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Title:Alexander'sBridgeandTheBarrelOrgan

Author:WillaCatherandAlfredNoyes

ReleaseDate:March7,2006[EBook#94]

LastUpdated:October6,2016

Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKALEXANDER'SBRIDGE***

ProducedbyAnAnonymousVolunteerandDavidWidger

ALEXANDER’SBRIDGE

byWillaCather

And

THEBARRELORGANbyAlfredNoyes

CONTENTS

ALEXANDER’SBRIDGEbyWillaCather

CHAPTERI

CHAPTERII

CHAPTERIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTERV

CHAPTERVI

CHAPTERVII

CHAPTERVIII

CHAPTERIX

CHAPTERX

EPILOGUE

THEBARRELORGANbyAlfredNoyes

ALEXANDER’SBRIDGEbyWillaCather

CHAPTERI

LateonebrilliantAprilafternoonProfessorLuciusWilsonstoodattheheadofChestnutStreet, lookingabouthimwith thepleasedairof amanof tastewhodoesnotveryoftengettoBoston.Hehadlivedthereasastudent,butfortwentyyears and more, since he had been Professor of Philosophy in a Westernuniversity,hehadseldomcomeEastexcepttotakeasteamerforsomeforeignport.Wilsonwasstandingquitestill,contemplatingwithawhimsicalsmiletheslanting street,with itswornpaving, its irregular, gravely coloredhouses, andtherowofnakedtreesonwhichthethinsunlightwasstillshining.Thegleamofthe riverat the footof thehillmadehimblinka little,notsomuchbecause itwastoobrightasbecausehefounditsopleasant.Thefewpassers-byglancedathimunconcernedly,andeventhechildrenwhohurriedalongwiththeirschool-bags under their arms seemed to find it perfectly natural that a tall browngentlemanshouldbestanding there, lookingup throughhisglassesat thegrayhousetops.Thesunsankrapidly;thesilverylighthadfadedfromthebareboughsandthe

watery twilight was setting in when Wilson at last walked down the hill,descending into cooler and cooler depths of grayish shadow.His nostril, longunused to it,was quick to detect the smell ofwood smoke in the air, blendedwiththeodorofmoistspringearthandthesaltinessthatcameuptheriverwiththe tide. He crossed Charles Street between jangling street cars and shelvinglumber drays, and after amoment of uncertaintywound into Brimmer Street.Thestreetwasquiet,deserted,andhungwithathinbluishhaze.Hehadalreadyfixedhis sharpeyeupon thehousewhichhe reasoned shouldbehisobjectivepoint, when he noticed a woman approaching rapidly from the oppositedirection. Always an interested observer of women, Wilson would haveslackenedhispaceanywheretofollowthisonewithhisimpersonal,appreciativeglance. She was a person of distinction he saw at once, and, moreover, veryhandsome.Shewastall,carriedherbeautifulheadproudly,andmovedwitheaseand certainty.One immediately took for granted the costly privileges and finespaces thatmust lie in thebackgroundfromwhichsuchafigurecouldemergewiththisrapidandelegantgait.Wilsonnotedherdress,too,—for,inhisway,hehadaneye forsuch things,—particularlyherbrownfursandherhat.Hegotablurredimpressionofherfinecolor,thevioletsshewore,herwhitegloves,and,curiouslyenough,ofherveil,assheturnedupaflightofstepsinfrontofhim

anddisappeared.Wilson was able to enjoy lovely things that passed him on the wing as

completely and deliberately as if they had been dug-up marvels, longanticipated, and definitely fixed at the end of a railway journey. For a fewpleasurablesecondshequiteforgotwherehewasgoing,andonlyafterthedoorhadclosedbehindherdidherealizethattheyoungwomanhadenteredthehouseto which he had directed his trunk from the South Station that morning. Hehesitated a moment before mounting the steps. “Can that,” he murmured inamazement,—“canthatpossiblyhavebeenMrs.Alexander?”When the servant admitted him, Mrs. Alexander was still standing in the

hallway.Sheheardhimgivehisname,andcameforwardholdingoutherhand.“Is it you, indeed, ProfessorWilson? I was afraid that you might get here

beforeIdid.Iwasdetainedataconcert,andBartleytelephonedthathewouldbelate.Thomaswillshowyouyourroom.Hadyouratherhaveyourteabroughttoyouthere,orwillyouhaveitdownherewithme,whilewewaitforBartley?”Wilsonwaspleasedtofindthathehadbeenthecauseofherrapidwalk,and

withherhewasevenmorevastlypleasedthanbefore.Hefollowedherthroughthe drawing-room into the library, where the wide back windows looked outuponthegardenandthesunsetandafinestretchofsilver-coloredriver.Aharp-shapedelmstoodstrippedagainstthepale-coloredeveningsky,withraggedlastyear’s birds’ nests in its forks, and through the bare branches the evening starquiveredinthemistyair.Thelongbrownroombreathedthepeaceofarichandamplyguardedquiet.Teawasbroughtinimmediatelyandplacedinfrontofthewoodfire.Mrs.Alexandersatdowninahigh-backedchairandbegantopourit,whileWilson sank into a low seat opposite her and took his cupwith a greatsenseofeaseandharmonyandcomfort.“You have had a long journey, haven’t you?” Mrs. Alexander asked, after

showinggraciousconcernabouthistea.“AndIamsosorryBartleyislate.He’softentiredwhenhe’slate.HeflattershimselfthatitisalittleonhisaccountthatyouhavecometothisCongressofPsychologists.”“Itis,”Wilsonassented,selectinghismuffincarefully;“andIhopehewon’t

betiredtonight.But,onmyownaccount,I’mgladtohaveafewmomentsalonewithyou,beforeBartleycomes.Iwassomehowafraidthatmyknowinghimsowellwouldnotputmeinthewayofgettingtoknowyou.”“That’sveryniceofyou.”Shenoddedathimabovehercupandsmiled,but

therewasalittleformaltightnessinhertonewhichhadnotbeentherewhenshegreetedhiminthehall.

Wilsonleanedforward.“HaveIsaidsomethingawkward?Iliveveryfaroutoftheworld,youknow.ButIdidn’tmeanthatyouwouldexactlyfadedim,evenifBartleywerehere.”Mrs. Alexander laughed relentingly. “Oh, I’m not so vain! How terribly

discerningyouare.”ShelookedstraightatWilson,andhefeltthatthisquick,frankglancebrought

aboutanunderstandingbetweenthem.He liked everything about her, he toldhimself, but heparticularly likedher

eyes;whenshelookedatonedirectlyforamomenttheywerelikeaglimpseoffinewindyskythatmaybringallsortsofweather.“Sinceyounoticedsomething,”Mrs.Alexanderwenton,“itmusthavebeena

flashofthedistrustIhavecometofeelwheneverImeetanyofthepeoplewhoknewBartleywhenhewasaboy.ItisalwaysasiftheyweretalkingofsomeoneIhadnevermet.Really,ProfessorWilson,itwouldseemthathegrewupamongthestrangestpeople.Theyusuallysaythathehasturnedoutverywell,orremarkthathealwayswasafinefellow.Ineverknowwhatreplytomake.”Wilsonchuckledandleanedbackinhischair,shakinghisleftfootgently.“I

expect the fact is that we none of us knew him very well, Mrs. Alexander.Though I will say for myself that I was always confident he’d do somethingextraordinary.”Mrs. Alexander’s shoulders gave a slight movement, suggestive of

impatience.“Oh,Ishouldthinkthatmighthavebeenasafeprediction.Anothercup,please?”“Yes, thank you. But predicting, in the case of boys, is not so easy as you

might imagine, Mrs. Alexander. Some get a bad hurt early and lose theircourage;andsomenevergetafairwind.Bartley”—hedroppedhischinonthebackofhislonghandandlookedatheradmiringly—“Bartleycaughtthewindearly,andithassunginhissailseversince.”Mrs.Alexandersatlookingintothefirewithintentpreoccupation,andWilson

studiedherhalf-avertedface.Helikedthesuggestionofstormypossibilities intheproudcurveofher lipandnostril.Without that,hereflected,shewouldbetoocold.“I should like to knowwhat hewas really likewhen hewas a boy. I don’t

believeheremembers,”shesaidsuddenly.“Won’tyousmoke,Mr.Wilson?”Wilson lit a cigarette. “No, I don’t suppose he does. He was never

introspective. Hewas simply themost tremendous response to stimuli I have

everknown.Wedidn’tknowexactlywhattodowithhim.”A servant came in and noiselessly removed the tea-tray. Mrs. Alexander

screened her face from the firelight, which was beginning to throwwaveringbrightspotsonherdressandhairastheduskdeepened.“Of course,” she said, “I now and again hear stories about things that

happenedwhenhewasincollege.”“Butthatisn’twhatyouwant.”Wilsonwrinkledhisbrowsandlookedather

withthesmilingfamiliaritythathadcomeaboutsoquickly.“Whatyouwantisapictureofhim,standingbackthereattheotherendoftwentyyears.Youwanttolookdownthroughmymemory.”Shedroppedherhandsinherlap.“Yes,yes;that’sexactlywhatIwant.”Atthismomenttheyheardthefrontdoorshutwithajar,andWilsonlaughed

asMrs.Alexanderrosequickly.“Thereheis.Awaywithperspective!Nopast,nofutureforBartley;justthefierymoment.Theonlymomentthateverwasorwillbeintheworld!”Thedoorfromthehallopened,avoicecalled“Winifred?”hurriedly,andabig

mancame through thedrawing-roomwith aquick, heavy tread, bringingwithhimasmellofcigarsmokeandchillout-of-doorsair.WhenAlexanderreachedthe library door, he switched on the lights and stood six feet andmore in thearchway, glowing with strength and cordiality and rugged, blond good looks.There were other bridge-builders in the world, certainly, but it was alwaysAlexander’spicturethattheSundaySupplementmenwanted,becausehelookedasatamerofriversoughttolook.Underhistumbledsandyhairhisheadseemedashardandpowerful as a catapult, andhis shoulders looked strongenough inthemselvestosupportaspanofanyoneofhistengreatbridgesthatcuttheairaboveasmanyrivers.AfterdinnerAlexandertookWilsonuptohisstudy.Itwasalargeroomover

thelibrary,andlookedoutupontheblackriverandtherowofwhitelightsalongtheCambridgeEmbankment.Theroomwasnotatallwhatonemightexpectofanengineer’sstudy.Wilsonfeltatoncetheharmonyofbeautifulthingsthathavelived long together without obtrusions of ugliness or change. It was none ofAlexander’s doing, of course; those warm consonances of color had beenblendingandmellowingbeforehewasborn.Butthewonderwasthathewasnotoutofplacethere,—thatitallseemedtoglowliketheinevitablebackgroundforhis vigor and vehemence. He sat before the fire, his shoulders deep in thecushions of his chair, his powerful head upright, his hair rumpled above hisbroadforehead.Hesatheavily,acigarinhislarge,smoothhand,aflushofafter-

dinnercolorinhisface,whichwindandsunandexposuretoallsortsofweatherhadleftfairandclear-skinned.“YouareoffforEnglandonSaturday,Bartley,Mrs.Alexandertellsme.”“Yes, fora fewweeksonly.There’sameetingofBritishengineers,and I’m

doinganotherbridgeinCanada,youknow.”“Oh, every one knows about that.And itwas inCanada that youmet your

wife,wasn’tit?”“Yes,atAllway.Shewasvisitinghergreat-auntthere.Amostremarkableold

lady. I was working with MacKeller then, an old Scotch engineer who hadpickedme up inLondon and takenme back toQuebecwith him.He had thecontractfortheAllwayBridge,butbeforehebeganworkonithefoundoutthathewasgoing todie,andheadvised thecommittee to turn the jobover tome.Otherwise I’d never have got anything good so early. MacKeller was an oldfriendofMrs.Pemberton,Winifred’saunt.Hehadmentionedmetoher,sowhenIwent toAllway she askedme to come to see her. Shewas awonderful oldlady.”“Likeherniece?”Wilsonqueried.Bartley laughed. “She had been very handsome, but not inWinifred’sway.

WhenIknewhershewaslittleandfragile,verypinkandwhite,withasplendidheadandafacelikefineoldlace,somehow,—butperhapsIalwaysthinkofthatbecausesheworealacescarfonherhair.Shehadsuchaflavoroflifeabouther.ShehadknownGordonandLivingstoneandBeaconsfieldwhenshewasyoung,—everyone.Shewas the firstwomanof that sort I’d everknown.Youknowhow it is in the West,—old people are poked out of the way. Aunt Eleanorfascinatedmeas fewyoungwomenhaveeverdone. Iused togoup from theworks to have tea with her, and sit talking to her for hours. It was verystimulating,forshecouldn’ttoleratestupidity.”“Itmusthavebeenthenthatyourluckbegan,Bartley,”saidWilson,flicking

his cigar ash with his long finger. “It’s curious, watching boys,” he went onreflectively.“I’msureIdidyoujusticeinthematterofability.YetIalwaysusedtofeelthattherewasaweakspotwheresomedaystrainwouldtell.Evenafteryoubegantoclimb,Istooddowninthecrowdandwatchedyouwith—well,notwith confidence. The more dazzling the front you presented, the higher yourfacade rose, the more I expected to see a big crack zigzagging from top tobottom,”—he indicated itscourse in theairwithhis forefinger,—“thenacrashandcloudsofdust.Itwascurious.Ihadsuchaclearpictureofit.Andanothercuriousthing,Bartley,”Wilsonspokewithdeliberatenessandsettleddeeperinto

hischair,“isthatIdon’tfeelitanylonger.Iamsureofyou.”Alexander laughed. “Nonsense! It’s not I you feel sure of; it’s Winifred.

Peopleoftenmakethatmistake.”“No, I’m serious, Alexander. You’ve changed. You have decided to leave

somebirdsinthebushes.Youusedtowantthemall.”Alexander’schaircreaked.“Istillwantagoodmany,”hesaidrathergloomily.

“After all, life doesn’t offer a man much. You work like the devil and thinkyou’re getting on, and suddenly you discover that you’ve only been gettingyourselftiedup.Amilliondetailsdrinkyoudry.Yourlifekeepsgoingforthingsyoudon’twant,andallthewhileyouarebeingbuiltaliveintoasocialstructureyoudon’tcarearapabout.IsometimeswonderwhatsortofchapI’dhavebeenif I hadn’t been this sort; I want to go and live out his potentialities, too. Ihaven’tforgottenthattherearebirdsinthebushes.”Bartleystoppedandsatfrowningintothefire,hisshouldersthrustforwardas

if hewere about to spring at something.Wilsonwatchedhim,wondering.Hisold pupil always stimulated him at first, and then vastly wearied him. Themachinery was always pounding away in this man, and Wilson preferredcompanionsof amore reflectivehabitofmind.Hecouldnothelp feeling thattherewereunreasoningandunreasonableactivitiesgoingoninAlexanderallthewhile; that even after dinner,whenmostmen achieve a decent impersonality,Bartley had merely closed the door of the engine-room and come up for anairing.Themachineryitselfwasstillpoundingon.Bartley’sabstractionandWilson’sreflectionswerecutshortbyarustleatthe

door, and almost before they could rise Mrs. Alexander was standing by thehearth.Alexanderbroughtachairforher,butsheshookherhead.“No,dear,thankyou.IonlycameintoseewhetheryouandProfessorWilson

werequitecomfortable.Iamgoingdowntothemusic-room.”“Whynotpracticehere?WilsonandIaregrowingverydull.Wearetiredof

talk.”“Yes,Ibegyou,Mrs.Alexander,”Wilsonbegan,buthegotnofurther.“Why, certainly, if you won’t find me too noisy. I am working on the

Schumann`Carnival,’and,thoughIdon’tpracticeagreatmanyhours,Iamverymethodical,”Mrs.Alexanderexplained,asshecrossedtoanuprightpianothatstoodatthebackoftheroom,nearthewindows.Wilsonfollowed,and,havingseenherseated,droppedintoachairbehindher.

Sheplayedbrilliantlyandwithgreatmusicalfeeling.Wilsoncouldnotimagine

herpermittingherselftodoanythingbadly,buthewassurprisedatthecleannessofherexecution.Hewonderedhowawomanwithsomanydutieshadmanagedtokeepherselfuptoastandardreallyprofessional.Itmusttakeagreatdealoftime,certainly,andBartleymusttakeagreatdealoftime.Wilsonreflectedthathehadneverbeforeknownawomanwhohadbeenable, foranyconsiderablewhile,tosupportbothapersonalandanintellectualpassion.Sittingbehindher,hewatchedherwithperplexedadmiration,shadinghiseyeswithhishand.Inherdinner dress she looked even younger than in street clothes, and, for all hercomposureandself-sufficiency,sheseemedtohimstrangelyalertandvibrating,as if inher, too, therewere somethingnever altogether at rest.He felt that heknewprettymuchwhatshedemandedinpeopleandwhatshedemandedfromlife,andhewonderedhowshesquaredBartley.Aftertenyearsshemustknowhim; andhowever one tookhim, howevermuchone admiredhim, onehad toadmit that he simply wouldn’t square. He was a natural force, certainly, butbeyond that,Wilsonfelt,hewasnotanythingvery reallyor forvery longatatime.Wilsonglancedtowardthefire,whereBartley’sprofilewasstillwreathedin

cigarsmokethatcurledupmoreandmoreslowly.Hisshouldersweresunkdeepinthecushionsandonehandhunglargeandpassiveoverthearmofhischair.Hehadslippedonapurplevelvetsmoking-coat.Hiswife,Wilsonsurmised,hadchosenit.Shewasclearlyveryproudofhisgoodlooksandhisfinecolor.But,withtheglowofanimmediateinterestgoneoutofit,theengineer’sfacelookedtired, even a little haggard.The three lines in his forehead, directly above thenose, deepened as he sat thinking, and his powerful head drooped forwardheavily.AlthoughAlexanderwasonlyforty-three,Wilsonthoughtthatbeneathhisvigorouscolorhedetectedthedullingwearinessofon-comingmiddleage.Thenextafternoon,atthehourwhentheriverwasbeginningtoreddenunder

thedecliningsun,WilsonagainfoundhimselffacingMrs.Alexanderatthetea-tableinthelibrary.“Well,” he remarked, when he was bidden to give an account of himself,

“therewasalongmorningwiththepsychologists,luncheonwithBartleyathisclub,more psychologists, and here I am. I’ve looked forward to this hour allday.”Mrs.Alexandersmiledathimacrossthevaporfromthekettle.“Anddoyou

rememberwherewestoppedyesterday?”“Perfectly. I was going to show you a picture. But I doubt whether I have

colorenoughinme.Bartleymakesmefeelafadedmonochrome.Youcan’tgetattheyoungBartleyexceptbymeansofcolor.”Wilsonpausedanddeliberated.

Suddenlyhebrokeout:“Hewasn’taremarkablestudent,youknow,thoughhewasalwaysstronginhighermathematics.Hisworkinmyowndepartmentwasquite ordinary. It was as a powerfully equipped nature that I found himinteresting. That is the most interesting thing a teacher can find. It has thefascination of a scientific discovery. We come across other pleasing andendearingqualitiessomuchoftenerthanwefindforce.”“And,afterall,”saidMrs.Alexander,“thatisthethingweallliveupon.Itis

thethingthattakesusforward.”Wilsonthoughtshespokealittlewistfully.“Exactly,”heassentedwarmly.“It

buildsthebridgesintothefuture,overwhichthefeetofeveryoneofuswillgo.”“HowinterestedIamtohearyouputitinthatway.Thebridgesintothefuture

—Ioftensaythattomyself.Bartley’sbridgesalwaysseemtomelikethat.HaveyoueverseenhisfirstsuspensionbridgeinCanada,theonehewasdoingwhenIfirstknewhim?Ihopeyouwillseeitsometime.Weweremarriedassoonasitwasfinished,andyouwilllaughwhenItellyouthatitalwayshasaratherbridallook tome. It is over thewildest river,withmists and clouds always battlingabout it, and it is as delicate as a cobweb hanging in the sky. It reallywas abridge into the future. You have only to look at it to feel that it meant thebeginning of a great career. But I have a photograph of it here.” She drew aportfoliofrombehindabookcase.“Andthere,yousee,onthehill,ismyaunt’shouse.”Wilsontookupthephotograph.“Bartleywastellingmesomethingaboutyour

auntlastnight.Shemusthavebeenadelightfulperson.”Winifredlaughed.“Thebridge,yousee,wasjustatthefootofthehill,andthe

noiseof theenginesannoyedherverymuchat first.ButaftershemetBartleyshepretendedtolikeit,andsaiditwasagoodthingtoberemindedthat therewere thingsgoingon in theworld.She loved life,andBartleybroughtagreatdealofitintoherwhenhecametothehouse.AuntEleanorwasveryworldlyina frank, Early-Victorianmanner. She likedmen of action, and disliked youngmen who were careful of themselves and who, as she put it, were alwaystrimming theirwickas if theywereafraidof theiroil’sgivingout.MacKeller,Bartley’sfirstchief,wasanoldfriendofmyaunt,andhetoldher thatBartleywasawild,ill-governedyouth,whichreallypleasedherverymuch.IrememberweweresittingaloneintheduskafterBartleyhadbeenthereforthefirsttime.Iknew thatAuntEleanor had foundhimmuch to her taste, but shehadn’t saidanything.Presentlyshecameout,withachuckle:`MacKellerfoundhimsowingwildoatsinLondon,Ibelieve.Ihopehedidn’tstophimtoosoon.Lifecoquetswithdashingfellows.Thecomingmenarealwayslikethat.Wemusthavehim

todinner,mydear.’Andwedid.ShegrewmuchfonderofBartleythanshewasof me. I had been studying in Vienna, and she thought that absurd. She wasinterestedinthearmyandinpolitics,andshehadagreatcontemptformusicandartandphilosophy.SheusedtodeclarethatthePrinceConsorthadbroughtallthat stuff over out ofGermany. She always sniffedwhenBartley askedme toplayforhim.Sheconsideredthatanewfangledwayofmakingamatchofit.”WhenAlexandercameinafewmomentslater,hefoundWilsonandhiswife

still confronting the photograph. “Oh, let us get that out of theway,” he said,laughing.“Winifred,Thomascanbringmytrunkdown.I’vedecidedtogoovertoNewYorkto-morrownightandtakeafastboat.Ishallsavetwodays.”

CHAPTERII

On the night of his arrival in London, Alexander went immediately to thehotelontheEmbankmentatwhichhealwaysstopped,andinthelobbyhewasaccosted by an old acquaintance, MauriceMainhall, who fell upon him witheffusive cordiality and indicated awillingness todinewithhim.Bartleyneverdined alone if he could help it, andMainhall was a good gossipwho alwaysknewwhathadbeengoingonintown;especially,hekneweverythingthatwasnot printed in the newspapers. The nephew of one of the standard Victoriannovelists,MainhallbobbedaboutamongthevariousliterarycliquesofLondonanditsoutlyingsuburbs,carefultolosetouchwithnoneofthem.Hehadwrittenanumberofbookshimself;amongthema“HistoryofDancing,”a“HistoryofCostume,”a“KeytoShakespeare’sSonnets,”astudyof“ThePoetryofErnestDowson,”etc.AlthoughMainhall’senthusiasmwasoftentiresome,andalthoughhe was often unable to distinguish between facts and vivid figments of hisimagination,hisimperturbablegoodnatureovercameeventhepeoplewhomheboredmost,sothattheyendedbybecoming,inareluctantmanner,hisfriends.In appearance, Mainhall was astonishingly like the conventional stage-EnglishmanofAmericandrama:tallandthin,withhigh,hitchingshouldersanda small head glistening with closely brushed yellow hair. He spoke with anextremeOxfordaccent,andwhenhewastalkingwell,hisfacesometimesworetheraptexpressionofaveryemotionalman listening tomusic.Mainhall likedAlexander because he was an engineer. He had preconceived ideas abouteverything,andhis ideaaboutAmericanswasthat theyshouldbeengineersormechanics.Hehatedthemwhentheypresumedtobeanythingelse.WhiletheysatatdinnerMainhallacquaintedBartleywiththefortunesofhis

oldfriendsinLondon,andastheyleftthetableheproposedthattheyshouldgotoseeHughMacConnell’snewcomedy,“BogLights.”“It’sreallyquitethebestthingMacConnell’sdone,”heexplainedastheygot

intoahansom.“It’s tremendouslywellputon, too.FlorenceMerrill andCyrilHenderson. But Hilda Burgoyne’s the hit of the piece. Hugh’s written adelightfulpartforher,andshe’squiteinexpressible.It’sbeenononlytwoweeks,andI’vebeenhalfadozentimesalready.IhappentohaveMacConnell’sboxfortonight or there’d be no chance of our getting places. There’s everything inseeingHildawhileshe’sfreshinapart.She’sapttogrowabitstaleafteratime.

Theoneswhohaveanyimaginationdo.”“HildaBurgoyne!”Alexanderexclaimedmildly.“Why,Ihaven’theardofher

for—years.”Mainhall laughed. “Then you can’t have heard much at all, my dear

Alexander. It’sonly lately, sinceMacConnell andhis sethavegotholdofher,thatshe’scomeup.Myself,Ialwaysknewshehaditinher.Ifwehadonerealcritic in London—but what can one expect? Do you know, Alexander,”—Mainhall lookedwithperplexityup into the topof thehansomand rubbedhispinkcheekwithhisglovedfinger,—“doyouknow,Isometimesthinkoftakingtocriticismseriouslymyself.Inaway,itwouldbeasacrifice;but,dearme,wedoneedsomeone.”JustthentheydroveuptotheDukeofYork’s,soAlexanderdidnotcommit

himself,butfollowedMainhallintothetheatre.Whentheyenteredthestage-boxontheleftthefirstactwaswellunderway,thescenebeingtheinteriorofacabininthesouthofIreland.Astheysatdown,aburstofapplausedrewAlexander’sattentiontothestage.MissBurgoyneandherdonkeywerethrustingtheirheadsin at the half door. “After all,” he reflected, “there’s small probability of herrecognizing me. She doubtless hasn’t thought of me for years.” He felt theenthusiasmofthehouseatonce,andinafewmomentshewascaughtupbythecurrent of MacConnell’s irresistible comedy. The audience had comeforewarned,evidently,andwhenever theraggedslipofadonkey-girl ranuponthestagetherewasadeepmurmurofapprobation,everyonesmiledandglowed,andMainhallhitchedhisheavychairalittlenearerthebrassrailing.“Yousee,”hemurmuredinAlexander’sear,asthecurtainfellonthefirstact,

“onealmostneverseesapartlikethatdonewithoutsmartnessormawkishness.Of course, Hilda is Irish,—the Burgoynes have been stage people forgenerations,—andshehas theIrishvoice. It’sdelightful tohear it inaLondontheatre.Thatlaugh,now,whenshedoublesoveratthehips—whoeverhearditoutofGalway?Shesavesherhand,too.She’satherbestinthesecondact.She’sreallyMacConnell’spoeticmotif,yousee;makesthewholethingafairytale.”The second act opened before PhillyDoyle’s underground still,with Peggy

andherbattereddonkeycomein tosmugglea loadofpotheenacross thebog,and tobringPhillywordofwhatwasdoing in theworldwithout,andofwhatwas happening along the roadsides and ditches with the first gleam of fineweather.Alexander,annoyedbyMainhall’ssighsandexclamations,watchedherwithkeen,half-skepticalinterest.AsMainhallhadsaid,shewasthesecondact;theplotandfeelingalikedependeduponher lightnessoffoot,her lightnessoftouch, upon the shrewdness and deft fancifulness that played alternately, and

sometimes together, inhermirthfulbrowneyes.Whenshebegan todance,bywayofshowingthegossoonswhatshehadseeninthefairyringsatnight, thehouse broke into a prolonged uproar. After her dance she withdrew from thedialogueand retreated to theditchwallbackofPhilly’sburrow,whereshesatsinging “TheRising of theMoon” andmaking awreath of primroses for herdonkey.WhentheactwasoverAlexanderandMainhallstrolledoutintothecorridor.

Theymetagoodmanyacquaintances;Mainhall,indeed,knewalmosteveryone,and he babbled on incontinently, screwing his small head about over his highcollar.Presentlyhehailedatall,beardedman,grim-browedandratherbattered-looking,whohadhisoperacloakonhisarmandhishat inhishand,andwhoseemedtobeonthepointofleavingthetheatre.“MacConnell, let me introduce Mr. Bartley Alexander. I say! It’s going

famously to-night,Mac.Andwhat an audience!You’ll neverdo anything likethisagain,markme.Amanwritestothetopofhisbentonlyonce.”TheplaywrightgaveMainhall acurious lookoutofhisdeep-set fadedeyes

and made a wry face. “And have I done anything so fool as that, now?” heasked.“That’swhatIwassaying,”Mainhallloungedalittleneareranddroppedinto

atoneevenmoreconspicuouslyconfidential.“Andyou’llneverbringHildaoutlikethisagain.Dearme,Mac,thegirlcouldn’tpossiblybebetter,youknow.”MacConnellgrunted.“She’lldowellenoughifshekeepsherpaceanddoesn’t

gooffonusinthemiddleoftheseason,asshe’smorethanliketodo.”Henoddedcurtlyandmadeforthedoor,dodgingacquaintancesashewent.“Poor old Hugh,” Mainhall murmured. “He’s hit terribly hard. He’s been

wanting tomarryHilda these three years andmore. She doesn’t take upwithanybody,youknow. IreneBurgoyne, oneofher family, toldme in confidencethat there was a romance somewhere back in the beginning. One of yourcountrymen, Alexander, by the way; an American student whom she met inParis, Ibelieve. Idaresay it’squite true that there’sneverbeenanyoneelse.”MainhallvouchedforherconstancywithaloftinessthatmadeAlexandersmile,evenwhileakindofrapidexcitementwastinglingthroughhim.Blinkingupatthelights,Mainhalladdedinhisluxurious,worldlyway:“She’sanelegantlittleperson, and quite capable of an extravagant bit of sentiment like that. Herecomes Sir Harry Towne. He’s another who’s awfully keen about her. Let meintroduceyou.SirHarryTowne,Mr.BartleyAlexander,theAmericanengineer.”SirHarryTownebowedandsaidthathehadmetMr.Alexanderandhiswife

inTokyo.Mainhallcutinimpatiently.“Isay,SirHarry,thelittlegirl’sgoingfamouslyto-night,isn’tshe?”SirHarrywrinkledhisbrowsjudiciously.“Doyouknow,Ithoughtthedancea

bitconscious to-night, for thefirst time.Thefact is,she’sfeelingratherseedy,poor child.Westmere and I were back after the first act, andwe thought sheseemedquiteuncertainofherself.Alittleattackofnerves,possibly.”Hebowedasthewarningbellrang,andMainhallwhispered:“YouknowLord

Westmere,ofcourse,—thestoopedmanwiththelonggraymustache,talkingtoLadyDowle.LadyWestmereisveryfondofHilda.”When they reached theirbox thehousewasdarkenedand theorchestrawas

playing“TheCloakofOldGaul.”InamomentPeggywason thestageagain,andAlexanderapplaudedvigorouslywiththerest.Heevenleanedforwardovertherailalittle.Forsomereasonhefeltpleasedandflatteredbytheenthusiasmof the audience. In the half-light he looked about at the stalls and boxes andsmiledalittleconsciously,recallingwithamusementSirHarry’sjudicialfrown.Hewasbeginningtofeelakeeninterestintheslender,barefootdonkey-girlwhoslipped in andoutof theplay, singing, like someonewinding throughahillyfield.HeleanedforwardandbeamedfelicitationsaswarmlyasMainhallhimselfwhen, at the end of the play, she came again and again before the curtain,pantingalittleandflushed,hereyesdancingandhereager,nervouslittlemouthtremulouswithexcitement.WhenAlexanderreturnedtohishotel—heshookMainhallatthedoorofthe

theatre—hehadsomesupperbroughtuptohisroom,anditwaslatebeforehewent to bed.Hehadnot thought ofHildaBurgoyne for years; indeed, he hadalmostforgottenher.HehadlastwrittentoherfromCanada,afterhefirstmetWinifred,tellingherthateverythingwaschangedwithhim—thathehadmetawomanwhomhewouldmarryifhecould;ifhecouldnot,thenallthemorewaseverythingchangedforhim.Hildahadneverrepliedtohisletter.Hefeltguiltyandunhappyaboutherforatime,butafterWinifredpromisedtomarryhimhereallyforgotHildaaltogether.Whenhewroteher thateverythingwaschangedforhim,hewastellingthetruth.AfterhemetWinifredPembertonheseemedtohimself like a different man. One night when he and Winifred were sittingtogether on the bridge, he told her that things had happened while he wasstudyingabroad thathewassorry for,—one thing inparticular,—andheaskedher whether she thought she ought to know about them. She considered amomentandthensaid“No,Ithinknot,thoughIamgladyouaskme.Yousee,

one can’t be jealous about things in general; but about particular, definite,personal things,”—here she had thrown her hands up to his shoulders with aquick, impulsive gesture—“oh, about those I should be very jealous. I shouldtorturemyself—Icouldn’thelp it.”After that itwaseasy to forget,actually toforget.Hewondered to-night, as he poured hiswine, howmany times he hadthoughtofHildainthelasttenyears.HehadbeeninLondonmoreorless,buthehadneverhappenedtohearofher.“Allthesame,”heliftedhisglass,“here’sto you, littleHilda. You’vemade things come yourway, and I never thoughtyou’ddoit.“Of course,” he reflected, “she always had that combination of something

homelyandsensible,andsomethingutterlywildanddaft.But Inever thoughtshe’d do anything. She hadn’t much ambition then, and she was too fond oftrifles. She must care about the theatre a great deal more than she used to.Perhapsshehasmetothankforsomething,afterall.Sometimesalittlejoltlikethatdoesonegood.Shewasadaft,generouslittlething.I’mgladshe’sheldherown since. After all, we were awfully young. It was youth and poverty andproximity,andeverythingwasyoungandkindly.Ishouldn’twonderifshecouldlaughaboutitwithmenow.Ishouldn’twonder—Butthey’veprobablyspoiledher,sothatshe’dbetiresomeifonemetheragain.”Bartleysmiledandyawnedandwenttobed.

CHAPTERIII

ThenexteveningAlexanderdinedaloneataclub,andataboutnineo’clockhe dropped in at the Duke of York’s. The house was sold out and he stoodthrough the second act. When he returned to his hotel he examined the newdirectory,andfoundMissBurgoyne’saddressstillgivenasoffBedfordSquare,thoughatanewnumber.Herememberedthat,insofarasshehadbeenbroughtupatall,shehadbeenbroughtupinBloomsbury.Herfatherandmotherplayedintheprovincesmostoftheyear,andshewasleftagreatdealinthecareofanoldauntwhowascrippledby rheumatismandwhohadhad to leave thestagealtogether.InthedayswhenAlexanderknewher,HildaalwaysmanagedtohavealodgingofsomesortaboutBedfordSquare,becausesheclungtenaciouslytosuch scraps and shreds of memories as were connected with it. The mummyroomoftheBritishMuseumhadbeenoneofthechiefdelightsofherchildhood.That forbidding pilewas the goal of her truant fancy, and shewas sometimestakenthereforatreat,asotherchildrenaretakentothetheatre.ItwaslongsinceAlexanderhad thoughtofanyof these things,butnowtheycameback tohimquite fresh,andhadasignificance theydidnothavewhen theywerefirst toldhim in his restless twenties. So she was still in the old neighborhood, nearBedford Square. The new number probably meant increased prosperity. Hehopedso.Hewouldliketoknowthatshewassnuglysettled.Helookedathiswatch. Itwasaquarterpast ten; shewouldnotbehomeforagood twohoursyet,andhemightaswellwalkoverandhavealookattheplace.Herememberedtheshortestway.Itwasawarm,smokyevening,andtherewasagrimymoon.Hewentthrough

CoventGardentoOxfordStreet,andasheturnedintoMuseumStreethewalkedmoreslowly, smilingathisownnervousnessasheapproached thesullengraymass at the end. He had not been inside theMuseum, actually, since he andHilda used to meet there; sometimes to set out for gay adventures atTwickenhamorRichmond,sometimestolingerabouttheplaceforawhileandtoponderbyLordElgin’smarblesuponthelastingnessofsomethings,or,inthemummyroom,upontheawfulbrevityofothers.SincethenBartleyhadalwaysthoughtoftheBritishMuseumastheultimaterepositoryofmortality,whereallthedead things in theworldwere assembled tomakeone’s hour of youth themore precious.One trembled lest before he got out itmight somehow escapehim,lesthemightdroptheglassfromover-eagernessandseeitshiveredonthe

stonefloorathisfeet.Howonehidhisyouthunderhiscoatandhuggedit!Andhowgood itwas to turnone’sbackuponall thatvaultedcold, to takeHilda’sarmandhurryoutofthegreatdooranddownthestepsintothesunlightamongthepigeons—toknow that thewarmandvital thingwithinhimwas still thereandhadnotbeensnatchedawaytoflushCaesar’sleancheekortofeedtheveinsofsomebeardedAssyrianking.Theyintheirdayhadcarriedtheflamingliquor,butto-daywashis!Sothesongusedtoruninhisheadthosesummermorningsadozenyearsago.Alexanderwalkedbytheplaceveryquietly,asifhewereafraidofwakingsomeone.He crossedBedford Square and found the number hewas looking for. The

house,acomfortable,well-keptplaceenough,wasdarkexceptforthefourfrontwindowson the second floor,where a low, even lightwasburningbehind thewhitemuslinsashcurtains.Outsidetherewerewindowboxes,paintedwhiteandfullofflowers.BartleywasmakingathirdroundoftheSquarewhenheheardthefar-flunghoof-beatsofahansom-cabhorse,drivenrapidly.Helookedathiswatch, andwas astonished to find that it was a fewminutes after twelve.Heturned and walked back along the iron railing as the cab came up to Hilda’snumber and stopped. The hansom must have been one that she employedregularly, for she did not stop to pay the driver. She stepped out quickly andlightly.Heheardhercheerful“Good-night,cabby,”assheranupthestepsandopenedthedoorwithalatchkey.Inafewmomentsthelightsflaredupbrightlybehindthewhitecurtains,andashewalkedawayheheardawindowraised.Buthehadgonetoofartolookupwithoutturninground.Hewentbacktohishotel,feelingthathehadhadagoodevening,andhesleptwell.ForthenextfewdaysAlexanderwasverybusy.Hetookadeskintheoffice

of a Scotch engineering firm on Henrietta Street, and was at work almostconstantly. He avoided the clubs and usually dined alone at his hotel. Oneafternoon,afterhehadtea,hestartedforawalkdowntheEmbankmenttowardWestminster, intending to endhis stroll atBedfordSquare and to askwhetherMissBurgoynewouldlethimtakeher to the theatre.Buthedidnotgosofar.WhenhereachedtheAbbey,heturnedbackandcrossedWestminsterBridgeandsatdowntowatchthetrailsofsmokebehindtheHousesofParliamentcatchfirewith thesunset.Theslender towerswerewashedbyarainofgolden lightandlicked by little flickering flames; Somerset House and the bleached graypinnacles aboutWhitehall were floated in a luminous haze. The yellow lightpouredthroughthetreesandtheleavesseemedtoburnwithsoftfires.Therewasasmellofacaciasintheaireverywhere,andthelaburnumsweredrippinggoldover thewallsof thegardens. Itwasa sweet, lonelykindof summerevening.

Remembering Hilda as she used to be, was doubtless more satisfactory thanseeingher as shemustbenow—and, after all,Alexander askedhimself,whatwasitbuthisownyoungyearsthathewasremembering?He crossed back to Westminster, went up to the Temple, and sat down to

smokeintheMiddleTemplegardens,listeningtothethinvoiceofthefountainand smelling the spice of the sycamores that came out heavily in the dampeveningair.Hethought,ashesatthere,aboutagreatmanythings:abouthisownyouthandHilda’s;aboveall,he thoughtofhowglorious ithadbeen,andhowquicklyithadpassed;and,whenithadpassed,howlittleworthwhileanythingwas.Noneofthethingshehadgainedintheleastcompensated.Inthelastsixyearshisreputationhadbecome,asthesayingis,popular.FouryearsagohehadbeencalledtoJapantodeliver,attheEmperor’srequest,acourseoflecturesatthe ImperialUniversity, and had instituted reforms throughout the islands, notonlyinthepracticeofbridge-buildingbutindrainageandroad-making.OnhisreturnhehadundertakenthebridgeatMoorlock,inCanada,themostimportantpieceofbridge-buildinggoingon in theworld,—a test, indeed,ofhowfar thelatest practice in bridge structure could be carried. It was a spectacularundertakingbyreasonofitsverysize,andBartleyrealizedthat,whateverelsehemightdo,hewouldprobablyalwaysbeknownastheengineerwhodesignedthegreatMoorlockBridge,thelongestcantileverinexistence.Yetitwastohimtheleast satisfactory thing he had ever done.Hewas cramped in everyway by aniggardlycommission,andwasusinglighterstructuralmaterialthanhethoughtproper.Hehadvexations enough, too,with hiswork at home.Hehad severalbridgesunderwayintheUnitedStates,andtheywerealwaysbeingheldupbystrikesanddelaysresultingfromageneralindustrialunrest.ThoughAlexander often told himself he had never putmore into his work

thanhehaddoneinthelastfewyears,hehadtoadmitthathehadnevergotsolittleoutofit.Hewaspayingforsuccess,too,inthedemandsmadeonhistimebyboardsofcivicenterpriseandcommitteesofpublicwelfare.Theobligationsimposedbyhiswife’sfortuneandpositionweresometimesdistractingtoamanwho followed his profession, and hewas expected to be interested in a greatmanyworthyendeavorsonheraccountaswellasonhisown.Hisexistencewasbecoming a network of great and little details. He had expected that successwouldbringhimfreedomandpower;butithadbroughtonlypowerthatwasinitselfanotherkindofrestraint.Hehadalwaysmeanttokeephispersonallibertyat all costs, as oldMacKeller, his first chief, haddone, andnot, like somanyAmerican engineers, to become a part of a professionalmovement, a cautiousboardmember, aNestor de pontibus. He happened to be engaged inwork of

publicutility,buthewasnotwillingtobecomewhatiscalledapublicman.Hefoundhimselflivingexactlythekindoflifehehaddeterminedtoescape.What,heaskedhimself,didhewantwiththesegenialhonorsandsubstantialcomforts?Hardships and difficulties he had carried lightly; overwork had not exhaustedhim;but thisdeadcalmofmiddle lifewhichconfrontedhim,—of thathewasafraid.Hewasnot ready for it. Itwas likebeingburiedalive. Inhisyouthhewould not have believed such a thing possible. The one thing he had reallywantedallhislifewastobefree;andtherewasstillsomethingunconqueredinhim, somethingbesides the strongwork-horse thathisprofessionhadmadeofhim.He felt rich to-night in thepossessionof thatunstultified survival; in thelightofhisexperience,itwasmorepreciousthanhonorsorachievement.Inallthosebusy,successfulyearstherehadbeennothingsogoodasthishourofwildlight-heartedness.Thisfeelingwastheonlyhappinessthatwasrealtohim,andsuch hours were the only ones in which he could feel his own continuousidentity—feel theboyhehadbeen in the roughdaysof theoldWest, feel theyouthwho hadworked hisway across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone tostudyinPariswithoutadollarinhispocket.ThemanwhosatinhisofficesinBostonwasonlyapowerfulmachine.Under theactivitiesof thatmachine theperson who, in such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading anddying.Herememberedhow,whenhewasalittleboyandhisfathercalledhiminthemorning,heusedtoleapfromhisbedintothefullconsciousnessofhimself.That consciousnesswasLife itself.Whatever took its place, action, reflection,thepowerofconcentratedthought,wereonlyfunctionsofamechanismusefultosociety;thingsthatcouldbeboughtinthemarket.Therewasonlyonethingthathadanabsolutevalueforeachindividual,anditwasjustthatoriginalimpulse,thatinternalheat,thatfeelingofone’sselfinone’sownbreast.When Alexander walked back to his hotel, the red and green lights were

blinking along the docks on the farther shore, and the soft white stars wereshininginthewideskyabovetheriver.The next night, and the next, Alexander repeated this same foolish

performance.ItwasalwaysMissBurgoynewhomhestartedouttofind,andhegotnofartherthantheTemplegardensandtheEmbankment.Itwasapleasantkindofloneliness.Toamanwhowassolittlegiventoreflection,whosedreamsalways took the form of definite ideas, reaching into the future, there was aseductiveexcitementinrenewingoldexperiencesinimagination.Hestartedoutupon these walks half guiltily, with a curious longing and expectancy whichwerewhollygratifiedby solitude.Solitude,butnot solitariness; forhewalkedshouldertoshoulderwithashadowycompanion—notlittleHildaBurgoyne,by

anymeans,butsomeonevastlydearertohimthanshehadeverbeen—hisownyoung self, the youth who had waited for him upon the steps of the BritishMuseumthatnight,andwho,thoughhehadtriedtopasssoquietly,hadknownhimandcomedownandlinkedanarminhis.ItwasnotuntillongafterwardthatAlexanderlearnedthatforhimthisyouth

wasthemostdangerousofcompanions.One Sunday evening, at LadyWalford’s, Alexander did at last meet Hilda

Burgoyne.Mainhallhad toldhimthatshewouldprobablybe there.He lookedabout for her rather nervously, and finally found her at the farther end of thelarge drawing-room, the centre of a circle of men, young and old. She wasapparentlytellingthemastory.Theywerealllaughingandbendingtowardher.WhenshesawAlexander,sherosequicklyandputoutherhand.Theothermendrewbackalittletolethimapproach.“Mr.Alexander!Iamdelighted.HaveyoubeeninLondonlong?”Bartleybowed,somewhat laboriously,overherhand.“Longenoughtohave

seenyoumorethanonce.Howfineitallis!”She laughedas if shewerepleased. “I’mgladyou think so. I like it.Won’t

youjoinushere?”“MissBurgoynewasjusttellingusaboutadonkey-boyshehadinGalwaylast

summer,” Sir Harry Towne explained as the circle closed up again. LordWestmerestrokedhislongwhitemustachewithhisbloodlesshandandlookedatAlexanderblankly.Hildawasagoodstory-teller.Shewassittingontheedgeofher chair, as if she had alighted there for amoment only. Her primrose satingown seemed like a soft sheath for her slender, supple figure, and its delicatecolorsuitedherwhiteIrishskinandbrownhair.Whatevershewore,peoplefeltthe charm of her active, girlish body with its slender hips and quick, eagershoulders.Alexanderheardlittleofthestory,buthewatchedHildaintently.Shemustcertainly,hereflected,bethirty,andhewashonestlydelightedtoseethattheyearshadtreatedhersoindulgently.Ifherfacehadchangedatall,itwasinaslight hardening of themouth—still eager enough to be very disconcerting attimes, he felt—and in an added air of self-possession and self-reliance. Shecarriedherhead,too,alittlemoreresolutely.When thestorywasfinished,MissBurgoyne turnedpointedly toAlexander,

andtheothermendriftedaway.“I thoughtIsawyouinMacConnell’sboxwithMainhalloneevening,but I

supposedyouhadlefttownbeforethis.”She lookedathimfranklyandcordially,as ifhewere indeedmerelyanold

friendwhomshewasgladtomeetagain.“No,I’vebeenmooningabouthere.”Hildalaughedgayly.“Mooning!Iseeyoumooning!Youmustbethebusiest

manintheworld.Timeandsuccesshavedonewellbyyou,youknow.You’rehandsomerthaneverandyou’vegainedagrandmanner.”Alexanderblushedandbowed.“Timeandsuccesshavebeengoodfriendsto

bothofus.Aren’tyoutremendouslypleasedwithyourself?”Shelaughedagainandshruggedhershoulders.“Oh,so-so.ButIwanttohear

aboutyou.SeveralyearsagoIreadsuchalotinthepapersaboutthewonderfulthings you did in Japan, and how the Emperor decorated you. What was it,Commander of theOrder of theRising Sun? That sounds like `TheMikado.’Andwhataboutyournewbridge—inCanada,isn’tit,andit’stobethelongestoneintheworldandhassomequeernameIcan’tremember.”Bartley shook his head and smiled drolly. “Since when have you been

interestedinbridges?Orhaveyoulearnedtobeinterestedineverything?Andisthatapartofsuccess?”“Why,howabsurd!AsifIwerenotalwaysinterested!”Hildaexclaimed.“Well,I thinkwewon’t talkaboutbridgeshere,atanyrate.”Bartleylooked

down at the toe of her yellow slipper which was tapping the rug impatientlyunderthehemofhergown.“ButIwonderwhetheryou’dthinkmeimpertinentifIaskedyoutoletmecometoseeyousometimeandtellyouaboutthem?”“WhyshouldI?EversomanypeoplecomeonSundayafternoons.”“Iknow.Mainhalloffered to takeme.Butyoumustknow that I’vebeen in

Londonseveral timeswithin the last fewyears,andyoumightverywell thinkthatjustnowisaratherinopportunetime—”Shecuthimshort.“Nonsense.Oneofthepleasantestthingsaboutsuccessis

thatitmakespeoplewanttolookoneup,ifthat’swhatyoumean.I’mlikeeveryone else—more agreeable tomeetwhen things are goingwellwithme.Don’tyousupposeitgivesmeanypleasuretodosomethingthatpeoplelike?”“Does it?Oh,howfine itall is,yourcomingon like this!ButIdidn’twant

youtothinkitwasbecauseofthatIwantedtoseeyou.”Hespokeveryseriouslyandlookeddownatthefloor.Hilda studiedhim inwide-eyedastonishment for amoment, and thenbroke

intoalow,amusedlaugh.“MydearMr.Alexander,youhavestrangedelicacies.Ifyouplease,thatisexactlywhyyouwishtoseeme.Weunderstandthat,dowenot?”

Bartley looked ruffled and turned the seal ring on his little finger aboutawkwardly.Hilda leanedback inher chair,watchinghim indulgentlyoutofher shrewd

eyes.“Come,don’tbeangry,butdon’ttrytoposeforme,ortobeanythingbutwhat you are. If you care to come, it’s yourself I’ll be glad to see, and youthinking well of yourself. Don’t try to wear a cloak of humility; it doesn’tbecomeyou.Stalkinasyouareanddon’tmakeexcuses.I’mnotaccustomedtoinquiring into themotives ofmy guests. Thatwould hardly be safe, even forLadyWalford,inagreathouselikethis.”“Sunday afternoon, then,” said Alexander, as she rose to join her hostess.

“HowearlymayIcome?”Shegavehimherhandandflushedandlaughed.Hebentoveritalittlestiffly.

Shewent away onLadyWalford’s arm, and as he stoodwatching her yellowtrainglidedownthe longfloorhe lookedrathersullen.Hefelt thathehadnotcomeoutofitverybrilliantly.

CHAPTERIV

OnSundayafternoonAlexanderrememberedMissBurgoyne’sinvitationandcalledatherapartment.Hefounditadelightfullittleplaceandhemetcharmingpeoplethere.Hildalivedalone,attendedbyaveryprettyandcompetentFrenchservantwhoansweredthedoorandbroughtinthetea.Alexanderarrivedearly,and some twenty-odd people dropped in during the course of the afternoon.HughMacConnellcamewithhissister,andstoodabout,managinghis tea-cupawkwardlyandwatchingeveryoneoutofhisdeep-set,fadedeyes.Heseemedtohavemadearesoluteeffortattidinessofattire,andhissister,arobust,floridwoman with a splendid joviality about her, kept eyeing his freshly creasedclothesapprehensively.Itwasnotverylong,indeed,beforehiscoathungwithadiscouragedsagfromhisgauntshouldersandhishairandbeardwererumpledas if he hadbeenout in a gale.His dry humorwent under a cloudof absent-minded kindliness which, Mainhall explained, always overtook him here. Hewas never so witty or so sharp here as elsewhere, and Alexander thought hebehavedasifhewereanelderlyrelativecomeintoayounggirl’sparty.The editor of amonthly review camewith hiswife, and LadyKildare, the

Irishphilanthropist,broughtheryoungnephew,RobertOwen,whohadcomeupfromOxford,andwhowasvisiblyexcitedandgratifiedbyhisfirstintroductiontoMissBurgoyne.Hildawas very nice to him, and he sat on the edge of hischair, flushed with his conversational efforts and moving his chin aboutnervouslyoverhishighcollar.SarahFrost,thenovelist,camewithherhusband,averygenialandplacidoldscholarwhohadbecomeslightlyderangeduponthesubjectofthefourthdimension.Onothermattershewasperfectlyrationalandhewas easy andpleasing in conversation.He lookedverymuch likeAgassiz,andhiswife,inherold-fashionedblacksilkdress,overskirtedandtight-sleeved,reminded Alexander of the early pictures of Mrs. Browning. Hilda seemedparticularlyfondofthisquaintcouple,andBartleyhimselfwassopleasedwiththeirmild and thoughtful converse that he took his leavewhen they did, andwalkedwiththemovertoOxfordStreet,wheretheywaitedfortheir‘bus.Theyasked him to come to see them in Chelsea, and they spoke very tenderly ofHilda. “She’s a dear, unworldly little thing,” said the philosopher absently;“morelikethestagepeopleofmyyoungdays—folkofsimplemanners.Therearen’tmanysuchleft.Americantourshavespoiledthem,I’mafraid.Theyhaveallgrownvery smart.Lambwouldn’t care agreatdeal aboutmanyof them, I

fancy.”AlexanderwentbacktoBedfordSquareasecondSundayafternoon.Hehada

longtalkwithMacConnell,buthegotnowordwithHildaalone,andheleftinadiscontented state of mind. For the rest of the week he was nervous andunsettled, and kept rushing his work as if he were preparing for immediatedeparture.OnThursdayafternoonhecutshortacommitteemeeting,jumpedintoahansom,anddrovetoBedfordSquare.Hesentuphiscard,butitcamebacktohimwithamessagescribbledacrossthefront.SosorryIcan’tseeyou.Willyoucomeand

dinewithmeSundayeveningathalf-pastseven?

H.B.

WhenBartleyarrivedatBedfordSquareonSundayevening,Marie,theprettylittle French girl,met him at the door and conducted him upstairs.Hildawaswriting in her living-room, under the light of a tall desk lamp. Bartleyrecognized the primrose satin gown she had worn that first evening at LadyWalford’s.“I’m so pleased that you thinkmeworth that yellow dress, you know,” he

said, taking her hand and looking her over admiringly from the toes of hercanary slippers to her smoothlypartedbrownhair. “Yes, it’s very, verypretty.EveryoneatLadyWalford’swaslookingatit.”Hildacurtsied.“Isthatwhyyouthinkitpretty?I’venoneedforfineclothesin

Mac’splaythistime,soIcanaffordafewduddiesformyself.It’sowingtothatsamechance,bytheway,thatIamabletoaskyoutodinner.Idon’tneedMarietodressmethisseason,soshekeepshouseforme,andmylittleGalwaygirlhasgonehomeforavisit.IshouldneverhaveaskedyouifMollyhadbeenhere,forIrememberyoudon’tlikeEnglishcookery.”Alexanderwalkedabouttheroom,lookingateverything.“Ihaven’thadachanceyettotellyouwhatajollylittleplaceIthinkthisis.

Wheredidyougetthoseetchings?They’requiteunusual,aren’tthey?”“Lady Westmere sent them to me from Rome last Christmas. She is very

muchinterestedintheAmericanartistwhodidthem.TheyareallsketchesmadeabouttheVillad’Este,yousee.HepaintedthatgroupofcypressesfortheSalon,anditwasboughtfortheLuxembourg.”Alexanderwalkedovertothebookcases.“It’stheairofthewholeplacehere

thatI like.Youhaven’tgotanythingthatdoesn’tbelong.Seemstomeit looksparticularly well to-night. And you have so many flowers. I like these littleyellowirises.”

“Roomsalwayslookbetterbylamplight—inLondon,atleast.ThoughMarieis clean—really clean, as the French are.Why do you look at the flowers socritically? Marie got them all fresh in Covent Garden market yesterdaymorning.”“I’mglad,”saidAlexandersimply.“Ican’ttellyouhowgladIamtohaveyou

sopretty and comfortablehere, and tohear everyone saying suchnice thingsaboutyou.You’vegotawfullynicefriends,”headdedhumbly,pickingupalittlejadeelephant fromherdesk.“Those fellowsareallvery loyal, evenMainhall.Theydon’ttalkofanyoneelseastheydoofyou.”Hildasatdownonthecouchandsaidseriously:“I’veaneatlittlesuminthe

bank,too,now,andIownamiteofahutinGalway.It’snotworthmuch,butIlove it. I’vemanaged to save something everyyear, and thatwithhelpingmythreesistersnowandthen,andtidingpoorCousinMikeoverbadseasons.He’sthatgifted,youknow,buthewilldrinkandlosesmoregoodengagementsthanotherfellowseverget.AndI’vetraveledabit,too.”Marieopenedthedoorandsmilinglyannouncedthatdinnerwasserved.“Mydining-room,”Hildaexplained,asshe led theway,“is the tiniestplace

youhaveeverseen.”Itwasatinyroom,hungallroundwithFrenchprints,abovewhichranashelf

fullofchina.HildasawAlexanderlookupatit.“It’snotparticularlyrare,”shesaid,“butsomeofitwasmymother’s.Heaven

knows how shemanaged to keep it whole, through all our wanderings, or inwhat baskets and bundles and theatre trunks it hasn’t been stowed away.WealwayshadourteaoutofthosebluecupswhenIwasalittlegirl,sometimesinthequeerest lodgings,andsometimesonatrunkatthetheatre—queertheatres,forthatmatter.”Itwasawonderful littledinner.Therewaswatercress soup, and sole, anda

delightful omelette stuffed with mushrooms and truffles, and two small rareducklings, andartichokes, andadryyellowRhonewineofwhichBartleyhadalwaysbeenveryfond.Hedrankitappreciativelyandremarkedthat therewasstillnootherhelikedsowell.“Ihavesomechampagneforyou,too.Idon’tdrinkitmyself,butIliketosee

itbehavewhenit’spoured.Thereisnothingelsethatlookssojolly.”“Thankyou.ButIdon’tlikeitsowellasthis.”Bartleyheldtheyellowwine

against the lightandsquinted into itashe turned theglassslowlyabout.“Youhavetraveled,yousay.HaveyoubeeninParismuchtheselateyears?”

Hildaloweredoneofthecandle-shadescarefully.“Oh,yes,IgoovertoParisoften.TherearefewchangesintheoldQuarter.DearoldMadameAngerisdead—butperhapsyoudon’trememberher?”“Don’t I, though! I’m so sorry to hear it. How did her son turn out? I

rememberhowshesavedandscrapedforhim,andhowhealwayslayabedtillteno’clock.HewasthelaziestfellowattheBeauxArts;andthat’ssayingagooddeal.”“Well,heisstillcleverandlazy.Theysayheisagoodarchitectwhenhewill

work.He’sabig,handsomecreature,andhehatesAmericansasmuchasever.ButAngel—doyourememberAngel?”“Perfectly.DidsheevergetbacktoBrittanyandherbainsdemer?”“Ah, no. PoorAngel! She got tired of cooking and scouring the coppers in

MadameAnger’s little kitchen, so she ran awaywith a soldier, and thenwithanothersoldier.Toobad!Shestill livesabout theQuarter,and, thoughthere isalways a soldat, she has become a blanchisseuse de fin. She did my blousesbeautifullythelasttimeIwasthere,andwassodelightedtoseemeagain.Igaveherallmyoldclothes, evenmyoldhats, thoughshealwayswearsherBretonheaddress.Herhairisstilllikeflax,andherblueeyesarejustlikeababy’s,andshehasthesamethreefrecklesonherlittlenose,andtalksaboutgoingbacktoherbainsdemer.”BartleylookedatHildaacrosstheyellowlightofthecandlesandbrokeintoa

low,happylaugh.“Howjollyitwasbeingyoung,Hilda!DoyourememberthatfirstwalkwetooktogetherinParis?WewalkeddowntothePlaceSaint-Micheltobuysomelilacs.Doyourememberhowsweettheysmelled?”“Indeed I do. Come,we’ll have our coffee in the other room, and you can

smoke.”Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished to change the drift of their talk, but

Bartleyfounditpleasanttocontinueit.“Whatawarm,softspringeveningthatwas,”hewenton,astheysatdownin

thestudywiththecoffeeonalittle tablebetweenthem;“andthesky,over thebridges,wasjustthecolorofthelilacs.Wewalkedondownbytheriver,didn’twe?”Hilda laughedand lookedathimquestioningly.Hesawagleaminhereyes

thatherememberedevenbetterthantheepisodehewasrecalling.“I thinkwe did,” she answered demurely. “Itwas on theQuaiwemet that

womanwhowascryingsobitterly.Igaveherasprayoflilac,Iremember,and

yougaveherafranc.Iwasfrightenedatyourprodigality.”“Iexpect itwas the last francIhad.Whatastrongbrownfaceshehad,and

verytragic.Shelookedatuswithsuchdespairandlonging,outfromunderherblackshawl.Whatshewantedfromuswasneitherourflowersnorourfrancs,butjustouryouth.Irememberittouchedmeso.Iwouldhavegivenhersomeofmineoffmyback, if Icould. Ihadenoughand tospare then,”Bartleymused,andlookedthoughtfullyathiscigar.Theywere both rememberingwhat thewoman had saidwhen she took the

money:“Godgiveyouahappylove!”Itwasnotintheingratiatingtoneofthehabitual beggar: it had come out of the depths of the poor creature’s sorrow,vibratingwithpityfortheiryouthanddespairattheterriblenessofhumanlife;ithadtheanguishofavoiceofprophecy.Untilshespoke,Bartleyhadnotrealizedthathewas in love.Thestrangewoman,andherpassionatesentence that rangoutsosharply,hadfrightenedthemboth.Theywenthomesadlywiththelilacs,back to the Rue Saint-Jacques, walking very slowly, arm in arm.When theyreached thehousewhereHilda lodged,Bartleywentacross thecourtwithher,andupthedarkoldstairstothethirdlanding;andtherehehadkissedherforthefirsttime.Hehadshuthiseyestogivehimthecourage,heremembered,andshehadtrembledso—BartleystartedwhenHildarangthelittlebellbesideher.“Dearme,whydid

you do that? I had quite forgotten—I was back there. It was very jolly,” hemurmuredlazily,asMariecameintotakeawaythecoffee.Hildalaughedandwentovertothepiano.“Well,weareneitherofustwenty

now,youknow.HaveItoldyouaboutmynewplay?Maciswritingone;reallyformethistime.Yousee,I’mcomingon.”“I’ve seen nothing else. What kind of a part is it? Shall you wear yellow

gowns?Ihopeso.”Hewaslookingatherroundslenderfigure,asshestoodbythepiano,turning

overapileofmusic,andhefelttheenergyineverylineofit.“No,itisn’tadress-uppart.Hedoesn’tseemtofancymeinfinefeathers.He

says I ought to beminding the pigs at home, and I suppose I ought.But he’sgivenmesomegoodIrishsongs.Listen.”She sat down at the piano and sang.When she finished, Alexander shook

himselfoutofareverie.“Sing`TheHarpThatOnce,’Hilda.Youusedtosingitsowell.”“Nonsense. Of course I can’t really sing, except the way my mother and

grandmotherdidbeforeme.Mostactressesnowadayslearntosingproperly,soItriedamaster;butheconfusedme,just!”Alexanderlaughed.“Allthesame,singit,Hilda.”Hildastartedupfromthestoolandmovedrestlesslytowardthewindow.“It’s

reallytoowarminthisroomtosing.Don’tyoufeelit?”Alexanderwentoverandopenedthewindowforher.“Aren’tyouafraidtolet

thewindlowlikethatonyourneck?Can’tIgetascarforsomething?”“Askatheatreladyifshe’safraidofdrafts!”Hildalaughed.“Butperhaps,as

I’msowarm—givemeyourhandkerchief.There,justinfront.”Heslippedthecornerscarefullyunderhershoulder-straps.“There, thatwilldo.It lookslikeabib.”Shepushedhishandawayquicklyandstoodlookingoutintothedesertedsquare.“Isn’tLondonatombonSundaynight?”Alexandercaughttheagitationinhervoice.Hestoodalittlebehindher,and

triedtosteadyhimselfashesaid:“It’ssoftandmisty.Seehowwhite thestarsare.”For a long timeneitherHildanorBartley spoke.They stood close together,

lookingoutintothewan,waterysky,breathingalwaysmorequicklyandlightly,anditseemedasifalltheclocksintheworldhadstopped.Suddenlyhemovedtheclenchedhandheheldbehindhimanddroppeditviolentlyathisside.Hefeltatremorrunthroughtheslenderyellowfigureinfrontofhim.She caught his handkerchief from her throat and thrust it at him without

turninground.“Here,takeit.Youmustgonow,Bartley.Good-night.”Bartleyleanedoverhershoulder,withouttouchingher,andwhisperedinher

ear:“Youaregivingmeachance?”“Yes.Takeitandgo.Thisisn’tfair,youknow.Good-night.”Alexanderunclenchedthetwohandsathissides.Withonehethrewdownthe

windowandwiththeother—stillstandingbehindher—hedrewherbackagainsthim.Sheutteredalittlecry,threwherarmsoverherhead,anddrewhisfacedown

tohers.“Areyougoingtoletmeloveyoualittle,Bartley?”shewhispered.

CHAPTERV

Itwas the afternoonof the day beforeChristmas.Mrs.Alexander had beendrivingaboutallthemorning,leavingpresentsatthehousesofherfriends.Shelunchedalone,andassherosefromthetableshespoketothebutler:“Thomas,IamgoingdowntothekitchennowtoseeNorah.Inhalfanhouryouaretobringthegreensupfromthecellarandputtheminthelibrary.Mr.Alexanderwillbehomeat three tohang themhimself.Don’t forget thestepladder,andplentyoftacksandstring.Youmaybringtheazaleasupstairs.TakethewhiteonetoMr.Alexander’s study.Put the twopinkones in this room, and the redone in thedrawing-room.”Alittlebefore threeo’clockMrs.Alexanderwent into thelibrarytosee that

everythingwasready.Shepulledthewindowshadeshigh,fortheweatherwasdarkandstormy,andtherewaslittlelight,eveninthestreets.Afootofsnowhadfallen during the morning, and the wide space over the river was thick withflying flakes that fell and wreathed the masses of floating ice. Winifred wasstandingbythewindowwhensheheardthefrontdooropen.ShehurriedtothehallasAlexandercamestampingin,coveredwithsnow.Hekissedherjoyfullyandbrushedawaythesnowthatfellonherhair.“Iwish I had asked you tomeetme at the office andwalk homewithme,

Winifred.TheCommonisbeautiful.Theboyshavesweptthesnowoffthepondandareskatingfuriously.Didthecyclamenscome?”“Anhourago.Whatsplendidones!Butaren’tyoufrightfullyextravagant?”“NotforChristmas-time.I’llgoupstairsandchangemycoat.Ishallbedown

inamoment.TellThomastogeteverythingready.”WhenAlexander reappeared,he tookhiswife’s armandwentwithher into

thelibrary.“Whendidtheazaleasgethere?Thomashasgotthewhiteoneinmyroom.”“Itoldhimtoputitthere.”“But,Isay,it’smuchthefinestofthelot!”“That’swhyIhaditputthere.Thereistoomuchcolorinthatroomforared

one,youknow.”Bartley began to sort the greens. “It looks very splendid there, but I feel

piggishtohaveit.However,wereallyspendmoretimetherethananywhereelse

inthehouse.Willyouhandmetheholly?”Heclimbedupthestepladder,whichcreakedunderhisweight,andbeganto

twistthetoughstemsofthehollyintotheframe-workofthechandelier.“IforgottotellyouthatIhadaletterfromWilson,thismorning,explaining

his telegram. He is coming on because an old uncle up in Vermont hasconvenientlydiedandleftWilsonalittlemoney—somethingliketenthousand.He’scomingontosettleuptheestate.Won’titbejollytohavehim?”“Andhowfinethathe’scomeintoalittlemoney.Icanseehimpostingdown

StateStreettothesteamshipoffices.Hewillgetagoodmanytripsoutofthattenthousand.Whatcanhavedetainedhim?Iexpectedhimhereforluncheon.”“Those trains from Albany are always late. He’ll be along sometime this

afternoon.Andnow, don’t youwant to go upstairs and lie down for an hour?You’vehadabusymorningandIdon’twantyoutobetiredto-night.”AfterhiswifewentupstairsAlexanderworkedenergeticallyatthegreensfor

a few moments. Then, as he was cutting off a length of string, he sighedsuddenly and satdown, staringoutof thewindowat the snow.Theanimationdied out of his face, but in his eyes there was a restless light, a look ofapprehensionandsuspense.Hekeptclaspingandunclaspinghisbighandsasifheweretryingtorealizesomething.Theclocktickedthroughtheminutesofahalf-hour and the afternoon outside began to thicken and darken turbidly.Alexander, since he first sat down, had not changed his position. He leanedforward,hishandsbetweenhisknees,scarcelybreathing,asifhewereholdinghimselfawayfromhissurroundings,fromtheroom,andfromtheverychairinwhichhesat,fromeverythingexceptthewildeddiesofsnowabovetheriveronwhichhiseyeswerefixedwithfeverishintentness,asifheweretryingtoprojecthimself thither.Whenat lastLuciusWilsonwasannounced,Alexander sprangeagerlytohisfeetandhurriedtomeethisoldinstructor.“Hello,Wilson.What luck! Come into the library.We are to have a lot of

peopletodinnerto-night,andWinifred’slyingdown.Youwillexcuseher,won’tyou?Andnowwhataboutyourself?Sitdownandtellmeeverything.”“IthinkI’drathermoveabout,ifyoudon’tmind.I’vebeensittinginthetrain

foraweek,itseemstome.”Wilsonstoodbeforethefirewithhishandsbehindhimandlookedabouttheroom.“YouHAVEbeenbusy.Bartley,ifI’dhadmychoice of all possible places in which to spend Christmas, your house wouldcertainlybe theplace I’dhave chosen.Happypeopledo agreat deal for theirfriends. A house like this throws its warmth out. I felt it distinctly as I wascoming through theBerkshires. Icouldscarcelybelieve that Iwas toseeMrs.

Bartleyagainsosoon.”“Thankyou,Wilson.She’llbeasgladtoseeyou.Shallwehaveteanow?I’ll

ringforThomastoclearawaythislitter.WinifredsaysIalwayswreckthehousewhenItrytodoanything.Doyouknow,Iamquitetired.LooksasifIwerenotused to work, doesn’t it?” Alexander laughed and dropped into a chair. “Youknow,I’msailingthedayafterNewYear’s.”“Again?Why,you’vebeenovertwicesinceIwashereinthespring,haven’t

you?”“Oh,IwasinLondonabouttendaysinthesummer.Wenttoescapethehot

weathermorethananythingelse.Ishan’tbegonemorethanamonththistime.WinifredandIhavebeenupinCanadaformostoftheautumn.ThatMoorlockBridge is on my back all the time. I never had so much trouble with a jobbefore.”Alexandermovedaboutrestlesslyandfelltopokingthefire.“Haven’t I seen in the papers that there is some trouble about a tidewater

bridgeofyoursinNewJersey?”“Oh,thatdoesn’tamounttoanything.It’sheldupbyasteelstrike.Abother,

of course, but the sort of thing one is always having to put upwith. But theMoorlockBridgeisacontinualanxiety.Yousee, the truth is,wearehavingtobuildprettywelltothestrainlimitupthere.They’vecrowdedmetoomuchonthecost.It’sallverywellifeverythinggoeswell,buttheseestimateshaveneverbeen used for anything of such length before.However, there’s nothing to bedone.Theyholdme to the scale I’veused in shorter bridges.The last thing abridgecommissioncaresaboutisthekindofbridgeyoubuild.”WhenBartleyhadfinisheddressingfordinnerhewentintohisstudy,where

hefoundhiswifearrangingflowersonhiswriting-table.“ThesepinkrosesjustcamefromMrs.Hastings,”shesaid,smiling,“andIam

sureshemeantthemforyou.”Bartleylookedaboutwithanairofsatisfactionatthegreensandthewreaths

inthewindows.“Haveyouamoment,Winifred?Ihavejustnowbeenthinkingthat this isour twelfthChristmas.Canyourealize it?”Hewentupto the tableand took her hands away from the flowers, drying them with his pockethandkerchief.“They’vebeenawfullyhappyones,allofthem,haven’tthey?”Hetookherinhisarmsandbentback,liftingheralittleandgivingheralongkiss.“You are happy, aren’t youWinifred?More than anything else in theworld, Iwant you to be happy. Sometimes, of late, I’ve thought you looked as if youweretroubled.”“No;it’sonlywhenyouaretroubledandharassedthatIfeelworried,Bartley.

I wish you always seemed as you do to-night. But you don’t, always.” Shelookedearnestlyandinquiringlyintohiseyes.Alexander tookher twohandsfromhisshouldersandswungthembackand

forthinhisown,laughinghisbigblondlaugh.“I’m growing older, my dear; that’s what you feel. Now, may I show you

something?Imeanttosavethemuntilto-morrow,butIwantyoutowearthemto-night.”He took a little leather boxout of his pocket andopened it.On thewhite velvet lay two long pendants of curiouslyworked gold, setwith pearls.WinifredlookedfromtheboxtoBartleyandexclaimed:—“Wheredidyoueverfindsuchgoldwork,Bartley?”“It’soldFlemish.Isn’titfine?”“They are the most beautiful things, dear. But, you know, I never wear

earrings.”“Yes,yes,Iknow.ButIwantyoutowearthem.Ihavealwayswantedyouto.

Sofewwomencan.Theremustbeagoodear, tobeginwith,andanose”—hewaved his hand—“above reproach.Most women look silly in them. They goonlywithfaceslikeyours—very,veryproud,andjustalittlehard.”Winifredlaughedasshewentovertothemirrorandfittedthedelicatesprings

tothelobesofherears.“Oh,Bartley,thatoldfoolishnessaboutmybeinghard.Itreally hurts my feelings. But I must go down now. People are beginning tocome.”Bartleydrewherarmabouthisneckandwenttothedoorwithher.“Nothard

tome,Winifred,”hewhispered.“Never,neverhardtome.”Leftalone,hepacedupanddownhisstudy.Hewasathomeagain,amongall

thedearfamiliarthingsthatspoketohimofsomanyhappyyears.Hishouseto-nightwouldbefullofcharmingpeople,wholikedandadmiredhim.Yetallthetime,underneathhispleasureandhopefulnessandsatisfaction,hewasconsciousof the vibration of an unnatural excitement. Amid this light and warmth andfriendliness,hesometimesstartedandshuddered,asifsomeonehadsteppedonhisgrave.Somethinghadbrokenlooseinhimofwhichheknewnothingexceptthatitwassullenandpowerful,andthatitwrungandtorturedhim.Sometimesitcameuponhimsoftly,inenervatingreveries.Sometimesitbatteredhimlikethecannonrollingintheholdofthevessel.Always,now,itbroughtwithitasenseofquickenedlife,ofstimulatingdanger.To-nightitcameuponhimsuddenly,ashewaswalkingthefloor,afterhiswifelefthim.Itseemedimpossible;hecouldnotbelieveit.Heglancedentreatinglyatthedoor,asiftocallherback.Heheardvoices in the hall below, and knew that hemust go down.Going over to the

window,helookedoutatthelightsacrosstheriver.Howcouldthishappenhere,inhisownhouse,amongthethingsheloved?Whatwasitthatreachedinoutofthedarknessandthrilledhim?Ashestoodtherehehadafeelingthathewouldneverescape.Heshuthiseyesandpressedhisforeheadagainstthecoldwindowglass,breathinginthechill thatcamethroughit.“Thatthis,”hegroaned,“thatthisshouldhavehappenedtoME!”OnNewYear’sdayathawsetin,andduringthenighttorrentsofrainfell.In

themorning, themorningofAlexander’s departure forEngland, the riverwasstreakedwithfogandtheraindrovehardagainstthewindowsofthebreakfast-room.Alexanderhadfinishedhiscoffeeandwaspacingupanddown.Hiswifesatatthetable,watchinghim.Shewaspaleandunnaturallycalm.WhenThomasbroughttheletters,Bartleysankintohischairandranthemoverrapidly.“Here’sanotefromoldWilson.He’ssafebackathisgrind,andsayshehada

bullytime.`ThememoryofMrs.Bartleywillmakemywholewinterfragrant.’Just likehim.Hewillgoongettingmeasurelesssatisfactionoutofyoubyhisstudyfire.Whatamanheisforlookingonatlife!”Bartleysighed,pushedthelettersback impatiently, andwentover to thewindow.“This isanasty sortofdaytosail.I’veanotiontocallitoff.Nextweekwouldbetimeenough.”“Thatwouldonlymeanstartingtwice.Itwouldn’treallyhelpyououtatall,”

Mrs. Alexander spoke soothingly. “And you’d come back late for all yourengagements.”Bartleybeganjinglingsomeloosecoinsinhispocket.“Iwishthingswouldlet

merest.I’mtiredofwork,tiredofpeople,tiredoftrailingabout.”Helookedoutatthestorm-beatenriver.Winifredcameupbehindhimandput ahandonhis shoulder. “That’swhat

youalwayssay,poorBartley!Atbottomyoureally likeall these things.Can’tyourememberthat?”Heputhisarmabouther.“Allthesame,liferunssmoothlyenoughwithsome

people, andwithme it’s always amessy sort of patchwork. It’s like the song;peaceiswhereIamnot.Howcanyoufaceitallwithsomuchfortitude?”She lookedathimwith thatcleargazewhichWilsonhadsomuchadmired,

whichhehadfeltimpliedsuchhighconfidenceandfearlesspride.“Oh,Ifacedthatlongago,whenyouwereonyourfirstbridge,upatoldAllway.Iknewthenthat your pathswere not to be paths of peace, but I decided that Iwanted tofollowthem.”Bartleyandhiswifestoodsilentforalongtime;thefirecrackledinthegrate,

therainbeatinsistentlyuponthewindows,andthesleepyAngoralookedupat

themcuriously.Presently Thomas made a discreet sound at the door. “Shall Edward bring

downyourtrunks,sir?”“Yes; they are ready. Tell him not to forget the big portfolio on the study

table.”Thomaswithdrew,closingthedoorsoftly.Bartleyturnedawayfromhiswife,

stillholdingherhand.“Itnevergetsanyeasier,Winifred.”They both started at the sound of the carriage on the pavement outside.

Alexander satdownand leanedhisheadonhishand.Hiswifebentoverhim.“Courage,”shesaidgayly.Bartleyroseandrangthebell.Thomasbroughthimhishatandstickandulster.Atthesightofthese,thesuperciliousAngoramovedrestlessly, quittedher red cushionby the fire, and cameup,wavingher tail invexation at these ominous indications of change.Alexander stooped to strokeher, and then plunged into his coat and drewon his gloves.Hiswife held hisstick,smiling.Bartleysmiledtoo,andhiseyescleared.“I’llworklikethedevil,Winifred, and be home again before you realize I’ve gone.” He kissed herquicklyseveral times,hurriedoutof thefrontdoor into therain,andwaved toherfromthecarriagewindowasthedriverwasstartinghismelancholy,drippingblack horses. Alexander sat with his hands clenched on his knees. As thecarriage turned up the hill, he lifted one hand and brought it down violently.“Thistime”—hespokealoudandthroughhissetteeth—“thistimeI’mgoingtoendit!”Ontheafternoonofthethirddayout,Alexanderwassittingwelltothestern,

onthewindwardsidewherethechairswerefew,hisrugsoverhimandthecollarofhisfur-linedcoatturnedupabouthisears.Theweatherhadsofarbeendarkandraw.Fortwohourshehadbeenwatchingthelow,dirtyskyandthebeatingof theheavy rainupon the iron-colored sea.Therewas a long, oily swell thatmadeexerciselaborious.Thedeckssmelledofdampwoolens,andtheairwassohumid that drops of moisture kept gathering upon his hair andmustache. Heseldommoved except to brush them away. The great open spaces made himpassive and the restlessness of thewater quieted him.He intended during thevoyagetodecideuponacourseofaction,butheheldallthisawayfromhimforthepresentandlayinablessedgrayoblivion.Deepdowninhimsomewherehisresolutionwasweakeningandstrengthening,ebbingandflowing.Thethingthatperturbedhimwentonassteadilyashispulse,buthewasalmostunconsciousofit.Hewassubmergedinthevastimpersonalgraynessabouthim,andatintervalsthesidelongrolloftheboatmeasuredofftimelikethetickingofaclock.Hefeltreleased from everything that troubled and perplexed him. Itwas as if he had

trickedandoutwittedtorturingmemories,hadactuallymanagedtogetonboardwithoutthem.Hethoughtofnothingatall.Ifhismindnowandagainpickedaface out of the grayness, it was Lucius Wilson’s, or the face of an oldschoolmate, forgotten for years; or it was the slim outline of a favoritegreyhoundheusedtohuntjack-rabbitswithwhenhewasaboy.Towardsixo’clockthewindroseandtuggedatthetarpaulinandbroughtthe

swellhigher.AfterdinnerAlexandercamebacktothewetdeck,piledhisdamprugs over him again, and sat smoking, losing himself in the obliteratingblackness and drowsing in the rush of the gale. Before he went below a fewbrightstarswereprickedoffbetweenheavilymovingmassesofcloud.Thenextmorningwasbrightandmild,withafreshbreeze.Alexanderfeltthe

needofexerciseevenbeforehecameoutofhiscabin.Whenhewentondecktheskywasblueandblinding,withheavywhiffsofwhitecloud,smoke-coloredat the edges, moving rapidly across it. The water was roughish, a cold, clearindigobreakingintowhitecaps.Bartleywalkedfortwohours,andthenstretchedhimselfinthesununtillunch-time.In the afternoonhewrote a long letter toWinifred.Later, as hewalked the

deck through a splendid golden sunset, his spirits rose continually. It wasagreeable tocome tohimself againafter severaldaysofnumbnessand torpor.Hestayedoutuntilthelasttingeofviolethadfadedfromthewater.Therewasliterallyatasteoflifeonhislipsashesatdowntodinnerandorderedabottleofchampagne.Hewaslateinfinishinghisdinner,anddrankrathermorewinethanhe hadmeant to.When hewent above, thewind had risen and the deckwasalmostdeserted.Ashesteppedoutof thedooragale liftedhisheavy furcoatabouthisshoulders.Hefoughthiswayupthedeckwithkeenexhilaration.Themoment he stepped, almost out of breath, behind the shelter of the stern, thewind was cut off, and he felt, like a rush of warm air, a sense of close andintimatecompanionship.Hestartedbackandtorehiscoatopenasifsomethingwarmwereactuallyclingingtohimbeneathit.Hehurriedupthedeckandwentinto the saloonparlor, fullofwomenwhohad retreated thither from the sharpwind.Hethrewhimselfuponthem.Hetalkeddelightfullytotheolderonesandplayed accompaniments for the younger ones until the last sleepy girl hadfollowed hermother below. Then hewent into the smoking-room.He playedbridgeuntiltwoo’clockinthemorning,andmanagedtoloseaconsiderablesumofmoneywithoutreallynoticingthathewasdoingso.Afterthebreakofonefinedaytheweatherwasprettyconsistentlydull.When

thelowskythinnedatrifle,thepalewhitespotofasundidnomorethanthrowa bluish lustre on the water, giving it the dark brightness of newly cut lead.

Through one after another of those gray daysAlexander drowsed andmused,drinkinginthegratefulmoisture.Butthecompletepeaceofthefirstpartofthevoyagewasover.Sometimeshe rose suddenly fromhis chair as ifdrivenout,andpacedthedeckforhours.Peoplenoticedhispropensityforwalkinginroughweather,andwatchedhimcuriouslyashedidhisrounds.Fromhisabstractionand the determined set of his jaw, they fancied hemust be thinking about hisbridge.EveryonehadheardofthenewcantileverbridgeinCanada.ButAlexanderwas not thinking about hiswork.After the fourth night out,

when his will suddenly softened under his hands, he had been continuallyhammeringawayathimself.Moreandmoreoften,whenhefirstwakenedinthemorningorwhenhesteppedintoawarmplaceafterbeingchilledonthedeck,hefeltasuddenpainfuldelightatbeingneareranothershore.Sometimeswhenhewasmostdespondent,whenhethoughthimselfwornoutwiththisstruggle,ina flash he was free of it and leaped into an overwhelming consciousness ofhimself.On the instanthe felt thatmarvelous returnof the impetuousness, theintenseexcitement,theincreasingexpectancyofyouth.

CHAPTERVI

ThelasttwodaysofthevoyageBartleyfoundalmostintolerable.ThestopatQueenstown,thetediouspassageuptheMersey,werethingsthathenoteddimlythrough his growing impatience. He had planned to stop in Liverpool; but,instead,hetooktheboattrainforLondon.EmergingatEustonathalf-pastthreeo’clockintheafternoon,Alexanderhad

hisluggagesenttotheSavoyanddroveatoncetoBedfordSquare.WhenMariemethimat thedoor,evenherstrongsenseof theproprietiescouldnotrestrainher surprise and delight. She blushed and smiled and fumbled his card in herconfusion before she ran upstairs.Alexander paced up and down the hallway,buttoningandunbuttoninghisovercoat, until she returned and tookhimup toHilda’s living-room. The room was empty when he entered. A coal fire wascrackling in the grate and the lampswere lit, for it was already beginning togrowdarkoutside.Alexanderdidnotsitdown.HestoodhisgroundoverbythewindowsuntilHildacame in.Shecalledhisnameon the threshold,but inherswift flight across the roomshe felt a change inhimandcaughtherselfup sodeftlythathecouldnottelljustwhenshedidit.Shemerelybrushedhischeekwithherlipsandputahandlightlyandjoyouslyoneithershoulder.“Oh,whatagrand thing to happen on a raw day! I felt it inmy bones when I woke thismorning that something splendid was going to turn up. I thought it might beSisterKateorCousinMikewouldbehappeningalong.Ineverdreameditwouldbeyou,Bartley.Butwhydoyouletmechatteronlike this?Comeover to thefire;you’rechilledthrough.”Shepushedhimtowardthebigchairbythefire,andsatdownonastoolatthe

opposite side of the hearth, her knees drawn up to her chin, laughing like ahappylittlegirl.“Whendidyoucome,Bartley,andhowdidithappen?Youhaven’tspokena

word.”“Igotinabouttenminutesago.IlandedatLiverpoolthismorningandcame

downontheboattrain.”Alexander leaned forward and warmed his hands before the blaze. Hilda

watchedhimwithperplexity.“There’ssomethingtroublingyou,Bartley.Whatisit?”

Bartleybentloweroverthefire.“It’sthewholethingthattroublesme,Hilda.YouandI.”Hilda took a quick, soft breath. She looked at his heavy shoulders and big,

determinedhead,thrustforwardlikeacatapultinleash.“Whataboutus,Bartley?”sheaskedinathinvoice.Helockedandunlockedhishandsoverthegrateandspreadhisfingersclose

to the bluish flame,while the coals crackled and the clock ticked and a streetvendorbegantocallunderthewindow.AtlastAlexanderbroughtoutoneword:—“Everything!”Hildawaspalebythistime,andhereyeswerewidewithfright.Shelooked

aboutdesperatelyfromBartleytothedoor,thentothewindows,andbackagaintoBartley.Sheroseuncertainly,touchedhishairwithherhand,thensankbackuponherstool.“I’lldoanythingyouwishmeto,Bartley,”shesaidtremulously.“Ican’tstand

seeingyoumiserable.”“Ican’tlivewithmyselfanylonger,”heansweredroughly.Heroseandpushedthechairbehindhimandbegantowalkmiserablyabout

theroom,seemingtofindittoosmallforhim.Hepulledupawindowasiftheairwereheavy.Hildawatched him from her corner, trembling and scarcely breathing, dark

shadowsgrowingabouthereyes.“It...ithasn’talwaysmadeyoumiserable,hasit?”Hereyelidsfellandher

lipsquivered.“Always.Butit’sworsenow.It’sunbearable.Ittorturesmeeveryminute.”“ButwhyNOW?”sheaskedpiteously,wringingherhands.Heignoredherquestion.“Iamnotamanwhocanlivetwolives,”hewenton

feverishly.“Eachlifespoilstheother.Igetnothingbutmiseryoutofeither.Theworldisallthere,justasitusedtobe,butIcan’tgetatitanymore.Thereisthisdeceptionbetweenmeandeverything.”At thatword“deception,”spokenwithsuchself-contempt, thecolor flashed

backintoHilda’sfaceassuddenlyasifshehadbeenstruckbyawhiplash.Shebitherlipandlookeddownatherhands,whichwereclaspedtightlyinfrontofher.“Couldyou—couldyousitdownandtalkaboutitquietly,Bartley,asifIwere

afriend,andnotsomeonewhohadtobedefied?”He dropped back heavily into his chair by the fire. “It was myself I was

defying,Hilda.IhavethoughtaboutituntilIamwornout.”Helookedatherandhishaggardfacesoftened.Heputouthishand toward

herashelookedawayagainintothefire.Shecreptacrosstohim,drawingherstoolafterher.“Whendidyoufirstbegin

tofeellikethis,Bartley?”“Aftertheveryfirst.Thefirstwas—sortofinplay,wasn’tit?”Hilda’sfacequivered,butshewhispered:“Yes,Ithinkitmusthavebeen.But

whydidn’tyoutellmewhenyouwerehereinthesummer?”Alexandergroaned.“Imeantto,butsomehowIcouldn’t.Wehadonlyafew

days,andyournewplaywasjuston,andyouweresohappy.”“Yes, I was happy, wasn’t I?” She pressed his hand gently in gratitude.

“Weren’tyouhappythen,atall?”She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to draw in again the

fragrance of those days. Something of their troubling sweetness came back toAlexander,too.Hemoveduneasilyandhischaircreaked.“Yes,Iwasthen.Youknow.Butafterward...”“Yes,yes,”shehurried,pullingherhandgentlyawayfromhim.Presently it

stolebacktohiscoatsleeve.“Pleasetellmeonething,Bartley.Atleast,tellmethatyoubelieveIthoughtIwasmakingyouhappy.”Hishandshutdownquicklyoverthequestioningfingersonhissleeves.“Yes,

Hilda;Iknowthat,”hesaidsimply.Sheleanedherheadagainsthisarmandspokesoftly:—“Yousee,mymistakewasinwantingyoutohaveeverything.Iwantedyouto

eatallthecakesandhavethem,too.IsomehowbelievedthatIcouldtakeallthebadconsequencesforyou.Iwantedyoualwaystobehappyandhandsomeandsuccessful—tohaveallthethingsthatagreatmanoughttohave,and,onceinaway,thecarelessholidaysthatgreatmenarenotpermitted.”Bartley gave a bitter little laugh, and Hilda looked up and read in the

deepening lines of his face that youth and Bartley would not much longerstruggletogether.“Iunderstand,Bartley.Iwaswrong.ButIdidn’tknow.You’veonlytotellme

now.Whatmust Ido that I’venotdone,orwhatmust Inotdo?”She listenedintently,butsheheardnothingbutthecreakingofhischair.“Youwantmetosay

it?”shewhispered.“Youwanttotellmethatyoucanonlyseemelikethis,asoldfriendsdo,oroutintheworldamongpeople?Icandothat.”“Ican’t,”hesaidheavily.Hilda shivered and sat still.Bartley leanedhis head in his hands and spoke

through his teeth. “It’s got to be a clean break, Hilda. I can’t see you at all,anywhere.WhatImeanisthatIwantyoutopromisenevertoseemeagain,nomatterhowoftenIcome,nomatterhowhardIbeg.”Hildaspranguplikeaflame.Shestoodoverhimwithherhandsclenchedat

herside,herbodyrigid.“No!”shegasped.“It’stoolatetoaskthat.Doyouhearme,Bartley?It’stoo

late.Iwon’tpromise.It’sabominableofyoutoaskme.Keepawayifyouwish;whenhaveIeverfollowedyou?But,ifyoucometome,I’lldoasIseefit.Theshamefulnessofyouraskingmetodothat!Ifyoucometome,I’lldoasIseefit.Doyouunderstand?Bartley,you’recowardly!”Alexander rose and shook himself angrily. “Yes, I know I’m cowardly. I’m

afraidofmyself.Idon’ttrustmyselfanymore.Icarrieditalllightlyenoughatfirst,butnowIdon’tdaretriflewithit.It’sgettingthebetterofme.It’sdifferentnow. I’m growing older, and you’ve got my young self here with you. It’sthroughhim that I’vecome towish foryouall andall the time.”He tookherroughlyinhisarms.“DoyouknowwhatImean?”Hilda held her face back from him and began to cry bitterly. “Oh, Bartley,

whatamItodo?Whydidn’tyouletmebeangrywithyou?Youaskmetostayawayfromyoubecauseyouwantme!AndI’vegotnobodybutyou. Iwilldoanything you say—but that! I will ask the least imaginable, but I must haveSOMETHING!”Bartleyturnedawayandsankdowninhischairagain.Hildasatonthearmof

itandputherhandslightlyonhisshoulders.“JustsomethingBartley.Imusthaveyoutothinkofthroughthemonthsand

monthsofloneliness.Imustseeyou.Imustknowaboutyou.Thesightofyou,Bartley, to see you living and happy and successful—can I never make youunderstandwhatthatmeanstome?”Shepressedhisshouldersgently.“Yousee,lovingsomeoneasIloveyoumakesthewholeworlddifferent.IfI’dmetyoulater,ifIhadn’tlovedyousowell—butthat’sallover,longago.Thencameallthose yearswithout you, lonely andhurt anddiscouraged; those decent youngfellowsandpoorMac,andmeneverheeding—hardasasteelspring.Andthenyoucameback,notcaringverymuch,butitmadenodifference.”Sheslidtothefloorbesidehim,asifsheweretootiredtositupanylonger.

Bartleybentoverandtookherinhisarms,kissinghermouthandherwet,tiredeyes.“Don’tcry,don’tcry,”hewhispered.“We’vetorturedeachotherenoughfor

tonight.ForgeteverythingexceptthatIamhere.”“I think I have forgotten everything but that already,” shemurmured. “Ah,

yourdeararms!”

CHAPTERVII

DuringthefortnightthatAlexanderwasinLondonhedrovehimselfhard.Hegot through a great deal of personal business and sawagreatmanymenwhoweredoinginterestingthingsinhisownprofession.HedislikedtothinkofhisvisitstoLondonasholidays,andwhenhewasthereheworkedevenharderthanhedidathome.The day before his departure for Liverpool was a singularly fine one. The

thickairhadclearedovernightinastrongwindwhichbroughtinagoldendawnandthenfellofftoafreshbreeze.WhenBartleylookedoutofhiswindowsfromthe Savoy, the river was flashing silver and the gray stone along theEmbankmentwasbathedinbright,clearsunshine.Londonhadwakenedtolifeafter three weeks of cold and sodden rain. Bartley breakfasted hurriedly andwent over his mail while the hotel valet packed his trunks. Then he paid hisaccount and walked rapidly down the Strand past Charing Cross Station. Hisspirits rosewithevery step, andwhenhe reachedTrafalgarSquare,blazing inthesun,withitsfountainsplayinganditscolumnreachingupintothebrightair,hesignaledtoahansom,and,beforeheknewwhathewasabout,toldthedrivertogotoBedfordSquarebywayoftheBritishMuseum.WhenhereachedHilda’sapartmentshemethim,freshasthemorningitself.

Her rooms were flooded with sunshine and full of the flowers he had beensendingher.Shewouldneverlethimgiveheranythingelse.“Are you busy thismorning,Hilda?” he asked as he sat down, his hat and

glovesinhishand.“Very. I’vebeenupandabout threehours,workingatmypart.Weopen in

February,youknow.”“Well,thenyou’veworkedenough.AndsohaveI.I’veseenallmymen,my

packingisdone,andIgouptoLiverpoolthisevening.Butthismorningwearegoingtohaveaholiday.WhatdoyousaytoadriveouttoKewandRichmond?Youmay not get another day like this all winter. It’s like a fineApril day athome.MayIuseyourtelephone?Iwanttoorderthecarriage.”“Oh,howjolly!There,sitdownat thedesk.Andwhileyouare telephoning

I’llchangemydress.Ishan’tbelong.Allthemorningpapersareonthetable.”Hildawas back in a fewmomentswearing a long gray squirrel coat and a

broadfurhat.Bartley rose and inspected her. “Why don’t you wear some of those pink

roses?”heasked.“But theycameonly thismorning,and theyhavenotevenbegun toopen. I

was saving them. I am so unconsciously thrifty!” She laughed as she lookedabout the room.“You’vebeensendingmefar toomanyflowers,Bartley.Newoneseveryday.That’stoooften;thoughIdolovetoopentheboxes,andItakegoodcareofthem.”“Whywon’tyouletmesendyouanyofthosejadeorivorythingsyouareso

fondof?Orpictures?Iknowagooddealaboutpictures.”Hildashookherlargehatasshedrewtherosesoutofthetallglass.“No,there

aresome thingsyoucan’tdo.There’s thecarriage.Willyoubuttonmyglovesforme?”Bartleytookherwristandbegantobuttonthelonggraysuedeglove.“How

gayyoureyesarethismorning,Hilda.”“That’sbecauseI’vebeenstudying.Italwaysstirsmeupalittle.”Hepushedthetopofthegloveupslowly.“Whendidyoulearntotakeholdof

yourpartslikethat?”“WhenIhadnothingelsetothinkof.Come,thecarriageiswaiting.Whata

shockingwhileyoutake.”“I’minnohurry.We’veplentyoftime.”They found all London abroad. Piccadilly was a stream of rapidly moving

carriages,fromwhichflashedfursandflowersandbrightwintercostumes.Themetaltrappingsoftheharnessesshonedazzlingly,andthewheelswererevolvingdisksthatthrewoffraysoflight.Theparkswerefullofchildrenandnursemaidsand joyfuldogs that leapedandyelpedand scratchedup thebrownearthwiththeirpaws.“I’mnotgoinguntilto-morrow,youknow,”Bartleyannouncedsuddenly.“I’ll

cutoffadayinLiverpool.Ihaven’tfeltsojollythislongwhile.”Hilda lookedupwithasmilewhichshe triednot tomake tooglad.“I think

peopleweremeanttobehappy,alittle,”shesaid.TheyhadlunchatRichmondandthenwalkedtoTwickenham,wheretheyhad

sentthecarriage.Theydroveback,withaglorioussunsetbehindthem,towardthe distant gold-washed city. Itwas one of those rare afternoonswhen all thethickness and shadow of London are changed to a kind of shining, pulsing,special atmosphere; when the smoky vapors become fluttering golden clouds,

nacreous veils of pink and amber; when all that bleakness of gray stone anddullnessofdirtybricktremblesinaureatelight,andalltheroofsandspires,andonegreatdome,arefloatedingoldenhaze.Onsuchrareafternoonstheugliestof cities becomes themost poetic, andmonths of sodden days are offset by amomentofmiracle.“It’s like that with us Londoners, too,” Hilda was saying. “Everything is

awfully grim and cheerless, our weather and our houses and our ways ofamusingourselves.Butwecanbehappier thananybody.Wecangomadwithjoy,asthepeopledooutinthefieldsonafineWhitsunday.Wemakethemostofourmoment.”She thrust her little chin out defiantly over her gray fur collar, andBartley

lookeddownatherandlaughed.“Youareapluckyone,you.”Hepattedherglovewithhishand.“Yes,youare

apluckyone.”Hildasighed.“No,I’mnot.Notaboutsomethings,atanyrate.Itdoesn’ttake

pluck to fight forone’smoment,but it takespluck togowithout—a lot.MorethanIhave.Ican’thelpit,”sheaddedfiercely.Aftermilesofoutlyingstreetsandlittlegloomyhouses,theyreachedLondon

itself, red and roaring andmurky,with a thick dampness coming up from theriver, thatbetokenedfogagain to-morrow.Thestreetswerefullofpeoplewhohadworkedindoorsallthroughthepricelessdayandhadnowcomehungrilyouttodrinkthemuddyleesofit.Theystoodinlongblacklines,waitingbeforethepit entrances of the theatres—short-coated boys, and girls in sailor hats, allshivering and chatting gayly. There was a blurred rhythm in all the dull citynoises—in the clatter of the cabhorses and the rumblingof thebusses, in thestreetcalls,andintheundulatingtramp,trampofthecrowd.Itwaslikethedeepvibrationofsomevastundergroundmachinery,andlike themuffledpulsationsofmillionsofhumanhearts.[See“TheBarrelOrganbyAlfredNoyes.Ed.][Ihaveplaceditattheendfor

yourconvenience]“Seemsgoodtogetback,doesn’tit?”Bartleywhispered,astheydrovefrom

Bayswater Road into Oxford Street. “London always makes me want to livemorethananyothercityintheworld.Yourememberourpriestessmummyoverinthemummy-room,andhowweusedtolongtogoandbringheroutonnightslikethis?Threethousandyears!Ugh!”“Allthesame,Ibelievesheusedtofeelitwhenwestoodthereandwatched

her and wished her well. I believe she used to remember,” Hilda said

thoughtfully.“Ihopeso.Nowlet’sgotosomeawfullyjollyplacefordinnerbeforewego

home.IcouldeatallthedinnersthereareinLondonto-night.WhereshallItellthedriver?ThePiccadillyRestaurant?Themusic’sgoodthere.”“There are too many people there whom one knows. Why not that little

French place in Soho, where we went so often when you were here in thesummer?Iloveit,andI’veneverbeentherewithanyonebutyou.SometimesIgobymyself,whenIamparticularlylonely.”“Verywell,thesole’sgoodthere.Howmanystreetpianosthereareaboutto-

night!Thefineweathermusthavethawedthemout.We’vehadfivemilesof`IlTrovatore’now.Theyalwaysmakemefeeljaunty.Areyoucomfy,andnottootired?”“I’mnottiredatall.Iwasjustwonderinghowpeoplecaneverdie.Whydid

youremindmeofthemummy?Lifeseemsthestrongestandmostindestructiblething in the world. Do you really believe that all those people rushing aboutdownthere,goingtogooddinnersandclubsandtheatres,willbedeadsomeday,andnot care about anything? I don’t believe it, and I know I shan’t die, ever!Yousee,Ifeeltoo—toopowerful!”The carriage stopped. Bartley sprang out and swung her quickly to the

pavement.Asheliftedherinhistwohandshewhispered:“Youare—powerful!”

CHAPTERVIII

Thelastrehearsalwasover,atediousdressrehearsalwhichhadlastedalldayandexhaustedthepatienceofeveryonewhohadtodowithit.WhenHildahaddressed for the street and came out of her dressing-room, she found HughMacConnellwaitingforherinthecorridor.“Thefog’s thicker thanever,Hilda.Therehavebeenagreatmanyaccidents

to-day. It’spositivelyunsafeforyou tobeoutalone.Willyou letmetakeyouhome?”“Howgoodofyou,Mac. Ifyouaregoingwithme, I think I’d ratherwalk.

I’vehadnoexerciseto-day,andallthishasmademenervous.”“Ishouldn’twonder,”saidMacConnelldryly.Hildapulleddownherveiland

they steppedout into the thickbrownwash that submergedSt.Martin’sLane.MacConnelltookherhandandtuckeditsnuglyunderhisarm.“I’msorryIwassuchasavage.Ihopeyoudidn’tthinkImadeanassofmyself.”“Notabitof it. Idon’twonderyouwerepeppery.Those thingsareawfully

trying.Howdoyouthinkit’sgoing?”“Magnificently.That’swhyIgotsostirredup.Wearegoingtohearfromthis,

bothofus.Andthatremindsme;I’vegotnewsforyou.TheyaregoingtobeginrepairsonthetheatreaboutthemiddleofMarch,andwearetorunovertoNewYorkforsixweeks.Bennetttoldmeyesterdaythatitwasdecided.”Hildalookedupdelightedlyatthetallgrayfigurebesideher.Hewastheonly

thingshecouldsee,fortheyweremovingthroughadenseopaqueness,asiftheywerewalkingatthebottomoftheocean.“Oh,Mac,howgladIam!Andtheyloveyourthingsoverthere,don’tthey?”“Shallyoubegladfor—anyotherreason,Hilda?”MacConnell put his hand in front of her to ward off some dark object. It

proved to be only a lamp-post, and they beat in farther from the edge of thepavement.“Whatdoyoumean,Mac?”Hildaaskednervously.“Iwasjustthinkingtheremightbepeopleoverthereyou’dbegladtosee,”he

broughtoutawkwardly.Hildasaidnothing,andastheywalkedonMacConnellspokeagain,apologetically:“Ihopeyoudon’tmindmyknowingaboutit,Hilda.Don’t stiffen up like that. No one else knows, and I didn’t try to find out

anything.Ifeltit,evenbeforeIknewwhohewas.Iknewtherewassomebody,andthatitwasn’tI.”They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The busses had

stopped running and the cab-drivers were leading their horses. When theyreachedtheotherside,MacConnellsaidsuddenly,“Ihopeyouarehappy.”“Terribly,dangerouslyhappy,Mac,”—Hildaspokequietly,pressingtherough

sleeveofhisgreatcoatwithherglovedhand.“You’ve always thought me too old for you, Hilda,—oh, of course you’ve

neversaidjustthat,—andherethisfellowisnotmorethaneightyearsyoungerthanI.I’vealwaysfeltthatifIcouldgetoutofmyoldcaseImightwinyouyet.It’safine,braveyouthIcarryinsideme,onlyhe’llneverbeseen.”“Nonsense,Mac.That has nothing to dowith it. It’s because you seem too

close tome, toomuchmyownkind. Itwouldbe likemarryingCousinMike,almost.Ireallytriedtocareasyouwantedmeto,awaybackinthebeginning.”“Well, herewe are, turning out of the Square. You are not angrywithme,

Hilda?Thankyoufor thiswalk,mydear.Goinandgetdrythingsonatonce.You’llbehavingagreatnightto-morrow.”Sheputoutherhand.“Thankyou,Mac,foreverything.Good-night.”MacConnell trudged off through the fog, and shewent slowly upstairs.Her

slippersanddressinggownwerewaitingforherbeforethefire.“IshallcertainlyseehiminNewYork.Hewillseebythepapersthatwearecoming.Perhapsheknowsitalready,”Hildakeptthinkingassheundressed.“Perhapshewillbeatthe dock. No, scarcely that; but I maymeet him in the street even before hecomestoseeme.”Marieplacedthetea-tablebythefireandbroughtHildaherletters.She looked themover,andstartedasshecame toone inahandwritingthatshedidnotoftensee;Alexanderhadwrittentoheronlytwicebefore,andhedidnotallowhertowritetohimatall.“Thankyou,Marie.Youmaygonow.”Hilda sat downby the tablewith the letter in her hand, still unopened. She

lookedat it intently, turned it over, and felt its thicknesswithher fingers.Shebelievedthatshesometimeshadakindofsecond-sightaboutletters,andcouldtellbeforeshereadthemwhethertheybroughtgoodoreviltidings.Sheputthisonedownon the table in frontofherwhileshepouredher tea.At last,withalittleshiverofexpectancy,shetoreopentheenvelopeandread:—Boston,February—MYDEARHILDA:—Itisaftertwelveo’clock.EveryoneelseisinbedandIamsittingaloneinmy

study. I have been happier in this room than anywhere else in the world.Happiness like thatmakesone insolent. I used to think these fourwalls couldstandagainstanything.AndnowIscarcelyknowmyselfhere.NowIknowthatnoonecanbuildhissecurityuponthenoblenessofanotherperson.Twopeople,when they loveeachother,growalike in their tastesandhabits andpride,buttheir moral natures (whatever we may mean by that canting expression) areneverwelded.Thebaseonegoesonbeingbase,andthenobleonenoble,totheend.Thelastweekhasbeenabadone;Ihavebeenrealizinghowthingsusedtobe

withme.SometimesIgetusedtobeingdeadinside,butlatelyithasbeenasifawindowbesidemehadsuddenlyopened,andasifallthesmellsofspringblewintome.Thereisagardenoutthere,withstarsoverhead,whereIusedtowalkatnightwhenIhadasinglepurposeandasingleheart.IcanrememberhowIused to feel there, how beautiful everything aboutmewas, andwhat life andpower and freedom I felt inmyself.When thewindow opens I know exactlyhowitwouldfeeltobeoutthere.Butthatgardenisclosedtome.Howisit,Iaskmyself, that everything can be so different with me when nothing here haschanged?Iaminmyownhouse,inmyownstudy,inthemidstofallthesequietstreetswheremy friends live.They are all safe and at peacewith themselves.ButIamneveratpeace.Ifeelalwaysontheedgeofdangerandchange.Ikeep remembering locoedhorses I used to seeon the rangewhen Iwas a

boy. They changed like that.We used to catch them and put them up in thecorral,and theydevelopedgreatcunning.Theywouldpretend toeat theiroatsliketheotherhorses,butweknewtheywerealwaysschemingtogetbackattheloco.Itseemsthatamanismeanttoliveonlyonelifeinthisworld.Whenhetries

toliveasecond,hedevelopsanothernature.Ifeelasifasecondmanhadbeengraftedintome.Atfirstheseemedonlyapleasure-lovingsimpleton,ofwhosecompanyIwasratherashamed,andwhomIusedtohideundermycoatwhenIwalkedtheEmbankment,inLondon.Butnowheisstrongandsullen,andheisfightingforhislifeatthecostofmine.Thatishisoneactivity:togrowstrong.Nocreatureeverwantedsomuchtolive.Eventually,Isuppose,hewillabsorbmealtogether.Believeme,youwillhatemethen.Andwhathaveyoutodo,Hilda,withthisuglystory?Nothingatall.Thelittle

boydrankoftheprettiestbrookintheforestandhebecameastag.Iwriteallthisbecause I cannever tell it toyou, andbecause it seemsas if I couldnotkeepsilentany longer.Andbecause I suffer,Hilda. If anyone I lovedsuffered likethis,I’dwanttoknowit.Helpme,Hilda!

B.A.

CHAPTERIX

OnthelastSaturdayinApril,theNewYork“Times”publishedanaccountofthe strike complicationswhichwere delayingAlexander’sNew Jersey bridge,andstatedthattheengineerhimselfwasintownandathisofficeonWestTenthStreet.OnSunday,thedayafterthisnoticeappeared,Alexanderworkedalldayathis

TenthStreetrooms.HisbusinessoftencalledhimtoNewYork,andhehadkeptanapartmentthereforyears,sublettingitwhenhewentabroadforanylengthoftime.Besides his sleeping-room and bath, therewas a large room, formerly apainter’sstudio,whichheusedasastudyandoffice.Itwasfurnishedwiththecast-offpossessionsofhisbachelordaysandwithoddthingswhichheshelteredforfriendsofhiswhofolloweditinerantandmoreorlessartisticcallings.Overthefireplacetherewasalargeold-fashionedgiltmirror.Alexander’sbigwork-tablestoodinfrontofoneofthethreewindows,andabovethecouchhungtheonepictureintheroom,abigcanvasofcharmingcolorandspirit,astudyoftheLuxembourgGardens in early spring, painted in his youth by amanwho hadsince become a portrait-painter of international renown. He had done it forAlexanderwhentheywerestudentstogetherinParis.Sundaywasacold,rawdayandafinerainfellcontinuously.WhenAlexander

camebackfromdinnerheputmorewoodonhisfire,madehimselfcomfortable,andsettleddownathisdesk,wherehebegancheckingoverestimatesheets. Itwasafternineo’clockandhewas lightinga secondpipe,whenhe thoughtheheardasoundathisdoor.Hestartedandlistened,holdingtheburningmatchinhis hand; again he heard the same sound, like a firm, light tap. He rose andcrossedtheroomquickly.Whenhethrewopenthedoorherecognizedthefigurethat shrank back into the bare, dimly lit hallway. He stood for a moment inawkwardconstraint,hispipeinhishand.“Comein,”hesaidtoHildaatlast,andclosedthedoorbehindher.Hepointed

toachairbythefireandwentbacktohisworktable.“Won’tyousitdown?”Hewasstandingbehindthetable,turningoverapileofblueprintsnervously.

Theyellowlightfromthestudent’slampfellonhishandsandthepurplesleevesofhisvelvetsmoking-jacket,buthisflushedfaceandbig,hardheadwereintheshadow. Therewas something about him thatmadeHildawish herself at herhotelagain,inthestreetbelow,anywherebutwhereshewas.

“OfcourseIknow,Bartley,”shesaidatlast,“thatafterthisyouwon’towemetheleastconsideration.ButwesailonTuesday.Isawthatinterviewinthepaperyesterday, tellingwhere youwere, and I thought I had to see you. That’s all.Good-night;I’mgoingnow.”Sheturnedandherhandclosedonthedoor-knob.Alexander hurried toward her and took her gently by the arm. “Sit down,

Hilda;you’rewet through.Letmetakeoffyourcoat—andyourboots; they’reoozingwater.”Hekneltdownandbegantounlacehershoes,whileHildashrankinto the chair. “Here, put your feet on this stool. You don’tmean to say youwalkeddown—andwithoutovershoes!”Hildahidher face in her hands. “Iwas afraid to take a cab.Can’t you see,

Bartley,thatI’mterriblyfrightened?I’vebeenthroughthisahundredtimesto-day.Don’tbeanymoreangrythanyoucanhelp.IwasallrightuntilIknewyouwereintown.Ifyou’dsentmeanote,ortelephonedme,oranything!Butyouwon’tletmewritetoyou,andIhadtoseeyouafterthatletter,thatterribleletteryouwrotemewhenyougothome.”Alexanderfacedher,restinghisarmonthemantelbehindhim,andbeganto

brushthesleeveofhisjacket.“Isthisthewayyoumeantoanswerit,Hilda?”heaskedunsteadily.She was afraid to look up at him. “Didn’t—didn’t you mean even to say

goodbytome,Bartley?Didyoumeanjustto—quitme?”sheasked.“IcametotellyouthatI’mwillingtodoasyouaskedme.Butit’snousetalkingaboutthatnow.Givememythings,please.”Sheputherhandouttowardthefender.Alexandersatdownon thearmofherchair.“Didyou think Ihad forgotten

you were in town, Hilda? Do you think I kept away by accident? Did yousuppose I didn’t knowyouwere sailingonTuesday?There is a letter for youthere,inmydeskdrawer.Itwastohavereachedyouonthesteamer.Iwasallthemorningwritingit.ItoldmyselfthatifIwerereallythinkingofyou,andnotofmyself,aletterwouldbebetterthannothing.Marksonpapermeansomethingtoyou.”Hepaused.“Theyneverdidtome.”Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and put her hand on his sleeve. “Oh,

Bartley!Didyouwritetome?Whydidn’tyoutelephonemetoletmeknowthatyouhad?ThenIwouldn’thavecome.”Alexanderslippedhisarmabouther.“Ididn’tknowitbefore,Hilda,onmy

honorIdidn’t,butIbelieveitwasbecause,deepdowninmesomewhere,Iwashoping Imight drive you to do just this. I’vewatched that door all day. I’vejumpedupifthefirecrackled.IthinkIhavefeltthatyouwerecoming.”Hebenthisfaceoverherhair.

“AndI,”shewhispered,—“Ifeltthatyouwerefeelingthat.ButwhenIcame,IthoughtIhadbeenmistaken.”Alexanderstartedupandbegantowalkupanddowntheroom.“No, youweren’tmistaken. I’ve been up in Canadawithmy bridge, and I

arrangednot tocome toNewYorkuntil afteryouhadgone.Then,whenyourmanager added twomoreweeks, Iwas already committed.”Hedroppeduponthestoolinfrontofherandsatwithhishandshangingbetweenhisknees.“WhatamItodo,Hilda?”“That’swhat Iwanted to see you about,Bartley. I’mgoing to dowhat you

askedmetodowhenyouwereinLondon.OnlyI’lldoitmorecompletely.I’mgoingtomarry.”“Who?”“Oh, it doesn’tmattermuch!One of them.Only notMac. I’m too fond of

him.”Alexandermovedrestlessly.“Areyoujoking,Hilda?”“IndeedI’mnot.”“Thenyoudon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”“Yes, I know very well. I’ve thought about it a great deal, and I’ve quite

decided.Ineverusedtounderstandhowwomendidthingslikethat,butIknownow.It’sbecausetheycan’tbeatthemercyofthemantheyloveanylonger.”Alexander flushed angrily. “So it’s better to be at themercy of aman you

don’tlove?”“Undersuchcircumstances,infinitely!”TherewasaflashinhereyesthatmadeAlexander’sfall.Hegotupandwent

overtothewindow,threwitopen,andleanedout.HeheardHildamovingaboutbehind him.When he looked over his shoulder shewas lacing her boots. Hewentbackandstoodoverher.“Hildayou’dbetterthinkawhilelongerbeforeyoudothat.Idon’tknowwhat

I ought to say, but I don’t believe you’d be happy; truly I don’t. Aren’t youtryingtofrightenme?”She tied theknotof the last lacingandputherboot-heeldownfirmly.“No;

I’mtellingyouwhatI’vemadeupmymindtodo.IsupposeIwouldbetterdoitwithouttellingyou.ButafterwardIshan’thaveanopportunitytoexplain,forIshan’tbeseeingyouagain.”Alexanderstartedtospeak,butcaughthimself.WhenHildarosehesatdown

onthearmofherchairanddrewherbackintoit.“I wouldn’t be somuch alarmed if I didn’t know how utterly reckless you

CAN be. Don’t do anything like that rashly.” His face grew troubled. “Youwouldn’t be happy. You are not that kind of woman. I’d never have anotherhour’s peace if I helped tomake you do a thing like that.” He took her facebetweenhishandsandlookeddowninto it.“Yousee,youaredifferent,Hilda.Don’t you know you are?” His voice grew softer, his touch more and moretender.“Somewomencandothatsortofthing,butyou—youcanloveasqueensdid,intheoldtime.”Hildahadheardthatsoft,deeptoneinhisvoiceonlyoncebefore.Sheclosed

hereyes;her lips andeyelids trembled. “Onlyone,Bartley.Onlyone.Andhethrewitbackatmeasecondtime.”Shefeltthestrengthleapinthearmsthatheldhersolightly.“Tryhimagain,Hilda.Tryhimonceagain.”Shelookedupintohiseyes,andhidherfaceinherhands.

CHAPTERX

On Tuesday afternoon a Boston lawyer, who had been trying a case inVermont,wasstandingonthesidingatWhiteRiverJunctionwhentheCanadianExpresspulledbyonitsnorthwardjourney.Astheday-coachesattherearendofthelongtrainsweptbyhim,thelawyernoticedatoneofthewindowsaman’shead, with thick rumpled hair. “Curious,” he thought; “that looked likeAlexander,butwhatwouldhebedoingbackthereinthedaycoaches?”Itwas,indeed,Alexander.Thatmorning a telegram fromMoorlock had reached him, telling him that

therewasserioustroublewiththebridgeandthathewasneededthereatonce,sohehadcaughtthefirsttrainoutofNewYork.Hehadtakenaseatinaday-coachtoavoidtheriskofmeetinganyoneheknew,andbecausehedidnotwishtobecomfortable.When the telegramarrived,Alexanderwasathis roomsonTenthStreet,packinghisbagtogotoBoston.OnMondaynighthehadwrittenalonglettertohiswife,butwhenmorningcamehewasafraidtosendit,andtheletter was still in his pocket. Winifred was not a woman who could beardisappointment. She demanded a great deal of herself and of the people sheloved; and she never failed herself. If he told her now, he knew, it would beirretrievable.Therewouldbenogoingback.Hewouldlosethethinghevaluedmostintheworld;hewouldbedestroyinghimselfandhisownhappiness.Therewouldbenothing forhimafterward.Heseemed to seehimselfdraggingoutarestless existence on the Continent—Cannes, Hyeres, Algiers, Cairo—amongsmartly dressed, disabledmen of every nationality; forever going on journeysthatlednowhere;hurryingtocatchtrainsthathemightjustaswellmiss;gettingupinthemorningwithagreatbustleandsplashingofwater,tobeginadaythathadnopurposeandnomeaning;dininglatetoshortenthenight,sleepinglatetoshortentheday.Andforwhat?Foramerefolly,amasquerade,alittlethingthathecouldnot

let go. AND HE COULD EVEN LET IT GO, he told himself. But he hadpromisedtobeinLondonatmid-summer,andheknewthathewouldgo....Itwasimpossibletolivelikethisanylonger.And this, then,was tobe thedisaster thathisoldprofessorhadforeseenfor

him: the crack in the wall, the crash, the cloud of dust. And he could notunderstandhowithadcomeabout.Hefeltthathehimselfwasunchanged,that

hewas still there, the sameman he had been five years ago, and that hewassittingstupidlybyandlettingsomeresoluteoffshootofhimselfspoilhislifeforhim.Thisnew forcewasnothe, itwasbut apart ofhim.Hewouldnot evenadmit that itwasstronger thanhe;but itwasmoreactive.Itwasbyitsenergythat this new feelinggot the better of him.Hiswifewas thewomanwhohadmadehislife,gratifiedhispride,givendirectiontohistastesandhabits.Thelifetheyledtogetherseemedtohimbeautiful.Winifredstillwas,asshehadalwaysbeen,Romance forhim, andwheneverhewasdeeply stirredhe turned toher.When the grandeur and beauty of theworld challenged him—as it challengeseven themost self-absorbedpeople—healwaysansweredwithhername.Thatwas his reply to the question put by the mountains and the stars; to all thespiritualaspectsoflife.Inhisfeelingforhiswifetherewasallthetenderness,allthepride, all thedevotionofwhichhewascapable.Therewaseverythingbutenergy;theenergyofyouthwhichmustregisteritselfandcutitsnamebeforeitpasses.Thisnewfeelingwassofresh,sounsatisfiedandlightoffoot.Itranandwas not wearied, anticipated him everywhere. It put a girdle round the earthwhilehewasgoingfromNewYorktoMoorlock.Atthismoment,itwastinglingthroughhim,exultant,andliveasquicksilver,whispering,“InJulyyouwillbeinEngland.”Alreadyhedreadedthelong,emptydaysatsea,themonotonousIrishcoast,

the sluggish passage up the Mersey, the flash of the boat train through thesummercountry.Heclosedhiseyesandgavehimselfuptothefeelingofrapidmotionandtoswift,terrifyingthoughts.Hewassittingso,hisfaceshadedbyhishand,whentheBostonlawyersawhimfromthesidingatWhiteRiverJunction.When at lastAlexander roused himself, the afternoon hadwaned to sunset.

Thetrainwaspassingthroughagraycountryandtheskyoverheadwasflushedwith awide floodof clear color.Therewas a rose-colored light over thegrayrocksandhillsandmeadows.Off to the left,under theapproachofaweather-stained wooden bridge, a group of boys were sitting around a little fire. Thesmell of the wood smoke blew in at the window. Except for an old farmer,jogging along the highroad in his box-wagon, there was not another livingcreaturetobeseen.Alexanderlookedbackwistfullyattheboys,campedontheedgeofalittlemarsh,crouchingundertheirshelterandlookinggravelyattheirfire. They took his mind back a long way, to a campfire on a sandbar in aWesternriver,andhewishedhecouldgobackandsitdownwiththem.Hecouldrememberexactlyhowtheworldhadlookedthen.It was quite dark and Alexander was still thinking of the boys, when it

occurredtohimthatthetrainmustbenearingAllway.Ingoingtohisnewbridge

atMoorlockhehadalwaystopassthroughAllway.ThetrainstoppedatAllwayMills, thenwoundtwomilesuptheriver,andthenthehollowsoundunderhisfeettoldBartleythathewasonhisfirstbridgeagain.Thebridgeseemedlongerthan it had ever seemed before, and hewas gladwhen he felt the beat of thewheelsonthesolidroadbedagain.Hedidnotlikecomingandgoingacrossthatbridge,orrememberingthemanwhobuiltit.Andwashe,indeed,thesamemanwhousedtowalkthatbridgeatnight,promisingsuchthings tohimselfandtothestars?Andyet,hecouldrememberitallsowell: thequiethillssleepinginthemoonlight,theslenderskeletonofthebridgereachingoutintotheriver,andupyonder,aloneonthehill,thebigwhitehouse;upstairs,inWinifred’swindow,thelightthattoldhimshewasstillawakeandstillthinkingofhim.Andafterthelightwentouthewalkedalone,takingtheheavensintohisconfidence,unabletotearhimselfawayfromthewhitemagicofthenight,unwillingtosleepbecauselongingwassosweettohim,andbecause,forthefirsttimesincefirstthehillswerehungwithmoonlight,therewasaloverintheworld.Andalwaystherewasthesoundoftherushingwaterunderneath,thesoundwhich,morethananythingelse, meant death; the wearing away of things under the impact of physicalforceswhichmen coulddirect but never circumvent or diminish.Then, in theexaltationoflove,morethaneveritseemedtohimtomeandeath,theonlyotherthing as strong as love.Under themoon, under the cold, splendid stars, therewere only those two things awake and sleepless; death and love, the rushingriverandhisburningheart.Alexandersatupandlookedabouthim.Thetrainwastearingonthroughthe

darkness.All his companions in the day-coachwere either dozing or sleepingheavily, and themurky lampswere turned low.How came he here among allthesedirtypeople?WhywashegoingtoLondon?Whatdiditmean—whatwastheanswer?Howcouldthishappentoamanwhohadlivedthroughthatmagicalspringandsummer,andwhohadfeltthatthestarsthemselveswerebutflamingparticlesinthefar-awayinfinitudesofhislove?Whathadhedonetoloseit?Howcouldheendurethebasenessoflifewithout

it?Andwitheveryrevolutionofthewheelsbeneathhim,theunquietquicksilverin his breast told him that at midsummer he would be in London. Heremembered his last night there: the red foggy darkness, the hungry crowdsbeforethetheatres,thehand-organs,thefeverishrhythmoftheblurred,crowdedstreets,andthefeelingof lettinghimselfgowiththecrowd.Heshudderedandlookedabouthimatthepoorunconsciouscompanionsofhisjourney,unkemptandtravel-stained,nowdoubledinunlovelyattitudes,whohadcometostandtohimfortheuglinesshehadbroughtintotheworld.

Andthoseboysbackthere,beginningitalljustashehadbegunit;hewishedhecouldpromisethembetterluck.Ah,ifonecouldpromiseanyonebetterluck,ifonecouldassureasinglehumanbeingofhappiness!Hehadthoughthecoulddoso,once;anditwasthinkingofthatthatheatlastfellasleep.Inhissleep,asif it had nothing fresher towork upon, hismindwent back and tortured itselfwith something years and years away, an old, long-forgotten sorrow of hischildhood.WhenAlexanderawokeinthemorning,thesunwasjustrisingthroughpale

goldenripplesofcloud,andthefreshyellowlightwasvibratingthroughthepinewoods. The white birches, with their little unfolding leaves, gleamed in thelowlands, and themarshmeadowswere already coming to lifewith their firstgreen,athin,brightcolorwhichhadrunoverthemlikefire.Asthetrainrushedalongthetrestles,thousandsofwildbirdsrosescreamingintothelight.Theskywasalreadyapaleblueandoftheclearnessofcrystal.Bartleycaughtuphisbagand hurried through the Pullman coaches until he found the conductor. Therewasastateroomunoccupied,andhetookitandsetaboutchanginghisclothes.Lastnighthewouldnothavebelievedthatanythingcouldbesopleasantasthecold water he dashed over his head and shoulders and the freshness of cleanlinenonhisbody.After he haddressed,Alexander sat down at thewindowanddrew into his

lungs deep breaths of the pine-scented air. He had awakenedwith all his oldsenseofpower.Hecouldnotbelieve that thingswereasbadwithhimas theyhadseemedlastnight,thattherewasnowaytosetthementirelyright.Evenifhewent toLondonatmidsummer,whatwould thatmeanexcept thathewasafool?Andhehadbeenafoolbefore.Thatwasnottherealityofhislife.YetheknewthathewouldgotoLondon.Half an hour later the train stopped at Moorlock. Alexander sprang to the

platform and hurried up the siding, waving to Philip Horton, one of hisassistants,whowasanxiouslylookingupatthewindowsofthecoaches.Bartleytookhisarmandtheywenttogetherintothestationbuffet.“I’llhavemycoffeefirst,Philip.Haveyouhadyours?Andnow,whatseems

tobethematteruphere?”Theyoungman,inahurried,nervousway,beganhisexplanation.ButAlexandercuthimshort.“Whendidyoustopwork?”heaskedsharply.The young engineer looked confused. “I haven’t stopped work yet, Mr.

Alexander.Ididn’tfeelthatIcouldgosofarwithoutdefiniteauthorizationfromyou.”

“Thenwhydidn’tyousayinyourtelegramexactlywhatyouthought,andaskforyourauthorization?You’dhavegotitquickenough.”“Well, really,Mr.Alexander, I couldn’tbeabsolutely sure,youknow,and I

didn’tliketotaketheresponsibilityofmakingitpublic.”Alexanderpushedbackhischairandrose.“AnythingIdocanbemadepublic,

Phil.Yousaythatyoubelievethelowerchordsareshowingstrain,andthateventheworkmenhavebeentalkingaboutit,andyetyou’vegoneonaddingweight.”“I’msorry,Mr.Alexander,butIhadcountedonyourgettinghereyesterday.

Myfirsttelegrammissedyousomehow.IsentoneSundayevening,tothesameaddress,butitwasreturnedtome.”“Haveyouacarriageoutthere?Imuststoptosendawire.”Alexanderwentuptothetelegraph-deskandpenciledthefollowingmessage

tohiswife:—Imayhavetobehereforsometime.Canyoucomeupatonce?Urgent.BARTLEY.TheMoorlockBridgelaythreemilesabovethetown.Whentheywereseated

inthecarriage,Alexanderbegantoquestionhisassistantfurther.Ifitweretruethat the compressionmembers showed strain,with the bridge only two thirdsdone,thentherewasnothingtodobutpullthewholestructuredownandbeginoveragain.Hortonkeptrepeatingthathewassuretherecouldbenothingwrongwiththeestimates.Alexandergrewimpatient.“That’salltrue,Phil,butweneverwerejustifiedin

assumingthatascalethatwasperfectlysafeforanordinarybridgewouldworkwithanythingofsuchlength.It’sallverywellonpaper,butitremainstobeseenwhether itcanbedoneinpractice. Ishouldhavethrownupthe jobwhentheycrowdedme.It’sallnonsensetotrytodowhatotherengineersaredoingwhenyouknowthey’renotsound.”“But justnow,whenthere issuchcompetition,” theyoungermandemurred.

“Andcertainlythat’sthenewlineofdevelopment.”Alexandershruggedhisshouldersandmadenoreply.When they reached the bridge works, Alexander began his examination

immediately.Anhourlaterhesentforthesuperintendent.“Ithinkyouhadbetterstopworkoutthereatonce,Dan.Ishouldsaythatthelowerchordheremightbuckle at anymoment. I told theCommission thatwewere using higher unitstressesthananypracticehasestablished,andwe’veputthedeadloadatalowestimate.Theoreticallyitworkedoutwellenough,butithadneveractuallybeen

tried.”Alexander put on his overcoat and took the superintendent by the arm.“Don’t looksochopfallen,Dan. It’sa jolt,butwe’vegot toface it. It isn’t theend of the world, you know. Nowwe’ll go out and call the men off quietly.They’realreadynervous,Hortontellsme,andthere’snousealarmingthem.I’llgowithyou,andwe’llsendtheendrivetersinfirst.”Alexanderand thesuperintendentpicked theirwayoutslowlyover the long

span.Theywentdeliberately, stopping to seewhat eachgangwasdoing, as iftheywereonanordinaryroundofinspection.Whentheyreachedtheendoftheriverspan,Alexandernoddedtothesuperintendent,whoquietlygaveanordertothe foreman. The men in the end gang picked up their tools and, glancingcuriously at each other, started back across the bridge toward the river-bank.Alexander himself remained standing where they had been working, lookingabouthim.Itwashardtobelieve,ashelookedbackoverit,thatthewholegreatspan was incurably disabled, was already as good as condemned, becausesomethingwasoutoflineinthelowerchordofthecantileverarm.Theend rivetershad reached thebankandweredispersing among the tool-

houses,andthesecondganghadpickeduptheirtoolsandwerestartingtowardthe shore.Alexander, still standingat theendof the river span, saw the lowerchordofthecantileverarmgivealittle,likeanelbowbending.Heshoutedandranafterthesecondgang,butbythistimeeveryoneknewthatthebigriverspanwas slowly settling. There was a burst of shouting that was immediatelydrowned by the scream and cracking of tearing iron, as all the tension workbegantopullasunder.Oncethechordsbegantobuckle,therewerethousandsoftonsofironwork,allrivetedtogetherandlyinginmidairwithoutsupport.Ittoreitselftopieceswithroaringandgrindingandnoisesthatwereliketheshrieksofa steamwhistle. Therewas no shock of any kind; the bridge had no impetusexceptfromitsownweight.Itlurchedneithertorightnorleft,butsankalmostinaverticalline,snappingandbreakingandtearingasitwent,becausenointegralpart couldbear for an instant theenormous strain loosedupon it.Someof themenjumpedandsomeran,tryingtomaketheshore.Atthefirstshriekofthetearingiron,Alexanderjumpedfromthedownstream

sideofthebridge.Hestruckthewaterwithoutinjuryanddisappeared.Hewasundertheriveralongtimeandhadgreatdifficultyinholdinghisbreath.Whenitseemed impossible, andhis chestwasabout toheave,he thoughtheheardhiswife tellinghim thathecouldholdouta little longer.An instant laterhis faceclearedthewater.Foramoment,inthedepthsoftheriver,hehadrealizedwhatitwouldmeantodieahypocrite,andtoliedeadunderthelastabandonmentofhertenderness.Butonceinthelightandair,heknewheshouldlivetotellher

andtorecoverallhehadlost.Now,atlast,hefeltsureofhimself.Hewasnotstartled.Itseemedtohimthathehadbeenthroughsomethingofthissortbefore.Therewasnothinghorribleaboutit.This,too,waslife,andlifewasactivity,justasitwasinBostonorinLondon.Hewashimself,andtherewassomethingtobedone;everythingseemedperfectlynatural.Alexanderwasastrongswimmer,buthe had gone scarcely a dozen strokeswhen the bridge itself, which had beensettling faster and faster, crashed into the water behind him. Immediately theriverwasfullofdrowningmen.AgangofFrenchCanadiansfellalmostontopofhim.Hethoughthehadclearedthem,whentheybegancomingupallaroundhim,clutchingathimandateachother.Someofthemcouldswim,buttheywereeitherhurtorcrazedwithfright.Alexandertriedtobeatthemoff,butthereweretoomanyof them.Onecaughthimabout theneck,anothergrippedhimaboutthemiddle,andtheywentdowntogether.Whenhesank,hiswifeseemedtobethereinthewaterbesidehim,tellinghimtokeephishead,thatifhecouldholdout themenwoulddrownandreleasehim.Therewassomethinghewanted totellhiswife,buthecouldnotthinkclearlyfortheroaringinhisears.Suddenlyherememberedwhatitwas.Hecaughthisbreath,andthenshelethimgo.Theworkofrecoveringthedeadwentonalldayandallthefollowingnight.

Bythenextmorningforty-eightbodieshadbeentakenoutoftheriver,buttherewerestilltwentymissing.Manyofthemenhadfallenwiththebridgeandwereheld downunder the debris.Early on themorning of the secondday a closedcarriagewasdriven slowlyalong the river-bankand stoppeda littlebelow theworks,wheretheriverboiledandchurnedaboutthegreatironcarcasswhichlayina straight line two thirdsacross it.Thecarriage stood therehourafterhour,andwordsoonspreadamongthecrowdsontheshorethatitsoccupantwasthewifeoftheChiefEngineer;hisbodyhadnotyetbeenfound.Thewidowsofthelostworkmen,movingupanddownthebankwithshawlsovertheirheads,someofthemcarryingbabies,lookedattherustyhiredhackmanytimesthatmorning.Theydrewnearitandwalkedaboutit,butnoneofthemventuredtopeerwithin.Evenhalf-indifferent sightseers dropped their voices as they told a newcomer:“You see that carriageover there?That’sMrs.Alexander.Theyhaven’t foundhim yet. She got off the train this morning. Horton met her. She heard it inBostonyesterday—heardthenewsboyscryingitinthestreet.”AtnoonPhilipHortonmadehiswaythroughthecrowdwithatrayandatin

coffee-potfromthecampkitchen.WhenhereachedthecarriagehefoundMrs.Alexander justashehadlefther in theearlymorning, leaningforwarda little,withherhandontheloweredwindow,lookingattheriver.Hourafterhourshehadbeenwatchingthewater,thelonely,uselessstonetowers,andtheconvulsed

massofironwreckageoverwhichtheangryrivercontinuallyspatupitsyellowfoam.“Thosepoorwomenoutthere,dotheyblamehimverymuch?”sheasked,as

shehandedthecoffee-cupbacktoHorton.“Nobodyblameshim,Mrs.Alexander.Ifanyoneistoblame,I’mafraidit’sI.

Ishouldhavestoppedworkbeforehecame.HesaidsoassoonasImethim.Itried togethimhereadayearlier,butmy telegrammissedhim,somehow.Hedidn’thavetimereallytoexplaintome.Ifhe’dgothereMonday,he’dhavehadall the men off at once. But, you see, Mrs. Alexander, such a thing neverhappened before. According to all human calculations, it simply couldn’thappen.”Hortonleanedwearilyagainstthefrontwheelofthecab.Hehadnothadhis

clothesoffforthirtyhours,andthestimulusofviolentexcitementwasbeginningtowearoff.“Don’tbeafraidtotellmetheworst,Mr.Horton.Don’tleavemetothedread

offindingoutthingsthatpeoplemaybesaying.Ifheisblamed,ifheneedsanyone to speak for him,”—for the first time her voice broke and a flush of life,tearful,painful,andconfused,sweptoverherrigidpallor,—“ifheneedsanyone,tellme,showmewhattodo.”Shebegantosob,andHortonhurriedaway.Whenhecamebackatfouro’clockintheafternoonhewascarryinghishatin

hishand,andWinifredknewassoonasshesawhimthattheyhadfoundBartley.Sheopenedthecarriagedoorbeforehereachedherandsteppedtotheground.Hortonputouthishandasiftoholdherbackandspokepleadingly:“Won’t

youdriveuptomyhouse,Mrs.Alexander?Theywilltakehimupthere.”“Takemetohimnow,please.Ishallnotmakeanytrouble.”The group of men down under the riverbank fell back when they saw a

womancoming,andoneofthemthrewatarpaulinoverthestretcher.TheytookofftheirhatsandcapsasWinifredapproached,andalthoughshehadpulledherveildownoverherfacetheydidnotlookupather.ShewastallerthanHorton,andsomeofthementhoughtshewasthetallestwomantheyhadeverseen.“Astall ashimself,” someonewhispered.Hortonmotioned to themen, and sixofthem lifted the stretcher and began to carry it up the embankment. Winifredfollowedthemthehalf-miletoHorton’shouse.Shewalkedquietly,withoutoncebreaking or stumbling. When the bearers put the stretcher down in Horton’ssparebedroom,she thanked themandgaveherhand toeach in turn.Themenwentoutofthehouseandthroughtheyardwiththeircapsintheirhands.Theyweretoomuchconfusedtosayanythingastheywentdownthehill.

Hortonhimselfwasalmostasdeeplyperplexed.“Mamie,”hesaidtohiswife,when he came out of the spare room half an hour later, “will you takeMrs.Alexanderthethingssheneeds?Sheisgoingtodoeverythingherself.Juststayaboutwhereyoucanhearherandgoinifshewantsyou.”EverythinghappenedasAlexanderhadforeseeninthatmomentofprescience

under the river.With her own hands shewashed him clean of everymark ofdisaster.Allnighthewasalonewithherinthestillhouse,hisgreatheadlyingdeepinthepillow.InthepocketofhiscoatWinifredfoundtheletterthathehadwritten her the night before he leftNewYork,water-soaked and illegible, butbecauseofitslength,sheknewithadbeenmeantforher.ForAlexander deathwas an easy creditor. Fortune,which had smiled upon

himconsistentlyallhislife,didnotdeserthimintheend.Hisharshestcriticsdidnot doubt that, had he lived, he would have retrieved himself. Even LuciusWilsondidnotseeinthisaccidentthedisasterhehadonceforetold.Whenagreatmandiesinhisprimethereisnosurgeonwhocansaywhether

hedidwell;whetherornotthefuturewashis,asitseemedtobe.Themindthatsocietyhadcometoregardasapowerfulandreliablemachine,dedicatedtoitsservice,mayforalongtimehavebeensickwithinitselfandbentuponitsowndestruction.

EPILOGUE

ProfessorWilsonhadbeenlivinginLondonforsixyearsandhewasjustbackfromavisittoAmerica.Oneafternoon,soonafterhisreturn,heputonhisfrock-coatanddroveinahansomtopayacalluponHildaBurgoyne,whostilllivedather old number, off Bedford Square. He and Miss Burgoyne had been fastfriendsforalongtime.HehadfirstnoticedheraboutthecorridorsoftheBritishMuseum,wherehereadconstantly.Herbeingtheresooftenhadmadehimfeelthathewould like toknowher, andas shewasnot an inaccessibleperson, anintroductionwasnotdifficult.Thepreliminariesonceover,theycametodependa great deal upon each other, andWilson, after his day’s reading, often wentroundtoBedfordSquareforhistea.Theyhadmuchmoreincommonthantheirmemoriesofacommonfriend. Indeed, theyseldomspokeofhim.Theysavedthatforthedeepmomentswhichdonotcomeoften,andthentheirtalkofhimwasmostly silence.Wilsonknew thatHildahad lovedhim;more than thishehadnottriedtoknow.It was late when Wilson reached Hilda’s apartment on this particular

December afternoon, andhe foundher alone.She sent for fresh tea andmadehimcomfortable,asshehadsuchaknackofmakingpeoplecomfortable.“How good you were to come back before Christmas! I quite dreaded the

Holidayswithoutyou.You’vehelpedmeoveragoodmanyChristmases.”Shesmiledathimgayly.“Asifyouneededmeforthat!But,atanyrate,IneededYOU.Howwellyou

arelooking,mydear,andhowrested.”Hepeeredupatherfromhislowchair,balancingthetipsofhislongfingers

togetherinajudicialmannerwhichhadgrownonhimwithyears.Hilda laughed as she carefully poured his cream. “That means that I was

lookingveryseedyattheendoftheseason,doesn’tit?Well,wemustshowwearatlast,youknow.”Wilsontookthecupgratefully.“Ah,noneedtoremindamanofseventy,who

has just been home to find that he has survived all his contemporaries. Iwasmostgentlytreated—asasortofpreciousrelic.But,doyouknow,itmademefeelawkwardtobehangingaboutstill.”“Seventy? Never mention it to me.” Hilda looked appreciatively at the

Professor’salertface,withsomanykindlylinesabout themouthandsomanyquizzicalones about the eyes. “You’vegot tohangabout forme,youknow. Ican’tevenletyougohomeagain.Youmuststayput,nowthatIhaveyouback.You’retherealestthingIhave.”Wilsonchuckled.“Dearme,amI?Outofsomanyconquestsandthespoilsof

conqueredcities!You’vereallymissedme?Well,then,Ishallhang.Evenifyouhave at last to putME in the mummy-room with the others. You’ll visit meoften,won’tyou?”“Everydayinthecalendar.Here,yourcigarettesareinthisdrawer,whereyou

leftthem.”Shestruckamatchandlitoneforhim.“Butyoudid,afterall,enjoybeingathomeagain?”“Oh, yes. I found the long railway journeys trying. People live a thousand

milesapart.ButIdiditthoroughly;Iwasallovertheplace.ItwasinBostonIlingeredlongest.”“Ah,yousawMrs.Alexander?”“Often. Idinedwithher,andhad tea thereadozendifferent times, I should

think.Indeed,itwastoseeherthatIlingeredonandon.IfoundthatIstilllovedtogotothehouse.ItalwaysseemedasifBartleywerethere,somehow,andthatat anymomentonemight hear his heavy trampon the stairs.Doyouknow, Ikeptfeelingthathemustbeupinhisstudy.”TheProfessorlookedreflectivelyintothegrate.“Ishouldreallyhavelikedtogoupthere.ThatwaswhereIhadmylastlongtalkwithhim.ButMrs.Alexanderneversuggestedit.”“Why?”Wilsonwasalittlestartledbyhertone,andheturnedhisheadsoquicklythat

hiscuff-linkcaughtthestringofhisnose-glassesandpulledthemawry.“Why?Why,dearme,Idon’tknow.Sheprobablyneverthoughtofit.”Hilda bit her lip. “I don’t know what made me say that. I didn’t mean to

interrupt.Goonplease,andtellmehowitwas.”“Well,itwaslikethat.Almostasifhewerethere.Inaway,hereallyisthere.

She never lets him go. It’s themost beautiful and dignified sorrow I’ve everknown. It’s so beautiful that it has its compensations, I should think. Its verycompletenessisacompensation.Itgivesherafixedstartosteerby.Shedoesn’tdrift.Wesat thereeveningafterevening in thequietof thatmagicallyhauntedroom, andwatched the sunsetburnon the river, and felt him.Felt himwith adifference,ofcourse.”Hildaleanedforward,herelbowonherknee,herchinonherhand.“Witha

difference?Becauseofher,youmean?”Wilson’s browwrinkled. “Something like that, yes.Of course, as timegoes

on,toherhebecomesmoreandmoretheirsimplepersonalrelation.”Hilda studied the droop of the Professor’s head intently. “You didn’t

altogetherlikethat?Youfeltitwasn’twhollyfairtohim?”Wilsonshookhimselfandreadjustedhisglasses.“Oh,fairenough.Morethan

fair.Ofcourse,Ialwaysfeltthatmyimageofhimwasjustalittledifferentfromhers.Norelationissocompletethatitcanholdabsolutelyallofaperson.AndIlikedhimjustashewas;hisdeviations,too;theplaceswherehedidn’tsquare.”Hildaconsideredvaguely.“Hasshegrownmucholder?”sheaskedatlast.“Yes, and no. In a tragicway she is even handsomer. But colder. Cold for

everything but him. `Forget thyself to marble’; I kept thinking of that. Herhappinesswasahappinessadeux,notapartfromtheworld,butactuallyagainstit.Andnowhergrief is like that.She savesherself for it anddoesn’t evengothrough the formof seeingpeoplemuch. I’msorry. Itwouldbebetter forher,andmightbesogoodforthem,ifshecouldletotherpeoplein.”“Perhaps she’s afraid of letting him out a little, of sharing him with

somebody.”Wilsonputdownhiscupandlookedupwithvaguealarm.“Dearme,ittakesa

womanto thinkof that,now!Idon’t,youknow, thinkweought tobehardonher.More,even,thantherestofusshedidn’tchooseherdestiny.Sheunderwentit.And ithas leftherchilled.As tohernotwishing to take theworld intoherconfidence—well,itisaprettybrutalandstupidworld,afterall,youknow.”Hildaleanedforward.“Yes,Iknow,Iknow.OnlyIcan’thelpbeinggladthat

therewassomethingforhimeveninstupidandvulgarpeople.MylittleMarieworshipedhim.Whenshe isdustingIalwaysknowwhenshehascometohispicture.”Wilsonnodded.“Oh,yes!Heleftanecho.Theripplesgooninallofus.He

belongedtothepeoplewhomaketheplay,andmostofusareonlyonlookersatthebest.Weshouldn’twondertoomuchatMrs.Alexander.Shemustfeelhowuselessitwouldbetostirabout, thatshemayaswellsitstill; thatnothingcanhappentoherafterBartley.”“Yes,”saidHildasoftly,“nothingcanhappentooneafterBartley.”Theybothsatlookingintothefire.

THEBARRELORGANbyAlfredNoyes

There’sabarrel-organcarolingacrossagoldenstreet,

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Andthemusic’snotimmortal;buttheworldhasmadeitsweet

Andfulfilleditwiththesunsetglow;

AnditpulsesthroughthepleasuresoftheCityandthepain

Thatsurroundthesingingorganlikealargeeternallight;

Andthey’vegivenitagloryandaparttoplayagain

IntheSymphonythatrulesthedayandthenight.

Andnowit’smarchingonwardthroughtherealmsofoldromance,

Andtrollingoutafondfamiliartune,

Andnowit’sroaringcannondowntofighttheKingofFrance,

Andnowit’sprattlingsoftlytothemoon,

Andallaroundtheorganthere’saseawithoutashore

Ofhumanjoysandwondersandregrets;

Torememberandtorecompensethemusicevermore

Forwhatthecoldmachineryforgets....

Yes;asthemusicchanges,

Likeaprismaticglass,

Ittakesthelightandranges

Throughallthemoodsthatpass;

Dissectsthecommoncarnival

Ofpassionsandregrets,

Andgivestheworldaglimpseofall

Thecolorsitforgets.

AndthereLATRAVIATAsights

Anothersaddersong;

AndthereILTROVATOREcries

Ataleofdeeperwrong;

Andbolderknightstobattlego

Withswordandshieldandlance,

Thaneverhereonearthbelow

Havewhirledinto—ADANCE!—

GodowntoKewinlilactime;inlilactime;inlilactime;

GodowntoKewinlilactime;(itisn’tfarfromLondon!)

Andyoushallwanderhandinhandwithloveinsummer’swonderland;

GodowntoKewinlilactime;(itisn’tfarfromLondon!)

Thecherry-treesareseasofbloomandsoftperfumeandsweetperfume,

Thecherry-treesareseasofbloom(andoh,soneartoLondon!)

Andtheretheysay,whendawnishighandalltheworld’sablazeofsky

Thecuckoo,thoughhe’sveryshy,willsingasongforLondon.

Thenightingaleisratherrareandyettheysayyou’llhearhimthere

AtKew,atKewinlilactime(andoh,soneartoLondon!)

Thelinnetandthethrostle,too,andafterdarkthelonghalloo

Andgolden-eyedTU-WHIT,TUWHOOofowlsthatogleLondon.

ForNoahhardlyknewabirdofanykindthatisn’theard

AtKew,atKewinlilactime(andoh,soneartoLondon!)

Andwhentherosebeginstopoutandallthechestnutspiresareout

You’llheartherestwithoutadoubt,allchorusingforLondon:—

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;INLILACTIME;INLILACTIME;

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;(ITISN’TFARFROMLONDON!)

ANDYOUSHALLWANDERHANDINHANDWITHLOVEINSUMMER’SWONDERLAND;

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;(ITISN’TFARFROMLONDON!)

Andthenthetroubadourbeginstothrillthegoldenstreet,

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Andinallthegaudybussestherearescoresofwearyfeet

Markingtime,sweettime,withadullmechanicbeat,

Andathousandheartsareplungingtoalovethey’llnevermeet,

Throughthemeadowsofthesunset,throughthepoppiesandthewheat,

Inthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

Verdi,Verdi,whenyouwroteILTROVATOREdidyoudream

OftheCitywhenthesunsinkslow

Oftheorganandthemonkeyandthemany-coloredstream

OnthePiccadillypavement,ofthemyriadeyesthatseem

TobelittenforamomentwithawildItaliangleam

AsACHELAMORTEparodiestheworld’seternaltheme

Andpulseswiththesunsetglow?

There’sathief,perhaps,thatlistenswithafaceoffrozenstone

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

There’saportlymanofbusinesswithabalanceofhisown,

There’saclerkandthere’sabutcherofasoftreposefultone,

Andthey’reallthemreturningtotheheavenstheyhaveknown:

Theyarecrammedandjammedinbussesand—they’reeachofthemalone

Inthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

There’saverymodishwomanandhersmileisverybland

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Andherhansomjinglesonward,butherlittlejeweledhand

Isclenchedalittletighterandshecannotunderstand

Whatshewantsorwhyshewanderstothatundiscoveredland,

Forthepartiestherearenotatallthesortofthingsheplanned,

Inthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

There’sanOxfordmanthatlistensandhisheartiscryingout

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Forthebargetheeight,theIsis,andthecoach’swhoopandshout,

Fortheminutegun,thecountingandthelongdisheveledrout,

Forthehowlalongthetow-pathandafatethat’sstillindoubt,

Foraroughenedoartohandleandaracetothinkabout

Inthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

There’salaborerthatlistentothevoicesofthedead

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Andhishandbeginstotrembleandhisfaceisratherred

Asheseesaloaferwatchinghimand—thereheturnshishead

AndstaresintothesunsetwherehisAprilloveisfled,

Forhehearshersoftlysingingandhislonelysoulisled

Throughthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

There’sandoldandhardeneddemi-rep,it’sringinginherears,

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Withthewildandemptysorrowofthelovethatblightsandsears,

Oh,andifshehurriesonward,thenbesure,besureshehears,

Hearsandbearsthebitterburdenoftheunforgottenyears,

Andherlaugh’salittleharsherandhereyesarebrimmedwithtears

Forthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

There’sabarrel-organcarolingacrossagoldenstreet,

IntheCityasthesunsinkslow;

Thoughthemusic’sonlyVerdithere’saworldtomakeitsweet

Justasyonderyellowsunsetwheretheearthandheavenmeet

MellowsallthesootyCity!Hark,ahundredthousandfeet

Aremarchingontoglorythroughthepoppiesandthewheat

Inthelandwherethedeaddreamsgo.

Soit’sJeremiah,Jeremiah,

Whathaveyoutosay

Whenyoumeetthegarlandgirls

Trippingontheirway?

Allaroundmygalahat

Iwearawreathofroses

(Alongandlonelyyearitis

I’vewaitedfortheMay!)

Ifanyoneshouldaskyou,

ThereasonwhyIwearitis,

Myownlove,mytruelove,iscominghometo-day.

It’sbuyabunchofvioletsforthelady

(IT’SLILACTIMEINLONDON;IT’SLILACTIMEINLONDON!)

Buyabunchofvioletsforthelady;

Whiletheskyburnsblueabove:

Ontheothersideofthestreetyou’llfinditshady

(IT’SLILACTIMEINLONDON;IT’SLILACTIMEINLONDON!)

Butbuyabunchofvioletsforthelady;

Andtellhershe’syourowntruelove.

There’sabarrel-organcarolingacrossagoldenstreet,

IntheCityasthesunsinksglitteringandslow;

Andthemusic’snotimmortal,buttheworldhasmadeitsweet

Andenricheditwiththeharmoniesthatmakeasongcomplete

Inthedeeperheavensofmusicwherethenightandmorningmeet,

Asitdiesintothesunsetglow;

AnditpulsesthroughthepleasuresoftheCityandthepain

Thatsurroundthesingingorganlikealargeeternallight,

Andthey’vegivenitagloryandapartofplayagain

IntheSymphonythatrulesthedayandnight.

Andthere,asthemusicchanges,

Thesongrunsroundagain;

Oncemoreitturnsandranges

Throughallitsjoyandpain:

Dissectsthecommoncarnival

Ofpassionsandregrets;

Andthewheelingworldremembersall

Thewheelingsongforgets.

OncemoreLaTRAVIATAsighs

Anothersaddersong:

OncemoreILTROVATOREcries

Ataleofdeeperwrong;

Oncemoretheknightstobattlego

Withswordandshieldandlance,

Tillonce,oncemore,theshatteredfoe

Haswhirledinto—ADANCE—

ComedowntoKewinlilactime;inlilactime;inlilactime;

ComedowntoKewinlilactime;(itisn’tfarfromLondon!)

AndyoushallwanderhandinhandwithLoveinsummer’swonderland;

ComedowntoKewinlilactime;(itisn’tfarfromLondon!)

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;INLILACTIME;INLILACTIME;

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;(ITISN’TFARFROMLONDON!)

ANDYOUSHALLWANDERHANDINHANDWITHLOVEINSUMMER’SWONDERLAND;

COMEDOWNTOKEWINLILACTIME;(ITISN’TFARFROMLONDON!)

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