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A Knight of the Nineteenth Century

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #6311 · 829,429 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Knight of the Nineteenth Century

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6311]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6311

Credits: Produced by Tom Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY ***




Produced by Tom Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.











THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE

VOLUME THREE

A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY




[Illustration: "WOULD HE NEVER LOOK UP?"
Knight XIX Century _Frontispiece_]




THIS BOOK IS REVERENTLY
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY
OF MY HONORED FATHER




PREFACE

  He best deserves a knightly crest,
  Who slays the evils that infest
  His soul within. If victor here,
  He soon will find a wider sphere.
  The world is cold to him who pleads;
  The world bows low to knightly deeds.

CORNWALL ON THE HUDSON, N.Y.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
BAD TRAINING FOR A KNIGHT

CHAPTER II
BOTH APOLOGIZE

CHAPTER III
CHAINED TO AN ICEBERG

CHAPTER IV
IMMATURE

CHAPTER V
PASSION'S CLAMOR

CHAPTER VI
"GLOOMY GRANDEUR"

CHAPTER VII
BIRDS OF PREY

CHAPTER VIII
THEIR VICTIM

CHAPTER IX
PAT AND THE PRESS

CHAPTER X
RETURNING CONSCIOUSNESS

CHAPTER XI
HALDANE IS ARRESTED

CHAPTER XII
A MEMORABLE MEETING

CHAPTER XIII
OUR KNIGHT IN JAIL

CHAPTER XIV
MR. ARNOT'S SYSTEM WORKS BADLY

CHAPTER XV
HALDANE'S RESOLVE

CHAPTER XVI
THE IMPULSES OF WOUNDED PRIDE

CHAPTER XVII
AT ODDS WITH THE WORLD

CHAPTER XVIII
THE WORLD'S VERDICT--OUR KNIGHT A CRIMINAL

CHAPTER XIX
THE WORLD'S BEST OFFER--A PRISON

CHAPTER XX
MAIDEN AND WOOD-SAWYER

CHAPTER XXI
MAGNANIMOUS MR. SHRUMPF

CHAPTER XXII
A MAN WHO HATED HIMSELF

CHAPTER XXIII
MR. GROWTHER BECOMES GIGANTIC

CHAPTER XXIV
HOW PUBLIC OPINION IS OFTEN MADE

CHAPTER XXV
A PAPER PONIARD

CHAPTER XXVI
A SORRY KNIGHT

CHAPTER XXVII
GOD SENT HIS ANGEL

CHAPTER XXVIII
FACING THE CONSEQUENCES

CHAPTER XXIX
HOW EVIL ISOLATES

CHAPTER XXX
IDEAL KNIGHTHOOD

CHAPTER XXXI
THE LOW STARTING-POINT

CHAPTER XXXII
A SACRED REFRIGERATOR

CHAPTER XXXIII
A DOUBTFUL BATTLE IN PROSPECT

CHAPTER XXXIV
A FOOT-HOLD

CHAPTER XXXV
THAT SERMON WAS A BOMB-SHELL

CHAPTER XXXVI
MR. GROWTHER FEEDS AN ANCIENT GRUDGE

CHAPTER XXXVII
HOPING FOR A MIRACLE

CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE MIRACLE TAKES PLACE

CHAPTER XXXIX
VOTARIES OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER XL
HUMAN NATURE

CHAPTER XLI
MRS. ARNOT'S CREED

CHAPTER XLII
THE LEVER THAT MOVES THE WORLD

CHAPTER XLIII
MR. GROWTHER "STUMPED"

CHAPTER XLIV
GROWTH

CHAPTER XLV
LAURA ROMEYN

CHAPTER XLVI
MISJUDGED

CHAPTER XLVII
LAURA CHOOSES HER KNIGHT

CHAPTER XLVIII
MRS. ARNOT'S KNIGHT

CHAPTER XLIX
A KNIGHTLY DEED

CHAPTER L
"O DREADED DEATH!"

CHAPTER LI
"O PRICELESS LIFE!"

CHAPTER LII
A MAN VERSUS A CONNOISSEUR

CHAPTER LIII
EXIT OF LAURA'S FIRST KNIGHT

CHAPTER LIV
ANOTHER KNIGHT APPEARS




A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY




CHAPTER I

BAD TRAINING FOR A KNIGHT


Egbert Haldane had an enemy who loved him very dearly, and he sincerely
returned her affection, as he was in duty bound, since she was his
mother. If, inspired by hate and malice, Mrs. Haldane had brooded over
but one question at the cradle of her child, How can I most surely
destroy this boy? she could scarcely have set about the task more
skilfully and successfully.

But so far from having any such malign and unnatural intention, Mrs.
Haldane idolized her son. To make the paradox more striking, she was
actually seeking to give him a Christian training and character. As he
leaned against her knee Bible tales were told him, not merely for the
sake of the marvellous interest which they ever have for children, but
in the hope, also, that the moral they carry with them might remain as
germinating seed. At an early age the mother had commenced taking him to
church, and often gave him an admonitory nudge as his restless eyes
wandered from the venerable face in the pulpit. In brief, the apparent
influences of his early life were similar to those existing in
multitudes of Christian homes. On general principles, it might be hoped
that the boy's future would be all that his friends could desire; nor
did he himself in early youth promise so badly to superficial observers;
and the son of the wealthy Mrs. Haldane was, on the part of the world,
more the object of envy than of censure. But a close observer, who
judged of characteristic tendencies and their results by the light of
experience, might justly fear that the mother had unwittingly done her
child irreparable wrong.

She had made him a tyrant and a relentless task-master even in his
infancy. As his baby-will developed he found it supreme. His nurse was
obliged to be a slave who must patiently humor every whim. He was petted
and coaxed out of his frequent fits of passion, and beguiled from his
obstinate and sulky moods by bribes. He was the eldest child and only
son, and his little sisters were taught to yield to him, right or wrong,
he lording it over them with the capricious lawlessness of an Eastern
despot. Chivalric deference to woman, and a disposition to protect and
honor her, is a necessary element of a manly character in our Western
civilization; but young Haldane was as truly an Oriental as if he had
been permitted to bluster around a Turkish harem; and those whom he
should have learned to wait upon with delicacy and tact became
subservient to his varying moods, developing that essential brutality
which mars the nature of every man who looks upon woman as an inferior
and a servant. He loved his mother, but he did not reverence and honor
her. The thought ever uppermost in his mind was, "What ought she to do
for me?" not, "What ought I to do for her?" and any effort to curb or
guide on her part was met and thwarted by passionate or obstinate
opposition from him. He loved his sisters after a fashion, because they
were his sisters; but so far from learning to think of them as those
whom it would be his natural task to cherish and protect, they were, in
his estimation, "nothing but girls," and of no account whatever where
his interests were concerned.

In the most receptive period of life the poison of selfishness and
self-love was steadily instilled into his nature. Before he had left the
nursery he had formed the habit of disregarding the wills and wishes of
others, even when his childish conscience told him that he was decidedly
in the wrong. When he snatched his sisters' playthings they cried in
vain, and found no redress. The mother made peace by smoothing over
matters, and promising the little girls something else.

Of course, the boy sought to carry into his school life the same
tendencies and habits which he had learned at home, and he ever found a
faithful ally in his blind, fond mother. She took his side against his
teachers; she could not believe in his oppressions of his younger
playmates; she was absurdly indignant and resentful when some sturdy boy
stood up for his own rights, or championed another's, and sent the
incipient bully back to her, crying, and with a bloody nose. When the
pampered youth was a little indisposed, or imagined himself so, he was
coddled at home, and had bonbons and fairy tales in the place of
lessons.

Judicious friends shook their heads ominously, and some even ventured to
counsel the mother to a wiser course; but she ever resented such advice.
The son was the image of his lost father, and her one impulse was to
lavish upon him everything that his heart craved.

As if all this were not enough, she placed in the boy's way another
snare, which seldom fails of proving fatal. He had only to ask for money
to obtain it, no knowledge of its value being imparted to him. Even when
he took it from his mother's drawer without asking, her chidings were
feeble and irresolute. He would silence and half satisfy her by saying:

"You can take anything of mine that you want. It's all in the family;
what difference does it make?"

Thus every avenue of temptation in the city which could be entered by
money was open to him, and he was not slow in choosing those naturally
attractive to a boy.

But while his mother was blind to the evil traits and tendencies which
she was fostering with such ominous success, there were certain overt
acts naturally growing out of her indulgences which would shock her
inexpressibly, and evoke even from her the strongest expressions of
indignation and rebuke. She was pre-eminently respectable, and fond of
respect. She was a member "in good and regular standing" not only of her
church, but also of the best society in the small inland city where she
resided, and few greater misfortunes in her estimation could occur than
to lose this status. She never hesitated to humor any of her son's whims
and wishes which did not threaten their respectability, but the
quick-witted boy was not long in discovering that she would not tolerate
any of those vices and associations which society condemns.

There could scarcely have been any other result save that which
followed. She had never taught him self-restraint; his own inclinations
furnished the laws of his action, and the wish to curb his desires
because they were wrong scarcely ever crossed his mind. To avoid trouble
with his mother, therefore, he began slyly and secretly to taste the
forbidden fruits which her lavish supplies of money always kept within
his reach. In this manner that most hopeless and vitiating of elements,
deceitfulness, entered into his character. He denied to his mother, and
sought to conceal from her, the truth that while still in his teens he
was learning the gambler's infatuation and forming the inebriate's
appetite. He tried to prevent her from knowing that many of his most
intimate associates were such as he would not introduce to her or to his
sisters.

He had received, however, a few counter-balancing advantages in his
early life. With all her weaknesses, his mother was a lady, and order,
refinement, and elegance characterized his home. Though not a gentleman
at heart, on approaching manhood he habitually maintained the outward
bearing that society demands. The report that he was a little fast was
more than neutralized by the fact of his wealth. Indeed, society
concluded that it had much more occasion to smile than to frown upon
him, and his increasing fondness for society and its approval in some
degree curbed his tendencies to dissipation.

It might also prove to his advantage that so much Christian and ethical
truth had been lodged in his memory during early years. His mother had
really taken pains to acquaint him with the Divine Man who "pleased not
himself," even while she was practically teaching him to reverse this
trait in his own character. Thus, while the youth's heart was sadly
erratic, his head was tolerably orthodox, and he knew theoreticaly the
chief principles of right action. Though his conscience had never been
truly awakened, it often told him that his action was unmanly, to say
the least; and that was as far as any self-censure could reach at this
time. But it might prove a fortunate thing that although thorns and
thistles had been planted chiefly, some good seed had been scattered
also, and that he had received some idea of a life the reverse of that
which he was leading.

But thus far it might be said with almost literal truth, that young
Haldane's acquaintance with Christian ethics had had no more practical
effect upon his habitual action and thought than his knowledge of
algebra. When his mother permitted him to snatch his sisters' playthings
and keep them, when she took him from the school where he had received
well-merited punishment, when she enslaved herself and her household to
him instead of teaching considerate and loyal devotion to her, she
nullified all the Christian instruction that she or any one else had
given.

The boy had one very marked trait, which might promise well for the
future, or otherwise, according to circumstances, and that was a certain
wilful persistence, which often degenerated into downright obstinacy.
Frequently, when his mother thought that she had coaxed or wheedled him
into giving up something of which she did not approve, he would quietly
approach his object in some other way, and gain his point, or sulk till
he did. When he set his heart upon anything he was not as "unstable as
water." While but an indifferent and superficial student, who had
habitually escaped lessons and skipped difficulties, he occasionally
became nettled by a perplexing problem or task, and would work at it
with a sort of vindictive, unrelenting earnestness, as if he were
subduing an enemy. Having put his foot on the obstacle, and mastered the
difficulty that piqued him, he would cast the book aside, indifferent to
the study or science of which it formed but a small fraction.

After all, perhaps the best that could be said of him was that he
possessed fair abilities, and was still subject to the good and generous
impulses of youth. His traits and tendencies were, in the main, all
wrong; but he had not as yet become confirmed and hardened in them.
Contact with the world, which sooner or later tells a man the truth
about himself, however unwelcome, might dissipate the illusion, gained
from his mother's idolatry, that in some indefinite way he was
remarkable in himself, and that he was destined to great things from a
vague and innate superiority, which it had never occurred to him to
analyze.

But as the young man approached his majority his growing habits of
dissipation became so pronounced that even his willingly blind mother
was compelled to recognize them. Rumor of his fast and foolish behavior
took such definite shape as to penetrate the widow's aristocratic
retirement, and to pass the barriers created by the reserve which she
ever maintained in regard to personal and family matters. More than once
her son came home in a condition so nearly resembling intoxication that
she was compelled to recognize the cause, and she was greatly shocked
and alarmed. Again and again she said to herself:

"I cannot understand how a boy brought up in the careful Christian
manner that he has been can show such unnatural depravity. It is a dark,
mysterious providence, to which I feel I cannot submit."

Though young Haldane was aware of his mother's intolerance of
disreputable vices and follies, he was not prepared for her strong and
even bitter condemnation of his action. Having never been taught to
endure from her nor from any one the language of rebuke, he retorted as
a son never should do in any circumstances, and stormy scenes followed.

Thus the mother was at last rudely awakened to the fact that her son was
not a model youth, and that something must be done speedily, or else he
might go to destruction, and in the meantime disgrace both himself and
her--an event almost equally to be dreaded.

In her distress and perplexity she summoned her pastor, and took counsel
with him. At her request the venerable man readily agreed to "talk to"
the wayward subject, and thought that his folly and its consequences
could be placed before the young man in such a strong and logical
statement that it would convince him at once that he must "repent and
walk in the ways of righteousness." If Haldane's errors had been those
of doctrine, Dr. Marks would have been an admirable guide; but the
trouble was that, while the good doctor was familiar with all the
readings of obscure Greek and Hebrew texts, and all the shades of
opinions resulting, he was unacquainted with even the alphabet of human
nature. In approaching "a sinner," he had one formal and unvarying
method, and he chose his course not from the bearing of the subject
himself, but from certain general theological truths which he believed
applied to the "unrenewed heart of man as a fallen race." He rather
prided himself upon calling a sinner a sinner, and all things else by
their right names; and thus it is evident that he often had but little
of the Pauline guile, which enabled the great apostle to entangle the
wayward feet of Jew, Greek and Roman, bond and free, in heavenly snares.

The youth whom he was to convince and convert by a single broadside of
truth, as it were, moved in such an eccentric orbit, that the doctor
could never bring his heavy artillery to bear upon him. Neither coaxing
nor scolding on the part of the mother could bring about the formal
interview. At last, however, it was secured by an accident, and his
mother felt thereafter, with a certain sense of consolation, that "all
had been done that could be done."

Entering the parlor unexpectedly one afternoon, Haldane stumbled
directly upon Dr. Marks, who opened fire at once, by saying:

"My young friend, this is quite providential, as I have long been
wishing for an interview. Please be seated, for I have certain things to
say which relate to your spiritual and temporal well-being, although the
latter is a very secondary matter."

Haldane was too well bred to break rudely and abruptly away, and yet it
must be admitted that he complied with very much the feeling and grace
with which he would take a dentist's chair.

"My young friend, if you ever wish to be a saint you must first have a
profound conviction that you are a sinner. I hope that you realize that
you are a sinner."

"I am quite content to be a gentleman," was the brusque reply.

"But as long as you remain an impenitent sinner you can never be even a
true gentleman," responded the clergyman somewhat warmly.

Haldane had caught a shocked and warning look from his mother, and so
did not reply. He saw that he was "in for it," as he would express
himself, and surmised that the less he said the sooner the ordeal would
be over. He therefore took refuge in a silence that was both sullen and
resentful. He was too young and uncurbed to maintain a cold and
impassive face, and his dark eyes occasionally shot vindictive gleams at
both his mother and her ally, who had so unexpectedly caged him against
his will. Fortunately the doctor was content, after he had got under
way, to talk at, instead of to, his listener, and thus was saved the
mortification of asking questions of one who would not have answered.

After the last sonorous period had been rounded, the youth arose, bowed
stiffly, and withdrew, but with a heart overflowing with a malicious
desire to retaliate. At the angle of the house stood the clergyman's
steady-going mare, and his low, old-fashioned buggy. It was but the work
of a moment to slip part of the shuck of a horse-chestnut, with its
sharp spines, under the collar, so that when the traces drew upon it the
spines would be driven into the poor beast's neck. Then, going down to
the main street of the town, through which he knew the doctor must pass
on his way home, he took his post of observation.




CHAPTER II

BOTH APOLOGIZE


Haldane's hopes were realized beyond his anticipations, for the doctor's
old mare--at first surprised and restless from the wounds made by the
sharp spines--speedily became indignant and fractious, and at last, half
frantic with pain, started on a gallop down the street, setting all the
town agog with excitement and alarm.

With grim satisfaction Haldane saw the doctor's immaculate silk hat fly
into the mud, his wig, blown comically awry, fall over his eyes, and his
spectacles joggle down until they sat astride the tip of a rather
prominent nose.

Having had his revenge he at once relented, and rushing out in advance
of some others who were coming to the rescue, he caught the poor beast,
and stopped her so suddenly that the doctor was nearly precipitated over
the dashboard. Then, pretending to examine the harness to see that
nothing was broken, he quietly removed the cause of irritation, and the
naturally sedate beast at once became far more composed than her master,
for, as a bystander remarked, the venerable doctor was "dreadfully shuck
up." It was quite in keeping with Haldane's disingenuous nature to
accept the old gentleman's profuse thanks for the rescue. The impulse to
carry his mischief still further was at once acted upon, and he offered
to see the doctor safely home.

His services were eagerly accepted, for the poor man was much too
unnerved to take the reins again, though, had he known it, the mare
would now have gone to the parsonage quietly, and of her own accord.

The doctor was gradually righted up and composed. His wig, which had
covered his left eye, was arranged decorously in its proper place, and
the gold-rimmed spectacles pressed back so that the good man could beam
mildly and gratefully upon his supposed preserver. The clerical hat,
however, had lost its character beyond recovery, and though its owner
was obliged to wear it home, it must be confessed that it did not at all
comport with the doctor's dignity and calling.

Young Haldane took the reins with a great show of solicitude and
vigilance, appearing to dread another display of viciousness from the
mare, that was now most sheeplike in her docility; and thus, with his
confiding victim, he jogged along through the crowded street, the object
of general approval and outspoken commendation.

"My dear young friend," began the doctor fervently, "I feel that you
have already repaid me amply for my labors in your behalf."

"Thank you," said Haldane demurely; "I think we are getting even."

"This has been a very mysterious affair," continued the doctor musingly;
"surely 'a horse is a vain thing for safety.' One is almost tempted to
believe that demoniacal possession is not wholly a thing of the past.
Indeed, I could not think of anything else while Dolly was acting so
viciously and unaccountably."

"I agree with you," responded Haldane gravely, "she certainly did come
down the street like the devil."

The doctor was a little shocked at this putting of his thoughts into
plain English, for it sounded somewhat profanely. But he was in no mood
to find fault with his companion, and they got on very well together to
the end of their brief journey. The young scapegrace was glad, indeed,
that it was brief, for his self-control was fast leaving him, and having
bowed a rather abrupt farewell to the doctor, he was not long in
reaching one of his haunts, from which during the evening, and quite
late into the night, came repeated peals of laughter, that grew more
boisterous and discordant as that synonyme of mental and moral anarchy,
the "spirit of wine," gained the mastery.

The tidings of her son's exploit in rescuing the doctor were not long in
reaching Mrs. Haldane, and she felt that the good seed sown that day had
borne immediate fruit. She longed to fold him in her arms and commend
his courage, while she poured out thanksgiving that he himself had
escaped uninjured, which immunity, she believed, must have resulted from
the goodness and piety of the deed. But when he at last appeared with
step so unsteady and utterance so thick that even she could not mistake
the cause, she was bewildered and bitterly disappointed by the apparent
contradictoriness of his action; and when he, too far gone for
dissimulation, described and acted out in pantomime the doctor's plight
and appearance, she became half hysterical from her desire to laugh, to
cry, and to give vent to her kindling indignation.

This anger was raised almost to the point of white heat on the morrow.
The cause of the old mare's behavior, and the interview which had led to
the practical joke, soon became an open secret, and while it convulsed
the town with laughter, it also gave the impression that young Haldane
was in a "bad way."

It was not long before Mrs. Haldane received a note from an indignant
fellow church-member, in which, with some disagreeable comment, her
son's conduct was plainly stated. She was also informed that the doctor
had become aware of the rude jest of which he had been the subject. Mrs.
Haldane was almost furious; but her son grew sullen and obstinate as the
storm which he had raised increased. The only thing he would say as an
apology or excuse amounted to this:

"What else could he expect from one who he so emphatically asserted was
a sinner?"

The mother wrote at once to the doctor, and was profuse in her apologies
and regrets, but was obliged to admit to him that her son was beyond her
control.

When the doctor first learned the truth his equanimity was almost as
greatly disturbed as it had been on the previous day, and his first
emotions were obviously those of wrath. But a little thought brought him
to a better mood.

He was naturally deficient in tact, and his long habit of dwelling upon
abstract and systematic truth had diminished his power of observantly
and intuitively gauging the character of the one with whom he was
dealing. He therefore often failed wofully in adaptation, and his
sermons occasionally went off into rarefied realms of moral space, where
nothing human existed. But his heart was true and warm, and his Master's
cause of far more consequence to him than his own dignity.

As he considered the matter maturely he came to the conclusion that
there must have been something wrong on both sides. If he had presented
the truth properly the young man could not have acted so improperly.
After recalling the whole affair, he became satisfied that he had relied
far too much on his own strong logic, and it had seemed to him that it
must convince. He had forgotten for the moment that those who would do
good should be very humble, and that, in a certain sense, they must take
the hand of God, and place it upon the one whom they would save.

Thus the honest old clergyman tried to search out the error and weakness
which had led to such a lamentable failure in his efforts; and when at
last Mrs. Haldane's note of sorrowful apology and motherly distress
reached him, his anger was not only gone, but his heart was full of
commiseration for both herself and her son. He at once sat down, and
wrote her a kind and consolatory letter, in which he charged her
hereafter to trust less to the "arm of flesh" and more to the "power of
God." He also inclosed a note to the young man, which his mother handed
to him with a darkly reproachful glance. He opened it with a
contemptuous frown, expecting to find within only indignant upbraidings;
but his face changed rapidly as he read the following words:


"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND--I hardly know which of us should apologize. I
now perceive and frankly admit that there was wrong on my side. I
could not have approached you and spoken to you in the right spirit,
for if I had, what followed could not have occurred. I fear there
was a self-sufficiency in my words and mariner yesterday, which made
you conscious of Dr. Marks only, and you had no scruples in dealing
with Dr. Marks as you did. If my words and bearing had brought you
face to face with my august yet merciful Master, you would have
respected Him, and also me, His servant. I confess that I was very
angry this morning, for I am human. But now I am more concerned lest
I have prejudiced you against Him by whom alone we all are saved.
Yours faithfully,

"ZEBULON MARKS."


The moment Haldane finished reading the note he left the room, and his
mother heard him at the hat-rack in the hall, preparing to go out. She,
supposing that he was again about to seek some of his evil haunts,
remonstrated sharply; but, without paying the slightest attention to her
words, he departed, and within less than half an hour rang the bell at
the parsonage.

Dr. Marks could scarcely believe his eyes as the young man was shown
into his study, but he welcomed him as cordially as though nothing
unpleasant had occurred between them.

After a moment's hesitation and embarrassment Haldane began:

"When I read your note this evening I had not the slightest doubt that I
was the one to apologize, and I sincerely ask your pardon."

The old gentleman's eyes grew moist, and he blew his nose in a rather
unusual manner. But he said promptly:

"Thank you, my young friend, thank you. I appreciate this. But no matter
about me. How about my Master? won't you become reconciled to Him?"

"I suppose by that you mean, won't you be a Christian?"

"That is just what I mean and most desire. I should be willing to risk
broken bones any day to accomplish that."

Haldane smiled, shook his head, and after a moment said:

"I must confess that I have not the slightest wish to become a
Christian."

The old gentleman's eager and interested expression changed instantly to
one of the deepest sorrow and commiseration. At the same time he
appeared bewildered and perplexed, but murmured, more in soliloquy than
as an address to the young man:

"O Ephraim! how shall I give thee up?"

Haldane was touched by the venerable man's tone and manner, more than he
would have thought possible, and, feeling that he could not trust
himself any longer, determined to make his escape as soon as
practicable. But as he rose to take his leave he said, a little
impulsively:

"I feel sure, sir, that if you had spoken and looked yesterday as you do
this evening I would not have--I would not have--"

"I understand, my young friend; I now feel sure that I was more to blame
than yourself, and your part is already forgiven and forgotten. I am now
only solicitous about _you_."

"You are very kind to feel so after what has happened, and I will say
this much--If I ever do wish to become a Christian, there is no one
living to whom I will come for counsel more quickly than yourself.
Good-night, sir."

"Give me your hand before you go."

It was a strong, warm, lingering grasp that the old man gave, and in the
dark days of temptation that followed, Haldane often felt that it had a
helping and sustaining influence.

"I wish I could hold on to you," said the doctor huskily; "I wish I
could lead you by loving force into the paths of pleasantness and peace.
But what I can't do, God can. Good-by, and God bless you."

Haldane fled rather precipitously, for he felt that he was becoming
constrained by a loving violence that was as mysterious as it was
powerful. Before he had passed through the main street of the town,
however, a reckless companion placed an arm in his, and led him to one
of their haunts, where he drank deeper than usual, that he might get rid
of the compunctions which the recent interview had occasioned.

His mother was almost in despair when he returned. He had, indeed,
become to her a terrible and perplexing problem. As she considered the
legitimate results of her own weak indulgence she would sigh again and
again:

"Never was there a darker and more mysterious providence. I feel that I
can neither understand it nor submit."

A sense of helplessness in dealing with this stubborn and perverse will
overwhelmed her, and, while feeling that something must be done, she was
at a loss what to do. Her spiritual adviser having failed to meet the
case, she next summoned her legal counsellor, who managed her property.

He was a man of few words, and an adept in worldly wisdom.

"Your son should have employment," he said;

  "'Satan finds some mischief still
  For idle hands,'

"etc., is a sound maxim, if not first-class poetry. If Mr. Arnot, the
husband of your old friend, is willing to take him, you cannot do better
than place your son in his charge, for he is one of the most methodical
and successful business men of my acquaintance."

Mrs. Arnot, in response to her friend's letter, induced her husband to
make a position in his counting-house for young Haldane, who, from a
natural desire to see more of the world, entered into the arrangement
very willingly.




CHAPTER III

CHAINED TO AN ICEBERG


Hillaton, the suburban city in which the Arnots resided, was not very
distant from New York, and drew much of its prosperity from its
relations with the metropolis. It prided itself much on being a
university town, but more because many old families of extremely blue
blood and large wealth gave tone and color to its society. It is true
that this highest social circle was very exclusive, and formed but a
small fraction of the population; but the people in general had come to
speak of "our society," as being "unusually good," just as they
commended to strangers the architecture of "our college buildings,"
though they had little to do with either.

Mrs. Arnot's blood, however, was as blue as that of the most ancient and
aristocratic of her neighbors, while in character and culture she had
few equals. But with the majority of those most cerulean in their vital
fluid the fact that she possessed large wealth in her own name, and was
the wife of a man engaged in a colossal business, weighed more than all
her graces and ancestral honors.

Young Haldane's employer, Mr. Arnot, was, indeed, a man of business and
method, for the one absorbed his very soul, and the other divided his
life into cubes and right angles of manner and habit. It could scarcely
be said that he had settled down into ruts, for this would presuppose
the passiveness of a nature controlled largely by circumstances. People
who travel in ruts drop more often into those made by others than such
as are worn by themselves. Mr. Arnot moved rather in his own
well-defined grooves, which he had deliberately furrowed out with his
own steely will. In these he went through the day with the same strong,
relentless precision which characterized the machinery in his several
manufacturing establishments.

He was a man, too, who had always had his own way, and, as is usually
true in such instances, the forces of his life had become wholly
centripetal.

The cosmos of the selfish man or woman is practically this--Myself the
centre of the universe, and all things else are near or remote, of value
or otherwise, in accordance with their value and interest to me.

Measuring by this scale of distances (which was the only correct one in
the case of Mr. Arnot) the wife of his bosom was quite a remote object.
She formed no part of his business, and he, in his hard, narrow
worldliness, could not even understand the principles and motives of her
action. She was a true and dutiful wife, and presided over his household
with elegance and refinement; but he regarded all this as a matter of
course. He could not conceive of anything else in _his_ wife. All
his "subordinates" in their several spheres, "must" perform their duties
with becoming propriety. Everything "must be regular and systematic" in
his house, as truly as in his factories and counting-room.

Mrs. Arnot endeavored to conform to his peculiarities in this respect,
and kept open the domestic grooves in which it was necessary to his
peace that he should move regularly and methodically. He had his meals
at the hour he chose, to the moment, and when he retired to his
library--or, rather, the business office at his house--not the
throne-room of King Ahasuerus was more sacred from intrusion; and seldom
to his wife, even, was the sceptre of favor and welcome held out, should
she venture to enter.

For a long time she had tried to be an affectionate as well as a
faithful wife, for she had married this man from love. She had mistaken
his cool self-poise for the calmness and steadiness of strength; and
women are captivated by strength, and sometimes by its semblance. He was
strong; but so also are the driving-wheels of an engine.

There is an undefined, half-recognized force in nature which leads many
to seek to balance themselves by marrying their opposites in
temperament. While the general working of this tendency is, no doubt,
beneficent, it not unfrequently brings together those who are so
radically different, that they cannot supplement each other, but must
ever remain two distinct, unblended lives, that are in duty bound to
obey the letter of the law of marriage, but who cannot fulfil its
spirit.

For years Mrs. Arnot had sought with all a woman's tact to consummate
their marriage, so that the mystical words of God, "And they twain shall
be one flesh," should describe their union; but as time passed she had
seen her task grow more and more hopeless. The controlling principles of
each life were utterly different. He was hardening into stone, while the
dross and materiality of her nature were being daily refined away. A
strong but wholly selfish character cannot blend by giving and taking,
and thus becoming modified into something different and better. It can
only absorb, and thus drag down to its own condition. Before there can
be unity the weaker one must give up and yield personal will and
independence to such a degree that it is almost equivalent to being
devoured and assimilated.

But Mr. Arnot seemed to grow too narrow and self-sufficient in his
nature for such spiritual cannibalism, even had his wife been a weak,
neutral character, with no decided and persistent individuality of her
own. He was not slow in exacting outward and mechanical service, but he
had no time to "bother" with her thoughts, feelings, and opinions; nor
did he think it worth while, to any extent, to lead her to reflect only
his feelings and opinions. Neither she nor any one else was very
essential to him. His business _was_ necessary, and he valued it even
more than the wealth which resulted from it. He grew somewhat like his
machinery, which needed attention, but which cherished no sentiments
toward those who waited on it during its hours of motion.

Thus, though not deliberately intending it, his manner toward his wife
had come to be more and more the equivalent of a steady black frost, and
she at last feared that the man had congealed or petrified to his very
heart's core.

While the only love in Mr. Arnot's heart was self-love, even in this
there existed no trace of weak indulgence and tenderness. His life
consisted in making his vast and complicated business go forward
steadily, systematically, and successfully; and he would not permit that
entity known as Thomas Arnot to thwart him any more than he would brook
opposition or neglect in his office-boy. All things, even himself, must
bend to the furtherance of his cherished objects.

But, whatever else was lacking, Mr. Arnot had a profound respect for his
wife. First and chiefly, she was wealthy, and he, having control of her
property, made it subservient to his business. He had chafed at first
against what he termed her "sentimental ways of doing good" and her
"ridiculous theories," but in these matters he had ever found her as
gentle as a woman, but as unyielding as granite. She told him plainly
that her religious life and its expression were matters between herself
and God--that it was a province into which his cast-iron system and
material philosophy could not enter. He grumbled at her large charities,
and declared that she "turned their dwelling into a club-house for young
men"; but she followed her conscience with such a quiet, unswerving
dignity that he found no pretext for interference. The money she gave
away was her own, and fortunately, the house to which it was her delight
to draw young men from questionable and disreputable places of resort
had been left to her by her father. Though she did not continually
remind her husband of these facts, as an under-bred woman might have
done, her manner was so assured and unhesitating that he was compelled
to recognize her rights, and to see that she was fully aware of them
also. Since she yielded so gracefully and considerately all and more
than he could justly claim, he finally concluded to ignore what he
regarded as her "peculiarities." As for himself, he had no
peculiarities. He was a "practical, sensible man, with no nonsense about
him."

Mrs. Haldane had been in such sore straits and perplexity about her son
that she overcame her habitual reserve upon family and personal matters,
and wrote to her friend a long and confidential letter, in which she
fully described the "mysterious providence" which was clouding her life.

Mrs. Arnot had long been aware of her friend's infirmity, and more than
once had sought with delicacy and yet with faithfulness to open her eyes
to the consequences of her indulgence. But Mrs. Haldane, unfortunately,
was incapable of taking a broad, and therefore correct, view of
anything. She was governed far more by her prejudices and feelings than
by reason or experience, and the emotion or prejudice uppermost absorbed
her mind so completely as to exclude all other considerations. Her
friendship for Mrs. Arnot had commenced at school, but the two ladies
had developed so differently that the relation had become more a
cherished memory of the happy past than a congenial intimacy of their
maturer life.

The "mysterious providence" of which Mrs. Haldane wrote was to Mrs.
Arnot a legitimate and almost inevitable result. But, now that the
mischief had been accomplished, she was the last one in the world to say
to her friend, "I told you so." To her mind the providential feature in
the matter was the chance that had come to her of counteracting the evil
which the mother had unconsciously developed. This opportunity was in
the line of her most cherished plan and hope of usefulness, as will be
hereafter seen, and she had lost no time in persuading her husband to
give Haldane employment in his counting-room. She also secured his
consent that the youth should become a member of the family, for a time
at least. Mr. Arnot yielded these points reluctantly, for it was a part
of his policy to have no more personal relations with his _employes_
than with his machinery. He wished them to feel that they were merely a
part of his system, and that the moment any one did not work regularly
and accurately he must be cast aside as certainly as a broken or
defective wheel. But as his wife's health made her practically a silent
partner in his vast business, he yielded--though with rather ill grace,
and with a prediction that it "would not work well."

Haldane was aware that his mother had written a long letter to Mrs.
Arnot, and he supposed that his employer and his wife had thus become
acquainted with all his misdeeds. He, therefore, rather dreaded to meet
those who must, from the first, regard him as a graceless and difficult
subject, that could not be managed at home. But, with the characteristic
recklessness of young men who have wealth to fall back upon, he had
fortified himself by thoughts like the following:

"If they do not treat me well, or try to put me into a straight-jacket,
or if I find the counting-house too dull, I can bid them good-morning
whenever I choose."

But Mrs. Arnot's frank and cordial reception was an agreeable surprise.
He arrived quite late in the evening, and she had a delightful little
lunch brought to him in her private parlor. By the time it was eaten her
graceful tact had banished all stiffness and sense of strangeness, and
he found himself warming into friendliness toward one whom he had
especially dreaded as a "remarkably pious lady"--for thus his mother had
always spoken of her.

It was scarcely strange that he should be rapidly disarmed by this lady,
who cannot be described in a paragraph. Though her face was rather
plain, it was so expressive of herself that it seldom failed to
fascinate. Nature can do much to render a countenance attractive, but
character accomplishes far more. The beauty which is of feature merely
catches the careless, wandering eye. The beauty which is the reflex of
character _holds_ the eye, and eventually wins the heart. Those who
knew Mrs. Arnot best declared that, instead of growing old and homely,
she was growing more lovely every year. Her dark hair had turned gray
early, and was fast becoming snowy white. For some years after her
marriage she had grown old very fast. She had dwelt, as it were, on the
northern side of an iceberg, and in her vain attempt to melt and
humanize it, had almost perished herself. As the earthly streams and
rills that fed her life congealed, she was led to accept of the love of
God, and the long arctic winter of her despair passed gradually away.
She was now growing young again. A faint bloom was dawning in her
cheeks, and her form was gaming that fulness which is associated with
the maturity of middle age. Her bright black eyes were the most
attractive and expressive feature which she possessed, and they often
seemed gifted with peculiar powers.

As they beamed upon the young man they had much the same effect as the
anthracite coals which glowed in the grate, and he began to be conscious
of some disposition to give her his confidence.

Having dismissed the servant with the lunch tray, she caused him to draw
his chair sociably up to the fire, and said, without any circumlocution:

"Mr. Haldane, perhaps this is the best time for us to have a frank talk
in regard to the future."

The young man thought that this was the preface for some decided
criticism of the past, and his face became a little hard and defiant.
But in this he was mistaken, for the lady made no reference to his
faults, of which she had been informed by his mother. She spoke in a
kindly but almost in a business-like way of his duties in the
counting-room, and of the domestic rules of the household, to which he
would be expected to conform. She also spoke plainly of her husband's
inexorable requirement of system, regularity, and order, and dwelt upon
the fact that all in his employ conformed to this demand, and that it
was the business-like and manly thing to do.

"This is your first venture out into the world, I understand," she said,
rising to intimate that their interview was over, "and I greatly wish
that it may lead toward a useful and successful career. I have spoken
plainly because I wished you to realize just what you have undertaken,
and thus meet with no unpleasant surprises or unexpected experiences.
When one enters upon a course with his eyes open, he in a certain sense
pledges himself to do the best he can in that line of duty, and our
acquaintance, though so brief, has convinced me that you _can_ do very
well indeed."

"I was under the impression," said the young man, coloring deeply, "that
my mother's letter had led you to suppose--to expect just the contrary."

"Mr. Haldane," said Mrs. Arnot, giving him her hand with graceful tact,
"I shall form my opinion of you solely on the ground of your own action,
and I wish you to think of me as a friend who takes a genuine interest
in your success. Good-night."

He went to his room in quite a heroic and virtuous mood.

"She does not treat me a bit like a 'bad boy,' as I supposed she would,"
he thought; "but appears to take it for granted that I shall be a
gentleman in this her house, and a sensible fellow in her husband's
office. Blow me if I disappoint her!"

Nor did he for several weeks. Even Mr. Arnot was compelled to admit that
it did "work rather better than he expected," and that he "supposed the
young fellow did as well as he could."

As the novelty of Haldane's new relations wore off, however, and as his
duties became so familiar as to be chiefly a matter of routine, the
grave defects of his character and training began to show themselves.
The restraint of the counting-room grew irksome. Associations were
formed in the city which tended toward his old evil habits. As a piece
of Mr. Arnot's machinery he did not move with the increasing precision
that his employer required and expected on his becoming better
acquainted with his duties.

Mrs. Arnot had expected this, and knew that her husband would tolerate
carelessness and friction only up to a certain point. She had gained
more influence over the young man than any one else had ever possessed,
and by means of it kept him within bounds for some time; but she saw
from her husband's manner that things were fast approaching a crisis.

One evening she kindly, but frankly, told him of the danger in which he
stood of an abrupt, stern dismissal.

He was more angry than alarmed, and during the following day about
concluded that he would save himself any such mortification by leaving
of his own accord. He quite persuaded himself that he had a soul above
plodding business, and that, after enjoying himself at home for a time,
he could enter upon some other career, that promised more congeniality
and renown.

In order that his employer might not anticipate him, he performed his
duties very accurately that day, but left the office with the
expectation of never returning.

He had very decided compunctions in thus requiting Mrs. Arnot's
kindness, but muttered recklessly:

"I'm tired of this humdrum, treadmill life, and believe I'm destined to
better things. If I could only get a good position in the army or navy,
the world would hear from me. They say money opens every door, and
mother must open some good wide door for me."

Regardless now of his employer's good or bad opinion, he came down late
to supper; but, instead of observing with careless defiance the frown
which he knew lowered toward him, his eyes were drawn to a fair young
face on the opposite side of the table.

Mrs. Arnot, in her pleasant, cordial voice, which made the simplest
thing she said seem real and hearty, rather than conventional,
introduced him:

"Mr. Haldane, my niece, Miss Laura Romeyn. Laura, no doubt, can do far
more than an old lady to make your evenings pass brightly."

After a second glance of scrutiny, Haldane was so ungratefully forgetful
of all Mrs. Arnot's kindness as to be inclined to agree with her remark.




CHAPTER IV

IMMATURE


"Is she a young lady, or merely a school-girl?" was Haldane's query
concerning the stranger sitting opposite to him; and he addressed to her
a few commonplace but exploring remarks. Regarding himself as well
acquainted with society in general, and young ladies in particular, he
expected to solve the question at once, and was perplexed that he could
not. He had flirted with several misses as immature as himself, and so
thought that he was profoundly versed in the mysteries of the sex. "They
naturally lean toward and look up to men, and one is a fool, or else
lacking in personal appearance, who does not have his own way with
them," was his opinion, substantially.

Modesty is a grace which fine-looking young men of large wealth are
often taught by some severe experiences, if it is ever learned. Haldane,
as yet, had not received such wholesome depletion. His self-approval and
assurance, moreover, were quite natural, since his mother and sisters
had seldom lost an opportunity of developing and confirming these
traits. The yielding of women to his will and wishes had been one of the
most uniform experiences of his life, and he had come to regard it as
the natural order of things. Without formulating the thought in plain
words, he nevertheless regarded Mrs. Arnot's kindness, by which she
sought to gain a helpful influence over him, as largely due to some
peculiar fascination of his own, which made him a favorite wherever he
chose to be. Of course, the young stranger on the opposite side of the
table would prove no exception to the rule, and all he had to do was to
satisfy himself that she was sufficiently pretty and interesting to make
it worth while to pay her a little attention.

But for some reason she did not seem greatly impressed by his
commonplace and rather patronizing remarks. Was it pride or dignity on
her part, or was it mere girlish shyness? It must be the latter, for
there was no occasion for pride and dignity in her manner toward him.

Then came the thought that possibly Mrs. Arnot had not told her who he
was, and that she looked upon him as a mere clerk of low degree. To
remove from her mind any such error, his tones and manner became still
more self-asserting and patronizing.

"If she has any sense at all," he thought, "she shall see that I have
peculiar claims to her respect."

As he proceeded in these tactics, there was a growing expression of
surprise and a trace of indignation upon the young girl's face. Mrs.
Arnot watched the by-play with an amused expression. There was not much
cynicism in her nature. She believed that experience would soon prick
the bubble of his vanity, and it was her disposition to smile rather
than to sneer at absurdity in others. Besides, she was just. She never
applied to a young man of twenty the standard by which she would measure
those of her own age, and she remembered Haldane's antecedents. But Mr.
Arnot went to his library muttering:

"The ridiculous fool!"

When Miss Romeyn rose from the table, Haldane saw that she was certainly
tall enough to be a young lady, for she was slightly above medium
height. He still believed that she was very young, however, for her
figure was slight and girlish, and while her bearing was graceful it had
not that assured and pronounced character to which he had been
accustomed.

"She evidently has not seen much of society. Well, since she is not
gawky, I like her better than if she were blase. Anything but your blase
girls," he observed to himself, with a consciousness that he was an
experienced man of the world.

The piano stood open in the drawing-room, and this suggested music.
Haldane had at his tongue's end the names of half a dozen musicians
whose professional titles had been prominent in the newspapers for a few
months previous, and whose merits had formed a part of the current
chit-chat of the day. Some he had heard, and others he had not, but he
could talk volubly of all, and he asked Miss Romeyn for her opinion of
one and another in a manner which implied that of course she knew about
them, and that ignorance in regard to such persons was not to be
expected.

Her face colored with annoyance, but she said quietly and a trifle
coldly that she had not heard them.

Mrs. Arnot again smiled as she watched the young people, but she now
came to her niece's rescue, thinking also it would be well to disturb
Haldane's sense of superiority somewhat. So she said:

"Laura, since we cannot hear this evening the celebrated artists that
Mr. Haldane has mentioned, we must content ourselves with simple home
music. Won't you play for us that last selection of which you wrote to
me?"

"I hardly dare, auntie, since Mr. Haldane is such a critical judge, and
has heard so much music from those who make it a business to be perfect.
He must have listened to the selection you name a hundred times, for it
is familiar to most lovers of good music."

Haldane had sudden misgivings. Suppose he had not heard it? This would
be awkward, after his assumed acquaintance with such matters.

"Even if Mr. Haldane is familiar with it," Mrs. Arnot replied,
"Steibelt's Storm Rondo will bear repetition. Besides, his criticism may
be helpful, since he can tell you wherein you come short of the skilled
professionals."

Laura caught the twinkle in her aunt's eye, and went to the piano.

The young man saw at once that he had been caught in his own trap, for
the music was utterly unfamiliar. The rondo was no wonderful piece of
intricacy, such as a professional might choose. On the contrary, it was
simple, and quite within the capabilities of a young and well-taught
girl. But it was full of rich melody which even he, in his ignorance,
could understand and appreciate, and yet, for aught that he knew it was
difficult in the extreme.

At first he had a decided sense of humiliation, and a consciousness that
it was deserved. He had been talking largely and confidently of an art
concerning which he knew little, and in which he began to think that his
listener was quite well versed.

But as the thought of the composer grew in power and beauty he forgot
himself and his dilemma in his enjoyment. Two senses were finding
abundant gratification at the same time, for it was a delight to listen,
and it was even a greater pleasure to look at the performer.

She gave him a quick, shy glance of observation, fearing somewhat that
she might see severe judgment or else cool indifference in the
expression of his face, and she was naturally pleased and encouraged
when she saw, instead, undisguised admiration. His previous manner had
annoyed her, and she determined to show him that his superior airs were
quite uncalled for. Thus the diffident girl was led to surpass herself,
and infuse so much spirit and grace into her playing as to surprise even
her aunt.

Haldane was soon satisfied that she was more than pretty--that she was
beautiful. Her features, that had seemed too thin and colorless, flushed
with excitement, and her blue eyes, which he had thought cold and
expressionless, kindled until they became lustrous. He felt, in a way
that he could not define to himself, that her face was full of power and
mind, and that she was different from the pretty girls who had hitherto
been his favorites.

As she rose from the piano he was mastered by one of those impulses
which often served him in the place of something better, and he said
impetuously:

"Miss Romeyn, I beg your pardon. You know a hundred-fold more about
music than I do, and I have been talking as if the reverse were true. I
never heard anything so fine in my life, and I also confess that I never
heard that piece before."

The young girl blushed with pleasure on having thus speedily vanquished
this superior being, whom she had been learning both to dread and
dislike. At the same time his frank, impulsive words of compliment did
much to remove the prejudice which she was naturally forming against
him. Mrs. Arnot said, with her mellow laugh, that often accomplished
more than long homilies:

"That is a manly speech, Egbert, and much to your credit. 'Honest
confession is good for the soul.'"

Haldane did not get on his stilts again that evening, and before it was
over he concluded that Miss Romeyn was the most charming young lady he
had ever met, though, for some reason, she still permitted him to do
nearly all the talking. She bade him good-night, however, with a smile
that was not unkindly, and which was interpreted by him as being
singularly gracious.

By this time he had concluded that Miss Romeyn was a "young lady _par
excellence_"; but it has already been shown that his judgment in most
matters was not to be trusted. Whether she was a school-girl or a fully
fledged young lady, a child or a woman, might have kept a closer
observer than himself much longer in doubt. In truth, she was scarcely
the one or the other, and had many of the characteristics of both. His
opinion of her was as incorrect as that of himself. He was not a man,
though he considered himself a superior one, and had attained to manly
proportions.

But there were wide differences in their immaturity. She was forming
under the guidance of a mother who blended firmness and judgment equally
with love. Gentle blood was in her veins, and she had inherited many of
her mother's traits with her beauty. Her parents, however, believed
that, even as the garden of Eden needed to be "dressed and kept," so the
nature of their child required careful pruning, with repression here and
development there. While the young girl was far from being faultless,
fine traits and tendencies dominated, and, though as yet undeveloped,
they were unfolding with the naturalness and beauty of a budding flower.

In Haldane's case evil traits were in the ascendant, and the best hope
for him was that they as yet had not become confirmed.

"Who is this Mr. Haldane, auntie?" Laura asked on reaching her room.
There was a slight trace of vexation in her tone.

"He is the son of an old friend of mine. I have induced my husband to
try to give him a business education. You do not like him."

"I did not like him at all at first, but he improves a little on
acquaintance. Is he a fair sample of your young men proteges?"

"He is the least promising of any of them," replied Mrs. Arnot, sitting
down before the fire. Laura saw that her face had become shadowed with
sadness and anxiety.

"You look troubled, auntie. Is he the cause?"

"Yes."

"Are you very much interested in him?"

"I am, Laura; very much, indeed. I cannot bear to give him up, and yet I
fear I must."

"Is he a very interesting 'case'?" asked the young girl in some
surprise. "Mother often laughingly calls the young men you are trying to
coax to be good by your winning ways, 'cases.' I don't know much about
young men, but should suppose that you had many under treatment much
more interesting than he is."

"Sister Fanny is always laughing at my hobby, and saying that, since I
have no children of my own, I try to adopt every young man who will give
me a chance. Perhaps if I try to carry out your mother's figure, you
will understand why I am so interested in this 'case.' If I were a
physician and had charge of a good many patients, ought I not to be
chiefly interested in those who were in the most critical and dangerous
condition?"

"It would be just like you to be so, auntie, and I would not mind being
quite ill myself if I could have you to take care of me. I hope the
young men whom you 'adopt' appreciate their privileges."

"The trouble with most of us, Laura, is that we become wise too late in
life. Young people are often their own worst enemies, and if you wish to
do them good, you must do it, as it were, on the sly. If one tries
openly to reform and guide them--if I should say plainly, Such and such
are your faults; such and such places and associations are full of
danger--they would be angry or disgusted, or they would say I was blue
and strait-laced, and had an old woman's notions of what a man should
be. I must coax them, as you say; I must disguise my medicines, and
apply my remedies almost without their knowing it. I also find it true
in my practice that tonics and good wholesome diet are better than all
moral drugs. It seems to me that if I can bring around these giddy young
fellows refining, steadying, purifying influences, I can do them more
good than if I lectured them. The latter is the easier way, and many
take it. It would require but a few minutes to tell this young Haldane
what his wise safe course must be if he would avoid shipwreck; but I can
see his face flush and lip curl at my homily. And yet for weeks I have
been angling for him, and I fear to no purpose. Your uncle may discharge
him any day. It makes me very sad to say it, but if he goes home I think
he will also go to ruin. Thank God for your good, wise mother, Laura. It
is a great thing to be started right in life."

"Then this young man has been started wrong?

"Yes, wrong indeed."

"Is he so very bad, auntie?" Laura asked with a face full of serious
concern.

Mrs. Arnot smiled as she said, "If you were a young society chit, you
might think him 'very nice,' as their slang goes. He is good-looking and
rich, and his inclination to be fast would be a piquant fact in his
favor. He has done things which would seem to you very wrong indeed. But
he is foolish and ill-trained rather than bad. He is a spoiled boy, and
spoiled boys are apt to become spoiled men. I have told you all this
partly because, having been your mother's companion all your life, you
are so old-fashioned that I can talk to you almost as I would to sister
Fanny, and partly because I like to talk about my hobby."

A young girl naturally has quick sympathies, and all the influences of
Laura's life had been gentle and humane. Her aunt's words speedily led
her to regard Haldane as an "interesting case," a sort of fever patient
who was approaching the crisis of his disease. Curling down on the
floor, and leaning her arms on her aunt's lap, she looked up with a face
full of solicitude as she asked:

"And don't you think you can save him? Please don't give up trying."

"I like the expression of your face now," said Mrs. Arnot, stroking the
abundant tresses, that were falling loosely from the girl's head, "for
in it I catch a glimpse of the divine image. Many think of God as
looking down angrily and frowningly upon the foolish and wayward; but I
see in the solicitude of your face a faint reflection of the 'Not
willing that any should perish' which it ever seems to me is the
expression of His."

"Laura," said she abruptly, after a moment, "did any one ever tell you
that you were growing up very pretty?"

"No, auntie," said the girl, blushing and laughing.

"Mr. Haldane told you so this evening."

"O auntie, you are mistaken; he could not have been so rude."

"He did not make a set speech to that effect, my dear, but he told you
so by his eyes and manner, only you are such an innocent home child that
you did not notice. But when you go into society you will be told this
fact so often that you will be compelled to heed it, and will soon learn
the whole language of flattery, spoken and unspoken. Perhaps I had,
better forewarn you a little, and so forearm you. What are you going to
do with your beauty?"

"Why, auntie, how funny you talk! What should I do with it, granting
that it has any existence save in your fond eyes?"

"Suppose you use it to make men better, instead of to make them merely
admire you. One can't be a belle very long at best, and of all the
querulous, discontented, and disagreeable people that I have met,
superannuated belles, who could no longer obtain their revenue of
flattery, were the worst. They were impoverished, indeed. If you do as I
suggest, you will have much that is pleasant to think about when you
come to be as old as I am. Perhaps you can do more for young Haldane
than I can."

"Now, auntie, what can I do?"

"That which nearly all women can do: be kind and winning; make our safe,
cosey parlor so attractive that he will not go out evenings to places
which tend to destroy him. You feel an interest in him; show it. Ask him
about his business, and get him to explain it to you. Suggest that if
you were a man you would like to master your work, and become eminent in
it. Show by your manner and by words, if occasion offers, that you love
and revere all that is sacred, pure, and Christian. Laura, innocent dove
as you are, you know that many women beguile men to ruin with smiles.
Men can be beguiled from ruin with smiles. Indeed, I think multitudes
are permitted to go to destruction because women are so unattractive, so
absorbed in themselves and their nerves. If mothers and wives, maidens
and old maids, would all commence playing the agreeable to the men of
their household and circle, not for the sake of a few compliments, but
for the purpose of luring them from evil and making them better, the
world would improve at once."

"I see, auntie," said Laura, laughing; "you wish to administer me as a
sugar-coated pill to your 'difficult case.'"

A deep sigh was the only answer, and, looking up, Laura saw that her
words had not been heeded. Tears were in her aunt's eyes, and after a
moment she said brokenly:

"My theories seem true enough, and yet how signally I have failed in
carrying them out! Perhaps it is my fault; perhaps it is my fault; but
I've tried--oh! how I have tried! Laura, dear, you know that I am a
lonely woman; but do not let this prejudice you against what I have
said. Good-night, dear; I have kept you up too long after your journey."

Her niece understood her allusion to the cold, unloving man who sat
alone every evening in his dim library, thinking rarely of his wife, but
often of her wealth, and how it might increase his leverage in his
herculean labors. The young girl had the tact to reply only by a warm,
lingering embrace. It was an old sorrow, of which she had long been
aware; but it seemed without remedy, and was rarely touched upon.




CHAPTER V

PASSION'S CLAMOR


Laura had a strong affection for her aunt, and would naturally be
inclined to gratify any wishes that she might express, even had they
involved tasks uncongenial and unattractive. But the proposal that she
should become an ally in the effort to lure young Haldane from his evil
associations, and awaken within him pure and refined tastes, was
decidedly attractive. She was peculiarly romantic in her disposition,
and no rude contact with the commonplace, common-sense world had
chastened her innocent fancies by harsh and disagreeable experience. Her
Christian training and girlish simplicity lifted her above the ordinary
romanticism of imagining herself the heroine in every instance, and the
object and end of all masculine aspirations. On this occasion she simply
desired to act the part of a humble assistant of Mrs. Arnot, whom she
regarded as Haldane's good angel; and she was quite as disinterested in
her hope for the young man's moral improvement as her aunt herself.

The task, moreover, was doubly pleasing since she could perform it in a
way that was so womanly and agreeable. She could scarcely have given
Haldane a plain talk on the evils of fast living to save her life, but
if she could keep young men from going to destruction by smiling upon
them, by games of backgammon and by music, she felt in the mood to be a
missionary all her life, especially if she could have so safe and
attractive a field of labor as her aunt's back parlor.

But the poor child would soon learn that perverse human nature is much
the same in a drawing-room and a tenement-house, and that all who seek
to improve it are doomed to meet much that is excessively annoying and
discouraging.

The simple-hearted girl no more foresaw what might result from her
smiles than an ignorant child would anticipate the consequences of fire
falling on grains of harmless-looking black sand. She had never seen
passion kindling and flaming till it seemed like a scorching fire, and
had not learned by experience that in some circumstances her smiles
might be like incendiary sparks to powder.

In seeking to manage her "difficult case," Mrs. Arnot should have
foreseen the danger of employing such a fascinating young creature as
her assistant; but in these matters the wisest often err, and only
comprehend the evil after it has occurred. Laura was but a child in
years, having passed her fifteenth birthday only a few months previous,
and Haldane seemed to the lady scarcely more than a boy. She did not
intend that her niece should manifest anything more than a little
winning kindness and interest, barely enough to keep the young fellow
from spending his evenings out she knew not where. He was at just the
age when the glitter and tinsel of public amusements are most
attractive. She believed that if she could familiarize his mind with the
real gold and clear diamond flash of pure home pleasures, and those
which are enjoyed in good society, he would eventually become disgusted
with gilt, varnish, and paste. If Laura had been a very plain girl, she
might have seconded Mrs. Arnot's efforts to the utmost without any
unpleasant results, even if no good ones had followed; and it may well
be doubted whether any of the latter would have ensued. Haldane's
disease was too deeply rooted, and his tastes vitiated to such a degree
that he had lost the power to relish long the simple enjoyments of Mrs.
Arnot's parlor. He already craved the pleasures which first kindle and
excite and then consume.

Laura, however, was not plain and ordinary, and the smiles which were
intended as innocent lures from snares, instead of into them, might make
trouble for all concerned. Haldane was naturally combustible, to begin
with, and was now at the most inflammable period of his life.

The profoundest master of human nature portrayed to the world a Romeo
and a Juliet, both mastered by a passion which but a few words and
glances had kindled. There are many Romeos who do not find their Juliets
so sympathetic and responsive, and they usually develop at about the age
of Haldane. Indeed, nearly all young men of sanguine temperaments go
through the Romeo stage, and they are fortunate if they pass it without
doing anything especially ridiculous or disastrous. These sudden attacks
are exceedingly absurd to older and cooler friends, but to the victims
themselves they are tremendously real and tragic for the time being.
More hearts are broken into indefinite fragments before twenty than ever
after; but, like the broken bones of the young, they usually knit
readily together again, and are just as good for all practical purposes.

There was nothing unusual in the fact, therefore, that Haldane was soon
deeply enamored with his new acquaintance. It was true that Laura had
given him the mildest and most innocent kind of encouragement--and the
result would probably have been the same if she had given him none at
all--but his vanity, and what he chose to regard as his "undying love,"
interpreted all her actions, and gave volumes of meaning to a kindly
glance or a pleasant word. Indeed, before there had been time to carry
out, to any extent, the tactics her aunt had proposed, symptoms of his
malady appeared. While she was regarding him merely as one of her aunt's
"cases," and a very hard one at best, and thought of herself as trying
to help a little, as a child might hold a bandage or a medicine phial
for experienced hands, he, on the contrary, had begun to mutter to
himself that she was "the divinest woman God ever fashioned."

There was now no trouble about his spending evenings elsewhere, and the
maiden was perplexed and annoyed at finding her winning ways far too
successful, and that the one she barely hoped to keep from the
vague--and to her mind, horrible--places of temptation, was becoming as
adhesive as sticking-plaster. If she smiled, he smiled and ogled far too
much in return. If she chatted with one and another of the young men who
found Mrs. Arnot's parlor the most attractive place open to them in the
town, he would assume a manner designed to be darkly tragical, but which
to the young girl had more the appearance of sulking.

She was not so much of a child as to be unable to comprehend Haldane's
symptoms, and she was sufficiently a woman not to be excessively angry.
And yet she was greatly annoyed and perplexed. At times his action
seemed so absurd that she was glad to escape to her room, that she might
give way to her merriment; and again he would appear so much in earnest
that she was quite as inclined to cry and to think seriously of bringing
her visit to an abrupt termination.

While under Mrs. Arnot's eye Haldane was distant and circumspect, but
the moment he was alone with Laura his manner became unmistakably
demonstrative.

At first she was disposed to tell her aunt all about the young man's
sentimental manner, but the fact that it seemed so ridiculous deterred
her. She still regarded herself as a child, and that any one should be
seriously in love with her after but a few days' acquaintance seemed
absurdity itself. Her aunt might think her very vain for even imagining
such a thing, and, perhaps, after all it was only her own imagination.

"Mr. Haldane has acted queerly from the first," she concluded, "and the
best thing I can do is to think no more about him, and let auntie manage
her 'difficult case' without me. If I am to help in these matters, I had
better commence with a 'case' that is not so 'difficult.'"

She therefore sought to avoid the young man, and prove by her manner
that she was utterly indifferent to him, hoping that this course would
speedily cure him of his folly. She would venture into the parlor only
when her aunt or guests were there, and would then try to make herself
generally agreeable, without an apparent thought for him.

While she assured herself that she did not like him, and that he was in
no respect a person to be admired and liked, she still found herself
thinking about him quite often. He was her first recognized lover.
Indeed, few had found opportunity to give more than admiring glances to
the little nun, who thus far had been secluded almost continuously in
the safest of all cloisters--a country home. It was a decided novelty
that a young man, almost six feet in height, should be looking
unutterable things in her direction whenever she was present. She wished
he wouldn't, but since he would, she could not help thinking about him,
and how she could manage to make him "behave sensibly."

She did not maintain her air of indifference very perfectly, however,
for she had never been schooled by experience, and was acting solely on
the intuitions of her sex. She could not forbear giving a quick glance
occasionally to see how he was taking his lesson. At times he was
scowling and angry, and then she could maintain her part without
difficulty; again he would look so miserable that, out of pity, she
would relent into a half smile, but immediately reproach herself for
being "so foolish."

Haldane's manner soon attracted Mrs. Arnot's attention, notwithstanding
his effort to disguise from her his feeling and a little observation on
the part of the experienced matron enabled her to guess how matters
stood. While Mrs. Arnot was perplexed and provoked by this new
complication in Haldane's case, she was too kindly in her nature not to
feel sorry for him. She was also so well versed in human nature as to be
aware that she could not sit down and coolly talk him out of his folly.

Besides it was not necessarily folly. The youth was but following a law
of nature, and following it, too, in much the same manner as had his
fathers before him since the beginning of time. There would not be any
thing essentially wrong in an attachment between these young people, if
it sprang up naturally; only it would be necessary to impress upon them
the fact that they were _young_, and that for years to come their
minds should be largely occupied with other matters. Haldane certainly
would not have been her choice for Laura, but if a strong attachment
became the means of steadying him and of inciting to the formation of a
fine character, all might be well in the end. She was morbidly anxious,
however, that her niece should not meet with any such disappointment in
life as had fallen to her lot, and should the current of the young
girl's affection tend steadily in his direction she would deeply regret
the fact.

She would regret exceedingly, also, to have the young girl's mind
occupied by thoughts of such a nature for years to come. Her education
was unfinished; she was very immature, and should not make so important
a choice until she had seen much more of society, and time had been
given for the formation of her tastes and character.

Mrs. Arnot soon concluded that it would be wiser to prevent trouble than
to remedy it, and that Laura had better return speedily to the safe
asylum of her own home. She could then suggest to Haldane that if he
hoped to win the maiden in after years he must form a character worthy
of her.

Had she carried out her plan that day all might have turned out
differently, but the advanced in life are prone to forget the
impetuosity of youth. Haldane was already ripe for a declaration, or,
more properly, an explosion of his pent-up feelings, and was only
awaiting an opportunity to insist upon his own acceptance. He was so
possessed and absorbed by his emotions that he felt sure they would
sweep away all obstacles. He imagined himself pleading his cause in a
way that would melt a marble heart; and both vanity and hope had
whispered that Laura was a shy maiden, secretly responsive to his
passion, and only awaiting his frank avowal before showing her own
heart. Else why had she been so kind at first? Having won his love, was
she not seeking now to goad him on to its utterance by a sudden change
of manner?

Thus he reasoned, as have many others equally blind.

On becoming aware of Haldane's passion, Mrs. Arnot resolved to
sedulously guard her niece, and prevent any premature and disagreeable
scenes. She was not long in discovering that the feeling, as yet, was
all on the young man's side, and believed that by a little adroitness
she could manage the affair so that no harm would result to either
party.

But on the day following the one during which she had arrived at the
above conclusions she felt quite indisposed, and while at dinner was
obliged to succumb to one of her nervous headaches. Before retiring to
her private room she directed the waitress to say to such of her young
friends as might call that she was too ill to see them.

Haldane's expressions of sympathy were hollow, indeed, for he hoped
that, as a result of her indisposition, he would have Laura all to
himself that evening. With an insinuating smile he said to the young
girl, after her aunt had left the table:

"I shall expect you to be very agreeable this evening, to compensate me
for Mrs. Arnot's absence."

Laura blushed vividly, and was provoked with herself that she did so,
but she replied quietly:

"You must excuse me this evening, Mr. Haldane; I am sure my aunt will
need me."

His smile was succeeded by a sudden frown; but, as Mr. Arnot was at the
table, he said, with assumed carelessness:

"Then I will go out and try to find amusement elsewhere."

"It might be well, young man," said Mr. Arnot austerely, "to seek for
something else than amusement. When I was at your age I so invested my
evenings that they now tell in my business."

"I am willing to invest this evening in a way to make it tell upon my
future," replied Haldane, with a meaning glance at Laura.

Mr. Arnot observed this glance and the blushing face of his niece, and
drew his own conclusions; but he only said dryly:

"That remark is about as inexplicable as some of your performances at
the office of late."

Laura soon after excused herself and sought a refuge in her aunt's room,
which, being darkened, prevented the lady from seeing her burning cheeks
and general air of vexation and disquiet. Were it not for Mrs. Arnot's
suffering condition and need of rest, Laura would then have told her of
her trouble and asked permission to return home, and she determined to
do this at the first opportunity. Now, however, she unselfishly forgot
herself in her effort to alleviate her aunt's distress. With a strong
sense of relief she heard Haldane go out, slamming the front door after
him.

"Was there ever such an absurd fellow!" thought she; "he has made
himself disagreeable ever since I came, with his superior airs, as if he
knew everything, when, in fact, he doesn't know anything well, not even
good manners. He acts as if I belonged to him and had no right to any
will or wishes of my own. If he can't take the hints that I have given
he must be as stupid and blind as an owl. In spite of all that I can do
or say he seems to think that I only want an opportunity to show the
same ridiculous feeling that makes him appear like a simpleton. If I
were a young lady in society I should detest a man who took it for
granted that I would fall in love with him."

With like indignant musings she beguiled the time, wondering
occasionally why her aunt did not ask her to go down and entertain the
object of her dread, but secretly thankful that she did not.

At last Mrs. Arnot said:

"Mr. Haldane went out, did he not?"

"Yes, auntie, some time ago."

"I left my other bottle of smelling-salts in the parlor. I think it is
stronger than this. Would you mind getting it for me? It's on the
mantel."

Laura had no difficulty in finding it in the somewhat dimly-lighted
drawing-room, but as she turned to leave the apartment she saw Haldane
between her and the door.

Before he had reached any of his garish haunts he had felt such an utter
distaste for them in his present mood that he returned. He was conscious
of the impulse merely to be near the object of his thoughts, and also
hoped that by some fortunate chance he might still be able to find her
alone. That his return might be unnoted, he had quietly entered a side
door, and was waiting and watching for just such an opportunity as Mrs.
Arnot had unwittingly occasioned.

Laura tried to brush past, but he intercepted her, and said:

"No, Miss Laura, not till you hear me. You have my destiny in your
hands."

"I haven't anything of the kind," she answered, in tones of strong
vexation. Guided by instinct, she resolved to be as prosaic and
matter-of-fact as possible; so she added: "I have only aunt's
smelling-salts in my hands, and she needs them."

"I need _you_ far more than Mrs. Arnot needs her smelling-salts,"
he said tragically.

"Mr. Haldane, such talk is very absurd," she replied, half ready to cry
from nervousness and annoyance.

"It is not absurd. How can you trifle with the deepest and holiest
feelings that a man--of which a man--feels?" he retorted passionately,
and growing a little incoherent.

"I don't know anything about such feelings, and therefore cannot trifle
with them."

"What did your blushes mean this evening? You cannot deceive me; I have
seen the world and know it."

"I am not the world. I am only a school-girl, and if you had good sense
you would not talk so to me. You appear to think that I must feel and do
as you wish. What right have you to act so?"

"The truest and strongest right. You know well that I love you with my
whole soul. I have given you my heart--all there is of me. Have I not a
right to ask your love in return?"

Laura was conscious of a strange thrill as she heard these passionate
words, for they appeared to echo in a depth of her nature of which she
had not been conscious before.

The strong and undoubting assurance which possessed him carried for a
moment a strange mastery over her mind. As he so vehemently asserted the
only claim which a man can urge, her woman's soul trembled, and for a
moment she felt almost powerless to resist. His unreserved giving
appeared to require that he should receive also. She would have soon
realized, however, that Haldane's attitude was essentially that of an
Oriental lover, who, in his strongest attachments, is ever prone to
maintain the imperative mood, and to consult his own heart rather than
that of the woman he loves. While in Laura's nature there was unusual
gentleness and a tendency to respect and admire virile force, she was
too highly bred in our Western civilization not to resent as an insult
any such manifestation of this force as would make the quest of her love
a demand rather than a suit, after once recognizing such a spirit. She
was now confused, however, and after an awkward moment said:

"I have not asked or wished you to give me so much. I don't think you
realize what you are saying. If you would only remember that I am
scarcely more than a child you would not talk so foolishly. Please let
me go to my aunt."

"No, not till you give me some hope. Your blushes prove that you are a
woman."

"They prove that I am excessively annoyed and vexed."

"Oh, Laura, after raising so many hopes you cannot--you cannot----"

"I haven't meant to raise any hopes."

"Why were you so kind to me at first?"

"Well, if you must know, my aunt wished me to be. If I had dreamed you
would act so I would not have spoken to you."

"What motive could Mrs. Arnot have had for such a request?"

"I will tell you, and when you know the whole truth you will see how
mistaken you are, and how greatly you wrong me. Aunt wanted me to help
her keep you home evenings, and away from all sorts of horrid places to
which you were fond of going."

These words gave Haldane a cue which he at once followed, and he said
eagerly:

"If you will be my wife, I will do anything you wish. I will make myself
good, great, and renowned for your sake. Your smiles will keep me from
every temptation. But I warn you that if you cast me off--if you trifle
with me--I shall become a reckless man. I shall be ruined. My only
impulse will be self-destruction."

Laura was now thoroughly incensed, and she said indignantly:

"Mr. Haldane, I should think you would be ashamed to talk in that
manner. It's the same as if a spoiled boy should say: If you don't give
me what I wish, right or wrong, I will do something dreadful. If I ever
do love a man, it will be one that I can look up to and respect, and not
one who must be coaxed and bribed to give up disgusting vices. If you do
not open that door I will call uncle."

The door opened, and Mr. Arnot entered with a heavy frown upon his brow.




CHAPTER VI

"GLOOMY GRANDEUR"


Mr. Arnot's library was on the side of the hall opposite to the
drawing-room. Though he had been deeply intent upon his writing, he at
last became conscious that there were some persons in the parlor who
were talking in an unusual manner, and he soon distinguished the voice
of his niece. Haldane's words, manner, and glances at the dinner-table
at once recurred to him, and stepping silently to the drawing-room door,
he heard the latter part of the colloquy narrated in the previous
chapter. He was both amused and angry, and while relieved to find that
his niece was indulging in no "sentimental nonsense," he had not a
particle of sympathy or charity for Haldane, and he determined to give
the young man a "lesson that would not soon be forgotten."

"What is the meaning of this ridiculous scene?" he demanded sternly.
"What have you been saying to this child?"

Haldane at first had been much abashed by the entrance of his employer;
but his tone and manner stung the young fellow into instant anger, and
he replied haughtily:

"She is not a child, and what I have said concerns Miss Romeyn only."

"Ah, indeed! I have no right to protect my niece in my own house!"

"My intentions toward Miss Romeyn are entirely honorable, and there is
no occasion for protection."

Reassured by her uncle's presence, Laura's nervous apprehension began to
give place to something like pity for the youth, who had assumed an
attitude befitting high tragedy, and toward whom she felt that she had
been a little harsh. Now that he was confronted by one who was disposed
to be still more harsh, womanlike, she was inclined to take his part.
She would be sorry to have him come to an open rupture with his employer
on her account, so she said eagerly:

"Please, uncle, do me the favor of letting the whole matter drop. Mr.
Haldane has seen his mistake by this time. I am going home to-morrow,
and the affair is too absurd to make any one any more trouble."

Before he could answer, Mrs. Arnot, hearing their voices, and surmising
the trouble which she had hoped to prevent, now appeared also, and by
her good sense and tact brought the disagreeable scene to a speedy
close.

"Laura, my dear," she said quietly, "go up to my room, and I will join
you there soon." The young girl gladly obeyed.

There were times when Mrs. Arnot controlled her strong-willed husband in
a manner that seemed scarcely to be reconciled with his dictatorial
habits. This fact might be explained in part by her wealth, of which he
had the use, but which she still controlled, but more truly by her
innate superiority, which ever gives supremacy to the nobler and
stronger mind when aroused.

Mr. Arnot had become suddenly and vindictively angry with his clerk,
who, instead of being overwhelmed with awe and shame at his unexpected
appearance, was haughty and even defiant. One of the strongest impulses
of this man was to crush out of those in his employ a spirit of
independence and individual self-assertion. The idea of a part of his
business machinery making such a jarring tumult in his own house! He
proposed to instantly cast away the cause of friction, and insert a more
stolid human cog-wheel in Haldane's place.

But when his wife said, in a tone which she rarely used:

"Mr. Arnot, before anything further is said upon this matter, I would
like to see you in your library"--he followed her without a word.

Before the library door closed, however, he could not forbear snarling.

"I told you that your having this big spoiled boy as an inmate of the
house would not work well."

"He has been offering himself to Laura, has he not?" she said quietly.

"I suppose that is the way in which you would explain his absurd,
maudlin words. A pitiful offer it was, which she, like a sensible girl,
declined without thanks."

"What course do you propose to take toward Haldane?"

"I was on the point of sending him home to his mother, and of suggesting
that he remain with her till he becomes something more than a fast,
foolish boy. As yet I see no reason for acting differently."

"On just what grounds do you propose to discharge him?"

"Has he not given sufficient cause this evening in his persecution of
Laura and his impudence to me?"

"Thomas, you forget that while young Haldane is your clerk, he enjoys a
social position quite equal to that which a son of ours would possess,
did we have one. Though his course toward Laura has been crude and
boyish, I have yet to learn that there has been anything dishonorable.
Laura is to us a child; to him she seems a very pretty and attractive
girl, and his sudden passion for her is, perhaps, one of the most
natural things in the world. Besides, an affair of this kind should be
managed quietly and wisely, and not with answering passion. You are
angry now; you will see that I am right in the morning. At all events,
the name of this innocent girl, my sister's child, must not be bandied
about in the gossip of the town. Among young men Haldane passes for a
young man. Do you wish to have it the town talk that he has been
discharged because he ventured to compliment your niece with the offer
of his hand? That he has been premature and rash is chiefly the fault of
his years and temperament; but no serious trouble need follow unless we
make it ourselves. Laura will return home in a day or two, and if the
young fellow is dealt with wisely and kindly, this episode may do much
toward making a sensible man of him. If you abruptly discharge him,
people will imagine tenfold more than has occurred, and they may surmise
positive evil."

"Well, well, have it your own way," said her husband impatiently. "Of
course, I do not wish that Laura should become the theme of scandal. But
as for this young firebrand of a Haldane, there must be a decided change
in him. I cannot bother with him much longer."

"I think I can manage him. At any rate, please make no change that can
seem connected with this affair. If you would also exercise a little
kindness and forbearance, I do not think you would ever have cause to
regret it."

"My office is not an asylum for incapables, lovesick swains, and fast
boys. It's a place of business, and if young Haldane can't realize this,
there are plenty who can."

"As a favor to me, I will ask you to bear with him as long as possible.
Can you not send him to your factory near New York on some errand? New
scenes will divert his thoughts, and sudden and acute attacks, like his,
usually do not last very long."

"Well, well, I'll see."

Mrs. Arnot returned to the parlor, but Haldane was no longer there. She
went to his room, but, though he was within, she could obtain no
response to her knocking, or to the kind tone in which she spoke his
name. She sighed, but thought that perhaps he would be calmer and more
open to reason on the morrow, and, therefore, returned to her own
apartment. Indeed, she was glad to do so, for in her ill and suffering
condition the strain had already been too great.

She found Laura tearful and troubled, and could not do less than listen
to her story.

"Do you think I have done anything wrong, auntie?" asked the girl in
deep anxiety.

"No, dear, I think you have acted very sensibly. I wish I could have
foreseen the trouble sooner, and saved you both from a disagreeable
experience."

"But uncle won't discharge Mr. Haldane on my account, will he?" she
continued with almost equal solicitude.

"Certainly not. Egbert has not done anything that should cause his
dismissal. I think that the only result will be to teach you both that
these are matters which should be left to future years."

"I'm glad they are distant, for I had no idea that love affairs were so
intensely disagreeable."

Her aunt smiled, and after a little time the young girl departed to her
rest quite comforted and reassured.

The next morning Mrs. Arnot was too ill to appear at breakfast, and her
niece would not venture down alone. Haldane and his employer sat down
together in grim silence, and, after a cup of coffee only, the former
abruptly excused himself and went to the office.

As might have been expected, the young man had passed a restless night,
during which all sorts of rash, wild purposes surged through his mind.
At first he meditated hiding his grief and humiliation in some "far
distant clime"; but the thought occurred to him after a little time that
this would be spiting himself more than any one else. His next impulse
was to leave the house of his "insulting employer" forever; but as he
was about to depart, he remembered that he happened to have scarcely a
dollar in his pocket, and therefore concluded to wait till he had drawn
his pay, or could write to his mother for funds. Then, as his anger
subsided, a sense of loss and disappointment overwhelmed him, and for a
long time he sobbed like a brokenhearted child. After this natural
expression of grief he felt better, and became able to think
connectedly. He finally resolved that he would become "famous," and rise
in "gloomy grandeur" till he towered far above his fellow men. He would
pierce this obdurate maiden's heart with poignant but unavailing regret
that she had missed the one great opportunity of her life. He gave but
slight and vague consideration to the methods by which he would achieve
the renown which would overshadow Laura's life; but, having resolutely
adopted the purpose with a few tragic gestures and some obscure
fragmentary utterances, he felt consoled and was able to obtain a little
sleep.

The routine duties at the office on the following day did not promise
very much, but he went through them in a kind of grim, vindictive
manner, as if resolving to set his foot on all obstacles. He would
"suffer in silence and give no sign" till the hour came when he could
flash out upon the world. But as the day declined, he found the _role_
of "gloomy grandeur" rather heavy, and he became conscious of the fact
that he had scarcely eaten anything for nearly twenty-four hours.
Another impulse began to make itself felt--that of fulfilling his
threat and torturing Miss Romeyn by going to ruin. With alluring
seductiveness the thought insinuated itself into his mind that one of
the first steps in the tragedy might be a game and wine supper, and his
growing hunger made this mode of revenge more attractive than cold and
austere ambition.

But Laura's words concerning "disgusting vices" recurred to him with all
and more than their first stinging plainness, and he put the impulse
away with a gesture and tragic expression of face that struck a sere and
withered bookkeeper, who happened at that moment to look up, as so queer
that he feared the young man was becoming demented.

Haldane concluded--and with some reason in view of Laura's romantic
nature--that only a career of gloomy grandeur and high renown would
impress the maiden whom yesterday he proposed to make happy forever, but
to-day to blight with regret like a "worm i' the bud." He already had a
vague presentiment that such a _role_ would often mortify his tastes and
inclinations most dismally; and yet, what had he henceforth to do with
pleasure? But if, after he had practiced the austerity of an anchorite,
she should forget him, marry another, and be happy! The thought was
excruciating. O, that awful "another"! He is the fiend that drags
disappointed lovers down to the lowest depth of their tortures. If Laura
had had a previous favorite, Haldane would have been most happy to have
her meet "another" in himself; but now this vague but surely coming
rival of the future sent alternately cold chills and molten fire through
his veins.

He was awakened from such painful reveries by a summons to his
employer's private office.




CHAPTER VII

BIRDS OF PREY


Mr. Arnot in his widely extended business owned several factories, and
in the vicinity of one, located at a suburb of New York, there were no
banking facilities. It was, therefore, his custom at stated times to
draw from his bank at Hillaton such amounts in currency as were needed
to pay those in his employ at the place indicated, and send the money
thither by one of his clerks. Upon the present occasion, in compliance
with his wife's request, he decided to send Haldane. He had no
hesitation in doing this, as the errand was one that required nothing
more than honesty and a little prudence.

"Mr. Haldane," said his employer, in tones somewhat less cold and formal
than those habitual with him, "we will let bygones be bygones. I am
inclined to think that hereafter you will be disposed to give your
thoughts more fully to business, as a man should who proposes to amount
to anything in the world. In these envelopes are one thousand dollars in
currency. I wish you to place them securely in your breast-pockets, and
take the five-thirty train to New York, and from thence early to-morrow
go out on the Long Island road to a little station called Arnotville,
and give these packages to Mr. Black, the agent in charge of my factory
there. Take his receipt, and report to me to-morrow evening. With that
amount of money upon your person you will perceive the necessity of
prudence and care. Here is a check paying your salary for the past
month. The cashier will give you currency for it. Report your expenses
on your return, and they will be paid. As the time is limited, perhaps
you can get some lunch at or near the depot."

"I prefer to do so," said Haldane, promptly, "and will try to perform
the business to your satisfaction."

Mr. Arnot nodded a cool dismissal, and Haldane started for a
hotel-restaurant near the depot with a step entirely too quick and
elastic for one who must walk henceforth in the shadow of "bitter
memories and dark disappointment." The exercise brought color to his
cheek, and there certainly was a sparkle in his dark eyes. It could not
be hope, for he had assured himself again and again that "hope was dead
in his heart." It might have been caused after his long fast by the
anticipation of a lunch at the depot and a _petit souper_ in the
city, and the thought of washing both down with a glass of wine, or
possibly with several. The relish and complacency with which his mind
dwelt on this prospect struck Haldane as rather incongruous in a being
as blighted as he supposed himself to be. With his youth, health, and
unusually good digestion he would find no little difficulty in carrying
out the "gloomy grandeur" scheme, and he began to grow conscious of the
fact.

Indeed, in response to a law of nature, he was already inclined to react
from his unwonted depression into reckless hilarity. Impulse and
inclination were his controlling forces, and he was accustomed to give
himself up to them without much effort at self-restraint. And yet he
sought to imagine himself consistent, so that he could maintain his
self-approval.

"I will hide my despair with laughter," he muttered; "the world cannot
know that it is hollow, and but a mask against its vulgar curiosity."

A good cold lunch and a cup of coffee--which he could have obtained at
once at the hotel near the depot--would not answer for this victim of
despair. Some extra delicacies, which required time for preparation,
were ordered. In the meantime he went to the bar for an "appetizer," as
he termed it. Here he met an acquaintance among the loungers present,
and, of course, asked him to take a social glass also. This personage
complied in a manner peculiarly felicitous, and in such a way as to give
the impression that his acceptance of the courtesy was a compliment to
Haldane. Much practice had made him perfect in this art, and the number
of drinks that he was able to secure gratis in the course of a year by
being always on hand and by maintaining an air of slight superiority,
combined with an appearance of _bonhomie_ and readiness to be social,
would have made a remarkable sum total.

Before their glasses clinked together he said, with the off-handed
courtesy indigenous to bar-rooms, where acquaintances are made with so
little trouble and ceremony:

"Mr. Haldane, my friends from New York, Mr. Van Wink and Mr. Ketchem."

Haldane turned and saw two young men standing conveniently near, who
were dressed faultlessly in the style of the day. There was nothing in
their appearance to indicate that they did not reside on Fifth Avenue,
and, indeed, they may have had rooms on that fashionable street.

Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem had also a certain air of superiority, and
they shook hands with Haldane in a way that implied:

"While we are metropolitan men, we recognize in you an extraordinarily
fine specimen of the provincial." And the young man was not indifferent
to their unspoken flattery. He at once invited them also to state to the
smirking bartender their preferences among the liquid compounds before
them, and soon four glasses clinked together.

With fine and thoughtful courtesy they had chosen the same mixture that
he had ordered for himself, and surely some of the milk of human
kindness must have been infused in the punches which they imbibed, for
Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem seemed to grow very friendly toward
Haldane. Perhaps taking a drink with a man inspired these worthies with
a regard for him similar to that which the social eating of bread
creates within the breasts of Bedouins, who, as travellers assert, will
protect with their lives a stranger that has sat at their board; but rob
and murder, as a matter of course, all who have not enjoyed that
distinction. Whatever may have been the cause, the stylish men from the
city were evidently pleased with Haldane, and they delicately suggested
that he was such an unusually clever fellow that they were willing to
know him better.

"I assure you, Mr. Haldane," protested Mr. Van Wink, "our meeting is an
unexpected pleasure. Having completed our business in town, time was
hanging heavily on our hands, and it is still a full half-hour before
the train leaves."

"Let us drink again to further acquaintance," said Mr. Ketchem
cordially, evincing a decided disposition to be friendly; "Mr. Haldane
is in New York occasionally, and we would be glad to meet him and help
him pass a pleasant hour there, as he is enlivening the present hour for
us."

Haldane was not cautious by nature, and had been predisposed by training
to regard all flattering attention and interest as due to the favorable
impression which he supposed himself to make invariably upon those whose
judgment was worth anything. It is true there had been one marked and
humiliating exception. But the consoling thought now flashed into his
mind that, perhaps, Miss Romeyn was, as she asserted, but a mere
"child," and incapable of appreciating him. The influence of the punch
he had drank and the immediate and friendly interest manifested by these
gentlemen who knew the world, gave a plausible coloring to this
explanation of her conduct. After all, was he not judging her too
harshly? She had not realized whom she had refused, and when she grew up
in mind as well as in form she might be glad to act very differently.
"But I may choose to act differently also," was his haughty mental
conclusion.

This self-communion took place while the still smirking bartender was
mixing the decoctions ordered by the cordial and generous Mr. Ketchem. A
moment later four glasses clinked together, and Haldane's first
acquaintance--the young man with the air of slight but urbane
superiority--felicitated himself that he had "made two free drinks"
within a brief space of time.

The effect of the liquor upon Haldane after his long fast was far
greater than if it had been taken after a hearty meal, and he began to
reciprocate the friendliness of the strangers with increasing interest.

"Gentlemen," said he, "our meeting is one of those fortunate incidents
which promise much more pleasure to come. I have ordered a little lunch
in the dining-room. It will take but a moment for the waiters to add
enough for three more, and then we will ride into the city together, for
my business takes me there this evening also."

"I declare," exclaimed Mr. Van Wink in a tone of self-gratulation, "were
I piously inclined I should be tempted to call our meeting quite
providential. But if we lunch with you it must be on condition that you
take a little supper with us at the Brunswick after we arrive in town."

"No one could object to such agreeable terms," cried Haldane; "come, let
us adjourn to the dining-room. By the way, Mr. Bartender, send us a
bottle of your best claret."

The young man who an hour before had regarded himself as cruelly
blighted for life, was quite successful in "hiding his despair with
laughter." Indeed, from its loudness and frequency, undue exhilaration
was suggested rather than a "secret sorrow." It gave him a fine sense of
power and of his manly estate to see the waiters bustling around at his
bidding, and to remember that he was the host of three gentlemen, who,
while very superior in style, and evidently possessed of wealth, still
recognized in him an equal with whom they were glad to spend a social
hour.

Scarcely ever before had he met any one who appreciated him as fully as
did Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem, and their courteous deference
confirmed a view which he had long held, that only in the large sphere
of the metropolis could he find his true level and most congenial
companionships. These young men had a style about them which provincials
could not imitate. Even the superior gentleman who introduced them to
him had a slightly dimmed and tarnished appearance as he sat beside his
friends. There was an immaculate finish and newness about all their
appointments--not a speck upon their linen, nor a grain of dust upon
their broadcloth and polished boots. If the theory be true that
character is shown in dress, these men, outwardly so spotless, must be
worthy of the confidence with which they had inspired their new
acquaintance. They suggested two bright coins just struck from the mint,
and "They have the ring of true metal," thought Haldane.

It seemed to the young men that they had just fairly commenced to enjoy
their lunch, when a prolonged shriek of a locomotive, dying away in the
distance, awakened them to a sense of the flight of time. Hastily
pulling out his watch, Haldane exclaimed with an oath:

"There goes our train."

Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem were apparently much concerned.

"Haldane," they exclaimed, "you are much too entertaining a fellow for
one to meet when there's a train to be caught."

"This is a serious matter for me," said Haldane, somewhat sobered by the
thought of Mr. Arnot's wrath; "I had important business in town."

"Can it not be arranged by telegraph?" asked Mr. Van Wink in a tone of
kindly solicitude.

"One can't send money by telegraph. No; I must go myself."

The eyes of Haldane's three guests met for a second in a way that
indicated the confirmnation of something in their minds, and yet so
evanescent was this glance of intelligence that a cool, close observer
would scarcely have detected it, much less their flushed and excited
host.

"Don't worry, Haldane," said his first acquaintance; "there is an
owl-train along at eleven to-night, and you can mail your check or draft
on that if you do not care to travel at such an unearthly hour."

"Oh, there is a late train!" cried the young man, much relieved. "Then
I'm all right. I am obliged to go myself, as the funds I carry are in
such a shape that I cannot mail them."

Again the eyes of his guests met with a furtive gleam of satisfaction.

Now that Haldane felt himself safely out of his dilemma, he began to be
solicitous about his companions.

"I fear," he said, "that my poor courtesy can make but small amends for
the loss of your train."

"Well, Haldane," said Mr. Ketchem, with great apparent candor, "I speak
for myself when I say that I would regret losing this train under most
circumstances, but with the prospect of a social evening together I can
scarcely say that I do."

"I, too," cried Mr. Van Wink, "am inclined to regard our loss of the
train as a happy freak of fortune. Let us take the owl-train, also,
Ketchem, and make a jovial night of it with Mr. Haldane."

"Fill up your glasses, and we'll drink to a jolly night," cried Haldane,
and all complied with wonderful zest and unanimity. The host, however,
was too excited and preoccupied to note that while Mr. Van Wink and Mr.
Ketchem were always ready to have their glasses filled, they never
drained them very low; and thus it happened that he and the slightly
superior gentleman who made free drinks one of the chief objects of
existence shared most of the bottle of wine between them.

As the young men rose from the lunch table Haldane called this
individual aside, and said:

"Harker, I want you to help a fellow out of a scrape. You must know that
I was expected to leave town on the five-thirty train. I do not care to
be seen in the public rooms, for old cast-iron Arnot might make a row
about my delay, even though it will make no difference in his business.
Please engage a private room, where we can have a bottle of wine and a
quiet game of cards, and no one be the wiser."

"Certainly--nothing easier in the world--I know just the
room--cosey--off one side--wait a moment, gentlemen."

It seemed but a moment before he returned and led them, preceded by a
bell-boy, to just such an apartment as he had described. Though the
evening was mild, a fire was lighted in the grate, and as it kindled it
combined with the other appointments to give the apartment an air of
luxurious comfort.

"Bring us a bottle of sherry," said Haldane to the bell-boy.

"Also a pack of cards, some fine old brandy and cigars, and charge to
me," said Mr. Ketchem; "I wish to have my part in this entertainment.
Come, Harker, take a seat."

"Desperately sorry I can't spend the evening with you," said this
sagacious personage, who realized with extreme regret that not even for
the prospect of unlimited free potations could he afford to risk the
loss of his eminent respectability, which he regarded as a capitalist
does his principal, something that must be drawn upon charily. Mr.
Harker knew that his mission was ended, and, in spite of the order for
the sherry and brandy, he had sufficient strength of mind to retire. In
delicate business transactions like the one under consideration he made
it a point to have another engagement when matters got about as far
along as they now were in Haldane's case. If anything unpleasant
occurred between parties whom he introduced to each other, and he was
summoned as a witness, he grew so exceedingly dignified and superior in
his bearing that every one felt like asking his pardon for their
suspicions. He always proved an _alibi_, and left the court-room
with the air of an injured man. As people, however, became familiar with
his haunts and habits, there was an increasing number who regarded his
virtuous assumptions and professions of ignorance in respect to certain
cases of swindling with incredulous smiles.

Mr. Barker, however, could not tear himself away till the brandy and
sherry appeared, and, after paying his respects to both, went to keep
his engagement, which consisted in lounging about another hotel on the
other side of the depot.

Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem, of course, both knew how to deal the
cards, and with apologetic laughter the young men put up small stakes at
first, just to give zest to the amusement. Haldane lost the first game,
won the second and third, lost again, had streaks of good and bad luck
so skilfully intermingled that the thought often occurred to him:

"These fellows play as fair a game as I ever saw and know how to win and
lose money like gentlemen."

But these high-toned "gentlemen" always managed to keep the bottle of
sherry near him, and when they lost they would good-naturedly and
hilariously propose that they take a drink. Haldane always complied, but
while he drank they only sipped.

As the evening waned the excitement of the infatuated youth deepened.
The heat of the room and the fumes of tobacco combined with the liquor
to unman him and intensify the natural recklessness of his character.

There is, probably, no abnormal passion that so completely masters its
victims as that for gambling; and as Haldane won, lost, and won again,
he became so absorbed as to be unconscious of the flight of time and all
things else. But as he lost self-control, as he half-unconsciously put
his glass to his lips with increasing frequency, his companions grew
cooler and more wary. Their eyes no longer beamed good-naturedly upon
their victim, but began to emit the eager, cruel gleams of some bird of
prey.

But they still managed the affair with consummate skill. Their aim was
to excite Haldane to the last degree of recklessness, and yet keep him
sufficiently sober for further playing. From Harker they had learned
that Mr. Arnot had probably sent him in the place of the clerk usually
employed; and, if so, it was quite certain that he had a large sum of
money upon his person. Haldane's words on becoming aware that he had
missed his train confirmed their surmises, and it was now their object
to beguile him into a condition which would make him capable of risking
his employer's funds. They also wished that he should remain
sufficiently sober to be responsible for this act, and to remember, as
he recalled the circumstances, that it was his own act. Therefore they
kept the brandy beyond his reach; that was not yet needed.

By the time the evening was half over, Haldane found that, although he
had apparently won considerable money, he had lost more, and that not a
penny of his own funds remained. With an angry oath he stated the fact
to his companions.

"That's unfortunate," said Mr. Ketchem, sympathetically. "There are
nearly two hours yet before the train leaves, and with your disposition
toward good luck tonight you could clean us out by that time, and would
have to lend us enough to pay our fares to New York."

"It's a pity to give up our sport now that we have just got warmed up to
it," added Mr. Van Wink, suggestively. "Haven't you some funds about you
that you can borrow for the evening--just enough to keep the game going,
you know?"

Haldane hesitated. He was not so far gone but that conscience entered an
emphatic protest. The trouble was, however, that he had never formed the
habit of obeying conscience, even when perfectly sober. Another
influence of the past also proved most disastrous. His mother's weakness
now made him weak. In permitting him to take her money without asking,
she had undermined the instinct of integrity which in this giddy moment
of temptation might have saved him. If he from childhood had been taught
that the property of others was sacred, the very gravity of the crime to
which he now was urged would have sobered and awakened him to his
danger. But his sense of wrong in this had been blunted, and there was
no very strong repugnance toward the suggestion.

Moreover, his brain was confused and excited to the last degree possible
in one who still continued sane and responsible. Indeed, it would be
difficult to say how far he was responsible at this supreme moment of
danger. He certainly had drank so much as to be unable to realize the
consequences of his action.

After a moment's hesitation, like one who feebly tries to brace himself
in a swift torrent, the gambler's passion surged up against and over his
feeble will--then swept him down.




CHAPTER VIII

THEIR VICTIM


Haldane drew an envelope from his breast-pocket, and laid it on the
table, saying with a reckless laugh:

"Well, well, as you say, there is no great harm in borrowing a little of
this money, and returning it again before the evening is over. The only
question is how to open this package, for if torn it may require
explanations that I do not care to make."

"We can easily manage that," laughed Ketchem; "put the package in your
pocket a few moments," and he rang the bell.

To the boy who appeared he said, "Bring us three hot whiskey
punches--hot, remember; steaming hot."

He soon reappeared with the punch, and the door was locked again.

"Hold your package over the steam of your punch, and the gum will
dissolve so that you can open and close it in a way that will defy
detection."

The suggestion was speedily carried out.

"Now," continued Mr. Ketchem, "the punch having already served so
excellent a turn, we will finish it by drinking to your good luck."

Haldane won the first two games. This success, together with the liquor,
which was strong, almost wholly dethroned his reason, and in his mad,
drunken excitement he began to stake large sums. The eyes of his
companions grew more wolfish than ever, and, after a significant flash
toward each other, the gamblers turned fortune against their victim
finally. The brandy was now placed within his reach, and under its
influence Haldane threw down money at random. The first package was soon
emptied. He snatched the other from his pocket and tore it open, but
before its contents had likewise disappeared his head drooped upon his
breast, and he became insensible.

They watched him a moment, smiled grimly at each other, drew a long
breath of relief, and, rising, stretched themselves like men who had
been under a strain that had taxed them severely.

"Half an hour yet," said Mr. Van Wink; "wish the time was up."

"This is a heavy swag if we get off safely with it. I say, Haldane, wake
up."

But Haldane was sunk in the deepest stupor.

"I guess it's safe enough," said Van Wink, answering Ketchem's
questioning eyes.

The latter thereupon completely emptied the remaining package of money,
and replaced the two empty envelopes in Haldane's breast-pocket, and
buttoned up his coat.

With mutual glances of exultation at the largeness of the sum, they
swiftly divided the spoil between them. It was agreed that after leaving
the hotel they should separate, that one should go to Boston, the other
to Baltimore, and that they should return to their old haunts in New
York after the interest caused by the affair had died out. Then,
lighting cigars, they coolly sat down to wait for the train, having
first opened a window and placed Haldane where the fresh air would blow
upon him.

When the time of departure approached, Mr. Van Wink went to the bar and
paid both their own and Haldane's bill, saying that they would now
vacate the room. On his return Ketchem had so far aroused Haldane that
he was able to leave the house with their assistance, and yet so
intoxicated as to be incapable of thinking and acting for himself. They
took him down a side street, now utterly deserted, and left him on the
steps of a low groggery, from whence still issued the voices of some
late revellers. Five minutes later the "owl train" bore from the town
Messrs. Van Wink and Ketchem, who might be called with a certain aptness
birds of the night and of prey.

Haldane remained upon the saloon steps, where he had been left, blinking
stupidly at a distant street lamp. He had a vague impression that
something was wrong--that a misfortune of some kind had befallen him,
but all was confused and blurred. He would have soon gone to sleep again
had not the door opened, and a man emerged, who exclaimed:

"Faix, an who have we here, noddin' to himself as if he knew more'n
other folk? Are ye waitin' for some un to ax ye within for a comfortin'
dhrop?"

"Take me 'ome," mumbled Haldane.

"Where's yer home?"

"Mrs. Haldane's," answered the youth, thinking himself in his native
town.

"By me sowl, if it isn't Boss Arnot's new clerk. Sure's me name is Pat
M'Cabe 'tis Misther Haldane. I say, are ye sick?"

"Take me 'ome."

"Faix, I see," winking at two or three of his cronies who had gathered
at the open door; "it's a disase I'm taken wid meself at odd spells,
though I takes moighty good care to kape out o' the way of ould man
Arnot when I'm so afflicted. He has a quare way o' thinkin' that ivery
man about him can go as rigaler as if made in a mash-shine shop, bad
luck till 'im."

Perhaps all in Mr. Arnot's employ would have echoed this sentiment,
could the ill luck have blighted him without reaching them. In working
his employes as he did his machinery, Mr. Arnot forgot that the latter
was often oiled, but that he entirely neglected to lubricate the wills
of the former with occasional expressions of kindness and interest in
their welfare. Thus it came to pass that even down to poor Pat M'Cabe,
man of all work around the office building, all felt that their employer
was a hard, driving taskmaster, who ever looked beyond them and their
interests to what they accomplished for him. The spirit of the master
infused itself among the men, and the tendency of each one to look out
for himself without regard to others was increased. If Pat had served a
kinder and more considerate man, he might have been inclined to show
greater consideration for the intoxicated youth; but Pat's favorite
phrase, "Divil take the hindmost," was but a fair expression of the
spirit which animated his master, and the majority in his employ. When,
therefore, Haldane, in his thick, imperfect utterance, again said, "Take
me 'ome," Pat concluded that it would be the best and safest course for
himself. Helping the young man to his feet he said:

"Can ye walk? Mighty onstiddy on yer pins; but I'm athinkin' I can get
ye to the big house afore mornin'. Should I kape ye out o' the way till
ye get sober, and ould man Arnot find it out, I'd be in the street
meself widout a job 'fore he ate his dinner. Stiddy now; lean aginst me,
and don't wabble yer legs so."

With like exhortations the elder and more wary disciple of Bacchus
disappeared with his charge in the gloom of the night.

It chanced that the light burned late, on this evening, in Mrs. Arnot's
parlor. The lady's indisposition had confined her to her room and couch
during the greater part of the day; but as the sun declined, the
distress in her head had gradually ceased, and she had found her airy
drawing-room a welcome change from the apartment heavy with the odor of
anaesthetics. Two students from the university had aided in beguiling
the early part of the evening, and then Laura had commenced reading
aloud an interesting tale, which had suspended the consciousness of
time. But as the marble clock on the mantel chimed out the hour of
twelve, Mrs. Arnot rose hastily from the sofa, exclaiming:

"What am I thinking of, to keep you up so late! If your mother knew that
you were out of your bed she would hesitate to trust you with me again."

"One more chapter, dear auntie, please?"

"Yes, dear, several more--to-morrow; but to bed now, _instanter_.
Come, kiss your remorseful aunt good-night. I'll remain here a while
longer, for either your foolish story or the after effects of my
wretched headache make me a trifle morbid and wakeful to-night. Oh, how
that bell startles me! what can it mean so late?"

The loud ring at the door remained unanswered a few moments, for the
servants had all retired. But the applicant without did not wait long
before repeating the summons still more emphatically.

Then they heard the library door open, and Mr. Arnot's heavy step in the
hall, as he went himself to learn the nature of the untimely call. His
wife's nervous timidity vanished at once, and she stepped forward to
join her husband, while Laura stood looking out from the parlor entrance
with a pale and frightened face. "Can it be bad news from home?" she
thought.

"Who is there?" demanded Mr. Arnot, sternly.

"Me and Misther Haldane," answered a voice without in broadest brogue.

"Mr. Haldane!" exclaimed Mr. Arnot excitedly; "what can this mean? Who
is _me?_" he next asked loudly.

"Me is Pat M'Cabe, sure; the same as tidies up the office and does yer
irrinds. Mr. Haldane's had a bad turn, and I've brought him home."

As Mr. Arnot swung open the door, a man, who seemingly had been leaning
against it, fell prone within the hall. Laura gave a slight scream, and
Mrs. Arnot was much alarmed, thinking that Haldane was suffering from
some sudden and alarming attack. Thoughts of at once telegraphing to his
mother were entering her mind, when the object of her solicitude tried
to rise, and mumbled in the thick utterance of intoxication:

"This isn't home. Take me to mother's."

Mrs. Arnot's eyes turned questioningly to her husband, and she saw that
his face was dark with anger and disgust.

"He is drunk," he said, turning to Pat, who stood in the door, cap in
hand.

"Faix, sur, it looks moighty loike it. But it's not for a dacent sober
man loike meself to spake sartainly o' sich matters."

"Few words and to the point, sir," said Mr. Arnot harshly; "your breath
tells where you have been. But where did you find this--and how came you
to find him?"

Either Mr. Arnot was at a loss for a term which would express his
estimation of the young man, who had slowly and unsteadily risen, and
was supporting himself by holding fast the hatrack, or he was restrained
in his utterance by the presence of his wife.

"Well, sur," said Pat, with as ingenuous and candid an air as if he were
telling the truth, "the wife o' a neighbor o' mine was taken on a
suddint, and I went for the docther, and as I was a comin' home, who
shud I see sittin' on a doorsthep but Misther Haldane, and I thought it
me duty to bring him home to yees."

"You have done right. Was it on the doorstep of a drinking-place you
found him?"

"I'm athinkin' it was, sur; it had that sort o' look."

Mr. Arnot turned to his wife and said coldly, "You now see how it works.
But this is not a fit object for you and Laura to look upon; so please
retire. I will see that he gets safely to his room. I suppose he must go
there, though the station-house is the more proper place for him."

"He certainly must go to his own room," said Mrs. Arnot, firmly but
quietly.

"Well, then, steady him along up the stairs, Pat. I will show you where
to put the--" and Mr. Arnot again seemed to hesitate for a term, but the
blank was more expressive of his contempt than any epithet could be,
since his tone and manner suggested the worst.

Returning to the parlor, Mrs. Arnot found Laura's face expressive of the
deepest alarm and distress.

"O auntie, what does all this mean? Am I in any way to blame? He said he
would go to ruin if I didn't--but how could I?"

"No, my dear, you are not in the slightest degree to blame. Mr. Haldane
seems both bad and foolish. I feel to-night that he is not worthy to
speak to you; much less is he fit to be intrusted with that which you
will eventually give, I hope, only to one who is pre-eminently noble and
good. Come with me to your room, my child. I am very sorry I permitted
you to stay up to-night."

But Laura was sleepless and deeply troubled; she had never seen a
laborer--much less one of her own acquaintances--in Haldane's condition
before; and to her young, innocent mind the event had almost the
character of a tragedy. Although conscious of entire blamelessness, she
supposed that she was more directly the cause of Haldane's behavior than
was true, and that he was carrying out his threat to destroy himself by
reckless dissipation. She did not know that he had been beguiled into
his miserable condition through bad habits of long standing, and that he
had fallen into the clutches of those who always infest public haunts,
and live by preying upon the fast, foolish, and unwary. Haldane, from
his character and associations, was liable to such an experience
whenever circumstances combined to make it possible. Young men with no
more principle than he possessed are never safe from disaster, and they
who trust them trust rather to the chances of their not meeting the
peculiar temptations and tests to which they would prove unequal. Laura
could not then know how little she had to do with the tremendous
downfall of her premature lover. The same conditions given, he would
probably have met with the same experience upon any occasion. After his
first glass of punch the small degree of discretion that he had learned
thus far in life began to desert him; and every man as he becomes
intoxicated is first a fool, and then the victim of every one who
chooses to take advantage of his voluntary helplessness and degradation.

But innocent Laura saw a romantic and tragic element in the painful
event, and she fell asleep with some vague womanly thoughts about saving
a fellow-creature by the sacrifice of herself. However, the morning
light, the truth concerning Haldane, and her own good sense, would
banish such morbid fancies. Indeed the worst possible way in which a
young woman can set about reforming a bad man is to marry him. The usual
result is greatly increased guilt on the part of the husband, and
lifelong, hopeless wretchedness for the wife.




CHAPTER IX

PAT AND THE PRESS


Pat having steadied and half carried Haldane to his room, Mr. Arnot
demanded of his clerk what had become of the money intrusted to his
care; but his only answer was a stupid, uncomprehending stare.

"Hold his hands," said Mr. Arnot impatiently.

M'Cabe having obeyed, the man of business, whose solicitude in the
affair had no concern with the young man's immeasurable loss, but
related only to his own money, immediately felt in Haldane's pockets for
the envelopes which had contained the thousand dollars in currency. The
envelopes were safe enough--one evidently opened with the utmost care,
and the other torn recklessly--but the money was gone.

When Haldane saw the envelopes, there was a momentary expression of
trouble and perplexity upon his face, and he tried to speak; but his
thick utterance was unintelligible. This gleam of intelligence passed
quickly, however, and the stupor of intoxication reasserted itself. His
heavy eyelids drooped, and Pat with difficulty could keep him on his
feet.

"Toss him there on the lounge; take off his muddy boots. Nothing further
can be done while he is in this beastly condition," said Mr. Arnot, in a
voice that was as harsh as the expression of his face.

The empty envelopes and Mr. Arnot's dark looks suggested a great deal to
Pat, and he saw that one of his "sprees" was an innocent matter compared
with this affair.

"Now, go down to my study and wait there for me."

Pat obeyed in a very steady and decorous manner, for the matter was
assuming such gravity as to sober him completely.

Mr. Arnot satisfied himself that there was no chance of escape from the
windows, and then, after another look of disgust and anger at Haldane,
who was now sleeping heavily, he took the key from the door, and locked
it on the outside.

Descending to his study, the irate gentleman next wrote a note, and gave
it to his porter, saying:

"Take that to the police-headquarters, and ask that it be sent to the
superintendent at once. No mistake, now, as you value your place; and
mind, not a word of all this to any one."

"Faix, sir, I'll be as dumb as an oyster, and do yer biddin' in a
jiffy," said Pat, backing out of the room, and glad to escape from one
whose threatening aspect seemed to forebode evil to any one within his
reach.

"He looks black enough to murther the poor young spalpeen," muttered the
Irishman, as he hastened to do his errand, remembering now with
trepidation that, though he had escaped from his master, the big,
red-faced, stout-armed wife of his bosom was still to be propitiated
after his late prowlings.

When he entered the main street, a light that glimmered from the top of
a tall building suggested how he might obtain that kind of oil which,
cast upon the domestic billows that so often raged in his fourth-floor
back room, was most effective in producing a little temporary
smoothness.

Since the weather was always fouler within his domestic haven than
without, and on this occasion threatened to be at its worst, Pat at one
time half decided not to run into port at all; but the glimmer of the
light already mentioned suggested another course.

Although the night was far spent, Pat still longed for a "wink o' slape"
before going to his work, and, in order to enjoy it, knew that he must
obtain the means of allaying the storm, which was not merely brewing,
but which, from the lateness of the hour, had long been brewed. In his
own opinion, the greenness of his native isle had long ago faded from
his mental and moral complexion, and he did not propose that any stray
dollars, which by any shrewdness or artifice could be diverted into his
pocket, should get by him.

Since his wife had developed into a huge, female divinity, at whose
shrine it seemed probable that he would eventually become a human
sacrifice, and whose wrath, in the meantime, it was his daily task to
appease, Pat had gradually formed the habit of making a sort of
companion of himself. In accordance with his custom, therefore, he
stopped under the high window from whence gleamed the light, for the
sake of a little personal counsel.

"Now, Pat," he muttered, "if yees had gone home at nine o'clock, yees
wudn't be afeared to go home now; and if yees go home now widout a
dollar more or less, the ould 'ooman will make yer wish yees had set on
the curbstone the rest o' the night. They sez some men has no bowels o'
marcies; and after what I've seen the night, and afore the night, too, I
kin belave that Boss Arnot's in'ards were cast at the same foundry where
he gets his mash-shines. He told me that I must spake nary a word about
what I've seen and heard, and if I should thry to turn an honest penny
by givin' a knowin' wink or two where they wud pay for the same, that
'ud be the ind of Pat M'Cabe at the big office. And yet they sez that
them as buys news is loike them that takes stolen goods--moighty willin'
to kape dark about where they got it, so that they kin get more next
time. That's the iditor of the 'Currier' in yon high room, and p'raps
he'll pay me as much for a wink and a hint the night as I'll get for me
day's work termorrow. Bust me if I don't thry him, if he'll fust promise
me to say it any one axes him that he niver saw Pat M'Cabe in his
loife," and the suddenly improvised reporter climbed the long stairways
to where the night editor sat at his desk.

Pat gave a hearty rap for manners, but as the night was waning he walked
in without waiting for an answer, and addressed the startled newspaper
man with a business-like directness, which might often be advantageously
imitated:

"Is this the shop where yer pays a dacent price for news?"

"It depends on the importance of the news, and its truthfulness,"
answered the editor, after eying the intruder suspiciously for a moment.

"Thin I've got ye on both counts, though I didn't think ye'd bear down
so heavy on its being thrue," said Pat, advancing confidently.

As the door of the press-room, in which men were at work, stood open,
the editor felt no alarm from the sudden appearance of the burly figure
before him, but, supposing the man had been drinking, he said
impatiently:

"Please state your business briefly, as my time is valuable."

"If yer time is worth mor'n news, I'll go to another shop," said Pat
stiffly, making a feint of departure.

"That's a good fellow, go along," chimed in the editor, bending down to
his writing again.

Such disastrous acquiescence puzzled Pat for a moment, and he growled,
"No wonder yer prints a paper that's loike a lump o' lead, when 'stead
o' lookin' for news yer turns it away from yer doors."

"Now, look here, my man," said the editor rising, "if you have anything
to say, say it. If you have been drinking, you will not be permitted to
make a row in this office."

"It's not me, but another man that's been dhrinkin'."

"Well," snarled the editor, "if the other man had the drink, you have
the 'drunk,' and if you don't take yourself off, I'll call some men from
the press-room who may put you downstairs uncomfortably fast."

"Hould on a bit," remonstrated Pat, "before yer ruffle yer feathers
clane over yer head and blinds yer eyes. Wud a man loike Boss Arnot send
me, if I was dhrunk, wid a letther at this toime o' night? and wud he
send a letther to the superintindent o' the perlice at this toime o' the
night to ax him the toime o' day! Afore yer calls yer spalpeens out o'
the press-room squint at that."

The moment the editor caught sight of the business stamp on Mr. Arnot's
letter and the formal handwriting, his manner changed, and he said
suavely:

"I beg your pardon--we have misunderstood one another--take a chair."

"There's been no misunderstandin' on my part," retorted Pat, with an
injured air; "I've got as dainty a bit o' scandal jist under me tongue
as iver ye spiced yer paper wid, and yees thrates me as if I was the
inimy o' yer sowl."

"Well, you see," said the editor apologetically, "your not being in our
regular employ, Mr.--I beg your pardon--and your coming in this unusual
way and hour--"

"But, begorry, somethin' unusual's happened."

"So I understand; it was very good of you to come to us first; just give
me the points, and I will jot them down."

"But what are yees goin' to give me for the pints?"

"That depends upon what they are worth. News cannot be paid for till we
learn its value."

"Och! here I'm rinnin' a grate risk in tellin' ye at all, and whin I've
spilt it all out, and can't pick it up agin, ye may show me the door,
and tell me to go 'long wid me rubbish."

"If you find what you have to report in the paper, you may know it is
worth something. So if you will look at the paper to-morrow you can see
whether it will be worth your while to call again," said the editor,
becoming impatient at Pat's hesitancy to open his budget.

"But I'm in sore need of a dollar or two to-night. Dade, it's as much as
my loife's worth to go home widout 'em."

"See here, my good friend," said the editor, rising again and speaking
very energetically, "my time is very valuable, and you have taken
considerable of it. Whatever may be the nature of your news, it will not
be worth anything to me if you do not tell it at once."

"Well, you see the biggest part o' the news is goin' to happen
to-morrow."

"Well, well, what has happened to-night?"

"Will ye promise not to mention me name?"

"How can I mention it when I don't know it?"

"That's thrue, that's thrue. Now me mind's aisy on that pint, for ye
must know that Boss Arnot's in'ards are made o' cast-iron, and he'd have
no marcy on a feller. You'll surely give me a dollar, at laste."

"Yes, if your story is worth printing, and I give you just three minutes
in which to tell it."

Thus pinned down, Pat related all he knew and surmised concerning
Haldane's woful predicament, saying in conclusion:

"Ye must know that this Haldane is not a poor spalpeen uv a clerk, but a
gintleman's son. They sez that his folks is as stylish and rich as the
Arnots themselves. If ye'll have a reporther up at the office in the
mornin', ye'll git the balance o' the tale."

Having received his dollar, Pat went chuckling on his way to deliver his
employer's letter to the superintendent of the city police.

"Faix! I was as wise as a sarpent in not tellin' me name, for ye niver
can thrust these iditors. It's no green Irishman that can make a dollar
after twelve o' the night."

A sleepy reporter was aroused and despatched after Pat, in order to
learn, if possible, the contents of Mr. Arnot's note.

In the meantime heavily leaded lines--vague and mysterious--concerning
"Crime in High Life," were set up, accompanied on the editorial page by
a paragraph to the following effect:


"With our usual enterprise and keen scent for news, we discovered at a
late hour last night that an intelligent Irishman in the employ of Mr.
Arnot had been intrusted by that gentleman with a letter written after
the hour of midnight to the superintendent of the police. The guilty
party appears to be a Mr. Haldane--a young man of aristocratic and
wealthy connections--who is at present in Mr. Arnot's employ, and a
member of his family. We think we are aware of the nature of his grave
offence, but in justice to all concerned we refer our readers to our
next issue, wherein they will find full particulars of the painful
affair, since we have obtained peculiar facilities for learning them. No
arrests have yet been made."


"That will pique all the gossips in town, and nearly double our next
issue," complacently muttered the local editor, as he carried the scrawl
at the last moment into the composing-room.

In the meantime the hero of our story--if such a term by any latitude of
meaning can be applied to one whose folly had brought him into such a
prosaic and miserable plight--still lay in a heavy stupor on the lounge
where Pat had thrown his form, that had been as limp and helpless as if
it had become a mere body without a soul. But the consequences of his
action did not cease with his paralysis, any more than do the influences
of evil deeds perish with a dying man.




CHAPTER X

RETURNING CONSCIOUSNESS


Mr. Arnot did not leave his library that night. His wife came to the
door and found it locked. To her appeal he replied coldly, but
decisively, that he was engaged.

She sighed deeply, feeling that the sojourn of young Haldane under her
roof was destined to end in a manner most painful to herself and to her
friend, his mother. She feared that the latter would blame her somewhat
for his miserable fiasco, and she fully believed that if her husband
permitted the young man to suffer open disgrace, she would never be
forgiven by the proud and aristocratic lady.

And yet she felt that it was almost useless to speak to her husband in
his present mood, or to hope that he could be induced to show much
consideration for so grave an offense.

Of the worst feature in Haldane's conduct, however, she had no
knowledge. Mr. Arnot rarely spoke to his wife concerning his business,
and she had merely learned, the previous evening, that Haldane had been
sent to New York upon some errand. Acting upon the supposition that her
husband had remembered and complied with her request, she graciously
thanked him for giving the young man a little change and diverting
novelty of scene.

Mr. Arnot, who happened to verge somewhat toward a complacent mood upon
this occasion, smiled grimly at his wife's commendation, and even unbent
so far as to indulge in some ponderous attempts at wit with Laura
concerning her "magnificent offer," and asserted that if she had been
"like his wife, she would have jumped at the chance of getting hold of
such a crude, unreformed specimen of humanity. Indeed," concluded he, "I
did not know but that Mrs. Arnot was bringing about the match, so that
she might have a little of the raw material for reformatory purposes
continually on hand."

Mrs. Arnot smiled, as she ever did, at her husband's attempted
witticisms; but what he regarded as light, delicate shafts, winged
sportively and carelessly, had rather the character of any heavy object
that came to hand thrown at her with heedless, inconsiderate force. It
is due Mr. Arnot to say that he gave so little thought and attention to
the wounds and bruises he caused, as to be unaware that any had been
made. He had no hair-springs and jewel-tipped machinery in his massive,
angular organization, and he acted practically as if the rest of
humanity had been cast in the same mold with himself.

But Haldane's act touched him at his most vulnerable point. Not only had
a large sum of his money been made away with, but, what was far worse,
there had been a most serious irregularity in the business routine.
While, therefore, he resolved that Haldane should receive full
punishment, the ulterior thought of giving the rest of his employes a
warning and intimidating lesson chiefly occupied his mind.

Aware of his wife's "unbusinesslike weakness and sentimental notions,"
as he characterized her traits, he determined not to see her until he
had carried out his plan of securing repayment of the money, and of
striking a salutary sentiment of fear into the hearts of all who were
engaged in carrying out his methodical will.

Therefore, with the key of Haldane's room in his pocket, he kept watch
and guard during the remainder of the night, taking only such rest as
could be obtained on the lounge in his library.

At about sunrise two men appeared, and rapped lightly on the library
window. Mr. Arnot immediately went out to them, and placed one within a
summer-house in the spacious garden at the rear of the house, and the
other in front, where he would be partially concealed by evergreens. By
this arrangement the windows of Haldane's apartment and every entrance
of the house were under the surveillance of police officers in citizen's
dress. Mr. Arnot's own personal pride, as well as some regard for his
wife's feelings, led him to arrange that the arrest should not be made
at their residence, for he wished that all the events occurring at the
house should be excluded as far as possible from the inevitable talk
which the affair would occasion. At the same time he proposed to guard
against the possibility of Haldane's escape, should fear or shame prompt
his flight.

Having now two assistant watchers, he threw himself on the sofa, and
took an hour or more of unbroken sleep. On awaking, he went with silent
tread to the door of Haldane's room, and, afer listening a moment, was
satisfied from the heavy breathing within that its occupant was still
under the influence of stupor. He now returned the key to the door, and
unlocked it so that Haldane could pass out as soon as he was able. Then,
after taking a little refreshment in the dining-room, he went directly
to the residence of a police justice of his acquaintance, who, on
hearing the facts as far as then known concerning Haldane, made out a
warrant for his arrest, and promised that the officer to whom it would
be given should be sent forthwith to Mr. Arnot's office--for thither the
young man would first come, or be brought, on recovering from his heavy
sleep.

Believing that he had now made all the arrangements necessary to secure
himself from loss, and to impress the small army in his service that
honesty was the "best policy" in their relations with him, Mr. Arnot
walked leisurely to one of his factories in the suburbs, partly to see
that all was right, and partly to remind his agents there that they were
in the employ of one whose untiring vigilance would not permit any
neglect of duty to escape undetected.

Having noted that the routine of work was going forward as regularly as
the monotonous clank of the machinery, he finally wended his way to his
city office, and was the first arrival thither save Pat M'Cabe, who had
just finished putting the place in order for the business of the day.
His factotum was in mortal trepidation, for in coming across town he had
eagerly bought the morning "Courier," and his complacent sense of
security at having withheld his name from the "oncivil iditer" vanished
utterly as he read the words, "an intelligent Irishman in Mr. Arnot's
employ."

"Och! bloody blazes! that manes me," he had exclaimed; "and ould Boss
Arnot will know it jist as well as if they had printed me name all over
the paper. Bad luck to the spalpeen, and worse luck to meself!
'Intilligent Irishman,' am I? Then what kind o' a crather would one be
as had no sinse a' tall? Here I've bin throwin' away fotry dollars the
month for the sake o' one! Whin I gets me discharge I'd better go round
to the tother side o' the airth' than go home to me woife."

Nor were his apprehensions allayed as he saw Mr. Arnot reading the paper
with a darkening scowl; but for the present Pat was left in suspense as
to his fate.

Clerks and book-keepers soon appeared, and among them a policeman, who
was summoned to the inner office, and given a seat somewhat out of sight
behind the door.

Upon every face there was an expression of suppressed excitement and
expectation, for the attention of those who had not seen the morning
paper was speedily called to the ominous paragraph. But the routine and
discipline of the office prevailed, and in a few minutes all heads were
bending over bulky journals and ledgers, but with many a furtive glance
at the door.

As for Pat, he had the impression that the policeman within would collar
him before the morning was over, and march him off, with Haldane, to
jail; and he was in such a state of nervous apprehension that almost any
event short of an earthquake would be a relief if it could only happen
at once.

The April sun shone brightly and genially into the apartment in which
Haldane had been left to sleep off his drunken stupor. In all its
appointments it appeared as fresh, inviting, and cleanly as the
wholesome light without. The spirit of the housekeeper pervaded every
part of the mansion, and in both furniture and decoration it would seem
that she had studiously excluded everything which would suggest morbid
or gloomy thoughts. It was Mrs. Arnot's philosophy that outward
surroundings impart their coloring to the mind, and are a help or a
hindrance. She was a disciple of the light, and was well aware that she
must resolutely dwell in its full effulgence in order to escape from the
blighting shadow of a life-long disappointment. Thus she sought to make
her home, not gay or gaudy--not a brilliant mockery of her sorrow, which
she had learned to calmly recognize as one might a village cemetery in a
sunny landscape--but cheerful and lightsome like this April morning,
which looked in through the curtained windows of Haldane's apartment,
and found everything in harmony with itself save the occupant.

And yet he was young and in his spring-time. Why should he make discord
with the bright fresh morning? Because the shadow of evil--which is
darker than the shadow of night, age, or sorrow--rested upon him. His
hair hung in disorder over a brow which was contracted into a frown. His
naturally fine features had a heavy, bloated, sensual aspect; and yet,
even while he slept, you caught a glimpse in this face--as through a
veil--of the anguish of a spirit that was suffering brutal wrong and
violence.

His insensibility was passing away. His mind appeared to be struggling
to cast off the weight of a stupefied body, but for a time its
throes--which were manifested by starts, strong shudderings, and
muttered words--were ineffectual. At last, in desperation, as it were,
the tortured soul, poisoned even in its imaginings by the impurity of
the lower nature, conjured up such a horrid vision that in its anguish
it broke its chains, threw off the crushing weight, and the young man
started up.

This returning consciousness had not been, like the dawn stealing in at
his window, followed by a burst of sunlight. As the morning enters the
stained, foul, dingy places of dissipation, which early in the evening
had been the gas-lighted, garish scenes of riot and senseless laughter,
and later the fighting ground of all the vile vermin of the night with
their uncanny noises--as when, the doors and windows having been at last
opened, the light struggles in through stale tobacco-smoke, revealing
dimly a discolored, reeking place, whose sights and odors are more in
harmony with the sewer than the sweet April sunshine and the violets
opening on southern slopes--so when reason and memory, the janitors of
the mind, first admitted the light of consciousness, only the obscure
outline of miserable feelings and repulsive events were manifest to
Haldane's introspection.

There was a momentary relief at finding that the horrible dream which
had awakened him was only a dream, but while his waking banished the
uncouth shapes of the imagination, his sane, will-guided vision saw
revealed that from which he shrank with far greater dread.

For a few moments, as he stared vacantly around the room, he could
realize nothing save a dull, leaden weight of pain. In this dreary
obscurity of suffering, distinct causes of trouble and fear began to
shape themselves. There was a mingled sense of misfortune and guilt. He
had a confused memory of a great disappointment, and he knew from his
condition that he had been drinking.

He looked at himself--he was dressed. There stood his muddy boots--two
foul blots on the beauty and cleanliness of the room. So then he had
come, or had been brought, at some hour during the night, to the house
of his stern and exacting employer. Haldane dismissed the thought of him
with a reckless oath; but his face darkened with anguish as he
remembered that this was also the home of Mrs. Arnot, who had been so
kind, and, at the present time, the home of Laura Romeyn also.

They may have seen, or, at least, must know of, his degradation.

He staggered to the ewer, and, with a trembling hand, poured out a
little water. Having bathed his hot, feverish face, he again sat down,
and tried to recall what had happened.

In bitterness of heart he remembered his last interview with Laura, and
her repugnance toward both himself and what she regarded as "his
disgusting vices," and so disgusting did his evil courses now seem that,
for the first time in his life, he thought of himself with loathing.

Then, as memory rapidly duplicated subsequent events, he gave a
contemptuous smile to his "gloomy grandeur" schemes in passing, and saw
himself on the way to New York, with one thousand dollars of his
employer's funds intrusted to his care. He remembered that he was
introduced to two fascinating strangers, that they drank and lunched
together, that they missed the train, that they were gambling, that,
having lost all his own money, he was tempted to open a package
belonging to Mr. Arnot; did he not open the other also? At this point
all became confused and blurred.

What had become of that money?

With nervous, trembling haste he searched his pockets. Both the money
and the envelopes were gone.

His face blanched; his heart sank with a certain foreboding of evil. He
found himself on the brink of an abyss, and felt the ground crumbling
beneath him. First came a mad impulse to fly, to escape and hide
himself; and he had almost carried it out. His hand was on the door, but
he hesitated, turned back, and walked the floor in agony.

Then came the better impulse of one as yet unhardened in the ways of
evil, to go at once to his employer, tell the whole truth, and make such
reparation as was within his power. He knew that his mother was
abundantly able to pay back the money, and he believed she would do so.

This he conceded was his best, and, indeed, only safe course, and he
hoped that the wretched affair might be so arranged as to be kept hidden
from the world. As for Mrs. Arnot and Laura, he felt that he could never
look them in the face again.

Suppose he should meet them going out. The very thought was dreadful,
and it seemed to him that he would sink to the floor from shame under
their reproachful eyes. Would they be up yet? He looked at his watch; it
had run down, and its motionless hands pointed at the vile, helpless
condition in which he must have been at the time when he usually wound
it up.

He glanced from the window, with the hope of escaping the two human
beings whom he dreaded more than the whole mocking world; but it was too
lofty to admit of a leap to the ground.

"Who is yonder strange man that seems to be watching the house?" he
queried.

Was it his shaken nerves and sense of guilt which led him to suspect
danger and trouble on every side?

"There is no help for it," he exclaimed, grinding his teeth; and,
opening the door, he hastened from the house, looking neither to the
right hand nor to the left.




CHAPTER XI

HALDANE IS ARRESTED


As Haldane strode rapidly along the winding, gravelled path that led
from Mrs. Arnot's beautiful suburban villa to the street, he started
violently as he encountered a stranger, who appeared to be coming toward
the mansion; and he was greatly relieved when he was permitted to pass
unmolested. And yet the cool glance of scrutiny which he received left a
very unpleasant impression. Nor was this uneasiness diminished when, on
reaching the street, he found that the stranger had apparently
accomplished his errand to the house so speedily that he was already
returning, and accompanied by another man.

Were not their eyes fixed on him, or was he misled by his fears? After a
little time he looked around again. One of the men had disappeared, and
he breathed more fully. No; there he was on the opposite side of the
street, and walking steadily abreast with him, while his companion
continued following about the same distance away.

Was he "shadowed"? He was, indeed, literally and figuratively. Although
the sun was shining bright and warm, never before had he been conscious
of such a horror of great darkness. The light which can banish the
oppressive, disheartening shadow of guilt must come from beyond the sun.

As he entered the busier streets in the vicinity of the office, he saw a
few persons whom he knew. Was he again misled by his overwrought and
nervous condition? or did these persons try to shun him by turning
corners, entering shops, or by crossing the street, and looking
resolutely the other way.

Could that awful entity, the world, already know the events of the past
night?

A newsboy was vociferating down a side street. The word "Crime" only
caught Haldane's ear, but the effect was as cold and as chilling as the
drip of an icicle.

As he hastened up the office steps, Pat M'Cabe scowled upon him, and
muttered audibly:

"Bad luck till yees! I wish I'd lift ye ablinkin' like an owl where I
found ye."

"An' back luck till yees, too," added Pat in his surly growl, as a
reporter, note-book in hand, stepped nimbly in after Haldane; "it's
meself that wishes iviry iditer o' the land was burned up wid his own
lyin' papers."

Even the most machine-like of the sere and withered book-keepers held
their pens in suspense as Haldane passed hastily toward Mr. Arnot's
private office, followed by the reporter, whose alert manner and
observant, questioning eye suggested an animated symbol of
interrogation.

The manner of his fellow clerks did not escape Haldane's notice even in
that confused and hurried moment, and it increased his sense of an
impending blow; but when, on entering the private office, Mr. Arnot
turned toward him his grim, rigid face, and when a man in the uniform of
an officer of the law rose and stepped forward as if the one expected
had now arrived, his heart misgave him utterly, and for a moment he
found no words, but stood before his employer, pallid and trembling, his
very attitude and appearance making as full a confession of guilt as
could the statement he proposed to give.

If Pat's opinion concerning Mr. Arnot's "in'ards" had not been
substantially correct, that inexorable man would have seen that this was
not an old offender who stood before him. The fact that Haldane was
overwhelmed with shame and fear, should have tempered his course with
healing and saving kindness. But Mr. Arnot had already decided upon his
plan, and no other thought would occur to him save that of carrying it
out with machine-like precision. His frown deepened as he saw the
reporter, but after a second's thought he made no objection to his
presence, as the increasing publicity that would result would add to the
punishment which was designed to be a signal warning to all in his
employ.

After a moment's lowering scrutiny of the trembling youth, during which
his confidential clerk, by previous arrangement, appeared, that he might
be a witness of all that occurred, Mr. Arnot said coldly:

"Well, sir, perhaps you can now tell me what has become of the funds
which I intrusted to your care last evening."

"That is my purpose--object," stammered Haldane; "if you will only give
me a chance I will tell you everything."

"I am ready to hear, sir. Be brief; business has suffered too great an
interruption already."

"Please have a little consideration for me," said Haldane, eagerly,
great beaded drops of perspiration starting from his brow; "I do not
wish to speak before all these witnesses. Give me a private interview,
and I will explain everything, and can promise that the money shall be
refunded."

"I shall make certain of that, rest assured," replied Mr. Arnot, in the
same cold, relentless tone. "The money was intrusted to your care last
evening, in the presence of witnesses. Here are the empty envelopes. If
you have any explanations to make concerning what you did with the
money, speak here and now."

"I must warn the young man," said the policeman, interposing, "not to
say anything which will tend to criminate himself. He must remember that
whatever he says will appear against him in evidence."

"But there is no need that this affair should have any such publicity,"
Haldane urged in great agitation. "If Mr. Arnot will only show a little
humanity toward me I will arrange the matter so that he will not lose a
penny. Indeed, my mother will pay twice the sum rather than have the
affair get abroad."

The reporter just behind him grinned and lifted his eyebrows as he took
down these words _verbatim_.

"For your mother's sake I deeply regret that 'the affair' as you mildly
term it, must and has become known. As far as you are concerned, I have
no compunctions. When a seeming man can commit a grave crime in the hope
that a widowed mother--whose stay and pride he ought to be--will come
to his rescue, and buy immunity from deserved punishment, he neither
deserves, nor shall he receive, mercy at my hands. But were I capable of
a maudlin sentiment of pity in the circumstances, the duty I owe my
business would prevent any such expression as you desire. When any one
in my employ takes advantage of my confidence, he must also, and with
absolute certainty, take the consequences."

"Bad luck ter yez!" mentally ejaculated Pat, whom curiosity and the
fascination of his own impending fate had drawn within earshot.

"What do you intend to do with me?" asked Haldane, his brow contracting,
and his face growing sullen under Mr. Arnot's harsh, bitter words.

"Do! What is done with clerks who steal their employers' money?"

"I did not steal your money," said Haldane impetuously.

"Where is it, then?" asked Mr. Arnot, with a cold sneer.

"Be careful, now," said the policeman; "you are getting excited, and you
may say what you'll wish you hadn't."

"Mr. Arnot, do you mean to have it go abroad to all the world that I
have deliberately stolen that thousand dollars?" asked the young man
desperately.

"Here are the empty envelopes. Where is the money?" said his employer,
in the same cool, inexorable tone.

"I met two sharpers from New York, who made a fool of me--"

"Made a fool of you! that was impossible," interrupted Mr. Arnot with a
harsh laugh.

"Dastard that you are, to strike a man when he is down," thundered
Haldane wrathfully. "Since everything must go abroad, the truth shall
go, and not foul slander. I got to drinking with these men from New
York, and missed the train--"

"Be careful, now; think what you are saying," interrupted the policeman.

"He charges me with what amounts to a bald theft, and in a way that all
will hear of the charge, and shall I not defend my self?"

"O, certainly, if you can prove that you did not take the money--only
remember, what you say will appear in the evidence."

"What evidence?" cried the bewildered and excited youth with an oath.
"If you will only give me a chance, you shall have all the evidence
there is in a sentence. These blacklegs from New York appeared like
gentlemen. A friend in town introduced them to me, and, after losing the
train, we agreed to spend the evening together. They called for cards,
and they won the money."

Mr. Arnot's dark cheek had grown more swarthy at the epithet of
"dastard," but he coolly waited until Haldane had finished, and then
asked in his former tone:

"Did they take the money from your person and open the envelopes, one
carefully, the other recklessly, before they won it?"

Guided by this keen questioning, memory flashed back its light on the
events of the past night, and Haldane saw himself opening the first
package, certainly, and he remembered how it was done. He trembled, and
his face, that had been so flushed, grew very pale. For a moment he was
so overwhelmed by a realization of his act, and its threatening
consequences, that his tongue refused to plead in his behalf. At last he
stammered:

"I did not mean to take the money--only to borrow a little of it, and
return it that same night They got me drunk--I was not myself. But I
assure you it will all be returned. I can--"

"Officer, do your duty," interrupted Mr. Arnot sternly. "Too much time
has been wasted over the affair already, but out of regard for his
mother I wished to give this young man an opportunity to make an
exculpating explanation or excuse, if it were in his power. Since,
according to his own statement, he is guilty, the law must take its
course."

"You don't mean to send me to prison?" asked Haldane excitedly.

"I could never send you to prison," replied Mr. Arnot coldly; "your own
act may bring you there. But I do mean to send you before the justice
who issued the warrant for your arrest, held by this officer. Unless you
can find some one who will give bail in your behalf, I do not see why he
should treat you differently from other offenders."

"Mr. Arnot," cried Haldane passionately, "this is my first and only
offence. You surely cannot be so cold-blooded as to inflict upon me this
irreparable disgrace? It will kill my mother."

"You should have thought of all this last evening," said Mr. Arnot. "If
you persist in ignoring the fact, that it is your own deed that wounds
your mother and inflicts disgrace upon yourself, the world will not.
Come, Mr. Officer, serve your warrant, and remove your prisoner."

"Is it your purpose that I shall be dragged through these streets in the
broad light of day to a police court, and thence to jail?" demanded
Haldane, a dark menace coming into his eyes, and finding expression in
his livid face.

"Yes, sir," said the man of business, rising and speaking in loud, stern
tones, so that all in the office could hear; "I mean that you or any one
else in my employ who abuses my trust and breaks the laws shall suffer
their full penalty."

"You are a hard-hearted wretch!" thundered Haldane; "you are a pagan
idolater, and gold is your god. You crush your wife and servants at
home; you crush the spirit and manhood of your clerks here by your
cast-iron system and rules. If you had shown a little consideration for
me you would have lost nothing, and I might have had a chance for a
better life. But you tread me down into the mire of the streets; you
make it impossible for me to appear among decent men again; you strike
my mother and sisters as with a dagger. Curse you! if I go to jail, it
will require you and all your clerks to take me there!" and he whirled
on his heel, and struck out recklessly toward the door.

The busy reporter was capsized by the first blow, and his nose long bore
evidence that it is a serious matter to put that member into other
people's affairs, even in a professional way.

Before Haldane could pass from the inner office two strangers, who had
been standing quietly at the door, each dexterously seized one of his
hands with such an iron grasp that, after a momentary struggle, he gave
up, conscious of the hopelessness of resistance.

"If you will go quietly with us we will employ no force," said the man
in uniform; "otherwise we must use these;" and Haldane shuddered as
light steel manacles were produced. "These men are officers like myself,
and you see that you stand no chance with three of us."

"Well, lead on, then," was the sullen answer. "I will go quietly if you
don't use those, but if you do, I will not yield while there is a breath
of life in me."

"A most desperate and hardened wretch!" ejaculated the reporter, sopping
his streaming nose.

With a dark look and deep malediction upon his employer, Haldane was led
away.

Mr. Arnot was in no gentle mood, for, while he had carried out his
programme, the machinery of the legal process had not worked smoothly.
Very disagreeable things had been said to him in the hearing of his
clerks and others. "Of course, they are not true," thought the
gentleman; "but his insolent words will go out in the accounts of the
affair as surely as my own."

If Haldane had been utterly overwhelmed and broken down, and had shown
only the cringing spirit of a detected and whipped cur, Mr. Arnot's
complacency would have been perfect. But as it was, the affair had gone
forward in a jarring, uncomfortable manner, which annoyed and irritated
him as would a defective, creaking piece of mechanism in one of his
factories. Opposition, friction of any kind, only made his imperious
will more intolerant of disobedience or neglect; therefore he summoned
Pat in a tone whose very accent foretold the doom of the "intelligent
Irishman."

"Did I not order you to give no information to any one concerning what
occurred last night?" he demanded in his sternest tone.

Pat hitched and wriggled, for giving up his forty dollars a month was
like a surgical operation. He saw that his master was incensed, and in
no mood for extenuation; so he pleaded--

"Misther Arnot, won't ye plaze slape on it afore ye gives me me
discharge. If ye'll only think a bit about them newspaper men, ye'll
know it could not be helped a' tall. If they suspicion that a man has
anything in him that they're wantin' to know, they the same as put a
corkscrew intil him, and pull till somethin' comes, and thin they make
up the rest. Faix, sur, I niver could o' got by 'em aloive wid me
letther onless a little o' the news had gone intil their rav'nous maws."

"Then I'll find a man who can get by them, and who is able to obey my
orders to the letter. The cashier will pay you up to date; then leave
the premises."

"Och, Misther Arnot, me woife'll be the death o' me, and thin ye'll have
me bluid on yer sowl. Give me one more--"

"Begone!" said his employer harshly; "too much time has been wasted
already."

Pat found that his case was so desperate that he became reckless, and,
instead of slinking off, he, too showed the same insubordination and
disregard for Mr. Arnot's power and dignity that had been so irritating
in Haldane. Clapping his hat on one side of his head, and with such an
insolent cant forward that it quite obscured his left eye, Pat rested
his hands on his hips, and with one foot thrust out sidewise, he fixed
his right eye on his employer with the expression of sardonic
contemplation, and then delivered himself as follows:

"The takin' up a few minits o' yer toime is a moighty tirrible waste,
but the sindin' of a human bain to the divil is no waste a' tall a'
tall: that's the way ye rason, is it? I allers heerd that yer in'ards
were made o' cast-iron, and I can belave--"

"Leave this office," thundered Mr. Arnot.

"Begorry, ye can't put a man in jail for spakin' his moind, nor for
spakin' the truth. If ye had given me a chance I'd been civil and
obadient the rist o' me days. But whin ye act to'ard a man as if he was
a lump o' dirt that ye can kick out o' the way, and go on, ye'll foind
that the lump o' dirt will lave some marks on yer nice clothes. I tell
ye till yer flinty ould face that ye'r a hard-hearted riprobate that 'ud
grind a poor divil to paces as soon as any mash-shine in all yer big
factories. Ye'll see the day whin ye'll be under somebody's heel
yerself, bad luck to yez!"

Pat's irate volubility flowed in such a torrent that even Mr. Arnot
could not check it until he saw fit to drop the sluice-gates himself,
which, with a contemptuous sniff, and an expression of concentrated
wormwood and gall, he now did. Lifting his battered hat a little more
toward the perpendicular, he went to the cashier's desk, obtained his
money, and then jogged slowly and aimlessly down the street, leaving a
wake of strange oaths behind him.

Thus Mr. Arnot's system again ground out the expected result; but the
plague of humanity was that it would not endure the grinding process
with the same stolid, inert helplessness of other raw material. Though
he had had his way in each instance, he grew more and more dissatisfied
and out of sorts. This vituperation of himself would not tend to impress
his employes with awe, and strike a wholesome fear in their hearts. The
culprits, instead of slinking away overwhelmed with guilt and the weight
of his displeasure, had acted and spoken as if he were a grim old
tyrant; and he had a vague, uncomfortable feeling that his clerks in
their hearts sided with them and against him. It even occurred to him
that he was creating a relation between himself and those in his service
similar to that existing between master and slaves; and that, instead of
forming a community with identical interests, he was on one side and
they on the other. But, with the infatuation of a selfish nature and
imperious will, he muttered:

"Curse them! I'll make them move in my grooves, or toss them out of the
way!" Then, summoning his confidential clerk, he said:

"You know all about the affair. You will oblige me by going to the
office of the justice, and stating the case, with the prisoner's
admissions. I do not care to appear further in the matter, except by
proxy, unless it is necessary."




CHAPTER XII

A MEMORABLE MEETING


Mrs. Arnot had looked upon Haldane's degradation with feelings akin to
disgust and anger, but as long, sleepless hours passed, her thoughts
grew more gentle and compassionate. She was by nature an advocate rather
than a judge. Not the spirit of the disciples, that would call down fire
from heaven, but the spirit of the Master, who sought to lay his
healing, rescuing hand on every lost creature, always controlled her
eventually. Human desert did not count as much with her as human need,
and her own sorrows had made her heart tender toward the sufferings of
others, even though well merited.

The prospect that the handsome youth, the son of her old friend, would
cast himself down to perish in the slough of dissipation, was a tragedy
that wrung her heart with grief; and when at last she fell asleep it was
with tears upon her face.

Forebodings had followed Laura also, even into her dreams, and at last,
in a frightful vision, she saw her uncle placing a giant on guard over
the house. Her uncle had scarcely disappeared before Haldane tried to
escape, but the giant raised his mighty club, as large and heavy as the
mast of a ship, and was about to strike when she awoke with a violent
start.

In strange unison with her dream she still heard her uncle's voice in
the garden below. She sprang to the window, half expecting to see the
giant also, nor was she greatly reassured on observing an unknown man
posted in the summer-house and left there. Mr. Arnot's mysterious
action, and the fact that he was out at that early hour, added to the
disquiet of mind which the events of the preceding night had created.

Her simple home-life had hitherto flowed like a placid stream in sunny
meadows, but now it seemed as if the stream were entering a forest where
dark and ominous shadows were thrown across its surface. She was too
womanly to be indifferent to the fate of any human being. At the same
time she was still so much of a child, and so ignorant of the world,
that Haldane's action, even as she understood it, loomed up before her
imagination as something awful and portentous of unknown evils. She was
oppressed with a feeling that a crushing blow impended over him. Now,
almost as vividly as in her dream, she still saw the giant's club raised
high to strike. If it were only in a fairy tale, her sensitive spirit
would tremble at such a stroke, but inasmuch as it was falling on one
who had avowed passionate love for her, she felt almost as if she must
share in its weight. The idea of reciprocating any feeling that
resembled his passion had at first been absurd, and now, in view of what
he had shown himself capable, seemed impossible; and yet his strongly
expressed regard for her created a sort of bond between them in spite of
herself. She had realized the night before that he would be immediately
dismissed and sent home in disgrace; but her dream, and the glimpse she
had caught of her uncle and the observant stranger, who, as she saw,
still maintained his position, suggested worse consequences, whose very
vagueness made them all the more dreadful.

As it was still a long time before the breakfast hour, she again sought
her couch, and after a while fell into a troubled sleep, from which she
was awakened by her aunt. Hastily dressing, she joined Mrs. Arnot at a
late breakfast, and soon discovered that she was worried and anxious as
well as herself.

"Has Mr. Haldane gone out?" she asked.

"Yes; and what perplexes me is that two strangers followed him to the
street so rapidly that they almost seemed in pursuit."

Then Laura related what she had seen, and her aunt's face grew pale and
somewhat rigid as she recognized the fact that her husband was carrying
out some plan, unknown to her, which might involve a cruel blow to her
friend, Mrs. Haldane, and an overwhelming disgrace to Egbert Haldane. At
the same time the thought flashed upon her that the young man's offence
might be graver than she had supposed. But she only remarked quietly:

"I will go down to the office and see your uncle after breakfast."

"Oh, auntie, please let me go with you," said Laura nervously.

"I may wish to see my husband alone," replied Mrs. Arnot doubtfully,
foreseeing a possible interview which she would prefer her niece should
not witness.

"I will wait for you in the outer office, auntie, if you will only let
me go. I am so unstrung that I cannot bear to be left in the house
alone."

"Very well, then; we'll go together, and a walk in the open air will do
us both good."

As Mrs. Arnot was finishing her breakfast she listlessly took up the
morning "Courier," and with a sudden start read the heavy head-lines and
paragraph which Pat's unlucky venture as a reporter had occasioned.

"Come, Laura, let us go at once," said she, rising hastily; and as soon
as they could prepare themselves for the street they started toward the
central part of the city, each too busy with her own thoughts to speak
often, and yet each having a grateful consciousness of unspoken sympathy
and companionship.

As they passed down the main street they saw a noisy crowd coming up the
sidewalk toward them, and they crossed over to avoid it. But the
approaching throng grew so large and boisterous that they deemed it
prudent to enter the open door of a shop until it passed. Their somewhat
elevated position gave them a commanding view, and a policeman's uniform
at once indicated that it was an arrest that had drawn together the
loose human atoms that are always drifting about the streets. The
prisoner was followed by a retinue that might have bowed the head of an
old and hardened offender with shame--rude, idle, half-grown boys, with
their morbid interest in every thing tending to excitement and crime,
seedy loungers drawn away from saloon doors where they are as surely to
be found as certain coarse weeds in foul, neglected corners--a ragged,
unkempt, repulsive jumble of humanity, that filled the street with
gibes, slang, and profanity. Laura was about to retreat into the shop in
utter disgust, when her aunt exclaimed in a tone of sharp distress:

"Merciful Heaven! there is Egbert Haldane!"

With something like a shock of terror she recognized her quondam lover,
the youth who had stood at her side and turned her music. But as she saw
him now there appeared an immeasurable gulf between them; while her pity
for him was profound, it seemed as helpless and hopeless in his behalf
as if he were a guilty spirit that was being dragged away to final doom.

Her aunt's startled exclamation caught the young man's attention, for it
was a voice that he would detect among a thousand, and he turned his
livid face, with its agonized, hunted look, directly toward them.

As their eyes met--as he saw the one of all the world that he then most
dreaded to meet, Laura Romeyn, regarding him with a pale, frightened
face, as if he were a monster, a wild beast, nay, worse, a common thief
on his way to jail--he stopped abruptly, and for a second seemed to
meditate some desperate act. But when he saw the rabble closing on him,
and heard the officers growl in surly tones, "Move on," a sense of
helplessness as well as of shame overwhelmed him. He shivered visibly,
dashed his hat down over his eyes, and strode on, feeling at last that
the obscurity of a prison cell would prove a welcome refuge.

But Mrs. Arnot had recognized the intolerable suffering and humiliation
stamped on the young man's features; she had seen the fearful, shrinking
gaze at herself and Laura, the lurid gleam of desperation, and read
correctly the despairing gesture by which he sought to hide from them,
the rabble, and all the world, a countenance from which he already felt
that shame had blotted all trace of manhood.

Her face again wore a gray, rigid aspect, as if she had received a wound
that touched her heart; and, scarcely waiting for the miscellaneous
horde to pass, she took Laura's arm, and said briefly and almost
sternly:

"Come."

Mr. Arnot's equanimity was again destined to be disturbed. Until he had
commenced to carry out his scheme of striking fear into the hearts of
his employes, he had derived much grim satisfaction from its
contemplation. But never had a severe and unrelenting policy failed more
signally, and a partial consciousness of the fact annoyed him like a
constant stinging of nettles which he could not brush aside. When,
therefore, his wife entered, he greeted her with his heaviest frown, and
a certain twitching of his hands as he fumbled among his papers, which
showed that the man who at times seemed composed of equal parts of iron
and lead had at last reached a condition of nervous irritability which
might result in an explosion of wrath; and yet he made a desperate
effort at self-control, for he saw that his wife was in one of those
moods which he had learned to regard with a wholesome respect.

"You have sent Haldane to prison," she said calmly. Though her tone was
so quiet, there was in it a certain depth and tremble which her husband
well understood, but he only answered briefly:

"Yes; he must go there if he finds no bail."

"May I ask why?"

"He robbed me of a thousand dollars."

"Were there no extenuating circumstances?" Mrs. Arnot asked, after a
slight start.

"No, but many aggravating ones."

"Did he not come here of his own accord?"

"He could not have done otherwise. I had detectives watching him."

"He could have tried to do otherwise. Did he not offer some
explanation?"

"What he said amounted to a confession of the crime."

"What did he say?"

"I have not charged my mind with all the rash, foolish words of the
young scapegrace. It is sufficient for me that he and all in my employ
received a lesson which they will not soon forget. I wish you would
excuse me from further consideration of the subject at present. It has
cost me too much time already."

"You are correct," said Mrs. Arnot very quietly. "It is likely to prove
a very costly affair. I tremble to think what your lesson may cost this
young man, whom you have rendered reckless and desperate by this public
disgrace; I tremble to think what this event may cost my friend, his
mother. Of the pain it has cost me I will not speak--"

"Madam," interrupted Mr. Arnot harshly, "permit me to say that this is
an affair concerning which a sentimental woman can have no correct
understanding. I propose to carry on my business in the way which
experience has taught me is wise, and, with all respect to yourself, I
would suggest that in these matters of business I am in my own
province."

The ashen hue deepened upon Mrs. Arnot's face, but she answered quietly:

"I do not wish to overstep the bounds which should justly limit my
action and my interest in this matter. You will also do me the justice
to remember that I have never interfered in your business, and have
rarely asked you about it, though in the world's estimation I would have
some right to do so. But if such harshness, if such disastrous cruelty,
is necessary to your business, I must withdraw my means from it, for I
could not receive money stained, as it were, with blood. But of this
hereafter. I will now telegraph Mrs. Haldane to come directly to our
house--"

"To our house!" cried Mr. Arnot, perfectly aghast.

"Certainly. Can you suppose that, burdened with this intolerable
disgrace, she could endure the publicity of a hotel? I shall next visit
Haldane, for as I saw him in the street, with the rabble following, he
looked desperate enough to destroy himself."

"Now, I protest against all this weak sentimentality," said Mr. Arnot,
rising. "You take sides with a robber against your husband."

"I do not make light of Haldane's offence to you, and certainly shall
not to him. But it is his first offence, as far as we know, and, though
you have not seen fit to inform me of the circumstances, I cannot
believe that he committed a cool, deliberate theft. He could have been
made to feel his guilt without being crushed. The very gravity of his
wrong action might have awakened him to his danger, and have been the
turning-point of his life. He should have had at least one chance--God
gives us many."

"Well, well," said Mr. Arnot impatiently, "let his mother return the
money, and I will not prosecute. But why need Mrs. Haldane come to
Hillaton? All can be arranged by her lawyer."

"You know little of a mother's feelings if you can suppose she will not
come instantly."

"Well, then, when the money is paid she can take him home, that is,
after the forms of law are complied with."

"But he must remain in prison till the money is paid?"

"Certainly."

"You intimated that if any one went bail for him he need not go to
prison. I will become his security."

"O nonsense! I might as well give bail myself."

"Has he reached the prison yet?"

"I suppose he has," replied Mr. Arnot, taking care to give no hint of
the preliminary examination, for it would have annoyed him excessively
to have his wife appear at a police court almost in the light of an
antagonist to himself. And yet his stubborn pride would not permit him
to yield, and carry out with considerate delicacy the merciful policy
upon which he saw she was bent.

"Good-morning," said his wife very quietly, and she at once left her
husband's private room. Laura rose from her chair in the outer office
and welcomed her gladly, for, in her nervous trepidation, the minutes
had seemed like hours. Mrs. Arnot went to a telegraph office, and sent
the following despatch to Mrs. Haldane:

"Come to my house at once. Your son is well, but has met with
misfortune."

She then, with Laura, returned immediately home and ordered her carriage
for a visit to the prison. She also remembered with provident care that
the young man could not have tasted food that morning.




CHAPTER XIII

OUR KNIGHT IN JAIL


As Haldane emerged from the office into the open glare of the street, he
was oppressed with such an intolerable sense of shame that he became
sick and faint, and tottered against the policeman, who took no other
notice of his condition than the utterance of a jocular remark:

"You haven't got over your drunk yet, I'm athinking."

Haldane made no reply, and the physical weakness gradually passed away.
As his stunned and bewildered mind regained the power to act, he became
conscious of a morbid curiosity to see how he was regarded by those whom
he met. He knew that their manner would pierce like sword-thrusts, and
yet every scornful or averted face had a cruel fascination.

With a bitterness of which his young heart had never before had even a
faint conception, he remembered that this cold and contemptuous, this
scoffing and jeering world was the same in which only yesterday he
proposed to tower in such lofty grandeur that the maiden who had
slighted him should be consumed with vain regret in memory of her lost
opportunity. He had, indeed, gained eminence speedily. All the town was
hearing of him; but the pedestal which lifted him so high was composed
equally of crime and folly, and he felt as if he might stand as a
monument of shame.

But his grim and legal guardians tramped along in the most stolid and
indifferent manner. The gathering rabble at their heels had no terror
for them. Indeed, they rather enjoyed parading before respectable
citizens this dangerous substratum of society. It was a delicate way of
saying, "Behold in these your peril, and in us your defence. We are
necessary to your peace and security. Respect us and pay us well."

They represented the majesty of the law, which could lay its strong hand
on high and low alike, and the publicity which was like a scorching fire
to Haldane brought honor to them.

Although the journey seemed interminable to the culprit, they were not
long in reaching the police court, where the magistrate presiding had
already entered on his duties. All night long, and throughout the entire
city, the scavengers of the law had been at work, and now, as a result,
every miserable atom of humanity that had made itself a pestilential
offence to society was gathered here to be disposed of according to
sanatory moral rules.

Hillaton was a comparatively well-behaved and decorous city; but in
every large community there is always a certain amount of human
sediment, and Haldane felt that he had fallen low indeed, when he found
himself classed and huddled with miserable objects whose existence he
had never before realized. Near him stood men who apparently had barely
enough humanity left to make their dominating animal natures more
dangerous and difficult to control. To the instincts of a beast was
added something of a man's intelligence, but so developed that it was
often little more than cunning. If, when throwing away his manhood, man
becomes a creature more to be dreaded than a beast or venomous reptile,
whichever he happens most to resemble, woman, parting with her
womanhood, scarcely finds her counterpart even in the most noxious forms
of earthly existence. She becomes, in her perversion, something that is
unnatural and monstrous; something, so opposite to the Creator's design,
as to suggest it only in caricature, or, more often, in fiendish
mockery. The Gorgons, Sirens, and Harpies of the ancients are scarcely
myths, for their fabled forms only too accurately portray, not the
superficial and transient outward appearance, but the enduring character
within.

Side by side with Haldane stood a creature whose dishevelled, rusty
hair, blotched and bloated features, wanton, cunning, restless eyes,
combined perfectly to form the head of the mythological Harpy. It
required little effort of the imagination to believe that her foul,
bedraggled dress concealed the "wings and talons of the vulture." Being
still unsteady from her night's debauch, she leaned against the young
man, and when he shrank in loathing away, she, to annoy him, clasped him
in her arms, to the uproarious merriment of the miscellaneous crowd that
is ever present at a police court. Haldane broke away from her grasp
with such force as to make quite a commotion, and at the same time said
loudly and fiercely to the officer who had arrested him:

"You may have power to take me to jail, but you have not, and shall not
have, the right nor the power to subject me to such indignities."

"Silence there! Keep order in the court!" commanded the judge.

The officer removed his prisoner a little further apart from the others,
growling as he did so:

"If you don't like your company, you should have kept out of it."

Even in his overwhelming anxiety and distress Haldane could not forbear
giving a few curious glances at his companions. He had dropped out of
his old world into a new one, and these were its inhabitants. In their
degradation and misery he seemed to see himself and his future
reflected. What had the policeman said?--"Your company," and with a
keener pang than he had yet experienced he realized that this was his
company, that he now belonged to the criminal classes. He who yesterday
had the right to speak to Laura Romeyn, was now herded with drunkards,
thieves, and prostitutes; he who yesterday could enter Mrs. Arnot's
parlor, might now as easily enter heaven. As the truth of his situation
gradually dawned upon him, he felt as if an icy hand were closing upon
his heart.

But little time, however, was given him for observation or bitter
revery. With the rapid and routine-like manner of one made both callous
and expert by long experience, the magistrate was sorting and disposing
of the miserable waifs. Now he has before him the inmates of a
"disorderly house," upon which a "raid" had been made the previous
night. What is that fair young girl with blue eyes doing among those
coarse-featured human dregs, her companions? She looks like a white lily
that has been dropped into a puddle. Perhaps that delicate and
attractive form is but a disguise for the Harpy's wings and claws.
Perhaps a gross, bestial spirit is masked by her oval Madonna-like face.
Perhaps she is the victim of one upon whom God will wreak his vengeance
forever, though society has for him scarcely a frown.

The puddle is suddenly drained off into some law-ordained receptacle,
and the white lily is swept away with it. She will not long suggest a
flower that has been dropped into the gutter. The stains upon her soul
will creep up into her face, and make her hideous like the rest.

The case of Egbert Haldane was next called. As the policeman had said,
his own admissions were now used against him, for the confidential
clerk, and, if there was need, the broken-nosed reporter, were on hand
to testify to all that had been said. The young man made no attempt to
conceal, but tried to explain more fully the circumstances which led to
the act, hoping that in them the justice would find such extenuating
elements as would prevent a committal to prison.

The judge recognized and openly acknowledged the fact that it was not a
case of deliberate wrongdoing, and he ordered the arrest of the superior
young gentleman who had introduced the New York gamblers to their
victim; and yet in the eye of the law it was a clear case of
embezzlement; and, as Mr. Arnot's friend, the magistrate felt little
disposition to prevent things from taking their usual course. The
prisoner must either furnish bail at once, or be committed until he
could do so, or until the case could be properly tried. As Haldane was a
comparative stranger in Hillaton there was no one to whom he felt he
could apply, and he supposed it would require some little time for his
mother to arrange the matter. Upon his signifying that he could not
furnish bail immediately, the judge promptly ordered his committal to
the common jail of the city, which happened to be at some distance from
the building then employed for the preliminary examinations.

It was while on his way to this place of detention that he heard Mrs.
Arnot's voice, and encountered her eyes and those of Laura Romeyn. His
first impulse was to end both his suffering and himself by some
desperate act, but he was powerless even to harm himself.

The limit of endurance, however had been reached. The very worst that he
could imagine had befallen him. Laura Romeyn had looked upon his
unutterable shame and disgrace. From a quivering and almost agonizing
sensibility to his situation he reac

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