On her part Selma felt aggrieved yet emancipated. She had not looked for any such grave result from her vituperation. She had intended to reprove his surrender of the Parsons's contract, in direct opposition to her own wishes, with the severity it deserved, and to let him understand clearly that he was sacrificing her happiness, no less than his own, by his hysterical folly. When the conversation developed stubborn resistance on his part, and she realized that he was defending and adhering to his purpose, a righteous sense of injury became predominant in her mind over everything else. All her past wrongs cried for redress, and she rejoiced in the opportunity of giving free vent to the pent up grievances which had been accumulating for many months. Even then it was startling to her that Wilbur should suddenly utter the tragic ultimatum that their happiness was at an end, and hint at divorce. She considered that she loved him, and it had never occurred to her that he could ever cease to love her. Rather than retract a word of her own accusations she would have let him leave her, then and there, to live her own life without protection or support from him, but his calmer decision that they should continue to live together, yet apart, suited her better. In spite of his resolute mien she was sceptical of the seriousness of the situation. She believed in her heart that after a few days of restraint they would resume their former life, and that Wilbur, on reflection, would appreciate that he had been absurd.

When it became apparent that he was not to be appeased and that his threat had been genuine, Selma accepted the new relation without demur, and prepared to play her part in the compact as though she had been equally obdurate in her outcry for her freedom. She met reserve with reserve, maintaining rigorously the attitude that she had been wronged and that he was to blame. Meantime she watched him narrowly, wondering what his grave, sad demeanor and solicitous politeness signified. When presently it became plain to her that not merely she was to be free to follow her own bent, but that he was ready to provide her with the means to carry out her schemes, she regarded his liberality as weakness and a sign that he knew in his heart that she was in the right. Immediately, and with thinly concealed triumph, she planned to utilize the new liberty at her disposal, purging any scruples from her conscience by the generous reflection that when Wilbur's brow unbent and his lips moved freely she would forgive him and proffer him once more her conjugal counsel and sympathy. She was firmly of the opinion that, unless he thus acknowledged his shortcomings and promised improvement, the present arrangement was completely to her liking, and that confidence and happiness between them would be utterly impossible. She shed some tears over the thought that unkind circumstances had robbed her of the love by which she had set such store and which she, on her part, still cherished, but she comforted herself with the retort that its loss was preferable to sacrificing weakly the development of her own ideas and life to its perpetuation.

Her flush of triumph was succeeded, however, by a discontented mood, because cogitation constrained her to suspect that her social progress might not be so rapid as her first rosy visions had suggested. She counted on being able to procure the participation of Wilbur sufficiently to preserve the appearance of domestic harmony. This would be for practical purposes a scarcely less effective furtherance of her plans than if he were heartily in sympathy with them. Were there not many instances where busy husbands took part in the social undertakings of their wives, merely on the surface, to preserve appearances? The attitude of Wilbur seemed reasonably secure. That which harassed her as the result of her reflections and efforts to plan was the unpalatable consciousness that she did not know exactly what to do, and that no one, even now that she was free, appeared eager to extend to her the hand of recognition. She was prompt to lay the blame of this on her husband. It was he who, by preventing her from taking advantage of the social opportunities at their disposal, had consigned her to this eddy where she was overlooked. This seemed to her a complete excuse, and yet, though she made the most of it, it did not satisfy her. Her helplessness angered her, and aroused her old feelings of suspicion and resentment against the fashionable crew who appeared to be unaware of her existence. She was glad to believe that the reason they ignored her was because she was too serious minded and spiritual to suit their frivolous and pleasure-loving tastes. Sometimes she reasoned that the sensible thing for her to do was to break away from her present life, where convention and caste trammelled her efforts, and make a name for herself as an independent soul, like Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle and other free-born women of the Republic. With satisfaction she pictured herself on the lecture platform uttering burning denunciation of the un-American social proclivities of this shallow society, and initiating a crusade which should sweep it from existence beneath the ban of the moral sense of the thoughtful people of the country.

But more frequently she nursed her resentment against Mrs. Williams, to whom she ascribed the blame of her isolation, reasoning that if Flossy had been a true friend, not even Wilbur's waywardness would have prevented her social recognition and success. That, instead, this volatile, fickle prattler had used her so long as she needed her, and then dropped her heartlessly. The memory of Flossy's ball still rankled deeply, and appeared to Selma a more obvious and more exasperating insult as the days passed without a sign of explanation on the part of her late neighbor, and as her new projects languished for lack of a few words of introduction here and there, which, in her opinion, were all she needed to ensure her enthusiastic welcome as a social leader. The appreciation that without those words of introduction she was helpless for the time being focused her resentment, already keen, on the successful Flossy, whose gay doings had disappeared from the public prints in a blaze of glory with the advent of the Lenten season. Refusing to acknowledge her dependence, Selma essayed several spasmodic attempts to assert herself, but they proved unsatisfactory. She made the most of Mr. Parsons's predilection for her society, which had not been checked by Wilbur's termination of the contract. She was thus enabled to affiliate with some of their new friends, but she was disagreeably conscious that she was not making real progress, and that Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and their daughter had, like herself, been dropped by the Williamses—dropped skilfully and imperceptibly, yet none the less dropped. Two dinner parties, which she gave in the course of a fortnight to the most important of these new acquaintances, by way of manifesting to Wilbur her intention to enjoy her liberty at his expense, left her depressed and sore.

It was just at this time that Flossy took it into her head to call on her—one of her first Lenten duties, as she hastened to assure Selma, with glib liveliness, as soon as she entered. Flossy was in too exalted a frame of mind, too bubbling over with the desire to recite her triumphs, to have in mind either her doubts concerning Selma or the need of being more than mildly apologetic for her lack of devotion. She felt friendly, for she was in good humor, and was naively desirous to be received in the same spirit, so that she might unbosom herself unreservedly. Sweeping into the room, an animated vision of smiling, stylish cordiality, she sought, as it were, to carry before her by force of her own radiant mood all obstacles to an amiable reception.

"My dear, we haven't met for ages. Thank heaven, Lent has come, and now I may see something of you. I said to Gregory only yesterday that I should make a bee-line for your house, and here I am. Well, dear, how are you? All sorts of things have happened, Selma, since we've had a real chat together. Do you remember my telling you—of course you do—not long after Gregory and I were married that I never should be satisfied until one thing happened? Well, you may congratulate me; it has happened. We dined a week ago to-night with my cousins—the Morton Prices—a dinner of fourteen, all of them just the people I wished to know. Wasn't it lovely? I have waited for it to come, and I haven't moved a finger to bring it about, except to ask them to my dancing party—I had to do that, for after all they are my relations. They accepted and came and I was pleased by it; but they could easily have ignored me afterward if they had wished. What really pleased me, Selma, was their asking me to one of their select dinners, because—because it showed that we are—"

Flossy's hesitation was due partly to the inherent difficulty of expressing her thought with proper regard for modesty. With her rise in life she had learned that unlimited laudation of self was not altogether consistent with "fitness," even in such a confidential interview as the present. But she was also disconcerted by the look in Selma's eyes—a look which, at first startled into momentary friendliness by the suddenness of the onslaught, had become more and more lowering until it was unpleasantly suggestive of scornful dislike. While she thus faltered, Selma drily rounded out the sentence with the words, "Because it showed that you are somebodies now."

Flossy gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Yes, that's what I meant. I see you have a good memory, and it sounds nicer on your lips than it would on mine."

"You have come here to-day on purpose to tell me this?" said Selma.

"I thought you would be interested to hear that my cousins had recognized me at last. I remember, you thought it strange that they should take so little notice of me." Flossy's festive manner had disappeared before the tart reception of her confidences, and her keen wits, baffled in their search for flattery, recalled the suspicions which were only slumbering. She realized that Selma was seriously offended with her, and though she did not choose to acknowledge to herself that she knew the cause, she had already guessed it. An encounter at repartee had no terrors for her, if necessary, and the occasion seemed to her opportune for probing the accumulating mysteries of Selma's hostile demeanor. Yet, without waiting for a response to her last remark, she changed the subject, and said, volubly, "I hear that your husband has refused to build the new Parsons house because Mrs. Parsons insisted on drawing the plans."

Selma's pale, tense face flushed. She thought for a moment that she was being taunted.

"That was Mr. Littleton's decision, not mine."

"I admire his independence. He was quite right. What do Mrs. Parsons or her daughter know about architecture? Everybody is laughing at them. You know I consider your husband a friend of mine, Selma."

"And we were friends, too, I believe?" Selma exclaimed, after a moment of stern silence.

"Naturally," responded Flossy, with a slightly sardonic air, prompted by the acerbity with which the question was put.

"Then, if we were friends—are friends, why have you ceased to associate with us, simply because you live in another street and a finer house?"

Flossy gave a gasp. "Oh," she said to herself, "it's true. She is jealous. Why didn't I appreciate it before?"

"Am I not associating with you now by calling on you, Selma?" she said aloud. "I don't understand what you mean."

"You are calling on me, and you asked us to dinner to meet—to meet just the people we knew already, and didn't care to meet; but you have never asked us to meet your new friends, and you left us out when you gave your dancing party."

"You do not dance."

"How do you know?"

"I have never associated you with dancing. I assumed that you did not dance."

"What grounds had you for such an assumption?"

"Really, Selma, your catechism is most extraordinary. Excuse my smiling. And I don't know how to answer your questions—your fierce questions any better. I didn't ask you to my party because I supposed that you and your husband were not interested in that sort of thing, and would not know any of the people. You have often told me that you thought they were frivolous."

"I consider them so still."

"Then why do you complain?"

"Because—because you have not acted like a friend. Your idea of friendship has been to pour into my ears, day after day, how you had been asked to dinner by this person and taken up by that person, until I was weary of the sound of your voice, but it seems not to have occurred to you, as a friend of mine, and a friend and admirer of my husband, to introduce us to people whom you were eager to know, and who might have helped him in his profession. And now, after turning the cold shoulder on us, and omitting us from your party, because you assumed I didn't dance, you have come here this morning, in the name of friendship, to tell me that your cousins, at last, have invited you to dinner. And yet you think it strange that I'm not interested. That's the only reason you came—to let me know that you are a somebody now; and you expected me, as a friend and a nobody, to tell you how glad I am."

Flossy's eyes opened wide. Free as she was accustomed to be in her own utterances, this flow of bitter speech delivered with seer-like intensity was a new experience to her. She did not know whether to be angry or amused by the indictment, which caused her to wince notwithstanding that she deemed it slander. Moreover the insinuation that she had been a bore was humiliating.

"I shall not weary you soon again with my confidences," she answered. "So it appears that you were envious of me all the time—that while you were preaching to me that fashionable society was hollow and un-American, you were secretly unhappy because you couldn't do what I was doing—because you weren't invited, too. Oh, I see it all now; it's clear as daylight. I've suspected the truth for some time, but I've refused to credit it. Now everything is explained. I took you at your word; I believed in you and your husband and looked up to you as literary people—people who were interested in fine and ennobling things. I admired you for the very reason that I thought you didn't care, and that you didn't need to care, about society and fashionable position. I kept saying to you that I envied you your tastes, and let you see that I considered myself your real inferior in my determination to attract attention and oblige society to notice us. I was guileless and simpleton enough to tell you of my progress—things I would have blushed to tell another woman like myself—because I considered you the embodiment of high aims and spiritual ideas, as far superior to mine as the poetic star is superior to the garish electric light. I thought it might amuse you to listen to my vanities. Instead, it seems you were masquerading and were eating your heart out with envy of me—poor me. You were ambitious to be like me."

"I wouldn't be like you for anything in the world."

"You couldn't if you tried. That's one of the things which this extraordinary interview has made plain beyond the shadow of a doubt. You are aching to be a social success. You are not fit to be. I have found that out for certain to-day."

"It is false," exclaimed Selma, with a tragic intonation. "You do not understand. I have no wish to be a social success. I should abhor to spend my life after the manner of you and your associates. What I object to, what I complain of, is that, in spite of your fine words and pretended admiration of me, you have preferred these people, who are exclusive without a shadow of right, to me who was your friend, and that you have chosen to ignore me for the sake of them, and behaved as if you thought I was not their equal or your equal. That is not friendship, it is snobbishness—un-American snobbishness."

"It is very amusing. Amusing yet depressing," continued Flossy, without heed to this asseveration. "You have proved one of my ideals to be a delusion, which is sad." She had arisen and stood gently swaying pendent by its crook her gay parasol, with her head on one side, and seeming for once to be choosing her words judicially. "When we met first and I nearly rushed into your arms, I was fascinated, and I said to myself that here was the sort of American woman of whom I had dreamed—the sort of woman I had fondly imagined once that I might become. I saw you were unsophisticated and different from the conventional women to whom I was accustomed, and, even at first, the things you said every now and then gave me a creepy feeling, but you were inspiring to look at—though now that the scales have fallen from my eyes I wonder at my infatuation—and I continued to worship you as a goddess on a pedestal. I used to say to Gregory, 'there's a couple who are to the manner born; they never have to make believe. They are genuinely free and gentle souls.' Your husband? I can't believe that I have been deluded in regard to him, also. I just wonder if you appreciate him—if it is possible that he has been deluded, also. That's rank impertinence, I know; but after all, we are unbosoming our thoughts to each other to-day, and may as well speak openly. You said just now that it was his decision not to go on with the Parsons house. Did you disapprove of it?"

"Yes, I disapproved of it," answered Selma with flashing eyes. "And what if I did?"

She rose and stood confronting her visitor as though to banish her from the house.

"I'm going," said Flossy. "It's none of my concern of course, and I'm aware that I appear very rude. I'm anxious though not to lose faith in your husband, and now that I've begun to understand you, my wits are being flooded with light. I was saying that you were not fit to be a social success, and I'm going to tell you why. No one else is likely to, and I'm just mischievous and frank enough. You're one of those American women—I've always been curious to meet one in all her glory—who believe that they are born in the complete panoply of flawless womanhood; that they are by birthright consummate house-wives, leaders of the world's thought and ethics, and peerless society queens. All this by instinct, by heritage, and without education. That's what you believe, isn't it? And now you are offended because you haven't been invited to become a leader of New York society. You don't understand, and I don't suppose you ever will understand, that a true lady—a genuine society queen—represents modesty and sweetness and self-control, and gentle thoughts and feelings; that she is evolved by gradual processes from generation to generation, not ready made. Oh, you needn't look at me like that. I'm quite aware that if I were the genuine article I shouldn't be talking to you in this fashion. But there's hope for me because I'm conscious of my shortcomings and am trying to correct them; whereas you are satisfied, and fail to see the difference between yourself and the well-bred women whom you envy and sneer at. You're pretty and smart and superficial and—er—common, and you don't know it. I'm rather dreadful, but I'm learning. I don't believe you will ever learn. There! Now I'm going."

"Go!" cried Selma with a wave of her arm. "Yes, I am one of those women. I am proud to be, and you have insulted by your aspersions, not only me, but the spirit of independent and aspiring American womanhood. You don't understand us; you have nothing in common with us. You think to keep us down by your barriers of caste borrowed from effete European courts, but we—I—the American people defy you. The time will come when we shall rise in our might and teach you your place. Go! Envy you? I would not become one of your frivolous and purposeless set if you were all on your bended knees before me."

"Oh, yes you would," exclaimed Flossy, glancing back over her shoulder. "And it's because you've not been given the chance that we have quarrelled now."



CHAPTER X.

The morning after her drastic interview with Mrs. Williams, Selma studied herself searchingly in her mirror. Of all Flossy's candid strictures the intimation that she was not and never would be completely a lady was the only one which rankled. The effrontery of it made her blood boil; and yet she consulted her glass in the seclusion of her chamber in order to reassure herself as to the spiteful falsity of the criticism. Wild horses would not have induced her to admit even to herself that there was the slightest ground for it; still it rankled, thereby suggesting a sub-consciousness of suspicion on the look out for just such a calumny.

She gave Littleton her own version of the quarrel. Her explanation was that she had charged Flossy with a lack of friendship in failing to invite her to her ball, and convicted her of detestable snobbery; that she had denounced this conduct in vigorous language, that they had parted in anger, and that all intercourse between them was at an end.

"We understand each other now," she added. "I have felt for some time that we were no longer sympathetic; and that something of this kind was inevitable. I am glad that we had the chance to speak plainly, for I was able to show her that I had been waiting for an excuse to cut loose from her and her frivolous surroundings. I have wearied my spirit long enough with listening to social inanities, and in lowering my standards to hers for the sake of appearing friendly and conventional. That is all over now, thank heaven."

It did not occur to Selma that there was any inconsistency in these observations, or that they might appear a partial vindication of her husband's point of view. The most salient effect of her encounter with Flossy had been suddenly to fuse and crystallize her mixed and seemingly contradictory ambitions into utter hostility to conventional fashionable society. Even when her heart had been hungering for an invitation to Flossy's ball, she considered that she despised these people, but the interview had served to establish her in the glowing faith that they, by their inability to appreciate her, had shown themselves unworthy of further consideration. The desire which she had experienced of late for a renewal of her intimacy with Mrs. Earle and a reassertion of her former life of independent feminine activity had returned to her, coupled with the crusading intention to enroll herself openly once more in the army of new American women, whose impending victorious campaign she had prophesied in her retort to Mrs. Williams's maledictions. She had, in her own opinion, never ceased to belong to this army, and she felt herself now more firmly convinced than ever that the course of life of those who had turned a cold shoulder on her was hostile to the spirit of American institutions. So far as her husband was concerned, imaginative enterprise and the capacity to take advantage of opportunities still seemed to her of the essence of fine character. Indeed, she was not conscious of any change in her point of view. She had resented Flossy's charge that she desired to be a social success, and had declared that her wounded feelings were solely due to Flossy's betrayal of friendship, not to balked social ambition. Consequently it was no strain on her conscientiousness to feel that her real sentiments had always been the same.

Nevertheless she scrutinized herself eagerly and long in her mirror, and the process left her serious brow still clouded. She saw in the glass features which seemed to her suggestive of superior womanhood, a slender clear-cut nose, the nostrils of which dilated nervously, delicately thin, compressed lips, a pale, transparent complexion, and clear, steel-like, greenish-brown eyes looking straight and boldly from an anxious forehead surmounted with a coiffure of elaborately and smoothly arranged hair. She saw indisputable evidence that she had ceased to be the ethically attractive, but modishly unsophisticated and physically undeveloped girl, who had come to New York five years before, for her figure was compact without being unduly plump, her cheeks becomingly oval, and her toilette stylish. There were rings on her fingers, and her neck-gear was smart. Altogether the vision was satisfactory, yet she recognized as she gazed that her appearance and general effect were not precisely those of Flossy, Pauline, or Mrs. Hallett Taylor. She had always prided herself on the distinction of her face, and admired especially its freedom from gross or unintellectual lines. She did not intend to question its superiority now; but Flossy's offensive words rang in her ears and caused her to gnaw her lips with annoyance. What was the difference between them? Flossy had dared to call her common and superficial; had dared to insinuate that she never could be a lady. A lady? What was there in her appearance not lady-like? In what way was she the inferior of any of them in beauty, intelligence or character? Rigorous as was the scrutiny, the face in the mirror seemed to her an unanswerable refutation of the slander. What was the difference? Was it that her eyes were keener and brighter, her lips thinner and less fleshly, her general expression more wide-awake and self-reliant? If so, were these not signs of superiority; signs that they, not she, were deficient in the attributes of the best modern womanhood in spite of their affectation of exclusiveness?

The result of this process of self-examination in her looking-glass, which was not limited to a single occasion, established more firmly than ever in Selma's opinion the malignant falsity of the imputation, and yet she was still haunted by it. She was tortured by the secret thought that, though her ambition had been to become just like those other women, she was still distinguishable from them; and moreover, that she was baffled in her attempt to analyze the distinction. Distinguishable even from Flossy—from Flossy, who had slighted and then reviled her! Why had she ever faltered in her distrust of these enemies of true American society? Yet this lingering sense of torture served to whet her new-found purpose to have done with them forever, and to obtain the recognition and power to which she was entitled, in spite of their impertinence and neglect.

The announcement was made to her by Wilbur at about this time that his plans for Wetmore College had been accepted, and that he was to be the architect of the new buildings. As he told her his face showed a tremulous animation which it had not worn for many weeks, and he regarded her for a moment with shy eagerness, as though he half hoped that this vindication of his purposes by success might prompt her to tender some sort of apology, and thus afford him the chance to persuade himself that he had been mistaken after all in his judgment of her.

"You must be very much pleased," she said. "And so am I, of course." Then, after a moment of reflective abstraction, she asked with sudden eagerness, "How long will it take to build them?"

"Two or three years, I suppose."

"And you would be obliged to go frequently to Benham?"

"In order to oversee the work I should have to make short trips there from time to time."

"Yes. Wilbur," she exclaimed, with her exalted expression, "why shouldn't we go to Benham to live? I have been thinking a great deal lately about what we said to each other that time when you felt so badly, and I have come to the conclusion that our living in New York is what is really the trouble. I have the feeling, Wilbur, that in some other place than this cruel, conventional city we should be happier than we are now—indeed, very happy. Has it ever occurred to you? You see, New York doesn't understand me; it doesn't understand you, Wilbur. It sneers at our aspirations. Benham is a growing, earnest city—a city throbbing with the best American spirit and energy. I suggest Benham because we both know it so well. The college buildings would give you a grand start, and I—we both would be in our proper sphere."

Littleton had started at the suggestion. As a drowning man will grasp at a straw, his grieving soul for an instant entertained the plan as a panacea for their woes. But his brow grew grave and sad under the influence of reflection as she proceeded to set forth her reasons in her wrapt fashion. If he had not learned to remain cold under the witchery of her intense moods, he no longer hesitated to probe her fervid assertions with his self-respecting common-sense.

"I would he willing to go to the ends of the earth, Selma," he answered, "if I believed that by so doing you and I could become what we once were to each other. But I cannot see why we should hope to be happier in Benham than here, nor do I agree with you that this is not our proper sphere. I do not share your sentiments in regard to New York; but whatever its faults, New York is the place where I have established myself and am known, and where the abilities which I possess can be utilized and will be appreciated soonest. Benham is twenty-five years behind this city in all things which concern art and my professional life, as you well know."

Selma flushed. "On the contrary, I have reason to believe that Benham has made wonderful progress in the last five years. My friends there write that there are many new streets and beautiful buildings, and that the spirit of the place is enthusiastic and liberal, not luxurious and sneering. You never appreciated Benham at its true worth, Wilbur."

"Perhaps not. But we chose New York."

"Then you insist on remaining here?"

"I see no reason for sacrificing the fruits of the past five years—for pulling myself up by the roots and making a fresh start. From a professional point of view, I think it would be madness."

"Not even to save our happiness?" Selma's eyes swam and her lips trembled as she spoke. She felt very miserable, and she yearned with the desire that her husband would clasp her in his arms in a vast embrace, and tell her that she was right and that he would go. She felt that if he did, the horror of the past would be wiped out and loving harmony be restored.

Wilbur's lips trembled, too. He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, in conflict with himself; then passing his hand across his forehead, as though he would sweep away a misty spell from his eyes, said, "Be sensible, Selma. If we could be happy in Benham, we should be happy here."

"Then you refuse?"

"For the present, yes."

"And I must remain here to be insulted—and a nobody."

"For God's sake, Selma, let us not renew that discussion. What you ask is impossible at present, but I shall remember that it is your wish, and when I begin my work at Benham the circumstances and surroundings may be such that I shall feel willing to move."

Selma turned to the table and took up a book, dissatisfied, yet buoyed by a new hope. She did not observe the tired lines on her husband's face—the weariness of a soul disappointed in its most precious aspirations.

Within the next month it happened that a terrible and unusual fatality was the occasion of the death of both Mrs. Parsons and her daughter. They were killed by a fall of the elevator at the hotel in which they were living—one of those dire casualties which are liable to happen to any one of us in these days of swift and complicated apparatus, but which always seem remote from personal experience. This cruel blow of fate put an end to all desire on the part of the bereaved husband and father to remain in New York, whither he had come to live mainly to please his women folk, as he called them. As soon as he recovered from the bewilderment of the shock, Mr. Parsons sent for the architect who had taken Littleton's place, and who had just begun the subservient task of fusing diverse types of architecture in order to satisfy an American woman's appetite for startling effect, and told him to arrange to dispose of the lot and its immature walls to the highest bidder. His precise plans for the future were still uncertain when Selma called on him, and found comfort for her own miseries in ministering to his solitude, but he expressed an inclination to return to his native Western town, as the most congenial spot in which to end his days. Selma, whose soul was full of Benham, suggested it as an alternative, enlarging with contagious enthusiasm on its civic merits. The crushed old man listened with growing attention. Already the germs of a plan for the disposition of his large property were sprouting in his mind to provide him with a refuge from despondency. He was a reticent man, not in the habit of confiding his affairs until ready to act, but he paid interested heed to Selma's eulogy of the bustling energy and rapid growth of Benham. His preliminary thought had been that it would make him happy to endow his native town, which was a small and inconspicuous place, with a library building. But, as his visitor referred to the attractions and admirable public spirit of the thriving city, which was in the same State as his own home, he silently reasoned that residence there need not interfere with his original project, and that he might find a wide and more important field for his benefactions in a community so representative of American ideas and principles.

Selma's visits of condolence to Mr. Parsons were interrupted by the illness of her own husband. In reflecting, subsequently, she remembered that he had seemed weary and out of sorts for several days, but her conscious attention was invoked by his coming home early in the afternoon, suffering from a violent chill, and manifestly in a state of physical collapse. He went to bed at once; Selma brought blankets and a hot-water bottle, and Dr. George Page was sent for. Dr. Page was the one of Littleton's friends whom Selma had unsuccessfully yearned to know better. She had never been able to understand him exactly, but he fascinated her in spite of—perhaps because of—his bantering manner. She found difficulty in reconciling it with his reputation for hard work and masterly skill in his profession. She was constantly hoping to extract from him something worthy of his large, solid face, with its firm mouth and general expression of reserve force, but he seemed always bent on talking nonsense in her society, and more than once the disagreeable thought had occurred to her that he was laughing at her. He had come to the house after her marriage now and then, but during the past year or two she had scarcely seen him. The last time when they had met, Selma had taxed him with his neglect of her.

His reply had been characteristically elusive and unsatisfactory. "I will not attempt to frame excuses for my behavior, Mrs. Littleton, for no reason which I could offer would be a justification."

But on the present occasion his greeting was grave and eager.

"Wilbur sick? I feared as much. I warned Pauline two months ago that he was overworking, and only last week I told him that he would break down if he did not go away for a fortnight's rest."

"I wish you had spoken to me."

Selma noted with satisfaction that there was no raillery in his manner now. He bent his gaze on her searchingly.

"Have you not noticed that he looked ill and tired?"

She did not flinch. Why indeed should she? "A little. He tired himself, I think, over the designs for Wetmore College, which he did in addition to his other work. But since the award was made it has seemed to me that he was looking better."

She started to lead the way to Wilbur's room, but the doctor paused, and regarding her again fixedly, as though he had formed a resolution to ferret the secrets of her soul, said laconically:

"Is he happy?"

"Happy?" she echoed.

"Has he anything on his mind, I mean—anything except his work?"

"Nothing—that is," she added, looking up at her inquisitor with bright, interested eyes, "nothing except that he is very conscientious—over-conscientious I sometimes think." To be bandying psychological analyses with this able man was an edifying experience despite her concern for Wilbur.

"I see," he answered dryly, and for an instant there was a twinkle in his eyes. Yet he added, "To make a correct diagnosis it is important to know all the facts of the case."

"Of course," she said solemnly, reassured in her belief that she was being consulted and was taking part in the treatment of her husband's malady.

She accompanied Dr. Page to Wilbur's bed-side. He conversed in a cheery tone with his friend while he took his temperature and made what seemed to her a comparatively brief examination. Selma jumped to the conclusion that there was nothing serious the matter. The moment they had left the room, the doctor's manner changed, and he said with alert concern:

"Your husband is very ill; he has pneumonia. I am going to send for a nurse."

"A nurse? I will nurse him myself, Dr. Page."

It seemed to her the obvious thing to do. She spoke proudly, for it flashed into her mind that here was the opportunity to redeem the situation with Wilbur. She would tend him devotedly and when he had been restored to health by her loving skill, perhaps he would appreciate her at her worth, and recognize that she had thwarted him only to help him.

The doctor's brow darkened, and he said with an emphasis which was almost stern: "Mrs. Littleton, I do not wish to alarm you, but it is right that you should know that Wilbur's symptoms are grave. I hope to save his life, but it can be saved only by trained skill and attendance. Inexperienced assistance, however devoted, would be of no use in a case like this."

"But I only wished to nurse him."

"I know it; I understand perfectly. You supposed that anyone could do that. At least that you could. I shall return in an hour at the latest with a nurse who was trained for three years in a hospital to fit her to battle for valuable lives."

Selma flushed with annoyance. She felt that she was being ridiculed and treated as though she were an incapable doll. She divined that by his raillery he had been making fun of her, and forthwith her predilection was turned to resentment. Not nurse her husband? Did this brow-beating doctor realize that, as a girl, she had been the constant attendant of her invalid father, and that more than once it had occurred to her that her true mission in life might be to become a nurse? Training? She would prove to him that she needed no further training. These were her thoughts, and she felt like crying, because he had humiliated her at a time like this. Yet she had let Dr. Page go without a word. She returned to Wilbur and established herself beside his bed. He tried to smile at her coming.

"I think I shall be better to-morrow. It is only a heavy cold," he said, but already he found difficulty in speaking.

"I have come to nurse you. The blankets and hot-water bottle have made you warmer, haven't they? Nod; you mustn't talk."

"Yes," he whispered huskily.

She felt his forehead, and it was burning. She took his hand and saying, "Sh! You ought not to talk," held it in her own. Then there was silence save for Wilbur's uneasy turning. It was plain that he was very uncomfortable. She realized that he was growing worse, and though she chose to believe that the doctor had exaggerated the seriousness of the case in order to affront her, the thought came that he might die. She had never considered such a possibility before. What should she do? She would be a widow without children and without means, for she knew that Wilbur had laid up little if anything. She would have to begin life over again—a pathetic prospect, yet interesting. Even this conjecture of such a dire result conjured up a variety of possible methods of livelihood and occupation which sped through her mind.

The return of Dr. Page with a nurse cut short these painful yet engrossing speculations. His offensive manner appeared to have exhausted itself, but he proceeded to install his companion in Wilbur's room. Selma would have liked to turn her out of the house, but realized that she could not run the risk of taking issue with him at a time when her husband's life might be in danger. With an injured air yet in silence she beheld the deliberate yet swift preparations. Once or twice Dr. Page asked her to procure for him some article or appliance likely to be in the house, speaking with a crisp, business-like preoccupation which virtually ignored her existence, yet was free from offence. His soul evidently was absorbed by his patient, whom he observed with alert watchfulness, issuing brief directions now and then to his white-capped, methodical, and noiseless assistant. Selma sat with her hands before her in a corner of the bed-room, practically ignored. The shadows deepened and a maid announced dinner. Dr. Page looked at his watch.

"I shall pass the night here," he said.

"Is he worse?"

"The disease is making progress and must run its course. This is only the beginning. You should eat your dinner, for you will need your strength," he added with simple graciousness.

"But I am doing nothing," she blurted.

"If there is anything you can do I will let you know."

Their eyes met. His were gray and steady, but kind. She felt that he chose to treat her like a child, yet that he was trying to be considerate. She was galled, but after all, he was the doctor, and Wilbur had the utmost confidence in him, so she must submit. She ate her dinner, and when she returned preparations were being made for the night. The nurse was to use a lounge at the foot of Wilbur's bed. Dr. Page asked permission to occupy the dressing-room adjoining, so as to be within easy call. He established himself there with a book, returning at short intervals to look at his patient. Selma had resumed her seat. It was dark save for a night lamp. In the stillness the only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece and Wilbur's labored breathing. It seemed as though he were struggling for his life. What should she do if he died? Why was she debarred from tending him? It was cruel. Tears fell on her hand. She stared into the darkness, twisting her fingers, until at last, as though to show her independence, she stepped to the bed on tip-toe. Wilbur's eyes were open. He put out his hand, and, taking hers, touched it to his burning lips.

"Good-night, Selma," he murmured.

She stooped and kissed his brow. "I am here beside you, Wilbur."

A figure stood behind her. She turned, expecting to encounter the white-capped sentinel. It was Dr. Page. He touched her gently on the arm. "We must let him rest now. You can do no good. Won't you go to bed?"

"Oh, no. I shall sit with him all night."

"Very well. But it is important that you should not speak to him," he said with another touch of emphasis.

She resumed her seat and sat out the night, wide-awake and conscious of each movement on Wilbur's part. He was restless and moaning. Twice the nurse summoned the doctor, and two or three times he came to the bed-side of his own accord. She felt slighted, and once, when it seemed to her that Wilbur was in distress and anxious for something, she forestalled the nurse.

"He wishes water," Selma said sternly, and she fetched a glass from the table and let him drink.

Dr. Page took breakfast with her. She was conscious that somehow her vigil had affected his estimate of her, for his speech was frank and direct, as though he considered her now more fit to be treated with confidence.

"He is very ill, but he is holding his own. If you will lie down for a few hours, I will call you to take Miss Barker's place while she rests."

This was gratifying, and tended to assuage her bitterness. But the doctor appeared to her anxious, and spent only a few minutes at table. He said as he rose,

"Excuse me, but Pauline—does she know?"

"I will send her word."

Selma would have been glad to dispense with the presence of her sister-in-law. Their relations had not been sympathetic since the episode of Miss Bailey, and, though Pauline still dined at the house once a week, the intercourse between them had become reserved and perfunctory. She grudged sharing with her what might be Wilbur's last hours. She grudged, too, permitting her to help to nurse him, especially now that her own capabilities were in the way of being recognized, for she remembered Dr. Page's partiality for her. Still, she appreciated that she must let her know.

Pauline arrived speedily, and Selma found herself sobbing in her arms. She was pleased by this rush of feeling on her own part, and, confirmed in her belief that her sister-in-law was cold because she did not break down, and, shrinking from her efforts to comfort her, she quickly regained her self-control. Pauline seemed composed and cheerful, but the unceasing watchfulness and manifest tension of the doctor were disconcerting, and as the afternoon shadows deepened, the two women sat grave and silent, appalled by the suspicion that Wilbur's condition was eminently critical. Yet Dr. Page volunteered to say to them presently:

"If his heart holds out, I am hopeful that he will pull through."

Dr. Page had given up all his duties for the sake of Wilbur. He never left the house, manifestly devoting, as shown by the unflagging, absorbed scrutiny with which he noted every symptom and change, the fullest measure of his professional skill and a heart-felt purpose to save his friend's life if human brain or human concentration could avail. And yet he stated to Pauline in Selma's hearing that, beyond keeping up the patient's strength by stimulants, science was practically helpless, and that all they could do was to wait.

And so they sat, still and unemployed watchers, while day turned into darkness. From time to time, by the night-lamp, Selma saw Pauline smiling at her as though in defiance of whatever fate might have in store. Selma herself felt the inclination neither to smile nor to weep. She sat looking before her with her hands clasped, resenting the powerlessness of the few remedies used, and impatient of the inactivity and relentless silence. Why did not the doctor adopt more stringent measures? Surely there was something to be done to enable Wilbur to combat the disease. Dr. Page had the reputation of being a skilful physician, and, presumably, was doing his best; but was it not possible, was it not sensible, to suppose there was a different and better way of treating pneumonia—a way which was as superior to the conventional and stereotyped method as the true American point of view was superior in other matters?

It came over her as a conviction that if she were elsewhere—in Benham, for instance—her husband could be readily and brilliantly cured. This impassive mode of treatment seemed to her of one piece with the entire Littleton surroundings, the culmination of which was Pauline smiling in the face of death. She yearned to do something active and decided. Yet, how helpless she was! This arbitrary doctor was following his own dictates without a word to anyone, and without suspecting the existence of wiser expedients.

In a moment of rebellion she rose, and swiftly approaching Wilbur's bed, exclaimed, fervently: "Is there not something we can do for you, darling? Something you feel will do you good?"

The sufferer faintly smiled and feebly shook his head, and at the same moment she was drawn away by a firm hand, and Dr. Page whispered: "He is very weak. Entire rest is his only chance. The least exertion is a drain on his vitality."

"Surely there must be some medicine—some powerful application which will help his breathing," she retorted, and she detected again the semblance of laughter in the doctor's eyes.

"Everything which modern science can do is being done, Mrs. Littleton."

What was there but to resume her seat and helpless vigil? Modern science? The word grated on her ears. It savored to her of narrow medical tyranny, and distrust of aspiring individuality. Wilbur was dying, and all modern science saw fit to do was to give him brandy and wait. And she, his wife—the one who loved him best in the world, was powerless to intervene. Nay, she had intervened, and modern science had mocked her.

Selma's eyes, like the glint of two swords, bent themselves on her husband's bed. A righteous anger reinforced her grieving heart and made her spirit militant, while the creeping hours passed. Over and over she pursued the tenor of her protest until her wearied system sought refuge in sleep. She was not conscious of slumbering, but she reasoned later that she must have slept, for she suddenly became conscious of a touch on the shoulder and a vibrant utterance of her name.

"Selma, Selma, you must come at once."

Her returning wits realized that it was Pauline who was arousing her and urging her to Wilbur's bed-side. She sprang forward, and saw the light of existence fading from her husband's eyes into the mute dulness of death. Dr. Page was bending over him in a desperate, but vain, effort to force some restorative between his lips. At the foot of the bed stood the nurse, with an expression which betrayed what had occurred.

"What is it, Wilbur? What have they done to you? What has happened?" Selma cried, looking from one to the other, though she had discerned the truth in a flash. As she spoke, Dr. Page desisted from his undertaking, and stepped back from the bed, and instantly Selma threw herself on her knees and pressed her face upon Littleton's lifeless features. There was no response. His spirit had departed.

"His heart could not stand the strain. That is the great peril in pneumonia," she heard the doctor murmur.

"He is dead," she cried, in a horrified outburst, and she looked up at the pitying group with the gaze of an afflicted lioness. She caught sight of Pauline smiling through her tears—that same unprotesting, submissive smile—and holding out her hands to her. Selma, rising, turned away, and as her sister-in-law sought to put her arm about her, evaded the caress.

"No—no," she said. Then facing her, added, with aggrieved conviction:

"I cannot believe that Wilbur's death was necessary. Why was not something energetic done?"

Pauline flushed, but, ascribing the calumny to distress, she held her peace, and said, simply:

"Sh! dear. You will understand better by and by."



BOOK III.

THE SUCCESS

CHAPTER I.

It had never occurred to Selma that she might lose her husband. Even with his shortcomings he was so important to her from the point of view of support, and her scheme of life was so interwoven with his, she had taken for granted that he would live as long as she desired. She felt that destiny had a second time been signally cruel to her, and that she was drinking deeply of the cup of sorrow. She was convinced that Wilbur, had he lived, would have moved presently to Benham, in accordance with her desire, and that they would then have been completely happy again. Instead he was dead and under the sod, and she was left to face the world with no means save $5,000 from his life insurance and the natural gifts and soul which God had given her.

She appreciated that she was still a comparatively young woman, and that, notwithstanding her love for Wilbur, she had been unable as his wife to exhibit herself to the world in her true light. She was free once more to lead her own life, and to obtain due recognition for her ideas and principles. She deplored with a grief which depleted the curve of her oval cheeks the premature end of her husband's artistic career—an aspiring soul cut off on the threshold of success—yet, though of course she never squarely made the reflection, she was aware that the development of her own life was more intrinsically valuable to the world than his, and that of the two it was best that he should be taken. She was sad, sore against Providence, and uncertain as to the future. But she was keenly conscious that she had a future, and she was eager to be stirring. Still, for the moment, the outlook was perplexing. What was she to do? First, and certainly, she desired to shake the dust of New York from her feet at the earliest opportunity. She inclined toward Benham as a residence, and to the lecture platform, supplemented by literature, and perhaps eventually the stage, as a means of livelihood. She believed in her secret soul that she could act. Her supposed facility in acquiring the New York manner had helped to generate that impression. It seemed to her more than probable that with a little instruction as to technical stage business she could gain fame and fortune almost at once as an actress of tragedy or melodrama. Comedy she despised as unworthy of her. But the stage appealed to her only on the ground of income. The life of an actress lacked the ethical character which she liked to associate with whatever she did. To be sure, a great actress was an inspiring influence. Nevertheless she preferred some more obviously improving occupation, provided it would afford a suitable support. Yet was it fitting that she should be condemned to do hack work for her daily bread instead of something to enlighten and uplift the community in which she lived? She considered that she had served her apprenticeship by teaching school and writing for the newspapers, and she begrudged spending further time in subordinate work. Better on the whole a striking success on the stage than this, for after she had made a name and money she could retire and devote herself to more congenial undertakings. Nevertheless her conscience told her that a theatrical career must be regarded as a last resort, and she appreciated the importance of not making a hasty decision as to what she would do. The lease of her house would not expire for six months, and it seemed to her probable that even in New York, where she was not understood, someone would realize her value as a manager of some intellectual or literary movement and make overtures to her. She wrote to Mrs. Earle and received a cordial response declaring that Benham would welcome her with open arms, a complimentary though somewhat vague certificate. She sent a line also to Mr. Dennison, informing him that she hoped soon to submit some short stories for his magazine, and received a guarded but polite reply to the effect that he would be glad to read her manuscripts.

While she was thus deliberating and winding up her husband's affairs, Mr. Parsons, who had been absent from New York at the time of Wilbur's decease, called and bluntly made the announcement that he had bought a house in Benham, was to move there immediately, and was desirous that she should live with him as his companion and housekeeper on liberal pecuniary terms.

"I am an old man," he said, "and my health is not what it used to be. I need someone to look after me and to keep me company. I like your chatty ways, and, if I have someone smart and brisk around like you, I sha'n't be thinking so often that I'm all alone in the world. It'll be dull for you, I guess; but you'll be keeping quiet for the present wherever you are; and when the time comes that you wish to take notice again I won't stand in the way of your amusing yourself."

To this homely plea Selma returned a beatific smile. It struck her as an ideal arrangement; a golden opportunity for him, and convenient and promising for her. In the first place she was accorded the mission of cheering and guarding the declining years of this fine old man, whom she had come to look on with esteem and liking. And at the same time as his companion—the virtual mistress of his house, for she knew perfectly well that as a genuine American he was not offering her a position less than this—she would be able to shape her life gradually along congenial lines, and to wait for the ripe occasion for usefulness to present itself. In an instant a great load was lifted from her spirit. She was thankful to be spared conscientious qualms concerning the career of an actress, and thankful to be freed at one bound from her New York associations—especially with Pauline, whose attitude toward her had been further strained by her continued conviction that Wilbur's life might have been saved. Indeed, so completely alleviating was Mr. Parsons's proposition that, stimulated by the thought that he was to be a greater gainer from the plan than she, Selma gave rein to her emotions by exclaiming with fervor:

"Usually I like to think important plans over before coming to a decision; but this arrangement seems to me so sensible and natural and mutually advantageous, Mr. Parsons, that I see no reason why I shouldn't accept your offer now. God grant that I may be a worthy daughter to you—and in some measure take the place of the dear ones you have lost."

"That's what I want," he said. "I took a liking to you the first time we met. Then it's settled?"

"Yes. I suppose," she added, after a moment's hesitation—speaking with an accent of scorn—"I suppose there may be people—people like those who are called fashionable here—who will criticise the arrangement on the ground—er—of propriety, because I'm not a relation, and you are not very old. But I despise conventions such as that. They may be necessary for foreigners; but they are not meant for self-respecting American women. I fancy my sister-in-law may not wholly approve of it, but I don't know. I shall take pleasure in showing her and the rest that it would be wicked as well as foolish to let a flimsy suggestion of evil interfere with the happiness of two people situated as we are."

Mr. Parsons seemed puzzled at first, as though he did not understand exactly what she meant, but when she concluded he said:

"You come to me, as you have yourself stated, on the footing of a daughter. If folk are not content to mind their own business, I guess we needn't worry because they don't happen to be suited. There's one or two relations of mine would be glad to be in your shoes, but I don't know of anything in the Bible or the Constitution of the United States which forbids an old man from choosing the face he'll have opposite to him at table."

"Or forbids the interchange of true sympathy—that priceless privilege," answered Selma, her liking for a sententious speech rising paramount even to the pleasure caused her by the allusion to her personal appearance. Nevertheless it was agreeable to be preferred to his female cousins on the score of comeliness.

Accordingly, within six months of her husband's death, the transition to Benham was accomplished, and Selma was able to encounter the metaphorically open arms, referred to by Mrs. Earle, without feeling that she was a less important person than when she had been whisked off as a bride by Littleton, the rising architect. She was returning as the confidential, protecting companion of a successful, self-made old man, who was relying on her to make his new establishment a pleasure to himself and a credit to the wide-awake city in which he had elected to pass his remaining days. She was returning to a house on the River Drive (the aristocratic boulevard of Benham, where the river Nye makes a broad sweep to the south); a house not far distant from the Flagg mansion at which, as Mrs. Lewis Babcock, she had looked askance as a monument inimical to democratic simplicity. Wilbur had taught her that it was very ugly, and now that she saw it again after a lapse of years she was pleased to note that her new residence, though slightly smaller, had a more modern and distinguished air.

The new house was of rough-hewn red sandstone, combining solid dignity and some artistic merit, for Benham had not stood still architecturally speaking. The River Drive was a grotesque, yet on the whole encouraging exhibit. Most of the residences had been designed by native talent, but under the spur of experiment even the plain, hard-headed builders had been constrained to dub themselves "architects," and adopt modern methods; and here and there stood evidences that the seed planted by Mrs. Hallett Taylor and Littleton had borne fruit, for Benham possessed at least half a dozen private houses which could defy criticism.

The one selected by Mr. Parsons was not of these half dozen; but the plain, hard-headed builder who had erected it for the original owner was shrewd and imitative, and had avoided ambitious deviations from the type he wished to copy—the red sandstone, swell front variety, which ten years before would have seemed to the moral sense of Benham unduly cheerful. Mr. Parsons was so fortunate as to be able to buy it just after it had been completed, together with a stable and half an acre of ground, from one of the few Benhamites whose financial ventures had ended in disaster, and who was obliged to sell. It was a more ambitious residence than Mr. Parsons had desired, but it was the most available, inasmuch as he could occupy it at once. It had been painted and decorated within, but was unfurnished. Mr. Parsons, as a practical business man, engaged the builder to select and supply the bedroom and solid fittings, but it occurred to him to invite Selma to choose the furnishings for what he called the show rooms.

Selma was delighted to visit once more the New York stores, free from the bridle of Wilbur's criticism and unrestrained by economy. She found to her satisfaction that the internal decoration of the new house was not unlike that of the Williamses' first habitation—that is, gay and bedizened; and she was resolved in the selection of her draperies and ornaments to buy things which suggested by their looks that they were handsome, and whose claim to distinction was not mere sober unobtrusiveness. She realized that some of her purchases would have made Wilbur squirm, but since his death she felt more sure than ever that even where art was concerned his taste was subdued, timid, and unimaginative. For instance, she believed that he would not have approved her choice of light-blue satin for the upholstery of the drawing-room, nor of a marble statue—an allegorical figure of Truth, duly draped, as its most conspicuous ornament.

Selma was spared the embarrassment of her first husband's presence. Divorce is no bar to ordinary feminine curiosity as to the whereabouts of a former partner for life, and she had proved no exception to the rule. Mrs. Earle had kept her posted as to Babcock's career since their separation, and what she learned had tended merely to demonstrate the wisdom and justice of her action. As a divorced man he had, after a time, resumed the free and easy, coarse companionship to which he had been partial before his marriage, and had gradually become a heavy drinker. Presently he had neglected his business, a misfortune of which a rival concern had been quick to take advantage. The trend of his affairs had been steadily downhill, and had come to a crisis three months before Littleton's death, when, in order to avoid insolvency, he sold out his factory and business to the rival company, and accepted at the same hands the position of manager in a branch office in a city further west. Consequently, Selma could feel free from molestation or an appeal to her sensibilities. She preferred to think of Babcock as completely outside her life, as dead to her, and she would have disliked the possibility of meeting him in the flesh while shopping on Central avenue. It had been the only drawback to her proposed return to Benham.

During the years of Selma's second marriage Benham had waxed rapidly in population and importance. People had been attracted thither by the varied industries of the city—alike those in search of fortune, and those offering themselves for employment in the mills, oil-works, and pork factories; and at the date of Littleton's death it boasted over one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. It was already the second city of the State in point of population, and was freely acknowledged to be the most wide-awake and enterprising. The civic spirit of Benham was reputed to be constantly and increasingly alert and progressive, notwithstanding the river Nye still ran the color of bean-soup above where it was drawn for drinking purposes, and the ability of a plumber, who had become an alderman, to provide a statue or lay out a public park was still unquestioned by the majority. Even to-day, when trained ability has obtained recognition in many quarters, the Benhamites at large are apt to resent criticism as aristocratic fault-finding; yet at this time that saving minority of souls who refused to regard everything which Benham did as perfection, and whose subsequent forlorn hopes and desperately won victories have little by little taught the community wisdom, if not modesty, was beginning to utter disagreeable strictures.

Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, when she opened her arms to Selma and folded her to her bosom with a hug of welcome, was raging inwardly against this minority, and they had not been many minutes together before she gave utterance to her grievance.

"You have come just in time to give us your sympathy and support in an important matter, my dear. Miss Bailey has been nominated for the School Board at the instance of the Executive Committee of the Benham Institute. We supposed that she would have plain sailing, for many of the voters have begun to recognize the justice of having one or two women on the School Board, and by hard work we had succeeded in getting her name put on the Democratic ticket. Judge, then, of our feelings when we learned that the Reform Club had decided to blacklist and refuse to support at the polls three of the six names on the ticket, including our Luella Bailey, on the ground of lack of experience in educational matters. The Reform Club has nominated three other persons—one of them a woman. And who do you suppose is the head and front of this unholy crusade?"

"It sounds like Mrs. Hallett Taylor," answered Selma, sternly.

"How did you know? What made you think so? How clever of you, Selma! Yes, she is the active spirit."

"It was she who was at the bottom of Miss Bailey's rejection when she was my candidate for a position at Everdean College."

"To be sure. I remember. This Reform Club, which was started a year or so ago, and which sets itself up as a censor of what we are trying to do in Benham, has nominated a Miss Snow, who is said to have travelled abroad studying the school systems of Europe."

"As if that would help us in any way."

"Precisely. She has probably come home with her head full of queer-fangled notions which would be out of keeping with our institutions. Just the reason why she shouldn't be chosen. We are greatly troubled as to the result, dear, for though we expect to win, the prejudice of some men against voting for a woman under any circumstances will operate against our candidate, so that this action of the Reform Club may possibly be the means of electing one of the men on the Republican ticket instead of Luella. Miss Snow hasn't the ghost of a chance. But that isn't all. These Reform Club nominations are preliminary to a bill before the Legislature to take away from the people the right to elect members of the school committee, and substitute an appointive board of specialists to serve during long terms of good behavior. As Mr. Lyons says, that's the real issue involved. It's quixotic and it isn't necessary. Haven't we always prided ourselves on our ability to keep our public schools the best in the world? And is there any doubt, Selma, that either you or I would be fully qualified to serve on the School Board though we haven't made any special study of primers and geographies? Luella Bailey hasn't had any special training, but she's smart and progressive, and the poor thing would like the recognition. We fixed on her because we thought it would help her to get ahead, for she has not been lucky in obtaining suitable employment. As Mr. Lyons says, a serious principle is involved. He has come out strong against the movement and declares that it is a direct menace to the intelligence of the plain people of the United States and a subtle invasion of their liberties."

"Mr. Lyons? What Mr. Lyons is that?"

"Yes, dear, it is the same one who managed your affair. Your Mr. Lyons. He has become an important man since you left Benham. He speaks delightfully, and is likely to receive the next Democratic nomination for Congress. He is in accord with all liberal movements, and a foe of everything exclusive, unchristian or arbitrary. He has declared his intention to oppose the bill when it is introduced, and I shall devote myself body and soul to working against it in case Luella Bailey is defeated. It is awkward because Mrs. Taylor is a member of the Institute, though she doesn't often come, and the club has never been in politics. But here when there was a chance to do Luella Bailey a good turn, and I'd been able through some of my newspaper friends to get her on the ticket, it seems to me positively unchristian—yes, that's the word—to try to keep her off the board. There are some things of course, Luella couldn't do—and if the position were superintendent of a hospital, for instance, I dare say that special training would be advantageous, though nursing can be picked up very rapidly by a keen intelligence: but to raise such objections in regard to a candidate for the School Board seems to me ridiculous as well as cruel. What we need there are open, receptive minds, free from fads and prejudice—wide-awake, progressive enthusiastic intellects. It worries me to see the Institute dragged into politics, but it is my duty to resist this undemocratic movement."

"Surely," exclaimed Selma, with fire. "I am thankful I have come in time to help you. I understand exactly. I have been passing through just such experiences in New York—encountering and being rebuffed by just such people as those who belong to this Reform Club. My husband was beginning to see through them and to recognize that we were both tied hand and foot by their narrowness and lack of enthusiasm when he died. If he had lived, we would have moved to Benham shortly in order to escape from bondage. And one thing is certain, dear Mrs. Earle," she continued with intensity, "we must not permit this carping spirit of hostility to original and spontaneous effort to get a foothold in Benham. We must crush it, we must stamp it out."

"Amen, my dear. I am delighted to hear you talk like that. I declare you would be very effective in public if you were roused."

"Yes, I am roused, and I am willing to speak in public if it becomes necessary in order to keep Benham uncontaminated by the insidious canker of exclusiveness and the distrust of aspiring souls which a few narrow minds choose to term untrained. Am I untrained? Am I superficial and common? Do I lack the appearance and behavior of a lady?"

Selma accompanied these interrogatories with successive waves of the hand, as though she were branding so many falsehoods.

"Assuredly not, Selma. I consider you"—and here Mrs. Earle gasped in the process of choosing her words—"I consider you one of our best trained and most independent minds—cultured, a friend of culture, and an earnest seeker after truth. If you are not a lady, neither am I, neither is anyone in Benham. Why do you ask, dear?" And without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Earle added with a touch of material wisdom, "You return to Benham under satisfactory, I might say, brilliant auspices. You will be the active spirit in this fine house, and be in a position to promote worthy intellectual and moral movements."

"Thank heavens, yes. And to combat those which are unworthy and dangerous," exclaimed Selma, clasping her fingers, "I can count on the support of Mr. Parsons, God bless him! And it would seem at last as if I had, a real chance—a real chance at last. Mrs. Earle—Cora—I know you can keep a secret. I feel almost as though you were my mother, for there is no one else now to whom I can talk like this. I have not been happy in New York. I thought I was happy at first, but lately we have been miserable. My marriage—er—they drove my husband to the wall, and killed him. He was sensitive and noble, but not practical, and he fell a victim to the mercenary despotism of our surroundings. When I tried to help him they became jealous of me, and shut their doors in our faces."

"You poor, poor child. I have suspected for some time that something was wrong."

"It nearly killed me. But now, thank heaven, I breathe freely once more. I have lost my dear husband, but I have escaped from that prison-house; and with his memory to keep me merciless, I am eager to wage war against those influences which are conspiring to fetter the free-born soul and stifle spontaneity. Luella Bailey must be elected, and these people be taught that foreign ideas may flourish in New York, but cannot obtain root in Benham."

Mrs. Earle wiped her eyes, which were running over as the result of this combination of confidence and eloquence.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Selma, I never saw anyone so much improved as you. You always had ideas, and were well equipped, but now you speak as though you could remove mountains if necessary. It's a blessing for us as well as you that you're back among us once more."



CHAPTER II.

When Selma uttered her edict that Luella Bailey must be elected she did not know that the election was only three days off. When she was told this by Mrs. Earle, she cast about feverishly during a few hours for the means to compass certain victory, then promptly and sensibly disclaimed responsibility for the result, suggesting even that her first appearance as a remover of mountains be deferred to the time when the bill should be before the Legislature. As she aptly explained to Mrs. Earle, the canvass was virtually at an end, she was unacquainted with the practical features of the situation, and was to all intents a stranger in Benham after so long an absence. Mrs. Earle was unable to combat the logic of these representations, but she obtained from Selma a ready promise to accompany the Benham Institute to the final rally on the evening before election day and sit in a prominent place on the platform. The Institute was to attend as a body by way of promoting the cause of its candidate, for though the meeting was called in aid of the entire Democratic municipal ticket, Hon. James O. Lyons, the leading orator of the occasion, had promised to devote special attention to Miss Bailey, whose election, owing to the attitude of the Reform Club, was recognized as in doubt. Selma also agreed to accompany Mrs. Earle in a hack on the day itself, and career through the city in search of recalcitrant or indifferent female voters, for the recently acquired right of Benham women to vote for members of the School Board had not as yet been exercised by any considerable number of the emancipated sex.

As a part of the programme of the meeting the Benham Institute, or the major portion of it (for there were a few who sympathized openly with Mrs. Taylor), filed showily on to the platform headed by Mrs. Earle, who waved her pocket handkerchief at the audience, which was the occasion for renewed hand-clapping and enthusiasm. Selma walked not far behind and took her seat among the forty other members, who all wore white silk badges stamped in red with the sentiment "A vote for Luella Bailey is a vote for the liberty of the people." Her pulses were throbbing with interest and pleasure. This was the sort of thing she delighted in, and which she had hoped would be a frequent incident of her life in New York. It pleased her to think how naturally and easily she had taken her place in the ranks of these earnest, enthusiastic workers, and that she had merely to express a wish in order to have leadership urged upon her. Matters had shaped themselves exactly as she desired. Mr. Parsons not only treated her completely as an equal, but consulted her in regard to everything. He had already become obviously dependent on her, and had begun to develop the tendencies of an invalid.

The exercises were of a partisan cast. The theory that municipal government should be independent of party politics had been an adage in Benham since its foundation, and been disregarded annually by nine-tenths of the population ever since. This was a Democratic love-feast. The speakers and the audience alike were in the best of spirits, for there was no uncertainty in the minds of the party prophets as to the result of the morrow's ballot—excepting with regard to Miss Bailey. The rest of the ticket would unquestionably be elected; accordingly all hands and voices were free to focus their energies in her behalf and thus make the victory a clean sweep. Nevertheless the earlier speakers felt obliged to let their eloquence flow over the whole range of political misgovernment from the White House and the national platform down, although the actual issue was the choice of a mayor, twelve aldermen and a school committee, so that only casual reference was made to the single weak spot on the ticket until the Hon. James O. Lyons rose to address the meeting. The reception accorded him was more spontaneous and effusive than that which had been bestowed on either of his predecessors, and as he stood waiting with dignified urbanity for the applause to subside, some rapturous admirer called for three cheers, and the tumult was renewed.

Selma was thrilled. Her acquaintance with Mr. Lyons naturally heightened her interest, and she observed him eagerly. Time had added to his corporeal weight since he had acted as her counsel, and enhanced the sober yet genial decorum of his bearing. His slightly pontifical air seemed an assurance against ill-timed levity. His cheeks were still fat and smooth shaven, but, like many of the successful men of Benham, he now wore a chin beard—a thick tuft of hair which in his case tapered so that it bore some resemblance to the beard of a goat, and gave a rough-and-ready aspect to his appearance suggestive alike of smart, solid worth and an absence of dandified tendencies. Mr. Parsons had a thicker beard of the same character, which Selma regarded with favor as a badge of serious intentions.

"My friends," he began when the applause had subsided; then paused and surveyed his audience in a manner which left them in doubt as to whether he was struggling with emotion or busy in silent prayer. "My friends, a month ago to-day the citizens of Benham assembled to crown with appropriate and beautiful services the monument which they, the survivors, have erected with pious hands to perpetuate the memory of those who laid down their lives to keep intact our beloved union of States and to banish slavery forever from the confines of our aspiring civilization. A week ago an equally representative assembly, without regard to creed or party, listened to the exercises attending the dedication of the new Court House which we have raised to Justice—that white-robed goddess, the guardian of the liberties of the people. Each was a notable and significant event. On each occasion I had the honor to say a few poor words. We celebrated with bowed heads and with garlands the deeds of the heroic dead, and now have consecrated ourselves to the opportunities and possibilities of peace under the law—to the revelation of the temper of our new civilization which, tried in the furnace of war, is to be a grand and vital power for the advancement of the human race, for the righteous furtherance of the brotherhood of man. What is the hope of the world?" he asked. "America—these United States, a bulwark against tyranny, an asylum for the aspiring and the downtrodden. The eyes of the nations are upon us. In the souls of the survivors and of the sons and daughters of the patriots who have died in defence of the liberties of our beloved country abide the seed and inspiration for new victories of peace. Our privilege be it as the heirs of Washington and Franklin and Hamilton and Lincoln and Grant to set the nations of the earth an example of what peace under the law may accomplish, so that the free-born son of America from the shores of Cape Cod to the western limits of the Golden Gate may remain a synonym for noble aims and noble deeds, for truth and patriotism and fearlessness of soul."

The speaker's words had been uttered slowly at the outset—ponderous, sonorous, sentence by sentence, like the big drops before a heavy shower. As he warmed to his theme the pauses ceased, and his speech flowed with the musical sweep of a master of platform oratory. When he spoke of war his voice choked; in speaking of peace he paused for an appreciable moment, casting his eyes up as though he could discern the angel of national tranquillity hovering overhead. Although this opening peroration seemed scarcely germane to the occasion, the audience listened in absorbed silence, spell-bound by the magnetism of his delivery. They felt sure that he had a point in reserve to which these splendid and agreeable truths were a pertinent introduction.

Proceeding, with his address, Mr. Lyons made a panegyric on these United States of America, from the special standpoint of their dedication to the "God of our fathers," a solemn figure of speech. The sincerity of his patriotism was emphasized by the religious fervor of his deduction that God was on the side of the nation, and the nation on the side of God. Though he abstained from direct strictures, both his manner and his matter seemed to serve a caveat, so to speak, on the other nations by declaring that for fineness of heart and thought, and deed, the world must look to the land "whose wide and well-nigh boundless prairies were blossoming with the buds of truth fanned by the breeze of liberty and fertilized by the aspirations of a God-fearing and a God-led population. What is the hope of the world, I repeat?" he continued. "The plain and sovereign people of our beloved country. Whatever menaces their liberties, whatever detracts from their, power and infringes on their prerogatives is a peril to our institutions and a step backward in the science of government. My friends, we are here to-night to protest against a purpose to invade those liberties—a deliberately conceived design to take away from the sovereign people of this city one of their cherished privileges—the right to decide who shall direct the policy of our free public-school system, that priceless heritage of every American. I beg to remind you that this contest is no mere question of healthy rivalry between two great political parties; nor again is it only a vigorous competition between two ambitious and intelligent women. A ballot in behalf of our candidate will be a vote of confidence in the ability of the plain people of this country to adopt the best educational methods without the patronizing dictation of aboard of specialists nurtured on foreign and uninspiring theories of instruction. A ballot against Miss Luella Bailey, the competent and cultivated lady whose name adds strength and distinction to our ticket, and who has been needlessly and wantonly opposed by those who should be her proud friends, will signify a willingness to renounce one of our most precious liberties—the free man's right to choose those who are to impart to his children mastery of knowledge and love of country. I take my stand to-night as the resolute enemy of this aristocratic and un-American suggestion, and urge you, on the eve of election, to devote your energies to overwhelming beneath the shower of your fearless ballots this insult to the intelligence of the voters of Benham, and this menace to our free and successful institutions, which, under the guidance of the God of our fathers, we purpose to keep perpetually progressive and undefiled."

A salvo of enthusiasm greeted Mr. Lyons as he concluded. His speeches were apt to cause those whom he addressed to feel that they were no common campaign utterances, but eloquent expressions of principle and conviction, clothed in memorable language, as, indeed, they were. He was fond of giving a moral or patriotic flavor to what he said in public, for he entertained both a profound reverence for high moral ideas and an abiding faith in the superiority of everything American. He had arrayed himself on the threshold of his legal career as a friend and champion of the mass of the people—the plain and sovereign people, as he was apt to style them in public. His first and considerable successes had been as the counsel for plaintiffs before juries in accident cases against large corporations, and he had thought of himself with complete sincerity as a plain man, contesting for human rights before the bar of justice, by the sheer might of his sonorous voice and diligent brain. His political development had been on the same side. Latterly the situation had become a little puzzling, though to a man of straightforward intentions, like himself, not fundamentally embarrassing. That is, the last four or five years had altered both the character of his practice and his circumstances, so that instead of fighting corporations he was now the close adviser of a score of them; not the defender of their accident cases, but the confidential attorney who was consulted in regard to their vital interests, and who charged them liberal sums for his services. He still figured in court from time to time in his capacity of the plain man's friend, which he still considered himself to be no less than before, but most of his time was devoted to protecting the legal interests of the railroad, gas, water, manufacturing, mining and other undertakings which, the rapid growth of Benham had forgotten. And as a result of this commerce with the leading men of affairs in Benham, and knowledge of what was going on, he had been able to invest his large fees to the best advantage, and had already reaped a rich harvest from the rapid rise in value of the securities of diverse successful enterprises. When new projects were under consideration he was in a position to have a finger in the pie, and he was able to borrow freely from a local bank in which he was a director.

He was puzzled—it might be said distressed—how to make these rewards of his professional prominence appear compatible with his real political principles, so that the plain and sovereign people would recognize as clearly as he that there was no inconsistency in his having taken advantage of the opportunities for professional advancement thrown in his way. He was ambitious for political preferment, sharing the growing impression that he was well qualified for public office, and he desired to rise as the champion of popular ideas. Consequently he resented bitterly the calumnies which had appeared in one or two irresponsible newspapers to the effect that he was becoming a corporation attorney and a capitalist. Could a man refuse legitimate business which was thrust upon him? How were his convictions and interest in the cause of struggling humanity altered or affected by his success at the bar? Hence he neglected no occasion to declare his allegiance to progressive doctrine, and to give utterance to the patriotism which at all times was on tap in his emotional system. He had been married, but his wife had been dead a number of years, and he made his home with his aged mother, to whom he was apt to refer with pious tremulousness when he desired to emphasize some domestic situation before a jury. As a staunch member of the Methodist Church, he was on terms of intimate association with his pastor, and was known as a liberal contributor to domestic and foreign missions.