His Daughter First

XVIII.

THE Argonaut mine, although a new property, had proved a remarkably successful one. The stock, however, had never reached the level justified by its earnings. There were several reasons for this discrepancy. The ore presented difficulties of treatment which had not yet been surmounted; the formation was one not admitting of any positive predictions for the future; and, above all, the management, of which little was known, made no adequate public statements. But, as is not infrequently the case, the declaration of the usual dividend was considered news enough, and, with the exception of an occasional outburst of criticism, distrust had never crystallized into concerted aggressive action. Men of good judgment and common sense unaccountably abandon all claims to either when they join to form a crowd.

At the time of the last assessment the statement appeared that the outlook was sufficiently encouraging to warrant the erection of a new mill, equipped with the modern copper-saving appliances indispensable to times of close margins and low percentages of mineral ; but the assessment had hardly been paid in when the quality of the rock began to fall off, and the lode finally ran out below the margin of profit. Exploration followed, and for this the proceeds of the assessment were the only available asset. What was not known to the public was that the surplus had been thus exhausted without success, and that the management had been quietly disposing of its interests preparatory to the announcement of a shutdown.

When Mr. Heald opened the telegram which was the cause of his return to town he expected to read that operations had been abandoned. But the message, which was in cipher, read: —

“Struck richest formation ever discovered. Rock runs better than Shawnee.”

The Shawnee was the adjoining property, and had been the foundation of great fortunes.

He had at once written two telegrams: one to his New York agent, directing him to inform the morning papers that for prudential reasons the mine would be temporarily shut down; and one to his broker, ordering him to sell “short ” to an unlimited amount on the decline which would inevitably follow such an announcement. When the stock touched bottom he intended to gather in the wreckage, publish the news of the unexpected discovery, and sit quietly down to reap the harvest.

Having dispatched this business with the assurance of a general who has the enemy in his grasp, he went in search of Mabel, — from victory to defeat. In the elation of such unlooked-for good fortune defeat was bitter. But sitting in the cold gray light of the winter morning, as the train hurried through the still sleeping villages, he forgave her his defeat. She loved him! Defeat meant nothing. If he had been moved by the completeness and pitifulness of her confession, yet that was not the real reason for his forgiving mood. What she had uncovered in her own heart, if more than expected, had been hoped for. What she had uncovered in his was a revelation. He loved her. Not now for the things that had once attracted him, but for all these and vastly more, — the why which admits of no analysis or explanation, and which counts all reasons as nothing. The Mabel he saw now was not the Miss Temple of Gramercy Park, imperial with millions and beauty, who had fascinated him by her alternating moods of graciousness and disdain, but the woman of the night before, a woman at bay with her own contending passions, broken in spirit yet not abased, the Mabel whose every word of self-mastery and repulse was a surrender, infinitely desirable because of self-mastery and denial. Everything else was blotted out in the blinding light of this discovery, — he loved her! This was the supreme fact. Helen counted for nothing. He reckoned with her hardly more than with the public which would singe its wings at the Argonaut candle. Both were incidents, not obstacles.

But as he sat thinking in the roar of the flying train while the sun came up over the Westford hills, one of these incidents became more and more an obstacle. It was not so easy to ignore Helen as it was to ignore the public. Of one thing he was sure, he did not wish to take either into his confidence for the present. As for returning to Cedar Hill, — well, he must wait and see.

What, after all, had he to complain of ? He had forced an explanation with Mabel with the very result he had hoped for. But there was Helen again, — the glass of wine taken at the wrong moment. It was of no use wishing, regretting. What was done was done, and it was an infernal snarl.

The worst of it was that he felt the capacity, the desire, to be honest, to do something noble. It had always been a weakness of his, to make spasmodic excursions into the land of quixotic generosity and kindness. He had not cared a rap for the Bishop’s church, and would have laughed at the praise the Bishop had awarded to his recognition of his obligations to society. But he had got a thousand dollars’ worth of pleasure out of his subscription nevertheless, and that was what he made it for. Nor had he felt any very deep sense of indebtedness to Mr. Kensett for having once done him a good turn. The idea of repaying that debt had come to him suddenly, in a sentimental mood, when sitting with Mrs. Kensett in the moonlit corner of a piazza one evening after dinner at Lenox. He did not care in the least for Mrs. Kensett. But, indulging in reminiscences, she had awakened this silly propensity of his for playing the rôle of Prince. It was silly, unmitigatedly silly. He had forgotten all about Mr. Kensett, and Mrs. Kensett was no more to him than the poor students of Lemington. She was not even poor. She had had no sentiment about disposing of her stock at a profit. There had been absolutely no reason for doing what he had, except that he liked to do such things. He had been sorry afterwards, and thoroughly glad to get out of it. These impulsive acts of benevolence really cost him nothing. They were only forms of self-indulgence, of vanity, for which one is always ready to pay any price. What he felt now was different. He wanted to please some one else, — Mabel. He had begun by admiring her, as he might have admired an exquisite object of art in a Fifth Avenue shop window. He had returned to look at it again, finally had gone in, and found it was not for sale. He had admired her still more in the train. Nerve and pluck and character always attracted him. She had vastly more than violet eyes and a pretty form. She had been attractive, she became fascinating and provocative, and now she was necessary, — he loved her. Above all he wanted to be hers, to be her choice, to win her real love, to be to her eyes what she was to his as she sat in the chair under the palms of the conservatory, worth going through fire and flood for. And that was the worst of it! that, as often happens when we have found the will to dare fire and flood, there was no fire and flood to go through. To give her up was not within the bounds of reason. What good would that do ? There are doors of life which, once shut, can never be opened again; steps which, once taken, can never be retraced. He had not closed any such door, or taken any such step. He began to hate Helen. What business had she to love him any way!

He was roused by the porter’s offer to brush his coat. The electric lights were on. They were already in the tunnel.

On leaving the station he crossed the street to a neighboring hotel and studied the tape carefully. Argonaut had opened at thirty-five, fallen to twenty, rallied to twenty-five, and then fallen again to twenty-one. It had closed the day before at thirty-eight. He went to the telephone and repeated his orders of the evening. Would he be down town today ? No, he was going directly to the Carleton. If any one wanted to see him he was out of town.

A good many people wanted to see him, so the Carleton clerk told him.

“Well, I am not at home to any one, ” he said. But just as he was stepping into the elevator a beardless boy of twenty with a white face caught him.

“Mr. Heald, Mr. Heald, —just a word,please.” He was trying to be offhand. “What’s all this row about Argonaut ? There ’s an item in the morning paper. Is there any truth in it ? ”

Mr. Heald turned and looked at the speaker. He remembered to have seen him at the Club, but he could not recall his name or anything about him.

“Is there? ” he said.

“Yes, about closing down.”

Mr. Heald thought a moment.

“I don’t own a share of Argonaut,” he said, stepping into the elevator. “If I did, I should sell it before I went to bed.”

XIX.

The sun was just struggling through the fog and smoke as Jack stepped into the launch lying off the Battery. But the great city had not waited for the sun. A hoarse blast of disdainful warning rose from a big black liner slowly making its way out of the North River to catch the morning tide. Angry shrieks came quick after the white puffs of steam from a half-score of tugboats, up betimes like the early bird after worms. A line of black scows buffeted low down in the water, sullen and obstinate, with the waves of the upper bay, smothered under a long trail of black smoke from the speck of power dragging them seaward. A weather-beaten tramp, with patches of red paint on its dingy sides and a strong list to starboard, its top gear glistening with tons of frozen spray and a vomit of yellow smoke pouring from its short funnel, was making for its berth under Brooklyn Heights after waiting at anchor overnight outside the bar. From under the Bridge, coming down the river at half-speed, a Sound boat, with its tier upon tier of deck and cabin, swept its great curve of foam, rocking the little boats at their dock moorings, and leaving behind a train of curling waves that dashed among the green piles and slapped against the iron plates of loading steamers. Ferryboats were coming and going in every direction, their cavernous decks black with people, like so many mouths of sea monsters which might at any moment close their ponderous jaws and disappear under the waves. Over the thin web of the great bridge long black lines were creeping like snails. The note of a bugle rang clear from Governor’s Island. The clang of gongs on lower Broadway, the short whistle of engines in mid-air, the wail of a siren up the river, all the speech man has put into the dumb lips of Nature greeted the rising sun.

Before the east wind coming in fresh from the sea the smoke and steam from a thousand chimneys were hurrying away in curling ribbons of white and brown, and the -waters of the bay were beginning to talk and show their white teeth.

“It’s not going to blow, is it, Captain? ” said Jack, buttoning up his fur coat and sitting down by the boiler to keep warm.

“No, sir, it’s just a slant of morning wind, sir. It will warm up afore noon. Good day for a bit of painting, sir.”

The engineer touched his lever, and with a shiver and throb the launch shot out from the landing into the wake of the liner.

“White Star, sir,” said the captain.

Jack nodded. He knew every funnel in the merchant marine.

As the launch receded from the shore the separate noises of the city blended into a deep, confused roar, and a wonderful outline of towering piles stood out against the sky. Other cities have their messages, sad messages of lamentation over a perished splendor, sweet messages of tender recollection for fair women and brave men, sombre messages of vast populations toiling and sweating in the failing fight for supremacy, gay messages of laughter and of pride as from queens on thrones, —but the message of this one was the message of a young giant, half-grown, uncouth, insolent with the joy of its strength and an invincible faith in its destiny. Jack looked back upon its fading outlines with quiet pride. Not kings had chosen its seat or laid its foundations, nor princes set its stones one upon the other, but the brains and hands of such men as he.

He turned his face to the fresh wind with a keen sense of enjoyment. This was his day off. Were the truth told, he would have liked to don a pair of overalls and exchange places for a day with the workman sitting on his plank slung over the stern of the Vixen and dipping his brush in the pot of black paint. There was no strain in that work, covering stroke by stroke the glistening surface, stopping to listen to his neighbor at the other end of the staging, slackening the rope for a fresh start below, — no perplexing problems to solve, no conflicting arguments to weigh, no instant decisions to make, no worry, and time enough to think, to think the thoughts he pleased. There was no wear and tear in painting or calking seams, no anxieties brought forward from the account of the day before.

The workman on the plank at two dollars a day thought the “old man” had a pretty comfortable berth.

“Two dollars a minute ’s about his gait, ” he said to his companion as Jack went up the ladder.

“Every man has his gait,” was the reply; “all I want ’s a chance to strike mine. ”

“Guess you ’ll get it in this country if anywhere.”

“That ’s so. I ain’t whining.”

The cabin was warm. A bright coal fire burned in the open grate. Everything was covered up for the winter and Mabel’s piano was housed in oilcloth, but the table was laid, and savory smells could be detected coming from the galley. Jack felt his sea appetite gaining ground. He went into his stateroom, got out an old suit and slouch hat from the locker, and lit his pipe. The morning went in talk and inspection, and luncheon time came in the midst of a discussion over the new awnings. The skipper thought the old ones would do, but Jack said his daughter thought they were getting shabby. On this information the skipper immediately subsided.

Luncheon was scarcely over when, just as dessert was brought in, voices were heard on deck. The black cook, down for the day and serving also in the capacity of steward, went to the companionway.

“Gentleman wants to see you, sir.”

“To see me? ” said Jack in a tone of surprise. As he spoke a man came down the steps, and Jack turned to see Mr. Brown, Jr., followed by the skipper.

“Good-morning, Mr. Temple.”

“Hullo, Brown ! where did you come from ? ”

“Arizona, sir. I got in this morning. They told me at the office I should find you here, so I took the ferry and came over in a boat.”

“Sit down. What’sup?”

“Well, sir, my report is ready. I put it in writing and thought you would wish me to deliver it to you personally. ” He took a long blue envelope from his inside pocket and laid it on the table. “But it is n’t of much account now.”

Jack put the envelope in his pocket. “Not of much account? Well, it does n’t matter. I am not so much interested in Argonaut as I was awhile ago.”

Mr. Brown fidgeted in his chair, but remained silent. Jack looked at the skipper, who put on his hat and went out.

“Well?” said Jack, turning to Brown.

“That report,” said Mr. Brown, motioning to Mr. Temple’s pocket, “was finished three days ago, just as they were getting ready to shut down.”

“Not a very encouraging one, then.”

“No, sir. But before the ink was dry something happened.” Jack was feeling for his tobacco-pouch, and appeared disappointingly uninterested. “They struck the richest vein of conglomerate I ever laid my eyes on.”

“Bulldog luck! ” said Jack, lighting his pipe.

“Yes, sir, for those who know it.”

Still Jack showed no interest. “Rather a difficult secret to keep, is n’t it, Brown?”

“There ’ll be a good deal of cold water thrown on it before it’s allowed to blaze up, Mr. Temple. Have you seen the morning papers ? ”

“No, they are in my overcoat pocket.”

Mr. Brown unfolded one of his own and read the following paragraph: —

“ ‘ It is stated on good authority that the mill on the Argonaut property will be closed for the present. No method seems to have been found to reduce the losses at the tail end of the mill, and present indications do not warrant the erection of a new one.’ ”

a new “It was the first thing I saw when I opened the paper,” he said, “and it was about what I expected. I have n’t lived with the Assistant Superintendent two weeks for nothing.”

“I see. Tell me something about this new vein, Brown.”

“It’s the Shawnee vein, which they have been looking for these last six months, sir. There is a good mile of it, and it runs from ten to fifteen thousand feet in depth on the adjoining property. There isn’t any doubt about it, Mr. Temple. You know what Shawnee has done for its owners. I wanted to throw my report in the waste-basket the moment I saw it. You know I have n’t much cash, but I am going back to New York to buy every share I can borrow money to buy.”

“ You have n’t had your luncheon yet, Brown ? ”

“No, sir.”

“Better have a little something before you go,” said Jack, touching the bell.

While Mr. Brown was dispatching his luncheon Jack went into his stateroom, wrote a few words in pencil, and going on deck ordered the launch alongside.

“You are not going yet, Mr. Temple? ” asked the skipper.

“Oh no,” replied Jack. “But pay the gentleman’s boatman. I ’ll send him ashore in the launch. And, Captain, ” he added, giving him an envelope, “you may go yourself. I want to send a telegram. I suppose you are in a hurry to be off, ” he said to Brown, as the latter came up the companionway. “Did you come right through? ”

“Yes, sir, without stopping.”

“Well, get into the launch, it will save you half an hour.”

“You are not going up yourself, Mr. Temple ? ”

“No. But I am alone to-night. You might come up after dinner, —say at nine o’clock.”

“I will, sir,” replied Mr. Brown, stepping into the launch.

“Always the way, ” growled the skipper, taking the wheel. “Never can get an hour to himself without some one a-bothering of him.”

“ I guess I did n’t bother him much, ” remarked Brown. “That ’s a telegram you have there, is n’t it ? ”

The skipper nodded.

“I thought so,” said Brown; and to himself, “He ’ll make no mistake this time.”

XX.

The gayety of the breakfast party at Cedar Hill on the morning of Mr. Heald’s departure was marred by the arrival of Mr. Pearson with the information that an accident had occurred in the woods the day before. A woodcutter had been caught by a falling tree on the mountain side five miles away. He had been at work at some distance from his companions and had not been discovered till dusk, when his failure to appear had led to a search. With great difficulty he had been transported to Mr. Pearson’s farm, where he had received such care as the local practitioner could give. The latter had decided that the crushed leg must be amputated, and Mr. Pearson had been sent to the nearest telephone to summon the assistance of the Lemington surgeon. He had also a list of articles necessary at the farmhouse, which he gave to Dolly while Paul was at the telephone.

“He’s a poor crittur, ” explained Mr. Pearson, “as has bin trampin’ round after work. He ain’t got no clothes to speak of, nor any friends, nor no name for that matter. Mrs. Pearson she ’s that nervous she ain’t no use. She allus did have to go down to the village killin’ days. Jim’s bin for Mrs. Benton, but her baby ’s got the cramps a-teethin’, and she says she ain’t goin’ to leave her baby for no tramps. ”

“Do you mean you want some one to go back with you? ” asked Margaret, who had left the table with Dolly when Mr. Pearson’s errand was known.

“Waal, ” replied Mr. Pearson, “the doctor said a woman would be sorter handy.”

Margaret decided at once that she would go with Paul, who had ordered the sleigh. Dolly remonstrated, but to no purpose.

“You must stay and look after your guests,” said Margaret. “Some one must take charge of the toboggan party, ” and she went upstairs for her hat and jacket.

“I shall ride over with Mr. Pearson,” said Paul, who came in while Dolly was collecting the needed supplies, after Margaret had gone. “I have telephoned for a doctor and nurse. You can send the things over in the sleigh. If there is no need for me to stay I shall be back in an hour. ”

Dolly said nothing of Margaret’s in tention. She thought she would change her mind when she found Paul had gone. But Margaret was firm, and after getting together the articles on the doctor’s list, Dolly went back to the breakfastroom.

Everybody was sorry, but as no one could do anything the interruption was momentary, and Dolly made as light of it as she could. Mrs. Frazer, whose morning toilet was a momentous and protracted affair, never appeared at breakfast, and Mabel had slipped into Dolly’s vacant place at the table and assumed charge. She was a little paler and more subdued than usual, like a person sobered by a sudden responsibility. She gave up her seat when Dolly reappeared and moved into the chair beside her. The young attaché, who had thought her stunning the night before, endeayored, apropos of tobogganing, to interest her in “luging ” in Switzerland, but Mabel was abstracted, and he finally gave it up, especially as she insisted upon speaking in English, which was an effort for him.

When the talk flowed back into its natural channels Mabel began to question Mrs. Kensett, who had not dismissed the subject so easily as the others, and who told her, under cover of the general conversation, what she had learned of the accident from Mr. Pearson and of Margaret’s determination. A little later when, after a momentary diversion, she turned to Mabel again, Mabel was gone.

She came out on the piazza just as the last parcel was being stowed away under the seat of the sleigh and the coachman was tucking the robe about Margaret.

“I am going with you,” she said simply.

“There is not the slightest need of it, Miss Temple, ” objected Margaret, taken by surprise.

“I should like the ride. You don’t mind?”

“Certainly not, but ” —

“But what ? ” said Mabel, getting in and signing to the coachman to drive on.

She had passed a sleepless night. Neither she nor Helen had referred to the subject of their conversation before dinner. Helen did not know of Mr. Heald’s departure. He had made his excuses quietly to Dolly, and his absence was remarked for the first time the following morning at breakfast, when Mabel listened to Dolly’s explanation with affected surprise and polite indifference. From her state of exhilaration Helen had fallen into one of nervous uncertainty and apprehension. She endeavored to believe that she had herself only to blame. But the atmosphere had changed. Mr. Heald had danced with her twice before supper, but had given her no opportunity to relent. He was polite and friendly, that was all. He did not follow her, and she wanted to be followed. After supper he had disappeared. And then, when it was too late to put into execution any of the projects formed for lowering her flag, uncertainty and irresolution turned into fear. The whole subject seemed to have passed from Mabel’s mind. She was kind, but uncommunicative, and Helen was too absorbed and, in the present unsatisfactory condition of her affairs, too anxious not to be probed to make conversation. All this Mabel knew. She understood every silence and every word, every effort after the lights were out to feign sleep, and, after sleep came, every restless movement, — herself too numb with the certainty of her knowledge for restlessness.

One night, in the early winter, she had seen with her father a French play in which, of two women, one had to efface herself. She remembered every detail distinctly. Jack, in his imperfect comprehension of French, had sat placidly through the five acts, and had seen unconcernedly the woman who was in the way solve her problem with a few tiny drops of poison. Lying motionless through that long unending night, her wide open eyes staring into the dark, Mabel recalled how, in her scorn for the melodramatic, the tragedy on the stage had seemed to her almost ludicrous. Both these women were lovesick fools. It would have been so easy for either to cease caring for that stage lover, to stop whimpering and walk out of their troubles into the wide world and forgetfulness. Then, too, to die was so stupid, so useless, so cowardly. Better a thousand times to take the joy, if it was a joy, bravely, and pay the cost, without making such a fuss about it. And now the one persistent thought which came back to her again and again was the thought of this stage fool, — that she was in the way, that there was no going on, no retreating, that she must disappear.

She dropped into sleep once, the halfsleep of the body, in which the reluctant brain refuses to share, and thought she was at the piano struggling with one of Chopin’s nocturnes. Her music teacher was saying: “Put more feeling into that passage, Miss Mabel, — expressivo, con passione.” She woke trying hard to comply, with a little bitter cry.

At last it had come,— passion, love! and it was not the sentimental, ridiculous emotion which had often excited her pity or scorn, nor the artificial storm of the stage, after whose passage audience and actors had tranquilly adjourned to supper, but something real, vital, revealing with the ruthless energy of a volcano the slumbering forces of sex. The stranger in her house of life had announced himself, and was master. Once she had looked into his face every tendency to trifle had vanished.

The promise she had given to Helen did not count for a feather’s weight. It was made before she knew. In a desperate moment — a moment when she stood on the brink of a precipice, one look into which told her she no more belonged to herself — she had thrust it between herself and him, as a shield to keep him at bay. She had promised Helen that if Mr. Heald loved her she would be the first to rejoice. He did not love her. She was bound to nothing, she was free. Why then had she pretended she was not? Not from any idea of self-abnegation, or duty. She was not in the habit of looking at things from that point of view. It was not a question of principle, but of pure feeling, of what she preferred. If she should stand again on the brink of that happiness, she would take it. And she would stand there, inevitably. He would not have it otherwise, and she could not wish him to. She understood that woman in the play now, who disappeared not because it would do any good, but because it was the easiest thing to do. In anguish death may be the line of least resistance.

She began to think of her mother. If any one had ever dared to criticise Gladys, she would have defended her from pride. But she had always cherished secretly a little bitterness, as if a disgrace had fallen upon her through Gladys’s fault. Now she understood. How she loved her, longed for her arms, her comprehension! Jack had always seemed to understand her best. But it was for her mother now she yearned, the mother she had discovered in herself, not for Jack’s indulgence. And when at last exhaustion came to shut her eyes, it was in Gladys’s arms she fell asleep with two shining tears upon her cheeks.

Her sleep was heavy and long. Helen, who had always been an early riser, was dressed and gone when she opened her eyes and saw Marie preparing her bath. There was a letter from her papa, the usual daily half-page she received when absent from home. It contained nothing important, and, like a regular money allowance, had become so entirely a matter of course that it had ceased to make any impression. Underneath Jack’s envelope was another. The handwriting was not familiar, but she knew at once whose it was. Marie had learned never to offer explanations not asked for, and was never quite sure of the attitude she ought to assume until she had received her cue. She was ready to explain why the note bore no postmark if she were asked, but Mabel did not question her. She read it unconcernedly, Marie thought, as she had read Jack’s. It hardly seemed worth the half-eagle in Marie’s pocket. But after her mistress went into the bathroom Marie observed that both letters were gone, and that when Mabel went down to breakfast only Jack’s was in the scrap-basket. It might be worth the half-eagle after all. She certainly would have thought so had she known it lay under the folds of the blue satin waist when Mabel stepped into the sleigh beside Margaret; although once read it was known by heart.

“Dearest,— I am not worthy of you, but love atones for everything, and I love you with all my soul and strength. And love has come to you, dear, — not too late, nor in vain. Think! if need were how I should fly to you! If the need came to me, would any barrier keep you away ? Wait — do not blame yourself — wait, as I shall wait — a little while — forever, if need be.”

Paul was surprised to see Margaret and annoyed at the presence of Mabel. It was like Margaret to come forward in an emergency. He was proud of her. But Mabel! what was she doing here in her blue satin waist and French hat! He hardly noticed her as he helped Margaret out and assisted in the transfer of the packages to the house.

Mabel was silent and asked no questions.

The sleigh was at the wide stone step before the door, and she could hear enough of the low conversation between Paul and Margaret just within to understand the condition of affairs. The doctor had decided that if life was to be saved the operation must be performed without further delay. He must do the best he could with Paul’s aid. Margaret bravely offered to stay, but Paul would not hear of it. The doctor agreed with him. Whatever her courage, she might prove worse than useless; it was better that she should go at once for Mrs. Benton and take charge of her sick child. Jim could drive her over in Mr. Pearson’s sleigh and bring Mrs. Benton back.

There was not a moment to lose, and Margaret set out immediately.

“Margaret is going over for Mrs. Benton,” Paul explained to Mabel, “and will stay with her sick baby till the nurse from Lemington comes. You can drive Miss Temple home, James, ” he said to the coachman, “and then return for me. Tell Mrs. Kensett I shall be back as soon as possible.”

“Don’t you think it would be well for James to remain here until the other sleigh returns?” said Mabel; “you might need him.”

“Perhaps so, ” replied Paul. It was what he would have done had Mabel not been there. He wanted to get rid of her.

“You need not mind me, I will sit here, ” she said.

“Very well,” acquiesced Paul, disappearing in the house.

The minutes dragged by. The doctor had made all his preparations. He came to the door for the last time with Paul to listen for the sound of bells.

“ We must manage by ourselves, ” he said, “and do the best we can. If we only had some one to administer the ether ” — Then they went in and the door closed.

As they passed from the kitchen, which served all purposes in Mr. Pearson’s ménage, into the adjoining bedroom a voice said, —

“I will do that.”

The two men turned and saw Mabel standing in the doorway taking off her dogskin gloves. The doctor was a quiet man, of few words, and he was looking meditatively into the pale, resolute face confronting him.

“You need not fear for me,” said Mabel, answering his look and removing her hat.

“I knew she could do it the moment I heard her speak and looked into her eyes, ” the doctor said to the Lemington surgeon an hour later when the latter was driving away.

“That’s my experience, ” was the reply. “ Blood and education always tell. ”

“You are a brave girl and you have helped save a life, ” he said to Mabel, as he put her in the sleigh beside Paul.

She smiled faintly. Her face was white and she was trembling. The doctor had given her a drink of something before starting. She did not know what it was, but it steadied her, and the fresh air against her cheeks was refreshing. Yet it was all she could do to hold herself straight. Waves of nausea and dizziness made her hold fast to the robe. She felt that if she let go, or leaned back against the cushion, she would sink into the nothingness lying in wait for her. The consciousness that Paul was watching her as she swayed to the motion of the sleigh, though it was the watchfulness of solicitude, gave her the fictitious strength of pride. His voice sounded far away. She knew that it was kind, that he was praising her and saying pleasant things, but she counted every tree and bush as they hurried by.

Mrs. Frazer saw them as they drove up the avenue, and was at the door.

“Where is Margaret?” she exclaimed.

“I am going for her now,” said Paul, helping Mabel out, “Take Miss Temple to her room.”

“What has happened, dear? ” Mabel’s pale face frightened her.

“Nothing,” said Mabel. But the question was too much for her. A horrible odor of ether swept over her, and she pitched forward into Mrs. Frazer’s arms.

XXI.

The Lemington surgeon, intercepted on his way to the station, stood at Mabel’s bedside when she opened her eyes. He was smiling and saying she would be all right in an hour or two. For a moment she did not know where she was or what had happened. She tried to speak, and made an effort to sit up, but her limbs were like lead and her words incoherent. Then she remembered everything up to the moment when her feet touched the piazza. The rest was a blank, and she lay still, endeavoring to fill up the gap of unconsciousness and to get back to the point where her life seemed to have snapped off short.

The window opposite the bed was wide open, and Mrs. Frazer was sitting beside her, holding her hand. She saw Marie helping the doctor on with his coat. She heard him say something to Mrs. Frazer in a low voice, and then he came and touched her forehead soothingly with his hand.

“You will be yourself again in a little while, and a brave little self it is, ” he said, stroking her hair. He looked as if he were going to kiss her, and she shrank back; but it was only a professional caress, and he turned to go.

She felt her strength coming back fast, but she had not yet succeeded in tying the ends of the broken thread.

“ Where am I ? May I get up ? ” she said.

“You may do anything you wish,” said the doctor at the door.

Marie had placed another pillow under her head.

“ How perfectly silly I was! what did I do ? ”

“Mercy! child,” exclaimed Mrs. Frazer, “more than I could.”

“Don’t speak of that, please; ” she remembered now : “did I faint? I recollect feeling so queer.”

“It was quite my fault,” said Mrs, Frazer; “I should not have asked you that question. I fainted myself once on less provocation. We had been to the theatre and I got terribly wrought up. I was trembling all the way to the restaurant where we went for supper. Mr. Frazer asked me if I would have peas or asparagus tips with the pheasants, and I fainted dead away. It was the last straw.”

Mabel smiled faintly.

“What made you run off on such dreadful business? We looked everywhere for you, until Marie told us you had gone with Margaret. ”

She did not know herself why she had gone. She had wanted to do something, anything, — she remembered that. All the rest was unforeseen, and as if some one had pushed her on without any volition of her own. Now it was pleasant to lie still, with all that had troubled her dulled and softened by the lassitude and weakness.

“Where is Mrs. Kensett?” she asked at length.

“They have not returned yet. Will you take a swallow of this beef tea now ? ”

She was feeling better every minute.

“I wish you would not say anything about this, Mrs. Frazer. I think I can go down to luncheon.”

“You may go down to dinner, but not to luncheon. You have had your own way quite enough for the present. I shall allow no one to see yon till teatime, and you must lie perfectly quiet till I return. I am going to prepare some arrowroot and port wine for you, and if you are good you shall have it in my silver porringer.”

Mabel smiled and acquiesced, finding a new pleasure in obedience.

After Mrs. Frazer had gone she remembered the note she had fastened under her waist, and sitting up glanced about the room. Her watch was on the dressing-table and the note lay underneath it. On a chair by the window hung her blue satin waist.

“Take it away,” she said to Marie; “burn it, — I never want to see it again. And bring me my watch, the mirror, and my comb.”

In taking the watch from the table Marie touched the letter.

“Put it in the fire,” said Mabel. She could see the grate in the parlor through the open door, and watched Marie fulfill her instructions. “Now shut the window.”

“You did look like a dead person, Miss Mabel, ” said Marie, who had been waiting for her chance to talk. “ I was that frightened ” —

“Don’t speak to me about it, Marie. I look like a ghost now ” — laying down the glass. “ I told you to take that waist away. I can smell it from here. I will ring if I want you. Perhaps I can sleep.”

There were three persons — Margaret, Helen, and Dolly — who after hearing the recital of Mabel’s morning adventures wished to go to her at once. But Mrs. Frazer held all three at bay. Not hearing Mabel’s bell, and having gently opened her door and found her asleep, she posted Marie in the corridor and prescribed silence for the entire household.

“ She is an extraordinary girl, ” she said to Dolly, as they sat together after luncheon waiting for Mabel to wake;

“most extraordinary, — but badly brought up, very badly. A man with an only daughter always plays the fool. ”

“I suppose he feels as I do when I see the gardener among the rose-bushes in spring, ” Dolly answered, reflecting, without mentioning Jack’s name; “it makes me shudder, the way he hacks and cuts.”

“It’s either that or no roses,” retorted Mrs. Frazer.

“What did Paul say? ” Dolly asked after a pause. She wished to know all the details.

“That she was cooler than he was. He said she might have been made of ice, or stone. But she is not.”

“She seems to have quite won your heart, Laurinda. ”

“Well, isn’t that the way to win hers ? You must have a little patience. She is very observant and very sensitive. I am very sure one false step would ruin everything. Above all, don’t dig up her heart to see if the seeds are sprouting. ”

Mabel loved praise, but she wanted none of that which was waiting for her. She would not allow Helen to speak of the morning occurrences, and she begged Dolly to ask the others not to allude to them. She was quite herself again by tea-time, and wrote a letter to Jack in which she made no reference to the accident. For Margaret, with whom she had not been particularly sympathetic, she displayed a fondness as unexpected as it was sudden. Dolly herself felt nearer to her, though uncertain whether she or Mabel was the magnet. Mrs. Frazer especially she clung to, but she did not want to be left alone a moment with Helen. Every thing connected with her familiar personality, from the rising inflections of her voice to the pose of her head when brushing her hair, was insupportable. The aversion was so unconquerable that she inquired of Mrs. Kensett if she might sleep in a room by herself that night.

“Would it be convenient, and not too much trouble ? ” she asked. Dolly thought the wish a very natural one, and Paul was hurriedly moved into the wing, Mabel’s possessions being transferred by Marie during dinner.

“I hope you don’t think I am unreasonable. I am sorry to make such a commotion,” she said to Paul when she learned she was the cause of his removal.

Paul thought it quite natural too.

“You need not be,” he replied. “I don’t wonder you are shaken up. I can camp anywhere.” He was ready to do anything for her.

Mrs. Frazer’s face wore a grim smile on hearing of these rearrangements. “That girl came into a house of sworn enemies yesterday, ” she remarked in conversation with herself. “To-morrow she will rule them all, and they will not know it. ” This aloud — and to herself, “Fortunately I am here.”

XXII.

No one was more surprised by Mabel’s exploit than Helen, and nothing connected with it surprised her more than Mabel’s aversion to any allusion to it. Every direct reference to what had taken place at the farm was suppressed at once. Not that Helen had any desire to talk about it. She quite understood that aftersuch an experience one would not care to revive its details. She had no morbid curiosity about them whatever. But she did feel a genuine admiration and the craving to express it, if only indirectly, by little acts of thoughtfulness and attention. She had an extra “dear ” ready on her lips whenever she uttered Mabel’s name. Moreover, what Mabel had said of Mr. Heald had been an immense relief, and had set flowing a well-spring of gratitude. Mabel was not to blame for his desertion. But while not absolutely rejecting these offerings, Mabel gave no sign of recognizing their significance.

A very little sign would have been enough.

Helen put this down to capriciousness, to that inconsistency which had always baffled her, and which even now left her uncertain whether she was-facing a new revelation of character or an oldtime exhibition of impulse. Mabel had never been deceitful, although often artful. She did and said unexpected and perplexing things, but she had never resorted to lying, even as a little girl. So far as Mr. Heald was concerned, Helen believed her implicitly, — which was not difficult, for she wanted to, — and had not the slightest idea that the attitude which she ascribed to caprice or indifference was an heroic effort to conquer an absolute repulsion.

She made some futile attempts to break through Mabel’s wall of resistance, and finally, finding to her surprise that the lane had no turning, began to suspect that there was something more than caprice behind Mabel’s manner, and lapsed again into irresolution and timidity. She had abdicated authority so long ago that as a weapon it was too rusty from disuse even for defensive purposes. Affection was equally unavailing.

With one exception Mabel neither did nor said anything tangible enough for open complaint, but her behavior made Helen vaguely uncomfortable. She was sure it was deliberate, not accidental, and that it was directed only against herself. She was equally sure no one else noticed it, and this made her still more uncomfortable. When we see ghosts we do not like to be told we are dreaming.

The one exception was of so utterly unreasonable a nature that it completely upset her. Mabel had come down to dinner, charming, but with superb unconcern. The evening had been passed in the discussion and arrangement of some charades for the following day. Everybody was happy, so it seemed to Helen, except herself. She was not self-reliant, and she felt alone. That Mr. Heald should be called away on business she told herself was entirely natural, and she struggled against the dull sense of desertion in her heart which her head pronounced utterly unjustifiable. Gramercy Park, while not estranging her from the Gaunt household, had made her life independent of it. When in college, and even afterwards when she had left the Boston nest for her flight to the New York boarding-school, she had taken all her trials and ambitions to the home council. But home and Gramercy Park belonged to different worlds. Together with a certain elation over her success went a certain disapproval of her new sphere which had gradually restricted confidences. Communications with the Boston home had grown less and less frequent, and in spite of her original pride in its modest respectability and dignity, it was so entirely ignored by Gramercy Park that with her expanding horizons she too had come to regard it as a far-away and unimportant factor. Just now, when there was no one to turn to in her new world, she realized keenly the loss of her old one. The family in Boston would have been immensely pleased by a successful marriage. It did not require much imagination to hear her mother tell her friends about it, or to see the little vanities to which such an event would give rise. On the other hand, disappointment or disaster incurred in the upper ether would, she knew, elicit a mournful chorus of “ I told you so, ” and “ I was always afraid ” from the lower level. She had been lured away from the respectable commonplace into a frame of mind which would lead her now to open revolt against its displeasure.

She was in this restless and unhappy state when she slipped away from the drawing-room into the conservatory for a moment with herself. She sat down in the big chair under the palms, staring beyond the orchids at her problem with an aching heart. Would it have been better after all if she had never parted from the functions ?

And just then Mabel came through the door, — Mabel, vastly more unhappy still, who in that chair had touched her lips to the cup of supreme happiness, and who could not overcome the longing for one more draught, though it were only the phantom one of recollection, — who had stolen away to sit for one second in that chair, her chair, to shut her eyes and give herself once more.

“What are you doing here! ”

Helen sprang to her feet. She had never seen Mabel angry before. Vexed, petulant, yes, — a hundred times, but not like this, with hate in her eyes.

It was only for a second, like a flash of summer lightning, but it left her dazed.

“They want you in the drawingroom,” said Mabel coldly, leading the way back.

Helen followed her, stunned and speechless. The outburst was so unaccountable that she could not frame an idea into words. If there had been time before reaching the door she would have forced an understanding, but courage and self-possession came too late, and she was in the drawing-room again before she had recovered her self-control. Mabel had joined the first group she had met, and was already discussing animatedly the choice of a subject for a tableau proposed by the Bishop who, at Dolly’s invitation, was now regularly relieving the tedium of Lemington by passing his evenings at Cedar Hill. It seems that the theme of his next sermon had suggested the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins as admirably suited to afford amusement combined with instruction. By common consent Mabel had been selected to represent the Foolish Virgin, and had turned the conversation from costumes to ethics by declaring that her wise sister in the parable had been abominably selfish. Helen stood listening, hot with indignation. She resented with all her soul the tranquil ease with which Mabel slipped, as from one garment into another, from one emotion to its opposite. She felt humiliated and outraged. If it had been any one but Mabel she would have found some excuse for dragging her back into the conservatory and demanding an explanation. It was always so with Helen, — to think she would do what she flinched at, if circumstances and persons were not what they were.

“I don’t care, ” Mabel was saying to the Bishop, “she ought to have given her some of her oil. ”

“ But my dear young lady, ” urged the Bishop, “think of the facts. I can well imagine how your father would state them. Let us suppose two men who have notes to pay on a certain day. One, by self-denial, by economy, by the hard surrender of his rightful pleasures to the claims of duty, is ready on the appointed day to meet his obligations. The other, thoughtless of his creditor’s claims, heedless of the future, abandons himself to self-indulgence, and only when confronted by ruin hastens to borrow of his prudent neighbor. Remember it is not a question of generosity. There is not enough oil for both lamps.”

The Bishop concluded in triumphant complacency.

“I admire your logic,” retorted Mabel, “ but she ought to have given her some, — and I despise her! ”

The Bishop joined in the general laugh with the indulgent smile of a man who sees the folly of serious argument with a child, and the conversation went back to costumes.

Helen crossed over and sat down by Margaret. She was resolved to see Mabel at bedtime, yet was relieved when, meeting Marie on the way to her room, she was told Mabel was already asleep. It happened that this was not true, but Marie was not to be blamed for carrying out her instructions.

Mrs. Frazer had sat with Dolly for a while after the company broke up. They talked of the events of the day, they spoke of Mabel, but tacitly avoided the subject of which they were both thinking. Dolly had been impressed by Mrs. Frazer’s warning that she must make no mistakes. Her path did not appear to be quite so clear as at first. She was waiting, not a little perplexed, and conscious that her perplexity was shared. So true was this that Mrs. Frazer, who had intended to go to New York for a day to complete a transaction which had occasioned her previous visit, had given up the journey under the conviction that something was going to happen, that her hand was on the ship’s helm,and that she must not abandon her post. She had announced her determination to deed the old home in New York to Margaret. Paul had remonstrated. He was entirely able to provide for Margaret. The war was likely to come to an end in the spring, when they would be married, and he should take her back with him to Pretoria. Her mother ought to keep the home for her declining years. He did not say this in so many words, but Mrs. Frazer showed that she divined his thought by declaring that she had no need of ten rooms to die in. With business-like dispatch she had made out a power of attorney and packed Paul off in the afternoon train, much against his will, to make the transfer. It was to be a surprise for Margaret on her coming birthday, — “in more senses than one, ” said Mrs. Frazer, “for she thinks me a selfish old woman. So I am. I do as I please.”

Having talked with Dolly about everything except what they had at heart, she went to her room for the game of solitaire without which she never went to bed, and, after several defeats and successive resolves not to try again, was laying out the cards for one more game when some one knocked at her door. It was Mabel’s maid.

“If you please,” said Marie, “Miss Temple would like to speak with you.”

Mrs. Frazer laid down her cards as tranquilly as if she hail been waiting for this very message. In reality she was much perturbed. The lights in the corridor were out, and Marie led the way with her candle. On reaching Mabel’s room Mrs. Frazer took it from her hand without a word and went in, closing the door behind her, and leaving Marie in a state of poignant curiosity in the dark.

“Are you ill ? ” she asked, setting the candle on the table and bending over the bed.

“No, I wanted to speak to you.”

Mrs. Frazer drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. An unwonted tenderness took possession of her. This was not the Mabel she had seen an hour ago in evening dress, but a child afraid of being left alone in the dark. Margaret, whom she really loved, had never crept in this way into her heart. It even embarrassed her a little to find that having begun with the desire to give Mabel a good shaking she could scarcely restrain herself now from taking her in her arms.

“You don’t mind sitting here a little while, do you ? ”

“No, dear, I am very glad to.” She did not know what else to say.

“I have been thinking of mamma,” said Mabel. “That was all.”

Mrs. Frazer took one of the hands lying on the coverlid and pressed it gently.

“ You have had a great shock to-day. To-morrow you will feel better.”

“Yes,” said Mabel.

She said yes, not in assent, but absent-mindedly, as if it were not worth while to contradict. Mrs. Frazer looked at the face on the pillow with awakening alarm. Was she really ill, or was it the shadows from the candle ?

“Mabel, my child, you are not deceiving me? You are not ill? ”

“I love to have you call me ’my child.’ No, really, I am quite well.” And then, after a pause, “ I wish mamma were alive.”

Mrs. Frazer stooped and kissed her.

Mabel smiled faintly. “You were very good to come. Marie read to me a little while, — and then I wanted mamma to come and tell me a story ” —

“As she used to when you were a child.”

“No. I don’t think she ever did. I was just imagining it.”

“ You must not imagine such things, ” said Mrs. Frazer abruptly. “You are nervous, and do not know what you want.” It was not a very sympathetic answer, and she was aware of it, but the tears were close to her eyes.

“ Oh yes I do, ” replied Mabel quietly.

“You want a good sleep, that’s what you want. You are unstrung. A night’s rest will put you all right.”

“Yes, a good rest,” assented Mabel.

Mrs. Frazer longed to ask what was troubling her. She was convinced that there was something besides the morning’s episode. She thought of Dolly, but Dolly’s grievance, which was in her mind when she followed Marie down the corridor, was quite inadequate to explain Mabel’s condition.

Mabel saw her perplexity and sat up in bed.

“Now kiss me good-night, dear Mrs. Frazer. I am not ready to talk about myself. If I ever am it will be to you. ” She took Mrs. Frazer’s hand in her own, making that lady feel that she was the one to be comforted. “You won ’ t think me silly, will you ? I can see that you don’t. You are so good not to ask questions ; I should not like you if you did. ” She put up her face to be kissed again. “ A good sleep will not make everything right, Mrs. Frazer ” —

“But my dear child,” interrupted Mrs. Frazer, embracing her. The tears were in her eyes now, but Mabel’s were dry and shining.

“I don’t like pretending. I wanted my own mamma, — she would understand. I felt as if I must have her. That is why I sent for you. I know I shall be very different to-morrow. But you must not let that make you forget to-niglit. And do not tell Mrs. Kensett what a troublesome guest she has. I am just upset, that’s all, — just upset, ” she repeated in a mechanical way, smiling again. “I want to tell you everything, but something says it would do no good. I think I love you, ” she said, with a real smile at last. “If you will love me a little that will be enough. I never knew I should want to be loved. ” She looked up with a shy expression on her face, and Mrs. Frazer, completely conquered, threw her arms about her.

“ You will be a good girl now and go to sleep, ” she said, laying her back on the pillow

“Yes.”

“And think of nothing.”

“Yes.”

“ You promise me ? ”

“Yes.”

Then she kissed her again, astonished at the sweetness of the caress, and, lest the tears should fall from her eyes on the smiling face, seized her candle and hurried away without even saying “goodnight. ”

XXIII.

At the close of the first day’s decline in Argonaut Mr. Heald had illustrated to his satisfaction the paradox of making money by selling what he did not have. It had become known to the interested through those mysterious channels which supply the public with information that he had sold his holdings and was out of the market. The financial columns of the evening papers contained no comment upon so insignificant an eddy on the broad stream of general prosperity, and the shrinkage of the Argonaut bubble was scarcely noticed outside the circle of its victims. The statement that the mine had shut down was confirmed, however, the following morning. Paul, having executed Mrs. Frazer’s commission, was lunching down town when an item to this effect caught his eye. He turned to the stock list and saw the shares were quoted at two! Margaret and Dolly were safe, but the escape was so narrow that his indignation against Mr. Heald rose to fever heat. He was looking at his watch to see how much time he had before the afternoon train for Westford, and had just determined to run in and see Jack a moment on his way to the Elevated station, when the drawing of a cork at a table in the corner near him attracted his attention. He recognized Mr. Heald at once, and he further remembered now where he had seen him before. It needed just that fixed gaze at nothing to carry him back to an evening in Johannesburg when the turn of a card in the Colony Club set a man staring with the same fixed stare, as though the crowded room was empty and its silence the silence of the desert.

Mr. Heald had had an exciting morning. On the confirmation of the rumored closing of the mine Argonaut shares had opened weak at twelve, and the rout of timid holders became complete. The price fell to two before noon, then rallied to five on strong buying, from what source and for what reason was not apparent. He was still on the short side when he received a message from his broker that offerings had practically ceased, and that that particular pulse indicated on the floor of the Exchange by the word “Miscellaneous ” was lifeless. He then had contracts for the delivery of ten thousand shares, but he was not especially disturbed. There was no leakage of news from Arizona. The secret of the discovery had been well kept, there was no reason for any advance, and it would require a very material rise to offset his winnings. Then came sudden and complete stagnation. After ransacking every corner in an unavailing effort to cover, he had succeeded in picking up only a few hundred shares, and realized that he had over-reached himself. Inquiry developed the additional fact that the principal buying had been by a brokerage firm to which he was bound to deliver eight thousand shares before the closing hour. He asked at once for a conference with a view to settlement, and was informed by the broker that it would be necessary to consult his principal.

Who was his principal ?

There was a hurried conversation over the telephone.

The principal was Mr. Temple.

Could he see Mr. Temple?

There was another consultation over the telephone.

Yes, Mr. Temple would see Mr. Heald at two o’clock.

It was then one. He had an hour to think it over. He was not yet anxious, only annoyed. Eight thousand shares at five was forty thousand dollars. Say ten even, that was only eighty thousand, nothing to worry over. The whole transaction was insignificant as compared with Mabel. It cost him relatively little to part with money, but there were mistakes for which money could not atone. If he could only settle with Helen to Mabel’s satisfaction as easily as he hoped to with Jack Temple!

He had ordered a small steak and a pint bottle of champagne and was spreading his napkin over his knee when he looked up and saw Paul approaching. There was a set expression on Paul’s face which betokened anything but amiability, but Mr. Heald smiled pleasantly. He had been thinking of Mabel, and the thought of her would have made him gentle with his worst enemy.

Paul was still wrestling with his indignation. He was asking himself what the devil could induce a man to palm off worthless stocks on trusting women, and on seeing Mr. Heald he impulsively resolved to know.

“ Do you object to my asking you a few questions? ” he said abruptly.

Neither had exchanged a word after the first glance of recognition, and Paul was standing by the table with his hat and cane in his hand.

“Not in the least,” replied Mr. Heald affably. “Sit down. You will let me go on with my luncheon ? I have an appointment at two o’clock.”

“You were in Johannesburg four years ago, I think, ” said Paul.

“Yes, four years ago this month, in December. ”

“I remember your losing five thousand pounds one evening at the Colony Club.”

“More than that,” said Mr. Heald tranquilly.

“ Yes. You staked your cattle range — on the Bex River, in the Colony, was n’t it ? — and lost that too. ” Mr. Heald nodded assent.

“And left the room a beggar.”

“Not quite so bad as that, ” said Mr. Heald, filling his glass. “I had a few pounds. I happen to recollect because they were so few. ”

Paul softened a little at the absence of resistance.

“I beg your pardon for recalling unpleasant facts ” —•

“Not at all, not at all,” interrupted Mr. Heald. “I believe I made no complaint at the time, and am not likely to now. But you are telling me what you know. What is it you don’t know? ”

“I don’t know how, if you were in Johannesburg in ’98, you could have been intimately associated with Cecil Kensett, who never set foot in Africa and died in ’99,” blurted out Paul.

“Intimately associated?” repeated Mr. Heald.

“ So you said to my cousin when you put sixty-five thousand dollars of hers into Argonaut.”

“I believe I did. Well, I should n’t have said so if it were not true. Now let me ask you a question. Are you speaking for Mrs. Kensett ? ” “No.”

“She has no reason to complain of her investment in Argonaut, I think? ”

“She has n’t you to thank for that. ”

“No?” said Mr. Heald, pushing away his plate and with both arms on the table looking into Paul’s face.

“ Because fortunately she acted under other advice,” continued Paul, “and got out of her investment, as you call it, in time.”

“As I call it? Now look here, Mr. Graham, I take you to be a man who would apologize if he were on the wrong track. Otherwise ” — He stopped and smiled.

“Yes,” said Paul, returning the steady gaze, “I would. You need n’t answer my questions if they embarrass you. It ’s past history. I ask because I don’t understand how a man can ” —

“You don’t understand because you don’t know. I advised Mrs. Kensett to get rid of her Argonaut the very day she sold it. Evidently that’s one thing you didn’t know,” said Mr. Heald, observing Paul’s surprise. “And I advised her to buy it because I had faith in it. It isn’t necessary to tell you how much I have made out of that mine myself. That’s my affair. Now I suppose you want to know why I put your cousin into it. That’s my affair too. But I don’t mind telling you. I was dead broke when I left the Cape. I had just enough cash to get to England, and had to take a steerage passage to New York. Mr. Kensett sailed from Liverpool on the same steamer. Perhaps I did strain the meaning of words a little when I said we were associated in a business enterprise. The fact is he lent me five hundred dollars on the strength of a chance conversation one day off the Banks when he was talking with the emigrants. Did you ever borrow money yourself? It’s a common business transaction, isn’t it? Borrowing now means paying later. I think I paid my debt. What did Mrs. Kensett sell her Argonaut for ? About ninety thousand? I didn’t care to go into the steerage details at a Lenox house party. Of course I gave my note to Mr. Kensett. Probably he did not take it very seriously. I never saw it again, — nor him. He was dead when I came back from the West. But I always had a bit of sentiment about that note. ” He stopped and laughed. “I wish it was the only paper my name was on.”

Paul was a little ashamed of Lis hasty generalizations, yet did not feel at all like apologizing for them. As things had turned out there was nothing at which he could cavil. There was even something taking about the cool assurance and easy frankness of the man. But at the bottom of it all was the fact that for some not very definite reason he did not like him. It is unpleasant to distrust without knowing why. He was not one to refuse to shake hands with a man because he did not know who his grandfather was. If Mr. Heald had shown in any way that he regarded an apology as due him it would have been easier to offer it. His manner, however, put Paul on quite a different footing, — merely the footing of one whose attack had been parried. Mr. Heald seemed entirely content with that result, and careless of any further questions of honor or injustice involved. He had certainly made some very frank personal statements, but Paul did not know him any better than before. He had noticed that everybody spoke of him as “Mr. Heald.” No one appeared to have got so far as “Heald,” or “Reginald, ” as a form of address.

“Are you going back to Cedar Hill to-night ? ”

“Yes, right away,” replied Paul, glad of the change of topic.

“I wish you would tell your cousin how badly I feel about running away so unceremoniously. I will write tonight, after I get some matters straightened out here. How did the tobogganing come off ? ”

“I really don’t know,” said Paul. “We had an accident ” —

“An accident? ” interrupted Mr. Heald.

Paul gave a brief account of it and of the part played by Mabel.

“The girl’s nerve quite surprised us,” he said.

Mr. Heald appeared uninterested and the conversation lagged.

“You must excuse me,” he said, rising ; “ I have an appointment with Miss Temple’s father for two o’clock, and it is ten minutes of that now.” They shook hands, with some constraint on Paul’s side, and parted. There was time enough to spare before the Westford train started, and Paul’s intention to see Jack before leaving was confirmed. He wanted to tell him about Mabel, and he wondered too what Mr. Heald’s business with Jack could be.

If any of the throng which caught a glimpse of Mr. Heald’s face as he hurried along lower Broadway during the closing hour of the business day had known his errand they would have said he was weighing the chances of a favorable settlement. But his thoughts were not busy with the price of Argonaut shares. “Just like her, just like her,” he kept saying to himself.

Unfortunately the thought of Mabel was so indissolubly connected with that of Helen that it was impossible for him to see one face — as he had seen it every hour since leaving Cedar Hill — without being confronted with the other. He could forget and ignore Helen if Mabel could. He loved Mabel the more because she could not, though he would have had no scruples whatever if she had had none. Mabel was both his desire and his stumbling-block. Yet he had no word of blame for her. She was all the dearer for her loyalty. He knew persuasion and argument would be futile with her, that she would scorn him for resorting to them. In the vain attempt to find some way out of his own folly he had thought of a direct appeal to Helen. The humiliation involved in such a confession was nothing to him, and there could be no doubt of its result. But what would Mabel think of it? Only that thought held him back. He was experiencing the new sensation of wishing to submit his every act to her judgment and approval. She had scruples and a conscience, and he had more respect for them than for his own.

The boy at the outer door took his card and disappeared down the vista of ironguarded desks into the private office. Jack looked up as his visitor entered with “Just a moment, Mr. Heald,” finished a signature for which a clerk was waiting, and when the door closed wheeled round in his chair. “They told me you wished to see me, ” he said.

Mr. Heald took the seat beside the desk and looked steadily into the speaker’s face. He had an impression that Mr. Temple did not like him. It was not a hard face, but it wore its business mask. If he had thought of it as the face of Mabel’s father that thought vanished the moment it turned toward him.

“You know, of course, the reason why I wished to see you, ” he said.

“I suppose so,” replied Jack laconically.

“ I have a delivery of something like eight thousand Argonaut to make before three o’clock. They are not to be had, as you know. I want your price of settlement.”

“What do you think they are worth, Mr. Heald?”

“The last sale was at five. I thought them worth that then.”

“Well, what do you think they are worth now? ”

“That is for you to say,” said Mr. Heald, smiling; “I am at your mercy.”

Jack’s face did not respond to the invitation to relax.

“It’s not a question of mercy,” he replied. “I am asking you what you honestly think the shares are worth. That is the only basis on which a settlement can be made. I should prefer to take them and pay for them if you had them to deliver.”

“I must admit that is quite impossible.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Jack. “They are in my safe.”

Mr. Heald was silent. There was no doubt in his mind now that others knew the value of Argonaut as well as he did.

“It certainly is not my place to fix a price, ” he said at length.

“Why not?” asked Jack quietly. “I have no desire to drive a hard bargain. Until recently you owned a controlling interest in this mine. You ought to know all about it. I will make you this proposition, Mr. Heald: to settle on any figure you may name as fairly representing the value of the stock today.”

Mr. Heald thought for a moment.

“There is no use beating about the bush, Mr. Temple ” —

“I am not,” interrupted Jack.

“I mean there is no use for me to do so, ” continued Mr. Heald imperturbably. “You control the stock, probably for good reasons.”

“Yes, I bought it for investment. An estate in which I am interested held a small lot of it, and I sent an expert out to examine the property. I bought it for investment on the strength of his report. You probably know better than I do whether that report is trustworthy and — up to date. ”

“Will you name your price, then? ” said Mr. Heald tersely. “I am not fond of squirming. You shall have your money to-morrow.”

“I have no doubt of it whatever, Mr. Heald. I am not anxious about the money. I have the shares, which I consider the important thing. They may be worth fifty, or two hundred and fifty. A mine is an uncertain thing, as you doubtless know. But I think I have gone far enough in proposing to settle on your own figures. If you are not prepared to name them now I can wait. But I scarcely think that would be to your advantage. Or we can have a referee. Any one you name will suit me.”

The wild thought of naming Mabel brought a smile to Mr. Heald’s lips in spite of its absurdity. That was the way things were settled on the stage, but not in real life.

“I prefer you should name the referee,” he said, rising; “if that is agreeable to you.”

“Entirely so,” said Jack.

At the door Mr. Heald turned again.

“If it is a proper question I would like to ask about how many shares you hold, Mr. Temple.”

“About all, Mr. Heald. I would not have made the proposition I have if there were other interests.”

“Would you be disposed to sell your entire interest at any figure — for cash ? ”

“No. I could better alford to give you a receipt in full for the consideration of one dollar. Would you wish me to do that? ”

“No, I pay my debts, Mr. Temple. The office boy may have the dollar.”

There was repressed passion in his abrupt “good-afternoon,” and he closed the door with a snap as abrupt as his salutation. He did not notice Paul, who was waiting his turn in the outer office, and looking neither to the right nor to the left disappeared in the corridor.

“ What’s up ? ” asked Paul, going in.

Jack, whose back was turned, and who was gazing meditatively out of the window, seemed unusually glad to see him.

“ Why Paul! ” he exclaimed; “what brings you down ? ”

“If it isn’t a dead secret I should like to have you answer my question first. Your last visitor looked as if he had pretty nearly lost his temper.”

“ He is in bad shape, Paul, — very bad. Do you recollect my telling you I had sent out a man to look over that Argonaut property ? ”

“ Certainly. I can imagine what he found out, too.”

“No you can’t,” said Jack, “not if you try.”

“Well, then, I won’t try. I don’t much care now that Dolly and Margaret are out of it.”

“Margaret? ” said Jack, looking up;

“ Margaret who ? ”

Paul blushed furiously.

“You have my secret if I haven’t yours, ” he said, laughing.

Jack’s face grew grave. There are circumstances under which the happiness of others makes us solemn.

“I congratulate you most heartily,” he said. “Miss Frazer is a girl in a thousand. But we made a mistake in selling her Argonaut.”

The statement was on the face of it so absurd that Paul’s willingness to talk about Margaret was forgotten.

“What do you think the stock is worth, Paul ? ”

“The tape says nothing.”

“Then you wouldn’t accept a thousand shares for Miss Frazer as a gift. They give presents nowadays on engagements, don’t they? You see,” Jack went on, enjoying Paul’s bewilderment, “this is a case where the tape lies. I have just been trying to settle on a price for that stock with Mr. Heald. We are like the girl who agreed to be married but would n’t name the day. We agree that it is worth a good deal of money, but both of us are afraid to say exactly how much. I don’t want to be hard on him.”

Then he told the whole story.

“What are you going to do? ” asked Paul when he had finished.

“Oh, X shall have to let him down easy. He played a sharp game and got caught. I don’t like him, — but that’s no reason. I have the mine, I don’t want the pound of flesh.”

“It’s the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of. It was n’t an hour ago I was mentally congratulating Dolly on her escape. Are you going to return her thousand shares too? ”

“No,” said Jack, turning to his desk. “I haven’t the same reason in Mrs. Kensett’s case that I have in Miss Frazer’s. By the way, I have got to name a referee. Will you act? ”

“Not for worlds,” objected Paul energetically.

“There’s got to be somebody,” said Jack, who was looking out of the window again. “It is n’t customary for a referee to receive instructions from the interested parties. But if I satisfy the other side, the referee ought to be satisfied too. Think it over. You can wire me to-morrow. When are you going back? Four o’clock! You have n’t much time. How is Mabel? ”

Paul told his story.

Jack listened without moving a muscle. “I am not surprised,” was his only comment. “She generally gets where she starts for.”

He rang the bell the moment Paul had gone.

“Make out a transfer of a thousand shares of Argonaut to Margaret Frazer and bring it to me at once,” he said to the responding clerk.

He signed the transfer blank on the back of the certificate, slipping it into an envelope with some other papers.

“You know Mr. Graham who was just here?” he asked. “Well, get right on the Elevated and catch him at the Grand Central Station. He takes the four o’clock train for Westford. Be lively, or you will miss him.”

When Paul opened the envelope he found with the certificate of stock Jack’s card, addressed to Margaret, with “Heartiest congratulations ” in pencil in the corner; a receipt in full, addressed to Mr. Heald, with which was folded a half-sheet containing this brief scrawl: —

DEAR PAUL, — If you consent to act, the inclosed will help you out in naming a price. J. T.

Arthur Sherburne Hardy.