“Well, I guess she’s given him the grand bounce at last,” said Fulkerson to March in one of their moments of confidence at the office.  “That’s Mad’s inference from appearances ­and disappearances; and some little hints from Alma Leighton.”

“Well, I don’t know that I have any criticisms to offer,” said March.  “It may be bad for Beaton, but it’s a very good thing for Miss Leighton.  Upon the whole, I believe I congratulate her.”

“Well, I don’t know.  I always kind of hoped it would turn out the other way.  You know I always had a sneaking fondness for the fellow.”

“Miss Leighton seems not to have had.”

“It’s a pity she hadn’t.  I tell you, March, it ain’t so easy for a girl to get married, here in the East, that she can afford to despise any chance.”

“Isn’t that rather a low view of it?”

“It’s a common-sense view.  Beaton has the making of a first-rate fellow in him.  He’s the raw material of a great artist and a good citizen.  All he wants is somebody to take him in hand and keep him from makin’ an ass of himself and kickin’ over the traces generally, and ridin’ two or three horses bareback at once.”

“It seems a simple problem, though the metaphor is rather complicated,” said March.  “But talk to Miss Leighton about it.  I haven’t given Beaton the grand bounce.”

He began to turn over the manuscripts on his table, and Fulkerson went away.  But March found himself thinking of the matter from time to time during the day, and he spoke to his wife about it when he went home.  She surprised him by taking Fulkerson’s view of it.

“Yes, it’s a pity she couldn’t have made up her mind to have him.  It’s better for a woman to be married.”

“I thought Paul only went so far as to say it was well.  But what would become of Miss Leighton’s artistic career if she married?”

“Oh, her artistic career!” said Mrs. March, with matronly contempt of it.

“But look here!” cried her husband.  “Suppose she doesn’t like him?”

“How can a girl of that age tell whether she likes any one or not?”

“It seems to me you were able to tell at that age, Isabel.  But let’s examine this thing. (This thing!  I believe Fulkerson is characterizing my whole parlance, as well as your morals.) Why shouldn’t we rejoice as much at a non-marriage as a marriage?  When we consider the enormous risks people take in linking their lives together, after not half so much thought as goes to an ordinary horse trade, I think we ought to be glad whenever they don’t do it.  I believe that this popular demand for the matrimony of others comes from our novel-reading.  We get to thinking that there is no other happiness or good-fortune in life except marriage; and it’s offered in fiction as the highest premium for virtue, courage, beauty, learning, and saving human life.  We all know it isn’t.  We know that in reality marriage is dog cheap, and anybody can have it for the asking ­if he keeps asking enough people.  By-and-by some fellow will wake up and see that a first-class story can be written from the anti-marriage point of view; and he’ll begin with an engaged couple, and devote his novel to disengaging them and rendering them separately happy ever after in the denouement.  It will make his everlasting fortune.”

“Why don’t you write it, Basil?” she asked.  “It’s a delightful idea.  You could do it splendidly.”

He became fascinated with the notion.  He developed it in detail; but at the end he sighed and said:  “With this ‘Every Other Week’ work on my hands, of course I can’t attempt a novel.  But perhaps I sha’n’t have it long.”

She was instantly anxious to know what he meant, and the novel and Miss Leighton’s affair were both dropped out of their thoughts.  “What do you mean?  Has Mr. Fulkerson said anything yet?”

“Not a word.  He knows no more about it than I do.  Dryfoos hasn’t spoken, and we’re both afraid to ask him.  Of course, I couldn’t ask him.”

“No.”

“But it’s pretty uncomfortable, to be kept hanging by the gills so, as Fulkerson says.”

“Yes, we don’t know what to do.”

March and Fulkerson said the same to each other; and Fulkerson said that if the old man pulled out, he did not know what would happen.  He had no capital to carry the thing on, and the very fact that the old man had pulled out would damage it so that it would be hard to get anybody else to put it.  In the mean time Fulkerson was running Conrad’s office-work, when he ought to be looking after the outside interests of the thing; and he could not see the day when he could get married.

“I don’t know which it’s worse for, March:  you or me.  I don’t know, under the circumstances, whether it’s worse to have a family or to want to have one.  Of course ­of course!  We can’t hurry the old man up.  It wouldn’t be decent, and it would be dangerous.  We got to wait.”

He almost decided to draw upon Dryfoos for some money; he did not need any, but, he said maybe the demand would act as a hint upon him.  One day, about a week after Alma’s final rejection of Beaton, Dryfoos came into March’s office.  Fulkerson was out, but the old man seemed not to have tried to see him.

He put his hat on the floor by his chair, after he sat down, and looked at March awhile with his old eyes, which had the vitreous glitter of old. eyes stimulated to sleeplessness.  Then he said, abruptly, “Mr. March, how would you like to take this thing off my hands?”

“I don’t understand, exactly,” March began; but of course he understood that Dryfoos was offering to let him have ‘Every Other Week’ on some terms or other, and his heart leaped with hope.

The old man knew he understood, and so he did not explain.  He said:  “I am going to Europe, to take my family there.  The doctor thinks it might do my wife some good; and I ain’t very well myself, and my girls both want to go; and so we’re goin’.  If you want to take this thing off my hands, I reckon I can let you have it in ’most any shape you say.  You’re all settled here in New York, and I don’t suppose you want to break up, much, at your time of life, and I’ve been thinkin’ whether you wouldn’t like to take the thing.”

The word, which Dryfoos had now used three times, made March at last think of Fulkerson; he had been filled too full of himself to think of any one else till he had mastered the notion of such wonderful good fortune as seemed about falling to him.  But now he did think of Fulkerson, and with some shame and confusion; for he remembered how, when Dryfoos had last approached him there on the business of his connection with ‘Every Other Week,’ he had been very haughty with him, and told him that he did not know him in this connection.  He blushed to find how far his thoughts had now run without encountering this obstacle of etiquette.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Fulkerson?” he asked.

“No, I hain’t.  It ain’t a question of management.  It’s a question of buying and selling.  I offer the thing to you first.  I reckon Fulkerson couldn’t get on very well without you.”

March saw the real difference in the two cases, and he was glad to see it, because he could act more decisively if not hampered by an obligation to consistency.  “I am gratified, of course, Mr. Dryfoos; extremely gratified; and it’s no use pretending that I shouldn’t be happy beyond bounds to get possession of ‘Every Other Week.’  But I don’t feel quite free to talk about it apart from Mr. Fulkerson.”

“Oh, all right!” said the old man, with quick offence.

March hastened to say:  “I feel bound to Mr. Fulkerson in every way.  He got me to come here, and I couldn’t even seem to act without him.”

He put it questioningly, and the old man answered: 

“Yes, I can see that.  When ’ll he be in?  I can wait.”  But he looked impatient.

“Very soon, now,” said March, looking at his watch.  “He was only to be gone a moment,” and while he went on to talk with Dryfoos, he wondered why the old man should have come first to speak with him, and whether it was from some obscure wish to make him reparation for displeasures in the past, or from a distrust or dislike of Fulkerson.  Whichever light he looked at it in, it was flattering.

“Do you think of going abroad soon?” he asked.

“What?  Yes ­I don’t know ­I reckon.  We got our passage engaged.  It’s on one of them French boats.  We’re goin’ to Paris.”

“Oh!  That will be interesting to the young ladies.”

“Yes.  I reckon we’re goin’ for them.  ’Tain’t likely my wife and me would want to pull up stakes at our age,” said the old man, sorrowfully.

“But you may find it do you good, Mr. Dryfoos,” said March, with a kindness that was real, mixed as it was with the selfish interest he now had in the intended voyage.

“Well, maybe, maybe,” sighed the old man; and he dropped his head forward.  “It don’t make a great deal of difference what we do or we don’t do, for the few years left.”

“I hope Mrs. Dryfoos is as well as usual,” said March, finding the ground delicate and difficult.

“Middlin’, middlin’,” said the old man.  “My daughter Christine, she ain’t very well.”

“Oh,” said March.  It was quite impossible for him to affect a more explicit interest in the fact.  He and Dryfoos sat silent for a few moments, and he was vainly casting about in his thought for something else which would tide them over the interval till Fulkerson came, when he heard his step on the stairs.

“Hello, hello!” he said.  “Meeting of the clans!” It was always a meeting of the clans, with Fulkerson, or a field day, or an extra session, or a regular conclave, whenever he saw people of any common interest together.  “Hain’t seen you here for a good while, Mr. Dryfoos.  Did think some of running away with ‘Every Other Week’ one while, but couldn’t seem to work March up to the point.”

He gave Dryfoos his hand, and pushed aside the papers on the corner of March’s desk, and sat down there, and went on briskly with the nonsense he could always talk while he was waiting for another to develop any matter of business; he told March afterward that he scented business in the air as soon as he came into the room where he and Dryfoos were sitting.

Dryfoos seemed determined to leave the word to March, who said, after an inquiring look at him, “Mr. Dryfoos has been proposing to let us have ‘Every Other Week,’ Fulkerson.”

“Well, that’s good; that suits yours truly; March & Fulkerson, publishers and proprietors, won’t pretend it don’t, if the terms are all right.”

“The terms,” said the old man, “are whatever you want ’em.  I haven’t got any more use for the concern ­” He gulped, and stopped; they knew what he was thinking of, and they looked down in pity.  He went on:  “I won’t put any more money in it; but what I’ve put in a’ready can stay; and you can pay me four per cent.”

He got upon his feet; and March and Fulkerson stood, too.

“Well, I call that pretty white,” said Fulkerson.  “It’s a bargain as far as I’m concerned.  I suppose you’ll want to talk it over with your wife, March?”

“Yes; I shall,” said March.  “I can see that it’s a great chance; but I want to talk it over with my wife.”

“Well, that’s right,” said the old man.  “Let me hear from you tomorrow.”

He went out, and Fulkerson began to dance round the room.  He caught March about his stalwart girth and tried to make him waltz; the office-boy came to the door and looked on with approval.

“Come, come, you idiot!” said March, rooting himself to the carpet.

“It’s just throwing the thing into our mouths,” said Fulkerson.  “The wedding will be this day week.  No cards!  Teedle-lumpty-diddle!  Teedle-lumpty-dee!  What do you suppose he means by it, March?” he asked, bringing himself soberly up, of a sudden.  “What is his little game?  Or is he crazy?  It don’t seem like the Dryfoos of my previous acquaintance.”

“I suppose,” March suggested, “that he’s got money enough, so that he don’t care for this ­”

“Pshaw!  You’re a poet!  Don’t you know that the more money that kind of man has got, the more he cares for money?  It’s some fancy of his ­like having Lindau’s funeral at his house ­By Jings, March, I believe you’re his fancy!”

“Oh, now!  Don’t you be a poet, Fulkerson!”

“I do!  He seemed to take a kind of shine to you from the day you wouldn’t turn off old Lindau; he did, indeed.  It kind of shook him up.  It made him think you had something in you.  He was deceived by appearances.  Look here!  I’m going round to see Mrs. March with you, and explain the thing to her.  I know Mrs. March!  She wouldn’t believe you knew what you were going in for.  She has a great respect for your mind, but she don’t think you’ve got any sense.  Heigh?”

“All right,” said March, glad of the notion; and it was really a comfort to have Fulkerson with him to develop all the points; and it was delightful to see how clearly and quickly she seized them; it made March proud of her.  She was only angry that they had lost any time in coming to submit so plain a case to her.

Mr. Dryfoos might change his mind in the night, and then everything would be lost.  They must go to him instantly, and tell him that they accepted; they must telegraph him.

“Might as well send a district messenger; he’d get there next week,” said Fulkerson.  “No, no!  It ’ll all keep till to-morrow, and be the better for it.  If he’s got this fancy for March, as I say, he ain’t agoing to change it in a single night.  People don’t change their fancies for March in a lifetime.  Heigh?”

When Fulkerson turned up very early at the office next morning, as March did, he was less strenuous about Dryfoos’s fancy for March.  It was as if Miss Woodburn might have blown cold upon that theory, as something unjust to his own merit, for which she would naturally be more jealous than he.

March told him what he had forgotten to tell him the day before, though he had been trying, all through their excited talk, to get it in, that the Dryfooses were going abroad.

“Oh, ho!” cried Fulkerson.  “That’s the milk in the cocoanut, is it?  Well, I thought there must be something.”

But this fact had not changed Mrs. March at all in her conviction that it was Mr. Dryfoos’s fancy for her husband which had moved him to make him this extraordinary offer, and she reminded him that it had first been made to him, without regard to Fulkerson.  “And perhaps,” she went on, “Mr. Dryfoos has been changed –­softened; and doesn’t find money all in all any more.  He’s had enough to change him, poor old man!”

“Does anything from without change us?” her husband mused aloud.  “We’re brought up to think so by the novelists, who really have the charge of people’s thinking, nowadays.  But I doubt it, especially if the thing outside is some great event, something cataclysmal, like this tremendous sorrow of Dryfoos’s.”

“Then what is it that changes us?” demanded his wife, almost angry with him for his heresy.

“Well, it won’t do to say, the Holy Spirit indwelling.  That would sound like cant at this day.  But the old fellows that used to say that had some glimpses of the truth.  They knew that it is the still, small voice that the soul heeds, not the deafening blasts of doom.  I suppose I should have to say that we didn’t change at all.  We develop.  There’s the making of several characters in each of us; we are each several characters, and sometimes this character has the lead in us, and sometimes that.  From what Fulkerson has told me of Dryfoos, I should say he had always had the potentiality of better things in him than he has ever been yet; and perhaps the time has come for the good to have its chance.  The growth in one direction has stopped; it’s begun in another; that’s all.  The man hasn’t been changed by his son’s death; it stunned, it benumbed him; but it couldn’t change him.  It was an event, like any other, and it had to happen as much as his being born.  It was forecast from the beginning of time, and was as entirely an effect of his coming into the world ­”

“Basil!  Basil!” cried his wife.  “This is fatalism!”

“Then you think,” he said, “that a sparrow falls to the ground without the will of God?” and he laughed provokingly.  But he went on more soberly:  “I don’t know what it all means Isabel though I believe it means good.  What did Christ himself say?  That if one rose from the dead it would not avail.  And yet we are always looking for the miraculous!  I believe that unhappy old man truly grieves for his son, whom he treated cruelly without the final intention of cruelty, for he loved him and wished to be proud of him; but I don’t think his death has changed him, any more than the smallest event in the chain of events remotely working through his nature from the beginning.  But why do you think he’s changed at all?  Because he offers to sell me Every Other Week on easy terms?  He says himself that he has no further use for the thing; and he knows perfectly well that he couldn’t get his money out of it now, without an enormous shrinkage.  He couldn’t appear at this late day as the owner, and sell it to anybody but Fulkerson and me for a fifth of what it’s cost him.  He can sell it to us for all it’s cost him; and four per cent. is no bad interest on his money till we can pay it back.  It’s a good thing for us; but we have to ask whether Dryfoos has done us the good, or whether it’s the blessing of Heaven.  If it’s merely the blessing of Heaven, I don’t propose being grateful for it.”

March laughed again, and his wife said, “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s business,” he assented.  “Business is business; but I don’t say it isn’t disgusting.  Lindau had a low opinion of it.”

“I think that with all his faults Mr. Dryfoos is a better man than Lindau,” she proclaimed.

“Well, he’s certainly able to offer us a better thing in ’Every Other Week,’” said March.

She knew he was enamoured of the literary finish of his cynicism, and that at heart he was as humbly and truly grateful as she was for the good-fortune opening to them.