"That's your song. It must have been written for you," he cried. "You are the butterfly girl when you sing like that."

"Bis!" cried Jack, clapping his hands.

She was very obliging and sang again and again. I was silent and quite content. The shadow did not fall upon Jerry again that night. I was almost ready to believe he had forgotten that such a person as Marcia Van Wyck lived in the world. Who could have resisted the gentle appeal of Una's purity, friendliness and charm? Not I. Nor Jack. He followed the mood of her songs like a huge chameleon, silent when she sang of sadness, tender when she sang of love, and joyous with her joy.

When she got up from the piano he rose.

"I wonder why I can find so few evenings like this," he sighed.

"It's so fearfully old-fashioned, Victorian, to be simple nowadays," she laughed.

"That's it," he cried. "The terror of your modern hostess, simplicity. You can't go out to dine unless some madwoman drags you away from your coffee to the auction table, where other madmen and madwomen scowl at you all the evening over their cards. Or else they dance. Dance! Dance! Hop! Skip! Not like joyous gamboling lambs but with set faces, as though there was nothing else in the world but the martyrdom of their feet. Mad! All mad! Please don't tell me that you dance, Miss Habberton."

"I do," she laughed, "and I love it."

"Youth!" Jack sighed and relapsed into silence.

The evening passed in general conversation, interesting conversation which the world, it seems, has come to think is almost a lost art, not the least interesting part of which was Una's contribution on some of the lighter aspects of Blank Street. And I couldn't help comparing again the philosophy of this girl, the philosophy of helpfulness, with the bestial selfishness of the point of view of the so-called Freudians who, as I have been credibly informed, only live to glut themselves with the filth of their own baser instincts. Self-elimination as against self-expression, or since we are brute-born, merely self-animalization! Una Habberton's philosophy and Marcia Van Wyck's! Any but a blind man could run and read, or if need be, read and run.

Mrs. Habberton was tired and went up early, her daughter accompanying her. I saw Jerry eyeing the girl rather wistfully at the foot of the stair. I think he was pleading with her to come down again but she only smiled at him brightly and I heard her say, "Tomorrow, Jerry."

"Shall we fish?"

"That will be fine."

"Just you and I?"

"If you think," and she laughed with careless gayety, "if you think Marcia won't object."

"Oh, I say—" But his jaw fell and he frowned a little.

"Good-night, Jerry, dear," she flung at him from the curve of the landing.

"Good-night, Una," he called.

The telephone bell rang the next morning before the breakfast hour and Jerry was called to it. I was in my study and the door was open. I couldn't help hearing. Marcia Van Wyck was on the wire. I couldn't hear her voice but Jerry's replies were illuminating.

"I couldn't," I heard him say, "I had guests to dinner."

Fortunately neither Una nor her mother was down.

"I didn't tell you," he replied to her question. "It was—er—rather sudden. Miss Habberton and her mother. They're staying here for a few days. How are you—? Oh, I don't see why you—What difference does that make—? Won't you come over this afternoon? Please. Why not—? I'm awfully anxious to see you. Why, I couldn't, Marcia, not just now and besides—What—?"

Apparently she had rung off. He tried to get her number and when he got it came away from the instrument suddenly, for the girl had evidently refused to talk to him.

At the breakfast table, to which the ladies but not Jack Ballard descended, he was very quiet. I pitied him, but led the conversation into easy paths in which after a while he joined us. I saw Una glancing at him curiously, but no personal comment passed and when we went out on the shaded terrace to look down toward the lake, over the shimmering summer landscape, Una took a deep breath and then gave a long sigh of delight.

"Isn't it wonderful just to live on a day like this?" And then with a laugh, "Jerry, you simply must give us Horsham Manor as a fresh air farm."

He smiled slowly.

"It would do nicely, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, yes, splendidly. Five thousand acres! That would be an acre apiece for every man, woman and child in the whole district. We would build mills by the lake, factories along the road and tenements in groups on the hills over there. It might spoil the landscape, but it would be so—er—so satisfying."

"And you'd want me to pay the bills," he laughed.

"Oh, yes. Of course. What are bills for unless to be paid?"

"Help yourself," he smiled. "Will you have the deeds made out today or wait until next week?"

"I suppose I might wait until tomorrow."

"Oh, thanks. And, for the present, we'll go fishing."

"I'll be ready in a moment." And she went upstairs for her hat and gloves.

Already he yielded again to the spell of her comradeship and humor. And a moment later I saw them set off toward the Sweetwater, Una glowing with quiet delight, Jerry slowly showing the infection of her happiness.

The nature of Una's conversation with Jerry during that morning of fishing and in the days that followed must always remain a secret to me. I know that when they returned Jerry was in a cheerful mood and put through an afternoon of tennis with Jack, while Una and her mother knitted in the shade. She was wholesome, that girl, and no one could be with her long without feeling the impress of her personality. But I was not happy. Marcia hung like a millstone around my neck. I knew that it was at the risk of a considerable sacrifice of pride that Una had decided to come with her mother and make this visit. The world and her own frequent contact with women of the baser sort had sharpened her wits and instincts amazingly. I am sure that she was just as well aware of the nature of Jerry's infatuation as though Jerry had told it himself. If Una cared for him as deeply as I had had the temerity to suppose, then her position was difficult—painful and thankless. But whatever her own wish to help him, I am sure that the nature of the desire was unselfish. After events prove that. All that Una saw in the situation of Jerry and Marcia was a friend who needed helping, who was worth helping from the snare of an utterly worldly and heartless woman. I am sure that her knowledge of the world must have made her task seem hopeless and it must have taken some courage to pit her own charm in the lists against one of Marcia's known quality. But if she was unhappy, no sign of it reached my eyes. Only her mother, who sometimes raised her eyes and calmly regarded her daughter, had an inkling of what was in Una's heart.

Jerry went no more to the telephone. I kept an eye on it and I know. And when his car went out, Una or Jack went with him. Three days passed with no telephone calls from Briar Hills. When Jerry's guests were with him, the duties of hospitality seemed sacred to him and he left nothing undone for their comfort or entertainment. At night Una sang to us, and Jerry was himself, but during most of the day he moved mechanically, only speaking to Jack or me when directly addressed.

"Acts like a sleepwalker," said Jack to me. "It's hypnotic, sheer moon-madness!"

Only Una had the power to draw him out of himself. He always had a smile for her and a friendly word, but I knew that she knew that she had failed. Jerry was possessed of a devil, a she-devil, that none of the familiar friendly gods could cast out.

The end came soon and with a startling suddenness. We were out driving in Jack's motor one morning before lunch, Jack at the wheel, with Una beside him, Jerry and I in the rear seat, when in passing along a quiet road not far from Briar Hills, we saw at some distance ahead of us and going our way, a red runabout, containing a man and a girl. Jack was running the car very slowly, as the road was none too good, and we ran close up behind the pair before they were aware of us. I saw Jerry lean forward in his seat, peering with the strange set look I had recently seen so often in his eyes. I followed his gaze and, as I looked, the man in the red car put his arm around the girl's neck and she raised her chin and they kissed. All of us saw it. Jack chuckled and blew his horn violently. The pair drew apart suddenly and the man tried quickly to get away, but Jack with a laugh had already put on the power and we passed them before they could get up speed. The girl hid her face but the man was Channing Lloyd.

Jerry had recognized them. I saw him start up in his seat, turning around, but I caught at his wrist and held him. He was deathly pale, ugly, dangerous. But he made no further move. During the ride home he sat as though frozen fast into his seat with no word for me or for our companions, who had not turned or spoken to us. I think that Jack suspected and Una knew and feared to look at Jerry's face. By the time we reached the house Jerry had managed to control himself. The dangerous look upon his face was succeeded by a glacial calm, which lasted through luncheon, of which he ate nothing. Jack did his best to bring an atmosphere of unconcern but failed and we got up from the table aware of impending trouble. Then Jerry disappeared.



CHAPTER XXIV

FEET OF CLAY

It is with some reluctance that I begin these chapters dealing with the most terrible event in Jerry's life, and for that matter the most terrible experience in my own, for as the reader of this history must now be aware, Jerry's life was mine. I had made him, molded him for good or ill according to my own definite plan, by the results of which I had professed myself willing to stand whatever came. Had I known what these results were to be, it would have been better if I had cast myself into the sea than have come to Horsham Manor as Jerry's preceptor, the sponsor for old Benham's theory. But human wisdom is fallible, true virtue a dream. Dust we are and to dust return, groveling meanwhile as best we may, amid the wreck of our illusions. It costs me something to admit the failure of the Great Experiment, its horrible and tragic failure! To lose a hand, an eye, a limb, to be withered by disease, one can replace, repair, renew; but an ideal, a system of philosophy, ingrained into one's very life! It is this that scars and withers the soul.

I must go on, for, after all, it is not my soul that matters, but Jerry's. It was quite an hour after Jerry disappeared before I began to suspect that he had gone to Briar Hills. The last I had seen of him was when he was on his way up the stair to his own room. But when I sought him there a short while afterward, I could not find him, nor was he anywhere in the house. I questioned the servants, telephoned the garage. All the machines, including Jerry's own roadster, were in the building. I went out to question the gardeners and found a man who had seen Jerry awhile before, entering the path into the woods behind the house. Mr. Benham was hatless, the fellow said, and walked rapidly, his head bent. Even then I did not suspect where he was going. I thought that he had merely gone to "walk it off," a phrase we had for our own cure for the doldrums. But as the moments passed and he did not return, I took Jack into confidence, and expressed the fear that he had gone to Briar Hills for a reckoning with Marcia and Lloyd.

A worried look came into Jack's face, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"Let him. It's time. We can't do anything."

"We might try."

"What?"

"Go there before damage is done, bring him home."

"And make ourselves ridiculous."

"Oh, that—! I don't care."

"Well, I do. You've got to let this problem work itself out, Pope. It's gone too far. He's on the brink of disillusionment. Let it come, no matter how or what."

"But violence—!"

"Let it come. Better a violence which may cure than this quiet madness that is eating his soul away."

"But Lloyd! Jerry's strength! He might kill the brute."

"Don't fear. If the man would fight Jerry might do him damage. But he'll run, Pope. You can't kill a bounder. The breed is resilient."

"I'm afraid."

"You needn't be. This is the turning point of his affair."

"Perhaps. But in which way will it turn?"

"Wait."

I was helpless. Against my own judgment I did as he bade. We waited. We sat upon the terrace for awhile with the ladies, Jack reading aloud. Una made no comment upon Jerry's absence and gave no sign of her prescience of anything unusual, except the frequent turning of her head toward the house or toward the paths within the range of her vision, as though she hoped every moment that Jerry might appear. The shadows lengthened. Jack challenged the girl to a game of tennis and even offered to play in the double court against us both, but neither of us was willing. I think she knew where Jerry had gone and, like me, was frightened. It was a miserable afternoon. As the dinner hour approached the ladies retired to dress and I gave a sigh of relief. In my anxious state of mind the burden of entertaining them had weighed heavily upon me. It had occurred to me that Una's mother might have thought it strange that Jerry should have left them so suddenly without excuses, for he owed them an explanation at least. I think some inkling of an unusual situation had entered Mrs. Habberton's mind, for when dinner was nearly over and her host had not appeared, she made a vague remark about a letter that had come in the morning which might oblige her to curtail her visit, a tactful anticipation of any situation which might make their stay impossible. The evening dragged hopelessly and the ladies retired early, while at the foot of the stair I made some fatuous remark about Jerry's possibly having been summoned to town. The "good-nights" were said with an excess of cheerfulness on Una's part and my own which did nothing to conceal from either of us the real nature of our anxiety.

Jack and I smoked in the library, discussing every phase of the situation. The coming of night without a word or a sign from the boy had made us both a prey to the liveliest fears. Something had happened to Jerry—What? He had been wild, determined. I could not forget his look. It was the same expression I had seen at Madison Square Garden when he had made his insensate effort to knock Clancy out—a narrow glitter of the eyes, brute-keen and directed by a mind made crafty by desperation. Weary of surmises, at last we relapsed into silence, trying to read. Jack at last dozed over his book and, unable longer to remain seated, I got up, went outside and walked around the house again and again. The garage tempted me. Jerry's machine was inside. Unknown to Jack I would go myself to Briar Hills and see Miss Gore. She would know.

There was a light in the window. I turned the knob and entered. As I did so someone stooping rose and faced me. It was Jerry, a terrible figure, his clothes torn and covered with dirt, his hair matted and hanging over his eyes, which gleamed somberly out of dark circles. He had a wrench in his hand. For a moment in my timidity and uncertainty I thought him mad and about to strike me with it. But he made no move toward me and only hung his head like a whipped dog.

"You, Roger?"

"What has happened. Jerry?"

"Nothing. Don't ask."

"But Jack and I have been sitting up for you. We've been worried."

"I know. But it couldn't be helped. Just don't ask me anything, Roger."

I was glad enough to have him safe and apparently quite sane. I don't know why I should have considered his sanity at that moment of peculiar importance unless because my own mind had been all the afternoon and evening so colored with the impression of his last appearance. I had become so used to the sense of strain, of tension in his condition of mind, that the quiet, rather submissive tone of his voice affected me strangely. It seemed almost as if the disease was passing, that his fever was abated.

"I won't ask you anything, if you don't like, but I think you'd better come to the house and get a hot bath and to bed."

He remained silent for a long moment.

"I'm not going to the house, Roger. I'm going—"

He paused again.

"Going! Where?" I asked.

"I don't know just yet. Away from here, from New York—at once."

"But I can't let you go without—"

He held up his hand and I paused.

"Don't talk, Roger," he said quickly. "Don't question and don't talk. It won't do any good. I had hoped I shouldn't see you. I was waiting—waiting until the lights went out."

"But I couldn't."

"Please!" he said quietly, and then went on.

"I was going to get some things and go during the night. Now you'll have to help me. Tell Christopher to pack a bag—just a clean suit and linen—and bring it here—And—and that's all." He held out his hand with a sober smile. "Good-by, Roger," he finished.

"But I can't let you go like this."

"You've got to. Don't worry. I'm all right. I'm not going to make a fool of myself—or—or drink or anything. I've got to be alone—to do some thinking. I'll write you. Good-by."

"But Una! What shall I say?"

"Una!" He turned away and bent his head. "My God!" he said and then repeated the words below his breath, almost like a prayer, and then, turning, with a wild gesture, "Tell her anything, Roger. Say I'm all right but I can't see her. Say I had a telegram—called West on a Railroad matter—anything. Now go."

He caught me by the hand with a crushing grip while he pushed me toward the door.

"You will not—?"

"I'm all right, quite. Don't fear for me. I'll come back—soon. Now go, old chap. I'll wait for Christopher here. Hurry, please."

He spoke kindly but sharply. I could see that argument was of no avail. His mind was made up and with Jerry that was final. Whatever had happened—and from his appearance I suspected a soul-wrenching struggle—he was at least for the present physically safe and entirely sane. But it was with serious misgivings that I slipped past the somnolent Jack and upstairs to Jerry's room, where I found Christopher and together we packed a bag, descending by the back stairs, where I took the bag from Christopher's hand and sent him to bed.

In a moment I was in the garage with Jerry.

"Oh, you—!" he frowned.

"Let me go with you at least as far as town," I pleaded.

"No," gruffly. "No one." He threw the bag into the car and clambered quickly in.

"Here, your cap," I said, handing it to him. Our fingers met. He grasped mine until they pained me.

"Forgive me, Roger. I don't mean to be unkind. You're too good to me."

"Jerry, you fool!" I cried, my eyes wet.

He had started the machine and when I opened the door he moved slowly out.

"Good-by, old Dry-as-dust," he called with a wave of the hand and a rather sinister smile.

"For God's sake no drink, Jerry!" I whispered tensely.

"I promise," he said solemnly. "Good-by!"

And while I watched, he swept noiselessly around the drive and was soon lost in the blur of the trees below.

I walked slowly toward the terrace in the shadow of the trees, deep in bewilderment. What should I say to Una? Half unconsciously I glanced up at her window, the corner one over the terrace. Something white stirred and I thought I heard a sound, a faint sound, and then a strangling hush.



CHAPTER XXV

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

But all other considerations were as nothing beside the mystery of Jerry's manner and appearance, and his sudden flight filled me with the gravest fears. What had he done at Briar Hills, what horrible thing? Could it be that the boy had—? I shrank in dismay from the terrible thought that came into my mind. I went hurriedly into the house and without ceremony waked the sleeping Jack. He aroused himself with difficulty but when I told him what had happened he came quickly to life.

"You—you're sure you're not mistaken?" he asked, still bewildered.

"Haven't I told you that I saw the boy with my own eyes, that something dreadful has happened today at Briar Hills and that he's flying from the results of it? Come, Jack. We must go there at once."

"By all means," he said, springing up with an air of decision. "My car," and then as we started for the garage, "you don't mean to say that you believe the boy has—?"

The terrible words would not come. The mere thought of mentioning them frightened him as they had done me.

"How can I tell?" I said irritably.

"God knows," he muttered miserably. "Violence—but not—not that."

"Hurry," I muttered. "Hurry."

In a moment we were in the car, rushing through the night toward the lower gate. Briar Hills was not more than four miles from the Manor as the crow flies, but fully twelve by the lower road. Jack wasted no time and we sped along the empty driveways of the estate at a furious pace. The cool damp air of the lowlands refreshed and stimulated us and we were now keenly alert and thinking hard. The lodge gates were kept open now and we went roaring through them and out into the country roads where the going was not so good. Neither of us had dared to repeat our former questions which were still uppermost in our minds. The topic was prohibitive and until we knew something silence were better.

It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most, before we reached the gates of the Van Wyck place, though it seemed an age to me. Then at my suggestion Jack slowed down and we went up the drive as quietly as possible. I don't know what we expected to see when we got there, but the sight of the house with lights burning in the windows here and there did something to reassure us. After debating a plan of action we drove boldly up to the house and got out. The front door upon the veranda was wide open but there was no sound within or without. Jack was for dashing in at once and searching the premises but I took him by the arm.

"Wait," I said, "listen."

Somewhere within I thought I made out the sound of footsteps. "At least someone is about. Where's the bell? We'll ring."

I found it and though the hour was late a maid answered. She came to the door timidly, uncertainly, as though a little frightened.

"This is Mr. Canby," I explained. "I would like to see Miss Gore, please."

"I don't know, sir," she paused and then: "Wait a moment. I'll see—" and went upstairs.

We had been prepared for a wait but Miss Gore appeared almost immediately. She came down calmly, and asked us into the drawing-room.

"I was expecting you," she said with great deliberateness, "and wondered if you'd come."

"Then something—something has happened," I broke in hurriedly.

"I don't know what, exactly," she said. "I can't understand. I've thought several things—"

"Is Channing Lloyd here?" I asked excitedly.

"No. He was here to luncheon and went out with Marcia, but he didn't come back—to the house, I mean."

"But you know that he has been seen—since?"

I asked the question in terror and trembling.

"Oh, yes," she said. "One of the gardeners saw him and—"

"And Marcia?" I questioned again.

She pointed upward, where we were conscious again of the steadily moving footsteps.

"She's upstairs in her room."

I think the gasps of relief that came from each of us at this welcome news must have given Miss Gore the true measure of our anxiety, for a thin smile broke on her lips.

"Thank God," I said feelingly. "Then they're safe. What has happened, Miss Gore? Can you tell me? Jerry has gone, fled from Horsham Manor. We feared—the worst."

"I don't know what has happened, Mr. Canby," she admitted. "But it's very strange. I will tell you what I know. Marcia and Mr. Lloyd went out together after luncheon, not in a motor but afoot. I was in the garden in the afternoon cutting roses for the dinner table when I saw a figure skulking near the hedge which leads to the main drive. I wasn't frightened at all, for Dominick, the man who attends to the rose garden, was nearby, but the man's actions were queer and I sent the gardener to inquire. He went and I followed, curiously. Dominick cut across behind the hedges and came out on the lawn quite near the man, who walked with his body slightly inclined and one arm upraised and bent across his face, his hand holding a red handkerchief. I could make out his figure now. I remembered the suit of shepherd's plaid that Channing Lloyd had been wearing. There is no doubt of his identity, for Dominick confirmed me. It was Mr. Lloyd."

"But what was he bending over for?" I asked.

"I can't imagine. When Dominick spoke to him, he merely cursed the man and went on."

"Curious," said Jack thoughtfully.

"Isn't it? I can't make it out at all."

"And Marcia?" I asked.

"She came back much later. I didn't see her for she rushed into her room and locked the door. She's there now. I've tried to get to her. But she won't let me in, won't even answer me. Listen," and she pointed upward. "She's been doing that for hours. I've taken her food. She won't eat or reply. Nothing except, 'Go,' or 'Go away.' I'm at my wit's ends. I seem to be sure, Mr. Canby, that Jerry—"

"Yes," I put in. "You're right, Jerry—was here. Something has happened."

"But what?" she asked.

"He saw them together in the red motor."

"Kissing," put in Jack rather brutally.

"Ah," she said composedly. And then, "Ah, yes, I see, but why Lloyd's curious behavior and Jerry's flight?"

"It's very mysterious."

"Yes, very." Here she rose as with a sudden sense of responsibility and brought the interview to an end. I think she read farther than I did. "At all events we know that they are all alive," she said with a smile. "Perhaps no great damage is done after all."

It seemed as though she were trying to deceive herself or us, but we made no comment, presently taking our departure.

It was not until many months later that I learned what had happened on that dreadful day. Jack Ballard and the Habbertons left Horsham Manor the following afternoon and it was many weeks before I saw Una in New York, for some instinct had restrained me; not until some time after I had Jerry's first letter, just a few lines written from somewhere in Manitoba, merely telling me that he was in good health and asking me not to worry. But brief as it was, this message cheered me inexpressibly.

I could not bring myself to go to Briar Hills again, but managed a meeting with Miss Gore, who told me that Marcia was in a more than usually fiendish temper most of the time—quite unbearable, in fact. She was going away to Bar Harbor, she thought, and the certainty of Miss Gore's tenure of office depended much upon Marcia's treatment of her. They had quarreled. To be a poor relation was one thing, to be a martyr another.

She couldn't understand Marcia's humor, moody and irascible by turns, and once when Miss Gore had mentioned Jerry's name she flew into a towering rage and threw a hair brush through a mirror—a handsome mirror she particularly liked.

Jerry's affair with Marcia was ended. There could be no possible doubt about that. Further than this Miss Gore knew nothing. It was enough. I was content, so content that in my commiseration I held her hand unduly long and she asked me what I was going to do with it, and not knowing I dropped it suddenly and made my exit I fear rather awkwardly. What could I have done with it? A fine woman that, but cryptic.

It was June when Jerry left, not until midwinter that he returned to Horsham Manor. He was very much changed, older-looking, less assertive, quieter, deeper-toned, more thoughtful. It was as though the physical Jerry that I knew had been subjected to some searching test which had eliminated all superfluities, refined the good metal in him, solidified, unified him. And the physical was symbolic of the spiritual change. I knew that since that night in July the world had tried him in its alembic with its severest tests and that he had emerged safely. He was not joyous but he seemed content. Life was no longer a game. It was a study. Bitter as experience had been, it had made him. Perfect he might not be but sound, sane, wholesome. Jerry had grown to be a man!

But Jerry and I were to have new moments of rapprochement. As the days of his stay at the Manor went on, our personal relations grew closer. He spoke of his letters to Una and of hers to him, but his remarks about her were almost impersonal. It seemed as though some delicacy restrained him, some newly discovered embarrassment which made the thought of seeing her impossible and so he did not go to pay his respects to her. Indeed, he was content just to stay at the Manor with me. It seemed that the bond between us, the old brotherly bond that had existed before Jerry had gone forth into the world, had been renewed. I would have given my life for him and I think he understood. He was still much worried and talked of doing penance. Poor lad! As though he were not doing penance every moment of his days! I know that he wanted to talk, to tell me what had happened, to ask my advice, to have my judgment of him and of her. But something restrained him, perhaps the memory of the girl he had thought Marcia to be, that sublimated being, in whose veins flowed only the ichor of the gods, the goddess with the feet of clay. I told him that she had been at Bar Harbor with Channing Lloyd and that Miss Gore had told me that the two were much together in town.

"Oh, yes," he said slowly, "I know. They're even reported engaged. Perhaps they are."

There was a long silence. We were sitting in the library late one night, a month at least after he had returned, reading and talking by turns.

"She wasn't worthy of you. Jerry," I remarked.

"No, that's not true," he said, a hand shading his eyes from the lamplight. "It would be a poor creature that wouldn't be worthy of such a beast as I. But she tried me, Roger, terribly."

"She tempted you purposely. It was a game. I saw it. But you, poor blind Jerry—"

"Yes, blind and worse than blind, deaf to the appeals of my friends—you and—and Una, who saw where I did not. Marcia had promised to marry me, Roger, to be my wife. Do you understand what such a promise meant to me then? All ideals and clean thoughts. I worshiped her, did not even dare to touch her—until—Oh, I kissed her, Roger. She taught me—many things, little things, innocent they seemed in themselves at the time, but dangerous to my body and to my soul. I knew nothing. I was like a new-born babe. My God! Roger—if only you had told me! If you had told me—"

"I couldn't then, Jerry," I said softly. "It would have been too late. You wouldn't have believed—"

"No," he muttered, "you're right. I wouldn't have believed anything against her at the time or found a real meaning in the truth. She could have done no wrong. Then I saw her kissing that fellow—you remember? I think the change came in me then, my vision. I seemed to see things differently without knowing why. Rage possessed me, animal rage. I saw red. I wanted to kill."

He rose and paced the length of the room with great strides.

"I mustn't, Roger. I can't say more. It's impossible."

I was silent. A reaction had come.



CHAPTER XXVI

DRYAD AND SATYR

Little by little the story came from him. Perhaps I urged him but I think the larger impelling motive to speak was his conscience which drove him on to confession. He needed another mind, another heart, to help him bear his burden. And the years had taught him that the secrets of his lips were mine. I could be as silent, when I chose, as a mummy. He had not named me old Dry-as-dust for nothing.

It seems that when Jerry left us at the Manor that afternoon and took to the woods he had no very clear notion of what he was going to do. All that he knew was that he could not bear the sight or touch or hearing of his fellow beings, least of all of those of us who were kind to him. In fact, he had no very clear notion of anything, for his brain was whirling with terrible grinding, reiterating blows like machinery that is out of order. What thoughts he had were chaotic, mere fragments of incidents, and conversations jumbled and mostly irrelevant. But the vision of the figures in the automobile dominated all. I am sure that he was mentally unsound and that his actions were instinctive. He walked furiously, because walk he must, because violent physical exercise had always been his panacea, and because the very act of locomotion was an achievement of some sort. After awhile he found himself running swiftly along the paths that led to the Sweetwater, and then following the stream through the gorge in the hills, leaping over the rocks until he reached the wall and the broken grille. There he paused for a moment and tried to reason with himself. But he found that he could not think and that his legs still urged him on. They were bent on carrying him to Briar Hills, he knew that much now, and that he had no power to stop them. The violence of his exercise, he said, had cleared the chaos from his brain and only the vision of the red automobile remained, Marcia's roadster. He knew it well. Had he not driven it? There was no mistake. It crossed his disordered brain that red for a machine was a frightful color, a painful color it seemed to him, and he wondered why he hadn't thought that before. Red, blood color, the color that seemed to be in his eyes at that very moment. All the trees were tinged with it, the rocks, even the pools in the brook, around the edges especially—and they had always seemed so cool, so very cool.

He leaped down the rocks and before he realized it had crawled under the broken railing and was in the forest beyond. He did not run now but walked quickly and with the utmost care over fallen tree-trunks and rocks, avoiding the paths and seeking the deep woods, still moving ever nearer to his goal. He made a wide detour around the Laidlaws' place and went half a mile out of his way to avoid the sight of some farmers working in an open field. As he neared Marcia's land he grew more crafty, even crawling upon his hands and knees across a clearing where there was little cover. He had no notion as yet of what he was going to do when he got there except that he hoped to find the girl and Lloyd together.

He saw the house at last and the garden, from a distance. The house had a red roof. Red again! It glared horribly in the afternoon sunlight. He turned his head so that he might not look at it and moved stealthily around a stone wall toward the woods beyond the garden—Marcia's woods, pine woods they were, their floor carpeted with brown needles where he and she had used to go and walk of an afternoon to the rocks by Sweetwater Spring, the source of the stream, they said, which Jerry had named the "blushful Hippocrene," the fountain of the Muses who met there to do Marcia, their goddess, honor.

Marcia, his goddess. And Chan Lloyd! Would they be there? He hoped so. The whole success of his venture seemed to depend upon seeing them together. It was her favorite spot. She had led Jerry to believe that the crevice among the rocks by the spring, a natural throne sculptured by nature, was his, his only, and that he was her king. That had always seemed a very beautiful thought to Jerry. She used to sit at his feet, her arms upon his knees, look up at him and tell him of his dominion over her and all the world; her "fighting-god" he had once been, and then again her Pan, and she a dryad or an oread.

Jerry crept nearer, stealthily. He had learned the craft of the woods years ago, and made no sound. He stalked that grove with the keenness of a deerslayer, moving around through the undergrowth until he was quite near the rocks. He could hear no voices as yet, but something told him that they must be there. It was a very secluded spot; it would have been a pity to have had to go on to the house where Miss Gore and the servants would hear and see. He crawled on his hands and knees, approaching slowly and with some pains. He still heard no sound, but at last reached a ridge of rock within a few feet of the spring and heard voices, lowered, guilty voices they seemed to him. He peered cautiously over. They were there, side by side on the rocky ledge.

Jerry told me that at this moment he seemed suddenly to grow strangely calm. The noises in his head had ceased and he felt a curious sense of quiet exaltation. He couldn't explain this. I think it was a purely mental reaction after many months of spiritual coma. He got to his feet and even before they heard the sounds of his footsteps he stood before them.

They must have been very much alarmed at Jerry's appearance for, after dashing hotfoot through the underbrush and crawling among the rocks, his clothing must have been disarranged and his hair dirty and disordered. The expression of his face, too, in spite of his boasted calm, could hardly have been pleasant to contemplate, for I had had a glimpse of it that morning in the motor and I am sure that for an hour or more he had been mad—quite mad. He said that they sprang apart suddenly and that Lloyd rose with a swaggering air and faced him. But it seemed that the current of Jerry's thought was diverted by Marcia, who had started up and then sank back upon the rock, addressing him in her softest tones.

"Why, Jerry!" she cried. "How you startled me!"

It was the first time, Jerry said, that the caressing tones of the girl's voice had made no impression upon him. In two strides he was alongside of her, within arm's reach of both of them. He looked dangerous, I think, for Lloyd edged off a little. Marcia kept her gaze fixed upon his face and what she read there was hardly reassuring.

"Jerry!" she cried again. "What does this mean? Your clothes are torn; your face scratched. Has—has something happened to you?"

The question was unfortunate, for it loosened Jerry's thick tongue.

"Yes. Something's happened," he muttered, moving a hand across his brows as though to clear his thoughts. And then:

"I've waked up, that's all," he growled.

"Waked! I don't understand," her voice still gentle, appealing, incredulous.

"Yes, awake. You're false as hell."

"Oh," she started back at that and the venturesome Lloyd took a pace forward.

"I say, Benham, I—" He got no further, for Jerry without even looking at him, swept his left arm around, the gesture of a giant bothered by a troublesome insect. But it caught the fellow full in the chest, and sent him reeling backward. Jerry's business just now was with Marcia Van Wyck.

"You understand what I mean," he went on quickly. "You've played false with me. You've always played false. I saw you there this morning kissing this man, the way you kissed me, the way you kiss others for all that I know."

"You're mad. You insult me." She rose, pale and trembling, but facing him hardily.

"No, I'm not mad. Nothing that I can say can insult you."

"Chan!" She appealed.

It was a fatal mistake, for at the word Lloyd came forward again, bent on making some show of resistance. Jerry turned on him with a snarl, for the fellow had foolishly put up his hands. A few blows passed and then—Jerry told what happened rather apologetically—"It was a pity, Roger. It wasn't altogether his fault, but he is a bounder. My fist struck his face, seemed to smear it, literally, all into a blot of red. It wasn't like hitting a man in the ring, it was like—like poking a bag full of dirty linen. The whole fabric seemed to give way. He toppled back, turned a complete somersault and collapsed."

I made no comment. I already knew that Lloyd hadn't been killed. The girl Marcia seemed stricken dumb for a moment and found her voice only when Jerry turned toward her again.

"Jerry," she cried. "It is horrible. You're a brute—beast—"

Jerry only pointed at the prostrate figure slowly struggling to its knees.

"Go and kiss him," he cried. "Go. Kiss him now. He's on his knees to you, waiting for you."

While they watched, Lloyd got to his feet, turned one look of terror in Jerry's direction and then fled blindly into the woods, like one possessed of a devil.

Jerry laughed. It couldn't have been very pretty laughter, for the girl covered her face with her hands and shrank away from him.

"How could you?" she stammered. "How could you?"

"You were mine. He wanted you."

"Jerry—I—. It's all a mistake. You thought you saw us. I haven't kissed—"

"You lie," he came a pace toward her. "I saw you. I'm not a fool—not any longer."

Her gaze met his and fell. There was something in his expression, something of the primitive that tore away all subterfuge.

But she was not without courage.

"And if I did kiss him—what then?" she asked defiantly. "I'll kiss as I please."

"Will you?" He caught at her wrist but she eluded him.

"Yes, I will. What right have you to tell me what I shall do or not do? I'll choose my friends as I please and kiss them as I please, Chan or anyone!"

She had not gauged his temper. Perhaps she hadn't read the meaning in his eyes. Perhaps she thought that she could elude him or that the fact that she was on her own land gave her a fancied sense of security.

"You'll not," he cried.

"I will. What right have you to question me? You can amuse yourself with Una."

"Stop!" he thundered.

But she had found her spirit and her confidence in her ability to win him to gentleness by one means or another was returning to her. She was bold now but prepared to melt if the need required it.

"I will not stop," she cried. "You and Una. What right have you to criticize me for what you yourself—"

She stopped abruptly, for he caught her by the arm and held her. Jerry said that even yet he was timid of her delicacy—fearful of the things he had thought her to be. But he still held her, though she struggled to get away from him.

"Let me go, Jerry. You're hurting me. Please let me go."

She felt the first touch of his imperviousness when he refused to release her and chose to change her tone.

"Please let me go, Jerry," she pleaded softly. "Do you think you are treating me kindly, after all—all that is between us? I don't care for Chan—I don't, Jerry. Let me go."

In his eyes she read the new judgment.

"Then you're worse than I supposed," he muttered.

"Worse! Oh, Jerry. Don't look so—so coldly. It hurts me terribly. I must go. I can't stand your looking at me in that way."

She tried to move away, I think she had every intention of taking to her heels if Jerry had only given her the chance. But he wouldn't. He held her and kept her close beside him. He was hurting her wrist cruelly.

"Let me go," she cried, struggling anew.

Her resistance aroused him again. The animal fury of battle had not died out of his eyes. He did not know what he intended to do with her—had no plan, no purpose, he said. What plan or purpose could he have had unless murder? And even in his madness I'm sure that that never occurred to him. But his blood was hot and his anger and bitterness overwhelming. His fear of her delicacy diminished with her struggles, for her resistance inflamed him. He did not know, nor did she just then, that the animal instinct to conquer was what she had taught him, and that the turgid stream of his blood was finding new strength and unreason, a strange new impetus in every struggle. She saw her danger and was powerless to prevent it. She looked over her shoulder helplessly in the direction in which Chan Lloyd had vanished and saw no help from there. Jerry's great strength had never seemed so terrible as now. He caught her by the shoulders and held her, shook her, I think, a little, as one would shake a child, while she still struggled in his grasp. In a moment his grasp loosened a little, then tightened again, for the contact of his fingers with her warm skin was awaking the demon in him, the dormant devil she had put there.

"Oh, you're hurting me so, Jerry—so terribly."

But he did not even hear her voice. His eyes were speaking to hers, holding them with a deathly fascination. If fear was her passion she was drinking it now to the full—fear and the sense of the ruthless power and dominion in this madman of her own creation. Her hands clasped his shoulders.

"Jerry!" she screamed. "Don't look at me like that. Your eyes burn me."

"Into your soul—I will burn it—blot it out."

"Jerry, forgive me," she sobbed. "I love you."

"You lie."

"I love you. Forgive me!"

"No. You lie!"

Her arms went around his neck. And he crushed her to him, all the length of them in contact. She struggled faintly but her lips sought his in a despairing hope of pity. She found the lips, but no pity. The breath was almost gone from her body. She struggled, fighting hard, breathing his name in little panting sobs. She too was mad now, as much of an animal as Jerry, her blood coursing furiously. Her terror of herself must have been greater even than her terror of him, for she was quivering—shaken by the terrible gusts of his passion.

Suddenly she felt herself released, thrust from him. His fingers bruised the tender flesh of her shoulders but his eyes bruised her more.

"Jerry!"

His hands had caught the two sides of the flimsy shirt-waist at the breast and torn it aside, off her shoulders, off her arms.

"Have pity, Jerry," she whimpered.



"Pity, yes," he laughed wildly. "Kiss me. You want to be kissed. I'll kill you with kissing. Death like this—such a death—!"

She struggled more furiously, struck, kissed and struck again. But Jerry's madness triumphed—her own.

* * * * *

At this point Jerry hid his face in his hands, trembling violently.

"I was out of my head, Roger. Tell me that I was, for the love of God. I must have been. It was horrible. I did not know. I can scarcely remember now. Death would have been better—for her, for me—than that. My God! If only you had told me, something. I could have gone away, I think—before—But to have knowledge come like that, engulfing, flooding, drowning with its terrible bitterness. And Marcia—" He raised his head piteously, "I asked her to marry me, Roger—at once. But she only looked at me with strange eyes.

"'Marriage!' she said, 'My God!' It was almost as though I had uttered a sacrilege.

"I pleaded with her gently, but she shook me off. A fearful change had come over her. She drew away and looked at me with alien eyes.

"'Marriage!' she repeated. 'You!'

"'Marry me tomorrow, Marcia—'

"She thrust her naked arms in front of her, their tatters flying, the rags of her honor.

"'Oh, God! How I loathe you!'

"'Marcia!'

"'Go away from me. Go!'

"She put her arm before her eyes as though to shut out the sight of me.

"'For God's sake, go,' she repeated, with words that cut like knives. 'Leave me alone, alone.'

"'I must see you—tomorrow.'

"She turned on me furiously.

"'No, no, no,' she screamed, 'not tomorrow—or ever. It would kill me to see you. Kill me. Go away—never comeback. Do you hear? Never! Never!'

"She was in a harrowing condition now, mad where I was quite sane. There was nothing left for me to do. I turned as in a daze into the woods and wandered around as though only half-awake, stupidly trying to plan. At last I went back to the spring. Marcia had gone—gone out of my life—

"That's all, Roger. I wrote to her from New York, from Manitoba, from the ranch in Colorado, repeating my offer of marriage, but she has never answered me. You know the rest—" a slow and rather bitter smile crossed his features. "She goes about—with Lloyd—and others. She is gay. Her picture is in the papers and magazines—at hunt-meets—bazaars. She has forgotten—and I—No, I can never forget. She will dwell with me all the days I live. I can't forget or forgive—myself. Why, Roger, the Mission—the place that I'm giving money to support—to keep those women. You understand—I know now. She might be one of them and I—I would have brought her there."

I had been stricken dumb by the fearful revelation of Jerry's sin. I was silent, thinking of new words of comfort for him and for myself—for I was not innocent—but they would not come, and Jerry rose and walked the length of the room. "I've got to get away from it all again—somewhere. I can't stay here. Everything brings it all back. I'm going away."

"Going, Jerry? Where?"

"I don't know. I've made a kind of plan. But I mustn't tell. I don't want you to know or anyone. But I've got to leave here." He smiled a little as he saw the anxious look in my eyes. "Oh, don't worry. I'm going to be all right, I don't drink, you know."

I think he was really a little proud of that admission.

"Are you sure, Jerry," I asked after awhile, "that you care nothing for Marcia?"

He took a turn up and down the room before he replied. And then, quite calmly:

"It's curious, Roger. She has gone out of my life. Gone like—like a burned candle. I do not love her, nor ever could again, and yet I would marry her tomorrow if she would have me. I wrote her again yesterday, and I'm going to try to see her in New York. But I'll fail. My face would always be a reproach to her. I know. She is like that—bitter. I don't know that I can blame her."

It was long past midnight. Jerry went to bed. But I sat oblivious of the passing hours, wide awake, somber, my gaze fixed upon the square of the window which turned from moonlight to dark and then at last shimmered with the dusk of the dawn.



CHAPTER XXVII

REVELATIONS

It was at Jerry's request that I stayed on at Horsham Manor, working as I could upon my book, and now I think with a new knowledge of the meaning of life as I had learned it through Jerry's failure. I discovered comfort in the words of St. Paul, and prayed that out of spiritual death the seed of a new life might germinate. Jerry had told me nothing on leaving the Manor of his plans or purposes, and I made no move to seek him out, aware of a new confidence growing in me that wherever Jerry was, whatever he was doing, no new harm would come to him. He had found himself at last.

Upon the occasion of my infrequent visits to the city I did myself the honor of calling at the house in Washington Square, where I made the acquaintance of a fair majority of the feminine Habberton family, enjoying long chats with Una in which the bonds of our friendship were still more firmly cemented. She told me much of her work and of course we spoke of Jerry, but if she had any news of him she gave no sign of it, and I always left the house no wiser as to his occupation or whereabouts than when I had entered it. But in the early days of the following autumn something in her manner, I cannot tell what, perhaps the very quality of her content, advised me that she was in some sort of communication with Jerry and that she was no longer borrowing trouble in his behalf. As I made my way back to the Manor in the train next day, I found the conviction growing in my mind that Jerry must be somewhere in New York. Una's orbit had not changed. Could it be that Jerry's was adapting itself to hers? Jack Ballard had told me that Jerry had not been seen at the office and that Ballard, Senior, had washed his hands of him in despair, but had agreed to have large amounts deposited at stated intervals in the bank. Of course this proved nothing, for Jerry might have been using his bank for a forwarding address, but the little I knew fitted surprisingly well with my own guesses as to Jerry's destiny. Perhaps the wish was father to the thought. At any rate, I returned to the Manor and resumed my work with a singularly tranquil mind, aware for the first time in months of a quiet exhilaration which made the mere fact of existence a delight. Perhaps after all I—my philosophy—Jerry—were still to be vindicated!

It was not until the following summer that I learned the truth. An item in the evening paper caught my eye. It told of the wonderful boys' club that was being erected in Blank Street, by an unknown philanthropist. The building was six stories in height, covering half a block, and was to contain a large gymnasium, a marble swimming pool, an auditorium, school-rooms, drill hall for the Boy Scout organization, clubrooms, billiard and pool tables, and sleeping quarters for a small army. The story was written in the form of an interview with the representative of the philanthropist, a Mr. John V. Gillespie, who was seeing personally to every detail of the planning and construction. The boys' club had already been in existence for a year, occupying hired quarters, also under the supervision and control of the aforesaid Gillespie, who, it seemed, had the destinies of the young males of the district in which the building was situated, already in the hollow of his hand. The unknown philanthropist was Jerry, of course. I read between the lines, the marble pool which Una had envied us, the gymnasium, with "ropes to pull." Jerry and Una had frequently discussed the further needs of the district and the prospective boys' club, I knew, was one of her hobbies and his.

As may be imagined not many hours elapsed before I made a pilgrimage to the city and visited the wonderful new structure, already under roof, which was to house the heirs of Jerry's munificence. It was of truly splendid proportions and already gave roughly the shape of its different rooms, which in point of dimensions left nothing to be desired. The operation would, I should think, make short work of a million dollars and, with its endowment, two million perhaps! Jerry was beginning well.

I inquired of the superintendent for Mr. Gillespie and was informed that that gentleman could probably be found at the temporary building in the adjoining street. Thither, therefore, I went, sure that after so great a lapse of time Jerry must pardon my interest and intrusion. I was not surprised to discover that Mr. John V. Gillespie was no less a person than Jerry himself, who was at the moment of my arrival busily engaged with a Scoutmaster, helping to teach the setting-up exercises. I slipped into the room unobtrusively, a place at the rear of the building—a dance hall it had once been, as I afterwards learned—and patched the youngsters going through their drill. Jerry walked around among them, with a word here, a touch on a shoulder there, while the boys struggled manfully for perfection. Jerry was so interested that he would not have seen me had I not risen as he passed my way and offered my hand.

"Roger! By George!"

He clapped his arms around me at once and gave me a bear hug.

"Good old Dry-as-dust!" he cried, "I was wondering how soon you'd find me out."

"You're not angry?"

"Bless your heart! I've been thinking of writing you about everything, but I wanted to wait until things were a little further along."

"But Jerry—"

"Mum's the word," he whispered. "That's not my name down here."

"Yes, I know," I smiled. "I've seen it in the papers."

"Oh! You saw that? And guessed?" he grinned. Then gave some word to the Scoutmaster and led me to his office—a small room beside the entrance at the front of the building—and closed the door. In this better light I had the opportunity to examine him at my leisure while he talked. He was a little thinner in face and body, but not spare or lean. There were no shadows in his eyes, which were finely lighted by his new enthusiasm. The new fire had burned out the old. He was splendid with happiness.

"Oh! You've no idea of the fun I'm getting out of the thing, Roger. It's simply great! These boys are fine to work with. They only need a chance. I've got several hundred of 'em lined up already, all nationalities ready for the melting-pot—Jews, Italians, Irish, all religions. I've got the families lined up, too, been to see 'em all personally. Rough lot, some of 'em—and dirty! Why, Roger, I never knew there was so much filth in all the world. I'm starting to clean up the boys, inside and out, getting them jobs and keeping the idle ones off the streets. Oh! It's going to take time, but we're going to get there in the end. You've seen the new building? Isn't it a corker? I haven't been idle, have I?"

"But how on earth," I asked, "have you managed to preserve your anonymity?"

"Oh, I keep pretty dark. I don't go uptown at all. I made a visit one night to Ballard Senior and made a clean breast of things and at last he gave in. You see he had given me up as an office possibility. In three years, you know, I'll come in—to all the money. In the meanwhile we've fixed things up to provide for our immediate needs down here."

"Ours?" I queried with a smile. He colored ever so slightly but went on unperturbed.

"Yes, you know Una's helping me. I couldn't have done a thing without Una. Her experience in dealing with these people has been simply invaluable. I thought—" he stopped to laugh—"I thought that all I had to do was just to spend the money and everything would work out all right. I made a lot of mistakes with these families at first, did a lot of harm in a way, offending the proud ones, spoiling the weak ones and all that, but I've learned a lot since I've been down here. We've devised a plan—a scientific one. It's really beautiful how it works. We're going to make these boys all self-supporting and give 'em an education at the same time: manual training, industrial art and science and all the rest of it. Here! you must go over the building with me. I've got just half an hour."

He snatched up his cap and we went around the corner, going over the building from cellar to roof, Jerry explaining breathlessly and I listening, wondering whether to be most astonished at the extraordinary change in his mode of thought or at the initiative which could have planned and executed so great a project. He spoke of Una constantly, "Una wanted this," or "Una suggested that," or "We had an awful row over the location of this thing, but Una was right." And then as an afterthought, "But then, she almost always is."

He wanted to give her all the credit, you see, and I think she must have deserved a great deal, but I saw in the newborn Jerry enough to convince me of his strength, intelligence and force. All his personality—and I had long known that he had one—had been poured into this fine practical work which at every turn bore the impress of a man's force, plus a woman's intelligence.

To the god from the machine (for as such, in spite of many ungodlike illusions, I still continued to regard myself) it seemed to me that all was going beautifully toward the consummation of my heart's fondest desire. And it was not until the following evening, when Jerry at last managed to find a chance to have a long talk with me, that I learned the truth.

It was a hot night in June. We had climbed to the roof of the new building for a breath of air, forsaking Jerry's small bedroom in the temporary quarters of the club where we had both been perspiring profusely. We sat upon the parapet smoking and talking of Jerry's plans and, since Una and the plans seemed to be a part of each other, of Una.

"I see her constantly, Roger," he said joyously. "We have regular meetings three times a week, sometimes at the Mission—and sometimes at the club, and when there isn't enough daytime—up in Washington Square. She has a wonderful mind for detail—carries everything in her head—figures, everything."

"And you're happy?" I asked.

"Need you ask?" he laughed. "I've never known what life was before. It's great just to live and see things, good, useful things grow under your very eyes, so personal when you've planned 'em yourself."

"And Una?"

"Oh, she's happy too. But then she's always happy, always was. It's her nature. I sometimes think she works a little too hard for her strength, but she never complains." He paused and looked down the side street to where the East River gleamed palely in the dusk night. "You know, Roger, I sometimes wish that she would complain. She just goes along, quietly planning—doing, without any fuss, accomplishing things where I fume and fret and get angry. She puts me to shame. She's a wonder—an angel, Roger." He smiled. "And yet she's human enough, always poking fun at a fellow, you know. I'm no match for her; I never was or will be." He grew quiet and neither of us spoke for a long while. We felt the life of the City stirring under us, but overhead were the stars, the same stars that hung above the peace of Horsham Manor, where in the old days we had dreamed our dreams.

"You care for her?" I ventured softly at last.

He did not speak at once. His gaze was afar.

"Care for her?" he murmured after awhile, "God help me! I love her with all the best of me, Roger. I always have loved her. It's so strange to me now that I never knew it before—so strange and pitiful—now when it is too late."

"Too late, boy?" I said with a smile. "Life for you, for you both, is just beginning."

"No, Roger; I would give everything in the world to be able to go to her and ask her to marry me. But I can't—" his voice sank and broke, "after that. I'm a beast—unclean."

He rose and took a pace away from me. "We mustn't speak of that—again. It makes me think of what I owe to—the other."

"You owe her nothing. She has refused you. She doesn't care. Her whole life avows it. She has forgotten. Why shouldn't you?"

"I can't forget. And I can't look in Una's eyes, Roger. They're so clear, so trusting; she believes in me—utterly. It's a mockery, to have her near me so much and not be able to tell her—"

"Tell her!" I broke in as he paused, "Waste no time. Tell her that you love her. Don't be a fool. She loves you. She always has. I know it."

He turned quickly, caught me by the shoulders and peered closely into my face. "You think so, Roger? Do you?" he said.

"I'm sure of it; from the very first."

Slowly his hands relaxed and he turned away. "No—I—can't. I would have to tell her all. I owe her that. She would despise me."

"You might at least give her that opportunity," I suggested dryly.

"No," he said softly. "I wouldn't dare. It would make a terrible difference between us. I couldn't."

And then his hand grasping my arm as he pushed me toward the stairway, "Never speak of this again, Roger—do you hear? Never." I nodded and said no more, for he had set me to thinking deeply, and I walked all the way uptown to my hotel turning the matter over in my mind, arriving, before sleep came, at a decision.

In the morning at half-past seven I dared to call Una upon the telephone. I knew her habits and she answered at once, agreeing to give me an hour before she went down town. When I reached the Habberton house she was ready for the street, and when I told her that I had something of importance to talk about, led the way over into the square where we found a deserted bench in a shady spot. It was a joyous morning of flickering sunlight and a pleasant commotion of hurrying people and moving traffic was all about us, in the midst of which we seemed unusually isolated. As I have related, there was a warm friendship between us. The girl knew that her mission at the Manor during Jerry's darkest hour had been an open book to me, but the fact that I knew that she had failed in it had made for no loss of pride. She knew too, I am sure, that I was aware of the real nature of her feelings for Jerry, but my own interest in and affection for them both had given me privileges in her friendship possessed not even by Jerry himself.

I wasted no words, though I chose to be careful in my use of them. With some deliberation, born of the difficulties of this second embassy, I told her all that I knew of Jerry's affair with Marcia Van Wyck, beginning with the parts of it which she knew, and leading by slow degrees to the moment when Jerry had abandoned his guests at the Manor and gone on his madman's quest of vengeance through the woods. I recalled to her the state of his mind, the indubitable evidences of his innocence, and then told of Jerry's meeting with Marcia and Lloyd by the spring in the pine wood. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her gaze on the sunlit arch, her finely-drawn profile clearly outlined against the shadows of the bushes, saying nothing, listening as though to a twice-told tale. I could not tell all, but something in her calmness advised me that she had already guessed. There was knowledge in her eyes, not the hard knowledge one sees in the eyes of the women of the streets, but knowledge tempered with pity; wisdom tempered with charity for all sin, even for Jerry's. She did not speak for a long while and by this token I think she wished me to take her understanding for granted.

"Mr. Canby," she said at last softly. "I know something of the world, more, I think, in a way than you do, and the more I learn, the less I am inclined to judge. But of all the women in the world with whom I come in contact, the most dangerous, the most difficult to help, is the hypocrite. When a woman is weak one can pity. When she is defiant one can even admire, but the hypocrite is beyond the pale. She will fawn while her heart is untouched, she will assent while her mind is eluding you. And the worst hypocrite is the one who wears the mask of decency over a filthy mind. She is diseased, a moral leper—at large to contaminate. Jerry was helpless from the first. Oh, the pity of it!"

"It was my fault; mine is the blame," I muttered hoarsely.

"No," she said, gently putting her hand over mine. "I would not have you relinquish your idyl even now. Jerry is translated, but he is not changed. It is curious—you will think it strange—but I cannot find it in my heart to judge him. He has suffered much. Perhaps, God knows, a man cannot grow to his full stature except through knowledge of evil! Jerry has grown. He is a man—a man!"

Her eyes sparkled softly and my spirits rose.

"You care for him, Una? You can forgive him?"

"I—I care for him," she murmured. "You know I have, always."

"Can you forgive him?" I repeated. She remained silent and her gaze which sought the distant buildings was troubled. But I had gone too far to pause now.

"He worships you, Una," I blurted out. "He has told me. But he cannot speak. He is unclean, he says. Have pity on him, Una. Forgive him, forgive him—"

She turned toward me, her slate-blue eyes brimming with moisture. And then with one of those sudden transitions that were her greatest mystery and charm, she rose and with a quick touch of her fingers to mine, left me swiftly and in a moment was gone.

I stood a moment bewildered. Then I fingered in my pocket for Miss Gore's new address. That remarkable woman would discern what Una's conduct meant. Queer creatures, women! But interesting, strangely interesting....

THE END