"Mr. Foote," she said, presently, "I—" then she stopped. She had intended to tell him about Dulac; that she loved him and had promised to marry him, but she could not utter the words. It would hurt him so to know that she loved another man. She could refuse him without that added pain. "Don't you see," she said, "how impossible it is? It wouldn't do—even if I cared for you."

"If you cared for me," he said, "nothing could make it impossible."

"We belong in different worlds.... You couldn't come down to mine; I wouldn't fit into yours. My world wouldn't have you, and your world wouldn't have me.... Don't you see?"

"I don't see. What has your world or mine to do with it? It's just you and me."

"When you saw that your family wouldn't have me, when you found out that your friends wouldn't be friends with me, and that they didn't want to be friends with you any longer just because you married me ..."

"I don't want any friends or family but you," he said, eagerly, boyishly.

"Be reasonable, Mr. Foote.... You're rich. Some day you'll be the head of a great business—with thousands of men working for you.... I belong with them. You must be against them.... I couldn't bear it. You know all about me. I've been brought up to believe the things I believe. My father and grandfather and HIS grandfather worked and suffered for them.... Just as your ancestors have worked and planned for the things you represent.... It wouldn't ever do. We couldn't be happy. Even if I—cared—and did as you ask—it wouldn't last."

"It would last," he said. "I KNOW. I've been trying to tell you, to make you believe that you have crowded everything else out of my life. There's just you in it.... It would last—and every day and every year it would grow—more wonderful."

"There must be agreement and sympathy between a husband and his wife, Mr. Foote.... Oh, I KNOW. In the bigger things. And there we could never agree. It would make trouble—trouble that couldn't be avoided nor dodged. It would be there with us every minute—and we'd know it. You'd know I hated the things you stand for and the things you have to do.... No man could bear that—to have his wife constantly reproaching him."

"I think," he said, "that your word would be my law...."

She sat silent, startled. Unasked, unsought, a thought had entered her mind; a terrifying thought, but a big and vital thought. HER WORD WOULD BE HIS LAW. Her influence would be upon him.... And he was master of thousands of her class. He would be master of more thousands.... If she were his wife—if her word might become his law—how would those laboring men be affected? Would her word be his law with respect to them?...

She did not love him, but she did love the Cause she represented, that her promised husband, Dulac, represented.... Her father had given his life for it. She had given nothing. Now she could give— herself.... She could sacrifice herself, she could pass by her love— but would it avail anything?... This boy loved her, loved her with all his strength and honesty. He would continue to love her. She believed that.... If, not loving him, she should marry him, she would be able to hold his love—and her word would be in some sort his law. She could influence him—not abruptly, not suddenly, but gradually, cleverly, cunningly. She could use him for her great purpose. Thousands of men might be happier, safer from hunger and misery, closer to a realization of their hope, if she gave herself to this boy.... She was filled with exaltation—a Joan of Arc listening to her Voices....

It was possible—possible.... And if it were possible, if she could accomplish this great thing for the Cause, dared she avoid it? Was it not a holy duty?

Remember her parentage, her training; remember that she had drawn into her being enthusiasm, fanaticism with the air she breathed in the very cradle. She was a revolutionist.... Greater crimes than loveless marriages have been committed in the name of Enthusiasm for a Cause.

She hesitated. What should she say?.... She must think, for a new face was upon the matter. She must think, and she must talk with Dulac. Dulac was stronger than she—but he saw eye to eye with her. The things she set up and worshiped in their shrines he worshiped more fervently.... She must put the boy off with evasion. She must postpone her answer until she was certain she saw her duty clearly.

Love of humanity in the mass was in her heart—it shouldered out fairness to an individual man. She did not think of this. If she had thought it might not have mattered, for if she were willing to immolate herself would she not have been as ready to sacrifice one man—for the good of thousands?

"I-" she began, and was dimly conscious of shame at her duplicity. "I did not know you—wanted me this way.... Let me think. I can't answer—to-night. Wait.... Give me time."

His voice was glad as he answered, and its gladness shamed her again. "Wait.... I'd wait forever. But I don't want to wait forever.... It is more than I hoped, more than I had the right to hope. I know I took you by surprise.... Let me have time and the chance to make you love me—to let you get used to the idea of my loving you. But try not to be long. I'm impatient—you don't know how impatient...."

"I-I sha'n't be long," she said. "You mustn't build too many hopes...."

He laughed. She had never heard him laugh with such lightness, with such a note of soul-gladness, before. "Hope.... I shall eat and drink hope—until you—come to me. For you will come to me. I know it.... It couldn't be any other way." He laughed again, gayly. And then from out the blackness of the surrounding shrubbery there plunged the figure of a man....

Before Bonbright could lift a hand to shield himself blows began to fall, blows not delivered with the naked fist. Once, twice, again the man struck with the strength of frenzy. Ruth sat silent, stunned, paralyzed by fright, and uttered no scream. Then she saw the face of Bonbright's assailant. It was Dulac—and she understood.

She sprang to him, clutched at his arm, but he hurled her off and struck again.... It was enough. Bonbright stood wavering a moment, struggling to remain upright, but sagging slowly. Then he slumped to the ground in a sort of uncanny sitting posture, his head sunk upon his knees.

Ruth stood looking down upon him with horror-widened eyes. Dulac hurled his weapon into the bushes and turned upon her furiously, seizing her arm and dragging her to him so that his eyes, glowing with unreason, could burn into hers.

"Oh—" she moaned.

"I've taught him," Dulac said, his voice quivering with rage. "It was time... the vermin. Because he was rich he thought he was safe. He thought he could do anything.... But I've taught him. They starve us and stamp on us—and then steal our wives and smirch our sweethearts."

Ruth tried to bend over Bonbright, to lift his head, to give him assistance, but Dulac jerked her away.

"Don't touch him. Don't dare to touch him," he said.

"He doesn't—move," she said, in a horrified whisper. "Maybe you've- killed him."

"He deserved it.... And you—have you anything to say? What are you doing here—with him?"

"Let me go," she panted. "Let me see—I must see. He can't be—dead. ... You—you BEAST!" she cried, shrilly. "He was good. He meant no harm.... He loved me, and that's why this happened. It's my fault— my fault."

"Be still," he commanded. "He loved you—you admit it. You dare admit it—and you here alone with him at night."

"He asked—me—to—marry—him," she said, faintly. "He was not—what you think.... He was a good—boy."

Suddenly she tried to break from him to go to Bonbright, but he clutched her savagely. "Help!... Help!..." she cried. Then his hand closed over her mouth and he gathered her up in his arms and carried her away.

He did not look behind at Bonbright huddled there with the ribbon of moonlight pointing across the lake at his limp body, but half staggered, half ran to his waiting car.... A snarled word, and the engine started. Ruth, choking, helpless, was carried away, leaving Bonbright alone and still....



CHAPTER XIV

Bonbright was on his hands and knees on the edge of the lake, dizzily slopping water on his head and face. He was struggling toward consciousness, fighting dazedly for the power to act. As one who, in a dream, reviews the events of another half-presented dream, he knew what had happened. Consciousness had not fully deserted him. Dulac had attacked him; Dulac had carried Ruth away.... Somehow he had no fears for her personal safety, but he must follow. He must KNOW that she was safe....

Not many minutes had passed since Dulac struck him down. His body was strong, well trained to sustain shocks and to recover from them, thanks to four years of college schooling in the man's game of football. Since he left college he had retained the respect for his body which had been taught him, and with golf and tennis and gymnasium he had kept himself fit... so that now his vital forces marshaled themselves quickly to fight his battle for him. Presently he raised himself to his feet and stood swaying dizzily; with fingers that fumbled he tied his handkerchief about his bruised head and staggered toward his car, for his will urged him on to follow Dulac.

To crank the motor (for the self-starter had not yet arrived) was a task of magnitude, but he accomplished it and pulled himself into the seat. For a moment he lay upon the steering wheel, panting, fighting back his weakness; then he thrust forward his control lever and the car began to move. The motion, the kindly touch of the cool night air against his head, stimulated him; he stepped on the gas pedal and the car leaped forward as though eager for the pursuit.

Out into the main road he lurched, grimly clutching the steering wheel, leaning on it for support, his aching, blurred eyes clinging to the illuminated way before him, and he drove as he had never ventured to drive before. Beating against his numbed brain was his will's sledge-hammer demands for speed, and he obeyed recklessly....

Roadside objects flicked by, mile after mile was dropped behind, the city's outskirts were being snatched closer and closer—and then he saw the other car far ahead. All that remained to be asked of his car he demanded now, and he overhauled the smaller, less speedy machine. Now his lights played on its rear and his horn sounded a warning and a demand. Dulac's car veered to the side to let him pass, and he lurched by, only turning a brief, wavering glance upon the other machine to assure himself that Ruth was there. He saw her in a flashing second, in the tonneau, with Dulac by her side.... She was safe, uninjured. Then Bonbright left them behind.

The road narrowed, with deep ditches on either hand. Here was the place he sought. He set his brakes, shut off his power, and swung his car diagonally across the way, so that it would be impossible for Dulac to pass. Then he alighted, and stood waiting, holding on to his machine for support.

The other car came to a stop and Dulac sprang out. Bonbright saw Ruth rise to follow; heard Dulac say, roughly: "Get back. Stay where you are."

"No," she replied, and stepped to the road.

Bonbright could see how pale she was, how frightened.

"Don't be afraid," he said to her. "Nothing is going to—happen."

He stood erect now, free from the support of the car, waiting for Dulac, who approached menacingly.

"Dulac," he said, "I can't—fight you. I can't even—-defend myself— much.... Unless you insist."

The men were facing each other now, almost toe to toe. Dulac's face was stormy with passion under scant restraint; Bonbright, though he swayed a bit unsteadily, faced him with level eyes. Ruth saw the decent courage of the boy and her fear for him made her clutch Dulac's sleeve. The man shook her off.

"I know—why you attacked me," said Bonbright, slowly, "what you thought.... I—stopped you to—be sure Miss Frazer was safe... and to tell you you were—wrong.... Not that you have a—right to question me, but nobody must think—ill of Miss Frazer.... No misunderstanding...."

"Get that car out of the way," said Dulac.

Bonbright shook his head. "Not till I'm—through," he said. "Then you may—take Miss Frazer home.... But be kind to her—gentle.... I shall ask her about it—and I sha'n't be—knocked out long."

"You threaten me, you pampered puppy!"

"Yes," said Bonbright, grimly, "exactly."

Dulac started to lift his arm, but Ruth caught it. "No.... No," she said, in a tense whisper. "You mustn't. Can't you see how—hurt he is? He can hardly stand.... You're not a COWARD...."

"Dulac," said Bonbright, "here's the truth: I took Miss Frazer to the lake to—ask her to—marry me.... No other reason. She was—safe with me—as with you. I want her for—my wife. Do you understand?... You thought—what my father thought."

Ruth uttered a little cry. So THAT was what had happened!

"All the decency in the world," Bonbright said, "isn't in—union men, workingmen.... Because I have more money than you—you want to believe—anything of me.... You're even willing to—believe it of her.... I can—love as well as if I were poor.... I can—honor and respect the girl I want to marry as well as if I—carried a union card.... That is TRUE."

Dulac laughed shortly; then, even in his rage, he became oratorical, theatrical.

"We know the honor and respect of your kind.... We know what our sisters and daughters have to expect from you. We've learned it. You talk fair—you dangle your filthy money under their eyes—you promise this and you promise that.... And then you throw away your toys.... They come back to us covered with disgrace, heart-broken, marked forever, and fit to be no man's wife.... That's your respect and honor. That's your decency.... Leave our women alone.... Go to your bridge-playing, silly, husband-swapping society women. They know you. They know what to expect from you—and get what they deserve. Leave our women alone.... Leave this girl alone. We men have to endure enough at your hands, but we won't endure this.... We'll do as I did to-night. I thrashed you—"

"Like a coward, in the dark, from behind," said Bonbright, boyish pride insisting upon offering its excuse. "I didn't stop you to argue about capital and labor. I stopped you—to tell you the truth about to-night. I've told it."

"You've lied the way your kind always lies."

Bonbright's lips straightened, his eyes hardened, and he leaned forward. "I promised Miss Frazer nothing—should happen. It sha'n't. ... But you're a fool, Dulac. You know I'm telling the truth—but you won't admit it—because you don't want to. Because I'm not on your side, you won't admit it.... And that makes you a fool.... Be still. You haven't hesitated to tell me I lied. I've taken that—and you'll take what I have to say. It isn't much. I don't know much about the—differences between your kind and my kind.... But your side gets more harm than good from men like you. You're a blind fanatic. You cram your men on lies and stir them up to hate us.... Maybe there's cause, but you magnify it.... You won't see the truth. You won't see reason.... You hold us apart. Maybe you're honest— fanatics usually are, but fanatics are fools. It does no good to tell you so. I'm wasting my breath.... Now take Miss Frazer home—and be careful how you treat her."

He turned his back squarely and pulled himself into his car. Then he turned to Ruth. "Good night, Miss Frazer," he said. "I am sorry—for all this.... May I come for—your answer to-morrow?"

"No...." she said, tremulously. "Yes...."

Bonbright straightened his car in the road and drove on. He was at the end of his strength. He wanted the aid of a physician, and then he wanted to lie down and sleep, and sleep. The day that had preceded the attack upon him had been wearing enough to exhaust the sturdiest. The tension of waiting, the anxiety, the mental disturbance, had demanded their usual wages of mind and body. Sudden shock had done the rest.

He drove to the private hospital of a doctor of his acquaintance, a member of his club, and gained admission. The doctor himself was there, by good fortune, and saw Bonbright at once, and examined the wounds in his scalp.

"Strikers get you?" he asked.

"Automobile mix-up," said Bonbright, weakly.

"Uh-huh!" said the doctor. "I suppose somebody picked up a light roadster and struck you over the head with it.... Not cut much. No stitches. A little adhesive'll do the trick—and then.... Sort of excited, eh? Been under a bit of a strain?... None of my business, of course.... Get into bed and I'll send up something to tone you down and make you sleep. You've been playing in too high a key—your fiddle strings are too tight."

Getting into that cool, soft bed was one of the pleasantest experiences of Bonbright's life. He was almost instantly asleep—and he still slept, even at the deliberate hour that saw his father enter the office at the mills.

Mr. Foote was disturbed. He had not seen his son since the boy flung out of the office the morning before; had had no word of him. He had expected Bonbright to come home in the evening and had waited for him in the library to have a word with him. He had come to the conclusion that it would be best to throw some sort of sop to Bonbright in the way of apparent authority, of mock responsibility. It would occupy the boy's mind, he thought, while in no way altering the conditions, not affecting the end to be arrived at. Bonbright must be held.... If it were necessary to administer an anaesthetic while the operation of remaking him into a true Foote was performed, why, the anaesthetic would be forthcoming.

But Bonbright did not come, even with twelve strokes of the clock. His father retired, but in no refreshing sleep.... On that day no progress had been made with the Marquis Lafayette. That work required a calm that Mr. Foote could not master.

His first act after seating himself at his desk was to summon Rangar.

"My son was not at home last night," he said. "I have not seen him since yesterday morning. I hope you can give me an account of him."

"Not home last night, Mr. Foote!" Manifestly Rangar was startled. He had not been at ease before, for be had been unable to pick up any trace of the boy this morning; had not seen him return home the night before.... It might be that he had gone too far when he sent his anonymous note to Dulac. Dulac had gone in pursuit, of that he had made sure. But what had happened? Had the matter gone farther than the mere thrashing he had hoped for?... He was frightened.

"I directed you to keep him under your eye."

"Your directions were followed, Mr. Foote, so far as was possible. I know where he was yesterday, and where he went last night, but when a young man is running around the country in an automobile with a girl, it's mighty hard to keep at his heels. He was with that girl."

"When?... What happened?"

"He waited for her at the Lightener plant. She works there now. They drove out the Avenue together—some place into the country. Mr. Bonbright is a member of the Apple Lake Club, and I was sure they were going there.... That's the last I know."

"Telephone the Apple Lake Club. See if he was there and when he left."

Rangar retired to do so, and returned presently to report that Bonbright and a young lady had dined there, but had not been seen after they left the table. Nobody could say when they went away from the club.

"Call Malcolm Lightener—at his office. Once the boy stayed at his house."

Rangar made the call, and, not able to repress the malice that was in him, went some steps beyond his directions. Mr. Lightener was on the wire.

"This is Rangar, Mr. Lightener—Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. Mr. Foote wished me to inquire if you had seen Mr. Bonbright between six o'clock last night and this morning."

"No.... Why does he ask me? What's the matter?"

"Mr. Foote says Bonbright stayed with you one night, and thought he might have done so again. Mr. Foote is worried, sir. The young man has—er—vanished, so to speak. He was seen last at your plant about five o'clock. In his automobile, Mr. Lightener. He was waiting for a young woman who works for you—a Miss Frazer, I understand. Used to be his secretary. They drove away together, and he hasn't been seen since.... Mr. Foote has feared some sort of—er—understanding between them."

"Huh!" grunted Lightener. "Don't know anything about it. Tell Foote to look after his own son... if he knows how." Then the receiver clicked.

Lightener swung away from the telephone and scowled at the wall. "He don't look it," he said, presently, "and I'm darned if SHE does.... Huh!..." He pressed a button. "Send in Miss Frazer," he said to the boy who answered the buzzer.

In a moment Ruth stood in the door. He let her stand while he scrutinized her briefly. She looked ill. Her eyes were dull and marked by surrounding darkness. She had no color. He shook his head Like a displeased lion.

"Miss Frazer," he said, gruffly, "I make it a practice always to mind my own business except when there's some reason for not minding it— which is frequent."

"Yes, sir," she said, as he paused.

"Yes, sir.... Yes, sir. What do YOU know about it? Come in and shut the door. Come over here where I can look at you. What's the matter? Ill? If you're sick what are you doing here? Home's the place for you."

"I'm not ill, Mr. Lightener."

"Huh!... I liked your looks—like 'em yet. Like everybody's looks who works here, or I wouldn't have 'em.... You're all right, I'll bet a dollar—all RIGHT.... You know young Foote got you your job here?"

He saw the sudden intake of her breath as Bonbright's name was mentioned. "Yes," she said, faintly.

"What about him?... Know him well? LIKE HIM?"

"I—I know him quite well, Mr. Lightener. Yes, I—like him."

"Trust him?"

She looked at him a moment before replying; then her chin lifted a trifle and there came a glint into her eyes. "Absolutely," she said.

"Um!... Good enough. So do I.... Enough to let him play around with my daughter.... Has he anything to do with the way you look to- day?... Not a fair question—yet. You needn't answer."

"I shouldn't," she said, and he smiled at the asperity of her tone.

"Mr. Bonbright Foote seems to be causing his family anxiety," he said. "He's disappeared.... I guess they think you carried him off. Did you go somewhere with him in his car last night?"

"You have no right to question me, Mr. Lightener."

"Don't I know it? I tell you I like you and I like him—and I think his father's a stiff-backed, circumstantial, ancestor-ridden damn fool.... Something's happened or Foote wouldn't be telephoning around. He's got reason to be frightened, and good and frightened. ... A girl, especially a girl in your place, hasn't any business being mixed up in any mess, much less with a young millionaire.... That's why I'm not minding my own business. You work for me, don't you—and ain't I responsible for you, sort of? Well, then? Were you with Bonbright last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Huh!... Something happened, didn't it?" "Nothing that—Mr. Foote had anything to do with—"

"But something happened. What?"

"I can't tell you, Mr. Lightener."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

"When did you see him last?"

"A little after nine o'clock last night."

"Where?"

"Going toward home—I thought."

"He didn't go there. Where else would he go?"

"I don't—know." Her voice broke, her self-control was deserting her.

"Hey!... Hold on there. No hysterics or anything. Won't have 'em. Brace up."

"Let me alone, then," she said, childishly. "Why can't you let me alone?"

"I—Confound it! I'm not deviling you. I'm trying to haul you out of a muss. Quit it, will you?" She had sunk into a chair and covered her face. He got up and stood over her, scowling. "Will you stop it? Hear me? Stop it, I tell you'... What's the matter—anyhow? If Bonbright Foote's done anything to you he hadn't ought to I'll skin him alive."

The door opened and Hilda Lightener tripped into the room. "Hello, dad!" she said. "Surprise.... I want to—" She stopped to look at her father, and then at Ruth, crouched in her chair. "What's the matter, dad?" Hilda asked. "You haven't been scaring this little girl? If you have—" She paused threateningly.

"Oh, the devil!... I'll get out. You see if you can make her stop it. Cuddle her, or something. I've done a sweet job of it.... Miss Frazer, this is my daughter. Er—I'm going away from here." And he went, precipitately.

There was a brief silence; then Hilda laid her hand on Ruth's head. "What's dad been doing to you?" she asked. "Scare you? His bark's a heap sight worse than his bite."

"He—he's good," said Ruth, tearfully. "He was trying to be good to me.... I'm just upset—that's all. I'll be—all right in a moment." But she was not all right in a moment. Her sobs increased. The strain, the anxiety, a sleepless night of suffering—and the struggle she had undergone to find the answer to Bonbright's question—had tried her to the depths of her soul. Now she gave quite away and, unwillingly enough, sobbed and mumbled on Hilda Lightener's shoulder, and clung to the larger girl pitifully, as a frightened baby clings to its mother.

Hilda's face grew sober, her eyes darkened, as, among Ruth's broken, fragmentary, choking words, she heard the name of Bonbright Foote. But her arm did not withdraw from about Ruth's shoulders, nor did the sympathy in her kind voice lessen.... Most remarkable of all, she did not give way to a very natural curiosity. She asked no question.

After a time Ruth grew quieter, calmer.

"I'll tell you what you need," said Hilda. "It's to get away from here. My electric's downstairs. I'm going to take you away from father. We'll drive around a bit, and then I'll run you home.... You're all aquiver."

She went out, closing the door after her. Her father was pacing uneasily up and down the alley between the desks, and she motioned to him.

"She's better now. I'm going to take her home.... Dad, she was muttering about Bonbright. What's he got to do with this?"

"I don't know, honey. Nothing—nothing ROTTEN.... It isn't in him— nor HER."

Hilda nodded.

"Bonbright seems to have disappeared," her father said.

"DISAPPEARED?"

"His father's hunting for him, anyhow. Hasn't been home all night."

"I don't blame him," said Hilda, with a flash in her eyes. "But what's this girl got to do with it?"

"I wish you'd find out. I was trying to—and that blew up the house."

"I'll try nothing of the kind," she said. "Of course, if she WANTS to tell me, and DOES tell me, I'll listen.... But I won't tell you. You run your old factory and keep out of such things. You just MESS them."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, with mock submissiveness, "it looks like I do just that."

Hilda went back into the room, and presently she and Ruth emerged and went out of the building. That day began their acquaintance, which was to expand into a friendship very precious to both of them—and one day to be the rod and staff that sustained Ruth and kept her from despair.



CHAPTER XV

Hilda Lightener represented a new experience to Ruth. Never before had she come into such close contact with a woman of a class she had been taught to despise as useless and worse than useless. Even more than they hated the rich man Ruth's class hated the rich man's wife and daughter. Society women stood to them for definite transgressions of the demands of human equality and fairness and integrity of life. They were parasites, wasters, avoiding the responsibilities of womanhood and motherhood. They flaunted their ease and their luxuries. They were arrogant. When their lives touched the lives of the poor it was with maddening condescension. In short, they were not only no good, but were flagrantly bad.

The zealots among whom Ruth's youth had lain knew no exceptions to this judgment. All so-called society women were included. Now Ruth was forced to make a revision.... All employers of labor had been malevolent. Experience had proven to her that Bonbright Foote was not malevolent, and that a more conspicuous, vastly more powerful figure in the industrial world, Malcolm Lightener, was human, considerate, respectful of right, full of unexpected disturbing virtues.... Ruth was forced to the conclusion that there were good men and good women where she had been taught to believe they did not exist.... It was a pin-prick threatening the bubble of her fanaticism.

She had not been able to withhold her liking from Hilda Lightener. Hilda was strongly attracted by Ruth. King Copetua may occasionally wed the beggar maid, but it is rare for his daughter or his sister to desire a beggar maid's friendship.

Hilda did not press Ruth for confidences, nor did Ruth bestow them. But Hilda succeeded in making Ruth feel that she was trustworthy, that she offered her friendship sincerely.... That she was an individual to depend on if need came for dependence. They talked. At first Hilda carried on a monologue. Gradually Ruth became more like her sincere, calm self, and she met Hilda's advances without reservation.... When Hilda left her at her home both girls carried away a sense of possessing something new of value.

"Don't you come back to the office to-day," Hilda told her. "I'll settle dad."

"Thank you," said Ruth. "I do need—rest. I've got to be alone to— think." That was the closest she came to opening her heart.

She did have to think, though she had thought and reasoned and suffered the torture of mental conflict through a nearly sleepless night. She had told Bonbright to come on this day for her answer.... She must have her answer ready. Also she must talk the thing over with Dulac. That would be hard—doubly hard in the situation that existed.

Last night she had not spoken of it to him; had scarcely spoken to him at all, as he had been morosely silent to her. She had been shocked, frightened by his violence, yet she knew that his violence had been honest violence, perpetrated because he believed her welfare demanded it. She did not feel toward him the aversion that the average girl might have felt for one who precipitated her into such a scene.... She was accustomed to violence and to the atmosphere of violence.

When she and Dulac arrived at the Frazer cottage, he had helped her to alight. Then he uttered a rude apology, but a sincere one— according to his lights.

"I'm sorry I had to do it with you watching," he said. Then, curtly, "Go to bed now."

Clearly he suspected her of no wrongdoing, of no intention toward future wrongdoing. She was a VICTIM. She was a pigeon fascinated by a serpent.

Now she went to her room, and remained there until the supper hour.

When she and her mother and Dulac were seated at the table her mother began a characteristic Jeremiad. "I hope you ain't coming down with a spell of sickness. Seems like sickness in the family's about the only thing I've been spared, though other things worse has been aplenty. Here we are just in a sort of a breathing spell, and you begin to look all peeked and home from work, with maybe losing your place, for employers is hard without any consideration, and food so high and all. I wasn't born to no ease, nor any chance of looking forward like some women, though doing my duty at all times to the best of my ability. And now you on the verge of a run of the fever, with nobody can say how long in bed, and doctors and medicines and worry...."

"I'm not going to be ill, mother," Ruth said. "Please don't worry about me."

"If a mother can't worry about her own daughter, then I'd like to know what she can do," said Mrs. Frazer, with the air of one suffering meekly a studied affront.

Ruth turned to Dulac. "Before you go downtown," she said, "I want to talk to you."

Dulac had not hoped to escape a reckoning with Ruth, and now he supposed she was demanding it. Well, as well now as later, if the thing had to be. He was a trifle sulky about it; perhaps, now that his blind rage had subsided, not wholly satisfied with himself and his conduct. "All right," he said, and went silently on with his meal. After a time he pushed back his chair. "I've got a meeting downtown," he said to Ruth, paving the way for a quick escape.

"Maybe what I have to say," she said, gravely, "will be as important as your meeting," and she preceded him into the little parlor.

His attitude was defensive; he expected to be called on for explanations, to be required to soothe resentment; his mental condition was more or less that of a schoolboy expecting a ragging.

Ruth did not begin at once, but walked over to the window, and, leaning her elbow against the frame, pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She wanted to clear and make direct and coherent her thoughts. She wanted to express well, leaving no ground for misunderstanding of herself or her motives, what she had to say. Then she turned, and began abruptly; began in a way that left Dulac helplessly surprised, for it was not the attack he expected.

"Mr. Foote asked me to marry him, last night," she said, and stopped. "That is why he took me out to the lake.... I hadn't any idea of it before. I didn't know... He was honest and sincere. At first I was astonished. I tried to stop him. I was going to tell him I loved you and that we were going to be married." She stopped again, and went on with an effort. "Then something came to me—and it frightened me. All the time he was talking to me I kept on thinking about it... and I didn't want to think about it because of—you.... You know I want to do something for the Cause—something big, something great! It's hard for a woman to do such a thing—but I saw a chance. It was a hard chance, a bitter chance, but it was there.... I'm not a doll. I think I could be strong. He's just a boy, and I am strong enough to influence him.... And I thought how his wife could help. Don't you see? He will own thousands of laboring men—thousands and thousands. If I married him I could do—what couldn't I do?—for them. I would make him see through my eyes. I would make him UNDERSTAND. My work would be to make him better conditions, to give those thousands of men what they are entitled to, to give them all men like you and like my father have taught me they ought to have.... I could do it. I know. Think of it—thousands of men, and then—wives and children, made happier, made contented, given their fair share—and by me!... That's what I thought about—and so—so I didn't refuse him. I didn't tell him about you.... I told him I'd give him my answer—later...."

His face had changed from sullenness to relief, from relief to astonishment, then to black anger.

"Your answer," he said, passionately. "What answer could you give but one? You're mine. You've promised me. That's the answer you'll give him.... You THOUGHT. I know what you thought. You thought about his money—about his millions. You thought what his wife would have, how she would live. You thought about luxuries, about automobiles, about jewels.... Laboring men!... Hell! He showed you the kingdoms of the earth—and you wanted them. He offered to buy you—and you looked at the price and it was enough to tempt you.... You'll give him no answer. I'll give it to him, and it'll be the same kind of answer I gave him last night.... But this time he won't get up so quick. This time..."

"Stop!... That's not true. You know it's not true.... I've promised to marry you—and I've loved you. Yes, I've loved you.... I'm glad of that. It makes the sacrifice real. It makes all the more I have to give.... Father gave his life. You're giving your life and your strength and your abilities.... I want to give, too, and so I'm glad, glad that I love you, and that I can give that.... If I didn't love you, if I did care for Mr. Foote, it would be different. I would be afraid I was marrying him because of what he is and what he has. ... But I am giving up more than he can ever return to me with all his money.... Money can't buy love. It can't give back to me that happiness I would have known with you, working for you, suffering with you, helping you. It's my chance.... You must see. You must believe the truth. I couldn't bear it if you didn't—if you didn't see that I am throwing away my happiness and giving myself—just for the Cause. That I am giving all of myself—not to a quick, merciful death. That wouldn't be hard.... But to years of misery, to a lifetime of suffering. Knowing I love you, I will have to go to him, and be his wife, and pretend—pretend—day after day, year after year, that I love him.... I'll have to deceive him. I'll have to hold his love and make it stronger, and I'll—I'll come to loathe him. Does that sound easy? Could money buy that? Look into your heart and see...."

He strode to her, and his hands fell heavily on her shoulders, his black, blazing eyes burned into hers.

"You love me—you haven't lied to me?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"I love you."

"Then, by God! you're mine, and I'll have you. He sha'n't buy you away if I have to kill him. You're mine, do you hear?—MINE!"

"Who do you belong to?" she asked. "If I demanded that you give up your work, abandon the Cause, would you do it for me?"

"No."

"You belong to the Cause—not to me.... I belong to the Cause, too. ... Body and soul I belong to it. What am I to you but a girl, an incident? Your duty lies toward all those men. Your work is to help them.... Then you should give me willingly; if I hesitate you should try to force me to do this thing-for it will help. What other thing could do what it will do? Think! THINK!... THINK!"

"You're mine.... He has everything else. His kind take everything else from us. Now they want our wives. They sha'n't have them.... He sha'n't have them.... He sha'n't have you."

"It is for me to say," she replied, gently. "I'm so sorry—so sorry— if it hurts you. I'm sorry any part of the suffering and sorrow must fall on you. If I could only bear it alone! If I can help, it's my right to help, and to give.... Don't make it harder. Oh, don't make it harder!"

He flung her from him roughly. "You're like all of them.... Wealth dazzles you. You fear poverty.... Softness, luxuries—you all—you women—are willing to sell your souls for them."

"Did my mother sell her soul for luxuries? If she did, where are they? Did your mother sell her soul for them?... Have the wives of all the men who have worked and suffered and been trampled on for the Cause sold their souls?... You're bitter. I—I am sorry—so sorry. If you care for me as I do for you—I—I know how bitterly hard it will be—to—give me up—to see me his wife...."

"I'll never see that. You can throw me over, but you'll never marry him."

"You're big—you're big enough to see this as I see it, and big enough to let me do it.... You will be when—the surprise and the first hurt of it have gone. It's asking just one more thing of you— when you've willingly given so much.... But it's I who do the harder giving. In a few months, in a year, you will have forgotten me.... I can never forget you. Every day and every hour I'll be reminded of you. I'll be thinking of you.... When I greet HIM it will be YOU I'm greeting.... When I am pretending to—to care for him, it will be YOU I am loving. The thought of that, and the knowledge of what I am doing for those poor men—will be all the happiness I shall have... will give me courage to live on and to GO on.... You believe me, don't you, dear? You must, you must believe me!"

He approached her again. "Look at me!... Look at me," he demanded, and she gave her eyes to his. They were pure eyes, the eyes of an enthusiast, the eyes of a martyr. He could not misread them, even in his passion he could not doubt them.... The elevation of her soul shone through them. Constancy, steadfastness, courage, determination, sureness, and loftiness of purpose were written there.... He turned away, his head sinking upon his breast, and when he spoke the passion, the rancor, the bitterness, were gone from his voice. It was lower, quivering, almost gentle.

"You sha'n't.... It isn't necessary. It isn't required of you."

"If it is possible, then it is required of me," she said.

"No.... No...." He sank into a chair and covered his face, and she could hear the hissing of his breath as he fought for self-control.

"If it were you," she said. "If you could bring about the things I can—the good for so many—would you hesitate? Is there anything you wouldn't do to give THEM what I can give?... You know there's not. You know you could withhold no sacrifice.... Then don't make this one harder for me. Don't stand in my way."

"I HATE him," Dulac said, in a tense whisper. "If you—married him and I should meet him—I couldn't keep my hands off him.... The thought of YOU—of HIM—I'd KILL him...."

"You wouldn't," she said. "You'd think of ME—and you'd remember that I love you—and that I have given you up—and all the rest, so I could be his wife—and rule him.... And you wouldn't make it all futile by killing him.... Then I'd be helpless. I've got to have him to—to do the rest."

She went to him, and stroked his black, waving hair—so gently.

"Go now, my dear," she said. "You've got to rise to this with me. You've got to sustain me.... Go now.... My mind is made up. I see my way...." Her voice trembled pitifully. "Oh, I see my way—and it is hard, HARD...."

"No," he cried, struggling to his feet.

"Yes," she said, softly. "Good-by.... This is our good-by. I—oh, my dear, don't forget—never forget—Oh, go, GO!"

In that moment it seemed to her that her heart was bursting for him, that she loved him to the very roots of her soul. She was sure at last, very sure. She was certain she was not blinded by glamour, not fascinated by the man and his part in the world.... If there had been, in a secret recess of her heart, a shadow of uncertainty, it was gone in this moment.

"Good-by," she said.

He arose and walked toward the door. He did not look at her. His hand was on the knob, and the door was opening, yet he did not turn or look.... "Good-by.... Good-by," she sobbed—and he was GONE...

She was alone, and through all the rest of her years she must be alone. She had mounted the altar, a sacrifice, a willing sacrifice, but never till this minute had she experienced the full horror and bitterness and woe that were required of her.... She was ALONE.

The world has seen many minor passions in the Garden. It sees and passes on, embodying none of them in deathless epic as His passion was embodied.... Men and women have cried out to listening Heaven that the cup might pass from their lips, and it has not been permitted to pass, as His was not permitted to pass. In the souls of men and of women is something of the divine, something high and marvelous—a gift from Heaven to hold the human race above the mire which threatens to engulf it.... Every day it asserts itself somewhere; in sacrifice, in devotion, in simple courage, in lofty renunciation. It is common; wonderfully, beautifully common... yet there are men who do not see it, or, seeing, do not comprehend, and so despair of humanity.... Ruth, crouching on the floor of her little parlor, might have numbered countless brothers and sisters, had she known.... She was uplifting man, not because of the thing she might accomplish, but because she was willing to seek its accomplishment....

Her eyes were dry. She could not weep. She could only crouch there and peer into the blackness of the gulf that lay at her feet.... Then the doorbell rang, and she started. Eyes wide with tragedy, she looked toward the door, for she knew that there stood Bonbright Foote, come for his answer....



CHAPTER XVI

Bonbright had disobeyed the physician's orders to stay in bed all day, but when he arose he discovered that there are times when even a restless and impatient young man is more comfortable with his head on a pillow. So until evening he occupied a lounge with what patience he could muster. So it was that Rangar had no news of him during the day and was unable to relieve his father's increasing anxiety. Mr. Foote was not anxious now, but frightened; frightened as any potentate might be who perceived that the succession was threatened, that extinction impended over his line.

Bonbright scarcely tasted the food that was brought him on a tray at six o'clock. He was afire with eagerness, for the hour was almost there when he could go to Ruth for her answer. He arose, somewhat dizzily, and demanded his hat, which was given him with protests. It was still too early to make his call, but he could not stay away from the neighborhood, so he took a taxicab to Ruth's corner, and there alighted. For half an hour he paced slowly up and down, eying the house, picturing in his mind Ruth in the act of accepting him or Ruth in the act of refusing him. One moment hope flashed high; the next it was quenched by doubt.... He saw Dulac leave the house; waited another half hour, and then rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Frazer opened the door.

"Evening, Mr. Foote," she said, without enthusiasm, for she had not approved of this young man's calls upon her daughter.

"Miss Frazer is expecting me," he said, diffidently, for he was sensitive to her antagonism.

"In the parlor," said she, "and no help with the dishes, which is to be expected at her age, with first one young man and then another, which, if she gets any pleasure out of it, I'm not one to deny her, though not consulted. If I was starting over again I'd wish it was a son to be traipsing after some other woman's daughter and not a daughter to have other women's sons traipsing after.... That door, Mr. Foote. Go right in."

Bonbright entered apprehensively, as one might enter a court room where a jury was about to rise and declare its verdict of guilty or not guilty. He closed the door after him mechanically.

"Ruth..." he said.

Her face, marked with tears, not untouched by suffering, startled him. "Are you—ill?" he said.

"Just—just tired" she said.

"Shall I go?... Shall I come again to-morrow?"

"No." She was aware of his concern, of the self-effacing thoughtfulness of his offer. He was a good boy, decent and kind. He deserved better than he was getting.... She bit her lips and vowed that, giving no love, she would make him happy. She must make him happy.

"You know why I've come, Ruth," he said. "It has seemed a long time to wait—since last night. You know why I've come?"

"Yes."

"You have—thought about me?"

"Yes."

He stepped forward eagerly. "You look so unhappy, so tired. It hasn't been worrying you like this? I couldn't bear to think it had.... I— I don't want you ever worried or tired, but always—glad.... I've been walking up and down outside for an hour. Couldn't stay away.... Ruth, you haven't been out of my mind since last night—since yesterday morning. I've had time to think about you.... I'm beginning to realize how much you mean to me. I'll never realize it fully—but it will come to me more every day, and every day I shall love you more than I did the day before—if your answer can be yes. ..." He turned away his head and said, "I'm afraid to ask...."

"I will marry you," she said, in a dead voice. She felt cold, numb. Her body seemed without sensation, but her mind was sharply clear. She wanted to scream, but she held herself.

His face showed glad, relieved surprise. The shine of his eyes accused her.... She was making capital of his love—for a great and worthy purpose—but none the less making capital of it. She was sorry for him, bitterly sorry for herself. He came forward eagerly, with arms outstretched to receive her, but she could not endure that—now. She could not endure his touch, his caress.

"Not now.... Not yet," she said, holding up her hand as though to ward him off. "You mustn't."

His face fell and he stopped short. He was hurt—surprised. He did not understand, did not know what to make of her attitude.

"Wait," she said, pitifully. "Oh, be patient with me.... I will marry you. I will be a good—a faithful wife to you.... But you must be patient with me. Let me have time.... Last night—and all to-day- have been—hard.... I'm not myself. Can't you see?..."

"Don't you love me?" he asked.

"I—I've said I would marry you," she replied. Then she could restrain herself no longer. "But let it be soon—soon," she cried, and throwing herself on the sofa she burst into tears.

Bonbright did not know what to do. He had never seen a woman cry so before.... Did girls always act this way when they became engaged? Was it the usual thing, or was something wrong with Ruth? He stood by, dumbly waiting, unhappy when he knew he should be happy; troubled when he knew there should be no cloud in his sky; vaguely apprehensive when he knew he should be looking into the future with eyes confident of finding only happiness there.

He wanted to pick her up and comfort her in his arms. He could do it, he could hold her close and safe, for she was so small. But he dared not touch her. She had forbidden it; her manner had forbidden it more forcefully than her words. He came closer, and his hand hovered over her hair, her hair that he would have loved to press with his lips- he, he did not dare.

"Ruth," he said.... "Ruth!"

Suddenly she sat up and faced him; forced herself to speak; compelled herself to rise to this thing that she had done and must see through.

"I'm—ashamed," she said, irrepressible sobs interrupting her. "It's silly, isn't it—but—but it's hard to KNOW. It's for so long—so LONG!"

"Yes," he said, "that's the best part of it.... I shall have you always."

Always. He should have her always! It was no sentence for a month or a year, but for life. She was tying herself to this boy until death should free her.... She looked at him, and thanked God that he was as he was, young, decent, clean, capable of loving her and cherishing her.... For her sake she was glad it was he, but his very attributes accused her. She was accepting these beautiful gifts and was giving in return spurious wares. For love she would give pretense of love. ... Yet if he had been other than he was, if he had been old, seeking her youth as some men might seek it, steeped in experience to satiety as some rich man might have been, she knew she could not have gone through with it. To such a man she could not have given herself—even for the Cause.... Bonbright made his own duping a possibility.

"I—I sha'n't act this way again," she said, trying to smile. "You needn't be afraid.... It's just nerves."

"Poor kid!" he said, softly, but even yet he dared not touch her.

"You want me? You're very, very sure you want me? How do you know? I may not be what you think I am. Maybe I'm different. Are you sure, Bonbright?"

"It's the only thing in the world I am sure of," he said.

"And you'll be good to me?... You'll be patient with me, and gentle? Oh, I needn't ask. I know you will. I know you're good...."

"I love you," was his reply, and she deemed it a sufficient answer.

"Then," she said, "let's not wait. There's no need to wait, is there? Can't it be right away?"

His face grew radiant. "You mean it, Ruth?"

"Yes," she said.

"A month?"

"Sooner."

"A week?"

"Sooner.... Sooner."

"To-morrow? You couldn't?... You don't mean—TO-MORROW?"

She nodded, for she was unable to speak

"Sweetheart," he cried, and again held out his arms.

She shook her head and drew back. "It's been so—so quick," she said. "And to-morrow comes so soon.... Not till then. I'll be your wife then—your WIFE."

"To-morrow morning? I will come to-morrow morning? Can it be then?"

"Yes."

"I—I will see to everything. We'll be married, and then we will go away—somewhere. Where would you like to go, Ruth?"

"Anywhere.... I don't care. Anywhere."

"It 'll be my secret," he said, in his young blindness. "We'll start out—and you won't know where we're going. I sha'n't tell you. I'll pick out the best place in the world, if I can find it, and you won't know where we're going till we get there.... Won't that be bully?... I hate to go now, dear, but you're all out of sorts—and I'll have a heap of things to do—to get ready. So will you." He stopped and looked at her pleadingly, but she could not give him what his eyes asked; she could not give him her lips to-night.... He waited a moment, then, very gently, he took her hand and touched it with his lips.

"I'm patient," he said, softly. "You see how patient I am.... I can wait... when waiting will bring me so much.... At twelve o'clock? That's the swell hour," he laughed. "Shall I drag along a bishop or will an ordinary minister do?"

She tried to smile in response.

"Good night, dear," he said, and raised her hand again to his lips.

"Good night."

"Is that all?"

"All."

"No—trimmings? You might say good night to the groceryman that way."

"Good night—dear," she said, obediently.

"It's true. I'm not dreaming it. Noon TO-MORROW?"

"Noon to-morrow," she repeated.

He walked to the door, stopped, turned, hesitated as if to come back. Then he smiled at her boyishly, happily, wagged his head gayly, as though admonishing himself to be about his business and to stop philandering, and went out.... He did not see her drag herself to the sofa wearily; he did not see her sink upon it and bury her face again in the cushions; he did not hear the sobs that wrenched and shook her.... He would then have understood that this was not the usual way for a girl to enter her engagement. He would have understood that something was wrong, very wrong.

After waiting a long time for her daughter to come out, Mrs. Frazer opened the door determinedly and went in. Ruth sat up and, wiping her eyes on a tear-soggy handkerchief, said:

"I'm going to marry Bonbright Foote to-morrow noon mother."

Mrs. Frazer sat down very suddenly in a chair which was fortunately at hand, and stared at her daughter.

"Of all things..." she said, weakly.

Bonbright was on the way to make a similar announcement to his parents. It was a task he did not approach with pleasure; indeed, he did not look forward with pleasure to any sort of meeting with his father. In his heart he had declared his independence. He had broken away from Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, had clambered out of the family groove—had determined to be himself and to maintain his individuality at any cost.... Ruth would make it easier for him. To marry Ruth was the first great step toward independence and the throwing off of the yoke of the Foote tradition.

As he walked home he planned out what he would say and what he would do with respect to his position in the family. He could not break away from the thing wholly. He could not step out of Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, as one steps out of an old coat, and think no more of it. No.... But he would demand concessions. He would insist upon being something in the business, something real. He would no longer be an office boy, a rubber stamp, an automaton, to do thus and to do so when his father pressed the requisite buttons.... Oh, he would go back to the office, but it would be to a very different office and to function in a very different manner.

The family ghosts had been dissatisfied with him. Well, they could go hang. Using his father as the working tool, they had sought to remake him according to their pattern. He would show them. There would be a row, but he was buoyed up for whatever might happen by what had just happened.... The girl he loved had promised to marry him—and to- morrow. With a consciousness of that he was ready for anything.

He did not realize how strongly he was gripped by the teaching that had been his from his cradle; he did not realize how the Foote tradition was an integral part of him, as his arm or his skin. It would not be so easy to escape. Nor, perhaps, would his father be so ready to make concessions. He thought of that. But he banished it from his mind. When his father saw how determined he was the concessions would follow. They would have to follow. He did not ask himself what would happen if they did not follow.

Of course his father and mother would resent Ruth. Because Bonbright loved her so truly he was unable to see how anybody could resent her very much. He was blinded by young happiness. Optimism had been born in him in a twinkling, and set aside a knowledge of his parents and their habits of thought and life that should have warned him. He might have known that his father could have overlooked anything but this—the debasing of the Foote blood by mingling with it a plebeian, boarding-house strain; he might have comprehended that his mother, Mrs. Bonbright Foote VI, no less, could have excused crime, could have winked at depravity, but could never tolerate a daughter-in-law of such origin; would never acknowledge or receive her.

As a last resort, to save Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, his father might even submit to Bonbright's wife; his mother did not bow so low before that god; her particular deity was a social deity. If Bonbright's argosy did not wreck against the reef of his father, it never could weather the hidden rock of his mother's class consciousness.

Bonbright went along, whistling boyishly. He was worried, but not so worried but that he could find room also to be very happy. Everything would come out all right.... Young folks are prone to trust implicitly to the goodness of the future. The future will take care of troubles, will solve difficulties, will always bring around a happy ending. He was not old enough or experienced enough to know that the future bothers with nobody's desires, but goes on turning out each day's work with calm detachment, continues to move its endless film of tomorrow's events to the edge of its kingdom and to give them life on the screen of to-day. It does not change or retouch the film, but gives it to to-day as it is, relentlessly, without pity and without satisfaction.

Bonbright saw the future as a benignant soul; he did not realize it is a nonsentient machine.



CHAPTER XVII

Bonbright stopped in the library door, for he saw there not only his father, whom he had expected to see, but his mother also. He had not foreseen this. It made the thing harder to tell, for he realized in an instant how his mother would receive the news. He wished he had been less abrupt, but here he was and there could be no drawing back now. His mother was first to see him.

"Bonbright..." she said, rising.

He walked to her and kissed her, not speaking.

"Where have you been? Your father and I have been terribly worried. Why did you stay away like this, without giving us any word?"

"I'm sorry if I've worried you, mother," he said, but found himself dumb when he tried to offer an explanation of his absence.

"You have worried us," said his father, sharply. "You had no business to do such a thing. How were we to know something hadn't happened to you—with the strike going on?"

"It was very inconsiderate," said his mother.

There fell a silence awkward for Bonbright. His parents were expecting some explanation. He had come to give that explanation, but his mother's presence complicated the situation, made it more difficult. There had never been that close confidence between Mrs. Foote and Bonbright which should exist between mother and son. He had never before given much thought to his relations with her; had taken them as a matter of course. He had not given to her that love which he had seen manifested by other boys for their mothers, and which puzzled him. She had never seemed to expect it of him. He had been accustomed to treat her with grave respect and deference, for she was the sort of person who seems to require and to be able to exact deference. She was a very busy woman, busy with extra-family concerns. Servants had carried on the affairs of the household. Nurses, governesses, and such kittle-cattle had given to Bonbright their sort of substitute for mother care. Not that Mrs. Foote had neglected her son—as neglect is understood by many women of her class. She had seen to it rigidly that his nurses and tutors were efficient. She had seen to it that he was instructed as she desired, and his father desired, him to be instructed. She had not neglected him in a material sense, but on that highest and sweetest sense of pouring out her affection on him in childhood, of giving him her companionship, of making her love compel his love—there she had been neglectful.... But she was not a demonstrative woman. Even when he was a baby she could not cuddle him and wonder at him and regard him as the most wonderful thing in creation.... She had never held him to her breast as God and nature meant mothers to hold their babies. A mercenary breast had nourished him.

So he grew up to admire her, perhaps; surely to stand in some awe of her. She was his mother, and he felt vaguely that the relationship demanded some affection from him. He had fancied that he was giving her affection, but he was doing nothing of the sort.... His childish troubles had been confided to servants. His babyish woes had been comforted by servants. What genuine love he had been able to give had been given to servants. She had not been the companion of his babyhood as his father had failed to be the companion of his youth. ... So far as the finer, the sweeter affairs of parenthood went, Bonbright had been, and was, an orphan....

"Have you nothing to say?" his father demanded, and, when Bonbright made no reply, continued: "Your mother and I have been unable to understand your conduct. Even in our alarm we have been discussing your action and your attitude. It is not one we expected from a son of ours.... You have not filled our hopes and expectations. I, especially, have been dissatisfied with you ever since you left college. You have not behaved like a Foote.... You have made more trouble for me in these few months than I made for my father in my life.... And yesterday—I would be justified in taking extreme measures with you. Such an outburst! You were disrespectful and impertinent. You were positively REBELLIOUS. If I had not more important things to consider than my own feelings you should have felt, more vigorously than you shall, my displeasure. You dared to speak to me yesterday in a manner that would warrant me in setting you wholly adrift until you came to your senses.... But I shall not do that. Family considerations demand your presence in our offices. You are to take my place and to carry on our line.... This hasn't seemed to impress you. You have been childishly selfish. You have thought only of yourself—of that thing you fancy is your individuality. Rubbish! You're a Foote—and a Foote owes a duty to himself and his family that should outweigh any personal desires.... I don't understand you, my son. What more can you want than you have and will have? Wealth, position, family? Yet for months you have been sullen and restless-and then openly rebellious.... And worse, you have been compromising yourself with a girl not of your class...."

"I could not believe my ears," said Mrs. Foote, coldly.

"However," said his father, "I shall overlook what has passed." Now came the sop he had planned to throw to Bonbright.

"You have been in the office long enough to learn something of the business, so I shall give you work of greater interest and responsibility.... You say, ridiculously enough, that you have been a rubber stamp. Common sense should have told you you were competent to carry no great responsibilities at first.... But you shall take over a part of my burden now.... However, one thing must come first. Before we go any farther, your mother and I must have your promise that you will discontinue whatever relations you have with this boarding-house keeper's daughter, this companion of anarchists and disturbers."

"I have insisted upon THAT," said Mrs. Foote. "I will not tolerate such an affair."

"There is no AFFAIR," said Bonbright, finding his voice. His young eyes began to glow angrily. "What right have you to suppose such a thing—just because Miss Frazer happens to be a stenographer and because her mother keeps a boarder! Father insulted her yesterday. That caused the trouble. I couldn't let it pass, even from him. I can't let it pass from you, mother."

"Oh, undoubtedly she's worthy enough," said Mr. Foote, who had exchanged a glance with his wife during Bonbright's outburst, as much as to say, "There is a serious danger here."

"Worthy enough!" said Bonbright, anger now burning with white heat.

"But," said his father, "worthy or not worthy, we cannot have our son's name linked in any way with a person of her class. It must stop, and stop at once."

"That you must understand distinctly," said Mrs. Foote.

"Stop!" said Bonbright, hoarsely. "It sha'n't stop, now or ever. That's what I came home to tell you.... I'm not a dumb beast, to be driven where you want to drive me. I'm a human being. I have a right to make my own friends and to live my own life.... I have a right to love where I want to—and to marry the girl I love.... You tried to pick out a wife for me.... Well, I've picked out my own. Whether you approve or not doesn't change it. Nobody, nothing can change it.... I love Ruth Frazer and I'm going to marry her. That's what I came home to tell you."

"What?" said his father, in a tone of one who listens to blasphemy.

Bonbright did not waver. He was strong enough now, strong in his anger and in his love. "I am going to marry Ruth Frazer," he repeated.

"Nonsense!" said his mother.

"It is not nonsense, mother. I am a man. I have found the girl I love and will always love. I intend to marry her. Where is there nonsense in that?"

"Do you fancy I shall permit such a thing? Do you imagine for an instant that I shall permit you to give me a daughter-in-law out of a cheap boarding house? Do you think I shall submit to an affront like that?... Why, I should be the laughingstock of the city."

"The city finds queer things to laugh at," said Bonbright.

"My son—" began Mr. Foote; but his wife silenced him. She had taken command of the family ship. From this moment in this matter Bonbright Foote VI did not figure. This was her affair. It touched her in a vital spot. It threatened her with ridicule; it threatened to affect that most precious of her possessions—the deference of the social world. She knew how to protect herself, and would attend to the matter without assistance.

"You will never see that girl again," she said, as though the saying of it concluded the episode.

Bonbright was silent.

"You will promise me NOW that this disgraceful business is ended. NOW.... I am waiting."

"Mother," said Bonbright, "you have no right to ask such a thing. Even if I didn't love Ruth, I have pledged my word to her..."

Mrs. Foote uttered an exclamation indicative of her disgust.

"Pledged your word!... You're a silly boy, and this girl has schemed to catch you and has caught you.... You don't flatter yourself that she cares for you beyond your money and your position.... Those are the things she had her eye on. Those are what she is trading herself for.... It's scandalous. What does your pledged word count for in a case like this?... Your pledged word to a scheming, plotting, mercenary little wretch!"

"Mother," said Bonbright, in a strained, tense voice, "I don't want to speak to you harshly. I don't want to say anything sharp or unkind to you—but you mustn't repeat that.... You mustn't speak like that about Ruth."

"I shall speak about her as I choose..."

"Georgia!..." said Mr. Foote, warningly.

"If you please, Bonbright." She put him back in his place. "I will settle this matter with our son—NOW."

"It is settled, mother," said Bonbright.

"Suppose you should be insane enough to marry her," said Mrs. Foote. "Do you suppose I should tolerate her? Do you suppose I should admit her to this house? Do you suppose your friends—people of your own class—would receive her—or you?"

"Do you mean, mother," said Bonbright, his voice curiously quiet and calm, "that you would not receive my wife here?"

"Exactly that. And I should make it my business to see that she was received nowhere else.... And what would become of you? Everyone would drop you. Your wife could never take your position, so you would have to descend to her level. Society would have none of you."

"I fancy," said Bonbright, "that we could face even that—and live."

"More than that. I know I am speaking for your father when I say it. If you persist in this we shall wash our hands of you utterly. You shall be as if you were dead.... Think a moment what that means. You will not have a penny. We shall not give you one penny. You have never worked. And you would find yourself out in the world with a wife to support and no means of supporting her. How long do you suppose she would stay with you?... The moment she found she couldn't get what she had schemed for, you would see the last of her.... Think of all that."

"I've thought of all that—except that Ruth would care for my money. ... Yesterday I left the office determined never to go into it again. I made up my mind to look for a job—any job—that would give me a living—and freedom from what Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, means to me. I was ready to do that without Ruth.... But the family has some claims to me. I could see that. So I came back. I was going to tell father I would go ahead and do my best.... But not because I wanted to, nor because I was afraid."

"You see," his mother said, bitingly, "it lasted a whole day with you."

"Mother!"

Bonbright turned to his father. "I am going to marry Ruth. That cannot be changed. Nothing can alter it.... I am ready to come back to the office—and be Bonbright Foote VII... and you can't guess what that means. But I'll do it—because it seems to be the thing I ought to do.... I'll come back if—and only if—you and mother change your minds about Ruth.... She will be my wife as much as mother is your wife, and you must treat her so. She must have your respect. You must receive her as you would receive me... as you would have been glad to receive Hilda Lightener. If you refuse—I'm through with you. I mean it.... You have demanded a promise of me. Now you must give me your promise—to act to Ruth as you should act toward my wife.... Unless you do the office and the family have seen the last of me." He did not speak with heat or in excitement, but very gravely, very determinedly. His father saw the determination, and wavered.

"Georgia," he said, again.

"No," said Mrs. Foote.

"The Family—the business." said Mr. Foote, uncertainly.

"I'd see the business ended and the Family extinct before I would tolerate that girl.... If Bonbright marries her he does it knowing how I feel and how I shall act. She shall never step a foot in this house while I live—nor afterward, if I can prevent it. Nor shall Bonbright."

"Is that final, mother?... Are you sure it is your final decision?"

"Absolutely," she said, her voice cold as steel.

"Very well," said Bonbright, and, turning, he walked steadily toward the door.

"Where are you going?" his father said, taking an anxious step after his son.

"I don't know," said Bonbright. "But I'm not coming back."

He passed through the door and disappeared, but his mother did not call after him, did not relent and follow her only son to bring him back. Her face was set, her lips a thin, white line.

"Let him go," she said. "He'll come back when he's eaten enough husks."

"He's GOT to come back.... We've got to stop this marriage. He's our only son, Georgia—he's necessary to the Family. HIS son is necessary."

"And hers?" she asked, with bitter irony.

"Better hers than none," said Mr. Foote.

"You would give in.... Oh, I know you would. You haven't a thought outside of Family. I wasn't born in your family, remember. I married into it. I have my own rights in this matter, and, Family or no Family, Bonbright, that girl shall never be received where I am received.... NEVER."

Mr. Foote walked to the window and looked out. He saw his son's tall form pass down the walk and out into the street—going he did not know where; to return he did not know when. He felt an ache in his heart such as he had never felt before. He felt a yearning after his son such as he had never known. In that moment of loss he perceived that Bonbright was something more to him than Bonbright Foote VII—he was flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. The stifled, cramped, almost eliminated human father that remained in him cried out after his son....



CHAPTER XVIII

As Bonbright walked away from his father's house he came into possession for the first time of the word RESPONSIBILITY. It was defined for him as no dictionary could define it. Every young man meets a day when responsibility becomes to him something more than a combination of letters, and when it comes he can never be the same again. It marks definitely the arrival of manhood, the dropping behind of youth. He can never look upon life through the same eyes. Forever, now, he must peer round and beyond each pleasure to see what burden it entails and conceals. He must weigh each act with reference to the RESPONSIBILITY that rests upon him. Hitherto he had been swimming in life's pleasant, safe, shaded pools; now he finds himself struggling in the great river, tossed by currents, twirled by eddies, and with no bottom upon which to rest his feet. Forever now it will be swim—or sink....

To-morrow Bonbright was to undertake the responsibilities of family headship and provider; to-night he had sundered himself from his means of support. He was jobless. He belonged to the unemployed.... In the office he had heard without concern of this man or that man being discharged. Now he knew how those men felt and what they faced.

Realization of his condition threw him into panic. In his panic he allowed his feet to carry him to the man whose help had come readily and willingly in another moment of need—to Malcolm Lightener.

The hour was still early. Lights shone in the Lightener home and Bonbright approached the door. Mr. Lightener was in and would see him in the office. It was characteristic of Lightener that the room in the house which was peculiarly his own was called by him his office, not his den, not the library.... There were two interests in Lightener's life—his family and his business, and he stirred them together in a quaintly granite sort of way.

For the second time that evening Bonbright stood hesitating in a doorway.

"Well, young fellow?" said Lightener. Then seeing the boy's hesitation: "Come in. Come in. What's happened NOW?"

"Mr. Lightener," said Bonbright, "I want a job. I've got to have a job."

"Um!... Job! What's the matter with the job you've got?"

"I haven't any job.... I—I'm through with Bonbright Foote, Incorporated—forever."

"That's a darn long time. Sit down. Waiting for it to pass will be easier that way.... Now spit it out." He was studying the boy with his bright gray eyes, wondering if this was the row he had been expecting. He more than half hoped, as he would have expressed it, "that the kid had got his back up." Bonbright's face, his bearing, made Lightener believe his back WAS up.

"I've got to have a job—"

"You said that once. Why?"

"I'm going to be married to-morrow—"

"What?"

"I'm going to be married to-morrow—and I've got to support my wife— decently..."

"It's that little Frazer girl who was crying all over my office to- day," said Lightener, deducing the main fact with characteristic shrewdness. "And your father wouldn't have it—and threw you out...or did the thing that stands to him for throwing out?"

"I got out. I had gotten out before. Yesterday morning.... Somebody told him I'd been going to see Ruth—and he was nasty about it. Called it a liaison....I—I BURNED UP and left the office. I haven't been back."

"That accounts for his calling me up—looking for you. You had him worried."

"Then I got to thinking," said Bonbright, ignoring the interruption. "I was going back because it seemed as if I HAD to go back. You understand? As if there was something that compelled me to stick by the Family...."

"How long have you been going to marry this girl?"

"She said she would marry me to-night."

"Engaged to-night—and you're going to marry to-morrow?"

"Yes....And I went home to tell father. Mother was there—"

Lightener sucked in his breath. He could appreciate what Bonbright's mother's presence would contribute to the episode.

"—and she was worse than father. She—it was ROTTEN, Mr. Lightener— ROTTEN. She said she'd never receive Ruth as her daughter, and that she'd see she was never received by anybody else, and she—she FORCED father to back her up....There wasn't anything for me to do but get out....I didn't begin to wonder how I was going to support Ruth till it was all over with."

"That's the time folks generally begin to wonder."

"So I came right here—because you CAN give me a job if you will—and I've got to have one to-night. I've got to know to-night how I'm going to get food and a place to live for Ruth."

"Um!...We'll come to that." He got up and went to the door. From thence he shouted—the word is used advisedly—for his wife and daughter. "Mamma.... Hilda. Come here right off." He had decided that Bonbright's affairs stood in need of woman's counsel.

Mrs. Lightener appeared first. "Why, Bonbright!" she exclaimed.

"Where's Hilda?" asked Lightener. "Need her, too."

"She's coming, dear," said Mrs. Lightener.

There are people whose mere presence brings relief. Perhaps it is because their sympathy is sure; perhaps it is because their souls were given them, strong and simple, for other souls to lean upon. Mrs. Lightener was one of these. Before she knew why Bonbright was there, before she uttered a word, he felt a sense of deliverance. His necessities seemed less gnawing; there was a slackening of taut nerves....

Then Hilda appeared. "Evening, Bonbright," she said, and gave him her hand.

"Let's get down to business," Lightener said. "Tell 'em, Bonbright."

"I'm going to marry Ruth Frazer to-morrow noon," he said, boldly.

Mrs. Lightener was amazed, then disappointed, for she had come to hope strongly that she would have this boy for a son. She liked him, and trusted in his possibilities. She believed he would be a husband to whom she could give her daughter with an easy heart.... Hilda felt a momentary shock of surprise, but it passed quickly. Like her father, she was sudden to pounce upon the concealed meaning of patent facts—and she had spent the morning with Ruth. She was first to speak.

"So you've decided to throw me over," she said, with a smile.... "I don't blame you, Bonbright. She's a dear."

"But who is she?" asked Mrs. Lightener. "I seem to have heard the name, but I don't remember meeting her."

"She was my secretary," said Bonbright. "She's a stenographer in Mr. Lightener's office now."

"Oh," said Mrs. Lightener, and there was dubiety in her voice.

"Exactly," said Lightener.

"MOTHER!" exclaimed Hilda. "Weren't you a stenographer in the office where dad worked?"

"It isn't THAT," said Mrs. Lightener. "I wasn't thinking about the girl nor about Bonbright. I was thinking of his mother."

"That's why he's here," said Lightener. "The Family touched off a mess of fireworks. Mrs. Foote refuses to have anything to do with the girl if Bonbright marries her. Promised to see nobody else did, too. Isn't that it, Bonbright?"

"Yes."

"I don't like to mix in a family row..."

"You've GOT to, dad," said Hilda. "Of course Bonbright couldn't stand THAT." They understood her to mean by THAT the Foote family's position in the matter. "He couldn't stand it.... I expect you and mother are disappointed. You wanted me to marry Bonbright, myself..."

"HILDA!" Mrs. Lightener's voice was shocked.

"Oh, Bonbright and I talked it over the night we met. Don't be a bit alarmed. I'm not being especially forward.... We've got to do something. What does Bon want us to do?"

"He wants me to give him a job."

She turned to Bonbright. "They turned you out?"

"I turned myself out," he said.

She nodded understandingly. "You WOULD," she said, approvingly. "What kind of a job can you give him, dad?"

"H'm. THAT'S settled, is it? What do you think, mother?"

"Why, dear, he's got to support his wife," said Mrs. Lightener.

Malcolm Lightener permitted the granite of his face to relax in a rueful smile. "I called you folks in to get your advice—not to have you run the whole shebang."

"We're going to run it, dad....Don't you like Ruth Frazer?"

"I like her. She seems to be a nice, intelligent girl....Cries all over a man's office...."

"I like her, too, and so will mother when she meets Ruth. I like her a eap, Bon; she's a DEAR. Now that the job for you is settled—"

"Eh?" said Lightener.

Hilda smiled at him and amended herself. "Now that a very GOOD job for you is settled, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. First thing, I'm invited to the wedding, and so is mother, and so are some other folks. I'll see to that. It isn't going to be any justice-of-the- peace wedding, either. It's going to be in the church, and there'll be enough folks there to make it read right in the paper."

"I'm afraid Ruth wouldn't care for that," said Bonbright, dubiously. "I know she wouldn't."

"She's got to start off RIGHT as your wife, Bon. The start's everything. You want your friends to know her and receive her, don't you? Of course you do. I'll round up the folks and have them there. It will be sort of romantic and interesting, and a bully send off for Ruth if it's done right. It 'll make her quite the rage. You'll see. ...That's what I'm going to do—in spite of your mother. Your wife will be received and invited every place that I am....Maybe your mother can run the dowagers, but I'll bet a penny I can handle the young folks." In that moment she looked exceedingly like her father.

"HILDA!" her mother exclaimed again. "You must consider Mrs. Foote. We don't want to have any unpleasantness over this...."

"We've got it already," said Hilda, "and the only way is to—go the limit."

Lightener slammed the desk with his fist. "Right!" he said. "If we meddle at all we've got to go the whole distance. Either stay out altogether or go in over our heads.... But how about this girl, Hilda, does she belong?"

"She's decently educated. She has sweet manners. She's brighter than two-thirds of us. She'll fit in all right. Don't you worry about her."

"Young man," growled Lightener, "why couldn't you have fallen in love with my daughter and saved all this fracas?"

Bonbright was embarrassed, but Hilda came to his rescue. "Because I didn't want him to," she said. "You wouldn't have MADE me marry him, would you?"

"PROBABLY not," said her father, with a rueful grin.

"I'm going to take charge of her," said Hilda. "We'll show your mother, Bon."

"You're—mighty good," said Bonbright, chokingly.

"I'm going to see her the first thing in the morning. You see. I'll fix things with her. When I explain everything to her she'll do just as I want her to."

Mrs. Lightener was troubled; tears stood in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Bonbright. I—I suppose a boy has the right to pick out his own wife, but it's too bad you couldn't have pleased your mother.... Her heart must ache to-night."

"I'm afraid," said Bonbright, slowly, "that it doesn't ache the way you mean, Mrs. Lightener."

"It's a hard place to put us. We're meddling. It doesn't seem the right thing to come between mother and son."

"You're not," said Hilda. "Mrs. Foote's snobbishness came between them."

"HILDA!"

"That's just what it is. Ruth is just as nice as she is or anybody else. She ought to be glad she's getting a daughter like Ruth. You'd be....And we can't sit by and see Bon and his wife STARVE, can we? We can't fold our hands and let Mrs. Foote make Ruth unhappy. It's cruel, that's what it is, and nothing else. When Ruth is Bon's wife she has the right to be treated as his wife should be. Mrs. Foote has no business trying to humiliate her and Bon—and she sha'n't."

"I suppose you're right, dear. I KNOW you're right.... But I'm thinking how I'd feel if it were YOU."

"You'd never feel like Mrs. Foote, mother. If I made up my mind to marry a man out of dad's office—no matter what his job was, if he was all right himself—you wouldn't throw me out of the house and set out to make him and me as unhappy as you could. You aren't a snob."

"No," said Mrs. Lightener, "I shouldn't."

Malcolm Lightener, interrupted. "Now you've both had your say," he said, "and you seem to have decided the thing between you. I felt kind of that way, myself, but I wanted to know about you folks. What you say GOES....Now clear out; I want to talk business to Bonbright."

Hilda gave Bonbright her hand again. "I'm glad," she said, simply. "I know you'll be very happy."

"And I'll do what I can, boy," said Mrs. Lightener

Bonbright was moved as he had never been moved before by kindliness and womanliness. "Thank you.... Thank you," he said, tremulously. "I—you don't know what this means to me. You've—you've put a new face on the whole future...."

"Clear out," said Malcolm Lightener.

Hilda made a little grimace at him in token that she flouted his authority, and she and her mother said good night and retired from the room.

"Now," said Malcolm Lightener.

Bonbright waited.

"I'm going to give you a job, but it won't be any private-office job. I don't know what you're good for. Probably not much. Don't get it into your head I'm handing a snap to you, because I'm not. If you're not worth what I pay you you'll get fired. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you stick you'll learn something. Not the kind of rubbish you've been sopping up in your own place. I run a business, not a museum of antiquity. You'll have to work. Think you can?"

"I've wanted to. They wouldn't let me."

"Um!...You'll get dirt on your hands....Most likely you'll be running Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, one of these days. This thing won't last. Your father'll have to come around....I only hope he lets you stay with me long enough to teach you some business sense and something about running a plant. I'll pay you enough to support you and this girl of yours—but you'll earn it. When you earn more you'll get it...Sounds reasonable."

"I—I can't thank you enough."

"Report for work day after to-morrow, then. You're a man out of a job. You can't afford honeymoons. I'll let you have the day off to- morrow, but next morning you be in my office when the whistle blows. I always am."

"Yes, sir."

"Where are you going to live? Got any money?"

"I don't know where we shall live. Maybe we'd better find a place to board for a while. I've got a hundred dollars or so."

"Board!...Huh! Nobody's got any business boarding when they're married. Wife has too much time on her hands. Nothing to do. Especially at the start of things your wife'll need to be busy. Keep her from getting notions....I'll bet the percentage of divorces among folks that board is double that it is among folks that keep house. Bound to be....You get you a decent flat and furnish it. Right off. After you get married you and your wife pick out the furniture. That's what I'm giving you the day off to-morrow for. You can furnish a little flat—the kind you can afford, for five hundred dollars.... You're not a millionaire now. You're a young fellow with a fair job and a moderate salary that you've got to live on. ...Better let your wife handle it. She's used to it and you're not. She'll make one dollar go as far as you would make ten."

"Yes, sir."

Lightener moved awkwardly and showed signs of embarrassment. "And listen here," he said, gruffly, "a young girl's a pretty sweet and delicate piece of business. They're mighty easy to hurt, and the hurt lasts a long time....You want to be married a long time, I expect, and you want your wife to—er—love you right on along. Well, be darn careful, young fellow. Start the thing right. More marriages are smashed in the first few days than in the next twenty years....You be damn gentle and considerate of that little girl."

"I—I hope I shall, Mr. Lightener."

"You'd better be....Where you going to-night?"

"To the club. I have some things there. I've always kept enough clothes there to get along on."

"Your club days are over for some time. Married man has no business with a club till he's forty....Evenings, anyhow. Stay at home with your wife. How'd you like to have her running out to some darn thing three or four nights a week?...Go on, now. I'll tell Hilda where you are. Probably she'll want to call you up in the morning....Good night."

"Good night...and thank you."

"Huh!" said Malcolm Lightener, and without paying the slightest bit of attention to whether Bonbright stayed or went away, he took up the papers on his desk and lost himself in the figures that covered them. Bonbright went out quietly, thankfully, his heart glad with its own song....The future was settled; safe. He had nothing to fear. And to-morrow he was going to enter into a land of great happiness. He felt he was entering a land of fulfillment. That is the way with the very young. They enter upon marriage feeling it is a sort of haven of perpetual bliss, that it marks the end of unhappiness, of difficulties, of loneliness, of griefs...when, in reality, it is but the beginning of life with all the diverse elements of joy and grief and anxiety and comfort and peace and discord that life is capable of holding....



CHAPTER XIX

Hilda Lightener had found Ruth strangely quiet, with a manner which was not indifference to her imminent marriage, but which seemed more like numbness.

"You act as if you were going to be hanged instead of married," Hilda told her, and found no smile answering her own.

Ruth was docile. She offered no objection to any suggestion offered by Hilda, accepted every plan without demurring. Hilda could not understand her, and was troubled. Wholly lacking was the girlish excitement to be expected. "Whatever you want me to do I will do, only get it over with," seemed to be Ruth's attitude. She seemed to be holding herself in, communing with herself. A dozen times Hilda had to repeat a question or a statement which Ruth had not heard, though her eyes were on Hilda's and she seemed to be giving her attention.

She was saying to herself: "I must go through with it.... I can't draw back.... What I am doing is RIGHT—RIGHT."

She obeyed Hilda, not so much through pliancy as through listlessness, and presently Hilda was going ahead with matters and acting as a sort of specially appointed general manager of the marriage. She directed Ruth what to wear, saw it was put on, almost bundled Ruth and her mother into the carriage, and convoyed them to the church, where Bonbright awaited them. She could not prevent a feeling of exasperation, especially toward Mrs. Frazer, who had moved from chair to chair, uttering words of self-pity, and pronouncing a constant jeremiad.... Such preliminaries to a wedding she had never expected to witness, and she witnessed them with awakened foreboding.

A dozen or so young folks and Malcolm Lightener and his wife witnessed the brief ceremony. Until Ruth's appearance there had been the usual chattering and gayety, but even the giddiest of the youngsters was restrained and subdued by her white, tense face, and her big, unseeing eyes.

"I don't like it," Lightener whispered to his wife.

"Poor child!... Poor child!" she whispered back, not taking her eyes from Ruth's face.

After the rector pronounced the final words of the ceremony Ruth stood motionless. Then she turned slowly toward Bonbright, swaying a trifle as if her knees were threatening to fail her, and said in a half whisper, audible to those about: "It's over?... It's all over?"

"Yes, dear."

"It can't be undone," she said, not to her husband, but to herself. "We are—married."

Hilda, fearing some inauspicious act or word, bustled forward her bevy of young folks to offer their babel of congratulations. As she presented them one by one, Ruth mustered a wan smile, let them take her cold, limp hand. But her mind was not on them. All the while she was thinking: "This is my HUSBAND.... I belong to this man.... I am his WIFE." Once in a while she would glance at Bonbright; he seemed more a stranger to her than he had done the first time her eyes had ever rested on him—a stranger endowed with odious potentialities. ...

Mrs. Lightener took Ruth into her arms and whispered, "He's a dear, good boy...." There was comfort in Mrs. Lightener's arms, but scant comfort in her words, yet they would remain with Ruth and she would find comfort in them later. Now she heard Malcolm Lightener speaking to her husband. "You be good to that little girl, young man," he said. "Be mighty patient and gentle with her." She waited for Bonbright's reply. "I love her," she heard Bonbright say in a low voice. It was a good answer, a reassuring answer, but it stabbed Ruth with a new pang, for she had traded on that love; she was a cheat. Bonbright was giving her his love in exchange for emptiness. Somehow she could not think of the Cause now, for this was too intimate, too individual, too personal....

Presently Bonbright and Ruth were being driven to their hotel. The thought of wedding breakfast or of festivities of any sort had been repugnant to Ruth, and Hilda had not insisted. They were alone. Ruth lay back against the soft upholstery of Malcolm Lightener's limousine, colorless, eyes closed. Bonbright watched her face hungrily, scrutinizing it for some sign of happiness, for some vestige of feeling that reciprocated his own. He saw nothing but pallor, weariness.

"Dear," he whispered, and touched her hand almost timorously. Her hand trembled to his touch, and involuntarily she drew away from him. Her eyes opened, and in them his own eager eyes read FEAR.... He was startled, hurt. Being only a boy, with a boy's understanding and a boy's pride, he was piqued, and himself drew back. This was not what he had expected, not what the romances he had read had led him to believe would take place. In stories the bride was timid, yet eager; loving, yielding, happy. She clung to her husband, her heart beating against his heart, whispering her adoration and demanding whispered adoration from him.... Here all of this was lacking, and something which crouched at the opposite pole of human emotion was present— FEAR.

"You must be patient and gentle with her," Malcolm Lightener had said with understanding, and Bonbright was wise enough to know that there spoke experience; probably there spoke truth, not romance, as it is set down on the printed page. Even if Ruth's attitude were unusual, so the circumstances were unusual. It was no ordinary marriage preceded by an ordinary, joyous courtship. In this moment Bonbright took thought, and it was given him to understand that now, as at no other moment in his life with Ruth, was the time to exercise patience and gentleness.