Chapter II: Part 2

“Dearest, you know you love me--the joy of this hour is proof enough: these thrills are the thrills of love; the first that have ever come to you or to me. Come, dear, come with me. Do not leave my soul in anguish--my heart famished. Darling, come and I shall protect you always. Answer, my own--answer yes,” whispered Jack, as his lips repeatedly pressed warm kisses to hers--and the answer came slowly and softly--“Yes, I’ll come.”

“When? Now?”

“No, I must make it easy for Walter first. I must arrange things and it will take a long while.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, sweetheart, and even if my body be exiled from you forever my heart will still be yours.”

* * * * *

An epidemic of “flu” had spread over the country--multitudes were sick and dying. Many of the doctors had not returned from the war and the few left were inadequate in numbers to cope with the dreaded malady.

Dr. Baker looked up at his wife from the couch where he had fallen from exhaustion.

“Dear,” said she, “there is another desperate case in the Valley. Do you think you can possibly go out tonight? They are waiting at the ’phone for your answer.”

“Tonight! Not possible, Jane, I’m so tired I can scarcely walk another step. Tell them to try Johnson; they will just about catch him. Who is ill?” he asked, as his wife was leaving the room.

“Mr. Gary--Walter Gary.”

“Walter Gary?” repeated Dr. Baker, sitting upright.

“Yes.”

“Ask how long he has been ill.”

Mrs. Baker returned almost immediately. “It’s Mrs. Gary at the ’phone; she is begging you to come. She says her husband has just been taken, but he seems desperately ill.”

The doctor pulled himself to his feet.

“He’s just about the age and the build of the ones who go quickest.”

“Mrs. Gary said she would send for you at once if you would come,” continued his wife.

“Never mind, tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can make it.”

It was the latter part of the following week. Dr. Baker entered his home at midnight as noiselessly as possible, but his wife was waiting for him and accosted him from the top of the stairs.

“Is he better, Dick?”

“No, Jane, I’m afraid we’re going to lose him after all. I came home only to snatch a wink of sleep and shall be returning directly.”

“And you really think he is going to die?” asked Mrs. Baker, as she took her husband’s bag from him.

“It looks that way,” answered the Doctor, resignedly. He had become more or less callous to sickness and death, but this case, as he described it, was a very appealing one. He regarded young Gary as the combination of all that went to make a fine citizen, husband, and son, and to be cut down when he hadn’t well begun to live was more than he could understand.

“Perhaps he’ll pull through yet,” said Mrs. Baker, but the doctor only shook his head as he wearily stretched himself out on his bed for a short rest.

When he entered the sick room the next morning the blinds were drawn low to keep out the glare of the bright morning sun. Two figures in white moved noiselessly about the room. He seated himself beside the bed and gravely regarded his patient. There were two tanks of oxygen, basins, towels, and a few dishes here and there, and fumes of a disinfectant were plainly detectable as one crossed the threshold. All went to make up an atmosphere wherein a very ill or dying patient lay.

Betty stood opposite the doctor, her eyes sunken and her face white and drawn; with one hand she held pitifully to Walter, while the other clutched convulsively at her throat.

“Dr. Baker, do something more--for God’s sake do something for him,” she pleaded, “Walter--Walter,” she called softly, but earnestly. Then she threw back her head in despair and prayed ardently to God to save her husband.

“Save him, dear God. Do as you will with me, but save him.” She ended in a husky voice.

The realization of her profound love for her husband thrust itself upon her very forcibly in these hours when his life hung by a thread.

“All has been done that human hands can do, dear girl,” spoke the doctor quietly beside her.

Walter slowly opened his eyes and said, “Baby--I’ll--be--waiting--for--you.” The breath came in short, quick gasps and the eyes closed for the last time. Betty called and called, but no answer came--the voice was hushed forever.

An hour later they carried her limp form from the room. On regaining consciousness she sat up in bed and called again, “Walter--I want to go back with Walter.”

“But you musn’t, Mrs. Gary,” soothingly spoke the nurse at her side. “You can’t do him any good, and you must not jeopardize your own life more than you already have.”

“I--I--want to go,” groaned Betty. “They will take him from me soon, forever. Oh, my darling, my darling.”

“Rest awhile, you’ve been through so much,” pleaded the nurse. “Think, dear, don’t you want to help rid the community of this dreadful disease? It’s spreading so wildly that we must all do our part to eliminate it.”

“No--no,” sobbed Betty, “I only want to go with him--with him--with him----.”

Two months passed. Betty, pale, thin and worn by sickness and grief, walked arm in arm with Aunt Martha through the paths of the old fashioned garden. One glimpse of the grief-stricken girl would leave in the mind a picture one could never forget. The large eyes looked out from depths much deeper than ever before; the ashy pale cheeks made a startling contrast to the dark eyes. The figure was thin almost to emaciation and the dress was simple and black. The mischievous expression was replaced by one of listlessness and altogether she looked like one who had but a slender hold on life.

“Marty, do you think Dr. Baker would allow me to ride Walter’s horse alone?”

“Not today, you’re not strong enough yet. I wrote Jack that you might be well enough to see him today. He is coming out on the early train.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

“He’ll cheer you up, dear. I’ve been looking forward to his visit. Walter liked him and you’ve put him off so often. Now let him come.”

“I would rather not see anyone,” responded Betty, her eyes filling with tears.

“But Jack has been so thoughtful--see him for me. You’ll feel better for having had a little company.”

Slow steps sounded on the gravel path. Betty darted a look like a frightened deer in the direction from which they came. Jack approached them between an aisle of poplars.

“Have I caught you unawares?” he asked jocularly, and his face showed plainly that he was startled at the changed appearance of Betty.

“Oh no,” answered Aunt Marty, “my girl has just been asking for a horse-back ride.”

“I wanted to ride Walter’s horse alone for a little while,” interposed Betty sadly.

“You are not strong enough to do that,” said Jack.

“But I’d like to.”

“Take care of her, Jack,” said Aunt Marty, indicating a seat at the far end of the garden. “I must go and see about my chickens--two of my prettiest white ones were killed by a train.”

“Mrs. Ames,” Jack called laughingly after her, “can’t you train chickens better than to have them stand on a railroad track?”

The figure of the patient little old lady disappeared among box woods.

“She didn’t hear me,” he added, turning to Betty.

“She has three hundred and they all seem to know her,” answered Betty, relieved for the moment to find something impersonal to talk of. “Would you like to see the new puppies? There are five of them, Frank says. I haven’t seen them myself yet.”

“No, dear girl. I want to see you and you only. Why have you avoided me, when you know my heart has been aching so badly? and that I love you so deeply?”

Betty rose slowly from the bench, waved Jack away with her hand, and was about to leave him. “Please, will you never, never breathe a word--of--love to me again,” she asked.

“What?”--asked Jack, “were you only playing with me, Betty?”

“No--before God, I knew not what I did or said.”

“Come, come, my little girl, you are weak and faint--I’m a brute to worry you. Let’s be friends now and sweethearts later.”

Betty shuddered at the mention of the word.

“No,” she answered, shaking with emotion--“never have I been your sweetheart, and my grief is that I never realized how truly I did love Walter. He was ever present, dependable, and true. I felt that I could put out my hand in the dark and he was always there to guide and help me, yet I shunned that hand, and deliberately planned to ruin him--to ruin him--just as if I had been his worst enemy. The things one is sure of are the things one casts aside, and I, like a venturesome child, reached for those that were forbidden.”

As she talked her breath came more evenly; the stricture around her heart relaxed, she leant back in the garden seat, as she felt her throat tighten and tears rising to her eyes. She could not keep them back; she was not strong enough. They fell and fell, and from time to time she brushed them away with her handkerchief.

“Then you’ve stopped--loving me--my little boy has stopped loving me,” Jack repeated mechanically.

“It was only an ephemeral love--can you forget it and me?” she asked, gently touching his arm. Like the balmy air of spring was the gentleness of her presence beside him, and, unrelenting as she was, it was enough that she was there.

“And you’ll never be mine?” Jack added, turning again to look into the eyes that held the world for him.

“No--I am married. My husband is dead, but I am married and always shall be. I was not true to him while I had him for my own, but the veil is lifted from my eyes and until we see each other again I am his. For God knows that I loved him.”

At these words a peaceful expression settled upon the pale face, and Jack saw and realized that whatever of shallowness her nature had contained had been consumed in the flame of her tragedy. The real Betty was before him, showing the honesty, the nobility, of her true spirit--depth had taken the place of shallowness. She had lost and suffered and this made her still dearer to him, and sacred. He felt the urgings of his better nature bidding him to forget self in the presence of this sorrowing woman. And he saw that his love could not be--that his relationship to her henceforth would have to be on a more unselfish plane.

They slowly retraced their steps through the aisle of poplars.

“May I still be to you what Walter should have liked me to be?” asked Jack tenderly, and the answer came distinctly, “Yes, his friend and mine.”

“THE WHITE PETAL”

There never lived another man so utterly unreliable as Albert Wilbur. If he promised to be at a certain place at a certain time one could count definitely on his absence. But I never thought he would overlook an appointment as important as that which he had made to meet me at his country house on the night of August 3, 1919.

The two Wilbur boys--John and his adopted brother, Albert--were from childhood my most intimate friends, and I often found it necessary to help Albert out of serious difficulties.

As a boy he was exceptionally handsome and promising, but the vices to which he succumbed in later years not only robbed him of his good qualities, but also brought upon his friends lasting sorrow; for when I last saw him his indulgence in depravities had nearly approached a continuous performance.

John, my real chum, was the embodiment of manhood--the only thing I had against him was that he married my childhood sweetheart. Her name was Ellen. My love for her was real, it was deep, and it was earnest. Let me say it was no passing fancy, for there had never been anything to approach it until now. However, I was not blind to John’s qualities, and was compelled to admit to myself on more than one occasion that in selecting a husband Ellen had only shown her usual good judgment.

Since this catastrophe in my life I had retired into myself, determined to live a life of single blessedness. I resolved to consign to oblivion this period of my existence--existence I say, because this word most nearly describes my life at this time. I first tried hard work as a means to aid me in my purpose. This helped, but did not entirely fulfill the essentials. I discovered that what I needed was a change, a new environment: so I pulled up stakes, hard as it was to leave my three friends--for their little girl was just eleven, and had become my closest companion--and spent the next seven years roaming about the world, finding my pleasures in nature, books, new scenes and old cathedrals.

I had heard regularly from the Wilburs since my departure, but my sudden return was due to the last letter--it was written by a friend of the family. She informed me of a fatal automobile accident in which both John and Ellen had lost their lives. In sequence to this was a telegram from Albert. On my arrival in New York more letters from him awaited me. It was at least a week, however, before I started South for my ultimate destination. I gathered all my belongings--for something told me I would not soon return--and prepared for a rapid departure.

The night was cold for mid-summer, and I remember distinctly how I drew my raincoat about me as I walked from the gate across the lawn to where a dim light glowed through the trees. I had dismissed the carriage which had brought me from the lonely station, as our business was of a somewhat secret nature, and so much had been exchanged between us in regard to it that I counted on finding my friend waiting. As I brushed through the mist-laden shrubbery, I thought how welcome would be the grasp of his hand after so many years of separation, and how quickly the warmth of his presence would dispel the strange uncanny loneliness which had crept upon me during my long ride through the woods, with never a sound except the gentle patter of water dropping from the trees and the slop--slop of the horse’s hoofs in the mud of the road.

So I was more than annoyed, in fact, I was hurt and disgusted when the decrepit old fellow who had always been a part of the Wilbur household informed me that “Mister Albert” had wired that he would not be there until the morning. “Very sorry,” the wire ran, “impossible to keep appointment with Constable. Make him comfortable for night. Will be on in morning. ‘For Constable: Do forgive me, old fellow, and make yourself at home. You have the place to yourself. Guarantee no ghosts.’”

“Small comfort,” I murmured to myself, not being able to repress a sneer--the note was so characteristic of its author.

“Very good, sir,” said the spectre beside me, whose presence I had almost forgotten. “I have moved your bed into the library here, where there is an open fire. You’ll find whiskey and soda right on the table, and I’ll put your bag close by the bed. Anything else you’d like, sir?”

“No thanks, Watkins,” I said, recovering the old fellow’s name from some recess in my memory. “I shall do very well, no doubt. But I’m disappointed.”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” and with these words Watkins disappeared.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “This is getting positively spooky.”

I looked down--a big mastiff pup, overgrown and generally loppy in appearance, evidently thinking himself addressed, arose slowly from the hearth rug and came towards me, wagging the entire rear end of his body in a gesture which seemed exaggerated at the time, though I have no doubt now that even that did not convey the real extent of his pleasure in having company.

“Well, old man,” I said, stroking his head, “it doesn’t seem so bad here, after all. Here’s looking at you,” and I sipped the glass of warming spirits that Watkins had poured for me. After the last drop had been swallowed I seemed to remember that Watkins had cast some apprehensive glances at this very glass before he left the room.

“Nonsense,” said I to myself, “it’s all imagination,” and I continued, “with a good fire, a good drink, and a good book, what more does man want, unless it be a dog? That’s where you come in, old chap,” and I reached down and patted him. “Let’s see what there is to read,” I continued, still addressing the dog for the sake of company.

Albert had one peculiar trait; he always took an austere pride in being a man of few books, and those such as no one else could understand. So I found little help in the scattered but much-thumbed volumes lying in odd corners about the room. Psychology, metaphysics, and a few seventeenth century works on alchemy made up the entire collection.

I was beginning to feel sleepy, so I chose the book with the largest print, and sat down before the blazing fire to while away the hours until slumber overtook me.

The inevitable happened: I fell asleep in about five minutes.

I awoke with a feeling of suffocation. The clock on the mantle was chiming twelve, and I counted the strokes, which seemed to be a continuation of something I had been dreaming. Ten, eleven, twelve, I said aloud dreamily, like a child repeating a lesson. And then a strange thing happened. The clock struck, most distinctly, thirteen, and with a whirring sound stopped dead, the second hand resting exactly in line with the hands of the dial, which pointed to midnight.

“Are we asleep or awake, old man?” I again addressed the dog, trying to pass the thing off as a joke, and stretched out my hand to pat his head. A low growl startled me. The pup was standing erect, every muscle tense, his ears cocked forward, and the hair on the back of his neck bristling. The growl continued for a moment; then a change gradually came over him. The growls became a kind of pitiful whine, his head fell with drooping ears, his tail dropped between his legs, and trembling in every limb he crept to my feet and reached his nose up between my knees, while in his poor dumb eyes, pleading with me as only a dog’s eyes can plead, were registered the terror that I suddenly realized I was sharing with him. Strange unspoken communion of man and beast.

At that moment the seeming impenetrable silence of the night was rent, like a flash of lightning across a pitch-black sky, by a woman’s shriek. No, not a shriek, but a wail, a piercing appeal that nothing could describe. It had all the lure of the Lorelei and the despair of the Siren spurned, and yet all the sweet timbre of a child’s instinctive call to a sleeping mother. Then silence, the absolute and unbounded silence of the grave.

Quivering in every nerve, scarcely able to stand as it seemed at the time, yet impelled by some unknown force, I found myself running through strange passages, wrestling with the darkness, on and on, guided I know not how straight to her whose appeal had come to me--to me of all the people in the world--this night of August 3, sharp on the stroke of--thirteen! Then I was battling with some unknown, unseen opponent, lunging forward wildly, whirling, heaving; and finally with a terrific wrench, which exhausted the last ounce of strength in my body, I threw off my foe, threw him off with such force that he seemed to be shattered in the darkness beyond, and the air that I drew into my lungs in gasping gulps was pure of the evil of his breath.

Silence again, as I stood leaning against the balustrade trying to regain my senses. What had happened; was it all a bad dream? Then slowly I became conscious of a weight against my knees, of two clinging arms about my waist, of a sweet perfume like that of an old-fashioned garden in the dewy twilight; and a soft childlike voice was saying:

“O, please, what is it; what has happened, oh, please----”

The soft voice trailed off into a sob, and the arms tightened about me. I reached down and picked her up, a clinging trembling little form, its gentle curves rounding into womanhood. How she clung to me, poor frightened little soul, her arms tight about me and her cold little face buried against my neck. Then, as I made my way back to the library, she rested quietly, like a white petal blown from the garden and storm-tossed, but at last at peace. I could feel her warm tears and the fresh moist little spot that was her mouth. She seemed to be murmuring something; or did her lips move gently in a kiss?

I slowly regained my senses, which seemed to be numbed and deadened but a short time before. My body felt as though pins and needles were sticking me. My breath came more evenly. I held her lithe, supple little form at arm’s length and scanned the features carefully. I could not believe my eyes--was it little Ellen? Could it really be? Yes, the features were almost the exact reproduction of her mother’s. The straight nose, the well formed lips and the appealing grey eyes, fringed with straight, long lashes--all of these I took in at a glance. I was still too weak to drag ourselves far from the assailant, but her weak little voice whispered, “Run, Don Compie! Run!” The frightened look in her eyes and the commanding appeal of the words served to restore my senses.

Was it a blow from the opponent that had deadened me or was it the whiskey and soda that had done the trick? It was the dose, because I remembered with what difficulty I aroused myself from the drowsy sleep that was about to overtake me. I held Ellen closer to me and made off as fast as my clumsy feet would move. We were well into the cold woods, through which I had ridden but a few hours before, when she said, “I can walk now, please put me down.” I slid her gently to her feet, she slipped her hand into mine, and we fled as though savages were pursuing us. As we ran she murmured between breaths, “Watkins told me he had seen Uncle Albert put something in the whiskey that was on the table. I was trying to reach you when he seized me. He has kept me a prisoner since I refused to marry him. Today is my birthday and the day you were to become my guardian.”

“Yes,” I answered, “but he wrote me you had disappeared--had eloped, been kidnapped or something.”

“It wasn’t true--I’ll tell you all about it when we are safe--safe and far from this dreadful place.”

We traveled hours before we were on the highway. The damp but invigorating air had restored me and the child seemed possessed of unusual endurance. I espied in the distance a small farm house. A light was shining through a window on the side. The thought came to me that, although it was still dark, perhaps they were preparing breakfast. “Ellen,” I said, “before we go further we must have something to eat.”

“Bread and milk will do,” she answered.

“Let us inquire here,” I rejoined.

“But suppose Uncle Albert should follow us?”

“Now that we are out of that hornet’s nest I rather wish he would. I must meet him face to face and have this out!”

“No, Don Compie, please! please! he might get me again,” she pleaded. “I would much rather die.” She clung to my arm tightly as we made our way to the farm house. I knocked, the door was opened by a kindly faced, stooped-shouldered old man in his shirt sleeves. I told him my daughter and I had met with an accident about five miles back in the country, and were walking to the nearest garage--would he accommodate us with a little breakfast. He looked at me long and searchingly--I say long, perhaps it was only a second; then as if satisfied with the examination, he said yes, if we didn’t mind cooking the bacon, he could give us some bread, milk and apple-butter. But his wife had died two months ago, and his boys had already gone to the field to plough and were waiting for him; so there was no one to wait on us. “But just make yourselves at home,” he added, as he shuffled about in thick soled boots, pouring what was left from a can of milk into an earthen pitcher, and placing a large loaf of bread before us. “Them automobiles,” and he shook his head disgustedly, “when they make up their minds to stop, thir’s just no way setten thim up again, is thir? No, sir, gimme a pair of mules any day, they’re stidier.”

“My engine went wrong this time, and I simply can’t get the thing started. I’ll have to be towed in, I’m afraid.”

“Just shut the door when you get done, and if you want water you can fetch it from the pump yonder.”

I took pains to thank him and pay him for his hospitality, and promised to close up carefully.

Ellen, minus a hat, sat with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, while the old man moved about putting things a bit in order, as he called it, before he left. “Since the missus died, I have to look after everything inside and outside.” This he said as he brushed the crumbs from the preceding breakfast on to the floor, and then swept crumbs, dirt and all out of the door.

After he disappeared down the hill, behind the pump, Ellen raised her eyes appealingly to mine. “What am I to do, Don Compie?” This was the name she had given me when she was a baby and could not say John Constable. Her mother, too, had called me by it in later years, to distinguish me from her husband.

As I have said, it was seven years since I left for Europe in one last effort to forget her, whom fortune decreed I could not possess. When I left little Ellen was just a child, almost a baby. But now she was blooming into womanhood.

“Ellen, dear,” I asked sympathetically, “do you feel strong enough to tell me of the death of mother and daddy? Were you in the motor with them at the time of the accident, or just how did it happen?”

“No,” she answered slowly, and unrestrained tears flowed freely down the pale cheeks, “they were alone with Peter the chauffeur, returning from Upper Falls. Peter turned into the railing of the bridge to avoid another machine, which was coming very fast--the railing gave way, Peter jumped and escaped injury, but mother and daddy were caught under the car. Daddy was dead when they found him, but mother lived almost a day.”

I had grown callous to suffering and trouble as I approached middle age, but my heart was touched as it never had been before. I slowly patted the white hand in an effort to disclose my feelings, but I’m afraid the child has never known the depth of them to this day.

“You see,” she continued bravely, “it was because daddy died first that mother’s will and not his became valid, and in it she left everything, including the home at Pine Grove where Uncle Albert lives, to me. Daddy bought it in just recently, because Uncle Albert had mortgaged it so heavily that it was to be sold and daddy wanted to keep it in the family.

“Uncle Albert was furious when he heard mother had made you my guardian. He begged and begged me to marry him. I was raging, and threatened to write you all about it. Then he lured me to the country. He wrote that he was very ill, and I believed him. Watkins told me everything immediately. He said Uncle Albert had sent you a fake telegram, and he had seen him put something in the whiskey, but he, Watkins, had filled it with water, so it would not hurt you. I was frantic--every exit in the wing of the house where I was imprisoned was locked. Dear, dear, I was frantic--about midnight I seemed to feel mother’s presence beside me impelling me to go to your assistance. I heard something that sounded like a pebble hit the glass in my window. At first I was afraid to look out. It was Watkins, and he threw me a rope. I quickly tied one end to the radiator, and made my escape. As I flew through the corridor I felt a hand clutch me. It was Uncle Albert. He told me he would kill me if I let you know we were in the house. Then--in this terrible second of desperation you found me.”

“The brute,” I muttered between my teeth. “He wired me to come and help search for you--that you had eloped with a man who wanted your fortune, but that he had a clue and wanted me to help solve it.”

“Don’t you see,” she replied, “he had carefully planned to poison you, and then he was going to force me to marry him, for without father he had absolutely no means of support.”

“And he was taking the line of least resistance,” I thought--“the line that leads to nowhere.”

“Heavens, what do you think he was going to do with me, Don Compie?”

I never recall having seen such a look of appeal and terror registered upon the face of any other person in my life.

“My little Ellen,” said I, holding the two hands firmly in my own, “do you know I loved your mother very dearly? I always wanted the right to protect her, but it was denied me--your daddy won out. She is gone, but you are left. Will you trust yourself to my care?”

She answered with a look that meant more than words--a look that I would have given my soul to have had from another twenty years before.

We washed the dishes, closed the old man’s door and started toward our destination, for I had resolved to find Ellen comfortable quarters with a companion before I finished the affair with Albert.

The rain had ceased and there was a peculiarly clear, cool freshness in the atmosphere for a day in August. The hills that surrounded the farm house made clear scallops of green against a pure blue background, and it was hard to believe that turmoil and trouble could exist in such quiet, pleasant surroundings.

We were commenting upon the peacefulness of the scene when an ambulance approached over the hill before us. The road was unusually rough and narrow, a typical country road edged with chinquapin bushes and dogwood trees, whose leaves had already started to turn scarlet, hiding clusters of berries beneath them.

The ambulance swayed from side to side and heeded not the ruts or stones in its wake. As “coming events cast their shadows before,” I was quite confident of its destination. I motioned to the driver who gave me a sharp glance and held the horses in a walk just long enough to inform me quickly of their errand.

“To Mr. Albert Wilbur’s,” was the answer to my question.

“Dead?” I asked.

“Don’t know, a servant ’phoned that he had tried to commit suicide.”

“Take us back, we’re related,” I said.

We returned to the house from which we had fled--to find that the two shots, which the misguided man had fired, had done their work only too well. There remained but the frame of him who had given nothing and taken all.

As for myself, I was left alone in the world with this gentle, naïve child, and I prayed each day that she would be more generous with her love than her mother had been--and she was.

It was like a gift from heaven sent to heal a wounded and longing heart.

THE REPORTER.

I made the journey in a motor painted grey--a stylish one upholstered in velvet, and there were things inside to blow and touch for convenience. Be not disillusioned--it did not belong to me. It and the chauffeur were loaned for the occasion by my married sister. Yes, of course, married, because I believe that was what she married for. Anyway, I sat back in this rapidly moving equipage, looking, I believe, very comfortable, but feeling, I am sure, very--now just how did I feel, not very, but “ante turban trepidat.” I was shaky and overcome with the same feeling that one has when about to make his first public speech, or at least as I imagine one would feel. However, we had reached the outskirts of the city; the air was pungent with ozone and there was a wafting fragrance of woods--just woods.

I carried the directions of my destination in my hand, written on a slip of white paper. “Keep straight ahead on Falls Road, turn west from Lake Avenue to first road running north; then turn east. First house to the right,” the paper read. We had ridden but a short distance after leaving the city--entirely too short for me to compose myself, when the first house to the right began distinctly to outline itself on the horizon. The feeling of trepidation which possessed me intensified itself as we drove up to the door and stopped. Two dogs appeared and barked, but did not approach me. I say they did not approach me, yet the only thing I was entirely certain of that second was a black crepe that hung from the door; it appeared blacker than black, because a bunch of snow white roses unrelieved by green leaves caught the folds and held them.

My fingers shook in an endeavor to separate one of my visiting cards from the pasty tissues that divided them, but they stuck closer than a mustard plaster. Before I was ready the door was opened by a neatly dressed, middle-aged colored woman. Without glancing at me or my card she informed me that Professor Symonds could not be seen.

But I insisted I must, I really must see him. She then scrutinized me closely, she looked me through and through, and I saw she was completely fooled. I was suffocated with shame when I thought of my subterfuge, for I had attired myself in deep mourning--an outfit left from a recent period of mourning after my brother’s death, as was also my black-edged card.

“But, honey, he’s ’tirely done give out. I knows he won’t see no-body.”

“I’ve come so far, do inquire,” I pleaded.

“Well, jess you wait here and I’ll see. He’s right in there,” she said, pointing to a room nearby with her head.

“Mayn’t I just go in, he’ll not mind,” I lied.

“You sure, Miss?” the look in her eyes adding force to the question.

“Quite sure.”

I followed her as she turned the knob on the sacred door and announced me. She opened it a bit wider. I was close behind, and before anything else happened I was in.

Professor Symonds looked handsome; that was because he was sitting down. His nose was large, but well shaped. Perhaps, after reflecting somewhat, I should say it was a bit too long. His forehead was just an ordinary forehead. But his eyes--let me see, they were of an indescribable color, and his lashes were very long--either long or his eyes were deeply set. I think it was both that gave me the impression. You see I was only sent to interview him and I tried not to stare. Besides it was his mouth that I wanted to look at, and in fact I am conscious now of having looked too hard, but his mouth was decidedly crooked. When he laughed it was more so, but his teeth were large, white and straight. So on the whole it did not detract from his appearance, but I had a keen inclination to hold his mouth and force him to smile straight. Smile I say, but I had only seen him smile once and then very slightly. What I really wanted to do was to coerce him, but it could not be done; he was thinking--thinking of something that was not conducive to smiles.

He arose slowly to greet me. Arose, as one disturbed most unwillingly. While rising he screwed the top on his fountain pen and leisurely adjusted it to his inside pocket. He received me kindly but with manifest annoyance. His face reddened when I told him my mission, and he walked deliberately away from me after I became seated. This discouraged me, but I noticed to my complete satisfaction that he was not handsome--he was not handsome and his clothes were not a good fit. I was glad of these facts, because when I entered the room there was something in the atmosphere, something intangible about the melancholy figure that excited my sympathy and even made my heart beat quicker. But now I saw plainly from his demeanor--his utter indifference--that he regarded me only as a reporter. This was why I was glad to see he was just a short, homely man.

I said, “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion at this trying hour. I was compelled to come for an interview.”

“Interview! How extraordinary, when a man’s wife is lying dead.” His air of surprise did not deceive me, for I knew that many reporters had preceded me. But I felt hurt in my whole being at the rebuff. How could I justify myself for having to confront him at this hour--for this indelicate visit. My color rose, I rose, and the temperature rose. For a moment I could not speak; when my voice returned I replied humbly, most humbly, “The editor gave me the assignment, and I try never to fall down on my job. You must know that it is hard--quite as hard for me as it is for you.” I felt all at once the fact that in my effort to succeed in my business I had overlapped conventionalities too rashly.

“Damn editors, they have no feeling for anyone,” he muttered; then asked my pardon. I bowed my head and tried to look more modest than a reporter can look.

I saw now that I had a slight chance of procuring an interview, and strange as it may seem I was beginning to like him again. He was entirely uncommon and the possessor of a face embroidered with lines from study and sorrow, and a composure that was calm but forceful.

Ill at ease as I was I made up my mind to stick and see the thing through. A “scoop” like this for my editor meant more for me than I can explain on paper. I pretended to be moving for the door, but wasn’t; it was only another subterfuge--the forced weapon of a reporter. Such things are not meant to beguile; but they are a slight means of delusion. So unless you are adapted to the use of them do not apply for a reporter’s job.

Professor Symonds slowly walked back from the window, which was not far, because the house was a cottage and the rooms small.

He looked at me squarely, slightly pityingly, for I am sure he was sorry that one so young could be so bold. As for myself I was thinking that perhaps I should live to be an old, old lady--thin scrawny people generally do; but never should I forget with what pride and exultation I had received this assignment. It was first given to Mr. Tyler, our best reporter and our most vivid writer. He failed completely in his efforts to communicate with Professor Symonds, even after he had resorted to detective work. From him it descended step by step to me. Descended most describes the process, for I was a journalist just starting my career and this was the first important piece of work that I had received. Hence my resolution to remain immutable in my decision to stick for the information that my paper so desired. Previous to this affair the majority of my best literary efforts had suffered an evanescence into the world at large. Perhaps John, the janitor, knew of their whereabouts--he always emptied the waste-baskets.

“So you wish me to talk for publication, do you; to lay the facts of my life open to the criticism of the public?”

“No, I--I”----

“Well, I shall do nothing of the kind. The lives of myself and family are entirely my own affair, and no one need count on my giving the papers material with which to fill up their columns.”

“But--but the affair was important.”

“Important or not, it is mine and with me it shall die. It’s a shame, a shame I say, to send young girls to pry into one’s private life.” It was evident that this speech was from one who could suppress his feelings no longer. Nevertheless, I had grown hot and indignant at his words. At the same time I was becoming alarmed at the nearness of the door to me. This in a way prevented my pungent remarks from having the effect they otherwise would have had.

“If I were allowed to choose my assignments, Professor Symonds, I assure you I should not have chosen this one.” This retort was, perhaps, a trifle impudent, considering the fair treatment I had at first received, but it was made without thought, and I was sorry as soon as I realized what I had said.

His speech had caused him remorse, for he was no longer cold and phlegmatic. His attitude of aloofness changed suddenly and completely to fatherly kindness, which made itself felt as he tendered his apologies and again offered me a chair. It was my turn to assume indifference, for I saw now that I was mistress of the situation. I drew myself in, so to speak, smiled a hurt smile and seated myself.

“I thought you might throw a bit of light on Mr. Milton’s death,” I ventured again.

“The man is dead, why not let it go at that,” he suggested, for by this time he had become docile and his attitude suggested capitulation.

“But don’t you see,” I explained, “it’s my assignment, and I must take back something. If it doesn’t go with me you’ll only be harassed by others. Why not say just what you know?”

“Do you expect newspaper work to get you anywhere?” This was partly to change the subject, and partly to manifest some interest in me.

“Indeed, yes,” I replied, “the practice lays a foundation for better writing. Of course, there are things about it that I hate, such as this, but on the whole it is good for one. You see there is no waiting for an impulse to write, which seldom comes naturally to one. The work is there and it must be done. This forced writing teaches concentration and rapidity, while at the same time it keeps one awake to the movements of the day, nationally and internationally.” This was from my heart, for it was for this reason alone that I had associated myself with the press.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps, but it robs girls of their modesty, and it teaches them to exaggerate events.” This brutally frank statement brought me perilously to the verge of tears. At the same time it brought the realization that this particular piece of news--if I succeeded in my purpose--must be reported correctly in every detail--there could be no exaggeration. And I wondered why I cared.

These thoughts must have shown in my eyes. There must have been something about my expression that made my friend sorry for me. I say friend, because I felt from this moment that he was my friend.

“But, of course,” he went on, “there are always exceptions. I know you are one and I hope you will remain one.” I thanked him and renewed my efforts to worm the desired information out of him. He explained that his aversion to newspapers was due to the pain he had but recently suffered from a great sorrow.

“Had I been a rich man instead of a poor professor there would have been no scandal published about my wife.”

“How could you have prevented it?” I asked innocently. I was not innocent, for I had heard much of papers being bought off by advertisers.

“By buying them off.”

“Then the story was true, was it not?”

His face reddened, he realized his admission.

“You are the first reporter who has been permitted to enter this house. I have treated you with courtesy and I trust you will spare me any further humiliation in this affair.” Such an appeal--it came straight from his heart, but how could I befriend him? I felt myself becoming entangled in a desperate situation. All that he said was true, but on the other hand I had been requested to handle the case carefully and procure the interview at any cost.

I had no doubt that I could obtain the story now, Professor Symonds was my victim or my friend, whichever I wished to make of him. The event rested with me; yet I could not forget with what confidence and assurance I had received the assignment together with full directions for finding the house. Where would I end? I played carelessly with the beads around my neck, pulled my hat a little further to the side, pretended to catch my veil tighter, and then smoothed the wrinkles out of the arms of my gloves; but I could not decide which road to take.

Professor Symonds was longing for a friend--a sympathizer. He was dying to talk--to unburden himself, and the moment seemed propitious. He gave an appealing look and without further protest began to talk.

“This is the story. I give it to you. Do with it what you will.” From that second, with me, love took the place of admiration, and I knew that he knew the story was safe.

“It is true that my wife eloped with Milton.” As he uttered these words his emotion overpowered him, and he dropped his head in his hands. It affected me so painfully that I tried to restrain him from harrowing his feelings any further. But it seemed as if he understood the sympathetic attitude of his visitor, and wished to confide in me. He continued:

“But there were circumstances that caused it. She was a good woman, a really good woman, but our tastes were entirely different. She loved the city and its closeness to ‘things’; I loved the country and its freedom from noise. She loved people; I loved solitude. And besides these differences there were things which you are too young to understand.”

I had the natural curiosity of woman and her native diplomacy. So I did not interrupt the continuity of his thoughts.

“Both men and women have strongly developed or even instinctive sex complexes and the physical call of a mate transcends the restrictions that herd instinct places upon our modern society. In other words, it is the elemental appeal that is too strong for the system of barriers society has thrown around modern life. We were congenial, yes, loving and loved, but our natures differed; our habits had not grown together, so our ways parted through no fault of either. Our emotional structures also differed, and the instinctive emotions dominated. Perhaps you will think this explanation incongruous, but I know it to be the truth, and the result of it all is what I am now facing. I see now that my selfishness was chiefly responsible. I was, by nature, the stronger of the two; it was in my power to influence my wife, but we drifted and the realization of the situation came too late.

“In her loneliness she had appealed to Milton and he responded. In him she found a companion with a kindred spirit. They both loved life and what it brought. Now that they are both dead there is only one thing I can do for them, and that is to preserve their reputations, and save them from the disgrace of a disclosure. The public only knows, from the letter found on Milton, that they loved each other; it does not and shall not know more.” His head was bent and his voice filled with anguish.

“If I had only known sooner I believe I could have saved her the tragic end. She was returning to me--returning to me, I am confident, for she had entered the garden before she swallowed the poison.”

I still did not speak or move and he talked on without a pause. But now he seemed to pull himself together, and I could see an increasing air of satisfaction and gratification in his demeanor, as he found himself confiding in a hearer who was growing more and more sympathetic.

“It is evident that Milton had left her. It was what such propensities always lead to and only what I had expected. Life to be successful must be regular and conventional. We humans are too susceptible to the opinions of others to ignore for long any irregularities, and, as I say, he had left her and gone to Washington. Perhaps he was returning to his wife or perhaps he had just grown tired; anyhow he had reached there before he heard that Helen was dead. He probably thought I’d kill him, so he saved me the trouble.

“Dear, dear, how I should love to do something for you,” I said involuntarily, urged by the flood of sympathy the tragic tale had evoked. Then I realized that Professor Symonds might misunderstand me and think my remark too forward.

“It isn’t a situation to be envied, is it?”

When he asked the question I was thinking of life and its perplexities; the happiness and sorrows that circumstances render without the power on our part either to aid or alter. Here was a man of rare intellectual qualities, a pleasing personality, position and--best of all--a soul; yet he, like others, must live and suffer apparently through no fault of his--but through the thoughtlessness of a pleasure-seeking wife. My sympathy was spontaneous. Is it any wonder that a warm friendship sprang up between us?

And is it needless to say there was no “scoop” for the paper? In fact, my days with the press were numbered. The little cottage needed a feminine touch, and I needed all the love Professor Symonds could give me. Yet I have never been able to fathom why he married me, for my eyes were dark but not luminous; my hair was light, not golden; I was thin and bony; I was tall, yet not erect; I wanted to be wise, but had lots to learn.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation and spacing errors have been corrected.

Page 29: “remarkd Mrs. Gary” changed to “remarked Mrs. Gary”; “in in the last two” changed “in the last two”

Page 30: “relief the monotomy” changed to “relief the monotony”

Page 47: “as she realizes that” changed to “as she realized that”

Page 49: “going to chuch” changed to “going to church”

Page 54: “she had believe it” changed to “she had believed it”

Page 70: “for there has never been” changed to “for there had never been”

Page 75: “sweet timber of a” changed to “sweet timbre of a”

Page 93: “his indelicate visit” changed to “this indelicate visit”