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Unleavened Bread

by Robert Grant · English · Gutenberg #14645 · 719,488 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Unleavened Bread

Author: Robert Grant


        
Release date: January 10, 2005 [eBook #14645]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNLEAVENED BREAD ***

UNLEAVENED BREAD

by

ROBERT GRANT

Author of _The Bachelor's Christmas_, etc.

Charles Scribner's Sons
New York

1900







CONTENTS


BOOK I
THE EMANCIPATION


BOOK II
THE STRUGGLE


BOOK III
THE SUCCESS




UNLEAVENED BREAD


BOOK I.

THE EMANCIPATION


CHAPTER I.


Babcock and Selma White were among the last of the wedding guests to
take their departure. It was a brilliant September night with a touch of
autumn vigor in the atmosphere, which had not been without its effect on
the company, who had driven off in gay spirits, most of them in
hay-carts or other vehicles capable of carrying a party. Their songs and
laughter floated back along the winding country road. Selma, comfortable
in her wraps and well tucked about with a rug, leaned back contentedly
in the chaise, after the goodbyes had been said, to enjoy the glamour of
the full moon. They were seven miles from home and she was in no hurry
to get there. Neither festivities nor the undisguised devotion of a city
young man were common in her life. Consideration she had been used to
from a child, and she knew herself to be tacitly acknowledged the
smartest girl in Westfield, but perhaps for that very reason she had
held aloof from manhood until now. At least no youth in her neighborhood
had ever impressed her as her equal. Neither did Babcock so impress her;
but he was different from the rest. He was not shy and unexpressive; he
was buoyant and self-reliant, and yet he seemed to appreciate her
quality none the less.

They had met about a dozen times, and on the last six of these occasions
he had come from Benham, ten miles to her uncle's farm, obviously to
visit her. The last two times her Aunt Farley had made him spend the
night, and it had been arranged that he would drive her in the Farley
chaise to Clara Morse's wedding. A seven-mile drive is apt to promote or
kill the germs of intimacy, and on the way over she had been conscious
of enjoying herself. Scrutiny of Clara's choice had been to the
advantage of her own cavalier. The bridegroom had seemed to her what her
Aunt Farley would call a mouse-in-the-cheese young man. Whereas Babcock
had been the life of the affair.

She had been teaching now in Wilton for more than a year. When, shortly
after her father's death, she had obtained the position of school
teacher, it seemed to her that at last the opportunity had come to
display her capabilities, and at the same time to fulfil her
aspirations. But the task of grounding a class of small children in the
rudiments of simple knowledge had already begun to pall and to seem
unsatisfying. Was she to spend her life in this? And if not, the next
step, unless it were marriage, was not obvious. Not that she mistrusted
her ability to shine in any educational capacity, but neither Wilton nor
the neighboring Westfield offered better, and she was conscious of a
lack of influential friends in the greater world, which was embodied for
her in Benham. Benham was a western city of these United States, with an
eastern exposure; a growing, bustling city according to rumor, with an
eager population restless with new ideas and stimulating ambitions. So
at least Selma thought of it, and though Boston and New York and a few
other places were accepted by her as authoritative, she accepted them,
as she accepted Shakespeare, as a matter of course and so far removed
from her immediate outlook as almost not to count. But Benham with its
seventy-five thousand inhabitants and independent ways was a fascinating
possibility. Once established there the world seemed within her grasp,
including Boston. Might it not be that Benham, in that it was newer, was
nearer to truth and more truly American than that famous city? She was
not prepared to believe this an absurdity.

At least the mental atmosphere of Westfield and even of the somewhat
less solemn Wilton suggested this apotheosis of the adjacent city to be
reasonable. Westfield had stood for Selma as a society of serious though
simple souls since she could first remember and had been one of them.
Not that she arrogated to her small native town any unusual qualities of
soul or mind in distinction from most other American communities, but
she regarded it as inferior in point of view to none, and typical of the
best national characteristics. She had probably never put into words the
reasons of her confidence, but her daily consciousness was permeated
with them. To be an American meant to be more keenly alive to the
responsibility of life than any other citizen of civilization, and to be
an American woman meant to be something finer, cleverer, stronger, and
purer than any other daughter of Eve. Under the agreeable but sobering
influence of this faith she had grown to womanhood, and the heroic deeds
of the civil war had served to intensify a belief, the truth of which
she had never heard questioned. Her mission in life had promptly been
recognized by her as the development of her soul along individual lines,
but until the necessity for a choice had arisen she had been content to
contemplate a little longer. Now the world was before her, for she was
twenty-three and singularly free from ties. Her mother had died when she
was a child. Her father, the physician of the surrounding country, a man
of engaging energy with an empirical education and a speculative habit
of mind, had been the companion of her girlhood. During the last few
years since his return from the war an invalid from a wound, her care
for him had left her time for little else.

No more was Babcock in haste to reach home; and after the preliminary
dash from the door into the glorious night he suffered the farm-horse to
pursue its favorite gait, a deliberate jog. He knew the creature to be
docile, and that he could bestow his attention on his companion without
peril to her. His own pulses were bounding. He was conscious of having
made the whirligig of time pass merrily for the company by his spirits
and jolly quips, and that in her presence, and he was groping for an
appropriate introduction to the avowal he had determined to make. He
would never have a better opportunity than this, and it had been his
preconceived intention to take advantage of it if all went well. All had
gone well and he was going to try. She had been kind coming over; and
had seemed to listen with interest as he told her about himself: and
somehow he had felt less distant from her. He was not sure what she
would say, for he realized that she was above him. That was one reason
why he admired her so. She symbolized for him refinement, poetry, art,
the things of the spirit--things from which in the same whirligig of
time he had hitherto been cut off by the vicissitudes of the varnish
business; but the value of which he was not blind to. How proud he would
be of such a wife! How he would strive and labor for her! His heart was
in his mouth and trembled on his lip as he thought of the possibility.
What a joy to be sitting side by side with her under this splendid moon!
He would speak and know his fate.

"Isn't it a lovely night?" murmured Selma appreciatively. "There they
go," she added, indicating the disappearance over the brow of a hill of
the last of the line of vehicles of the rest of the party, whose songs
had come back fainter and fainter.

"I don't care. Do you?" He snuggled toward her a very little.

"I guess they won't think I'm lost," she said, with a low laugh.

"What d'you suppose your folks would say if you _were_ lost? I mean if I
were to run away with you and didn't bring you back?" There was a
nervous ring in the guffaw which concluded his question.

"My friends wouldn't miss me much; at least they'd soon get over the
shock; but I might miss myself, Mr. Babcock."

Selma was wondering why it was that she rather liked being alone with
this man, big enough, indeed, to play the monster, yet half school-boy,
but a man who had done well in his calling. He must be capable; he could
give her a home in Benham; and it was plain that he loved her.

"I'll tell you something," he said, eagerly, ignoring her suggestion.
"I'd like to run away with you and be married to-night, Selma. That's
what I'd like, and I guess you won't. But it's the burning wish of my
heart that you'd marry me some time. I want you to be my wife. I'm a
rough fellow along-side of you, Selma, but I'd do well by you; I would.
I'm able to look after you, and you shall have all you want. There's a
nice little house building now in Benham. Say the word and I'll buy it
for us to-morrow. I'm crazy after you, Selma."

The rein was dangling, and Babcock reached his left arm around the waist
of his lady-love. He had now and again made the same demonstration with
others jauntily, but this was a different matter. She was not to be
treated like other women. She was a goddess to him, even in his ardor,
and he reached gingerly. Selma did not wholly withdraw from the spread
of his trembling arm, though this was the first man who had ever
ventured to lay a finger on her.

"I'd have to give up my school," she said.

"They could get another teacher."

"_Could_ they?"

"Not one like you. You see I'm clumsy, but I'm crazy for you, Selma."
Emboldened by the obvious feebleness of her opposition, he broadened his
clutch and drew her toward him. "Say you will, sweetheart."

This time she pulled herself free and sat up in the chaise. "Would you
let me do things?" she asked after a moment.

"Do things," faltered Babcock. What could she mean? She had told him on
the way over that her mother had chosen her name from a theatrical
playbill, and it passed through his unsophisticated brain that she might
be thinking of the stage.

"Yes, do something worth while. Be somebody. I've had the idea I could,
if I ever got the chance." Her hands were folded in her lap; there was a
wrapt expression on her thin, nervous face, and a glitter in her keen
eyes, which were looking straight at the moon, as though they would
outstare it in brilliancy.

"You shall be anything you like, if you'll only marry me. What is it
you're wishing to be?"

"I don't know exactly. It isn't anything especial yet. It's the whole
thing. I thought I might find it in my school, but the experience so far
hasn't been--satisfying."

"Troublesome little brats!"

"No, I dare say the fault's in me. If I went to Benham to live it would
be different. Benham must be interesting--inspiring."

"There's plenty of go there. You'd like it, and people would think lots
of you."

"I'd try to make them." She turned and looked at him judicially, but
with a softened expression. Her profile in her exalted mood had
suggested a beautiful, but worried archangel; her full face seemed less
this and wore much of the seductive embarrassment of sex. To Babcock she
seemed the most entrancing being he had ever seen. "Would you really
like to have me come?"

He gave a hoarse ejaculation, and encircling her eagerly with his strong
grasp pressed his lips upon her cheek. "Selma! darling! angel! I'm the
happiest man alive."

"You mustn't do that--yet," she said protestingly.

"Yes, I must; I'm yours, and you're mine,--mine. Aren't you, sweetheart?
There's no harm in a kiss."

She had to admit to herself that it was not very unpleasant after all to
be held in the embrace of a sturdy lover, though she had never intended
that their relations should reach this stage of familiarity so promptly.
She had known, of course, that girls were to look for endearments from
those whom they promised to marry, but her person had hitherto been so
sacred to man and to herself that it was difficult not to shrink a
little from what was taking place. This then was love, and love was, of
course, the sweetest thing in the world. That was one of the truths
which she had accepted as she had accepted the beauty of Shakespeare, as
something not to be disputed, yet remote. He was a big, affectionate
fellow, and she must make up her mind to kiss him. So she turned her
face toward him and their lips met eagerly, forestalling the little peck
which she had intended. She let her head fall back at his pressure on to
his shoulder, and gazed up at the moon.

"Are you happy, Selma?" he asked, giving her a fond, firm squeeze.

"Yes, Lewis."

She could feel his frame throb with joy at the situation as she uttered
his name.

"We'll be married right away. That's if you're willing. My business is
going first-rate and, if it keeps growing for the next year as it has
for the past two, you'll be rich presently. When shall it be, Selma?"

"You're in dreadful haste. Well, I'll promise to give the selectmen
notice to-morrow that they must find another teacher."

"Because the one they have now is going to become Mrs. Lewis J. Babcock.
I'm the luckiest fellow, hooray! in creation. See here," he added,
taking her hand, "I guess a ring wouldn't look badly there--a real
diamond, too. Pretty little fingers."

She sighed gently, by way of response. It was comfortable nestling in
the hollow of his shoulder, and a new delightful experience to be
hectored with sweetness in this way. How round and bountiful the moon
looked. She was tired of her present life. What was coming would be
better. Her opportunity was at hand to show the world what she was made
of.

"A real diamond, and large at that," he repeated, gazing down at her,
and then, as though the far away expression in her eyes suggested
kinship with the unseen and the eternal, he said, admiringly but humbly,
"It must be grand to be clever like you, Selma. I'm no good at that. But
if loving you will make up for it, I'll go far, little woman."

"What I know of that I like, and--and if some day, I can make you proud
of me, so much the better," said Selma.

"Proud of you? You are an angel, and you know it."

She closed her eyes and sighed again. Even the bright avenues of fame,
which her keen eyes had traversed through the golden moon, paled before
this tribute from the lips of real flesh and blood. What woman can
withstand the fascination of a lover's faith that she is an angel? If a
man is fool enough to believe it, why undeceive him? And if he is so
sure of it, may it even not be so? Selma was content to have it so,
especially as the assertion did not jar with her own prepossessions; and
thus they rode home in the summer night in the mutual contentment of a
betrothal.



CHAPTER II.


The match was thoroughly agreeable to Mrs. Farley, Selma's aunt and
nearest relation, who with her husband presided over a flourishing
poultry farm in Wilton. She was an easy-going, friendly spirit, with a
sharp but not wide vision, who did not believe that a likelier fellow
than Lewis Babcock would come wooing were her niece to wait a lifetime.
He was hearty, comical, and generous, and was said to be making money
fast in the varnish business. In short, he seemed to her an admirable
young man, with a stock of common-sense and high spirits eminently
serviceable for a domestic venture. How full of fun he was, to be sure!
It did her good to behold the tribute his appetite paid to the buckwheat
cakes with cream and other tempting viands she set before him--a
pleasing contrast to Selma's starveling diet--and the hearty smack with
which he enforced his demands upon her own cheeks as his mother-in-law
apparent, argued an affectionate disposition. Burly, rosy-cheeked,
good-natured, was he not the very man to dispel her niece's vagaries and
turn the girl's morbid cleverness into healthy channels?

Selma, therefore, found nothing but encouragement in her choice at home;
so by the end of another three months they were made man and wife, and
had moved into that little house in Benham which had attracted Babcock's
eye. Benham, as has been indicated, was in the throes of bustle and
self-improvement. Before the war it had been essentially unimportant.
But the building of a railroad through the town and the discovery of oil
wells in its neighborhood had transformed it in a twinkling into an
active and spirited centre. Selma's new house was on the edge of the
city, in the van of real estate progress, one of a row of small but
ambitious-looking dwellings, over the dark yellow clapboards of which
the architect had let his imagination run rampant in scrolls and
flourishes. There was fancy colored glass in a sort of rose-window over
the front door, and lozenges of fancy glass here and there in the
facade. Each house had a little grass-plot, which Babcock in his case
had made appurtenant to a metal stag, which seemed to him the finishing
touch to a cosey and ornamental home. He had done his best and with all
his heart, and the future was before them.

Babcock found himself radiant over the first experiences of married
life. It was just what he had hoped, only better. His imagination in
entertaining an angel had not been unduly literal, and it was a constant
delight and source of congratulation to him to reflect over his pipe on
the lounge after supper that the charming piece of flesh and blood
sewing or reading demurely close by was the divinity of his domestic
hearth. There she was to smile at him when he came home at night and
enable him to forget the cares and dross of the varnish business. Her
presence across the table added a new zest to every meal and improved
his appetite. In marrying he had expected to cut loose from his bachelor
habits, and he asked for nothing better than to spend every evening
alone with Selma, varied by an occasional evening at the theatre, and a
drive out to the Farleys' now and then for supper. This, with the
regular Sunday service at Rev. Henry Glynn's church, rounded out the
weeks to his perfect satisfaction. He was conscious of feeling that the
situation did not admit of improvement, for though, when he measured
himself with Selma, Babcock was humble-minded, a cheerful and uncritical
optimism was the ruling characteristic of his temperament. With health,
business fortune, and love all on his side, it was natural to him to
regard his lot with complacency. Especially as to all appearances, this
was the sort of thing Selma liked, also. Presently, perhaps, there would
be a baby, and then their cup of domestic happiness would be
overflowing. Babcock's long ungratified yearning for the things of the
spirit were fully met by these cosey evenings, which he would have been
glad to continue to the crack of doom. To smoke and sprawl and read a
little, and exchange chit-chat, was poetry enough for him. So contented
was he that his joy was apt to find an outlet in ditties and
whistling--he possessed a slightly tuneful, rollicking knack at both--a
proceeding which commonly culminated in his causing Selma to sit beside
him on the sofa and be made much of, to the detriment of her toilette.

As for the bride, so dazing were the circumstances incident to the
double change of matrimony and adaptation to city life, that her
judgment was in suspension. Yet though she smiled and sewed demurely,
she was thinking. The yellow clapboarded house and metal stag, and a
maid-of-all-work at her beck and call, were gratifying at the outset and
made demands upon her energies. Selma's position in her father's house
had been chiefly ornamental and social. She had been his companion and
nurse, had read to him and argued with him, but the mere household work
had been performed by an elderly female relative who recognized that her
mind was bent on higher things. Nevertheless, she had never doubted that
when the time arrived to show her capacity as a housewife, she would be
more than equal to the emergency. Assuredly she would, for one of the
distinguishing traits of American womanhood was the ability to perform
admirably with one's own hand many menial duties and yet be prepared to
shine socially with the best. Still the experience was not quite so easy
as she expected; even harassing and mortifying. Fortunately, Lewis was
more particular about quantity than quality where the table was
concerned; and, after all, food and domestic details were secondary
considerations in a noble outlook. It would have suited her never to be
obliged to eat, and to be able to leave the care of the house to the
hired girl; but that being out of the question, it became incumbent on
her to make those obligations as simple as possible. However, the
possession of a new house and gay fittings was an agreeable realization.
At home everything had been upholstered in black horse-hair, and regard
for material appearances had been obscured for her by the tension of her
introspective tendencies. Lewis was very kind, and she had no reason to
reproach herself as yet for her choice. He had insisted that she should
provide herself with an ample and more stylish wardrobe, and though the
invitation had interested her but mildly, the effect of shrewdly-made
and neatly fitting garments on her figure had been a revelation. Like
the touch of a man's hand, fine raiment had seemed to her hitherto
almost repellant, but it was obvious now that anything which enhanced
her effectiveness could not be dismissed as valueless. To arrive at
definite conclusions in regard to her social surroundings was less easy
for Selma. Benham, in its rapid growth, had got beyond the level
simplicity of Westfield and Wilton, and was already confronted by the
stern realities which baffle the original ideal in every American city.
We like as a nation to cherish the illusion that extremes of social
condition do not exist even in our large communities, and that the
plutocrat and the saleslady, the learned professions and the proletariat
associate on a common basis of equal virtue, intelligence, and culture.
And yet, although Benham was a comparatively young and an essentially
American city, there were very marked differences in all these respects
in its community.

Topographically speaking the starting point of Benham was its
water-course. Twenty years before the war Benham was merely a cluster of
frame houses in the valley of the limpid, peaceful river Nye. At that
time the inhabitants drank of the Nye taken at a point below the town,
for there was a high fall which would have made the drawing of water
above less convenient. This they were doing when Selma came to Benham,
although every man's hand had been raised against the Nye, which was the
nearest, and hence for a community in hot haste, the most natural
receptacle for dyestuffs, ashes and all the outflow from woollen mills,
pork factories and oil yards, and it ran the color of glistening bean
soup. From time to time, as the city grew, the drawing point had been
made a little lower where the stream had regained a portion of its
limpidity, and no one but wiseacres and busybodies questioned its
wholesomeness. Benham at that time was too preoccupied and too proud of
its increasing greatness to mistrust its own judgment in matters
hygienic, artistic, and educational. There came a day later when the
river rose against the city, and an epidemic of typhoid fever convinced
a reluctant community that there were some things which free-born
Americans did not know intuitively. Then there were public meetings and
a general indignation movement, and presently, under the guidance of
competent experts, Lake Mohunk, seven miles to the north, was secured as
a reservoir. Just to show how the temper of the times has changed, and
how sophisticated in regard to hygienic matters some of the good
citizens of Benham in these latter days have become, it is worthy of
mention that, though competent chemists declare Lake Mohunk to be free
from contamination, there are those now who use so-called mineral
spring-waters in preference; notably Miss Flagg, the daughter of old
Joel Flagg, once the miller and, at the date when the Babcocks set up
their household gods, one of the oil magnates of Benham. He drank the
bean colored Nye to the day of his death and died at eighty; but she
carries a carboy of spring-water with her personal baggage wherever she
travels, and is perpetually solicitous in regard to the presence of
arsenic in wall-papers into the bargain.

Verily, the world has wagged apace in Benham since Selma first looked
out at her metal stag and the surrounding landscape. Ten years later the
Benham Home Beautifying Society took in hand the Nye and those who
drained into it, and by means of garbage consumers, disinfectants, and
filters and judiciously arranged shrubbery converted its channel and
banks into quite a respectable citizens' paradise. But even at that time
the industries on either bank of the Nye, which flowed from east to
west, were forcing the retail shops and the residences further and
further away. To illustrate again from the Flagg family, just before the
war Joel Flagg built a modest house less than a quarter of a mile from
the southerly bank of the river, expecting to end his days there, and
was accused by contemporary censors of an intention to seclude himself
in magnificent isolation. About this time he had yielded to the plea of
his family, that every other building in the street had been given over
to trade, and that they were stranded in a social Sahara of factories.
So like the easy going yet soaring soul that he was, he had moved out
two miles to what was known as the River Drive, where the Nye
accomplishes a broad sweep to the south. There an ambitious imported
architect, glad of such an opportunity to speculate in artistic effects,
had built for him a conglomeration of a feudal castle and an old
colonial mansion in all the grisly bulk of signal failure.

Considering our ideals, it is a wonder that no one has provided a law
forbidding the erection of all the architecturally attractive, or
sumptuous houses in one neighborhood. It ought not to be possible in a
republic for such a state of affairs to exist as existed in Benham. That
is to say all the wealth and fashion of the city lay to the west of
Central Avenue, which was so literally the dividing line that if a
Benhamite were referred to as living on that street the conventional
inquiry would be "On which side?" And if the answer were "On the east,"
the inquirer would be apt to say "Oh!" with a cold inflection which
suggested a ban. No Benhamite has ever been able to explain precisely
why it should be more creditable to live on one side of the same street
than on the other, but I have been told by clever women, who were good
Americans besides, that this is one of the subtle truths which baffle
the Gods and democracies alike. Central Avenue has long ago been
appropriated by the leading retail dry-goods shops, huge establishments
where everything from a set of drawing-room furniture to a hair-pin can
be bought under a single roof; but at that time it was the social
artery. Everything to the west was new and assertive; then came the
shops and the business centre; and to the east were Tom, Dick, and
Harry, Michael, Isaac and Pietro, the army of citizens who worked in the
mills, oil yards, and pork factories. And to the north, across the
river, on the further side of more manufacturing establishments, was
Poland, so-called--a settlement of the Poles--to reach whom now there
are seven bridges of iron. There were but two bridges then, one of wood,
and journeys across them had not yet been revealed to philanthropic
young women eager to do good.

Selma's house lay well to the south-west of Central Avenue, far enough
removed from the River Drive and the Flagg mansion to be humble and yet
near enough to be called looking up. Their row was complete and mainly
occupied, but the locality was a-building, and in the process of making
acquaintance. So many strangers had come to Benham that even Babcock
knew but few of their neighbors. Without formulating definitely how it
was to happen, Selma had expected to be received with open arms into a
society eager to recognize her salient qualities. But apparently, at
first glance, everybody's interest was absorbed by the butcher and
grocer, the dressmaker and the domestic hearth. That is, the other
people in their row seemed to be content to do as they were doing. The
husbands went to town every day--town which lay in the murky
distance--and their wives were friendly enough, but did not seem to be
conscious either of voids in their own existence or of the privilege of
her society. To be sure, they dressed well and were suggestive in that,
but they looked blank at some of her inquiries, and appeared to feel
their days complete if, after the housework had been done and the battle
fought with the hired girl, they were able to visit the shopping
district and pore over fabrics, in case they could not buy them. Some
were evidently looking forward to the day when they might be so
fortunate as to possess one of the larger houses of the district a mile
away, and figure among what they termed "society people." There were
others who, in their satisfaction with this course of life, referred
with a touch of self-righteousness to the dwellers on the River Drive as
deserving reprobation on account of a lack of serious purpose. This
criticism appealed to Selma, and consoled her in a measure for the half
mortification with which she had begun to realize that she was not of so
much account as she had expected; at least, that there were people not
very far distant from her block who were different somehow from her
neighbors, and who took part in social proceedings in which she and her
husband were not invited to participate. Manifestly they were unworthy
and un-American. It was a comfort to come to this conclusion, even
though her immediate surroundings, including the society of those who
had put the taunt into her thoughts, left her unsatisfied.

Some relief was provided at last by her church. Babcock was by birth an
Episcopalian, though he had been lax in his interest during early
manhood. This was one of the matters which he had expected marriage to
correct, and he had taken up again, not merely with resignation but
complacency, the custom of attending service regularly. Dr. White had
been a controversial Methodist, but since his wife's death, and
especially since the war, he had abstained from religious observances,
and had argued himself somewhat far afield from the fold of orthodox
belief. Consequently Selma, though she attended church at Westfield when
her father's ailments did not require her presence at home, had been
brought up to exercise her faculties freely on problems of faith and to
feel herself a little more enlightened than the conventional worshipper.
Still she was not averse to following her husband to the Rev. Henry
Glynn's church. The experience was another revelation to her, for
service at Westfield had been eminently severe and unadorned. Mr. Glynn
was an Englishman; a short, stout, strenuous member of the Church of
England with a broad accent and a predilection for ritual, but
enthusiastic and earnest. He had been tempted to cross the ocean by the
opportunities for preaching the gospel to the heathen, and he had fixed
on Benham as a vineyard where he could labor to advantage. His advent
had been a success. He had awakened interest by his fervor and by his
methods. The pew taken by Babcock was one of the last remaining, and
there was already talk of building a larger church to replace the chapel
where he ministered. Choir boys, elaborate vestments, and genuflections,
were novelties in the Protestant worship of Benham, and attracted the
attention of many almost weary of plainer forms of worship, especially
as these manifestations of color were effectively supplemented by
evident sincerity of spirit on the part of their pastor. Nor were his
energy and zeal confined to purely spiritual functions. The scope of his
church work was practical and social. He had organized from the
congregation societies of various sorts to relieve the poor; Bible
classes and evening reunions which the members of the parish were urged
to attend in order to become acquainted. Mr. Glynn's manner was both
hearty and pompous. To him there was no Church in the world but the
Church of England, and it was obvious that as one of the clergy of that
Church he considered himself to be no mean man; but apart from this
serious intellectual foible with respect to his own relative importance,
he was a stimulating Christian and citizen within his lights. His
active, crusading, and emotional temperament just suited the seething
propensities of Benham.

His flock comprised a few of the residents of the River Drive district,
among them the Flaggs, but was a fairly representative mixture of all
grades of society, including the poorest. These last were specimens
under spiritual duress rather than free worshippers, and it was a
constant puzzle to the reverend gentleman why, in the matter of
attendance, they, metaphorically speaking, sickened and died. It had
never been so in England. "Bonnets!" responded one day Mrs. Hallett
Taylor, who had become Mr. Glynn's leading ally in parish matters, and
was noted for her executive ability. She was an engaging but
clear-headed soul who went straight to the point.

"I do not fathom your meaning," said the pastor, a little loftily, for
the suggestion sounded flippant.

"It hurts their feelings to go to a church where their clothes are
shabby compared with those of the rest of the congregation."

"Yes, but in God's chapel, dear lady, all such distinctions should be
forgotten."

"They can't forget, and I don't blame them much, poor things, do you?
It's the free-born American spirit. There now, Mr. Glynn, you were
asking me yesterday to suggest some one for junior warden. Why not Mr.
Babcock? They're new comers and seem available people."

Mr. Glynn's distress at her first question was merged in the interest
inspired by her second, for his glance had followed hers until it rested
on the Babcocks, who had just entered the vestry to attend the social
reunion. Selma's face wore its worried archangel aspect. She was on her
good behavior and proudly on her guard against social impertinence. But
she looked very pretty, and her compact, slight figure indicated a busy
way.

"I will interrogate him," he answered. "I have observed them before,
and--and I can't quite make out the wife. It is almost a spiritual face,
and yet--"

"Just a little hard and keen," broke in Mrs. Taylor, upon his
hesitation. "She is pretty, and she looks clever. I think we can get
some work out of her."

Thereupon she sailed gracefully in the direction of Selma. Mrs. Taylor
was from Maryland. Her husband, a physician, had come to Benham at the
close of the war to build up a practice, and his wife had aided him by
her energy and graciousness to make friends. Unlike some Southerners,
she was not indolent, and yet she possessed all the ingratiating,
spontaneous charm of well-bred women from that section of the country.
Her tastes were æsthetic and ethical rather than intellectual, and her
special interest at the moment was the welfare of the church. She
thought it desirable that all the elements of which the congregation was
composed should be represented on the committees, and Selma seemed to
her the most obviously available person from the class to which the
Babcocks belonged.

"I want you to help us," she said. "I think you have ideas. We need a
woman with sense and ideas on our committee to build the new church."

Selma was not used to easy grace and sprightly spontaneity. It affected
her at first much as the touch of man; but just as in that instance the
experience was agreeable. Life was too serious a thing in her regard to
lend itself casually to lightness, and yet she felt instinctively
attracted by this lack of self-consciousness and self-restraint. Besides
here was an opportunity such as she had been yearning for. She had met
Mrs. Taylor before, and knew her to be the presiding genius of the
congregation; and it was evident that Mrs. Taylor had discovered her
value.

"Thank you," she said, gravely, but cordially. "That is what I should
like. I wish to be of use. I shall be pleased to serve on the
committee."

"It will be interesting, I think. I have never helped build anything
before. Perhaps you have?"

"No," said Selma slowly. Her tone conveyed the impression that, though
her abilities had never been put to that precise test, the employment
seemed easily within her capacity.

"Ah! I am sure you will be suggestive" said Mrs. Taylor. "I am right
anxious that it shall be a credit in an architectural way, you know."

Mr. Glynn, who had followed with more measured tread, now mingled his
hearty bass voice in the conversation. His mental attitude was friendly,
but inquisitorial; as seemed to him to befit one charged with the cure
of souls. He proceeded to ask questions, beginning with inquiries
conventional and domestic, but verging presently on points of faith.
Babcock, to whom they were directly addressed, stood the ordeal well,
revealing himself as flattered, contrite, and zealous to avail himself
of the blessings of the church. He admitted that lately he had been lax
in his spiritual duties.

"We come every Sunday now," he said buoyantly, with a glance at Selma as
though to indicate that she deserved the credit of his reformation.

"The holy sacrament of marriage has led many souls from darkness into
light, from the flesh-pots of Egypt to the table of the Lord" Mr. Glynn
answered. "And you, my daughter," he added, meaningly, "guard well your
advantage."

It was agreeable to Selma that the clergymen seemed to appreciate her
superiority to her embarrassed husband, especially as she thought she
knew that in England women were not expected to have opinions of their
own. She wished to say something to impress him more distinctly with her
cleverness, for though she was secretly contemptuous of his ceremonials,
there was something impressive in his mandatory zeal. She came near
asking whether he held to the belief that it was wrong for a man to
marry his deceased wife's sister, which was the only proposition in
relation to the married state which occurred to her at the moment as
likely to show her independence, but she contented herself instead with
saying, with so much of Mrs. Taylor's spontaneity as she could reproduce
without practice, "We expect to be very happy in your church."

Selma, however, supplemented her words with her tense spiritual look.
She felt happier than she had for weeks, inasmuch as life seemed to be
opening before her. For a few moments she listened to Mr. Glynn unfold
his hopes in regard to the new church, trying to make him feel that she
was no common woman. She considered it a tribute to her when he took
Lewis aside later and asked him to become a junior warden.



CHAPTER III.


At this time the necessity for special knowledge as to artistic or
educational matters was recognized grudgingly in Benham. Any reputable
citizen was considered capable to pass judgment on statues and pictures,
design a house or public building, and prescribe courses of study for
school-children. Since then the free-born Benhamite, little by little,
through wise legislation or public opinion, born of bitter experience,
has been robbed of these prerogatives until, not long ago, the
un-American and undemocratic proposition to take away the laying out of
the new city park from the easy going but ignorant mercies of the
so-called city forester, who had been first a plumber and later an
alderman, prevailed. An enlightened civic spirit triumphed and special
knowledge was invoked.

That was twenty-five years later. Mrs. Hallett Taylor had found herself
almost single-handed at the outset in her purpose to build the new
church on artistic lines. Or rather the case should be stated thus:
Everyone agreed that it was to be the most beautiful church in the
country, consistent with the money, and no one doubted that it would be,
especially as everyone except Mrs. Taylor felt that in confiding the
matter to the leading architect in Benham the committee would be
exercising a wise and intelligent discretion. Mr. Pierce, the individual
suggested, had never, until recently, employed the word architect in
speaking of himself, and he pronounced it, as did some of the committee,
"arshitect," shying a little at the word, as though it were caviare and
anything but American. He was a builder, practised by a brief but
rushing career in erecting houses, banks, schools, and warehouses
speedily and boldly. He had been on the spot when the new growth of
Benham began, and his handiwork was writ large all over the city. The
city was proud of him, and had, as it were, sniffed when Joel Flagg went
elsewhere for a man to build his new house. Surely, if it were necessary
to pay extra for that sort of thing, was not home talent good enough?
Yet it must be confessed that the ugly splendor of the Flagg mediæval
castle had so far dazed the eye of Benham that its "arshitect" had felt
constrained, in order to keep up with the times, to try fancy flights of
his own. He had silenced any doubting Thomases by his latest effort, a
new school-house, rich in rampant angles and scrolls, on the brown-stone
front of which the name _Flagg School_ appeared in ambitious, distorted
hieroglyphics.

Think what a wealth of imagery in the tossing of the second O on top of
the L. If artistic novelty and genius were sought for the new church,
here it was ready to be invoked. Besides, Mr. Pierce was a
brother-in-law of one of the members of the committee, and, though the
committee had the fear of God in their hearts in the erection of his
sanctuary, it was not easy to protest against the near relative of a
fellow member, especially one so competent.

The committee numbered seven. Selma had been chosen to fill a vacancy
caused by death, but at the time of her selection the matter was still
in embryo, and the question of an architect had not been mooted. At the
next meeting discussion arose as to whether Mr. Pierce should be given
the job, under the eagle eyes of a sub-committee, or Mrs. Taylor's
project of inviting competitive designs should be adopted. It was known
that Mr. Glynn, without meaning disrespect to Mr. Pierce, favored the
latter plan as more progressive, a word always attractive to Benham ears
when they had time to listen. Its potency, coupled with veneration, for
the pastor's opinion, had secured the vote of Mr. Clyme, a banker.
Another member of the committee, a lawyer, favored Mrs. Taylor's idea
because of a grudge against Mr. Pierce. The chairman and brother-in-law,
and a hard-headed stove dealer, were opposed to the competitive plan as
highfalutin and unnecessary. Thus the deciding vote lay with Selma.

Now that they were on the same committee, Mrs. Taylor could not
altogether make her out. She remembered that Mr. Glynn had said the same
thing. Mrs. Taylor was accustomed to conquests. Without actual
premeditation, she was agreeably conscious of being able to convert and
sweep most opponents off their feet by the force of her pleasant
personality. In this case the effect was not so obvious. She was
conscious that Selma's eyes were constantly fixed upon her, but as to
what she was thinking Mrs. Taylor felt less certain. Clearly she was
mesmerized, but was the tribute admiration or hostility? Mrs. Taylor was
piqued, and put upon her metal. Besides she needed Selma's vote. Not
being skilled in psychological analyses, she had to resort to practical
methods, and invited her to afternoon tea.

Selma had never been present at afternoon tea as a domestic function in
her life. Nor had she seen a home like Mrs. Taylor's. The house was no
larger than her own, and had cost less. Medicine had not been so
lucrative as the manufacture of varnish. Externally the house displayed
stern lines of unadorned brick--the custom-made style of Benham in the
first throes of expansion before Mr. Pierce's imagination had been
stirred. Mr. Taylor had bought it as it stood, and his wife had made no
attempt to alter the outside, which was, after all, inoffensively
homely. But the interior was bewildering to Selma's gaze in its
suggestion of cosey comfort. Pretty, tasteful things, many of them
inexpensive knick-knacks of foreign origin--a small picture, a bit of
china, a mediæval relic--were cleverly placed as a relief to the
conventional furniture. Selma had been used to formalism in household
garniture--to a best room little used and precise with the rigor of wax
flowers and black horse-hair, and to a living room where the effect
sought was purely utilitarian. Her new home, in spite of its colored
glass and iron stag, was arranged in much this fashion, as were the
houses of her neighbors which she had entered.

Selma managed to seat herself on the one straight-backed chair in the
room. From this she was promptly driven by Mrs. Taylor and established
in one corner of a lounge with a soft silk cushion behind her, and
further propitiated by the proffer of a cup of tea in a dainty cup and
saucer. All this, including Mrs. Taylor's musical voice, easy speech,
and ingratiating friendliness, alternately thrilled and irritated her.
She would have liked to discard her hostess from her thought as a light
creature unworthy of intellectual seriousness, but she found herself
fascinated and even thawed in spite of herself.

"I'm glad to have the opportunity really to talk to you," said Mrs.
Taylor. "At the church reunions one is so liable to interruptions. If
I'm not mistaken, you taught school before you were married?"

"For a short time."

"That must have been interesting. It is so practical and definite. My
life," she added deprecatingly, "has been a thing of threads and
patches--a bit here and a bit there."

She paused, but without forcing a response, proceeded blithely to touch
on her past by way of illustration. The war had come just when she was
grown up, and her kin in Maryland were divided on the issue. Her father
had taken his family abroad, but her heart was in the keeping of a young
officer on the Northern side--now her husband. Loss of property and
bitterness of spirit had kept her parents expatriated, and she, with
them, had journeyed from place to place in Europe. She had seen many
beautiful places and beautiful things. At last Major Taylor had come for
her and carried her off as his bride to take up again her life as an
American.

"I am interested in Benham," she continued, "and I count on you, Mrs.
Babcock, to help make the new church what it ought to be
artistically--worthy of all the energy and independence there is in this
place."

Selma's eye kindled. The allusion to foreign lands had aroused her
distrust, but this patriotic avowal warmed her pulses.

"Every one is so busy with private affairs here, owing to the rapid
growth of the city," pursued Mrs. Taylor, "that there is danger of our
doing inconsiderately things which cannot easily be set right hereafter.
An ugly or tawdry-looking building may be an eyesore for a generation. I
know that we have honest and skilful mechanics in Benham, but as
trustees of the church funds, shouldn't we at least make the effort to
get the best talent there is? If we have the cleverest architect here,
so much the better. An open competition will enable us to find out.
After all Benham is only one city among many, and a very new city. Why
shouldn't we take advantage of the ideas of the rest of the country--the
older portion of the country?"

"Mr. Pierce built our house, and we think it very satisfactory and
pretty."

Selma's tone was firm, but she eyed her hostess narrowly. She had begun
of late to distrust the æsthetic worth of the colored glass and metal
stag, and, though she was on her guard against effrontery, she wished to
know the truth. She knew that Mr. Pierce, with fine business instinct,
had already conveyed to her husband the promise that he should furnish
the varnish for the new church in case of his own selection, which, as
Babcock had remarked, would be a nice thing all round.

Mrs. Taylor underwent the scrutiny without flinching. "I have nothing to
say against Mr. Pierce. He is capable within his lights. Indeed I think
it quite possible that we shall get nothing more satisfactory elsewhere.
Mr. Flagg's grim pile is anything but encouraging. That may sound like
an argument against my plan, but in the case of the Flagg house there
was no competition; merely unenlightened choice on the one side and
ignorant experimenting on the other."

"You don't seem to think very highly of the appearance of Benham," said
Selma. The remark was slightly interrogative, but was combative withal.
She wished to know if everything, from the Flagg mansion down, was open
to criticism, but she would fain question the authority of the
censor--this glib, graceful woman whose white, starched cuffs seemed to
make light of her own sober, unadorned wrists.

This time Mrs. Taylor flushed faintly. She realized that their relations
had reached a critical point, and that the next step might be fatal. She
put down her teacup, and leaning forward, said with smiling confidential
eagerness, "I don't. I wouldn't admit it to anyone else. But what's the
use of mincing matters with an intelligent woman like you? I might put
you off now, and declare that Benham is well enough. But you would soon
divine what I really think, and that would be the end of confidence
between us. I like honesty and frankness, and I can see that you do. My
opinion of Benham architecture is that it is slip-shod and mongrel.
There! You see I put myself in your hands, but I do so because I feel
sure you nearly agree with me already. You know it's so, but you hate to
acknowledge it."

Selma's eyes were bright with interest. She felt flattered by the
appeal, and there was a righteous assurance in Mrs. Taylor's manner
which was convincing. She opened her mouth to say something--what she
did not quite know--but Mrs. Taylor raised her hand by way of
interdiction.

"Don't answer yet. Let me show you what I mean. I'm as proud of Benham
as anyone. I am absorbed by the place, I look to see it fifty years
hence--perhaps less--a great city, and a beautiful city too. Just at
present everything is commercial and--and ethical; yes, ethical. We wish
to do and dare, but we haven't time to adorn as we construct. That is,
most of us haven't. But if a few determined spirits--women though they
be--cry 'halt,' art may get a chance here and there to assert herself.
Look at this," she said, gliding across the room and holding up a small
vase of exquisite shape and coloring, "I picked it up on the other side
and it stands almost for a lost art. The hands and taste which wrought
it represent the transmitted patience and skill of hundreds of years. We
like to rush things through in a few weeks on a design hastily conceived
by a Mr. Pierce because we are so earnest. Now, we won't do it this
time, will we?"

"No, we won't," said Selma. "I see what you mean. I was afraid at first
that you didn't give us credit for the earnestness--for the ethical
part. That's the first thing, the great thing according to my idea, and
it's what distinguishes us from foreigners,--the foreigners who made
that vase, for instance. But I agree with you that there's such a thing
as going too fast, and very likely some of the buildings here aren't all
they might be. We don't need to model them on foreign patterns, but we
must have them pretty and right."

"Certainly, certainly, my dear. What we should strive for is
originality--American originality; but soberly, slowly. Art is evolved
painfully, little by little; it can't be bought ready-made at shops for
the asking like tea and sugar. If we invite designs for the new church,
we shall give the youths of the country who have ideas seething in their
heads a chance to express themselves. Who knows but we may unearth a
genius?"

"Who knows?" echoed Selma, with her spiritual look. "Yes, you are right,
Mrs. Taylor. I will help you. As you say, there must be hundreds of
young men who would like to do just that sort of thing. I know myself
what it is to have lived in a small place without the opportunity to
show what one could do; to feel the capacity, but to be without the
means and occasion to reveal what is in one. And now that I understand
we really look at things the same way, I'm glad to join with you in
making Benham beautiful. As you say, we women can do much if we only
will. I've the greatest faith in woman's mission in this new,
interesting nation of ours. Haven't you, Mrs. Taylor? Don't you believe
that she, in her new sphere of usefulness, is one of the great moving
forces of the Republic?" Selma was talking rapidly, and had lost every
trace of suspicious restraint. She spoke as one transfigured.

"Yes, indeed," answered Mrs. Taylor, checking any disposition she may
have felt to interpose qualifications. She could acquiesce generally
without violence to her convictions, and she could not afford to imperil
the safety of the immediate issue--her church. "I felt sure you would
feel so if you only had time to reflect," she added. "If you vote with
us, you will have the pleasant consciousness of knowing that you have
advanced woman's cause just so much."

"You may count on my vote."

Selma stopped on her way home, although it was late, to purchase some
white cuffs. As she approached, her husband stood on the grass-plot in
his shirt sleeves with a garden-hose. He was whistling, and when he saw
her he kissed his hand at her jubilantly,

"Well, sweetheart, where you been?"

"Visiting. Taking tea with Mrs. Taylor. I've promised her to vote to
invite bids for the church plans."

Babcock looked surprised. "That'll throw Pierce out, won't it?"

"Not unless some one else submits a better design than he."

Lewis scratched his head. "I considered that order for varnish as good
as booked."

"I'm not sure Mr. Pierce knows as much as he thinks he does," said Selma
oracularly. "We shall get plans from New York and Boston. If we don't
like them we needn't take them. But that's the way to get an artistic
thing. And we're going to have the most artistic church in Benham. I'm
sorry about the varnish, but a principle is involved."

Babcock was puzzled but content. He cared far more for the
disappointment to Pierce than for the loss of the order. But apart from
the business side of the question, he never doubted that his wife must
be right, nor did he feel obliged to inquire what principle was
involved. He was pleased to have her associate with Mrs. Taylor, and was
satisfied that she would be a credit to him in any situation where
occult questions of art or learning were mooted. He dropped his hose and
pulled her down beside him on the porch settee. There was a beautiful
sunset, and the atmosphere was soft and refreshing. Selma felt satisfied
with herself. As Mrs. Taylor had said, it was her vote which would turn
the scale on behalf of progress. Other things, too, were in her mind.
She was not ready to admit that she had been instructed, but she was
already planning changes in her own domestic interior, suggested by what
she had seen.

She let her husband squeeze her hand, but her thoughts were wandering
from his blandishments. Presently she said: "Lewis, I've begun lately to
doubt if that stag is really pretty."

"The stag? Well, now, I've always thought it tasty--one of the features
of our little place."

"No one would mistake it for a real deer. It looks to me almost
comical."

Babcock turned to regard judicially the object of her criticism.

"I like it," he said somewhat mournfully, as though he were puzzled.
"But if you don't, we'll change the stag for something else. I wish you
to be pleased first of all. Instead we might have a fountain; two
children under an umbrella I saw the other day. It was cute. How does
that strike you?"

"I can't tell without seeing it. And, Lewis, promise me that you won't
select anything new of that sort until I have looked at it."

"Very well," Babcock answered submissively. But he continued to look
puzzled. In his estimate of his wife's superiority to himself in the
subtleties of life, it had never occurred to him to include the choice
of every-day objects of art. He had eyes and could judge for himself
like any other American citizen. Still, he was only too glad to humor
Selma in such an unimportant matter, especially as he was eager for her
happiness.



CHAPTER IV.


Seven designs for the new church were submitted, including three from
Benham architects. The leaven of influence exercised by spirits like
Mrs. Taylor was only just beginning to work, and the now common custom
of competing outside one's own bailiwick was still in embryo. Mr.
Pierce's design was bold and sumptuous. His brother-in-law stated
oracularly not long before the day when the plans were to be opened:
"Pierce is not a man to be frightened out of a job by frills. Mark my
words; he will give us an elegant thing." Mr. Pierce had conceived the
happy thought of combining a Moorish mosque and New England
meeting-house in a conservative and equitable medley, evidently hoping
thereby to be both picturesque and traditional. The result, even on
paper, was too bold for some of his admirers. The chairman was heard to
remark: "I shouldn't feel as though I was in church. That dome set among
spires is close to making a theatre of the house of God."

The discomfiture of the first architect of Benham cleared the way for
the triumph of Mrs. Taylor's taste. The design submitted by Wilbur
Littleton of New York, seemed to her decidedly the most meritorious. It
was graceful, appropriate, and artistic; entirely in harmony with
religious associations, yet agreeably different from every day
sanctuaries. The choice lay between his and that presented by Mr. Cass,
a Benham builder--a matter-of-fact, serviceable, but very conventional
edifice. The hard-headed stove dealer on the committee declared in favor
of the native design, as simpler and more solid.

"It'll be a massive structure" he said, "and when it's finished no one
will have to ask what it is. It'll speak for itself. Mr. Cass is a solid
business man, and we know what we'll get. The other plan is what I call
dandified."

It was evident to the committee that the stove dealer's final criticism
comprehended the architect as well as his design. Several
competitors--Littleton among them--had come in person to explain the
merits of their respective drawings, and by the side of solid,
red-bearded, undecorative Mr. Cass, Littleton may well have seemed a
dandy. He was a slim young man with a delicate, sensitive face and
intelligent brown eyes. He looked eager and interesting. In his case the
almost gaunt American physiognomy was softened by a suggestion of poetic
impulses. Yet the heritage of nervous energy was apparent. His
appearance conveyed the impression of quiet trigness and gentility. His
figure lent itself to his clothes, which were utterly inconspicuous,
judged by metropolitan standards, but flawless in the face of
hard-headed theories of life, and aroused suspicion. He spoke in a
gentle but earnest manner, pointing out clearly, yet modestly, the
merits of his composition.

Selma had never seen a man just like him before, and she noticed that
from the outset his eyes seemed to be fastened on her as though his
words were intended for her special benefit. She had never read the
lines--indeed they had not been written--

"I think I could be happy with a gentleman like you."

Nor did the precise sentiment contained in them shape itself in her
thought. Yet she was suddenly conscious that she had been starving for
lack of intellectual companionship, and that he was the sort of man she
had hoped to meet--the sort of man who could appreciate her and whom she
could appreciate.

It did not become necessary for Selma to act as Mr. Littleton's
champion, for the stove dealer's criticism found only one supporter. The
New Yorker's design for the church was so obviously pretty and suitable
that a majority of the Committee promptly declared in its favor. The
successful competitor, who had remained a day to learn the result, was
solemnly informed of the decision, and then elaborately introduced to
the members. In shaking hands with him, Selma experienced a shade of
embarrassment. It was plain that his words to her, spoken with a low
bow--"I am very much gratified that my work pleases you" conveyed a more
spiritual significance than was contained in his thanks to the others.
Still he seemed more at his ease with Mrs. Taylor, who promptly broke
the ice of the situation by fixing him as a close relative of friends in
Baltimore. Straightway he became sprightly and voluble, speaking of
things and people beyond Selma's experience. This social jargon
irritated Selma. It seemed to her a profanation of a noble character,
yet she was annoyed because she could not understand.

Mrs. Taylor, having discovered in Mr. Littleton one who should have been
a friend long before, succeeded in carrying him off to dinner. Yet,
before taking his leave, he came back to Selma for a few words. She had
overheard Mrs. Taylor's invitation, and she asked herself why she too
might not become better acquainted with this young man whose attitude
toward her was that of respectful admiration. To have a strange young
man to dine off-hand struck her as novel. She had a general conviction
that it would seem to Lewis closely allied to light conduct, and that
only foreigners or frivolous people let down to this extent the bars of
family life. Now that Mrs. Taylor had set her the example, she was less
certain of the moral turpitude of such an act, but she concluded also
that her husband would be in the way at table. What she desired was an
opportunity for a long, interesting chat about high things.

While she reflected, he was saying to her, "I understand that your
committee is to supervise my work until the new church is completed, so
I shall hope to have the opportunity to meet you occasionally. It will
be necessary for me to make trips here from time to time to see that
everything is being done correctly by the mechanics."

"Do you go away immediately?"

"It may be that I shall be detained by the arrangements which I must
make here until day after to-morrow."

"If you would really like to see me, I live at 25 Onslow Avenue."

"Thank you very much." Littleton took out a small memorandum book and
carefully noted the address. "Mrs. Babcock, 25 Onslow Avenue. I shall
make a point of calling to-morrow afternoon if I stay--and probably I
shall."

He bowed and left Selma pleasantly stirred by the interview. His voice
was low and his enunciation sympathetically fluent. She said to herself
that she would give him afternoon tea and they would compare ideas
together. She felt sure that his must be interesting.

Later in the evening at Mrs. Taylor's, when there was a pause in their
sympathetic interchange of social and æsthetic convictions, Littleton
said abruptly:

"Tell me something, please, about Mrs. Babcock. She has a suggestive as
well as a beautiful face, and it is easy to perceive that she is
genuinely American--not one of the women of whom we were speaking, who
seem to be ashamed of their own institutions, and who ape foreign
manners and customs. I fancy she would illustrate what I was saying just
now as to the vital importance of our clinging to our heritage of
independent thought--of accepting the truth of the ancient order of
things without allowing its lies and demerits to enslave us."

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Taylor. "She certainly does not belong to the
dangerous class of whom you were speaking. I was flattering myself that
neither did I, for I was agreeing with all you said as to the need of
cherishing our native originality. Yet I must confess that now that you
compare me with her (the actual comparison is my own, but you instigated
it), I begin to feel more doubts about myself--that is if she is the
true species, and I'm inclined to think she is. Pray excuse this
indirect method of answering your inquiry; it is in the nature of a
soliloquy; it is an airing of thoughts and doubts which have been
harassing me for a fortnight--ever since I knew Mrs. Babcock. Really,
Mr. Littleton, I can tell you very little about her. She is a new-comer
on the horizon of Benham; she has been married very recently; I believe
she has taught school and that she was brought up not far from here. She
is as proud as Lucifer and sometimes as beautiful; she is profoundly
serious and--and apparently very ignorant. I fancy she is clever and
capable in her way, but I admit she is an enigma to me and that I have
not solved it. I can see she does not approve of me altogether. She
regards me with suspicion, and yet she threw the casting vote in favor
of my proposal to open the competition for the church to architects from
other places. I am trying to like her, for I wish to believe in
everything genuinely American if I can. There, I have told you all I
know, and to a man she may seem altogether attractive and inspiring."

"Thank you. I had no conception that I was broaching such a complex
subject. She sounds interesting, and my curiosity is whetted. You have
not mentioned the husband."

"To be sure. A burly, easy-going manufacturer of varnish, without much
education, I should judge. He is manifestly her inferior in half a dozen
ways, but I understand that he is making money, and he looks kind."

Wilbur Littleton's life since he had come to man's estate had been a
struggle, and he was only just beginning to make headway. He had never
had time to commiserate himself, for necessity on the one hand and
youthful ambition on the other had kept his energies tense and his
thoughts sane and hopeful. He and his sister Pauline, a year his senior,
had been left orphans while both were students by the death of their
father on the battlefield. To persevere in their respective tastes and
work out their educations had been a labor of love, but an undertaking
which demanded rigorous self-denial on the part of each. Wilbur had
determined to become an architect. Pauline, early interested in the
dogma that woman must no longer be barred from intellectual
companionship with man, had sought to cultivate herself intelligently
without sacrificing her brother's domestic comfort. She had succeeded.
Their home in New York, despite its small dimensions and frugal
hospitality, was already a favorite resort of a little group of
professional people with busy brains and light purses. Wilbur was in the
throes of early progress. He had no relatives or influential friends to
give him business, and employment came slowly. He had been an architect
on his own account for two years, but was still obliged to supplement
his professional orders by work as a draughtsman for others. Yet his
enthusiasm kept him buoyant. In respect to his own work he was
scrupulous; indeed, a stern critic. He abhorred claptrap and specious
effects, and aimed at high standards of artistic expression. This gave
him position among his brother architects, but was incompatible with
meteoric progress. His design for the church at Benham represented much
thought and hope, and he felt happy at his success.

Littleton's familiarity with women, apart from his sister, had been
slight, but his thoughts regarding them were in keeping with a poetic
and aspiring nature. He hoped to marry some day, and he was fond of
picturing to himself in moments of reverie the sort of woman to whom his
heart would be given. In the shrine of his secret fancy she appeared
primarily as an object of reverence, a white-souled angel of light clad
in the graceful outlines of flesh, an Amazon and yet a winsome, tender
spirit, and above all a being imbued with the stimulating intellectual
independence he had been taught to associate with American womanhood.
She would be the loving wife of his bosom and the intelligent sharer of
his thoughts and aspirations--often their guide. So pure and exacting
was his ideal that while alive to the value of coyness and coquetry as
elements of feminine attraction for others, Wilbur had chosen to regard
the maiden of his faith as too serious a spirit to condescend to such
vanities; and from a similar vein of appreciation he was prone to think
of her as unadorned, or rather untarnished, by the gewgaws of
fashionable dressmaking and millinery. His first sight of Selma had made
him conscious that here was a face not unlike what he had hoped to
encounter some day, and he had instinctively felt her to be sympathetic.
He was even conscious of disappointment when he heard her addressed as
Mrs. Babcock. Evidently she was a free-born soul, unhampered by the
social weaknesses of a large city, and illumined by the spiritual grace
of native womanliness. So he thought of her, and Mrs. Taylor's diagnosis
rather confirmed than impaired his impression, for in Mrs. Taylor Wilbur
felt he discerned a trace of antagonism born of cosmopolitan
prejudice--an inability to value at its true worth a nature not moulded
on conventional lines. Rigorous as he was in his judgments, and eager to
disown what was cheap or shallow, mere conventionalism, whether in art
or daily life, was no less abhorrent to him. Here, he said to himself,
was an original soul, ignorant and unenlightened perhaps, but endowed
with swift perception and capable of noble development.

The appearance of Selma's scroll and glass bedizened house did not
affect this impression. Wilbur was first of all appreciatively an
American. That is he recognized that native energy had hitherto been
expended on the things of the spirit to the neglect of things material.
As an artist he was supremely interested in awakening and guiding the
national taste in respect to art, but at the same time he was thoroughly
aware that the peculiar vigor and independence of character which he
knew as Americanism was often utterly indifferent to, or ignorant of,
the value of æsthetics. After all, art was a secondary consideration,
whereas the inward vision which absorbed the attention of the thoughtful
among his countrymen and countrywomen was an absolute essential without
which the soul must lose its fineness. He himself was seeking to show
that beauty, in external material expression, was not merely consistent
with strong ideals but requisite to their fit presentment. He recognized
too that the various and variegated departures from the monotonous
homely pattern of the every-day American house, which were evident in
each live town, were but so many indicators that the nation was
beginning to realize the truth of this. His battle was with the
designers and builders who were guiding falsely and flamboyantly, not
with the deceived victims, nor with those who were still satisfied
merely to look inwardly, and ignored form and color. Hence he would have
been able to behold the Babcocks' iron stag without rancor had the
animal still occupied the grass-plot. Selma, when she saw the figure of
her visitor in the door-way, congratulated herself that it had been
removed. It would have pleased her to know that Mr. Littleton had
already placed her in a niche above the level of mere grass-plot
considerations. That was where she belonged of course; but she was
fearful on the score of suspected shortcomings. So it was gratifying to
be able to receive him in a smarter gown, to be wearing white cuffs, and
to offer him tea with a touch of Mrs. Taylor's tormenting urbanity. Not
so unreservedly as she. That would never do. It was and never would be
in keeping with her own ideas of serious self-respect. Still a touch of
it was grateful to herself. She felt that it was a grace and enhanced
her effectiveness.

A few moments later Selma realized that for the first time since she had
lived in Benham she was being understood and appreciated. She felt too
that for the first time she was talking to a kindred spirit--to be sure,
to one different, and more technically proficient in concrete knowledge,
possibly more able, too, to express his thoughts in words, but eminently
a comrade and sympathizer. She was not obliged to say much. Nor were,
indeed, his actual words the source of her realization. The revelation
came from what was left unsaid--from the silent recognition by him that
she was worthy to share his best thoughts and was herself a serious
worker in the struggle of life. No graceful but galling attitude of
superiority, no polite indifference to her soul-hunger, no disposition
to criticise. And yet he was no less voluble, clever, and spirited than
Mrs. Taylor. She listened with wrapt interest to his easy talk, which
was ever grave in tone, despite his pleasant sallies. He spoke of Benham
with quick appreciation of its bustling energy, and let her see that he
divined its capacity for greatness. This led him to refer with kindling
eyes to the keen impulse toward education and culture which was
animating the younger men and women of the country; to the new
beginnings of art, literature, and scientific investigation. At scarcely
a hint from her he told briefly of his past life and his hopes, and
fondly mentioned his sister and her present absorption in some history
courses for women.

"And you?" he said. "You are a student, too. Mrs. Taylor has told me,
but I should have guessed it. Duties even more interesting claim you
now, but it is easy to perceive that you have known that other
happiness, 'To scorn delights and live laborious days.'"

His words sounded musical, though the quotation from Lycidas was
unfamiliar to her ears. Her brain was thrilling with the import of all
he had told her--with his allusions to the intellectual and ethical
movements of Boston and New York, in which she felt herself by right and
with his recognition a partner and peer.

"You were teaching school when you married, I believe?" he added.

"Yes."

"And before that, if I may ask?"

"I lived at Westfield with my father. It is a small country town, but we
tried to be in earnest."

"I understand--I understand. You grew up among the trees, and the
breezes and the brooks, those wonderful wordless teachers. I envy you,
for they give one time to think--to expand. I have known only city life
myself. It is stimulating, but one is so easily turned aside from one's
direct purpose. Do you write at all?"

"Not yet. But I have wished to. Some day I shall. Just now I have too
many domestic concerns to--"

She did not finish, for Babcock's heavy tread and whistle resounded in
the hall and at the next moment he was calling "Selma!"

She felt annoyed at being interrupted, but she divined that it would
never do to show it.

"My husband," she said, and she raised her voice to utter with a sugared
dignity which would have done credit to Mrs. Taylor,

"I am in the parlor, Lewis."

"Enter your chief domestic concern," said Littleton blithely. "A happy
home is preferable to all the poems and novels in the world."

Babcock, pushing open the door, which stood ajar, stopped short in his
melody.

"This is Mr. Littleton, Lewis. The architect of our new church."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." And by way of accounting for the
sudden softening of his brow, Babcock added, "I set you down at first as
one of those lightning-rod agents. There was one here last week who
wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

"He has an advantage over me," answered Littleton with a laugh. "In my
business a man can't solicit orders. He has to sit and wait for them to
come to him."

"I want to know. My wife thinks a lot of your drawings for the new
church."

"I hope to make it a credit to your city. I've just been saying to your
wife, Mr. Babcock, that Benham has a fine future before it. The very
atmosphere seems charged with progress."

Babcock beamed approvingly. "It's a driving place, sir. The man in
Benham who stops by the way-side to scratch his head gets left behind.
When we moved into this house a year ago looking through that window we
were at the jumping-off place; now you see houses cropping up in every
direction. It's going to be a big city. Pleased to have you stop to
supper with us," he added with burly suavity as their visitor rose.

Littleton excused himself and took his leave. Babcock escorted him to
the front door and full of his subject delayed him on the porch to touch
once more on the greatness of Benham. There was a clumsy method too in
this optimistic garrulity, for at the close he referred with some pride
to his own business career, and made a tender of his business card,
"Lewis Babcock & Company, Varnishes," with a flourish. "If you do
anything in my line, pleased to accommodate you."

Littleton departing, tickled by a pleasant sense of humor, caught
through the parlor window a last glimpse of Selma's inspired face bowing
gravely, yet wistfully, in acknowledgment of his lifted hat, and he
strode away under the spell of a brain picture which he transmuted into
words: "There's the sort of case where the cynical foreigner fails to
appreciate the true import of our American life. That couple typifies
the elements of greatness in our every-day people. At first blush the
husband's rough and material, but he's shrewd and enterprising and
vigorous--the bread winner. He's enormously proud of her, and he has
reason to be, for she is a constant stimulus to higher things. Little by
little, and without his knowing it, perhaps, she will smoothe and
elevate him, and they will develop together, growing in intelligence and
cultivation as they wax in worldly goods. After all, woman is our most
marvellous native product--that sort of woman. Heigho!" Having given
vent to this sigh, Littleton proceeded to recognize the hopelessness of
the personal situation by murmuring with a slightly forced access of
sprightliness

     "If she be not fair for me,
     What care I how fair she be?"

Still he intended to see more of Mrs. Babcock, and that without
infringing the tenth or any other commandment. To flirt with a married
woman savored to him of things un-American and unworthy, and Littleton
had much too healthy an imagination to rhapsodize from such a
stand-point. Yet he foresaw that they might be mutually respecting
friends.



CHAPTER V.


Selma knew intuitively that an American woman was able to cook a smooth
custard, write a poem and control real society with one and the same
brain and hand, and she was looking forward to the realization of the
apotheosis; but, though she was aware that children are the natural
increment of wedlock, she had put the idea from her ever since her
marriage as impersonal and vaguely disgusting. Consequently her
confinement came as an unwelcome interruption of her occupations and
plans.

Her connection with the committee for the new church had proved an
introduction to other interests, charitable and social. One day she was
taken by Mrs. Taylor to a meeting of the Benham Woman's Institute, a
literary club recently established by Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, a
Western newspaper woman who had made her home in Benham. Selma came in
upon some twenty of her own sex in a hotel private parlor hired weekly
for the uses of the Institute. Mrs. Earle, the president, a large florid
woman of fifty, with gray hair rising from the brow, fluent of speech,
endowed with a public manner, a commanding bust and a vigorous,
ingratiating smile, wielded a gavel at a little table and directed the
exercises. A paper on Shakespeare's heroines was read and discussed.
Selections on the piano followed. A thin woman in eye-glasses, the
literary editor of the _Benham Sentinel_, recited "Curfew must not ring
to-night," and a visitor from Wisconsin gave an exhibition in melodious
whistling. In the intervals, tea, chocolate with whipped cream and
little cakes were dispensed.

Selma was absorbed and thrilled. What could be more to her taste than
this? At the close of the whistling exercise, Mrs. Earle came over and
spoke to her. They took a strong fancy to each other on the spot. Selma
preferred a person who would tell you everything about herself and to
whom you could tell everything about yourself without preliminaries.
People like Mrs. Taylor repressed her, but the motherly loquacity and
comprehension of Mrs. Earle drew her out and thawed at once and forever
the ice of acquaintanceship. Before she quite realized the extent of
this fascination she had promised to recite something, and as in a
dream, but with flushing cheeks, she heard the President rap the table
and announce "You will be gratified to hear that a talented friend who
is with us has kindly consented to favor us with a recital. I have the
honor to introduce Mrs. Lewis Babcock."

After the first flush of nervousness, Selma's grave dignity came to her
support, and justified her completely in her own eyes. Her father had
been fond of verse, especially of verse imbued with moral melancholy,
and at his suggestion she had learned and had been wont to repeat many
of the occasional pieces which he cut from the newspapers and collected
in a scrap-book. Her own preference among these was the poem, "O why
should the spirit of mortal be proud?" which she had been told was a
great favorite of Abraham Lincoln. It was this piece which came into her
mind when Mrs. Earle broached the subject, and this she proceeded to
deliver with august precision. She spoke clearly and solemnly without
the trace of the giggling protestation which is so often incident to
feminine diffidence. She treated the opportunity with the seriousness
expected, for though the Institute was not proof against light and
diverting contributions, as the whistling performance indicated, levity
of spirit would have been out of place.

     "'Tis a twink of the eye, 'tis a draught of the breath
     From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;
     From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
     O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

Selma enjoyed the harmony between the long, slow cadence of the metre
and the important gravity of the theme. She rolled out the verses with
the intensity of a seer, and she looked a beautiful seer as well.
Liberal applause greeted her as she sat down, though the clapping woman
is apt to be a feeble instrument at best. Selma knew that she had
produced an impression and she was moved by her own effectiveness. She
was compelled to swallow once or twice to conceal the tears in her voice
while listening to the congratulations of Mrs. Earle. The words which
she had just recited were ringing through her brain and seemed to her to
express the pitch at which her life was keyed.

Selma was chosen a member of the Institute at the next meeting, and
forthwith she became intimate with the president. Mrs. Margaret Rodney
Earle was, as she herself phrased it, a live woman. She supported
herself by writing for the newspapers articles of a morally utilitarian
character--for instance a winter's series, published every Saturday,
"Hints on Health and Culture," or again, "Receipts for the Parlor and
the Kitchen." She also contributed poetry of a pensive cast, and chatty
special correspondence flavored with personal allusion. She was one of
the pioneers in modern society journalism, which at this time, however,
was comparatively veiled and delicate in its methods. Besides, she was a
woman of tireless energy, with theories on many subjects and an ardor
for organization. She advocated prohibition, the free suffrage of woman,
the renunciation of corsets, and was interested in reforms relating to
labor, the pauper classes and the public schools. In behalf of any of
these causes she was ready from time to time to dash off an article at
short notice or address an audience. But her dearest concern was the
promotion of woman's culture and the enlargement of woman's sphere of
usefulness through the club. The idea of the woman's club, which was
taking root over the country, had put in the shade for the time being
all her other plans, including the scheme of a society for making the
golden-rod the national flower. As the founder and president of the
Benham Institute, she felt that she had found an avocation peculiarly
adapted to her capacities, and she was already actively in
correspondence with clubs of a similar character in other cities, in the
hope of forming a national organization for mutual enlightenment and
support.

Mrs. Earle received Selma by invitation at her lodgings the following
day, and so quickly did their friendship ripen that at the end of two
hours each had told the other everything. Selma was prone instinctively
to regard as aristocratic and un-American any limitations to confidence.
The evident disposition on the part of Mrs. Earle to expose promptly and
without reserve the facts of her past and her plans for the future
seemed to Selma typical of an interesting character, and she was
thankful to make a clean breast in her turn as far as was possible. Mrs.
Earle's domestic experience had been thorny.

"I had a home once, too," she said, "a happy home, I thought. My husband
said he loved me. But almost from the first we had trouble. It went on
so from month to month, and finally we agreed to part. He objected, my
dear, to my living my own life. He didn't like me to take an interest in
things outside the house--public matters. I was elected on the
school-board--the only woman--and he ought to have been proud. He said
he was, at first, but he was too fond of declaring that a woman's place
is in her kitchen. One day I said to him, 'Ellery, this can't go on. If
we can't agree we'd better separate. A cat-and-dog life is no life at
all.' He answered back, 'I'm not asking you to leave me, but if you're
set on it don't let me hinder you, Margaret. You don't need a man to
support you. You're as good as a man yourself.' He meant that to be
sarcastic, I suppose. 'Yes,' said I, 'thank God, I think I can take care
of myself, even though I am a woman.' That was the end of it. There was
no use for either of us to get excited. I packed my things, and a few
mornings later I said to him, 'Good-by, Ellery Earle: I wish you well,
and I suppose you're my husband still, but I'm going to live my own life
without let or hindrance from any man. There's your ring.' My holding
out the ring was startling to him, for he said, 'Aren't you going to be
sorry for this, Margaret?' 'No,' said I, 'I've thought it all out, and
it's best for both of us. There's your ring.' He wouldn't take it, so I
dropped it on the table and went out. Some people miss it, and
misbelieve I was ever married. That was close on to twenty years ago,
and I've never seen him since. When the war broke out I heard he
enlisted, but what's become of him I don't know. Maybe he got a divorce.
I've kept right on and lived my own life in my own way, and never lacked
food or raiment. I'm forty-five years old, but I feel a young woman
still."

Notwithstanding Mrs. Earle's business-like directness and the
protuberance of her bust in conclusion, by way of reasserting her
satisfaction with the results of her action, there was a touch of
plaintiveness in her confession which suggested the womanly author of
"Hints on Culture and Hygiene," rather than the man-hater. This was lost
on Selma, who was fain to sympathize purely from the stand-point of
righteousness.

"It was splendid," she said. "He had no right to prevent you living your
own life. No husband has that right."

Mrs. Earle brushed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You musn't think, my
dear, that I'm not a believer in the home because mine has been
unhappy--because my husband didn't or couldn't understand. The true home
is the inspirer and nourisher of all that is best in life--in our
American life; but men must learn the new lesson. There are many
homes--yours, I'm sure--where the free-born American woman has
encouragement and the opportunity to expand."

"Oh, yes. My husband lets me do as I wish. I made him promise before I
accepted him that he wouldn't thwart me; that he'd let me live my own
life."

Selma was so appreciative of Mrs. Earle, and so energetic and suggestive
in regard to the scope of the Institute, that she was presently chosen a
member of the council, which was the body charged with the supervision
of the fortnightly entertainments. It occurred to her as a brilliant
conception to have Littleton address the club on "Art," and she broached
the subject to him when he next returned to Benham and appeared before
the church committee. He declared that he was too busy to prepare a
suitable lecture, but he yielded finally to her plea that he owed it to
himself to let the women of Benham hear his views and opinions.

"They are wives and they are mothers," said Selma sententiously. "It was
a woman's vote, you remember, which elected you to build our church. You
owe it to Art; don't you think so?"

A logical appeal to his conscience was never lost on Littleton. Besides
he was glad to oblige Mrs. Babcock, who seemed so earnest in her desire
to improve the æsthetic taste of Benham. Accordingly, he yielded. The
lecture was delivered a few weeks later and was a marked success, for
Littleton's earnestness of theme and manner was relieved by a graceful,
sympathetic delivery. Selma, whose social aplomb was increasing every
day, glided about the rooms with a contented mien receiving
felicitations and passing chocolate. She enjoyed the distinction of
being the God behind the curtain.

A few days later the knowledge that she herself was to become a mother
was forced upon her attention, and was a little irksome. Of necessity
her new interests would be interrupted. Though she did not question that
she would perform maternal duties fitly and fully, they seemed to her
less peculiarly adapted to her than concerns of the intellect and the
spirit. However, the possession of a little daughter was more precious
to her than she had expected, and the consciousness that the tiny doll
which lay upon her breast, was flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone
affected her agreeably and stirred her imagination. It should be reared,
from the start, in the creed of soul independence and expansion, and she
herself would find a new and sacred duty in catering to the needs of
this budding intelligence. So she reflected as she lay in bed, but the
outlook was a little marred by the thought that the baby was the living
image of its father--broad-featured and burly--not altogether desirable
cast of countenance for a girl. What a pity, when it might just as well
have looked like her.

Babcock, on his part, was transported by paternity. He was bubbling over
with appreciation of the new baby, and fondly believed it to be a human
wonder. He was solicitous on the score of its infantile ailments, and
loaded it with gifts and toys beyond the scope of its enjoyment. He went
about the house whistling more exuberantly than ever. There was no speck
on his horizon; no fly in his pot of ointment. It was he who urged that
the child should be christened promptly, though Dr. Glynn was not
disposed to dwell on the clerical barbarism as to the destiny of
unbaptized infants. Babcock was cultivating a conservative method: He
realized that there was no object in taking chances. Illogical as was
the theory that a healthy dog which had bitten him should be killed at
once, lest it subsequently go mad and he contract hydrophobia, he was
too happy and complacent to run the risk of letting it live. So it was
with regard to baby. But Selma chose the name. Babcock preferred in this
order another Selma, Sophia, after his mother, or a compliment to the
wife of the President of the United States. But Selma, as the result of
grave thought, selected Muriel Grace. Without knowing exactly why, she
asked Mrs. Taylor to be godmother. The ceremony was solemn and inspiring
to her. She knew from the glass in her room that she was looking very
pretty. But she was weak and emotional. The baby behaved admirably, even
when Lewis, trembling with pride, held it out to Mr. Glynn for baptism
and held it so that the blood rushed to its head. "I baptize thee in the
name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." She was happy and the
tears were in her eyes. The divine blessing was upon her and her house,
and, after all, baby was a darling and her husband a kind, manly soul.
With the help of heaven she would prove herself their good angel.

When they returned home there was a whistle of old silver of light,
graceful design, a present from Mrs. Taylor to Muriel. Her aunt, Mrs.
Farley, compared this to its disparagement with one already purchased by
Lewis, on the gaudily embossed stem of which perched a squirrel with a
nut in its mouth. But Selma shook her head. "Both of you are wrong," she
said with authority. "This is a beauty."

"It doesn't look new to my eyes," protested Mrs. Parley.

"Of course it isn't new. I shouldn't wonder if she bought it while
travelling abroad in Europe. It's artistic, and--and I shan't let baby
destroy it."

Babcock glanced from one gift to the other quizzically. Then by way of
disposing of the subject he seized his daughter in his arms and dandling
her toward the ceiling cried, "If it's artistic things we must have,
this is the most artistic thing which I know of in the wide world.
Aren't you, little sugar-plum?"

Mrs. Farley, with motherly distrust of man, apprehensively followed with
her eyes and arms the gyrations of rise and fall; but Selma, though she
saw, pursued the current of her own thought which prompted her to
examine her wedding-ring. She was thinking that, compared with Mrs.
Taylor's, it was a cart wheel--a clumsy, conspicuous band of metal,
instead of a delicate hoop. She wondered if Lewis would object to
exchange it for another.

With the return of her strength, Selma took up again eagerly the tenor
of her former life, aiding and abetting Mrs. Earle in the development of
the Institute. The president was absorbed in enlarging its scope by the
enrollment of more members, and the establishment of classes in a
variety of topics--such as literature, science, philosophy, current
events, history, art, and political economy. She aimed to construct a
club which should be social and educational in the broadest sense by
mutual co-operation and energy. Selma, in her eagerness to make the most
of the opportunities for culture offered, committed herself to two of
the new topic classes--"Italian and Grecian Art," and "The Governments
of Civilization," and as a consequence found some difficulty in
accommodating her baby's nursing hours to these engagements. It was
indeed a relief to her when the doctor presently pronounced the supply
of her breast-milk inadequate. She was able to assuage Lewis' regret
that Muriel should be brought up by hand with the information that a
large percentage of Benham and American mothers were similarly barren
and that bottle babies were exceedingly healthy. She had gleaned the
first fact from the physician, the second from Mrs. Earle, and her own
conclusion on the subject was that a lack of milk was an indication of
feminine evolution from the status of the brute creation, a sign of
spiritual as opposed to animal quality. Selma found Mrs. Earle
sympathetic on this point, and also practical in her suggestions as to
the rearing of infants by artificial means, recommendations concerning
which were contained in one of her series of papers entitled "Mother
Lore."

The theory of the new classes was co-operation. That is, the members
successively, turn by turn, lectured on the topic, and all were expected
to study in the interim so as to be able to ask questions and discuss
the views of the lecturer. Concerning both Italian and Grecian Art and
the Governments of Civilization, Selma knew that she had convictions in
the abstract, but when she found herself face to face with a specific
lecture on each subject, it occurred to her as wise to supplement her
ideas by a little preparation. The nucleus of a public library had been
recently established by Joel Flagg and placed at the disposal of Benham.
Here, by means of an encyclopædia and two hand-books, Selma was able in
three forenoons to compile a paper satisfactory to her self-esteem on
the dynasties of Europe and their inferiority to the United States, but
her other task was illumined for her by a happy incident, the promise of
Littleton to lend her books. Indeed he seemed delightfully interested in
both of her classes, which was especially gratifying in view of the fact
that Mrs. Taylor, who was a member of the Institute, had combated the
new programme on the plea that they were attempting too much and that it
would encourage superficiality. But Littleton seemed appreciative of the
value of the undertaking, and he made his promise good forthwith by
forwarding to her a package of books on art, among them two volumes of
Ruskin. Selma, who had read quotations from Ruskin on one or two
occasions and believed herself an admirer of, and tolerably familiar
with, his writings, was thrilled. She promptly immersed herself in
"Stones of Venice" and "Seven Lamps of Architecture," sitting up late at
night to finish them. When she had read these and the article in the
encyclopædia under the head of Art, she felt bursting with her subject
and eager to air her knowledge before the class. Her lecture was
acknowledged to be the most stirring and thorough of the course.

Reports of its success came back to her from Littleton, who offered to
assist his pupil further by practical demonstration of the eternal
architectural fitness and unfitness of things--especially the latter--in
walks through the streets of Benham. But six times in as many months,
however. There was no suggestion of coquetry on either side in these
excursions, yet each enjoyed them. Littleton's own work was beginning to
assume definite form, and his visits to Benham became of necessity more
frequent; flying trips, but he generally managed to obtain a few words
with Selma. He continued to lend her books, and he invited her criticism
on the slowly growing church edifice. The responsibility of critic was
an absorbing sensation to her, but the stark glibness of tongue which
stood her in good stead before the classes of the Institute failed her
in his presence--the presence of real knowledge. She wished to praise,
but to praise discriminatingly, with the cant of æsthetic appreciation,
so that he should believe that she knew. As for the church itself, she
was interested in it; it was fine, of course, but that was a secondary
consideration compared with her emotions. His predilection in her favor,
however, readily made him deaf in regard to her utterances. He scarcely
heeded her halting, solemn, counterfeit transcendentalisms; or rather
they passed muster as subtle and genuine, so spell bound was he by the
Delphic beauty of her criticising expression. It was enough for him to
watch her as she stood with her head on one side and the worried
archangel look transfiguring her profile. What she said was lost in his
reverie as to what she was--what she represented in his contemplation.
As she looked upon his handiwork he was able to view it with different
eyes, to discern its weaknesses and to gain fresh inspiration from her
presence. He felt that it was growing on his hands and that he should be
proud of it, and though, perhaps, he was conscious in his inner soul
that she was more to him than another man's wife should be, he knew too,
that no word or look of his had offended against the absent husband.



CHAPTER VI.


By the end of another six months Littleton's work was practically
completed. Only the finishing touches to the interior decoration
remained to be done. The members of Rev. Mr. Glynn's congregation,
including Mrs. Hallett Taylor, were thoroughly satisfied with the
appearance of the new church. It was attractive in its lines, yet it was
simple and, consequently, in keeping with the resources of the treasury.
There was no large bill for extras to be audited, as possibly would have
been the case had a hard-headed designer like Mr. Pierce been employed.
The committee felt itself entitled to the congratulations of the
community. Nor was the community on the whole disposed to grumble, for
home talent had been employed by the architect; under rigorous
supervision, to be sure, so that poor material and slap-dash workmanship
were out of the question. Still, payments had been prompt, and Benham
was able to admire competent virtue. The church was a monument of
suggestion in various ways, artistic and ethical, and it shone neatly
with Babcock varnish.

One morning Selma set forth by agreement with Littleton, in order to
inspect some fresco work. Muriel Grace was ailing slightly, but as she
would be home by mid-day, she bade the hired girl be watchful of baby,
and kept her appointment. The child had grown dear to her, for Muriel
was a charming little dot, and Selma had already begun to enjoy the
maternal delight of human doll dressing, an extravagance in which she
was lavishly encouraged by her husband. Babcock was glad of any excuse
to spend money on his daughter, who seemed to him, from day to day, a
greater marvel of precocity--such a child as became Selma's beauty and
cleverness and his own practical common-sense.

Selma was in a pensive frame of mind this morning. Two days before she
had read a paper at the Institute on "Motherhood," which had been
enthusiastically received. Mrs. Earle had printed a flattering item
concerning it in the _Benham Sentinel_. It was agreeable to her to be
going to meet Littleton, for he was the most interesting masculine
figure in her life. She was sure of Lewis. He was her husband and she
knew herself to be the apple of his eye; but she knew exactly what he
was going to say before he said it, and much of what he said grated on
her. She was almost equally sure of Littleton; that is of his
admiration. His companionship was a constant pleasure to her. As a
married woman, and as a Christian and American woman, she desired no
more than this. But on the other hand, she would fain have this admiring
companionship continue; and yet it could not. Littleton had told her the
day before that he was going back to New York and that it was doubtful
if he would return. She would miss him. She would have the Institute and
Mrs. Earle still, but her life would be less full.

Littleton was waiting for her at the church entrance. She followed him
down the nave to the chancel where she listened dreamily to his
presentation of the merits of the new decoration. He seemed inclined to
talk, and from this presently branched off to describe with enthusiasm
the plates of a French book on interior architecture, which he had
recently bought as a long-resisted but triumphant piece of extravagance.
Mechanically, they turned from the chancel and slowly made the round of
the aisles. A short silence succeeded his professional ardor. His
current of thought, in its reversion to home matters, had reminded him
afresh of what was perpetually this morning uppermost in his
consciousness--his coming departure.

"Now," he said, abruptly, "is the most favorable opportunity I shall
have, Mrs. Babcock, to tell you how much I am your debtor. I shan't
despair of our meeting again, for the world is small, and good friends
are sure to meet sooner or later. But the past is secure to me at any
rate. If this church is in some measure what I have dreamed and wished
it to be, if my work with all its faults is a satisfaction to myself, I
wish you to know how much you have contributed to make it what it is."

The words were as a melody in Selma's ears, and she listened greedily.
Littleton paused, as one seriously moved will pause before giving the
details of an important announcement. She, thinking he had finished,
interjected with a touch of modesty, "I'm so glad. But my suggestions
and criticisms have not been what I meant them to be. It was all new to
me, you know."

"Oh, yes. It hasn't been so much what you have said in words which has
helped me, though that has been always intelligent and uplifting. I did
not look for technical knowledge. You do not possess that, of course.
There are women in New York who would be able to confuse you with their
familiarity with these things. And yet it is by way of contrast with
those very women--fine women, too, in their way--that you have been my
good angel. There is no harm in saying that. I should be an ingrate,
surely, if I would not let you know that your sane, simple outlook upon
life, your independent vision, has kept my brain clear and my soul free.
I am a better artist and a better man for the experience. Good-by, and
may all happiness attend you. If once in a while you should find time to
write to a struggling architect named Littleton, he will be charmed to
do your bidding--to send you books and to place his professional
knowledge at your service. Good-by."

He held out his hand with frank effusion. He was obviously happy at
having given utterance to his sense of obligation. Selma was tingling
from head to foot and a womanly blush was on her cheek, though the
serious seraph spoke in her words and eyes. She felt moved to a wave of
unreserved speech.

"What you have said is very interesting to me. I wish to tell you how
much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship. The first time we met I felt
sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven't we? One of the
fine things about friendships between men and women in this country is
that they can really get to know each other without--er--harm to either.
Isn't it? It's such a pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I
had known you, as if we had known each other really. I've never known
any man exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to. Except, of
course, my husband. And he's extremely different--that is, his tastes
are not like yours. It's a happiness to me to feel that I have been of
assistance to you in your work, and you have been equally helpful to me
in mine. As you say, I have never had the opportunity to learn the
technical parts of art, and your books have instructed me as to that. I
have never been in New York, but I understand what you meant about your
friends, those other women. I suppose society people must be constantly
diverted from serious work--from the intellectual and spiritual life. Oh
yes, we ought to write. Our friendship mustn't languish. We must let
each other know what we are thinking and doing. Good-by."

As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth. She felt
pity for herself. To just the right person she would have confessed the
discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the
wrong man. It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which
distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of
infatuation. What disturbed her was the contrast between him and
Babcock, which definite separation now forced upon her attention. An
indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she
were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from
disclosing the secret. Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of
being false to Lewis. Her confession would have been but a dissertation
on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no
way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she
had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He was
gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That was
endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed
to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears to her eyes
was the vision of continued wedlock, until death intervened, with a
husband who could not understand. Could she bear this? Must she endure
it? There was but one answer: She must. At the thought she bit her lip
with the intensity and sternness of a martyr. She would be faithful to
her marriage vows, but she would not let Lewis's low aims interfere with
the free development of her own life.

It was after noon when she reached home. She was met at the door by the
hired girl with the worried ejaculation that baby was choking. The
doctor was hastily summoned. He at once pronounced that Muriel Grace had
membranous croup, and was desperately ill. Remedies of various sorts
were tried, and a consulting physician called, but when Babcock returned
from his office her condition was evidently hopeless. The child died in
the early night. Selma was relieved to hear the doctor tell her husband
that it was a malignant case from the first, and that nothing could have
averted the result. In response to questions from Lewis, however, she
was obliged to admit that she had not been at home when the acute
symptoms appeared. This afforded Babcock an outlet for his suffering. He
spoke to her roughly for the first time in his life, bitterly suggesting
neglect on her part.

"You knew she wasn't all right this morning, yet you had to go
fiddle-faddling with that architect instead of staying at home where you
belonged. And now she's dead. My little girl, my little girl!" And the
big man burst out sobbing.

Selma grew deadly pale. No one had ever spoken to her like that before
in her life. To the horror of her grief was added the consciousness that
she was being unjustly dealt with. Lewis had heard the doctor's
statement, and yet he dared address her in such terms. As if the loss of
the child did not fall equally on her.

"If it were to be done over again, I should do just the same," she
answered, with righteous quietness. "To all appearances she had nothing
but a little cold. You have no right to lay the blame on me, her
mother." At the last word she looked ready to cry, too.

Babcock regarded her like a miserable tame bull. "I didn't mean to," he
blubbered. "She's taken away from me, and I'm so wretched that I don't
know what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Selma."

He held out his arms to her. She was ready to go to them, for the angel
of death had entered her home and pierced her heart, where it should be
most tender. She loved her baby. Yet, when she had time to think, she
was not sure that she wished to have another. When the bitterness of his
grief had passed away, that was the hope which Lewis ventured to
express, at first in a whisper, and later with reiterated boldness.
Selma acquiesced externally, but she had her own opinions. Certain
things which were not included in "Mother Lore," had been confided by
Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle by word of mouth in the fulness of their
mutual soul-scourings, and had remained pigeon-holed for future
reference in Selma's inner consciousness. Another baby just at this time
meant interference with everything elevating. There was time enough. In
a year or two, when she had established herself more securely in the
social sphere of Benham, she would present her husband with a second
child. It was best for them both to wait, for her success was his
success; but it would be useless to try to make that clear to him in his
present mood.

So she put away her baby things, dropping tears over the little socks
and other reminders of her sorrow, and took up her life again, keeping
her own counsel. The sympathy offered her was an interesting experience.
Mrs. Earle came to her at once, and took her to her bosom; Mrs. Taylor
sent her flowers with a kind note, which set Selma thinking whether she
ought not to buy mourning note-paper; and within a week she received a
visit of condolence from Mr. Glynn, rather a ghastly visit. Ghastly,
because Lewis sat through it all with red eyes, very much as though he
were listening to a touching exhortation in church. To be sure, he
gripped the pastor's hand like a vice, at the end, and thanked him for
coming, but his silent, afflicted presence had interfered with the free
interchange of thought which would have been possible had she been alone
with the clergyman. The subject of death, and the whole train of
reflections incident to it, were uppermost in her mind, and she would
have been glad to probe the mysteries of the subject by controversial
argument, instead of listening to hearty, sonorous platitudes. She
listened rather contemptuously, for she recognized that Mr. Glynn was
saying the stereotyped thing in the stereotyped way, without realizing
that it was nothing but sacerdotal pap, little adapted to an intelligent
soul. What was suited to Lewis was not fit for her. And yet her baby's
death had served to dissipate somewhat the immediate discontent which
she felt with her husband. His strong grief had touched her in spite of
herself, and, though she blamed him still for his inconsiderate
accusation, she was fond of him as she might have been fond of some
loving Newfoundland, which, splendid in awkward bulk, caressed her and
licked her hand. It was pleasant enough to be in his arms, for the touch
of man--even the wrong man--was, at times, a comfort.

She took up again with determined interest her relations to the
Institute, joining additional classes and pursuing a variety of topics
of study, in regard to some of which she consulted Littleton. She missed
his presence less than she had expected, especially after they had begun
to correspond and were able to keep in touch by letter. His letters were
delightful. They served her in her lecture courses, for they so clearly
and concisely expressed her views that she was able to use long extracts
from them word for word. And every now and then they contained a
respectful allusion which showed that he still retained a personal
interest in her. So the weeks slipped away and she was reasonably happy.
She was absorbed and there was nothing new to mar the tenor of her life,
though she was vaguely conscious that the loss of their little girl had
widened the breach between her and her husband--widened it for the
reason that now, for the first time, he perceived how lonely he was. The
baby had furnished him with constant delight and preoccupation. He had
looked forward all day to seeing it at night, and questions relating to
it had supplied a never-ceasing small change of conversation between him
and her. He had let her go her way with a smile on his face. Selma did
not choose to dwell on the situation, but it was obvious that Lewis
continued to look glum, and that there were apt to be long silences
between them at meals. Now and again he would show some impatience at
the continuous recurrence of the Institute classes as a bar to some
project of domesticity or recreation, as though she had not been an
active member of the Institute before baby was born.

One of the plans in which Mrs. Earle was most interested was a Congress
of Women's Clubs, and in the early summer of the same year--some four
months subsequent to the death of Muriel Grace--a small beginning toward
this end was arranged to take place in Chicago. There were to be six
delegates from each club, and Selma was unanimously selected as one of
the delegation from the Benham Women's Institute. The opinion was
generally expressed that a change would do her good, and there was no
question that she was admirably fitted to represent the club. Selma, who
had not travelled a hundred miles beyond Benham in her life, was elated
at the prospect of the expedition; so much so that she proudly recounted
to Lewis the same evening the news of her appointment. It never occurred
to her that he would wish to accompany her, and when he presently
informed her that he had been wishing to go to Chicago on business for
some time, and that the date proposed would suit him admirably, she was
dumfounded. Half of the interest of the expedition would consist in
travelling as an independent delegation. A husband would be in the way
and spoil the savor of the occasion. It would never do, and so Selma
proceeded to explain. She wished to go alone.

"A pack of six women travel by themselves?" blurted Lewis. "Suppose
there were an accident?" he added, after searching his brain for a less
feeble argument.

"We should either be killed or we shouldn't be," said Selma firmly. "We
are perfectly well able to take care of ourselves. Women travel alone
everywhere every-day--that is, intelligent American women."

Lewis looked a little sad. "I thought, perhaps, it would seem nice for
you to go with me, Selma. We haven't been off since we were married, and
I can get away now just as well as not."

"So it would have been if I weren't one of the delegation. I should
think you would see, Lewis, that your coming is out of the question."

So it proved. Selma set forth for Chicago on the appointed day, made
many new acquaintances among the delegates, and was pleased to be
introduced and referred to publicly as Mrs. Selma Babcock--a form of
address to which she was unaccustomed at Benham. On the night before her
departure, being in pleasant spirits, she told Lewis that her absence
would do him good, and that he would appreciate her all the more on her
return.

She was to be gone a week. The first twenty-four hours passed gloomily
for Babcock. Then he began to take notice. He noticed that the county
fair was fixed for the following days. He had hoped to carry Selma
there, but, as she was not to be had, it seemed to him sensible to get
what enjoyment from it he could alone. Then it happened that a former
companion of his bachelor days and his bachelor habits, a commercial
traveller, whom he had not seen since his marriage, appeared on the
scene.

"The very man for me!" he ejaculated, jubilantly.

The obscurity of this remark was presently made clear to his friend, who
had hoped perhaps to enjoy a snug evening at Babcock's domestic hearth,
but who was not averse to playing a different part--that of cheering up
a father who had lost his baby, and whose wife had left him in the
lurch. He assured Babcock that a regular old time outing--a shaking
up--would do him good, and Babcock was ready to agree with him,
intending thereby a free-handed two days at the fair. As has been
intimated, his manner of life before marriage had not been
irreproachable, but he had been glad of an opportunity to put an end to
the mildly riotous and coarse bouts which disfigured his otherwise
commonplace existence. He had no intention now of misbehaving himself,
but he felt the need of being enlivened. His companion was a man who
delighted in what he called a lark, and whose only method of insuring a
lark was by starting in with whiskey and keeping it up. That had been
also Babcock's former conception of a good time, and though he had dimly
in mind that he was now a husband and church-member, he strove to
conduct himself in such a manner as to maintain his self-respect without
becoming a spoil sport.

During the first day at the fair Babcock managed to preserve this nice
distinction. On the second, he lost account of his conduct, and by the
late afternoon was sauntering with his friend among the booths in the
company of two suspicions looking women. With these same women the pair
of revellers drove off in top buggies just before dusk, and vanished in
the direction of the open country.



CHAPTER VII.


Babcock returned to his home twenty-four hours later like a whipped cur.
He was disgusted with himself. It seemed to him incredible that he
should have fallen so low. He had sinned against his wife and his own
self-respect without excuse; for it was no excuse that he had let
himself be led to drink too much. His heart ached and his cheek burned
at the recollection of his two days of debauchery. What was to be done?
If only he were able to cut this ugly sore in his soul out with a knife
and have done with it forever! But that was impossible. It stared him in
the face, a haunting reality. In his distress he asked himself whether
he would not go to Mr. Glynn and make a clean breast of it; but his
practical instincts answered him that he would none the less have made a
beast of himself. He held his head between his hands, and stared
dejectedly at his desk. Some relief came to him at last only from the
reflection that it was a single fault, and that it need never--it should
never be repeated. Selma need not know, and he would henceforth avoid
all such temptations. Terrible as it was, it was a slip, not a
deliberate fault, and his love for his wife was not in question.

Thus reasoning, he managed by the third day after his return to reach a
less despondent frame of mind. While busy writing in his office a lady
was announced, and looking up he encountered the meretricious smile of
the courtesan with whom he had forgotten himself. She had taken a fancy
to her victim, and having learned that he was well to do, she had come
in order to establish, if possible, on a more permanent basis, her
relations with him. She was a young woman, who had been drifting from
place to place, and whose professional inclination for a protector was
heightened by the liking which she had conceived for him. Babcock
recalled in her smile merely his shame, and regarded her reappearance as
effrontery. He was blind to her prettiness and her sentimental mood. He
asked her roughly what she wanted, and rising from his chair, he bade
her be gone before she had time to answer. Nine out of ten women of her
class would have taken their dismissal lightly. Some might have answered
back in tones loud enough to enlighten the clerks, and thus have
accomplished a pretty revenge in the course of retreat. This particular
Lesbian was in no humor to be harshly treated. She was a little
desperate and Babcock had pleased her. It piqued her to be treated in
such a fashion; accordingly, she held her ground and sat down. She tried
upon him, alternately, irony and pathos. He was angry but confused under
the first, he became savage and merciless under the second, throwing
back in her teeth the suggestion of her fondness, and stigmatizing her
coarsely. Then she became angry in her turn--angry as a woman whose
proffered love is spurned. The method for revenge was obvious, and she
told him plainly what she intended. His wife should know at once how her
husband passed his time during her absence. She had posted herself, and
she saw that her shaft hurt. Babcock winced, but mad and incredulous, he
threatened her with arrest and drove her from the room. She went out
smiling, but with an ominous look in her eyes, the remembrance of which
made him ask himself now and again if she could be vicious enough, or
fool enough, to keep her promise. He dismissed the idea as improbable;
still the bare chance worried him. Selma was to arrive early the next
morning, and he had reconciled himself to the conclusion that she need
never know, and that he would henceforth be a faithful husband. Had he
not given an earnest of his good faith in his reception of his visitor?
Surely, no such untoward and unnatural accident would dash the cup of
returning happiness from his lips. A more clever man would have gone
straight to police headquarters, instead of trusting to chance.

A night's rest reassured him as to the idleness of the threat, so that
he was able to welcome Selma at the railroad station with a
comparatively light heart. She was in high spirits over the success of
her expedition, and yet graciously ready to admit that she was glad to
return home--meaning thereby, to her own bed and bathing facilities; but
the general term seemed to poor Lewis a declaration of wifely devotion.
He went to his business with the mien of a man who had passed through an
ordeal and is beginning life again; but when he returned at night, as
soon as he beheld Selma, he suspected what had happened.

She was awaiting him in the parlor. Though he saw at a glance that she
looked grave, he went forward to kiss her, but she rose and, stepping
behind the table, put out her hand forbiddingly.

"What is the matter?" he faltered.

"That woman has been here," was her slow, scornful response.

"Selma, I--" A confusing sense of hopelessness as to what to say choked
Babcock's attempt to articulate. There was a brief silence, while he
looked at her imploringly and miserably.

"Is it true what she says? Have you been false to your marriage vows?
Have you committed adultery?"

"My God! Selma, you don't understand."

"It is an easy question to answer, yes or no?"

"I forgot myself, Selma. I was drunk and crazy. I ask your pardon."

She shook her head coldly. "I shall have nothing more to do with you. I
cannot live with you any longer."

"Not live with me?"

"Would you live with me if it were I who had forgotten myself?"

"I think I would, Selma. You don't understand. I was a brute. I have
been wretched ever since. But it was a slip--an accident. I drank too
much, and it happened. I love you, Selma, with all my heart. I have
never been false to you in my affection."

"It is a strange time to talk of affection. I went away for a week, and
in my absence you insulted me by debauchery with a creature like that.
Love? You have no conception of the meaning of the word. Oh no, I shall
never live with you again."

Babcock clinched his palms in his distress and walked up and down. She
stood pale and determined looking into space. Presently he turned to her
and asked with quiet but intense solicitude, "You don't mean that you're
going to leave me for one fault, we being husband and wife and the
little girl in her grave? I said you don't understand and you don't. A
man's a man, and there are times when he's been drinking when he's
liable to yield to temptation, and that though he's so fond of his wife
that life without her would be misery. This sounds strange to a woman,
and it's a poor excuse. But it ought to count, Selma, when it comes to a
question of our separating. There would be happy years before us yet if
you give me another chance."

"Not happy years for me," she replied concisely. "The American woman
does not choose to live with the sort of man you describe. She demands
from her husband what he demands from her, faithfulness to the marriage
tie. We could never be happy again. Our ideal of life is different. I
have made excuses for you in other things, but my soul revolts at this."

Babcock looked at her for a moment in silence, then he said, a little
sternly, "You shouldn't have gone away and left me. I'm not blaming you,
but you shouldn't have gone." He walked to the window but he saw
nothing. His heart was racked. He had been eager to humiliate himself
before her to prove his deep contrition, but he had come to the end of
his resources, and yet she was adamant. Her charge that she had been
making excuses for him hitherto reminded him that they had not been
really sympathetic for some time past. With his back turned to her he
heard her answer:

"It was understood before I agreed to marry you that I was to be free to
follow my tastes and interests. It is a paltry excuse that, because I
left you alone for a week in pursuit of them, I am accessory to your
sin."

Babcock faced her sadly. "The sin's all mine," he said. "I can't deny
that. But, Selma, I guess I've been pretty lonely ever since the baby
died."

"Lonely?" she echoed. "Then my leaving you will not matter so much.
Here," she said, slipping off her wedding-ring, "this belongs to you."
She remembered Mrs. Earle's proceeding, and though she had not yet
decided what course to pursue in order to maintain her liberty, she
regarded this as the significant and definite act. She held out the
ring, but Babcock shook his head.

"The law doesn't work as quick as that, nor the church either. You can
get a divorce if you're set on it, Selma. But we're husband and wife
yet."

"Only the husk of our marriage is left. The spirit is dead," she said
sententiously. "I am going away. I cannot pass another night in this
house. If you will not take this ring, I shall leave it here."

Babcock turned to hide the tears which blinded his eyes. Selma regarded
him a moment gravely, then she laid her wedding-ring on the table and
went from the room.

She put her immediate belongings into a bag and left the house. She had
decided to go to Mrs. Earle's lodgings where she would be certain to
find shelter and sympathy. Were she to go to her aunt's she would be
exposed to importunity on her husband's behalf from Mrs. Farley, who was
partial to Lewis. Her mind was entirely made up that there could be no
question of reconciliation. Her duty was plain; and she would be doing
herself an injustice were she to continue to live with one so weak and
regardless of the honor which she had a right to demand of the man to
whom she had given her society and her body. His gross conduct had
entitled her to her liberty, and to neglect to seize it would be to
condemn herself to continuous unhappiness, for this overt act of his was
merely a definite proof of the lack of sympathy between them, of which
she had for some time been well aware at heart. As she walked along the
street she was conscious that it was a relief to her to be sloughing off
the garment of an uncongenial relationship and to be starting life
afresh. There was nothing in her immediate surroundings from which she
was not glad to escape. Their house was full of blemishes from the
stand-point of her later knowledge, and she yearned to dissociate
herself, once and for all, from the trammels of her pitiful mistake. She
barely entertained the thought that she was without means. She would
have to support herself, of course, but it never occurred to her to
doubt her ability to do so, and the necessity added a zest to her
decision. It would be plain sailing, for Mrs. Earle had more than once
invited her to send copy to the _Benham Sentinel_, and there was no form
of occupation which would be more to her liking than newspaper work. It
was almost with the mien of a prisoner escaped from jail that she walked
in upon her friend and said:

"I have left my husband. He has been unfaithful to me."

In Mrs. Earle, conventional feminine instincts were apt, before she had
time to think, to get the upper hand of her set theories. "You, poor,
poor child," she cried extending her arms.

Selma had not intended to weep. Still the opportunity was convenient,
and her nerves were on edge. She found herself sobbing with her head on
Mrs. Earle's, bosom, and telling her sad story.

"He was never good enough for you. I have always said so," Mrs. Earle
murmured stroking her hair.

"I ought to have known from the first that it was impossible for us to
be happy. Why did I ever marry him? He said he loved me, and I let
myself be badgered into it," Selma answered through her tears. "Well,
it's all over now," she added, sitting up and drying her eyes. "He has
given me back my liberty. I am a free woman."

"Yes, dear, if you are perfectly sure of yourself, there is only one
course to pursue. Only you should consider the matter solemnly. Perhaps
in a few days, after he has apologized and shown proper contrition, you
might feel willing to give him another chance."

Selma was unprepared for Mrs. Earle's sentimentality. "Surely," she
exclaimed with tragic earnestness, "you wouldn't have me live with him
after what occurred? Contrition? He said everything he could think of to
get me to stay, but I made my decision then and there."

Mrs. Earle put her own handkerchief to her eyes. "Women have forgiven
such things; but I respect you all the more for not being weak. I know
how you feel. It is hard to do, but if I had it to do over again, I
would act just the same--just the same. It's a serious responsibility to
encourage any one to desert a home, but under the circumstances I would
not live with him another minute, my child--not another minute."
Thereupon Mrs. Earle protruded her bosom to celebrate the triumph of
justice in her own mental processes over conventional and maudlin
scruples. "You will apply for a divorce, I suppose?"

"I have not considered that. All I care for is never to see him again."

"Oh yes, you must get a divorce. It is much better, you know. In my case
I couldn't, for he did nothing public. A divorce settles matters, and
puts you back where you were before. You might wish some day to marry
again."

"I have had enough of marriage."

"It isn't any harm to be a free woman--free in the eye of the law as
well as of conscience. I know an excellent lawyer--a Mr. Lyons, a
sympathetic and able man. Besides your husband is bound to support you.
You must get alimony."

"I wouldn't touch a dollar of his money," Selma answered with scorn. "I
intend to support myself. I shall write--work."

"Of course you will, dear; and it will be a boon and a blessing to me to
have you in our ranks--one of the new army of self-supporting,
self-respecting women. I suppose you are right. I have never had a
sixpence. But your husband deserves to be punished. Perhaps it is
punishment enough to lose you."

"He will get over that. It is enough for me," she exclaimed, ardently,
after a dreamy pause, "that I am separated from him forever--that I am
free--free--free."

A night's sleep served to intensify Selma's determination, and she awoke
clearly of the opinion that a divorce was desirable. Why remain fettered
by a bare legal tie to one who was a husband only in name? Accordingly,
in company with Mrs. Earle, she visited the office of James O. Lyons,
and took the initiatory steps to dissolve the marriage.

Mr. Lyons was a large, full-bodied man of thirty-five, with a fat,
cleanly-shaven, cherubic countenance, an aspect of candor, and keen,
solemn eyes. His manner was impressive and slightly pontificial; his
voice resonant and engaging. He knew when to joke and when to be grave
as an owl. He wore in every-day life a shiny, black frock-coat, a
standing collar, which yawned at the throat, and a narrow, black tie.
His general effect was that of a cross between a parson and a shrewd
Yankee--a happy suggestion of righteous, plain, serious-mindedness,
protected against the wiles of human society--and able to protect
others--by a canny intelligence. For a young man he had already a
considerable clientage. A certain class of people, notably the
hard-headed, God-fearing, felt themselves safe in his hands. His
magnetic yet grave manner of conducting business pleased Benham,
attracting also both the distressed and the bilious portions of the
community, and the farmers from the surrounding country. As Mrs. Earle
informed Selma, he was in sympathy with all progressive and stimulating
ideas, and he already figured in the newspapers politically, and before
the courts as a friend of the masses, and a fluent advocate of social
reforms. His method of handling Selma's case was smooth. To begin with,
he was sympathetic within proper limits, giving her tacitly to
understand that, though as a man and brother, he deplored the necessity
of extreme measures, he recognized that she had made up her mind, and
that compromise was out of the question. To put it concisely, his manner
was grieved, but practical. He told her that he would represent to
Babcock the futility of contesting a cause, which, on the evidence, must
be hopeless, and that, in all probability, the matter could be disposed
of easily and without publicity. He seemed to Selma a very sensible and
capable man, and it was agreeable to her to feel that he appreciated
that, though divorce in the abstract was deplorable, her experience
justified and called for the protection of the law.

In the meantime Babcock was very unhappy, and was casting about for a
method to induce his wife to return. He wrote to her a pitiful letter,
setting forth once more the sorry facts in the best light which he could
bring to bear on them, and implored her forgiveness. He applied to her
aunt, Mrs. Farley, and got her to supplement his plea with her
good-natured intervention. "There are lots of men like that," she
confided to Selma, "and he's a kind, devoted creature." When this
failed, he sought Rev. Mr. Glynn as a last resort, and, after he had
listened to a stern and fervid rating from the clergyman on the lust of
the flesh, he found his pastor on his side. Mr. Glynn was opposed to
divorce on general ecclesiastical principles; moreover, he had been
educated under the law of England, by which a woman cannot obtain a
divorce from her husband for the cause of adultery unless it be coupled
with cruelty--a clever distinction between the sexes, which was
doubtless intended as a cloak for occasional lapses on the part of man.
It was plain to him, as a Christian and as a hearty soul, that there had
been an untoward accident--a bestial fault, a soul-debasing carnal sin,
but still an accident, and hence to be forgiven by God and woman. It was
his duty to interfere; and so, having disciplined the husband, he
essayed the more delicate matter of propitiating the wife. And he
essayed it without a thought of failure.

"I'm afraid she's determined to leave me, and that there's not much
hope," said Babcock, despondently, as he gripped the clergyman's hand in
token of his gratitude.

"Nonsense, my man," asserted Mr. Glynn briskly. "All she needs is an
exhortation from me, and she will take you back."

Selma was opposed to divorce in theory. That is, she had accepted on
trust the traditional prejudice against it as she had accepted
Shakespeare and Boston. But theory stood for nothing in her regard
before the crying needs of her own experience. She had not the least
intention of living with her husband again. No one could oblige her to
do that. In addition, the law offered her a formal escape from his
control and name. Why not avail herself of it? She recollected, besides,
that her husband's church recognized infidelity as a lawful ground of
release from the so-called sacrament of marriage. This had come into her
mind as an additional sanction to her own decision. But it had not
contributed to that decision. Consequently, when she was confronted in
Mrs. Earle's lodgings by the errand of Mr. Glynn, she felt that his
coming was superfluous. Still, she was glad of the opportunity to
measure ideas with him in a thorough interview free from interruption.

Mr. Glynn's confidence was based on his intention to appeal to the ever
womanly quality of pity. He expected to encounter some resistance, for
indisputably here was a woman whose sensibilities had been justly and
severely shocked--a woman of finer tissue than her husband, as he had
noted in other American couples. She was entitled to her day in
court--to a stubborn, righteous respite of indignation. But he expected
to carry the day in the end, amid a rush of tears, with which his own
might be mingled. He trusted to what he regarded as the innate
reluctance of the wife to abandon the man she loved, and to the leaven
of feminine Christian charity.

As a conscientious hater of sin, he did not attempt to minimize
Babcock's act or the insult put upon her. That done, he was free to
intercede fervently for him and to extol the virtue and the advisability
of forgiveness. This plea, however cogent, was narrow, and once stated
admitted merely of duplication in the same form. It was indeed no
argument, merely an appeal, and, in proportion as it failed to move the
listener, became feeble. Selma listened to him with a tense face, her
hands clasped before her in the guise of an interested and
self-scrutinizing spirit. But she betrayed no sign of yielding, or
symptom of doubt. She shook her head once or twice as he proceeded, and,
when he paused, asked why she should return to a man who had broken
faith with her; asked it in such a genuine tone of conviction that Dr.
Glynn realized the weakness of his own case, and became slightly nettled
at the same time.

"True," he said, rather sternly, "your husband has committed a hideous,
carnal sin, but he is genuinely repentant. Do you wish to ruin his life
forever?"

"His life?" said Selma. "It would ruin my life to return to him. I have
other plans--plans which will bring me happiness. I could never be happy
with him."

The clergyman was baffled. Other plans! The words offended him, and yet
he could not dispute her right to do as she chose. Still he saw fit to
murmur: "He that findeth his life shall lose it, and he that loseth his
life for my sake shall find it."

Selma flushed. To be accused of acting contrary to Christian precepts
was painful and surprising to her. "Mr. Glynn," she said, "I see you
don't understand. My husband and I ought never to have married. It has
all been a dreadful mistake. We have not the same tastes and interests.
I am sorry for him, but I can never consent to return to him. To do so
would condemn us both to a life of unhappiness. We were not intended for
husband and wife, and it is best--yes, more Christian--for us to
separate. We American women do not feel justified in letting a mistake
ruin our lives when there is a chance to escape."

Mr. Glynn regarded her in silence for a moment. He was accustomed to
convince, and he had not succeeded, which to a clergyman is more
annoying than to most men. Still what she said made his plea seem
doubtful wisdom.

"Then you do not love your husband?" he said.

"No," said Selma quietly, "I do not love him. It is best to be frank
with one's self--with you, in such a matter, isn't it? So you see that
what you ask is out of the question."

Mr. Glynn rose. Clearly his mission had failed, and there was nothing
more to be said. Being a just man, he hesitated to pass an unkind
judgment on this bright-faced, pensive woman. She was within her moral
rights, and he must be careful to keep within his. But he went away
bewildered and discomfited. Selma would have liked to dismiss the
subject and keep him longer. She would have been glad to branch off on
to other ethical topics and discuss them. She was satisfied with the
result of the interview, for she had vindicated her position and spiked
Lewis's last gun.

So, indeed, it proved. Mr. Glynn sent for Babcock and told him the naked
truth, that his wife's love for him was dead and reconciliation
impossible. He properly refrained from expressing the doubt lurking in
his own mind as to whether Selma had ever loved her husband. Thus
convinced of the hopelessness of his predicament, Babcock agreed to Mr.
Lyons's suggestion not to contest the legal proceedings. The lawyer had
been diligent, and the necessary evidence--the testimony of the
woman--was secure. She was ready to carry her revenge to the end,
hoping, perhaps, that the victim of it would return to her when he had
lost his wife. Accordingly, a few weeks later, Selma was granted a
divorce nisi and the right to resume her maiden name. She had decided,
however, to retain the badge of marriage as a decorous social prefix,
and to call herself Mrs. Selma White.



CHAPTER VIII.


The consciousness that she was dependent for the means of support solely
on her own exertions was a genuine pleasure to Selma, and she applied
herself with confidence and enthusiasm to the problem of earning her
livelihood. She had remained steadfast to her decision to accept nothing
from her husband except the legal costs of the proceedings, though Mr.
Lyons explained to her that alimony was a natural and moral increment of
divorce. Still, after her refusal, he informed her as a man and a friend
that he respected and admired the independence of her action, which was
an agreeable tribute. She had fixed definitely on newspaper work as the
most inviting and congenial form of occupation. She believed herself to
be well fitted for it. It would afford her an immediate income, and it
would give her the opportunity which she craved for giving public
expression to her ideas and fixing attention on herself. There was room
for more than one Mrs. Earle in Benham, for Benham was growing and
wide-awake and on the alert for originality of any kind--especially in
the way of reportorial and journalistic cleverness. Selma had no
intention of becoming a second Mrs. Earle. That is, she promised herself
to follow, but not to follow blindly; to imitate judiciously, but to
improve on a gradually diverging line of progress. This was mere
generalization as yet. It was an agreeable seething brain consciousness
for future development. For the moment, however, she counted on Mrs.
Earle to obtain for her a start by personal influence at the office of
the _Benham Sentinel_. This was provided forthwith in the form of an
invitation to prepare a weekly column under the caption of "What Women
Wear;" a summary of passing usages in clothes. The woman reporter in
charge of it had just died. Selma's first impulse was to decline the
work as unworthy of her abilities, yet she was in immediate need of
employment to avoid running in debt and she was assured by Mrs. Earle
that she would be very foolish to reject such an offer. Reflection
caused her to think more highly of the work itself. It would afford her
a chance to explain to the women of Benham, and indirectly to the
country at large, that taste in dress was not necessarily inconsistent
with virtue and serious intentions--a truth of which she herself had
become possessed since her marriage and which it seemed to her might be
utilized delightfully in her department. She would endeavor to treat
dress from the standpoint of ethical responsibility to society, and to
show that both extravagance and dowdy homeliness were to be avoided.
Clothes in themselves had grown to be a satisfaction to her, and any
association of vanity would be eliminated by the introduction of a
serious artistic purpose into a weekly commentary concerning them.
Accordingly she accepted the position and entered upon its duties with
grave zeal.

For each of these contributions Selma was to receive eight dollars--four
hundred a year, which she hoped to expand to a thousand by creative
literary production--preferably essays and poetry. She hired a room in
the same neighborhood as Mrs. Earle, in the boarding-house district
appurtenant to Central Avenue--that is to say, on the ragged edge of
Benham's social artery, and set up her new household gods. The interest
of preparing the first paper absorbed her to the exclusion of everything
else. She visited all the dress-making and dry-goods establishments in
town, examined, at a hint from Mrs. Earle, the fashion departments of
the New York papers, and then, pen in hand, gave herself up to her
subject. The result seemed to her a happy blending of timely philosophy
and suggestions as to toilette, and she took it in person to the editor.
He saw fit to read it on the spot. His brow wrinkled at first and he
looked dubious. He re-read it and said with some gusto, "It's a novelty,
but I guess they'll like it. Our women readers have been used to fashion
notes which are crisp and to the point, and the big houses expect to
have attention called to the goods they wish to sell. If you'll run over
this again and set your cold facts in little paragraphs by themselves
every now and then, I shouldn't wonder if the rest were a sort of
lecture course which will catch them. It's a good idea. Next time you
could work in a pathetic story--some references to a dead
baby--verses--anecdotes--a little variety. You perceive the idea?"

"Oh, yes," said Selma, appropriately sober at the allusion yet ecstatic.
"That's just what I should like to do. It would give me more scope. I
wish my articles to be of real use--to help people to live better, and
to dress better."

"That's right, that's right; and if they make the paper sell, we'll know
that folks like them," responded the editor with Delphic urbanity.

The first article was a success. That is, Selma's method was not
interfered with, and she had the satisfaction of reading in the
_Sentinel_ during the week an item calling gratified attention to the
change in its "What Women Wear" column, and indicating that it would
contain new features from week to week. It gave her a pleasant thrill to
see her name, "Selma White," signed at the end of the printed column,
and she set to work eagerly to carry out the editor's suggestions. At
the same time she tried her hand at a short story--the story of an
American girl who went to Paris to study art, refused to alter her mode
of life to suit foreign ideas of female propriety, displayed exceptional
talent as an artist, and finally married a fine-spirited young American,
to the utter discomfiture of a French member of the nobility, who had
begun by insulting her and ended with making her an offer of marriage.
This she sent to the _Eagle_, the other Benham newspaper, for its Sunday
edition.

It took her a month to compose this story, and after a week she received
it back with a memorandum to the effect that it was one-half too long,
but intimating that in a revised form it would be acceptable. This was a
little depressing, especially as it arrived at a time when the novelty
of her occupation had worn off and she was realizing the limitations of
her present life. She had begun to miss the advantages of a free purse
and the importance of a domestic establishment. She possessed her
liberty, and was fulfilling her mission as a social force, but her life
had been deprived of some of its savor, and, though she was thankful to
be rid of Babcock, she felt the lack of an element of personal devotion
to herself, an element which was not to be supplied by mere admiration
on the part of Mrs. Earle and the other members of the Institute. It did
not suit her not to be able to gratify her growing taste in clothes and
in other lines of expenditure, and there were moments when she
experienced the need of being petted and made much of by a man. She was
conscious of loneliness, and in this mood she pitied herself as a victim
of untoward circumstances, one who had wasted the freshness of her young
life, and missed the happiness which the American wife is apt to find
waiting for her. Under the spell of this nostalgia she wrote a poem
entitled "The Bitter Sweets of Solitude," and disposed of it for five
dollars to the _Sentinel_. The price shocked her, for the verses seemed
flesh of her flesh. Still, five dollars was better than nothing, and she
discerned from the manner of the newspaper editor that he cared little
whether she left them or not. It was on that evening that she received a
letter from Littleton, stating that he was on the eve of leaving New
York for Benham. He was coming to consult concerning certain further
interior decorations which the committee had decided to add to the
church.

Selma's nerves vibrated blissfully as she read the news. For some
reason, which she had never seen fit definitely to define, she had
chosen not to acquaint Littleton with the fact of her divorce. Their
letters had been infrequent during the last six months, for this visit
had been impending, having been put off from time to time because the
committee had been dilatory and he otherwise engaged. Perhaps her secret
motive had been to surprise him, to let him find himself confronted with
an accomplished fact, which would obviate argument and reveal her
established in her new career, a happy, independent citizen, without
ties. At any rate she smiled now at the address on the envelope--Mrs.
Lewis Babcock. Obviously he was still in the dark as to the truth, and
it would be her privilege to enlighten him. She began to wonder what
would be the upshot of his coming, and tears came to her eyes, tears of
self-congratulation that the narrow tenor of her daily life was to be
irradiated by a sympathetic spirit.

When Littleton duly appeared at the committee meeting on the following
day, Selma saw at a glance that he was unaware of what had happened. He
looked slightly puzzled when one of the members addressed her as Mrs.
White, but evidently he regarded this as a slip of the tongue. Selma
looked, as she felt, contented and vivacious. She had dressed herself
simply, but with effective trigness. To those who knew her experience,
her appearance indicated courage and becoming self-respect. Public
opinion, even as embodied in the church committee, while deploring the
necessity, was not disposed to question the propriety of her action.
That is, all except Mrs. Taylor. In her, Selma thought she had detected
signs of coldness, a sort of suspicious reservation of judgment, which
contrasted itself unpleasantly with the sympathetic attitude of the
others, who were fain to refer to her, in not altogether muffled
whispers, as a plucky, independent, little woman. Hence, she was glad
that Mrs. Taylor happened to be detained at home by illness on this
afternoon, and that, accordingly, she was free to enjoy unreservedly the
dramatic nature of the situation. Her heart beat a little faster as the
chairman, turning to her to ask a question, addressed her unmistakably
as Mrs. White. She could not refrain from casting half-amused,
half-pathetic sheep's eyes at Littleton. He started visibly, regarded
her for, a moment in obvious amazement, then flushed to the roots of his
hair. She felt the blood rising to her own cheeks, and a sensation of
mild triumph. The meeting was over and the members were merely lingering
to tie up the loose threads of the matter arranged for. In a few moments
Selma found herself with the architect sufficiently apart from the
others for him to ask:

"Two persons have addressed you this afternoon as Mrs. White. I do not
understand."

She cast down her eyes, as a woman will when a question of modesty is
involved, then she raised them and said: "You did not know, then, that I
had left my husband?"

"Left him?"

"Yes. I have obtained a divorce. He was unfaithful to me."

"I see"--said Littleton with a sort of gasp--"I see. I did not know. You
never wrote to me."

"I did not feel like writing to any body. There was nothing to be done
but that."

Littleton regarded her with a perturbed, restless air.

"Then you live no longer at 25 Onslow Avenue?"

"Oh, no. I left there more than six months ago. I live in lodgings. I am
supporting myself by literary work. I am Mrs. Selma White now, and my
divorce has been absolute more than a month."

She spoke gravely and quietly, with less than her usual assurance, for
she felt the spell of his keen, eager scrutiny and was not averse to
yield at the moment to the propensity of her sex. She wondered what he
was thinking about. Did he blame her? Did he sympathize with her?

"Where are you going when you leave here?" he asked.

"Home--to my new home. Will you walk along with me?"

"That is what I should like. I am astonished by what you have told me,
and am anxious to hear more about it, if to speak of it would not wound
you. Divorced! How you must have suffered! And I did not have the chance
to offer you my help--my sympathy."

"Yes, I have suffered. But that is all over now. I am a free woman. I am
beginning my life over again."

It was a beautiful afternoon, and by mutual consent, which neither put
into words, they diverged from the exact route to Selma's lodging house
and turned their steps to the open country beyond the city limits--the
picturesque dell which has since become the site of Benham's public
park. There they seated themselves where they would not be interrupted.
Selma told him on the way the few vital facts in her painful story, to
which he listened in a tense silence, broken chiefly by an occasional
ejaculation expressive of his contempt for the man who had brought such
unhappiness upon her. She let him understand, too, that her married
life, from the first, had been far less happy than he had
imagined--wretched makeshift for the true relation of husband and wife.
She spoke of her future buoyantly, yet with a touch of sadness, as
though to indicate that she was aware that the triumphs of intelligence
and individuality could not entirely be a substitute for a happy home.

"And what do you expect to do?" he inquired in a bewildered fashion, as
though her delineation of her hopes had been lost on him.

"Do? Support myself by my own exertions, as I have told you. By writing
I expect. I am doing very well already. Do you question my ability to
continue?"

"Oh, no; not that. Only--"

"Only what? Surely you are not one of the men who grudge women the
chance to prove what is in them--who would treat us like china dolls and
circumscribe us by conventions? I know you are not, because I have heard
you inveigh against that very sort of narrow mindedness. Only what?"

"I can't make up my mind to it. And I suppose the reason is that it
means so much to me--that you mean so much to me. What is the use of my
dodging the truth, Selma--seeking to conceal it because such a short
time has elapsed since you ceased to be a wife? Forgive me if I hurt
you, if it seem indelicate to speak of love at the very moment when you
are happy in your liberty. I can't help it; it's my nature to speak
openly. And there's no bar now. The fact that you are free makes clear
to me what I have not dared to countenance before, that you are the one
woman in the world for me--the woman I have dreamed of--and longed to
meet--the woman whose influence has blessed me already, and without whom
I shall lack the greatest happiness which life can give. Selma, I love
you--I adore you."

Selma listened with greedy ears, which she could scarcely believe. It
seemed to her that she was in dream-land, so unexpected, yet entrancing,
was his avowal. She had been vaguely aware that he admired her more than
he had allowed himself to disclose, and conscious, too, that his
presence was agreeable to her; but in an instant now she recognized that
this was love--the love she had sought, the love she had yearned to
inspire and to feel. Compared with it, Babcock's clumsy ecstasy and her
own sufferance of it had been a sham and a delusion. Of so much she was
conscious in a twinkling, and yet what she deemed proper self-respect
restrained her from casting herself into his arms. It was, indeed, soon,
and she had been happy in her liberty. At least, she had supposed
herself so; and she owed it to her own plans and hopes not to act
hastily, though she knew what she intended to do. She had been lonely,
yes starving, for lack of true companionship, and here was the soul
which would be a true mate to hers.

They were sitting on a grassy bank. He was bending toward her with
clasped hands, a picture of fervor. She could see him out of the corner
of her glance, though she looked into space with her gaze of seraphic
worry. Yet her lips were ready to lend themselves to a smile of blissful
satisfaction and her eyes to fill with the melting mood of the thought
that at last happiness had come to her.

The silence was very brief, but Littleton, as would have seemed fitting
to her, feared lest she were shocked.

"I distress you," he said. "Forgive me. Listen--will you listen?" Selma
was glad to listen. The words of love, such love as this, were
delicious, and she felt she owed it to herself not to be won too easily.
"I am listening," she answered softly with the voice of one face to face
with an array of doubts.

"Before I met you, Selma, woman but was a name to me. My life brought me
little into contact with them, except my dear sister, and I had no
temptation to regret that I could not support a wife. Yet I dreamed of
woman and of love and of a joy which might some day come to me if I
could meet one who fulfilled my ideal of what a true woman should be. So
I dreamed until I met you. The first time I saw you, Selma, I knew in my
heart that you were a woman whom I could love. Perhaps I should have
recognized more clearly as time went on that you were more to me even
then than I had a right to allow; yet I call heaven to witness that I
did not, by word or sign, do a wrong to him who has done such a cruel
wrong to you."

"Never by word or sign," echoed Selma solemnly. The bare suggestion that
Babcock had cause to complain of either of them seemed to her
preposterous. Yet she was saying to herself that it was easy to perceive
that he had loved her from the first.

"And since I love you with all my soul must I--should I in justice to
myself--to my own hopes of happiness, refrain from speaking merely
because you have so recently been divorced? I must speak--I am speaking.
It is too soon, I dare say, for you to be willing to think of marriage
again--but I offer you the love and protection of a husband. My means
are small, but I am able now to support a wife in decent comfort. Selma,
give me some hope. Tell me, that in time you may be willing to trust
yourself to my love. You wish to work--to distinguish yourself. Would I
be a hindrance to that? Indeed, you must know that I would do every
thing in my power to promote your desire to be of service to the world."

The time for her smile and her tears had come. He had argued his case
and her own, and it was clear to her mind that delay would be futile.
Since happiness was at hand, why not grasp it? As for her work, he need
not interfere with that. And, after all, now that she had tried it, was
she so sure that newspaper work--hack work, such as she was pursuing,
was what she wished? As a wife, re-established in the security of a
home, she could pick and choose her method of expression. Perhaps,
indeed, it would not be writing, except occasionally. Was not New York a
wide, fruitful field, for a reforming social influence? She saw herself
in her mind's eye a leader of movements and of progress. And that with a
man she loved--yes, adored even as he adored her.

So she turned to Littleton with her smile and in tears--the image of
bewitching but pathetic self-justification and surrender. Her mind was
made up; hence why procrastinate and coyly postpone the desirable, and
the inevitable? That was what she had the shrewdness to formulate in the
ecstasy of her transport; and so eloquent was the mute revelation of her
love that Littleton, diffident reverencer of the modesty of woman as he
was, without a word from her clasped her to his breast, a victor in a
breath. As, regardless of the possible invasion of interlopers, he took
her in his embrace, she felt with satisfaction once more the grasp of
masculine arms. She let her head fall on his shoulder in delighted
contentment. While he murmured in succession inarticulate terms of
endearment, she revelled in the thrill of her nerves and approved her
own sagacious and commendable behavior.

"Dearest," she whispered, "you are right. We are right. Since we love
each other, why should we not say so? I love you--I love you. The ugly
hateful past shall not keep us apart longer. You say you loved me from
the first; so did I love you, though I did not know it then. We were
meant for each other--God meant us--did he not? It is right, and we
shall be so happy, Wilbur."

"Yes, Selma." Words seemed to him an inadequate means for expressing his
emotions. He pressed his lips upon hers with the adoring respect of a
worshipper touching his god, yet with the energy of a man. She sighed
and compared him in her thought with Babcock. How gentle this new lover!
How refined and sensitive and appreciative! How intelligent and
gentlemanly!

"If I had my wish, darling," he said, "we should be married to-night and
I would carry you away from here forever."

She remembered that Babcock had uttered the same wish on the occasion
when he had offered himself. To grant it then had been out of the
question. To do so now would be convenient--a prompt and satisfactory
blotting out of her past and present life--a happy method of solving
many minor problems of ways and means connected with waiting to be
married. Besides it would be romantic, and a delicious, fitting crowning
of her present blissful mood.

He mistook her silence for womanly scruples, and he recounted with a
little laugh the predicament in which he should find himself on his own
account were they to be so precipitate. "What would my sister think if
she were to get a telegram--'Married to-night. Expect us to-morrow?' She
would think I had lost my senses. So I have, darling; and you are the
cause. She knows about you. I have talked to her about you."

"But she thinks I am Mrs. Babcock."

"Oh yes. Ha! ha! It would never do to state to whom I was married,
unless I sent a telegram as long as my arm. Dear Pauline! She will be
radiant. It is all arranged that she is to stay where she is in the old
quarters, and I am to take you to a new house. We've decided on that,
time and again, when we've chanced to talk of what might happen--of 'the
fair, the chaste and unexpressive she'--my she. Dearest, I wondered if I
should ever find her. Pauline has always said that she would never run
the risk of spoiling everything by living with us."

"It would be very nice--and very simple," responded Selma, slowly. "You
wouldn't think any the worse of me, Wilbur, if I were to marry you
to-night?"

"The worse of you? It is what I would like of all things. Whom does it
concern but us? Why should we wait in order to make a public spectacle
of ourselves?"

"I shouldn't wish that. I should insist on being married very quietly.
Under all the circumstances there is really no reason--it seems to me it
would be easier if we were to be married as soon as possible. It would
avoid explanations and talk, wouldn't it? That is, if you are perfectly
sure."

"Sure? That I love you? Oh Selma!"

She shut her eyes under the thrill which his kiss gave her. "Then we
will be married whenever you wish," she said.

It was already late in the afternoon, so that the prospects of obtaining
a license did not seem favorable. Still it happened that Littleton knew
a clergyman of his own faith--Unitarian--in Benham, a college classmate,
whom he suggested as soon as he understood that Selma preferred not to
be married by Mr. Glynn. They found him at home, and by diligent
personal effort on his part the necessary legal forms were complied with
and they were made husband and wife three hours before the departure of
the evening train for New York. After the ceremony they stepped
buoyantly, arm in arm in the dusk, along the street to send the telegram
to Miss Littleton, and to snatch a hasty meal before Selma went to her
lodgings to pack. There were others in the restaurant, so having
discovered that they were not hungry, they bought sandwiches and
bananas, and resumed their travels. The suddenness and surprise of it
all made Selma feel as if on wings. It seemed to her to be of the
essence of new and exquisite romance to be walking at the side of her
fond, clever lover in the democratic simplicity of two paper bags of
provender and an open, yet almost headlong marriage. She felt that at
last she was yoked to a spirit who comprehended her and who would
stimulate instead of repress the fire of originality within her. She had
found love and she was happy. Meanwhile she had decided to leave Benham
without a word to anyone, even Mrs. Earle. She would write and explain
what had happened.




BOOK II.

THE STRUGGLE


CHAPTER I.


Littleton had not expected that Selma would accede to his request to be
married at once, but he was delighted at her decision. He had uttered
his wish in sincerity, for there was really no reason for waiting, and
by an immediate marriage they would escape the tedium of an engagement
during which they could hope to see each other but rarely. He was able
to support a wife provided they were to live simply and economically. He
felt sure that Selma understood his circumstances and was no less ready
than he to forego luxuries in order that they might be all in all to
each other spiritually as husband and wife. Besides he had hopes that
his clientage would continue to grow so that he would be able to provide
all reasonable comforts for his new home. Consequently he drove up from
the station in New York with a light heart, fondly pointing out to his
wife this and that building and other objects of interest. He mistook
her pensive silence for diffidence at the idea of descending suddenly on
another woman's home--a matter which in this instance gave him no
concern, for he had unlimited confidence in Pauline's executive ability
and her tendency not to get ruffled. She had been his good angel,
domestically speaking, and, indeed, in every way, since they had first
begun to keep house together, and it had rather amused him to let fall
such a bombshell as the contents of his telegram upon the regularity of
her daily life.

"Don't be nervous, darling," he said gayly. "You will find Pauline
bubbling over with joy at our coming, and everything arranged as though
we were expected to live there all our lives."

Selma looked at him blankly and then remembered. She was not feeling
nervous, and Pauline was not in her thoughts. She had been lost in her
own reflections--lost in the happy consciousness of the contrast between
her new and her old husband, and in the increasing satisfaction that she
was actually in New York. How bright and busy the streets looked! The
throng of eager passers and jostling vehicles against the background of
brilliant shop-windows bewildered and stimulated her. She was saying to
herself that here was the place where she was suited to live, and mutely
acknowledging its superiority to Benham as a centre of life. This was a
rash, swift conclusion, but Selma prided herself on her capacity to
arrive at wise judgments by rapid mental processes. So absorbed was she
in the glittering, stirring panorama that Wilbur's efforts at
enlightenment were practically wasted. She was in no humor for details;
she was glorying in the exalted impression which the whole vivid scene
produced upon her.

His remark caused her to realize that they must be near their
destination. She had no misgivings on the score of her own reception,
but she was interested and curious to see Pauline, this wonderful sister
of whom Wilbur was so fond and so proud. Then her husband cried, "Here
we are!" and in another moment she found herself in the hearty embrace
of a large, comely woman who met her at the door. This of course must be
Pauline. Selma was just a little shocked by the fervor of the greeting;
for though she delighted in rapid intimacies, unexpected liberties with
her person were contrary to her conceptions of propriety. Still it was
delightful to be welcomed so heartily. She returned the embrace warmly
but with dignity, and allowed herself to be convoyed into the house arm
in arm with her new relation who seemed, indeed, to be bubbling over
with joy. It was not until they were in the same room that Selma could
get a good look at her.

Pauline Littleton was fine looking rather than pretty. She was tall and
substantial, with an agreeable face, an intelligent brow, a firm yet
sweet mouth, and steady, honest eyes which now sparkled with pleasure.
Her physique was very different from her brother's. Selma noticed that
she was taller than herself and only a little shorter than Wilbur. She
had Wilbur's smile too, suggesting a disposition to take things
humorously; but her expression lacked the poetic cast which made him so
attractive and congenial to herself and excused the existence of the
lighter vein. Selma did not admire women who were inclined to be stout.
She associated spareness of person with high thinking, and an abundance
of flesh as an indication of material or commonplace aims. She reflected
that Pauline was presumably business-like and a good house-keeper, and,
very likely, an industrious teacher in her classes, but she set her down
in her mind as deficient in the finer sensibilities of the spirit
belonging to herself and Wilbur. It was instinctive with Selma to form a
prompt estimate of every one she met, and it was a relief to her to come
to the agreeable conclusion that there was nothing in her
sister-in-law's appearance to make her discontented with herself. This
warmed her heart at once toward Pauline. To be sure Pauline manifested
the same sort of social grace which distinguished Mrs. Hallett Taylor,
but Selma, though she still regarded this with suspicion, for the reason
that she had not yet become mistress of it, was secretly content to know
that she had married into a family which possessed it. Altogether she
was agreeably impressed by her scrutiny of her new sister, who, in her
opinion, would not be an irritating rival either in looks or character,
and yet who was a pleasing and sufficiently serious-minded person--in
short just the sort of sister-in-law which she yearned to have.

Pauline, on her part, was duly fascinated by the delicate and inspiring
beauty of her brother's wife. She understood at once why Wilbur had
chosen her in preference to any one of his own circle. Selma obviously
symbolized by her grave, tense, thin face the serious ideals of living
and womanhood, which had been dear to his meditation as a youth and a
part of his heritage from his New England ancestors. It made her joyous
to feel that he had found a wife who would be a constant source of
inspiration to him, for she knew that Wilbur would not be happy with any
one who fell short of his ideal as to what a woman should be. She knew
her brother well, and she understood how deeply in earnest he was to
make the most of his life, and what an exalted vision he entertained as
to the possibilities for mutual sympathy and help between husband and
wife.

Partly as a consequence of their limited means, partly owing to
absorption in their respective studies and interests, the Littletons,
though of gentle stock, lived simple lives according to New York
standards. They were aware of the growth of luxury resulting from the
accumulation of big fortunes since the war. As an architect, Wilbur saw
larger and more elaborate public and private buildings being erected on
every side. As a house-keeper and a woman with social interests, Pauline
knew that the power of money was revolutionizing the public taste in the
matter of household expenditure; that in the details of domestic life
there was more color and more circumstance, and that people who were
well-to-do, and many who were not, were requiring as daily comforts all
sorts of things to which they had been unaccustomed. But though they
both thus knew vaguely that the temper of society had changed, and that
sober citizens and their wives, who, twenty years before, would have
prated solemnly against a host of gay, enlivening or pretty customs as
incompatible with American virtue, were now adopting these as rapidly as
money could procure them--the brother and sister had remained
comparatively unaffected by the consequences of the transformation
scene. Certainly their home had. It was old-fashioned in its garniture
and its gentility. It spoke of a day, not so many years before, when
high thinking had led to blinking where domestic decoration was
concerned, and people had bought ugly wooden and worsted things to live
with because only the things of the spirit seemed of real importance.
Still time, with its marvellous touch, has often the gift of making
furniture and upholstery, which were hideous when bought, look
interesting and cosey when they have become old-fashioned. In this way
Pauline Wilbur's parlor was a delightful relic of a day gone by. There
was scarcely a pretty thing in it, as Wilbur himself well knew, yet, as
a whole, it had an atmosphere--an atmosphere of simple unaffected
refinement. Their domestic belongings had come to them from their
parents, and they had never had the means to replenish them. When, in
due time, they had realized their artistic worthlessness, they had held
to them through affection, humorously conscious of the incongruity that
two such modern individuals as themselves should be living in a domestic
museum. Then, presto! friends had begun to congratulate them on the
uniqueness of their establishment, and to express affection for it. It
had become a favorite resort for many modern spirits--artists, literary
men, musicians, self-supporting women--and Pauline's oyster suppers,
cooked in her grandmother's blazer, were still a stimulus to high
thinking.

So matters stood when Selma entered it as a bride. Her coming signified
the breaking up of the household and the establishment. Pauline had
thought that out in her clear brain over night since receiving Wilbur's
telegram. Wilbur must move into a modern house, and she into a modern
flat. She would keep the very old things, such as the blazer and some
andirons and a pair of candlesticks, for they were ancient enough to be
really artistic, but the furniture of the immediate past, her father and
mother's generation, should be sold at auction. Wilbur and she must, if
only for Selma's sake, become modern in material matters as well as in
their mental interests.

Pauline proceeded to unfold this at the dinner-table that evening. She
had heard in the meanwhile from her brother, the story of Selma's
divorce and the explanation of his sudden marriage; and in consequence,
she felt the more solicitous that her sister-in-law's new venture should
begin propitiously. It was agreed that Wilbur should make inquiries at
once about houses further uptown, and that his present lease from year
to year should not be renewed. She said to Selma:

"You have saved us from becoming an old-fashioned bachelor and maid. Our
friends began to leave this neighborhood five years ago, and there is no
one left. We are surrounded by boarding-houses and shops. We were
comfortable, and we were too busy to care. But it would never do for a
young married couple to begin house-keeping here. You must have a brand
new house uptown, Selma. You must insist on that. Don't be alarmed,
Wilbur. I know it will have to be small, but I noticed the other day
several blocks of new houses going up on the side streets west of the
Park, which looked attractive and cheap."

"I will look at them," said Wilbur. "Since you seem determined not to
live with us, and we are obliged to move, we will follow the procession.
But Selma and I could be happy anywhere." He turned from his sister to
her as he spoke with a proud, happy look.

Selma said nothing to mar his confidence. She had no intention of living
either with Pauline or in their present house, and she felt that her
sister-in-law had shown good sense in recognizing that neither was
possible. She necessarily had vague ideas as to New York houses and
locations, but she had seen enough in her drive from the station to
understand that it was a wonderful and decorative place. Although her
experience of Benham had taught her that some old things--such as Mrs.
Hallett Taylor's gleanings from Europe--were desirable, she associated
new things with progress--especially American progress. Consequently the
Littleton household possessions had puzzled her, for though she thought
them ugly, she was resolved not to commit herself too hastily. But now
that Pauline had sounded a note of warning, the situation was clear.
They had suffered themselves to fall behind the times, and she was to be
her husband's good angel by helping him to catch up with them. And it
was evident that Pauline would be her ally. Selma for the first time
asked herself whether it might be that Wilbur was a little visionary.

Meanwhile he was saying: "Pauline is right, Selma. I had already asked
myself if it would not be fairer to you to move uptown where we should
be in the van and in touch with what is going on. Pauline is gently
hinting to you that you must not humor me as she has done, and let me
eat bread and milk out of a bowl in this old curiosity shop, instead of
following in the wake of fashion. She has spoiled me and now she deserts
me at the critical moment of my life. Selma, you shall have the most
charming modern house in New York within my means. It must be love in a
cottage, but the cottage shall have the latest improvements--hot and
cold water, tiles, hygienic plumbing and dados."

"Bravo!" said Pauline. "He says I have spoiled him, Selma. Perhaps I
have. It will be your turn now. You will fail to convert him as I have
failed, and the world will be the better for it. There are too few men
who think noble thoughts and practice them, who are true to themselves
and the light which is in them through thick and thin. But you see, he
admits himself that he needs to mix with the world a little more.
Otherwise he is perfect. You know that perhaps, already, Selma. But I
wish to tell it to you before him. Take care of him, dear, won't you?"

"It was because I felt that his thoughts were nobler than most men's
that I wished to marry him," Selma replied, seraphically. "But I can see
that it is sensible to live where your friends live. I shall try not to
spoil him, Pauline." She was already conscious of a mission which
appealed to her. She had been content until now in the ardor of her love
to regard Wilbur as flawless--as in some respects superior to herself;
but it was a gratification to her to detect this failing, and to
perceive her opportunity for usefulness. Surely it was important for her
husband to be progressive and not merely a dreamer.

Littleton looked from one to the other fondly. "Not many men are blessed
with the love of two such women," he said. "I put myself in your hands.
I bow my neck to the yoke."

In New York in the early seventies the fashionable quarter lay between
Eighth and Fortieth Streets, bounded on either side by Fourth and Sixth
Avenues. Central Park was completed, but the region west of it was, from
the social stand-point, still a wilderness, and Fifth Avenue in the
neighborhood of Twenty-third Street was the centre of elegant social
life. Selma took her first view of this brilliant street on the
following day on her way to hunt for houses in the outlying district.
The roar and bustle of the city, which thrilled yet dazed her, seemed
here softened by the rows of tall, imposing residences in brown stone.
Along the sunny sidewalks passed with jaunty tread an ever-hurrying
procession of stylishly clad men and women; and along the roadbed sped
an array of private carriages conducted by coachmen in livery. It was a
brilliant day, and New Yorkers were making the most of it.

Selma had never seen such a sight before. Benham faded into
insignificance in comparison. She was excited, and she gazed eagerly at
the spectacle. Yet her look, though absorbed, was stern. This sort of
thing was unlike anything American within her personal experience. This
avenue of grand houses and this procession of fine individuals and fine
vehicles made her think of that small section of Benham into which she
had never been invited, and the thought affected her disagreeably.

"Who are the people who live in these houses?" she asked, presently.

Littleton had already told her that it was the most fashionable street
in the city.

"Oh, the rich and prosperous."

"Those who gamble in stocks, I suppose." Selma wished to be assured that
this was so.

"Some of them," said Littleton, with a laugh. "They belong to people who
have made money in various ways or have inherited it--our well-to-do
class, among them the first families in New York, and many of them our
best citizens."

"Are they friends of yours?"

Littleton laughed again. "A few--not many. Society here is divided into
sets, and they are not in my set. I prefer mine, and fortunately, for I
can't afford to belong to theirs."

"Oh!"

The frigidity and dryness of the exclamation Littleton ascribed to
Selma's intuitive enmity to the vanities of life.

"You mustn't pass judgment on them too hastily," he said. "New York is a
wonderful place, and it's likely to shock you before you learn to
appreciate what is interesting and fine here. I will tell you a secret,
Selma. Every one likes to make money. Even clergymen feel it their duty
to accept a call from the congregation which offers the best salary, and
probing men of science do not hesitate to reap the harvest from a
wonderful invention. Yet it is the fashion with most of the people in
this country who possess little to prate about the wickedness of
money-getters and to think evil of the rich. That proceeds chiefly from
envy, and it is sheer cant. The people of the United States are engaged
in an eager struggle to advance themselves--to gain individual
distinction, comfort, success, and in New York to a greater extent than
in any other place can the capable man or woman sell his or her wares to
the best advantage--be they what they may, stocks, merchandise, law,
medicine, pictures. The world pays well for the things it wants--and the
world is pretty just in the long run. If it doesn't like my designs,
that will be because they're not worth buying. The great thing--the
difficult thing to guard against in the whirl of this great city, where
we are all striving to get ahead--is not to sell one's self for money,
not to sacrifice the thing worth doing for mere pecuniary advantage.
It's the great temptation to some to do so, for only money can buy fine
houses, and carriages and jewels--yes, and in a certain sense, social
preferment. The problem is presented in a different form to every man.
Some can grow rich honestly, and some have to remain poor in order to be
true to themselves. We may have to remain poor, Selma mia." He spoke
gayly, as though that prospect did not disturb him in the least.

"And we shall be just as good as the people who own these houses." She
said it gravely, as if it were a declaration of principles, and at the
same moment her gaze was caught and disturbed by a pair of blithe,
fashionably dressed young women gliding by her with the quiet,
unconscious grace of good-breeding. She was inwardly aware, though she
would never acknowledge it by word or sign, that such people troubled
her. More even than Mrs. Taylor had troubled her. They were different
from her and they tantalized her.

At the same moment her husband was saying in reply, "Just as good, but
not necessarily any better. No--other things being equal--not so good.
We mustn't deceive ourselves with that piece of cant. Some of them are
frivolous enough, and dishonest enough, heaven knows, but so there are
frivolous and dishonest people in every class. But there are many more
who endeavor to be good citizens--are good citizens, our best citizens.
The possession of money gives them the opportunity to become arbiters of
morals and taste, and to seek culture under the best advantages. After
all, an accumulation of money represents brains and energy in some one.
Look at this swell," he continued, indicating an attractive looking
young man who was passing. "His grandfather was one of the ablest men in
the city--an intelligent, self-respecting, shrewd, industrious,
public-spirited citizen who made a large fortune. The son has had
advantages which I have never had, and I happen to know that he is a
fine fellow and a very able one. If it came to comparisons, I should be
obliged to admit that he's a more ornamental member of society than
Jones, Brown, or Robinson, and certainly no less useful. Do I shock
you--you sweet, unswerving little democrat of the democrats?"

It always pleased Selma to be called endearing names, and it suited her
in her present frame of mind to be dubbed a democrat, for it did not
suit her to be painfully realizing that she was unable, at one brilliant
swoop, to take her place as a leader in social influence. Somehow she
had expected to do this, despite her first difficulties at Benham, for
she had thought of New York as a place where, as the wife of Littleton,
the architect, she would at once be a figure of importance. She shook
her head and said, "It's hard to believe that these people are really in
earnest; that they are serious in purpose and spirit." Meanwhile she was
being haunted by the irritating reflection that her clothes and her
bearing were inferior to those of the women she was passing. Secretly
she was making a resolve to imitate them, though she believed that she
despised them. She put her hand through her husband's arm and added,
almost fiercely, as she pressed closer to him, "We needn't trouble our
heads about them, Wilbur. We can get along without being rich and
fashionable, you and I. In spite of what you say, I don't consider this
sort of thing American."

"Get along? Darling, I was merely trying to be just to them; to let you
see that they are not so black as they're painted. We will forget them
forever. We have nothing in common with them. Get along? I feel that my
life will be a paradise living with you and trying to make some
impression on the life of this big, striving city. But as to its not
being American to live like these people--well you know they are
Americans and that New York is the Mecca of the hard-fisted sons of toil
from all over the country who have made money. But you're right, Selma.
Those who go in for show and extravagance are not the best
Americans--the Americans whom you and I believe in. Sometimes I get
discouraged when I stop to think, and now I shall have you to keep me
steadfast to our faith."

"Yes, Wilbur. And how far from here are we to live?"

"Oh, a mile or more. On some side street where the land is cheap and the
rent low. What do we care for that, Selma mia?"



CHAPTER II.


Shortly before Selma Littleton took up her abode in New York, Miss
Florence, or, as she was familiarly known, Miss Flossy Price, was an
inhabitant of a New Jersey city. Her father was a second cousin of
Morton Price, whose family at that time was socially conspicuous in
fashionable New York society. Not aggressively conspicuous, as ultra
fashionable people are to-day, by dint of frequent newspaper
advertisement, but in consequence of elegant, conservative
respectability, fortified by and cushioned on a huge income. In the
early seventies to know the Morton Prices was a social passport, and by
no means every one socially ambitious knew them. Morton Price's
great-grandfather had been a peddler, his grandfather a tea merchant,
his father a tea merchant and bank organizer, and he himself did nothing
mercantile, but was a director in diverse institutions, representing
trusts or philantrophy, and was regarded by many, including himself, as
the embodiment of ornamental and admirable citizenship. He could talk by
the hour on the degeneracy of state and city politics and the evil deeds
of Congress, and was, generally speaking, a conservative, fastidious,
well-dressed, well-fed man, who had a winning way with women and a happy
faculty of looking wise and saying nothing rash in the presence of men.
Some of the younger generation were apt, with the lack of reverence
belonging to youth, to speak of him covertly as "a stuffed club," but no
echo of this epithet had ever reached the ear of his cousin, David
Price, in New Jersey. For him, as for most of the world within a radius
of two hundred miles, he was above criticism and a monument of social
power.

David Price, Miss Flossy's father, was the president of a small and
unprogressive but eminently solid bank. Respectable routine was his
motto, and he lived up to it, and, as a consequence, no more sound
institution of the kind existed in his neighborhood. He and his
directors were slow to adopt innovations of any kind; they put stumbling
blocks in the path of business convenience whenever they could; in
short, David Price in his humble way was a righteous, narrow, hide-bound
retarder of progress and worshipper of established local custom.
Therefore it was a constant source of surprise and worry to him that he
should have a progressive daughter. There were four other children,
patterns of quiet, plodding conservatism, but--such is the irony of
fate--the youngest, prettiest, and his favorite, was an independent,
opinionated young woman, who seemed to turn a deaf ear to paternal and
maternal advice of safest New Jersey type. In her father's words, she
had no reverence for any thing or any body, which was approximately
true, for she did not hesitate to speak disrespectfully even of the head
of the house in New York.

"Poppa," she said one day, "Cousin Morton doesn't care for any of us a
little bit. I know what you're going to say," she added; "that he sends
you two turkeys every Thanksgiving. The last were terribly tough. I'm
sure he thinks that we never see turkeys here in New Jersey, and that he
considers us poor relations and that we live in a hole. If one of us
should call on him, I know it would distress him awfully. He's right in
thinking that this is a hole. Nothing ever happens here, and when I
marry I intend to live in New York."

This was when she was seventeen. Her father was greatly shocked,
especially as he suspected in his secret soul that the tirade was true
in substance. He had been the recipient of Thanksgiving turkeys for
nearly twenty years on the plea that they had been grown on the donor's
farm in Westchester county, and he had seen fit to invite his
fellow-directors annually to dine off one of them as a modest notice
that he was on friendly terms with his aristocratic New York cousin. But
in all these twenty years turkeys had been the only medium of
intercourse between them. David Price, on the few occasions when he had
visited New York, had not found it convenient to call. Once he had
walked by on the other side of Fifth avenue and looked at the house, but
shyness and the thought that he had no evening clothes in his valise had
restrained him from ringing the doorbell.

"You do your cousin Morton great injustice--great injustice, Florence,"
he answered. "He never forgets to send the turkeys, and as to the rest
of your speech, I have only to say that it is very disrespectful and
very foolish. The next time I go to New York I will take you to call on
your cousins."

"And what would I say to them? No thank you, poppa." The young woman
shook her head decisively, and then she added, "I'm not going to call on
them, until I'm fit to. There!"

The ambiguity of this remark gave Mr. Price the opportunity to say that,
in view of her immediate shortcomings, it was a wise conclusion, but he
knew what she really meant and was distressed. His feeling toward his
cousin, though mildly envious, did not extend to self-depreciation, nor
had it served to undermine his faith in the innate dignity and worth of
New Jersey family life. He could not only with a straight face, but with
a kindling eye inveigh against the perils of New York fashionable life,
and express gratification that no son or daughter of his had wandered so
far from the fold. It distressed him to think that Florence should be
casting sheep's eyes at the flesh-pots of Gotham, and so failing to
appreciate the blessings and safety of a quiet American home.

Miss Flossy continued to entertain and to express opinions of her own,
and as a result became socially interesting. At eighteen, by her beauty,
her engaging frankness and lack of self-consciousness, she spread havoc
among the young men of her native city, several of whom offered her
marriage. But marriage was far from her thoughts. Life seemed too
interesting and she wished to see the world. She was erect and alert
looking, with a compact figure of medium height, large brown eyes and
rich red hair, and a laughing mouth; also an innocent demeanor, which
served to give her, by moonlight, the effect of an angel. She succeeded
in visiting Bar Harbor, where she promptly became a bright particular
star among the galaxy of young women who at that period were
establishing the reputation of the summer girl. She continued to be a
summer girl for four seasons without injury to her own peace of mind. At
the end of the fourth summer she appeared on close scrutiny to be a
little worn, and her innocent air seemed a trifle deliberate. She
returned to her home in New Jersey in not quite her usual spirits. In
fact she became pensive. She had seen the world, and lo! she found it
stuffed with sawdust. She was ready to settle down, but the only man
with whom she would have been willing to settle had never asked her. He
was the brother of one of the girls who had been forbidden by her mother
to stay out in canoes with young men after nine at night. The rumor had
reached Flossy that this same mother had referred to her in "the fish
pond" at Rodick's as "that dreadful girl." It would have pleased her
after that to have wrung an offer of marriage from the son and heir, who
knew her cousins, the Morton Prices, and to whom she would have been
willing to engage herself temporarily at all events. He was very
devoted; they stayed out in his canoe until past midnight; he wrote
verses to her and told her his innermost thoughts; but he stopped there.
He went away without committing himself, and she was left to chew the
cud of reflection. It was bitter, not because she was in love with him,
for she was not. In her heart she knew he bored her a little. But she
was piqued. Evidently he had been afraid to marry "that dreadful girl."
She was piqued and she was sad. She recognized that it was another case
of not being fit. When would she be fit? What was she to do in order to
become fit--fit like the girl who was not allowed to stay on the water
after nine o'clock? She had ceased to think of the young man, but the
image of his sister haunted her. How stylish she was, yet how simple and
quiet! "I wonder," thought Flossy to herself, "if I could ever become
like her." The reflection threw her into a brown study in which she
remained for weeks, and during which she refused the hand of a staid and
respectable townsman, who, in her father's words, was ready to take her
with all her follies. David Price was disappointed. He loved this
independent daughter, and he had hopes that her demure and reticent
deportment signified that the effervescence of youth had evaporated. But
it was only an effort on Flossy's part to imitate the young man's
sister.

At this juncture and just when she was bored and dispirited by the
process, Gregory Williams appeared on the scene. Flossy met him at a
dancing party. He had a very tall collar, a very friendly, confident,
and (toward her) devoted manner, and good looks. It was whispered among
the girls that he was a banker from New York. He was obviously not over
thirty, which was young for a banker, but so he presently described
himself to Flossy with hints of impending prosperity. He spoke glibly
and picturesquely. He had a convincing eloquence of gesture--a wave of
the hand which suggested energy and compelled confidence. He had picked
her out at once to be introduced to, and sympathy between them was
speedily established. Her wearing, as a red-headed girl, a white horse
in the form of a pin, in order to prevent the attention of the men to
whom she talked from wandering, delighted him. He said to himself that
here was a girl after his own heart. He had admired her looks at the
outset, but he gazed at her now more critically. He danced every dance
with her, and they sat together at supper, apart from everybody else.
Flossy's resolutions were swept away. That is, she had become in an
instant indifferent to the fact that the New York girl she had yearned
to imitate would not have made herself so conspicuous. Her excuse was
that she could not help herself. It was a case of genuine, violent
attraction, which she made no effort to straggle against.

The attraction was violent on both sides. Gregory Williams was not
seeking to be married. He had been, until within six months, a broker's
clerk, and had become a banker on the strength of ten thousand dollars
bequeathed to him by a grandmother. He and a clerk from another broker's
office, J. Willett VanHorne, had recently formed a partnership as
Williams 

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