PHOEBE, ERNEST, AND
CUPID
By
INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE
Author of
"Phoebe and Ernest," "Janey," etc.
With Illustrations by
R. F. SCHABELITZ
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1912
4 ^
Copyright, igio. 1911, 1912.
BY
THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING CO.
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
Published October^ 1912
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TNI OUINN * iOOFN CO. mill
HAHWAY, N. J.
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E. L.
S. L. L.
L. J. L.
271111
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Ernest and the Law of Order
II. Phoebe and the Little Blind God
III. Phoebe Among the Bohemians
IV. Ernest Lays down His Arms
V. Phoebe Closes with Cupid .
VI. The Discoveries .
VII. The House Book .
VIII. I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
IX. Ernest and the Conspirators
X. Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
XI. Till He Gets Him a Wife .
XII. The Found Children .
PAGE
I
25
55
100
128
154
184
215
242
265
288
313
ILLUSTRATIONS
And I walked out of the shop and left him there . Frontispiece
PAGE
No, I tell you what let's do, father — we'll send mother on
to Princeton to visit Ern 15
Sometimes when the "gang" is here we have dinner in
"The Garret" 93
"Oh, Phoebe!" he said in a careless voice. "Phoebe is
not like other girls. She won't bother us any" . . 102
" Thank you, Mrs. Martin," she said, " you've saved my
life. Mother and father, I'm engaged to Tug Warbur-
ton" 135
" Mother Martin," Phoebe said, bursting into the conver-
sation, " is that true, every word of it? " . . . . 167
Talk about your hanging gardens of Babylon ! . . . 226
" Pretty — snappy — work — Mr. Martin ! " she said. And
then, " Do — you — love — my — little — girl — father — dear-
est?" 286
PHOEBE, ERNEST, AND CUPID
CHAPTER I
ERNEST AND THE LAW OF ORDER
OUTSIDE a late September gale was tearing
the landscape into shreds. The roads, car-
peted with a sodden mat of fallen leaves, ran be-
tween yellow gutter-torrents. Most of the flower-
plots on the Martin place looked as if they had been
trampled. Only the sturdier blooms — asters and
dahlias — arose to their full height after the wind-
gusts had passed. The elms and maples, tortured
into monstrous distortions of themselves, wrestled
with the elements like human things.
The note of destruction seemed to be carried out
in Ernest's room. A trunk gaped empty in the mid-
dle of the floor. About it lay books, papers, shoes,
hats and caps. A confused mass of clothes hid the
bed. All the wall decorations — trophies of his
many sporting interests — were down. Ernest had
left them in dusty heaps just where they fell. The
paper of the high, gaunt walls showed faded spots,
their exact shape. It was as if Ernest, emerging into
manhood, were leaving the empty shell of his boy-
hood behind.
2 Ernest and the Law of Order
Mrs. Martin sank listlessly into the big chair
and gazed about her. The storm outside and the
storm inside seemed a mere echo of the tempest in
her own heart. For Mrs. Martin's nerves were all
on edge that morning. Just after breakfast, the
arrival of Ernest's new trunk had seemed to put an
extra, a poignant finish to the long fight which she
had waged, single-handed.
In brief, the struggle had been with Ernest. And
Ernest had won. He was leaving home in a week.
Mrs. Martin had always realized that the time
would come when she must step down from her posi-
tion as dictator of her children's lives, must hand
the reins of government over to them. Her only
complaint was that, to her, it had come prematurely.
In Ernest's case, she had consciously watched the
successive stages of his approach to manhood free-
dom. First, she had caught him shaving in secret.
A little later, things had so fallen that it seemed
wise to give him a latch-key — this, at least two years
earlier than she had planned. Often now he spent
his evenings away from home. Mrs. Martin never
asked any questions about these nocturnal excursions.
But she was glad that Ernest volunteered his brief
curt account of them. In fact, she plumed herself
on the composure with which she reconciled herself
to these steps. She only hoped that the succeeding
ones would come with an equal slowness and nat-
uralness.
There was no reason to think they would not.
They were planning to send Ernest to Harvard.
Ernest and the Law of Order 3
All the years that her son had been growing up,
Mrs. Martin had been counting on those four
years at Cambridge. She always thought happily
of them as a little nest-egg tucked away in the bank
of her happiness. When the time should come, she
promised herself that she would spend it prodigally.
Ernest would be a man and of course emancipate.
But he would sleep at home. He would spend his
Sundays and his holidays with his family. A long,
wide road of content stretched four years ahead into
Mrs. Martin's future. And then, suddenly, like the
traditional bolt from the blue, the unforeseen hap-
pened.
Ernest had announced that he did not want to
go to Harvard; he wanted to go to Princeton. His
reason for this change in plan was vague. For a
long time, he had been thinking that he would prefer
one of the smaller colleges. The summer before, at
Camp Hello, he had met Sandy Williston. Sandy
was a sophomore at Princeton and a crackerjack.
He had told Ernest a lot about his alma mater and
the long and the short of it was that Ernest wanted
to go there.
Mrs. Martin set herself against this scheme with
all the intensity of her nature. And at first both
Mr. Martin and Phoebe sided with her.
" It's out of the question, Ernest," Mr. Martin
said. " You know that I've always wanted you to
go to Harvard. Now don't bother me with it
again."
" Well, Ern Martin," Phoebe said, " if you aren't
4 Ernest and the Law of Order
the queer thing! Why, you've talked Harvard to
me until you were blue in the face. If you only
knew the thousands of times I've lain awake nights
planning your class-day spread! "
Ernest sulked for a week and Mrs. Martin
thought the episode was closed. But apparently he
re-opened the siege and this time in secret. For
first Phoebe deserted with a :
11 Well, mother, I was talking with Ern last night
and, come to think of it, I don't see why he shouldn't
do what he likes. Besides, with Tug at Harvard and
Ern at Princeton, I'll have a pull at two colleges.
And it would be perfectly dandy going up there to
visit Ern — he says that Sandy says that the Prince-
ton Inn is a perfect pippin. Ern says he'll do any-
thing for me when I come on."
Phoebe's defection counted for little; Mrs. Mar-
tin fought on, calmly confident of victory. And
then one night Ernest had a long talk with his
father.
" Mother," Mr. Martin said to his wife after
they went to bed, " I guess we've got to let Ernest
go. After all, it's a thing he ought to settle for
himself. We don't want to have him say later that
we stood in the way of his doing the thing he most
wanted to do." And at a panic-stricken remon-
strance from Mrs. Martin, he added, " I must say,
Bertha, I don't see why you hold out so. You
certainly put it up to me all right when it was a
question of Phoebe's going to Europe. The truth
of the matter is, the boy^s tied too close to your
Ernest and the Law of Order 5
apron-strings. He doesn't say it's that. He doesn't
know it's that. But that's the whole thing in a nut-
shell."
Tied to her apron-strings! Mrs. Martin had
never realized in full the ignominy of that insulting
phrase. She did not sleep all night. And in the
morning she said, " Ernest, if your heart is set on
going to Princeton, I have no further objection to
offer."
" Well, you see that it doesn't happen again —
that's all ! " This was Ernest's voice.
" Well, you bettah quit a-talking dat-away to me
or Ah'll jess natchally " This was Flora's voice.
Mrs. Martin started out of her preoccupation and
listened. What she heard brought her, almost on
a run, to the door. There, she listened again. It
was unmistakable — the sounds coming from the
kitchen were of strife, not merriment.
"Ernie!" she called peremptorily. "Come up
here this minute. I want to speak to you."
" All right." Ernest's tone was that of a sulky
acquiescence. But when, an instant later, he came
leaping up the stairs, the fire of an active wrath
still burned in his eyes.
" What is it this time? " his mother asked sternly.
" It's the way that dinge does my bed, mother.
I've been giving her ballyhoo for it. She either
tucks the clothes in too loose so that they all come
out at the foot and I never can get them back, or
6 Ernest and the Law of Order
she tucks them in so far that there's nothing to
come up around my neck. I never saw such a
fool-coon in my life. I wish you'd fire her — she's
no good."
11 Ernie," Mrs. Martin said desperately, " don't
you say another word to Flora until I give you
permission. If she should leave me in the lurch with
your Uncle Paul and your Aunt Susie coming for
over Sunday If you have any fault to find with
her, tell me and I'll see that it's remedied. I
wouldn't lose Flora for a farm down east. She's
the best girl I ever had."
" She's too fresh," Ernest growled.
u That's only because you're so saucy to her.
How many times, Ernie, have I told you that you
ought to show more consideration to servants? The
way things are in this world, they're placed in a
very disagreeable position. You go down there and
rile them all up. And yet no matter what you say
or how mad they get, they can't answer back. For
they know, if I overhear it, I've got to discharge
them. That's why you should never get into a
quarrel with them, no matter what they do. It's
cowardly — you're hitting somebody weaker than
yourself. I don't know how I'm ever going to teach
you that, for I don't believe there's a week of your
life gone by that I haven't said this very same thing
to you."
" Well, I guess I'm not going to take any back
talk from a great fat smoke like Flora. If she was
a man, I'd hand her the swiftest wallop she ever
Ernest and the Law of Order 7
got. Ever since she won that fifty cents off me on
the prize-fight, she thinks she's made. I bet you
Williams don't keep the championship two years.
When did he ever go up against a first-class pug,
anyway? "
" That will do, Ernie. And don't you mention
that prize-fight again. I am sick and tired of the
sound of the name. And remember I shall punish
you severely if you get into any more trouble with
Flora."
At the harshness of his mother's tone, Ernest
looked at her in surprise. And with the entrance
into her admonition of " punish you severely," a
phrase long extinct from family discipline, he
emitted a low whistle. He changed it into the
opening bars of the " Villikins and his Dinah " and
he made a great pretense of indifference as he
turned away.
Mrs. Martin fell back into her reverie. Ernest
was not as competent as a baby to take care of him-
self. The disturbance that she had just quelled illus-
trated one of his crotchets perfectly. He had abso-
lutely no capacity for getting along with servants.
Phoebe, much more diplomatic, always managed to
keep on the right side of them. But Ernest — Mrs.
Martin had tried American, Irish, African, Swede
— there had been one ghastly week in which an
Italian reigned in the kitchen. The result was al-
ways the same. Ernest immediately started on
the war-path. It was not so much that he stole pies,
cakes, cookies, jellies, preserves. It was not even
8 Ernest and the Law of Order
that he brought hordes of boys into the house to
track mud over stainless kitchen floors. It was
more that he eternally argued with them. And
when Ernest started an argument — unconsciously
Mrs. Martin's figure slumped in her chair.
Mrs. Martin tried to picture Ernest in a strange
boarding house, surrounded by strange people, min-
istered to by strange servants. Well, she knew what
would happen. There would be a row and that was
all there was to it. And she or Mr. Martin would
have to go on to patch it up.
"Ern! Ern!"
It was Phoebe calling. And there was that note
in her voice which brought Mrs. Martin out of her
meditation and impelled her to listen — to listen with
the air of one slightly on the defensive. It was
one thing for her to criticize Ernest and another
thing for anybody else to do it. The son and heir
of the Martin family could always be sure of one
champion in it.
"Ern Martin!" Phoebe's voice had an inflec-
tion positively dangerous.
11 Oh, what is it? " came Ernest's sulky tones.
14 Ern Martin, if you ever again leave the bath-
room looking the way it does now when I'm expect-
ing company, I'll — I'll — well, I don't know what I
will do. But it will be something you'll remember.
If Sylvia Gordon had happened to glance in it, I
should have sunk to the ground. It looks like a
bird-cage after the canary's taken a bath. The ceil-
Ernest and the Law of Order 9
ing's the only thing that isn't splashed ! And towels
— and wash-rags — and sponges "
The last words came in jerks. Mrs. Martin visu-
alized Phoebe's lithe stoopings, her curling nostril,
as she picked these messy articles up.
" and as for the tub — well, I'd be ashamed to
let people know I could get so dirty. When I think
that, somewhere in the world, Ern Martin, there's
a poor helpless female growing up that's going to
draw you for a husband, I pity her more than tongue
can tell. That mutt of a patient Griselda that we
studied in Chaucer won't be a circumstance to her.
With mother Martin working her hands to the bone
getting you ready for college, I should think "
" Oh, dry up ! " came in wrathful explosion from
Ernest. His door slammed.
But, undiscouraged, Phoebe kept on, sure of one
listener. " My goodness, I hope when I get mar-
ried, all my children will be girls. Boys like to be
dirty — they aren't comfortable clean. They ought
to be chained in sties or kennelsruntil they're about
eighteen. Then perhaps decent people would live
with them."
" I was just about to say, Phoebe," Mrs. Martin
made crisp interruption of this flow of eloquence,
" that if you pick up the floor of your closet and
tidy up your top bureau drawer, I'll listen with more
interest to what you've got to say about Ernie."
But although Mrs. Martin rebuked Phoebe so
sharply, this second incident allied itself as disturb-
io Ernest and the Law of Order
ingly as the first with the pessimistic trend of her rev-
erie. It intensified her conviction that Ernest could
not cope, single-handed, with the outside world.
She considered that in some ways she had not had
so much to contend with in her son as most mothers.
Personal cleanliness, for instance. Not that, as a
little fellow, Ernest had enjoyed bathing more than
any other boy. In his childhood, she had to exercise
an unending surveillance over his hair, his teeth, his
finger-nails. But his passion for athletics had helped
to supplement her instructions. At the gym, he ac-
quired the shower-bath habit. And after that, the
daily cold plunge followed as a matter of course.
As for clothes — his first girl-interest aroused plenty
of sartorial enthusiasm. Mrs. Martin never had to
speak to him again about clean collars, fresh hand-
kerchiefs, polished shoes. No, when it came to his
appearance, Mrs. Martin had absolutely no worries.
But on the other hand Ernest's carelessness — his
heedlessness, his mother preferred to call it — was
colossal, epic, unbelievable.
Ernest never shut a door, a drawer, or a box;
he never put anything back in its place; he always
put it down wherever he happened to be. In
changing his clothes, he dropped discarded articles
in his tracks. He had a capacity for walking over
things, of stumbling into things, of knocking things
oft and pushing things over, that amounted to a very
genius of destruction. It was almost as if the whole
world of matter were in collusion against him, as if,
at his approach, all natural laws repudiated their
Ernest and the Law of Order ir
functions. The attraction of gravity, for instance,
either stopped entirely, thereby permitting inanimate
objects to take wings and fly through the air; or it
became trebly powerful and pulled things off their
resting-places on to the floor. His progress through
the house was as devastating as a prairie fire. As
for his room He was as little indoors as any
active boy, but three times a day Mrs. Martin re-
created system from the wreckage there.
No more mentally than physically had Ernest ad-
justed himself to the world in which he lived. Tele-
grams or letters that he sent never arrived, theater-
tickets that he bought always bore the wrong dates,
money lost itself out of his pockets. As for errands
— it was like sending an idiot boy. He always came
home with something, but never with the thing for
which he had gone.
What would he do all alone at college?
Yet he wanted — there was the jab of it — he
wanted to go away from home. Ernest did not
realize that she had been a good mother. He was
not even grateful for her care.
In point of fact, the unanalytic and inarticulate
Ernest had never consciously considered the matter.
He took as a matter of course the yearning, hover-
ing, brooding solicitude with which his mother
invested every move of his existence.
11 No matter what time of night I come in," he
used to say, " I always find her waiting at the top
of the stairs to talk with me. She's like a well-
trained fire-horse: When I put my key in the lock,
12 Ernest and the Law of Order
that rings gong number one and she comes out of
the stall. When I open the door, that rings gong
number two and the harness drops on her back.
When I put my foot on the first stair, that rings
gong number three and off she trots to the fire —
meaning me. Why, one night when I went to bed,
it was so hot that I left my windows all wide open.
In the middle of the night, I waked up out of a
sound sleep and there was Mrs. Edward D. Martin
putting the windows down because it was raining.
Later I woke up about half-melted and opened them
all again. When I got up in the morning, there
they were, all shut but one. Mother had come in
before sunrise for fear I'd freeze to death."
Mrs. Martin always laughed when he told these
jokes on her — laughed with a pleased, proud sense
of his appreciation of the love behind them. But
after all they were only jokes to Ernest. He did
not like that care. He wanted to get away from
it. Mrs. Martin suddenly thought back to her girl-
hood and her own dead mother. A mist came over
her eyes. " I wonder if I appreciated her as much
as I should? " she asked herself.
She had tried her best to teach him system, to
teach him order, but it was like preaching to a
waterfall. He never had learned. He never would
learn. And yet she had done the best she could.
Why had she failed? But what was the use of
going over it : the matter was now quite out of her
hands?
She heaved a great sigh. Opening the door, she
Ernest and the Law of Order 13
called to her son: "Come down, Ernie. It's time
you began to pack your trunk."
" I don't know what's got into me," she thought
in the interval while she waited for him, " I don't
seem to have any more get-up-and-get than a sick
cat. Perhaps I've been working too hard. I'll try
to rest up after Ernie's gone."
But Mrs. Martin did not " rest up " after Ernest
left, although, physically, she was idle enough. A
great silence seemed to fall upon her. It was as if
the house were but an empty, echoing stage, Phoebe's
gay gossip but the chorus to some wonderful lost
drama. The days went by, one like another. Regu-
larly three times a week she wrote to Ernest; long,
rambling, gentle epistles, saturated with affection
and bristling with questions. Regularly once a
week came Ernest's brief answering scrawl in which
a maximum of general statements diffused a mini-
mum of concrete information. Ernest expected to
" make end " on the freshman football team. The
big game with Yale would come somewhere in No-
vember. But at no time had Ernest's athletics inter-
ested his mother as much as they worried her. And
now she read with indifference the news that Mr.
Martin and Phoebe discussed eternally. She was
much more interested in the " horsing " to which
his first few days subjected him — interested because,
inwardly, she boiled with indignation over what her
husband and daughter went into peals of laughter.
And all these events gained a puzzling and irritating
suggestion of remoteness from the fact that Ernest
14 Ernest and the Law of Order
had picked up a new vocabulary. With her usual
adaptability, Phoebe immediately adopted these
quaint exotics of the Princeton campus. But, curi-
ously enough, though in Phoebe's speech, Mrs. Mar-
tin did not mind such nouns as " shark," or " poler,"
or " pepp," such verbs as M to flunk " and " to
gloom," it gave her a homesick feeling to come upon
them in Ernest's letters. The single high light in
the whole situation was Ernest's class picture, al-
though she resented bitterly the obscuring shower of
flour to which the upper classmen had submitted the
group. No, Ernest's letters were far from satis-
factory to his mother. A week passed and two and
three, a month — and over.
"Bertha, what is the matter with you?" Mr.
Martin said more than once. " You don't seem to
have any sprawl to you. For one thing, you don't
eat enough to keep a bird alive."
11 Oh, nothing's the matter with me, Edward,"
Mrs. Martin would answer. " I got a little tired
getting Ernie ready. I shall pick up after a while."
But she did not pick up. In fact she ate little
and slept less. She got whiter and thinner. And
she, who had been the most busy of women, fell into
the habit of sitting for hours, empty-handed, staring
vaguely into the fire or out the window.
" Bertha," Mr. Martin said peremptorily one
night, " you put on your things the moment we've
had dinner. I've had enough of this foolishness.
I'm going to take you to Dr. Bush and see what's
the matter."
No, I tell you what let's do, father — we'll send mother on to Princeton
to visit Ern. There's a beautiful hotel there. Now, mother,
don't say another word, for you're going."
Ernest and the Law of Order 15
" I know what's the matter," Phoebe said in the
clarion tones of one of her sudden discoveries, " she
wants to see Ern Martin. Oh, yes, you do, mother,"
she continued trenchantly as her mother started to
speak, " you're just dying of homesickness for him.
She's afraid he's starving to death, father. Just as
if Ern Martin would go hungry if there was any
food round he could steal."
" Well, we'll send for Ernest, then," Mr. Martin
said after a long moment, when with pursed lips
and furrowed brow he studied his wife's listless face.
" No, it won't do any good to send for him,"
Phoebe said with another of her rare illuminations.
" He'll be restless and go peeving round all the time
and then mother'll begin to sacrifice herself again.
No, I tell you what let's do, father — we'll send
mother on to Princeton to visit Ern. There's a
beautiful hotel there. Now, mother, don't say an-
other word, for you're going."
" But what will you and your father do? " Mrs.
Martin managed to get in.
" Do ! " Phoebe answered with a robust buoyancy,
" why, do without! I guess I can make a stagger at
running this house. And I guess father won't come
down with locomotor ataxia or anything like it if
he happens to come home one night to a bad dinner
after twenty-odd years of good ones. In fact, I
announce now, Mr. Martin, that it will be your
privilege to take your daughter twice a week into
the Touraine. Now don't get scared, mother.
Everything will go all right. And don't you say
1 6 Ernest and the Law of Order
a word to me about red-flannel hash or minced lamb
on toast — there's going to be no economizing while
I run the house. We'll have terrapin if I take it into
my head — although I never can remember whether
it's a squab or some kind of classy fish."
Mr. Martin seemed instinctively to realize who
was the young Napoleon of this domestic crisis.
" Your mother ought to have some new clothes,
oughtn't she?"
" I was just about to say, father," Phoebe offered
serenely, " that we ought not to let mother go up
there, looking like a back number. There's a sale
on this week at Hazen's of French suits — all models.
And I think we ought to go in to-morrow and get
one — that'll save fussing with a dressmaker. Then
I want her to have a nice feather-boa — it's too early
for furs. Her new hat's all right. I guess a hun-
dred dollars will cover it."
Mrs. Martin gasped. " Oh, Edward, it won't be
as expensive as that."
" Mother," Phoebe said severely, " Ernest has
been meeting a whole lot of boys' mothers, and I'm
not going to have him thinking his mother doesn't
know what's what."
That night Phoebe despatched the following note
to her brother:
Dear Ern:
Mother is coming on Monday to spend a week with
you. It is just as I thought. She is simply dying by
inches because she misses you so. And if you don't give
Ernest and the Law of Order 17
her the time of her life, it's because you're the limit. I
hope I never grow as fond of any son of mine as Mother
Martin is of you.
Aff'ly,
Phoebe.
P.S. — You are no worse than any other boy. But the
best of them are none too good. P.
What was the immediate and exact psychological
effect of that letter is a part of unwritten history.
But as soon as the mail could bring it, Mrs. Martin
received the following :
Dear Mother:
Phoebe says you're coming on for a week. Good for
you! Better make it a month, for the change will do
you good. We'll paint the town red.
Your loving son,
Ernest Martin.
P.S. — Will you bring on to me that box that I packed
and put in the attic. There's clothes and a whole lot
of truck in it that I need.
2 P.S. — Ask Flora to send on one of her apple pies.
Tell her she can put it all over anybody here on cooking.
We've broken training and I can eat anything. It's the
only consolation I've got. When I see you I'll tell you
how we happened to lose.
Ordinarily there was nothing in the world that
Mrs. Martin dreaded so much as a railroad journey
alone. But as the limited pulled out of the South
1 8 Ernest and the Law of Order
Station in Boston, she was conscious of the first
loosening from her spirit of its great burden. With
every mile some of her tension vanished. Her burn-
ing desire to reach Princeton seemed to dissipate all
the embarrassments and all the annoyances of travel.
Not that she was not prepared to cope with them.
In her hand-bag was a list of directions in the dash-
ing chirography of her traveled daughter. It ran
something like this:
Go into dining-room at first call for luncheon — the food
is better then.
Tip waiter twenty-five cents. It is too much, but
they'll treat you like the dust under their feet if you don't.
Get red-cap at Grand Central to take your bag. Tip
him ten cents.
Take Pennsylvania Cab. Get red-cap at, etc.
By the middle of the afternoon, Mrs. Martin
was in the paradoxical condition of one who acquires
a sense of increasing mental repose parallel with
increasing physical fatigue. And when at the end
of the day, her eye fell on Ernest, standing in the
station and eagerly running his eye up and down
the length of the train, a heavy inner something
seemed to burst, seemed to release another some-
thing that soared and fluttered with joy. But none
of this appeared in her face as she scrutinized her
son.
Ernest had changed. How, she could not deter-
mine. At first she thought it was because of his
Ernest and the Law of Order 19
absurd little freshman cap. Next she made up her
mind that he was taller, then thinner. But after all,
she decided finally, it was the way he held his head.
He was tanned. His expression was not the same.
Clear-eyed, facile-featured, smiling, all the mists of
his sulky discontent had vanished.
His self-possession positively staggered her. He
kissed her with what was for Ernest shameless open-
ness. He flagged one expressman, ordered him to
take the box to his room, flagged another, ordered
him to take Mrs. Martin's trunk to the carriage
which he had in waiting, handed his mother into
that vehicle and ordered the driver to " beat it "
to the Princeton Inn.
There, he had engaged a comfortable room and
bath, overlooking a green vista of the pretty town.
" Say, Mrs. Martin," he remarked suddenly,
" that new suit is a pippin. Haven't I always told
you you were a looker ! I've met a lot of the fellers'
mothers and there isn't one of them that's a marker
for you."
Ernest dined with his mother that night. He
spent that evening with her. The next morning he
breakfasted with her. The following noon he
lunched with her. And between dinner and his de-
parture, he told her all the things that his letter had
left out and, between breakfast and lunch, he piloted
her all over the town. Mrs. Martin went patiently
from one beautiful ivy-hung gray building to an-
other. She lingered in old Nassau long enough to
satisfy even Ernest. Nobody could have guessed
20 Ernest and the Law of Order
from her calm demeanor that mentally she boiled.
For it seemed to her that the time to visit Ernest's
room would never come. When at length they left
the Inn, Mrs. Martin carried a bundle. The ab-
sorbed Ernest, still talking at an impassioned pace,
did not notice it. Mrs. Martin was glad of that.
She hated to confess to him that, unbeknown to
Phoebe, she had tucked into her trunk an old morn-
ing-dress and a cake of kitchen soap. For it was
her intention, the moment she got behind locked
doors in Ernest's room, to clean it up. Experience
had taught her what the bureau drawers would be
like. And as for the closet, Mrs. Martin shuddered.
It was even possible that she would have to do some
washing for him.
The house, a comfortable-looking cottage, much
gabled and bay-windowed, was one of many that,
Ernest explained, were all given over to dormitory
purposes. As they entered, a woman emerged from
a downstairs room.
11 This is Miss Head, mother," Ernest said, " my
mother, Mrs. Martin, Miss Head."
Mrs. Martin braced herself for the long string of
complaints that Miss Head would present. But that
lady, a stern-faced, black-mustached spinster, only
smiled pleasantly and murmured conventional words
of welcome.
" She's awfully good when you're sick or any-
thing," Ernest explained in a stage-whisper on the
stairs. " Gee, but ain't she the strict one, though!
Most of the fellows are afraid of their life of her.
Ernest and the Law of Order 21
Now look out for this top step, mother. Every-
body stumbles here — they always think there's one
more. I'll open the door in a jiff, then there'll be
light enough."
Mrs. Martin heard him fumbling with the key.
Again she shivered inwardly. How she dreaded
that first sight of Ernest's room !
The door swung back. A great blaze of light
illumined the dark hall. Dazzled she stepped
through the doorway. Gradually her eyes accus-
tomed themselves to the light. She gazed about her.
The room was large, airy, sunny. In itself, it
was furnished with almost a military simplicity —
and it was in perfect order! The bureau drawers
were all closed. The top of the chiffonier held
Ernest's few toilet articles, neatly disposed. The
closet door was ajar. Through it she caught
glimpses of his clothes neatly suspended on hangers
from a long central rod.
" Sit there, mother! " Ernest commanded, pulling
the Morris chair out of the sunlight. " If you don't
mind, I'm going to unpack the box you brought on
so's to get it out of the way — I haven't had time
yet."
Mrs. Martin sat down mechanically. And me-
chanically she watched her son.
Ernest materialized a hammer and screw-driver
from somewhere and attacked the box. For an
hour he whipped about the room, reducing confusion
to order. As soon as anything came out of the box
that belonged in the bureau, it was folded and added
22 Ernest and the Law of Order
to one of the neat piles in the drawers. As soon
as anything came out that belonged in the closet,
he shook and brushed it, placed it on a hanger, an-
nexed it to the orderly file in the closet.
M I put everything away as fast as I take it off
now, mother," he explained; " I find that's the only
way to keep things shipshape here. Besides, it saves
Miss Head doing it. Some of the fellows leave
everything about. Maybe they don't catch it,
though, when they do ! "
He pushed the empty box inside the closet. He
gathered up every shred of the tissue paper that
Mrs. Martin had used for wrapping and threw it
into the waste basket. He brought in a little dust-
pan from the hall and brushed up the splinters and
excelsior.
" I'm going to make you a cup of chocolate now,"
he announced.
From a little curtained shelf, he brought out a
tiny alcohol lamp, a tin of chocolate, a box of
crackers.
" I make some every afternoon for myself ever
since we broke training — I get so hungry. You
know how I used to buy cakes and pies and all kinds
of baker's truck. Well, Sandy Williston told me
there was nothing to that. And he got me to buy
this alcohol lamp. He's got one like it."
After they had drunk the chocolate, Ernest
washed the dishes and put them away. During the
process, he again relapsed into autobiography.
" You see, mother, when I first came here, I used
Ernest and the Law of Order 23
to be awful careless about making extra work for
Miss Head. And then she spoke to me once or
twice about it, and I made up my mind it was my
play to be more careful. You see, she does every
bit of the chamberwork in this place, and I tell you
she has to hustle. And then there was something
I read in ' Don Quixote ' about that time that I
thought was great. Cervantes says that one test of
a gentleman is the way he treats servants or any
person who's placed in an inferior position. He
says it's all an accident of birth, anyway; they might
be in our place or we in theirs, and it's up to us
to treat them with peculiar consideration from the
very fact that they can't complain. If you speak
harshly to a servant, it's exactly as if you hit some-
body whose arms are tied behind him. Don't you
think that's a remarkable way of putting it? I never
saw it quite in that light before."
Mrs. Martin did not answer. She only stared.
His dish-washing over, Ernest got out of his
jersey. Talking all the time, he bustled in and out,
gathering things to take to the bathroom. And he
continued to shout to her over the din of the run-
ning water and the splash of his bathing. Mrs.
Martin listened in silence. Outside twilight settled.
Suddenly the room blazed white. Ernest, return-
ing, all dressed, had snapped a white thread of
flame into the electric bulb. " Gee, I forgot to light
up for you," he said apologetically.
Mrs. Martin watched him intently as he walked
over to the chiffonier. He looked at himself in the
24 Ernest and the Law of Order
mirror there, laughed, bounded suddenly over to
his mother's side and knelt at her feet.
" Mother," he said, presenting her with a comb,
" I'm glad you're here for more reasons than I can
count. But one very particular one is that now my
hair will be parted straight. I wish you could see
the crazy way I do it. I go by my nose and my
nose is crooked. I bet when I'm ninety I'll still be
running to you to do it for me."
He dropped his head. But as his mother did not
speak, he raised it. " Why, mother," he said in
alarm, " what's the matter? "
" Oh, Ernie! " Mrs. Martin said, " oh, Ernie! I
see now I'm a very selfish woman for being so rebel-
lious about your coming here. It wasn't that I
didn't want you to go away from home. I see that
now. Way down in my secret heart, I wanted to
keep you dependent on me. But you're a man now.
I can't ever do anything more for you. And I'm
glad. But I guess in the future you'll have to take
care of me."
Perhaps Ernest's first long stay away from home
had taught him something of his mother's heart.
At any rate, he kissed her with a tenderness he had
never before shown. And he continued to pat her
gently as she wept out on his shoulder the tears that
healed the bruise of his absence.
CHAPTER II
PHOEBE AND THE LITTLE BLIND GOD
FROM Thanksgiving to Christmas of the year
that Ernest went to college was a very happy
month for Mrs. Martin. Her week's visit to Prince-
ton, midway in November, had dissipated her great
fear that her son was incapable of taking care of
himself. She came back refreshed in body and tri-
umphant in spirit.
In the meantime, Phoebe's solitary week of house-
keeping seemed to have established the house as a
rendezvous for the young people of Maywood.
And, indeed, the social tide had been setting in their
direction for a long time. It was not occasional
formal entertaining, so much as constant impromptu
hospitality, that had accomplished this for the Mar-
tins. Nobody enjoyed it more than Mrs. Martin;
except perhaps Mr. Martin, who visibly grew
younger in this seething flood of gayety.
But Mrs. Martin was one who enjoyed the calms
of life with a weather-eye always open for its storms.
And so, perhaps, she was the quietest of them all
when the expected unexpected happened. Two days
after Christmas, Phoebe stepped from Tug's auto-
mobile just as he started down the drive. She landed
on her feet, but in a queer twisted heap. She arose
25
26 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
immediately. At the first step, however, she turned
pale. At the second she swayed. And when the
alarmed Tug sprang to her side, she fainted quietly
in his arms.
Dr. Bush pronounced the case compound fracture
of the ankle. " And it all depends on how quiet you
keep whether you walk at the end of one month or
three," he said.
Phoebe took the prospect of imprisonment with
the philosophic fortitude which, in view of her beat-
ing energy, was always so great a surprise to her
mother. She affected to find its greatest deprivation
her inability to wear the high-heeled footwear that
had always been her passion and to which Dr. Bush
imputed the whole accident.
" You'll wear heelless slippers for one month after
you get up, young woman/' he scolded, " and if I
have my way, you'll never put on another pair of
those high-heel abominations again."
It was a day or two after the accident that Pro-
fessor Hazeltine called. Into the feverish atmos-
phere of a house gradually adjusting itself to the
abnormal, he brought quiet and calm. Both Mr.
and Mrs. Martin were favorably impressed with
him. Indeed, that very evening he gave them all
their first care-free moment in a semi-jocose lecture
on the vari-colored gems, both precious and semi-
precious, which it was his pleasure to carry, unset, in
his pocket.
The letter of introduction which he bore from
Power Tyler, a classmate of Mr. Martin's at Har-
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 27
vard, stated that he was a professor at the Uni-
versity of Winona, an authority on romance lan-
guages and literatures, and author of two able mono-
graphs. A supplementary and more gossipy letter
volunteered the information that he was a person
of great social charm, that the " squaws " (Winona
was co-educational) invariably fell in love with him,
that in addition to his salary, he was a person of
modest private means. He had come East to spend
his sabbatical year in research work, partly at Cam-
bridge, Massachusetts, and partly at Cambridge,
England.
The visit which Mrs. Martin immediately asked
him to make stretched, at her own request, from
over Sunday to a week, from ten days to a fortnight.
Professor Hazeltine steadily reinforced their first
impression of him. It seemed that he was equally
pleased with them; for, before his hosts could again
lengthen his visit, he himself proposed that he stay
on for a month or two as a " paying guest." This
proposition affronted every hospitable instinct of the
Martin family. But Professor Hazeltine threatened
to leave if some such self-respecting arrangement
were not made immediately.
" Fd really admire to have him here," Mrs. Mar-
tin said to Mr. Martin. " The house has been so
quiet with Phoebe laid up, I declare it seems good
to hear laughing and talking once more."
11 I don't see the slightest objection to it," Mr.
Martin answered, " as long as you're pleased. And
then again, it isn't as if we were taking him in per-
28 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
manently. It'll only be a month or two ... if
he's going abroad in the spring."
Phoebe was the only one to object to this plan.
" Of course he's an interesting talker and all that
sort of thing," she said. " But I think he's awfully
high-brow. It seems to me to be pretty pokey to
have him round all the time."
" Well," Mrs. Martin said, " I look at it in this
way. Of course everybody's calling on you now
because they're so sorry for you. But that's bound
to let up after a while. There'll be plenty of nights
— you mark my words — when they'll have other
engagements. It will be real pleasant, I think, to
have somebody as entertaining as Professor Hazel-
tine around. You haven't really talked with him
yet, Phoebe. I consider he's a very gifted man —
and such perfect manners, so quiet and self-effacing."
" Oh, he's clever enough," Phoebe assented.
" He's a perfect shark when it comes to the lan-
guages. But I don't think he's so very self-effacing.
Not that he asserts himself, either. But, if you
notice, when people meet him they don't seem to
pay the slightest attention to him at first. It's almost
as if he wasn't there. Then all of a sudden he's
there with a capital T and they all seem to get on
to the fact that he's somebody."
11 It's because he's so short," Mrs. Martin said.
11 It's a dreadful pity he wasn't an inch or two
taller. And yet I don't know as that's it, after all.
I never saw a short man with so much presence.
Somehow you always think of him as tall. He
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 29
carries himself just as if he was a giant. I guess
he's got what people call personality. I'm surprised
at you, Phoebe, for not enjoying him more."
" Well, mother," Phoebe said analytically, " it's
a curious thing about me. I don't like boys at all
and yet men over twenty-five — or twenty-eight,
maybe — don't interest me so very much, either. I
think life's a very queer thing. I don't see- what
there is to live for after you're thirty. Did you
notice any difference, mother? "
Mrs. Martin reflected, the wrinkle in her brow
playing free. " Well, I've always been so busy,"
she answered without conscious sarcasm, " that I de-
clare it's never entered my head to think of it."
" Well, it has entered mine," Phoebe said darkly.
" I think of it all the time. I've just about made
up my mind that everybody ought to commit suicide
on his thirtieth birthday."
The following day Professor Hazeltine came to
the Martin house for good. For a week, however,
the Martins saw almost nothing of him; he was too
busy following up various social and academic af-
filiations. Dinner-parties seemed to take up all his
evenings, dinner calls all his afternoons. In the
meantime, Mrs. Martin found herself constantly
praising him to her disdainful daughter. Then, sud-
denly, her prophecy in regard to him fulfilled itself.
The annual dance of the Maywood High School
swept away all the young people. An evening of
complete loneliness threatened Phoebe. In despera-
tion, she opened her first real conversation with their
30 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
guest. Beginning loftily with the Florence which
she professed to " adore," it went to the Siena which
she affected to deprecate — and stayed there for the
rest of the evening. Professor Hazeltine had spe-
cialized in Sienese history and art.
" He is an interesting man," Phoebe said that
night after her father carried her up to her room,
and while her mother still lingered, getting her ready
for the night. " There's no doubt about that. And
the way he's worked! And he makes the most of
every little thing. Why, I'd got the idea that he
had lived abroad for long spells at a time. But
it seems he hasn't. I pinned him down to-night
and he admitted that he'd only been once — his last
sabbatical year, seven years ago. But you see he
was all loaded up with facts before he went. Why,
it seems to me as if I hadn't seen a thing that was
really worth while, when I listen to him. I think
he's quite good-looking, too, when he gets warmed
up. How old should you say he was, mother? "
"Well, it's hard telling," Mrs. Martin replied
cautiously. " I wouldn't be surprised if he looked a
great deal younger than he really was. You see,
he isn't gray or bald and he keeps himself clean-
shaven. His figure is very youthful, too, and he
dresses — he always looks as if he'd come out of the
top drawer. I never saw a man have so much
laundry."
" I love his ties," Phoebe interjected, " and his
scarfpins are in perfect taste. Isn't that green jade
a dandy? "
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 31
" He doesn't look a day over forty and yet his
neck is quite old. That's why he wears his hair
a little long. I shouldn't be surprised," Mrs. Mar-
tin concluded, " if he was between forty-five and
fifty."
"Dear me, that's almost venerable, isn't it?"
Phoebe said pityingly. " Mother, will you let Flora
go down to the Library for me to-morrow? "
" Of course," Mrs. Martin said heartily. She
observed with approval that the list of books which
Phoebe handed her the next day related entirely to
Italian history. And that afternoon, when she re-
turned from a committee meeting, she was delighted
to find Professor Hazeltine talking with Phoebe
again. Mrs. Martin had never seen her daughter
look more pretty. Restless movement of her head
among the couch-cushions had frayed her gold-
flecked brown hair into a fringe that ran down her
forehead, sprayed over her ears, and made little
whorls and spirals and claws of light in her neck.
This confusion of hair reduced her aspect, lately
grown so young-ladylike, almost to childhood.
Professor Hazeltine was similarly transformed.
He was a man who, on snap-judgment, Mrs.
Martin would have described as ordinary-looking.
At first glance, his pale, pasty, pear-shaped face
seemed but an insignificant pendant to a shock of
darkish-drab hair, his small irregular features but
spots of contour that accented a general weakness
of composition. But when he talked — as now — this
impression wore away. A white-hot interior fire
32 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
burned through these neutral surfaces. The deter-
mined, slit-like mouth showed his fine white teeth
in a frequent pleasantly-flashing smile. His eyes,
indeterminately yellow or gray and normally dull,
positively gleamed.
14 Oh, mother, what do you think!" Phoebe
greeted her, " Professor Hazeltine has offered to
teach me Italian. He says it's a perfect snap for
anybody who's had Latin. And then, later, if I feel
like it, we're going to take up Dante. Isn't that the
greatest fun? "
14 I think it will be lovely," Mrs. Martin said
cordially. l< Professor Hazeltine, I can't tell you
how obliged Mr. Martin and I are for the trouble
you've taken to amuse our little girl."
u Dear lady," Professor Hazeltine said gallantly,
14 far from being a trouble, it's a pleasure — I assure
you."
Professor Hazeltine ordered the necessary books
by telephone that very afternoon. In a day or two
the lessons were well under way. Phoebe fell upon
this new mental exercise with the energy of a being
whose physical powers are in temporary inhibition.
She studied as she had never studied before. Their
work fell into the program that Professor Hazel-
tine's hours demanded. Before leaving in the morn-
ing, he gave Phoebe a lesson. During the middle
of the day, Phoebe toiled alone at her exercises and
translations. Late in the afternoon, Professor
Hazeltine went over her work with her. Professor
Hazeltine peremptorily forbade any study at night,
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 33
after a day so concentrated. And so, the more to
fill his pupil's vacant hours, he inducted her into
the mysteries of chess. The Italian lessons de-
manded so many books and so much elbow-room
that merely for the sake of convenience teacher and
pupil repaired to the big ping-pong table in the
Playroom. Later, as they found alien conversation
distracting, chess-games were also removed thither.
11 How kind Professor Hazeltine is," Mrs. Mar-
tin iterated and reiterated to Mr. Martin.
And yet at the same time she admitted to herself
first and to her husband last that she did not enjoy
Professor Hazeltine quite so much, now that their
relations were financial. As was natural, he had be-
come more independent. But in addition, his atti-
tude had acquired a subtle air of domination. " He
has what I call Sunday manners," Mrs. Martin said,
" and he doesn't put them on for everybody. He's
not a snob exactly. Because it isn't the money that
people have that makes the difference, it's more
whether they're smart or not. I don't mean that
exactly " Mrs. Martin, beating helplessly about
in the mazes of an alien psychology, hesitated, and
came to a full stop.
" He's an intellectual snob." Mr. Martin's
greater verbal equipment supplied the phrase. " No,
I don't enjoy him so much as I did. Sometimes I
think his manner is quite offensive to people who
drop in. I confess if it wasn't making it so much
easier for Phoebe I don't think I'd have him in the
house any longer. But then it's only a month more."
34 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
14 It doesn't pay to live with people," Mrs. Mar-
tin said. " YouVe wintered and summered your
old friends and you know just what to expect of
them. But what when it comes to new ones — well,
you most always lose the friendship if you get under
the same roof with them. I must say, though, that
Phoebe's standing being tied to the house with more
patience than I've ever given her credit for. The
only thing that seems to worry her is that she can't
wear any of those high-heeled shoes she's collected.
She hates those flat things."
And in point of fact, although all the young people
except Tug had stopped coming to the house, Mrs.
Martin remained blindly unconscious of the way
things were going. Of all people, Ernest, home
from Princeton on a flying visit, let drop the remark
that first unleashed the dogs of suspicion.
" Say, mother," he said, " what's Phoebe spend-
ing all her time with that old dope for? I think
he's an awful piece of work. I should think she had
a crush on him. Molly Tate told me that none of
the girls had been to the house for three weeks. I
asked her about it and she said the girls said it was
no fun coming here any more. If they came in the
morning or the afternoon, they interrupted a lesson,
and if they came at night they interrupted a chess
game. Phoebe told me that he'd put off his trip to
Europe for a month or two."
44 Ernie," Mrs. Martin said severely, " I never
listened to such nonsense in my life. It displeases me
very much to hear you talk like that. Professor
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 35
Hazeltine has done a lot to entertain Phoebe, and
your father and I feel under obligations to him."
But notwithstanding this rebuke, Ernest's remark
took instant root in his mother's mind. By the next
morning it had sprouted, had grown a flourishing
plant of distrust. In regard to Professor Hazeltine,
she had one of those periods of complete mental
clearing up which we often delay as long as possible
in the case of a prepossessing new friend, especially
when he is our own protege. She admitted frankly
that there were some things about him that she now
actually detested. He was not at all the simple,
genial person that he appeared on the surface. She
had seen for a long time that he hated children,
although he did his best to conceal it. Mrs. Martin
now let the suspicion grow to a certainty that it
irritated him when little Gracie Seaver came over
every Saturday afternoon to hear the fairy-tales
which Phoebe so delighted to read to her. Making
another intuitional leap into the dark, Mrs. Martin
realized suddenly that he disliked particularly the
people who liked Phoebe — Molly Tate, Fonnie
Marsh, and Tug Warburton. That is to say, he
was at his social worst with them. Indeed, as, in
the light of Ernest's remark, she ran mentally back
over the last six weeks, Mrs. Martin was conscious
of seeing many things for the first time. Little
under-currents that she had not noticed, now per-
ceptibly roughened the smooth stream of family life.
It occurred to her, for instance, that neither she nor
Mr. Martin ever entered the Playroom while a
36 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
lesson was in progress. And it came to her with
a sudden sick sense of panic that it was not because
they feared to interrupt but because, subconsciously,
they knew themselves to be de trop.
From above, even as Mrs. Martin meditated,
came the continuous ripple of Phoebe's infectious
laughter. With a determined movement of her arm,
Mrs. Martin swept up her sewing and marched up
to the Playroom.
" I thought I'd come to see how the Italian was
going," she said, quietly seating herself at the table.
Mrs. Martin stayed through the entire hour. Her
experiment proved much to her. For although Pro-
fessor Hazeltine unloosed his most exquisite cour-
tesies on her, the lesson proceeded with much less
laughter than usual and much more attention to
translation.
u Edward," she said that night to Mr. Martin,
" I'm worried about something."
" Worried," Mr. Martin repeated, " about
what?"
" Phoebe and Professor Hazeltine."
" Phoebe and Professor Hazeltine," Mr. Martin
repeated. " What about them? Isn't Phoebe treat-
ing him right? She seems " An expression on
his wife's face caught him and he studied it. " Why,
mother, you don't mean Oh, pshaw, Bertha —
Hazeltine's nearly as old as I am."
" He's older. But that doesn't make any differ-
ence to a girl as young as Phoebe," Mrs. Martin
said. " If they fall in love with an older man, they
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 37
think there's something romantic and self-sacrificing
about marrying him."
" But even suppose Phoebe did get a little infatu-
ated/' Mr. Martin answered, " she'll get over it.
You remember Raikes, mother. Phoebe was crazy
about him for a while."
"This is different," Mrs. Martin dissented.
" That was only one of those infatuations for actors
that all girls have. Besides she got no encourage-
ment. Phoebe bored Mr. Raikes. He never spoke
to her unless he had to. She talked about Mr.
Raikes all the time. She doesn't say a living thing
about Professor Hazeltine. After he's gone, she
studies like anything for an hour or so. Then she
just dreams away the rest of the day. I watched
her to-day — the last hour before he came back she
spent looking for him out of the window."
" Well, allowing for the sake of argument that
Phoebe has got a little infatuated with him, Hazel-
tine never would see it. And if he did, it would
only amuse him."
" I think he's in love with Phoebe," Mrs. Martin
announced quietly.
11 Tchk! " Mr. Martin exclaimed, and " Tchk! "
he repeated in the maximum of incredulity. But if
experience had taught Mr. Martin anything, it was
that his wife's intuitions could not be lightly whiffed
away. "What makes you think so, Bertha?" he
asked patiently.
11 I don't know exactly," Mrs. Martin confessed.
11 1 just feel it. It's one of those ideas that the mo-
38 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
ment you suspect it, a whole lot of things flash
across you that you've noticed without thinking
about them — and then all of a sudden it comes over
you what a fool you've been. He looks at Phoebe
all the time, for one thing. Not that I blame him
for that!" Mrs. Martin permitted herself the
luxury of one of her rare outbursts of praise. " For
she's the most beautiful thing I ever put my two
eyes on." Then as if something in her husband's
silence alarmed her, " Would you want her to marry
him, father? " she demanded.
" I'd almost rather see her in her grave! " Mr.
Martin said simply. " Well, what's to be done?"
he asked after an interval of visible mental per-
turbation.
" Well, I've thought that all out, too," Mrs. Mar-
tin said. " The first thing is to get Professor Hazel-
tine out of the house. I hate to think of doing any-
thing like that. But we don't have to be rude. We
can use having company as an excuse. I'll write
to-morrow and invite Cousin Maria Reade to come
and stay with us — she's always glad of a chance to
visit anywhere — her income's so small."
But excellent as was this plan of Mrs. Martin's,
it had one flaw — it came too late. For even as they
sat gazing at each other in that satisfactory, silent
communication which is the special privilege of
twenty-odd years of matrimony, Phoebe's voice
called from above. " Father, mother," it cooed,
44 will you both come up here for a moment, please? "
44 Dear people," Professor Hazeltine began the
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 39
moment they entered the room, " I took the liberty
of asking your daughter to call you up here, as I
wished to say what I had to say in your presence.
She has just done me the honor to accept my hand
in marriage and I am now performing the charming
formality of asking your consent."
In the scene that followed, Mrs. Martin had no
share. White, limp, shaking, she sank, at the out-
set, a nerveless heap, into the Morris chair. Phoebe
bore a part almost as inconspicuous. Pale and silent,
too, she was moveless except as her brilliant eyes
went in entreaty to her father's face and back in
pride to her lover's. Professor Hazeltine kept him-
self in the main under perfect control. Not until
the end did that high pitch of geniality which he
set for the interview begin to drop. Mr. Martin
was far from urbane. He might be blind to a grow-
ing situation; he could show plenty of firmness when
the situation broke. His first and last answer to
Professor Hazeltine's request was a peremptory,
" No."
" But, my dear Mr. Martin," their guest said at
last — and, in spite of an obvious effort to blanket it,
triumph and insolence blared in his tone — " what
have you to say about it, anyway? Nobody can
make this decision for Phoebe. And she's of age? "
" You're right there," Mr. Martin said. " She
is of age. But if I know my daughter at all, I think
I can say that she won't do anything that I abso-
lutely forbid. And I will never give my consent to
this marriage. It's preposterous."
40 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
But at this, Phoebe rallied and presented to her
father a spirit that was the counterpart of his own.
" I don't agree to all that, father," she remonstrated.
11 I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman — you said
so, yourself, the other day. I won't agree — I can't
agree not to do anything without your consent. But
I will say that I won't do anything without telling
you all about it first. Oh, dearest father," she broke
down suddenly, " don't think that I'm doing this
blindfold. I have lain awake nights and thought —
and prayed — to find out what was right to do. And
I know my mind perfectly now. I love Professor
Hazeltine. He is the only man in the world for me.
When he first proposed to me ten days ago, he
warned me that you would be opposed to it and
he begged me to think very carefully before I gave
him an answer."
M Well, can't you see what a cur he was," Mr.
Martin said, boiling over, " not to come to us first
in that case? I will ask you," he addressed himself
to Professor Hazeltine, " to leave my house to-
morrow.
" And he'll never enter it again," he added later
to his wife — his rage still at fever heat.
But Mrs. Martin had regained her natural tem-
perate grip on things. " You do that, Edward," she
prophesied, " and she'll be married to him in a
month. No, let him come and go as he pleases —
you don't have to meet him. But if Phoebe's going
to see him, let her see him under her father's roof."
The next day Professor Hazeltine took himself
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 41
and his belongings to a Boston hotel. He no longer
broke bread with the Martin family, but he spent
every evening alone with Phoebe in the front room.
From that direction came no longer the steady ripple
of Phoebe's mirth but, in its place, the continual low
murmur of voices. Within a week, Phoebe's finger
drooped under the weight of a huge heart-shaped
sapphire, blazing between twin diamonds.
Mr. Martin supplemented this first scene by a
long interview with his daughter. When it was
over, things stood exactly as if it had never been.
After three sleepless nights and much against her
own will but prodded on to it by her husband, Mrs.
Martin had a long talk with Phoebe during which
she told Phoebe exactly what she thought of her
fiance. As she had herself anticipated, its effect was
to make Phoebe more strongly his defender, to
deflect entirely the stream of her daughter's confi-
dence. But Mrs. Martin could bear Phoebe's thinly-
disguised resentment with herself much more easily
than her breach with her father. For though there
could be no diminution of the love these two bore
each other — Phoebe being Phoebe and Mr. Martin
being Mr. Martin — their friendship seemed to have
died. They met only at meals. Phoebe made a
point of carrying on a conversation with her father.
Her father made a point of responding at length to
any opening. But their talk wandered among sub-
jects carefully general and impersonal. There were
whole evenings when Mr. Martin sat silent and ab-
stracted. There were whole days when Phoebe lay
42 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
silent. Mrs. Martin herself worked frantically for
uncounted hours or wandered listlessly about the
house, a bowed, silent figure.
" Oh, I can't tell you, Edward," she said more
than once, " how I blame myself for all this! It
seems to me now that I ought to have known what
kind of a man he was the first time I saw him. And
yet, when you come down to it, there's nothing you
can put your hand on, so's a girl will understand.
If he'd only drank or forged or was a bigamist!
But his habits are good as far as I can see. He's
honorable in money-matters, generous to a fault.
He's as dainty about his clothes as any woman. In
fact, sometimes I think he's good, not because he's
naturally fine, but because he's only got the coldness
of — of — well, fastidiousness, I guess you'd call it.
Oh, if I'd only seen it coming, I'd have sent her
away."
"Why not try that now?" Mr. Martin sug-
gested, coming out of an interval of morose medi-
tation.
" No, no, no!" Mrs. Martin almost screamed,
" that would be the worst thing we could possibly do.
He'd follow her."
11 He doesn't love Phoebe," she broke out fiercely
one night. " He can't love. He's as cold as a stone.
You know how he carries those unset gems about in
his pocket and how he likes to take them out and
look at them. He wants to own Phoebe for the
same reason. He wants to look at her and think
how beautiful she is and that he owns her. And he
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 43
thinks because she's so young, he can mold her. I'm
not so sure of that," she ended with a touch of
triumph, " Phoebe's got a will and a mind of her
own."
But in open contradiction of this last statement,
she added a week later: " I never saw a girl with so
little spunk as Phoebe. Why, it's just as if she was
under a spell, or he'd hypnotized her. She hasn't
an idea at present that isn't his. She treasures
everything he says and she just lives to please him.
The other day he said he admired a woman's hair to
be done in a net — like some pictures he spoke of in
the library in Siena. Phoebe sent to Boston the
moment he left the house for those hair-nets she's
wearing now. She isn't half so pretty with a net
on. It holds her curls down flat and takes all the
light out of her hair. And now she's having Miss
Symonds make her a dress like one in a picture of
an Italian saint that he gave her just because he
likes it. She can just manage to stand up long
enough to have it tried on — it's a horrid dusty color
and a dreadful pattern, a flat-looking, shapeless sort
of thing. It makes her look ten years older. She
doesn't wear middies any longer because he doesn't
like them. And what she doesn't know is that he
hates them because they make her look so young.
Oh, when he marries her, he'll make her dress just
the way he wants. He's proud that he's won a girl
so young. At the same time, it's gall and wormwood
to him that she looks so much younger than he.
Why, sometimes he looks so old now."
44 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
" And, oh, Edward," she wailed at a later period,
11 it's worse even than I thought. Fve known for a
long time that he couldn't stand Molly and Fonnie
and Tug, but the reason is he's jealous — terribly
jealous. Why, to-day after lunch, Tug came over
and spent the afternoon with Phoebe. He was tell-
ing her about some things they did over to Harvard
to some boys they were initiating into the D.K.E.
and Phoebe was nearly dying with laughter — oh,
and Edward, it seemed good to hear the poor child
laughing once more ! Well, right in the midst of it,
Professor Hazeltine came. While he was taking
his things off, he heard Phoebe carrying on upstairs.
I wish you could have seen the way his face changed.
His mouth set like a trap and that queer light came
into his eyes — you know — when things aren't going
the way he wants them — Edward, he's got real cat's
eyes at those times. Well, I didn't say much to him
— I can't talk to him nowadays. And in a minute
he went upstairs. Tug came down at once — he
never stays when Hazeltine is here. A little later,
I heard Hazeltine giving Phoebe the greatest dress-
ing-down — I couldn't hear what he said, but I could
tell by the tone. And Phoebe cried! I wish you
could have seen the way her eyes looked after he left.
He's the kind of a man who, if he's jealous, would
make a woman's life a hell on earth. He'll always
be pulled two ways. He'll want his wife to be a
social leader, but he'll take it out of her for every
bit of admiration she gets."
"Well, do you mean to tell me that a girl like
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 45
Phoebe will stand for anything like that? " Mr.
Martin demanded.
Mrs. Martin nodded drearily. " She's young
enough to be flattered by it, even when it hurts her.
Young people think love isn't love unless there's
some jealousy connected with it. Isn't there some-
thing we can do, Edward? " she begged desperately.
But only the cold comfort of her own words
came back to her. " We're doing all we can. I
could forbid him the house, but that would only
mean that they'd meet outside."
It was now late in February. Phoebe's ankle had
begun to strengthen. In the heelless soft-leather
shoes that Dr. Bush had ordered, she was now
making tentative journeys about the house, carefully
supported by her fiance. It would be only a question
of a few days before she would be able to go out.
11 She says she can't stand this much longer, Ed-
ward," Mrs. Martin announced stonily one night.
" She says at first she thought she'd wait a year or
two, but now she thinks she'll be married in June.
Oh, Edward, I can't let her do it. I carit. Isn't
there something you can do? "
" Not a thing. The jig's up. Tell her if she
wants a quiet wedding with only the family present,
she can be married at home."
" She says," Mrs. Martin brought back on lips
that worked, " that it wouldn't be any comfort to
her, under the circumstances, to have a wedding.
Just as soon as she's able, they'll go in to Boston and
be married by a minister there who's a friend of his."
46 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
" Very well," Mr. Martin said.
But the next night when Mr. Martin came home
to dinner, there was a different spring to his walk,
a look faintly suggestive of triumph in his face.
Mrs. Martin wondered if he had found a way out of
the maze of t^eir unhappiness. But although she
met his eyes with a mute, wistful questioning, he
volunteered nothing, and she asked no questions.
Another day that she lived through by a system of
studying the clock at ten-minute intervals, and he
came home, a white, wearied, languid creature, ut-
terly spent and discouraged.
11 Bertha," he said after dinner. " I was the hap-
piest man in the world yesterday. I thought I'd
got hold of something that would stew Hazeltine's
goose. A woman came into my office. Her name
was Severin — Eugenia Severin. After some batting
around and a good deal of sparring for an opening,
she came down to cases. She said that she'd heard
— she didn't say how — that Professor Hazeltine was
paying attention to my daughter. She said that she
couldn't let that go on because it was up to Hazel-
tine to marry her. She said she had the goods on
him and threatened breach of promise. Well, at
first I thought it was a simple case of blackmail until
she showed me a page of Hazeltine's handwriting
and — and — the long and short of it was, this morn-
ing she left a wad of letters with me and asked me
to read them. Well, I did read them, you bet, every
last one. And I guess no man ever hoped harder
to get it on another man. But there was nothing
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 47
to it. As far as I can see, he's been perfectly square
— and it's evident from the letters that she went in-
to it with her eyes open. Anyway, he never said in
writing that he'd marry her. The case would
last about three minutes in court. I told her that.
It staggered her, but she seemed to trust my
judgment. She told me I could keep the letters
for a week, though, and do anything I wished
with them. I know what she wants me to do, all
right. Now, mother, I'll admit I haven't any prin-
ciples in the matter. I'd do anything to beat that
cur. But I'll be guided by what you say. What do
you want? It's all up to you."
There was a long pause, and in the silence Mrs.
Martin sat like a petrified thing. She came out of it
with a sigh that stirred through the room a heavy
gust of grief. " Well, as long as he's been fair to
this Severin woman, I guess we haven't any right to
show his letters to Phoebe. I wouldn't feel justified
in my conscience to do such a thing."
" Well," Mr. Martin exclaimed in a voice of
despair, " I give you women up. You may know
why you act the way you do, but I never expect to
fathom it."
" All right, I'll tell you why I do this if you want
!o know," Mrs. Martin said with a sudden flash
of an emotion unusual in her. " When you first
came back to East Wilton, Edward Martin, after
you'd graduated from Harvard, you got the reputa-
tion of being pretty wild, though I didn't know it.
And after I got engaged to you, that old Mrs. Burn-
48 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
ham, who lived in the yellow house next to Uncle
Henry's, came to me and told me the greatest mess
of stuff about you. Of course it didn't make any dif-
ference and I never said a word about it to you,
but at the same time," Mrs. Martin's voice thick-
ened with sudden passion, " I've never thanked her
for telling me."
"What did she tell you?" Mr. Martin asked
curiously.
11 Never you mind," Mrs. Martin answered. " I
guess I haven't reached my time of life without
knowing better than to put you in a position where
you've got to lie to me."
" Well — but — but it hasn't seemed to occur to
you that I might not have to lie," Mr. Martin re-
marked after what was visibly a silent foray into
his own past.
" No, it hasn't! " Mrs. Martin said with em-
phasis. " And besides I know this — although it
would hurt Phoebe and set her against us, it wouldn't
make any difference in the long run. She'd marry
him the sooner. What did that Severin woman look
like?"
11 Very good-looking, I call her. Big and tall —
flashing black eyes — fine figure."
"How old was she?"
" Oh, thirty-five or forty — somewhere along
there. Well, mother, I guess, as far as Phoebe's
concerned, we've thrown away our last shot."
" I guess we have, father."
And as it happened, they had. A week later
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 49
Phoebe did not come down to the library until dinner
was over; and then she was dressed to go out. She
wore the long mediaeval-looking gown that added
so much to her years and stature; and, over it, her
long dark evening-coat. New gloves, a fresh veil —
she was cap-a-pie, even to the high-heeled shoes at
which Dr. Bush had stormed in vain. Her face
was swollen and her eyes dull over reddened pouches.
" I've come to say good-by," she said. " I'm
going in town to meet Professor Hazeltine and we
shall be married to-night. We'll board in Cam-
bridge for the rest of his stay here. I'll come out
as soon as you want to see me."
Mrs. Martin did not remonstrate. Neither did
she weep. It is highly probable that Damocles knew
his only flash of happiness after his fate found him,
in the instant that the sword fell. And so that calm-
ness, which comes when the expected calamity occurs,
wrapped Mrs. Martin in its serenity. She kissed
her daughter and, except for a slight twitching of his
face, Mr. Martin was able to mimic her composure.
Then the door closed and Phoebe was gone.
" Well, father," Mrs. Martin said — and by some
miracle of woman fortitude she smiled at the broken
man opposite her — " it's all out of our hands now.
We've done our best and "
" we've failed," Mr. Martin carried it on.
" But, as you say, we've done our best." He tried
to smile, but he gave it up. " I don't know what we
bring them into the world for," he added a little
later.
50 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
11 Father, you're not sorry that weVe had
Phoebe? " A note of anxiety seared through Mrs.
Martin's unnatural calm. It was as though she felt
that she had failed as a wife.
Mr. Martin considered this. " No," he said,
u I'm glad we had her if only for this little while.
It seems a very little while, though."
That was the only verbal interruption to the even-
ing. Aunt Mary's big clock called a sonorous eight
and nine and ten and eleven. Flora went out the
back door at eight and returned at ten. The cat,
coming in with her, propelled its big black bulk
across the room by a series of furry arches that fol-
lowed the furniture. Mikey, the fox-terrier, man-
handled her for a while, according to his affectionate
custom, and then fell into a snoring snooze on the
rug, one paw about her. The fire kept up a per-
sistent, cheerful crackle. And once Julia, the second
maid, came silently in and fed it. Mrs. Martin sat
at one side of the table counting innumerable stitches
and thought her thoughts. Mr. Martin sat at the
other side of the table, lighting his pipe at minute-
long intervals, and thought his thoughts. And yet,
in spite of this quiet, the air seemed thick to satura-
tion with emotion.
At half-past eleven there came the sound of heel-
taps clicking from the gate up the concrete walk to
the house. Mr. Martin did not turn, but he took
his pipe from his mouth. The heel-taps dotted their
way up the steps. Mrs. Martin did not turn, but she
sat suspended in the midst of a stitch. A key turned
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 51
in the lock. The door opened and shut. Still they
did not move.
" Fve come back," Phoebe said.
" I'm not married," she went on in her clear voice,
" I'm not engaged any more. It's all over. I've
given him back his ring."
Still neither of her auditors spoke. They only
stared. Phoebe went and stood at her father's
chair. She began to tell her story to him just as if
she were a child again.
" He was at the station to meet me. And right
there, when I was on my way to marry him, we had
our first quarrel. Our first real quarrel," she cor-
rected herself. " We'd had others. But I didn't
call them quarrels because I never was angry. I
see now they were always caused by his jealousy.
But as we stood in the station, he happened to catch
a glimpse of us both in the mirror there. I was
about an inch taller than he. You see, I had my
high-heeled shoes on for the first time. I saw his
face change at once, but I couldn't, for the life of
me, imagine what was the matter. I had sort of
got into the way of trying to think not to do or say
things that would annoy him. But — but — now that
I was away from you two, I realized that I was a
little afraid of him. I'd had dreadful scenes
with him again and again, but always when one
of you was downstairs. You didn't know about it
because he was always careful to keep his voice
low."
There was a sound in the room. Mrs. Martin
52 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
knew it was the grinding of Mr. Martin's teeth.
But Phoebe did not hear it. She went on.
" He said that I must stop in Boston and get a
pair of shoes without heels and that I must never
wear anything else as long as I lived. I was only
too glad to do that. I still thought it was because
I would have done anything to make him care for
me and be kind again." She stopped and strangled
a little. " But I see now it was mainly because I
was frightened. We found a Jew place that was
open and I tried some shoes on. There was only
one pair that would fit me — horrid cheap-looking
boats of things. And I put them on. The man had
left us for a moment, and he was being very sweet to
me the way he always was after But just as I
was buttoning up the last button, I felt that I simply
could not keep them on — I asked him if I could wear
my own shoes to be married in. And I said that he
could have his way in every single living thing, if
he'd only let me wear high heels, for I did love
pretty slippers and shoes. His face got perfectly
dreadful, and he said, 4 Certainly not. Do you think
I'm going to walk through life with a woman taller
than myself? ' And then it came over me that I'd
given up everything for him — my father, my mother,
my friends, the wedding I'd always wanted — and
yet he could not give up this one little thing for me.
I saw all of a sudden what life with him would be
like — I would always be giving up high heels as
long as I lived. I didn't say a word, but I took
those shoes right off and put my own on. 4 Did you
Phoebe and the Little Blind God 53
hear me say that I wouldn't walk through life with
a woman taller than myself? ' he said again. ' Yes,
I heard/ I answered. ' The only trouble is that
you said it too soon, because now you're going to
walk through life without me altogether.' And I
walked out of the shop and left him there."
Phoebe paused, and then, unbelievably, she
laughed — a little dry, sarcastic jet of laughter. " I
think some day that I'll be able to see that this is
funny. But now I don't want to talk about it ever
again." She paused. Then disjointedly: " Tug was
at the station. He brought me home in the auto. I
think he saw that something was wrong, but he
didn't ask any questions. Oh, what a friend Tug
has been to me ! " Another pause. Then even more
disjointedly, " Father, I guess I've been crazy, but
I guess I know as well as anybody what a wicked
girl I've been. I guess I'll spend the rest of my life
trying to make it up to you two."
Phoebe did not address her mother. Perhaps she
knew she had no need. Mrs. Martin's eyes were
shining on the sight of her daughter with her father's
arms about her once more. And then later came
her chance when, prolonging the happy privilege of
helping Phoebe to bed, she tucked her in.
" Mother," was Phoebe's last faint word before
the good-night kiss, " somehow I feel old."
Mrs. Martin, luxuriating in the relief that comes
from the instantaneous disappearance of a great
anguish, smiled a little. Phoebe's aspect of grief —
her white face, her vacant eyes, her working mouth
54 Phoebe and the Little Blind God
had made her seem so young in contrast with the
old-looking gown and the chastening hair-net.
" Old," she said to herself as she lay down for the
first time in many weeks to a night of perfect rest,
" old."
But the next morning when Phoebe came down to
breakfast — the Phoebe superficially of three months
before — a Phoebe in a fresh middy blouse and her
curls flying free — Mrs. Martin saw that, in a sense,
her daughter was right. There had been a change.
Somewhere in the night Phoebe and her womanhood
had met and joined hands.
CHAPTER III
PHOEBE AMONG THE BOHEMIANS
MR. MARTIN would have said that the direct
cause of Phoebe's visit to New York was
a letter. Phoebe would have said that it was a
book. As for the indirect causes — if she had con-
ducted him through the labyrinth of choked and
broken pillars which was the ruin of her simple girl-
psychology, Mr. Martin would not have been more
puzzled than Phoebe herself. She wrote Sylvia
Gordon that Mrs. Raeburn's. invitation and Henri
Murger's " La Vie de Boheme " came " as if sent
by fate at the psychological moment" A conversa-
tion with her father cleared up much to him.
" Father," she said, " I think I will go on to New
York. I've made up my mind to stay a month or
maybe longer. I know other people there beside
the Raeburns — Tom and Eleanor Hight and Au-
gusta Pugh."
" I think it would be a very good idea to go away
from home for a while, Phoebe," Mr. Martin an-
swered immediately. It seemed to him that he
made that remark in a perfectly natural tone of
voice. But Phoebe came over and seated herself on
the side of his chair. She continued the conversa-
tion with one arm about her father's neck. " Now,
55
56 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
father, don't think I'm going because Fm sad. I'm
only restless. Father, I'll tell you a secret. I'm
just dying for a sort of Bohemian existence for a
while. And New York is Bohemia, from all I've
read about it. Did you ever know any really-truly
Bohemians, father?"
" No," Mr. Martin said with decision. " All my
friends work for a living. Bohemia, as a resort, has
come into fashion since my salad days. It really
isn't a country, Phoebe, or even a state of mind.
It's a disease. Young people nowadays seem to
have to go through it just as they have to get their
second teeth. I think the time will come when we'll
be compelled by law to expose our children to
Bohemianism at an early age, so they can catch
a mild attack and get over it. No, I've never lived
there. I don't think I've ever known a real Bo-
hemian. You see, I married very young and, as far
as I can gather, there's nothing so withering to the
free air of Bohemia as a breath of matrimony."
11 Well, father, you'll have to admit," Phoebe re-
torted with a flash of the old Phoebe, " that mar-
riage does make people awfully stupid. I don't see
why it should, either. But, honestly and truly, fa-
ther, when I study the married people in Maywood,
it's enough to make me vow to be an old maid all
my life. They're so contented/ Don't you hate
contented people, father? Why, nobody here seems
to have an idea above making a good home, giving
the children an education, and sort of keeping an eye
on Maywood and the country at large."
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 57
" After all," Mr. Martin said meekly, " that's
some job, Phoebe."
" Anybody ought to be able to do it with one
hand tied," Phoebe announced with scorn.
" Bertha," Mr. Martin said later, " what do you
think Phoebe wants to do now? She wants to lead
a Bohemian existence for a while."
It was so long before Mrs. Martin spoke that
Mr. Martin finally looked at her in apprehension.
But, as often happened, when her comment came, it
was a surprise to him. " Well, Edward, I know
you'll be astonished, but I don't blame that child at
all. I've had that same feeling again and again
myself. Do you know what my favorite stories in
the magazines are? About groups of young people
— artists and singers and actors and writers — meet-
ing every night at an Italian restaurant, and the love
stories that grow out of them. I often wish I'd had
an experience like that. At first I used to think that
there must be something wicked about that kind of
life. But now, the more I study it, the more it
seems right that young folks should have their fling
— in an innocent way, of course — before they get
married. When I read those stories, I always feel
as if I'd missed something. Not that I'd give up
one hour of our married life. And yet I'd hate to
think of Phoebe and Ernie going through all we
went through so young. Do you remember that
time when Phoebe was a little girl and Dr. Bush was
afraid she had diphtheria? You were on the road
and I couldn't get you anywhere. Oh, what a week
58 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
that was ! And Ernie was such a good little thing,
I remember — played all day long by himself and
never made one speck of trouble."
" Well, I guess we won't have to think of Phoebe's
getting married yet a while," Mr. Martin said.
And, inconsistently, he sighed.
He was approaching a subject virtually taboo be-
tween them. " Now let's not think of that, father,"
Mrs. Martin interjected. " Phoebe's all right now.
That was a terrible experience for her, but a girl's
first love-affair is more than likely to be unhappy.
Think of Fannie Todd and Nellie Downing and
Flossie Burnham. And Phoebe's been so plucky
about it! She wouldn't go away at first. That's
like her — to stay on the spot and fight it out. And
now that she's willing to go shows that the worst is
over. Have you ever noticed, Edward, how Phoebe
plays tennis? She always starts off with a terrible
dash and then, somewhere along the middle of the
game, she seems to go right to pieces — she can't
hit a ball or anything. Oh, I've heard Ernie
and Tug call her down so hard. And then, some-
how, somewhere near the end, she seems to brace
up in a flash, and plays like a streak. It's what
people call * a second wind,' I guess. Phoebe's just
getting that now — it's a new kind of strength."
" Yes, she's game — I give her credit for that.
She's always had plenty of grit and ginger and get-
up-and-go. But now she seems so listless and idle,"
Mr. Martin answered. " It seems as if she'd never
get over it."
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 59
" She is over it," Mrs. Martin said with the quiet
certainty of conviction. " But in the meantime
something else has happened. It isn't alone that
terrible experience that's made the change — Phoebe
became a woman in a night, as you might say. It's
as if she'd been promoted suddenly to an upper class
in the middle of the term — she can't seem to get the
hang of anything. Most girls go gradually from
childhood to girlhood and from girlhood to woman-
hood. But Phoebe was thrown into womanhood
— poor little thing. She's all bruised and sore.
Oh, Edward, I'm sure the worst of that experience
with Professor Hazeltine is over; she doesn't regret.
It's trying to adjust herself that makes her so
strange."
" Hasn't she ever said anything about it to you
since that night? " Mr. Martin asked.
" She's never breathed a word," Mrs. Martin
answered. " That's Phoebe. She's the kind that
talks all the time about little things. But let some
big thing come along and she shuts right up. I want
her to go to New York — I think it will do her any
amount of good. I like Mrs. Raeburn very much,
and of course it will be a great experience for Phoebe
just to live in that beautiful house. New York
people are so different, too. They go so much.
They'll do anything to make it gay for Phoebe.
Oh, it's almost an act of Providence ! "
Perhaps the interstices in this talk and in Phoebe's
conversation with her father can be best filled by the
following notes :
60 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
Dear Sylvia:
It is all settled and I'm off Thursday for New York
to investigate la vie de Boheme. I told father and mother
that I'd be gone a month. But if I like it, I shall stay
all winter. Oh, Sylvia, I am so desperately unhappy. I
feel reckless. One thing I'd like to say, although I know I
needn't say this to you. Of course it was an accident your
coming upon me just after Tug proposed to me that time. I
know you wouldn't mention it, but please don't even remem-
ber it. I feel as if a girl ought to be as secret about such
things as a man. Above all things, don't let Tug suspect
that you know. And be awfully good to him. P. M.
Dear Eleanor and Tom:
I am coming on to New York for a long visit. Please
let me see you while I'm there. I am inclosing a card
with my address. Everybody in Maywood is envying
you two frantically — they say you have such gay times.
Yours very cordially,
Phoebe Martin.
My dear Augusta:
Have you forgotten Phoebe Martin and how we used
to write foolish diaries together? A great many things
have happened since then and I don't know how you
regard the Augusta Pugh that I used to know. I assure
you that I look upon the Phoebe Martin that you used to
know as a conceited little idiot.
Tug Warburton told me that he met you in New York
when he was there last. That is how I know enough to
send this care of " The Moment." I am coming to New
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 61
York for a visit and I do wish I might see you. Enclosed
is a card with my address.
Yours very sincerely,
Phoebe Martin.
Dearest Mother:
This is really my first chance to write a long letter. For,
oh, the last three days have been so gay. Tell father, that
with my usual luck I landed right in the heart of Bohemia.
But I'll return to that later. And in the meantime, I'll
tell you about
Mother, I thought I knew what luxury was before I
came to New York. For of course the Warburton house
and the Marsh place are perfectly beautiful. Also Marble-
head was simply filled with lovely homes. Then again,
when we were abroad, Mrs. Warburton often stayed at very
expensive hotels. But Mrs. Raeburn lives on a scale of
magnificence that I have read about only in novels. That
hurried lunch that we had in passing through when I came
home from Europe could give you no idea of the resources
of her household — well, it's what in novels they call an
" establishment." I have not yet got the run of the
servants — there must be sixteen. I have always wondered
how many maids you had to have before you could get a
butler, how many butlers it took to make a coachman, how
many coachmen to make a footman. Well, if I keep on
counting, maybe I'll find out. Not that Mrs. Raeburn has
coachmen or footmen. She hasn't. But she has a French
chauffeur and three motors. Mother, I wish you could
see their touring-car. Ern Martin would simply have to
be tied. I don't know whether you could be operated on
62 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
for appendicitis in it but you could do anything else.
Cosmetics, writing-materials, sewing-things, books, papers,
magazines, a medicine case, a tea-table — and always a bunch
of fresh flowers in a hanging vase.
I guess the easiest way to tell you what I've done is to
describe the program of my day. In the first place, I have
a suite of rooms all to myself — that is, a living-room, cham-
ber, dressing-room, and bath — all in white and pink, with
closets enough to stock a hotel (electric lights in every one
of them), and furnished — mother, it looks like a stage-
setting. Every morning about nine, in comes a maid with
my breakfast (which Fm supposed to eat in bed) on a tray.
But I cannot for the life of me eat that way, so the moment
she's gone, I hop out, spread everything on a table, and
devour every blessed morsel she's brought me. I wish I
could pause to tell you about the wonderful china and the
Sheffield plate, but if I stop for details, I'll never get any-
where. In the morning, I go to art exhibitions or shop-
ping or walk with the children in Central Park and feed
the animals in the menagerie. Lunch comes about two.
In Maywood, we would call it a dinner-party. Tea comes
at five. If we have it at home, somebody always seems to
come in. Sometimes they ask to see the children. And in
that case down come Althea, Marjorie, and Phyllis, in
white cobwebby frocks and petti-skirts, white stockings and
white shoes, all floating golden curls, tied with rose ribbons,
carrying their toys and followed by their pets — their toys
great woolly lambs and great golden-haired dollies dressed
just as extravagantly as they — their pets two white Spitz
dogs and a mammoth white Angora cat. When that blonde
procession comes streaming into the great dark, shadowy
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 63
wainscoted library, I always feel as if I were living in a
fairy-tale. And for the tea itself, I never heard of such
sandwiches or dreamed of such cakes — it's fairy food, all
right.
Generally, however, we go out to tea — to Sherry's or
Del's or the Plaza or the Gotham. Mrs. Raeburn always
tells Henri to drive slowly up and down the Avenue for
about a half an hour so that I can see the spectacle, and
she sits beside me and points out celebrities — opera people,
actors, society folks, writers, painters — it's just as if " Who's
Who in America " was parading past. And such a picture as
it is. At the upper end of the Avenue, the houses make
a cliff against the sky on one side, the Park trees a great
bank of shadow on the other. You feel just as if way
up there, a huge giant were shaking out of an enormous
cornucopia carriages and hansoms and taxis and motors of
every description, all filled with gorgeously dressed women,
exquisite children, smart nurses, lovely brown, fluffy, pointy-
nosed Chow dogs, or little, smoky, saucy bright-eyed
Pomeranians. There's something wonderful about the New
York air. In the distance you see patches of light and
shade on the houses just as you've seen sun and shadow
break on a cliff or hillside. And later, as it gets towards
dark and the double rows of the Avenue lights blaze up
into that dusky-blue vapor which is the New York twilight
— mother, they look like parallel necklaces of huge purple
pearls or great blue opals strung from Washington Square,
where they begin, to Murray Hill, where they burst right
through the sky and disappear. Oh, it's so beautiful!
Something in me seems to sing and dance when I'm on the
Avenue. I guess lots of women feel that way, for it's
64 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
always full of women. And such beauties, too! Only,
mother, they're so different from Boston women! I don't
exactly know how to describe my sensations. But when
you're walking in Boston and you see a woman dressed
extremely, and conspicuous in every sense of the word,
you know that she's not a nice person and that's all there
is to it. But in New York, they all look that way. Why,
you feel as if everybody's nice or nobody's nice. I give it
up. But, anyway, I don't care as long as they make such
pictures. And they do literally make pictures of them-
selves — hand-painted, so to speak. Everybody seems to
paint. Mrs. Raeburn does for dinner. And last night,
Felice, who's her maid and who waits on me by inches,
coaxed me to let her put a little color on my face. I said
" Yes," just for fun, and it looked so pretty I let it stay.
(Now tell Father Martin that he needn't go right up in
the air, for I shall never do it again. I just wanted to
see how it looked. But I didn't feel right all the evening.)
At night we go to the theater generally. Theater nights
we have dinner at seven, other nights at eight. Last night
we saw, what do you think, Mr. Raikes' opening in the
new Glaive play — " A He and She Affair." We had a box
and he saw me the moment he came on the stage. I could
feel him playing to us all the evening. It was terribly
flattering. Mrs. Raeburn says that young girls go perfectly
crazy over him. That's inexplicable to me, for, mother,
he looks quite old. After the theater, you always go some-
where for supper, notwithstanding the fact that you can't
be the least bit hungry. But, oh, you'd eat live coals to be
in the room with those gowns — so many wonderful women
— all looking as if they were heroines of romance. If I
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 65
lived in New York I'd put up a tent where Fifth Avenue
and Broadway cross. For New York does not exist outside
of these streets. For me, the Avenue by day — and Broad-
way by night ! Broadway at night ! They call it " the alley
of stars!" All the shops are lighted up, and above them
to the roofs, wonderful electric signs are flashing gold and
darkening black before your eyes. It's just as if you were
driving between parallel rows of noiseless fireworks or a
pair of perfectly well-trained conflagrations. Do you re-
member those keleidoscopes that Ern and I were so crazy
about when we were children? Well, you feel as if you
were suspended in the middle of one of those. And then
when the theaters let out and the crowds begin to pack
the streets, you see nothing as far as the eye can reach but
fluttering plumes, the flash of jewels, the sheen of velvet
and satin and fur, you hear nothing but the sound of the
theater men megaphoning for taxis and all kinds of motors
starting up. I saw nothing like it in Paris — nothing so
gay or so different. Mother, why is it that a woman just
loves to go where there's a lot of money being spent? It
just exhilarates me. All I can say is that when I get
home, I lie for an hour trying to simmer down to a sleep-
level. This must be all for now.
Your loving,
Phoebe.
Dearest Mother:
Now about Bohemia! All that's necessary to prove to
you that I'm living in that wonderful country is to tell
you the names of the great people I'm meeting. Mrs.
Raeburn has given two dinner parties for me. She had
a long talk with me when I first came and she said she
66 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
would like to give a dance. But I told her I much pre-
ferred the dinner-parties, for I had never been to one. Be-
sides, I got enough dancing in Maywood. She told me
that she was much relieved at my decision. She said that
she would be up against it getting men, because she had
no daughters of the debutante age. She says New York
men are an awfully independent lot. She says they can
go anywhere, opera, theater, dinner without its costing them
anything, even common courtesy, so why should they come to
a dance where they would have to exert themselves? Now
about the dinners.
At the first one, the guests of honor were Blanche Hokeby,
the novelist, and Perugio, the wonderful Italian tenor. You
must have read some of her stories, mother. She writes
awfully clever ones — you're never quite sure what she's
driving at and they almost always end before they're begun.
He was a big, black bounding giant of a man, so full of
life that he looks as if a sick person could be made well just
by touching him. She's the kind of a woman that you know
you'll think is beautiful the third time you've seen her. She
looks like one of those high art photographs — as if the print
hadn't been developed quite enough. They talked wonder-
fully — only they're so different. When Perugio talks you
feel as if an electric fan were playing magnetism over you —
he's spraying you with his personality. And when she talks,
you feel the way you do when you're standing on a railroad
platform and an express rushes by — sort of pulled into her
personality. Somehow they got to trading hard-luck stories
in regard to how they got started. Perugio was awfully
funny. He told us all with the utmost simplicity how he
began as a sort of singing waiter in an Italian cafe, and he
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 67
illustrated with the dishes what fierce breaks he made in
serving. And he seemed to be proud as a lion over the
number of plates he could balance on his arm. " Those
were the happiest days of my life, though," he said, " the
days of the first applause."
Mrs. Hokeby told all about the little Western mining
camp in which she was brought up, and how she used to
write rocking the baby's cradle with her foot. She was
dreadfully poor then, only getting about one story in sixteen
accepted. " But those were wonderful times," she said,
" those days of the first acceptances and the first checks."
After dinner, we went into the music-room and she sang some
cowboy songs for Perugio — " The Dying Cowboy " and
" Sam Bass " are all that I can remember. He was per-
fectly delighted with them, and in return he sang some
peasant songs for her — just the ones he used to sing when
he was a waiter. Afterward he happened to come and sit
beside me. As he approached me, it all came over me with
a feeling that, somehow, there was magic in it, that here
was Perugio — the only Perugio, that Boston is just dying
to hear, — and how I could go back to Maywood and tell them
all about him. I don't know how I looked, but he said,
" Have a care, mademoiselle, or your eyes will leap out."
And I said, " Well, how would you feel if you'd never been
any nearer to yourself than a Victor- Victrola? " And he
laughed and laughed and he said that reminded him he was
going to sing into a phonograph to-morrow morning, and if
Mrs. Raeburn would care to come he'd stop in his car
and take us both to hear it. Well, you can imagine how
I felt when he said that — I was just about dippy with delight
for the whole rest of the evening. And when he left, I was
68 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
so afraid he'd forget and yet I didn't want to remind him.
But I looked at him as beseechingly as I could and he just
laughed and said, " No, I won't forget."
Two nights later, there was another dinner-party — this
time the guests of honor were Mrs. John Marks Sinclair,
you know that New York society woman whose picture is
always in the paper, the one who's made such a hit at the
English court — and Raoul, the great French painter.
Mother, if they weren't the most extraordinary pair! I'm
going to tell you just how she was dressed down to the
last detail, for if I don't tell somebody I'll burst. I will
say first that she wore on her head a silver fillet. All back
of that fillet, her hair was brown. All front of it, it was
orange. Yes, sir — orange — not red nor gold, nor auburn,
nor Titian, but orange, the exact color of a tangerine. She
was made up, although I did not know this until Mrs.
Raeburn told me. It seems that her face and neck and
arms were covered with a white paste. Out of that, her
eyes blazed like topazes and her lips flamed like geranium
petals. She looked like one of those French posters that
I've always believed were so exaggerated before. But the
best is yet to come — her gown. It was of velvet, the color
of moleskin, and it was shaped like an umbrella-case. How
she got into it is still puzzling me. Either her maid folded
it round her and then sewed it on, or she laid it flat on
the ground like a gas-pipe and Mrs. Sinclair crawled into
it. At the back near the ground it was weighted down by
two heavy silver — bosses, I guess you'd call them — they
looked like doorknobs. The corsage was a mass of silver
lace, carrying out the color motif of the fillet. She wore
so many chains around her neck that I could not count
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 69
them — all very fine, gold and pearl and jade, earrings that
touched her shoulder like little pagodas, also of gold and
pearl and jade — and rings of gold and pearl and jade.
Right in the midst of the chains there hung two inch-
square emeralds, wonderful against her white skin, and on
one hand, all alone, was another inch-square emerald.
Father will hoot at this, but you will understand, mother,
I know, when I tell you she was bewildering to look at.
I have never seen such beautiful manners. After dinner,
everybody in the room sat beside her a little while and
chatted with her. She hardly spoke herself, but she looked
right straight into their eyes and listened so sweetly. I said
to myself, " When it comes my turn, I'm going to make
you talk, my lady." But I didn't. The first thing I knew
I was telling her all about you. And she said you must be
just like her own mother and how she would like to meet
you. And I said if she ever came to Maywood she must
stay with us and she said she would. Mrs. Raeburn says
that princes have been in love with her, and I don't wonder.
As for Raoul — mother, I think I have never seen such
a wonderful old face, or such a sad one. Mrs. Raeburn
says that, some years ago, he lost a beautiful wife and a
splendid son all within a month of each other; that he has
never been the same man since. Mother, he looks the
soldier, the student, the artist, and the gentleman. There
is something magnificently stern about him, if you know
what I mean, and yet under the bitterness and sadness in
his eyes, his look is so gentle and kind! His hair is silver-
white and his face waxen-white. But his eyebrows are
jet-black and every line in his face that means grief looks
as if it had been gone over with a black pencil.
70 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
At dinner, Mrs. Sinclair told us some perfectly marvelous
stories about the German court — when she was a girl her
uncle was American ambassador there. Why, mother, she's
known slathers of royalty.
Mr. Raeburn told Perugio's story about being a waiter
and, somehow, that seemed to start Raoul. He said that
when he began to paint he was one of a group of struggling
young artists, all equally poor and equally ambitious. For
a studio, they shared one big icy garret. They used to
station one of their number at the window, turn and turn
about, to watch. And if he saw a newspaper blowing
along the street, it was up to him to beat it down the
stairs and capture it, so that they could burn it in the
fireplace and warm their fingers for a few moments. For
pot-boilers, they made little illuminated card-pictures of
saints — one would do the face, another the drapery, and
a third the wings. Then they'd draw lots as to who
should stand on the steps of the Madeleine Sunday and sell
them. He said, " Oh, I was so poor and so cold and so
hungry in those days." He stopped for an instant and his
thoughts seemed to go way off — or back, I guess. " And
so happy," he added. " Those were the happiest days of
my life when my ringers first felt what they could do."
Your loving,
Phoebe.
P.S. — Mrs. Bcale, Eleanor Hight's aunt, was at the
dinner. She's just as mad as ever because Eleanor married
Tom. She says Eleanor comes to see her regularly, but she
herself would not step a foot inside the dreadful place in
which Eleanor lives.
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 71
Dear Phoebe :
Tug has been over here every night since you left. He
makes all kinds of excuses, but I know of course that he
comes to hear your letters. I read them all to him and he
just drinks them down to the last drop. Last night, in
sheer desperation, I took him over to Ethel Locke. You
know what a stunning thing she is and what a corking girl.
She always has a crowd about her and we had an awfully
good time. Tug made the rabbit for her and I heard him
really laugh for the first time in a week. Lovingly,
Sylvia.
The night before Phoebe left Mrs. Raeburn's
house, that lady came into her room for a farewell
chat.
" I've had such a lovely time, Mrs. Raeburn,"
Phoebe began gratefully. " I guess I just haven't
got words enough to tell you all that I feel about it.
It's as beautiful an experience as Europe, for al-
though there IVe seen the most wonderful places,
here I've seen the most wonderful people."
Mrs. Raeburn's bright eyes grew, if possible, a
little brighter. She had been, as Raoul's portrait
attested and her three little daughters proved, a
rose-and-pearl blonde, delicately and yet deeply-
hued. At this moment, although she looked like a
flower on the first day of fading, a certain child-like
quality of enthusiasm seemed to bring forth rem-
nants of these colors. Indeed, she seemed Phoebe's
contemporary in years, her equal in spirits.
" Phoebe," she declared earnestly, " you could
72 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
not possibly have enjoyed it more than Mr. Raeburn
and I. I'm going to tell you a secret. I met Mr.
Raeburn first when I was visiting New York. I shall
never forget — and he says he never will — my first
enthusiasm over it. All our married life weVe been
saying that sometime we'd find a young girl as un-
spoiled as I was and give her that same experience.
We had not known you an hour on the boat before
we saw that you were the one. And tell your mother
that you've been a perfect dear. You've repaid us
a thousandfold, in appreciation, everything we've
done for you."
" Oh, thank you, Mrs. Raeburn," Phoebe said.
" But I guess I haven't told you yet what's almost
the nicest thing about it. It's that I found Bohemia
right here in your home. Before I came on, I hoped
that I'd have some experience with the Bohemian
life and here it was just waiting for me. I'll never
forget as long as I live the great geniuses you've
introduced me to."
Mrs. Raeburn laughed, and to Phoebe there
seemed to be an indulgent ring to her mirth. " My
dear, you're all wrong there, I'm sorry to say. This
isn't Bohemia. From the very nature of things, it
couldn't be. Les arrives can never make a Bohemia.
In fact, with all my experience in New York life,
I have never seen the Bohemia that you read about
in books. And, Phoebe, you can't possibly be more
interested to see that phase of life than I am. In
fact, you're going to see it. According to my idea
of it, there's a very real Bohemia at Mrs. Hight's.
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 73
Mrs. Beale has told me so often about that extraor-
dinary circle of able young people which her niece
has gathered. Not that Mrs. Beale appreciates it
— or has seen it even. If she had, I would have
asked her to take me there. But she hates it — she
mentions it only to scold at Eleanor. Phoebe dear,
would you mind inviting me to Mrs. Hight's while
you're there? "
11 Why, I'd be perfectly delighted! " said Phoebe
cordially.
Dearest Mother:
Here I am with Eleanor and Tom. I'm having the time
of my life. Tom is just as jolly and witty as ever — and
drawls his words out in the same old way. Eleanor is a
pippin. She always did have plenty of class. But New
York has brought something else out in her — she's smart-
looking. People always stare at her in the street — and yet
she dresses very simply. If May wood people think that
Eleanor Hight's life is just one long Bohemian orgy, they're
very much mistaken. In the first place, Tom is trying to
establish himself as a playwright. In January, he is going
to give up his job and, as he says, " Play the literary game
until he breaks or is broken." He told me he had had a
play " almost accepted," and when I asked him what he
meant by " almost " he said that he thought by another year
he'd get the manager to read it. Of course the Hights
have to economize like sixty and that's why they happen to
be living in what they call " a model tenement." This
building was put up originally for working-people and it's
mostly filled with them. Eleanor says they're the kind of
74 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
people whose correspondence is entirely conducted by pic-
ture-postcards, and it is true that the post-boxes are always
choked up with them. Moreover, they are such a shifting
transient class that an agent collects the rents once a week
(six dollars per). Eleanor says it gives her the strangest
sensation to be held up every Friday afternoon. She's
always forgetting that it's rent-day and having to scrabble
round for the money among her friends. I should have said
that there are a few artists and writers and illustrators and
actresses in the house — all exactly as poor as the Hights.
They buy their gas. That is, they put a twenty-five-cent
piece in a slot and when they've used that up they get no
" juice," as Tom calls it, if they don't happen to have
another quarter. It's the tiniest place I ever was in — you
could put the whole apartment down in Mrs. Raeburn's
library — a little living-room, a kitchen, bedroom, and bath.
Tom and Eleanor are sleeping in the living-room now and
have given the bedroom to me. It is such fun — it's a real
doll's existence. Eleanor says the Lord certainly tempers
the wind to the shorn lamb, for if she had loads of pretty
clothes, she would not know where to hang them. The
closets are boxes. Why, she can't even buy more than
enough food for one meal, the refrigerator — Tom calls it
the " jewel-box " — is so tiny. Luckily the place is heated
and provided with hot water. The floors are stone, the
walls painted yellow. Eleanor says it was perfectly cool
there all through the tropical New York summer. Only
the moment spring comes, the windows open and every
woman in the place puts a cushion on the sill and hangs
out the whole afternoon long. Also about forty billion
phonographs start up all over the establishment. Eleanor
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 75
says the working-man can go without clothes and bread,
but he must have a phonograph.
My day here is very different from a day with Mrs.
Raeburn. No more motoring, no more teas on the Avenue,
no theater at night and supper afterward. But I am enjoy-
ing it exactly as much — for, mother, tell father I have cer-
tainly found Bohemia. But here I am again, plunging
right into the midst of things when I should start at the
beginning.
This apartment is right near Gramercy Park, which
looks exactly like Mecklenburg Square, where our lodgings
were in England. I walk through it whenever I can, just
to make believe I'm in London again. And in fact, mother,
you keep coming across places in New York that are exactly
like Europe. Back of Washington Square runs an alley
called Washington Mews. Doesn't that bring back Thack-
eray and the Georges to you? There's an armory on Thirty-
second Street that has a tower like the Palazzo Vecchio in
Florence. Madison Square Garden makes you think of
adorable, arcaded Bologna, especially when the man is feed-
ing the doves there. Washington Square is just like a chunk
cut out of the heart of Paris — that is, the north side, but
the south side is all Italian. There's a church there exactly
like Santa Maria in Cosmedin at Rome. And in the Park —
maybe my heart didn't jump when I saw it — is a statue of
my beloved Garibaldi — little round cap and all. How I
know all this is because Eleanor and I have taken so many
long exploring hikes. We walk everywhere, because we
both love to walk and we want to be economical. Eleanor
is determined not to let me pay for anything, and that being
the case I am determined that there shall be nothing to pay
76 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
for. Indeed, that's the gorgeous thing about New York.
There is so much that you get free — in the way of interest-
ing exhibitions — that you don't need money. And as
Eleanor says, the street scene is just like one long circus
parade. I am finding out that Fifth Avenue and Broadway
aren't all New York — not by any manner of means. I
foolishly thought so and I rather think Mrs. Raeburn's set
does. At least one of her friends said that she had never
ridden on the L, never walked south of Twenty-third,
west of Broadway, or east of Lexington Avenue. All I've
got to say is she doesn't know what she's missed.
Eleanor has taken me through the various foreign quar-
ters — the Ghetto over on the East Side that's almost as
interesting as Naples and certainly quite as dirty and noisy,
the Italian quarters, Chinatown, and even a Syrian quarter.
Best of all, I like Greenwich Village; for that's just like
a little piece of Dutchland left over from Colonial times.
Eleanor took me to call on a Miss Van Vliet, whose people
have lived in the same house for seventy-five years. Eleanor
says that she regards anybody who lives in his own house
in New York with almost a superstitious reverence. Miss
Van Vliet, who's a poetess, says that it's been so strange
to watch the skyline come up from nothing and reach higher
and higher until it just closed in about her. She said that
she had come to feel as if she were in prison and then the
Metropolitan Tower began to grow up before her eyes like
a marvelous white tree. Finally, one night the great
clock suddenly burst into bloom way up high in the sky.
She loves that tower— she says it's a thing of beauty from
morn till dewy eve — and she loves the clock — she calls it
" Moonface." You can't imagine what quaint little shops
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 77
we come across in these out-of-the-way places, and what
charming, kindly, interesting foreigners keeping them. If
people get an idea that New York is all pomp and show
and foolish wealth, they are very much mistaken. Eleanor
says it's just filled and brimming over with ambitious,
aspiring young people.
Sometimes late in the afternoon when we haven't any-
thing else to do, we ride across the river in a ferry-boat,
returning just as it's getting dark. And if that great bunch
of skyscrapers at the tip end of Manhattan — all a-flame and
a-glitter as if tinsel paper had been let in at the windows —
isn't a fairy vision, then I can't imagine one. Mother, I'm
wild about the skyscrapers. If Michael Angelo were to
come to New York to-morrow, the first thing he'd do would
be to design a skyscraper that would make the Singer
Building look like a slice of cheese. You feel as if you were
entering a country of Titans and Brodignagians. And it
is a country of giants! Shivers just go up and down my
spine thinking of what a gateway it is and what it opens
up to the emigrant. // you want to get patriotic, mother,
come to New York.
Phoebe.
Dearest Mother:
Now I'll tell you about Eleanor's friends. They cer-
tainly are a most interesting lot. I was mistaken in thinking
that Mrs. Raeburn's circle was Bohemia. She says it isn't
and she's right. They're all too old and rich and famous
up there. But here nobody is old and all are far from rich.
As for success — you should hear them talk. The ones that
interest me most are Wanda Levvasond, a sculptor, Ellen
j8 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
Goddard, an actress, Oliver Ogden, a poet, and Carl
Schmeiker, a violinist.
Wanda is a marvel — half Russian and all Socialist — with
such a voice, so deep and yet so — mother, did you ever hear
a voice that sounded fragrant? And she's got such great,
deep, burning, excited eyes — agate-on-fire if you know what
I mean ! She took me one day to a class in modeling. There
were at least twenty young girls and women, all in long
aprons, clustered in a circle about a model-stand on which
a young Italian boy was posing. Mother, I went all
through Europe and came home to find Hawthorne's " Mar-
ble Faun " living on the East Side in New York. When
he brushed his curls away from his ears, my heart almost
stood still — I expected to see the little pointed tips that
would betray him. When I looked at all those clever
women, I had something of the feeling that I had in the
Latin Quartier in Paris. I wish that I had a gift and
a consuming ambition — for that's what Wanda's got. And
how do I know but what I have and have never found it?
I often think of that. I wish you could have seen the
difference in Wanda's work from the rest and the deference
with which they all treat her. Every week their teacher
gives them out a subject — something abstract like Grief or
Fatigue or Joy — or something like The Dance or The
Flame. Wanda always brings in two or three studies of
the same subject. And she told me she always tries to
express the emotion without the aid of a single accessory-^
just by the look in the face and the play of muscles in the
body. And she does it, too. But how she works. Such
temperament as she's got! I've heard more talk about
temperament since I've been here! It seems you can't do
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 79
much in any artistic line without temperament. I asked
Tom if he thought I had a temperament, and he said, " I
don't know what you call it, Phoebe, but you've got some-
thing that bowls us over." I think that's a very queer
answer. It sounds like a compliment, but it sort of begs
the question.
Ellen Goddard is an actress — at least she's never acted
yet; but she's determined to become a star. And somehow
I think she'll do it for, apparently, she hasn't another
thought in her head. For instance, she reads Shakspere
aloud all the time — not that she expects to play Shakspere
right off, but for the practice in reciting blank verse. She
picks out sentences from her reading that are hard to
enunciate and spends hours trying to say them so a listener
forty miles off would get every syllable. Last winter she
exchanged English lessons for French with a girl who's
a milliner on Fifth Avenue and this year she's reading
Italian with a young boy from the Settlement. She's
learned to trim hats and make her own gowns so as to
save money. And she exercises all the time to keep slim and
supple. Now that she's looking for a job, she does any-
thing to earn money — poses for ads and acts for moving-
picture machines. Eleanor says that once she took a job
as housemaid. Eleanor says she feeds her every time she
gets a chance.
Oliver Ogden — whom every one calls OUie — writes
poetry. You talk about starving in a garret for your ideals
— that's what he's doing all right. Eleanor says he worries
her more than any of them, because you might just as well
hope to get a living picking twinkles off the stars as by
verse. She says the magazines use poetry only as " fillers."
80 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
Isn't that horrible, mother? And doesn't it just show how
debased literature has become in this country? Ollie looks
like a daguerreotype. He's pale, with dark eyes and fine
dark hair. He's very gentle — you feel almost too gentle
until he reads his poetry — then you know he's got iron in
him somewhere. Don't think he's showing off — he's very
modest, really. He reads his — " stuff," as he calls it — be-
cause they all beg for it. I told him I didn't know any-
thing about poetry, but when he read his verse I felt just
the way I used to feel when I was a child and father read
fairy-tales to Ern and me — I saw things and heard things
that I couldn't describe. His face lighted up and he said
that that was nicer than an acceptance.
Carl Schmeiker is a wonder. I thought I'd heard violin-
ists before but I was mistaken; I never had. Others play
at the violin. He looks like a young Beethoven — very
blonde with a wonderful high, broad forehead and eyes
that burn through to your very soul.
When all those six gifted people get going — well, it's
the talk of the gods, all right. Eleanor is just as gifted
on her critical side as any of them — she's the sanest of
the lot. I notice they always ask Eleanor her opinion of
everything before they ask the others. Isn't that funny?
Eleanor had Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn down to one of her
Sunday night suppers. At first, I was afraid it was going
to be a failure. For you know how the Raeburns seem
to emanate luxury. And Mr. Raeburn looks like a captain
of industry — he can't help it. But they were both so simple
and sweet that after a while the geniuses just forgot all
about them and talked Socialism just as if there weren't a
plutocrat in their midst — the " co-operative commonwealth,"
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 81
the " socialist manifesto," sabotage and the rest of it. You
should have seen Mr. Raeburn's eyes twinkle and Mrs.
Raeburn's eyes shine.
Ellen Goddard was discouraged that day. She had just
made the round of the agencies and there was nothing doing
as usual. Mrs. Raeburn told her some experiences that
Mary Allen, the great English actress, had undergone.
They certainly were terrible; and somehow the thought of
companionship in misfortune with one so great seemed to
make Ellen chirp right up. Mary Allen said, for instance,
that she had always wanted to play Juliet and every night
for thirty years she looked in her mirror and wondered if
she had grown too old. She used to massage her face like
mad to keep wrinkles away. When she was forty-five, she
played Juliet. The critics all commented on how young she
looked, but Mary Allen said her first wrinkle began to
grow the night after she opened in Juliet. She said it
wasn't because she'd let down physically in her care of her-
self, but because, having achieved her ambition, she'd let
down mentally.
After that, the geniuses got to telling what they were
going to do when they became famous. One lovely thing
about them is that, although they're so poor and discour-
aged, they're all sure they're going to get there some time.
And I believe they will, too. But how you have to work
to do anything! I used to think it was only a matter of
a year or so. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow never made a
more profound remark than when he said, " Art is long."
It's all of that — and then some. Well — to return to the
conversation — Ellen said when she was a star, she wasn't
going to hog the stage. She was going to give the young
82 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
and ambitious girls in her company plenty of chance.
Wanda said she was going to found a scholarship for young
sculptors. Ollie said he was going to start a magazine in
which there wouldn't be printed one blamed thing but
poetry. A good idea, I think, and I bet it would pay!
Carl said he was going to give poor students free lessons
on the violin. Mrs. Raeburn told them before she left
that she hadn't enjoyed anything so much in years. She
invited them all to come and see her. And it did occur
to me that she might be able to do something for them.
The trouble is that none of them will go. Carl says the
odor of opulence is fatal to artistry. " What I love about
them," Mrs. Raeburn said to me, " is that they're all talk-
ing about the future. The people who come to see me are
all talking about the past."
No, mother, Sylvia didn't go to Baltimore as she ex-
pected. She's at home. I hear from her about every other
day. Tug has been going over there quite frequently.
She's introduced him to that peachy Ethel Locke — do you
remember she came to my party? Tug seems to be going
about a lot with her crowd. I leave Eleanor's to-morrow
to go to Augusta. I've had such a nice time. At first
Eleanor felt badly because she couldn't introduce me to
any eligible men. As if I cared for men! If you want to
know my opinion of them, I think they're an awfully fickle
lot. Your loving,
Phoebe.
That night, Eleanor came creeping into Phoebe's
bed for their last midnight talk.
" Eleanor," Phoebe said, " do you know youVe
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 83
done a splendid thing for me? You've given me
what I most wanted to get in New York — a glimpse
into Bohemia."
The effect of this simple recognition of hospitality
was extraordinary. Eleanor began to laugh until
presently she grew so hysterical that the bed shook.
" Please forgive me, Phoebe?" she concluded
breathlessly, " but somehow it just struck my sense of
humor the right way, your calling this Bohemia.
Why, my dear, it's about as much Bohemia as it is
Lilliput or Arcadia or Valhalla. These people
haven't the time nor the energy nor the money to be
Bohemians. They're all engaged in a very athletic
struggle with the wolf at the door. Sometimes I
think that's the trouble with them. They take their
ambitions too hard. They're so deadly in earnest.
They're too high-brow. It's almost humorless.
Tom's the only one who seems to see the funny side
of anything. Well, one consolation — they're bound
to get there. You can't beat hard work."
" My goodness ! " Phoebe said in the humbled
tone of mortification, " if this isn't Bohemia, I'd
like to know what is? "
Eleanor's last quiver of laughter stopped with
a jerk. " As it happens, Phoebe," she said seri-
ously, " you're going right into it. If there ever was
an uncrowned queen of Bohemia, Augusta Pugh's it.
She lives in the real kingdom — among the happy-
go-lucky, down-at-the-elbow, hand-to-mouth, touch-
and-go kind — oh, fascinating. I've heard a lot about
her from a friend of Tom's. Tom and I always
84 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
thought her the cleverest of the ' sob-squad ' on
4 The Moment ' and as for those imaginary inter-
views she's writing now — I simply eat them up.
Which reminds me, Phoebe, will you introduce me
to her? You can't possibly want to see Bohemia
more than I do."
" Why, I'd be perfectly delighted! " said Phoebe
cordially.
Dearest Mother:
Here I am with Augusta. And if before I had any
doubts about being in Bohemia, I certainly have none now.
I'm right in the center of the kingdom, close to the throne
and living with what Eleanor calls the " uncrowned
queen." The Augusta of the present is very different from
the girl I used to know. In the first place, she's improved
in her looks. She wears her hair in a wonderful swirl
about her head. It is still chestnut-color; but it isn't so
fearfully frizzly as it used to be. Her eyelids are no longer
red and her eyes are a brilliant china-blue. Her com-
plexion is sort of Scotchy — pink and white and freckled.
She dresses very simply, always in black and white. She's
boyish-looking. She's got an air — not self-assured exactly,
but as if she were equal to any situation. You'd turn to
look at her anywhere. She lives on the south side of
Washington Square, in a perfect duck of a room that she
calls " The Garret." And it is a garret. It's on the top
floor, slant-roofed with a single window, very little-paned
and broad-silled, a brick fireplace in which she keeps a
roaring fire, and a great long closet which is almost a
young garret in itself. It contains a toy sink, a bin for
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 85
wood, and many hooks to hang clothes on. Augusta pa-
pered " The Garret " herself with wrapping-paper — that
tea-with-cream-in-it color. She has pinned up all kinds of
sketches on the walls. Most of these sketches were made
by her art-student friends and that they are the final and
extreme limit in queerness, both in line and color, is the
mildest thing I can say about them. There are a few
shelves which hold books and china and bric-a-brac, and a
couch which runs across two sides of the room where we
sleep (our toes meeting at the corner), a table, three chairs,
and what looks like a slant-top desk. When you pull the
slant-top down — what do you suppose you find? A gas-
stove.
From the window, we get a cat-a-cornered glimpse — be-
tween a line of beautifully faded, pinky-red, ivy-hung
houses on the north side of the Square — up Fifth Avenue.
And if you think that any painter could possibly do justice
to that view on a sunny day with the Avenue, a sea of
flashing black motors, accented here and there by the great
green busses, lumbering along like excited slugs, the yellow
taxis scuttling about like distracted beetles and the whole
scene dotted with the red motor-numbers — or on rainy days
when, as Augusta says, the trees in the Park below seem
caught like seaweed in a great tide of mist — or at dusk of
a damp day when the wet asphalt reflects all the sparkles
and shimmers down to the last glimmer of a gleam — purple
electric lights, yellow gas-lights, red tail-lights of the auto-
mobiles — or at dusk of a clear night when the Avenue lamps
look like pearl sequins embroidered on the sky, with the
office-buildings all illuminated and glittery and Moonface
shining round and gold near the top of the beautiful white
86 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
column of the tower — well, I tell you, he couldn't — not
even if he were Velasquez.
But here I am wasting time on a view, when I've done
so much and seen so much that life has become a sort of
scrimmage of experience. Augusta lives in a perfect whirl.
In the first place, we get up any old time, eat when it
occurs to us, and never at the same place twice, go to bed —
well, generally when there's nothing else to do — although
it's very hard to find a time when there's nothing doing
in the New York that Augusta knows. Either Augusta gets
the breakfast in the chafing-dish or we go to a little cafe
a few doors away. Then, often we market or shop. If we
buy meat, we go to a fat-faced, rosy-cheeked, golden-mus-
tached German butcher — who joshes us in beautiful broken
English without a T or a W anywhere in it. We buy
groceries of a person Augusta calls " the yid " and he is
certainly the politest man I ever met in my life. If we
want fruit, Augusta takes me to " the wop," the hand-
somest Italian I ever saw — with a wife who looks like a
madonna, a baby who looks like a Raphael cherub, and a
picturesque old father who must have been a " hooker "
in Venice. Twice while I have been here, Augusta has
had to buy extra china — for company. We bought the
first set off " the chink " down in Chinatown and the
second set off " the Jap " on Fifth Avenue. And she is
having a chair that belonged to her grandmother re-up-
holstered by an old Frenchman who has the manners of
a marquis. Augusta says that sometime she's going to
write a story called " The Alien," about a boy who was
brought up in New York and never met an American
until he went to Boston.
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 87
After we've done our shopping and marketing, we come
back and Augusta writes. Later we go to Park Row (the
downtown Newspaper Row) or to the Second Flat-iron (the
uptown Newspaper Row). Downtown is wonderful. The
buildings are so high and so solid — somehow you get the
impression that, in the beginning, Manhattan was streaked
with parallel cliffs of stone and that the architects carved
the buildings out of them. And yet, every now and then,
you'll come across little wooden houses that are so quaint
and Dutchy you just love them on sight. The roar in the
downtown streets is tremendous — Augusta says it's like
Niagara. And at noon, when the entire working popula-
1
tion turns out onto the sidewalks, you experience a sensa-
tion that I simply can't describe — it's so polyglot. It
frightens you; for you feel as if there never were any Pil-
grims and Puritans and that the Declaration of Independ-
ence must have been a dream. As for Wall Street — well,
not since I saw the Vatican in Rome have I got such an
impression of mystery and power.
When we go to the " Times " Building, we always walk
up Broadway. I love that. When I was with the Rae-
burns, I saw Broadway only at night. Augusta says that
that is a very hectic aspect of New York life. But in the
daytime it's perfectly marvelous — that is, if you have a guide
like Augusta, whose newspaper experiences have brought
her into contact with all kinds of strange people. She
points them out to me faster than I can look at them —
actors, actresses, show-girls, chorusers, " broilers," opera
people, vaudevillians, managers, playwrights, politicians,
millionaires, detectives. Once she called my attention to a
gentle-looking, white-haired man and asked me to guess his
88 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
profession. I said an actor or a clergyman. She said he
was a very famous confidence-man — Billy Whaley.
Sometimes we visit magazine-offices; for Augusta writes
fiction also. When we went into the first editorial sanctum,
I had the surprise of my life — for the editor was a young
man. More than that he was a perfect dear, with such
nice eyes. He asked me how I liked New York. And
when I told him my impressions he asked me if I wouldn't
write them for him just the way I said them. Of course
I said no, and I guess I never was so frightened in my life.
I don't know why it is, but when anybody says the word
editor to me, I always think of Demosthenes. And I get
a sort of mental picture of a venerable old man with a long
white beard. But Augusta says that none of the editors
in New York are venerable and there are at least three
for whom she will bear an unrequited affection to her
grave. Goodness, if I'd known that, I'd have taken up a
literary career myself. I told Augusta about meeting
Blanche Hokeby, and she said, " Just think, she gets ten
cents a word. Pirate ! " It seems they pay by the word.
That being the case, you bet I'd run in tons of extra ands
and whens and ifs and buts, wouldn't you, mother dearest?
We have lunch wherever we happen to be. Then, late
in the afternoon, Augusta's " gang," as she calls them, begin
to rally around her. I pause here to take a long breath.
I don't know how I'm going to describe these people to
you. For they might be bogles and brownies and trolls and
nymphs and nixies and genies and gnomes and mermaids for
all the resemblance they bear to anybody we know in May-
wood. In the first place, they aren't half so grown up as
little Gracie Seaver. They have no more sense of responsi-
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 89
bility than so many white mice. They work at all kinds
of things — that is, when they do anything — which is, Au-
gusta says, only when they can't " beg, borrow, or steal a
meal off somebody else." It seems that this is the art-
student end of town — billions of them have studios in or
about MacDougal Alley. They come — girls and men —
piling over every afternoon. I couldn't begin to enumerate
them. Then a lot of actresses out of a job visit here. I've
come to the conclusion that half the population of New
York is looking for work and the majority of them are
stage-folk. Besides that, there are a whole lot of people
whom Augusta meets in her newspaper work. And
then
But I guess this will have to be all for now, for I'm
tired.
Your loving,
Phoebe.
Dearest Mother:
I have begun to get the people who come to Augusta's
unmixed and to pick out from them the most interesting.
Of all I think I like Dick Baker best. Augusta says that
he would be the greatest reporter in the world, if he weren't
a " booze-artist." Mother, that means he drinks too much —
isn't it dreadful? He's the kindest, sweetest, gentlest,
loveliest being you ever saw — half Irish. He tells us stories
about his assignments and, always, he's so sympathetic with
the people in the case — no matter how wicked and cruel
they've been. Why, I always thought reporters were per-
fectly heartless. But I couldn't be afraid of Dick Baker
any more than I could of you. I'd tell him positively any-
90 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
thing that he wanted to know. Augusta says that's the way
everybody feels about him and that's why he's such a won-
derful reporter — that, taken with the fact that New York
has never made him the least bit hard or cynical or bitter.
Then, there's a newspaper woman that I adore — a great
big creature, named Molly Edwards — who must have been
handsome once and still has a smile that — well, I know the
heart doesn't beat that could resist that smile. Everybody
loves her and everybody takes care of her. She has no
faculty whatever for looking out for herself. " What will
become of her when she gets old ? " I asked. " Well," Au-
gusta said, " I've given up worrying about Molly. She
may end her days in a poorhouse, it is true. On the other
hand, she is just as likely to marry a millionaire. She re-
fused one last summer."
There are four boy-artists who come here who entertain
me enormously. Oh, mother, they are so funny! They
live in one small studio together; each has a corner. They
call one the " cowboy " artist, the second, the " bulldog "
artist, the third, the " pretty-girl " artist, and the last, the
" ship " artist. And the way they josh and jolly each
other — mother, it's a perfect wheeze! They have to keep
their various belongings under their beds because there's
no other place for them. The " pretty-girl " artist told me
that the " cowboy " artist prefers to keep his on his bed,
where he can get at them easily. He says that there are
all kinds of cowboy things there — a saddle, high boots, a
Stetson hat, " chaps," a slicker, lassos, guns of every de-
scription — it's simply crowded with them. The " cowboy "
artist is too lazy to take any of them off when he goes to
bed, so he just worms himself under the clothes and sleeps
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 91
with all that truck on him — and sleeps like a baby. Can
you beat it?
The four women who interest me most, next to Molly
Edwards, are Angela Ade, Jane Daly, Ruthie Stanley, and
" Jimmie " Tench.
Angela is a suffragette. Oh, mother, she's simply hot
on the subject — and what she doesn't know about it would
hardly fill a thimble. She's taken me to a lot of suffrage
meetings and if it hasn't been a revelation! Why, I always
thought that suffragists were queer people that you'd hate
to have round. But in New York, all kinds of women are
suffragists — even society women. In fact, it's the thing to
be a suffragette. And when you come down to it, mother,
taxation without representation is tyranny and there's no
going back of that. Why, Angela can get right up at any
time and address a meeting. She's talked from soap boxes
on the street. She's marched in the suffrage parade and
picketed in East Side strikes and been arrested. She's very
little and blonde and frail and delicate, but with such fire —
she looks like an angel but an angel with a temper — if you
know what I mean.
Jane Daly is what Augusta calls an " actorine." She is
so pretty and fascinating that I cannot keep my eyes off
of her — the darlingest little slim figure, great big mis-
chievous brown eyes and a nose that turns right up. She
can imitate anybody or anything on the earth that she's
ever seen. She's been all over this country. And last year
she saved up enough money to go abroad on the cheap, —
and went — explored London and Paris all by herself. Did
you ever hear anything like her courage? Why, mother,
when I compare myself with some of these girls, I feel
92 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
ashamed, I'm so useless. Jane is out of an engagement
now — so she's posing for the " pretty-girl " artist. I asked
her if it wasn't wonderfully inspiring and stimulating going
about and seeing the managers when she's out of a job.
And she said, " Pardon me if I seem to give you the haw-
haw, but " Mother, she said if there was anything she
hated and loathed it was going to interview a manager —
she despised it. And if she had her way, all theaters would
be subsidized by the government and managers would be
abolished.
Ruthie Stanley is a girl-editor. That is to say, she's
assistant editor on " To-morrow." She is a great big,
stunning-looking brunette creature, like a Greek statue that's
been dipped in coffee. I asked her if authors weren't the
most wonderful people in the world, and she said, " Not
unless you say it quick." Mother, I never was so dis-
illusioned in my life. She says that writers are just as fond
of money as anybody else and perhaps more so. She says
they'll haggle over a few cents in a perfectly disgraceful way
and their word means nothing. Why, I had always sup-
posed that people wrote for the love of their art and that
they considered it a privilege to give their work to the
world. I wish you could have heard Ruthie roar when
I said that. She said they wouldn't give an " and " or a
" but " or a " when " to save the entire sidereal system
from destruction.
" Jimmie " Tench is a woman press-agent. She is big and
comfortable and soft-voiced and maternal-looking — my idea
of a trained nurse. And oh, mother, you can have no idea
what a clever person she is and how hard she has to work.
She seems to know every newspaper man and every actor
: "» ■£--SCrfoBbjfX
Sometimes when the " gang " is here we have dinner in
" The Garret.' '
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 93
and actress in New York. When I asked her if it wasn't
wonderful meeting actors and actresses all the time, she
asked me to excuse her while she fainted away for a mo-
ment. Then she said if she had her choice, she would
never lay eyes again on anything that had any connection
with the theater whatever — not even the people who printed
the programs.
Well, mother, when Augusta gets to railing against
editors and Jane against managers and Ruth Stanley against
authors and " Jimmie " against actors — it is certainly one
grand knock-fest. It quite troubled me for awhile until I
spoke of it to Eleanor. And Eleanor says that the reason
is that you naturally distrust anybody with whom you have
financial dealings. She says she doesn't know why it is, but
there is something about money that brings out the worst
that's in people.
I should have told you, by the way, that I had Eleanor
to tea and that she and Augusta immediately took a great
fancy to each other. Everybody here likes Eleanor. She's
so pretty and clever and efficient and wise. Then her
clothes are so smart; she's posing for half the artists —
they're crazy about the way she dresses.
Sometimes when the " gang " is here, we have dinner in
" The Garret." In that case, everybody takes hold and
helps cook — men and women alike. The men put aprons
on or pin towels round their necks and wash the dishes and
clean up as a matter of course. On that score, I can
recommend a Bohemian husband — he is certainly a handy
thing to have about the house. And oh, what good things
we have to eat. When I get home I am going to cook some
Italian spaghetti and some Hungarian goulashes that will
94 Phoebe x^mong the Bohemians
make your hair curl. If we go out to dinner — and we
can only by pooling all the money in the crowd — we go to
a different place every night. I have gone to a Chinese
restaurant where I ate chop suey until I was ashamed
of myself, to a Turkish restaurant where all the food
tasted as if it had been perfumed and was delicious beyond
description, to a German restaurant where the food was so
much easier to eat than to pronounce that I can't tell you
anything about it, to a Hungarian restaurant where the
wine was changed with every course and you served yourself
from an extraordinary glass arrangement at the end of the
table, to a French restaurant where there were forty billion
hors d'oeuvres, to an Italian restaurant where — I guess I like
the Italian cooking best, although the chicken does taste
like a warmed-over hot-water bottle and the salad does look
as if it had been out all night in the rain. But the soup
and the macaroni and the zambayone, oh, how I love it!
We sit in the restaurant all the evening having a good time.
Sometimes we go to bed at twelve, sometimes later. Once
it was two. Now don't let father worry about that; for,
mother, there is not one of these people that you would not
like. And you'd love poor Dick Baker, the " booze-fighter."
For no woman could help loving and pitying him. Augusta
says it is only a question of Dick Baker's finding the right
girl before it is too late. They made me realize all of
a sudden what an influence a woman can have over a man.
My goodness, it's marvelous! I have thought so many
times that if I were a man I'd ask Dick Baker to come over
to Maywood and stay until he got straightened out. But
of course a girl can't do a thing like that.
I am enjoying myself, mother dearest. My month is
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 95
nearly up, but I may stay longer. I guess I'd better finish
this letter now. It's very late and I've just found a letter
from Sylvia among my mail. Somehow I always feel like
answering her letters the moment I get them — she has so
much news about my friends — Tug and Ethel Locke and
the others. Your loving,
Phoebe.
As Phoebe picked up her letter, Augusta suddenly
stopped banging her typewriter and leaned back in
her chair.
" Augusta," Phoebe said impulsively, " do you
know I'm having an awfully good time here? This
is the first time in my life that I've ever lived in Bo-
hemia. I don't know but what I'll find something
to do here in New York and stay on all winter.
Father won't object, I know. I wouldn't be sur-
prised if I could make something of myself in this
atmosphere. I'm sure I could write stories as good
as some I see in the magazines."
As she spoke, Phoebe's fingers pulled mechanic-
ally at the flap of her letter, tore it open. Before
Augusta answered, her eyes mechanically ran
through the opening lines :
Dear Phoebe:
Tug's state of mind is certainly improving. Ethel Locke
has invited him to go on a motoring, week-end excursion
with them. He hasn't said yes, yet. But I think he will.
I'm urging him to do it. Ethel's crowd is such a jolly one
and she's so bright herself. She
96 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
Augusta's long slender hands were smoothing her
brow. Her oval finger-tips came to rest for an in-
stant on her tired eyelids. When she removed them,
her eyes gleamed bright with decision.
" Phoebe," she said, " IVe been dying to have a
talk with you ever since youVe been here. And I'm
going to get it off my chest now, if you don't mind.
In the first place, perhaps you remember that when
you wrote to me, it was over a week before I replied
to your letter. That wasn't press of work, as I said.
It was mostly because I didn't want to see you. Do
you know, way back when we were girls together,
I was jealous of you — horribly jealous? Not so
much of your looks, although you were pretty nearly
as much of a pippin then as you are now. Nor of
your abilities, for I was your equal there. But be-
cause Tug Warburton had a case on you. I was
crazy about Tug, myself, in those days. If I could
have got him away from you, I would have — with-
out a scruple. But I couldn't. I don't apologize
now for that. For most girls are bounders and
most boys cads. A code of honor develops only
with character and experience."
Augusta paused a moment. Then her hands went
behind her head and clasped there. She sank into
a position of greater ease.
" You know what happened. After two years at
college, I went to work for a Boston newspaper.
Then I came to New York. I've never seen Tug
since until he came on two months ago. Then I
met him on the street. I'd never forgotten him.
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 97
For a reason that I'll tell you later, I wanted to
find out whether I was infatuated with him or not.
I invited him to call. He came. I invited him
again. He came again. The long and the short of
it was that we went to dinner or to the theater
every night of his stay here. Don't get any impres-
sion that Tug was flirting with me. He wasn't.
But don't get any impression that I wasn't flirting
with Tug. I was — like a house afire. It was plain
to me what the situation was. You had just thrown
him down ; — he was as blue as indigo. Not that he
told me a word of this. It was what he didn't tell
me that flashed the signal."
Augusta suddenly abandoned her easy attitude.
She bent forward, her long slim hands folded.
" Now I'll tell you why I flirted with him. There's
a reporter on ' The Moment ' who's been asking me
to marry him. I wouldn't say yes until I was sure
I was all through with the Tug infatuation. I
proved that to myself all right, and I'm going to get
married in June. I'm going to cut out all this foot-
less life and take a little place over in Jersey and
make a big editor of him. I can do it. He's a
person. I'm only mediocre, you know. I write
fiction, but very bad fiction. But, working in har-
ness with him, I can pull off something big and I
know it. Now, Phoebe, I've been frank about my-
self. I'm going to be frank about you. You're not
a genius any more than I am. You're a true sport
and a thoroughbred and you've got personality, but
you're only an average girl, after all. Here in New
98 Phoebe Among the Bohemians
York you wouldn't be one-two-three with the big
people that are coming all the time. You go back
to Maywood and marry a Maywood man. You'll
be a power in that town. You'll run it socially —
and you'll do a heap of good. You'll accomplish
things as you never could here. I'm going to tell
you one more thing — not because I'm impertinent,
but because I like you. I didn't make a dent on
Tug — I couldn't. He's still in the condition where
you've scratched off every other woman's face for
him. He's like that idiot in ' As You Like It ' who
kept calling, • Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe ! ' But
I got one thing out of it, and I'm telling it to you,
Phoebe, so you won't make any mistake. The next
attractive girl who goes oat after Tug is going to
get him. See? "
For several minutes Phoebe did not speak. Au-
gusta stared at her. Under the tangle in her brow,
Phoebe's look was riveted on the further wall as if
she saw, in letters of fire, some grim warning written
there. The silence became thick, almost tangible.
Then suddenly, Phoebe broke it. " Augusta," she
said simply, " thank you."
11 That's all right," Augusta said in an offhand
way. And a little later, as if to change the subject,
she added, " Oh, by the way, Phoebe, that's all dead
wrong, that idea you've got that this is Bohemia.
It isn't. You have to have something on you to be
a Bohemian, and none of these people have any real
abilities or any real ambition. Bohemia is the land
of big people who've found themselves. Did you
Phoebe Among the Bohemians 99
ever read about that crowd Zola collected — the De
Goncourts and De Maupassant and the rest?
That's my idea of Bohemia — genius tested and sure
of itself. Oh, I'll tell you who lives in a real, a per-
fect Bohemia. That's your friend, Mrs. Raeburn.
Say, I'd love to know her, Phoebe. Will you take
me there some time? "
" Why, I'd be perfectly delighted," said Phoebe
cordially.
Dearest Father and Mother:
Do you know what Bohemia is? It's what you haven't
got. Do you know where Bohemia is? It's where you
don't live. It's anything but what you have, any place but
where you are. Do you know what most looks like Bohemia
to me now? Maywood. And you two are the king and
queen of it. I'm coming back on the ten o'clock limited
to-morrow to live forever in my Bohemia.
Phoebe.
P.S. — I wrote Tug to come in with the machine to bring
me home. I'll be there about five.
CHAPTER IV
ERNEST LAYS DOWN HIS ARMS
DEAREST Sylvia:
Mother got a letter from Ern last night in which
he announced that he was going to bring four boys
home from Princeton for the Easter vacation. Ordinarily it
lasts only from the Thursday before Easter until the Mon-
day after; but by a system of saving up cuts, they've spread
it into a week. With Ern, that makes five kid-boys in
the house. Five — count 'em — FIVE. Isn't it sickening? I
feel as if I were taking in kindergartens to train. For,
like you, Sylvia, I have nothing but indifference and an
amused contempt for boys. However, they needn't inter-
fere one atom with you and me. In the first place, boys
of that age generally hate girls; but if the little beasts
show the faintest sign of taking notice, I guess I can hand
them the best freezing-out act ever seen on this or any
other stage. And you, too, Sylvia, my love, can turn a
pretty handy trick with the ice-pitcher.
Mother and I have talked it over, and we've put five
cots in the big room at the top of the house — the one we
call the Gym. It looks like a hospital ward. You and I
will have the floor below all to ourselves. We will break-
fast in my room. Then you can work all morning on
your thesis. I'll bring your lunch up to you — I have a
great pull with Flora. And the girls will probably invite
ioo
Ernest Lays down' His 1 ArrriS ' Yoi
us out to dinner so often that we won't have to see the
kindergarten only now and then.
Yours disgustedly,
Phoebe.
" Say, Mart," said Cinders, addressing Ernest
Martin, the night before the quintette left Prince-
ton, " do I understand that you guarantee this ex-
pedition to the home of your ancestors to be ab-
solutely non-fussing, as it were, so to speak, never-
theless and notwithstanding? "
" Child, you guess the truth," Ernest reassured
him; " it is to be skirtless. In the words of the bard,
there will be lack of woman's weeping, there will
be lack of woman's tears."
" Io triumphe, banzai, hail, hip, hip, hip and loud
cheers ! " said Cinders.
Red-headed was Cinders — little and clever, always
asking questions, and usually answering them himself.
" How can it be skirtless," Sandy Williston re-
marked, " if you have a sister? "
Sandy was long, lank, and preternaturally solemn
as to full black eyes behind huge round glasses. He
now turned the double glare of his convex gaze on
a picture of Phoebe, which, framed in an oval of
gold, had appeared in Ernest's room at Christmas-
time. The others looked at it also, and with vary-
ing degrees of a premeditated indifference. As it
happened, their semi-circular group had made it the
center of tri-weekly smoke-talks. And as they puffed,
they considered it.
102 Ernest Lays down His Arms
The picture — the last cry in fashionable photog-
raphy — represented a slender girl in an evening-dress
and huge lacy mob-cap. Perhaps — was it a trick of
the artisan — the innocent big eyes were a little sad,
the prettily-curved mouth a little drooped. And cer-
tainly the feminine note had been emphasized and ac-
cented. The portrait included, for instance, such de-
tails as toy-hands concealed by gloves, long, soft,
prettily-wrinkled and holding a rose, the tip of a
satin slipper pointing from under a swirl of skirt. It
included such feminine properties nearby as an even-
ing-coat draped over her chair, a triangular object
that was a half-opened fan, a square of lace masquer-
ading as a handkerchief. But, on the whole, the
figure of a robust litheness, a delicate muscularity,
connoted spirit, impulse and enthusiasm.
Ernest glanced at the picture, too, and realized
for the first time since he placed it on the wall that
it still hung there. Also, in passing he was hit with
the wonder that always struck him when he saw
that other men considered a man's sister as a girl.
To Ernest, the female sex divided itself automatically
into two departments, his mother and Phoebe in one,
the rest of created women in the other. " Oh,
Phoebe!" he said in a careless voice. " Phoebe-is not
like other girls. She won't bother us any. I tell
you when a girl has brothers, she soon learns to leave
his men-friends alone."
" It is my opinion that none of them don't never
learn to peacefully leave nobody alone," said Sandy.
Sandy was a little older than the rest. He dealt
a
."H *
bfl
Ernest Lays down His Arms 103
deliberately in the double negative and the split in-
finitive. This gave an effect of verbal mutilation to
his conversation. But that was as nothing to the in-
surgent quality given by his cynicism to his opinions.
Sandy had weighed woman in the balance and found
her wanting. He made general statements about her.
" There are exactly one hundred reasons why girls
are unfit for human companionship," said Art Tur-
ner. " The first is that they're women, and the
other ninety-nine are that they aren't men."
Art Turner, thin as a whip-cord, pompadoured
and acidulous, was given to epigram. He looked
about him now with the pardonable pride of one who
has struck off a neat thing.
" That isn't it," said Cinders, who was nothing if
not concrete. " The trouble with the females of the
species is that they have no stuffing in their skulls.
They are empty in the garret and vacant in the belfry.
That is, if they're lookers. There must be some of
them who have ideas, for you hear about them at the
women's colleges. But there you are again! If
they go to college, they are freaks. To find at one
time, contiguous and adjacent, contemporaneous and
consanguineous, a skirt that is good-looking and can
talk sense to a man — it can't be done. That kind is
a paradox. It doesn't happen — that's all. And
damfiknow why, either."
" My brother said there was a college girl came
to Rouncewell Center last summer that was a peach-
erine, and the niftiest bunch of calico there," re-
marked Al Lawson.
io4 Ernest Lays down His Arms
Al Lawson was a slender, shy, poetic-looking lad
■ — blond. He spoke now in a casual kind of way,
but as one who will see justice done.
" Did you see her yourself? " Cinders asked with
disconcerting abruptness.
" No," admitted Al.
" That's it. There are always rumors that some-
time, somewhere, somebody saw a good-looking col-
lege-girl. It's like the Flying Dutchman or the fata
morgana or the esprit de corps or the zeit-geist —
you never see it yourself. Take it from me, if
women are pippins, there are TO LET signs in
their think-halls, and if they have brains, their faces
have once been stepped on."
Ernest seemed to agree to all this by an approving
silence. He would have died rather than raise the
faintest peep of dissent. But mentally it made him
writhe, and physically it made him flush, to imagine
what the others would say if they guessed the true
state of affairs. For in the last year Ernest had un-
dergone a complete change of opinion in regard to
this girl question. He supposed that his experience
was new in the history of masculine consciousness.
It never occurred to him that Sandy, Cinders, Al, Art,
et al. might be passing through the same psychologi-
cal change. And if it had been suggested to him that,
in the foregoing conversation they were trying, by
concerted whistling, to keep their courage up, he
would have flouted the theory.
As to Ernest's surprising face-about, many were
the reasons thereof. First of all, there was the in-
Ernest Lays down His Arms 105
evitable one of mental growth, of wider social ex-
perience in college life, of constant contact with the
world of girls. But allying itself with the main cur-
rent flowed many minor streams. Vide :
By accident, Ernest had become identified in his
college course with a group of men professedly " lit-
erary " in taste and ambition. The accident was his
personal lovability, the unexpected plasticity and
adaptability which, in his High School days, had
made him the leader of his intellectual betters, and
would, doubtless, always insure him their companion-
ship. He had become a little touched with the
literary spirit. First and last, he had heard a great
deal of literary talk at college — discussions of
authors, plots, atmospheres, influences, the technique
of style. He reeled off with astonishing glibness the
patter of his sophomoric tribe. He read more poetry
than ever before in his life — Byron, Shelley, Keats,
Verlaine, Heine — and he was absolutely unconscious
that it was his crowd who really translated it all
to him. Latterly, Goethe had become the god,
Wilhelm Meister the hero of his mind-world. In-
deed, Ernest had discovered many extraordinary re-
semblances between himself and Wilhelm Meister —
but this was one of the things that he never told his
friends.
One or two of Ernest's group were destined to go
the whole weary way of authorship to a modest
success. They all thought that it was the brilliant
and cynical Sandy who was to become their class-
pride — but in point of fact it was the inquisitive,
106 Ernest Lays down His Arms
tough, and self-sufficient Cinders. Sandy was des-
tined, after traveling a few years in the interests of
his father's shoe business, to settle down comfortably
to fat and affluence. So Ernest was to take up his
father's trail, to become an able business man and
a solid citizen. But for the moment the glamour
of the writing atmosphere was on him. Visions of
Grub Street beckoned and allured. He was begin-
ning to let his thoughts run fictionwards. He even
tried his secret hand at verse.
Following on the advice of his preceptor and in the
footsteps of genius, Ernest now carried a notebook
— number 5. It bore the proud title WOMEN—
THEIR FAULTS AND FRAILTIES. And
Ernest was convinced that he would fill it with the
subtleties of a Balzac-like study of the sex. But,
somehow, though its predecessors filled up rapidly
enough, stuffed as they were with Sandy's general
cynicisms, Cinders' concrete observations, Al's epi-
grams, and Art's questions, number five seemed to
languish. And yet it had started with a bang — in a
statement arrogant enough to predicate an endless
flow of eloquence.
" Woman," Ernest wrote, " is not only the
CONSERVATIVE; SHE IS THE REACTIONARY FORCE IN
LIFE. SHE IS NOT OF THE FUTURE. SHE IS NOT
EVEN OF THE PRESENT. SHE IS OF THE PAST.
SHE IS THE DETERRENT, THE DETERIANT [Ernest
was very proud of that bit of word-carpentry] OF
progress. Woman deliberately blindfolds us
and then leads us back."
Ernest Lays down His Arms 107
The remark still glared up at him, alone and un-
supported, from the first page.
He had reasons, other than literary, to urge him
to the study of concrete woman. For the world of
his mind was now haunted, and haunted by a being
unmistakably of the woman-kind, a being whom he
had never seen, and thus could not name. Perhaps
for our purposes, the label Ideal will best serve. It
was not that Ernest ever consciously exorcised her.
She appeared — that was it — she appeared. At first
there was a sense of shock about it as if, entering his
room suddenly, he had surprised an alien thing there
— a creature beautiful but yet faery — a ghost-being
who blew out like a candle the moment he looked at
her. At first she came rarely. Now she came often,
whenever he was mentally vacant and idle, the fifteen
minutes of lying awake at night before his heavy,
quickly-descending sleep eclipsed her, the three min-
utes of delicious dozing in the morning before his
cold shower banished her, the intervals in between
of lonely walking.
Sometimes even when people were actually about,
talking, laughing, he would catch a glimpse of its
ghost-occupant, not near, but far-away in the dimly-
lighted reaches of his mind. And then his thought,
taking the bit in its mouth, would go galloping —
galloping — galloping — lightly but swiftly galloping
— galloping — off — away — on — and on — always pur-
suing and never catching up.
It tantalized Ernest to the verge of irritation that
he had never seen her face. Or was that the f ascina-
108 Ernest Lays down His Arms
tion of it? And yet — here was a strange thing about
it — in spite of her aloofness, he had a vision, vaguely
actual, of her.
She was a contradictory creature, full at the same
time of bubbling, sparkling spirits and strange vague
languors, a creature of soft curves and iron muscles.
She had the body of woman, the spirit of man.
She was compact of the various beauties he had
noticed in others. Her long floating hair was thick,
wing-like with jet-black curls. Those curls were the
curls of Fay Faxon, the first girl Ernest had ever
consciously looked at. Her eyes were the twin star
blacknesses of a young girl-actor whose Boston
openings Ernest had tried never to miss. Her
mouth had the curved, tragic contours of an Italian
poetess whose picture Ernest had once cut from a
magazine. Her expression — but, here, always she
evaded him.
Ernest caught himself surreptitiously studying the
faces of women nowadays. For, just as he found
other women in her, he found her in other women.
His occasional excursions to New York gave him
plenty of opportunity for this furtive identification.
The New York streets surged with women. And
many of them looked twice, and some of them with
a smile and a flash of invitation, at the sturdy, broad-
shouldered lad whose skin under its coat of tan should
have been so white, and whose eyes, through their
lingering adolescent sulkiness, so clear. One mo-
ment the expression of the Ideal flashed the brune,
piquant, pointed sauciness of the girl who had blown
Ernest Lays down His Arms 109
a horn in his ear election night. Again it softened to
the velvety languors of the woman who, at an Italian
table-d'hote, had stared at him through the magic
curtain of the smoke from her cigarette — a young
seeress with eyes like moons. Sometimes it had the
look of wonder, the shyest and gentlest, the most in-
nocent and tender, of a portrait study that he once saw
hanging in a Fifth Avenue window. Once it had the
handsome militant sternness of a young suffragette,
whom his crowd stopped to " josh " as, humorously
but with passion, she harangued a crowd in Union
Square. Always it had the olive, oblique, enigmatic
quality of the woman in the illustrations to books
of eastern travels. And yet, curiously enough, em-
bodied orient that she was, she was all Spain and
all Italy, she was all Athens and all Rome.
Translating her into the people of fiction, she was
the Rosalind of Shakespeare, the Rebecca of " Ivan-
hoe," the Judith of " Deerslayer," she was the Lorna
Doone of his favorite novel, the Mignon of his latest
god. Translating her into the terms of real life,
she was the two Stellae, Sidney's and Swift's, she was
Mary Shelley, Claire Clairmont, Fannie Brawne and
Bettina von Arnim.
Of all the things that she was, he remained un-
certain, except that she was tropically dark and ori-
entally curved. Of one thing she was not, he was
absolutely certain. She differed in every particular
from the May wood girl, the type of which Phoebe
so perfectly represented. The Maywood girl was
clean-drawn, cut-out, crisply carved, and clearly col-
no Ernest Lays down His Arms
ored, a flesh-and-blood, bread-and-butter creature.
The Ideal was shadowy, satiny, melting, of the sun
and the wind, and yet a creature for poetry and the
rhapsodies of confidence in the twilight and under
the moon.
"What kind of skirts are the Maywood girls?"
asked Cinders.
" Oh, just like other girls," Ernest answered.
"Well, are there many of them?"
"Oodles!" Ernest was laconic. "Each the
exact duplicate of the other. All made in Grand
Rapids."
" Oh, Lord ! " exclaimed Cinders, touching the
depths of dejection. " Already I see her face. Al-
ready I hear her talk."
"Well, what's the use of thinking about it?"
Ernest burst out impatiently. " You won't see any
of them. There's only my sister, who, as I tell you,
is trained to leave men alone. To be sure, she's go-
ing to have a friend staying there for a few days — a
Radcliffe girl, Sylvia Gordon. But Phoebe says she's
so busy working on a thesis that she won't have time
even to eat with us. Which reminds me that I'll
have to take an hour or two, here and there, to
whack that essay of mine into shape. But you
needn't be scared, I won't sick any girls on to you.
When I guarantee you that we don't fuss, we don't
fuss. See! You can't possibly hate to have girls
round more than I do. Now this is to be the pro-
gram of the week's games and sports. Weather
permitting, we'll have tennis — perhaps some golf.
Ernest Lays down His Arms in
Nights we'll beat it into Boston to shows. If it
rains, day-times we'll bum round the city, seeing what
we can see. You needn't look a female in the face
during the entire week."
11 What sort of a girl is this Gordon girl? " Cin-
ders asked.
" What a foolishness ! " Ernest commented.
" No girl is ever any different from any other girl.
She's girl — that's all — just girl ! Phoebe thinks she's
the whole cheese. Come to think of it, she is pretty
plucky. She's worked her way through Radcliffe —
though after the first year she got a scholarship.
When Phoebe met her, she was waiting on table at
a hotel in Marblehead. My father and mother
think she's a corker. But this will be about all
along this line. Have we no more intelligent sub-
jects for conversation? "
Ernest's program gave every evidence of a con-
scientious intention to fulfil itself. Arriving just
before dinner at the big old-fashioned house set in
the midst of lawn and garden, the Princetonians
found a family of three awaiting them.
The handsome gentleman, stout, slightly florid
and iron-gray, who was Ernest's father, welcomed
them cordially. Like the thoroughbred that he was,
he piled their plates so full at the go-off that they
did not have to come up for more than two extra
helps. The tall, thin woman, soft-eyed and gray-
haired, who was Ernest's mother — and who exactly
met the sophomoric ideal of a mother — welcomed
them cordially, too. She did not seem to notice the
ii2 Ernest Lays down His Arms
disappearance of three square yards of steak and,
with the pudding, of a salad-bowl-full of hard sauce.
Her guests did not notice either that at the con-
clusion of the meal she went to the telephone. " I
want to add to my order, Mr. Jellup, three dozen
more eggs, a dozen more chops, two more chickens,
and all the cream you can spare me for the next
week." The startling young person, so magnificently
handsome, so magnificently stately, so magnificently
haughty, who was Mart's sister, also welcomed them.
But hardly with cordiality. Her Majesty — Cinders
immediately dubbed her that — never lifted her eye-
lashes — they were long, dark, and level — above the
height of their ties.
Her Majesty — otherwise Phoebe Martin — disap-
peared as soon as dinner was over, joining, they
conjectured, the mysterious " grind M upstairs whom
Cinders christened " the Captive."
For two days, the quintette lived a life ideally
masculine, in an Eden virtually Eveless. Her
Majesty and the Captive breakfasted and lunched
together upstairs. Both nights they went elsewhere
for dinner. Once or twice, filing downstairs, the
boys heard twin peals of girlish laughter ascending
and descending the scale of girlish mirth. Every
mother's son of them wondered in his secret heart
if he were not the object of that heartless humor.
Indeed, it was immediately after this that Cinders
said, " By jiminy, Mart, it certainly is great the
way you've cut out the female proposition for us.
You wouldn't think there was a girl in this town."
Ernest Lays down His Arms 113
And then, to Ernest's great disgust, his whole
scheme of masculine segregation blew up, burst, and
disappeared before his very eyes. And the god in
this infernal machine of chance was the person whom
he had most reason to trust — his mother.
Returning from the theater, Ernest noiselessly
guided the car up to the Martin gate just as the
town-clock struck twelve. At that identical mo-
ment, the Martin door opened and disgorged what
Cinders afterward described as " all the girls in the
world and then some." Subtracting hyperbole and
substituting exact statistic, it let out Her Majesty,
a spark of mischief in her gray eyes big enough to
melt the last icicle of her manner. It let out Molly
Tate, a little bud of femininity, flaxen and demure.
It let out the Gould twins, slender, brown, diabolic
in their coquetry, as alike as paired pearls, except
that, as Cinders sapiently remarked, " each was
prettier than the other." It let out Mrs. Martin,
who said in a relieved voice, " Oh, there you are,
Ernie, at last. You can take the girls home in the
car.
" All right, mother," said Ernest. " Say, fellers,"
he went on, sacrificing himself nobly, " you beat it
upstairs. I won't be gone but fifteen minutes."
But, to his intense disgust and anxiety, the boys
lingered, helping to pack the girls in the motor.
Out of his own experience, Ernest could have told
them that that was like playing with a trap whose
working you do not understand. And Phoebe,
traitor that she was, egged them on. You never
ii4 Ernest Lays down His Arms
could depend on any female, Ernest reflected bit-
terly, not even a sister, to play your game. And
then, at the last moment, on one excuse or another,
the Princetonians leaped into the car, sitting on the
floor, standing on the running-board, hanging on
by their eyelids generally. They proceeded to
" jolly " the feminine half of the cargo until their
rush through the night trailed, like a banner, a con-
tinuous peal of girl-giggles. Not only that — and
decidedly, Ernest did not think this was playing fair
— when they reached Molly Tate's house, they pre-
vailed on her to see the Gould girls home. Arriving
five minutes later at the Gould place, they wheedled
the twins into seeing Molly home. By a clever pro-
longation of this system, they saw Molly home six
times and the twins five. Finally, to Ernest's relief,
feminine rebellion asserted itself over feminine pli-
ability.
" I tell you, fellers, what let's do to-day," Ernest
said the next morning, " you haven't any of you been
to "
" Oh, see here, Mart," Cinders interrupted, " if
you don't mind, I guess I won't go motoring this
morning. You see, last night, that Miss Tate got
to talking tennis with me — say, what sort of a game
does she play, Mart? "
" Rattling for a girl," Ernest replied with en-
thusiasm. " She and Phoebe won the ladies' doubles
here."
" Well, she's crazy to learn that Lawford stroke
— says she can't get it. And she's going into a
Ernest Lays down His Arms 115
tournament this summer. I said if the weather was
good this morning, I'd get over and teach her."
" I was just about to say, Mart," Sandy Williston
said in deep chest tones, " that I've got to cut this
expedition out, too. I was speaking about that
glass-flowers exhibition over at Harvard and your
sister said she could take me through blindfold.
Her exact words were that ' forty billion Harvard
men had forced the glass flowers on her.' That's one
thing I ought to do while I'm here, you know. So
if you don't mind "
" Well, as long as you fellers are cutting out the
Hub of the Universe," Art remarked eagerly, " I
guess I will, too. That Miss Gould — one of them
— I don't know which — invited me to go on a motor-
ing party her aunt is getting up. They're going to
Wellesley. I'd like to see the college because my
sister is thinking of entering next year. I really
think I ought to look the place over."
" Well," Ernest remarked, " that leaves you and
me, Al, to do this Bunker Hill job all by our lone-
someness."
" You see, Mart," Al began in a hesitating man-
ner, " the other Gould twin — I don't know which
one either — but the one that didn't ask Art — asked
me to go to Wellesley, too. And I thought as long
as Art was going "
11 All right," said Ernest, smothering disappoint-
ment. " Oh, I know what I'll do. I'll take to-day
to plug at that essay. Then to-morrow we'll go
over to Bunker Hill."
n6 Ernest Lays down His Arms
In spite of the work piled up before him, Ernest
found it a lonely day. The house was absolutely
silent. Even Mrs. Martin went into town for
a day's shopping. Delaying as long as possible
the awful initial moment of work, Ernest col-
lected all kinds of accessories, necessary and un-
necessary. He sharpened his pencils to slender,
rapier-like points. He hunted fifteen minutes until
he found a special brand with a rubber on the end.
Found — he spent another minute absently gnawing
the rubber off. Having exhausted all the possible
subterfuges, he settled down and worked hard for
an hour.
Then suddenly, a sound from downstairs, a sound
in all that solitude and silence, as brazen as a bell,
brought him out of his absorption.
It was only that a door opened. But following
its abrupt slam came the swish of a feminine skirt.
This new sound rustled the length of the hall, sub-
sided. A window opened. Followed absolute si-
lence. Ernest walked softly to his window and
looked out at the Maywood hills.
Spring had not come. It was one of those rare
days, earnest of a golden summer, by which the New
England climate annually fools the oldest inhabitant
into believing that winter has gone. Skies washed
clear and blue, feathery clouds lighted from within,
grass shooting through steamy loam to jostle
crocuses, May flowers, and violets.
The window shut. The skirt took up its rustle
and swished down the hall. The door closed. Syl-
Ernest Lays down His Arms 117
via Gordon's personality, which had scented the
whole house for an instant, faded into silence and
nothingness. But the whiff of spring that she had
let in through the open window persisted.
Ernest still stood at the window. Dreaming, he
still gazed at the Maywood hills. Suddenly his
thought caught sight, in the far-off twilit reaches of
his mind, of — how exquisitely evasive it was, that
being of mist, how delicately evanescent! Lightly
but with intense speed, his thought galloped after —
galloped — galloped — always pursuing but never
quite catching up.
" How about Bunker Hill to-day? " Ernest said
the next morning.
u I tell you what, Mart," Sandy said eagerly, " I
wish you'd put that off till to-morrow. Your sister
said she'd never seen the old North Church — you
know the one. The first boy-scout, Paul Revere :
" One if by land and two if by sea, rubbering on the opposite
shore I'll be
Swiftly to beat it and spread the alarm to every Mid-
dlesex hayseed's farm.
That one. She said she'd show me all the high-
brow historic places at the North End — Independ-
ence Bell "
" That's in Philadelphia," Ernest remarked, not
in the pride of omniscience but as one who states
a fact.
u8 Ernest Lays down His Arms
" Is it?" said Sandy indignantly. " What a
nerve to sacrilegiously move a fine old landmark
like that. There ain't no real reverence for nothing
no longer in this country. Is it not so? And then
we'll see the House of Seven Gables."
" Salem," Ernest corrected politely.
" Well, anyway, the Old Manse."
" Concord," Ernest stated wearily. " Don't look
for the Flatiron Building or the Metropolitan
Tower, will you, little one? At last accounts, they
had not been moved from New York."
11 That little Tate girl is coming on fine," Cinders
said with enthusiasm. " Say, she can play tennis,
can't she? I said I'd stroll over this morning."
" Those Gould girls and their brother offered to
take Al and me through Harvard to-day," Art
began.
" And I really ought to go," Al ended it for him.
" You see, my mother's brothers all went to Har-
vard, and she'll be awfully disappointed if I don't
see it."
" Kindly cut out fathers, mothers, sisters, broth-
ers, aunts and uncles for excuses," Ernest begged
bitterly. " Who was the Indian who said he'd never
dare look his father in the face if he didn't go over
to Bunker Hill?"
" I did," Cinders threw in jauntily. " Well, I
guess I'll be perambulating."
" I'll finish that damn essay to-day," Ernest said.
" But to-morrow " he ended threateningly.
He ground lonesomely away all day long. But
Ernest Lays down His Arms 119
he did not finish the essay. At intervals the door
downstairs would open. The rustle of a skirt would
fill the house with its subtle, exquisitely minute,
gigantically reverberant thunders. Always at these
times, Ernest would stop and dream. Dream —
dream — and about nothing — dream until his dream
broke in a vague irritation and impatience.
" Now to-day," he began in a menacing tone, after
breakfast the next morning, " we'll "
He was interrupted. Advancing with military
quickstep to a position directly in front of him, Al
and Art saluted. They chanted in unison with
wooden monotonous voices: " The Gould twins have
invited us to go with them and their brother to
Lexington and Concord. We are much interested
in the memorials to American patriotism, but, more
than anything else, we are determined to get those
pulchritudinous young females unmixed.''
They saluted again.
Ernest laughed in spite of himself.
" Your sister said she'd take me to Salem to-day
— she knows a lot of people there." Sandy's air
was meek. He had the appearance of slipping this
in while yet the softness of his mirth lay on Ernest.
" And I like to zealously improve my mind."
" I'm still on the job teaching the young idea how
to cut," remarked Cinders.
" All right," said Ernest. " I hereby wash my
hands of you. And to the deepest, darkest Plu-
tonian depths with you. I am glad, though," he
added, with an effect of heavy sarcasm, " that you
120 Ernest Lays down His Arms
insisted on a non-fussing expedition. It has made
it so easy to entertain you."
This shaft pierced no heart. The quartette was
too busy re-combing hair, re-arranging ties, fur-
tively studying the set, over proudly-held broad
shoulders, of best coats.
Alone once more, Ernest worked lamely and
lonesomely for a while. " I'm not getting any-
where," he said finally to himself, " I guess I'll go
into the Boston Public Library and clean up that
research business. That will leave the rest of the
week clear."
With Ernest, thinking was slow, acting quick.
Leaping into his coat, he tore to the Maywood sta-
tion. Falling into the only vacant seat in the ten-
fifteen train, he found Sylvia Gordon there.
"Greetings, fellow-prisoner ! " Ernest said.
" How goes the thesis? "
" Very badly, thank you, companion-in-misery, ,,
Sylvia replied. " How about the essay? "
u Pretty rotten, thank you," Ernest returned
cheerfully.
" I'm going into the Boston Library to grind,"
Sylvia confided.
" Are you? " said Ernest. " That's a coincidence.
So am I."
"What is the subject of your essay, Ernest?"
Sylvia asked.
"'The Character of Wilhelm Meister.' I've
worked until I'm almost dippy."
"Talking about coincidences!" Sylvia said.
Ernest Lays down His Arms 121
" Mine is Goethe's * Faust/ You know I simply
adore Goethe."
" Another coincidence," Ernest admitted. " He
certainly is the main squeeze in the whole literary
works for me."
It was like that all the way into Boston — Ernest
told Sylvia all those thoughts about Wilhelm Meis-
ter that he had not confided to his group.
" I'm glad you're going to the Library," he con-
cluded, " you know the ropes: I don't."
Sylvia did know the ropes. She led him with
an accustomed air to one of the big tables in the
beautiful, arched, gray-stone reading-room. She ex-
orcised by her private magic a pair of book-genii
who fetched and carried until she and Ernest sat
shoulder-high behind Goethe. Then she fell to her
reading and her note-taking. From that instant, she
hardly looked up.
Ernest also worked hard, but not so hard as
Sylvia. His glance, straying up from his book, oc-
casionally hit the head opposite, caught, lingered
there.
How quiet she was ! How concentrated !
She had taken off her hat and jacket. She sat
in an attitude deliciously feminine, her head bent,
her shoulders drooped forward. Ernest recalled
the little marble bust of Clytie of which Phoebe was
so fond.
She sat in gloom at first; her brown hair took on
its brown. It fell here into tiny eddies of shadow,
there into tiny maelstroms of light. Suddenly a
122 Ernest Lays down His Arms
long-fingered sunbeam fell upon her; the shadow
melted, vanished. Her hair brightened, became
light itself, floating off into tendrils, the finest and
silkiest, dissolving at the ends, evaporating, merging
with the very air.
Her skin was satin — and white. Was it the white
of marble, of ivory, of alabaster? On the soft con-
tour of her cheek lay a bloom as delicate as if the
faintest flame of spirit-fire had burned through. On
this bloom lay eyelashes, satiny also, the color of
the deepest shadow in her hair — lay eyelashes and
their fairy-film, fluttering shadows. Her mouth,
like a little rose, tightly folded, seemed red above
the white point of her chin. Or did the chin seem
white under that petal-pink, double ripple of lips?
At any rate, white chin merged marvelously with
whiter neck.
How little she was, how slender and frail and
yet how softly round.
How still she was ! How remote !
How She was something else. But what
was it?
Pure! That was it. That was what she was.
Pure!
After all, that was what girls were. They were
pure. For the first time the word purity gained an
abstract significance in Ernest's mind. You never
thought of that word in connection with men. But
purity in women was beautiful.
Sylvia was wonderfully pure. She was purity
itself.
Ernest Lays down His Arms 123
Something in Ernest broke, some crust that lay
between him and a knowledge of himself, a crust
that, subconsciously, he had tried not to break. A
flood of conviction burst upon him — tossed him —
spun him — floated him — subsided Suddenly he
knew that he worshiped purity in Sylvia; that he
worshiped it in Woman; that he must worship it
wherever he found it the rest of his life. Many
thoughts darted out from this conviction and
whirled through his mind, detached, unrelated,
irrelevant. Perhaps he did not himself realize that
he was thinking them. After all, girls could no
longer be ignored. They were in the world. There,
they were with a continuous blare of trumpets — to
stay. Life was incomplete without them! They
were the other half of creation. You could not beat
their game. A man was handicapped from the
start. Whoever planned the universe had loaded
their dice. But perhaps there were compensations.
They were beautiful. They were good. It could
not be denied that in many ways they were original
and inspiring. They were wonderful in their sym-
pathy and understanding. There were some
thoughts — precious ones, too — that they alone could
understand. Why — a man lived two lives really;
and one of those lives must be shared with a woman.
Ernest's soul emitted a long sigh. It was a silent
sigh. Nobody heard it. Ernest did not hear it
himself. Had the whole world at that moment been
raised to disembodied spirits, not a female soul con-
templating the revolution in Ernest, but would have
124 Ernest Lays down His Arms
laughed in triumph, not a male soul but would have
wept with regret.
For Ernest had laid down his arms to women.
Sylvia showed him a place where they could lunch.
Afterwards they worked again. Mid-afternoon,
Ernest pushed a note across the table.
My head is getting woozy. How would you like to go
canoeing? We can cut across by trolley from Riverside
to Maywood and get home in time for dinner.
She returned the note with a scribbled, " I would
love it."
I repeat, spring had not yet come. But she stood
tiptoe at the door, her lap full of flowers, waiting to
burst in with dance and with song.
The trees made a soft chocolate-colored smoke
against a sky that dazzled with its blue. The sun
dropped red ripples on a river that soothed with
its gray. The grass had newly painted itself green.
Under the blue sky, Ernest discovered Sylvia's
eyes. They were blue, too — china-blue — seemingly
much deeper in color because curling lashes, always
at half-mast, helped with their shadow.
" Now tell me," Ernest said, " about your thesis
and how you came to like Goethe and how you
happened to choose ! Faust ' instead of ' Wilhelm
Meister.' "
She told him.
Nobody who has not been through the same ex-
perience will understand what happened. He will
not believe the wonders of coincidence in their
Ernest Lays down His Arms 125
thoughts, beliefs, opinions, tastes, theories, points of
view, that those two found, the miracles of coin-
cidence in the mere matter of experience. He will
not credit the number of vistas that Sylvia opened
to Ernest, the number of doors that Ernest threw
wide for Sylvia. For before their very eyes, worlds
were bursting, re-forming, bursting again to spawn
bigger worlds. Yea, aeons were passing; universes
were in the making. And, indeed, this outsider —
perhaps he is a myth after all — might have missed
most of the magic of it had he listened, unillumined
by the memory of his own experience. For this is
the sort of thing he would have heard.
" Sylvia, do you like Keats? "
" I adore him, Ernest. He's my favorite English
poet."
" What an extraordinary coincidence ! Which of
his poems do you like best, Sylvia? "
" ' Bards of passion, bards of mirth,' Ernest."
11 What a coincidence, Sylvia. That's the only
poem I've ever liked enough to learn by heart."
They recited it together and laughed when
Ernest broke down on line six.
" What wonderful single lines Keats gives you,
Ernest," Sylvia added. " ' Forlorn, the very sound
is like a bell ! ' and ' Beaded bubbles winking at the
brim.' "
" I have them both in my notebook," Ernest said in
the tone of one who does not expect to be believed.
" Have you read his letters, Ernest? "
" I eat them up, Sylvia."
126 Ernest Lays down His Arms
That night the quintette, in the best of spirits,
smoked and talked for an hour before going to bed.
" Well, Mart," Cinders announced cheerfully at
last, u I've had enough fussing. How about cutting
it all out and leading a man's life for a while? What
do you say, if this weather keeps up, to some tennis
to-morrow morning? It puts your game on the
blink to play with a woman."
" All right for me and Al," said Art. " Those
Gould girls are going away for a couple of days
to-morrow and we still can't tell one from the other."
" Yes," Sandy chimed in. " Your sister says she's
neglected Miss Gordon so long that she feels she
must devote herself to her for the rest of her stay.
I tell you what — tennis in the morning — golf in
the afternoon — dinner in town, and Daisy Deene in
* The Silly Suffragette ' afterwards. How about
it?"
11 Nothing doing," said Ernest trenchantly.
" Not for mine ! You fellows can play golf and
tennis till the cows come home. But I've offered to
take Phoebe and Sylvia Gordon motoring for the
next two days. This is Sylvia's spring recess and
she hasn't seen outdoors yet. Come along, those
who don't want to play tennis."
After the inevitable ante-retiring fracas in which
flying pillows, wet face-cloths, soppy sponges, soapy
towels played their inevitable part, the Princetonians
settled down from libelous argument to mere casual
abuse, to occasional sleepy sarcasm, to deep breath-
ing, to complete unconsciousness.
Ernest Lays down His Arms 127
Ernest remained wakeful far into the night. And,
very late, a wonderful thing happened. His thought
suddenly caught sight of its mystic occupant far off
in the illimitable reaches of his mind. It galloped
lightly but swiftly after — galloped — galloped — gal-
loped until for the first time it caught up.
And, lo, the hair was no longer the hair of Fay
Faxon; it was blonde, ethereal, melting into the
very air. The eyes were no longer the twin star-
blackness of the young girl actor; they were china-
blue, shadowed by eyelashes always at half-mast.
The mouth was no longer curved into the tragic con-
tours of the Italian poet; it was like a little pink
bud, tightly folded. Yet, though the face was the
face of Sylvia Gordon, it had retained some subtle
suggestions of all the others. Or was it that Sylvia
was a divine, spiritual composite of all the beauty
in the world?
He waited a long time, until everybody slept.
Then he arose, stole out of the Gym and downstairs
to his own room. He unlocked his desk and took
out Notebook Number 5. He looked with a frown
at the title— WOMEN, THEIR FAULTS AND
FRAILTIES. He glanced with a sneer at its soli-
tary entry. Then he placed it with its predecessors,
locked it up. From a pigeonhole he took a fresh
blank-book. He numbered it six. He labeled it
WOMAN— HER BEAUTIES AND VIRTUES.
And on the first page he inscribed:
11 The woman-soul leadeth us upward and on."
CHAPTER V
PHOEBE CLOSES WITH CUPID
Ci LJEOPLE are so lovely to engaged couples
JL nowadays. They never did such things
when we were young. And the men enjoy the enter-
taining just as much as the girls." Mrs. Martin
was speaking to Cousin Debbie. She paused as her
daughter entered the room and her preoccupied gaze
swept over Phoebe's lithe figure. " Why, don't you
remember, Edward, how " She started briskly
turning to her husband. Then as if something,
which she had subconsciously noted in Phoebe's ap-
pearance, had just reached her intelligence, Mrs.
Martin stopped short. But all she said was,
"Aren't you back early? Tired? Or was it a
puncture? "
" No, I'm not tired and it wasn't a puncture. I
came back because I wanted " Phoebe's voice
slid off into silence. She stared at her father and
mother as if she were looking at them for the first
time. Or perhaps it was from another point of
view.
Obviously a little surprised by her manner, Mrs.
Martin stared back. Phoebe had just returned from
a long motor-ride with Tug through an autumnal
fog. She had brought the night in with her. The
128
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 129
dampness made her tendrilly hair a mass of float-
ing ringlets; it added a fresh burnish to her brows
and lashes. Indeed, there was luster to her whole
appearance. For, notwithstanding the wet, cheeks
and eyes flashed with the whitest fires of her spirit.
" Because you wanted " Mrs. Martin
prompted.
But instead of answering, Phoebe said, " What
were you and father talking about when I came in? "
Her voice had a suspicious note.
11 About Tom Deane's and Sally Gould's engage-
ment and the lovely things people have been doing
for them. I think it's so nice that Tom's attended
all the teas with Sally. I was just saying that they
didn't do such things for engaged couples when
Debbie and I were girls."
Deborah Dodd was Mrs. Martin's cousin and
about her own age. A little, thin, brown, bright-
eyed bird of a creature, Mrs. Martin had always
been the meteor of her quiet spinster existence.
Now, however, that Phoebe had grown up to an
acknowledged belledom, she had transferred her ad-
miration to that engaging young person. Whenever
Phoebe was present, Cousin Debbie's head always
turned in her direction — her eyes followed her
wherever she moved.
" What did they do? " The suspicious note had
gone out of Phoebe's tone. Her manner was a little
blank.
" Why— nothing."
" I think that was horrid." Phoebe's blankness
130 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
flared to indignation. " Sally Gould says half the
fun of being engaged is the way people entertain
you."
" Well, I guess it was because folks were poorer
then/' Cousin Debbie explained, cocking her head
wisely. " It was just about all they could do to give
a girl a good wedding. And they thought more
about their wedding outfit when I was young. They
had to have so many clothes then — enough for a
year. Now they only get enough for one season."
" Some people think," Mrs. Martin added, " that
they make too much of a to-do about engagements
nowadays. But I don't — I think it's beautiful. I
should just have loved it — wouldn't you, Edward? "
" No," Mr. Martin announced in disgust. " Men
hate a fuss — the wedding itself's bad enough. Why,
Bertha, do you suppose I'd have gone to any tea-
fights even if I'd had the time? Or let you go?
Engaged couples want to be let alone."
u That's perfect nonsense, father," commented
Phoebe. u It all depends on the way you've been
brought up. Nowadays men go to teas just as much
as women. Look at Tom Deane."
" I suppose the willy-boys do," Mr. Martin
agreed. " Tom Deane's a sissy from Sissyville.
But I guess you don't find many husky ones there."
Phoebe chose to ignore this. " I should have
thought, mother, you would have found it pretty
pokey being engaged if nobody did things for you."
" Oh, no," Mrs. Martin said in a shocked tone,
" I was so busy sewing and furnishing our house
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 131
up that it didn't seem as if the days were half
long enough. Don't you remember how I slaved,
Debbie?"
Debbie confirmed this with an assenting cluck
and many pecking nods of her head. " Bertha, your
mother had more fun out of it than you did — you
might say. Don't you remember how she used to
have all the old ladies in to tea about three times
a week to show them your things? "
Mr. Martin chuckled. " And how mad she used
to get with me because when I was in town I'd take
Bertha out right under their eyes for a walk! The
scoldings she's given me for that! She wanted to
show Bertha off, of course."
Phoebe started to speak again. Then as if the
thing she tried to say refused to roll from her
tongue, she obviously made off in another direction.
" How did you announce your engagement,
mother?"
" Why, I just told my friends who lived near and
wrote to those that I couldn't see. Then your father
and I called on a few and that was all there was
to it."
A long pause followed. Once or twice, Phoebe
made an attempt to break it. But every time, just
as the words came, she bit her lips. " What were
you married in, mother? " she asked finally.
" Ask your father," Mrs. Martin suggested slyly.
Mr. Martin did not look up.
" Going-away costume of brown ottoman silk,
long brown cloak of ottoman silk, brown velvet
132 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
bonnet with brown tips on it," he recited this off
with the facility of a phonograph.
11 Good for you, Edward," Mrs. Martin ap-
plauded. u Well, I declare ! " A soft, pleased light
fired her eye and a delicate surge of color pinkened
her cheek. " Phoebe, I taught your father to say
that. So many of his folks who couldn't come to
the wedding asked him what I was going to wear
that I made him learn it by heart. And he's remem-
bered it all these years." Over her work, Mrs.
Martin's eyes, shining with appreciation, met her
husband's.
"And what kind of a wedding did you have?"
Phoebe asked, unheeding this by-play.
" Very quiet. Just the nearest relatives on both
sides. I don't believe there were more than twenty
there. It was in the fall and I decorated the house
with asters and dahlias from our garden. I remem-
ber mother was heartbroken because we couldn't hire
a florist and caterer. You see, mother didn't have
a wedding, and so she was just dying for me to
have one. But we couldn't afford it. Why, at
mother's wedding — that was over sixty years ago —
they had no collation; they handed round lemonade
and cake for refreshments."
"Mercy!" exclaimed Phoebe. " Refreshments!
Collation 1 How primitive!" Had she been con-
fronted with the Jurassic bird, her tone could not
have contained more of astonishment.
" I sometimes wonder what mother'd think," Mrs.
Martin sailed on, serenely oblivious of the younger
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 133
generation, " if she could see the fashionable wed-
dings nowadays, when often the only decorations are
field-flowers — ' weeds,' she'd call them. Etta Ray
made an arbor of autumn leaves for my wedding —
in one corner of the parlor between the secretary
and the big clock. I thought it was lovely, but
mother wanted me to stand under a wedding-bell of
cut flowers."
" The brown of her dress was something hand-
some against those red and yellow leaves," Cousin
Debbie interpolated.
" And where did you go on your wedding-trip? "
Phoebe continued.
" Niagara Falls," Mrs. Martin said proudly.
" Niagara Falls! " Phoebe repeated in a scandal-
ized tone. "Mother! Father Martin, you didn't
go to that jay place? "
" You must remember, Phoebe," Mr. Martin an-
swered, employing the quiet voice which he so rarely
used with his daughter, " that your mother and I
hadn't the advantage of your advice then. There
was nobody to enlighten us and so we were vulgar
enough to enjoy what is, after all, the most wonder-
ful sight in America."
" Father," Phoebe threatened, " if you get sar-
castic with me, I shall come over there and hug you
so hard that I'll probably break your glasses."
Mr. Martin did not reply. He reached for his
book.
" But just the same," Phoebe went on, " it's an
awful shock to have Niagara Falls flashed on me at
134 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
this late day. After the way Fve trusted you, too.
You should have kept it a dead secret/'
Mr. Martin maintained an elaborate silence. His
eye ran up and down the page, discovered his place.
" Why, father," Phoebe continued the attack, " if
that awful event in our family history were to leak
out, many doors now open to me in this town would
be closed forever. I expect they wouldn't give Ern
his degree at Princeton."
Mr. Martin paused with a careful unconscious-
ness to examine an illustration.
" I feel," Phoebe concluded, " as if I'd suddenly
discovered that you'd done time. I don't know
whether there's any law that permits a girl to repudi-
ate parents who made such a fierce social break
before she was born. But if there isn't, there ought
to be. However I'll overlook it this time, Mr. Mar-
tin, if you'll give me your sacred word of honor as
a gentleman that you'll never go to Niagara Falls
on a honeymoon again."
Mr. Martin laughed and put his book down.
Mrs. Martin, impassively watching this conquest,
made one of her automatic, subconscious observa-
tions. " Phoebe's changed in one thing," she
thought. " She used to be amusing without know-
ing it. Now she realizes — she's being funny on
purpose." It is unlikely, however, with all her
astuteness that Mrs. Martin appreciated the im-
portance of the birth in her daughter's psychology
of a conscious sense of humor.
" How long were you gone? " Phoebe asked.
"Thank you, Mrs. Martin," she said, "you've saved my life.
Mother and father, I am engaged to Tug Warburton."
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 135
" Three days," Mrs. Martin took it up again.
" Seems to me that was kind of a stingy honey-
moon."
" We were glad to get any." Mrs. Martin
bristled.
" Did you have many wedding-presents? "
" No-0-0. Not so many compared with nowa-
days." Mrs. Martin admitted this with a palpable
reluctance. " But what we had were lovely," she
added loyally.
" They were the handsomest wedding-presents
they had in North Campion that year," said Cousin
Debbie with an indignant flutter.
Another long pause followed. Phoebe now bore
the air of one definitely nonplussed. " Mother,"
she burst out desperately at last, " how did you tell
your mother that you were engaged to father? "
" Well," Mrs. Martin admitted, " that was the
hardest part of the whole thing. I held in three
days because I didn't know how to put it. And,
finally, the third night, I walked right up to them
and, before I could stop to think, I said, ' Mother
and father, I am engaged to Ed Martin ! ' and that
was all there was to it."
Phoebe leaped to her feet. " Thank you, Mrs.
Martin," she said, " youVe saved my life. Mother
and father, I am engaged to Tug Warburton."
And with an embarrassed little giggle that was
half-sob, Phoebe flew over to the rocking-chair,
dropped into Mrs. Martin's lap, and buried her head
on her mother's shoulder.
136 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
" Well," Mrs. Martin said when they were alone,
"how do you feel about it, father? Were you
surprised? "
" Oh, I guess nothing surprises me as far as
you-women are concerned," Mr. Martin answered.
" Then I'm so glad to think she's all over that
Hazeltine affair that And I suppose I'd rather
it would be Tug if it's got to be "
" If it's got to be anybody," Mrs. Martin fin-
ished for him. M Men are so queer — so different
from women. I'm just tickled to death."
Mr. Martin looked at her silently, but many ex-
pressions conflicted in his face. " Bertha, I must
say I can't understand your feeling so pleased
about it. Do you mean to tell me that you want to
lose Phoebe?"
" Why, father, it's not losing her. Still, I guess
most mothers do feel sort of relieved when a girl's
safely settled. I'd look at it very differently if it
was Ernie. I don't want that Ernie should get mar-
ried before he's twenty-seven and I should prefer
him to wait until he's thirty."
" Now that's where I disagree with you," Mr.
Martin said argumentatively. " I'd rather Ernest
would marry just as soon as he gets out of college.
There's nothing like the responsibility of a family
to sober a young man and keep his nose to the
grindstone. But a girl — that's quite a different
matter. What's Phoebe want to marry for?
Hasn't she got a good home and everything she
could possibly need?" Mr. Martin's voice arose
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 137
almost to falsetto heights as he asked the question
immemorial with fathers.
Mrs. Martin, as was her wont, worked back to
its answer through a series of side issues. " Well,
it would simply break my heart if Ernie got mar-
ried so young. I don't want to see him go through
what you went through the first five years of our
marriage. Why, Edward, your hair began to turn
gray before you were twenty-five. Phoebe says that
Mr. Warburton says that Tug can travel about
this district until after Thanksgiving — that's three
weeks. Then he's got to spend six months in the
West. If he gets orders above a certain amount,
Mr. Warburton will give him a handsome raise in
salary." Mrs. Martin stopped an instant to study
her husband's face. " You see, father, a girl likes
to have a home of her own. She can do just as
she pleases in it and she feels so much more impor-
tant." Again Mrs. Martin stopped, and this time
she had a helpless expression. " Now, Ed, don't
say I haven't warned you. I've told you for years
that you must expect that Phoebe would marry
young. It's come now and you must take your
medicine: — that's all."
"Well, I'm not kicking, am I?" Mr. Martin
asked in a tone that surged and swelled and beat
with irritation.
Mrs. Martin let that discussion evaporate. " I
guess we'd better give her a chest of silver for a
wedding-gift," she said after a long pause.
There is no onomatopeia for the sound, half-
138 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
groan of impatience, half-snort of anger that Mr.
Martin emitted. " Wedding-presents ! Good Lord !
What's the use of talking about wedding-presents?
She isn't going to be married to-morrow, is she? "
11 No," Mrs. Martin replied tranquilly, " but I
shouldn't be surprised if they were married in June.
Tug isn't the kind that'll wait long. And I made up
my mind years ago that when Phoebe was married
that would be what we'd give her."
" Do you mean to tell me that you've been plan-
ning her wedding-present all these years?" Mr.
Martin ejaculated. " Well, you-women "
" Edward Martin," his wife announced with a
sudden flash of spirit, " if you say ' you-women '
again I'll go down to-morrow and join the women-
suffragists." But immediately her tone dropped to
its most soothing level. " Now, father, don't get
blue about this. Everything considered, it's the best
thing that could happen to Phoebe. Tug's a fine,
straightforward, decent boy with no bad habits, and
he's perfectly crazy about her. They'll live right
here in Maywood where you'll see her every day.
His prospects are splendid. His father and
mother'll worship the ground Phoebe walks on.
And if she has any children " Mrs. Martin
did not pursue that train of thought. " I think
we'd better give her a cedar chest for an engage-
ment gift."
" What — do I get stung for an engagement gift,
too? " Mr. Martin demanded.
" Of course. I'll go into Boston with Phoebe
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 139
to-morrow and order a nice big one. I'll buy some
linen, too. Phoebe'll think that she'll want to do
every stitch herself. But if anything's to be finished
before the wedding, I see where Debbie and I go
right straight to work. Besides the sooner I get
things started the better; for this house will be full
of excitement in a week. Phoebe and Tug'll have
the loveliest time from now until he goes West.
Everybody in this town will entertain them. They're
both popular, and then everybody likes Mrs. War-
burton so."
11 Well," Mr. Martin remarked cynically, " I
have my opinion of the kind of young men they
have nowadays. Why, I'd as soon get married in
a lion's cage as go to a lot of pink teas."
" You must remember, father," Mrs. Martin ex-
plained, and perhaps it was natural that her effort
to defend her daughter's contemporaries should
bring a slight shade of patronage into her voice,
" that Tug has been brought up very different from
the way we were. He's been accustomed to the
most elegant forms of entertaining. His mother's
had an ' at home ' day all her life, and she told me
once that, from the moment Tug could speak, she
had him in the room whenever she had company
so's he'd get accustomed to talking with women.
Have you ever noticed how easy Tug is with every-
body? He never had any awkward age like Ernie.
He'll enjoy all the things that are done for them
just as much as Phoebe. And people are so lovely
to engaged couples nowadays."
140 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
Mr. Martin did not answer. But perhaps in the
course of their whole married life his silence had
never been more eloquent.
Mrs. Martin ignored this silence. It is likely, in-
deed, that she did not notice it. She was engaged
in what was a rare form of exercise for her — walk-
ing excitedly up and down the room.
" Do you know, father," she said suddenly, turn-
ing to him a face that alternately paled and sparkled
with the excitement of a great resolution, " the mo-
ment the engagement's announced, I'm going to give
a tea for Phoebe and Tug myself."
Mr. Martin threw up his hands.
Everything turned out as Mrs. Martin prophesied.
Late the next afternoon arrived the glossy, reddish,
rectangular box which was the cedar chest. It was
perhaps indicative of Mr. Martin's state of mind
that he never looked at it without thinking of a
coffin. That evening Tug's father and mother
called; Mrs. Warburton gurgling and inarticulate
with delight, Mr. Warburton embarrassed and
jocular. The day after this event, Phoebe deposited
in the post office a flock of tiny envelopes which an-
nounced to an astonished world the most important
event of her life; also they invited it to celebrate
the betrothal at a tea. Before a week had passed,
most of these envelopes returned in the form either
of a gift or of an invitation to dissipation. The
postman appeared three times a day loaded with
mail; the expressman was ever at the door.
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 141
Arrived first for Phoebe from the far-away Er-
nest a framed picture of the Princeton campus and
for Tug from the same source, a telegram, " Thank
Heaven, Phoebe's picked out somebody I can borrow
money from." Close on the Warburton call fol-
lowed a tea-service of Sheffield plate, over which
in a rapture of admiration, Mrs. Martin actually
brooded. From the rank and file of relatives and
friends came flowers, cups, spoons, plates, pictures,
vases, books — the advertisements of any depart-
ment-store will show them all neatly catalogued.
Mrs. Martin was more affected by this excitement
than any other member of the household. When
the bell rang, she dropped whatever she was doing
to run, scissors in hand, to the door. In pity, Phoebe
left orders with her mother to open any parcel that
came during her absence.
Mr. Martin alone walked through this alien
absorption a silent and apparently indifferent man.
He went to his office as early as possible in the
morning and came home as late. The two evenings
of the week that Tug managed to make Maywood
he spent away from his home. Indeed, after his
first talk with his future son-in-law — palpably on
Mr. Martin's part of a forced cordiality — he
avoided all communication with him. Whatever the
conversation Mr. Martin opened with his wife, it
invariably turned to furniture, china, silver, linen.
Whatever the conversation he opened with Phoebe,
it invariably switched to the cost of living. Try as
he might, it would have been impossible for Mr.
142 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
Martin to ignore the signs of the approaching do-
mestic secession. Mrs. Martin, Cousin Debbie, and
Phoebe never sat down nowadays without a napkin
or a towel in their hands. If Mr. Martin lifted
his eyes from his book, they always fell somewhere
on a P. M. beautifully embroidered. If Phoebe
was not present when callers came, Mrs. Martin did
the honors of the cedar chest. Fragments of her
dissertation were always floating between Mr. Mar-
tin and his reading.
" Yes, Phoebe says she's going to have both hers
and Tug's monogram on all her tablecloths, close
to the center, Tug's opposite where she sits and
hers opposite his place — yes, she's going to have
white and gold soup-plates with her monogram in
gold on them — yes, Phoebe's idea is to have a dif-
ferent kind of china for every course, the soup in
white and gold, the meat in Canton medallion, the
salad in some Italian ware, and the dessert in Minton
— yes, that's what I tell her — it does sound pretty
expensive — no, Phoebe hasn't made up her mind
what kind of furniture yet — yes, those little ones
are guest-towels."
In brief, Mr. Martin was like a man caught on
the top floor of a burning building. Did he seek
escape by the elevator, flames beat up at him in
sheets. Did he turn to the stairs, smoke volleyed
over him in clouds.
" Whatever is the matter with Ed? " Cousin Deb-
bie said again and again. M I never saw him so
kinder stand-offish in my life."
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 143
11 Oh, he's jealous," Mrs. Martin said in a tone in
which impatience struggled with pity. " He can't
bear to think there's anybody in Phoebe's life more
important to her than he is. The poor child under-
stands it all and she's trying as hard as she can to
share everything with him. But just as sure as she
starts to discuss anything she's interested in, Edward
shuts right up. The only thing to do is to leave him
alone. He'll come round all right. All fathers are
like that, I guess."
For even Mrs. Martin did not realize how deep
the dagger had gone.
But days and days went by and Mr. Martin did
not come round.
The afternoon of her tea Mrs. Martin telephoned
in to Boston and begged him to come home early
enough to get the tail end of it. Dinner was long
past, however, before he put in an appearance. But
Mrs. Martin choked back her reproaches, brought
his food into the dining-room herself. She sat with
him while he ate. Mr. Martin could see his own
face reflected in the sideboard mirror just back of
her. He looked white and exhausted. But Mrs.
Martin
Mrs. Martin, although Mr. Martin did not real-
ize it, had always looked ten years older than he.
That night she looked ten years younger. Her
smart new gown of gray chiffon and old Cluny had
done its best for her tall spare figure. Her coiffure
had not departed by the insurrection of a single lock
from the marceled mold into which the hairdresser
144 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
had turned it. The radiance of the afternoon's ex-
citement still hung over her.
"How'd it go?" Mr. Martin asked casually
when he had finished eating.
11 Oh, beautifully, Edward ! It was a great suc-
cess. Almost everybody came — at least I can't think
of but two or three who didn't, though I haven't
had a chance yet to look through the cards and com-
pare them with Phoebe's list. It is perfectly re-
markable how popular Phoebe is. Well, I was
proud of the child — she was just as sweet and cordial
to the last person who came as the first. Several
people brought her presents. You remember ' The
Molly Coddles ' — that Sewing Club Phoebe be-
longed to. Well, they're going to give her a
luncheon set of Swedish weaving — each girl to do a
piece. And old Mrs. Sawyer sent her three of the
prettiest little aprons you ever saw in your life —
Phoebe's just crazy about them. It seems — I'd for-
gotten all about it — that when Phoebe came home
from Europe she brought Mrs. Sawyer a Roman
scarf because she'd heard her say she'd always
wanted one. Mrs. Sawyer said she never would
forget that. And, Edward, she put every stitch in
them herself — that old lady! Why, she must be
eighty-two. And Mr. Wilde brought her a framed
picture of a colored fashion-plate from Godey's
1 Lady's Book.' Phoebe's just wild about it."
"Did Tug come?"
11 Oh, yes, of course ! I got the idea that Tug
had had some sort of disagreement with his mother
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 145
before he came over here. Not that anything was
said — I just felt it sort of in the air. I must say
I do think Mrs. Warburton's a little too indulgent
with Tug. I wouldn't like to think I'd been so easy
with Ernie."
" Well, calm yourself on that score, Bertha," Mr.
Martin said saturninely. " You certainly have been
a Spartan mother, especially as far as Ernest's con-
cerned. What's the next excitement? " he asked
after a while.
" Oh, something perfectly lovely," Mrs. Martin
said in the tone of one who enumerates her Christ-
mas gifts. " You see, Tug doesn't get home again
until next Wednesday. And that day Mrs. Marsh
is giving a dinner for a dozen young people at the
Touraine and a theater-party at the Hollis Street
afterwards. She invited Mrs. Warburton and me
to go, too. She says she won't have a good time
at all, alone with those young people. Mrs. War-
burton and I didn't have to be asked twice, I tell
you. Mrs. Warburton says she's glad she hasn't
more than one son to get married because ever since
the engagement was announced, her house has run
itself. She says she's so excited she doesn't know
whether she's on her head or her heels — and I feel
exactly the same way. She said that yesterday she
made up her mind that she would stay home from
the Tate tea and rest up. But at four o'clock, there
she was pelting down there."
"Where's Phoebe?"
" Oh, she's upstairs, lying down. She's all tuck-
146 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
ered out. I'm not the least bit tired — I could go
right through it again. I'm trying to get calmed
down enough to take this dress off. You'll have to
help me, Edward, there are more than a million
hooks. Oh, yes! Edward, Mrs. Marsh says she
wants you to go to the theater-party and she says
she simply will not take no for an answer. She says
there'll be an end-seat kept for you and, if you don't
come, it will remain vacant all the evening."
" You'll have to tell Mrs. Marsh," Mr. Martin
said decidedly, " that I shan't be there. I'm too
busy."
" Well," Mrs. Martin said, " isn't it lovely of
her to bother so? If they'd only entertained en-
gaged couples when we were young, how we would
have enjoyed it! "
Instead of answering, " How long does Tug stay
next week? " Mr. Martin inquired obliquely.
" He gets in Wednesday afternoon late and goes
off early the next morning."
When Mr. Martin spoke again, it was evident
that he was making an effort to keep his scorn out
of his voice. But now he answered his wife's ques-
tion. " No, all this entertaining would have been
wasted on me. Do you suppose I'd put in a whole
afternoon and evening at a party when I hadn't seen
you for so long? I was too crazy about my girl.
If there's anything I despise, it's a man who goes
to teas."
And again, under the impression that she was
pouring oil on a troubled sea, Mrs. Martin said
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 147
sweetly: "But, Edward, you must remember Tug
was brought up very different from us."
" Oh, Edward," Mrs. Martin said late Wednes-
day night, " I looked for you all the evening. I
did hope you'd get there for the last act."
" I'm sorry, Bertha," Mr. Martin answered list-
lessly, " but I had a meeting and couldn't get away.
Did you have a good time? "
" Lovely, perfectly lovely! It was such a pretty
dinner. We had a big round table in the middle of
the dining-room at the Touraine and it was beauti-
fully decorated with flowers. All those young girls
looked like flowers themselves in their pretty
dresses. There was Phoebe, Fonnie Marsh, Molly
Tate, the Gould twins, Sylvia, Tug, Fred Partland,
the Warren boys, Tom Deane, and Billy Thurston.
Of course Tug and Phoebe hadn't seen each other
for a week and they simply were full of things to
tell each other. And pretty soon everybody got to
joking them and finally somebody said, ' Oh, let's
cut the engaged pair out — they're dead to the world
— and pretend the dinner's given for Mrs. Martin.'
And, Edward, everybody paid so much attention to
me that I was quite embarrassed. Then afterwards,,
we three mothers sat together in the theater and we
had so much fun — I really think we enjoyed it more
than the young people."
" Phoebe go right up to bed? " Mr. Martin asked.
"Yes, poor child; she's all worn out. She says
she's glad she hasn't got to be engaged but once."
148 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
" Well, what's on the docket now? "
" Tug's going to be home Tuesday until Satur-
day of next week. Somebody's got something
planned for every moment," said Mrs. Martin,
" and Tuesday night Mrs. Warburton's going to
give a dinner-dance. You see, it's a sort of farewell,
for Tug leaves Saturday for his six months' trip
in the West. The dinner-dance is going to be an
awfully big affair — Mrs. Warburton has so many
friends in Brookline and Cambridge and Arlington.
She's going to turn the whole lower floor of her
house into a dining-room with little tables that will
just seat four. Then afterwards she's going to
have them all taken in barges to the Town Hall,
where the dance'll be held. She's asked me to re-
ceive with her and Phoebe. Now, Edward, you've
simply got to come to that. It will be an insult to
Mrs. Warburton if you don't."
u Yes, I'll try to make' it," Mr. Martin agreed.
He struggled with himself for an instant as if trying
not to say something. But he succeeded only par-
tially, for he added, " Well, people have certainly
changed."
" It isn't the folks that have changed, Edward,"
Mrs. Martin said for the third time, " it's the times.
They do things differently from the way they did
when we were young."
The day of the Warburton dance, the excitement
in the Martin household was increased by Ernest's
return from Princeton for Thanksgiving.
11 Tell me all about it," were his first words to
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 149
Phoebe, and " Say, Tug, did you get your degree
from Harvard or Vassar? " his comment when his
sister complied with his request. " Teas, dinners,
dances, theater-parties — whew ! " Thereafter he re-
ferred to his prospective brother-in-law either as
Wellesley Bill, Radcliffe Mike, or Bryn Mawr
Charley.
Two o'clock that afternoon saw Mr. Martin
slowly turning into his own street. He looked tired.
Almost it might be said he looked lonely. The
Warburton automobile was standing in front of the
Martin gate, and as he passed a muffled u Hullo "
from underneath the car arrested him. Mr. Martin
stopped and Tug came wriggling out into the gutter.
He seated himself on the curb and began to fan
himself with his cap.
" Say, dad-in-law," he demanded, " can you keep
a secret? "
" Easiest thing I do," Mr. Martin replied.
" Well, then, neither Phoebe nor I will be at that
shindig my mother's giving to-night. Fm so tired
of this pink tea business that I'd like to put a bomb
under the next one. I can't tell you how I hate a
tea, notwithstanding my mother is convinced that
she's brought me up to love them. I nearly had a
fight with her over the one your wife gave. I put
my foot down and said I wouldn't go. But mother
said that as Phoebe's people were giving it, I'd be
a hound if I didn't put in an appearance. Well, I
fell. Then Mrs. Marsh's party came along. Same
row. Same line of dope. I fell again. Now my
150 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
own mother's giving a spree and I'm going to cut
it. It'll be Hamlet to-night with Hamlet left out."
Mr. Martin sat down on the curb beside him.
" What's Phoebe say?"
" Oh, Lord, Phoebe doesn't know anything about
it. She's just as tired of all this entertaining as I
am, but, being a woman, she'd feel in honor bound.
It's the only flaw in perfection; so I'm not telling
her."
" What's the plan? " Mr. Martin inquired.
11 Rich but not gaudy! I'm abducting her! We
start in a few moments, ostensibly for a little spin.
Using the spellbinding arts for which I am justly
famous, I shall lure her farther and farther from
home until we're in the vicinity of North Shayne-
ford. I've calculated that the machine will stop
going on the lower road between Alewive Creek and
the bottle-works, for I've put in only enough gasoline
to last as long as that. There's no train from North
Shayneford until eleven and then we've got to go
into Boston first — oh, I've laid my plans with hell-
ish subtlety — Desperate Desmond has nothing on
me. And I'm going to slip it over on them. I
leave the auto in care of my friend the superin-
tendent of the bottle-works. Then we walk three
miles up the road to the Shayneford Arms and have
a nice tete-a-tete dinner and get acquainted with each
other. If we're going to be married it's time we
knew each other's real names. We'll drift into the
dance about half-past twelve. I'm telling you this
so they won't drag the river. To-morrow I read
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 151 1
the riot act to my mother. I'm leaving in three days
and I intend to have my girl all to myself. After
I'm gone, they can give Phoebe all the shower
luncheons, tempest teas, cyclone dinners, and bliz-
zard breakfasts they want. See ! "
Mr. Martin did not speak for an instant. And,
perhaps in that interval, he crossed a bridge. What
came finally was, " Son-in-law, I think I'm going to
like you."
" Dad-in-law," said Tug promptly, " it has al-
ways been my conviction that I, too, picked a
winner."
They went into the house together. Phoebe met
them at the door. " Well, Mr. Edward Martin,"
she exclaimed, putting her hand through her father's
arm, " who's left you a million dollars? I thought
you'd got a permanent, self-sustaining, and self-per-
petuating grouch. But I suppose, on reflection,
you've realized that this domestic tyrannicide of
yours would have to bust sometime. The moment
is fast approaching, sir, when you've got to forego
the joy of dragging me up and down stairs by the
hair of my head or keeping me confined for a month
on bread and water. Why, I "
But from the living-room came commotion that
compelled scrutiny.
Mrs. Cameron, the minister's wife, was calling.
She was a stout, white-haired, middle-aged woman
with clear hazel eyes, dimples, and the laughter of
youth. Her husband, the Reverend Dugald Cam-
eron, was a saint, but she was, as Ernest once told
152 Phoebe Closes with Cupid
her, " a very zippy lady for a sky-pilot's bride."
Perhaps her sense of a large social freedom pro-
ceeded from the possession of a large fortune. Her
given name was Essaline. Whenever they were
alone, Ernest treated her with the profoundest re-
spect but, in company, he always called her " Essie."
Now he was entertaining her with the contents of
the cedar chest. He had listened to Mrs. Martin's
performance only twice, but he already knew by
heart what he called the u spiel." As the group
came in from the hall, Mrs. Cameron tottered to
the couch in a futile effort to calm her hysterics.
" I wouldn't laugh — so — if he'd got things —
mixed," she gasped, " but he's got them right —
Swedish weaving — Mexican drawn-work — baby
Irish — I shall die — I know I shall."
" Essie," Ernest rebuked her severely, " you are
the noisiest woman I ever met. You laugh like that
once more and the house will be pinched."
" Don't you dare speak to me again, Ernest Mar-
tin," Mrs. Cameron ordered, sopping up her tears.
" So you go away next week, Tug? What's the ex-
citement for the remainder of your stay? "
While Tug still racked his brains, Mrs. Martin
glibly recited the program.
11 Bridge to-morrow afternoon at the Deanes',
dance in the evening at the Goulds'. Tea Thursday
at Mrs. Partland's. Dance at the High School in
the evening. Tea Friday at the Marsh's — bridge
in the evening with Mrs. Gould. And we're all
going."
Phoebe Closes with Cupid 153
Tug winked at Mr. Martin.
" It's perfectly lovely how they entertain engaged
couples nowadays," Mrs. Martin said. " They
never did such things when I was young. And what
I like about it is that the men enjoy it just as much
as the girls."
Mr. Martin winked at Tug.
CHAPTER VI
THE DISCOVERIES
The Waldorf.
New York.
Monday.
MY dear Bertha:
I got in this morning all right. I saw Hallo-
well and fixed that matter up in no time. I shall
be all through with it in a day or two. They certainly do
things in this town and do them quick. I could get back
Thursday morning. But I think I'll seize this opportunity
to run down to Princeton to see Ernest. You know I've
never had much curiosity to go there because — well, I guess
I never let you know what a disappointment it was to me
that he didn't go to Harvard. But somehow in the last
month or so I've had a sort of hankering to see college-life
once more. I feel as if I'd been getting a little rusty and
that would set me up. It may be spring fever but, after
all, that's a conviction a man never loses — that there was
a kind of gayety about his college days never to be found
anywhere else, that he can go back to any time and take up.
Anyway, I'd like to have one more taste before I admit that
I'm middle-aged. Don't expect me back until you see me,
and take care of yourself. Love to Phoebe !
Your affectionate husband,
Edward Martin.
154
The Discoveries 155
Maywood,
Massachusetts.
Tuesday.
Dear Edward:
I am so glad that you are going to see Ernie. Will you
find out if he got the new winter flannels that I told him to
buy at Christmas? I have asked him this question in every
letter I've written and he hasn't answered it yet. I hope
you won't come home feeling about college life the way I
feel about Phoebe's engagement. Why, Edward, I almost
envy her. It's such a lovely time when a girl's engaged.
Sometimes I think it's the happiest period that a woman
knows. If it wasn't for having your own home and a
family, I declare I think most girls would be willing to be
engaged all the rest of their days. It does seem strange that
life should be arranged so that we have all the best part
first. Stay as long as you can, Edward, for you certainly
do need a rest. I shan't feel lonely with Debbie here.
Phoebe sends her love.
Your loving wife,
Bertha.
Maywood,
Massachusetts.
Tuesday.
Dear Ern:
Mother has just got a letter from father saying he was
going down to Princeton to see you for a few days. Father
hasn't been at all well lately. Nights when he comes home,
he seems awfully tired. In fact, he looks all in. And I
want you to see that he doesn't have a chance to think of
156 The Discoveries
business while he's there. Of course I understand that it
is something of a problem to entertain one's father at col-
lege. For though we have the best parents that ever chil-
dren were blessed with, it's ridiculous to think that we can
ever quite understand each other. They've had their experi-
ences and we've had ours and of course there's no — what
you might call neutral ground — on which we can come
together. Personally I think they were too proper in those
days to really enjoy themselves. At the same time, Ern, I
don't want you to leave a stone unturned that means giving
father a good time. And if you need any extra money,
don't ask him for it. I've saved up eleven dollars and
eighty- three cents and I'll gladly contribute it to the cause.
Your aff. sister,
Phoebe.
Princeton,
New Jersey.
Wednesday.
Dear Phoeb:
Say, you make me tired asking me to be good to father
and offering me that money. I guess I'm not piker enough
—-or tight-wad enough — to let father come down here and
not do anything for him. I'll turn myself inside out. And
who do you suppose blew in yesterday morning — Tug. He's
traveling in this vicinity for a few days and he's going to
make Princeton his center. He was tickled to death to
hear father was coming. Blanche Williston has three Rad-
cliffe girls visiting her — queens! Did you ever meet any
of them — Eunice Dunster, Janet George, and Nora Riley
— they all live about Boston. Maybe Sandy and I haven't
The Discoveries 157
jollied them within an inch of their lives about Harvard.
I took Tug to call there last night and we all went for
a long walk. I think Eunice is the prettiest but Tug is
strong for Janet. Tug's writing you now and he'll tell you
all about it. The Willistons have invited us there for
Saturday evening and when I told Sandy that father would
be here, he said to bring him right along. Of course I said
I would. But to tell the truth I'm dreading that a little,
for I'm afraid those girls won't take any notice of father
and he'll be bored. It is funny when you stop to think of
it how many more experiences and so much more inter-
esting ones the young people of to-day have — compared with
what father and mother had. I'm glad I live in these
times. I bet it was slow at Harvard when father went.
Your loving brother,
Ernest Martin.
The picture that the living-room presented was
one that had duplicated itself every evening for
three months — a big fire burning red, a big student-
lamp gleaming yellow, a big center table dotted
with spools, foaming with long-cloth, lawn, damask,
glittering with scissors, needles, pins, netted with
skeins of embroidery linen, cards of tape, bundles
of lace. On one side, Mrs. Martin, stooped, sweetly
faded, blonde, rippled monologues placid as any
so ftly-fl owing brook. On the other side, Cousin
Debbie, plump, brown, bright-eyed, clucked com-
ments, excited as any busy hen.
It was a picture that, to the last detail, made for
cheer and charm. But to Phoebe, coming swiftly
158 The Discoveries
down the stairs, dashing even more swiftly across
the hall, and pausing for a silent moment in the
doorway, it apparently carried no comfort. She
did not even look at it. She stood tall and tense,
her eyes flashing out of the tangle of her frown, her
teeth biting at her lip.
" Where are you going, little daughter?" Mrs.
Martin asked.
Mrs. Martin did not raise her eyes from her sew-
ing. But Cousin Debbie, turning slightly, surveyed
with a certain covertness the spirited figure.
" To post this letter," Phoebe answered. Invol-
untarily her grasp tightened on the bulky envelope
which she carried. U I want it to get the last mail."
She did not go at once, however. Her gaze slid
past the tete-a-tete pair, probed the fire, caught on
some more vivid picture there, clutched, held tight.
In the meantime the broken conversation at the
table mended itself. Bits of fact flashed out of its
many-faceted composite.
u Oh, yes, the boys are having a perfectly lovely
time," Mrs. Martin was saying. " It was so nice
that Tug happened to be there, too. Ernie writes
that he and Tug have been down to the Willistons'
all the time, walking or motoring with those four
college girls. Edward'll be there to-night and "
Phoebe suddenly flashed about and darted
through the hall. The front door shut. The bang
which unavoidably proclaimed arrival or departure
to the Martin household seemed to ring with some-
thing positively vicious.
The Discoveries 159
" Phoebe doesn't seem quite herself these last two
or three days, Bertha," said Cousin Debbie. " I
don't know that I've ever seen her so sort of indif-
ferent and absent."
11 I hadn't noticed it," said Mrs. Martin. She
stopped sewing an instant and her face assumed the
serious, preoccupied look of one who is running
swiftly through the foreground of the past. " I
guess it's staying indoors and sewing so hard. She
doesn't get so very much exercise with both Ernie
and Tug away, you know. And I have never been
one to let her go out alone at night. She says herself
that any engaged girl whose — ' steady ' she calls
him — is away might just as well be dead. It's queer
how quiet the house is. So few young men come
here now."
" It was just the same when you were engaged
to Edward," said Cousin Debbie. " Don't you re-
member how lonesome it was at first? All the boys
stopped coming — except Jim Bassett. Do you recall
how jealous Ed used to get of him? "
Mrs. Martin laughed, and there was a ring of
conscious coquetry to her mirth.
Again the door opened — shut with its accustomed
bang. " Is that rain, Phoebe? " Mrs. Martin asked.
" Yes," Phoebe answered listlessly, " it's pour-
ing."
The two women took up their talk; and this time
the conversational plummet dropped into the past.
Apparently Phoebe heard no word of it. She sank
into a chair by the fire and stared into the flames.
160 The Discoveries
The mental knot still showed itself on her smooth
forehead. An interval of this stupor and she jumped
up, dashed into the hall, flew up the stairs into her
own room. She walked up and down, clasping and
unclasping her hands. It was as if the mental knot
had begun to untie. Then she threw herself face
downward on the bed, buried her head in the pillow.
11 Sometimes I think," Cousin Debbie was say-
ing, " it worries Phoebe — Tug's being on the road.
I think it frets her when his letters don't come. I
notice, though, that when one day goes by without
one, there's always two the next day. It's dreadful,
though, his being away after the engagement's an-
nounced. I always say that's the hardest position
a woman can be placed in."
Phoebe lay on her bed for nearly half an hour.
Then she sat up. The mental knot had undoubtedly
pulled itself loose. All the fire and flame had gone
out of her manner. Every connotation of irreso-
lution showed itself in her bowed shoulders and
twisting hands. She pulled herself to her feet
finally, drifted slowly over to the cedar chest, lifted
the cover. For a long time she stood staring down
on what lay there — a daintiness, peculiarly feminine,
a daintiness of embroidered lawn, of lacy ruffles, of
delicately tinted ribbon. From the cedar chest she
moved over to the highboy, one of Aunt Mary's
scorned mahogany treasures, recently resurrected
from the barn because of its many drawers. Pano-
plied rows, exquisitely embroidered, of her own
initials, stared at her as she opened the drawers.
The Discoveries 161
Suddenly Phoebe sank into a chair and burst into
tears. Rocking convulsively back and forth, she
cried until her handkerchief dripped. Then another
impulse took her. She arose, dashed into the bath-
room, bathed her face, recombed her hair, flew
downstairs, into the library, took up the telephone
receiver.
s
" What's the matter with the telephone,
mother? " her distracted voice called in another mo-
ment.
" I don't know. Something happened this after-
noon. I notified the telephone people right away,
but they haven't come yet. If it's anything impor-
tant, go over to Mrs. Warburton's."
" Oh, it's nothing in particular," said Phoebe. " It
can wait." But her teeth tore at her lip again. And
now her brow snarled with a look of perplexity.
She resumed her place at the fire, resumed her study
of the flames.
Gradually her face lightened. An idea — palpably
it fascinated and frightened her, palpably again and
again she rejected it only to recover it — seemed
finally to harden to resolution. She arose, strolled
through the back library, strolled through the hall,
tiptoed into the kitchen. Opening the back door
carefully, she flashed through the rain to the barn.
In another moment, she emerged carrying a ladder.
She walked with it round to the side of the house,
placed it so that the top went through the open
window of her room. Then re-entering the house,
she shut the back door silently, tiptoed through the
1 62 The Discoveries
kitchen, strolled through the hall, strolled into the
living-room again.
11 I feel awfully tired, mother," she said smoothly,
taking up a magazine, " I propose that we go to bed
early to-night."
11 All right," said Mrs. Martin tranquilly.
" Bertha," Cousin Debbie said, and apparently
she was striking off on a tangent from the main
course of their talk, " were you ever jealous of Ed-
ward when he was on the road? "
" Jealous ! " Mrs. Martin laughed. " I should
say I was. Debbie, I never told you about Minnie
Pratt, did I ? No, I know I didn't. For I've never
told anybody. Well, I'm going to tell you now. Do
you remember how much Edward's traveling those
years we were engaged took him off Seriph Four
Corners way? "
" Oh, yes, seemed as if he was always there. I
remember because my Aunt Nabbie lived in Seriph."
" Well, there was a girl lived there that he'd
always known — Minnie Pratt. They'd been sweet-
hearts in a boy and girl way. She was a kinder
pretty girl — if you liked that style — great bold black
eyes and jet-black hair that she wore in those beau-
catcher curls. I don't know as you ever saw it, but
there was a picture of her round in Edward's room
for a long while."
" I want to know ! I always thought that was
some relation of Edward's."
" Well— it wasn't," said Mrs. Martin with em-
phasis. " He used to go to supper at their house
The Discoveries 163
whenever he was in Seriph — Mrs. Pratt had been
an old friend of his mother's — and of course some-
times Edward would take Minnie places as a sort
of return for their hospitality. Not that he wasn't
perfectly fair about it. She knew all about our
engagement. Well, one day — I can't recall now just
what it was made me mad; but I'd been getting a
lot of letters with too much Minnie in them. And
— and — well, the long and short of it was that I sat
right down and wrote Edward a letter, breaking
the engagement."
" Bertha, you don't! " said Debbie, horrified.
" Yes, sir," said Mrs. Martin with the pride we
all take in our own unreasonableness, " I did. And
I told him he needn't write to me, for I'd tear up,
unread, any letter he sent me. I did, too. They
kept coming by every mail for two weeks. But
he couldn't write them any faster than I could tear
them up. Then all of a sudden they stopped."
Mrs. Martin also stopped. She bit off a piece
of thread, thrust it into the eye of the needle.
Phoebe lifted her gaze — for five minutes it had
been riveted on the same page of her magazine —
and fixed it on her mother. A little stir of interest
rippled across her face.
11 It was one thing to order Edward not to write
and it was another to have him take me at my word.
I put in the most dreadful week I have ever known
in all my life except when the children have been
sick. I certainly thought I would die. My pride
would not let me give in. But I said to myself if
164 The Discoveries
Edward would only write me one more letter, I'd
make up. And, oh, how I looked for it! But it
didn't come and it didn't come. It got toward the
end of the third week and I thought I'd go crazy.
By that time I'd lost all account of Edward's travel-
schedule. But I knew that the first of every month
he had to be in Pocohonkit. I knew — because he
always dreaded it. The trains ran so that he used
to get into Eldersville at two in the morning and
wait a whole hour for the train to Pocohonkit. So
I was certain that, unless something happened, Ed-
ward would be in the Eldersville station from two
until three Thursday night of that third week. And
what do you suppose I did? "
" Go on," Cousin Debbie implored.
11 You know how poor we were in those days,
Debbie?"
Cousin Debbie nodded.
" Why, Debbie, there would be weeks at a time
when mother wouldn't have a cent in the house.
We had garden truck and the chickens, and mother
would run up a bill until Aunt Mary's allowance
came in. But as for money, she rarely saw any and
I never did. I hadn't at that time a cent to my
name. Neither had mother. I wasn't the kind that
could borrow; besides I didn't want anybody to
know what I was going to do. But I did own three
pieces of jewelry — that string of gold beads that
I'd always had, the one Phoebe wears now — a pin
of jet and pearl that Aunt Mary gave me, the one
I gave to that Mrs. Ventry I was telling you about
The Discoveries 165
the other day — and a lovely little brooch of carved
ivory that Miss Summers brought me back from
Switzerland. Well, I waited until everybody had
gone to sleep that night and then when the clock
struck twelve I got up and dressed, climbed out my
window, and walked to Campion Center."
" Did you meet anybody? " Debbie asked breath-
lessly.
" Not a living soul — not so far's I know. And I
guess," Mrs. Martin said with a grim emphasis,
" if anybody had seen me I'd have heard of it. You
know North Campion. Well, I walked in on the
ticket-seller in Campion Center and told him I
wanted a ticket to Wissigissett. I told him that I
hadn't any money, but that it was a matter almost
of life and death; and I'd leave the jet and pearl
brooch as security."
" Why, Bertha Brooks ! " said Cousin Debbie as
if they were girls again, " if you don't beat the
Dutch!"
11 He looked at me for about a minute," Mrs.
Martin went on, " and I looked at him. I remem-
ber him perfectly — he was a fat man with a kinder
jolly face. Then he said, ' All right.' That's all
there was to that. He handed me the ticket and
I handed him the brooch and pretty soon the train
came along and I took it. I got to Wissigissett at
one-twenty. I had to change there into a train to
Braley. It was only a five minutes' ride and I could
have walked it easy, but I had to make connections
with the one-forty-five at Eldersville. I told the
1 66 The Discoveries
Braley ticket man just what I told the other one
and offered him the carved ivory brooch."
"What did he say?"
Mrs. Martin laughed. M I can see that man yet
— he was sort of pious-looking — with one of those
serious sort of faces with little near-together eyes.
He said, ' Are you sure there is nothing criminal
about this?' I had to laugh at that and I came
right out with it. I said, ' I've quarreled with my
beau and I want to see him to-night.' He said, ( I
don't want your pin and I'll pay for your ticket.
But that's just like a woman — raising the dickens
when a man's away off and can't get to her. I hope
it's a lesson to you.' I couldn't make him take the
brooch. And, finally the train came along, I said,
1 All right, I'll pay you back some day.' I got to
Braley at quarter-past one. The ticket man there
wasn't so nice as the others."
"What did he do?" Cousin Debbie demanded
breathlessly.
" He didn't do anything — but he said I was an
awful pretty girl to be wandering round that hour
of night alone. He was one of those conceited-
looking men. He had a black mustache with little
curls on the end of it and he kept twisting it while
he talked with me. He offered me a five-dollar
bill. But of course I didn't touch it. I did take the
ticket, though, and I made him take the gold beads.
I got into Eldersville at exactly half-past two — and
— well, I wish you could have seen Edward Martin's
face when he saw me coming out of that car."
"Mother Martin," Phoebe said, bursting into the conversation, "is
that true, every word of it ?"
The Discoveries 167
" What did he say? " Debbie asked.
" It was a minute before he could say anything.
But after that, we certainly did do some talking."
" What time did you get back? "
" About four. I climbed in through the back
sitting-room window without a soul hearing me.
And nobody's ever known about it until this day,
not even mother."
" How did you ever get your things again? "
" Edward gave me the money to redeem them
on my way home. I was the whole summer earning
money to pay him back. Oh, wasn't he mad that I
did it! He threw one dollar that I gave him into
the river, and I nearly broke the engagement again.
I never heard such a crazy thing — throwing good
money away! "
" Mother Martin," Phoebe said, bursting into the
conversation with the air of one who can no longer
control herself, " is that true, every word of it? "
Mrs. Martin laughed and nodded. There was a
slight embarrassment in her manner. But an emo-
tion much stronger — a reminiscent delight in her
own escapade — had fired her eyes and curved her
lips. Her cheeks flaunted a pink almost velvety.
Looking at her closely, you might have seen the girl
of thirty years before. Perhaps Phoebe saw this
girl, for she stared hard.
"Well, mother," she said slowly, " I can't im-
agine you doing such a thing. I wouldn't have
thought it was in you." She added after another
long, strange look: " I don't wonder the man tried
1 68 The Discoveries
to flirt with you, though — you must have been a
perfect peach."
u Well," said Cousin Debbie with an emphasis
almost indignant, " I should say she was. She was
the handsomest girl in North Campion. You'll do
very well, miss, if you're ever as good-looking as
your mother was."
But Phoebe did not answer. She did not seem
to hear. She was still examining her mother with
that long, strange, preoccupied scrutiny.
The talk drifted far afield. An hour went by.
Phoebe tried to read her magazine, but a restless-
ness that increased with every moment harried her.
Again and again she reminded her mother and her
cousin that they ought to be tired. But the two
women continued to dawdle over their sewing. It
was eleven o'clock before the last sound in the house
died down.
Phoebe did not go to bed at all. Fully dressed
she sat quietly in her room until the clock struck
twelve. Then she put on her hat and rubbers, threw
her raincoat out the window. Exercising phe-
nomenal care, she climbed down the ladder, pulled
on her coat, tiptoed over the lawn. Two minutes
later she was running down the street.
An hour afterwards a tall slender girl, dripping
water at every angle, eyes and cheeks aflame, curls
frescoed on her damp forehead down to her very
eyebrows, burst into the railroad station at Rose-
dale.
The telegram which, after many false starts, she
The Discoveries 169
finally composed was brief. Addressed to Mr. To-
land Warburton, Princeton Inn, Princeton, New
Jersey, it read:
Send back last letter unread, and if read, disregard
utterly. Undying love and faith,
Phoebe.
" Say, Tug," Ernest said over the telephone, early
Saturday evening, " Sandy and I have fixed it to have
some bridge whist and a rabbit this evening on
father's account. Now you never can tell how girls
will act. So if it gets slow, jump in and make things
whiz, won't you? I don't suppose father will have
much use for those girls or they for him. But I
guess, between us, you and I can keep things going."
" Sure," agreed the cheerful Tug, " I shall open
my face wide the moment we get inside the door
and I shan't close it until we say au revoir. I am
the champion long-distance talker of the United
States and Canada and my specialty is speeding
things up."
" Oh, and say, Tug," Ernest went on, " Sandy
and I have got a new jolly for those Radcliffe girls.
Sandy wanted me to tell you, so you wouldn't think
he was really slamming Harvard."
" Do your darnedest," advised the serene Tug.
" I think those four Radcliffe maids are quite able
to take care of themselves."
" Oh, and, Tug," Ernest added, " I have an en-
gagement late this evening, after it's all over. I
170 The Discoveries
don't want father to know anything about it. But
you suggest leaving me at my street. See ! "
" I'm on," answered the buoyant Tug.
" Mrs. Williston," Ernest was saying an hour
later to the pleasant woman — ample, white-haired,
and fifty — who arose to greet them, " let me intro-
duce my father, and," — this to a quartette of beau-
ties who sat wedged on a couch, — " Miss Williston,
Miss Dunster, Miss George, Miss Riley, my father."
The quartette of beauties bowed politely. Mrs.
Williston added to her cordial greeting: " Mr. Mar-
tin, I'm going to ask you if you will chaperon this
quartette of young people to-night in my place.
We've just heard of the illness of a very old friend.
Mr. Williston has gone on ahead and I must join
him now. I hope you will excuse me, but it is a case
where we can do nothing else."
Mr. Martin excused her with the requisite gra-
ciousness. He accompanied her to her car, put her
into it, with protestations, constantly renewed, of
delight in his new role. As he returned to the pleas-
ant library, he caught the words, " Radcliffe " and
11 Harvard." But apparently the fair quartette on
the couch had neither stirred nor spoken.
11 Mr. Martin," suddenly said the peachy-cheeked,
honey-haired, heroic-size blondness that was Eunice
Dunster, " we welcome you to these alien halls of
learning. For one week, we have put in most of
our time refuting the knocks of ignorant Prince-
tonians in regard to Harvard University. We have
had almost no assistance from Mr. Warburton, who,
The Discoveries 171
although a Harvard man, is afraid of losing his
Princeton pull, and less from Miss Williston, who,
possessing a Princeton brother, confesses to divided
allegiances. Your son says that you are a Harvard
man. We would like to ask you if in your day the
other colleges were as frantically jealous of Har-
vard as they are now? "
Mr. Martin met with his twinkle the sunny azure
mischief of Miss Dunster's glance. " It was even
so in those days, Miss Dunster," he affirmed seri-
ously, " black, bitter, biting envy beset us on every
side."
" Mr. Martin," said the delicate, slender Gallic
bruneness that was Janet George, " for a child's size
college, Princeton is a very pretty toy. Is it not
so?"
Mr. Martin met with his twinkle the liquid, long-
lashed glee of Miss George's gaze. " I have no
doubt whatever, Miss George," he assented gravely,
" that Princeton will qualify as soon as it grows
up."
" Mr. Martin," said the willowy, violet-eyed
Irishness that was Nora Riley, " why is it that we
permit these minor mushroom universities to exist?
Is it not our duty to rise in our might some time
and raze them to the ground? "
Mr. Martin met with his twinkle the freckled,
dimpled archness of Nora's gaze. " I believe this
is the one case above all the others, Miss Riley,"
he pronounced solemnly, " when we should temper
justice with mercy."
172 The Discoveries
Miss Williston moved away from Miss Dunster.
" The gentleman qualifies. Mr. Martin, will you
kindly join the Harvard forces on the couch? "
Still twinkling, Mr. Martin squeezed his big bulk
into the place the two girls made. He surveyed
them all with his amused, indulgent gaze.
11 Now," said Ernest briskly, " I tell you what
let's do. There are just eight of us. How about
bridge?"
" Not for a moment," said Miss Dunster de-
cisively. " If the gods have favored us so far as
to send one of themselves — that is to say, a real
Harvard man — right down in our midst, shall we
flout them by indulging in piffling games and sports?
By Memorial Hall, nay, by Hollis, Holworthy, and
Gray's, twice nay, by the statue of John Harvard,
thrice nay! Mr. Martin, let our conversation be
of our alma mater and pater. Did you perchance
ever do any acting when you were at Harvard? "
" Not exactly," said Mr. Martin, " I wasn't very
much of an actor myself. But I was always on com-
mittees to get plays up. We did Ben Jonson's
* Bartholomew Fair,' Goldsmith's ' She Stoops to
Conquer,' Sheridan's ' The Rivals,' and "
11 ' The Rivals! ' " Miss Dunster exclaimed.
" Did you really? Why, we're getting up 'The
Rivals ' at Radcliffe for the spring Emmanuel.
Nora's chairman of the committee — the martyred
angel. Blanche is playing Bob Acres. Janet's
Lydia Languish and I'm Sir Lucius. Oh, I say, Mr.
Martin, do you remember any of the business? "
The Discoveries 173
" I should say I did," answered Mr. Martin with
fervor. " About three weeks before our play came
off, Joe Jefferson showed in ' The Rivals ' in Boston.
I went six times just to take notes on the business.
I know that play from A to Z and from omega to
alpha."
"Shades of the sacred Harvard quadrangle!"
exclaimed Nora Riley, " we've struck oil — a gusher!
Girls, this is where we take Mr. Martin by the fore-
lock. Help me clean this table off, Janet. Eunice,
you go upstairs and get the books. Blanche, rustle
paper and pencils. You wouldn't mind going
through the play with us, would you, Mr. Martin?
It will only take a little while."
" I should enjoy it enormously," said Mr. Martin.
" Say, Blanche, why don't you put that off until
some other time? " said Sandy, " Mr. Martin hasn't
a very long time to stay here, and I'm sure to-night
he'd "
" Because," interrupted Blanche, " we want to do
it now. And don't you suppose Mr. Martin prefers
the company of people who bear ever the hallmark
of Harvard, who carry always the aura of Cam-
bridge, to the riffraff of other colleges? Hurry up,
mes en f ants! "
Five minutes later Mr. Martin found himself
seated before the bared center-table, a girl suspended
at either shoulder and two leaning so far across
the table that their heads almost bumped his and
all hanging on his words.
Tug and Sandy merged themselves with a game
174 The Discoveries
of chess. Ernest fell on the pile of magazines that
had been shoveled from the table.
" Check! " said Tug at the end of an hour.
" Say, father," hinted Ernest after an aimless
interval of three-cornered, masculine talk, " aren't
you most finished with that stuff? I'm sure the girls
are ready to play now."
" Finished! " answered Blanche Williston, " we've
hardly begun. Now I tell you what you three do.
You run upstairs and play billiards and don't bother
us any longer. What was that point about the posi-
tions at the beginning of the duel-scene, Mr. Mar-
tin? I didn't entirely get that."
Three-quarters of an hour later Ernest returned
to the library. " Sandy says," he announced sulkily,
" that he's hungry and would like the rabbit now."
" Mr. Martin," said Janet George, " will you
kindly request that obnoxious Princeton person not
to interrupt us again? "
" Ernest," ordered his father without looking up,
" go into a corner and stand with your face to the
wall."
Half an hour later Ernest again entered. " Sandy
says that the table is set," he announced stiffly, " and
the cheese all cut up, and "
" Mr. Martin," interrupted Eunice Dunster, " I
see now why you didn't send him to Harvard — he
wasn't good enough."
11 Ernest," implored his father, " don't stand
there any longer, bringing my gray hairs with sor-
row to the grave."
The Discoveries 175
Fifteen minutes later Ernest reappeared in the
doorway. " Sandy says/' he emitted in a single
breath, " that the rabbit's all cooked and if you
don't come now, you can take it cold." Before any-
body could administer rebuke he vanished.
The group at the table arose, laughing and
talking, filed into the dining-room. The girls,
bunching themselves about Mr. Martin, absently ac-
cepted the plates that were handed them.
" Well, if you could have seen what happened
the night we gave it in Seriph Four Corners," Mr.
Martin was concluding, " you'd have "
" Seriph Four Corners ! " Eunice Dunster ex-
claimed. " Why, my mother came from Seriph.
I wonder if you knew her. Her name was Minnie
Pratt. My goodness gracious, are you Edward
Martin?"
" That's who I am," Mr. Martin confessed. " Of
course I knew your mother. She was one of the
nicest girls I ever met — and one of the prettiest."
Eunice unfastened the chain that hung about her
neck, opened the pendant locket, handed it to Mr.
Martin.
" Yes, that's Minnie," said Mr. Martin, smiling
a little. " You don't look like her, do you? "
" No," said Eunice regretfully, " everybody says
I'm a Dunster. I can't believe you're Edward Mar-
tin. My mother's told us children a thousand times
how you walked right up to a man with a gun, took
it away from him, and thrashed him because he'd
been beating his mother. Why, girls, when Mr.
176 The Discoveries
Martin was at Harvard, he was Well,
mother's told me many a time how you helped paint
John Harvard red and how you put the alarm-
clocks in Professor Moy's recitation-room. Girls,
they went off at five-minute intervals during the
entire lecture. Mother said you had the greatest
collection of funny signs — she said you stole one
out of a police-station. Mother always insists that
you hung the skeleton onto the flagpole that time.
Did you?"
Mr. Martin shook his head decisively. " Oh,
no! " he said.
" Mother says you always say ' no/ " continued
Eunice. " She says you were all sworn to deny it
to the end of your days." She stopped and stared
at Mr. Martin, an imp of mischief dancing in each
blue eye. H I bet you did it," she wheedled.
Except for his twinkle, Mr. Martin sustained her
accusing gaze equably. " I bet I didn't," he as-
severated.
The imps vanished from Eunice's eyes. Her gaze
became a little dreamy. " Just think of your being
Edward Martin," she murmured half to herself.
11 Why, I've heard of you all my life. You've been
a sort of legendary hero to us children. I don't
know what mother will say when I write her that
I've met you. What I can't get over, though, is
your seeming so young — so much younger than
mother."
" What I can't get over," said Mr. Martin, u is
Minnie's having a great girl like you."
The Discoveries 177
" Ernest Martin," said Eunice, " it doesn't seem
possible that Edward Martin can be your father.
He seems more like your brother."
Ernest looked up, startled.
Mr. Martin was a heavy man, but his bulk all
ran to shape. His hair was perfectly white, but it
was thick and the ends broke into a crisp ripple.
The effect, moreover, of the lineless floridity of his
face, the quizzical geniality of his clear hazel eyes
was to make this seem a premature silvering.
Somehow he seemed to gain rather than lose in
youthfulness by contrast with the cluster of beautiful
girl- faces. Ernest realized, as he never could be-
fore, what Phoebe meant when she said that he
looked like a leading-man in a play.
And then — how did it come up ? — suddenly he saw
his father from an angle of mental vision so dif-
ferent from the physical one that it was as if he
were seeing him for the first time. He saw him
divorced utterly from his aspect of husband and
parent. He saw him as a human being among hu-
man beings. He saw him as a man among men. He
saw him as a man among women. Why, his part
in the game of life had been as red-blooded as
Ernest's own. He had taken all a male's chances,
both of the body and of the soul. He had hit his
man. He had kissed his maid. His father! His
father! The sensation bothered Ernest. It brought
a strange perplexity, an irritation. He tried to
throw it off. He tried mentally to push his father
back into his place — to settle him in that station of
178 The Discoveries
the middle years, where paternally white-haired, not
youthfully so, he should hover forever on the brink
of old age.
Ernest stared at his father.
The imps of mischief began to dance again in
Miss Dunster's eyes.
11 My mother has told me many times, Mr. Mar-
tin," she said with the serene effrontery of comely
youth, " that all the Seriph girls were perfectly
crazy about you."
" They managed to conceal it from me," retorted
Mr. Martin.
" Girls! M Eunice addressed the allied forces of
her own sex, but she did not take the sparkle of her
gaze from Mr. Martin's face. " We must beware
of this man. He was a perfectly dreadful flirt —
according to tradition — although mother does say
he was a dear"
" I can listen to this conversation," Mr. Martin
maintained, unruffled, " all the rest of the evening."
" All right." Eunice continued her remarks with
a demure relentlessness. " Mother said that you
had the prettiest curly hair and the longest eye-
lashes that she ever saw. She says it was a terrible
pity that they were wasted on a man."
Mr. Martin did not bat a single one of the eye-
lashes under discussion. He continued to stare his
tormentor straight in the face.
" Seems to me, girls," concluded Eunice, verbally
signaling for reinforcements, " that the eyelashes
are still rather long."
The Discoveries 179
The heavy artillery galloped onto the field.
" This way for the eyelashes ! " directed Janet
George.
The three girls moved closer and carefully sur-
veyed their victim.
" Kindly remove your glasses," ordered Blanche
Williston.
Mr. Martin obeyed promptly.
" Now shut your eyes," coaxed Nora Riley.
Mr. Martin burst out laughing. He jumped up
and walked to the other side of the room. " My
hands are up ! " he admitted.
Ernest continued to stare.
"Well, Mr. Martin," Eunice went on, "you
must promise us three things before you leave. One
is that just as soon as you go home you and Mrs.
Martin will look mother up. She's always won-
dered what became of you. She said that you mar-
ried a girl that looked like an angel."
" All right," said Mr. Martin. " What's number
two?"
11 That you'll come to see us do ' The Rivals.' "
" Of course I will," agreed Mr. Martin. " Num-
ber three?"
" That you'll come to the Open Idler this spring
and dance with every girl we introduce you to.
Mother says that you were a perfectly heavenly
dancer. Will you? "
" All right," said Mr. Martin.
And still Ernest stared — stared at the ghost of
his father's youth.
180 The Discoveries
An hour later, clad in overalls, a pot of green
paint, plopping and dripping from his belt, a new
paint-brush held between his teeth, Ernest was climb-
ing perilously up the props of the water tower. Be-
low in the shrubbery skulked half a dozen sopho-
mores, keeping guard. Two perils added their
agreeable excitement to Ernest's undertaking: first
and least that he might break his neck, second that
he would be suspended instantly if discovered.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself up. His hand
did not falter, however, nor his resolution shake.
Arrived at the tip-top, he painted his class-numerals
on the tower with the boldest sweep of green that
his peril would permit. And having finished, he
climbed down, doffed his disguise, strolled back to
tranquil sleep.
After Mr. Martin left Ernest, he went directly
to the Inn. Once in his room, however, a strange
restlessness fell upon him. He walked up and down,
stopping now and then to fall into a brown study.
Coming abruptly out of the last of these reveries,
he moved over to the window. For a long time he
stood there looking out on a patch of starlit lawn.
Finally he sat down at the desk and began to write.
Princeton Inn,
Princeton, N. J.
_, Saturday, late.
My dear Bertha:
I think I'll return to New York to-morrow. I'll have
to be at the Waldorf for a day or two — then I'll come
The Discoveries 181
home. I've had all I want of college life for a while. It
all sounds so foolish and shallow here. I don't believe we
were like that at Harvard in my day. By George, I know
we weren't. Why, at Ernest's age, I was painting John
Harvard red and stealing signs out of police-stations. Do
you remember the time we set off the eight alarm-clocks
during Professor Moy's lecture? Do you remember the
time we precipitated the race-riot in Memorial? Why,
Ernest lives the correct, bloodless life of the store-window
mannikin. Not that I want him to be the offensive type
of college man. But Well, I'm glad I'm not Ernest.
Love to you and Phoebe!
Your affectionate husband,
Edward Martin.
P.S. — Oh, by the way, I met Minnie Pratt's daughter
at the Willistons' to-night. I promised we'd look them up
when I got back. I'd really like to do that.
2 P.S. — I have always forgotten to ask Ernest if he
bought those flannels — but I didn't notice that he shivered
any.
Dear Edward:
I understand in a way how you feel about Ernie's col-
lege life. I think there's nobody so old as the young people
nowadays. Just the same I'm glad Ernie is not cutting
up. It's very rough and ungentlemanly, besides being dan-
gerous. If Ernest should get arrested, I don't know what
I'd do. Lois Lynch was in last night and she said that
her brother, who's a Freshman at Princeton, wrote home
that some of the sophomores painted the class numbers on
the water-tower the other night. They'd been expelled if
1 82 The Discoveries
they'd been found out. I should feel awfully if Ernie got
mixed up with anything like that.
I guess I'll have to believe in mental telegraphy after
this. For while you were talking with Minnie Pratt's
daughter, I was telling Debbie how I went over to Elders-
ville in the middle of the night to talk half an hour with
you after a quarrel. Edward, I've been thinking over
Phoebe and Tug, and they don't care for each other the
way we did. Not that I'd like to have Phoebe do anything
like that exactly. Why, Edward, they don't even realize
what fun it is quarreling.
We are well, except Phoebe. She has a dreadful cold
and I can't think how she got it.
Your loving wife,
Bertha.
P.S. — You never said what Minnie Pratt's married name
was, but I'd love to go to call on her.
Dear Ern :
I have a perfectly awful cold from taking a long walk
in the rain, so I can't write much this time. I'm glad
father had such a good time in Princeton but I wish he'd
stayed longer. I'm going to take back one thing I said
about father and mother. I guess they've had experiences
just as interesting as ours — and maybe more so. Anyway,
Ern Martin, if you don't realize that Mother Martin must
have been a perfect wonder, I now announce to you that
that's what she was.
Your aff. sister,
Phoebe.
The Discoveries 183
Dear Phoebe:
Yes, I'm sorry that father went home so soon, but he
said he had a good time and I think he did. I feel just the
same way about father that you do about mother — he's
no back number and don't you forget it.
Your loving brother,
Ern.
CHAPTER VII
THE HOUSE BOOK
THE day after Christmas.
The most wonderful thing that ever hap-
pened to me, since Mrs. Warburton asked me to go
abroad, happened yesterday. It was a Christmas
gift. It came in my Christmas stocking. It was a
house. I don't mean that a house came in the stock-
ing. But a note from Tug's father did. And the
note said that his Christmas gift to Tug and me was
a house for us to live in after we were married.
Think of it, a house. I'm going to write it again.
A house! Once more and maybe I can believe it.
A HOUSE ! The house isn't built yet, but it's going
to be built right here in Maywood on any one of a
dozen lots that Mr. Warburton owns. Mr. War-
burton said it could be any kind of a house Tug and
I wanted. We could buy a house already built or
build one to suit ourselves — anything, provided we
did not spend more than five thousand dollars.
Well, of course, I went just about crazy with delight,
and all day long my head was in a perfect whirl.
After all the Christmas excitement was over, Tug
and I had a long talk.
Of course I knew at once that this problem was
entirely up to me. Tug wouldn't know anything
184
The House Book 185
about it; even if he ever thought of it. I decided
immediately that I wanted to build. There are no
houses in Maywood that appeal to me especially.
In fact the only vacant one I can think of is the old
ramshackle Durland place that's had a For Sale
sign in the orchard ever since I can remember. And
I wouldn't live there for forty red apples. When it
comes to architecture, I don't exactly know yet what
I do want, but I know perfectly well what I don't
want. I distinctly don't want a house like this. Of
course I've always lived in it and I'm fond of it
after a fashion. It is big and square and straight
and tiresome — geometric almost — the kind of house
a child draws on a slate. But I want something
different. I don't know exactly how to put it.
Fussy isn't the word. I want it sort of cut-up and
unexpected with all kinds of little butt-out and all
kinds of little butt-in places with fancy things like
oriel windows, a chimney outside, a pergola, and
porches tucked just everywhere — more on the order
of the Warburton place. In fact, I want the key-
note of my house to be up-to-dateness. Our house
is far from up-to-date — that is as far as the house
itself is concerned. The furnishings are absolutely
the last cry. And I flatter myself that I am re-
sponsible for that. Until a few years ago we had
no furniture at all but what mother inherited from
Aunt Mary. Everything was hopelessly behind the
times. ,There wasn't a smart effect anywhere.
Well, after I grew up, I saw there ought to be a
change if we were to have any social position what-
1 86 The House Book
ever. I almost had to get down on my bended
knees; but I finally persuaded father and mother to
do the place over in red and green cartridge, mission
furniture, Russian brass, and some modern china.
Then I brought a lot of bric-a-brac from abroad that
gave nifty little touches here and there. There isn't
a thing in it now that I would change. I shall dupli-
cate many of the effects in my own home.
That matter settled, Tug and I spent the whole
afternoon and evening drawing up plans for the
house. It was twelve o'clock before we finished and
then mother had to send Tug home. Tug is going to
show them to Jake Pebworth, an architect friend of
his, and get an estimate on them. I guess Mr. Peb-
worth will be surprised to see what a business-like
job two amateurs have turned out. After all, you
can tackle anything in this life if you only use com-
mon sense — now this wasn't so very different from
a dress pattern. Tug and I decided that we could
not possibly get along with less than twelve rooms,
a downstairs living-room, library, dining-room,
kitchen, an upstairs living-room, four chambers, a
garret, and two maids' rooms. We shall have to
have at least three bathrooms — one for our guests,
one for the maids, and one for ourselves. I really
think we ought to have four — but I am willing to
economize in this one thing.
In talking it over, Tug and I made a solemn
oath that we would each do our best to keep the
other from growing into a typical married person.
That is the only " out " about marriage — the change
The House Book 187
it makes in you. It's just as if you caught a stupid
microbe of some sort; for all married people start
in being fearful bores the moment the ceremony
is over. And the dreadful thing about it is
that they're so unconscious of the change — they
seem quite happy and contented, even superior, as
if they had discovered a kind of happiness that
nobody else ever thought of. They act as if they'd
invented it. Well, Tug and I are not going to be
like that. If I thought I was ever going to grow
into the kind of woman Lila Ellis is, I don't know
what I'd do. Lila used to be a perfect pippin and
about the smartest girl in Maywood. How I used
to look up to her when I was in High. Why, if Lila
Ellis just spoke to me, I thought I was made. Well,
she married Will Ellis and she's had four children
in seven years. She's grown fat. Her hair is gray
at one side — and she doesn't even try to conceal it.
She does nothing all day long but push a baby-car-
riage, and as for her clothes — the least said about
them the better. Now Irene Hunt is the greatest
possible contrast to Lila. She's been married just
as long, but she's kept her figure, and my goodness
the clothes that girl has ! To be sure she's had no
children. Children seem to interfere with so much
somehow.
No, Tug and I are going to make it a point to
keep right on with everything, dancing particularly.
I'm going to try to make my house a sort of rendez-
vous for the young people. And every night that
we are alone, we're going to read aloud to each
1 88 The House Book
other, so that we won't rust. Most people lose all
interest in everything that's going on in the world
the moment they get married. They seem to think
of nothing but their children. Now I want my chil-
dren to think of me the way I think of my mother
and father. My mother isn't what you call a highly
educated woman — that is, she isn't a college grad-
uate. But she's kept her eyes and ears open all
right ! She doesn't talk so much, but I notice when
she does open her mouth, people listen. As for my
father, well, my father is a perfect mine of informa-
tion. He is up on every question of the day. Tug
says he has never met a better informed man. Ern
Martin will never be the man father is; not if he
lives to be ninety.
Ever since I read Mr. Warburton's note, my head
has been teeming with ideas for architecture and
interior decoration. What a help my trip abroad
will be! Even my visit in New York will furnish
me with many practical ideas. I remember some
of the up-to-date schemes in Mrs. Raeburn's house,
like, for instance, having two ice-chests, one for the
desserts only, a linen-closet with slatted shelves so
the clothes can air all the time, lights in the closets,
etc. Last night aftertl got to bed, I made up my
mind that I would keep a sort of diary of the house
— a house book, so to speak. This morning I went
down to the Center and bought this leather-covered
blankbook (eighty-five cents was all they stung me
for it) , and I'm going to write in it every plan and
idea and thought that I have in regard to the house.
The House Book 189
I'm not going to read from day to day what I have
written, so that I can go at the problem fresh every
morning, not biassed by what's happened before.
And when the house is finished and the book is done,
I'm going to tie it with yellow ribbon and seal it
with great scarlet seals, and the day that Tug and
I have been married twenty-five years, I'm going to
get it out and read it to him. We can thus live all
over again what will probably prove to be the hap-
piest period of our life. It almost reconciles me to
growing old.
This is all for to-day.
January 5.
Tug saw Jake Pebworth to-day about the plans
we drew up Christmas night, and he said that, after
he had put in stairways and closets and had allowed
for plumbing and a furnace, the house would proba-
bly not cost us more than fifteen thousand dollars.
Fifteen thousand! Goodness! I hadn't any idea
that it took so much money to build. I'm afraid
we'll have to get along with two bathrooms. I sup-
pose, on a pinch, we could do without that upstairs
living-room, seeing we have what you might call
two living-rooms downstairs. Mr. Pebworth didn't
seem to think much of the plans and suggested that
we wait and look about before we did anything more
about it. At first it quite discouraged me. But now
I'm very glad those plans proved lemons; for I have
changed my mind completely. The other day when
I was in Boston I subscribed to three illustrated
190 The House Book
magazines — " The Architectural Record, " " The In-
terior," and " The Builder," and I have been get-
ting out bound copies of past numbers from the
library. I didn't know that there were so many
ways of building houses. It seemed to me that my
plans changed every time I turned a page; for each
picture was lovelier than the last. Finally, how-
ever, I boiled my ideas down to three. Number one
was to put up an exact duplicate of Anne Hatha-
way's cottage. I thought it was perfectly darling
when I was there, but it did not occur to me how
lovely it would be to live in until I saw some
beautiful pictures of it. Number two was to build an
Italian villa — like the one that Mr. Waring had in
Fiesole. It was a great, roomy, simple place with
just the most subtle and simple ideas in decoration
inside and a formal garden outside. Number three
(and on the whole this fascinated me more than
any) was to have a Spanish hacienda — everything
on one floor and all built around a square interior
court with a flower-garden and a fountain in the
center. I was just full of this when Tug came to-
night. Tug said (the way he always does, the angel
love) not to consider him, but have exactly what I
want. But he pointed out that a stone floor, like
Anne Hathaway's cottage, would be cold as ice in
winter. He said that when he was in Shottery, the
caretaker told him that winters she nearly died of
chilblains. Tug said, moreover, that he'd feel very
anachronistic mixing a Bronx cocktail in an Eliza-
bethan cottage. He said, " Think of hanging up
The House Book 191
all my college flags in an Italian villa or inviting
the boys to play billiards in a Spanish hacienda."
Moreover, Tug pointed out to me that the Italian,
villa and the Spanish hacienda were invented spe-
cially for a semi-tropical climate. And when you
come to think of it, an interior court with a foun-
tain in it would look sort of lonesome all covered
with snow. Well, I've sort of given up the idea;
but I'm really dreadfully disappointed, for I think
it would be a very original stunt. There are terrible
obstacles in this life to anybody who tries to stray
from the beaten path — especially in any artistic line.
January 8.
Mother and I had a long talk to-day. I told her
how disappointed I was that I couldn't have an Ital-
ian villa or a Spanish hacienda. She said that she
knew exactly how I felt because when she was mar-
ried everybody was building what she called
"Queen Annie" houses. (Isn't it darling of
mother, she always pronounces Anne as if it were
Annie. It is so quaint to hear her referring to
Queen Annie. She says her mother always said
Queen Annie and she never can break herself of it.)
Mother said that she wanted a house that was just
strung with bay windows. Goodness knows, I
don't want a bay window. She said that the only
reason that she and father ever got this great barn
of a place was because it was going for almost noth-
ing. She says she fell in love at once with the big
room on the third floor which was called the Play-
192 The House Book
room when we were children. She said that it
proved a very wise choice ; for all the children in the
neighborhood always came here to play. Some-
times there'd be a dozen on rainy days. " Perhaps
I didn't get the house I wanted," mother said, " but
at least I always knew where my children were."
Mother said, " Why don't you look up every house
that's ' for sale ' or * to let ' in town? You'll get
more ideas from them than from all the books and
magazines in the library." That struck me as a
very valuable suggestion, and in the afternoon Tug
and I started out. The first person we met was
Lila Ellis in an old mangy fur-coat, wheeling that
eternal baby-carriage. She stopped and spoke to us.
She said that she had heard that we were going to
build and if we ever wanted to talk with some-
body who had learned much practical wisdom
through bitter experience to come to her. Of course
I was just as nice as I could be, but I should never
think of going. I don't think Lila could tell me
much, that is, judging by the way she dresses. To
think that the day would ever come when I should
feel so superior to Lila Ellis. Why, before her
father married the second time and she was mistress
of the great Doran house, she had everything that
money could buy. It seemed as if there was a dance
there every night.
We had hardly turned the corner when we ran
into Callie Hunt. She stopped us, too. " Why don't
you come over to my place?" she said. " You
know you've never called on me yet." So we went.
The House Book 193
Well, never in my born days have I seen anything
so well kept! In the first place the house itself is
all cut up just the way I like a house to be, every-
thing opening into everything else, funny little un-
expected seats and settles, nooks and corners, turns
and twists. As for decoration — well, the artistic
touch was everywhere. Then of course, as it is per-
fectly new, the floors, paper, paint, plaster are im-
maculate and what with all her new shiny furniture
and her bright new rugs — well, it was Spotless Town
all right. I never saw a house so, what you might
call, hygienically clean. I didn't see a speck of dust
anywhere. You see, Callie keeps everything behind
glass. Her dining-room was just one gorgeous glit-
ter of cut-glass, but every speck of it was in cabinets.
The bric-a-brac in her living-room and drawing-room
is kept in cabinets; her books are kept in cases with
doors to them; there are glass tops to her tables,
chiffoniers, and dressers. I do not think you could
have put a pin down anywhere on her wall where
there wasn't a picture, and Callie told me that she
dusts behind them every day of her life. Well, the
house showed the care. There wasn't a scratch or
a dent or a spot or a stain or a speck on anything.
Callie said that she was the oldest girl in a family
of nine and she doesn't remember once to have seen
in her home a room that she called tidy. She made
up her mind if she ever got married she would have
a clean house if she didn't have another blessed
thing. She had planned to be a trained nurse, but
she married Al Hunt just as soon as she came out
194 The House Book
of the hospital and she sort of put all her training
into her housekeeping, if you know what I mean. In
her smart little morning frock she was such a con-
trast to Lila Ellis. She's been married five years
and she's just as slender as when she was
engaged and a great deal prettier. To be sure
she has had no children; but I don't think that
makes any difference. It's all up to the woman
herself. If she lets herself get sloppy she'll run
right down. If she doesn't, she'll look trim. Both
as a woman and a housekeeper Callie was a great
lesson to me.
I asked Tug after we got out if he didn't think
she was a marvel, and he said — now aren't men
queer — that he had never been so uncomfortable in
his life. He said that the house felt like a sana-
torium. He said the kitchen looked like an operat-
ing-room. He said he was absolutely sure that
Callie sterilized everything we touched the moment
we left the house. " I understand perfectly now,"
he said, " why Al Hunt is at the Club every night.
He feels too much like an interne if he stays at
home."
Well, after we left Callie's, we went to all the
vacant houses and apartments in town — all except
the old Durland place; of course there was no use
in going there. And I guess I was never more dis-
couraged in my life. Such teeny-weeny little rooms
and such gigantic rents. I didn't see a single thing
that I liked. I suppose this big house that I've al-
ways lived in has spoiled me for small ones. Tug
The House Book 195
says that he's having Jake Pebworth out to dinner
some day next week and he'll bring him here to talk
things over and perhaps he can help us. I hope he
can; for I certainly feel quite at sea.
January n.
Tug brought Jake Pebworth over this evening.
I like him tremendously, although I stand a little in
awe of him. He's old and he's young, he's hand-
some and he's ugly, he's distinguished and he's in-
significant all at once, if you know what I mean.
He's not very tall and he has the figure of a boy
of seventeen; he jumps about like a jack-in-the-box.
On the other hand, his hair, which is quite long and
tumbled, is iron-gray. But his eyes are as blue —
as blue — as — as blue. His features are put onto his
face every which way — his nose is simply indescriba-
ble — and yet the whole effect is — well, you keep look-
ing at him, that's all there is to it — just the way you
have to keep looking at an open fire, even when it
tires your eyes.
The first thing he did was — what do you think —
to go perfectly mad about our house! He went
from room to room on the lower floor, simply ex-
ploding with admiration. Then he asked permis-
sion to go upstairs. He said it was one of the
best-built houses that he ever saw in his life. He
said the lines and proportions of it were perfect.
He said it made even other houses that he'd ever
seen in Maywood look jerry-built, whatever that
means. Father just sat there and beamed. It was
196 The House Book
nuts to him, for if there's one thing he's crazy about,
it's this house. He hates to change anything about
it — oh, what a struggle it was that time I got him
to do it all over. Mr. Pebworth asked father all
kinds of questions. He seemed particularly struck
with the marble mantels and the chandeliers down-
stairs. I did love the chandeliers when I was a child.
They have long garlands of brass, carved with
grapes and tiny little foxes' heads peering out from
them. But I have always hated the mantels — they
look like mausoleums to me. I could never drape
things over them in any really artistic way. Father
told Mr. Pebworth a whole lot of stuff that was new
to me. He said that Mr. Esdaile, who built the
house, also built the Durland place. He was a
crank on old things. Every time a fine old house was
dismantled in Boston, he used to go in and buy parts
of it. It seems that our stairway is a peach — the
mahogany rail is very classy for some reason or
other. Well, I have never seen anybody so crazy
as Mr. Pebworth was. He lingered in every room.
Finally he said that he had two women friends in
Maywood, interior decorators, and did we mind if he
called them up and asked them up to see our house?
I knew at once who they were when he mentioned
their names — a Miss Ralph and a Mrs. Hollet,
who live on the Gardner Road, great friends of Mrs.
Marsh's, fierce high-brows and terribly exclusive.
Of course father and mother were very pleased. I
did not think for one moment that they would come
on such an informal invitation. But when I heard
The House Book 197
what Mr. Pebworth said over the telephone, you
would certainly have thought he was inviting them
to see Buckingham Palace. They asked if they
could bring a Miss Whiting, who happened to be
calling on them. Miss Whiting is an artist. She
has a studio on the Gardner Road that I've always
been crazy to see the inside of. Well, the long and
short of it was, up they beat it in a machine. Miss
Ralph is little and wiry and quick and dark, with
snapping black eyes, and Mrs. Hollet is big and
massive and slow and sort of glacial. Miss Whiting
is long and loppy, the very personification of grace,
a regular Burne- Jones. Well, I guess artistic people
must be alike, for they were just as bad as Mr.
Pebworth. They raved about the rooms and they
raved about the mantels and they raved about the
chandeliers and the windows and the doors and
even the latches on the doors. Mother and father
just ate it up. Of course mother made her usual
hit; and you could see they were crazy about her.
I didn't feel so very comfortable myself. For when
I advanced an opinion, they listened to me so sort
of hard that it was really embarrassing. And some-
times before I'd get half through what I had to say
I'd have a feeling that it wasn't especially worth say-
ing anyway. I never had a sensation quite like it.
After a while they asked what we had on the
wall before we put on the red and green cartridge.
Mother told them all about the queer paper that
was on the living-room and library, great big scenes.
I remember how ashamed I used to be of it when I
198 The House Book
was growing up — it was so antiquated and different
from what everybody else had. They seemed to
know all about it — they called it a " landscape "
paper. They said it must have been the " Lady of
the Lake " pattern.
I don't know exactly how it all came about; but
somebody, mother I think, mentioned Aunt Mary's
furniture and Miss Ralph asked if they could see it.
Before we knew it, we were all traipsing out to the
barn carrying lanterns and as muffled as if we were
going motoring.
I didn't realize how much stuff there was there —
the old sideboard, the old maple highboy, the low-
boy, a secretary, two or three old clocks, half a
dozen old mirrors, eight or nine chests of drawers,
chairs and couches and tables galore. They all
seemed awfully interested in them. They examined
them microscopically, I might say. They asked how
long they had been in the barn and I told how we
did the house all over a few years ago. And I guess
they thought we did a good job, too. Mrs. Hollet
asked mother if she had ever thought of selling the
furniture and mother said she'd as soon think of
selling one of us. Miss Ralph asked if she might
come over some day and take pictures. It seems
that the highboy is a six-legged one and that's very
rare. Miss Ralph is writing a book on old furniture
and she illustrates it with photographs. It seems
that Aunt Mary's stuff is especially " good " — good
is the word they always used. Fancy Aunt Mary's
stuff turning out to be valuable. The rest of the
The House Book 199
evening Miss Ralph simply kept us in roars describ-
ing some of the funny experiences she's had hunting
up old truck. They were all three awfully nice and
they made mother and me promise that we'd come
to call. And we're going in a few days.
January 15.
Yesterday mother received a note from Miss
Whiting asking us if we would come to her studio
to-day and have a cup of tea with her. Of course
we were delighted to go and went. I came away
perfectly crazy to build just such a place as she has.
It's a bungalow — consisting of three rooms on one
floor — a big studio (which is living-room, library,
and bedroom) , a dining-room, a kitchen. The other
rooms didn't make such a hit with me — but, oh,
that studio ! She told me it was forty-one by twenty-
three, and it has a great big fireplace. Such a won-
derful place to give dances or charades or theatricals
in ! Of course it was interesting — all artists' places
are. The furniture was mahogany. " But I have
nothing that can compare with the beautiful things
in your barn," she said. It's curious, but it had
never entered my head that Aunt Mary's things were
beautiful. I suppose it was because I was brought
up with them. But she had many foreign things that
took the curse off. After we had been there a long
time, Miss Whiting began to talk about the difficulty
of getting models. I paid no attention at first, and
mother did the thing she always does, listened at-
tentively without saying much herself. But Miss
200 The House Book
Whiting kept recurring to the subject and finally I
began to realize that she wanted to ask something
of us. At first it occurred to me that she wanted
to paint my portrait. And when she came out with
it, what do you suppose it was — she wanted to do
mother. I was never so surprised in my life — in
fact you could have knocked me down with a feather.
Of course I know that my mother is a peach, but
I wouldn't think an artist would see it — somehow
I would expect an artist to want to paint somebody
with more color, if you know what I mean. Well,
mother was as embarrassed as she could be. But
Miss Whiting was just lovely. She said that mother
need not come to the studio at all — she'd come to
the house — and only when it was perfectly con-
venient. At first mother wouldn't hear of it. But
Miss Whiting kept at it, and of course I played her
game as hard as ever I could. Finally mother said
yes. And then, without warning, mother remarked
that when she was a young girl a whole lot of artists
came to North Campion one summer and every one
of them painted a picture of her. Now isn't that the
limit! Mother Martin never mentioned a word of
that to me before. I guess if anybody wanted to
paint my picture I'd have it put in the paper. Well,
that night I told Tug about the studio-plan. It
didn't seem to make any hit with him at all. He
said it was all right for a girl-artist living alone, but
when it came to a married couple — why, they must
think of the future and three rooms were altogether
too few. Of course when Tug put it that way to
The House Book 201
me, I saw that the bungalow was entirely out of
the question. Sometimes I think I'm not so prac-
tical as I might be. And of course it isn't as if I
could get any help from Tug. Tug knows what he
doesn't want; but he isn't what I call creative. I
feel more at sea than ever. I keep taking out bound
copies of the magazines from the library, but they
only seem to stir me up without getting me any-
where. When I'm out walking or motoring, I look
at nothing but houses. It's queer what you don't
take in about architecture until you begin to think
of building yourself. Sometimes I almost think we'd
better give the whole thing over to Jake Pebworth,
and let him do the best he can for us. But some-
how that seems so sort of soulless and mechanical —
if you know what I mean. It's like putting a nickel
in the slot and taking any house that comes. I want
my house to represent my personality. But I'm sure
I don't know what my personality is. Sometimes I
feel quite discouraged — or would if mother wasn't
always pointing out that it isn't anything that I have
to hurry about.
January 22.
Yesterday mother and I went to tea with Mrs.
Hollet and Miss Ralph. Oh, I'm so glad that I went,
for all my ideas changed completely. I feel so much
better now. I really think I see light ahead. There
were only five of us at the tea — our hostesses, Jake
Pebworth, mother, and me. Their house is
one of those tiny slant-roofed farmhouses that you
202 The House Book
see all over New England. I have always thought
it very little and old-fashioned and inconspicuous
and out-of-date. At least that's the effect on the
outside. But my goodness, what a difference on
the inside! You enter a little square hall. There
are small rooms on either side, a big living-room in
the back and leading off from it so many rooms that
I really got mixed up. When we got into the living-
room, the strangest thing happened. Mother Mar-
tin gave one look about and then the tears came
right straight into her eyes. I didn't know what
was going to happen. But mother said right off that
they mustn't think she was going to cry, because she
wasn't. She said the house and its furnishings re-
minded her so much of the way the house looked
in North Campion when she was a girl that it fairly
made her homesick. Then she wiped her eyes,
smiled, and Mrs. Hollet said : " Then I know you'll
be interested to see what we've collected in the way
of old furniture." They took us all over the house.
Well, that was when I got my first shock. For, like
Miss Whiting, their furniture was all old mahogany,
much of it the spit of Aunt Mary's. And it seems
that they prefer it to anything else, that they spend
all their time and most of their money hunting up
old stuff, that they furnish up houses for people with
it. It seems it's the thing nowadays to have colonial
furniture and that it brings fabulous prices. Aunt
Mary's six-legged highboy, for instance — they said
they could sell it for us for over two hundred dollars
if we wanted to part with it — in fact they said every-
The House Book 203
thing of Aunt Mary's was exceptionally beautiful,
interesting, and hence, valuable.
Well, if I wasn't the surprised person. I knew,
of course, that most people cling to heirlooms; but
I supposed that was mainly sentiment. And of
course I'd heard of people buying antiques, but I
thought that was because they had the collecting
bug. I went around like a girl in a dream and just
gawked at things — shelves filled with old china like
what Mrs. Ventry used to collect, shelves with old
pewter, old glass, candlesticks, a warming-pan,
trays — I don't think I could begin to enumerate
them — and listened to the infinitesimal prices they
had paid for them at country auctions.
Later Mr. Pebworth came. Mrs. Hollet and
Miss Ralph were getting the tea ready and they
asked me if I would show him a pie-crust table that
they had just fixed up. It was in another room,
and after we got there alone I just took my courage
in my hand and I said:
" Mr. Pebworth, I don't know what you will
think of me for what I'm going to say. But I'm
a very ignorant girl very much in need of advice.
And I'm going to ask you to help me." He looked
as surprised, but he stopped jumping about and came
and sat down beside me. I said, " Tug and I, as
you know, have this money to buy a house, and it's
all up to me to choose it. I can have anything in
the world that five thousand dollars will buy. But
I don't know what I want. I don't even know what
I ought to want. For instance, it is a very great sur-
204 The House Book
prise to me to find out that Aunt Mary's old fur-
niture is so valuable. But it's a greater surprise to
find that it is beautiful. I can't see it — I honestly
can't. I prefer modern things — for they seem so
much more light and clean and convenient and smart.
But I don't want to make any mistakes and I do want
to buy things that are permanent. And if old things
are better I want to get them. But I want to know
why."
Well, you never saw anybody so sweet and kind
and sympathetic as he was. He gave me the nicest
and clearest and most interesting talk I ever listened
to. He began by saying that my state was enviable
because, unlike most people, I knew enough to know
that I didn't know anything. Then he took up the
house subject. He gave me a little lecture on archi-
tecture and he told me just what was wrong with the
houses that I had looked at in Maywood. He ended
by saying, " Why, Miss Martin, you're living now
in a house that is a model of taste. I'll be frank
with you and tell you that, from my point of view,
the point of view of anybody with a cultivated
taste, you ruined it by putting that new paper on and
buying all that modern furniture. I cannot bear to
think of that splendid mahogany rusting in the barn
— it must have been wonderful in those fine, noble
big rooms." That brought him to the subject of
furniture. He said that the love of old things was
often a slow growth, the result of careful study and
careful observation. Much of our enjoyment came
simply because they were old and adapted them-
The House Book 205
selves to the simpler needs of a simpler time. An-
other reason that we love them is that they are
hand-made and have all the engaging little irregu-
larities of hand work. But the thing that makes
them most desirable, after all, aside from their use-
fulness, is that they are really more beautiful — the
lines are more simple, graceful, dignified. There
was a lot more that I don't remember. But he ended
by giving me a list of books on old furniture. He
said, " If you really want to understand the colonial
type, read and study these books. Every time you
have a chance to look at old furniture study it care-
fully. Go out into your barn and look at your Aunt
Mary's stuff every day for a month and see if at the
end you don't understand."
We had an awfully good time at tea — but I guess
I never was so silent and absent in company in my
life; for all the time I was looking about me and
thinking very hard of what Mr. Pebworth said.
And then, I was troubled, too, for though I could
see that that house was wonderfully consistent, it
truly and honestly gave me an uncomfortable feel-
ing. I couldn't analyze it enough to realize what it
was. But on the way home, mother said something
that hit the nail right on the head. I asked her what
she thought of it, and she said, " Well, I loved to
see all those old things because they brought back
my girlhood. But after a while I had a queer feel-
ing about them. It seemed so wrong for them to
be on shelves. We used our old things — we didn't,
as you might say, make a collection of them. I felt
206 The House Book
as if I was in a museum looking at things in glass
cases." That was exactly the way I felt. And I
suppose that's the way Tug felt about Callie Hunt's
house. On the whole, I guess a house isn't a home
if you make an exhibition-hall of it, whether it's cut-
glass and painted china like Callie's or old pewter
and silver like Miss Ralph's. It is certainly very
puzzling.
February 23.
The night I came home from tea with Mrs. Hollet
and Miss Ralph I told Tug that I wasn't going to
think of the house for a whole month. I was going
to put every plan and idea that I'd had out of my
head and see what leaving it alone would do.
Mother says a watched pot never boils, and I guess
I had too many ideas for my own good. Anyway,
I decided to put the pot on the back of the stove
and let it simmer. And I've done that thing. In
the meantime, I've got hold of every book on old
furniture that I could beg, borrow, or steal and I've
read them from beginning to end and from end
to beginning. I don't know how it came about
— perhaps it was the fact that I have thought of
nothing else — but I've got sort of — obsessed (I
guess that's the word) with old things. You can't
read of the care and thought and interest and love
with which they were made without coming to have
a sort of tenderness for them. Some of the chairs
and crickets are such darlings. Even the kitchen
The House Book 207
things — I'm simply mad about those old pots and
skillets !
To-day I had a long talk with mother. I told
her how I had changed my opinion about Aunt
Mary's mahogany, and if she would let me use some
of it in my house after I was married I would take
the most precious care of it. I told mother quite
frankly that, if I were she, I'd get rid of all the
modern stuff that's in our house now and have Aunt
Mary's furniture done over and put right back in
the places where they used to stand. I told mother
that, now when I looked back on it, it seemed to
me I had influenced her and father unduly in getting
the new stuff. You should have heard mother laugh.
She said that getting that new furniture was all her
idea (though later I noticed when we talked it over
with father he said it was all his idea). Mother
said that she was glad, however, that I had grown
to love Aunt Mary's things because she'd always
had a guilty feeling about their being out in the barn.
She said I could have them all and welcome. But
I said I should only take half, because half really
belonged to Ern. Mother wrote Ern and asked
him if he wanted half, and he said, no, he hated
the darned old truck. But just the same I shall
divide them with the utmost care. For if Ern Mar-
tin doesn't know enough to appreciate those beauti-
ful things, his wife will, and I'm not going to have
her say that I hogged all the family heirlooms.
But I am just as much at sea in regard to the
house.
208 The House Book
February 27.
I am going to tell just what happened to-day in
the order in which it happened.
When Tug and I went out for a walk this after-
noon, we met Lila Ellis. She stopped and asked us
how the house was coming on. Of course I had
to say that I hadn't made up my mind yet. Then
she asked us if we wouldn't come home with her
and talk it over. I went — well, I must confess,
mainly because I didn't know how to say no. She
was wheeling the baby. But after we turned round,
Tug took it out of her hands in the most natural
way in the world. It was the strangest thing to
see Tug pushing that baby-carriage. Tug is such
a dear. I don't suppose Ern Martin or Tom
Deane or Fred Partland would be caught dead doing
such a thing. But Tug was as unconcerned and un-
conscious, making jokes every step of the way.
When we got to the door, he lifted little Molly up
and carried her into the house as naturally as if
he'd taken care of babies all his life.
Well, the moment I stepped into Lila Ellis's
house I loved it. We walked straight into a great
big living-room flooded with sunlight. There was
a huge fireplace at one end that ran to the very
ceiling, made of old Delft tiles with funny Biblical
pictures and inscriptions on them. The room was
very simply, almost scantily furnished with a few
old pieces that were quite as good as Aunt Mary's.
The furniture certainly looked as if it had been
used. But I mustn't waste time talking about the
The House Book 209
house; for, in front of the fire, sat three of the
most beautiful children I have ever laid my eyes on.
The oldest boy is Ralph, brown-haired and gray-
eyed, slender, aristocratic-looking — he might be a
prince of the blood. Then comes Marcia, a per-
fect little angel-blonde — curls tumbling off her head
by the hundreds — Lila says it's all she can do to get
a comb through them. Then comes Gideon, who's
black-haired and black-eyed — the football type, a
perfectly corking-looking child, and Molly the baby,
who's red-headed, pink-cheeked, and covered with
dimples. I never saw such children. They looked
as if they'd never had a sick day in their lives. And
when Lila took off that mangy fur coat and revealed
a little house-dress of dark gingham, her hair, gray
as it was, floating like a soft cloud above her fore-
head and that pinky color in her face which comes
from being out-of-doors so much with the baby —
why she looked like a madonna.
After a while Lila told the children, who were
tumbling all over Tug, that they must take care of
the baby while she served tea. And if you will
believe it those children sat down and played with
Molly — obedient as trained animals. After we
had tea, Lila took us all through the house.
I never saw a house like it — Tug was wild about
it. It seems that it was an old broken-down place
to begin with. Lila said, " My father gave me
three thousand dollars and all my mother's furni-
ture for a wedding-gift. I could have had a new
house with that money, but oh, it would have been
210 The House Book
so little and cramped. Then Ralph and I happened
to see this and I decided to buy it — I would be
ashamed to tell you what we paid for it — and put
the rest of the money into good plumbing and mod-
ern conveniences."
I can't go into everything, but there was a bath-
room that was a perfect wonder and a kitchen with
so many modern conveniences that it seemed as if
all you had to do was to touch a button and the
house cleaned itself. But I must describe the
nursery — the great big room that was formerly the
attic. It was papered with Mother Goose paper,
all the books and toys on shelves and in closets
and made just right for children to sleep and play
in. It was the most lovely child's room I ever saw.
Lila had a kitchenette put in right beside it, with
an electric stove and a refrigerator. She never has
to go downstairs for anything that the children need.
She says I can't possibly have any idea the steps
that alone has saved her — especially at night and
in case of illness.
After a while we came downstairs and Tug had
a frolic with the babies. It was a revelation to me.
I hadn't any idea Tug was so fond of children.
Children always come to me, but I don't consider
that I'm much of a hand with them, but Tug is a
perfect wizard. He got right down on the floor,
notwithstanding he was wearing a new suit, and
they climbed all over him.
After a while Tug had to leave. Then Lila and
I had a long talk.
The House Book 211
I guess I've got to revise every idea I ever had
of Lila Ellis; for, after that talk, there's nobody
in this town I admire more. She told me something
about her life before she was married. It was far
from a bed of roses. To think how I used to envy
her! Her mother died when she was a little girl.
She grew up just adoring her father and her brother
Tom. But first her brother married a woman who
became very jealous of her, then her father did.
" It seems incredible what things women can do to
men and with them, Phoebe," she said, " but after
a while those women managed to alienate my father
and brother from me, although I tried to steer as
tactful a course as I could. I haven't seen Tom
for five years now, and after my father had been
married two years, he proposed that I should go
somewhere to board. Oh, what a miserable time
I had until I married Ralph ! Nobody knows what
an unhappy thing I was; for I never told anybody.
I made up my mind after I was married that I was
going to surround myself with love — the only kind
of love that never fails. And, oh, I've been so
happy with my children. I haven't half enough. I
want to have a little brood round me. Molly's be-
ginning to walk now and already I feel as if I must
have a little baby in the house. Of course I've
given up my life to them. People don't hesitate to
intimate to me that I'm pursuing a very foolish
course. They tell me I'm falling behind the times;
and it is true that I don't get much chance to read.
They don't hesitate to tell me that I'm losing my
212 The House Book
looks — as if my mirror would conceal that fact from
me. But I can't seem to care about my looks —
Marcia and Molly have all the beauty we need in
this family. They are always holding up Callie
Hunt — I think Callie Hunt's house is a horror.
I'm a perfectly happy woman. I wouldn't change
with anybody. People do give me credit for one
thing, though. They say that I have the best chil-
dren in town. But they're good because I keep at
the job of making them good. People say I have
wonderful discipline, but I have to give all my time
and energy to maintaining that discipline. I can't
let up for a moment. Best of all, we're all well —
the children and Ralph and I. I lay half our good
health to the roominess and convenience of this
house."
I walked home alone. On the way, I passed the
old Durland house, and the idea came to me that
I would like to see the inside. I didn't have a key,
but I climbed in through a window at the back.
It was the most beautiful old place I ever was
in — except my own home — spacious and dignified
but simple and quaint too. Downstairs there's a
long room on one side of the lovely big hall and
two rooms on the other. Upstairs there are four
chambers and a great garret that would make a
lovely nursery. There are fireplaces in all the
rooms. And then the details of it are so fascinating
— the woodwork, the paneling, the doors and win-
dows, and the quaint, queer closets everywhere.
Somehow an old house is such a friendly place. I
The House Book 213
sat on the fine old stairway for a long time, plan-
ning where I would put Aunt Mary's things if it
belonged to me. I was thinking what had probably
happened there — births and deaths and weddings
and funerals and dances and theatricals — when sud-
denly I remembered something that old Mrs. Sawyer
told me once. When she was a girl, the Durlands
themselves lived there. Mr. and Mrs. Durland
were blonde and they had eight beautiful children —
just like a flight of stairs for size — all blonde, too.
Mrs. Sawyer said that everybody used to call them
" the angels." She said the girls grew up per-
fect beauties, and one of them, Esther Durland,
married a very distinguished Englishman — he was
Prime Minister or something. I tried to imagine
those eight little fairy beings tumbling up and down
those stairs. Well, perhaps
After dinner I told Tug that I would rather buy
the old Durland house than build a new one. To
my great surprise, Tug was perfectly delighted. He
said that pleased him more than anything I could
do. And he told me something he never told me
before. He said that all his life, our house has
been his ideal of a home. He said that he will never
forget as long as he lives what fun he used to have
rainy days in the Playroom when all the children in
the neighborhood were gathered there. He says
that, in some ways, it seems more like a home to
him than his own house. He said that Callie Hunt's
house wasn't a home at all, because there was too
much system in it, and that Miss Ralph's place wasn't
214 The House Book
a home because there was too much art; but that
Lila's house was a real home because it was all
heart. What beautiful ideas Tug has! I wonder
I didn't consult him in the first place.
THE END OF THE HOUSE BOOK
CHAPTER VIII
I, PHOEBE, TAKE THEE, TOLAND
EARLY as it was that blue-and-gold October
morning, the house quivered and hummed and
rocked with suppressed excitement. A medley of
sounds filtered through it and Mr. Martin lay for
a while listening to them. Finally he arose. He
bathed, shaved and dressed with a leisureliness that
had an effect of premeditated delay. When he left
the room, the domestic excitement had grown rather
than diminished. But it did not seem to affect Mr.
Martin. Halfway down the long hall, he even
paused for a moment.
The door of Phoebe's room was open. Its whole
length and breadth — the polished, rugless floor, the
expanse of rose-garlanded wall-paper — lay re-
vealed in the brilliant sunlight. Dismantled, her
little bed presented only a stark white framework
to her father's eye. Her dressing-case — it was her
whim to have it so low that she must sit to it — was
bare of its silver accessories. The table glared, the
writing-desk gaped, the bookcase yawned empty. In
one corner stood a trunk, a box of books, a box
of bric-a-brac, a pile of pictures, everything care-
fully wrapped in tissue-paper. Near was a tiny
wooden chair, rope-seated.
215
216 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
Mr. Martin went slowly down the front stairs.
The dining-room was deserted. Not alone deserted,
it looked empty; for much of the furniture had
been moved out. An orange lay on a plate at Mr.
Martin's place, the skin cut petal-wise and turned
away from the fruit in the fashion that only Phoebe's
fingers had the patience to follow. The door-bell
rang presently and the excitement in the house
flashed to a flame. As he ate, Mr. Martin listened
to it all. Came to him the sound of heavy, alien
feet, of gruff, alien, masculine accents, questioning;
came Mrs. Martin's voice suggesting, Phoebe's en-
treating, Ernest's commanding. But Mr. Martin
made no move. He did not even look out the
window.
" Why, how long have you been up, Edward? "
Mrs. Martin said, appearing suddenly in the door-
way. " I didn't hear you stir. And how tired you
look! I shouldn't think you'd closed your eyes.
Isn't this a beautiful day? So warm — and it looked
so much like rain last night. Happy the bride the
sun Just think, Edward, the expressmen never
came for the furniture in Phoebe's room until this
moment, although they promised they'd be here last
night and we waited for them until nearly eleven
o'clock. Why is it that people have no honor about
such things? Phoebe's been so worried for fear
they wouldn't come at all. She would get up, al-
though I did my best to make her stay in bed. It
was all I could do to keep her from going down to
the house to see that the furniture was put in the
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 217
right places. I told her it would be perfectly inde-
cent for her to appear out to-day. Finally, Ernie
said he'd ride down with the load. Phoebe drew
up a plan where everything was to go and she made
Ernie promise he'd mop up after the expressmen —
she's crazy for fear they'll track her lovely floors
all up. Her heart's set on having that house as
neat as a pin when they come back to it. I never
saw such a particular child. If she thinks she's
going to do all her housekeeping on that scale
But it certainly does look lovely. It does seem
strange, Edward, that you've shown so little curi-
osity about it. Why, you haven't been down there
since If I was Phoebe, I wouldn't know what
to make of it. When are you coming out? "
" About four, I guess," Mr. Martin said.
" I don't believe there's any need of your going
into the office," Mrs. Martin observed with disap-
proval. " I guess they could get along one day
without you. What would they do if you broke
your leg? We'll have dinner at noon — a steak —
that's so easy to cook. And, to-night, we'll have
a picked-up supper — for we'll all have to eat again
at ten. Yes, Mary," she interrupted herself to ad-
dress the sullen-looking girl who had appeared in
the doorway, "that's right! Clear everything
right away! " She paused until Mary had left the
room. Then, " Edward," her voice lowered to
panic-striken sibilance, " Mary's in one of her tem-
pers to-day. I'm just handling her with gloves.
I'm so afraid that she'll go and leave me in the
218 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
lurch that I don't know what to do. There, there's
the door-bell again ! " Mrs. Martin vanished.
" It was Bradley," she exclaimed, returning after
a colloquy at the door. " He's delivered the chrys-
anthemums. He promised Phoebe solemnly that he
wouldn't get them here before three this afternoon
— and here they are at half-past seven. Isn't it
strange how little honor people have about such
things? But the man said they were all fixed in
damp paper so they couldn't possibly wilt. Phoebe's
attending to them herself, although I begged her to
let me. If she'd only lie down or just sit down
and read. She said she couldn't read if her life
depended on it. What time did you say you'd get
out?"
14 About four," Mr. Martin answered.
"There, there's the telephone!" Mrs. Martin
vanished. " I'll answer it, Phoebe," she called.
41 Hello! Hello! Oh, good-morning, Molly ! Yes.
I think so. But I'll have to ask Phoebe. Phoebe!
It's Molly Tate. She says she's just stepped into
Bradley's to see the bridesmaids' baskets and she's
quite sure they're using the kind you didn't like."
Mrs. Martin re-entered the room. From the hall
came Phoebe's voice. u Hello, Molly ! No! Well,
of all incredible stupidity! Certainly — the gold
ones — they're shaped like darling old-fashioned
poke-bonnets. Oh, you're a dear, Molly. Thank
you." Mr. Martin heard the click as Phoebe hung
up. Then the bell rang again. 44 Hello ! Hello !
Oh, Tug! Good-morning. Many happy returns of
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 219
the day! No. No. Certainly not! I don't know
why, but mother says you can't come over here to-
day. It would be a fierce breach of etiquette. What
nonsense. Everybody would see you. Tug War-
burton, if you come over here, I shan't marry you."
Again Mr. Martin heard the determined snap with
which Phoebe hung up.
" Aren't you going to eat any more breakfast
than that, Edward? " Mrs. Martin went on.
" You'll be faint by ten. But I'll have a good dinner
this noon. Steak — that's always so easy to
What time did you say you'd get out? Oh, yes, I
remember — four. I'll lay all your things on your
bed and have the water drawn for your bath.
There, there's the telephone again." Mrs. Martin
vanished.
" It's Madame Lily, Phoebe," she called in an-
other instant. " She wants to know if she can come
an hour later. You'd better come down and talk
with her yourself."
" All right," Phoebe's voice floated down from
the heights. Followed the soft swift patter of her
downstairs progress. Then, " Good-morning, Ma-
dame Lily. Yes, later will do just as well. In fact,
I prefer it. No, I prefer to do my own hair. But
I want massage and my hands manicured. And of
course you're to do mother's hair. Mother, you'd
better have a facial massage, hadn't you? "
" Well, I don't know," came Mrs. Martin's most
uncertain accents.
" You've simply got to, mother. It'll set you up
220 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
so, besides making you look so swell. All right,
Lily, darling. Half-past four — and mother'll have
facial beside."
" I'm glad we've got that matter settled," Mrs.
Martin explained, reappearing in the dining-room.
" Madame Lily had another wedding in Rosedale
and there was some difficulty about the hours. At
first it looked as if we wouldn't get her at all. But
Phoebe's heart was set on having Lily — she's so
much nicer than anybody else. Beside "
" Good-morning, father-in-law elect," Phoebe
greeted her father buoyantly from the door.
" Good-morning, bride," Mr. Martin responded
in kind.
Phoebe's manner had its best touch of cheer and
she stopped to imprint on the top of her father's
head a kiss that was deliberately airy. Then she
wound her blue kimono about her, curled up in the
big chair, and sat kicking one slipper off and on.
" I've been up since five o'clock," she explained,
11 and, already, I feel as if it were to-morrow. I
lay awake half the night worrying. I'm convinced
that Tug will forget the ring and the license and
the check for Mr. Cameron. I'm absolutely cer-
tain that Ada Warburton will be late — she's never
been known to be on time for anything. I'm per-
fectly dead sure that the carriage won't call for us
at all. And I know just as well as I know my
name that I shall forget to take my carnage shoes
off. Now just imagine traipsing up the aisle in
those red felt things with the black fur tops. I woke
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 221
up at five this morning in a cold perspiration with
the conviction that my gloves wouldn't fit. And
up I got at that hour and tried them on. Of course
it was all off about sleeping after that."
11 There, that reminds me," exclaimed Mrs. Mar-
tin, " I must slit up the ring-finger of your glove.
I'll do that now while I think of it. Now, where
are my scissors? "
"Well, father," said Phoebe, still deliberately
gay, " what do you think of the Martin family in
their famous knock-about act? Oh, and, father, that
reminds me. When Mr. Cameron asks me if 1*11
take Tug for richer or poorer, better or worser,
gooder or badder, and all that, if I stand there petri-
fied with terror — just gawking at him — will you
kindly pinch me? "
" Can't promise, Phoebe," said Mr. Martin in
a tone every whit as light as hers. " I've lain awake
all night trying to remember that when Cameron
says, ' Who giveth this woman to be married to
this man?' it's up to me to do something. If I
take my mind off it for a single instant I lose the
combination."
" Oh," said Phoebe, " if mother was only in it
she'd pull us through some way or other. Why
don't they get mothers into the marriage cere-
mony? "
" Probably," said Mrs. Martin, pausing in arrow-
flight for an instant of unaccustomed sarcasm, " be-
cause they realized that the mother would be in
the doctor's hands by that time. Now, Phoebe, I
222 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
can tend to everything now. Don't you think you
could go upstairs and lie down? "
"Lie down! Why, mother, I'd explode into a
million pieces."
11 Why don't you lie down yourself, Bertha?"
Mr. Martin suggested. " You're running round
like a hen with her head cut off."
" Lie down ! " Mrs. Martin repeated. " Lie
down! Well, if that isn't just like a man! I don't
see how I'm going to get my bath in. There, there's
Cousin Lora coming down the street. Thank good-
ness ! Now when do you suppose those boys'll get
here? Just think, Edward, Horrie Tate and Sig
Lathrop and Red Donovan have been up ever since
six o'clock cutting maple-boughs. Ernie was to join
them and then come back here. I warned him to
get them started just as soon as he could. One load
goes to the church. Molly and Florence and Sylvia
and the twins and Evelyn Warburton are there al-
ready, decorating. Good-morning, Lora; you're
bright and early, aren't you? "
Cousin Lora, a little, thin, wiry, dark woman,
with the snapping efficiency of a whipcord in every
movement, greeted them all energetically.
Under cover of the family preoccupation, Mr.
Martin quietly subtracted himself from the group.
" Oh, Lora," Mrs. Martin said in a relieved
tone, " I'm so glad Edward's taking it so easy. At
first I thought he'd be all broken up. Well, I don't
suppose men feel these things the way women do.
Now, before you lay your finger to anything, I want
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 223
you to come upstairs and see the wedding dress.
Oh, Phoebe's had such a time selecting the material
— she said it had got to be soft and floating. White
satin she can't abide. Chiffon was too stiff — crepe-
de-chine even was too heavy. She found some pearl-
white liberty silk that was so sheer It took a
terribly large pattern and yet you can draw the
whole thing through a ring. And her veil — I tell
her it's almost too fine. She's going to have it fixed
on her head just like a picture she saw in Florence.
Oh, she's such a strange child — wouldn't have an
orange-blossom that was more than half-budded and
insisted on white orchids for her bouquet. But I
must say the effect's wonderful."
Mr. Martin walked to the station, but not with
his usual brisk gait. In the train he possessed him-
self of a paper, but he only glanced at the headlines.
In Boston he walked to his office. And now, per-
ceptibly, he moved as if there were weights on his
feet. At his desk he sat silent a moment before he
opened his mail. And after he had read it, he im-
mediately brushed it into a careless heap and fell
into reverie. He sat, his eyes fixed on the office
window — staring.
That little room of Phoebe's had undergone many
transformations in its brief history. At first came
the birds* nests, the dried grasses, the autumn
leaves, the pressed seaweeds, strings of rose-hips,
the maline-bags full of milkweed seed, the various
" curiosities " which in her little girlhood she had
224 I> Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
collected with so much care. These were succeeded
by handicraft of a more delicate and feminine order,
the embroidered litter which was the result of her
studies of the women's magazines, the passe-partout
pictures which measured with unfailing accuracy the
change in her ideas of beauty. Later came a brief
attack of " hand-painting." While in its throes, she
painted a white china desk-set with forget-me-nots
and a yellow china desk-set with violets. Later, of
course, she rejected this for silver. There followed
on this, impedimenta of a more tender nature — the
sentimental souvenirs of vacations, the frivolous
filigree of Germans. Last of all the little room
blossomed with the exotic loot of her trip abroad.
Mr. Martin had watched it with amusement and
with interest. Much of the detail had sunk out of
his memory, but the girl-development which it indi-
cated stuck fast. He could have written the history
of Phoebe's decorative instinct; for she had never
made one of these sweeping changes without telling
him all about it first.
"Why, Edward," Mrs. Martin said, an hour
later, " I thought you weren't coming back until
four. And how tired you look! We'll have lunch
in a few minutes. Why don't you go straight up-
stairs and lie down? "
"Oh, I'm all right," Mr. Martin answered in
his most offhand manner. He looked vaguely about
him. The hall had an unfamiliar air. Much of the
furniture had been removed and down the center
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 225
sprawled an enormous heap of maple-boughs.
11 There didn't seem to be much work in the office,"
he went on absently, " and so I thought I might as
well come out. Where's Phoebe? "
"At the telephone. The child hasn't left the
phone for five minutes the last hour. It's perfectly
astonishing what people will do on a day when you're
so busy — calling her up just to talk with her.
Phoebe says it seems as if she would fly out of her
skin."
" Tell her to hang up," said Mr. Martin.
" Oh, Edward, she couldn't do that. And then
so many people have been lovely. Yellow flowers
have been coming all the morning. Mrs. Sawyer
brought over a great bunch of those tiny yellow
asters that she always raises and old Mr. Wilde has
just left a wheelbarrow full of yellow dahlias."
She was interrupted by the crescendo peal of
Phoebe's blithe laughter, her impetuous rush in their
direction. " Oh, mother, it's Tug. He's still ask-
ing if he can't call this afternoon. He says he's
decided that, as long as it's a yellow wedding, the
ushers had better wear sunflowers. Then he says
at the reception they can do a song-and-dance.
Why, Father Martin — you darling angel — when did
you come back? "
Mr. Martin made a pretense of eluding her, but
in the end he submitted to his daughter's bear-hug.
" Father, there's the peachiest little old Chippen-
dale mirror just come from Sylvia. Come right up-
stairs this moment and see it."
226 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
" Oh, no, he can't go upstairs yet," Mrs. Martin
protested. " Come into the library, Edward. I
want you to see what Lora's done."
The library looked doubly alien to Mr. Martin.
Here, again, much of the furniture had been re-
moved. Maple-boughs made golden Gothic arches
over all the windows and doors. Cousin Lora was
perched on one stepladder at the right of the folding-
doors and Ernest was perched on another at the left.
" Hullo, father," said Ernest, hammering vio-
lently. " There, that's the third time I've upset
those damn — excuse me, Cousin Lora — tacks. I
hereby register a vow never to get married as long
as I live. It's a career in itself. Isn't Cousin Lora
a bird, father? Talk about your hanging-gardens of
Babylon ! Say, Cousin Lora, that's great. See, I'm
leaving all this string here to tie the chrysanthe-
mums in. Now I'll beat it down town in the machine
and get some more twine and tacks and do those
errands for mother, and, say, Phoebe, what was
that you wanted at the caterer's? "
" Tell him I've decided to have the bouillon cold
— now it's turned out to be such a lovely warm day.
And tell him that I'd like to know what's the matter
down there. I've been trying to get him on the
phone all morning. Now, father! "
Obedient as ever to that voice, Mr. Martin
climbed three flights of stairs to the Playroom. He
wandered from table to table, staring fixedly at any-
thing that met his eye. Phoebe watched him an
instant. " Of course, father, I'm not going to have
» *. » ' >
Talk about your hanging-gardens of Babylon
i
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 227
anything so vulgar as a display of wedding-gifts,"
she started off at almost a normal pace. " I just
put them up here so that one or two of the girls could
sneak off and see them. Look at that table just
covered with cut-glass. There are eight salad-
bowls. Oh, and, father, there's Sylvia's gift — it's
the ninth looking-glass. Well, I've got a line on
my friends' opinion of me. I guess they all think
I'm the vainest thing that ever happened. And
bully for them ! I've doped out a series of mirrors
in my room by which I can see my back hair, the
hang of my skirt, and my waist-line all at one and
the same time."
For a moment Phoebe almost ran down. But she
pulled herself together and loosed another install-
ment of chatter. Only, always, her misty eyes, steal-
ing to her father's face and then leaping away,
seemed to try to say the things that her lips re-
pudiated.
"What am I going to do with all those clocks?
I hate to think of exchanging wedding-gifts — it
seems so unappreciative and calculating ; but ten is
really too many. And, father, wasn't it lovely of
Mrs. Raikes to send me that lovely copy of Bot-
ticelli's ' Spring ' ? I guess she remembered I told
her once she was the spit of it. And, father darling,
I feel as if I'd never really thanked you for the
silver. It's just perfectly beautiful. If I'd ever
thought There's the lunch-bell. Come right
down, father. For I'm so hungry it seems as if I'd
faint and I'm afraid mother will There's the
228 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
telephone. Mother, please answer it, and if it's
Tug, tell him he cannot come over to see me.
Mother, you must lie down after dinner or you'll
certainly go to pieces."
But Mrs. Martin did not lie down. They all
dawdled unaccountably at the table, held by Mr.
Martin's extraordinary flow of spirits. Mr. Mar-
tin, it seems, had snatched a bite in Boston. He
talked while the others ate, talked while the others
laughed, talked until
" Well, what are we thinking of? " Mrs. Martin
asked in a panicky tone. " Has it occurred to any
of you that there's a wedding in this family at eight
o'clock to-night? Oh, I'm so glad," she said, ac-
companying Cousin Lora to the library, " that Ed-
ward's so happy. I'd expected he'd be awfully blue
to-day. Well, Lora, there's no use in talking, a
father doesn't feel these things the way a mother
does."
In the afternoon the work grew a little more
silent, a little more concentrated. Mrs. Martin
shuttled from room to room, performing a hundred
disconnected tasks. Cousin Lora and Ernest re-
turned to their work with the maple-boughs. Par-
lor, library, and hall were finished. Now they were
working on the dining-room. Phoebe had brought
the great florist boxes up from the cellar. She was
filling vases and jardinieres with chrysanthemums.
The great, shock-headed blossoms emerged, as
prophesied, miraculously dewy and fresh, the satiny
petals firm and close. Mr. Martin, constituting
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 229
himself doorman and telephone-boy, brought to
Phoebe a succession of express-packages, called her
to this and that peremptory message on the tele-
phone.
Into all this absorption suddenly burst Flora.
" Miss Phoebe, dey's a tramp in the kitching won't
go way, nohow Ah talks to him. Kase he says he
wanster see the bride. "
" A tramp ! " ejaculated Phoebe. " To see me !
For goodness' sake! I never heard of such a thing !
Well, of course I can't see him. Yes, I will, too.
I won't refuse any request on my wedding-day.
Gracious, doesn't it sound mysterious and ro-
mantic? "
Her father listened to her footsteps for a per-
turbed instant before it occurred to him to follow.
From the hall he heard her civil, " Good-afternoon,
is there anything I can do Oh, Tug Warbur-
ton, you ridiculous " Then the peals of her
rippling mirth.
Tug wore a disguise so complicated that it should
have caused his immediate arrest in any well-gov-
erned city. His statement that his make-up had
taken an hour gained instant credence. Of the de-
tails a black eye and a painful bruise on his cheek
were perhaps the most noticeable.
" Go home at once," Phoebe said severely after
she had stopped laughing. " It's something dread-
ful your being here. I don't know why it is, but
it is! Mother'll probably call the wedding off, and
I shan't blame her. I never felt so embarrassed in
230 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
my life. I don't know why, but I do. There,
there's Madame Lily. I've got to go now. Father,
will you kindly order my future husband to leave
this house? "
" Sit down, dad-in-law," said Tug comfortably
after Phoebe had left, u and have a smoke." He
reached into a sagging pocket for pipes, matches,
and tobacco. " Isn't this hell? I give you my word
of honor if I come out of it alive I shall never get
married again as long as I live. I don't suppose,
though, you're any more comfortable than I."
" I suppose there never was a man yet who didn't
just naturally hate a wedding," said Mr. Martin.
" No, I can't say that I'm exactly comfortable."
" Lord, it must be fierce for you," Tug admitted.
" Just think of giving up a girl like Phoebe. I don't
know exactly what that means."
Mr. Martin smiled. " I reckon you don't, Tug,"
he agreed genially. He stopped as if he were not
going to speak again and there was an interval of
silence, disturbed only by twin puffs. Then Mr.
Martin broke it. His words seemed to come with
an effort. " I guess you don't, Tug," he repeated,
" I guess you don't. And you won't know until you
come to give your own daughter away. It isn't
exactly that you It's more that you This
is what I mean. I guess every man has done some
things in the course of his life that he doesn't like
to look back on."
He stopped. Tug gave a quick, confirming, un-
derstanding nod.
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 231
" I suppose I haven't done any more than the next
fellow," Mr. Martin went on lightly, " and I've al-
ways said to myself that I was ready to stand the
gaff. I meant of course that I was ready to stand
it myself. But " Mr. Martin broke off, smiling
again. " What I'm saying now is that if the Fates
— or whatever you call those fellows who control
human destiny — hit me through Phoebe " Mr.
Martin paused. " Well, I guess I'm ready to
renege. Now, you Tug, you remember that ! "
Mr. Martin's tone was still jocular, but by this
time his smile had grown a little fixed. Tug's
answering, " Sure, dad-in-law, I'll remember that,"
smoothed it out again. Tug's tone had quite the
right ring of practicality, the frank, everyday accept-
ance of an obvious, everyday situation.
When Tug left, the tension of the house tight-
ened. From upstairs, Mrs. Martin, helplessly
coiled in hot towels by Madame Lily's skilful hands,
was calling down smothered advice, admonition, sug-
gestion. Cousin Lora was bowing the yellow ribbons
that tied bunches of asters and dahlias among the
flaming maple leaves. Phoebe was still fussing with
the chrysanthemums, turning a flower-head here, cut-
ting a leaf there, moving vases yonder. Flora and
Mary were cleaning the litter from the hall and
dining-room. Ernest was going over the library
floor with a carpet-sweeper. A little later, Phoebe
slipped upstairs, then Lora, then Ernest. Every
faucet in the house seemed to be running. Dusk
came, the lights flared, and suddenly Flora was
232 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
breaking Mr. Martin's lonely vigil with the bell. It
was dinner, and the three women — all in kimonos,
and Mrs. Martin with an unaccustomed elegance of
coiffure — were filing down the stairs.
After their short supper the tension changed to
fever-heat excitement. The bell rang. Madame
Riley appeared. The women disappeared upstairs.
Ernest and his father bathed and dressed. Ernest
embarked on his last errand in the auto. Mr. Mar-
tin lingered in his room. Cries of admiration came
to him from the spare chamber. " Oh, I like that,"
in Cousin Lora's voice. " I think it is perfectly
beautiful," in Mrs. Martin's voice. Curiously
enough, her tone had Phoebe's note of soaring en-
thusiasm. Then, " Just a little fuller there, Madame
Riley," in Phoebe's voice.
Mr. Martin wandered downstairs into the library
— into the stark yellow-and-cherry glare of the
maple-boughs. He wandered absently about for a
moment. Then he went to the window and stood
gazing outside. His look fixed on something there.
Mr. Martin had given Phoebe all the furniture
in that little room. On her birthday, Phoebe al-
ways went into Boston to lunch with him at the
Touraine. Afterwards they would pick out the
birthday gift together. One year, it was the fragile
little oak desk. The next, it was the little oak
dressing-table; Phoebe had chosen that particular
one because the mirror was shaped like a heart.
Next it was the bookcase in which the green-and-
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 233
gold Alcott books still held the most honored place.
Ten or twelve years they had been doing this: from
the time when Phoebe was a long-legged, big-eyed,
frisking colt of a thing, until suddenly she curved
and colored into a blooming creature whose vivacity
arrested every passing glance. It seemed only a
year or two — and now
From upstairs came staccato cries, came rustlings,
silken, satiny, lacy. Mr. Martin went out into the
hall. Into the glare of the chandelier appeared first
Cousin Lora in her soft gray and creamy lace, tug-
ging on a glove; appeared second Mrs. Martin in
shimmery lilac that sparkled with silver, carefully
lifting her skirt; appeared next — Phoebe.
Literally appeared — for Phoebe seemed to soar,
tenuous, diaphanous, mystic, like some strange spirit
of this strange day. Phoebe's face was a white blur.
Phoebe's hair was a golden mist. Phoebe's gown
floated a web. Phoebe's veil fluttered a gossamer.
Phoebe's hands dripped cascades of snowy butterfly-
shaped flowers. And, topping it all, there flared
away from her curls a structure that was aureole
and halo both — of star-dust, wave-spume, and dew.
Tailing the procession came Madame Riley carry-
ing the rest of Phoebe's gown, an armful of white
fire.
" I'm frightened, father dear," Phoebe said in a
faint, far-away voice. " I'm afraid I'm going to
break down. I feel so queer. My head whirls if I
try to think. I've read the ceremony over and over
234 I) Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
again, and yet I can't remember anything about it
now."
Mr. Martin patted the little, damp, trembling
hand. " You're all right, Phoebe," he said in a
matter-of-fact tone. " It will come back to you the
moment you hear the first words."
" I'm afraid Tug will forget the license or the
ring or the check," said Phoebe.
" I've just called Chet Damon up. He says he's
just seen to them himself," said Mr. Martin.
" I'm afraid something will happen to the girls,"
said Phoebe.
" I've just called them up. They say that they're
all right and crazy for the show to begin," said
Mr. Martin.
" I'm afraid the carriage will be late," said
Phoebe.
" I've just called O'Leary up. They'll be here
at exactly twenty minutes to eight," said Mr. Martin.
" I'm afraid I won't remember to take my car-
riage-shoes off," said Phoebe.
" I'll remind you," said Mr. Martin.
" It's twenty-five minutes of," said Phoebe. " Oh,
father, there's the telephone. Do you think any-
thing has happened? "
" It's only Tug," answered Mr. Martin in an
instant. " He says, ' Tell Phoebe I'm wyting at
the church.' There, there's the carriage now."
At the church Cousin Lora disappeared on
Ernest's arm. Mrs. Martin, whispering some last
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 235
frenzied injunctions, was borne away by Jake Peb-
worth. One instant they were a little deserted,
terror-stricken group; the next the bridesmaids, like
great white-and-yellow angels, were fluttering about
them. Another chattering wait and the ushers were
forming into pairs, the bridesmaids were falling into
line, Sylvia Gordon had placed herself just in front,
Phoebe had grasped her father's arm, and
" Take off your carriage shoes, Phoebe," Mr.
Martin said.
A crash of music came from the organ. The
black and gray lines of ushers started. The white
and yellow lines of bridesmaids started. Sylvia
started. Phoebe started. Mr. Martin was carried
on by the wave. Under the awning he went, and
up the church steps and into the long alley of .golden
maple-boughs flaring in arches overhead, past the
yellow flowers, the yellow leaves, the yellow ribbons
marking pews that surged with solemn figures,
straight on past Bertha's streaming face, straight
on to where the altar blazed white and yellow and
gold, to where Mr. Cameron stood calm, clean-cut,
benign, one finger in a book, to where Tug and
Chet Damon, as pale as their white violet bouton-
nieres, awaited them, straight on through the music,
straight on through the silence, straight on through
deep-voiced question and fluttering response, straight
on to:
" Who giveth this woman to be married to this
man?"
236 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
The first thing that ever went into the little room
was that tiny rope-seated chair. Mr. Martin had
bought it for Phoebe himself when she was only
four. He had seen it in passing at a Maywood
auction, had secured it immediately. Phoebe's first
Lar, it was for a long time the mostly dearly prized.
It became an embarrassment in fact, for thereafter
she would use no other. He^could see even now the
dimpled, frizzly -haired girl-thing, mouth set in par-
allel lines of persistence, dragging it from room to
room, or with many slips and bumps, tugging it up
and down stairs. He could hear her screams of rage
if the strenuous Ernest dared to occupy it even for
an instant. Often when he came home at night,
Phoebe would be sitting in it before the fire, exam-
ining a picture-book. " Phoebe, very good girl"
she would greet him at these times, an immense de-
gree of self-approval in her manner — her mother
usually disagreed with this dictum — " Phoebe, read
the pitty book, all-aloney." Why, that was nearly
twenty years ago. It only seemed
It was much gayer after that. Mrs. Martin,
constantly wiping away what promised to be a never-
ending stream of tears, joined them. Somehow
they got home, carriage-load after carriage-load.
Soon they were all in the library together, Bertha
on one side of him and Phoebe on the other — the
same Phoebe, although she was now Phoebe War-
burton. Mr. and Mrs. Warburton were there, and
Tug — the same Tug, although he was now Phoebe's
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 237
husband. Somehow, while the women were all talk-
ing and laughing at their highest speed, they were all
weeping too. Phoebe's hand fumbled its way to her
father's, nestled there, stayed.
Presently all Maywood was in the house. It filed
past their group, saying the same things over and
over again. " Well, Mrs. Warburton, you looked
perfectly beautiful. Am I the first one to call you
Mrs. Warburton? Your gown is simply wonderful,
and as for that arrangement of the veil, it's posi-
tively the swellest thing I ever saw. Where did you
get the idea? " — " Didn't the church look lovely? I
couldn't hear Tug at all, but you were as clear as
a bell, Mrs. Toland Warburton. Doesn't that
sound queer, Phoebe? How original to have noth-
ing but autumn leaves and yellow flowers ! I never
saw such big chrissies ! " — " How lovely the brides-
maids look, Mrs. Warburton? Doesn't it seem
strange to call you Mrs. Warburton ? Isn't the maid
of honor a beauty? What did you say her name
was? Gordon? Sylvia Gordon. Those golden
baskets filled with golden yellow orchids were "
— " Oh, the earrings were your gift to them, Mrs.
Warburton. Just think, you're Phoebe Warburton
now! Uncut amber, did you say? And I love their
little gold caps!" — "How charming the house
looks! Who did the decorations? Phoebe, your
gown is positively eatable ! Just think, Mr. Martin,
she isn't Phoebe Martin any longer!" — "I never
saw your mother looking so stunning!" — "What
did Tug give the ushers? " — " Isn't Mrs. Warbur-
238 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
ton simply gorgeous in that green-and-gold ? It's
just the color of an emerald!" — " Show us your
ring, Phoebe. Isn't it pretty! Well, you've lost
your little daughter, Mr. Martin! " — "Well, Mrs.
Phoebe Warburton, I thought your father looked
as stunning as anybody, to-night. Am I the first to
call you Mrs. Warburton? "
There were leagues and aeons of this. Then,
somehow, they were all seated at little tables. Mr.
Martin did not eat anything. He said that he had
had a very hearty supper.
A long eternity of this, and then everybody had
stopped eating, was waiting with a curious air of
expectancy. Ernest was circulating through the
crowd, dispensing things from a basket. All the
bridesmaids had disappeared. And — where was
Phoebe?
Mr. Martin went quietly upstairs. From the
spare room came a babble of girl voices that sounded
every note of feminine enthusiasm. Quiet as Mr.
Martin had been, he was not quiet enough. The
door of the spare room flashed open, banged shut —
and Phoebe was in her father's arms. She had
taken off her wedding gown. Her hair hung in a
feathery amber torrent to her waist. Out of the
short sleeves of her combing-jacket came her little,
slim, virginal arms, from its open collar came her
little, slender virginal neck.
Phoebe's hands flew about her father's neck.
Her head went down on his shoulder. Phoebe's
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 239
words came between great gasping breaths and
great strangling sobs.
" Father, darling — I don't see — how I'm going
— to leave you — it seems dreadful now it's so — near
— how could I ever get married — when — you've
been so good to me — and I love you — so — I hope
I've been a — good daughter — to you — I can think
of so many — things — that I ought not — to have
done — and now — I can never make it up — never —
I don't want — to leave you — I'm afraid — what shall
I do — oh, father " Phoebe's clasp tightened
about her father's neck.
But Mr. Martin gently unwound her arms.
" Well ! well ! well ! well! " he was saying in a steady
tone of jocularity. " I should think you were really
going away. Instead of moving a little way down
the street. Everything's all right, Phoebe. You've
been a perfectly good daughter, the best I
ever had. Now you run back and get into your
clothes and put a little powder on your nose and —
it will worry your mother."
" Oh, father! " Phoebe sobbed. " Oh, father! "
and again, " Oh, father!" But she stopped and
stifled her sobs. Then she pulled herself away, ran
back, kissed him again, disappeared into the spare
room.
Mr. Martin went downstairs. Somebody put
something into his hand. He looked at it stupidly.
It was a tissue-paper package of confetti. After a
while, the bridesmaids came filing down. Another
pause and Mrs. Martin went up to return weeping.
240 I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland
Another long wait and Phoebe herself came flying
downstairs, slender and trim in a brown velvet suit,
a great yellow chrysanthemum bobbing at her waist.
She still carried the loosened bunch of her wedding-
flowers, and suddenly they flew from her hands over
the bannister. They were met by a shower of con-
fetti. The Warburton limousine, which had arrived
a few minutes before and had been immediately
loaded with old shoes and wreathed with yellow
bunting, moved down the street. A strange motor
took its place in the midst of shrieks of disappoint-
ment.
Phoebe stopped to kiss her mother, stopped to
kiss Ernest. But ever her tear-wet gaze went to
Mr. Martin. Phoebe flew down the walk through
successive clouds of confetti, and leaped into the
tonneau, where Tug suddenly appeared like an appa-
rition. But even in her flight, Phoebe's head turned
over her shoulder; her look stayed with her father.
Tug's hand pulled up the window in the motor-
door. The engine snorted. The wheels crunched.
Phoebe's white face came close to the window pane.
Her eyes met her father's in a last pale, quivery
smile.
Mr. Martin smiled too.
Maywood people said that Phoebe Martin's wed-
ding was the prettiest they had ever seen — and the
gayest. " And after the bridal pair had gone,"
they added, " you ought to have seen the way Mr.
Martin took hold and just made things hum." Cer-
tainly Mr. Martin worked. He started the danc-
I, Phoebe, Take Thee, Toland 241
ing with Sylvia Gordon. He danced every dance
with a different girl.
" Well, I never was so tired in my born days,"
said Mrs. Martin as they started upstairs long after
midnight. " But it certainly has repaid all our
work; for it was a beautiful wedding. Phoebe said
that everything had been perfect. She whispered
in my ear, father, that they were going south — she
said she'd write every spare minute. Well, I sup-
pose I'll be rested in a day or two, but it doesn't
seem as if I ever could." She stopped for breath
at the head of the stairs. " I never saw anything
like your energy, Edward, dancing with all those
girls. Why, what are you doing now, father?
What are you doing? "
For Mr. Martin had stopped in front of Phoebe's
bare, gleaming, dead, little room, had shut the door,
had locked it. As he spoke, he put the key in his
pocket.
" I guess I don't want to see that door standing
open for one while," said Mr. Martin.
CHAPTER IX
ERNEST AND THE CONSPIRATORS
"OELOVED Husband! "— this was Phoebe's
JLJ favorite form of apostrophe to Tug, al-
though argumentative crises sometimes changed it
to Domestic Tyrant! or Household Ogre! — " have
you noticed how furiously Pauline Marr is flirting
with Ern?"
u Estimable Wife ! " Tug invariably answered
Phoebe in kind, although argumentative crises some-
times transformed this complimentary address to
Fireside Vampire! or Matrimonial Encumbrance!
" I have not noticed that Pauline was flirting with
Ern. But I saw at once and without the aid of a
microscope the case that Frederick Wright has de-
veloped on Sylvia. "
" Oh, that's not a case!" Phoebe waved' this
evidence lightly away. " Frederick's only doing the
polite thing to our guest. Pauline is rather sicken-
ing though. She's eight years older than Ern if
she's a day. But then Pauline always did rob the
cradle. She's an awfully selfish, heartless thing.
Do you remember the summer that Frederick and
Pauline and I were staying with your mother at
Marblehead how she nearly broke that poor prep,
kid's heart? I didn't mind that so much, although
242
Ernest and the Conspirators 243
I didn't think it was fair. But it makes a difference
when it's your own brother. Ern's such a cracker-
jack too. Why, when Sylvia and Nancy came, he
took the car way into Boston to save them that
part of the trip because Sylvia wrote that Nancy was
always train-sick. And when they got out here, he
bought Nancy four dolls in the five-cent store — oh,
the most dreadful-looking things. Nancy's crazy
about them, of course. She's named them after the
four people in the machine — only she pronounces
them Thilvia and Pworline, and Fweddywick and
Ernesth." Running against a blank wall in her own
conversation, Phoebe reverted to her husband's lead.
" It would be awfully nice if ' Fweddywick ' would
fall in love with Sylvia. He's going to make barrels
of money sometime. It's in him. And Sylvia's
always had such a dreadful struggle. She's so un-
selfish, too. The care of Nancy this summer is
typical."
" You don't mean that she's going to have her all
summer long."
" It looks that way. Marion is in a pretty dread-
ful condition, I gather. The other two children are
boarding. There was nobody to take Nancy but
Sylvia. Not that Sylvia wasn't willing and crazy
to do it. She just adores Nancy. Who could help
it? Isn't she a darling kid? "
Tug's face expanded in an agreeing grin. He
was still red and flushed from a good-night frolic
with Nancy. Nancy had developed the nervous
strength that even quiet children display at bed-
244 Ernest and the Conspirators
time. Tug announced that he had broken three
ribs and his collar-bone.
" I shall keep them here just as long as I can,"
Phoebe went on. " I shall have to think up some
reason why she's helping me by staying. Sylvia's
such an independent thing. Sometimes I could shake
her. She's so afraid that she'll take the bread of
charity! I've impressed it on her though that she
must stay here while we go away. Just think, this
is the first summer that she hasn't worked since she
went to college. Oh, Sylvia is such a wonder. I
always feel like a spoiled, petted, pampered Sybarite
beside her."
" Yes, she's a bully girl," Tug said. " You know
I've always been strong for Sylvia. She saw me
through that time you went to New York. She was
a corker. Never said a word that seemed to hint
at the situation. Just kept me informed, from day
to day, what you were writing. I'd do an awful lot
for Sylvia. I'm glad we have a house of our own
to invite her and Nancy too. You hear those words,
Phoebe Warburton (nee Martin). Our own home!
Think of it!"
Phoebe swept the living-room with the veiled
vagueness of her preoccupied glance. Aunt Mary's
fine mahogany, the few rugs and pictures, the many
books and flowers, taken with the long windows, the
beautiful wainscoting, the generous fireplace, the
careful restorations in the way of paint and paper,
had turned the battered, tattered old Durland house
into a home. Moreover, it had that precious qual-
Ernest and the Conspirators 245
ity — the fourth dimension of decoration — the look
of use-and-wont. " I must see Jake Pebworth about
that Carpaccio," Phoebe murmured absently. " I
don't know whether to mat it or to frame it close."
Then the veil lifted. " Tug," she went on crisply,
" what's your tip on this situation? Do you think
Ern's sticked on Pauline? "
" Lord, I don't know," said Tug. " It isn't a
thing that a man mentions naturally. All Ern talks
about at present is that tramp-trip abroad that he
and Sandy Williston and Art Turner are going to
take next summer. I don't believe he's what you
call in love. He wouldn't be thinking of going
abroad if he was. Why, when I began to care about
you, I wanted to get to work at once, so that we'd
be in a position to marry. In fact, Mrs. Toland
Warburton (nee Martin), I put my mother up to
taking you abroad that time so that I could go West
to learn the business from the ground up. Then
again, Ern's only been home two weeks."
" Well, don't you underrate Pauline Marr, Mr.
Toland Martin (nee Warburton)." Phoebe's tone
was grim, but there was a note of unwilling
admiration in it. " She can do more execution in
two weeks than most girls can do in two months."
Mrs. Martin was crocheting. Mr. Martin was
reading. They sat alone in the front parlor — that
room which, after several years, still glared with
the newness of Phoebe's first revolution in household
art.
246 Ernest and the Conspirators
" Edward," Mrs. Martin said, " have you no-
ticed how Pauline is making up to Ernie? " It was
three days later. Mrs. Martin was not an instant
slower than her daughter in perception. In fact, if
Ernest entered into the matter, she was much
quicker. But just as she confided at once in Mr.
Martin everything that concerned Phoebe, she kept
from him at first anything that affected Ernest.
" Can't say I have," Mr. Martin replied with a
strong accent of the initial indifference which he
always brought to household discussion. " But I
did notice what a shine Frederick took to Sylvia.
He got it the moment he looked at her."
" Well, Frederick would certainly be a good
match for Sylvia." Mrs. Martin considered this
with the gravity which her years accorded any matri-
monial proposition. "Poor child! She certainly
has had a hard time ! It seems to me that if I had
died and Phoebe had been through such a struggle
to get an education, I would never rest easy in my
grave. But, Edward, I'm sort of — put-out — with
Pauline for being so foolish about Ernie. Why,
she must be thirty if she's a day."
" Good Lord, no, Bertha," Mr. Martin pro-
tested. " She can't be more than twenty-five or -six.
And a mighty pleasant girl, I call her," he added
valiantly.
The placidity of Mrs. Martin's usual expression
was torn by conflicting forces. " Of course you do.
Any man would. She's just about good enough for
men!" she concluded with what for her was the
Ernest and the Conspirators 247
upper pinnacle of sarcasm. " But as for her age,
I can prove it to you. She went to boarding-school
with Edith Semple. Edith was only fifteen when
she entered and young at that. They had four years
in school together. Three years later Edith was
married and Pauline was bridesmaid. Edith's been
married seven years. That makes Edith twenty-
nine. Then again," Mrs. Martin went on relent-
lessly, " Pauline and Maudie Norwall were the
closest friends. They went to Europe together.
Now Maudie was twenty-five when "
Mr. Martin made a gesture of despair.
u Well, anyway, I can prove five different ways
that she's thirty, and I don't want her flirting with
Ernie."
" Well, mother," Mr. Martin's voice balanced
perfectly between the indifference of the man who
sees the mole-hill in another's mountain and the
affection of the husband who wants to sympathize,
41 why do you let such a little thing worry you? It
won't do Ernest any harm."
" Well, I declare ! " There was despair in Mrs.
Martin's exclamation. " Suppose he gets engaged
to her."
14 Ernest wouldn't be fool enough to ask a woman
of thirty to marry him."
" A boy is fool enough for anything — or a man
either. And you yourself just said she didn't look
more than twenty-six. If she looks only twenty-six
to you, you may be quite sure that she looks only
eighteen to Ernie."
248 Ernest and the Conspirators
Mr. Martin said nothing. But the expression of
his face was still that of the man who sees only the
mole-hill. Mrs. Martin recognized it with an ex-
asperated sigh. " I'm as sorry now as I can be that
I ever offered to take her here. But Mrs. War-
burton was in such a fix — having to leave on the
instant — and we being sort of related now — and Mr.
Warburton having given Phoebe that house — and I
didn't want Phoebe to take Pauline and Frederick —
Sylvia and Nancy are enough for her — it just
seemed to me as if it was my duty. And now she's
got two weeks longer here. Of course, if you
haven't noticed anything, it's no use my talking to
you," Mrs. Martin concluded with an audible irri-
tation, " but I was going to ask you if Ernie had said
or done anything that showed how he felt towards
Pauline."
Mr. Martin now gave the matter conscientious
consideration. " Why, I should say he didn't feel
at all. Of course I don't see them together much."
" No, she takes him away from the house every
chance she gets," Mrs. Martin interpolated.
" Well, Ernest went in on the train to Boston with
Tug and me yesterday. All he talked about was
that tramp-trip to Europe he wants to take with
Williston and Turner. Lord, no, he's not thinking
of marriage. Why, the moment I realized that I'd
got to marry you or die, I went right to work. And
let me tell you, I never worked so hard since, as that
first year with Weldon and Clark. No, Ernest isn't
in love."
Ernest and the Conspirators 249
The shade on Mrs. Martin's brow gave a little
before a look of flattered reminiscence. She
dropped the subject for a while. But by night the
shade had returned.
" Why, the minute he appeared," Mrs. Martin
continued, unbosoming herself to Phoebe that even-
ing, " it was as if she got electrified — she became
quite a different girl. I'd thought she was a little
too dead-and-alive before. Dead-and-alive — I wish
you could see her with Ernie when there's no com-
pany in the house. Well, she's never alone with
him when I can help it. I take my sewing and sit
right with them. I didn't mind it at first. It only
amused me. But when Ernie began to lose his head
— I don't know why I should be so surprised," Mrs.
Martin went on in a mood of extreme self-disgust.
" I've seen that kind of woman so many times be-
fore, I ought to know her on sight. She's one kind
of woman to women, and another to men. Why,
when she meets a man for the first time, she's just
like a cat sensing a mouse — all ears and paws and
cruel excitement."
Phoebe and her mother were sitting on the piazza
of the Martin house. It was an evening in late
June, pearl-soft, moon-lighted, rose-perfumed. At
one end of the piazza, their backs against the up-
rights of the big Gloucester hammock, Sylvia talked
with Frederick Wright. Sylvia sat concealed, ex-
cept where the moonlight changed the flow of her
much-washed-and-faded organdie skirt to a cascade
of splendor. Frederick was in full light.
250 Ernest and the Conspirators
They all liked Frederick Wright. The responsi-
bilities of his hurried engineering life had made him
older in flesh than they. His outdoor existence had
kept him younger in spirit. His face was full of
surprising contrasts. Some of his hair had gone,
and what remained had turned a crisp gray. The
sun had changed his skin to leather; yet his expres-
sion was that of a boy. Again, all the resolution
in the world seemed to be compressed between his
lips; but no one of their group laughed longer or
more easily. And his eyes looked as if they could
out-stare the sun ; but they were quick-observing and
quick-smiling.
These eyes never strayed from Sylvia's face ex-
cept when Pauline and Ernest promenaded within
the circle of vision.
This was often; for Ernest, at Pauline's request,
had taken her for a " little stroll " in the garden
immediately after dinner. An hour had passed, but
they still walked. But Pauline inevitably became the
focus of masculine eyes. Now as she drifted along,
she seemed both to sway and to pulsate.
11 Would you think she'd dare keep Ernie out
there all this time, and you waiting to see him?"
Mrs. Martin asked indignantly.
Phoebe did not explain to her mother that
Pauline's social code proclaimed woman's first duty,
the subjugation of man, woman's first responsibility,
the entertainment of the unattached male; and that
Pauline, with the naivete of her type, took it for
granted that Phoebe's code was the same as her
Ernest and the Conspirators 251
own. All Phoebe said was: " She certainly is one
peach of a pippin! "
" If she behaved as well as she looked," Mrs.
Martin said grudgingly, " she'd do very well. Not
that she hasn't lovely ways when men aren't round,"
she added conscientiously.
Pauline had the charming, gracious manner of
the finishing-off school. And she was really beauti-
ful. At first, Phoebe and Mrs. Martin had taken
a genuine delight in that beauty, a genuine interest
in the methods by which it was served and con-
served. Pauline always went to bed early if no
evening engagement presented itself. If she stayed
up late, she slept late, carefully foregoing breakfast,
however; and appearing first at lunch, in order not
to disturb a household limited in maids. Her care
of her body was excessive and special. Systematic
massage had transmuted a constitutional pastiness
of skin to a delicate pallor, just tinted with rose.
Systematic exercise had reduced a figure, constitu-
tionally inclined to sumptuousness, close to the line
of litheness. She was brunette, but there was a
bizarre note in her coloring. Artists had told her
that her hair and eyes were olive-green — a dictum
which she was fond of quoting with a languid smile.
Pauline dressed with care and skill, and subtlety.
To-night, for instance, the simplicity of her mar-
velous gown was built on a system of complications
which taxed even Phoebe's photographic observa-
tion. The principle was gauze hung over gauze —
the interior background, a strange-colored Oriental
252 Ernest and the Conspirators
silk. Her fingers were always weighted with Ori-
ental rings. Her shoulders always bore an Oriental
scarf. Phoebe noted now with amusement that at
regular intervals the scarf floated away from the
graceful arms, compelling Ernest to stop and re-
adjust it.
Ernest was an adequate companion-piece for this
decorative figure; for he was at the prime and
zenith of his boy-comeliness. The moonlight
gleamed on his hair, as on a highly-polished steel;
it was more than ever like the burnished breast-
plumage of some blue-and-black bird. His eyes still
held the clearness of mountain lakes. But his mouth
was firm, his look steady, his tall, slender figure
potential somehow of its skilled strength. He
seemed none the less virile because of his white skin
and his long lashes.
" I'd always hoped somehow that Ern would fall
in love with Sylvia, " Phoebe said, sighing.
Mrs. Martin's lips tightened. " I don't know
that I think that Sylvia is any more suited to him
than Pauline," she said stiffly. " I remember,
Phoebe," she began again, " once when I was first
married — well, you were only a few months old — a
woman came to visit me from North Campion way.
Etta Danvers was her name. Edward — your
father — had never met her. He was away when
she came, and until he returned she and I had just
the nicest time together. I remember how fond she
seemed of you. Pretty soon your father came home
and — well, I couldn't tell you how it happened, but
Ernest and the Conspirators 253
the first thing I knew I was doing all the work and
taking care of you, and she was sitting in the parlor
in a long, lacy, ruffled — tea-gown, she called it — en-
tertaining your father. I won't go so far as to say
that I was jealous. But I certainly wasn't happy.
My only comfort was " — and now a spark of fem-
inine amusement in her eye, pointed by delicate fem-
inine spite, kindled its fellow in Phoebe's eye — " that
every night Edward would ask me how soon she was
going. She bored him to death. But later that
woman broke up a family in North Campion. She'd
have broken up mine if Edward had been that kind
of man." Mrs. Martin paused as if to collect her-
self.
Phoebe looked steadfastly at her mother; but
her eyes grew big with a sudden soft luminosity,
velvety-dark, velvety-bright. She was reflecting
that, in some subtle and inexplicable way, her rela-
tions with her mother had changed entirely since
her marriage. Mrs. Martin confided in her, not
alone her minor troubles but all those major worries
that she would never have mentioned before. It
was very beautiful and very wonderful, Phoebe
thought. It brought them so close together — a little
as if Mrs. Martin had retraced her steps to her early
wifehood, as if Phoebe had taken a bound for-
ward to the middle years. It was not that either
of them had lost anything. It was only that their
relationship had been enriched. They were mother
and daughter just the same; but also they were
comrades and friends.
254 Ernest and the Conspirators
" Mother,'' Phoebe interrupted, "just think!
Before I was married, there were some things I
perfectly hated about matrimony. I used to get
terribly discontented to think that when I was mar-
ried I'd have to sit back and watch other young
people going out together and getting engaged — and
I wouldn't be in it myself. Sometimes that would
give me an awful back-number feeling. But noth-
ing's ever the way you think it's going to be, is it?
Why, I feel so superior now. When I look at
Pauline and Ern walking together there in the moon-
light, they seem like shadows that haven't become
real yet. They all, even Sylvia and Frederick, seem
so inexperienced and futile and foolish. Why, I
wouldn't go back for anything in this world."
" Yes," Mrs. Martin agreed, " that's the way I
felt." Her voice dropped. At the end of the long
walk, Pauline and Ernest had turned. Automat-
ically, Pauline's scarf whirled off her shoulders like
a vapor on a breeze. Automatically, Ernest's hand
came up, caught it and readjusted it.
" Ernest hasn't fumbled it yet," Phoebe whis-
pered. " His form is perfect."
But, without a smile, Mrs. Martin reverted to the
biggest question in her life for the moment. u I
don't know what I'm going to do about it, Phoebe.
Sometimes I make up my mind that I'll have a talk
with Pauline. Then again I think I'll invent some
cock-and-bull story so she'll have to leave." Mrs.
Martin ended by looking dumbly at her daughter,
her face again torn by irresolution.
Ernest and the Conspirators 255
" Oh, mother, you can't do that," Phoebe said in
a shocked tone. " You must let her stay here until
the steamer sails for Panama. She has no friends
about Boston but the Warburtons. You can't send
a young girl alone to a hotel. Mrs. Warburton
would never forgive you, and I shouldn't blame her."
"Well then, what shall I do, Phoebe-child? I
can't stand another two weeks of this."
For an instant Phoebe did not speak. Then all
that was luminosity went out of her eyes.
" Mother," she said in a low tone, " you ought to
know what to do. You did it with me once. Why
can't you do it with Ern? "
There was an instant of close, packed silence.
From the hammock came Sylvia's throaty chuckle,
from the garden Pauline's lilting laugh.
"How — what do you mean, Phoebe?" Mrs.
Martin asked. But Mrs. Martin knew.
" Why, mother, you saved me from Professor
Hazeltine that time by not opposing me — I mean
by not forbidding him to see me or me to see him.
You just let things take their course. If you hadn't,
I might have eloped with him. Now, why don't you
use the same tactics in Ernest's case? "
" Phoebe," said Mrs. Martin, " I can't. It's
different with a boy. A girl's got something in her
that keeps her from harm if she's any good. But
I declare I don't think boys or men have. They're
the most helpless things, where women are con-
cerned, that the Lord ever made. Oh, it's terrible,
it's unjust, what anxiety women are always suffering
256 Ernest and the Conspirators
for their men-folks. I don't think IVe got the
courage to keep my hands off Ernie's case."
" Mother," said Phoebe emphatically, " you've
got to find the courage. Just try to look at this
situation sensibly; as if Ern weren't your own son.
Ern's pretty obstinate, you know. If he's really in
love with Pauline, nothing on earth can keep him
away from her. A girl's case is quite different.
She can't go to see the man. But when it comes to
Ern — he's of age; he's got a latch-key. He doesn't
have to tell you where he's been, and you may be
sure he won't, if he doesn't want to. I think you're
fortunate to have it right here where you can watch
it. Now I tell you what you do, mother. Instead
of breaking up their tete-a-tetes, you see that Ern
gets so much of Pauline that he doesn't know where
he's at. Of course, Ern has a case on her. That's
perfectly visible to the naked eye. But I don't
think it's permanent. I haven't been married nearly
a year without realizing that a woman never can
pick out the girl that a man's going to admire. Oh,
mother, I wish you could see the girls that Tug
thinks are pretty. Some of them are a perfect
mess! Just the same, though, I don't think Pauline
is Ern's kind at all. She's too slow and mature and
indoorsy. However, you never can tell, and the
only way to find out, and to help him to find out,
is to let him have plenty of her."
" But he's seeing her most of the time as it is,"
Mrs. Martin protested helplessly.
"Let him see her all the time, then," Phoebe
Ernest and the Conspirators 257
commanded trenchantly. " Now I tell you what
we'll do, mother. We'll play Pauline's game with
her. Don't try to separate them. Try to throw
them together. Don't let any other girl get within
a rod of Ern. Why, at the end of a week, he'll
be simply gasping for some golf, or tennis, or
croquet even. Oh, he'll be ready to fly out of his
skin!"
" And Frederick? " Mrs. Martin questioned irres-
olutely.
" That'll leave Frederick plenty of time to see
Sylvia. And if he is in love with her — and I'm be-
ginning to think Tug has better eyes in his head
than I ever gave him credit for — it will be all right.
I just bet Sylvia would go perfectly crazy about that
wild, primitive, western life of his — bossing wops
and building bridges. Mother, you come right in-
side now and we'll plan out a campaign of lunches,
dinners, whists, and other indoor sports that will
keep Ern Martin glued to Pauline's side every mo-
ment for the next two weeks."
Phoebe showed a gay spirit on the walk home
that night — so gay that when her voice developed
a sudden note of tragedy, her companions stared
at her in alarm.
" A very dreadful thing has happened to me this
evening, Tug and Sylvia," she said. " My mother
has been warning me of the pitfalls that lie in the
path of a young married pair. She told me ex-
plicitly to beware the woman-visitor who dressed
in negligees in order to superman the husband. I
258 Ernest and the Conspirators
recalled with a frightful pang that Sylvia came down
to breakfast this morning in a kimono. Kindly,
never, never appear in negligee in my house again,
Sylvia, unless you wear a mackintosh over it."
Tug stared at his wife, aghast until Sylvia's
throaty chuckle floated on the air like a bubble.
Later Phoebe accompanied Sylvia to her room
for a good-night peep at Nancy's sprawled little
figure and flushed, dimpled face. She returned to
Tug, still bubbling. " Nancy'd been playing wed-
ding with the dolls Ern gave her. But she's got her
dope all wrong. She's united ' Thilvia ' in the bonds
of holy matrimony with ' Ernesth ' and ' Pworline '
with ' Freddy wick.' "
Followed a furious outbreak of social engage-
ments in the Martin family — all internecine. Set-
ting her teeth, Mrs. Martin carried out her daugh-
ter's schedule down to the last heroic detail. She
played Pauline's game better than that enterprising
young lady played it herself. Did Ernest start to
go anywhere in the auto, Mrs. Martin suggested
that Pauline accompany him. Did Pauline make a
long-deferred move toward returning neighborhood
calls, Mrs. Martin insisted that Ernest take her in
the machine. When they returned, Mrs. Martin
always had business upstairs, leaving them tete-a-
tete at the tea-table, over which Pauline presided
with such histrionic grace. Mrs. Martin spent her
evenings in the library, leaving the front room free.
Whenever Ernest took Pauline into Boston for the
Ernest and the Conspirators 259
theater, he always found an enticing little supper
welcoming their return.
Not easily did Mrs. Martin do this. And during
the process, she was an intensely unhappy woman.
Always she studied her son — studied him with an
interest which increased as the days went by. But
for the first time in her life, Ernest was an absolute
enigma to his mother. His handsome inscrutability
never emitted a gleam. " Just the look," Phoebe
translated it to herself, " of the man who is in love
and trying to conceal it from his family." He was
punctilious in paying Pauline the courtesies which
her position demanded. But was he growing to care
less or more? Mrs. Martin could not decide. Then
actual terror came upon her. For gradually, under
his quiet, she felt another mood. Ernest was wait-
ing — passionately, intensely, ferociously waiting.
But for what?
Frederick arose no less energetically to the lure
which Phoebe held out. He appeared at her house
so often that it seemed at times as if he only slept
at the Martin place. Phoebe used to say that the
maid found him sitting on the steps when she got
up at six. But although it was not quite that, it was
almost true. Sylvia, like the docile guest she had
always been (except where her self-respect was in-
volved) , lent herself in perfect obedience to Phoebe's
plan. She walked and talked with Frederick. She
rode and motored with Frederick. She tennised
and golfed with Frederick. She billiarded and
pooled with Frederick. Just as Mrs. Martin studied
260 Ernest and the Conspirators
one pair of lovers, Phoebe studied the other.
Phoebe felt certain of Frederick's growing absorp-
tion. But Sylvia's submission of the perfect guest
developed after a while an air of languid passivity
alternating with feverish vivacity — the mood of one
constantly expecting something and constantly being
balked.
The last night came. Early the next morning,
Pauline was to board her steamer for Panama.
Late the next afternoon, Frederick was to take his
train for Arizona. According to schedule, Phoebe
invited to dinner all the elements in her match-mak-
ing and match-breaking schemes. According to
schedule, they started afterwards for a walk in the
Maywood Park. According to schedule, they en-
tered the Maywood Park appropriately paired.
According to schedule, Phoebe lost in the meander-
ings of the tiny bit of hilly land, first Ernest and
Pauline, then Frederick and Sylvia. According to
schedule, she and Tug immediately made a swift
way home.
Phoebe called her mother up on the telephone.
u All we've got to do, mother," she announced, " is
to wait for the returns to come in. It's all settled
now one way or another."
It was.
Somewhere between eleven and twelve, having
seen Sylvia home, Frederick strolled back to the
Martin house. Halfway, he met Ernest who, hav-
ing installed Pauline safe under his mother's roof,
had come out again.
Ernest and the Conspirators 261
" Where you going? " Frederick demanded, tak-
ing cognizance of the megaphone which Ernest car-
ried.
" Down to Sliney's to see Red Tate," Ernest lied
glibly. " I just remembered I'd promised him this
megaphone. He wants it for the Maywood game
to-morrow. See you later."
They passed.
Frederick continued on to the house. After go-
ing upstairs, Pauline had apparently changed her
mind about retiring. When Frederick came onto
the piazza, she was lying in the hammock — an Ori-
ental houri caught in the meshes of her vapory
scarf.
Sylvia had been asleep for some time; had been
dreaming. Gradually a noise, tiny but recurrent,
tapped its way into her dreams, maintained itself
there. She awoke. Somebody was throwing peb-
bles at her window. She arose, threw on her
kimono, drew the window gently open.
Below stood Ernest with a megaphone to his lips.
" Come down, please, Sylvia," he demanded in a
peremptory whisper, " IVe something important I
want to ask you."
Sylvia cupped her little hands into a makeshift
pink megaphone. " Of course I won't come down,"
she hissed. " Somebody' d see me. Are you
crazy, Ernest Martin? Somebody'll hear you. Go
home at once! "
Sylvia's tone was equally peremptory. But her
262 Ernest and the Conspirators
little white face, caught between bunches of misty,
moon-shot hair — most deliciously — smiled.
The megaphone went up again. " Sylvia ! " Er-
nest's whisper was no louder, but somehow it was
much more determined. " You come down here and
listen to me or I'll propose to you through this
megaphone! And if I once begin to tear loose —
after this month that I've lived in a bottle — the
whole metropolis of Maywood is going to hear it."
" I'll come down," said Sylvia.
As for Pauline and Frederick
The next morning neither of Mrs. Martin's
guests appeared at breakfast. Halfway through
the morning, troubled by the tomb-like silence in
the house, Mrs. Martin knocked on Pauline's door.
Nobody answered. After an interval of stupefac-
tion, Mrs. Martin opened it. The room had not
been occupied. Neither, it appeared, had Fred-
erick's. But pinned to Pauline's dresser-scarf was
a letter. It read:
Dear, dear Lady:
I feel somehow as if I were doing a dreadful thing to
repay your hospitality by running off like this without tell-
ing you good-by and without explanation — but Frederick
makes me. By the time you read this, I shall be his wife.
I don't know why I am doing it except to please him, and
perhaps — a little to please myself. For I really do love
him. I haven't married him all these years because I was
afraid. I could not think that I was the right woman
Ernest and the Conspirators 263
for him to take out into those strange Western scenes. But
he has made me believe it, and I'm going to trust to his
judgment. And somehow, dear lady, I think I'm really
going to be happy. My visit here has taught me a great
deal about happiness that I never guessed before. I have
been dreadfully troubled. If it hadn't been for that dear
lad — Ernest — I should have gone mad. By the time you
read this, I shall have a different name. And so, I'm
going to sign myself,
Your devoted friend and admirer,
Pauline Wright.
Phoebe and Tug were saying good-night to
Nancy, who cuddled sleepily in Tug's arms.
" Lord, Phoebe," said Tug, " you needn't have wor-
ried about Pauline and Ern at all. You ought to
have heard the things he said about her, going in
on the train this morning. All complimentary, of
course, but the tone that a man takes about an es-
timable maiden-aunt. I never saw Ern in better
spirits. Oh, by the way — he's given up all idea of
that tramp-trip to Europe. He says he wants to
go to work the moment he gets out of college — it
can't be too soon for him."
Phoebe's eyes swept the room unseeingly, passed
the corner where Nancy's wedding-party still stood,
Ernest united to Sylvia, Pauline to Frederick.
" Mother'll be so glad," she said.
" Well, Bertha, I'm glad the worst of your wor-
ries are over," Mr. Martin was saying. " And I
264 Ernest and the Conspirators
really think Pauline will make Frederick a fine
wife."
u I think so, too," Mrs. Martin agreed heartily.
" I call her a very smart girl. She cooks beauti-
fully when she wants to. And she's as clever with
her needle! Does beautiful fancywork. And she
makes half the things she wears. Yes, I realized
this morning that Ernie didn't care. I never
saw him in such high spirits. Up before breakfast
and singing and whistling just the way he used to
when he was a little boy! "
" Yes, and there's another thing you'll be glad to
hear," Mr. Martin went on. " He's given up that
idea of tramping abroad with Williston and Turner.
He had a long talk with Tug and me on the train
this morning. He wants to go to work in the office
the moment he gets his sheepskin."
" Well," Mrs. Martin ejaculated, " if that isn't
the best news I've heard for a long time."
Immediately after dinner, Phoebe appeared. Tug
and Mr. Martin went out on the piazza for a smoke.
The conspirators gazed at each other.
" Well, mother," Phoebe said jubilantly. " We
won! "
" Yes," said Mrs. Martin, her joy beaming in
every line of her face, " Ernest's heart-whole and
fancy-free. We won."
CHAPTER X
PHOEBE AND THE MOST IMPORTANT BIRD
"TOWARD!" Mrs. Martin's voice was the
JOj kind that ordinarily blurred on the tele-
phone, but to-day a peremptory tone of command, a
staccato note of excitement, sharpened and clarified
it. " I'm talking from Phoebe's house. Phoebe
called me up an hour ago. I hurried right over, but
this is my first free moment. Everything is all right.
Dr. Bush has been and gone. The nurse has just
come. I've telephoned Ernie not to come out — he's
going to the ball game. You'd better get dinner
in town. And, Edward, I don't suppose it's any
use saying this to you, but if you would only go
somewhere for an hour or two this evening — to
Keith's or any place like that — I do think it would
be the most sensible thing you could do. Now, re-
member what I say. Everything is all right here.
Phoebe's chattering away with the nurse this mo-
ment about that first dance she ever gave. There's
nothing to worry about. Good-by."
" Good-by," Mr. Martin answered mechanically.
It seemed to him that there were many questions
that he wanted to ask, but he could not think of a
single one. Mechanically he hung up the receiver.
He sat for a moment, silent. Then, still mechanic-
265
266 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
ally, he opened a drawer in his desk and took out
a note in Phoebe's handwriting. It had come to
him months ago in mid-morning haste, flourishing
a special delivery stamp. It read:
Father Dearest:
This is to tell you, so that you may know as quick as
anybody, that the Most Important Bird is going to make
Tug and me a visit. Now I'm going up to tell mother.
Your loving,
Phoebe.
Oh, father, I'm so happy.
It was curious how differently this news had af-
fected Mr. and Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin was
inclined to be silent about the great change which
it heralded. He never referred to Phoebe's note —
not even to Phoebe herself. Previous to its receipt,
he had seen his daughter daily by means of a
process described by Phoebe as " intuitive collu-
sion." If Tug and Phoebe did not appear at the
Martin place during the evening, Mr. Martin al-
ways strolled over to their house just before he
went to bed. Nowadays, rain or shine, he always
stopped to see Phoebe on his way to Boston. And
at his return, he drank down greedily Mrs. Martin's
news of the day. As for Mrs. Martin — Mr. Mar-
tin used to wonder as he sat nightly in the rich flow
of her monologue. Life had suddenly enlarged for
her. It had lengthened, broadened, heightened,
deepened. She was almost exaltcc.
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 267
" Oh, I'm so happy," she would say again and
again. " I'm so happy. I feel as if life was begin-
ning all over again. I declare if there's one thing
I've learned, it's to trust life. I used to be so afraid
of everything — of all the changes, I mean, the
chances and choices. But now I know everything's
coming out all right, no matter what it is. And
then Phoebe and Tug are both so happy. That's the
way it ought to be. And it's come just as I hoped
it would. They've had a whole year alone together,
just chock-full of good times. They know each
other's faults and failings. And now there's some-
thing coming that they'll live and work for as they've
never lived and worked before. Phoebe says she
wants a boy and Tug says he wants a girl. I tell
Phoebe I don't care. I'm not looking a gift-horse
in the mouth. I guess one reason you're so happy
about your children's children is because you can
enjoy them without any sense of responsibility.
When I look back, it doesn't seem as if I'd ever
had the time to enjoy my own children. And, Ed-
ward, when I think that there's going to be another
baby in the house — well! There's nothing like the
comfort you get out of a little baby! It loves you
so much and it's so helpless and cunning and it
hasn't begun to be naughty yet. Not that I want
them to be too good. And then, land! you can put
them down for a moment and know that they'll be
there when you come back."
" Edward, I've never enjoyed any sewing so much
as baby-clothes. The materials are all so fine and
268 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
dainty and soft, and the thing's finished before you
get tired working on it. YouVe no idea how baby
things have changed since our children were young.
So much simpler now — and really prettier, I think.
Phoebe's never been much of a hand to sew, but she's
doing very well. She says she won't have a ma-
chine-stitch in a single thing. My land, she's taking
every woman's magazine in the country, seems if —
looking up what she calls ' baby-dope.' She says
she hasn't read a pretty-girl paper in six months.
She says she knows she'll never look smart again
because she'll always be so much more interested in
how the baby looks. She says she knew her doom
was sealed when she gave up a pair of new earrings
for some real Val. But I tell her that's all nonsense.
And it is — those things take care of themselves."
11 Phoebe says she doesn't care who does the
housekeeping or if it never gets done — she's going
to take care of her baby herself. And I tell her to
stick to that. That's the only way you can be sure
that things are being done right. Phoebe says she's
not going to try to run her children's lives. She
says that she hopes that this one will want to go to
Harvard like his father — she always talks as if it
were a boy. But she says if he makes up his mind
to be a chiropodist" Mrs. Martin came down on
this word with Phoebe's own italicising vigor, " she
won't interfere. She says she's never forgotten the
way you let Ernie go to Princeton when you were
just dying" again Phoebe's forthright accent pushed
its way into her mother's speech, " to have him go
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 269
to Harvard. She says that it was a great lesson to
her."
Little shadowy remembrances of these- talks flitted
through Mr. Martin's mind as he sat with Phoebe's
months-old note in his hand.
" Oh, Edward, I did so hope " Mrs. Martin
began when she opened Phoebe's door to Mr. Mar-
tin about half-past six that evening. But she
stopped halfway, her eyes on his face. " I don't
suppose you could stay away," she ended, sighing.
" How is she? " Mr. Martin asked, following his
wife into the living-room.
" She's all right. Dr. Bush is upstairs now. He's
going home to dinner right away."
Mr. Martin stood still for an instant. He stared
about Phoebe's pleasant living-room. But he saw
nothing — he was listening. The house was quiet;
but it was the quiet of the humming-top. As he
came along the street, Theresa's scared white Irish
face had peered unaccustomedly at him from the
dining-room window. Now a door in the dining-
room creaked. Theresa was listening, even as he
listened. Mrs. Martin's face was white, too, but
it was a radiant whiteness. Altogether she had a
new air — curt, alert, secure, victorious. The room
bore its normal look of an exquisite order. Every-
where were bowls of fresh June roses — roses that
must fade before Phoebe could see them again.
Through the open windows drifted the scent of
other roses — roses that must die before Phoebe
270 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
could pick them. On the table an ivory paper-knife
protruded from a half-cut book. A handkerchief
marked a place in a magazine. Some of Phoebe's
sewing lay near — a tiny drift of snowy linen edged
with snowy lace. The light caught on it in a steely
glisten — the needle had not been pulled from the
last stitch.
" Where's Tug? " Mr. Martin asked.
" Upstairs. He and Phoebe have been playing
old maid and checkers and dominoes and California
Jack and authors and picture puzzles all the after-
noon."
" Has Ernest come yet? "
" Yes. He's in the kitchen. He got his dinner
in town as I told him. But Theresa's feeding him
now. She always saves something for him. Oh,
here's Dr. Bush. I guess I'll go up for a moment."
Dr. Bush came running jauntily down the stairs.
His big, middle-aged body was surmounted by a
head that seemed entirely covered with the combina-
tion of bushy, grizzled hair and bushy grizzled
beard. Somewhere in the middle of this, a pair of
huge search-light spectacles magnified if possible his
look of a choleric kindness.
" Hullo, Ed," he said, fumbling among the
things on the settle for his hat. " What afe you
looking so down in the mouth for? I suppose you've
got it into your head that this is a kind of a special
occasion. Well, now you forget all that. But don't
you go up there. You'll upset her more than any-
body, looking the way you do. Now, remember,
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 271
Ed, Phoebe's strong as a lion. You couldn't kill her
with an axe. She's always taken everything harder
than any girl in this town and thrown it off quicker.
Her courage is splendid — she hasn't stopped joking
yet. So long! "
The door closed on Dr. Bush.
" Hullo, father! " It was Ernest who spoke; he
had come in from the dining-room. Ernest also
looked pale. " How'd he say Phoebe was? "
" All right," said Mr. Martin.
There was a pause.
" Rotten game? " Mr. Martin inquired.
" Slow as death ! Not a ghost of a chance for the
Nationals this year and everybody knows it. There
wasn't a corporal's guard in the bleachers."
" Matty pitch?"
" No. The Giants are saving him for the Chicago
series. They pitched Ames. He did just as well —
against us."
"Who for Boston?"
11 Some bush leaguer or other that Tenney's just
found."
Another pause.
"What was the score?" asked Mr. Martin at
last.
" Nine to three."
Another pause.
"Who won?"
" New York, of course."
" Oh, yes — I remember you told me."
Another pause.
272 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
11 Father," Ernest asked suddenly, u how long is
this going to last? "
" Can't tell," Mr. Martin answered. " It may
be all night. It may be "
" Gee, I hate anything like this, father, don't
you?"
" It isn't the way I'd choose to spend my even-
ings," Mr. Martin admitted.
There was another pause.
" Father! " Ernest broke it desperately at last.
M I can't stand this any longer. I guess I'll go down
to Sliney's and bowl a string or two. It sort of
takes your mind off a thing like this to do something.
Say, father, don't you think you'd better come too?
It's fierce waiting. I've been here only an hour and,
Lord, I'm as nervous as the deuce."
Mr. Martin shook his head.
" Well, I won't stir out of Sliney's. You tele-
phone me there, in case you need me for anything —
or if "
" All right," agreed Mr. Martin.
Noiselessly Mrs. Martin returned. " Oh — Ber-
tha — how is it upstairs? " Mr. Martin asked.
11 All right," Mrs. Martin answered brightly.
" Phoebe's dozing."
" Say, mother," Ernest said, " I'm going out for
a while — as long as I can't be of any use here." He
kissed his mother.
11 All right." Mrs. Martin absently returned his
kiss. " I guess "
11 You see, mother," Ernest continued, " it gets
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 273
on my nerves waiting round. You don't mind, do
you, mother? " There was entreaty in Ernest's
voice.
" No," Mrs. Martin answered, still absentiy. " I
gU ess I'll "
Mrs. Martin disappeared noiselessly upward.
The door closed on Ernest.
Alone in the living-room, Mr. Martin moved de-
liberately up to the center-table. Deliberately he
cleared away the decorative litter on it — the bowl
of roses, a big photograph of himself in a silver
frame, the gay-covered gift-books, a magazine or
two. He took out his watch, snapped it from the
chain, opened it, and placed it on the table. He
reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out
a pack of cards. He laid out Canfield.
" Hullo, dad ! " Tug had come noiselessly
downstairs. Tug's voice was quiet; but he, too, dis-
played the general facial whiteness.
" Hullo, Tug," Mr. Martin rejoined. " How is
it up there? "
11 They tell me everything's going as well as we
can expect. That nurse — Miss Burton — is a
crackerjack. Black queen on your red king, dad."
" Pretty disturbing business," Mr. Martin volun-
teered.
" Oh, Lord, it's — I never — well " Tug did
not attempt to finish his sentence. " Red eight on
your black nine. Good ! There's another ace. You
need a six the worst way. Too bad ! I guess you're
through. How often do you average to do it? "
274 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
11 Once or twice in an evening." Mr. Martin
shuffled and re-dealt.
For a moment there was no sound in the room
but the soft fall of the cards. Then from upstairs
came voices — the hurry of footsteps.
Mrs. Martin came down. " You go up, Tug,"
she said. " She's awake. She wants you."
Tug bolted.
" How are things going? " Mr. Martin asked.
" Oh, beautifully," Mrs. Martin said. Her man-
ner was still buoyant and her face bright; but her
tone was a little flat. " Phoebe thought she'd like
to talk with Tug awhile." Before seating herself,
Mrs. Martin walked over to the window and
glanced out in a casual way. Then she moved a
chair — quietly — so that it faced the end of the street.
She sat with her eyes nailed to the distance.
Gradually the atmosphere of the house changed;
into the quiet which Dr. Bush had left crept a vague
element of disorganization.
" Don't you think I'd better telephone Dr. Bush,
Bertha? " Mr. Martin asked after a long silence.
" Oh, no," Mrs. Martin said. She seemed al-
most shocked. " He said not to telephone him
unless the nurse told us to. Did you bring out a
paper, Edward? "
Mr. Martin handed her his Transcript. Mrs.
Martin studied it carefully. At regular intervals,
her eyes started at the bottom of a column, wan-
dered up — up — up — until they hurdled its heads,
shot out the window and down the street.
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 275
" Bertha," Mr. Martin said after a half an hour
of this, " I'm going to telephone Bush."
" Listen ! " Mrs. Martin commanded peremptor-
ily. Came from the distance a faint chu-r-r-r-r
which grew rapidly into chug-chug-chug. " Here he
comes ! " Her tone gushed relief.
Dr. Bush stopped at the gate, tinkered for a long
moment about his car, walked leisurely up the path,
stopped to examine a rose, snapped something off
a petal, passed leisurely through the door which
Mrs. Martin held open for him, pushed back his
goggles, threw his hat onto the hall-settle, stopped
an instant in the doorway of the living-room.
"Good work, Ed!" he commended genially.
" Say, you needed that ace, all right. Red six on
your black seven. Black two on your red three!
No, don't take that two. Take the other one. Well,
let's see how things are going!" He proceeded
leisurely upstairs.
Mr. Martin stopped and listened for a moment.
The house responded at once to the stir of the doc-
tor's big, bustling, energetic, dynamic presence, re-
sponded — but curiously — by a sudden, serene quiet.
Mr. Martin resumed his work with the cards.
After a long while Dr. Bush came down. " Well,
everything's fine as silk here," he said. " I'm only
wasting time. Phoebe's just asked me not to inter-
rupt her dominoes again. I might as well enjoy
myself this evening as not. I say, Ed, what do you
say to going down in the car with me? We'll stop
in for one round of the moving pictures."
276 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
"Guess not, Allen! " Mr. Martin answered.
11 Thank you just as much."
11 All right," Dr. Bush said. " I'm going to run
up the street and take a look at old Mrs. Hooker.
See you later."
Again the room filled with the soft slipping sound
of the cards. Again, the house that had grown so
serene appeared to lose its grip on itself.
" I finished my string at Sliney's." It was Ernest.
There was a dull, listless note in Ernest's voice; and
his pallor had increased. " So I thought I'd run up
and see how things were going. How's Phoebe? "
" The doctor says everything's all right so far,"
Mr. Martin said.
" Lord, I'm glad. I hate to think of Phoebe suf-
fering up there. Gee, father, Phoebe's been an
awful good sister to me. The things she used to
try to work out of you for me! Why, if anything
happened to Phoebe, I — I don't know what I'd do.
There, that clears that space, father. No, don't —
yes, that's all right. Say, where are all the sevens?
I bet you're going to do it. Well, isn't that the
limit? Look here, father, let me teach you a new
solitaire I got the other day. It's a corker, Na-
poleon."
Mr. Martin watched patiently while Ernest
placed all fifty-two cards on the table. He listened
patiently to Ernest's long and complicated direc-
tions. " Now you've got the hang of it," Ernest
directed, " try it alone." Mr. Martin patiently laid
out the cards.
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 277
Mrs. Martin came in.
Mr. Martin's hand paused.
" How about it, mother? " Ernest asked.
" Oh, everything's all right, of course. But —
well, there's nothing to do but wait. Dr. Bush'll be
here pretty soon."
Mrs. Martin openly took up her station at a
window. Ernest watched her for a while.
The cards began to slip and slide over the bare
table. Mr. Martin returned to his Napoleon.
Suddenly Ernest jumped to his feet, hat in hand.
" Mother, I guess I'll go down to Sliney's and bowl
another string. I'll be back again soon. I don't
know why it is, but this waiting seems to get on
my nerves. It's worse than anything I've ever
It's worse even than before a big game. Do you
notice it, mother? "
His mother stared at him an instant. There was
a sudden uncharacteristic grimness in her simple
" Yes, I notice it, Ernie."
" I hope that you don't mind my leaving, mother.
It isn't that I want to lie down on the job. But
you see "
" No, I don't mind," Mrs. Martin said mechan-
ically.
" If I could be of any use, I'd stay — gladly.
I'd "
" I know, Ernie," Mrs. Martin said, still per-
functorily. Her eyes showed that she was not lis-
tening to her son.
" Good-by, mother." Ernest kissed his mother.
278 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
The door closed on Ernest for the second time; in
an instant his rapid gait had lost him in the night.
Mr. Martin shuffled the uncompleted Napoleon
layout. He went back to Canfield.
" What time is it, Edward? " Mrs. Martin asked.
11 Twenty to eleven," Mr. Martin replied in-
stantly.
" Oh! " There was in Mrs. Martin's tone a note
of disappointment fairly poignant. " I wouldn't let
myself look at the clock before. I hoped it was
later. I guess I'll go upstairs now."
Mr. Martin shuffled and dealt, and dealt and
shuffled. Red cards paired themselves with black
cards. Black cards paired themselves with red
cards. Needed aces came unexpectedly to the sur-
face of the pack and superfluous kings retired with
their retainers to oblivion. Many games were lost
almost at the beginning. Many more were lost with
victory just in sight. And all the time the quiet in
the house slowly seeped away; and confusion boiled
in its place.
After a long absence Mrs. Martin came down
again.
Mr. Martin's eyes leaped to her face, found his
question answered there. All the radiance had
gone from Mrs. Martin's pallid mask and many
shadows and lines had come into it. She did not
once address Mr. Martin, and she did not once sit
down — she walked. Through the hall, into the liv-
ing-room, back to the dining-room, into the hall
again, she completed her round scores of times. At
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 279
regular intervals, Mr. Martin stopped, his hand
dead among the cards.
" Bertha, don't you think we'd better call Dr.
Bush? " he would ask.
And " No," Mrs. Martin always replied. " He
knows when to come."
Presently the automobile chur-r-ed out of tf^e dis-
tance, chugged up to the door. Mr. Martin stopped
midway in his deal. Mrs. Martin paused midway
across the hall. " Well, well," Dr. Bush said after
his first swift look at the two faces, " glad I came
when I did. I see my real work is down here." He
bounded up the stairs. A door opened. There
came through it Tug's voice, welcoming, Miss Bur-
ton's voice, inquiring, Phoebe's
The door shut. Again — and again with a sudden
serene quiet — the whole house responded to the doc-
tor's soothing executive presence.
After a while, Dr. Bush came downstairs.
" Everything's fine as a fiddle. Couldn't be better.
Guess I've come to stay this time, though. Black
jack on your red queen, Ed. It isn't going to be
as long as I thought it was. A couple of tens would
help now, all right. Mrs. Martin, you'd better ask
Theresa to make some coffee for you two. Red
seven on your black eight, Ed. That helps a lot.
By Jove, you've done it."
Mrs. Martin drifted in the direction of the
kitchen.
" Any danger, Allen? " Mr. Martin asked.
" Danger! " Dr. Bush snorted. " Not a bit. I
280 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
tell you Phoebe's got the constitution of a horse.
I know all about her. Remember, Ed, I brought
Phoebe into the world. Who's that — oh, Ernest! "
11 Sliney's closed," Ernest said drearily. Ernest
was white — whiter than when he left — and his figure
sagged to match his voice. " I had half a mind to
go in town. But, somehow, I couldn't. Oh,
mother! " Ernest stared at Mrs. Martin as she
emerged from the hall. " How's Phoebe? "
" She's all right, Ernest," Dr. Bush answered
before Mrs. Martin could speak. " Everything is
going just as well as it possibly can."
u Mother," Ernest begged, " isn't there some-
thing I can do ? You know this waiting gets on my
nerves so — if I could only get busy."
" Ernest," his mother answered — and the occa-
sion was a rare one in which she addressed her son
without the diminutive of his name. " Ernest, the
thing that you can do that will help me most is to
march straight home and go to bed."
Ernest considered this and for a moment with
obvious sense of hurt. " All right," he said after
a while, " I'll go. But you'll surely 'phone me if
you need me? "
" Yes, Ernie," his mother answered patiently,
" I'll 'phone you."
" And you'll let me know just as soon "
" Yes, Ernie, I'll let you know," his mother
agreed.
11 And you don't think I'm a quitter? "
11 Of course not," his mother reassured him.
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 281
" You see — it's the waiting," Ernest explained
again.
" Ernie," his mother said, and again there was
a touch of grimness in her tone. " A woman's life
is all waiting. I don't remember a single day in my
whole existence that I haven't been waiting — and
waiting — and waiting for something that I couldn't
possibly hurry! "
Ernest walked to the door. With his hand on
the knob, he turned back. The hall-light glittered on
his wet eyelashes. " Would you like to know what
I think of all this? " he asked in a dogged tone.
" Well, I'll tell you. I think it's a hell of a busi-
ness."
" Yes, Ernie," Mrs. Martin said — and the grim-
ness had deepened in her voice, " but what you
think about it won't change things any. It always
has been this way and it always will be."
The door closed for the last time on Ernest.
" Well," said Dr. Bush, " I guess I'll take an-
other look-see."
He strolled leisurely upstairs. Mrs. Martin fol-
lowed, her toes touching his heels.
A long time passed.
Mrs. Martin came downstairs. " Don't ask me,"
she answered Mr. Martin's look. She resumed her
monotonous pacing — but now she almost ran. Sud-
denly a door opened — it was the door leading from
the dining-room to the kitchen. Halfway across
the table, Mr. Martin's hand stopped as if it had
been pinned there with a knife.
282 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
" I told you to keep that back-stairs door —
shut! " Mrs. Martin hissed. Theresa deposited the
coffee-tray, hurried away panic-stricken.
Ignoring the coffee, Mr. Martin walked into the
dining-room, opened a door in the sideboard, fum-
bled among the bottles there. He poured out a
glass of whisky.
Mrs. Martin poured a cup of coffee, drank it
almost at a gulp, disappeared upstairs.
Mr. Martin returned to his cards.
But now many things happened.
Mrs. Martin came down. Tug came down, di-
sheveled, ghastly-faced, tagging Mrs. Martin, beg-
ging for reassurance.
After a while they went upstairs together.
A faint tap sounded at the front door. Mr. Mar-
tin opened it to Mrs. Warburton, who stood sway-
ing, her cheeks streaked with tears. In the back-
ground drooped Mr. Warburton — white and anx-
ious-looking.
Mrs. Martin came down again.
Tug came down — a Tug, utterly wilted, who put
his head on his mother's shoulder and frankly cried
— a Tug who, at last forcing composure, sent his
gaze again and again in dumb entreaty to Mrs.
Martin's face.
After a while Mr. and Mrs. Warburton left.
Mrs. Martin went upstairs.
Tug went upstairs.
Mr. Martin turned to his cards again.
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 283
Another long wait, and Dr. Bush came down —
still dynamic, still cheery — but a little less bustling
and energetic. He rapidly drank two cups of coffee
and went upstairs again.
Another wait — the longest of all — and Mrs. Mar-
tin returned. Apparently she had no strength left
for pacing the room. She fell into a chair, her head
in her hands, her hands over her ears. Mr. Martin
dealt and re-dealt the cards. And the house rang
with the din of a battle in which Life fought, hand-
to-hand, with Death.
Suddenly — it was as if a new turmoil had forced
itself into the saturated air — came a change. Mrs.
Martin's hands came down from her ears. Mr.
Martin's hands dropped the half-dealt pack. Mrs.
Martin lifted her head and listened. Mr. Martin
dropped his head and listened. Everything was
slowing up. The house seemed to be settling towards
silence. It came — complete silence — the silence of
the vacuum. Mr. Martin's watch rang like a gun.
The hall-clock boomed like a cannon. The silence
changed — it thickened, solidified, became a tangible
thing — adamantine — terrifying. And then
A sound tore through it. It was a little sound.
And yet it had tremendous character. It was not a
moan, or a groan, or a wail. It was a yell. And
it was a yell, component of many emotions, sur-
prise, perplexity, dismay, indignation, wrath. It
was lusty, and yet it was the voice of weakness.
Mr. Martin did not move. But Mrs. Martin
did. She became motion itself. She did not run
284 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
nor fly, she floated. She floated with an unimagina-
ble swiftness, like a feather on a cyclone. It was
as if she were sucked up the broad stairway, borne
away by some mysterious magnetic current.
Mr. Martin waited, without stirring from the
position in which she had left him, waited — waited
— waited
And then, suddenly, Mrs. Martin appeared on
the stairs again. Her face was clay and charcoal,
but her eyes were moons. She carried a bundle in
her arms. Mr. Martin's eyes fixed on it. It was
little and white and soft. Sounds came from it —
peeps — as if it held a bird, new-hatched. Mrs. Mar-
tin drew a veil of fluff away from the sounds and
Mr. Martin looked at what she displayed.
" Phoebe's little girl, Edward!" Mrs. Martin
breathed.
She placed the bundle in Mr. Martin's arms.
Mr. Martin sat for a long time looking into the
face of his granddaughter.
Dr. Bush came down. Mr. Martin stared at him,
wordless.
" She's all right," Dr. Bush said. " Our only
problem now will be to keep Phoebe in bed. It's
a fine baby, too — strong as an ox — Phoebe's going
to have a handful."
Mrs. Martin had accomplished another of her
mysterious appearances. " She's a beautiful baby,
doctor," she said, taking the white bundle from
her husband's arms. u Beautiful ! The image of
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 285
Ernie ! " She disappeared, trailing whispered baby-
talk.
" Phoebe says she wants to see you, Ed," Dr.
Bush went on. " She won't rest well unless she
does. Now hold on to yourself, old man."
11 Oh, I'm all right, Allen."
Mr. Martin walked up the stairs, walked through
the hall, walked into Phoebe's big, yellow-and-white
front room, walked to the foot of the bed. The
dawn was coming in at the window, but the electric-
light was still on. It shone on two heads on the
pillow — one, tiny, pinky, bare as an eggshell, the
other
Was this still, spent, sagging creature Phoebe?
Two braids meandered across the white pillow. The
light tangled in them, flashing glints of gold; but
about her brow the hair was damp and dark. One
curl had glued itself in a wet black spiral against
her forehead. The dimple under her eye was ironed
out. Her lower lip hung slack. Yet how tiny she
looked, how young, how innocent and helpless.
Never in her little-girlhood had she been more a
little girl. The heavy lids stirred, lifted Was
this star-faced woman Phoebe? Her eyes were
twin pools of light. All the joy in the universe
lay in them. Joy — and a something that soared
beyond it. Phoebe had gone for a while into a dif-
ferent world; she was still living there. An instant
she looked at her father. Then she spoke. Her
words came dead between unfamiliar weak pauses;
but she was all Phoebe.
286 Phoebe and the Most Important Bird
"Pretty — snappy — work — Mr. Martin!" she
said. And then, " Do — you — love — my — little —
girl — father — dearest? "
When Mr. Martin answered, his words came
slowly, too.
Phoebe's look of holding herself in reserve for
her father's coming melted into a radiant smile.
The smile died slowly as she drifted into sleep.
" Dr. Bush says he'd rather we wouldn't stay,
father," Mrs. Martin was saying next. " He
doesn't want that there should be any excitement in
the house when Phoebe wakes up. He wants me to
go home and to take you home, too."
11 All right," Mr. Martin answered docilely.
Mrs. Martin talked all the way home; her hus-
band made no comment. He followed her lead the
whole way. It was she who started their expedition
across streets, she who initially made the cor-
ners, she who maneuvered the turn in at their gate,
she who unlocked the door and opened it.
" You go right upstairs," Mrs. Martin said in
a whisper. The next instant her voice vibrated in
joyous full volume through the house. " Wake up,
Uncle Ernie ! Phoebe's got a little daughter."
" How's Phoebe? " Ernest called back.
" All right! Phoebe says for you to come over
to-morrow and give your niece her first tennis-
lesson."
When Mrs. Martin entered their big chamber,
Mr. Martin was sitting in the big chair there. Out-
4
Phoebe and the Most Important Bird 287
side the birds were singing. The dawn had come
full. Mr. Martin's eyes were closed, but from
under his lids the tears were coursing down his
face.
" Oh, Edward," Mrs. Martin said— and, for the
first time that night her voice broke. " Don't take
it like this — please don't. It's not as bad as it
seems. Although " Unaccountably she re-
verted to the grimness that had characterized her
all the evening, " it's as bad as it possibly can be.
But what I mean is — what men can't understand —
it's natural — the suffering all counts — it's for some-
thing. You forget all the pain when they put the
baby in your arms. You don't mind what you've
been through. You're glad. You'd go through it
again. And Phoebe didn't have such a bad time.
Oh, don't take it so hard."
11 It isn't that," Mr. Martin said. " It isn't
Phoebe exactly, although it is Phoebe, of course.
Phoebe's all right now — I know that. She's strong
— she'll get well. I— it isn't Phoebe — Bertha, it's
only that I've been remembering you and — Bertha
— how did I live through it twenty-six years ago? "
CHAPTER XI
TILL HE GETS HIM A WIFE
"T)ERTHA," Mr. Martin's letter had run, "I
J3 am delighted with the news. We certainly
have a great deal to be thankful for; Phoebe mar-
ried to a man whom we trust and love and now
Ernest getting engaged to the nicest kind of girl.
Give her my love and tell her how much I admire
her and how glad I am that we are going to have
her for a daughter."
" Do you know what Ernest always talks about,
Mrs. Martin, when we're alone? " Sylvia asked.
Mrs. Martin's lips drew together in what was
palpably an effort to smile. But she looked straight
into the happy eyes of the girl who had just an-
nounced her engagement to Ernest. " I haven't any
idea, I'm sure," she said.
u You! " Sylvia said, gently triumphant. " Al-
ways you — nothing but you." She paused for an
imperceptible instant. But her earnestness brought
no answering gleam into Mrs. Martin's eyes. Mrs.
Martin continued to hold her faint smile; it looked
as if it had petrified on her face. " I guess you've
no idea how Ernest adores you," Sylvia went on,
still softly enthusiastic. u He says that when he
288
Till He Gets Him a Wife 289
was a little boy he thought you were the most beau-
tiful woman in the world. He never knew that any
woman could be as beautiful as you until he went
to the circus. He says that you've always had the
most wonderful control over the whole family. He
doesn't remember, he says, that you ever punished
him or scolded him; but he would no more have
thought of disobeying you than — than " Syl-
via's speech was full of hesitancies which always
ended in endearing little futilities of phrase, gentle
compromises of emotion with expression — " than
anything," she finally brought out. " Ernest says
he disobeyed his father lots of times — openly and
on the quiet — but he never disobeyed you once.
He says it never entered his head that he could.
He told me that the first year he was in Princeton
he was always comparing the men's mothers with
you and he never found one that wasn't an — an — an
also-ran." Sylvia hesitated a long time before she
took this verbal plunge into her lover's slang.
Mrs. Martin's mechanical smile still held its own.
" Ernest says " Sylvia started on.
u Everything's ready, Sylvia," Mrs. Parker called
from the other side of the room where, while she
prepared the tea, she had been talking with Cousin
Debbie.
The sisters busied themselves with the cups.
Cousin Debbie started one of her cheerful, chirping
monologues. But Mrs. Martin, now that there was
no necessity of talking or listening, relaxed for an
instant. Every line of her figure sagged. Her face
290 Till He Gets Him a Wife
fell into incipient old-age masses. Occasionally her
dull eyes went to Sylvia's face, to Marian's, back to
Sylvia's.
There was a strong family resemblance between
the girls, although they were differing blonde types.
Mrs. Parker was more flaxen than Sylvia, taller,
thicker, a little bovine. Everything about her was
big and tranquil. A thick crown of smooth hair
coiled above her broad, placid brow; large medi-
tative gray eyes shone beneath it. Her mouth, even,
was ample and quiet. Maternity had left its traces
on her figure; and at the temples her hair had
frosted a little. Superficially, she was a more im-
pressive figure than Sylvia. Yet Sylvia would al-
ways shine like a light in a shady place. Now, for
instance, she showed in an extra thinness and white-
ness the fatigues of her long year of teaching. But
perhaps she had never seemed more ethereal. It
was as if her happiness were an interior flame which
glowed in a pale-silver light through her delicate
skin, and flooded in a deep-blue radiance into her
soft eyes. It seemed actually to lick the air in the
pale-gold tendrils of her filmy hair.
"Will you have lemon or cream?" Sylvia was
asking presently. " And how many lumps?"
Marian was adding. And, " Oh, how good that
tastes!" Cousin Debbie was commenting. Debbie
did not relax. Even as she drank, the sharp glances
of her bright brown little eyes were leaping over
her cup and darting hither and yon.
It was a modest establishment — the little half-
Till He Gets Him a Wife 291
house which was the Parker home and Sylvia's. It
showed in every detail the brave fight which the
Gordon girls had made against poverty. The pic-
tures and bric-a-brac, few but rigorously good, the
furniture, simple and carefully correct, the bare
floor, the quiet paper — all these things did their best
to offset the effect of the gilded moldings and the
carved and mirrored mantels. Everything was ex-
quisitely neat, and yet a first glance showed that the
children played all over the house. A family of
dolls huddled together on the couch. A tiny tin
engine had brought a line of cars to rest within the
enclosure of the gas-log fireplace. The sisters re-
flected all this exquisite care and order. It was easy
to guess that no hired fingers had produced the un-
lined, unfolded laundering — delicate as blown glass
— of their simple shirt-waist gowns. There was an
extra touch of holiday in the daffodils which lifted,
Japanese fashion, out of broad shallow dishes.
Mrs. Martin put her cup down after a while and
fumbled in her muff. " Mr. Martin wanted me to
tell you, Sylvia, that unless you preferred something
else, he would like to give you for an engagement-
gift a cedar chest like the one he gave Phoebe."
Sylvia's smile made a flash of lightning whiter
than her face. " Oh, that is so like Mr. Martin,"
she said. " What a dear thing to do ! I should love
a cedar chest more than — more than — anything I
can think of. I — I — couldn't have had one other-
wise."
" It was his own idea," Mrs. Martin added
292 Till He Gets Him a Wife
scrupulously. " I brought my gift out to-day." She
handed the little package to Sylvia.
" Oh, what fun it is being engaged ! " Sylvia ex-
claimed. " Like Christmas all the time." Her tiny
fingers picked carefully at the bow which tied the
box and, as if the instinct of order were ever with
her, she rolled up the ribbon and smoothed out the
tissue-paper covering before she opened the pack-
age. " Oh, spoons! " she exclaimed in a delighted
tone. " And just the pattern I love! How did you
know it, Mrs. Martin? "
44 Ernie told me," Mrs. Martin answered.
14 Phoebe thought that spoons were a kind of com-
monplace present — bromidic, she called it. But I
never have forgotten the experience Mr. Martin
and I had when we got married. I calculated that
folks would surely give us spoons. And so I didn't
buy any. But everybody gave us forks, and so when
we got back from our honeymoon we had to use
tin kitchen spoons on the table until I could get into
Boston and buy some. And in these days, when you
need so many spoons "
" I think it was lovely of you," Sylvia said.
14 And I do thank you." She made a little impulsive
movement toward Mrs. Martin. But she checked
it halfway — perhaps she could not have said why.
44 Mr. Martin will be at home Friday night,"
Mrs. Martin went on with the mechanical fidelity,
to what was palpably a cut-and-dried recital, of a
graphophone to its record. " And then we're both
coming over to see you. I didn't want to wait so
Till He Gets Him a Wife 293
long myself." Mrs. Martin was not telling the
exact truth here. What she should have said was:
u I saw that Ernie did not want me to wait so long."
She paused an instant and visibly cast about in her
mind to see if her lesson were said. " Oh," she
caught herself up. " And then Mr. Martin and I
want you to visit us in your Easter vacation. Phoebe
wants you to come right to her as soon as you've
been to us. But I hope you'll stay a week with us.
I guess you'll have *o make up your mind to spend
the rest of the spring in Maywood."
" Oh, I shall just love that," Sylvia said. " How
kind you all are to me."
"Not at all," said Mrs. Martin. "And now
we must be going. Debbie is taking the six train
to North Campion. It was so nice that she could
come with me."
The sisters murmured gentle echoes of this senti-
ment.
" And remember, Sylvia," Mrs. Martin went on,
" Phoebe and I want to help you all we can with
your sewing. Bring along as much as you can."
" I guess it won't be so very much, Mrs. Martin,"
Sylvia said bravely. " You see — I'm — I'm — I'm go-
ing to have a very modest trousseau"
" It's much better that way," Mrs. Martin came
to her rescue. " It's foolish getting so much, espe-
cially when styles change so. Why, Phoebe told
me only yesterday that she's got some table-linen
that she's never used yet, and now she never will
because it's so out-of-date. I told her to give it to
294 Till He Gets Him a Wife
me." Mrs. Martin emitted a spark of her charac-
teristic asteism. " I'd be very grateful for it."
"And how is little Bertha-Elizabeth?" Marian
asked.
A transient gleam flickered in Mrs. Martin's dead
eyes. " Oh, very well, thank you. She's a quiet
little thing, you know. But she's never sick. Now
we must go." Mrs. Martin shook hands with
Marian. She leaned forward and touched Sylvia's
cheek with her lips.
" What do you think of her, Marian?" Sylvia
asked eagerly after their guests had gone.
14 Oh, she's a lovely woman," Marian said heart-
ily. . I can see just what kind of mother she's
been. She's just lived for her children. We don't
have that kind nowadays. I don't think she looks
very well, though. She seems sort of — well, listless."
11 I didn't notice," Sylvia said. " But she is
lovely. She's always been so kind to me. And you
should hear the things Ernest says about her." Syl-
via stopped talking suddenly and peered anxiously
about. " I think the house looked pretty, don't you,
Marian? I hope the dust hasn't rolled up under
the furniture the way it does." Her brow puck-
ered. " Somehow I felt sad all the time she was
here. I guess it was because I kept thinking of
mother and how she would have enjoyed all this.
If she had only lived a few years longer! Some-
how, Marian, it seems to me that I never missed
her so much as in the last few days."
" Well now, those girls are neat housekeepers, I
Till He Gets Him a Wife 295
tell you! " Debbie said, as soon as they were out of
earshot. " I couldn't see a speck of dust or dirt.
The mopboards was as clean as a whistle and you
could have et your dinner off the floor anywhere.
Mrs. Parker's a pleasant woman, isn't she? And
Sylvia'll be real pretty when she fills out a little.
But she's the last girl in the world that I'd have
expected Ernest Martin to pick out — I must say.
I thought he'd choose somebody terribly stylish.
Didn't you think a little while ago that he was
kinder sweet on that Florence Marsh?"
" Yes, I did hope — I — I — mean — for a while it
looked as if he was."
"Well," Debbie said judicially, "I should be
mighty glad it had turned out this way if he was
my son. Florence Marsh is a nice girl, but, my
grief! — she's awful homely. My land! What
queer things do come about! Who'd have thought
that when Phoebe came home from Marblehead that
time so crazy about a girl that was waiting on table
at the hotel there that "
" Debbie! " Mrs. Martin said peremptorily, " I
don't want that you should say one word in North
Campion about Sylvia's waiting on table. That's
all past and forgotten and there's no reason why
anybody should know anything about it."
" Well, Bertha Brooks ! Do you suppose I ever
would? " Debbie exclaimed in a shocked tone.
But Mr. Martin came home unexpectedly that
very night. " Well," he said after he had kissed
296 Till He Gets Him a Wife
his wife, " this is news about Ernest, isn't it? I
finished that business right up and came home. I
had to. I hadn't the remotest suspicion of any-
thing of the sort. Did you see it coming? Or was
it a surprise to you? "
" Yes," Mrs. Martin admitted tonelessly, " it
was a surprise to me." She gave a quick, furtive
look at her husband. " What do you think about
Ernie's being married so young, Edward? "
" Oh, I'm as tickled as Punch," Mr. Martin said
heartily. " I believe in young marriages, mother —
for men. I think a man ought to have the responsi-
bility of a family just as soon as he's able to sup-
port one. And Ernest has worked like a beaver for
two years. Sylvia's such a fine girl, too, and such
a plucky one. Lord, how she's worked ! My heart
used to ache for her when she'd start right in teach-
ing in the summer-school the moment her college-
year had ended. There's real stuff in Sylvia."
" Yes, she's a heroine," Mrs. Martin agreed.
" I've always said that."
Mr. Martin kept on. " I'm glad you went right
over there, mother, without waiting for me to get
home. It isn't as if Sylvia had a father and mother.
But those two girls all alone like that We can
call together to-morrow, can't we? "
11 Yes, if you like. Wasn't your train late, Ed-
ward?"
" No. I stopped to see the baby."
14 Was she awake at this hour? "
14 Yes. Delia said she'd slept right through the
Till He Gets Him a Wife 297
whole afternoon." Mr. Martin's tired, cinder-
lined face lighted up. " Knew me the moment she
saw me. Began doing that patty-cake business
without my saying a word to her. Delia says she's
begun to talk — and she put her through some little
tricks. Well, I suppose it's what you-women call
talking. But I'd hate to have my life depend on
the accuracy with which I translated it. She didn't
have a drop of sleep in her — jounced up and down
in my lap until she tired me all out. I got her
quieted down gradually and she fell asleep in my
arms. Phoebe hadn't got in yet, but I left word
for her to come up this evening. I suppose Phoebe's
delighted about the engagement."
" She hasn't talked about anything else since,"
Mrs. Martin replied. " Nor Tug. Tug seems very
fond of Sylvia."
" Well, Sylvia shows her pluck in being willing
to start married life on so little. It isn't as if
Ernest could offer his wife what Tug offered
Phoebe."
Mrs. Martin bristled. " I don't know what more
a man could have to offer a woman than Ernie's
got."
" Well — what I mean is — Ernest and Sylvia will
have to count the pennies. Phoebe thinks she econ-
omizes but Sylvia's really got to do it."
Mrs. Martin remained silent — her lips held in
tight parallel lines.
" And her courage!" Mr. Martin went on.
" Why, just think of the strength of mind it meant
298 Till He Gets Him a Wife
to take a job as waitress in order to get through
college."
"Edward! " The word exploded from Mrs.
Martin's closed lips. Mr. Martin looked at her
in surprise. M Edward, I do wish that you wouldn't
refer to Sylvia's having been a waitress. Nobody
knows it in Maywood but Mrs. Warburton and she's
just as likely to have forgotten it."
" But— but— Bertha You surely don't think
it's anything to be ashamed of."
Mrs. Martin's eyes dropped. " No," she said
with a slight hesitation. u But perhaps if Ernest
has children, he wouldn't like them to know that
their mother waited on table."
"Well— but — why— I " Mr. Martin actu-
ally stuttered in his bewilderment. " Good Lord!
If I were Ernest, I'd be proud to have my children
know it. But of course I won't make any reference
to it, if you think I'd better not. I remember it
shocked your people to find out that I'd worked in
a machine-shop for a while. I never could get the
hang of this social game as you-women play it.
What makes anybody somebody and what makes
him nobody is beyond me."
" It's only," Mrs. Martin said almost inaudibly,
11 that I'm thinking of Ernie's children."
And then a silence fell between them, a silence
so deep that it lasted until the whole room waked
up to Phoebe's brilliant, forthright presence.
And Phoebe was saying:
14 Oh, Father Martin, how glad I am to see you
Till He Gets Him a Wife 299
— you duck! I've missed you terribly. And what
do you think of your granddaughter learning to talk
while you were gone ? I hear that you and she had
a great gab-fest this afternoon. And think of Ern
Martin's being engaged! Why, it seems only yes-
terday that I was working you for a football suit
for him. And to Sylvia of all people ! Isn't it the
luckiest thing that mother and I saved Ern from
Pauline Marr that time? Little I wotted the service
I was doing my best friend. I'm perfectly dippy
about the whole thing. I've always been crazy about
Sylvia, you know. She's the only person on earth
that's ever bossed me. But I've always taken any-
thing from her. There's something so angelically
darling about Sylvia."
And Tug was saying:
" Hullo, dad! Isn't that a great kid we've got
up to the house? Talking in seven different un-
known languages at twenty months. I'm afraid the
scientists will get on and want to experiment with
her. Oh, sure ! Sylvia's been my candidate from
the start. Some bean on that girl, let me tell you.
Easy to look at, too."
Last of all, Ernest had joined them — an Ernest
whose eyes shone with a new joy, whose movements
seemed to throw off electric sparks of triumph.
And Ernest was saying:
"Thanks, father! You betchu! Oh, Lord,
Phoebe, what a question! I don't know when it
began — the first time I saw her, I guess. Considera-
ble conch, believe me! Sure, I admit it. I've got
300 Till He Gets Him a Wife
the worst case on record. I nearly stopped in the
rush-hour in the subway yesterday to tell the ticket-
chopper all about it. That's all right, Tug. You
can't bring the blush of modesty to this damask
cheek. I glory in my shame. I'm going to have
an electric sign put out in front of the house —
ME FOR SYLVIA— in eight-foot letters."
And last of all, Mrs. Martin herself was saying:
" Edward, I guess I'll have the florist come up
to-morrow and lay out a plot of ground for me.
I've always thought that sometime I'd have a rose-
garden like Aunt Mary's. I sort of feel as if it
would do me good to work out-of-doors this spring."
This was the first day of the three months which
came between the announcement of Ernest's en-
gagement and Ernest's wedding.
It was a strange three months for Mrs. Martin.
Nothing in it was as it had ever been before. Ernest
lived in the house exactly as he had lived ever since
his boyhood ; but he was no more a part of the family
life than the sunbeams which made their daily round
of the windows. He might have been a disem-
bodied spirit — the spirit of happiness. He spent
every evening with Sylvia. When he came down to
breakfast in the morning, his eyes still sparkled
with what of her was left over from the night be-
fore. When he came home to dinner at night, his
eyes glowed with the anticipation of her. Ernest
whistled and sang more than ever before in his life;
but he talked less.
Till He Gets Him a Wife 301
His intimacy with his mother seemed to be utterly
suspended. Before his engagement was announced,
he used to make to Mrs. Martin's room the instant
he got into the house, no matter what the hour.
However deep Mrs. Martin's sleep, his step outside
her door always waked her. They would talk for
a few moments before Ernest went to bed. Now he
walked straight to his room — as if present experi-
ence were so magic, so precious, so sacred that he
could not share it with mortal being. Sometimes,
without warning, Ernest would throw his arms about
his mother and treat her to a monster hug. Mrs.
Martin never returned his embrace, although she
always submitted patiently. But often in the midst
of it, Ernest's arms would fall away, his eyes would
grow absent.
" My goodness! I never saw two people so much
in love as Ern Martin and Sylvia Gordon," Phoebe
exclaimed again and again. " Mother, there's some-
thing positively pathetic about their absorption in
each other. I bet I know the answer, too. Sylvia's
never had a real home since her mother died. She's
been pushed from pillar to post and from post back
to pillar again — until now the idea that she's going
to have a place of her own seems like a fairy-tale
come true. She told me the other day that she's
made out a list of things that she's not to do, she's
so afraid of growing into a careless wife — things
like not looking pretty at breakfast and not being
trim in regard to belts and neckwear, and above all
not getting round-shouldered. Ever since she's been
302 Till He Gets Him a Wife
earning her own money, she's bought things with
the idea of having a home sometime. Why, mother,
she has the darlingest collection of ivory elephants
— tiny — but no two the same size; and several beau-
tiful, foreign photographs, exquisitely framed. And
the loveliest Wedgewood tea-set — she bought it
piece by piece — and a lot of Chinese and Japanese
things that she's picked up here and there that are
so different from anything you see in anybody else's
house. She said she always thought she was des-
tined to be an old maid; but she intended to have
a home of her own just the same, and the moment
she could afford it she was going to adopt two chil-
dren. Let me tell you, Mother Martin, there won't
be a place in this town so individual, so original, and
so quaint as Sylvia's. But what I can't under-
stand is Em Martin' s going so wild about domestic-
ity. It isn't as if he hadn't always had a good
home. How do you account for it, mother? "
Mrs. Martin replied that she had not thought of
the matter.
Superficially Mrs. Martin seemed occupied. The
rose-garden proved an ambitious affair. And she
insisted on doing all the work in it herself. Early
and late she spaded, weeded, snipped, and watered.
The long hours in the open air tanned her pre-
maturely. This partially concealed the fact that she
was steadily growing thinner.
And all the while things were happening — it was
as though Event were in collusion with Time —
which brought the wedding-day nearer and nearer.
Till He Gets Him a Wife 303
The first thing was Mr. and Mrs. Martin's joint
call on Sylvia. This time Mrs. Martin remained
silent; it was Mr. Martin who did all the talking.
And Sylvia sat, her deep eyes fixed on Mr. Martin's
face, her cheeks pink with happiness, her delicate
lips curved into a happy smile.
The next thing was Phoebe's and Tug's engage-
ment-call, conducted on Phoebe's part with so much
mock grandeur that Sylvia laughed without ceasing
all the time she stayed.
The next thing was Sylvia's visit. It came in
her spring vacation and lasted ten days. Then there
was nothing all day long but talk of the marriage;
the air was saturated with it. Early in the morn-
ing, Phoebe would arrive, wheeling a perambulator
in which little Bertha-Elizabeth, sucking a fat clan-
destine thumb, lay concealed under a mountain of
sewing materials. Or else, Phoebe insisted on bear-
ing Mrs. Martin and Sylvia away to her house for
luncheon. At dinner, Ernest asked questions that
had to do only with their progress. Immediately
afterwards, in order to correct the confining effect of
her teaching, he took Sylvia for a long auto-ride.
When they came back, Phoebe and Tug were al-
ways there. The marriage-talk immediately started
up again.
Sylvia shone with the same strange preoccupied
happiness which distinguished Ernest. Her eyes
seemed not to see what their gaze fell upon, unless
it happened to be Ernest; then their dreams melted
to an angelic tenderness. At no time a talker, she
304 Till He Gets Him a Wife
seemed more quiet than ever. But when Ernest
drew her out about their housekeeping plans, her
eyes flitted instinctively from Mrs. Martin's dead
face and came to rest on Mr. Martin's look of a
smiling sympathy. Those two had many long talks
together.
From the Martin house, Sylvia went to Phoebe.
But it was as if she had left a little golden shadow
of herself in her lover's family. Ernest became
more somnambulistic than ever. He arose a half-
hour earlier in the morning that he might go into
Boston on the same train with her. He break-
fasted with his eyes on the clock. That was the last
his mother saw of him for the day. He dined every
night at Phoebe's.
By this time Mrs. Martin's rose-bushes were in
luxuriant leaf.
The next thing was the selection of their home.
Ernest and Sylvia looked at everything in May-
wood before they decided on the tiny apartment
which balanced perfectly between their income and
their desire. Mr. Martin had announced that he
would furnish their dining-room as a wedding-gift.
Sylvia and Ernest began to make the rounds of the
dealers in antiques. " You never saw anything like
Sylvia, mother," Phoebe said. " She's drawn a plan
of every room in her apartment, with the exact
measurements written on them. You'd think she
was working out a puzzle. She knows exactly where
she's going to put every piece of furniture, every
picture, and every bit of bric-a-brac." The quar-
Till He Gets Him a Wife 305
tette — Sylvia, Phoebe, Ernest, Tug — spent all their
evenings in the barn now, scraping, oiling, and
polishing Ernests share of Aunt Mary's beautiful
mahogany.
" Ern Martin," Phoebe crowed over her brother
again and again, " I guess you're pretty glad now
that I didn't grab off all the family loot that time
you told me to — just before I was married. Maybe
you think I wasn't tempted to take you at your word.
But I guess my guardian angel whispered to me
that Sylvia was going to be your wife."
Now, indeed, the family talk had enlarged its
scope. When it did not turn on furniture or the
rest of the household equipment, it went to the
wedding itself.
" Well, mother," Phoebe announced one morn-
ing, " I've made up my mind what we're going to
wear. I'm going to have a canary-colored satin
with a sort of jacket of a very delicate black lace
picked out with gold thread. And I've thought out
the most wonderful scheme for you — gray chiffon
cloth — a dark gray — and yet not too dark — deeper
than a pearl, anyway — trimmed with lace dyed a
light gray. A girdle of silver and royal purple.
Do you think you'd like that? "
Mrs. Martin said she thought she would.
The next thing was that Mrs. Martin and Phoebe
were actually buying the materials . . . their
gowns were being fitted . . . they had come
home . . . Sylvia's invitations were out . . .,
there were only a few days more.
306 Till He Gets Him a Wife
Mrs. Martin's rose-bushes were all in bud.
And then Ernest's wedding-day came.
In the middle of the morning, Phoebe, radiantly
handsome in her canary-and-black-and-gold, came
to dress Mrs. Martin. " Why, mother/' she ex-
claimed as she helped her out of her morning gown,
" how thin you are ! I hadn't noticed it. What's
the matter? "
" I don't know," Mrs. Martin said languidly.
" I guess it's just the spring feeling. Perhaps I've
worked too hard in the garden."
" That wouldn't have caused it." A real alarm
obscured the brightness of Phoebe's face. " Though
you have worked hard. And just think of your
cutting every single blossom to send to Sylvia. If
that wasn't just like you. It's all this excitement
that's worn you out. I guess I haven't been taking
very good care of you, mother. Well, I'll stop this
right here or I'll know the reason why. To-morrow
I'll march you straight up to Dr. Bush. He's got
a tonic — Tug took it last spring. It tastes like a
mixture of gasolene and quick lime. But it certainly
does build you up."
It was a home wedding. The little living-room
in the Parker house was almost embowered in the
roses which Mrs. Martin had sent. There were not
more than a double-score of guests, and these mainly
Martin and Brooks kin. The Gordon girls pro-
duced a single relative, a step-aunt who had come
out of an Old Ladies' Home and who was touch-
Till He Gets Him a Wife 307
ingly grateful for her holiday. Sylvia's other
friends were a group of college girls who con-
tributed a real note of gayety to the occasion. Mr.
Parker, long, lean, shyly humorous, gave Sylvia
away; and Marian, in rose-pink, her face one blur
of tears, was matron-of-honor. Sylvia wore a white
crepe-de-chine gown, delicately simple, the one dress-
maker product of her wedding outfit. She carried
a loose bunch of some of Mrs. Martin's white roses.
A fillet made from their tiniest buds encircled her
hair. The wedding ceremony was performed where
the noon sunlight streamed into the room. It shone
through the transparent edges of Sylvia's gown and
through the aureole of filmy hair that had pulled
away from the rosebuds. She seemed like an ap-
parition. Ernest looked like a marble bust of him-
self.
The affair did not last very long. By a quarter
after twelve, the ceremony was over. By one they
were eating the delicious salads, ices, and cakes
which Sylvia and Marian had prepared themselves.
By two, Ernest was kissing his mother good-by —
and kissing her with his eyes on Sylvia. By three,
the Martin family, minus Ernest, were back in May-
wood.
And then days passed of which, afterwards, Mrs.
Martin never had any clear recollection.
One afternoon Mrs. Martin was bending over
the weakling of her rose-flock. Suddenly an arm
308 Till He Gets Him a Wife
came about her from above, lifted her upright,
swirled her around.
" Oh, mother!" Ernest said. That was all he
said. But he kept repeating the word over and
over — as if he had lost a precious formula and
found it again. As for Mrs. Martin, she said noth-
ing. She dropped her head onto her son's shoulder.
It stayed there for a long time.
"Where's Sylvia?" Mrs. Martin asked pres-
ently, wiping her eyes.
" She's at the apartment. We've just got in and
she was pretty tired and dusty. We're coming up
together this evening. But I couldn't wait until then
to see you. Don't let's go in now, mother. Stay
out here and talk."
Ernest came again that evening as he had prom-
ised. Sylvia looked rested and happy. She was
full of talk about their honeymoon, the wedding-
presents that had arrived during their absence, the
wonder of their perfect dining-room. After a while,
Ernest proposed that his mother take a walk with
him. They left Mr. Martin and Sylvia talking.
Presently Phoebe and Tug came. Later, the whole
family walked back with " the newly-weds," as
Phoebe now called them.
Ernest and Sylvia came to dinner at the Martin
house the next night. Immediately after they arose
from the table, Ernest took his mother for a long
stroll in the garden. The next night, Ernest and
Sylvia dined with Phoebe and Tug; but on their way
Till He Gets Him a Wife 309
home Ernest stopped for a good-night talk with
Mrs. Martin. The next night they went to the
Parkers. But at ten o'clock they were back in the
Martin house, and Ernest was saying: " Come out
in the garden with me, mother. It's one pippin of a
night. I've got something to talk over with you."
It was the same the next night and the next and
many nights after that.
" Well, Mother Martin, that tonic has certainly
done wonders for you ! " Phoebe exclaimed one day.
" Your skin is as pink and your eyes as bright. You
look ten years younger. Have you noticed, though,
how quiet Sylvia seems nowadays? Most brides
are so proud of their new possessions that they're
talking about them all the time. I realize now I
ought to have been shut up somewhere, I must have
bored people so. It's the queerest thing about Syl-
via ! I've been down there three afternoons in suc-
cession now, and she doesn't seem to show half the
enthusiasm about her home that she had before she
was married. If I make a suggestion, about some-
thing I mean on which she's asked my advice, she
says, ' Perhaps that would be a good idea ! ' and
changes the subject. And she's begun a lot of
things that she shows no interest in finishing. Have
you noticed it, mother?"
" Why, no," Mrs. Martin said slowly. " But now
you speak of it, she has seemed rather quiet lately."
That afternoon, while Mrs. Martin was working
in her garden, a shadow fell across her path. She
310 Till He Gets Him a Wife
looked up. " Mother," Sylvia said without pre-
liminary greeting. " I want to have a talk with you
— alone. Before Ernest gets home."
"Why, what is it, Sylvia?" Mrs. Martin asked
in alarm. For Sylvia's face might have been cast
in lead.
11 IVe felt for a long time that I must tell
somebody," Sylvia went on in a dull voice, " but at
first I didn't know who to go to. Of course my
first thought was Marian. But it seemed to me that,
as long as it is something which concerned Ernest,
I had no business to tell her. I worked it out that
the only thing was to come to you."
" My dear — my dear— what is it? " Mrs. Mar-
tin's alarm deepened to terror.
" It's — it's — it's — I guess I've failed as a wife. I
see that. I haven't made Ernest happy and I don't
believe I ever can. I thought I could, because I was
so crazy to have a home of my own. I was very
sure that I could make it attractive. But I can't.
I've failed."
" Failed! What do you mean, Sylvia? "
" He doesn't like our home. He doesn't want
to stay in it. He isn't happy there. Every night, the
moment we've eaten our dinner, he says, ' Now let's
go up and see mother.' He's homesick. I know
that. The moment he gets here, he takes you off
into the garden alone for a talk. I'm afraid if
we didn't live in the same town, where we could
see you every day, he couldn't stand it. He's very
unhappy. I guess he's sorry he got married."
Till He Gets Him a Wife 311
Mrs. Martin seized Sylvia's arm. " Sylvia/' she
said — and she shook the girl a little — " do you know
what Ernest talks about all the time when he's alone
with me? "
Sylvia shook her head.
" You/' Mrs. Martin said. " You— all the time
you — nothing but you. How good you are, how
beautiful, and how clever. How he never could
have believed that an inexperienced girl could start
right in and run a house so well. How delicious
the breakfasts are! How dainty the table is set!
What wonderful dinners you get up, and what va-
riety, and how economical ! And how there are al-
ways flowers about even if they're only field flowers.
And how he's never seen you untidy yet. In the
morning you might be going to a party, you look
so pretty and sweet — especially in those little caps
and morning-jackets you sometimes wear to break-
fast. And how he's being neater than he ever was
in his life, so's to keep the house looking pretty
when callers come. And how you're never cross?
And if he can ever make up his mind to give up
one moment of you, he's going to invite all the
Princeton men about Boston by squads to meet you.
And how proud he was when you came into the
office the other day. He said he guessed all the
men there envied him a wife like you. And
how "
As Mrs. Martin talked, she saw Sylvia's face
fill with a rose-pink tide, her eyes with an azure
flood, as that light which had died down on the altar
312 Till He Gets Him a Wife
of her happiness burned up and burst into radiant
flame.
" Edward" Mrs. Martin said that night as they
went to bed, u somehow it seems to me I never was
so happy in my life as I am now. I think we've got
a good deal to be thankful for, Phoebe married to
such a nice man and with the dearest baby in the
world, and now Ernest getting such a treasure as
Sylvia. I had a long talk with Sylvia to-day. I told
her what a clever housekeeper she was and how
proud we all were of her. When I think of the
kind of girl Ernest might have picked out — oh, Ed-
ward, I guess V d better spend the rest of my life
trying to be grateful enough! "
CHAPTER XII
THE FOUND CHILDREN
"T3UT, Mrs. Martin, there's no use talking,
J3 when your children marry, you lose them.
Harold has never been the same to me since he mar-
ried Clara Haywood. He's gone right over to the
Haywoods. He spends every Wednesday and Sun-
day night of his life with her folks. He only comes
to see me when he thinks of it. Of course Ray
Carleton is a nice fellow. But he's so young. And
Grade's so young. Somehow I can't get used to the
idea. It seems wicked. What would you do, Mrs.
Martin?"
Mrs. Seaver's little dark sallow face, a mass of
wrinkles normally, seemed, under the stress of her
emotion, to tie itself into knots. Her claw-like little
hands twisted, folding and unfolding. The tears
stood frankly in eyes too big and bright for her face,
eyes that held the furtive, alert gleam of some very
tiny, easily-frightened animal.
Mrs. Seaver's face offered the one discordant note
in the serene calm of the big living-rooms. In the
years which had elapsed since Phoebe first took its
decoration in hand, the Martin house had acquired
some of the beauty of its early days. The wall-
papers had faded a little, the mission furniture
313
314 The Found Children
showed the marks of use. Mrs. Martin's climbing
plants wreathed the noble mantels in their vivid
green. Vases and bowls held brilliant bunches of
dahlias and asters. Many framed pictures of chil-
dren littered the tables and bookcases. To-day
the house was in the perfection of order. Every-
thing that could shine, shone. A Sunday quiet lay
over the rooms, and yet the whole house held an
air of tiptoe excitement — as if it awaited something.
Mrs. Martin evidently awaited something. Her
eyes kept straying out the window. If the atmos-
pheric values ran down to discord in Mrs. Seaver's
face, they ran up to harmony in Mrs. Martin's.
Except for that transient flash of expectancy, her
look was perfectly placid. She still kept her tall,
spare figure; but the years had turned her hair
white; they had lined her face deeply.
" Well, I don't know as I know what I'd do,"
Mrs. Martin answered. " At least, I can't say right
off. Of course Gracie is young — only eighteen, isn't
she?"
Mrs. Seaver nodded.
"Just think of it!" Mrs. Martin commented.
M It seems only yesterday that she was running over
here for Phoebe to read ' Little Women ' to her."
" Mrs. Martin, to this day Gracie gets ' Little
Women ' out every once in a while and reads it all
over again. That's as undeveloped as she is." Mrs.
Seaver wiped her eyes indignantly.
" But when it comes to her marrying so young,"
Mrs. Martin went on slowly. " I guess I agree
The Found Children 315
with you. I think most mothers would. It's queer
the difference in the way you feel about your chil-
dren marrying. When Phoebe came to get engaged
— she was over twenty, you know — I didn't seem to
mind it at all. But Edward took it awfully hard. It
seemed as if he never would get reconciled. When
Ernie's engagement came out, Edward was simply
delighted. But they'd been married a month before
I stopped crying nights. I've worked it out that
men hate to lose their daughters and women their
sons. But they've all got to face it, for marry they
will. It's nature."
" Oh, it isn't marriage I object to. Lord knows
I don't want Gracie to be an old maid. But when
she's so young and all I've got — well, it just seems
cruel to have her go so soon. Why, we've done
everything together — you might say. We did all
our shopping together. Once a week, ever since
she's been old enough, we've gone to a matinee to-
gether. I've chaperoned her to every dance. And
now that'll be all over. She'll have her own family
and her own interests. Oh, it will never be the
same again. I'll lose her."
" It will never be the same again," Mrs. Martin
agreed. " But I don't think you'll lose her. That
is, unless "
" Why, now, Mrs. Martin," Mrs. Seaver's pes-
simism flared into a hysterical recklessness, " take
you and Phoebe. Phoebe lives in the same town
with you, and of course, in a way, you see a lot of
her. And yet she's giving luncheons and dinner-
316 The Found Children
parties and whists all the time, but you don't go
to a half of them, nor a quarter."
Mrs. Martin bristled a little. " Yes, that's true,"
she acknowledged. " But that isn't because I'm
not invited or because Phoebe don't want me. It's
only because "
" I know," Mrs. Seaver said, her recklessness
giving way to melancholy. " There are plenty of
reasons why, but the long and short of it is you
don't go. And that's what I'm afraid will happen
with Gracie and me. I'll go to everything she gives
for a while. Then I'll begin to feel old and passe
and in the way and as if my clothes weren't right —
and I'll make excuses to stay at home. And then
I'll get tired of keeping house all alone and she
won't want me, so I'll take to boarding. And the
first thing I know I'll be one of those old ladies who
sit round boarding-house parlors and gossip and
knit — except once in a while when I go to Grade's
house for a luncheon of left-overs. And when
finally I get so lonely that I can't stand that any
longer, I'll enter some Old Ladies' Home. I don't
know but what I'd better save myself a lot of trouble
by going into one the day after Gracie gets mar-
ried."
u Oh, Mrs. Seaver! " Mrs. Martin exclaimed in
a shocked tone. " But then," she added as if re-
assuring herself, M you can't. You're not old
enough. Oh," she exclaimed joyfully, " there's
Phoebe now and Bertha-Elizabeth."
Mrs. Seaver rose hastily. " I guess I don't want
The Found Children 317
Phoebe to catch me crying. I'll run home by the
back way if you don't mind."
" Come over this afternoon, won't you, Mrs.
Seaver?" Mrs. Martin entreated. " There's al-
ways a lot of young folks here for supper, Sunday
night. I know you'll enjoy it."
" Well," Mrs. Seaver said, " perhaps. I don't
feel much like it, though." She disappeared in the
direction of the kitchen.
Mrs. Martin moved over to the window and
watched her daughter's approach.
Phoebe had not grown matronly in the last seven
years, although the diaphanous look of girlhood had
entirely left her. Every physical element in her
maiden comeliness had been accented and empha-
sized. She was a creature now of definite outlines,
high lights, glossy surfaces. The willowy, break-
able quality in her figure had given way to an air
of vigor and virility. The velvety amber-olive of
her skin had deepened to an out-of-doors hardness.
A permanent color glowed in her cheeks and lips.
Her yellow-brown hair looked like carved metal.
Her eyes, however, showed a change. Deep under
their sparkle lay a little sadness, as if there were
one question she put perpetually to fate. But for
that, she had the air of a perfectly happy woman.
A little girl in a long gray coat and a high
peaked hat walked at her side. She was a slim, frail
creature, of a transparent, silver-blonde type, with
dove's eyes of a deep gray, with cheeks and lips
tinted a delicate shell-pink. After a whispered col-
318 The Found Children
loquy at the gate, she dropped her mother's hand
and scampered over to the barn. Phoebe continued
up the path.
11 Greetings, mother! " she called from the door.
And she talked all the way through the hall. u I
have never seen such a day. The air is like honey
with a drop of wine in it. I've been drinking it
down. Oh, how I love this season ! "
She entered the room with all her accustomed
effect of dispersing by the mere force of her vitality
every shadow in it.
" Well, you come honestly by it," said her mother.
11 I love the fall, too. Some folks feel sad when
the leaves begin to drop. But there's something
about it — I never could tell exactly what — that
makes me as gay."
" Bertha-Elizabeth and I walked in the gutter all
the way up. It's such fun to hear the dead leaves
rustle and snap and crackle. It exhilarates me."
" How's it happen Bertha-Elizabeth isn't at Sun-
day-school?" Mrs. Martin asked.
" She got sort of droopy in church. So I decided
I wouldn't let her stay. Somehow she doesn't seem
to stand half as much as the other two. Some-
times " Phoebe paused. That look of perpet-
ual question in her eyes grew almost poignant as an
inner anxiety darkened the happy buoyancy of her
mood, " sometimes I worry about Bertha-Elizabeth.
She looks so — so — sort of — ethereal and far-away.
But she is a healthy child, don't you think so,
mother?"
The Found Children 319
" Why, of course she is." Mrs. Martin's em-
phasis was suspiciously strong. " She's never sick."
" I know that — but I have a sort of feeling that
she's well only because I keep her so. She's different
from the other two. Well, I know it would kill me
if anything happened to her. Oh, mother," Phoebe
changed the subject abruptly, " I've had such a time
for two days with Phoebe-Girl. She gets naughtier
and naughtier every day of her life. I can't do a
thing with her." Phoebe's eyes blazed with that
proud indignation with which ever the mothers of
mischievous children narrate their exploits. " Now
let me tell you what she did this morning. Ellen's
mother is ill. *She had to leave early yesterday
morning and I've had charge of Phoebe-Girl ever
since. I'd rather take care of a box of monkeys.
Yesterday I couldn't get my bath in, I was so busy
looking after her. This morning I drew the tub
full of water. She was playing about and I left her
alone in the bathroom for just exactly one minute.
When I came back, everything in the room was in
the, tub — wash-cloths, clean towels, soap, tooth-
brushes, tooth-pastes, bottles, glasses, sponges. I
was half an hour cleaning up."
" Did you punish her? "
" It does no good to punish her, mother, she's
always so interested in her punishments. She seems
to look upon it as some new game we're playing.
Then I try reasoning with her. I've talked until I
was blue in the face. She listens as if I were telling
her a fairy-tale, her eyes sparkling, all her dimples
320 The Found Children
showing. Then the instant I get through, she goes
right straight from my side and does it again."
" Why doesn't Tug attend to her? "
" Tug! She winds Tug right round her finger.
Mother, I tell you I'm put to it sometimes. I didn't
have any such trouble with Bertha-Elizabeth or To-
land. I suppose they were naturally good children,
but I thought they were good because I made them
so."
" Well — Phoebe," Mrs. Martin exclaimed scath-
ingly, u I could have told you you were no discipli-
narian."
" I guess you're right, mother. But I simply
can't scold them — the things they do are so dar-
ling. I try to sometimes, but I always burst out
laughing right in the midst of it. That system
worked all right with the first two. But what I'm
going to do with Phoebe-Girl, I don't know. We
have to watch her every blessed minute. If there's
one instant of quiet in the house we all get up and
hunt her."
" That's exactly the kind of child you were,
Phoebe." Mrs. Martin's voice swelled with a note
of triumph as if fate had at last avenged certain
obscure wrongs.
11 It's a judgment on me, then. I told her yes-
terday that she was so bad I was going to give her
away."
" Well! " Mrs. Martin exclaimed indignantly,
" you know who you can give her to without going
a step further."
The Found Children 321
" Oh, yes, she stipulated that she was to be given
to you. In fact, the idea seemed to delight her.
Two hours later I found all her clothes — every rag
she owns — in the middle of the floor, ready to pack.
I spent another half hour putting them away. Oh,
it's all right for you to take that superior air, Mrs.
Martin, but I don't seem to see you exercising any
of your vaunted severity towards your grandchil-
dren. I notice if you're around, when they do any-
thing naughty, you always find some reason why
they shouldn't be punished."
Phoebe paused for a moment. Then, " What are
father and Bertha-Elizabeth doing?" she asked in
a baffled tone. " Oh, I know," she added after an-
other perplexed instant, " they're hunting for horse-
chestnuts. Do you know, mother, that's my earliest
memory about this place — hunting horse-chestnuts.
I couldn't have been more than three. I remember
how wonderful I thought they were — so glossy and
beautiful. I used to hunt them until I had
bucketsful. And then I never could think of
anything to do with them." Phoebe sighed. " A
good deal of life's like that, isn't it? I have always
loved our horse-chestnut trees. They're the biggest
ones in Maywood. When they budded in the spring,
they used to look like candelabras to me. And
when the leaves first came out, they were like pointer
dogs' paws. And then the wonderful cone-shaped
blossoms and then the opening burs. You never
let me go off the place until I went to school and
I used to think there was an enchanted country on
322 The Found Children
the other side of the horse-chestnut hedge. I loved
the maples too. Why, there was one time when
every book I owned was full of pressed maple-
leaves. But the color used always to fade out of
them." Phoebe sighed again. " That's a little like
life, too, isn't it? Oh, I am so glad that my chil-
dren are going to have the same beautiful memories
that I have."
Phoebe seemed to run down. But her gaze lin-
gered on her little daughter, whose eyes, shining
with wonder, had fixed themselves on her grand-
father's face. Hand in hand, those two still walked
among the falling yellow leaves.
" How crazy he is about that child! " Phoebe re-
marked.
" Not more crazy than he is about the others,"
Mrs. Martin said quickly.
■■■ Oh, yes, he is," Phoebe insisted. " I know who
all the favorites among my children are. You can't
fool a mother. Bertha-Elizabeth is his and Sylvia's,
Toland is yours and mine, Phoebe-Girl is Tug's and
Ern's. But I never saw anything like father. I
think he loves Bertha-Elizabeth more than he loved
me."
There was a faint note of some strange emotion
in Phoebe's blithe tone. Mrs. Martin shot a quick
look at her. Then- she smiled a little.
11 He loves you in her as he loved me in you,"
she explained.
" I don't remember that he ever played with me
for hours at a time." Again there was that little
The Found Children 323
questioning, wistful note in Phoebe's voice. She
stared in a half-grieved way out the window.
Mrs. Martin smiled again. " Sometimes," she
began after a pause, " I think men are the most
pathetic creatures on earth. All their lives they're
looking for something they never find. Women are
different. They know right in the beginning they're
never going to get it. You take your father. How
he loved me ! We were all in all to each other '
until you children came. Then I couldn't do a thing
that he wanted me to, it seemed as if. I didn't love
him any the less, but you children needed me more —
you were so helpless. So many times he wanted
me to go places with him evenings and I couldn't
because there was no one to stay with you and Ernie.
Then he sort of adjusted himself to that, and the
first thing I knew, you were all in all to him. He
just worshiped the ground you walked on. Then
you got married to Tug and stepped out of this
house as easy as if you hadn't known your father
more than a month. Well, he accommodated him-
self to that. And now he's putting all his extra
affection into little Bertha-Elizabeth. And I sup-
pose some time she'll marry and leave him."
" Of course she will," Phoebe said. " I don't
want any old maids in this family. Neither would
father. Let me tell you, though, I'm going to ad-
minister cyanide of potassium to the girl who mar-
ries my son. It's queer — but I simply cannot bear
to think of Toland's falling in love. Sometimes I
feel as if I were an unnatural parent. It didn't
324 The Found Children
seem to bother you a bit, mother, when Ern Martin
married Sylvia. "
Phoebe's eyes were still out the window. Mrs.
Martin smiled again. But it was a different smile
this time. Perhaps it was not a smile at all, more
the ghost of a dead pain.
11 There they come now ! " Phoebe exclaimed.
Mrs. Martin jumped up from her rocker and moved
quickly over to the window. Two children turned
in at the gate. A curly-headed, snub-nosed, freckled
boy in a blue coat with brass buttons, a little gipsy-
colored girl in a scarlet, hooded cape and a scarlet
cap. They made straight for their grandfather,
who received the onslaught with both feet braced.
" Mother Warburton says," Phoebe went on,
11 that she never in her life saw two people so much
alike as Tug and little Toland. She says it's almost
uncanny. She's got their two baby pictures framed
together."
Mrs. Martin kept silent by a supreme effort.
This obsession of Mrs. Warburton's was a great
irritation to her. It turned the knife in the wound
that Phoebe shared it. It seemed to Mrs. Martin
that little Toland's resemblance to his Uncle Ernest
and to his grandfather Martin was so apparent as to
be little short of comic.
" But I declare, I can't see who Phoebe-Girl takes
after," Phoebe went on, " Mrs. Warburton says
that she's the image of her mother."
Again Mrs. Martin held a noble peace. Phoebe-
Girl's resemblance to Aunt Mary could be proved
The Found Children 325
by dozens of tintypes and daguerreotypes, by even
a faded photograph or two.
Mr. Martin had in the meantime lifted the in-
sistent Phoebe-Girl onto his shoulder. He bore her
pig-a-back, at the head of the procession which
made toward the house.
" Lord love her! " Phoebe's voice almost broke
under its burden of tenderness, " she can be as
naughty as she wants — she's the handsomest thing
I ever laid my eyes on." The procession wound
into the house through the back door. Involun-
tarily the two women listened to the dialogue coming
through the hall.
" But gwampa — evwywhere?" It was Phoebe-
Girl's wondering treble.
" Yes, everywhere." It was Mr. Martin's posi-
tive bass.
" In the ice-chest, gwampa? "
" Well — yes — I suppose so."
The front of the procession appeared in the door-
way. " Mudder," Phoebe-Girl announced radi-
antly, " God's in the ice-chest."
" Thank goodness, father," Phoebe remarked,
" you can answer her questions one day in the week.
I haven't any words or ideas left by Sunday."
Mr. Martin seated himself on the couch, Phoebe-
Girl still hanging from his shoulders. The other
two children threw themselves like a pair of little
wolves on their grandmother.
" I've already had a rather exhausting session
with Bertha-Elizabeth," Mr. Martin admitted.
326 The Found Children
" I've explained the sidereal system, molecular
energy, and the Darwinian theory."
11 Oh, they've just begun to get under way,"
Phoebe said comfortingly. " Wait until they ask
you what's at the other end of space and what hap-
pens when time stops. And what there was before
anything began and what there'll be when it all ends.
And how far the stars reach into space." She
stared at the pair of faces, her father's square,
twinkling, freshly florid, framed in crisp white hair,
her daughter's oval, dimpled, rose-and-snow, emerg-
ing from flying masses of jet-black curls. " Not
wishing to pry, Mr. Martin, but just as a matter of
curiosity, how many mash-notes do you receive a
day?"
" I really don't know, Mrs. Warburton," her fa-
ther replied in kind. " I have engaged one stenog-
rapher who does nothing but answer those letters.
My orders to her are never to bother me with them.
Oh, here comes the rest of the family."
From the path, Sylvia and Ernest waved to the
group in the window. Two boys, palpably twins,
slim, determined-looking, black-eyed, black-haired
little chaps, trotted on ahead.
" Oh, how I wish I had twin boys like Edward
and Ernest! " Phoebe said. " Aren't they darlings!
And I'd like twin girls, too. And a red-headed
baby. And that's all."
The room exploded in another moment into a
flurry of greetings. Ernest kissed his mother, sank,
with a sigh of relief, into the Morris chair. Phoebe-
The Found Children 327
Girl immediately climbed into his lap. Bertha-Eliza-
beth took the place beside her deserted grandfather.
The three little boys faded silently in the direction
of the barn.
" Uncle Ernest, God's in the coal-bin and the ice-
chest," Phoebe-Girl announced triumphantly.
Ernest laughed. " Our family wrestled with the
problem of omnipresence two years ago," he com-
mented, " but we still bear the scars."
Ernest had changed more than Phoebe. Much of
his boy's beaute de diable had gone with his boy's
coloring. His face had grown serious in expression:
already it had begun to line a little ; there were hol-
lows under the eyes. Ernest would be very hand-
some in the portly forties, but in the tense thirties
he looked a little drawn. His smile, however, still
brought an extraordinary illumination.
In spite of her two sturdy sons — perhaps because
of them — Sylvia still retained her fragility of figure.
Her eyes still held their limpid innocent angel's
look. Her face was soft and tender. It had begun,
very delicately, to fade.
Mrs. Martin seated herself beside her son.
" How have the children been, Ernie? "
" Very well — and very bad," Ernest answered.
" Mother, if I believed in astrology, I wouldn't dare
to have their horoscopes cast. I haven't the nerve
to face the truth. Sylvia seems to think they'll es-
cape the electric-chair, though."
" But by a very narrow margin, I'm perfectly
willing to admit," Sylvia said. " Yesterday morning
328 The Found Children
they got at the vacuum-cleaner. They cleaned my
dresser of hairpins, side-combs, jewelry, every
little thing on it. Oh, it was such a dirty, dusty job
getting them back. In the afternoon there was some
work I had to do. So I tied each of the twins by
a long clothes-line to a tree back of the house. I
put their toys where they could get them and left
them to their fates. It's the first quiet morning I've
had since they were born. But I suppose," she
added apologetically, " all healthy boys are mis-
chievous, aren't they, mother? "
" Yes — and girls," Mrs. Martin said. u Ernie
wasn't a bit worse than Phoebe — not half so bad, I
sometimes thought."
Over her mother's head, Phoebe winked at her
brother. " Mother," she said in a serious voice,
" there's only one criticism I have to bring against
you in your maternal capacity and that is the harsh
way you've always treated Ern."
M Yes, mother," Ernest agreed solemnly, " I have
felt that if you had relieved the severity of your
attitude with an occasional kindness, I should have
turned out a different man."
Mrs. Martin tried not to smile. " Still, I don't
think I indulged you, Ernie."
11 Not a
