Whether Jarvis Thornton would have yielded again of his own accord to the impulse to travel Four Corners-ward remained unsolved. He had on hand some experiments that he was undertaking for a paper which he had to deliver at the close of the month. His day of dissipation seemed to spur him on once more along the accustomed path, and only in the few lazy moments at the end of the day did his mind recur to the still meadows baked in the June sun, and to the woman who had tempted him into a dangerous world. One evening, when he was speculating luxuriously on that day of impulse, Roper Ellwell knocked at his door and entered.

Ellwell had never been there before. Jarvis Thornton had seen him from time to time at the A. O.; but a fast set, the Roper-Ellwell crowd, having made the club over into a drinking and poker-playing establishment, he had ceased to go there frequently. Ellwell was considerably battered, Thornton noticed, as he invited him, coolly, to take a seat and help himself to a cigar. He had come to pour himself out, and a dirty enough story there was to tell. He had been dropped from Camberton for general inadequacy; but that was the least of his troubles.

“I could go to the old man and tell him that,” he explained, “his own record at Camberton wasn’t any too fine, and he has a grudge against the old place. I am in here for a lot of money, which he will have to stand. But ”

Thornton looked at him unsympathetically, without commenting on his story. Why should he be troubled with the Ellwell excesses in the fourth generation? He failed yet to see the point to all these confidences.

“Your break-up is fairly complete,” he said at last, coldly. “Many go down here, make a slip and bark their shins, but you have used two years in doing for yourself altogether.”

Roper Ellwell hung his head.

“So the Dean said; and there’s something else.” Jarvis Thornton ceased to smoke as he went on. “I am married; the old man will never stand that, and it will break up the mater and my sisters fearfully.” In short, he had come to Thornton, with the confidence that an acquaintance with an older man inspires, to beg him to break the news to his people. Imbéciles gravitate to the strong.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” Thornton inquired, sick of the foolish affair. But one glance at the drooping, disjointed, miserable figure before him answered his question. He sat for some minutes debating the point with himself. He could make a conventional excuse, and play the man of the world, who did not involve himself with unpleasant people. But his imagination presented the picture of the two sad women; their last hope knocked away by this cropping out of the family blight. Perhaps he could put it to them in a better light than either Roper or his father. He saw again the girl’s face standing on the lawn in the summer twilight a face that must be constantly sad.

“Well,” he said, “is she a bad lot, the woman you have induced to share your future?”

Young Ellwell was too miserable to take fire at this brutality.

“No, she isn’t their sort though; she is a Swedish girl; she is a nurse in a hospital.”

“You were forced to marry her?” the older man asked.

Ellwell nodded assent.

“And now she is making it uncomfortable for you.”

“I am trying to find something to do,” the young fellow protested. “Then I won’t trouble them; but if I go down there the old man will fling me out of the house.”

In short, Jarvis Thornton rose early the next morning, and before the sun had heated the road, was on his way to the Four Corners. There was not much that he could do, after all, in his pitiful errand; at least, for the mother. One more insult for her to accept, to be borne in stupid passivity. But for the daughter who had to live, it would be a different question; and by the time he had reached Middleton, he had not made up his mind how the tale was to be told.

It was warm when he walked his horse over the gravelled drive at the Four Corners. Mrs. Ellwell and her elder daughter were sitting on the piazza sewing. Pete was washing carriages; the dogs were asleep in the grass. The place was quiet and in peace. The women received him cordially; a bright color spread over the girl’s face with a contented smile that seemed to speak intimately to him. He plunged into his business quickly, putting the case sympathetically before them. They listened without a word, the girl’s face trembling and twitching slightly. Ruby had joined them, and Thornton interrupted his story, but Mrs. Ellwell motioned him to go ahead. While he was talking he hunted about for some bit of light to throw on the situation at the end. “He wants to go away, and it might be best, if we can find something for him. I have an uncle in Minnesota on a railroad. He might find a little place to transplant him to.” He stopped.

“You have an uncle in Minnesota,” Mrs. Ellwell repeated, mechanically, her dry eyes staring idealess at him. “You are very, very kind.” She rose and walked into the house.

“Fool,” Ruby muttered; her dark face flamed up angrily. Thornton noticed how much she resembled her handsome father. She had more fire in her than Roper second. “I suppose he hadn’t pluck enough to come home with his own story. Father will be pretty mad. What did he marry that woman for!”

“Well,” Thornton answered, calmly. “Perhaps we can build on that, the fact that he did marry her. That seems to me the most promising part of it.”

The young girl cast a contemptuous glance at him and rustled into the house after her mother. Miss Ellwell had not uttered a word; her face was bent over her work; and he noticed a few suspicious spots on the dark linen cloth she was hemming. He turned his face away to the sunny lawn and the dark, full-leaved trees that lay beyond the road. A flock of sparrows were rowing in sharp tones among the leaves. The house-dog picked himself up lazily and walked over to Thornton, placing a wet muzzle on his trousers. The place was so peaceful, such a nest of an old Puritan! And here were the demons that the divine had warred against holding his home as their arsenal. When he permitted himself to turn his face to the girl at his side, she was grave and pale, and somehow exhausted. All the weariness of the struggle between flesh and will seated itself in her heavy-lidded, sad eyes.

“You must be a brave woman and help him,” Thornton said, feeling the conventionality and silliness of any remark. “He mustn’t be hounded out of here like a dog, but made to feel that he can make a decent future.” She nodded. “It isn’t the money,” she said at last. “Though I can’t see where it will come from. Nor the marriage, but the perpetual disgrace. It goes on increasing. We are all bad, worn out; dear old grandpapa was the last good one. It is what you call a curse, a disintegration. Why struggle? If we could all go to sleep and sleep it off? There is nothing ahead, nothing ahead!”

“That is folly,” Thornton explained. “We have all been held in thrall by this curse of heredity. It has been talked at us, and written at us, and proved to us, until it makes us cowards!”

She looked at him sadly.

“‘The sins of the fathers unto the third and fourth generation,’” she repeated.

“Damn!” He rose excitedly. “That is the most awful doctrine in the Bible, and we have believed it like sheep until we really make it true. When a weak man wants to go to thunder, he thinks of an uncle who was a drunkard, or a father who was a thief, and he goes and does likewise. Naturally! And now science comes along and says it isn’t so, or at any rate there is strong doubt about it. In a few years we may prove that it isn’t so and free mankind from that superstitious curse.”

The girl comprehended him but half. “Why, I think that old grandfather Roper must have been a very passionate man, who fought against himself and conquered.”

“Yes,” Thornton admitted, “there was a lot of vice bottled up among the Puritan saints. It has been spilling out ever since, but that makes no difference,” he went on vehemently to explain his theories. Somehow, now that his heart was touched, he put passion and conviction into what his sober reason held as speculation. He made clear to her the newest theories from Germany. He had come out as a diplomat in a distasteful cause; he became a pleader full of conviction. His imagination woke into a flame, and he saw anew, vitally, all the old problems that he had handled coldly in the laboratory. The woman sat dumbly, sucking in his statements and arguments. Then, as they stood on the grass waiting for Pete to bring up his nag, she said:

“We are free, you think.” Her mind was laboring with his words.

“In a large measure, we can start fresh: the die is not cast beforehand.” He added less warmly.

“But we copy what is about us. If we can’t escape from what you call the current of ideals we are born in, what difference does it make? It amounts to the same thing!”

She, the woman, pleaded with him, the man, to free her, to take her away. He answered, tenderly:

“We can; each one can live his own life as a stranger to his shipmates. You have done so.”

“It means a sacrifice. Some one must lift us. From some other life we could get the strength, and that other one loses just so much as he gives.”

Thornton’s brows contracted. She read the comment of reason that ran beside his text.

“Who knows? Everything can’t be weighed in scales.”

She did not ask him if he would return; she knew in her heart that he would.