I

IT was October; the year, 1913. Susan, Miss Goucher and I had just returned from Liverpool on the good ship “Lusitania” there was a good ship “Lusitania” in those days after a delightful summer spent in Italy and France. Susan and I entirely agree that the season for Italy is midsummer. Italy is not Italy until she has drunk deep of the sun; until a haze of whitest dust floats up from the slow hoofs of her white oxen along Umbrian or Tuscan roads. You will never get from her churches all they can give unless they have been to you as shadows of great rocks in a weary land. To step from reverberating glare to vast cool dimness ah, that is to know at last the meaning of sanctuary!

But to step from a North River pier into a cynical taxi, solely energized by our great American principle of “Take a chance!” to be bumped and slithered by that energizing principle across the main traffic streams of impatient New York that is to reawaken to all the doubt and distraction, the implacable multiplicity of a scientifically disordered world!

New Haven was better; Hillhouse Avenue preserving especially through valorous prodigies of rejection much of its ancient, slightly disdainful, studiously inconspicuous calm.

Phil Farmer was waiting for us at the doorstep. For all his inclusive greeting, his warm, welcoming smile, he looked older, did Phil, leaner somehow, more finely drawn. There was a something hungry about him something in his eyes. But if Susan, who notices most things, noted it, she did not speak of her impression to me. She almost hugged Phil as she jumped out to greet him and dragged him with her up the steps to the door.

And now, if this portion of Susan’s history is to be truthfully recorded, certain facts may as well be set down at once, clearly, in due order, without shame.

1. Phil Farmer was, by this time, hopelessly in love with Susan.

2. So was Maltby Phar.

3. So was I.

It should now be possible for a modest but intelligent reader to follow the approaching pages without undue fatigue.

II

Susan never kept a diary, she tells me, but she had, like most beginning authors, the habit of scribbling things down, which she never intended to keep, and then could seldom bring herself to destroy. To a writer all that his pen leaves behind it seems sacred; it is, I treacherously submit, a private grief to any of us to blot a line. Such is our vanity. However inept the work which we force ourselves or are prevailed upon to destroy, the unhappy doubt always lingers: “If I had only saved it? One can’t be sure? Perhaps posterity ?”

Susan, thank God, was not and probably is not exempt from this folly. It enables me from this time forward to present certain passages mere scraps and jottings from her notebooks, which she has not hesitated to turn over to me.

“I don’t approve, Ambo,” was her comment, “but if you will write nonsense about me, I can’t help it. What I can help, a little, is your writing nonsense about yourself or Phil or the rest. It’s only fair to let me get a word in edgeways, now and then if only for your sake and theirs.”

That is not, however, my own reason for giving you occasional peeps into these notebooks of Susan’s.

“I’m beginning to wish that Shelley might have had a sense of humor. ‘Epipsychidion’ is really too absurd. ’Sweet benediction in the eternal curse!’ Imagine, under any condition of sanity, calling any woman that! Or ’Thou star above the storm!’ beautiful as the image is. ’Thou storm upon the star!’ would make much worse poetry, but much better sense.... Isn’t it strange that I can’t feel this about Wordsworth? He was better off without humor, for all his solemn-donkey spots and it’s better for us that he didn’t have it. It’s probably better for us, too, that Shelley didn’t have it but it wasn’t better for him. Diddle-diddle-dumpling what stuff all this is! Go to bed, Susan.”

“There’s no use pretending things are different, Susan Blake; you might as well face them and see them through, open-eyed. What does being in love mean?

“I suppose if one is really in love, head over heels, one doesn’t care what it means. But I don’t like pouncing, overwhelming things things that crush and blast and scorch and blind. I don’t like cyclones and earthquakes and conflagrations at least, I’ve never experienced any, but I know I shouldn’t like them if I did. But I don’t think I’d be so terribly afraid of them though I might. I think I’d be more sort of indignant disgusted.”

Editor’s Note: Such English! But pungent stylist as Susan is now acknowledged to be, she is still, in the opinion of academic critics, not sufficiently attentive to formal niceties of diction. She remains too wayward, too impressionistic; in a word, too personal. I am inclined to agree, and yet am I?

“It’s all very well to stamp round declaiming that you’re captain of your soul, but if an earthquake even a tiny one comes and shakes your house like a dice box and then scatters you and the family out of it like dice it wouldn’t sound very appropriate for your epitaph. ’I am the master of my fate’ would always look silly on a tombstone. Why aren’t tombstones a good test for poetry some poetry? I’ve never seen anything on a tombstone that looked real not even the names and dates.

“But does love have to be like an earthquake? If it does, then it’s just a blind force, and I don’t like blind forces. It’s stupid to be blind oneself; but it’s worse to have blind stupid things butting into one and pushing one about.

“Hang it, I don’t believe love has to be stupid and blind, and go thrashing through things! Ambo isn’t thrashing through things or Phil either. But, of course, they wouldn’t. That’s exactly what I mean about love; it can be tamed, civilized. No, not civilized just tamed. Cowed? Then it’s still as wild as ever underneath? I’m afraid it is. Oh, dear!

“Phil and Ambo really are captains of their souls though, so far as things in general let them be. Things in general what a funny name for God! But isn’t God just a short solemn name for things in general? There I go again. Phil says I’m always taking God’s name in vain. He thinks I lack reverence. I don’t, really. What I lack is reticence. That’s different isn’t it, Ambo?”

The above extracts date back a little. The following were jotted early in November, 1913, not long after our return from overseas.

“This is growing serious, Susan Blake. Phil has asked you to marry him, and says he needs you. Ditto Maltby; only he says he wants you. Which, too obviously, he does. Poor Maltby imagine his trying to stoop so low as matrimony, even to conquer! As for Ambo Ambo says nothing, bless him but I think he wants and needs you most of all. Well, Susan?”

“Jimmy’s back. I saw him yesterday. He didn’t know me.”

“Sex is a miserable nuisance. It muddles things interferes with honest human values. It’s just Nature making fools of us for her own private ends. These are not pretty sentiments for a young girl, Susan Blake!”

“Speak up, Susan clear the air! You are living here under false pretenses. If you can’t manage to feel like Ambo’s daughter you oughtn’t to stay.”

III

It was perhaps when reticent Phil finally spoke to me of his love for Susan that I first fully realized my own predicament a most unpleasant discovery; one which I determined should never interfere with Susan’s peace of mind or with the possible chances of other, more eligible, men. As Susan’s guardian, I could not for a moment countenance her receiving more than friendly attention from a man already married, and no longer young. A grim, confused hour in my study convinced me that I was an impossible, even an absurd, parti. This conviction brought with it pain so sharp, so nearly unendurable, that I wondered in my weakness how it was to be unflinchingly borne. Yet borne it must be, and without betrayal. It did not occur to me, in my mature folly, that I was already, and had for long been, self-betrayed.

“Steady, you old fool!” whispered my familiar demon. “This isn’t going to be child’s play, you know. This is an hour-by-hour torture you’ve set out to grin and bear and live through. You’ll never make the grade, if you don’t take cognizance in advance. The road’s devilishly steep and icy, and the corners are bad. What’s more, there’s no end to it; the crest’s never in sight. Clamp your chains on and get into low.... Steady!

“But, of course,” whispered my familiar demon, “there’s probably an easier way round. Why attempt the impossible? Think what you’ve done for Susan! Gratitude, my dear sir affectionate gratitude is a long step in the right direction ... if it is the right direction. I don’t say it is; I merely suggest, en passant, that it may be. Suppose, for example, that Susan ”

“Damn you!” I spat out, jumping from my chair. “You contemptible swine!”

Congested blood whined in my ears like a faint jeering laughter. I paced the room, raging only to sink down again, exhausted, my face and hands clammy.

“What a hideous exhibition,” I said, distinctly addressing a grotesque porcelain Buddha on the mantelpiece. Contrary, I believe, to my expectations, he did not reply. My familiar demon forestalled him.

“If by taking a merely conventional attitude,” he murmured, “you defeat the natural flowering of two lives ? Who are you to decide that the voice of Nature is not also the voice of God? Supposing, for the moment, that God is other than a poetic expression. If her eyes didn’t haunt you,” continued my familiar demon, “or a certain way she has of turning her head, like a poised poppy....”

As he droned on within me, the mantelpiece blurred and thinned to the blue haze of a distant Tuscan hill, and the little porcelain Buddha sat upon this hill, very far off now and changed oddly to the semblance of a tiny huddled town. We were climbing along a white road toward that far hill, that tiny town.

“Ambo,” she was saying, “that isn’t East Rock it’s Monte Senario. And this isn’t Birch Street it’s the Faenzan Way. How do you do it, Ambo you wonderful magician! Just with a wave of your wand you change the world for me; you give me all this!”

A bee droned at my ear: “Gratitude, my dear sir. Affectionate gratitude. A long step.”

“Damn you!” I whimpered.... But the grotesque porcelain Buddha was there again, on the mantelshelf. The creases in his little fat belly disgusted me; they were loathsome. I rose. “At least,” I said to him, “I can live without you!” Then I seized him and shattered him against the fireplace tiles. It was an enormous relief.

Followed a knock at my door that I answered calmly: “Who is it? Come in.”

Miss Goucher never came to me without a mission; she had one now.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said, “I should like to talk to you very plainly. May I? It’s about Susan.” I nodded. “Mr. Hunt,” she continued resolutely, “Susan is in a very difficult position here. I don’t say that she isn’t entirely equal to meeting it; but I dread the nervous strain for her if you understand?”

“Not entirely, Miss Goucher; perhaps, not at all.”

“I was afraid of this,” she responded unhappily. “But I must go on for her sake.”

Knowing well that Miss Goucher would face death smiling for Susan’s sake, her repressed agitation alarmed me. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Is there anything really wrong?”

“A good deal.” She paused, her lips whitening as she knit them together, lest any ill-considered word should slip from her. Miss Goucher never loosed her arrows at random; she always tried for the bull’s-eye, and usually with success.

“I am speaking in strict confidence to Susan’s protector and legal guardian. Please try to fill in what I leave unsaid. It is very unfortunate for Susan’s peace of mind that you should happen to be a married man.”

“For her peace of mind!”

“Yes.”

“Wait! I daren’t trust myself to fill in what you leave unsaid. It’s too preposterous. Do you mean But you can’t mean that you imagine Susan to be in love with her grandfather?” My heart pounded, suffocating me; with fright, I think.

“No,” said Miss Goucher, coldly; “Susan is not in love with her grandfather. She is with you.”

I could manage no response but an angry one. “That’s a dangerous statement, Miss Goucher! Whether true or not it ruins everything. You have made our life here together impossible.”

“It is impossible,” said Miss Goucher. “It became so last summer. I knew then it could not go on much longer.”

“But I question this! I deny that Susan feels for me more than gratitude and affection.”

“Gratitude is rare,” said Miss Goucher enigmatically, her eyes fixed upon the fragments of Buddha littering my hearth. “True gratitude,” she added, “is a strong emotion. When it passes between a man and a woman, it is like flame.”

“Very interesting!” I snapped. “But hardly enough to have brought you here to me with this!”

“She feels that you need her,” said Miss Goucher.

“I do,” was my reply.

“Susan doesn’t need you,” said Miss Goucher. “I don’t wish to be brutal; but she doesn’t. In spite of this, she can easily stand alone.”

“I see. And you think that would be best?”

“Naturally. Don’t you?”

“I’m not so sure.”

As I muttered this my eyes, too, fixed themselves on the fragments of Buddha. Would the woman never go! I hated her; it seemed to me now that I had always hated her. What was she after all but a superior kind of servant presuming in this way! The irritation of these thoughts swung me suddenly round to wound her, if I might, with sarcasm, with implied contempt. But it is impossible to wound the air. With her customary economy of explanation Miss Goucher had, pitilessly, left me to myself.

IV

The evening of this already comfortless day I now recall as one of the most exasperating of my life. Maltby Phar arrived for dinner and the week-end an exasperation foreseen; Phil came in after dinner another; but what I did not foresee was that Lucette Arthur would bring her malicious self and her unspeakably tedious husband for a formal call. Lucette was an old friend of Gertrude, and I always suspected that her occasional evening visits were followed by a detailed report; in fact, I rather encouraged them, and returned them promptly, hoping that they were. In my harmless way of life even Lucette’s talent for snooping could find, I felt, little to feed upon, and it did not wholly displease me that Gertrude should be now and then forced to recognize this.

The coming of Susan had, not unnaturally, for a time, provided Lucette with a wealth of interesting conjecture; she had even gone so far as to intimate that Gertrude felt I was making the expression is entirely mine an ass of myself, which neither surprised nor disturbed me, since Gertrude had always had a tendency to feel that my talents lay in that direction. But, on the whole, up to this time barring the Sonia incident, which had afforded her a good deal of scope, but which, after all, could not be safely misinterpreted Lucette had found at my house pretty thin pickings for scandal; and I could only wonder at the unwearying patience with which she pursued her quest.

She arrived with poor Doctor Arthur in tow Dr. Lyman Arthur, who professed Primitive Eschatology in the School of Religion: eschatology being “that branch of theology which treats of the end of the world and man’s condition or state after death” just upon the heels of Phil, who shot me a despairing glance as we rose to greet them.

But Susan, I thought, welcomed them with undisguised relief. She had been surpassing herself before the fire, chatting blithely, wittily, even a little recklessly; but there are gayer evenings conceivable than one spent in the presence of three doleful men, two of whom have proposed marriage to you, and one of whom would have done so if he were not married already. Almost anything, even open espionage and covert eschatology, was better than that.

Lucette the name suggests Parisian vivacity, but she was really large and physically languid and very blonde, scented at once, I felt, a something faintly brimstoneish in the atmosphere of my model home, and forthwith prepared herself for a protracted and pleasant evening. It so happened that the Arthurs had never met Maltby, and Susan carried through the ceremony of introduction with a fine swinging rhythm which settled us as one group before the fire and for some moments at least kept the conversation animated and general.

But Eschatology, brooding in the background, soon put an end to this somewhat hectic social burst. The mere unnoted presence of Dr. Lyman Arthur, peering nearsightedly in at the doorway on a children’s party, has been known, I am told, to slay youngling joy and turn little tots self-conscious, so that they could no longer be induced by agonized mothers to go to Jerusalem, or clap-in clap-out. His presence now, gradually but surely, had much the same effect. Seated at Maltby’s elbow, he passed into the silence and drew us, struggling but helpless, after him. For five horrible seconds nothing was heard but the impolite, ironic whispering of little flames on the hearth. Was this man’s condition or state after death? Eschatology had conquered.

Susan, in duty bound as hostess, broke the spell, but it cannot be said she rose to the occasion. “Is it a party in a parlor,” she murmured wistfully to the flames, “all silent and all damned?”

Perceiving that Lucette supposed this to be original sin, I laughed much more loudly than cheerfully, exclaiming “Good old Wordsworth!” as I did so.

Then Maltby’s evil genius laid hold on him.

“By the way,” he snorted, “they tell me one of you academic ghouls has discovered that Wordsworth had an illegitimate daughter whatever that means! Any truth in it? I hope so. It’s the humanest thing I ever heard about the old sheep!”

Doctor Arthur cleared his throat, very cautiously; and it was evident that Maltby had not helped us much. Phil, in another vein, helped us little more.

“I wonder,” he asked, “if anyone reads Wordsworth now except Susan?”

No one, not even Susan, seemed interested in this question; and the little flames chuckled quietly once more.

Something had to be done.

“Doctor,” I began, turning toward Eschatology, and knowing no more than my Kazak hearthrug what I was going to say, “is it true that ”

“Undoubtedly,” intoned Eschatology, thereby saving me from the pit I was digging for myself. My incomplete question must have chimed with Doctor Arthur’s private reflections, and he seemed to suppose some controversial matter under discussion. “Undoubtedly,” he repeated.... “And what is even more important is this ”

But Lucette silenced him with a “Why is it, dear, that you always let your cigar burn down at one side? It does look so untidy.” And she leaned to me. “What delightfully daring discussions you must all of you have here together! You’re all so terribly intellectual, aren’t you? But do you never talk of anything but books and art and ideas? I’m sure you must,” she added, fixing me with impenetrable blue eyes.

“Often,” I smiled back; “even the weather has charms for us. Even food.”

Her inquisitive upper lip curled and dismissed me.

“Why is it,” she demanded, turning suddenly on Susan, “that I don’t see you round more with the college boys? They’re much more suitable to your age, you know, than Ambrose or Phil. I hope you don’t frighten them off, my dear, by mentioning Wordsworth? Boys dislike bluestockings; and you’re much too charming to wear them anyway. Oh, but you really are! I must take charge of you get you out more where you belong, away from these dreadful old fogies!” Lucette laughed her languid, purring, dangerous laughter. “I’m serious, Miss Blake. You musn’t let them monopolize you; they will if you’re not careful. They’re just selfish enough to want to keep you to themselves.”

The tone was badinage; but the remark struck home and left us speechless. Lucette shifted the tiller slightly and filled her sails. “Next thing you know, Miss Blake, they’ll be asking you to marry them. Individually, of course not collectively. And, of course not Ambrose! At least you’re safe there,” she hastily added; “aren’t you?”

Maltby, I saw, was furious; bent on brutalities. Before I could check him, “Why?” he growled. “Why, Mrs. Arthur, do you assume that Susan is safe with Boz?”

“Well,” she responded with a slow shrug of her shoulders, “naturally ”

“Unnaturally!” snapped Maltby. “Unless forbidden fruit has ceased to appeal to your sex. I was not aware that it had.”

Phil’s eyes were signalling honest distress. Susan unexpectedly rose from her chair. Deep spots of color burned on her cheeks, but she spoke with dignity. “I have never disliked any conversation so much, Mrs. Arthur. Good night.” She walked from the room. Phil jumped up without a word and hurried after her. Then we all rose.

It seemed, however, that apologies were useless. Doctor Arthur had no need for them, since he had not perceived a slight, and was only too happy to find himself released from bondage; as for Lucette, her assumed frigidity could not conceal her flaming triumph. As a social being, for the sake of the mores, she must resent Susan’s snub; but I saw that she would not have had things happen otherwise for a string of matched pearls. At last, at last her patience had been rewarded! I could almost have written for her the report to Gertrude with nothing explicitly stated, and nothing overlooked.

Maltby, after their departure, continued truculent, and having no one else to rough-house decided to rough-house me. The lengthening absence of Susan and Phil had much to do with his irritation, and something no doubt with mine. For men of mature years we presently developed a very pretty little gutter-snipe quarrel.

“Damn it, Boz,” he summed his grievances, “it comes precisely to this: You’re playing dog in the manger here. By your attitude, by every kind of sneaking suggestion, you poison Susan’s mind against me. Hang it, I’m not vain but at least I’m presentable, and I’ve been called amusing. Other women have found me so. And to speak quite frankly, it isn’t every man in my position who would offer marriage to a girl whose father ”

“I’d stop there, Maltby, if I were you!”

“My dear man, you and I are above such prejudices, of course! But it’s only common sense to acknowledge that they exist. Susan’s the most infernally seductive accident that ever happened on this middle-class planet! But all the same, there’s a family history back of her that not one man in fifty would be able to forget. My point is, that with all her seduction, physical and mental, she’s not in the ordinary sense marriageable. And it’s the ordinary sense of such things that runs the world.”

“Well ”

“Well there you are! I offer her far more than she could reasonably hope for; or you for her. I’m well fixed, I know everybody worth knowing; I can give her a good time, and I can help her to a career. It strikes me that if you had Susan’s good at heart, you’d occasionally suggest these thing’s to her even urge them upon her. As her guardian you must have some slight feeling of responsibility?”

“None whatever.”

“What!”

“None whatever so far as Susan’s deeper personal life is concerned. That is her affair, not mine.”

“Then you’d be satisfied to have her throw herself away?”

“If she insisted, yes. But Susan’s not likely to throw herself away.”

“Oh, isn’t she! Let me tell you this, Boz, once for all: You’re in love with the girl yourself, and though you may not know it, you’ve no intention of letting anyone else have a chance.”

“Well,” I flashed, “if you were in my shoes would you?”

The vulgarity of our give and take did not escape me, but in my then state of rage I seemed powerless to escape vulgarity. I revelled in vulgarity. It refreshed me. I could have throttled Maltby, and I am quite certain he was itching to throttle me. We were both longing to throttle Phil. Indeed, we almost leaped at him as he stopped in the hall doorway to toss us an unnaturally gruff good night.

“Where’s Susan?” I demanded.

“In your study,” Phil mumbled, hunching into his overcoat; “she’s waiting to see you.” Then he seized his shapeless soft hat and the good old phrase best describes it made off.

“She’s got to see me first!” Maltby hurled at me, coarsely, savagely, as he started past.

I grabbed his arm and held him. It thrilled me to realize how soft he was for all his bulk, to feel that physically I was the stronger.

“Wait!” I said. “This sort of thing has gone far enough. We’ll stop grovelling if you don’t mind! If we can’t give Susan something better than this, we’ve been cheating her. It’s a pity she ever left Birch Street.”

Maltby stared at me with slowly stirring comprehension.

“Yes,” he at length muttered, grudgingly enough; “perhaps you’re right. It’s been an absurd spectacle all round. But then, life is.”

“Wait for me here,” I responded. “We’ll stop butting at each other like stags, and try to talk things over like men. I’m just going to send Susan to bed.”

That was my intention. I went to her in the study as a big brother might go, meaning good counsel. It was certainly not my intention to let her run into my arms and press her face to my shoulder. She clung to me with passion, but without joy, and her voice came through the tumult of my senses as if from a long way off.

“Ambo, Ambo! You’ve asked nothing and you want me most of all. I must make somebody happy!”

It was the voice of a child.

V

I could not face Maltby again that evening, as I had promised, for our good sensible man-to-man talk; a lapse in courage which reduced him to rabid speculation and restless fury. So furious was he, indeed, after a long hour alone, that he telephoned for a taxi, grabbed his suitcase, and caught a slow midnight local for New York from which electric center he hissed back over the wires three ominous words to ruin my solitary breakfast:

“He laughs best M. PHAR.”

While my egg solidified and the toast grew rigid I meditated a humble apologetic reply, but in the end I could not with honesty compose one; though I granted him just cause for anger. With that, for the time being, I dismissed him. There were more immediate problems, threatening, inescapable, that must presently be solved.

Susan, always an early riser, usually had a bite of breakfast at seven o’clock brought to her by the faithful Miss Goucher and then remained in her room to work until lunch time. For about a year past I had so far caught the contagion of her example as to write in my study three hours every morning; a regularity I should formerly have despised. Dilettantism always demands a fine frenzy, but now it astounded me to discover how much respectable writing one could do without waiting for the spark from heaven; one could pass beyond the range of an occasional article and even aspire to a book. Only the final pages of my first real book Aristocracy and Art, an essay in aesthetic and social criticism remained to be written; and Susan had made me swear by the Quanglewangle’s Hat, her favorite symbol, to push on with it each morning till the job was done.

Well, Aristocracy and Art has since been published and, I am glad to say, forgotten. Conceived in superciliousness and swaddled in preciosity, it is one of the sins I now strive hardest to expiate. But in those days it expressed clearly enough the crusted aridity of my soul. However

I had hoped, of course, that Susan would break over this morning and breakfast with me. She did not; and from sheer habit I took to my study and found myself in the chair before my desk. It was my purpose to think things out, and perhaps that is what I supposed myself to be doing as I stared dully at an ink blob on my blotter. It looked and I was idiotically pleased by the resemblance rather like a shark. All it needed was some teeth and a pair of flukes for its tail. Methodically I opened my fountain pen and supplied these, thereby reducing one fragment of chaos to order; and then my eye fell upon a half-scribbled sheet, marked “Page 224.”

The final sentence on the sheet caught at me and annoyed me; it was ill-constructed. Presently it began to rearrange itself in whatever portion of us it is that these shapings and reshapings take place. Something in its rhythm, too, displeased me; it was mannered; it minuetted; it echoed Pater at his worst. It should be simpler, stronger. Why, naturally! I lopped at it, compressed it, pulled it about....

There! At last the naked idea got the clean expression it deserved; and it led now directly to a brief, clear paragraph of transition. I had been worrying over that transition the morning before when my pen stopped; now it came with a smooth rush, carrying me forward and on.

Incredible, but for one swiftly annihilated hour I forgot all my insoluble life problems! Art, that ancient Circe, had waved her wand; I was happy and it was enough. I forgot even Susan.

Meanwhile, Susan, busy at her notebook, had all but forgotten me.

“Am I in love with Ambo, or am I just trying to be for his sake? If happiness is a test, then I can’t be in love with him, for there is no happiness in me. But what has happiness to do with love? It’s just as I told nice old Phil last night. To be in love is to be silly enough to suppose that some other silly can gather manna for you from the meadows of heaven. Meanwhile, the other silly is supposing much the same nonsense about you or if he isn’t, then the sun goes black. What lovers seem to value most in each other is premature softening of the brain. But surely the union of two vain hopes in a single disappointment can never mean joy? No. You might as well get it said, Susan. Love is two broken reeds trying to be a Doric column.

“Still, there must be some test. Is it passion? How can it be?

“When I ran to Ambo last night I was pure rhythm and flame; but this morning I’m the hour before sunrise. No; I’m the outpost star, the one the comets turn the one that peers off into nowhere.

“Perhaps if Ambo came to me now I should flame again; or perhaps I should only make believe for his sake. Is wanting to make believe for another’s sake enough? Why not? I’ve no patience with lovers who are always rhythm and flame. Even if they exist outside of maisons de santé what good are they? Poets can rave about them, I suppose that’s something; but imagine coming to the end of life and finding that one had merely furnished good copy for Swinburne! No, thank you, Mrs. Hephaestus you beautiful, shameless humbug! I prefer Apollo’s lonely magic to yours. I’d rather be Swinburne than Iseult. If there’s any singing left to be done I shall try to do part of it myself.

“There, you see; already you’ve forgotten Ambo completely now you’ll have to turn back and hunt for him. And if he’s really working on Aristocracy and Art this morning, as he should be, then he has almost certainly forgotten you. Oh, dear! but he isn’t and he hasn’t! Here he comes ”

Yes, I came; but not to ask for assurances of love. Man is so naively egotist, it takes a good deal to convince him, once the idea has been accepted, that he is not the object of an unalterable devotion. Frankly, I took it for granted now that Susan loved me, and would continue to love me till her dying hour.

What I really came to say to her, under the calming and strengthening influence of two or three rather well-written pages, was that our situation had definitely become untenable. I am an emancipated talker, but I am not an emancipated man; the distinction is important; the hold of mere custom upon me is strong. I could not see myself asking Susan to defy the world with me; or if I could just see it for my own sake, I certainly couldn’t for hers. Nor could I see it for Gertrude’s. Gertrude, after all, was my wife; and though she chose to feel I had driven her from my society, I knew that she did not feel willing to seek divorce for herself or to grant the freedom of it to me. On this point her convictions, having a religious sanction, were permanent. Gentle manners, then, if nothing higher, forbade me to seize the freedom she denied me. Having persuaded Gertrude, in good faith, to enter into an unconditional contract with me for life, I could no more bring myself to break it than I could have forced myself to steal another’s money by raising a check.

My New England ancestors had distilled into my blood certain prejudices; only, where my great-grandfather, or even my grandfather, would have said that he refrained from evil because he feared God, I was content merely to feel that there are some things a gentleman doesn’t stoop to. With them it was the stern daughter of the voice of God who ruled thoughts and acts; with me it was, if anything, the class obligations of culture, breeding, good form. Just as I wore correct wedding garments at a wedding, and would far rather have cut my throat with a knife than carry food on it from plate to mouth, so, in the face of any of life’s moral or emotional crises, I clung to what instinct and cultivation told me were the correct sentiments.

Gertrude, it is true, was not precisely fulfilling her part in our contract, but then Gertrude was a woman; and the excusable frailties of women should always be regarded as trumpet calls to the chivalry of man. Absurdly primitive, such ideas as these! Seated with Maltby Phar in my study, I had laughed them out of court many a time; for I could talk pure Bernard Shaw our prophet of those days with anybody, and even go him one better. But when it came to the pinch of decisive action I had always thrown back to my sources and left the responsibility on them. I did so now.

Yet it was hard to speak of anything but enchantment, witchery, fascination, when, from her desk, Susan looked round to me, faintly puzzled, faintly smiling. She was not a pretty girl, as young America its taste superbly catered to by popular magazines understands that phrase; nor was she beautiful by any severe classic standard unless you are willing to accept certain early Italians as having established classic standards; not such faultless painters as Raphael or Andrea del Sarto, but three or four of the wayward lesser men whose strangely personal vision created new and unexpected types of loveliness. Not that I recall a single head by any one of them that prefigured Susan; not that I am helping you, baffled reader, to see her. Words are a dull medium for portraiture, or I am too dull a dog to catch with them even a phantasmal likeness. It is the mixture of dark and bright in Susan that eludes me; she is all soft shadow and sharpest gleams. But that is nonsense. I give it up.

It was really, then, a triumph for my ancestors that I did not throw myself on my knees beside her chair the true romantic attitude, when all’s said and draw her dark-bright face down to mine. I halted instead just within the doorway, retaining a deathlike grip on the door-knob.

“Dear,” I blurted, “it won’t do. It’s the end of the road. We can’t go on.”

“Can we turn back?” asked Susan.

I wonder the solid bronze knob did not shatter like hollow glass in my hand.

“You must help me,” I muttered.

“Yes,” said Susan, all quiet shadow now, gleamless; “I’ll help you.”

Half an hour after I left her she telephoned and dispatched the following telegram, signed “Susan Blake,” to Gertrude at her New York address:

“Either come back to him or set him free. Urgent.”

VI

The reply a note from Gertrude, the ink hardly dry on it, written from the Egyptian tomb of the Misses Carstairs came directly to me that evening; and Mrs. Parrot was the messenger. Her expression, as she mutely handed me the note, was ineffable. I read the note with sensations of suffocation; an answer was requested.

“Tell Mrs. Hunt,” I said firmly to Mrs. Parrot, “that it was she who left me, and I am stubbornly determined to make no advances. If she cares to see me I shall be glad to see her. She has only to walk a few yards, climb a few easy steps, and ring the bell.”

My courtesy was truly elaborate as I conducted Mrs. Parrot to the door. Her response was disturbing.

“It’s not for me to make observations,” said Mrs. Parrot, “the situation being delicate, and not likely to improve. But if I was you, Mr. Hunt, I’d not be too stiff. No; I’d not be. I would not. No. Not if I valued the young lady’s reputation.”

Like the Pope’s mule, Mrs. Parrot had saved her kick many years. I can testify to its power.

Thirty minutes later this superkick landed me, when I came crashing back to earth, at the door of the Egyptian tomb.

“How hard it is,” says Dante, “to climb another’s stairs,” and he might have added to ring another’s bell, under certain conditions of spiritual humiliation and stress. Thank the gods all of them it was not Mrs. Parrot who admitted me and took my card!

I waited miserably in the large, ill-lighted reception vault of the tomb, which smelt appropriately of lilies, as if the undertaker had recently done his worst. How well I remembered it, how long I had avoided it! It was here of all places, under the contemptuous eye of old Ephraim Carstairs, grim ancestral founder of this family’s fortunes, that Gertrude had at last consented to be my wife. And there he still lorded it above the fireplace, unchanged, glaring down malignantly through the shadows, his stiff neck bandaged like a mummy’s, his hard, high cheek bones and cavernous eyes making him the very image of bugaboo death. What an eavesdropper for the approaching reconciliation; for that was what it had come to. That was what it would have to be!

It was not Gertrude who came down to me; it was Lucette. Lucette all graciousness, all sympathetic understanding, all feline smiles! Dear Gertrude had ’phoned her on arriving, and she had rushed to her at once! Dear Gertrude had such a desperate headache! She couldn’t possibly see me to-night. She was really ill, had been growing rapidly worse for an hour. Perhaps to-morrow?

I was in no mood to be tricked by this stale subterfuge.

“See here, Lucette,” I said sternly, “I’m not going to fence with you or fool round at cross purposes. Less than an hour ago Gertrude sent over a note, asking me to call.”

“To which you returned an insufferable verbal reply.”

“A bad-tempered reply, I admit. No insult was intended. And I’ve come now to apologize for the temper.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Lucette. “Men always do their thinking too late. I wish I could reassure you; but the mischief seems to be done. Poor Gertrude is furious.”

“Then the headache is hypothetical?”

“An excuse, you mean? I wish it were, for her sake!” Lucette’s eyes positively caressed me, as a tiger might lick the still-warm muzzle of an antelope, its proximate meal. “If you could see her face, poor creature! She’s in torment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t that what you called her headache?”

“No. I’m ashamed of my boorishness. Let me see Gertrude and tell her so.”

Lucette smiled, slightly shaking her head. “Impossible till she’s feeling better. And not then unless she changes her mind. You see, Ambrose, Mrs. Parrot’s version of your reply was the last straw.”

“No doubt she improved on the original,” I muttered.

“Oh, no doubt,” agreed Lucette calmly. “She would. It was silly of you not to think of that.”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Men always underestimate a woman’s malice.”

“They have so many distractions, poor dears. Men, I mean. And we have so few. You can put that in your next article, Ambrose?” She straightened her languid curves deliberately, as if preparing to rise.

“Please!” I exclaimed. “I’m not ready for dismissal yet. We’ll get down to facts, if you don’t mind. Why is Gertrude here at all? After years of silence? Did you send for her?”

Lucette’s spine slowly relaxed, her shoulders drooped once more. “I? My dear Ambrose, why on earth should I do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. The point is, did you?”

“You think it in character?”

“Oh be candid! I don’t mean directly, of course. But is she here because of anything you may have telephoned her after your call last night?”

“Really, Ambrose! This is a little too much, even from you.”

“Forgive me I insist! Is she?”

“You must have a very bad conscience,” replied Lucette.

“I am more interested in yours.”

She laughed luxuriously, “Mine has never been clearer.”

Did the woman want me to stop her breath with bare hands? I gripped the mahogany arms of my stiff Chippendale chair.

“Listen to me, Lucette! I know this is all very thrilling and amusing for you. Vivisection must have its charms, of course for an expert. But I venture to remind you that once upon a time you were not a bad-hearted girl, and you must have some remnants of human sympathy about you somewhere. Am I wrong?”

“You’re hideously rude.”

“Granted. But I must place you. I won’t accept you as an onlooker. Either you’ll fight me or help me or clear out. Is that plain?”

“You’re worse than rude,” said Lucette; “you’re a beast! I always wondered why Gertrude couldn’t live with you. Now I know.”

“That’s better,” I hazarded. “We’re beginning to understand each other. Now let’s lay all our cards face up on the table?”

Lucette stared at me a moment, her lips pursed, dubious, her impenetrable blue eyes holding mine.

“I will, if you will,” she said finally. “Let’s.”

It was dangerous, I knew, to take her at her word; yet I ventured.

“I’ve a weak hand, Lucette; but there’s one honest ace of trumps in it.”

“There could hardly be two,” smiled Lucette.

“No; I count on that. In a pinch, I shall take the one trick essential, and throw the others away.” I leaned to her and spoke slowly: “There is no reason, affecting her honor or rights, why Gertrude may not return to her home if she so desires. I think you understand me?”

“Perfectly. You wish to protect Miss Blake. You would try to do that in any case, wouldn’t you? But I’m rather afraid you’re too late. I’m afraid Miss Blake has handicapped you too heavily. If so, it was clever of her for she must have done it on purpose. You see, Ambrose, it was she who sent for Gertrude.”

“Susan!”

“Susan. Telegraphed her of all things! either to come home to you or set you free. The implication’s transparent. Especially as I had thought it my duty to warn Gertrude in advance and as Mr. Phar sent her, by messenger, a vague but very disturbing note this morning.”

“Maltby?”

“Yes. His note was delivered not five minutes ahead of Susan’s wire. Gertrude caught the next train. And there you are.”

Well, at least I began to see now, dimly, where Maltby was, where Susan was, where we all were except, possibly Gertrude. Putting enormous constraint on my leaping nerves, I subdued every trace of anger.

“Two more questions, Lucette. Do you believe me when I say, with all the sincerity I’m capable of, that Susan is slandered by these suspicions?”

“Really,” answered Lucette, with a little worried frown, as if anxiously balancing alternatives, “I’m not, am I, in a position to judge?”

I swallowed hard. “All right,” I managed to say coldly. “Then I have placed you. You’re not an onlooker you’re an open foe.”

“And the second question, Ambrose?”

“What, precisely, does Gertrude want from me?”

“I’m not, am I, in a position to judge?” repeated Lucette. “But one supposes it depends a little on what you’re expecting from her?”

“All I humbly plead for,” said I, “is a chance to see Gertrude alone and talk things over.”

“Don’t you mean talk her over?” suggested Lucette. “And aren’t you,” she murmured, “forgetting the last straw?”

VII

My confusion of mind, my consternation, as I left the Egyptian tomb, was pitiable. One thing, one only, I saw with distinctness: The being I loved best was to be harried and smirched, an innocent victim of the folly and malignity of others.

“Never,” I muttered, “Never never never!”

This was all very grim and virile; yet I knew that I could grit my teeth and mutter Never! from now till the moon blossomed, without in any way affecting the wretched situation. Words, emotional contortions, attitudes would not help Susan; something sensible must be done the sooner the better. Something sensible and decisive but what? There were so many factors involved, human, incalculable factors; my thought staggered among them, fumbling like a drunken man for the one right door that must be found and opened with the one right key. It was no use; I should never be able to manage it alone. To whom could I appeal? Susan, for the time being, was out of the question; Maltby had maliciously betrayed a long friendship. Phil? Why of course, there was always Phil? Why hadn’t I thought of him before?

I turned sharply and swung into a rapid stride. With some difficulty I kept myself from running. Phil seemed to me suddenly an intellectual giant, a man of infinite heart and unclouded will. Why had I never appreciated him at his true worth? My whirling perplexities would have no terrors for him; he would at once see through them to the very thing that should at once be undertaken. Singular effect of an overwhelming desire and need! Faith is always born of desperation. We are forced by deep-lying instincts to trust something, someone, when we can no longer trust ourselves. As I hurried down York Street to his door, my sudden faith in Phil was like the faith of a broken-spirited convert in the wisdom and mercy of God.

Phil’s quarters were on the top floor of a rooming-house for students; he had the whole top floor to himself and had lived there simply and contentedly many years, with his books, his pipes, his papers, and his small open wood fire. Phil is not destitute of taste, but he is by no means an aesthete. His furniture is of the ordinary college-room type Morris chair of fumed oak, and so on picked up as he needed it at the nearest department store; but he has two or three really good framed etchings on the walls of his study; one Seymour Haden in particular the Erith Marshes which I have often tried to persuade him to part with. There is a blending of austerity and subtlety in the work of the great painter-etchers that could not but appeal to this austere yet finely organized man.

His books are wonderful not for edition or binding he is not a bibliophile; they are wonderful because he keeps nothing he has not found it worth while to annotate. There is no volume on his shelves whose inside covers and margins are not filled with criticism or suggestive comment in his neat spiderwebby hand; and Phil’s marginal notes are usually far better reading than the original text. Susan warmly maintains that she owes more to the inside covers of Phil’s books than to any other source; insists, in fact, that a brief note in his copy of Santayana’s Reason in Common Sense, at the end of the first chapter, established her belief once for all in mind as a true thing, an indestructible and creative reality, destined after infinite struggle to win its grim fight with chaos. I confess I could never myself see in this note anything to produce so amazing an affirmation; but in these matters I am a worm; I have not the philosophic flair. Here it is:

“‘We know that life is a dream, and how should thinking be more?’ Because, my dear Mr. Santayana, a dream cannot propagate dreams and realize them to be such. The answer is sufficient.”

Well, certainly Susan, too, seemed to feel it sufficient; and perhaps I should agree if I better understood the answer.... But I have now breasted four flights to Phil and am knocking impatiently.... He opened to me and welcomed me cordially, all trace of his parting gruffness of the other evening having vanished, though he was still haggard about the eyes. He was not alone. Through the smoke haze of his study I saw a well-built youngster standing near the fireplace, pipe in hand; some college boy, of course, whom Phil was being kind to. Phil was forever permitting these raw boys to cut in upon his precious hours of privacy; yet he was at the opposite pole from certain faculty members, common to all seats of learning, who toady to the student body for a popularity which they feel to be a good business asset, or which they find the one attainable satisfaction for their tottering self-esteem.

Phil, who had had to struggle for his own education, was genuinely fond of young men who cared enough for education to be willing to struggle for theirs. He had become unobtrusively, by a kind of natural affinity, the elder brother of those undergraduates who were seekers in any sense for the things of the mind. For the rest, the triumphant majority fine, manly young fellows as they usually were, in official oratory at least he was as blankly indifferent as they were to him.

“My enthusiasm for humanity is limited, fatally limited,” he would pleasantly admit. “For the human turnip, even when it’s a prize specimen, I have no spontaneous affection whatever.”

On the other hand it was not the brilliant, exceptional boy whom he best loved. It was rather the boy whose interest in life, whose curiosity, was just stirring toward wakefulness after a long prenatal and postnatal sleep. For such boys Phil poured forth treasures of sympathetic understanding; and it was such a youth, I presume, who stood by the fireplace now, awkwardly uncertain whether my coming meant that he should take his leave.

His presence annoyed me. On more than one occasion I had run into this sort of thing at Phil’s rooms, had suffered from the curious inability of the undergraduate, even when he longs himself to escape, to end a visit take his hat, say good-by simply, and go. It doesn’t strike one offhand as a social accomplishment of enormous difficulty; yet it must be it so paralyzes the social resourcefulness of the young.

Phil introduced me to Mr. Kane, and Mr. Kane drooped his right shoulder the correct attitude for this form of assault grasped my hand, and shattered my nerves with the dislocating squeeze which young America has perfected as the high sign of all that is virile and sincere. I sank into a chair to recover, and to my consternation Mr. Kane, too, sat down.

“Jimmy’s just come to us,” said Phil, relighting his pipe. “He passed his entrance examinations in Detroit last spring, but he had to finish up a job he was on out there before coming East. So he has a good deal of work to make up, first and last. And it’s all the harder for him, because he’s dependent upon himself for support.”

“Oh,” said Jimmy, “what I’ve saved’ll last me through this year, I guess.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed; “but it’s a pity to touch what you’ve saved.” He turned to me. “You see, Hunt, we’re talking over all the prospects. Aren’t we, Jimmy?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jimmy. “Prof. Farmer thinks,” he added, “that I may be making a mistake to try it here; he thinks it may be a waste of time. I’m kind of up in the air about it, myself.”

“Jimmy’s rather a special case,” struck in Phil, dropping into a Morris chair and thrusting his legs out. “He’s twenty-two now; and he’s already made remarkably good as an expert mechanic. He left his home here over six years ago, worked his way to Detroit, applied for a job and got it. Now there’s probably no one in New Haven who knows more than this young man about gas engines, steel alloys, shop organization, and all that. The little job that detained him was the working out of some minor but important economy in the manufacture of automobiles. He suggested it by letter to the president of the company himself, readily obtained several interviews with his chief, and was given a chance to try it out.

“It has proved its practical worth already, though you and I are far too ignorant to understand it. As a result, the president of the company offered him a much higher position at an excellent salary. It’s open to him still, if he chooses to go back for it. But Jimmy has decided to turn it down for a college education. And I’m wondering, Hunt, whether Yale has anything to give him that will justify such a sacrifice anything that he couldn’t obtain for himself, at much less expense, without three years waste of time and opportunity. How does it strike you, old man? What would you say, offhand, without weighing the matter?”

What I wanted to say was, “Damn it all! I’m not here at this time of night to interest myself in the elementary problems of Jimmy Kane!” In fact, I did say it to myself, with considerable energy only to stop at the name, to stare at the boy before me, and to exclaim in a swift flash of connection, “Great Scott! Are you Susan’s Jimmy?”

“’Susan’s Jimmy’!” snorted Phil, with a peculiar grin. “Of course he’s Susan’s Jimmy! I wondered how long it would take you!”

As for Susan’s Jimmy, his expression was one of desolated amazement. Either his host and his host’s friend, or he himself had gone suddenly mad! The drop of his jaw was parentheses about a question mark. His blue eyes piteously stared.

“I guess I’m not on, sir,” he mumbled to Phil, blushing hotly.

He was really a most attractive youth, considering his origins. I eyed him now shamelessly, and was forced to wonder that the wrong end of Birch Street should have produced not only Susan who would have proved the phoenix of any environment but this pleasant-faced, confidence-inspiring boy, whose expression so oddly mingled simplicity, energy, stubborn self-respect, and the cheerfulness of good health, an unspoiled will, and a hopeful heart. He seemed at once too mature for his years and too naïve; concentration had already modelled his forehead, but there was innocence in his eyes. Innocence I can only call it that. His eyes looked out at the world with the happiest candor; and I found myself predicting of him what I had never yet predicted of mortal woman or man: “He’s capable of anything but sophistication; he’ll get on, he’ll arrive somewhere but he will never change.”

Phil, meanwhile, had eased his embarrassment with a friendly laugh. “It’s all right, Jimmy; we’re not the lunatics we sound. Don’t you remember Bob Blake’s kid on Birch Street?”

“Oh! Her?”

“Mr. Hunt became her guardian, you know, after ”

“Oh!” interrupted Jimmy, beaming on me. “You’re the gentleman that ”

“Yes,” I responded; “I’m the unbelievably fortunate man.”

“She was a queer little kid,” reflected Jimmy. “I haven’t thought about her for a long time.”

“That’s ungrateful of you,” said Phil; “but of course you couldn’t know that.”

Question mark and parentheses formed again.

“Phil means,” I explained, “that Susan has never forgotten you. It seems you did battle for her once, down at the bottom of the Birch Street incline?”

“Oh, gee!” grinned Jimmy. “The time I laid out Joe Gonfarone? Maybe I wasn’t scared stiff that day! Well, what d’y’ think of her remembering that!”

“You’ll find it’s a peculiarity of Susan,” said Phil, “that she doesn’t forget anything.”

“Why she must be grown up by this time,” surmised Jimmy. “It was mighty fine of you, Mr. Hunt, to do what you did! I’d kind of like to see her again some day. But maybe she’d rather not,” he added quickly.

“Why?” asked Phil.

“Well,” said Jimmy, “she had a pretty raw deal on Birch Street. Seeing me might bring back things?”

“It couldn’t,” I reassured him. “Susan has never let go of them. She uses all her experience, every part of it, every day.”

Jimmy grinned again. “It must keep her hustling! But she always was different, I guess, from the rest of us.” With a vague wonder, he addressed us both: “You think a lot of her, don’t you?”

For some detached, ironic god this moment must have been exquisite. I envied the god his detachment. The blank that had followed his question puzzled Jimmy and turned him awkward. He fidgeted with his feet.

“Well,” he finally achieved, “I guess I’d better be off, professor. I’ll think over all you said.”

“Do,” counselled Phil, rising, “and come to see me to-morrow. We mustn’t let you take a false step if we can avoid it.”

“It’s certainly great of you to show so much interest,” said Jimmy, hunching himself at last out of his chair. “I appreciate it a lot.” He hesitated, then plunged. “It’s been well worth it to me to come East again just to meet you.”

“Nonsense!” laughed Phil, shepherding him skillfully toward the door....

When he turned back to me, it was with the evident intention of discussing further Jimmy’s personal and educational problems; but I rebelled.

“Phil,” I said, “I know what Susan means to you, and you know I think what she means to me. Now, through my weakness, stupidity, or something, Susan’s in danger. Sit down please, and let me talk. I’m going to give you all the facts, everything a full confession. It’s bound, for many reasons, to be painful for both of us. I’m sorry, old man but we’ll have to rise to it for Susan’s sake; see this thing through together. I feel utterly imbecile and helpless alone.”

Half an hour later I had ended my monologue, and we both sat silent, staring at the dulled embers on the hearth....

At length Phil drew in a slow, involuntary breath.

“Hunt,” he said, “it’s a humiliating thing for a professional philosopher to admit, but I simply can’t trust myself to advise you. I don’t know what you ought to do; I don’t know what Susan ought to do; or what I should do. I don’t even know what your wife should do; though I feel fairly certain that whatever it is, she will try something else. Frankly, I’m too much a part of it all, too heartsick, for honest thought.”

He smiled drearily and added, as if at random: “’Physician, heal thyself.’ What an abysmal joke! How the fiends of hell must treasure it. They have only one better ’Man is a reasonable being!’” He rose, or rather he seemed to be propelled from his chair. “Hunt! Would you really like to know what all my days and nights of intense study have come to? The kind of man you’ve turned to for strength? My life has come to just this: I love her, and she doesn’t love me!

“Oh!” he cried “Go home. For God’s sake, go home! I’m ashamed....”

So I departed, like Omar, through the same door wherein I went; but not before I had grasped as it seemed to me for the first time Phil’s hand.

VIII

There are some verses in Susan’s notebook of this period, themselves undated, and never subsequently published, which from their position on the page must have been written about this time and may have been during the course of the momentous evening on which I met Jimmy Kane at Phil Farmer’s rooms. I give them now, not as a favorable specimen of her work, since she thought best to exclude them from her first volume, but because they throw some light at least on the complicated and rather obscure state of mind that was then hers. They have no title, and need none. If you should feel they need interpretation “guarda e passa”! They are not for you.

Though she rose from the sea
There were stains upon her whiteness;
All earth’s waters had not sleeked her clean.
For no tides gave her birth,
Nor the salt, glimmering middle depths;
But slime spawned her, the couch of life,
The sunless ooze,
The green bed of Poseidon,
Where with sordid Chaos he mingles obscurely.
Her flanks were of veined marble;
There were stains upon her.

But she who passes, lonely,
Through waste places,
Through bog and forest;
Who follows boar and stag
Unwearied;
Who sleeps, fearless, among the hills;
Though she track the wilds,
Though she breast the crags,
Choosing no path
Her kirtle tears not,
Her ankles gleam,
Her sandals are silver.

IX

It was midnight when I reached my own door that night, but I was in no mood for lying in bed stark awake in the spiritual isolation of darkness. I went straight to my study, meaning to make up a fire and then hypnotize myself into some form of lethargy by letting my eyes follow the printed lines of a book. If reading in any other sense than physical habit proved beyond me, at least the narcotic monotony of habit might serve.

But I found a fire, already falling to embers, and Susan before it, curled into my big wing chair, her feet beneath her, her hands lying palms upward in her lap. This picture fixed me in the doorway while my throat tightened. Susan did not stir, but she was not sleeping. She had withdrawn.

Presently she spoke, absently from Saturn’s rings; or the moon.

“Ambo? I’ve been waiting to talk to you; but now I can’t or I’ll lose it the whole movement. It’s like a symphony great brasses groaning and cursing and then violins tearing through the tumult to soar above it.”

Her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them again it was to shake herself free from whatever spell had bound her. She half yawned, and smiled.

“Gone, dear all gone. It’s not your fault. Words wouldn’t hold it. Music might but music doesn’t come.... Oh, poor Ambo you’ve had a wretched time of it! How tired you look!”

I shut the door quietly and went to her, sitting on the hearth rug at her feet, my knees in my arms.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “it seems that in spite of myself I’ve done you little good and about all the harm possible.” And I made a clean breast of all the facts and fears that the evening had developed. “So you see,” I ended, “what my guardianship amounts to!”

Susan’s hand came to my shoulder and drew me back against her knees; she did not remove her hand.

“Ambo,” she protested gently, “I’m just a little angry with you, I think.”

“No wonder!”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “If I am angry it’s because you can say stupid things like that! Don’t you see, Ambo, the very moment things grow difficult for us you forget to believe in me begin to act as if I were a common or garden fool? I’m not, though. Surely you must know in your heart that everything you’re afraid of for me doesn’t matter in the least. What harm could slander or scandal possibly do me, dear? Me, I mean? I shouldn’t like it, of course, because I hate everything stodgy and formidablement bête. But if it happens, I shan’t lose much sleep over it. You’re worrying about the wrong things, Ambo; things that don’t even touch our real problem. And the real problem may prove to be the real tragedy, too.”

“Tragedy?” I mumbled.

“Oh, I hope not I think not! It all depends on whether you care for freedom; on whether you’re really passion’s slave. I don’t believe you are.”

The words wounded me. I shifted, to look up at, to question, her shadowy face. “Susan, what do you mean?”

“I suppose I mean that I’m not, Ambo. You’re far dearer to me than anybody else on earth; your happiness, your peace, mean everything to me. If you honestly can’t find life worth while without me can’t I’ll go with you anywhere; or face the music with you right here. First, though, I must be sincere with you. I can live away from you, and still make a life for myself. Except your day-by-day companionship I’d be lonely without that, of course I shouldn’t lose anything that seems to me really worth keeping. Above all, I shouldn’t really lose you.”

“Susan! You’re planning to leave me!”

“But, Ambo it’s only what you’ve felt to be necessary; what you’ve been planning for me!”

“As a duty at the bitterest possible cost! How different that is! You not only plan to leave me I feel that you want to!”

“Yes, I want to. But only if you can understand why.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Ah, wait, Ambo! You’re not speaking for yourself. You’re a slave now, speaking for your master. But it’s you I want to talk to!”

I snarled at this. “Why? When you’ve discovered your mistake so soon!...
You don’t love me.”

She sighed, deeply unhappy; though my thin-skinned self-esteem wrung from her sigh a shade of impatience, too.

“If not, dear,” she said, “we had better find it out before it’s too late. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps love is something I only guess at and go wrong about. If love means that I should be utterly lost in you and nothing without you if it means that I would rather die than leave you well, then I don’t love you. But all the same, if love honestly means that to you I can’t and won’t go away.” She put out her hand again swiftly, and tightened her fingers on mine.

“It’s a test, then. Is that it?” I demanded. “You want to go because you’re not sure?”

“I’m sure of what I feel,” she broke in; “and more than that, I doubt if I’m made so that I can ever feel more. No; that isn’t why I want to go. I’ll go if you can let me, because oh, I’ve got to say it, Ambo! because at heart I love freedom better than I love love or you. And there’s something else. I’m afraid of please try to understand this, dear I’m afraid of stuffiness for us both!”

“Stuffiness?”

“Sex is stuffy, Ambo. The more people let it mess up their lives for them, the stuffier they grow. It’s really what you’ve been afraid of for me though you don’t put it that way. But you hate the thought of people saying with all the muddy little undercurrents they stir up round such things that you and I have been passion’s slaves. We haven’t been but we might be; and suppose we were. It’s the truth about us not the lies that makes all the difference. You’re you and I’m I. It’s because we’re worth while to ourselves that we’re worth while to each other. Isn’t that true? But how long shall we be worth anything to ourselves or to each other if we accept love as slavery, and get to feeling that we can’t face life, if it seems best, alone? Ambo, dear, do you see at all what I’m driving at?”

Yes; I was beginning to see. Miss Goucher’s desolate words came suddenly back to me: “Susan doesn’t need you.”

X

Next morning, while I supposed her at work in her room, Susan slipped down the back stairs and off through the garden. It was a heavy forenoon for me, perhaps the bleakest and dreariest of my life. But it was a busy forenoon for Susan. She began its activities by a brave intuitive stroke. She entered the Egyptian tomb and demanded an interview with Gertrude. What is stranger, she carried her point as I was presently to be made aware.

Miss Goucher tapped at the door, entered, and handed me a card. So Gertrude had changed her mind; Gertrude had come. I stared, foolishly blank, at the card between, my fingers, while Miss Goucher by perfect stillness effaced herself, leaving me to my lack of thought.

“Well,” I finally muttered, “sooner or later ”

Miss Goucher, perhaps too eagerly, took this for assent. “Shall I say to Mrs. Hunt that you are coming down?”

I forced a smile, fatuously enough, and rose.

“When I’m down already? Surely you can see, Miss Goucher, that I’ve touched the bottom?” Miss Goucher did not reply. “I’ll go myself at once,” I added formally. “Thank you, Miss Goucher.”

Gertrude was waiting in the small Georgian reception room, whose detailed correctness had been due to her own; waiting without any vulgar pretense at entire composure. She was walking slowly about, her color was high, and it startled me to find her so little altered. Not a day seemed to have added itself; she looked under thirty, though I knew her to be thirty-five; she was even handsomer than I had chosen to remember. Even in her present unusual restlessness, the old distinction, the old patrician authority was hers. Her spirit imposed itself, as always; one could take Gertrude only as she wished to be taken seriously humbly grateful if exempted from disdain. Gertrude never spoke for herself alone; she was at all times representative almost symbolic. Homage met in her not a personal gratitude, but the approval of a high, unbroken tradition. She accepted it graciously, without obvious egotism, not as due to her as a temporal being, but as due under God to that timeless entity, her class. I am not satirizing Gertrude; I am praising her. She, more than any person I have ever known, made of her perishing substance the temple of a completely realized ideal.

It was, I am forced to assume, because I had failed in entire respect for and submission to this ideal that she had finally abandoned me. It was not so much incompatibility of temperament as incompatibility of worship. She had removed a hallowed shrine from a felt indifference and a possible contamination. That was all, but it was everything. And as I walked into the reception room I saw that the shrine was still beautiful, faultlessly tended, and ready for any absolute but dignified sacrifice.

“Gertrude,” I began, “it’s splendid of you to overlook my inexcusable rudeness of yesterday! I’m very grateful.”

“I have not forgiven you,” she replied, with casual indignation just enough for sincerity and not a shade too much for art. “Don’t imagine it’s pleasant for me to be here. I should hardly have risked your misinterpreting it, if any other course had seemed possible.”

“You might simply have waited,” I said. “It was my intention to call this evening, if only to ask after your health.”

“I could not have received you,” said Gertrude.

“You find it less difficult here?”

“Less humiliating. I’m not, at least, receiving a husband who wishes to plead for reconciliation on intolerable grounds.”

“May I offer you a chair? Better still why not come to the study? We’re so much less likely to be disturbed.”

She accepted my suggestion with a slight nod, and herself led the way.

“Now, Gertrude,” I resumed, when she had consented to an easy-chair and had permitted me to close the door, “whatever the situation and misunderstandings between us, can’t we discuss them” and I ventured a smile “more informally, in a freer spirit?”

She caught me up. “Freer! But I understand less disciplined. How very like you, Ambrose. How unchanged you are.”

“And you, Gertrude! It’s a compliment you should easily forgive.”

She preferred to ignore it. “Miss Blake,” she announced, “has just been with me for an hour.”

She waited the effect of this. The effect was considerable, plunging me into dark amazement and conjecture. Not daring to make the tiniest guess as to the result of so fantastic an interview, I was left not merely tongue-tied but brain-tied. Gertrude saw at once that she had beggared me and could now at her leisure dole out the equal humiliation of alms withheld or bestowed.

“Given your curious social astigmatism and her curious mixed charm so subtle and so deeply uncivilized I can see, of course, why she has bewitched you,” said Gertrude reflectively, and paused. “And I can see,” she continued, musing, as if she had adopted the stage convention of soliloquy, “why you have just failed to capture her imagination. For you have failed but you can hardly be aware how completely.”

“Whether or not I’m aware,” I snapped, “seems negligible! Susan feels she must leave me, and she’ll probably act with her usual promptness. Is that what she called to tell you?”

“Partly,” acknowledged Gertrude, resuming then her soliloquy: “You’ve given her as you would a ridiculous education. She seems to have instincts, impulses, which all things considered might have bloomed if cultivated. As it is, you found her crude, and, in spite of all the culture you’ve crammed upon her, you’ve left her so. She’s emancipated that is, public; she’s thrown away the locks and keys of her mind. I grant she has one. But apparently no one has even suggested to her that the essence of being rare, of being fine, is knowing what to omit, what to reject, what to conceal. I find my own people, Ambrose and they’re the right people, the only ones worth finding by feeling secure with them; I can trust them not to go too far. They have decorum, taste. Oh, I admit we’re upholding a lost cause! You’re a deserter from it and Miss Blake doesn’t even suspect its existence. Still” with a private smile “her crudity had certain immediate advantages this morning.”

Ignoring rarity, fineness, I sank to the indecorum of a frankly human grin. “In other words, Gertrude, Susan omitted so little, went so much too far, that she actually forced you for once to get down to brass tacks!”

Gertrude frowned. “She stripped herself naked before a stranger if that’s what you mean.”

“With the result, Gertrude?”

“Ah, that’s why I’m here as a duty I owe myself. I’m bound to say my suspicions were unjust to Miss Blake, at least. I’ll even go beyond that ”

“Careful, Gertrude! Evil communications corrupt good manners.”

“Yes,” she responded quickly, rising, “they do always; that’s why I’m not here to stay. But all I have left for you, Ambrose, is this: I’m convinced now that in one respect I’ve been quite wrong. Miss Blake convinced me this morning that her astounding telegram had at least one merit. It happened to be true. I should either live with you or set you free. I’ve felt this myself, from time to time, but divorce, for many reasons....” She paused, then added: “However, it seems inevitable. If you wish to divorce me, you have legal grounds desertion; I even advise it, and I shall make no defense. As for your amazing ward make your mind quite easy about her. If any rumors should annoy you, they’ll not come from me. And I shall speak to Lucette.” She moved to the door, opening it slowly. “That’s all, I think, Ambrose?”

“It’s not even a beginning,” I cried.

“Think of it, rather, as an ending.”

“Impossible! I I’m abashed, Gertrude! What you propose is out of the question. Why not think better of returning here? The heydey’s past for both of us. My dream always a wild dream is passing; and I can promise sincere understanding and respect.”

“I could not promise so easily,” said Gertrude; “nor so much. No; don’t come with me,” she added. “I know my way perfectly well alone.”

Nevertheless, I went with her to the front door, as I ought, in no perfunctory spirit. It was more than a courteous habit; it was a genuine tribute of admiration. I admired her beauty, her impeccable bearing, her frock, her furs, her intellect, the ease and distinction of her triumph. She left me crushed; yet it was a privilege to have known her to have wooed her, won her, lost her; and now to have received my coup de grace from her competent, disdainful hands. I wished her well, knowing the wish superfluous. In this, if nothing else, she resembled Susan she did not need me; she could stand alone. It was her tragedy, in the French classic manner, that she must. Would it also in another manner, in a deeper and I can think of no homelier word more cosmic sense, prove to be Susan’s?

But my own stuffy problem drama, whether tragic or absurd, had now reached a crisis and developed its final question: How in the absence of Susan to stand at all?

XI

From her interview with Gertrude, Susan went straight on to Phil’s rooms, not even stopping to consider the possible proprieties involved. But, five minutes before her arrival, Phil had been summoned to the Graduates Club to receive a long-distance call from his Boston publisher; and it was Jimmy Kane who answered her knock and opened the study door. He had been in conference with Phil on his private problems and Phil had asked him to await his return. All this he thought it courteous to explain to the peach of a girl before him, whose presence at the door puzzled him mightily, and whose disturbing eyes held his, he thought, rather too intimately and quizzically for a stranger’s.

She could hardly be some graduate student in philosophy; she was too young and too flossy for that. “Flossy,” in Jimmy’s economical vocabulary, was a symbol for many subtle shades of meaning: it implied, for any maiden it fitted, an elegance not too cold to be alluring; the possession of that something more than the peace of God which a friend told Emerson always entered her heart when she knew herself to be well dressed. Flossy to generalize Jimmy had not observed the women graduate students to be, though he bore them no ill will. To be truly flossy was, after all, a privilege reserved for a chosen few, born to a certain circle which Jimmy had never sought to penetrate.

One and a curiously entrancing specimen of the chosen evidently stood watching him now, and he wished that her entire self-possession did not so utterly imperil his own. What was she doing alone, anyway, this society girl in a students’ rooming house at Prof. Farmer’s door? Why couldn’t she tell him? And why were her eyes making fun of him or weren’t they? His fingers went instinctively to his perhaps too hastily selected? cravat.

Then Susan really did laugh, but happily, not unkindly, and walked on in past him, shutting the door behind her as she came.

“Jimmy Kane,” she said, “if I weren’t so gorgeously glad to see you again, I could beat you for not remembering!”

“Good Lord!” he babbled. “Why good Lord! You’re Susan!”

It was all too much for him; concealment was impossible he was flabbergasted. Sparkling with sheer delight at his gaucherie, Susan put out both hands. Her impulsiveness instantly revived him; he seized her hands for a moment as he might have gripped a long-lost boy friend’s.

“You never guessed I could look so presentable, did you?” demanded Susan.

“Presentable!” The word jarred on him, it was so dully inadequate.

“I have a maid,” continued Susan demurely. “Everything in Ambo’s house Ambo is my guardian, you know; Mr. Hunt well, everything in his house is a work of art. So he pays a maid to see that I am always. I am simply clay in her hands, and it does make a difference. But I didn’t have a maid on Birch Street, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s blue eyes capered. This was American humor the kind he was born to and could understand. Happiness and ease returned with it. If Susan could talk like that while looking like that well, Susan was there! She was all right.

Within five minutes he was giving her a brief, comradely chronicle of the missing years, and when Phil got back it was to find them seated together, Susan leaning a little forward from the depths of a Morris chair to follow more attentively Jimmy’s minute technical description of the nature of the steel alloys used in the manufacture of automobiles.

They rose at Phil’s entrance with a mingling, eager chatter of explanation. Phil later much later admitted to me that he had never felt till that moment how damnably he was past forty, and how fatally Susan was not. He further admitted that it was far from the most agreeable discovery of a studious life.

“What do you think, Prof. Farmer,” exclaimed Jimmy, “of our meeting again accidentally like this and me not knowing Susan! You can’t beat that much for a small world!”

Phil sought Susan’s eye, and was somewhat relieved by the quizzical though delighted gleam in it.

“Well, Jimmy,” he responded gravely, “truth compels me to state that I have heard of stranger encounters less inevitable ones, at least. I really have.”

“But you never heard of a nicer one,” said Susan. “Haven’t I always told you and Ambo that Jimmy would be like this?”

“Sort of foolish?” grinned Jimmy, with reawakening constraint. “I’ll bet you have, too.”

Susan shook her head, solemn and slow; but the corners of her mouth meant mischief.

“No, Jimmy, not foolish; just natural. Just sort of you.”

At this point, Jimmy hastily remembered that he must beat it, pleading what Phil knew to be an imaginary recitation. But he did not escape without finding himself invited to dinner for that very evening, informally of course Susan suspected the absence of even a dinner coat: Phil would bring him. It was really Phil who accepted for him, while Jimmy was still muddling through his thanks and toiling on to needless apologies.

“If I’ve been too” he almost said “fresh,” but sank to “familiar, calling you by your first name, I mean I wouldn’t like you to think but coming all of a sudden like this, what I mean is ”

“Oh, run along!” called Susan gayly. “Forget it, Jimmy! You’re spoiling everything.”

“That’s what I m-mean,” stammered Jimmy, and was gone.

“But he does mean well, Susan,” Phil pleaded for him, after closing the door.

It puzzled him to note that Susan’s face instantly clouded; there was reproof in her tone. “That was patronizing, Phil. I won’t have anybody patronize Jimmy. He’s perfect.”

Phil was oddly nettled by this reproof and grew stubborn and detached. “He’s a nice boy, certainly; and has the makings of a real man. I believe in him. Still heaven knows! he’s not precisely a subtle soul.”

Susan’s brow had cleared again. “That’s what I m-mean!” she laughed, mimicking Jimmy without satire, as if for the pure pleasure of recollection. “The truth is, Phil, I’m rather fed up on subtlety especially my own. Sometimes I think it’s just a polite term for futility, with a dash of intellectual snobbishness thrown in. It must be saner, cleaner, healthier, to take life straight.”

“And now, Phil dear,” she said, dismissing the matter, as if settling back solidly to earth after a pleasantly breathless aerial spin, “I need your advice. Can I earn my living as a writer? I’ll write anything that pays, so I think I can. Fashion notes anything! Sister and I” “Sister” being Susan’s pet name for Miss Goucher “are running away to New York on Monday to make our fortunes. You mustn’t tell Ambo yet; I’ll tell him in my own way. And I must make my own way now, Phil. I’ve been a lazy parasite long enough too long! So please sit down and write me subtle letters of introduction to any publishers you know. Maltby is bound to help me, of course. You see, I’m feeling ruthless or shameless; I shall pull every wire in sight. So I’m counting on The Garden Exquisite for immediate bread and butter. I did my first article for it in an hour when I first woke up this morning just the smarty-party piffle its readers and advertisers seem to demand.

“This sort of thing, Phil: ’The poets are wrong, as usual. Wild flowers are not shy and humble, they are exclusive. How to know them is still a social problem in American life, and very few of us have attained this aristocratic distinction.’ And so on! Two thousand silly salable words and I can turn on that soda-water tap at will. Are you listening? Please tell me you don’t think poor Sister she refuses to leave me, and I wouldn’t let her anyway will have to undergo martyrdom in a cheap hall bedroom for the rest of her days?”

Needless to say, Phil did not approve of Susan’s plan. He agreed with her that under the given conditions she could not remain with me in New Haven; and he commended her courage, her desire for independence. But Susan would never, he felt, find her true pathway to independence, either material or spiritual, as a journalistic free-lance in New York. He admitted the insatiable public thirst for soda-water, but saw no reason why Susan should waste herself in catering to it. He was by no means certain that she could cater to it if she would.

“You’ll too often discover,” he warned her, “that your tap is running an unmarketable beverage. The mortal taste for nectar is still undeveloped; it remains the drink of the gods.”

“But,” Susan objected, “I can’t let Ambo pay my bills from now on I can’t! And Sister and I must live decently somehow! I’d like nothing better than to be a perpetual fountain of nectar supposing, you nice old Phil, that I’ve ever really had the secret of distilling a single drop of it. But you say yourself there’s no market for it this side of heaven, which is where we all happen to be. What do you want me to do?”

“Marry me.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you, dear.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Then,” said Phil earnestly, “I want you to let Hunt or if you can’t bring yourself to do that to let me loan you money enough from time to time to live on simply and comfortably for a few years, while you study and think and write in your own free way till you’ve found yourself. My nectar simile was nonsense, just as your soda-water tap was. You have brains and a soul, and the combination means a shining career of some kind even on earth. Don’t fritter your genius away in makeshift activities. Mankind needs the best we have in us; the best’s none too good. It’s a duty no, it’s more than that it’s a true religion to get that expressed somehow whether in terms of action or thought or beauty. I know, of course, you feel this as I do, and mean to win through to it in the end. But why handicap yourself so cruelly at the start?”

Phil tells me that Susan, while he urged this upon her, quietly withdrew and did not return for some little time after he had ceased to speak. He was not even certain she had fully heard him out until she suddenly leaned to him from her chair and gave his hand an affectionate, grateful squeeze.

“Yes, Phil,” she said, “it is a religion it’s perhaps the only religion I shall ever have. But for that very reason I must accept it in my own way. And I’m sure it’s part of my faith that any coddling now will do me more harm than good. I must meet the struggle, Phil the hand-to-hand fight. If the ordinary bread-and-butter conditions are too much for me, then I’m no good and must go under. I shan’t be frittering anything away if I fail. I shan’t fail in our sense unless we’re both mistaken, and there isn’t anything real in me. That’s what I must find out first not sheltered and in silence, but down in the scrimmage and noise of it all. If I’m too delicate for that, then I’ve nothing to give this world, and the sooner I’m crushed out of it the better! Believe me, Phil dear, I know I’m right; I know.”

She was pressing clenched hands almost fiercely between her girl’s breasts as she ended, as if to deny or repress any natural longing for a special protection, a special graciousness and security, from our common taskmaster, life.

Phil admits that he wanted to whimper like a homesick boy.

XII

Susan’s informal dinner for Jimmy that evening was not really a success. The surface of the water sparkled from time to time, but there were grim undercurrents and icy depths. Perhaps it was not so bad as my own impression of it, for I had a sullen headache pulsing its tiresome obbligato above a dull ground base of despair. Despair, I am forced to call it. Never had life seemed to me so little worth the trouble of going on; and I fancy Phil’s reasoned conviction of its eternal dignity and import had become, for the present, less of a comfort to him than a curse. Moods of this kind, however ruthlessly kept under, infect the very air about them. They exude a drab fog to deaden spontaneity and choke laughter at its source.

Neither Phil nor I was guilty of deliberate sulking; whether from false pride or native virtue we did our best but our best was abysmal. Even Susan sank under it to the flat levels of made conversation, and poor Jimmy who had brought with him many social misgivings was stricken at table with a muscular rigor; sat stiffly, handled his implements jerkily, and ended by oversetting a glass of claret and blushing till the dusky red of his face matched the spreading stain before him.

At this crisis of gloom, luckily, Susan struggled clear of the drab fog and saved the remnant of the evening at least for Jimmy, plunging with the happiest effect into the junior annals of Birch Street, till our heavier Hillhouse atmosphere stirred and lightened with Don’t-you-remember’s and Sure-I-do’s. And shortly after dinner, Phil, tactfully pleading an unprepared lecture, dragged Jimmy off with him before this bright flare-up of youthful reminiscence had even threatened to expire. Their going brought Susan at once to my side, with a stricken face of self-reproach.

“It was so stupid of me, Ambo this dinner. I’ve never been more ashamed. How could I have forced it on you to-night! But you were wonderful, dear wonderful! So was Phil. I’ll never forget it.” There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Ambo,” she wailed, “do you think I shall ever learn to be a little like either of you? I feel abject.” Before I could prevent it, she had seized my hand in both hers and kissed it. “Homage,” she smiled....

It broke me down utterly.... You will spare me any description of the next ten minutes of childishness. Indeed, you must spare me the details of our later understanding; they are inviolable. It is enough to say that I emerged from it for the experience had been overwhelming with a new spirit, a clarified and serener mind. My love for Susan was unchanged yet wholly changed. The paradox is exact. Life once more seemed to me good, since she was part of it; and my own life rich, since I now knew how truly it had become a portion of hers. She had made me feel, know, that I counted for her unworthy as I am in all she had grown to be and would grow to be. We had shaped and would always shape each other’s lives. There for the moment it rested. She would leave me, but I was not to be alone.

No; I was not to be alone. For even if she had died, or had quite changed and forsaken me, there would be memories such as few men have been privileged to recall....

INTERLUDE

On the rearward and gentler slopes of Mount Carmel, a rough, isolated little mountain, very abrupt on its southerly face, which rises six or seven miles up-country from the New Haven Green, there is an ancient farm, so long abandoned as to be completely overgrown with gray birch the old field birch of exhausted soils with dogwood and an aromatic tangle of humbler shrubs, high-bush huckleberry and laurel and sweet fern; while beneath these the dry elastic earth-floor is a deep couch of ghost-gray moss, shining checkerberry and graceful ground pine. The tumbledown farmstead itself lies either unseen at some distance from these abandoned fields or has wholly disappeared along with the neat stone fences that must once have marked them. Yet the boundaries of the fields are now majestically defined through the undergrowth by rows of gigantic red cedars so thickset, so tall, shapely, and dense as to resemble the secular cypresses of Italian gardens more nearly than the poor relations they ordinarily are.

And at the upper edge of one steep-lying field, formerly an apple orchard though but three or four of the original apple trees remain, hopelessly decrepit and half buried in the new growth the older cedars of the fence line have seeded capriciously and have thrown out an almost perfect circle of younger, slenderer trees which, standing shoulder to shoulder, inclose the happiest retreat for woodland god or dreaming mortal that the most exacting faun or poet could desire.

That Susan should have happened upon this lonely, this magic circle, I can never regard as a mere accident. Obviously time had slowly and lovingly formed and perfected it for some purpose; it was there waiting for her and one day she came and possessed it, and the magic circle was complete.

Susan was then seventeen and the season, as it should have been, was early May. Much of the hill country lying northward from the Connecticut coast towns is surprisingly wild, and none of it wilder or lovelier than certain tracts spread within easy reach of the few New Haveners who have not wholly capitulated to business or college politics or golf or social service or the movies, forgetting a deeper and saner lure. A later Wordsworth or Thoreau might still live in midmost New Haven and never feel shut from his heritage, for it neighbors him closely swamp and upland, hemlock cliff and hardwood forest, precipitous brook or slow-winding meadow stream, where the red-winged blackbirds flute and flash by; the whole year’s wonder awaits him; he has but to go forth alone.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her, though she so ironically betrays most of us who merely pretend to love her, because we feel, after due instruction, that we ought. For Nature is not easily communicative, nor lightly wooed. She demands a higher devotion than an occasional picnic, and will seldom have much to say to you if she feels that you secretly prefer another society to hers. To her elect she whispers, timelessly, and Susan, in her own way, was of the elect. It was the way the surest of solitary communion; but it was very little, very casually, the way of science. She observed much, but without method; and catalogued not at all. She never counted her warblers and seldom named them but she loved them, as they slipped northward through young leaves, shyly, with pure flashes of green or russet or gold.

Nature for Susan, in short, was all mood, ranging from cold horror to supernal beauty; she did not sentimentalize the gradations. The cold horror was there and chilled her, but the supernal beauty was there too and did not leave her cold. And through it all streamed an indefinable awe, a trail one could not follow, a teasing mystery an unspoken word. It was back of no rather it interpenetrated the horror no less than the beauty; they were but phases, hints, of that other, that suspected, eerie trail, leading one knew not where.

But surely there, in that magic circle, one might press closer, draw oneself nearer, catch at the faintest hint toward a possible clue? The aromatic space within the cedars became Susan’s refuge, her nook from the world, her Port-Royal, her Walden, her Lake Isle of Innisfree. Once found that spring she never spoke of it; she hoarded her treasure, slipping off to it stealthily, through slyest subterfuge or evasion, whenever she could. For was it not hers?

Sometimes she rode out there, tying her horse to a tree in the lowest field back of a great thicket of old-fashioned lilac bushes run wild, where he was completely hidden from the rare passers-by of the rough up-country road or lane. But oftenest, she has since confessed, she would clear her morning or afternoon by some plausible excuse for absence, then board the Waterbury trolley express, descending from it about two miles from her nook, and walking or rather climbing up to it crosslots through neglected woodland and uncropped pasture reverting to the savage.

At one point she had to pass a small swampy meadow through which a mere thread of stream worked its way, half-choked by thick-springing blades of our native wild iris; so infinitely, so capriciously delicate in form and hue. And here, if these were in bloom, she always lingered a while, poised on the harsh hummocks of bent-grass, herself slender as a reed. The pale, softly pencilled iris petals stirred in her a high wonder beyond speech. What supreme, whimsical artistry brought them to being there, in that lonely spot; and for whose joy? No human hand, cunning with enamel and platinum and treated silver, could, after a lifetime of patience, reproduce one petal of these uncounted flowers. Out of the muck they lifted, ethereal, unearthly yet so soon to die....

Oh, she knew what the learned had to say of them! that they were merely sexual devices; painted deceptions for attracting insects and so assuring cross-pollination and the lusty continuance of their race. So far as it went this was unquestionably true; but it went just how far? Their color and secret manna attracted the necessary insects, which they fed; the form of their petals and perianth tubes, and the arrangement of their organs of sex were cunningly evolved, so that the insect that sought their nectar bore from one flower to the next its fertilizing golden dust

Astonishing, certainly! But what astonished her far more was that all this ingenious mechanism should in any way affect her! It was obviously none of her affair; and yet to come upon these cunning mechanistic devices in this deserted field stirred her, set something ineffable free in her gave it joy for wings. It was as if these pale blooms of wild iris had been for her, in a less mortal sense, what the unconscious insects were for them intermediaries, whose more ethereal contacts cross-fertilized her very soul. But she could not define for herself or express for others what they did to her. Of one thing only she was certain: These fleeting moments of expansion, of illumination, were brief and vague moments of pure, uncritical feeling but they were the best moments of her life; and they were real. They vanished, but not wholly. They left lasting traces. Never to have been visited by them would have condemned her, she knew, to be less than her fullest self, narrower in sympathy, more rigid, more dogmatic, and less complete.

But that first May day of her discovery, when called out to wander lonely as a cloud by the spirit of spring the day she had happened on her magic circle, all that rough upland world was burgeoning, and the beauty of those deserted fields hurt the heart. Susan never easily wept, but that day safely hidden in the magic circle, then newly hers she threw herself down on the ghost-gray moss among the spicy tufts of sweet fern and enjoyed, as she later told me, the most sensuously abandoned good cry of her life. The dogwood trees were a glory of flushed white about her, shining in on every hand through the black-green cedars, as if the stars had rushed forward toward earth and clustered more thickly in a nearer midnight sky. Life had no right to be so overwhelmingly fair if these poignant gusts of beauty gave no sanction to all that the bruised heart of man might long for of peace and joy! If life must be accepted as an idiot’s tale, signifying nothing, then it was a refinement of that torture that it could suddenly lift as a sterile wave lifts only to break to such dizzying, ecstatic heights.... No, no it was impossible! It was unthinkable! It was absurd!

That year we spent July, August, and early September in France, but late September found us back in New Haven for those autumnal weeks which are the golden, heady wine of our New England cycle. Praise of the New England October, for those who have experienced it, must always seem futile, and for those who have not, exaggerated and false. Summer does not decay in New England; it first smoulders and then flares out in a clear multicolored glory of flame; it does not sicken to corruption, it shouts and sings and is transfigured. I had suggested to Susan, therefore, a flight to higher hills to the Berkshires, to be precise where we might more spaciously watch these smoke-less frost-fires flicker up, spread, consume themselves, and at last leap from the crests, to vanish rather than die. But Susan, pleading a desire to settle down after much wandering, begged off. She did not tell me that she had a private sanctuary, too long unvisited, hidden among nearer and humbler hills.

The rough fields of the old farm were now rich with crimson and gold bright yellow gold, red gold, green and tarnished gold or misted over with the horizon blue of wild asters, a needed softening of tone in a world else so vibrant with light, so nakedly clear. This was another and perhaps even a deeper intoxication than that of the flood tide of spring. Unbearably beautiful it grew at its climax of splendor! An unseen organist unloosed all his stops, and Susan, like a little child overpowered by that rocking clamor, was shaken by it and almost whimpered for mercy....

It was not until the following spring that chance improbably betrayed her guarded secret to me. All during the preceding fall I had wondered at times that I found it so increasingly difficult to arrange for afternoons of tennis or golf or riding with Susan; but I admonished myself that as she grew up she must inevitably find personal interests and younger friends, and it was not for me to limit or question her freedom. And though Susan never lied to me, she was clever enough, and woman enough, to let me mislead myself.

“I’ve been taking a long walk, Ambo.” “I’ve been riding.”

Well, bless her, so she had and why shouldn’t she? Though it came at last with me to a vague, comfortless feeling of shut-outness of too often missing an undefined something that I had hoped to share.

During a long winter of close companionship in study and socially unsocial life this feeling disappeared, but with the spring it gradually formed again, like a little spreading cloud in an empty sky. And one afternoon, toward middle May, I discovered myself to be unaccountably alone and wishing Susan were round so we could “do something.” The day was a day apart. Mummies that day, in dim museums, ached in their cerements. Middle-aged bank clerks behind grilles knew a sudden unrest, and one or two of them even wondered whether to be always honestly handling the false counters of life were any compensation for never having riotously lived. Little boys along Hillhouse Avenue, ordinarily well-behaved, turned freakishly truculent, delighted in combat, and pummelled each other with ineffective fists. Settled professors in classrooms were seized with irrelevant fancies and, while trying to recover some dropped thread of discourse, openly sighed haunted by visions of the phoebe bird’s nest found under the old bridge by the mill dam, or of the long-forgotten hazel eyes of some twelve-year-old sweetheart. A rebellious day and a sentimental! The apple trees must be in full bloom....

Well then, confound it, why had Susan gone to a public lecture on Masefield? Or had she merely mentioned at lunch that there was a public lecture on Masefield? Oh, damn it! One can’t stay indoors on such a day!

Susan and I kept our saddle horses at the local riding academy, where they were well cared for and exercised on the many days when we couldn’t or did not wish to take them out. As the academy was convenient and had good locker rooms and showers, we always preferred changing there instead of dressing at home and having the horses sent round. Riding is not one of my passions, and oddly enough is not one of Susan’s. That intense sympathy which unites some men and women to horses, and others to dogs or cats, is either born in one or it is not. Susan felt it very strongly for both dogs and cats, and if I have failed to mention Tumps and Togo, that is a lack in myself, not in her. I don’t dislike dogs or cats or, for that matter, well-broken horses, but though I lose your last shreds of sympathy they all, in comparison with other interests, leave me more than usual calm. Of Tumps and Togo, nevertheless, something must yet be said, though too late for their place in Susan’s heart; or indeed, for their own deserving. But they are already an intrusion here.

For Alma, her dainty little single footer, Susan’s feeling was rather admiration than love. Just as there are poets whose songs we praise, but whose genius does not seem to knit itself into the very fabric of our being, so it was with Alma and Susan. She said and thought nothing but good of Alma, yet never felt lonely away from her the infallible test. As for Jessica, my own modest nag, I fear she was very little more to me than an agreeably paced inducement to exercise, and I fear I was little more to her than a possible source of lump sugar and a not-too-fretful hand on the bridle reins. To-day, however, I needed her as a more poetic motor; failing Susan’s companionship, I wanted to be carried far out into country byways apart from merely mechanical motors or ditto men.

Jessica, well up to it, offered no objections to the plan, and we were soon trotting briskly along the aerial Ridge Road, from which we at length descended to the dark eastern flank of Mount Carmel. It would mean a long pull to go right round the mountain by the steep back road, and I had at first no thought of attempting it; but the swift remembrance of a vast cherry orchard bordering that road made me wonder whether its blossoms had yet fallen. When I determined finally to push on, poor Jessica’s earlier fire had cooled; we climbed the rough back road as a slug moves; the cherry orchard proved disappointing; and the sun was barely two hours from the hills when we crossed the divide and turned south down a grass-grown wood road that I had never before traveled. I hoped, and no doubt Jessica hoped, it might prove a shorter cut home.

What it did prove was so fresh an enchantment of young leaf and flashing wing, that I soon ceased to care where it led or how late I might be for dinner. Then a sharp dip in the road brought a new vision of delight; dogwood cloudy masses of pink dogwood, the largest, deepest-tinted trees of it I had ever seen! It caught at my throat; and I reined in Jessica, whose aesthetic sense was less developed, and stared. But presently the spell was broken. An unseen horse squealed, evidently from behind a great lilac thicket in an old field at the left, and Jessica squealed back, instantly alert and restive. The sharp whinnying was repeated, and Jessica’s dancing excitement grew intense; then there was a scuffling commotion back of the lilacs and to my final astonishment Susan’s little mare, Alma, having broken her headstall and wrenched herself free of bit and bridle, came trotting amicably forth to join her old friends which she could easily do, as the ancient cattle bars at the field-gate had long since rotted away.

It was unmistakably dainty Alma with her white forehead star but where was her mistress? A finger of ice drew slowly along my spine as I urged Jessica into the field and round the lilac thicket. Alma meekly followed us, softly breathing encouragement through pink nostrils, and my alarm quieted when I found nothing more dreadful than the broken bridle still dangling from the branch of a dead cedar. It was plain that Susan had tied Alma there to explore on foot through the higher fields; it was plain, too, that she must have preferred to ride out here alone, and had been at some pains to conceal her purpose.

For a second, so piqued was I, I almost decided to ride on and leave the willful child to her own devices. But the broken bridle shamed me. I dismounted to examine it; it could be held together safely enough for the return, I saw, with a piece of stout twine, and there was certain to be a habitation with a piece of stout twine in it on down the road somewhere. Susan must have come that way and could tell me. But I must find her first....

“Susan!” I called. “Oh-ho-o-o! Soo-san!”

No answer. I called again vainly. Nothing for it, then, but a search! I tethered Jessica to the cedar stump, convinced that Alma wouldn’t wander far from her old friend, and started off through the field past a senile apple tree bearing a few scattered blossoms, beyond which a faintly suggested path seemed to lead upward through a wonder-grove of the pink dogwood, mingled with laurel and birch and towering cedars. That path, I knew, would have tempted Susan.

What there was of it soon disappeared altogether in an under-thicket of high-bush huckleberry, taller than a man’s head. Through this I was pushing my way, and had stooped to win past some briers and protect my eyes when I felt a silk scarf slip across them, muffling my face.

It was swiftly knotted from behind; then my hand was taken, and Susan’s voice on a tone of blended mischief and mystery quavered at my ear: “Hush! Profane mortal speak not! This is holy ground.”

With not another word spoken she drew me after her, guiding me to freer air and supporting me when I stumbled. We continued thus for some moments, on my part clumsily enough; and then Susan halted me, and turned me solemnly round three times, while she crooned in a weird gypsy-like singsong the following incantation:

Cedar, cedar, birch and fern,
Turn his wits as mine you turn.

If he sees what now I see
Welcome shall this mortal be.

If he sees it not, I’ll say
Crick-crack and vanish May!

But I must have seen! My initiation was pronounced successful. From that hour all veils were withdrawn, and I was made free of the magic circle....

It was a dip in Lethe. Dinner was forgotten the long miles home and the broken bridle. A powerful enchantment had done its work. For me, only the poised moment of joy was real. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed, while that poised fragile moment was mine. We talked or were silent it was all one. And when dusk crept in, and a grateful wood-thrush praised it, we still lingered to join in that praise.... Then a whippoorwill began to call insistently, grievously, from very far off. It was the whippoorwill that shattered my poised crystal moment of perfect joy.

“Those poor horses,” I said.

“Oh!” cried Susan, springing up, “how could we let them starve! I’m starved, too, Ambo aren’t you? What sillies we are!”

We got home safely, after some trifling difficulties, past ten o’clock....

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead

Only it doesn’t, always thank God! Memories.... And this was but one. Oh, no; I was not to be alone. I should never really be alone....

XIII

The morning after Jimmy had dined with us, Susan, at my request, brought Miss Goucher to my study, and we had a good long talk together. And first of all the problem of Gertrude loomed before us, starting up ghostlike at a chance remark, and then barring all progress with more practical considerations, till laid. Neither Susan’s telegram nor her private interview with Gertrude had been discussed between us; I had nervously shied off from both matters in my dread of seeming to question Susan’s motives. But now Susan herself, to put it crudely, insisted on a show-down.

“The air needed clearing, Ambo, and I sent the telegram hoping to clear it by raising a storm. But, as Sister reminded me at breakfast, storms don’t always clear the air even good hard ones; they sometimes leave it heavier than ever. I’m afraid that’s what my storm has done. Has it, Ambo? What happened when Mrs. Hunt came to see you here? But perhaps I ought to tell you first what happened between us?”

“No,” I smiled; “Gertrude made that fairly plain, for once. And your storm did sweep off the worst of the fog! You see, Gertrude has, intensely, the virtues of her defects a fastidious sense of honor among them. Once she felt her suspicions unjust, she was bound to acknowledge it. I can’t say you won a friend, but you did by some miracle placate a dangerous foe.”

“Is she coming back to you, Ambo?”

“No. She suggests divorce. But that of course is impossible!”

“Why?”

“Is it kind to ask?” said Miss Goucher. “And forgive me, dear after your decision, is it necessary for you to know?”

Susan reflected anxiously. “No,” she finally responded, “it isn’t kind; but it is necessary. I’ll tell you why, Ambo. If you had been free, I think there’s no doubt I should have married you. Oh, I know, dear, it sounds cold-blooded like that! But the point is, I shouldn’t then have questioned things as I do now. My feeling for you your need of me they wouldn’t have been put to the test. Now they have been or rather, they’re being tested, every minute of every hour. Suppose I should ask you now meaning every word of it to divorce Mrs. Hunt so you could marry me? At least you’d know then, wouldn’t you, that simply being yours meant more to me than anything else in life? Or suppose I couldn’t bring myself to ask it, but couldn’t face life without you? Suppose I drowned myself ”

“Good God, dear!”

“I’m not going to, Ambo and what’s equally important, neither are you. Why, you don’t even pause over Mrs. Hunt’s suggestion! You don’t even wait to ask my opinion! You say at once it’s impossible! That proves something, doesn’t it about you and me? It either proves we’re not half so much in love as we think we are, or else that love isn’t for either of us the only good thing in life the whole show.” She paused, but added: “Why can’t you consider divorcing Mrs. Hunt, Ambo? After all, she isn’t honestly your wife and doesn’t want to be; it would only be common fairness to yourself.”

Miss Goucher stirred uneasily in her chair. I stirred uneasily in mine.

“There are so many reasons,” I fumbled. “I suppose at bottom it comes to this a queer feeling of responsibility, of guilt even....”

“Nonsense!” cried Susan. “You never could have satisfied her, Ambo. You weren’t born to be human, but somehow, in spite of everything, you just are! It’s your worst fault in Mrs. Hunt’s eyes. Mrs. Hunt shouldn’t have married a man; she should have married a social tradition; an abstract idea.”

“How could she?” asked Miss Goucher.

“Easily,” said Susan; “she’s one herself, so there must be others. It’s hard to believe, but apparently abstractions like that do get themselves incarnated now and then. I never met one before in the flesh. It gave me a creepy feeling like shaking hands with the fourth dimension or asking the Holy Roman Empire to dinner. But I don’t pretend to make her out, Ambo. Why did she leave you? It seems the very thing an incarnate social tradition could never have brought herself to do!”

Before I could check myself I reproved her. “You’re not often merely cruel, Susan!” Then, hoping to soften it, I hurried on: “You see, dear, Gertrude isn’t greatly to blame. Suppose you had been born and brought up like her, to believe beauty and brains and a certain gracious way of life a family privilege, a class distinction. Don’t you see how your inbred worship of class and family would become in the end an intenser form of worshipping yourself? Gertrude was taught to live exclusively, from girlhood, in this disguised worship of her own perfections. We’re all egotists of course; but most of us are the common or garden variety, and have an occasional suspicion that we’re pretty selfish and intolerant and vain. Gertrude has never suspected it. How could she? A daughter of her house can do no wrong and she is a daughter of her house.” I sighed.

“Unluckily, my power of unreserved admiration has bounds, and my tongue and temper sometimes haven’t. So our marriage dissolved in an acid bath compounded of honest irritations and dishonest apologies. I made the dishonest apologies. To do Gertrude justice, she never apologized. She knew the initial fault was mine. I shouldn’t have joined a church whose creed I couldn’t repeat without a sensation of moral nausea. That’s just what I did when I married Gertrude. There was no deception on her side, either. I knew her gods, and I knew she assumed that mine were the same as hers, and that I was humbly entering the service of their dedicated priestess. Well, I apostatized to her frozen amazement. Then a crisis came insignificant enough.... Gertrude refused to call with me on the bride of an old friend of mine, because she thought it a misalliance. He had no right, she held, under her jealous gods, to bring a former trained nurse home as his wife, and thrust her upon a society that would never otherwise have received her.

“I was furious, and blasphemed her gods. I insisted she should either accompany me, then and there, or I’d go myself and apologize for her yes, these are the words I used her ‘congenital lunacy.’ She left me like a statue walking, and went to her room.”

“And you?” asked Susan.

“I made the call.”

“Did you make the apology?”

“No; I couldn’t.”

“Naturally not,” assented Miss Goucher.

“Oh, Ambo,” protested Susan, “what a coward you are! Well, and then?”

“I returned to a wifeless house. From that hour until yesterday morning there have been no explanations between Gertrude and me. Gertrude is superb.”

“I understand her less than ever,” said Susan.

“I understand her quite well,” said Miss Goucher. “But your long silence, Mr. Hunt that I can’t understand.”

“I can,” Susan exclaimed. “Ambo’s very bones dislike her. So do mine. Do you remember how I used to shock you, Ambo, when I first came here saying somebody or other was no damn good? Well, I can’t help it; it’s stronger than I am. Mrs. Hunt’s no ”

“Oh, child!” struck in Miss Goucher. “How much you have still to learn!” Then she addressed me: “I’ve never seen a more distinguished person than Mrs. Hunt. I know it’s odd, coming from me, but somehow I sympathize with her greatly. I’ve always” hesitated Miss Goucher “been a proud sort of nobody myself.”

Susan reached over and slipped her hand into Miss Goucher’s. “Poor Sister! Just as we’re going off together you begin to find out how horrid I can be. But I’ll make a little true confession to both of you. What I’ve been saying about Mrs. Hunt isn’t in the least what I think about her. The fact is, I’m jealous of her, in so many ways except in the ordinary way! To make a clean breast of it, when I was with her she brought me to my knees in spite of myself. Oh, I acknowledge her power! It’s uncanny. How did you ever find strength to resist it, Ambo? My outbreak was sheer Birch Street bravado a cheap insult flung in the face of the unattainable! It was all my shortcomings throwing mud at all her disdain. Truly! Why, the least droop of her eyelids taught me that it takes more than quick wits and sensitive nerves and hard study to overcome a false start or rather, no start at all!

“Birch Street isn’t even a beginning, because, so far as Mrs. Hunt’s concerned, Birch Street simply doesn’t exist! And even Birch Street would have to admit that she gets away with it! I’d say so, too, if I didn’t go a step farther and feel that it gets away with her. That’s why ridicule can’t touch her. You can’t laugh at a devotee, a woman possessed, the instrument of a higher power! Mrs. Hunt’s a living confession of faith in the absolute rightness of the right people, and a living rebuke to the incurable wrongness of the wrong! Oh, I knew at once what you meant, Ambo, when you called her a dedicated priestess! It’s the way I shall always think of her ritually clothed, and pouring out tea to her gods from sacred vessels of colonial silver! You can smile, Ambo, but I shall; and way down in my common little Birch Street heart, I believe I shall always secretly envy her.... So there!”

For the first time in my remembrance of her, Miss Goucher laughed out loud. Her laugh in effect, not in resonance was like cockcrow. We all laughed together, and Gertrude vanished.... But ten minutes later found us with knit brows again, locked in debate. Susan had at length seized courage to tell me that when she left my house she must, once and for all, go it completely alone. She could no longer accept my financial protection. She was to stand on her own feet, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health. This staggering proposal I simply could not listen to calmly, and would not yield to! It was too preposterously absurd.

Yet I made no headway with my objections, until I stumbled upon the one argument that served me and led to a final compromise, “Dear,” I had protested, really and deeply hurt by Susan’s stubborn stand for absolute independence, “can’t you feel how cruelly unkind all this is to me?”

“Oh,” she wailed, “unkind? Why did you say that! Surely, Ambo, you don’t mean it! Unkind?”

I was quick to press my advantage. “When you ask me to give up even the mere material protection of my family? You are my family, Susan all the family I shall ever have. I don’t want to be maudlin about it. I don’t wish to interfere with your freedom to develop your own life in your own way. But it’s beyond my strength not to plead that all that’s good in my life is bound up with yours. Please don’t ask me to live in daily and hourly anxiety over your reasonable comfort and health. There’s no common sense in it, Susan. It’s fantastic! And it is unkind!”

Susan could not long resist this plea, for she felt its wretched sincerity, even if she knew as she later told me that I was making the most of it. It was Miss Goucher who suggested our compromise.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said, “my own arrangement with Susan is this: We are to pool our resources, and I am to make a home for her, just as if I were her own mother. I’ve been able to save, during the past twenty-five years, about eight thousand dollars; it’s well invested, I think, and brings me in almost five hundred a year. This is what we were to start with; and Susan feels certain she can earn at least two thousand dollars a year by her pen. I know nothing of the literary market, but I haven’t counted on her being able to earn so much for a year or so, at least. On the other hand, I feel certain Susan will finally make her way as a writer. So I’d counted on using part of my capital for a year or two if necessary. We plan to live very simply for the present, of course but without hardship.”

“Still ” I would have protested, if for once Miss Goucher had not waived all deference, sailing calmly on:

“As Susan has told you, she’s convinced that she needs the assurance of power and self-respect to be gained by meeting life without fear or favor and making her own career in the face of whatever difficulties arise. There’s a good deal to be said for that, Mr. Hunt more than you could be expected to understand. Situated as you have always been, I mean. But naturally, as Susan’s guardian, you can’t be expected to stand aside if for any reason we fail in our attempt. I see that; and Susan sees it now, I’m sure. Yet I really feel I must urge you to let us try. And I promise faithfully to keep you informed as to just how we are getting on.”

“Please, Ambo,” Susan chimed in, “let us try. If things go badly I won’t be unreasonable or stubborn indeed I won’t. Please trust me for that. I’ll even go a step farther than Sister. I won’t let her break into her savings not one penny. If it ever comes to that, I’ll come straight to you. And for the immediate present, I have over five hundred dollars in my bank account; and” she smiled “I’ll try to feel it’s honestly mine. You’ve spent heaven knows how much on me, Ambo; though it’s the least of all you’ve done for me and been to me! But now, please let me see whether I could ever have made anything of myself if I hadn’t been so shamelessly lucky if life had treated me as it treats most people.... Jimmy, for instance.... He hasn’t needed help, Ambo; and I simply must know whether he’s a better man than I am, Gunga Dhin! Don’t you see?”

Yes; I flatter myself that I did, more or less mistily, begin to see. Thus our morning conference drew to its dreary, amicable close.

But from the door Susan turned back to me with tragic eyes: “Ambo I’m caring. It does hurt.” And since I could not very safely reply, she attempted a smile. “Ambo what is to become of poor Tumps? Togo will have to come; I can’t reduce him to atheism. But Tumps would die in New York; and he never has believed in God anyway! Can you make a martyr of yourself for his surly sake? Can you? Just to see, I mean, that he gets his milk every day and fish heads on Friday? Can you, dear?”

I nodded and turned away.... The door closed so quietly that I first knew when the latch ticked once how fortunately I was alone.

XIV

Maltby Phar was responsible for Togo; he had given him a little black fluff-ball with shoe-button eyes to Susan, about six months after she first came to live with me. Togo is a Chow; and a Chow is biologically classified as a dog. But if a Chow is a dog, then a Russian sable muff is a dish rag. Your Chow black, smoke blue, or red is a creation apart. He is to dogdom what Hillhouse Avenue is to Birch Street the wrong end, bien entendu. His blood is so blue that his tongue is purple; and, like Susan’s conception of Gertrude, he is a living confession of faith in the rightness of the right people, a living rebuke to the wrongness of the wrong; the right people being, of course, that master god or mistress goddess whom he worships, with their immediate entourage. No others need apply for even cursory notice, much less respect.

I am told they eat Chows in China, their native land. If they do, it must be from the motive that drove Plutarch’s Athenian to vote the banishment of Aristides ennui, to wit, kindling to rage; he had wearied to madness of hearing him always named “the Just.” Back, too, in America for I write from France there will one day be proletarian reprisals against the Chow; for in the art of cutting one dead your Chow is supreme. He goes by you casually, on tiptoe, with the glazed eye of indifference. He sees you and does not see you and will not. You may cluck, you may whistle, you may call; interest will not excite him, nor flattery move him; he passes; he “goes his unremembering way.” But let him beware! If Americans are slow to anger, they are terrible when roused. I have frequently explained this to Togo more for Susan’s sake than his own and been yawned at for my pains.

Personally, I have no complaint to make. In Togo’s eyes I am one of the right people. He has always treated me with a certain tact, though with a certain reserve. Only to Susan does he prostrate himself with an almost mystical ecstasy of devotion. Only for her does his feathered tail-arc quiver, do his ears lie back, his calm ebon lips part in an unmistakably adoring smile. But there is much else, I admit, to be said for him; he never barks his deep menacing bark without cause; and as a mere objet d’art, when well combed, he is superb. Ming porcelains are nothing to him; he is perhaps the greatest decorative achievement of the unapproachably decorative East....

But for Tumps, my peculiar legacy, I have nothing good to say and no apologies to offer. Like Calverley’s parrot, he still lives “he will not die.” Tumps is a tomcat. And not only is he a tomcat, he is a hate-scarred noctivagant, owning but an ear and a half, and a poor third of tail. His design was botched at birth, and has since been degraded; his color is unpleasant; his expression is ferocious and utterly sincere. He has no friends in the world but Susan and Sonia, and Sonia cannot safely keep him with her because of the children.

Out of the night he came, shortly after Togo’s arrival; starved for once into submission and dragging himself across the garden terrace to Susan’s feet. And she accepted this devil’s gift, this household scourge. I never did, nor did Togo; but we were finally subdued by fear. Those baleful eyes cursing us from dim corners Togo, Togo, shall we ever forget them! Separately or together, we have more than once failed to enter a dusky room, toward twilight, where those double phosphors burned from your couch corner or out from beneath my easy-chair.

But nothing would move Susan to give Tumps up so long as he cared to remain; and Tumps cared. Small wonder! Nursed back to health and rampageous vivacity, he soon mastered the neighborhood, peopled it with his ill-favored offspring, and wailed his obscene balladry to the moon. Hillhouse Avenue protested, en bloc. The Misses Carstairs, whose slumbers had more than once been postponed, and whose white Persian, Desdemona, had been debauched, threatened traps, poison and the law. Professor Emeritus Gillingwater attempted murder one night with a .22 rifle, but only succeeded in penetrating the glass roof of his neighbor’s conservatory.

Susan was unmoved, defending her own; she would not listen to any plea, and she mocked at reprisals. Those were the early days of her coming, when I could not force myself to harsh measures; and happily Tumps, having lost some seven or eight lives, did with the years grow more sedate, though no more amiable. But the point is, he stayed and, I repeat, lives to this hour on my distant, grudging bounty.

Such was the charge lightly laid upon me....

Oh, Susan Susan! For once, resentment will out! May you suffer, shamed to contrition, as you read these lines! Tumps and I say it now boldly is “no damn good.”

XV

I am clinging to this long chapter as if I were still clinging to Susan’s hand on the wind-swept station platform, hoarding time by infinitesimally split seconds, dreading her inevitable escape. Phil by request, I suspect did not come down; and Susan forbade me to enter the train with her, having previously forbidden me to accompany her to town. Togo was forward, amid crude surroundings, riling the brakemen with his disgusted disdain. Miss Goucher had already said a decorous but sincerely felt good-by, and had taken her place inside.

“Let’s not be silly, Ambo,” Susan whispered. “After all, you’ll be down soon won’t you? You’re always running to New York.”

Then, unexpectedly, she snatched her hand from mine, threw her arms tight round my neck, and for a reckless public moment sobbed and kissed me. With that she was gone.... I turned, too, at once, meaning flight from the curious late-comers pressing toward the car steps. One of them distinctly addressed me.

“Good morning, Ambrose. Don’t worry about your charming little ward. She’ll be quite safe away from you. I’ll keep a friendly eye on her going down.”

It was Lucette.