"Yes. I do begin to see circumstances. I suppose I'm a sort of a goose in the abstract, as you say." And

Evelyn laughed. It was the spontaneous, contagious laugh of a child. "You know that Miss McDonald says

It was Philip's turn to laugh at this new definition, and upon this the talk had drifted into the commonplaces

of the summer situation and about Rivervale and its people. Philip regretted that his vacation would so soon

be over, and that he must say goodby to all this repose and beauty, and to the intercourse that had been so

"You must. I keep thinking of it. What a pleasure it must be to create a real drama of life."

So this day on the veranda of the inn when Philip spoke of his hateful departure next day, and there was a

little chorus of protest, Evelyn was silent; but her silence was of more significance to him than the protests,

"It is too bad," Mrs. Mavick exclaimed; "we shall be like a lot of sheep without a shepherd."

"That we shall," the governess joined in. "At any rate, you must make us out a memorandum of what is to be

"We are awfully obliged to you for what you have done." Mrs. Mavick was no doubt sincere in this. And she

It was a natural thing to say, and Philip understood that there was no invitation in it, more than that of the

There were the most cordial handshakings and goodbys, and Philip said goodby as lightly as anybody.

But as he walked along the road he knew, or thought he was sure, that the thoughts of one of the party were

going along with him into his future, and the peaceful scene, the murmuring river, the catbirds and the

blackbirds calling in the meadow, and the spirit of selfconfident youth in him said not goodby, but au

Of course Philip wrote to Celia about his vacation intimacy with the Mavicks. It was no news to her that the

Mavicks were spending the summer there; all the world knew that, and society wondered what whim of

Carmen's had taken her out of the regular summer occupations and immured her in the country. Not that it

gave much thought to her, but, when her name was mentioned, society resented the closing of the Newport

house and the loss of her vivacity in the autumn at Lenox. She is such a hand to set things going, don't you

know? Mr. Mavick never made a flying visit to his familyand he was in Rivervale twice during the

seasonthat the newspapers did not chronicle his every movement, and attribute other motives than family

affection to these excursions into New England. Was the Central system or the Pennsylvania system

contemplating another raid? It could not be denied that the big operator's connection with any great interest

Naturally, thought Celia, in such a little village, Philip would fall in with the only strangers there, so that he

was giving her no news in saying so. But there was a new tone in his letters; she detected an unusual reserve

that was in itself suspicious. Why did he say so much about Mrs. Mavick and the governess, and so little

"You don't tell me," she wrote," anything about the Infant Phenomenon. And you know I am dying to know."

This Philip resented. Phenomenon! The little brown girl, with eyes that saw so much and were so

impenetrably deep, and the mobile face, so alert and responsive. If ever there was a natural person, it was

"There is nothing to tell; she is not an infant and she is not a phenomenon. Only this: she has less rubbish in

her mind than any person you ever saw. And I guess the things she does not know about life are not worth

"I see," replied Celia; "poor boy! it's the moth and the star. [That's just like her, muttered Philip, she always

assumed to be the older.] But don't mind. I've come to the conclusion that I am a moth myself, and some of

the lights I used to think stars have fallen. And, seriously, dear friend, I am glad there is a person who does

not know the things not worth knowing. It is a step in the right direction. I have been this summer up in the

hills, meditating. And I am not so sure of things as I was. I used to think that all women needed was what is

called education science, history, literatureand you could safely turn them loose on the world. It

certainly is not safe to turn them loose without educationbut I begin to wonder what we are all coming to. I

don't mind telling you that I have got into a pretty psychological muddle, and I don't see much to hold on to.

I suppose that Scotch governess is pious; I mean she has a backbone of what they call dogma; things are right

or wrong in her mindno haziness. Now, I am going to make a confession. I've been thinking of religion.

Don't mock. You know I was brought up religious, and I am religious. I go to churchwell, you know how I

feel and especially the things I don't believe. I go to church to be entertained. I read the other day that

Cardinal Manning said: 'The three greatest evils in the world today are French devotional books, theatrical

music, and the pulpit orator. And the last is the worst.' I wonder. I often feel as if I had been to a performance.

No. It is not about sin that I am especially thinking, but the sinner. One ought to do something. Sometimes I

think I ought to go to the city. You know I was in a College Settlement for a while. Now I mean something

permanent, devoted to the poor as a life occupation, like a nun or something of that sort. You think this is a

mood? Perhaps. There have always been so many things before me to do, and I wanted to do them all. And I

do not stick to anything? You must not presume to say that, because I confide to you all my errant thoughts.

You have not confided in meI don't insinuate that you have anything to confide but I cannot help saying

that if you have found a pure and clearminded girl Heaven knows what she will be when she is a woman

But if Philip did not pour out his heart to his old friend, he did open a lively and frequent correspondence

with Alice. Not about the person who was always in his thoughtsoh, nobut about himself, and all he was

doing, in the not unreasonable expectation that the news would go where he could not send it directlyso

many ingenious ways has love of attaining its object. And if Alice, no doubt, understood all this, she was

nevertheless delighted, and took great pleasure in chronicling the news of the village and giving all the details

that came in her way about the millionaire family. This connection with the world, if only by correspondence,

was an outlet to her reserved and secluded life. And her letters recorded more of her character, of her feeling,

than he had known in all his boyhood. When Alice mentioned, as it were by chance, that Evelyn had asked,

more than once, when she had spoken of receiving letters, if her cousin was going on with his story, Philip

Going on with his story he was, and with good heart. The thought that "she" might some day read it was

inspiration enough. Any real creation, by pen or brush or chisel, must express the artist and be made in

independence of the demands of a vague public. Art is vitiated when the commercial demand, which may be

a needed stimulus, presides at the creation. But it is doubtful if any artist in letters, or in form or color, ever

did anything well without having in mind some special person, whose approval was desired or whose

criticism was feared. Such is the universal need of human sympathy. It is, at any rate, true that Philip's story,

recast and reinspired, was thenceforth written under the spell of the pure divining eyes of Evelyn Mavick.

Unconsciously this was so. For at this time Philip had not come to know that the reason why so many

degraded and degrading stories and sketches are written is because the writers' standard is the approval of one

The Mavicks did not return to town till late in the autumn. By this time Philip's novel had been submitted to a

publisher, or, rather, to state the exact truth, it had begun to go the rounds of the publishers. Mr. Brad, to

whose nineteenthcentury and newspaper eye Philip had shrunk from confiding his modest creation, but who

was consulted in the business, consoled him with the suggestion that this was a sure way of getting his

production read. There was already in the city a considerable body of professional "readers," mostly young

men and women, to whom manuscripts were submitted by the publishers, so that the author could be sure, if

he kept at it long enough, to get a pretty fair circulation for his story. They were selected because they were

good judges of literature and because they had a keen appreciation of what the public wanted at the moment.

Many of them are overworked, naturally so, in the mass of manuscripts turned over to their inspection day

after day, and are compelled often to adopt the method of teatasters, who sip but do not swallow, for to

drink a cup or two of the decoction would spoil their taste and impair their judgment, especially on new

brands. Philip liked to imagine, as the weeks passed awaythe story is old and need not be retold herethat

at any given hour somebody was reading him. He did not, however, dwell with much delight upon this

process, for the idea that some unknown Rhadamanthus was sitting in judgment upon him much more

wounded his 'amour propre', and seemed much more like an invading of his inner, secret life and feeling, than

would be an instant appeal to the general public. Why, he thought, it is just as if I had shown it to Brad

himselfapiece of confidence that he could not bring himself to. He did not know that Brad himself was a

reader for a wellknown housewhich had employed him on the strength of his newspaper notorietyand

that very likely he had already praised the quality of the work and damned it as lacking "snap."

It was, however, weary waiting, and would have been intolerable if his duties in the law office had not

excluded other thoughts from his mind a good part of the time. There were days when he almost resolved to

confine himself to the solid and remunerative business of law, and give up the vague aspirations of

authorship. But those vague aspirations were in the end more enticing than the courts. Commonsense is not

an antidote to the virus of the literary infection when once a young soul has taken it. In his long walks it was

not on the law that Philip was ruminating, nor was the fame of success in it occupying his mind. Suppose he

could write one book that should touch the heart of the world. Would he exchange the sweetness of that for

the fleeting reputation of the most brilliant lawyer? In short, he magnified beyond all reason the career and

reputation of the author, and mistook the consideration he occupies in the great world. And what a world it

That it was not literature alone that inflated his dreams was evidenced by the direction his walks took.

Whatever their original destination or purpose, he was sure to pass through upper Fifth Avenue, and walk by

the Mavick mansion. And never without a lift in his spirits. What comfort there is to a lover in gazing at the

blank and empty house once occupied by his mistress has never been explained; but Philip would have

After he heard from Alice that the Mavicks had returned, the house had still stronger attractions for him, for

there was added the chance of a glimpse of Evelyn or one of the family. Many a day passed, however, before

Philip left his card. But nothing came of it, and he did not try again. In fact, he was a little depressed as the

days went by. How much doubt and anxiety, even suffering, might have been spared him if the historian at

that moment could have informed him of a little shopping incident at Tiffany's a few days after the Mavicks'

A middleaged lady and a young girl were inspecting some antiques. The girl, indeed, had been asking for

ancient coins, and they were shown two superb gold staters with the heads of Alexander and Philip.

"Aren't they beautiful?" said the younger. "How lovely one would be for a brooch!"

The girl held them in her hand and looked at one and the other with a student's discrimination.

"Oh, both are fine. Philip of Macedon has a certain youthful freshness, in the curling hair and uncovered

head. But, of course, Alexander the Great is more important, and then there is the classic casque. I should

take the Alexander." The girl still hesitated, weighing the choice in her mind from the classic point of view.

"Doubtless you are right. But"and she held up the lovely head"this is not quite so common,

andandI think I'll take the Macedon one. Yes, you may set that for me," turning to the salesman.

Evelyn's education was advancing. For the first time in her life she had something to conceal. The privilege

of this sort of secret is, however, an inheritance of Eve. The first morning she wore it at breakfast Mrs.

"How pretty it is; it is very pretty. Ought to have pearls around it. Seems to be an inscription on it."

"Yes, it is real old. McDonald says it is a stater, about the same as a Persian daricsomething like the value of

To give Evelyn her due, it must be confessed that she blushed at this equivocation about the inscription, and

she got quite hot with shame thinking what would become of her if Philip should ever know that she was

One can fancy what philosophical deductions as to the education of women Celia Howard would have drawn

out of this coin incident; one of them doubtless being that a classical education is no protection against love.

But for Philip's connection with the thriving firm of Hunt, Sharp Tweedle, it is safe to say that he would have

known little of the world of affairs in Wall Street, and might never have gained entrance into that other world,

for which Wall Street exists, that society where its wealth and ambitious vulgarity are displayed. Thomas

Mavick was a client of the firm. At first they had been only associated with his lawyer, and consulted

occasionally. But as time went on Mr. Mavick opened to them his affairs more and more, as he found the

advantage of being represented to the public by a firm that combined the highest social and professional

standing with all the acumen and adroitness that his complicated affairs required.

It was a time of great financial feverishness and uncertainty, and of opportunity for the most reckless

adventurers. Houses the most solid were shaken and crippled, and those which were much extended in a

variety of adventures were put to their wits' ends to escape shipwreck. Financial operations are perpetual war.

It is easy to calculate about the regular forces, but the danger is from the unexpected "raids" and the

bushwhackers and guerrillas. And since politics has become inextricably involved in financial speculations

(as it has in real war), the excitement and danger of business on a large scale increase.

Philip as a trusted clerk, without being admitted into interior secrets, came to know a good deal about

Mavick's affairs, and to be more than ever impressed with his enormous wealth and the magnitude of his

operations. From time to time he was sent on errands to Mavick's office, and gradually, as Mavick became

accustomed to him as a representative of the firm, they came on a somewhat familiar footing, and talked of

other things than business. And Mavick, who was not a bad judge of the capacities of men, conceived a high

idea of Philip's singlemindedness, of his integrity and general culture, and, as well, of his agreeableness (for

Philip had a certain charm where he felt at ease), while at the same time he discovered that his mind was

more upon something else than law, and that, if his success in his profession depended upon his adoption of

the business methods of the Street, he could not go very far. Consequently he did not venture upon the same

confidences with him that he habitually did with Mr. Sharp. Yet, business aside, he had an intellectual

pleasure in exchanging views with Philip which Mr. Sharp's conversation did not offer him.

When, therefore, Mrs. Mavick came to consult her husband about the list for the comingout reception of

"It is all plain enough," said Carmen, as she sat down with book and pencil in hand, "till you come to the

young men, the unattached young men. Here is my visitinglist, that of course. But for the young ladies we

"But I mean available young men, those that count socially. I don't want a broker's board or a Chamber of

Mr. Mavick named half a dozen, and Carmen looked for their names in the social register. "Any more?"

"Why, you forgot young Burnett, who was with you last summer at Rivervale. I thought you liked him."

"So I did in Rivervale. Plain farmer people. Yes, he was very nice to us. I've been thinking if I couldn't send

"But you don't understand. You never think of Evelyn's future. We are asking people that we think she ought

"Fiddlesticks! He is nothing but a law clerk. Worse than that, he is a magazine writer."

"So I do. But you don't want to associate with everybody you like that way. I am talking about society. You

must draw the line somewhere. Oh, I forgot FoggDr. LeRoy Fogg, from Pittsburg." And down went the

"You mean that young swell whose business it is to drive a fourinhand to Yonkers and back, and toot on a

"Well, what of that? Everybody who is anybody, I mean all the girls, want to go on his coach."

"Oh, Lord! I'd rather go on the Elevated." And Mavick laughed very heartily, for him. "Well, I'll make a

compromise. You take Fogg and I'll take Burnett. He is in a good firm, he belongs to a firstrate club, he

"Well, if you make a point of it. I've nothing against him. But if you knew the feelings of a mother about her

When, several days after this conversation, Philip received his big invitation, gorgeously engraved on what he

took to be a sublimated sort of wrappingpaper, he felt ashamed that he had doubted the sincere friendship

One morning in December, Philip was sent down to Mr. Mavick's office with some important papers. He was

kept waiting a considerable time in the outer room where the clerks were at work. A couple of clerks at desks

near the chair he occupied were evidently discussing some one and he overheard fragments of

sentences"Yes, that's he." "Well, I guess the old man's got his match this time."

When he was admitted to the private office, he encountered coming out in the anteroom a man of striking

appearance. For an instant they were face to face, and then bowed and passed on. The instant seemed to

The man had closely cropped black hair, black Whiskers, a little curling, but also closely trimmed, piercing

black eyes, and the complexion of a Spaniard. The nose was large but regular, the mouth squarecut and

firm, and the powerful jaw emphasized the decision of the mouth. The frame corresponded with the head. It

was Herculean, and yet with no exaggerated developments. The man was over six feet in height, the

shoulders were square, the chest deep, the hips and legs modeled for strength, and with no superfluous flesh.

Philip noticed, as they fronted each other for an instant and the stranger raised his hat, that his hands and feet

were smaller than usually accompany such a large frame. The impression was that of great physical energy,

selfconfidence, and determined will. The face was not bad, certainly not in detail, and even the penetrating

eyes seemed at the moment capable of a humorous expression, but it was that of a man whom you would not

like to have your enemy. He wore a business suit of rough material and fashionable cut, but he wore it like a

"What a strikinglooking man," said Philip, motioning with his hand towards the anteroom as he greeted Mr.

"Is it possible? I thought I saw a resemblance. Several times I have wondered, but I fancied it only a

coincidence of names. It seemed absurd. Why, I used to know Murad Ault when we were boys. And to think

"He hasn't been that for more than a couple of years," Mavick answered, with a smile at the other's

"If this is the same person, he used to live at Rivervale. Came there, no one knew where from, and lived with

his mother, a little withered old woman, on a little cleared patch up in the hills, in a comfortable sort of

shanty. She used to come to the village with herbs and roots to sell. Nobody knew whether she was a gypsy

or a decayed lady, she had such an air, and the children were half afraid of her, as a sort of witch. Murad went

to school, and occasionally worked for some farmer, but nobody knew him; he rarely spoke to any one, and

he had the reputation of being a perfect devil; his only delight seemed to be in doing some daredevil feat to

frighten the children. We used to say that Murad Ault would become either a pirate or"

"I didn't know much about brokers at that time," Philip hastened to say, and then laughed himself at his

"Oh, he just disappeared. After I went away to school I heard that his mother had died, and Murad had gone

The advent and rise of Murad Ault in New York was the sort of phenomenon to which the metropolis, which

picks up its great men as Napoleon did his marshals, is accustomed. The mystery of his origin, which was at

first against him, became at length an element of his strength and of the fear he inspired, as a sort of

elemental force of unknown power. Newspaper biographies of him constantly appeared, but he had evaded

every attempt to include him and his portrait in the Lives of Successful Men. The publishers of these useful

volumes for stimulating speculation and ambition did not dare to take the least liberties with Murad Ault.

The man was like the boy whom Philip remembered. Doubtless he appreciated now as then the value of the

mystery that surrounded his name and origin; and he very soon had a humorous conception of the situation

that made him decline to be pilloried with others in one of those volumes, which won from a reviewer the

confession that "lives of great men all remind us we may make our lives sublime." One of the legends current

about him was that he first appeared in New York as a "hand" on a canalboat, that he got employment as a

checkclerk on the dock, that he made the acquaintance of politicians in his ward, and went into politics far

enough to get a city contract, which paid him very well and showed him how easily a resolute man could get

money and use it in the city. He was first heard of in Wall Street as a curbstone broker, taking enormous risks

and always lucky. Very soon he set up an office, with one clerk or errandboy, and his growing reputation for

sagacity and boldness began to attract customers; his ventures soon engaged the attention of guerrillas like

himself, who were wont to consult him. They found that his advice was generally sound, and that he had not

only sensitiveness but prescience about the state of the market. His office was presently enlarged, and

Mr. Ault's operations constantly enlarged, his schemes went beyond the business of registering other people's

bets and taking a commission on them; he was known as a daring but successful promoter, and he had a

visible ownership in steamships and railways, and projected such vast operations as draining the Jersey

marshes. If he had been a citizen of Italy he would have attacked the Roman Campagna with the same

confidence. At any rate, he made himself so much felt and seemed to command so many resources that it was

not long before he forced his way into the Stock Exchange and had a seat in the Board of Brokers. He was at

first an odd figure there. There was something flash about his appearance, and his heavy double watchchain

and diamond shirtstuds gave him the look of an ephemeral adventurer. But he soon took his cue, the

diamonds disappeared, and the dress was toned down. There seemed to be two models in the Board, the smart

and neat, and the hayseed style adopted by some of the most wily old operators, who posed as honest dealers

who retained their rural simplicity. Mr. Ault adopted a middle course, and took the respectable yet

There is no other place in the world where merit is so quickly recognized as in the Stock Exchange,

especially if it is backed by brass and a good head. Ault's audacity made him feared; he was believed to be as

unscrupulous as he was reckless, but this did not much injure his reputation when it was seen that he was

marvelously successful. That Ault would wreck the market, if he could and it was to his advantage, no one

doubted; but still he had a quality that begot confidence. He kept his word. Though men might be shy of

entering into a contract with Ault, they learned that what he said he would do he would do literally. He was

not a man of many words, but he was always decided and apparently open, and, as whatever he touched

seemed to thrive, his associates got the habit of saying, "What Ault says goes."

Murad Ault had married, so it was said, the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper on the dock. She was a

pretty girl, had been educated in a convent (perhaps by his aid after he was engaged to marry her), and was a

sweet mother to a little brood of charming children, and a devout member of her parish church. Those who

had seen Mrs. Ault when her carriage took her occasionally to Ault's office in the city were much impressed

by her graceful manner and sweet face, and her appearance gave Ault a sort of anchorage in the region of

respectability. No one would have accused Ault of being devoted to any special kind of religious worship; but

he was equally tolerant of all religions, and report said was liberal in his wife's church charities. Besides the

fact that he owned a somewhat pretentious house in Sixtieth Street, society had very little knowledge of him.

It was, however, undeniable that he was a power in the Street. No other man's name was oftener mentioned in

the daily journals in connection with some bold and successful operation. He seemed to thrive on panics, and

to grow strong and rich with every turn of the wheel. There is only one stock expression in America for a

man who is very able and unscrupulous, and carries things successfully with a high handhe is Napoleonic.

It needed only a few brilliant operations, madly reckless in appearance but successful, to give Ault the

"Papa, what does he mean?" asked the eldest boy. "Jim Dustin says the papers call you Napoleon."

"It means, my boy," said Ault, with a grim smile, that I am devoted to your mother, St. Helena."

"Don't say that, Murad," exclaimed his wife; I'm far enough from a saint, and your destiny isn't the Island."

"You ask too many questions, Sinclair," said Mr. Ault; "it's time you were off to school."

There seems to have been not the least suspicion in this household that the head of it was a pirate.

It must be said that Mavick still looked upon Ault as an adventurer, one of those erratic beings who appear

from time to time in the Street, upset everything, and then disappear. They had been associated occasionally

in small deals, and Ault had more than once appealed to Mavick, as a great capitalist, with some promising

scheme. They had, indeed, cooperated in reorganizing a Western railway, but seemed to have come out of

the operation without increased confidence in each other. What had occurred nobody knew, but thereafter

there developed a slight antagonism between the two operators. Ault went no more to consult the elder man,

and they had two or three little bouts, in which Mavick did not get the best of it. This was not an unusual

thing in the Street. Mr. Ault never expressed his opinion of Mr. Mavick, but it became more and more

apparent that their interests were opposed. Some one who knew both men, and said that the one was as cold

and selfish as a pike, and the other was a most unscrupulous daredevil, believed that Mavick had attempted

some sort of a trick on Ault, and that it was the kind of thing that the Spaniard (his complexion had given him

It is not intended to enter into a defense of the local pool known as the New York Stock Exchange. It needs

none. Some regard it as a necessary standpipe to promote and equalize distribution, others consult it as a sort

of Nilometer, to note the rise and fall of the waters and the probabilities of drought or flood. Everybody

knows that it is full of the most gamy and beautiful fish in the worldnamely, the speckled trout, whose

honest occupation it is to devour whatever is thrown into the poola body governed by the strictest laws of

political economy in guarding against overpopulation, by carrying out the Malthusian idea, in the habit the

big ones have of eating the little ones. But occasionally this harmonious family, which is animated by one of

the most conspicuous traits of human natureto which we owe very much of our progress namely, the

desire to get hold of everything within reach, and is such a useful objectlesson of the universal law of

upward struggle that results in the survival of the fittest, this harmonious family is disturbed by the advent of

a pickerel, which makes a raid, introduces confusion into all the calculations of the pool, roils the water, and

The presence in the pool of a slimy eel or a blundering bullhead or a lethargic sucker is bad enough, but the

rush in of the pickerel is the advent of the devil himself. Until he is got rid of, all the delicate machinery for

the calculation of chances is hopelessly disturbed; and no one could tell what would become of the business

of the country if there were not a considerable number of devoted men engaged in registering its fluctuations

and the change of values, and willing to back their opinions by investing their own capital or, more often, the

This somewhat mixed figure cannot be pursued further without losing its analogy, becoming fantastic, and

violating natural law. For it is matter of observation that in this arena the pickerel, if he succeeds in clearing

out the pool, suddenly becomes a trout, and is respected as the biggest and most useful fish in the pond.

What is meant is simply that Murad Ault was fighting for position, and that for some reason, known to

himself, Thomas Mavick stood in his way. Mr. Mavick had never been under the necessity of making such a

contest. He stepped into a commanding position as the manager if not the owner of the great fortune of

Rodney Henderson. His position was undisputed, for the Street believed with the world in the magnitude of

that fortune, though there were shrewd operators who said that Mavick had more chicane but not a tenth part

of the ability of Rodney Henderson. Mr. Ault had made the fortune the object of keen scrutiny, when his

antagonism was aroused, and none knew better than he its assailable points. Henderson had died suddenly in

the midst of vast schemes which needed his genius to perfect. Apparently the Mavick estate was second to

only a few fortunes in the country. Mr. Ault had set himself to find out whether this vast structure stood upon

rock foundations. The knowledge he acquired about it and his intentions he communicated to no one. But the

drift of his mind might be gathered from a remark he made to his wife one day, when some social allusion

The use of such men as Ault in the social structure is very doubtful, as doubtful as that of a summer tempest

or local cyclone, which it is said clears the air and removes rubbish, but is a scourge that involves the

innocent as often as the guilty. It is popularly supposed that the disintegration and distribution of a great

fortune, especially if it has been accumulated by doubtful methods, is a benefit to mankind. Mr. Ault may

have shared this impression, but it is unlikely that he philosophized on the subject. No one, except perhaps

his own family, had ever discovered that he had any sensibilities that could be appealed to, and, if he had

known the ideas beginning to take shape in the mind of the millionaire heiress in regard to this fortune, he

Evelyn had lived hitherto with little comprehension of her peculiar position. That the world went well with

her, and that no obstacle was opposed to the gratification of her reasonable desires, or to her impulses of

charity and pity, was about all she knew of her power. But she was now eighteen and about to appear in the

world. Her mother, therefore, had been enlightening her in regard to her expectations and the career that lay

open to her. And Carmen thought the girl a little perverse, in that this prospect, instead of exciting her

worldly ambition, seemed to affect her only seriously as a matter of responsibility.

In their talks Mrs. Mavick was in fact becoming acquainted with the mind of her daughter, and learning,

somewhat to her chagrin, the limitations of her education produced by the policy of isolation. To her dismay,

she found that the girl did not care much for the things that she herself cared most for. The whole world of

society, its strifes, ambitions, triumphs, defeats, rewards, did not seem to Evelyn so real or so important as

that world in which she had lived with her governess and her tutors. And, worse than this, the estimate she

placed upon the values of material things was shockingly inadequate to her position.

That her father was a very great man was one of the earliest things Evelyn began to know, exterior to herself.

This was impressed upon her by the deference paid to him not only at home but wherever they went, and by

the deference shown to her as his daughter. And she was proud of this. He was not one of the great men

whose careers she was familiar with in literature, not a general or a statesman or an orator or a scientist or a

poet or a philanthropist she never thought of him in connection with these heroes of her imaginationbut he

was certainly a great power in the world. And she had for him a profound admiration, which might have

become affection if Mavick had ever taken the pains to interest himself in the child's affairs. Her mother she

loved, and believed there could be no one in the world more sweet and graceful and attractive, and as she

grew up she yearned for more of the motherly companionship, for something more than the odd moments of

petting that were given to her in the whirl of the life of a woman of the world. What that life was, however,

she had only the dimmest comprehension, and it was only in the last two years, since she was sixteen, that

she began to understand it, and that mainly in contrast to her own guarded life. And she was now able to see

Not till long after this did she speak to any one of her experience as a child, of the time when she became

conscious that she was never alone, and that she was only free to act within certain limits.

To McDonald, indeed, she had often shown her irritation, and it was only the strong good sense of the

governess that kept her from revolt. It was not until very recently that it could be explained to her, without

It had required all the tact and sophistry of her governess to make her acquiesce in a system of educationso

it was calledthat had been devised in order to give her the highest and purest development. That the

education was mainly left to McDonald, and that her parents were simply anxious about her safety, she did

not learn till long afterwards. In the first years Mrs. Mavick had been greatly relieved to be spared all the care

of the baby, and as the years went on, the arrangement seemed more and more convenient, and she gave little

thought to the character that was being formed. To Mr. Mavick, indeed, as to his wife, it was enough to see

that she was uncommonly intelligent, and that she had a certain charm that made her attractive. Mrs. Mavick

took it for granted that when it came time to introduce her into the world she would be like other girls, eager

for its pleasures and susceptible to all its allurements. Of the direction of the undercurrents of the girl's life

she had no conception, until she began to unfold to her the views of the world that prevailed in her circle, and

That she was to be an heiress Evelyn had long known, that she would one day have a great fortune at her

disposal had indeed come into her serious thought, but the brilliant use of it in relation to herself, at which her

mother was always lately hinting, came to her as a disagreeable shock. For the moment the fortune seemed to

her rather a fetter than an opportunity, if she was to fulfill her mother's expectations. These hints were

conveyed with all the tact of which her mother was master, but the girl was nevertheless somewhat alarmed,

and she began to regard the "coming out" as an entrance into servitude rather than an enlargement of liberty.

One day she surprised Miss McDonald by asking her if she didn't think that rich people were the only ones

"Why, my dear, it is not generally so considered. Most people fancy that if they had money enough they

"Yes, of course," said the girl, putting down her stitching and looking up; "that is not exactly what I mean.

They can go in the current, they can do what they like with their money, but I mean with themselves. Aren't

they in a condition that binds them half the time to do what they don't wish to do?"

"I know. I've been talking with mamma about the world and about society, and what is expected and what

"But you have always known that you must one day go into the world and take your share in life."

"That, yes. But I would rather live up to myself. Mamma seems to think that society will do a great deal for

me, that I will get a wider view of life, that I can do so much for society, and, with my position, mamma says,

That was such a poser that the governess threw up her hands, and then laughed aloud, and then shook her

"I asked mamma that, for she is in it all the time. She didn't like it much, and asked, 'What is anything for?'

You see, McDonald, I've been with mamma many a time when her friends came to see her, and they never

have anything to say, neverwhat I call anything. I wonder if in society they go about saying that? What do

Miss McDonald had her own opinion about what is called society and its occupations and functions, but she

did not propose to encourage this girl, who would soon take her place in it, in such odd notions.

"Don't you know, child, that there is society and society? That it is all sorts of a world, that it gets into groups

and circles about, and that is the way the world is stirred up and kept from stagnation. And, my dear, you

have just to do your duty where you are placed, and that is all there is about it."

"Yes, you can think, and you can learn to keep a good deal that you think to yourself. Now, Evelyn, haven't

"Indeed I have," said Evelyn, coming out of her reflective mood into a girlish enthusiasm. "And I want to see

what I shall be like in it. Onlywell, how is that?" And she held out the handkerchief she had been plying

Miss McDonald looked at the stitches critically, at the letters T.M. enclosed in an oval.

"That is very good, not too mechanical. It will please your father. The oval makes a pretty effect; but what are

"Don't you see? It is a cartouche, and those are hieroglyphicshis name in Egyptian. I got it out of Petrie's

"And every one of the twelve is going to be different. It is so interesting to hunt up the signs for qualities. If

The governess only smiled for reply. It was so like Evelyn, so different from others even in the commonplace

task of marking handkerchiefs, to work a little archaeology into her expression of family affection.

Mrs. Mavick's talks with her daughter in which she attempted to give Evelyn some conception of her

importance as the heiress of a great fortune, of her position in society, what would be expected of her, and of

the brilliant social career her mother imagined for her, had an effect opposite to that intended. There had been

nothing in her shielded life, provided for at every step without effort, that had given her any idea of the value

To a girl in her position, educated in the ordinary way and mingling with school companions, one of the

earliest lessons would be a comprehension of the power that wealth gave her; and by the time that she was of

Evelyn's age her opinion of men would begin to be colored by the notion that they were polite or attentive to

her on account of her fortune and not for any charm of hers, and so a cruel suspicion of selfishness would

No such idea had entered Evelyn's mind. She would not readily have understood that love could have any sort

of relation to riches or poverty. And if, deep down in her heart, not acknowledged, scarcely recognized, by

herself, there had begun to grow an image about which she had sweet and tender thoughts, it certainly did not

occur to her that her father's wealth could make any difference in the relations of friendship or even of

affection. And as for the fortune, if she was, as her mother said, some day to be mistress of it, she began to

turn over in her mind objects quite different from the display and the career suggested by her mother, and to

In her ignorance of practical life and of what the world generally values, of course the scheme that was rather

hazy in her mind was simply Quixotic, as appeared in a conversation with her father one evening while he

smoked his cigar. He had called Evelyn to the library, on the suggestion of Carmen that he should "have a

Mr. Mavick began, when Evelyn was seated beside him, and he had drawn her close to him and she had taken

possession of his big hand with both her little hands, about the reception and about balls to come, and the

opera, and what was going on in New York generally in the season, and suddenly asked:

"What would you?" said the girl, looking up into his face. "What do people generally do?"

"Don't think me silly, papa; I've thought a lot about it, and I shall do something quite different."

"You know mamma is in the Orthopedic Hospital, and in the Ragged Schools, and in the Infirmary, and I

"Of course, I would help. But everybody does those things, the practical things, the charities; I mean to do

Mr. Mavick took his cigar from his mouth and looked puzzled. "You want to build a cathedral?"

"No, I don't mean that sort of higher life, I mean civilization, the things at the top. I read an essay the other

day that said it was easy to raise money for anything mechanical and practical in a school, but nobody wanted

"Quite right," said her father; "the world is full of cranks. You seem as vague as your essayist."

"Don't you remember, papa, when we were in Oxford how amused you were with the master, or professor,

who grumbled because the college was full of students, and there wasn't a single college for research?

I asked McDonald afterwards what he meant; that is how I first got my idea, but I didn't see exactly what it

was until recently. You've got to cultivate the high thingsthat essay saysthe abstract, that which does not

"By George!" cried Mavick, with a burst of laughter, "you've got the lingo. Go on, I want to see where you

"Well, I'll tell you some more. You know my tutor is English. McDonald says she believes he is the most

learned man in eighteenthcentury literature living, and his dream is to write a history of it. He is poor, and

engaged all the time teaching, and McDonald says he will die, no doubt, and leave nothing of his

"He is only one. There is the tutor of history. Teach, teach, teach, and no time or strength left for

investigation. You ought to hear him tell of the things just to be found out in American history. You see what

I mean? It is plainer in the sciences. The scholars who could really make investigations, and do something for

the world, have to earn their living and have no time or means for experiments. It seems foolish as I say it,

Evelyn saw that she was making no headway, and her ideas, exposed to so practical a man as her father, did

seem rather ridiculous. But she struck out boldly with the scheme that she had been evolving.

"I'd found Institutions of Research, where there should be no teaching, and students who had demonstrated

that they had anything promising in them, in science, literature, languages, history, anything, should have the

means and the opportunity to make investigations and do work. See what a hard time inventors and men of

"I hadn't thought," said Evelyn, patting her father's hand. And then, at a venture, "I guess about ten millions."

"Whew! Have you any idea how much ten millions are, or how much one million is?"

"Why, ten millions, if you have a hundred, is no more than one million if you have only ten. Doesn't it

"If it depends upon you, child, I don't think money has any value for you whatever. You are a born financier

Mavick rose, lifted up his daughter, and, kissing her with more than usual tenderness, said, "You'll learn

Law and love go very well together as occupations, but, when literature is added, the trio is not harmonious.

Either of the two might pull together, but the combination of the three is certainly disastrous.

It would be difficult to conceive of a person more obviously up in the air than Philip at this moment. He went

through his office duties intelligently and perfunctorily, but his heart was not in the work, and reason as he

would his career did not seem to be that way. He was lured too strongly by that siren, the everalluring

woman who sits upon the rocks and sings so deliciously to youth of the sweets of authorship. He who listens

once to that song hears it always in his ears, through disappointment and successand the success is often

the greatest disappointmentthrough poverty and hope deferred and heartsickness for recognition, through

the hot time of youth and the creeping incapacity of old age. The song never ceases. Were the longing and the

hunger it arouses ever satisfied with anything, money for instance, any more than with fame?

And if the law had a feeble hold on him, how much more uncertain was his grasp on literature. He had

thrown his line, he had been encouraged by nibbles, but publishers were too wary to take hold. It seemed to

him that he had literally cast his bread upon the waters, and apparently at an ebb tide, and his venture had

gone to the fathomless sea. He had put his heart into the story, and, more than that, his hope of something

dearer than any public favor. As he went over the story in his mind, scene after scene, and dwelt upon the

theme that held the whole in unity, he felt that Evelyn would be touched by the recognition of her part in the

inspiration, and that the great public must give some heed to it. Perhaps not the great publicfor its liking

now ran in quite another direction, but a considerable number of people like Celia, who were struggling with

problems of life, and the Alices in country homes who still preserved in their souls a belief in the power of a

noble life, and perhaps some critics who had not rid themselves of the old traditions. If the publishers would

But if law and literature were to him little more than unsubstantial dreams, the love he cherished was, in the

cool examination of reason, preposterous. What! the heiress of so many millions, brought up doubtless in the

expectation of the most brilliant worldly alliance, the heiress with the world presently at her feet, would she

look at a lawyer's clerk and an unsuccessful scribbler? Oh, the vanity of youth and the conceit of intellect!

Down in his heart Philip thought that she might. And he went on nursing this vain passion, knowing as well

as any one can know the social code, that Mr. Mavick and Mrs. Mavick would simply laugh in his face at

such a preposterous idea. And yet he knew that he had her sympathy in his ambition, that to a certain extent

she was interested in him. The girl was too guileless to conceal that. And then suppose he should become

famouswell, not exactly famous, but an author who was talked about, and becoming known, and said to be

promising? And then he could fancy Mavick weighing this sort of reputation in his office scales against

money, and Mrs. Mavick weighing it in her boudoir against social position. He was a fool to think of it. And

yet, suppose, suppose the girl should come to love him. It would not be lightly. He knew that, by looking into

her deep, clear, beautiful eyes. There were in them determination and tenacity of purpose as well as the

capability of passion. Heavens and earth, if that girl once loved, there was a force that no opposition could

In those days Philip saw much of Celia, who at length had given up teaching, and had come to the city to try

her experiment, into which she was willing to embark her small income. She had taken a room in the midst of

"I am not certain," she said, "whether I or any one else can do anything, or whether any organization down

"Disgusted? You might as well be disgusted with one thing as another. I am generally disgusted with the way

things go. But, lonely? No, there is too much to do and to learn. And do you know, Philip, that people are

more interesting over there, more individual, have more queer sorts of character. I begin to believe, with a

lovely philanthropist I know, who had charge of female criminals, that 'wicked women are more interesting

"Don't be cynical, Phil. There are different kinds of interest. Stuff! But I won't explain." And then, abruptly

changing the subject, "Seems to me you have something on your mind lately. Is it the novel?"

"Well, Philip, do you know that I think the best thing that could happen to you would be to have the story

"It has been rejected several times," said Philip. "That didn't seem to do me any good."

"But finally, so that you would stop thinking about it, stop expecting anything that way, and take up your

"You are a nice comforter!" retorted Philip, with a sort of smirking grin and a look of keen inspection, as if he

saw something new in the character of his adviser. "What has come over you? Suppose I should give you that

"It does seem hard and mean, doesn't it? I knew you wouldn't like it. That is, not now. But it is for your

lifetime. As for me, I've wanted so many things and I've tried so many things. And do you know, Phil, that I

have about come to the conclusion that the best things for us in this world are the things we don't get."

"Yes, I know. But just look at it rationally. Suppose your story is published, cast into the sea of new books,

and has a very fair sale. What will you get out of it? You can reckon how many copies at ten cents a copy it

will need to make as much as some writers get for a trivial magazine paper. Recognition? Yes, from a very

few people. Notoriety? You would soon find what that is. Suppose you make what is called a 'hit.' If you did

not better that with the next book, you would be called a failure. And you must keep at it, keep giving the

public something new all the time, or you will drop out of sight. And then the anxiety and the strain of it, and

the temptation, because you must live, to lower your ideal, and go down to what you conceive to be the

buying public. And if your story does not take the popular fancy, where will you be then?"

"Celia, you have become a perfect materialist. You don't allow anything for the joy of creation, for the

impulse of a man's mind, for the delight in fighting for a place in the world of letters."

"So it seems to you now. If you have anything that must be said, of course you ought to say it, no matter what

comes after. If you are looking round for something you can say in order to get the position you covet, that is

another thing. People so deceive themselves about this. I know literary workers who lead a dog's life and are

slaves to their pursuit, simply because they have deceived themselves in this. I want you to be free and

independent, to live your own life and do what work you can in the world. There, I've said it, and of course

you will go right on. I know you. And maybe I am all wrong. When I see the story I may take the other side

and urge you to go on, even if you are as poor as a churchmouse, and have to be under the harrow of

"You know I have. And I know I shall like it. It isn't that, Phil; it is what is the happiest career for you."

But the unexpected happened. It did not come back. One morning Philip received a letter from the publishers

that set his head in a whirl. The story was accepted. The publisher wrote that the verdict of the readers was

favorable, and he would venture on it, though he cautioned Mr. Burnett not to expect a great commercial

success. And he added, as to terms, it being a new name, though he hoped one that would become famous,

that the copyright of ten per cent. would not begin until after the sale of the first thousand copies.

The latter part of the letter made no impression on Philip. So long as the book was published, and by a

respectable firm, he was indifferent as a lord to the ignoble details of royalty. The publisher had recognized

the value of the book, and it was accepted on its merits. That was enough. The first thing he did was to

enclose the letter to Celia, with the simple remark that he would try to sympathize with her in her

Philip would have been a little less jubilant if he had known how the decision of the publishing house was

arrived at. It was true that the readers had reported favorably, but had refused to express any opinion on the

market value. The manuscript had therefore been put in the grave yard of manuscripts, from which there is

commonly no resurrection except in the funeral progress of the manuscript back to the author. But the head of

the house happened to dine at the house of Mr. Hunt, the senior of Philip's law firm. Some chance allusion

was made by a lady to an article in a recent magazine which had pleased her more than anything she had seen

lately. Mr. Hunt also had seen it, for his wife had insisted on reading it to him, and he was proud to say that

the author was a clerk in his officea fine fellow, who, he always fancied, had more taste for literature than

for law, but he had the stuff in him to succeed in anything. The publisher pricked up his ears and asked some

questions. He found that Mr. Burnett stood well in the most prominent law firm in the city, that ladies of

social position recognized his talent, that he dined here and there in a good set, and that he belonged to one of

the best clubs. When he went to his office the next morning he sent for the manuscript, looked it over

critically, and then announced to his partners that he thought the thing was worth trying.

In a day or two it was announced in the advertising lists as forthcoming. There it stared Philip in the face and

seemed to be the only conspicuous thing in the journal. He had not paid much attention before to the

advertisements, but now this department seemed the most interesting part of the paper, and he read every

announcement, and then came back and read his over and over. There it stood:"On Saturday, The Puritan

The naming of the book had been almost as difficult as the creation. His first choice had been "The Lily of

the Valley," but Balzac had preempted that. And then he had thought of "The Enclosed Garden" (Hortus

Clausus), the title of a lovely picture he had seen. That was Biblical, but in the present ignorance of the old

scriptures it would be thought either agricultural or sentimental. It is not uncommon that a book owes its

notoriety and sale to its title, and it is not easy to find a title that will attract attention without being too

sensational. The title chosen was paradoxical, for while a nun might be a puritan, it was unthinkable that a

Mr. Brad said he liked it, because it looked well and did not mean anything; he liked all such titles, the "Pious

Pirate," the "Lucid Lunatic," the "Sympathetic Siren," the "Guileless Girl," and so on.

The announcement of publication had the effect of putting Philip in high spirits for the Mavick

receptionspirits tempered, however, by the embarrassment natural to a modest man that he would be

painfully conspicuous. This first placarding of one's name is a peculiar and mixed sensation. The letters seem

shamefully naked, and the owner seems exposed and to have parted with a considerable portion of his innate

privacy. His first fancy is that everybody will see it. But this fancy only comes once. With experience he

To those most concerned the Mavick reception was the event of a lifetime. To the townthat is, to a

thousand or two persons occupying in their own eyes an exclusive position it was one of the events of the

season, and, indeed, it was the sensation for a couple of days. The historian of social life formerly had put

upon him the task of painfully describing all that went to make such an occasion brilliantthe house itself,

the decorations, the notable company, men distinguished in the State or the Street, women as remarkable for

their beauty as for their courage in its exhibition, the whole world of fashion and of splendid extravagance

upon which the modiste and the tailor could look with as much pride as the gardener does upon a show of

The historian has no longer this responsibility. It is transferred to a kind of trust. A race of skillful artists has

arisen, who, in combination with the caterers, the decorators, and the milliners, produce a composite piece of

literature in which all details are woven into a splendid wholea composition rhetorical, humorous, lyrical, a

noble apotheosis of wealth and beauty which carefully satisfies individual vanity and raises in the mind a

noble picture of modern civilization. The pen and the pencil contribute to this splendid result in the daily

chronicle of our life. Those who are not present are really witnesses of the scene, and this pictorial and

literary triumph is justified in the fact that no other effort of the genius of reproduction is so eagerly studied

by the general public. Not only in the city, but in the remote villages, these accounts are perused with interest,

and it must be taken as an evidence of the new conception of the duties of the favored of fortune to the public

pleasure that the participants in these fetes overcome, though reluctantly, their objection to notoriety.

No other people in the world are so hospitable as the Americans, and so willing to incur discomfort in

showing hospitality. No greater proof of this can be needed than the effort to give princely entertainments in

un princely houses, where opposing streams of guests fight for progress in scant passages and on narrow

stairways, and pack themselves in stifling rooms. The Mavick house, it should be said, was perfectly adapted

to the throng that seemed to fill but did not crowd it. The spacious halls, the noble stairways, the ample

drawingrooms, the ballroom, the musicroom, the library, the picturegallery, the diningroom, the

conservatoryinto these the crowd flowed or lingered without confusion or annoyance and in a continual

pleasure of surprise. "The best point of view," said an artist of Philip's acquaintance, "is just here." They were

standing in the great hall looking up at that noble gallery from which flowed down on either hand a broad

"I didn't know there was so much beauty in New York. It never before had such an opportunity to display

itself. There is room for the exhibition of the most elaborate toilets, and the costumes really look regal in such

When Philip was shown to the dressingroom, conscious that the servant was weighing him lightly in the

social scale on account of his early arrival, he found a few men who were waiting to make their appearance

more seasonable. They were young men, who had the air of being bored by this sort of thing, and greeted

each other with a look of courteous surprise, as much as to say, "Hello! you here?" One of them, whom Philip

knew slightly, who had the reputation of being the distributer if not the fountain of social information, and

had the power of attracting gossip as a magnet does iron filings, gave Philip much valuable information

"Mrs. Mavick has done it this time. Everybody has tumbled in. Washington is drained of its foreign

diplomats, the heavy part of the cabinet is moved over to represent the President, who sent a gracious letter,

the select from Boston, the most ancient from Philadelphia, and I know that Chicago comes in a special train.

Oh, it's the thing. I assure you there was a scramble for invitations in the city. Lots of visiting

"Lord Crewe Monmouth Fitzwilliam, the Marquis of Montague, eldest son of the Duke of Tewkesbury. He's

They say he is over here looking for capital to carry on his peer business when he comes into it. Don't know

who put up the money for the trip. These foreigners keep a sharp eye on our market, I can tell you. They say

she is a nice little girl, rather a bluestocking, face rather intelligent than pretty, but Montague won't care for

thatexcuse the old joke, but it is the figure Monte is after. He hasn't any manners, but he's not a bad sort of

a fellow, generally goodnatured, immensely pleased with New York, and an enthusiastic connoisseur in

At the proper hourthe hour, it came into, his mind, when the dear ones at Rivervale had been long in sleep,

lulled by the musical flow of the DeerfieldPhilip made his way to the reception room, where there actually

was some press of a crowd, in lines, to approach the attraction of the evening, and as he waited his turn he

had leisure to observe the brilliant scene. There was scarcely a person in the room he knew. One or two ladies

gave him a preoccupied nod, a plain little woman whom he had talked with about books at a recent dinner

smiled upon him encouragingly. But what specially impressed him at the moment was the seriousness of the

function, the intentness upon the presentation, and the look of worry on the faces of the women in arranging

As he approached he fancied that Mr. Mavick looked weary and bored, and that a shade of abstraction

occasionally came over his face as if it were difficult to keep his thoughts on the changing line.

But his face lighted up a little when he took Philip's hand and exchanged with him the commonplaces of the

evening. But before this he had to wait a moment, for he was preceded by an important personage. A dapper

little figure, trim, neat, at the moment drew himself up before Mrs. Mavick, brought his heels together with a

click, and made a low bow. Doubtless this was the French count. Mrs. Mavick was radiant. Philip had never

"It ees to me," said the count, with a marked accent; "I assure you it is like Paris in ze time of ze monarchy.

Ah, ze Great Republic, madameso it was in France in ze ancien regime. Ah, mademoiselle! Permit me,"

and he raised her hand to his lips; "I saluteis it not" (turning to Mrs. Mavick)"ze princess of ze house?"

The next man who shook hands with the host, and then stood in an easy attitude before the hostess, attracted

Philip's attention strongly, for he fancied from the deference shown him it must be the lord of whom he had

heard. He was a short, little man, with heavy limbs and a clumsy figure, reddish hair, very thin on the crown,

small eyes that were not improved in expression by white eyebrows, a red face, smooth shaven and freckled.

"I am delighted, my lord, that you could make room in your engagements to come."

"Ah, Mrs. Mavick, I wouldn't have missed it," said my lord, with easy assurance; "I'd have thrown over

anything to have come. And, do you know" (looking about him coolly), "it's quite English, 'pon my honor,

"No, I do assure you, it's bangup. Ah, Miss Mavick, delighted, delighted. Most charming. Lucky for me,

"Been here beforeRockies, shooting, all that. Just arrived now beastly trip, beastly."

"Glad to land anywhere. But New York suits me down to the ground. It goes, as you say over here. You

"For some thing. Paris as it was in the Empire. For sport, no. For horses, no. And" (looking boldly into her

face) "when you speak of American women, Paris ain't in it, as you say over here."

And the noble lord, instead of passing on, wheeled about and took a position near Evelyn, so that he could

To Philip Mrs. Mavick was civil, but she did not beam upon him, and she did not detain him longer than to

say, "Glad to see you." But Evelyn could Philip be deceived?she gave him her hand cordially and

looked into his eyes trustfully, as she had the habit of doing in the country, and as if it were a momentary

"I need not say that I am glad you could come. And oh" (there was time only for a word), "I saw the

Lord Montague stared at him as if to say, "Who the deuce are you?" and as Philip met his gaze he thought,

"No, he hasn't the manner of a stable boy; no one but a born nobleman could be so confident with women and

But my lord, was little in his thought. It was the face of Evelyn that he saw, and the dainty little figure; the

warmth of the little hand still thrilled him. So simple, and only a bunch of violets in her corsage for all

ornament! The clear, dark complexion, the sweet mouth, the wonderful eyes! What could Jenks mean by

Philip drifted along with the crowd. He was very much alone. And he enjoyed his solitude. A word and a

smile now and then from an acquaintance did not tempt him to come out of his seclusion. The gay scene

pleased him. He looked for a moment into the ballroom. At another time he would have tried his fortune in

the whirl. But now he looked on as at a spectacle from which he was detached. He had had his moment and

he waited for another. The voluptuous music, the fascinating toilets, the beautiful faces, the graceful forms

that were woven together in this shifting kaleidoscope, were, indeed, a part of his beautiful dream. But how

unreal they all were! There was no doubt that Evelyn's eyes had kindled for him as for no one else whom she

had greeted. She singled him out in all this crush, her look, the cordial pressure of her hand, conveyed the

feeling of comradeship and understanding. This was enough to fill his thought with foolish anticipations. Is

there any being quite so happy, quite so stupid, as a lover? A lover, who hopes everything and fears

everything, who goes in an instant from the heights of bliss to the depths of despair.

When the "reception" was over and the company was breaking up into groups and moving about, Philip again

sought Evelyn. But she was the centre of a somewhat noisy group, and it was not easy to join it.

Yet it was something that he could feast his eyes on her and was rewarded by a look now and then that told

him she was conscious of his presence. Encouraged by this, he was making his way to her, when there was a

movement towards the supperroom, and Mrs. Mavick had taken the arm of the Count de l'Auney, and the

little lord was jauntily leading away Evelyn. Philip had a pang of disgust and jealousy. Evelyn was actually

chatting with him and seemed amused. Lord Montague was evidently laying himself out to please and

exerting all the powers of his subtle humor and exploiting his newly acquired slang. That Philip could hear as

they moved past him. "The brute!" Philip said to himself, with the injustice which always clouds the estimate

In the supperroom, however, in the confusion and crowding of it, Philip at length found his opportunity to

get to the side of Evelyn, whose smile showed him that he was welcome. It was in that fortunate interval

when Lord Montague was showing that devotion to women was not incompatible with careful attention to

"Not at all. Everybody is very kind, and some are very amusing. I am learning a great deal," and there was a

"I suppose so. But do you know," and there was quite an ingenuous blush in her cheeks as she said it, "it isn't

"So you remember that?" Philip had not command of himself enough not to attempt the sentimental.

"You must think I have a weak memory," she replied, with a laugh. "And the story? When shall we have it?"

"Soon, I hope. And, Miss Mavick, I owe so much of it to you that I hope you will let me send you the very

"Will you? And do you Of course I shall be pleased and" (making him a little curtsy) "honored, as one ought

Lord Montague was evidently getting uneasy, for his attention was distracted from the occupation of feeding.

"Much pleased," said his lordship, looking round rather inquiringly at the intruder. "I can't say much for the

champagneah, not bad, you knowbut I always said that your terrapin isn't half so nasty as it looks." And

his lordship laughed most goodhumoredly, as if he were paying the American nation a deserved

"Yes," said Philip, "we have to depend upon France for the champagne, but the terrapin is native."

"Quite so, and devilish good! That ain't bad, 'depend upon France for the champagne!' There is nothing like

"It needs an Englishman to appreciate it," replied Evelyn, with a twinkle in her eyes which was lost upon her

In the midst of these courtesies Philip bowed himself away. The party was over for him, though he wandered

about for a while, was attracted again by the music to the ballroom, and did find there a dinner acquaintance

with whom he took a turn. The lady must have thought him a very uninteresting or a very absentminded

As for Lord Montague, after he had what he called a "go" in the dancing room, he found his way back to the

buffet in the supperroom, and the historian says that he greatly enjoyed himself, and was very amusing, and

that he cultivated the friendship of an obliging waiter early in the morning, who conducted his lordship to his

The morning after The Puritan Nun was out, as Philip sat at his office desk, conscious that the eyes of the

world were on him, Mr. Mavick entered, bowed to him absentmindedly, and was shown into Mr. Hunt's

Philip had dreaded to come to the office that morning and encounter the inquisition and perhaps the

compliments of his fellowclerks. He had seen his name in staring capitals in the bookseller's window as he

came down, and he felt that it was shamefully exposed to the public gaze, and that everybody had seen it. The

clerks, however, gave no sign that the event had disturbed them. He had encountered many people he knew

on the street, but there had been no recognition of his leap into notoriety. Not a fellow in the club, where he

had stopped a moment, had treated him with any increased interest or deference. In the office only one person

seemed aware of his extraordinary good fortune. Mr. Tweedle had come to the desk and offered his hand in

"I see by the paper, Mr. Burnett, that we are an author. Let me congratulate you. Mrs. Tweedle told me not to

"I shall be much honored," said Philip, blushing, "if Mrs. Tweedle will accept a copy from me."

"I didn't mean that, Mr. Burnett; but, of course, gift of the author Mrs. Tweedle will be very much

In half an hour Mr. Mavick came out, passed him without recognition, and hurried from the office, and Philip

"I want you to go to Washington immediately, Mr. Burnett. Return by the night train. You can do without

your grip? Take these papers to Buckston Higginsyou see the addresswho represents the British

Argentine syndicate. Wait till he reads them and get his reply. Here is the money for the trip. Oh, after Mr.

Higgins writes his answer, ask him if you can telegraph me 'yes' or 'no.' Goodmorning."

While Philip was speeding to Washington, an important conference was taking place in Murad Ault's office.

He was seated at his desk, and before him lay two despatches, one from Chicago and a cable from London.

Opposite him, leaning forward in his chair, was a lean, hatchetfaced man, with keen eyes and aquiline nose,

"I tell you, Wheatstone," said Mr. Ault, with an unmoved face, bringing his fist down on the table, "now is

"Why," said Mr. Wheatstone, with a look of wonder, "they are about the strongest on the list. Mavick

"Nothing to speak of," replied Ault, grimly. "It just looks so to me. All you've got to do is to sell. Make a

"That is just the reason. Everybody will think something must be the matter, or nobody would be fool enough

to sell. You keep your eye on the Spectrum this afternoon and tomorrow morning. About Organization and

"Ah, they do say that Mavick is in Argentine up to his neck," said the broker, beginning to be enlightened.

Mr. Ault took up the cable cipher and read it to himself again. If Mr. Hunt had known its contents he need not

"It's all right, Wheatstone. It's the biggest thing you ever struck. Pitch 'em overboard in the morning. The

Street is shaky about Argentine. There'll be h to pay before half past twelve. I guess you can safely go ten

points. Lower yet, if Mavick's brokers begin to unload. I guess he will have to unless he can borrow. Rumor

is a big thing, especially in a panic, eh? Keep your eye peeled. And, oh, won't you ask Babcock to step round

Mr. Babcock came round, and had his instructions when to buy. He had the reputation of being a reckless

The panic next day, both in London and New York, was long remembered. In the unreasoning scare the best

stocks were sacrificed. Small country "investors" lost their stakes. Some operators were ruined. Many men

were poorer at the end of the scrimmage, and a few were richer. Murad Ault was one of the latter. Mavick

pulled through, though at an enormous cost, and with some diminution of the notion of his solidity. The wise

ones suspected that his resources had been overestimated, or that they were not so well at his command as

When he went home that night he looked five years older, and was too worn and jaded to be civil to his

family. The dinner passed mostly in silence. Carmen saw that something serious had happened. Lord

"That is no way, child, to speak of the son of a duke," said Mavick, relaxing a little.

Carmen did not like the tone in which this was said, but she prudently kept silent. And presently Evelyn

"I am glad he wants to pay anything," was the ungracious answer. Still Evelyn was not to be put down.

"Why, my dear, I was engaged in Research; you will be pleased to know. Looking after those ten millions."

"Nothing uncommon. It's a beastly hole down there. The Board used to be made up of gentlemen. Now there

"Neither is a wolf or a cyclone. But I don't care to talk about him. Don't you see, I don't want to be bothered?"

While these great events were taking place Philip was enjoying all the tremors and delights of expectation

which attend callow authorship. He did not expect much, he said to himself, but deep down in his heart there

was that sweet hope, which fortunately always attends young writers, that his would be an exceptional

experience in the shoal of candidates for fame, and he was secretly preparing himself not to be surprised if he

The first response was from Celia. She wrote warmheartedly. She wrote at length, analyzing the characters,

recalling the striking scenes, and praising without stint the conception and the working out of the character of

the heroine. She pointed out the little faults of construction and of language, and then minimized them in

comparison with the noble motive and the unity and beauty of the whole. She told Philip that she was proud

of him, and then insisted that, when his biography, life, and letters was published, it would appear, she hoped,

that his dear friend had just a little to do with inspiring him. It was exactly the sort of letter an author likes to

receive, critical, perfectly impartial, and with entire understanding of his purpose. All the author wants is to

The letter from Alice was quite of another sort, a little shy in speaking of the story, but full of affection.

"Perhaps, dear Phil," she wrote, "I ought not to tell you how much I like it, how it quite makes me blush in its

revelation of the secrets of a New England girl's heart. I read it through fast, and then I read it again slowly. It

seemed better even the second time. I do think, Phil, it is a dear little book. Patience says she hopes it will not

become common; it is too fine to be nosed about by the ordinary. I suppose you had to make it pathetic. Dear

me! that is just the truth of it. Forgive me for writing so freely. I hope it will not be long before we see you.

The most eagerly expected acknowledgment was, however, a disappointment. Philip knew Mrs. Mavick too

well by this time to expect a letter from her daughter, but there might have been a line. But Mrs. Mavick

wrote herself. Her daughter, she said, had asked her to acknowledge the receipt of his very charming story.

When he had so many friends it was very thoughtful in him to remember the acquaintances of last summer.

This polite note was felt to be a slap in the face, but the effect of it was softened a little later by a cordial and

appreciative letter from Miss McDonald, telling the author what great delight and satisfaction they had had in

reading it, and thanking him for a prose idyl that showed in the oldfashioned way that common life was not

The critics seemed to Philip very slow in letting the public know of the birth of the book. Presently, however,

the little notices, all very much alike, began to drop along, longer or shorter paragraphs, commonly in

undiscriminating praise of the beauty of the story, the majority of them evidently written by reviewers who

sat down to a pile of volumes to be turned off, and who had not more than five or ten minutes to be lost.

Rarely, however, did any one condemn it, and that showed that it was harmless. Mr. Brad had given it quite a

lift in the Spectrum. The notice was mainly personalthe first work of a brilliant young man at the bar who

was destined to go high in his profession, unless literature should, fortunately for the public, have stronger

attractions for him. That such a country idyl should be born amid lawbooks was sufficiently remarkable. It

was an open secret that the scene of the story was the birthplace of the authora lovely village that was

brought into notice a summer ago as the chosen residence of Thomas Mavick and his family.

Eagerly looked for at first, the newspaper notices soon palled upon Philip, the uniform tone of goodnatured

praise, unanimous in the extravagance of unmeaning adjectives. Now and then he welcomed one that was

illnatured and cruelly censorious. That was a relief. And yet there were some reviews of a different sort, half

a dozen in all, and half of them from Western journals, which took the book seriously, saw its pathos, its

artistic merit, its failure of construction through inexperience. A few commended it warmly to readers who

loved ideal purity and could recognize the noble in common life. And some, whom Philip regarded as

authorities, welcomed a writer who avoided sensationalism, and predicted for him an honorable career in

letters, if he did not become selfconscious and remained true to his ideals. The book clearly had not made a

hit, the publishers had sold one edition and ordered half another, and no longer regarded the author as a risk.

But, better than this, the book had attracted the attention of many lovers of literature. Philip was surprised day

after day by meeting people who had read it. His name began to be known in a small circle who are interested

in the business, and it was not long before he had offers from editors, who were always on the lookout for

new writers of promise, to send something for their magazines. And, perhaps more flattering than all, he

began to have society invitations to dine, and professional invitations to those little breakfasts that publishers

give to old writers and to young whose names are beginning to be spoken of. All this was very exhilarating

and encouraging. And yet Philip was not allowed to be unduly elated by the attention of his

fellowcraftsmen, for he soon found that a man's consequence in this circle, as well as with the great public,

depended largely upon the amount of the sale of his book. How else should it be rated, when a very popular

author, by whom Philip sat one day at luncheon, confessed that he never read books?

"So," said Mr. Sharp, one morning, "I see you have gone into literature, Mr. Burnett."

"I haven't had occasion to drop much of anything yet," said Philip, still smiling.

It was not, however, Mr. Sharp's opinion that Philip was concerned about. The polite note from Mrs. Mavick

stuck in his mind. It was a civil way of telling him that all summer debts were now paid, and that his relations

with the house of Mavick were at an end. This conclusion was forced upon him when he left his card, a few

days after the reception, and had the ill luck not to find the ladies at home. The situation had no element of

tragedy in it, but Philip was powerless. He could not storm the house. He had no visible grievance. There was

nothing to fight. He had simply run against one of the invisible social barriers that neither offer resistance nor

yield. No one had shown him any discourtesy that society would recognize as a matter of offense. Nay, more

than that, it could have no sympathy with him. It was only the case of a presumptuous and poor young man

who was after a rich girl. The position itself was ignoble, if it were disclosed.

Yet fortune, which sometimes likes to play the mischief with the best social arrangements, did give Philip an

unlookedfor chance. At a dinner given by the lady who had been Philip's only partner at the Mavick

reception, and who had read his story and had written to "her partner" a most kind little note regretting that

she had not known she was dancing with an author, and saying that she and her husband would be delighted

to make his acquaintance, Philip was surprised by the presence of the Mavicks in the drawingroom. Neither

Mr. nor Mrs. Mavick seemed especially pleased when they encountered him, and in fact his sole welcome

The hostess had supposed that the Mavicks would be pleased to meet the rising author, and in still further

carrying out her benevolent purpose, and with, no doubt, a sympathy in the feelings of the young, Mrs. Van

Cortlandt had assigned Miss Mavick to Mr. Burnett. It was certainly a natural arrangement, and yet it called a

blank look to Mrs. Mavick's face, that Philip saw, and put her in a bad humor which needed an effort for her

to conceal it from Mr. Van Cortlandt. The dinnerparty was large, and her illtemper was not assuaged by

the fact that the young people were seated at a distance from her and on the same side of the table.

"How charming your daughter is looking, Mrs. Mavick!" Mr. Van Cortlandt began, by way of being

agreeable. Mrs. Mavick inclined her head. "That young Burnett seems to be a nice sort of chap; Mrs. Van

"That's a fact. Everybody writes. I don't see how all the poor devils live." Mr. Van Cortlandt had now caught

It was a very brilliant dinner, but Philip could not have given much account of it. He made an effort to be

civil to his lefthand neighbor, and he affected an ease in replying to crosstable remarks. He fancied that he

carried himself very well, and so he did for a man unexpectedly elevated to the seventh heaven, seated for

two hours beside the girl whose near presence filled him with indescribable happiness. Every look, every tone

of her voice thrilled him. How dear she was! how adorable she was! How radiantly happy she seemed to be

At moments his passion seemed so overmastering that he could hardly restrain himself from whispering,

"Evelyn, I love you." In a hundred ways he was telling her so. And she must understand. She must know that

this was not an affair of the moment, but that there was condensed in it all the constant devotion of months

A woman, even any girl with the least social experience, would have seen this. Was Evelyn's sympathetic

attention, her evident enjoyment in talking with him, any evidence of a personal interest, or only a young

girl's enjoyment of her new position in the world? That she liked him he was sure. Did she, was she

beginning in any degree to return his passion? He could not tell, for guilelessness in a woman is as

Of what did they talk? A stenographer would have made a meagre report of it, for the most significant part of

this conversation of two fresh, honest natures was not in words. One thing, however, Philip could bring away

with him that was not a mere haze of delicious impressions. She had been longing, she said, to talk to him

about his story. She told him how eagerly she had read it, and in talking about its meaning she revealed to

him her inner thought more completely than she could have done in any other way, her sympathy with his

"But you must. It must be such a world to you. I can't imagine anything so fine as that. There is so much

about life to be said. To make people see it as it is; yes, and as it ought to be. Will you?"

"I like better for men to compel circumstances," the girl exclaimed, with that disposition to look at things in

"A career?" And Evelyn looked puzzled for a moment. "You mean for himself, for his own self?" There is a

lawyer who comes to see papa. I've been in the room sometimes, when they don't mind. Such talk about

schemes, and how to do this and that, and twisting about. And not a word about anything any of the time.

And one day when he was waiting for papa I talked with him. You would have been surprised.

I told papa that I could not find anything to interest him. Papa laughed and said it was my fault, he was one of

"Oh, all lawyers are not like that. And, don't you know, literature doesn't pay."

"Yes, I have heard that." And then she thought a minute and with a quizzical look continued: "That is such a

queer word, 'pay.' McDonald says that it pays to be good. Do you think, Mr. Burnett, that law would pay

Before they rose from the table, Philip asked, speaking low, "Miss Mavick, won't you give me a violet from

Evelyn hesitated an instant, and then, without looking up, disengaged three, and shyly laid them at her left

"That is a long time," Evelyn answered, but still without looking up. But when they rose the color mounted to

her cheeks, and Philip thought that the glorious eyes turned upon him were full of trust.

"It is all your doing," said Carmen, snappishly, when Mavick joined her in the drawingroom.

There was not much said as the three drove home. Evelyn, flushed with pleasure and absorbed in her own

thoughts, saw that something had gone wrong with her mother and kept silent. Mr. Mavick at length broke

"Oh, yes," replied Evelyn, cheerfully, "and Mrs. Van Cortlandt was very sweet to me. Don't you think she is

"Tries to be," Mrs. Mavick replied, in no cordial tone. "Goodnatured and eccentric. She picks up the

queerest lot of people. You can never know whom you will not meet at her house. Just now she goes in for

Evelyn was not so reticent with McDonald. While she was undressing she disclosed that she had had a

beautiful evening, that she was taken out by Mr. Burnett, and talked about his story.

"It's an awful responsibility," dryly said the shrewd Scotch woman, "advising young men what to do."

Upon the recollection of this dinner Philip maintained his hope and courage for a long time. The day after it,

New York seemed more brilliant to him than it had ever been. In the afternoon he rode down to the Battery. It

was a mild winter day, with a haze in the atmosphere that softened all outlines and gave an enchanting

appearance to the harbor shores. The water was silvery, and he watched a long time the craft plying on

itthe businesslike ferryboats, the spiteful tugs, the great ocean steamers, boldly pushing out upon the

Atlantic through the Narrows or cautiously drawing in as if weary with the buffeting of the waves. The scene

kindled in him a vigorous sense of life, of prosperity, of longing for the activity of the great world.

Clearly he must do something and not be moping in indecision. Uncertainty is harder to bear than disaster

itself. When he thought of Evelyn, and he always thought of her, it seemed cowardly to hesitate. Celia, after

her first outburst of enthusiasm, had returned to her cautious advice. The law was much surer. Literature was

a mere chance. Why not be content with his little success and buckle down to his profession? Perhaps

byandby he would have leisure to indulge his inclination. The advice seemed sound.

"Would the law pay you?" Evelyn? Would he be more likely to win her by obeying the advice of Celia, or by

trusting to Evelyn's inexperienced discernment? Indeed, what chance was there to win her at all? What had he

His spirits invariably fell when he thought of submitting his pretensions to the great man of Wall Street or to

his worldly wife. Already it was the gossip of the clubs that Lord Montague was a frequent visitor at the

Mavicks', that he was often seen in their box at the opera, and that Mrs. Mavick had said to Bob Shafter that

it was a scandal to talk of Lord Montague as a fortunehunter. He was a most kindhearted, domestic man.

She should not join in the newspaper talk about him. He belonged to an old English family, and she should be

civil to him. Generally she did not fancy Englishmen, and this one she liked neither better nor worse because

he had a title. And when you came to that, why shouldn't any American girl marry her equal?

As to Montague, he was her friend, and she knew that he had not the least intention at present of marrying

anybody. And then the uncharitable gossip went on, that there was the Count de l'Auney, and that Mrs.

As the days went on and spring began to appear in the light, fleeting clouds in the blue sky and in the

greening foliage in the city squares, Philip became more and more restless. The situation was intolerable.

Evelyn he could never see. Perhaps she wondered that he made no effort to see her. Perhaps she never

thought of him at all, and simply, like an obedient child, accepted her mother's leading, and was getting to

like that society life which was recorded in the daily journals. What did it matter to him whether he stuck to

the law or launched himself into the Bohemia of literature, so long as doubt about Evelyn haunted him day

and night? If she was indifferent to him, he would know the worst, and go about his business like a man. Who

Alice had written him once that Evelyn was a dear girl, no one could help loving her; but she did not like the

blood of father and mother. "And remember, Philyou must let me say thisthere is not a drop of mean

Philip smiled at this. He was not in love with Mrs. Mavick nor with her husband. They were for him simply

guardians of a treasure he very much coveted, and yet they were to a certain extent ennobled in his mind as

the authors of the being he worshiped. If it should be true that his love for her was returned, it would not be

possible even for them to insist upon a course that would make their daughter unhappy for life. They might

reject himno doubt he was a wholly unequal match for the heiressbut could they, to the very end, be

Thus the ingenuous young man argued with himself, until it seemed plain to him that if Evelyn loved him,

and the conviction grew that she did, all obstacles must give way to this overmastering passion of his life. If

he were living in a fool's paradise he would know it, and he ventured to put his fortune to the test of

experiment. The only manly course was to gain the consent of the parents to ask their daughter to marry him;

if not that, then to be permitted to see her. He was nobly resolved to pledge himself to make no proposals to

This seemed a very easy thing to do until he attempted it. He would simply happen into Mr. Mavick's office,

and, as Mr. Mavick frequently talked familiarly with him, he would contrive to lead the conversation to

Evelyn, and make his confession. He mapped out the whole conversation, and even to the manner in which he

would represent his own prospects and ambitions and his hopes of happiness. Of course Mr. Mavick would

evade, and say that it would be a long time before they should think of disposing of their daughter's hand, and

thatwell, he must see himself that he was in no position to support a wife accustomed to luxury; in short,

that one could not create situations in real life as he could in novels, that personally he could give him no

This dream got no further than a private rehearsal. When he called at Mr. Mavick's office he learned that Mr.

Mavick had gone to the Pacific coast, and that he would probably be absent several weeks. But Philip could

not wait. He resolved to end his torture by a bold stroke. He wrote to Mrs. Mavick, saying that he had called

at Mr. Mavick's office, and, not finding him at home, he begged that she would give him an interview

Mrs. Mavick understood in an instant what this meant. She had feared it. Her first impulse was to write him a

curt note of a character that would end at once all intercourse. On second thought she determined to see him,

to discover how far the affair had gone, and to have it out with him once for all. She accordingly wrote that

As Philip went up the steps of the Mavick house at the appointed hour, he met coming out of the doorand

it seemed a bad omenLord Montague, who seemed in high spirits, stared at Philip without recognition,

Mrs. Mavick received him politely, and, without offering her hand, asked him to be seated. Philip was

horribly embarrassed. The woman was so cool, so civil, so perfectly indifferent. He stammered out something

about the weather and the coming spring, and made an allusion to the dinner at Mrs. Van Cortlandt's. Mrs.

Mavick was not in the mood to help him with any general conversation, and presently said, looking at her

"You wrote me that you wanted to consult me. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"So you wrote. Mr. Mavick is away, and if it is in regard to anything in your office, any promotion, you

know, I don't understand anything about business." And Mrs. Mavick smiled graciously.

"No, it is not about the office. I should not think of troubling my friends in that way. It is just that"

"Oh, I see," Mrs. Mavick interrupted, with goodhumor, "it's about the novel. I hear that it has sold very well.

And you are not certain whether its success will warrant your giving up your clerkship. Now as for me," and

she leaned back in her chair, with the air of weighing the chances in her mind, "it doesn't seem to me that a

"No, it is not that," said Philip, leaning forward and looking her full in the face with all the courage he could

"That is an interesting piece of information, but I don't see its bearing. Will you tell me, Mr. Burnett, what

"I want," and Philip spoke very gently"I want, Mrs. Mavick, permission to see your daughter."

"Ah! I thought in Rivervale, Mr. Burnett, that you were a gentleman. You presume upon my invitation to this

Mrs. Mavick was so beside herself that she could hardly speak. The lines in her face deepened into wrinkles

and scowls. There was something malevolent and mean in it. Philip was astonished at the transformation.

"It is only this, Mrs. Mavick," and Philip spoke calmly, though his blood was boiling at her insulting

"Ah! Then you have spared yourself one humiliation. My daughter's affections are not likely to be placed

where her parents do not approve. Her mother is her only confidante. I can tell you, Mr. Burnett, and when

you are over this delusion you will thank me for being so plain with you, my daughter would laugh at the idea

"Madam!" cried Philip, rising, with a flushed face, and then he remembered that he was talking to Evelyn's

"This is ended." And then, with a slight change of manner, she went on: "You must see how impossible it is.

I should like to think well of you. I shall trust to your honor that you will never try, by letter or otherwise, to

"I shall obey you," said Philip, quite stiffly, "because you are her mother. But I love her, and I shall always

Mrs. Mavick did not condescend to any reply to this, but she made a cold bow of dismissal and turned away

from him. He left the house and walked away, scarcely knowing in which direction he went, anger for a time

being uppermost in his mind, chagrin and defeat following, and with it the confused feeling of a man who has

passed through a cyclone and been landed somewhere amid the scattered remnants of his possessions.

As he strode away he was intensely humiliated. He had been treated like an inferior. He had voluntarily put

himself in a position to be insulted. Contempt had been poured upon him, his feelings had been outraged, and

there was no way in which he could show his resentment. Presently, as his anger subsided, he began to look

at the matter more sanely. What had happened? He had made an honorable proposal. But what right had he to

expect that it would be favorably considered? He knew all along that it was most unlikely that Mrs. Mavick

would entertain for a moment idea of such a match. He knew what would be the unanimous opinion of

society about it. In the case of any other young man aspiring to the hand of a rich girl, he knew very well

Well, he had done nothing dishonorable. And as he reviewed the bitter interview he began to console himself

with the thought that he had not lost his temper, that he had said nothing to be regretted, nothing that he

should not have said to the mother of the girl he loved. There was an inner comfort in this, even if his life

Mrs. Mavick, on the contrary, had not so good reason to be satisfied with herself. It was a principle of her

wellordered life never to get into a passion, never to let herself go, never to reveal herself by intemperate

speech, never to any one, except occasionally to her husband when his cold sarcasm became intolerable. She

felt, as soon as the door closed on Philip, that she had made a blunder, and yet in her irritation she committed

a worse one. She went at once to Evelyn's room, resolved to make it perfectly sure that the Philip episode was

ended. She had had suspicions about her daughter ever since the Van Cortlandt dinner. She would find out if

they were justified, and she would act decidedly before any further mischief was done. Evelyn was alone, and

her mother kissed her fondly several times and then threw herself into an easychair and declared she was

"I am sorry," said Evelyn, seating herself on the arm of the chair and putting her arm round her mother's neck.

"Oh, with that Mr. Burnett." Mrs. Mavick felt a nervous start in the arm that caressed her.

"Yes, he came to see your father, I fancy, about some business. I think he is not getting on very well."

"I know, but that amounts to nothing. There is not much chance for a lawyer's clerk who gets bitten with the

"If he was in trouble, mamma," said Evelyn, softly, "then you were good to him."

"I tried to be," Mrs. Mavick half sighed, "but you can't do anything with such people" (by "such people" Mrs.

Mavick meant those who have no money) "when they don't get on. They are never reasonable. And he was in

such an awful bad temper. You cannot show any kindness to such people without exposing yourself. I think

he presumes upon his acquaintance with your father. It was most disagreeable, and he was so rude" (a little

thrill in the arm again)"well, not exactly rude, but he was not a bit nice to me, and I am afraid I showed by

He met Lord Montague on the steps, and he had something spiteful to say about him. I had to tell him he was

presuming a good deal on his acquaintance, and that I considered his manner insulting. He flung out of the

"We didn't know him. That is all. Now we do, and I am thankful we do. He will never come here again."

Evelyn was very still for a moment, and then she said: "I'm very sorry for it all. It must be some

"Of course, it is dreadful to be so disappointed in people. But we have to learn. I don't know anything about

his misunderstanding, but I did not misunderstand what he said. At any rate, after such an exposition we can

have no further intercourse with him. You will not care to see any one who treated your mother in this way?

If you love me, you cannot be friendly with him. I know you would not like to be."

Evelyn did not reply for a moment. Her silence revealed the fact to the shrewd woman that she had not

"You promise me, dear, that you will put the whole thing out of your mind?" and she drew her daughter

And then Evelyn said slowly: "I shall not have any friends whom you do not approve, but, mamma, I cannot

And Mrs. Mavick had the good sense not to press the question further. She still regarded Evelyn as a child.

Her naivete, her simplicity, her ignorance of social conventions and of the worldly wisdom which to Mrs.

Mavick was the sum of all knowledge misled her mother as to her power of discernment and her strength of

character. Indeed, Mrs. Mavick had only the slightest conception of that range of thought and feeling in

which the girl habitually lived, and of the training which at the age of eighteen had given her discipline, and

great maturity of judgment as well. She would be obedient, but she was incapable of duplicity, and therefore

she had said as plainly as possible that whatever the trouble might be she would not be unjust to Philip.

The interview with her mother left her in a very distressed state of mind. It is a horrible disillusion when a

girl begins to suspect that her mother is not sincere, and that her ideals of life are mean. This knowledge may

exist with the deepest affectionindeed, in a noble mind, with an inward tenderness and an almost divine

pity. How many times have we seen a daughter loyal to a frivolous, worldlyminded, insincere mother,

Evelyn was far from suspecting the extent of her mother's duplicity, but her heart told her that an attempt had

been made to mislead her, and that there must be some explanation of Philip's conduct that would be

consistent with her knowledge of his character. And, as she endeavored to pierce this mystery, it dawned

upon her that there had been a method in throwing her so much into the society of Lord Montague, and that it

was unnatural that such a friend as Philip should be seen so seldomonly twice since the days in Rivervale.

Naturally the very reverse of suspicious, she had been dreaming on things to come in the seclusion of her

awakening womanhood, without the least notion that the freedom of her own soul was to be interfered with

by any merely worldly demands. But now things that had occurred, and that her mother had said, came back

to her with a new meaning, and her trustful spirit was overwhelmed. And there, in the silence of her chamber,

began the fierce struggle between desire and what she called her dutya duty imposed from without.

She began to perceive that she was not free, that she was a part of a social machine, the power of which she

had not at all apprehended, and that she was powerless in its clutch. She might resist, but peace was gone.

She had heretofore found peace in obedience, but when she consulted her own heart she knew that she could

not find peace in obedience now. To a girl differently reared, perhaps, subterfuge, or some manoeuvring

justified by the situation, might have been resorted to. But such a thing never occurred to Evelyn. Everything

looked dark before her, as she more clearly understood her mother's attitude, and for the first time in years

"Why, Evelyn, you have been crying!" exclaimed the governess, who came to seek her. "What is the matter?"

Evelyn arose and threw herself on her friend's neck for a moment, and then, brushing away the tears, said,

with an attempt to smile, "Oh, nothing; I got thinking, thinking, thinking, and Don't you ever get blue,

"Not often," said the Scotchwoman, gravely. "But, dear, you have nothing in the world to make you so."

"No, no, nothing;" and then she broke down again, and threw herself upon McDonald's bosom in a passion of

sobbing. "I can't help it. Mamma says PhilMr. Burnettis never to come to this house again. What have I

McDonald drew the girl into her lap, and with uncommon gentleness comforted her with caresses.

"Dear child," she said, "crosses must come into our lives; we cannot help that. Your mother is no doubt doing

what she thinks best for your own happiness. Nothing can really hurt us for long, you know that well, except

what we do to ourselves. I never told you why I came to this countryI didn't want to sadden you with my

But it was not very long in the telling, for the narrator found that what seemed to her so long in the suffering

could be conveyed to another in only a few words. And the story was not in any of its features new, except to

the auditor. There had been a long attachment, passionate love and perfect trust, long engagement, marriage

postponed because both were poor, and the lover struggling into his profession, and then, it seemed sudden

and unaccountable, his marriage with some one else. "It was not like him," said the governess in conclusion;

"I heard that he was not" (and she spoke reluctantly); "I fear not. How could he be?" And the governess

seemed overwhelmed in a flood of tender and painful memories. "That was over twenty years ago. And I

I never dreamed I could have such a blessing. And you, child, will be happy too; I know it."

And the two women, locked in each other's arms, found that consolation in sympathy which steals away half

For Philip there was in these days no such consolation. It was a man's way not to seek any, to roll himself up

in his trouble like a hibernating bear. And yet there were times when he had an intolerable longing for a

confidant, for some one to whom he could relieve himself of part of his burden by talking. To Celia he could

say nothing. Instinct told him that he should not go to her. Of the sympathy of Alice he was sure, but why

inflict his selfish grief on her tender heart? But he was writing to her often, he was talking to her freely about

his perplexities, about leaving the office and trusting himself to the pursuit of literature in some way. And, in

answer to direct questions, he told her that he had seen Evelyn only a few times, and, the fact was, that Mrs.

Mavick had cut him dead. He could not give to his correspondent a very humorous turn to this situation, for

Alice knewhad she not seen them often together, and did she not know the depths of Philip's passion? And

she read between the lines the real state of the case. Alice was indignant, but she did not think it wise to make

too much of the incident. Of Evelyn she wrote affectionatelyshe knew she was a noble and highminded

girl. As to her mother, she dismissed her with a country estimate. "You know, Phil, that I never thought she

But the lover was not to be wholly without comfort. He met by chance one day on the Avenue Miss

McDonald, and her greeting was so cordial that he knew that he had at least one friend in the house of

It was a warm spring day, a stray day sent in advance, as it were, to warn the nomads of the city that it was

time to move on. The tramps in Washington Square felt the genial impulse, and, seeking the shaded benches,

began to dream of the open country, the hospitable farmhouses, the nooning by wayside springs, and the

charm of wandering at will among a tolerant and not too watchful people. Having the same abundant leisure,

the dwellers uptownalso nomadswere casting in their minds how best to employ it, and the fortunate

ones were already gathering together their flocks and herds and preparing to move on to their camps at

The foliage of Central Park, already heavy, still preserved the freshness of its new birth, and invited the

stroller on the Avenue to its protecting shade. At Miss McDonald's suggestion they turned in and found a

"I often come here," she said to Philip; "it is almost as peaceful as the wilderness itself."

To Philip also it seemed peaceful, but the soothing influence he found in it was that he was sitting with the

"Yes," she said, in reply to a question, "everybody is well. We are going to leave town earlier than usual this

summer, as soon as Mr. Mavick returns. Mrs. Mavick is going to open her Newport house; she says she has

had enough of the country. It is still very amusing to me to see how you Americans move about with the

seasons, just like the barbarians of Turkestan, half the year in summer camps and half the year in winter

"Maybe," replied the governess, continuing the conceit, "only the horde keeps pretty well together, wherever

it is. I know we are to have a very gay season. Lots of distinguished foreigners and all that."

"But," said Philip, "don't England and the Continent long for the presence of Americans in the season in the

"Not exactly. It is the shopkeepers and hotels that sigh for the Americans. I don't think that American

"And you are going soon? I suppose Miss Mavick is eager to go also," said Philip, trying to speak

Miss McDonald turned towards him with a look of perfect understanding, and then replied, "No, not eager;

she hasn't been in her usual spirits latelyno, not illand probably the change will be good for her. It is her

first season, you know, and that is always exciting to a girl. Perhaps it is only the spring weather."

It was some moments before either of them spoke again, and then Miss McDonald looked up "Oh, Mr.

Burnett, I have wanted to see you and have a talk with you about your novel. I could say so little in my note.

We read it first together and then I read it alone, rather to sit in judgment on it, you know. I liked it better the

second time, but I could see the faults of construction, and I could see, too, why it will be more popular with

"Yes, I know, are sometimes hardest to bear. Well, it is lovely, ideal, but it seems to me you are still a little

too afraid of human nature. You are afraid to say things that are common. And the deep things of life are

pretty much all common. No, don't interrupt me. I love the story just as it is. I am glad you wrote it as you

did. It was natural, in your state of experience, that you should do it. But in your next, having got rid of what

was on top of your mind, so to speak, you will take a firmer, more confident hold of life. You are not

"No, indeed," cried Philip. "I am very grateful. No doubt you are right. It seems to me, now that I am

"Well, you must not let my single opinion influence you too much, for I must in honesty tell you another

thing. Evelyn will not have a word of criticism of it. She says it is like a piece of music, and the impudent

thing declares that she does not expect a Scotchwoman to understand anything but ballad music."

Philip laughed at this, such a laugh as he had not indulged in for many days. "I hope you don't quarrel about

"Not seriously. She says I may pick away at the storyand I like to see her bristle upbut that she looks at

Miss McDonald rose, and they walked out into the Avenue again. How delightful was the genial air, the light,

the blue sky of spring! How the brilliant Avenue, now filling up with afternoon equipages, sparkled in the

When they parted, Miss McDonald gave him her hand and held his a moment, looking into his eyes. "Mr.

Burnett, authors need some encouragement. When I left Evelyn she was going to her room with your book in

Why should not Philip trust the future? He was a free man. He had given no hostages to fortune. Even if he

did not succeed, no one else would be involved in his failure. Why not follow his inclination, the dream of his

He was at liberty to choose for himself. Everybody in America is; this is the proclamation of its blessed

independence. Are we any better off for the privilege of following first one inclination and then another,

which is called making a choice? Are they not as well off, and on the whole as likely to find their right place,

who inherit their callings in life, whose careers are mapped out from the cradle by circumstance and

convention? How much time do we waste in futile experiment? Freedom to try everything, which is before

There are, of course, exceptions. The blacksmith climbs into a city pulpit. The popular preacher becomes an

excellent insurance agent. The saloonkeeper develops into the legislator, and wears the broadcloth and high

hat of the politician. The brakeman becomes the railway magnate, and the college graduate a grocer's clerk,

and the messengerboy, picking up by chance one day the pen, and finding it run easier than his legs,

becomes a power on a city journal, and advises society how to conduct itself and the government how to

make war and peace. All this adds to the excitement and interest of life. On the whole, we say that people get

shaken into their right places, and the predetermined vocation is often a mistake. There is the anecdote of a

wellknown clergyman who, being in a company with his father, an aged and distinguished doctor of

divinity, raised his monitory finger and exclaimed, "Ah, you spoiled a firstrate carpenter when you made a

Philip thought he was calmly arguing the matter with himself. How often do we deliberately weigh such a

choice as we would that of another person, testing our inclination by solid reason? Perhaps no one could have

told Philip what he ought to do, but every one who knew him, and the circumstances, knew what he would

do. He was, in fact, already doing it while he was paltering with his ostensible profession. But he never would

have confessed, probably he would then have been ashamed to confess, how much his decision to break with

the pretense of law was influenced by the thought of what a certain dark little maiden, whose image was

always in his mind, would wish him to do, and by the very remarkable fact that she was seen going to her

room with his wellread story in her hand. Perhaps it was under her pillow at night!

Goodluck seemed to follow his decisionas it often does when a man makes a questionable choice, as if

the devil had taken an interest in his downward road to prosperity. But Philip really gained a permanent

advantage. The novel had given him a limited reputation and very little money. Yet it was his steppingstone,

and when he applied to his publishers and told them of his decision, they gave him some work as a reader for

the house. At first this was fitful and intermittent, but as he showed both literary discrimination and tact in

judging of the market, his services were more in request, and slowly he acquired confidential relations with

the house. Whatever he knew, his knowledge of languages and his experience abroad, came into play, and he

began to have more confidence in himself, as he saw that his somewhat desultory education had, after all, a

The rather long period of his struggle, which is a common struggle, and often disheartening, need not be

dwelt on here. We can anticipate by saying that he obtained in the house a permanent and responsible

situation, with an income sufficient for a bachelor without habits of selfindulgence. It was not the crowning

of a noble ambition, it was not in the least the career he had dreamed of, but it gave him support and a

recognized position, and, above all, did not divert him from such creative work as he was competent to do.

Nay, he found very soon that the feeling of security, without any sordid worry, gave freedom to his

imagination. There was something stimulating in the atmosphere of books and manuscripts and in that world

of letters which seems so large to those who live in it. Fortunately, also, having a support, he was not tempted

to debase his talent by sensational ventures. What he wrote for this or that magazine he wrote to please

himself, and, although he saw no fortune that way, the little he received was an encouragement as well as an

There are two sorts of success in letters as in life generally. The one is achieved suddenly, by a dash, and it

lasts as long as the author can keep the attention of the spectators upon his scintillating novelties. When the

sparks fade there is darkness. How many such glittering spectacles this century has witnessed!

There is another sort of success which does not startlingly or at once declare itself. Sometimes it comes with

little observation. The reputation is slowly built up, as by a patient process of nature. It is curious, as Philip

wrote once in an essay, to see this unfolding in Lowell's life. There was no one moment when he launched

into great popularitynay, in detail, he seemed to himself not to have made the strike that ambition is always

expecting. But lo! the time came when, by universal public consent, which was in the nature of a surprise to

In anticipating Philip's career, however, it must not be understood that he had attained any wide public

recognition. He was simply enrolled in the great army of readers and was serving his apprenticeship. He was

recognized as a capable man by those who purvey in letters to the entertainment of the world. Even this little

foothold was not easily gained in a day, as the historian discovered in reading some bundles of old letters

which Philip wrote in this time of his novitiate to Celia and to his cousin Alice.

It was against Celia's most strenuous advice that he had trusted himself to a literary career. "I see, my dear

friend," she wrote, in reply to his announcement that he was going that day to Mr. Hunt to resign his position,

"that you are not happy, but whatever your disappointment or disillusion, you will not better yourself by

surrendering a regular occupation. You live too much in the imagination already."

Philip fancied, with that fatuity common to his sex, that he had worn an impenetrable mask in regard to his

wild passion for Evelyn, and did not dream that, all along, Celia had read him like an open book. She judged

Philip quite accurately. It was herself that she did not know, and she would have repelled as nonsense the

suggestion that her own restlessness and her own changing experiments in occupation were due to the

"You must not think," the letter went on, "that I want to dictate, but I have noticed that menit may be

different with womenonly succeed by taking one path and diligently walking in it. And literature is not a

career, it is just a toss up, a lottery, and woe to you if you once draw a lucky numberyou will always be

expecting another . . . You say that I am a pretty one to give advice, for I am always chopping and changing

myself. Well, from the time you were a little boy, did I ever give you but one sort of advice? I have been

constant in that. And as to myself, you are unjust. I have always had one distinct object in life, and that I have

pursued. I wanted to find out about life, to have experience, and then do what I could do best, and what

needed most to be done. Why did I not stick to teaching in that woman's college? Well, I began to have

doubts, I began to experiment on my pupils. You will laugh, but I will give you a specimen. One day I put a

question to my literature class, and I found out that not one of them knew how to boil potatoes. They were all

getting an education, and hardly one of them knew how much the happiness of a home depends upon having

the potatoes mealy and not soggy. It was so in everything. How are we going to live when we are all

educated, without knowing how to live? Then I found that the masses here in New York did not know any

better than the classes how to live. Don't think it is just a matter of cooking. It is knowing how, generally, to

make the most of yourself and of your opportunities, and have a nice world to live in, a thrifty, selfhelpful,

disciplined world. Is education giving us this? And then we think that organization will do it, organization

instead of selfdevelopment. We think we can organize life, as they are trying to organize art. They have

"Did I tell you I was in that? No? I used to draw in school, and after I had worked in the Settlement here in

New York, and while I was working down on the East Side, it came over me that maybe I had one talent

wrapped in a napkin; and I have been taking lessons in Fiftyseventh Street with the thousand or two young

women who do not know how to boil potatoes, but are pursuing the higher life of art. I did not tell you this

because I knew you would say that I am just as inconsistent as you are. But I am not. I have demonstrated the

fact that neither I nor one in a hundred of those charming devotees to art could ever earn a living by art, or do

anything except to add to the mediocrity of the amazing art product of this free country.

"And you will ask, what now? I am going on in the same way. I am going to be a doctor. In college I was

very well up in physiology and anatomy, and I went quite a way in biology. So you see I have a good start. I

am going to attend lectures and go into a hospital, as soon as there is an opening, and then I mean to practice.

One essential for a young doctor I have in advance. That is patients. I can get all I want on the East Side, and

I have already studied many of them. Law and medicine are what I call real professions."

However Celia might undervalue the calling that Philip had now entered on, he had about this time evidence

of the growing appreciation of literature by practical business men. He was surprised one day by a brief note

Mr. Ault received him in his private office at exactly the hour named. Evidently Mr. Ault's affairs were

prospering. His establishment presented every appearance of a highpressure business perfectly organized.

The outer rooms were full of industrious clerks, messengers were constantly entering and departing in a

feverish rapidity, servants moved silently about, conducting visitors to this or that waitingroom and

answering questions, excited speculators in groups were gesticulating and vociferating, and in the anteroom

were impatient clients awaiting their turn. In the inner chamber, however, was perfect calm. There at his table

sat the dark, impenetrable operator, whose time was exactly apportioned, serene, saturnine, or genial, as the

case might be, listening attentively, speaking deliberately, despatching the affair in hand without haste or the

Mr. Ault arose and shook hands cordially, and then went on, without delay for any conventional talk.

"I sent for you, Mr. Burnett, because I wanted your help, and because I thought I might do you a good turn.

You see" (with a grim smile) "I have not forgotten Rivervale days. My wife has been reading your story. I

don't have much time for such things myself, but her constant talk about it has given me an idea. I want to

suggest to you the scene of a novel, one that would be bound to be a good seller.

I could guarantee a big circulation. I have just become interested in one of the great transcontinental lines."

He named the most picturesque of themone that he, in fact, absolutely controlled. "Well, I want a story,

yes, I guess a good lovestorya romance of reality you might call itstrung on that line. You take the

"Why," said Philip, half amused at the conceit and yet complimented by the recognition of his talent, "I don't

know anything about railroads how they are run, cost of building, prospect of traffic, engineering

"So much the better. It is a literary work I want, not a brag about the road or a description of its enterprise.

You just take the line as your scene. Let the story run on that. The company, don't you see, must not in any

way be suspected with having anything to do with it, no mention of its name as a company, no advertisement

"But," said Philip, more and more astonished at this unlookedfor expansion of the literary field, "I could not

"Oh," said Mr. Ault, complacently, "that will be all arranged. Just a pleasure trip, as far as that goes. You will

have a private car, well stocked, a photographer will go along, and I thinkdon't you? a water color artist.

You can take your own time, stop when and where you chooseat the more stations the better. It ought to be

profusely illustrated with scenes on the lineyes, have colored plates, all that would give life and character

to your story. Love on a Special, some such title as that. It would run like oil. I will arrange to have it as a

serial in one of the big magazines, and then the book would be bound to go. The company, of course, can

have nothing to do with it, but I can tell you privately that it would rather distribute a hundred thousand

copies of a book of good literature through the country than to encourage the railway truck that is going now.

I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Burnett, if the public would be interested in having the Puritan Nun take that kind of

Philip hesitated a moment, trying to grasp the conception of this business use of literature. Mr. Ault resumed:

"It isn't anything in the nature of an advertisement. Literature is a power. Why, do you knowof course you

did not intend ityour story has encouraged the Peacock Inn to double its accommodations, and half the

farmhouses in Rivervale are expecting summer boarders. The landlord of the Peacock came to see me the

other day, and he says everything is stirred up there, and he has already to enlarge or refuse application."

"It is very kind in you, Mr. Ault, to think of me in that connection, but I fear you have overestimated my

capacity. I could name half a dozen men who could do it much better than I could. They know how to do it,

they have that kind of touch. I have been surprised at the literary ability engaged by the great corporations."

Mr. Ault made a gesture of impatience. "I wouldn't give a damn for that sort of thing. It is money thrown

away. If I should get one of the popular writers you refer to, the public would know he was hired. If you lay

your story out there, nobody will suspect anything of the sort. It will be a clean literary novel. Not travel, you

understand, but a story, and the more love in it the better. It will be a novelty. You can run your car sixty

miles an hour in exciting passages, everything will work into it. When people travel on the road the pictures

will show them the scenes of the story. It is a big thing," said Mr. Ault in conclusion.

"I see it is," said Philip, rising at the hint that his time had expired. "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Ault,

"Well, think it over. There is money in it. You would not start till about midsummer. Goodday."

A private car! Travel like a prince! Certainly literature was looking up in the commercial world. Philip

walked back to his publishers with a certain elasticity of step, a new sense of power. Yes, the power of the

pen. And why not? No doubt it would bring him money and spread his name very widely. There was nothing

that a friendly corporation could not do for a favorite. He would then really be a part of the great, active,

enterprising world. Was there anything illegitimate in taking advantage of such an opportunity? Surely, he

should remain his own master, and write nothing except what his own conscience approved. But would he not

feel, even if no one else knew it, that he was the poetlaureate of a corporation?

And suddenly, as he thought how the clear vision of Evelyn would plunge to the bottom of such a temptation,

he felt humiliated that such a proposition should have been made to him. Was there nothing, nobody, that

Nevertheless, he wrote to Alice about it, describing the proposal as it was made to him, without making any

Alice replied speedily. "Isn't it funny," she wrote, "and isn't it preposterous? I wonder what such people

think? And that horrid young pirate, Ault, a patron of literature! My dear, I cannot conceive of you as the

Pirate's Own. Dear Phil, I want you to succeed. I do want you to make money, a lot of it. I like to think you

are wanted and appreciated, and that you can get paid better and better for what you do. Sell your manuscripts

for as good a price as you can get. Yes, dear, sell your manuscripts, but don't sell your soul."

Did Miss McDonald tell Evelyn of her meeting with Philip in Central Park? The Scotch loyalty to her service

would throw a doubt upon this. At the same time, the Scotch affection, the Scotch sympathy with a true and

romantic passion, and, above all, the Scotch shrewdness, could be trusted to do what was best under the

circumstances. That she gave the least hint of what she said to Mr. Burnett concerning Evelyn is not to be

supposed for a moment. Certainly she did not tell Mrs. Mavick. Was she a person to run about with idle

gossip? But it is certain that Evelyn knew that Philip had given up his situation in the office, that he had

become a reader for a publishing house, that he had definitely decided to take up a literary career. And

somehow it came into her mind that Philip knew that this decision would be pleasing to her.

According to the analogy of other things in nature, it would seem that love must have something to feed on to

sustain it. But it is remarkable upon how little it can exist, can even thrive and become strong, and develop a

power of resistance to hostile influences. Once it gets a lodgment in a woman's heart, it is an exclusive force

that transforms her into a heroine of courage and endurance. No arguments, no reason, no considerations of

family, of position, of worldly fortune, no prospect of immortal life, nothing but doubt of faith in the object

can dislodge it. The woman may yield to overwhelming circumstances, she may even by her own consent be

false to herself, but the love lives, however hidden and smothered, so long as the vital force is capable of

responding to a true emotion. Perhaps nothing in human life is so pathetic as this survival in old age of a

youthful, unsatisfied love. It may cease to be a passion, it may cease to be a misery, it may have become only

a placid sentiment, yet the heart must be quite cold before this sentiment can cease to stir it on occasionfor

They say that in the New Education for women love is not taken into account in the regular course; it is an

elective study. But the immortal principle of life does not care much for organization, and says, as of old,

In the early season at Newport there was little to distract the attention and much to calm the spirit. Mrs.

Mavick was busy in her preparation for the coming campaign, and Evelyn and her governess were left much

alone, to drive along the softly lapping sea, to search among the dells of the rocky promontory for wild

flowers, or to sit on the cliffs in front of the gardens of bloom and watch the idle play of the waves, that

chased each other to the foaming beach and in goodnature tossed about the cat boats and schooners and set

the white sails shimmering and dipping in the changing lights. And Evelyn, drinking in the beauty and the

peace of it, no doubt, was more pensive than joyous. Within the last few months life had opened to her with a

It was a woman who sat on the cliffs now, watching the ocean of life, no longer a girl into whose fresh soul

the sea and the waves and the air, and the whole beauty of the world, were simply responsive to her own

gayety and enjoyment of living. It was not the charming scene that held her thought, but the city with its

human struggle, and in that struggle one figure was conspicuous. In such moments this one figure of youth

outweighed for her all that the world held besides. It was strange. Would she have admitted this? Not in the

least, not even to herself, in her virgin musings; nevertheless, the world was changed for her, it was more

It was not too much to say that one season had much transformed her. She had been so ignorant of the world

a year ago. She had taken for granted all that was abstractly right. Now she saw that the conventions of life

were like sanddunes and barriers in the path she was expected to walk. She had learned for one thing what

money was. Wealth had been such an accepted part of her life, since she could remember, that she had

attached no importance to it, and had only just come to see what distinctions it made, and how it built a

barrier round about her. She had come to know what it was that gave her father position and distinction; and

the knowledge had been forced upon her by all the obsequious flattery of society that she was, as a great

heiress, something apart from others. This position, so much envied, may be to a sensitive soul an awful

It was only recently that Evelyn had begun to be keenly aware of the circumstances that hedged her in. They

were speaking one day as they sat upon the cliffs of the season about to begin. In it Evelyn had always had

"McDonald," the girl said, abruptly, but evidently continuing her line of thought, "mamma says that Lord

"Oh, no. He is to stay with the DanforthSibbs. Mamma says that as he is a stranger here we must be very

polite to him, and that his being here will give distinction to the season. Do you like him?" There was in

"I cannot say that he is personally very fascinating, but then I have never talked with him."

"Mamma says he is very interesting about his family, and their place in England, and about his travels. He

has been in the South Sea Islands. I asked him about them. He said that the natives were awfully jolly, and

that the climate was jolly hot. Do you know, McDonald, that you can't get anything out of him but

exclamations and slang. I suppose he talks to other people differently. I tried him. At the reception I asked

him who was going to take Tennyson's place. He looked blank, and then said, 'ErI must have missed that.

Miss McDonald laughed, and then said, "You don't understand the classes in English life. Poetry is not in his

line. You see, dear, you couldn't talk to him about politics. He is a born legislator, and when he is in the

House of Lords he will know right well who is in and who is out. You mustn't be unjust because he seems

odd to you and of limited intelligence. Just that sort of youth is liable to turn up some day in India or

somewhere and do a mighty plucky thing, and become a hero. I dare say he is a great sportsman."

"Yes, he quite warmed up about shooting. He told me about going for yak in the snow mountains south of

Thibet. Bloody cold it was. Nasty beast, if you didn't bring him down first shot. No, I don't doubt his courage

nor his impudence. He looks at me so, that I can't help blushing. I wish mamma wouldn't ask him."

"But, my dear, we must live in the world as it is. You are not responsible for Lord Montague."

"When he called the day before we came away, he asked a lot of questions about Newport, about horses and

polo and golf, and all that, and were the roads good. And then, 'Do you bike, Miss Mavick?'

I pretended not to understand, and said I was still studying with my governess and I hadn't got all the

irregular verbs yet. For once, he looked quite blank, and after a minute he said, 'That's very good, you know!'

"But don't you know, child," said Miss McDonald, laughing, "that we are required to love our enemies?"

"So I would," replied the girl, quickly, "if he were an enemy and would keep away. Ah, me! McDonald, I

want to ask you something. Do you suppose he would hang around a girl who was poor, such a sweet, pretty,

"He might," said Miss McDonald, still quizzically. "They say that like goes to like, and it is reported that the

"Do be serious, McDonald." The girl nestled up closer to her and took her hand. "I want to ask you one

question more. Do you thinkno, don't look at me, look away off at that sail do youthink that, if I had been

Miss McDonald put her arm around Evelyn and clasped the little figure tight. "You must not give way to

fancies. We cannot, as life is arranged, be perfectly happy, but we can be true to ourselves, and there is

scarcely anything that resolution and patience cannot overcome. I ought not to talk to you about this, Evelyn.

But I must say one thing: I think I can read Philip Burnett. Oh, he has plenty of selfesteem, but, unless I

mistake him, nothing could so mortify him as to have it said that he was pursuing a girl for the sake of her

"And he wouldn't!" cried the girl, looking up and speaking in an unsteady voice.

"Let me finish. He is, so I think, the sort of man that would not let any fortune, or anything else, stand in the

way when his heart was concerned. I somehow feel that he could not changefaithfulness, that is his notion.

"And you think, child, that he doesn't know? Come! That sail has been coming straight towards us ever since

we sat here, never tacked once. That is omen enough for one day. See how the light strikes it. Come!"

The Newport season was not, after all, very gay. Society has become so complex that it takes more than one

Englishman to make a season. Were it the business of the chronicler to study the evolution of this lovely

wateringplace from its simple, unconventional, animated days of natural hospitality and enjoyment, to its

present splendid and palatial isolation of a societyduring the seasonwhich finds its chief satisfaction in

the rivalry of costly luxury and in an atmosphere of what is deemed aristocratic exclusiveness, he would have

a theme attractive to the sociologist. But such a noble study is not for him. His is the humble task of

following the fortunes of certain individuals, more or less conspicuous in this astonishing flowering of a

It was not the fault of Mrs. Mavick that the season was so frigid, its glacial stateliness only now and then

breaking out in an illuminating burst of festivity, like the lightingup of a Montreal icepalace. Her spacious

house was always open, and her efforts, in charity enterprises and novel entertainments, were untiring to

This clever woman never showed more courage or more tact than in this campaign, and was never more

agreeable and fascinating. She was even popular. If she was not accepted as a leader, she had a certain

standing with the leaders, as a person of vivacity and social influence. Any company was eager for her

presence. Her activity, spirit, and affability quite won the regard of the society reporters, and those who know

Newport only through the newspapers would have concluded that the Mavicks were on the top of the wave.

She, however, perfectly understood her position, and knew that the sweet friends, who exchanged with her,

whenever they met, the conventional phrases of affection commented sarcastically upon her ambitions for her

daughter. It was, at the same time, an ambition that they perfectly understood, and did not condemn on any

ethical grounds. Evelyn was certainly a sweet girl, rather queerly educated, and never likely to make much of

a dash, but she was an heiress, and why should not her money be put to the patriotic use of increasing the

Lord Montague was, of course, a favorite, in demand for all functions, and in request for the private and

intimate entertainments. He was an authority in the stables and the kennels, and an eager comrade in all the

sports of the island. His easy manner, his selfpossession everywhere, even his slangy talk, were accepted as

evidence that he was above conventionalities. "The little man isn't a beauty," said Sally McTabb, "but he

shows 'race.'" He might be eccentric, but when you came to know him you couldn't help liking the embryo

In fact, things were going very well with Mrs. Mavick, except in her own household. There was something

there that did not yield, that did not flow with her plans. With Lord Montague she was on the most intimate

and confidential relations. He was almost daily at the house. Often she drove with him; frequently Evelyn

was with them. Indeed, the three came to be associated in the public mind. There could be no doubt of the

intentions of the young nobleman. That he could meet any opposition was not conceived.

The noble lord, since they had been in Newport, had freely opened his mind to Mrs. Mavick, and on a fit

occasion had formally requested her daughter's hand. Needless to say that he was accepted. Nay, more, he felt

that he was trusted like a son. He was given every opportunity to press his suit. Somewhat to his surprise, he

did not appear to make much headway. He was rarely able to see her alone, even for a moment. Such

evasiveness in a young girl to a man of his rank astonished him. There could be no reason for it in himself;

He did not reproach Mrs. Mavick with this, but he let her see that he was very much annoyed.

"If I had not your assurance to the contrary, Mrs. Mavick," he said one day in a pet, "I should think she

"Oh, no, Lord Montague, that could not be. I told you that she had had a peculiar education; she is perfectly

ignorant of the world, she is shy, andwell, for a girl in her position, she is unconventional. She is so young

"Not flat, no," said my lord, hesitating. "Every time I approach her she shies off like a young filly. There is

"Evelyn," and Mrs. Mavick spoke with feeling, "is an affectionate and dutiful child. She has never thought of

marriage. The prospect is all new to her. But I am sure she would learn to love you if she knew you and her

mind were once turned upon such a union. My lord, why not say to her what you feel, and make the offer you

intend? You cannot expect a young girl to show her inclination before she is asked." And Mrs. Mavick

"By Jove! that's so, good enough. I'll do it straight out. I'll tell her to take it or leave it. No, I don't mean that,

of course. I'll tell her that I can't live without herthat sort of thing, you know. And I can't, that's just the

"You can leave it confidently to her good judgment and to the friendship of the family for you."

Lord Montague was silent for a moment, and seemed to be looking at a problem in his shrewd mind. For he

had a shrewd mind, which took in the whole situation, Mrs. Mavick and all, with a perspicacity that would

"There is one thing, perhaps I ought not to say it, but I have seen it, and it is in my head that it is thatI beg

The shot went home. The suggestion, put into language that could be more easily comprehended than

defended, illuminated Mrs. Mavick's mind in a flash, seeming to disclose the source of an opposition to her

purposes which secretly irritated her. Doubtless it was the governess. It was her influence that made Evelyn

less pliable and amenable to reason than a young girl with such social prospects as she had would naturally

be. Besides, how absurd it was that a young lady in society should still have a governess. A companion? The

This idea, once implanted in Mrs. Mavick's mind, bore speedy fruit. No one would have accused her of being

one of those uncomfortable persons who are always guided by an inflexible sense of justice, nor could it be

said that she was unintelligently unjust. Facile as she was, in all her successful life she had never acted upon

impulse, but from a conscience keenly alive to what was just to herself. Miss McDonald was in the way. And

Mrs. Mavick had one quality of good generalshipshe acted promptly on her convictions.

When Mr. Mavick came over next day to spend Sunday in what was called in print the bosom of his family,

he looked very much worn and haggard and was in an irritated mood. He had been very little in Newport that

summer, the disturbed state of business confining him to the city. And to a man of his age, New York in

The moment Mrs. Mavick got her husband alone she showed a lively solicitude about his health.

"Turned up is the word. Half the time that man is a mole, half the time a bull in a chinashop. He sails up to

you bearing your own flag, and when he gets aboard he shows the skull and crossbones."

"As bad as what? He is a bad lot, but he is just an adventurera Napoleon who will get his Waterloo before

fall. Don't bother about things you don't understand. How are things down here?"

"Now don't be vulgar, Tom. You must keep up your end. Lord Montague is very nice; he is a great favorite

"No, she is awfully shy. And she is rather afraid of him, the big title and all that. And then she has never been

accustomed to act for herself. She is old enough to be independent and to take her place in the world. At her

"Except in obedience to my mother," continued Carmen, not deigning to notice the sarcasm. "And I've been

"What a brutal way of putting it! No. But if Evelyn is ever to be self reliant it is time she should depend

more on herself. You know I am devoted to McDonald. And, what is more, I am used to her. I wasn't thinking

of her. You don't realize that Evelyn is a young lady in society, and it has become ridiculous for her to still

"Ah, don't you see it would be the same? She would still be under her influence and not able to act for

"What are you going to do? Turn her adrift after eighteenwhat is it, seventeen?years of faithful

"How brutally you put it. I'm going to tell McDonald just how it is. She is a sensible woman, and she will see

that it is for Evelyn's good. And then it happens very luckily. Mrs. Van Cortlandt asked me last winter if I

wouldn't let her have McDonald for her little girl when we were through with her. She knew, of course, that

we couldn't keep a governess much longer for Evelyn. I am going to write to her. She will jump at the

"And Evelyn? That will be another wrench." Men are so foolishly tender hearted about women.

"Of course, I know it seems hard, and will be for a little. But it is for Evelyn's good, I am perfectly sure."

Mr. Mavick was meditating. It was a mighty unpleasant business. But he was getting tired of conflict. There

was an undercurrent in the lives of both that made him shrink from going deep into any domestic difference.

"Well, Carmen, I couldn't have the heart to do it. She has been Evelyn's constant companion all the child's

life. Ah, well, it's your own affair. Only don't stir it up till after I am gone. I must go to the city early Monday

Because Mavick, amid all the demands of business and society, and his ambitions for power in the world of

finance and politics, had not had much time to devote to his daughter, it must not be supposed that he did not

love her. In the odd moments at her service she had always been a delight to him; and, in truth, many of his

ambitions had centred in the intelligent, affectionate, responsive child. But there had been no time for much

This Sunday, however, and it was partly because of pity for the shock he felt was in store for her, he devoted

himself to her. They had a long walk on the cliff, and he talked to her of his life, of his travels, and his

political experience. She was a most appreciative listener, and in the warmth of his confidence she opened her

mind to him, and rather surprised him by her range of intelligence and the singular uprightness of her

opinions, and more still by her ready wit and playfulness. It was the first time she had felt really free with her

father, and he for the first time seemed to know her as she was in her inner life. When they returned to the

house, and she was thanking him with a glow of enthusiasm for such a lovely day, he lifted her up and kissed

A couple of days elapsed before Mrs. Mavick was ready for action. During this time she had satisfied herself,

by apparently casual conversation with her daughter and Miss McDonald, that the latter would be wholly out

of sympathy with her intentions in regard to Evelyn. Left to herself she judged that her daughter would look

with more favor upon the brilliant career offered to her by Lord Montague. When, therefore, one morning the

governess was summoned to her room, her course was decided on. She received Miss McDonald with more

than usual cordiality. She had in her hand a telegram, and beamed upon her as the bearer of good news.

"Yes, from Mrs. Van Cortlandt, to be the governess of her daughter, a sweet little girl of six. She has often

spoken about it, and now I have an urgent despatch from her. She is in need of some one at once, and she

"Do you mean, Mrs. Mavick, thatyouwantthat I am to leave Evelyn, and you?" The room seemed to

"It is not what we want, McDonald," said Mrs. Mavick calmly and still beaming, "but what is best. Your

service as governess has continued much longer than could have been anticipated, and of course it must come

to an end some time. You understand how hard this separation is for all of us. Mr. Mavick wanted me to

express to you his infinite obligation, and I am sure he will take a substantial way of showing it. Evelyn is

now a young lady in society, and of course it is absurd for her to continue under pupilage. It will be best for

her, for her character, to be independent and learn to act for herself in the world."

"No, I have said nothing to her of this offer, which is a most advantageous one. Of course she will feel as we

"Why, all these years, all her life, since she was a baby, not a day, not a night, Evelyn, and nowso sweet,

so dearwhy Mrs. Mavick!" And the Scotch woman, dazed, with a piteous appeal in her eyes, trying in vain

"My dear McDonald, you must not take it that way. It is only a change. You are not going away really, we

shall all be in the same city. I am sure you willlike your new home. Shall I tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt?"

"Tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt? Yes, tell her, thanks. I will gosoonat once. In a little time, to getready.

Thanks." The governess rose and stood a moment to steady herself. All her life was in ruins. The blow

crushed her. And she had been so happy. In such great peace. It seemed impossible. To leave Evelyn! She put

out her hand as if to speak. Did Mrs. Mavick understand what she was doing? That it was the same as

dragging a mother away from her child? But she said nothing. Words would not come. Everything seemed

"Excuse me, Mrs. Mavick, I think I am not very strong this morning." And presently she stood on her feet

again and steadied herself. "You will please tell Evelyn beforebefore I see her." And she walked out of the

The news was communicated to Evelyn, quite incidentally, in the manner that all who knew Mrs. Mavick

admired in her. Evelyn had just been in and out of her mother's room, on one errand and another, and was

"What! to leave us? "The girl walked back to her mother's chair and stood before her in an attitude of wonder

"It is a great chance for her. I have been anxious for some time about employment for her, now that you do

"But, mamma, it can't be. She is part of us. She belongs to the family; she has been in it almost as long as I

have. Why, I have been with her every day of my life. To go away? To give her up? Does she know?"

"Does she know? What a child! She has accepted Mrs. Van Cortlandt's offer. I telegraphed for her this

morning. Tomorrow she goes to town to get her belongings together. Mrs. Van Cortlandt needs her at once. I

"Of myself?" The girl had been at first confused, and, as the idea forced itself upon her mind, she felt weak,

and trembled, and was deadly pale. But when the certainty came, the enormity and cruelty of the dismissal

aroused her indignation. "Myself!" she exclaimed again. Her eyes blazed with a wrath new to their

tenderness, and, stepping back and stamping her foot; she cried out: "She shall not go! It is unjust! It is

Her mother had never seen her child like that. She was revealing a spirit of resistance, a temper, an

independence quite unexpected. And yet it was not altogether displeasing. Mrs. Mavick's respect for her

involuntarily rose. And after an instant, instead of responding with severity, as was her first impulse, she said,

"Naturally, Evelyn, you do not like to part with her. None of us do. But go to your room and think it over

Evelyn stood for a moment undecided. Her mother's calm selfcontrol had not deceived her. She was no

longer a child. It was a woman reading a woman. All her lifetime came back to her to interpret this moment.

In the reaction of the second, the deepest pain was no longer for herself, nor even for Miss McDonald, but for

a woman who showed herself so insensible to noble feeling. Protest was useless. But why was the separation

desired? She did not fully see, but her instinct told her that it had a relation to her mother's plans for her; and

as life rose before her in the society, in the world, into which she was newly launched, she felt that she was

alone, absolutely alone. She tried to speak, but before she could collect her thoughts her mother said:

"There, go now. It is useless to discuss the matter. We all have to learn to bear things."

Evelyn went away, in a tumult of passion and of shame, and obeyed her impulse to go where she had always

Miss McDonald was in her own room. Her trunk was opened. She had taken her clothes from the closet. She

was opening the drawers and laying one article here and another there. She was going from closet to bureau,

opening this door and shutting that in her sittingroom and bedroom, in an aimless, distracted way. Out of

her efforts nothing had so far come but confusion. It seemed an impossible dream that she was actually

McDonald turned. She could not speak. Her faithful face was gray with suffering. Her eyes were swollen

with weeping. For an instant she seemed not to comprehend, and then a flood of motherly feeling overcame

her. She stretched out her arms and caught the girl to her breast in a passionate embrace, burying her face in

What was there to say? Evelyn had come to her refuge for comfort, and to Evelyn the comforter it was she

herself who must be the comforter. Presently she disengaged herself and forced the governess into an easy

chair. She sat down on the arm of the chair and smoothed her hair and kissed her again and again.

"There. I'm going to help you. You'll see you have not taught me for nothing." She jumped up and began to

"I knew it must come some time," she was saying, with a weary air, as she followed with her eyes the light

step of the graceful girl, who was beginning to sort things and to bring order out of the confusion, holding up

one article after another and asking questions with an enforced cheerfulness that was more pathetic than any

"Yes, I know. There, that is laid in smooth." She pretended to be thinking what to put in next, and suddenly

she threw herself into McDonald's lap and began to talk gayly. "It is all my fault, dear; I should have stayed

little. And it doesn't make any difference. I know you love me, and oh, McDonald, I love you more, a

hundred times more, than ever. If you did not love me! Think how dreadful that would be. And we shall not

be separatedonly by streets, don't you know. They can't separate us. I know you want me to be brave. And

some day, perhaps" (and she whispered in her earhow many hundred times had she told her girl secrets in

It was not very cheerful talk, however it seemed to be, but it was better than silence, and in the midst of it,

with many interruptions, the packing was over, and some sort of serenity was attained even by Miss

McDonald. "Yes, dear heart, we have love and trust and hope." But when the preparations were all made, and

Evelyn went to her own room, there did not seem to be so much hope, nor any brightness in the midst of this

The great Mavick ball at Newport, in the summer long remembered for its financial disasters, was very much

talked about at the time. Long after, in any city club, a man was sure to have attentive listeners if he, began

It attracted great attention, both on account of the circumstances that preceded it and the events which

speedily followed, and threw a light upon it that gave it a spectacular importance. The city journals made a

feature of it. They summoned their best artists to illustrate it, and illuminate it in penandink, halftones,

startling colors, and photographic reproductions, sketches theatrical, humorous, and poetic, caricatures,

pictures of tropical luxury and aristocratic pretension; in short, all the bewildering affluence of modern art

which is brought to bear upon the aesthetic cultivation of the lowest popular taste. They summoned their best

novelists to throw themselves recklessly upon the English language, and extort from it its highest expression

in color and lyrical beauty, the novelists whose mission it is, in the newspaper campaign against realism, to

adorn and dramatize the commonest events of life, creating in place of the oldfashioned "news" the highly

Whatever may be said about the power of the press, it is undeniable that it can set the entire public thinking

and talking about any topic, however insignificant in itself, that it may elect to make the sensation of the

daya wedding, a murder, a political scandal, a divorce, a social event, a defalcation, a lost child, an

unidentified victim of accident or crime, an election, orthat undefined quickener of patriotism called a

casus belli. It can impose any topic it pleases upon the public mind. In case there is no topic, it is necessary to

These reports of the Mavick ball had a peculiar interest for at least two people in New York. Murad Ault read

them with a sardonic smile and an enjoyment that would not have been called altruistic. Philip searched them

with the feverish eagerness of a maiden who scans the report of a battle in which her lover has been engaged.

All summer long he had lived upon stray bits of news in the society columns of the newspapers. To see

Evelyn's name mentioned, and only rarely, as a guest at some entertainment, and often in connection with that

of Lord Montague, did not convey much information, nor was that little encouraging. Was she well? Was she

absorbed in the life of the season? Did she think of him in surroundings so brilliant? Was she, perhaps,

unhappy and persecuted? No tidings came that could tell him the things that he ached to know.

Only recently intelligence had come to him that at the same time wrung his heart with pity and buoyed him

up with hope. He had not seen Miss McDonald since her dismissal, for she had been only one night in the

city, but she had written to him. Relieved by her discharge of all obligations of silence, she had written him

frankly about the whole affair, and, indeed, put him in possession of unrecorded details and indications that

filled him with anxiety, to be sure, but raised his courage and strengthened his determination. If Evelyn loved

him, he had faith that no manoeuvres or compulsion could shake her loyalty. And yet she was but a girl; she

was now practically alone, and could she resist the family and the social pressure? Few women could, few

women do, effectively resist under such circumstances. With one of a tender heart, duty often takes the most

specious and deceiving forms. In yielding to the impulses of her heart, which in her inexperience may be

mistaken, has a girl the rightfrom a purely rational point of viewto set herself against, nay, to destroy,

the longcherished ambitions of her parents for a brilliant social career for her, founded upon social traditions

of success? For what had Mr. Mavick toiled? For what had Mrs. Mavick schemed all these years? Could the

girl throw herself away? Such disobedience, such disregard for social law, would seem impossible to her

Some of the events that preceded the Mavick ball throw light upon that interesting function. After the

departure of Miss McDonald, Mrs. Mavick, in one of her confidential talks with her proposed soninlaw,

In fact, Evelyn rather surprised her mother by what seemed a calm acceptance of the situation. There was no

further outburst. If the girl was often preoccupied and seemed listless, that was to be expected, on the sudden

But she did not complain. She ceased after a while to speak of McDonald. If she showed little enthusiasm in

what was going on around her, she was compliant, she fell in at once with her mother's suggestions, and went

"It isn't best for you to keep up a correspondence, my dear, now that you know that McDonald is nicely

settledall reminiscent correspondence is very wearingand, really, I am more than delighted to see that

you are quite capable of walking alone. Do you know, Evelyn, that I am more and more proud of you every

day, as my daughter. I don't dare to tell you half the nice things that are said of you. It would make you vain."

And the proud mother kissed her affectionately. The letters ceased. If the governess wrote, Evelyn did not see

As the days went by, Lord Montague, in high and confident spirits, became more and more a familiar inmate

of the house. Daily he sent flowers to Evelyn; he contrived little excursions and suppers; he was marked in

his attentions wherever they went. "He is such a dear fellow," said Mrs. Mavick to one of her friends; "I don't

Only, in the house, owing to some unnatural perversity of circumstances, he did not see much of Evelyn,

never alone for more than a moment. It is wonderful what efficient, though invisible, defenses most women,

That the affair was "arranged" Lord Montague had no doubt. It was not conceivable that the daughter of an

American stockbroker would refuse the offer of a position so transcendent and so evidently coveted in a

democratic society. Not that the singleminded young man reasoned about it this way. He was born with a

most comfortable belief in himself and the knowledge that when he decided to become a domestic man he

At home, where such qualities as distinguished him from the common were appreciated without the need of

personal exertion, this might be true; but in America it did seem to be somehow different. American women,

at least some of them, did need to be personally wooed; and many of them had a sort of independence in the

bestowal of their affections or, what they understood to be the same thing, themselves that must be taken into

account. And it gradually dawned upon the mind of this inheritor of privilege that in this case the approval of

the family, even the pressure of the mother, was not sufficient; he must have also Evelyn's consent. If she

were a mature woman who knew and appreciated the world, she would perceive the advantages offered to her

without argument. But a girl, just released from the care of her governess, unaccustomed to society, might

And then, again, to do the wooer entire justice, the dark little girl, so much mistress of herself, so evidently

spirited, with such an air of distinction, began to separate herself in his mind as a good goer against the field,

and he had a real desire to win her affection. The more indifferent she was to him, the keener was his desire

to possess her. His unsuccessful wooing had passed through several stages, first astonishment, then pique,

and finally something very like passion, or a fair semblance of devotion, backed, of course, since all natures

are more or less mixed, by the fact that this attractive figure of the woman was thrown into high relief by the

And Evelyn herself? Neither her mother nor her suitor appreciated the uncommon circumstances that her

education, her whole training in familiarity with pure and lofty ideals, had rendered her measurably insensible

to the social considerations that seemed paramount to them, or that there could be any real obstacle to the

bestowal of her person. where her heart was not engaged. Yet she perfectly understood her situation, and, at

times, deprived of her lifelong support, she felt powerless in it, and she suffered as only the pure and the

noble can suffer. Day after day she fought her battle alone, now and then, as the situation confronted her,

assailed by a shudder of fear, as of one awakening in the night from a dream of peril, the clutch of an

assassin, or the walking on an icy precipice. If McDonald were only with her! If she could only hear from

The opportunity which Lord Montague had long sought came one day unexpectedly, or perhaps it was

contrived. They were waiting in the drawingroom for an afternoon drive. The carriage was delayed, and

Mrs. Mavick excused herself to ascertain the cause of the delay. Evelyn and her suitor were left alone. She

was standing by a window looking out, and he was standing by the fireplace watching the swing of the figure

on the pendulum of the tall mantelpiece clock. He was the first to break the silence.

"Your clock, Miss Mavick, is a little fast." No reply. "Or else I am slow." Still no reply. "They say, you

know, that I am a little slow, over here." No reply. "I am not, really, you know. I know my mind. And there

"Never mind that," and Lord Montague moved away from the fireplace and approached the girl; "take care of

the minutes and the hours will take care of themselves, as the saying is." At this unexpected stroke of

brilliancy Evelyn did turn round, and stood in an expectant attitude. The moment had evidently come, and she

"We have been friends a long time; not so very long, but it seems to me the best part of my life," he was

looking down and speaking slowly, with the modest deference of a gentleman, "and you must have seen, that

is, I wanted you to see, you know well, that iserwhat I was staying on here for."

"Because I like some things in Americathat is just the fact," continued the little lord, with more

confidence. "And that is why I stayed. You see I couldn't go away and leave what was best in the world to

There was an air of simplicity and sincerity about this that was unexpected, and could not but be respected by

"It wasn't reasonable that you should like a stranger right off," he went on, "just at first, and I waited till you

got to know me better. Ways are different here and over there, I know that, but if you came to know me, Miss

Mavick, you would see that I am not such a bad sort of a fellow." And a deprecatory smile lighted up his face

that was almost pathetic. To Evelyn this humility seemed genuine, and perhaps it was, for the moment.

"I'm sorry," he continued, in the same tone. "I cannot help it. I must say it. Iyou must know that I love

you." And then, not heeding the nervous start the girl gave in stepping backward, "Andand, will you be my

"You do me too much honor, Lord Montague," said Evelyn, summoning up all her courage.

"I am obliged to you for your good opinion, but you know I am almost a schoolgirl. My governess has just

left me. I have never thought of such a thing. And, Lord Montague, I cannot return your feeling. That is all.

"I wouldn't give you pain, Miss Mavick, not for the world. Perhaps when you think it over it will seem

"No, no, it cannot be," said Evelyn, with something of alarm in her tone, for the full meaning of it all came

"I couldn't bear to offend you. You cannot think I would. And you will not be hardhearted. You know me,

"We have waited so long; mamma, that I am a little tired, and you will excuse me from the drive this

"Showed her my whole hand. Made a square offer. Damme, I am not used to this sort of thing."

"Said it was too much honor, and that rot. By Jove, she didn't look it. I rather liked her pluck. She didn't

"Oh, is that all?" And Mrs. Mavick spoke as if her mind were relieved. "What could you expect from such a

sudden proposal to a young girl, almost a child, wholly unused to the world? I should have done the same

thing at her age. It will look different to her when she reflects, and understands what the position is that is

Lord Montague shook his head and screwed up his keen little eyes. His mind was in full play. "I know

women, Mrs. Mavick, and I tell you there is something behind this. Somebody has been in the stable." The

"I don't understand your language," said Mrs. Mavick, straightening herself up in her seat.

"I beg pardon. It is just a way of speaking on the turf. When a favorite goes lame the morning of the race, we

know some one has been tampering with him. I tell you there is some one else. She has some one else in her

"Nonsense." cried Mrs. Mavick, with the energy of conviction. "It's impossible. There is nobody, couldn't be

anybody. She has led a secluded life till this hour. She hasn't a fancy, I know."

"I hope you are right," he replied, in the tone of a man wishing to take a cheerful view. "Perhaps I don't

"I think I do," she said, smiling. "They are generally amenable to reason. Evelyn now has something definite

And this was the truth. Mrs. Mavick was elated. So far her scheme was completely successful. As to Evelyn,

she trusted to various influences she could bring to bear. Ultimate disobedience of her own wishes she did not

A part of her tactics was the pressure of public opinion, so far as society represents itthat is, what society

expects. And therefore it happened in a few days that a strong suspicion got about that Lord Montague had

proposed formally to the heiress. The suspicion was strengthened by appearances. Mrs. Mavick did not deny

the rumor. That there was an engagement was not affirmed, but that the honor had been or would be declined

In the painful interview between mother and daughter concerning this proposal, Evelyn had no reason to give

for her opposition, except that she did not love him. This point Mrs. Mavick skillfully evaded and minimized.

Of course she would love him in time. The happiest marriages were founded on social fitness and the

judgment of parents, and not on the inexperienced fancies of young girls. And in this case things had gone too

far to retreat. Lord Montague's attentions had been too open and undisguised. He had been treated almost as a

son by the house. Society looked upon the affair as already settled. Had Evelyn reflected on the mortification

that would fall upon her mother if she persisted in her unreasonable attitude? And Mrs. Mavick shed actual

The ball which followed these private events was also a part of Mrs. Mavick's superb tactics. It would be in a

way a verification of the public rumors and a definite form of pressure which public expectation would

The splendor of this function is still remembered. There were, however, features in the glowing descriptions

of it which need to be mentioned. It was assumed that it was for a purpose, that it was in fact, if not a

proclamation, at least an intimation of a new and brilliant AngloSaxon alliance. No one asserted that an

engagement existed. But the prominent figures in the spectacle were the English lord and the young and

beautiful American heiress. There were portraits of both in halftone. The full names and titles expectant of

Lord Montague were given, a history of the dukedom of Tewkesbury and its ancient glory, with the long line

of noble names allied to the young lord, who was a social star of the first magnitude, a great traveler, a

sportsman of the stalwart race that has the world for its field. ("Poor little Monte," said the managing editor as

On the other hand, the proposed alliance was no fall in dignity or family to the English house. The heiress

was the direct descendant of the Eschelles, an old French family, distinguished in camp and court in the

Probably no man ever wrote and published a book, a magazine story, or a bit of verse without an instant

decision to repeat the experiment. The inclination once indulged becomes insatiable. It is not altogether the

gratified vanity of seeing one's self in print, for, before printing was, the composers and reciters of romances

and songs were driven along the same path of unrest and anxiety, when once they had the least recognition of

their individual distinction. The impulse is more subtle than the desire for wealth or the craving for political

place. In some cases it is in simple obedience to the longing to create; in others it is a lower ambition for

In any case the experiment of authorship, in however humble, a way, has an analogy to that other tempting

occupation of making "investments" in the stockmarket: the first trial is certain to lead to another. If the

author succeeds in any degree, his spirit rises to another attempt in the hope of a wider recognition. If he fails,

that is a reason why he should convince his fellows that the failure was not inherent in himself, but in illluck

or a misdirection of his powers. And the experiment has another analogy to the noble occupation of levying

toll upon the change of valuesa first brilliant success is often a misfortune, inducing an overestimate of

capacity, while a very moderate success, recognized indeed only as a trial, steadies a man, and sets him upon

that serious diligence upon which alone, either in art or business, any solid fortune is built.

Philip was fortunate in that his first novel won him a few friends and a little recognition, but no popularity. It

excited neither envy nor hostility. In the perfunctory and somewhat commercial good words it received, he

recognized the goodnature of the world. In the few short reviews that dealt seriously with his work, he was

able, when the excitement of seeing himself discussed had subsided, to read between the lines why The

Puritan Nun had failed to make a larger appeal. It was idyllic and poetic, but it lacked virility; it lacked also

simplicity in dealing with the simple and profound facts of life. He had been too solicitous to express himself,

to write beautifully, instead of letting the human emotions with which he had to deal show themselves. One

notice had said that it was too "literary"; by which, of course, the critic meant that he did not follow the solid

traditions, the essential elements in all the great masterpieces of literature that have been created. And yet he

had shown a quality, a facility, a promise, that had gained him a foothold and a support in the world of books

and of the making of books. And though he had declined Mr. Ault's tempting offer to illuminate his

transcontinental road with a literary torch, he none the less was pleased with this recognition of his capacity

To say that Philip lived on hope during this summer of heat, suspensions, and business derangement would

be to allow him a too substantial subsistence. Evelyn, indeed, seemed, at the distance of Newport, more

unattainable than ever, and the scant news he had of the drama enacted there was a perpetual notice to him of

the social gulf that lay between them. And yet his dream was sustained by occasional assurances from Miss

McDonald of her confidence in Evelyn's belief in him, nay, of her trust, and she even went so far as to say

affection. So he went on building castles in the air, which melted and were renewed day after day, like the

There was a certain exaltation in this indulgence of his passion that stimulated his creative faculties, and,

while his daily tasks kept him from being morbid, his imagination was free to play with the construction of a

new story, to which his recent experience would give a certain solidity and a knowledge of the human

He found himself observing character more closely than before, looking for it not so much in books as in the

people he met. There was Murad Ault, for instance. How he would like to put him into a book! Of course it

would not do to copy a model, raw, like' that, but he fell to studying his traits, trying to see the common

humanity exhibited in him. Was he a type or was he a freak? This was, however, too dangerous ground until

The week's vacation allowed him by his house was passed in Rivervale. There, in the calmness of country

life, and in the domestic atmosphere of affection which believed in him, he was far enough removed from the

scene of the spectres of his imagination to see them in proper perspective, and there the lines of his new

venture were laid down, to be worked out later on, he well knew, in the anxiety and the toil which should

endue the skeleton with life. Rivervale, to be sure, was haunted by the remembrance of Evelyn; very often the

familiar scenes filled him with an intolerable longing to see again the eyes that had inspired him, to hear the

voice that was like no other in the world, to take the little hand that had often been so frankly placed in his,

and to draw to him the form in which was embodied all the grace and tender witchery of womanhood. But the

knowledge of what she expected of him was an inspiration, always present in his visions of her.

Something of his hopes and fears Alice divined, and he felt her sympathy, although she did not intrude upon

his reticence by any questions. They talked about Evelyn, but it was Evelyn in Rivervale, not in Newport. In

fact, the sensible girl could regard her cousin's passion as nothing more than a romance in a young author's

life, and to her it was a sign of his security that he had projected a new story.

With instinctive perception of his need, she was ever turning his thoughts upon his literary career. Of course

she and all the household seemed in a conspiracy to flatter and encourage the vanity of authorship. Was not

all the village talking about the reputation he had conferred on it? Was it not proud of him? Indeed, it did

imagine that the world outside of Rivervale was very much interested in him, and that he was already an

author of distinction. The county Gazette had announced, as an important piece of news, that the author of

The Puritan Nun was on a visit to his relatives, the Maitlands. This paragraph seemed to stand out in the

paper as an almost immodest exposure of family life, read furtively at first, and not talked of, and yet every

member of the family was conscious of an increase in the family importance. Aunt Patience discovered, from

her outlook on the road, that summer visitors had a habit of driving or walking past the house and then

So Philip was not only distinguished, but he had the power of conferring distinction. No one can envy a

young author this first taste of fame, this home recognition. Whatever he may do hereafter, how much more

substantial rewards he may attain, this first sweetness of incense to his ambition will never come to him

When Philip returned to town, the city was still a social desert, and he plunged into the work piled up on his

desk, the neverceasing accumulation of manuscripts, most of them shells which the workers have dredged

up from the mud of the literary ocean, in which the eager publisher is always expecting to find pearls. Even

Celia was still in the country, and Philip's hours spared from drudgery were given to the new story. His days,

therefore, passed without incident, but not without pleasure. For whatever annoyances the great city may

have usually, it is in the dull seasonthat is, the season of its summer outofdoors animationa most

attractive and, even stimulating place for the man who has an absorbing pursuit, say a work in creative

fiction. Undisturbed by social claims or public interests, the very noise and whirl of the gay metropolis seem

The first disturbing event in this serenity was the report of the Mavick ball, already referred to, and the

interpretation put upon it by the newspapers. In this light his plans seemed the merest moonshine. What

became of his fallacious hope of waiting when events were driving on at this rate? What chance had he in

such a social current? Would Evelyn be strong enough to stem it and to wait also? And to wait for what? For

the indefinite and improbable event of a poor author, hardly yet recognized as an author, coming into

position, into an income (for that was the weak point in his aspirations) that would not be laughed at by the

millionaire. When he coolly considered it, was it reasonable to expect that Mr. and Mrs. Mavick would ever

permit Evelyn to throw away the brilliant opportunity for their daughter which was to be the crowning end of

their social ambition? The mere statement of the proposition was enough to overwhelm him.

That this would be the opinion of the world he could not doubt. He felt very much alone. It was not, however,

in any resolve to make a confidante of Celia, but in an absolute need of companionship, that he went to see if

she had returned. That he had any personal interest in this ball he did not intend to let Celia know, but talk

with somebody he must. Of his deep affection for this friend of his boyhood, there was no doubt, nor of his

knowledge of her devotion to his interests. Why, then, was he reserved with her upon the absorbing interest

Celia had returned, before the opening of the medical college, full of a new idea. This was nothing new in her

restless nature; but if Philip had not been blinded by the common selfishness of his sex, he might have seen in

"Are you real glad to see me, Phil? I thought you might be lonesome by this time in the deserted city."

"I was, horribly." He was still holding her hand. "Without a chance to talk with you or Alice, I am quite an

"Ah! You or Alice! "A shade of disappointment came over her face as she dropped his hand. But she rallied

"Poor boy! You ought to have a guardian. What heroine of romance are you running after now?"

"She isn't very well defined in my mind yet. But a lovely girl, without anything peculiar, no education to

speak of, or career, fascinating in her womanhood, such as might walk out of the Bible. Don't you think that

"Negative. That sort has gone out. Philip, why don't you take the heroine of the Mavick ball? There is a

theme." She was watching him shrewdly, and saw the flush in his face as he hurriedly asked,

"Only at a distance. But you must know her well enough for a literary purpose. The reports of the ball give

"Celia, don't you think it would be an ungentlemanly thing to take a social event like that?"

"Why, you must take life as it is. Of course you would change the details. You could lay the scene in

Philip shook his head. The conversation was not taking the turn that was congenial to him. The ball seemed

to him a kind of maelstrom in which all his hopes were likely to be wrecked. And here was his old friend, the

keenestsighted woman he knew, looking upon it simply as literary materiala ridiculous social event. He

"No, I came back because I had a new idea, and wanted time to look around. We haven't got quite the right

"No, I mean for the country. I've been about a good deal all this vacation, and my ideas are confirmed. The

country towns and villages are full of young hoodlums and toughs, and all sorts of wickedness. They could be

improved by sending city boys up thereyes, and girls of tender age. I don't mean the worst ones, not

altogether. The young of a certain low class growing up in the country are even worse than the same class in

the city, and they lack a civility of manner which is pretty sure to exist in a citybred person."

"How do you know that anybody is always to be unregenerate? But I wouldn't send thieves and imbeciles. I

would select children of some capacity, whose circumstances are against them where they are, and I am sure

they would make better material than a good deal of the young generation in country villages now. This is

what I mean by a mission for the country. We have been bending all our efforts to the reformation of the

"You have taken a big contract," said Philip, smiling at her enthusiasm. "Don't you intend to go on with

"Certainly. At least far enough to be of some use in breaking up people's ignorance about their own bodies.

Half the physical as well as moral misery comes from ignorance. Didn't I always tell you that I want to

know? A good many of my associates pretend to be agnostics, neither believe or disbelieve in anything. The

further I go the more I am convinced that there is a positive basis for things. They talk about the religion of

humanity. I tell you, Philip, that humanity is pretty poor stuff to build a religion on."

The talk was wandering far away from what was in Philip's mind, and presently Celia perceived his want of

"There, that is enough about myself. I want to know all about you, your visit to Rivervale, how the publishing

And Philip talked about himself, and the rumors in Wall Street, and Mr. Ault and his offer, and at last about

the Mavickshe could not help thatuntil he felt that Celia was what she had always been to him, and

And when he had gone, Celia sat a long time by the window, not seeing much of the hot street into which she

There was one man in New York who thoroughly enjoyed the summer. Murad Ault was, as we say of a man

who is free to indulge his natural powers, in his element. There are ingenious people who think that if the

ordering of nature had been left to them, they could maintain moral conditions, or at least restore a disturbed

equilibrium, without violence, without calling in the aid of cyclones and of uncontrollable electric displays, in

order to clear the air. There are people also who hold that the moral atmosphere of the world does not require

The conceit is flattering to human nature, but it is not borne out by the performance of human nature in what

is called the business world, which is in such intimate alliance with the social world in such great centres of

conflict as London, New York, or Chicago. Mr. Ault is everywhere an integral and necessary part of the

prevailing systemthat is, the system by which the moral law is applied to business. The system, perhaps,

cannot be defended, but it cannot be explained without Mr. Ault. We may argue that such a man is a disturber

of trade, of legitimate operations, of the fairest speculations, but when we see how uniform he is as a

phenomenon, we begin to be convinced that he is somehow indispensable to the system itself. We cannot

exactly understand why a cyclone should pick up a peaceful village in Nebraska and deposit it in Kansas,

where there, is already enough of that sort, but we cannot conceive of Wall Street continuing to be Wall

Street unless it were now and then visited by a powerful adjuster like Mr. Ault.

The advent, then, of Murad Ault in New York was not a novelty, but a continuation of like phenomena in the

Street, ever since the day when ingenious men discovered that the ability to guess correctly which of two

sparrows, sold for a farthing, lighting on the spire of Trinity Church, will fly first, is an element in a

successful and distinguished career. There was nothing peculiar in kind in his career, only in the force

exhibited which lifted him among the few whose destructive energy the world condones and admires as

Napoleonic. He may have been an instrument of Providence. When we do not know exactly what to do with

an exceptional man who is disagreeable, we call him an Instrument of Providence.

It is not, then, in anything exceptional that we are interested in the operations of Murad Ault, but simply on

account of his fortuitous connection with a great fortune which had its origin in very much the same cyclonic

conditions that Mr. Ault reveled in. Those who know Wall Street best, by reason of sad experience, say that

the presiding deity there is not the Chinese god, Luck, but the awful pagan deity, Nemesis. Alas! how many

Those who have unimpaired memories may recollect the fortune amassed, many years previous to this

history, by one Rodney Henderson, gathered and enlarged by means not indictable, but which illustrate the

wide divergence between the criminal code and the moral law. This fortune, upon the sudden death of its

creator, had been largely diverted from its charitable destination by fraud, by a crime that would have fallen

within the code if it had been known. This fortune had been enjoyed by those who seized it for many years of

great social success, rising into acknowledged respectability and distinction; and had become the basis of the

chance of social elevation, which is dear to the hearts of so many excellent people, who are compelled to

wander about in a chaotic society that has no hereditary titles. It was this fortune, the stake in such an

ambition, or perhaps destined in a new possessor to a nobler one, that came in the way of Mr. Ault's extensive

It is not necessary to infer that Mr. Ault was originally actuated by any greed as to this special accumulation

of property, or that he had any malevolence towards Mr. Mavick; but the eagerness of his personal pursuit led

him into collisions. There were certain possessions of Mr. Mavick that were desirable for the roundingout of

his plansthese graspings were many of them understood by the public as necessary to the "development of

a system"and in this collision of interests and fierce strength a vindictive feeling was engendered, a feeling

born, as has been hinted, by Mr. Mavick's attempt to trick his temporary ally in a certain operation, so that

Mr. Ault's main purpose was to "down Mavick." This was no doubt an exaggeration concerning a man with

so many domestic virtues as Mr. Ault, meaning by domestic virtues indulgence of his family; but a fight for

place or property in politics or in the Street is pretty certain to take on a personal character.

We can understand now why Mr. Ault read the accounts of the Mavick ball with a grim smile. In speaking of

it he used the vulgar term "splurge," a word especially offensive to the refined society in which the Mavicks

had gained a foothold. And yet the word was on the lips of a great many men on the Street. The shifting

application of sympathy is a very queer thing in this world. Mr. Ault was not a snob. Whatever else he was,

he made few pretensions. In his first advent he had been resisted as an intruder and shunned as a vulgarian;

but in time respect for his force and luck mingled with fear of his reckless talent, and in the course of events it

began to be admitted that the rough diamond was being polished into one of the cornerstones of the great

business edifice. At the time of this writing he did not altogether lack the sympathy of the Street, and an

increasing number of people were not sorry to see Mr. Mavick get the worst of it in repeated trials of

strength. And in each of these trials it became increasingly difficult for Mr. Mavick to obtain the assistance

The truth was that there were many men in the Street who were not sorry to see Mr. Mavick worried. They

remembered perfectly well the omniscient snobbishness of Thomas Mavick when he held a position in the

State Department at Washington and was at the same time a secret agent of Rodney Henderson. They did not

change their opinion of him when, by his alliance with Mrs. Henderson, he stepped into control of Mr.

Henderson's property and obtained the mission to Rome; but later on he had been accepted as one of the

powers in the financial world. There were a few of the old stagers who never trusted him. Uncle Jerry

Hollowell, for instance, used to say, "Mavick is smart, smart as lightnin'; I guess he'll make ducks and drakes

of the Henderson property." They are very superficial observers of Wall Street who think that character does

not tell there. Mr. Mavick may have realized that when in his straits he looked around for assistance.

The history of this panic summer in New York would not be worthy the reader's attention were not the

fortunes of some of his acquaintances involved in it. It was not more intense than the usual panics, but it

lasted longer on account of the complications with uncertain government policy, and it produced stagnation

in social as well as business circles. So quiet a place as Rivervale felt it in the diminution of city visitors, and

the great resorts showed it in increased civility to the small number of guests.

The summer at Newport, which had not been distinguished by many great events, was drawing to a

closethat is, it was in the period when those who really loved the charming promenade which is so loved of

the sea began to enjoy themselves, and those who indulge in the pleasures of hope, based upon a comfortable

Mrs. Mavick, according to her own assertion, was one of those who enjoy nature. "Nature and a few friends,

not too many, only those whom one trusts and who are companionable," she had said to Lord Montague.

This young gentleman had found the pursuit of courtship in America attended by a good many incidental

social luxuries. It had been a wise policy to impress him with the charm of a society which has unlimited

millions to make it attractive. Even to an impecunious noble there is a charm in this, although the society

itself has some of the lingering conditions of its money origin. But since the great display of the ball, and the

legitimate inferences drawn from it by the press and the fashionable world, Mrs. Mavick had endeavored to

He must be made to feel at home. And this she did. Mrs. Mavick was as admirable in the role of a domestic

woman as of a woman of the world. The simple pleasures, the confidences, the intimacies of home life

surrounded him. His own mother, the aged duchess, could not have looked upon him with more affection, and

possibly not have pampered him with so many luxuries. There was only one thing wanting to make this home

complete. In conventional Europe the contracting parties are not the signers of the marriage contract. In the

United States the parties most interested take the initiative in making the contract.

Here lay the difficulty of the situation, a situation that puzzled Lord Montague and enraged Mrs. Mavick.

Evelyn maintained as much indifference to the domestic as to the worldly situation. Her mother thought her

lifeless and insensible; she even went so far as to call her unwomanly in her indifference to what any other

Lifeless indeed she was, poor child; physically languid and scarcely able to drag herself through the daily

demands upon her strength. Her mother made it a reproach that she was so pale and unresponsive. Apparently

she did not resist, she did everything she was told to do. She passed, indeed, hours with Lord Montague,

occasions contrived when she was left alone in the house with him, and she made heroic efforts to be

interested, to find something in his mind that was in sympathy with her own thoughts. With a woman's ready

instinct she avoided committing herself to his renewed proposals, sometimes covert, sometimes direct, but

the struggle tired her. At the end of all such interviews she had to meet her mother, who, with a smile of hope

and encouragement, always said, "Well, I suppose you and Lord Montague have made it up," and then to

She was helpless in such toils. At times she felt actually abandoned of any human aid, and in moods of

despondency almost resolved to give up the struggle. In the eyes of the world it was a good match, it would

make her mother happy, no doubt her father also; and was it not her duty to put aside her repugnance, and go

Few people can resist doing what is universally expected of them. This invisible pressure is more difficult to

stand against than individual tyranny. There are no tragedies in our modern life so pathetic as the ossification

of women's hearts when love is crushed under the compulsion of social and caste requirements. Everybody

expected that Evelyn would accept Lord Montague. It could be said that for her own reputation the situation

required this consummation of the intimacy of the season. And the mother did not hesitate to put this

But with such a character as Evelyn, who was a constant puzzle to her mother, this argument had very little

weight compared with her own sense of duty to her parents. Her somewhat ideal education made worldly

advantages of little force in her mind, and love the one priceless possession of a woman's heart which could

not be bartered. And yet might there not be an element of selfishness in thismight not its sacrifice be a

family duty? Mrs. Mavick having found this weak spot in her daughter's armor, played upon it with all her

"Of course, dear," she said, "you know what would make me happy. But I do not want you to yield to my

selfishness or even to your father's ambition to see his only child in an exalted position in life. I can bear the

disappointment. I have had to bear many. But it is your own happiness I am thinking of. And I think also of

the cruel blow your refusal will inflict upon a man whose heart is bound up in you."

"But I don't love him." The girl was very pale, and she spoke with an air of weariness, but still with a sort of

"You will in time. A young girl never knows her own heart, any more than she knows the world."

"Mother, that isn't all. It would be a sin to him to pretend to give him a heart that was not his. I can't; I can't."

"My dear child, that is his affair. He is willing to trust you, and to win your love. When we act from a sense

of duty the way is apt to open to us. I have never told you of my own earlier experience. I was not so young

as you are when I married Mr. Henderson, but I had not been without the fancies and experiences of a young

girl. I might have yielded to one of them but for family reasons. My father had lost his fortune and had died,

disappointed and broken down. My mother, a lovely woman, was not strong, was not capable of fighting the

world alone, and she depended upon me, for in those days I had plenty of courage and spirit. Mr. Henderson

was a widower whom we had known as a friend before the death of his accomplished wife. In his

lonesomeness he turned to me. In our friendlessness I turned to him. Did I love him? I esteemed him, I

respected him, I trusted him, that was all. He did not ask more than that. And what a happy life we had! I

shared in all his great plans. And when in the midst of his career, with such large ideas of public service and

philanthropy, he was stricken down, he left to me, in the confidence of his love, all that fortune which is some

day to be yours." Mrs. Mavick put her handkerchief to her eyes. "Ah, well, our destiny is not in our hands.

Heaven raised up for me another protector, another friend. Perhaps some of my youthful illusions have

vanished, but should I have been happier if I had indulged them? I know your dear father does not think so."

"Mother," cried Evelyn, deeply moved by this unprecedented confidence, "I cannot bear to see you suffer on

my account. But must not every one decide for herself what is right before God?"

At this inopportune appeal to a higher power Mrs. Mavick had some difficulty in restraining her surprise and

indignation at what she considered her child's stubbornness. But she conquered the inclination, and simply

"Yes, yes, you must decide for yourself. You must not consider your mother as I did mine."

This cruel remark cut the girl to the heart. The world seemed to whirl around her, right and wrong and duty in

a confused maze. Was she, then, such a monster of ingratitude? She half rose to throw herself at her mother's

feet, upon her mother's mercy. And at the moment it was not her reason but her heart that saved her. In the

moral confusion rose the image of Philip. Suppose she should gain the whole world and lose him! And it was

"Mother, it is very hard. I love you; I could die for you. I am so forlorn. But I cannot, I dare not, do such a

She spoke brokenly, excitedly, she shuddered as she said the last words, and her eyes were full of tears as she

When she had gone, Mrs. Mavick sat long in her chair, motionless between bewilderment and rage. In her

A servant entered with a telegram. Mrs. Mavick took it, and held it listlessly while the servant waited. "You

can sign." After the door closedshe was still thinking of Evelynshe waited a moment before she tore the

envelope, and with no eagerness unfolded the official yellow paper. And then she read:

A halfhour afterwards when a maid entered the room she found Mrs. Mavick still seated in the armchair, her

hands powerless at her side, her eyes staring into space, her face haggard and old.

The action of Thomas Mavick in giving up the fight was as unexpected in New York as it was in Newport. It

was a shock even to those familiar with the Street. It was known that he was in trouble, but he had been in

trouble before. It was known that there had been sacrifices, efforts at extension, efforts at compromise, but

the general public fancied that the Mavick fortune had a core too solid to be washed away by any storm. Only

a very few people knewsuch old hands as Uncle Jerry Hollowell, and such inquisitive bandits as Murad

Aultthat the house of Mavick was a house of cards, and that it might go down when the belief was

The failure was not an ordinary sensation, and, according to the excellent practices and differing humors of

the daily newspapers, it was made the most of, until the time came for the heavy weeklies to handle it in its

moral aspects as an illustration of modern civilization. On the first morning there was substantial unanimity

in assuming the totality of the disaster, and the most ingenious artists in headlines vied with each other in

startling effects: "Crash in Wall Street." " Mavick Runs Up the White Flag." " King of Wall Street Called

Down." "Ault Takes the Pot." "Dangerous to Dukes." "Mavick Bankrupt." "The House of Mavick a Ruin." "

This, however, was only the beginning. The sensation must be prolonged. The next day there were

attenuating circumstances. It might be only a temporary embarrassment. The assets were vastly greater than

the liabilities. There was talk in financial circles of an adjustment. With time the house could go on. The next

day it was made a reproach to the house that such deceptive hopes were put upon the public. Journalistic

enterprise had discovered that the extent of the liabilities had been concealed. This attempt to deceive the

public, these defenders of the public interest would expose. The next day the wind blew from another

direction. The alarmists were rebuked. The creditors were disposed to be lenient. Doubtful securities were

likely to realize more than was expected. The assignees were sharply scored for not taking the newspapers

And so for ten days the failure went on in the newspapers, backward and forward, now hopeless, now

relieved, now sunk in endless complications, and fallen into the hands of the lawyers who could be trusted

with the most equitable distribution of the property involved, until the reading public were glad to turn, with

the same eager zest, to the case of the actress who was found dead in a hotel in Jersey City. She was attended

only by her pet poodle, in whose collar was embedded a jewel of great price. This jewel was traced to a New

York establishment, whence it had disappeared under circumstances that pointed to the criminality of a scion

Meantime affairs took their usual course. The downfall of Mavick is too well known in the Street to need

explanation here. For a time it was hoped that sacrifices of great interests would leave a modest little fortune,

but under the pressure of liquidation these hopes melted away. If anything could be saved it would be only

comparatively valueless securities and embarrassed bits of property that usually are only a delusion and a

source of infinite worry to a bankrupt. It seemed incredible that such a vast fortune should so disappear; but

there were wise men who, so they declared, had always predicted this disaster. For some years after

Henderson's death the fortune had appeared to expand marvelously. It was, however, expanded, and not

solidified. It had been risked in many gigantic speculations (such as the Argentine), and it had been liable to

collapse at any time if its central credit was doubted. Mavick's combinations were splendidly conceived, but

he lacked the power of coordination. And great as were his admitted abilities, he had never inspired

"And, besides," said Uncle Jerry, philosophizing about it in his homely way, "there's that little devil of a

Carmen, the most fascinating woman I ever knewit would take the Bank of England to run her. Why, when

I see that Golden House going up, I said I'd give 'em five years to balloon in it. I was mistaken. They've

Grave history gives but a paragraph to a personal celebrity of this sort. When a ship goes down in a tempest

off the New England coast, there is a brief period of public shock and sympathy, and then the world passes on

to other accidents and pleasures; but for months relics of the great vessel float ashore on lonely headlands or

are cast up on sandy beaches, and for years, in many a home made forlorn by the shipwreck, are aching hearts

The disaster of the house of Mavick was not accepted without a struggle, lasting long after the public interest

in the spectacle had abateda struggle to save the ship and then to pick up some debris from the great

wreck. The most pathetic sight in the business world is that of a bankrupt, old and broken, pursuing with

always deluded expectations the remnants of his fortune, striving to make new combinations, involved in

lawsuits, alternately despairing, alternately hopeful in the chaos of his affairs. This was the fate of Thomas

The news was all over Newport in a few hours after it had stricken down Mrs. Mavick. The newspaper details

the morning after were read with that eager interest that the misfortunes of neighbors always excite. After her

first stupor, Mrs. Mavick refused to believe it. It could not be, and her spirit of resistance rose with the frantic

messages she sent to her husband. Alas, the cold fact of the assignment remained. Still her courage was not

quite beaten down. The suspension could only be temporary. She would not have it otherwise. Two days she

showed herself as usual in Newport, and carried herself bravely. The sympathy looked or expressed was

wormwood to her, but she met it with a reassuring smile. To be sure it was very hard to bear such a blow, the

result of a stock intrigue, but it would soon pass overit was a temporary embarrassment that she said

She had not, however, told the news to Evelyn with any such smiling confidence. There was still rage in her

heart against her daughter, as if her obstinacy had some connection with this blow of fate, and she did not

soften the announcement. She expected to sting her, and she did astonish and she did grieve her, for the

breakingup of her world could not do otherwise; but it was for her mother and not for herself that Evelyn

showed emotion. If their fortune was gone, then the obstacle was removed that separated her from Philip. The

world well lost! This flashed through her mind before she had fairly grasped the extent of the fatality, and it

"Poor me!" cried Mrs. Mavick, looking with amazement at her daughter," don't you understand that our life is

"Worse? You have no more feeling than a chip. You are a beggar! That is all. What do you mean by worse?"

"If father had done anything dishonorable!" suggested the girl, timidly, a little scared by her mother's

And perhaps she was, with such preposterous notions of what is really valuable in life. There could be no

If Evelyn's conduct exasperated her, the nonappearance of Lord Montague after the publication of the news

seriously alarmed her. No doubt he was shocked, but she could explain it to him, and perhaps he was too

much interested in Evelyn to be thrown off by this misfortune. The third day she wrote him a note, a familiar,

almost affectionate note, chiding him for deserting them in their trouble. She assured him that the news was

greatly exaggerated, the embarrassment was only temporary, such things were always happening in the

Street. "You know," she said, playfully, "it is our American way to be up in a minute when we seem to be

down." She asked him to call, for she had something that was important to tell him, and, besides, she needed

In an hour it was returned, unopened, with a verbal message from his host, saying that Lord Montague had

"Coward!" muttered the enraged woman, with closed teeth. "Men are all cowards, put them to the test."

The energetic woman judged from a too narrow basis. Because Mavick was weakand she had always

secretly despised him for yielding to herweak as compared with her own indomitable spirit, she

generalized wildly. Her opinion of men would have been modified if she had come in contact with Murad

To one man in New York besides Mr. Ault the failure did not seem a personal calamity. When Philip saw in

the steamer departures the name of Lord Montague, his spirits rose in spite of the thought that the heiress was

no longer an heiress. The sky lifted, there was a promise of fair weather, the storm, for him, had indeed

"Dear Philip," wrote Miss McDonald, "it is really dreadful news, but I cannot be so very downhearted. It is

the least of calamities that could happen to my dear child. Didn't I tell you that it is always darkest just before

And Philip needed the hope of the dawn. Trial is good for any one, but hopeless suffering for none. Philip had

not been without hope, but it was a visionary indulgence, against all evidence. It was the hope of youth, not

of reason. He stuck to his business doggedly, he stuck to his writing doggedly, but over all his mind was a

cloud, an oppression not favorable to creative effortthat is, creative effort sweet and not cynical, sunny and

And yet, who shall say that this very experience, this oppression of circumstance, was not the thing needed

for the development of the best that was in him? Thrown back upon himself and denied an airy soaring in the

heights of a prosperous fancy, he had come to know himself and his limitations. And in the year he had

learned a great deal about his art. For one thing he had come to the ground. He was looking more at life as it

is. His experience at the publishers had taught him one important truth, and that is that a big subject does not

make a big writer, that all that any mind can contribute to the general thought of the world in literature is

what is in itself, and if there is nothing in himself it is vain for the writer to go far afield for a theme. He had

seen the young artists, fretting for want of subjects, wandering the world over in search of an object fitted to

their genius, setting up their easels in front of the marvels of nature and of art, in the expectation that genius

If they could find something big enough to paint! And he had seen, in exhibition after exhibition, that the

artist who cannot paint a rail fence cannot paint a pyramid. A man does not become a good rider by

mounting an elephant; ten to one a donkey would suit him better. Philip had begun to see that the life around

him had elements enough of the comic and the tragic to give full play to all his powers.

He began to observe human beings as he had never done before. There were only two questions, and they are

at the bottom of all creative literaturecould he see them, could he make others see them?

This was all as true before the Mavick failure as after; but, before, what was the use of effort? Now there was

every inducement to effort. Ambition to succeed had taken on him the hold of necessity. And with a free

mind as to the obstacles that lay between him and the realization of the great dream of his life, the winning of

the one woman who could make his life complete, Philip set to work with an earnestness and a clearness of

In the wreck of the Mavick estate, in its distribution, there are one or two things of interest to the general

reader. One of these was the fate of the Golden House, as it was called. Mrs. Mavick had hurried back to her

town house, determined to save it at all hazard. The impossibility of this was, however, soon apparent even to

her intrepid spirit. She would either sacrifice all else to save it, ordark thoughts of ending it in a

conflagration entered her mind. This was only her first temper. But to keep the house without a vast fortune

to sustain it was an impossibility, and, as it was the most conspicuous of Mavick's visible possessions,

perhaps the surrender of it, which she could not prevent, would save certain odds and ends here and there.

Whether she liked it or not, the woman learned for once that her will had little to do with the course of events.

Its destination was gall and wormwood both to Carmen and her husband. For it fell into the hands of Murad

Ault. He coveted it as the most striking symbol of the position he had conquered in the metropolis. Its

semibarbaric splendor appealed also to his passion for display. And it was notable that the taste of the rude

lad of povertythis uncultivated offspring of a wandering gypsy and herbcollectorperhaps she had

ancient and noble blood in her veinsshould be the same for material ostentation and luxury as that of the

cultivated, fastidious Mavick and his worldlyminded wife. So persistent is the instinct of barbarism in our

When Ault told his wife what he had done, that sweet, domestic, and sensible woman was very far from

"For the Mavicks. I don't mean for Mrs. MavickI hear she is a worldly and revengeful womanbut for the

girl. It must be dreadful to turn her out of all the surroundings of her happy life. And I hear she is as good as

"But it can't be helped," said Ault, persuasively. "The house had to be sold, and it makes no difference who

"You are afraid they will get lost in that big house?" And Mr. Ault laughed. "It isn't a bit too big or too good

for them. At any rate, my dear, in they go, and you must get ready to move. The house will be empty in a

"Murad," and Mrs. Ault spoke as if she were not thinking of the change for herself, "there is one thing I wish

"Go to Mr. Mavick, or to Mrs. Mavick, or the assignees or whoever, and have the daughteryes, and her

motherfree to take away anything they want, anything dear to them by long association. Will you?"

"I don't see how. Mavick wouldn't do it for us, and I guess he is too proud to accept anything from me. I don't

owe him anything. And then the property is in the assignment. Whatever is there I bought with the house."

"Well, it don't matter much. I guess the assignees can make Mrs. Mavick believe easy enough that certain

things belong to her. But I would not do it for any other living being but you."

"Bytheway," he added, "there is another bit of property that I didn't take, the Newport palace."

"So I thought. And I have another plan. It's long been in my mind, and we will carry it out next summer.

There is a little plateau on the side of the East Mountain in Rivervale, where there used to stand a shack of a

cabin, with a wild sort of gardenpatch about it, a tumbledown root fence, all in the midst of brush and

briers. Lord, what a habitation it was! But such a viewrivers, mountains, meadows, and orchards in the

distance! That is where I lived with my mother. What a life! I hated everything, everybody but her."

Mr. Ault paused, his strong, dark face working with passion, as the memory of his outlawed boyhood

revived. Is it possible that this pirate of the Street had a bit of sentiment at the bottom of his heart? After a

"That was the spot to which my mother took me when I was kneehigh. I've bought it, bought the whole

hillside. Next summer we will put up a house there, not a very big house, just a long, low sort of a Moorish

Mrs. Ault rose, with tears in her gentle eyes, stood by her husband's chair a moment, ran her fingers through

There was another bit of property that was not included in the wreck. It belonged to Mrs. Mavick. This was a

little house in Irving Place, in which Carmen Eschelle lived with her mother, in the days before the death of

Henderson's first wife, not very happy days for that wife. Carmen had a fancy for keeping it after her

marriage. Not from any sentiment, she told Mr. Mavick on the occasion of her second marriage, oh, no, but

somehow it seemed to her, in all her vast possessions left to her by Henderson, the only real estate she had. It

was the only thing that had not passed into the absolute possession and control of Mavick. The great town

house, with all the rest, stood in Mavick's name. What secret influence had he over her that made her submit

It was in this little house that the reduced family stowed itself after the downfall. The little house, had it been

sentient, would have been astonished at the entrance into it of the furniture and the remnants of luxurious

living that Mrs. Mavick was persuaded belonged to her personally. These reminders of former days were,

after all, a mockery in the narrow quarters and the pinched economy of the bankrupt. Yet they were, for a

time useful in preserving to Mrs. Mavick a measure of self respect, her selfrespect having always been

based upon what she had and not what she was. In truth, the change of lot was harder for Mrs. Mavick than

for Evelyn, since the world in which the latter lived had not been destroyed. She still had her books, she still

had a great love in her heart, and hope, almost now a sure hope, that her love would blossom into a great

But where was Philip? In all this time why did he make no sign? At moments a great fear came over her. She

was so ignorant of life. Could he know what misery she was in, the daily witness of her father's broken

Is justice done in this world only by a succession of injustices? Is there any law that a wrong must right a

wrong? Did it rebuke the means by which the vast fortune of Henderson was accumulated, that it was

defeated of any good use by the fraud of his wife? Was her action punished by the same unscrupulous tactics

of the Street that originally made the fortune? And Ault? Would a stronger pirate arise in time to despoil him,

and so act as the Nemesis of all violation of the law of honest relations between men?

The comfort is, in all this struggle of the evil powers, masked as justice, that the Almighty Ruler of the world

does not forget his own, and shows them a smiling face in the midst of disaster. There is no mystery in this.

For the noble part in man cannot be touched in its integrity by such vulgar disasters as we are considering. In

those days when Evelyn saw dissolving about her the material splendors of her old life, while the Golden

House was being dismantled, and she was taking sad leave of the scenes of her girlhood, so vivid with

memory of affection and of intellectual activity, they seemed only the shell, the castingoff of which gave

her freedom. The sun never shone brighter, there was never such singing in her heart, as on the morning when

she was free to go to Mrs. Van Cortlandt's and throw herself into the arms of her dear governess and talk of

Why not? Perhaps she had not that kind of maidenly shyness, sometimes called conventional propriety,

sometimes described as 'mauvaise honte' which a woman of the world would have shown. The impulses of

her heart followed as direct lines as the reasoning of her brain. Was it due to her peculiar education, education

only in the noblest ideas of the race, that she should be a sort of reversion, in our complicated life, to the type

of woman in the old societies (we like to believe there was such a type as the poets love, the Nausicaas), who

"And you think he" the girl had her arms around her friend's neck again, and concealed her blushing face

There was a little quiver in her form, but it was not of agony; then she put her hands on the shoulders of her

And Miss McDonald went into delightful details, how he looked, how he walked, how his voice sounded,

how he talked, how melancholy he was, and how full of determination he was, his eyes were so kindly, and

"It is very long since," drearily murmured the girl. And then she continued, partly to herself, partly to Miss

McDonald: "He will come now, can't he? Not to that house. Never would I wish him to set foot in it. But he

is not forbidden to come to the place where we are going. Soon, you think? Perhaps you might hintoh no,

not from mejust your idea. Wouldn't it be natural, after our misfortune? Perhaps mamma would feel

differently after what has happened. Oh, that Montague! that horrid little man! I thinkI think I shall receive

But it was not immediately that the chance for a guileless woman to show her coolness to her lover was to

occur. This postponement was not due to the coolness or to the good sense of Philip. When the catastrophe

came, his first impulse was that of a fireman who plunges into a burning building to rescue the imperiled

inmates. He pictured in his mind a certain nobility of action in going forward to the unfortunate family with

his sympathy, and appearing to them in the heroic attitude of a man whose love has no alloy of selfinterest.

They should speedily understand that it was not the heiress, but the woman, with whom he was in love.

But Miss McDonald understood human nature better than that, at least the nature of Mrs. Mavick. People of

her temperament, humiliated and enraged, are best left alone. The fierceness with which she would have

turned upon any of her society friends who should have presumed to offer her condolence, however sweetly

the condescension were concealed, would have been vented without mercy upon the man whose presence

would have reminded her of her foolish rudeness to him, and of the bitter failure of her schemes for her

daughter. "Wait, wait," said the good counselor, "until the turmoil has subsided, and the hard pressure of

circumstances compels her to look at things in their natural relations. She is too sore now inthe wreck of

But, indeed, her hopes were not all surrendered in a moment. She had more spirit than her husband in their

calamity. She was, in fact, a born gambler; she had the qualities of her temperament, and would not believe

that courage and luck could not retrieve, at least partially, their fortune. It seemed incredible in the Street that

the widow of Henderson should have given over her property so completely to her second husband, and it

was a surprise to find that there was very little of value that the assignment of Mavick did not carry with it.

The Street did not know the guilty secret between Mavick and his wife that made them cowards to each other.

Nor did it understand that Carmen was the more venturesome gambler of the two, and that gradually, for the

success of promising schemes, she had thrown one thing after another into the common speculation, until

practically all the property stood in Mavick's name. Was she a fool in this, as so many women are about their

The palace on Fifth Avenue was not even in her name. When she realized that, there was a scenebut this is

The reader would not be interestedthe public of the time were notin the adjustment of Mavick and his

wife to their new conditions. The brokendown, defeated bankrupt is no novelty in Wall Street, the man

struggling to keep his foothold in the business of the Street, and descending lower and lower in the scale. The

shrewd curbstone broker may climb to a seat in the Stock Exchange; quite as often a lord of the Board, a

commander of millions, may be reduced to the seedy watcher of the bulletinboard in a bucketshop.

At first, in the excitement and the confusion, amid the debris of so much possible wealth, Mavick kept a sort

of position, and did not immediately feel the pinch of vulgar poverty. But the day came when all illusion

vanished, and it was a question of providing from day to day for the small requirements of the house in Irving

It was not a cheerful household; reproaches are hard to bear when physical energy is wanting to resist them.

Mavick had visibly aged during the year. It was only in his office that he maintained anything of the spruce

appearance and 'sang froid' which had distinguished the diplomatist and the young adventurer. At home he

had fallen into the slovenliness that marks a disappointed old age. Was Mrs. Mavick peevish and

unreasonable? Very likely. And had she not reason to be? Was she, as a woman, any more likely to be

reconciled to her fate when her mirror told her, with pitiless reflection, that she was an old woman?

Philip waited. Under the circumstances would not both Philip and Evelyn have been justified in disregarding

the prohibition that forbade their meeting or even writing to each other? It may be a nice question, but it did

not seem so to these two, who did not juggle with their consciences. Philip had given his word. Evelyn would

The girl, however, had one comfort, and that was the knowledge of Philip through Miss McDonald, whom

she saw frequently, and to whom even Mrs. Mavick was in a manner reconciled. She was often in the little

house in Irving Place. There was nothing in her manner to remind Mrs. Mavick that she had done her a great

wrong, and her cheerfulness and good sense made her presence and talk a relief from the monotony of the

It came about, therefore, that one day Philip made his way down into the city to seek an interview with Mr.

Mavick. He found him, after some inquiry, in a barren little office, occupying one of the rented desks with

three or four habitues of the Street, one of them an old man like himself, the others mere lads who did not

Mr. Mavick arose when his visitor stood at his desk, buttoned up his frockcoat, and extended his hand with

a show of business cordiality, and motioned him to a chair. Philip was greatly shocked at the change in Mr.

"No disturbance," he answered, with something of the old cynical smile on his lips.

"Long ago I called to see you on the errand I have now, but you were not in town. It was, Mr. Mavick," and

"No? Well, Mr. Mavick, I was pretty presumptuous, for I had no foothold in the city, except a law clerkship."

"Not in itself, not for many," and Philip forced a laugh. "But it led to a situation in a firstrate publishing

housean apprenticeship that has now given me a position that seems to be permanent, with prospects

beyond, and a very fair salary. It would not seem much to you, Mr. Mavick," and Philip tried to laugh again.

"I don't know," replied Mr. Mavick. "If a fellow has any sort of salary these times, I should advise him to

"Just so. I think I'll see Hunt. A salary isn't a bad thing for afor a man who has retired pretty much from

"I was going to say, Mr. Mavick, that there was a little something more than my salary that I can count on

pretty regularly now from the magazines, and I have had another story, a novel, accepted, andyou won't

think me vainthe publisher says it will go; if it doesn't have a big sale he will"

"I suppose it is a kind of lottery, like most things. The publishers have to take risks. The only harm I wish

them is that they were compelled to read all the stuff they try to make us read. Ah, well. Mr. Burnett, I hope

you have made a hit. It is pretty much the same thing in our business. The publisher bulls his own book and

"I could give you points. It's a devil of a place. I guess the novelists are too near to see the romance of it.

When I was in Rome I amused myself by diving into the mediaeval records. Steel and poison were the

weapons then. We have a different method now, but it comes to the same thing, and we say we are more

civilized. I think our way is more devilishly dramatic than the old brute fashion. Yes, I could give you

"I should be greatly obliged," said Philip, seeing the way to bring the conversation back to its starting point;

"Oh," replied Mavick, with more goodhumor in his laugh than he had shown before, "you needn't beat about

"Huh! for myself, I should be pleased to see you any time, Mr. Burnett. Mrs. Mavick hasn't felt like seeing

The two men rose and shook hands, as men shake hands when they have an understanding.

"I'm glad you are doing well," Mr. Mavick added; "your life is before you, mine is behind me; that makes a

Within a few days Philip received a note from Mrs. Mavicknot an effusive note, not an explanatory note,

not an apologetic note, simply a note as if nothing unusual had happenedif Mr. Burnett had leisure, would

Not one minute by his watch after the hour named, Philip rang the bell and was shown into a little parlor at

the front. There was only one person in the room, a lady in exquisite toilet, who rose rather languidly to meet

Philip hesitated a moment near the door, embarrassed by a mortifying recollection of his last interview with

Mrs. Mavick, and in that moment he saw her face. Heavens, what a change! And yet it was a smiling face.

There is a portrait of Carmen by a foreign artist, who was years ago the temporary fashion in New York,

painted the year after her second marriage and her return from Rome, which excited much comment at the

Its technical excellence was considerable. The artist had evidently intended to represent a woman piquant and

fascinating, if not strictly beautiful. Many persons said it was lovely. Other critics said that, whether the artist

intended it or not, he had revealed the real character of the subject. There was something sinister in its beauty.

One artist, who was out of fashion as an idealist, said, of course privately, that the more he looked at it the

more hideous it became to himlike one of Blake's objective portraits of a "soul"the naked soul of an evil

woman showing through the mask of all her feminine fascinationsthe possible hell, so he put it, under a

It was this in the portrait that Philip saw in the face smiling a welcomelike an old, sweetly smiling

Lalagefrom which had passed away youth and the sustaining consciousness of wealth and of a place in the

great world. The smile was no longer sweet, though the words from the lips were honeyed.

"It is very good of you to drop in in this way, Mr. Burnett," she said, as she gave him her hand. "It is very

"You think so now. I thought so once," and there was a note of sadness in her voice. "But it isn't New York. It

"Yes, I know. We pretend that it is more aristocratic. That means the rents are lower. It is a place for youth to

begin and for age to end. We seem to go round in a circle. Mr. Mavick began in the service of the

government, now he has entered it againah, you did not know?a place in the CustomHouse. He says it

is easier to collect other people's revenues than your own. Do you know, Mr. Burnett, I do not see much use

in collecting revenues anywayso far as New York is concerned the people get little good of them. Look out

Mrs. Mavick rambled on in the whimsical, cynical fashion of old ladies when they cease to have any active

responsibility in life and become spectators of it. Their remaining enjoyment is the indulgence of frank

"But I thought," Philip interrupted, "that this part of the town was specially New York."

"New York!" cried Carmen, with animation. "The New York of the newspapers, of the country imagination;

the New York as it is known in Paris is in Wall Street and in the palaces uptown. Who are the kings of Wall

Street, and who build the palaces uptown? They say that there are no Athenians in Athens, and no Romans

in Rome. How many NewYorkers are there in New York? Do NewYorkers control the capital, rule the

politics, build the palaces, direct the newspapers, furnish the entertainment, manufacture the literature, set the

pace in society? Even the socialists and mobocrats are not native. Successive invaders, as in Rome, overrun

No, Mr. Burnett, I have left the existing New York. How queer it is to think about it. My first husband was

from New Hampshire. My second husband was from Illinois. And there is your Murad Ault. The Lord knows

Talk about the barbarians occupying Rome! Look at that Ault in a palace! Who was that

emperorCaligula?I am like the young lady from a finishingschool who said she never could remember

which came first in history, Greece or Romewho stabled his horses with stalls and mangers of gold? The

Aults stable themselves that way. Ah, me! Let me give you a cup of tea. Even that is English."

"It's an innocent pastime," she continued, as Philip stirred his tea, in perplexity as to how he should begin to

say what he had to say"you won't object if I light a cigarette? One ought to retain at least one bad habit to

keep from spiritual pride. Tea is an excuse for this. I don't think it a bad habit, though some people say that

"No? But you will. I have known lots of people who said they never would change. They all did. No, you

need not protest. I believe in you now, or I should not be drinking tea with you. But you must be tired of an

old woman's gossip. Evelyn has gone out for a walk; she didn't know. I expect her any minute. Ah, I think

that is her ring. I will let her in. There is nothing so hateful as a surprise."

She turned and gave Philip her hand, and perhaps she was sincereshe had a habit of being so when it suited

Philip waited, his heart beating a hundred to the minute. He heard greetings and whisperings in the

passageway, and thentime seemed to stand stillthe door opened and Evelyn stood on the threshold,

radiant from her walk, her face flushed, the dainty little figure poised in timid expectation, in maidenly

hesitation, and then she stepped forward to meet his advance, with welcome in her great eyes, and gave him

That was all. It was so different from the meeting as Philip had a hundred times imagined it.

"It has been very long," said Philip, who was devouring the girl with his eyes very long to me."

"I thought you had been very busy," she replied, demurely. Her composure was very irritating.

"That is not like you, Mr. Burnett," Evelyn replied, looking up suddenly with troubled eyes.

"I didn't mean that," said Philip, moving uneasily in his chair, "Iso many things have happened. You know

"I know that. I was not always happy," said the girl, with the air of making a confession. "But I liked to hear

from time to time of the success of my friends," she added, ingenuously. And then, quite inconsequently, "I

Yes, Philip heard often from Alice, and he told the news as well as he could, and the talk drifted alonghow

strange it seemed!about things in which neither of them felt any interest at the moment. Was there no way

to break the barrier that the little brown girl had thrown around herself? Were all women, then, alike in

parrying and fencing? The talk went on, friendly enough at last, about a thousand things. It might have been

"Of course," said Evelyn, cheerfully. "I am sure father will be delighted to see you. He enjoys so little now."

He had taken both her hands to say goodby, and was looking hungrily into her eyes.

And before the girl comprehended him he had drawn her to him and pressed his lips upon hers.

Her eyes were clouded, and she put her hands to her face, trembling, and then with a cry, as of a soul born

Perhaps Philip's announcement of his goodfortune to Alice and to Celia was not very coherent, but his

meaning was plain. Perhaps he was conscious that the tidings would not increase the cheerfulness of Celia's

singlehanded struggle for the ideal life; at least, he would rather write than tell her face to face.

However he put the matter to her, with what protestations of affectionate friendship and trust he wrapped up

the statement that he made as matter of fact as possible, he could not conceal the ecstatic state of his mind.

Nothing like it certainly had happened to anybody in the world before. All the dream of his boyhood,

romantic and rosecolored, all the aspirations of his manhood, for recognition, honor, a place in the life of his

time, were mere illusions compared to this wonderful crown of lifea woman's love. Where did it come

from into this miserable world, this heavenly ray, this pure gift out of the divine beneficence, this spotless

flower in a humanity so astray, this sure prophecy of the final redemption of the world? The immeasurable

love of a good woman! And to him! Philip felt humble in his exaltation, charitable in his selfish

appropriation. He wanted to write to Celiabut he did notthat he loved her more than ever. But to Alice

he could pour out his wealth of affection, quickened to all the world by this great love, for he knew that her

The response from Alice was what he expected, tender, sweet, domestic, and it was full of praise of Evelyn,

of love for her. "Perhaps, dear Phil," she wrote, "I shall love her more than I do you. I almost think did I

not remember what a bad boy you could be sometimesthat each one of you is too good for the other. But,

Phil, if you should ever come to think that she is not too good for you, you will not be good enough for her. I

can't think she is perfect, any more than you are perfectyou will find that she is just a womanbut there is

nothing in all life so precious as such a heart as hers. You will come here, of course, and at once, whenever it

is. You know that big, square, oldfashioned corner chamber, with the highposter. That is yours. Evelyn

never saw it. The morning and the evening sun shoot across it, and the front windows look on the great green

crown of Mount Peak. You know it. There is not such a place in the world to hear the low and peaceful

murmur of the river, all night long, rushing, tumbling, crooning, I used to think when I was a little girl and

dreamed of things unseen, and still going on when the birds begin to sing in the dawn. And with Evelyn!

It was in another strain, but not less full of real affection, that Celia wrote:

"I am not going to congratulate you. You are long past the need of that. But you know that I am happy in

having you happy. You thought I never saw anything? I wonder if men are as blind as they seem to be? And I

had fears. Do you know a man ought to build his own monument. If he goes into a monument built for him,

that is the end of him. Now you can work, and you will. I am so glad she isn't an heiress any more. I guess

there was a curse on that fortune. But she has eluded it. I believe all you tell me about her. Perhaps there are

more such women in the world than you think. Some day I shall know her, and soon. I do long to see her.

"You ask about myself. I am the same, but things change. When I get my medical diploma I shall decide what

to do. My little property just suffices, with economy, and I enjoy economy. I doubt if I do any general

practice for pay. There are so many young doctors that need the money for practice more than I do. And

perhaps taking it up as a living would make me sort of hard and perfunctory. And there is so much to do in

this great New York among the unfortunate that a woman who knows medicine can do better than any one

"Ah, me, I am happy in a way, or I expect to be. Everybodyit isn't because I am a woman I say

thisneeds something to lean on now and then. There isn't much to lean on in the college, nor in many of

my zealous and ambitious companions there. There is more faith in the poor people down in the wards where

I go. They are kind to each other, and most of them, not all, believe in something. They, have that, at any rate,

in all their trials and poverty. Philip, don't despise the invisible. I have got into the habit of going into a

Catholic church down there, when I am tired and discouraged, and getting the peace of it. It is a sort of open

door! You need not jump to the conclusion that I am 'going over.' Maybe I am going back. I don't know. I

I like to sit there in that dim quiet and think of things I can't think of elsewhere. Do you think I am queer?

Philip, all women are queer. They haven't yet been explained. That is the reason why the novelists find it next

to impossible, with all the materials at hand, to make a good womanthat is a woman. Do you know what it

Perhaps I have depended too much on my reason. If you long to go to a place where you will have peace,

why should you let what you call your reason stand in the way? Perhaps your reason is foolishness. You will

laugh a little at this, and say that I am tired. No. Only I am not so sure of things as I used to be. Do you

remember when we children used to sit under that tree by the Deerfield, how confident I was that I

Well, I don't know as much now. But there is one thing that has survived and grown with the years, and that,

What was it in this unassuming, but no doubt sufficiently conceited and ambitious, young fellow that he

Is affection as whimsically, as blindly distributed as wealth? It is the experience of life that it is rare to keep

either to the end, but as a man is judged not so much by his ability to make money as to keep it, so it is fair to

estimate his qualities by his power to retain friendship. New York is full of failures, bankrupts in fortune and

bankrupts in affection, but this melancholy aspect of the town is on the surface, and is not to be considered in

comparison with the great body of moderately contented, moderately successful, and on the whole happy

To Evelyn and Philip, judging the world a good deal by each other, in those months before their marriage,

when surprising perfection and new tenderness were daily developed, the gay and busy city seemed a sort of

Mysterious things were going on in the weeks immediately preceding the wedding. There was a conspiracy

between Miss McDonald and Philip in the furnishing and setting in order a tiny apartment on the Heights,

overlooking the city, the lordly Hudson, and its romantic hills. And when, after the ceremony, on a radiant

afternoon in early June, the wedded lovers went to their new home, it was the housekeeper, the old governess,

who opened the door and took into her arms the child she had loved and lost awhile.

This fragment of history leaves Philip Burnett on the threshold of his career. Those who know him only by

his books may have been interested in his experiences, in the merciful interposition of disaster, before he