Chapter I: Katz (3)

There was touch of contempt in Cyrus's manner as he replied: "You don't even know what I mean?"

"On my honor I do not!"

"And you accuse me of not being truthful!"

"Drowsy, listen. This may be our last meeting. Let us not part in this spirit--through any misunderstanding. Our friendship is too precious for that, isn't it? I beg you, tell me what you mean by my calling you. When? How? Do you mean a letter?"

"I mean the message I received last night, and again early this morning. Through the air--by wireless as it were--in the old way, years ago, that I often got your messages."

"But I have sent you no message."

"Didn't you even think of me yesterday or this morning?"

"No, I did not. I have thought of you often, and of our old childhood attachment, but not yesterday nor this morning, nor for several days."

"Perhaps you remember," said Cyrus, speaking slowly, the slumbrous eyes looking earnestly down into Ruth's, "I used to get messages from you when we were far apart, even from your house to mine."

"Indeed I do! And it was most mysterious--almost uncanny."

"And they never deceived us?"

"No, never;--as I remember them."

"Well, it was the same sort of message I received last night. It came to me twice, and the meaning of the message was as clear as any spoken word. And to this spot it guided me."

He turned and looked about the grounds, beyond the trees and garden, toward the cloisters and the chapel. "Who but you could call me here?"

Ruth, also, looked toward the convent buildings. "Is it not possible your own brain may have played you a trick? Such things happen, you know."

"My brain has not played such tricks. So far it has never deceived me. To be honest I was not thinking of you at the time. Father's death had been almost my only thought for weeks."

"What more can I say, Drowsy? I am telling you the truth. And after all why should I call you? If you are the faithful soul you pretend to be, why didn't you write me months ago?"

"How could I? I never had your address. And you promised--or almost promised--to let me have it. I waited, and waited, hoping for it--wondering in what way it was to come."

She frowned: then, with a solemn movement of the head:

"You did have it."

"I did have it! How on earth could I get it?"

"From Gertrude Page. I told her to mention a letter from me. Then, if you asked for my address, she would give it to you. But you didn't ask."

Vehemently he protested. "On my honor, Ruth, this is the first I have heard of it. She never spoke of any letter. And why should she, poor thing? For nearly a year she has been in the asylum at Worcester."

"You mean her--her mind is affected?"

"Yes;--sort of a nervous breakdown. And her memory gone."

"Oh, how dreadful!"

In the silence that followed, Ruth found the drowsy eyes looking deep into her own, as if reading her innermost thoughts. She recalled the singular power he had exercised as a boy--of seeing into other people's minds, apparently without effort, and answering questions before they were asked. At this present moment she had reasons for keeping her own thoughts to herself. She avoided his gaze, and looked away, over the water, toward the west. Too late, it seemed, for he said, quietly:

"It would have been fairer to me if you had sent it."

"Sent what?"

"The second letter, the one you wrote to somebody else."

Ruth's little figure stiffened. Color flew to her cheeks, and there were signs of anger as she faced him.

"How do you know I wrote a second letter?"

Taken aback by this sudden change of manner, he hesitated, then he smiled, but with an obvious effort. And the smile was not of mirth. It was a smile of the joyless type, often employed to carry favor. "Why--I--er--I don't know exactly."

"Yes you do know. You pried into my thoughts. It's your old trick. And a hateful habit."

"I am sorry, Ruth. I know it's a hateful habit."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I don't do it. I didn't mean to do it then. It's not a habit any more. Years ago I gave it up. But now, I was so anxious, so very anxious to know your real thoughts--to know if you really had no love for me at all--that I couldn't resist. I swear I will not do it again. Truly I almost never do it. But now, at the critical moment of my life, when it's a matter of life or death, the temptation was too great."

"It's an exasperating, dishonorable trick, and I don't like it."

"I am sorry, Ruth. Please forgive me."

"And you are very much mistaken if you think any woman with a particle of pride is going to marry a man who can spy into her secret thoughts--and merely by staring at her."

Her eyes still avoided him. She looked over the garden, toward the cloisters, anywhere except at his face. When she spoke again, however, there was more sympathy in her voice. "But that doesn't matter. It has always been my intention to remain here."

"You don't really mean it?"

"Indeed I do! It is no sudden decision. I am very happy here."

He turned partly away, and said nothing. She glanced at his face, and its expression would have softened the Rock of Ages. There was no doubt of his sincerity; nor of his silent agony beneath the blow he had just received. No words were uttered. He simply stood and gazed--at nothing.

Across the garden, from the open windows of the central building, came the sound of a harp. It came faintly, a gentle, plaintive melody, all in harmony with the murmur of the fountain, the fading glories in the west--and an aching heart. The voice of the harp may have had its effect on Ruth. As she looked up at the face of Cyrus, with its misery, she began to feel the old-time sympathy of their childhood; the long forgotten sense of responsibility for his welfare when she was mother and sister to him, with the woman's love he had missed as a boy; also his chosen pal;--his adored and trusted playmate. She felt again the yearning to keep him out of trouble. His distress brought an almost equal suffering to herself. But when he turned his eyes again to her face she was--apparently--still studying the cloisters.

"Is this really the end?" He spoke in a lower, unsteady voice. "Do you really mean that our boy and girl days, our old affection, all those memories--and you don't know how much they have meant to me--always, always--through everything--you don't really mean--all that is--is just--nothing? That I am no more to you than anybody else?"

The heart in Ruth's little body beat so loud--it seemed to her--that a man could hear it. She tried hard to blink away the moisture in her eyes as they rested on various objects, but not on the face of Cyrus. "You will get over it, Drowsy. I feel it, in another way, as much as you do. Please don't talk about it. And you really must go. A man's presence here--and alone with me--would be very hard to explain. Please go--for my sake!"

Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a hand, slowly, across his forehead. Then, instead of the protest she expected, he straightened up in a sudden agitation, laid his hand on her arm and pointed toward the convent buildings.

The voice of a woman, singing, came floating across the silent garden.

"What is that?" he whispered.

Also in a lower tone Ruth answered: "That is Sister Francesca, singing. She has a heavenly voice."

"What is she singing?"

"An old Hungarian song. A mother's prayer for her child. She often sings it. And nothing could be more beautiful."

"Sister Francesca!" he exclaimed, but in a solemn whisper. He remembered his father's dying words.

"A famous singer," Ruth explained. "All the world has heard of her. She was never a mother but she sings this song with all the feeling and the----"

He did not hear the end of the sentence. He had started in the direction of the song, across the garden.

"Stop! Stop! Cyrus, stop. You don't know what you are doing!"

But he paid no attention. Again she called. She entreated, then commanded. Still he paid no attention. And he walked so fast that she stopped and stood still in helpless terror. She could only guess at what this humiliating misadventure might signify to the other sisters. On second thought she followed, but with the courage of despair. The catastrophe was at hand, and she would face it. As for Cyrus, he heard her not. He heard only the song. He heard only the woman singing--the voice and the song that had come to him beneath the stars, at Longfields!

At last he stopped. And when he stopped he was standing upon a stone terrace, where high arched windows reached the floor, their heavy casements now wide open.

There he stood, and listened.

Although a lover of music, and keenly sensitive to its charm, this prayer affected him beyond any other song. Its pathos, with the divine voice that had thrilled the world, reached deeper than his emotions. Into his very soul it sank. It seemed to open the doors of memory--the memory of things long forgotten; things almost of another life.

Under a spell he listened, and the spell was intensified by the scene about him,--an enchanted garden high above the world. Against the gold and crimson in the West stood the statues at the garden's edge, their purple shadows reaching almost to the terrace. With the warm, soft light that enveloped all things came a peace and a beauty that were more of paradise than of earth. And, as if to complete the illusion of the upper realms, the voice of the singer seemed to lift him yet further from the world of common things. Between this voice and his spiritual self came a new born harmony. It came to him as a message between two hearts, wafted across a gulf of years. The message it brought was intimate, for him alone. To the voice itself, a tendril of love, all the chords of his own heart were vibrating. Some mysterious power reawakened elusive but imperishable bonds between itself and him.

He closed his eyes, shut out the world about him, and his soul and the soul of the singer were one.

XVI

THE SOUL OF A SONG

Within, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters, more or less, sat listening to the song. The room was spacious. Against its white walls hung various paintings by old masters. The further wall, facing the western windows, was partly covered by an enormous tapestry representing Esther and her handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king was on a throne, amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour, its colors were all aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the three long windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble.

Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca; and, not far away, the accompanist with her harp.

The various members of the little audience were affected by the song in different ways and in different degree, according to temperament. Some, enraptured by her voice and art, leaned forward in æsthetic joy. Others, with moister eyes and quicker breath, gave out their hearts to the deeper meaning of the song. Madame Drusilla, an older woman whose two young sons had fallen in the war, sat always, on these occasions, with head bent low, her face in her hands. But all the others kept their eyes upon the singer. For the personality of Madame Francesca--as she wished to be called since her retirement from the world--possessed in itself an irresistible charm. Now, standing in her light gray uniform, in the flood of golden light from the great windows, she seemed transfigured--a celestial being from another sphere.

The song itself was the outpouring of a mother's love. And it was rendered with a pathos, a beauty and a depth of feeling that stirred the heart of every listener. It seemed to the sisters a marvel of dramatic art that a woman, however great an artist, could so touch the hearts of others when not herself a mother. And they marveled that a woman whose physicians forbade excitement could so move an audience and not be overwhelmed herself by emotion.

The song ended. As the fingers of the harpist moved gently across the strings, in the last notes of the accompaniment, Madame Francesca stood for a moment with closed eyes. Her breathing and the color in her cheeks showed a degree of feeling which Sister Lucrezia, the physician, did not approve.

Then came a climax to the song--a climax far transcending any singer's art. In this short, somewhat solemn silence that followed the song, there appeared in one of the long windows that opened to the floor, a figure rarely seen within the convent walls. It was a man. And the man was neither workman, priest, grand duke or king. Neither was he old. Men visitors were rare, and the few that entered were usually middle aged or churchly. This visitor was young, hatless, his hair in disorder. He wore a checkered suit and leather leggings, and he was in no way ecclesiastical. His manner was eager,--somewhat excited, with eyes fixed earnestly on Sister Francesca. He paid no attention to the other sisters. If such a thing was possible he was ignorant of their presence. As for the sisters they were too surprised to speak, or move. They merely sat and stared.

Cyrus stepped within, slowly, as in a trance. Slowly he advanced toward Madame Francesca. She, as surprised as any of the others, regarded him in silence until he stopped before her. As they stood facing each other, the western light on both their faces, the spectators--including Ruth, now at the open window--began to marvel. Fear began to mingle with surprise, for many in the audience knew that famous beauties could be tormented by crazy lovers. But fear, in turn, gave way to wonder, for it proved a strange interview, never forgotten by those who saw it. No words were spoken. No words were needed. In the eyes that looked into his own Cyrus read their greeting as clearly as in an open book. And she, as clearly, looked deep into his heart--as she had looked into the heart of his father. Now in his responsive, eager face she saw the confirmation of his father's letters, that she had bequeathed to her child her own extraordinary faculty. It brought a sudden joy, this assurance of a perfect understanding. Each received, in full, the other's message. In the face of Cyrus--with his grandfather's drowsy eyes--she saw his happiness in this meeting. He was telling her in unspoken words of his childhood yearnings; how he had thought and dreamed of her from early boyhood; that he had prayed and hoped for this meeting. And now--here, had come the fulfillment of all his dreams, his hopes, his prayers! And he, as he fathomed to their secret depths the tragic but tender eyes, found love and a heart-expanding welcome.

The little audience, however, saw nothing but the outward, silent greetings. To them was not revealed the greater happiness, the imperishable bond.

But this silent meeting, with its overwhelming joy, was the prelude to the drama--its silent overture. The curtain had risen on the Diva's final triumph, the Immortal Opera with its happy ending.

To the amazement of the audience she drew the young man's face to hers and kissed him on either cheek. Then, overcome by emotion, as it seemed, her head fell slowly forward on his breast. Without his supporting arms she would have sunk to the floor. The sisters saw, and hastened to her side. Cyrus, with their help, carried the fainting figure to a nearby bench, where they laid her, with a cushion beneath her head. Sister Lucrezia, the physician, bent anxiously over the unconscious form. And so sudden was it all that her hearers could hardly believe her when at last she arose, and solemnly announced that the spirit of Madame Francesca had risen to another life.

She spoke in Italian but Cyrus knew its meaning. His head drooped and he stood motionless, crushed, as if his own spirit and that of the sleeping figure on the bench were still together.

It was the Diva's long sleep. The last notes of her enchanting voice had died away; the curtain was down, the orchestra gone, the lights out. The audience had vanished. No more in the empty house would be heard the clapping of hands, the cries of enthusiasm, the _bravos_ and _encores_.

But there are memories that never die. And now, to those who looked upon the tranquil face, it seemed as if memories of conquest and of triumph--or of something higher--still lingered in her heart. For the face was more than peaceful. There was a smile upon the lips that bore witness to a perfect contentment beyond the touch of death.

* * * * *

Cyrus was recalled to himself by the voice of the Mother Superior, a tall, gray-haired, kind-faced woman. She approached him, and in a voice of sympathy addressed him, in Italian. He understood the meaning of the message; that she shared his grief, but the presence of men was forbidden; the rules were strict, and she begged him to go. He expressed his gratitude by a respectful inclination and a few words in English. Then he walked over to the silent figure. Upon her folded hands he laid one of his own and stood, for a moment, looking down upon the face. The rosy light from the western sky seemed to bring the flush of life to the Diva's cheeks. He knelt beside the bench. Reverently he touched his lips to the sleeper's forehead.

He arose and moved toward the terrace. Near the window he stopped, and to the watching sisters he bowed. In this obeisance he told his sorrow and his profound respect. Then he turned and went out as he came.

The Mother Superior, still apprehensive, asked Ruth to accompany him to the gates and make sure of his departure. But Cyrus did not walk toward the gates. He walked toward the spot where he and Ruth had met, then beyond among the trees. During this walk neither spoke. As Cyrus was obviously in deepest sorrow Ruth refrained from words. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she suddenly realized that she was approaching an unfamiliar object. This unfamiliar object, a thing about twenty feet in length and a little taller than a man, might pass for some unknown monster of the deep, or a minor whale. It seemed to be of iron with a trap-door in the side just large enough for a man to climb within. Its color was a dull gray.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "What on earth is that?"

"My flying machine. That is what I came in."

"You came in that?"

As she looked up at him he nodded, slowly, and made no other reply. The light was fading, but she could see that a change had come into his face since they stood together at the garden wall. This new expression showed a side of his character that she had forgotten. She now remembered that it was the same look that had come into his face when he vanquished the Tormentor in the Unitarian Church, years ago; when the good natured, easy going boy became, of a sudden, a reckless gladiator, the fearless defender who fights--and dies, if needed--for a sacred cause; his God, his Country, or--on that occasion--for his girl. It told deep emotions, of strength of purpose and the courage that has no respect for obstacles. Yet the slumbrous eyes were friendly as he said:

"Come, Ruth. Come home with me. I will make you happier than you will ever be in this place."

"No, Cyrus. No. I cannot."

"Do you mean that you will stay here all your life, from a sense of duty?"

"No--not wholly. Oh, why begin all over again? Please be reasonable, Drowsy. Please go away quietly."

His voice was gentle, but there was something in his face that recalled the boy of long ago, the boy who vanquished giants. Now it was the man--who might defy the gods. She was afraid:--of what, she knew not. But she took a backward step, a hand to her breast as if to calm a nervous heart. There was reason to be afraid. For then happened the unforgivable thing--doubly unforgivable when applied to a woman of sensibility and pride. He bent forward, to pick up something at her feet, she thought. Then, without warning, and all too sudden for escape, she felt an arm behind her knees, another across her back, and she was lifted from the ground. Before she could protest, or even struggle, he pushed open the door of the iron monster with his foot and passed her within as if she were a child. Gently he placed her on the floor and climbed in himself. She found herself sitting in front of him, her shoulders held firmly between his knees. He shut the little door at his side and all was dark. A button was pressed, one or two small levers manipulated, then a buzzing sound, a slight quivering of the car and through the port hole in front she saw that they were rising above the tops of the trees.

Then, high into the air.

XVII

"I MEAN IT"

Six hundred miles an hour, to old-time travelers, might seem fast. High up in the air, however, some miles above the earth with nothing beneath but the Atlantic Ocean, it seems a moderate pace. There are none of the usual landmarks to gauge one's speed; no telegraph poles, houses, or towns. The few ships one passes, seen far below, are movable objects with no definite relation to your own progress. Also, in a practically air tight conveyance no wind can beat against your face.

While three hours may seem brief for a transatlantic passage it must be remembered that the time Cyrus lost in going Eastward he gained in going West. The surface of our little earth moves eastward about a thousand miles an hour; so, with North America rushing forward to meet him he could easily make the journey of five thousand miles and more in the four hours, and almost without hurrying. There is a startling difference in celerity between an automobile and a yoke of oxen; more still between a steamship and a cannon-ball: and Cyrus' device was capable of any speed that he dared to travel. The only delays were in starting off, and in approaching his own Coast. Once above Massachusetts, however, he could easily find Longfields. The landmarks were familiar.

During this journey very little conversation took place between his passenger and himself. Sitting on the floor in front of him, her shoulders between his knees, he could not see her face. She made no acknowledgment of his speeches and gave no answer to any questions. He was correct in his belief that she was both alarmed and angry. But he did not know at the time that her anger far exceeded her alarm. This he realized, however, when he helped her from the car at the door of her aunt's house in Longfields.

For a moment she leaned against the door, weak, trembling, dazed, her hair disarranged, her cheeks hot. No words had been spoken during the last two hours. This long silence he was the first to break.

"You will forgive me, Ruth, won't you?"

It was too dark to see each other's faces, but this time had her eyes met his there would be nothing to conceal. Her anger and her dislike were deep and sincere. She answered in a low tone, but the tone and manner revealed a repugnance of whose existence there could be no doubt.

"Do not speak to me again; ever. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear."

"I mean it."

With a quivering hand she turned the knob, entered the house and shut the door behind her.

That Ruth meant all she said was soon made clear to Cyrus--very clear indeed. Two days later--after giving her time to recover--he came to her aunt's house with a little bouquet of flowers, hopefully gathered by his own hands in his own garden. With it was a note, an eloquent little plea for forgiveness, so humble and so sincere as to soften a heart of granite. He knocked at the front door, and waited. At last--it might have been a year that he waited--the door was opened.

"Good morning, Stella."

"Good morning, Cyrus."

Stella was the daughter of Abner Phillips, the harness maker, and she and Ruth and Cyrus had been playmates together in the old days at the red school house. The little harness business had suffered--even more than other things--with the decline of Longfields, and had finally expired. Stella had been out at service for the last few years. She was an angular maiden with thin lips and sharp eyes.

"Will you please take this note and the flowers to Ruth, Stella, and ask if I can see her?"

"Yes, of course, won't you come in?"

"No, thank you. I'll just wait here."

On the doorstep he waited, but not long; Stella quickly returned with the note and the flowers.

She seemed embarrassed. "Ruth says she--she----"

"Out with it, Stella."

"She says she won't see you."

"Won't see me! Is that just what she said?"

The maiden hesitated. As a friend of both and strictly neutral, her position was awkward.

"Why--yes."

"Just what did she say, Stella?"

"She said, give him back his flowers and his note and tell him not to come again."

This was clear to the dullest lover. And the words cut deeper still as he saw in the face of the sharp eyed ambassadress an impressible gleam of pity--or exultation--he could not tell which. Cyrus blushed like a girl. For a moment his drowsy eyes gazed blindly at Stella, then at the flowers and the note as if trying to realize what had happened. The effort was painful. The flowers seemed to be jubilant in their gayety, and jeering at him. He had believed, until this moment, that he was prepared for the worst. He had also believed, from his knowledge of women in history and fiction that they changed their minds with ease--in short, that honest lovers never need despair. This blow seemed to paralyze his senses. But Pride came to his rescue. It made him realize the degradation of appearing a fool before Stella. So, collecting his scattered wits he raised his head and smiled upon the waiting maiden. There was a quivering of the lip, however, as he said in a manner laboriously offhand--and, of course, unsuccessful:

"Oh, well, I must try again. Thank you, Stella. Good-by."

As he reached the gate she saw him toss the flowers to the ground.

His state of mind as he walked blindly along the village street, beneath the arching elms, could not be described in articulate language. Sorrow, anger, humiliation, all struggled for control. Resignation was not among them. So Ruth was really in earnest. If she hated and despised him, why live? This tumult within, while it numbed his senses--and might lead to tragedy--provided mirth for others. Just in front of the store a group of children ran across his path. They were followed, slowly, by a large Newfoundland dog, a well-known character in the village. He officiated, as is customary among dogs, as guardian and boon companion to children, all of whom he loved. His name was Major. He belonged to little Jason Howard, but he was on terms of intimacy with every child in Longfields. Major happened to stroll across the sidewalk just in front of Cyrus. The discarded lover, blind to outward things, collided with him. Always a gentleman and never forgetting his manners, Cyrus stopped, and--Ruth being the only thing in his mind--he raised his cap and bowed politely.

"I beg your pardon. It was my fault. Excuse me."

And all with a sober face. The children laughed, supposing Cyrus was being funny for their amusement. But never in his life had Cyrus felt less like being funny. Soberly he walked away not even hearing their laughter.

After this interview with Major he at once relapsed into the Cañon of Despair. For his was the agony of a man of honor who feels he has committed a disgraceful act, and has lost, for all time, the respect and good opinion of the being whose affection he valued above all other things.

It seemed but a moment after leaving Major that he found himself standing before two women and saying "how do you do"--or something equally significant. With a mighty effort to ignore the past--and the future--he recognized the two elderly maidens as Miss Fidelia Allen and Miss Anita Clement. They had stopped and were passing the time of day with him. He realized, blindly, that Miss Clement had opened a book and was telling him about it. Miss Clement had the faculty of expressing a barren idea in a wealth of language. So, while the listener's drowsy--and now dreaming--eyes rested on the speaker's lips he was seeing, not Miss Clement's face, but a face more threatening, yet of greater interest. As to the effect of Miss Clement's well chosen words on the listener's far away mind, the sound from her lips might have been the murmuring of pines. And as for The Only Woman in the world, if other women had changed their minds why not this one? He recalled the look in her eyes when----

"Do tell us what you think of it--just how you feel about it, Cyrus?"

As the wild horse of the prairies is suddenly jerked to earth by a lasso, so came back Cyrus.

"Oh--oh--very well, indeed, thank you. Never better."

"I meant about this new thought from the Orient. Just how deeply it impresses you. Just where, among the great thinkers, you would place Rub-a Shah Lagore."

"That's it exactly! Rubbish galore! Couldn't express it better. Somebody described all that stuff as transcendental flim-flam." And he smiled his most winning smile--a smile of sympathy, of fine intelligence and a lively interest in the conversation.

But Miss Clement stiffened a little, and frowned. "Do you feel that way?"

"Possibly you don't know Rub-a Shah Lagore," said Miss Fidelia, more gently.

"Know him? Oh, yes," said Cyrus. "I know him. That is, I think I met him. Was it in Cambridge?"

"I doubt it," said Miss Clement, "as he died about fifteen hundred."

"Fifteen hundred!" Cyrus smiled, nodded and tried to appear at ease. "Still I may have met him in a previous incarnation."

Then, apropos of incarnations, Miss Clement discoursed on the Oriental mind, on matters psychic, philosophic, mystic and occult. And as she talked, and drifted hither and thither on a sea of words, Cyrus floated off in his own direction, and was recalling once again the look in Ruth's eyes--that mingling of anger and contempt when Miss Clement again suddenly brought him back to the village street.

"Don't you think so yourself?"

Cyrus pulled himself together. "Er--well--perhaps I don't quite understand you."

"Do you know of any richer period in human thought? Any greater age?"

"Any greater age? No, certainly not. You mean fifteen hundred years? It certainly beats all records. That is, of course, all human records. Elephants, parrots and turtles, I believe, live to a green old age, but nothing like----"

Just what happened after that Cyrus did not remember. He found himself walking home with clear memories of Ruth, intermingled with blurred but painful impressions of two maiden ladies, frowning in surprise and annoyance as they said good-by and turned away.

Of one thing only was he certain: that in the utterance of senseless words he had surpassed all previous records, ancient or modern.

XVIII

THE CAÑON OF DESPAIR

As to human wisdom, the best that can be said is that some of us are less crazy than others. Also, that the habitually foolish person, he who is foolish by preference--or by unalterable Fate--is less disturbing than your usually sensible friend who suddenly becomes fatuous.

This was realized by Joanna during the next few days. Cyrus caused her serious alarm. On his new and larger air craft he worked with such feverish haste that he forgot to eat or go to bed until reminded of those habits. In the matter of eating he seemed to have lost all memory as to when or how to do it. He poured tea instead of maple syrup on his rice cakes; he recognized no difference in flavor between salt and powdered sugar, marmalade or mustard. Joanna's strawberry shortcake, the very best in the world--and his favorite dish--he regarded with unseeing eyes and forgot to eat it. His reply to nearly all her demands for information on whatever subject, was a smiling "Certainly, of course."

But these were trifles. In his cup of bitterness there still were dregs: and sleepless Fate had not forgotten them. The cup was to be emptied. Late one afternoon, three days after the rebuff to his note, his flowers and himself, he was returning from Springfield alone in his motor. About a mile from Longfields, where the road ran through some woods, he saw a figure on ahead, walking toward the village. It was a female figure, short, slight, erect, and moving with a light and rather jaunty step. It wore a continental hat, a white shirt waist and a white skirt. He recognized this person at first glance, ran his car ahead of her a short distance, then stopped at the side of the road, got out and walked back to meet her. This time there was no elaborate salutation _à la Grande Monarch_. It was a simple raising of his cap and a tentative, humble minded greeting.

"Good day, Ruth."

"Good day, Cyrus."

She smiled, but the smile brought no sunshine to his heart; a perfunctory smile of duty and good manners, such as might have greeted any other human animal. And as she stood there, against the dark background of the woods, calm, cold, beautiful, and oh! so far away!--he saw aversion in her face and in every line of the rigid little figure.

In a low, uncertain voice he spoke. "So you will never forgive me?"

For a moment she looked away, beyond him, along the road toward the village. "I forgive you a great deal. I forgive your taking me by force and against my will from a welcome refuge where I was looking forward to a peaceful, happy life. But the greater wrong you have done me, the irreparable injury--that is harder to forgive."

"Irreparable injury? What do you mean, Ruth?"

Her eyebrows went up. "Indeed! You really do not know what I mean?"

"On my honor I do not."

"I mean my reputation--the loss of my good name."

"Oh, Ruth! Why you--oh--don't say that!"

Calmly, but with an obvious effort at self control she answered:

"Do you think there is no gossip in Longfields, no comment on my unexpected arrival? Do you think an unmarried woman can travel about the world alone with a young man as I did, and keep her good name?"

"I never thought of it--in that way. On my honor--I did not."

"Do you know of any other respectable young woman of your acquaintance who has done anything like it?"

"But it was all my doing. You couldn't help it. Don't they all know that?"

"No. Why should they know it? Will they believe that you, whom they have known from boyhood, whom they respect and like, would carry me off by force, entirely against my will?" Then with a bitter little laugh: "Oh, no! They are not so simple! And some woman has started a story that we----" Her face became crimson and she covered it for a moment with her hands--"Oh, I can't bear to think of it."

Cyrus closed his eyes. His head drooped. "I never thought of all that. I was stupid. I can see it now. I don't blame you for hating me."

Ruth went on, speaking with nervous haste. "A pleasanter bit of scandal never happened in this village. I could not bear to live here. It would kill me to live here."

"You are not going away!"

"Indeed I am!"

"Where?"

"To Worcester, to earn my living as a nurse."

"Listen, Ruth. Let me do something, no matter what. Let me take you, or send you back to the Convent."

"The Convent! The Convent!" she repeated, and her cheeks reddened. "Do you think the Convent a refuge for women who leave it as I did?--for women who elope with--oh! It's for better women than that! They would never allow me within its gates."

"Then let me atone in some way."

"Indeed! And how?"

"In any way you say--there's all my money--take some of it--all of it. Not as a gift, but in some business way. Let me buy something at a----"

"Clever thought! Regild my reputation with Cyrus Alton's money!"

"Then marry me. Be my wife, only in name. I swear to you--I--will never see you if you wish it. Or--or trouble you in any way. Only let me do something. I had no idea of--of what--of what all this meant to you."

"Your wife!" she laughed a scornful, tragic, broken-hearted little laugh. "Never in this world. Never! Never that!"

She turned and walked away.

He walked beside her. "Please listen. I will do anything you say. I know I deserve it all, but that afternoon at the convent I was not myself. After what happened I was all wrought up. My brain----"

She stopped, turned about and faced him.

"Yes, there is one thing you can do. Leave me now. And let us not be seen together again--ever."

For a brief moment they stood confronting each other. And Cyrus looked deep into the eyes that once had been his guiding stars; the friendly eyes in whose depths his boy heart had sought--and never in vain--encouragement, or consolation. Now, he was finding in their contemptuous beauty only the cold ashes of their childhood devotion.

Then, once more, she turned her back upon him. Erect and with decisive steps, the little figure departed. He stood watching her as she walked--walking out of his life. In his brain and in his heart was a numbing pain--the knowledge that his highest hopes were dead--killed, and by himself!

There and there he made a decision, a decision of vital import to himself. And why not? Who in the world, except Joanna would mourn, or even miss him? If there be such a thing as consolation when hope is dead, he found it in a great resolve.

As he passed her in his car he raised his cap and murmured

"_Morituri te salutamus_."

XIX

A YOUNG MAN TALKS

Ruth was in earnest when she told Cyrus of her intention to become a nurse. Some experience in that line, while in Europe, had fitted her for the work and she found little difficulty in securing a position in a Worcester Hospital. Possibly her prepossessing appearance was a help. The Superintendent, being human, was not immune, perhaps, to the influence of an interesting personality, especially in combination with an attractive face and voice and figure.

After this interview at the hospital, about the middle of the day, she took a return train for Springfield.

When she entered the car at the Worcester Station, and found a vacant seat, she gave no special attention to the two men in the seat just behind her own. She merely noticed that the carefully dressed young man nearest the aisle had an intelligent wide awake face, and that his companion--next the window--was suffering from a cold in the head of aggravated dimensions. His aqueous eyes and swollen nose, his sneezes and his busy handkerchief told the familiar and unromantic drama of a mucous membrane at war with its owner.

The weather this day--a week or so after the interview with Cyrus--was cloudy, damp and otherwise depressing. She felt, of course, gratification in the success of her mission at the hospital. Her thoughts, however, were not entirely rosy as she looked from the car window on this homeward journey, gazing absently on the sunless landscape. She had much to think about, and often, during this little journey from Worcester she tried vainly to escape from unwelcome memories. At the mention of a familiar name, however, these wandering thoughts were centered suddenly on the conversation of the two men in the seat behind her.

"Alton, Cyrus Alton. Guess you've met him."

"Yez, I thig zo. Kide of sleeby eyes, hasn'd he?"

"Yep. His eyes are sleepy, but, gee whiz! He does things."

"Whad thigs?"

"Oh, anything--if it's impossible."

"Didn'd he bake a lod of bunny all of a zudden?"

"Bet your life he did! Made it while you wait."

"How budge?"

"God knows."

"How did he do id?"

"God knows that too:--He and Alton. You can hear anything. Some say a rich widow, others, a pirate's cave. Perhaps it's just a friendly tip from his Partner."

"Who is his bardner?"

"The Almighty."

"You bead he is bious?"

"Nixy not! He's a scientist, and science and piety don't seem to cuddle much. He has discovered--or his Big Partner has told him--some secret of electricity that is just the humpingest thing out of jail. It's going to revolutionize the whole human outfit; business, travel, transportation. As to little things like manufactures in peace and wholesale destruction in war, why, we've got to begin all over again. You just can't digest it. And it's so simple that you laugh when you think of it."

"Doe! Really?"

"Yep; that's no exaggeration."

"Thad's inderesdig. I have heard vague rubers aboud id bud nothing like thad. Just whad is id?"

"Just what is it. Well, that's an easy question to ask. When he blabs his secret then we'll all know. But he says it's so simple that it's sure to be discovered some day."

"I spoze you doe him breddy well."

"Yep, in a way. He orders his electric stuff through us. A year ago when he was so poor he used to foot it to save trolley fare the boss trusted him for twelve hundreds dollars' worth of radium."

"Good for the boss! He was a zpord. Did he ever get his bunny bag?"

"Twice over. Oh, Alton didn't forget it. He's as straight as a string."

"Well, he bay be all ride in sub ways bud he busd be jusd aboud grazy to sdard on thad jourdy."

"Oh, I dunno. He has done some big stunts already. And he's pretty level headed."

"Yez, bud id seebs like suizide to be. How var away is Bars, eddyway?"

"Oh, just a step. I believe the astronomers call it about forty-eight millions of miles."

"Vorty-eight billions of biles? Whew!"

"No, forty-eight millions--not billions."

The Rose Cold tried to laugh. "Yez I doe id iz--but with thiz invernal drouble I gan'd prodounce by ebs."

"Of course; beg your pardon."

"Thad's all ride. But dell be, is he really goig to dry vor id?"

"Sure thing. He may have started already."

Here both men noticed in a careless way, a movement of the shoulders of the girl in front of them when a hand went nervously to her face. And it so happened that the Rose Cold's next words were the expression of her own thoughts when he said:

"The bad's a vool!"

"No," said the younger man; "he's not a fool. He has done a lot of figuring over it,--and experimenting. You see his machine is too good to be true. It can shoot through space at the same rate as electric waves, or waves of light."

"And how vasd is thad?"

"About a hundred and eighty thousand miles a second."

"Doe!"

"Yep."

"And you really believe id?"

"Sure."

"Id's sibly imbossible."

"I don't blame you for thinking so. But that's just why Alton likes it. If it was possible it wouldn't interest him. Miracles are his daily food. Gad, he's a wonder!"

"A hundred and eighty thouzand biles a zegond! Doe--thad's doo buch vor bee."

"No wonder you don't believe it. It surely is going some. Beats oxen."

"Aboud how log would id taig him to ged there ad thad rade?"

Here came a silence while the younger man did some figuring. "About five seconds. But of course no human being, even in an air-tight cylinder, could keep his head--or anything else, at that rate. He allows about twelve hours to get there."

"Dwelve hours! Vorty-eight billion biles in twelve hours! Why zo zlow?"

"Well, he's got to go slow through the six or seven miles of our atmosphere. Then, he doesn't know what sort of atmosphere surrounds Mars. So that'll take time like entering an unknown harbor. To be really safe he'll have to jog along slowly--on an average of four or five million miles an hour."

The Rose Cold laughed. "Beads vairy dales, doesn'd id?"

"To a frazzle."

"But the bravesd bad in the world gan'd go all day withoud breathig."

"True enough. But Alton has the same system of oxygen cylinders as the U-boats--only better. More condensed and lasts longer. Uses same air more times without deteriorating."

"Well, whadever habbens, he busd be glever."

"Clever! He beats the devil."

"Will he ever gum bag, Jibby?"

"Dunno."

"I subbose the gradest danger is in being hid by a medeoride. I understand those rogs are always shoodig about in spaze."

"Yep; and all the way in size from a liver pill to a state house. But that isn't what'll knock him out."

"Berhabs dod, bud I shouldn'd gare do be there iv one habbened to hid him."

"Right you are. He'd have about as much show as a bottle of ginger ale colliding with a locomotive. But astronomers say they are not so very numerous. What he's most afraid of himself is some sudden electric disturbance in his own machine that will put his own nervous system out of commission. You see nobody really knows what is going on in space. And if his nerves or lungs or brain go back on him, in anyway--Ping!--he's a goner."

After a pause the Rose Cold spoke in a more serious tone.

"Well, I taig off my had to him. It's a big thig, thad zord of gourage."

"I should say! And he knows himself there isn't one chance in a hundred of his ever touching this little earth again."

Here the attention of both men was drawn to the girl in front of them, who suddenly started from her seat--with both hands pressed hard against her face. She stood for a moment as if in pain, or under some mental disturbance. Then, sinking back into her seat, she appeared to be looking quietly out of the window during the short remainder of the journey. Although her action caused them no further interest, nor curiosity, it served to divert their talk from Cyrus Alton--a subject apparently exhausted--to other matters of no interest to Ruth Heywood.

XX

ANOTHER MESSAGE

When Ruth left the train and took the stage for Longfields her spirit was in revolt--in revolt against herself, against Cyrus and against the progress of the vehicle. But any vehicle, however fast, would have been too slow on that afternoon. She left the conveyance at Cyrus Alton's driveway. This was her first visit to the Alton's home since her sudden departure, so many years ago. And now, as she walked toward the house, almost every foot of ground, every object in the spacious yard, the old maples and the house itself, seemed accusing her of treason and of heartless murder. From every side, however, came pleasant memories of bygone days,--like flowers in a forsaken garden. And all of Cyrus! Never was a yard so full of history. And now that Cyrus was gone--gone forever, driven from the world by her own cruelty,--her over sensitive spirit writhed beneath the stings of conscience. Every recollection seemed to increase her guilt. Hardest to bear, in all this vista of the past, was the clear, undying fact that the cherubic, sleepy eyed little boy always stood between herself and trouble.

These memories overwhelmed her. There was the old maple in whose shade she and Drowsy played keeping house. They pretended Zac was President of the United States who had dropped in for dinner. Only gingerbread and sour grapes were served and Drowsy gave her the biggest half of the gingerbread because she, also, was a guest. Zac, always loyal, ate one or two of the green grapes just because Cyrus did. And the stone wall that saved their lives;--at least, she thought so when Mr. Randall's horse came snorting toward them across the field, on the other side. He seemed close at their heels when Cyrus boosted her up and pushed her over before he climbed up himself. He pushed so hard--against that part of the body on which we sit--that she landed on her face, and the short, stiff blades of grass that had just been mowed, cut the inside of her nose. She tried to smile as she remembered, with a gulp, that although he was badly scared himself he was the last to climb over the wall. Yes, he always gave her first chance at everything--in peace or war!

And there the well, where she and Susie Jordan had a quarrel one Sunday after Church, and Susie threw a dipperful of water on Ruth's head. It spoiled her new hat and she burst into tears. Then Cyrus walked up to Susie--Ruth could see him now as if it were yesterday--made one of his lowest bows, as if to apologize in advance, then slapped her hard on both cheeks. After slapping her he backed away a few steps and made yet another profound obeisance, as a judge, after performing a painful duty, might salute a prisoner of high degree.

But now she was in too great haste to linger long over memories, or anything else. She hurried on to the house. Tearful, smiling, but on the very edge of sobs, she rang the door bell. Too impatient to wait she entered and walked into the sitting room. The same old sitting room, and changed but little since she saw it last. On the walls the same green paper, just a little more faded, perhaps, at certain places where the morning sun had loitered. Almost covering the center table were books, papers and magazines.

Joanna entered. The greetings were cordial. Then, for a few moments they sat facing each other, Ruth in an arm chair, Joanna on the old sofa.

In a casual way, Ruth remarked:

"I suppose Cyrus is out in the old barn, hard at work on his new machine."

"Not now. It is all finished."

"Is it there now,--the machine?"

"No, he went away in it."

"When did he go?"

"Last night."

"Where has he gone?"

"I don't know."

Ruth leaned back in her chair and the color left her face.

"Oh, Miss Ruth, are you ill?"

"No, no! I am not ill. But didn't he say when he was coming back?"

"He said he might not be back for some days. But he has often done that."

Ruth suddenly jumped from her chair, began walking about the room, and exclaimed:

"He's a contemptible thing!"

"Not Cyrus?"

"Yes, Cyrus. And what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"

Into Joanna's placid, serious face came a look of amazement.

"You don't mean to say, Miss Ruth, that, Cyrus--is a--contemptible--thing and--and a fool!"

"That's just exactly what I mean. He's a fool--a contemptible, weak, half-hearted, easily discouraged, stupid fool!"

Ruth was clearly excited. She spoke rapidly and with vehemence, marching to and fro as if lashed to fury by some strange obsession. As Joanna watched the little figure she could hardly believe that this was the ever gentle Ruth Heywood of her acquaintance.

Ruth went on: "Not a speck of perseverance! And what a coward! I never suspected he was such a hopeless coward!"

"Cyrus a coward! Oh, but--Miss Ruth, you really----"

"Of course he's a coward! Why has he run away? Do brave men run away? No. Cowards run away. A mean, contemptible thing. That covers it. A contemptible cowardly act by a contemptible, cowardly man. And so ungrateful! Even as a boy he was ungrateful."

Now, to Joanna, who had known Cyrus intimately since the age of seven, he was the one perfect thing in creation. Morally he was an example for the angels; mentally the wonder of the age. So, being a somewhat literal person, these words came like stabs from a dagger and struck deep into her own heart. But she answered--more in sadness than in anger:

"I really can't imagine anybody thinking Cyrus ungrateful."

"Well, I do! He has no real love for anybody but himself. He thinks only of himself; only of himself!"