Part 2 out of 9
whose young men Aline had temporarily confiscated, and then returned
saddened and chastened, who were spiteful. And they dared say no more
than that Aline would probably have known her mind better if she had
had a mother to look after her. This, coming to the ears of Aline,
caused her to reply that a girl who could not keep straight herself,
but needed a mother to help her, would not keep straight had she a
dozen mothers. As she put it cheerfully, a girl who goes wrong and
then pleads "no mother to guide her" is like a jockey who pulls a race
and then blames the horse.
Each of the young men Aline rejected married some one else and,
except when the name of Aline Proctor in the theatrical
advertisements or in electric lights on Broadway gave him a
start, forgot that for a month her name and his own had been
linked together from Portland to San Francisco. But the girl he
married did not forget. She never understood what the public saw
in Aline Proctor. That Aline was the queen of musical comedy she
attributed to the fact that Aline knew the right people and got
herself written about in the right way. But that she could sing,
dance, act; that she possessed compelling charm; that she "got
across" not only to the tired business man, the wine agent, the
college boy, but also to the children and the old ladies, was to
her never apparent.
Just as Aline could not forgive the rejected suitor for allowing
her to love him, so the girl he married never forgave Aline for
having loved her husband. Least of all could Sally Winthrop, who
two years after the summer at Bar Harbor married Herbert Nelson,
forgive her. And she let Herbert know it. Herbert was properly
in love with Sally Winthrop, but he liked to think that his
engagement to Aline, though brief and abruptly terminated, had
proved him to be a man fatally attractive to all women. And
though he was hypnotizing himself into believing that his feeling
for Aline had been the grand passion, the truth was that all that
kept her in his thoughts was his own vanity. He was not
discontented with his lot--his lot being Sally Winthrop, her
millions, and her estate of three hundred acres near Westbury.
Nor was he still longing for Aline. It was only that his vanity
was flattered by the recollection that one of the young women
most beloved by the public had once loved him.
"I once was a king in Babylon," he used to misquote to himself,
"and she was a Christian slave."
He was as young as that.
Had he been content in secret to assure himself that he once had
been a reigning monarch, his vanity would have harmed no one;
but, unfortunately, he possessed certain documentary evidence to
that fact. And he was sufficiently foolish not to wish to destroy
it. The evidence consisted of a dozen photographs he had snapped
of Aline during the happy days at Bar Harbor, and on which she
had written phrases somewhat exuberant and sentimental.
From these photographs Nelson was loath to part--especially with
one that showed Aline seated on a rock that ran into the waters of
the harbor, and on which she had written: "As long as this rock
lasts!" Each time she was in love Aline believed it would last.
That in the past it never had lasted did not discourage her.
What to do with these photographs that so vividly recalled the
most tumultuous period of his life Nelson could not decide. If he
hid them away and Sally found them, he knew she would make his
life miserable. If he died and Sally then found them, when he no
longer was able to explain that they meant nothing to him, she
would believe he always had loved the other woman, and it would
make her miserable. He felt he could not safely keep them in his
own house; his vanity did not permit him to burn them, and,
accordingly, he decided to unload them on some one else.
The young man to whom he confided his collection was Charles
Cochran. Cochran was a charming person from the West. He had
studied in the Beaux Arts and on foot had travelled over England
and Europe, preparing himself to try his fortune in New York as
an architect. He was now in the office of the architects Post &
Constant, and lived alone in a tiny farmhouse he had made over
for himself near Herbert Nelson, at Westbury, Long Island.
Post & Constant were a fashionable firm and were responsible for
many of the French chateaux and English country houses that were
rising near Westbury, Hempstead, and Roslyn; and it was Cochran's
duty to drive over that territory in his runabout, keep an eye on
the contractors, and dissuade clients from grafting mansard roofs
on Italian villas. He had built the summer home of the Herbert
Nelsons, and Herbert and Charles were very warm friends. Charles
was of the same lack of years as was Herbert, of an enthusiastic
and sentimental nature; and, like many other young men, the story
of his life also was the lovely and much-desired Aline Proctor.
It was this coincidence that had made them friends and that had
led Herbert to select Charles as the custodian of his treasure.
As a custodian and confidant Charles especially appealed to his
new friend, because, except upon the stage and in restaurants,
Charles had never seen Aline Proctor, did not know her--and
considered her so far above him, so unattainable, that he had no
wish to seek her out. Unknown, he preferred to worship at a
distance. In this determination Herbert strongly encouraged him.
When he turned over the pictures to Charles, Herbert could not
resist showing them to him. They were in many ways charming.
They presented the queen of musical comedy in several new roles.
In one she was in a sailor suit, giving an imitation of a girl
paddling a canoe. In another she was in a riding-habit mounted
upon a pony of which she seemed very much afraid.
In some she sat like a siren among the rocks with the waves and
seaweed snatching at her feet, and in another she crouched
beneath the wheel of Herbert's touring car. All of the
photographs were unprofessional and intimate, and the
legends scrawled across them were even more intimate.
"'As long as this rock lasts!'" read Herbert. At arm's length he
held the picture for Cochran to see, and laughed bitterly and
unmirthfully as he had heard leading men laugh in problem plays.
"That is what she wrote," he mocked--"but how long did it last?
Until she saw that little red-headed Albany playing polo. That
lasted until his mother heard of it. She thought her precious
lamb was in the clutches of a designing actress, and made the
Foreign Office cable him home. Then Aline took up one of those
army aviators, and chucked him for that fellow who painted her
portrait, and threw him over for the lawn-tennis champion. Now
she's engaged to Chester Griswold, and Heaven pity her! Of course
he's the greatest catch in America; but he's a prig and a snob, and
he's so generous with his money that he'll give you five pennies for
a nickel any time you ask him. He's got a heart like the metre of a
taxicab, and he's jealous as a cat. Aline will have a fine time with
Chester! I knew him at St. Paul's and at Harvard, and he's got as
much red blood in him as an eel!"
Cochran sprang to the defense of the lady of his dreams.
"There must be some good in the man," he protested, "or Miss
"Oh, those solemn snobs," declared Herbert, "impress women by
just keeping still. Griswold pretends the reason he doesn't speak
to you is because he's too superior, but the real reason is that
he knows whenever he opens his mouth he shows he is an ass."
Reluctantly Herbert turned over to Charles the precious pictures.
"It would be a sin to destroy them, wouldn't it?" he prompted.
Cochran agreed heartily.
"You might even," suggested Herbert, "leave one or two of them
about. You have so many of Aline already that one more wouldn't
be noticed. Then when I drop in I could see it." He smiled
"But those I have I bought," Cochran pointed out. "Anybody can
buy them, but yours are personal. And they're signed."
"No one will notice that but me," protested Herbert. "Just one or
two," he coaxed-"stuck round among the others. They'd give me a
heap of melancholy pleasure."
Charles shook his head doubtfully.
"Your wife often comes here with you," he said. "I don't believe
they'd give her melancholy pleasure. The question is, are you married
to Sally or to Aline Proctor?"
"Oh, of course," exclaimed Herbert--" if you refuse!"
With suspicious haste Charles surrendered.
"I don't refuse," he explained; "I only ask if it's wise. Sally
knows you were once very fond of Miss Proctor--knows you were
engaged to her."
"But," protested Herbert, "Sally sees your photographs of Aline.
What difference can a few more make? After she's seen a dozen
she gets used to them."
No sooner had Herbert left him than the custodian of the treasure
himself selected the photographs he would display. In them the
young woman he had--from the front row of the orchestra--so
ardently admired appeared in a new light. To Cochran they seemed
at once to render her more kindly, more approachable; to show her
as she really was, the sort of girl any youth would find it extremely
difficult not to love. Cochran found it extremely easy. The photographs
gave his imagination all the room it wanted. He believed they also gave
him an insight into her real character that was denied to anybody else.
He had always credited her with all the virtues; he now endowed her
with every charm of mind and body. In a week to the two photographs
he had selected from the loan collection for purposes of display and to
give Herbert melancholy pleasure he had added three more. In two
weeks there were half a dozen. In a month, nobly framed in silver,
in leather of red, green, and blue, the entire collection smiled upon him
from every part of his bedroom. For he now kept them where no one
but himself could see them. No longer was he of a mind to share
his borrowed treasure with others--not even with the rightful
Chester Griswold, spurred on by Aline Proctor, who wanted to
build a summer home on Long Island, was motoring with Post, of
Post & Constant, in the neighborhood of Westbury. Post had
pointed out several houses designed by his firm, which he hoped
might assist Griswold in making up his mind as to the kind of
house he wanted; but none they had seen had satisfied his client.
"What I want is a cheap house," explained the young millionaire.
"I don't really want a house at all," he complained. "It's Miss
Proctor's idea. When we are married I intend to move into my
mother's town house, but Miss Proctor wants one for herself in
the country. I've agreed to that; but it must be small and it
must be cheap."
"Cheap" was a word that the clients of Post & Constant never
used; but Post knew the weaknesses of some of the truly rich, and
he knew also that no house ever built cost only what the
architect said it would cost.
"I know the very house you want!" he exclaimed. "One of our
young men owns it. He made it over from an old farmhouse. It's
very well arranged; we've used his ground-plan several times and
it works out splendidly. If he's not at home, I'11 show you over the
place myself. And if you like the house he's the man to build you one."
When they reached Cochran's home he was at Garden City playing
golf, but the servant knew Mr. Post, and to him and his client
threw open every room in the house.
"Now, this," exclaimed the architect enthusiastically, "is the
master's bedroom. In your case it would probably be your wife's
room and you would occupy the one adjoining, which Cochran now
uses as a guest-room. As you see, they are entirely cut off from-"
Mr. Griswold did not see. Up to that moment he had given every
appearance of being both bored and sulky. Now his attention was
entirely engaged--but not upon the admirable simplicity of Mr.
Cochran's ground-plan, as Mr. Post had hoped. Instead, the eyes
of the greatest catch in America were intently regarding a display
of photographs that smiled back at him from every corner of the
room. Not only did he regard these photographs with a savage glare,
but he approached them and carefully studied the inscriptions scrawled
across the face of each.
Post himself cast a glance at the nearest photographs, and then
hastily manoeuvred his client into the hall and closed the door.
"We will now," he exclaimed, "visit the butler's pantry, which
opens upon the dining-room and kitchen, thus saving--"
But Griswold did not hear him. Without giving another glance at
the house he stamped out of it and, plumping himself down in the
motor-car, banged the door. Not until Post had driven him well
into New York did he make any comment.
"What did you say," he then demanded, "is the name of the man who
owns that last house we saw?"
Post told him.
"I never heard of him!" said Griswold as though he were
delivering young Cochran's death sentence. "Who is he?"
"He's an architect in our office," said Post. "We think a lot of
him. He'll leave us soon, of course. The best ones always do. His
work is very popular. So is he."
"I never heard of him," repeated Griswold. Then, with sudden
heat, he added savagely: "But I mean to to-night."
When Griswold had first persuaded Aline Proctor to engage herself
to him he had suggested that, to avoid embarrassment, she should
tell him the names of the other men to whom she had been engaged.
"What kind of embarrassment would that avoid?"
"If I am talking to a man," said Griswold, "and he knows the
woman I'm going to marry was engaged to him and I don't know
that, he has me at a disadvantage."
"I don't see that he has," said Aline. "If we suppose, for the sake
of argument, that to marry me is desirable, I would say that the
man who was going to marry me had the advantage over the one
I had declined to marry."
"I want to know who those men are," explained Griswold, "because
I want to avoid them. I don't want to talk to them. I don't want
even to know them."
"I don't see how I can help you," said Aline. "I haven't the
slightest objection to telling you the names of the men I have
cared for, if I can remember them, but I certainly do not intend
to tell you the name of any man who cared for me enough to ask me
to marry him. That's his secret, not mine--certainly not yours."
Griswold thought he was very proud. He really was very vain; and
as jealousy is only vanity in its nastiest development he was
extremely jealous. So he persisted.
"Will you do this?" he demanded. "If I ever ask you, 'Is that one
of the men you cared for?' will you tell me?"
"If you wish it," said Aline; "but I can't see any health in it.
It will only make you uncomfortable. So long as you know I have
given you the greatest and truest love I am capable of, why
should you concern yourself with my mistakes?"
"So that I can avoid meeting what you call your mistakes," said
Griswold--" and being friendly with them."
"I assure you," laughed Aline, "it wouldn't hurt you a bit to be
as friendly with them as they'd let you. Maybe they weren't as
proud of their families as you are, but they made up for that by
being a darned sight prouder of me!"
Later, undismayed by this and unashamed, on two occasions
Griswold actually did demand of Aline if a genial youth she had
just greeted joyfully was one of those for whom she once had
And Aline had replied promptly and truthfully that he was. But in
the case of Charles Cochran, Griswold did not ask Aline if he was
one of those for whom she once had cared. He considered the
affair with Cochran so serious that, in regard to that man, he
adopted a different course.
In digging rivals out of the past his jealousy had made him
indefatigable, but in all his researches he never had heard the
name of Charles Cochran. That fact and the added circumstance
that Aline herself never had mentioned the man was in his eyes so
suspicious as to be almost a damning evidence of deception. And
he argued that if in the past Aline had deceived him as to Charles
Cochran she would continue to do so. Accordingly, instead
of asking her frankly for the truth he proceeded to lay traps for
it. And if there is one thing Truth cannot abide, it is being
hunted by traps.
That evening Aline and he were invited to a supper in her honor,
and as he drove her from the theatre to the home of their hostess
he told her of his search earlier in the day.
The electric light in the limousine showed Aline's face as
clearly as though it were held in a spotlight, and as he prepared
his trap Griswold regarded her jealously.
"Post tells me," he said, "he has the very man you want for your
architect. He's sure you'll find him most understanding and--and-
sympathetic. He's a young man who is just coming to the front,
and he's very popular, especially with women."
"What's his being popular with women," asked Aline, "got to do
with his carrying out my ideas of a house?"
"That's just it," said Griswold--"it's the woman who generally has
the most to say as to how her house shall be built, and this man
understands woman. I have reasons for believing he will certainly
"If he understands me well enough to give me all the
linen-closets I want," said Aline, "he will be perfectly
Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back into his corner of
the car, drew his hat brim over his forehead, and fixed spying
eyes upon the very lovely face of the girl he had asked to marry
"His name," he said in fateful tones, "is Charles Cochran!"
It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to his distress, Aline
neither started nor turned pale. Neither, for trying to trick
her, did she turn upon him in reproof and anger. Instead, with
alert eyes, she continued to peer out of the window at the
electric-light advertisements and her beloved Broadway.
"Well?" demanded Griswold; his tone was hoarse and heavy with
"Well what?" asked Aline pleasantly.
"How," demanded Griswold, "do you like Charles Cochran for an
"How should I know?" asked Aline. "I've not met him yet!"
She had said it! And she had said it without the waver of one of
her lovely eyelashes. No wonder the public already hailed her as
a finished actress! Griswold felt that his worst fears were
justified. She had lied to him. And, as he knew she had never
before lied to him, that now she did so proved beyond hope of
doubt that the reason for it was vital, imperative, and compelling.
But of his suspicions Griswold gave no sign. He would not at
once expose her. He had trapped her, but as yet she must not
know that. He would wait until he had still further entangled
her--until she could not escape; and then, with complete proof
of her deceit, he would confront and overwhelm her.
With this amiable purpose in mind he called early the next morning
upon Post & Constant and asked to see Mr. Cochran. He wished,
he said, to consult him about the new house. Post had not yet
reached the office, and of Griswold's visit with Post to his house
Cochran was still ignorant. He received Griswold most courteously.
He felt that the man who was loved by the girl he also had long and
hopelessly worshipped was deserving of the highest consideration.
Griswold was less magnanimous. When he found his rival--for as
such he beheld him--was of charming manners and gallant appearance
he considered that fact an additional injury; but he concealed his
resentment, for he was going to trap Cochran, too.
He found the architect at work leaning over a drawing-board, and
as they talked Cochran continued to stand. He was in his shirt-sleeves,
which were rolled to his shoulders; and the breadth of those shoulders
and the muscles of his sunburned arms were much in evidence.
Griswold considered it a vulgar exhibition.
For over ten minutes they talked solely of the proposed house,
but not once did Griswold expose the fact that he had seen any
more of it than any one might see from the public road. When he
rose to take his leave he said:
"How would it do if I motored out Sunday and showed your house
to Miss Proctor? Sunday is the only day she has off, and if it would not
The tender heart of Cochran leaped in wild tumult; he could not
conceal his delight, nor did he attempt to do so; and his expression
made it entirely unnecessary for him to assure Griswold that such a
visit would be entirely welcome and that they might count on finding
him at home. As though it were an afterthought, Griswold halted at
the door and said:
"I believe you are already acquainted with Miss Proctor."
Cochran, conscious of five years of devotion, found that he was
blushing, and longed to strangle himself. Nor was the blush lost
"I'm sorry," said Cochran, "but I've not had that honor. On the
stage, of course--"
He shrugged the broad shoulders deprecatingly, as though to suggest
that not to know Miss Proctor as an artist argues oneself unknown.
Griswold pretended to be puzzled. As though endeavoring to recall
a past conversation he frowned.
"But Aline," he said, "told me she had met you-met you at Bar
Harbor." In the fatal photographs the familiar landfalls of Bar
Harbor had been easily recognized.
The young architect shook his head.
"It must be another Cochran," he suggested. "I have never been in
With the evidence of the photographs before him this last
statement was a verdict of guilty, and Griswold, not with the
idea of giving Cochran a last chance to be honest, but to cause
him to dig the pit still deeper, continued to lead him on. "Maybe
she meant York Harbor?"
Again Cochran shook his head and laughed.
"Believe me," he said, "if I'd ever met Miss Proctor anywhere I
wouldn't forget it!"
Ten minutes later Griswold was talking to Aline over the telephone.
He intended to force matters. He would show Aline she could neither
trifle with nor deceive Chester Griswold; but the thought that he had
been deceived was not what most hurt him. What hurt him was to
think that Aline had preferred a man who looked like an advertisement
for ready-made clothes and who worked in his shirt-sleeves.
Griswold took it for granted that any woman would be glad to marry him.
So many had been willing to do so that he was convinced, when one of
them was not, it was not because there was anything wrong with him,
but because the girl herself lacked taste and perception.
That the others had been in any degree moved by his many millions
had never suggested itself. He was convinced each had loved him for
himself alone; and if Aline, after meeting him, would still consider any
one else, it was evident something was very wrong with Aline. He was
determined that she must be chastened--must be brought to a proper
appreciation of her good fortune and of his condescension.
On being called to the telephone at ten in the morning, Aline
demanded to know what could excuse Griswold for rousing her
in the middle of the night!
Griswold replied that, though the day was young, it also was
charming; that on Sunday there might be rain; and that if she
desired to see the house he and Post thought would most suit her,
he and his car would be delighted to convey her to it. They could
make the run in an hour, lunch with friends at Westbury, and
return in plenty of time for the theatre. Aline was delighted at
the sudden interest Griswold was showing in the new house.
Without a moment's hesitation she walked into the trap. She
would go, she declared, with pleasure. In an hour he should
call for her.
Exactly an hour later Post arrived at his office. He went directly
"Charles," he said, "I'm afraid I got you into trouble yesterday.
I took a client to see your house. You have often let us do it before;
but since I was there last you've made some changes. In your bedroom--"
Cochran's naive habit of blushing told him it was not necessary
to proceed. In tones of rage and mortification Cochran swore
explosively; Post was relieved to find he was swearing at himself.
"I ought to be horsewhipped!" roared Cochran. "I'll never forgive
myself! Who," he demanded, "saw the pictures? Was it a man or a
Post laughed unhappily.
"It was Chester Griswold."
A remarkable change came over Cochran. Instead of sobering him,
as Post supposed it would, the information made him even more
angry--only now his anger was transferred from himself to Griswold.
"The blankety-blank bounder!" yelled Cochran. "That was what he
wanted! That's why he came here!"
"Here!" demanded Post.
"Not an hour ago," cried Cochran. "He asked me about Bar Harbor.
He saw those pictures were taken at Bar Harbor!"
"I think," said Post soothingly, "he'd a right to ask questions.
There were so many pictures, and they were very--well--very!"
"I'd have answered his questions," roared Cochran, "if he'd asked
them like a man, but he came snooping down here to spy on me.
He tried to trick me. He insulted me! He insulted her!" He emitted
a howl of dismay. "And I told him I'd never been to Bar Harbor--
that I'd never met Aline Proctor!"
Cochran seized his coat and hat. He shouted to one of the office
boys to telephone the garage for his car.
"What are you--where are you going?" demanded Post.
"I'm going home first," cried Cochran, "to put those pictures in
a safe, as I should have done three months ago. And then I'm
going to find Chester Griswold and tell him he's an ass and a
"If you do that," protested Post, "you're likely to lose us a very
"And your client," roared Charles, "is likely to lose some very
As Charles whirled into the country road in which stood his house
he saw drawn up in front of it the long gray car in which, that morning,
Chester Griswold had called at the office. Cochran emitted a howl of
anger. Was his home again to be invaded? And again while he was
absent? To what extreme would Griswold's jealousy next lead him?
He fell out of his own car while it still moved, and leaped up the garden
walk. The front rooms of the house were empty, but from his bedroom
he heard, raised in excited tones, the voice of Griswold. The audacity
of the man was so surprising, and his own delight at catching him
red-handed so satisfying, that no longer was Cochran angry. The Lord
had delivered his enemy into his hands! And, as he advanced toward his
bedroom, not only was he calm, but, at the thought of his revenge,
distinctly jubilant. In the passageway a frightened maid servant, who,
at his unexpected arrival, was now even more frightened, endeavored
to give him an explanation; but he waved her into silence, and, striding
before her, entered his bedroom.
He found confronting him a tall and beautiful young woman. It was
not the Aline Proctor he knew. It was not the well-poised, gracious,
and distinguished beauty he had seen gliding among the tables at
Sherry's or throwing smiles over the footlights. This Aline Proctor
was a very indignant young person, with flashing eyes, tossing head,
and a stamping foot. Extended from her at arm's length, she held a
photograph of herself in a heavy silver frame; and, as though it were
a weapon, she was brandishing it in the face of Chester Griswold.
As Cochran, in amazement, halted in the doorway she was exclaiming:
"I told you I didn't know Charles Cochran! I tell you so now! If you
can't believe me-"
Out of the corner of her flashing eyes the angry lady caught sight of
Cochran in the doorway. She turned upon the intruder as though she
meant forcibly to eject him.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her manner and tone seemed to add:
"And what the deuce are you doing here?"
Charles answered her tone.
"I am Charles Cochran," he said. "I live here. This is my house!"
These words had no other effect upon Miss Proctor than to switch
her indignation down another track. She now turned upon Charles.
"Then, if this is your house," cried that angry young person,
"why have you filled it with photographs of me that belong to
some one else?"
Charles saw that his hour had come. His sin had found him out. He
felt that to prevaricate would be only stupid.
Griswold had tried devious methods--and look where his devious
methods had dumped him! Griswold certainly was in wrong. Charles
quickly determined to adopt a course directly opposite. Griswold
had shown an utter lack of confidence in Aline. Charles decided
that he would give her his entire confidence, would throw himself
upon the mercy of the court.
"I have those photographs in my house, Miss Proctor," he said,
"because I have admired you a long time. They were more like you
than those I could buy. Having them here has helped me a lot, and it
hasn't done you any harm. You know very well you have anonymous
admirers all over this country. I'm only one of them. If I have offended,
I have offended with many, many thousands."
Already it has been related that Cochran was very good to look
upon. At the present moment, as he spoke in respectful, even
soulful accents, meekly and penitently proclaiming his
long-concealed admiration, Miss Proctor found her indignation
melting like an icicle in the sun.
Still, she did not hold herself cheaply. She was accustomed to
such open flattery. She would not at once capitulate.
"But these pictures," she protested, "I gave to a man I knew. You
have no right to them. They are not at all the sort of picture I
would give to an utter stranger!" With anxiety the lovely lady
paused for a reply. She hoped that the reply the tall young man
with appealing eyes would make would be such as to make it
possible for her to forgive him.
He was not given time to reply. With a mocking snort Griswold
interrupted. Aline and Charles had entirely forgotten him.
"An utter stranger!" mimicked Griswold. "Oh, yes; he's an utter
stranger! You're pretty good actors, both of you; but you can't
keep that up long, and you'd better stop it now."
"Stop what?" asked Miss Proctor. Her tone was cold and calm, but
in her eyes was a strange light. It should have warned Griswold
that he would have been safer under the bed.
"Stop pretending!" cried Griswold. "I won't have it!"
"I don't understand," said Miss Proctor. She spoke in the same
cold voice, only now it had dropped several degrees nearer freezing.
"I don't think you understand yourself. You won't have what?"
Griswold now was frightened, and that made him reckless. Instead
of withdrawing he plunged deeper.
"I won't have you two pretending you don't know each other," he
blustered. "I won't stand being fooled! If you're going to deceive
me before we're married, what will you do after we're married?"
Charles emitted a howl. It was made up of disgust, amazement, and
rage. Fiercely he turned upon Miss Proctor.
"Let me have him!" he begged.
"No!" almost shouted Miss Proctor. Her tone was no longer cold--it
was volcanic. Her eyes, flashing beautifully, were fixed upon Griswold.
She made a gesture as though to sweep Charles out of the room.
"Please go!" she demanded. "This does not concern you."
Her tone was one not lightly to be disregarded. Charles disregarded it.
"It does concern me," he said briskly. "Nobody can insult a woman
in my house--you, least of all!" He turned upon the greatest catch
in America. "Griswold," he said, "I never met this lady until I
came into this room; but I know her, understand her, value her
better than you'd understand her if you knew her a thousand
Griswold allowed him to go no farther.
"I know this much," he roared: "she was in love with the man who
took those photographs, and that man was in love with her! And
you're that man!"
"What if I am!" roared back Charles. "Men always have loved her;
men always will--because she's a fine, big, wonderful woman! You
can't see that, and you never will. You insulted her! Now I'll give
you time to apologize for that, and then I'll order you out of this
house! And if Miss Proctor is the sort of girl I think she is, she'll
order you out of it, too!"
Both men swung toward Miss Proctor. Her eyes were now smiling
excitedly. She first turned them upon Charles, blushing most
"Miss Proctor," she said, "hopes she is the sort of girl
Mr. Cochran thinks she is." She then turned upon the greatest
catch in America. "You needn't wait, Chester," she said, "not
even to apologize."
Chester Griswold, alone in his car, was driven back to New York.
On the way he invented a story to explain why, at the eleventh
hour, he had jilted Aline Proctor; but when his thoughts reverted
to the young man he had seen working with his sleeves rolled up
he decided it would be safer to let Miss Proctor tell of the broken
engagement in her own way.
Charles would not consent to drive his fair guest back to New
York until she had first honored him with her presence at
luncheon. It was served for two, on his veranda, under the
climbing honeysuckles. During the luncheon he told her all.
Miss Proctor, in the light of his five years of devotion,
magnanimously forgave him.
"Such a pretty house!" she exclaimed as they drove away from it.
"When Griswold selected it for our honeymoon he showed his first
appreciation of what I really like."
"It is still at your service!" said Charles.
Miss Proctor's eyes smiled with a strange light, but she did not
speak. It was a happy ride; but when Charles left her at the door
of her apartment-house he regarded sadly and with regret the
bundle of retrieved photographs that she carried away.
"What is it?" she asked kindly.
"I'm thinking of going back to those empty frames," said Charles,
and blushed deeply. Miss Proctor blushed also. With delighted
and guilty eyes she hastily scanned the photographs. Snatching one
from the collection, she gave it to him and then ran up the steps.
In the light of the spring sunset the eyes of Charles devoured
the photograph of which, at last, he was the rightful owner. On
it was written: "As long as this rock lasts!"
As Charles walked to his car his expression was distinctly
THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR
When his hunting trip in Uganda was over, Hemingway shipped his
specimens and weapons direct from Mombasa to New York, but he
himself journeyed south over the few miles that stretched to
On the outward trip the steamer had touched there, and the
little he saw of the place had so charmed him that all the time
he was on safari he promised himself he would not return home
without revisiting it. On the morning he arrived he had called
upon Harris, his consul, to inquire about the hotel; and that
evening Harris had returned his call and introduced him at
One of the men there asked Hemingway what brought him to
Africa, and when he answered simply and truthfully that he had
come to shoot big game, it was as though he had said something
clever, and every one smiled. On the way back to the hotel, as
they felt their way through the narrow slits in the wall that
served as streets, he asked the consul why every one had smiled.
The consul laughed evasively.
"It's a local joke," he explained. "A lot of men come here for
reasons best kept to themselves, and they all say what you said,
that they've come to shoot big game. It's grown to be a polite
way of telling a man it is none of his business."
"But I didn't mean it that way," protested Hemingway. "I really
have been after big game for the last eight months."
In the tone one uses to quiet a drunken man or a child, the
consul answered soothingly.
"Of course," he assented-- "of course you have." But to show he
was not hopelessly credulous, and to keep Hemingway from
involving himself deeper, he hinted tactfully: "Maybe they
noticed you came ashore with only one steamer trunk and no
"Oh, that's easily explained," laughed Hemingway. "My heavy
The consul had reached his house and his "boy" was pounding upon
it with his heavy staff.
"Please don't explain to me," he begged. "It's quite unnecessary.
Down here we're so darned glad to see any white man that we don't
ask anything of him except that he won't hurry away. We judge
them as they behave themselves here; we don't care what they are
at home or why they left it."
Hemingway was highly amused. To find that he, a respectable,
sport-loving Hemingway of Massachusetts, should be mistaken for a
gun-runner, slave-dealer, or escaping cashier greatly delighted
"All right!" he exclaimed. "I'll promise not to bore you with my past,
and I agree to be judged by Zanzibar standards. I only hope I can
live up to them, for I see I am going to like the place very much."
Hemingway kept his promise. He bored no one with confidences as
to his ancestors. Of his past he made a point never to speak. He
preferred that the little community into which he had dropped
should remain unenlightened, should take him as they found him.
Of the fact that a college was named after his grandfather and
that on his father's railroad he could travel through many
States, he was discreetly silent.
The men of Zanzibar asked no questions. That Hemingway could play
a stiff game of tennis, a stiffer game of poker, and, on the piano, songs
from home was to them sufficient recommendation. In a week he had
become one of the most popular members of Zanzibar society. It was
as though he had lived there always. Hemingway found himself reaching
out to grasp the warmth of the place as a flower turns to the sun. He
discovered that for thirty years something in him had been cheated.
For thirty years he had believed that completely to satisfy his soul all
he needed was the gray stone walls and the gray-shingled cabins under
the gray skies of New England, that what in nature he most loved was
the pine forests and the fields of goldenrod on the rock-bound coast
of the North Shore. But now, like a man escaped from prison, he
leaped and danced in the glaring sunlight of the equator, he revelled
in the reckless generosity of nature, in the glorious confusion of
colors, in the "blooming blue" of the Indian Ocean, in the Arabian
nights spent upon the housetops under the purple sky, and beneath
silver stars so near that he could touch them with his hand.
He found it like being perpetually in a comic opera and playing a
part in one. For only the scenic artist would dare to paint houses
in such yellow, pink, and cobalt-blue; only a "producer" who had
never ventured farther from Broadway than the Atlantic City
boardwalk would have conceived costumes so mad and so
magnificent. Instinctively he cast the people of Zanzibar in the
conventional roles of musical comedy.
His choruses were already in waiting. There was the Sultan's
body-guard in gold-laced turbans, the merchants of the bazaars in
red fezzes and gowns of flowing silk, the Malay sailors in blue,
the black native police in scarlet, the ladies of the harems closely
veiled and cloaked, the market women in a single garment of
orange, or scarlet, or purple, or of all three, and the happy,
hilarious Zanzibari boys in the color God gave them.
For hours he would sit under the yellow-and-green awning of the
Greek hotel and watch the procession pass, or he would lie under
an umbrella on the beach and laugh as the boatmen lifted their
passengers to their shoulders and with them splash through the
breakers, or in the bazaars for hours he would bargain with the
Indian merchants, or in the great mahogany hall of the Ivory
House, to the whisper of a punka and the tinkle of ice in a tall
glass, listen to tales of Arab raids, of elephant poachers, of
the trade in white and black ivory, of the great explorers who
had sat in that same room--of Emin Pasha, of Livingstone, of
Stanley. His comic opera lacked only a heroine and the love
When he met Mrs. Adair he found both. Polly Adair, as every
one who dared to do so preferred to call her, was, like himself, an
American and, though absurdly young, a widow. In the States she
would have been called an extremely pretty girl. In a community
where the few dozen white women had wilted and faded in the
fierce sun of the equator, and where the rest of the women were
jet black except their teeth, which were dyed an alluring purple,
Polly Adair was as beautiful as a June morning. At least, so
Hemingway thought the first time he saw her, and each succeeding
time he thought her more beautiful, more lovely, more to be loved.
He met her, three days after his arrival, at the residence of the
British agent and consul-general, where Lady Firth was giving tea
to the six nurses from the English hospital and to all the other
respectable members of Zanzibar society.
"My husband's typist," said her ladyship as she helped Hemingway
to tea, "is a copatriot of yours. She's such a nice gell; not a bit like
an American. I don't know what I'd do in this awful place without her.
Promise me," she begged tragically, "you will not ask her to marry you."
Unconscious of his fate, Hemingway promised.
"Because all the men do," sighed Lady Firth, "and I never know
what morning one of the wretches won't carry her off to a home of
her own. And then what would become of me? Men are so selfish!
If you must fall in love," suggested her ladyship, "promise me you
will fall in love with"--she paused innocently and raised baby-blue
eyes, in a baby-like stare--"with some one else."
Again Hemingway promised. He bowed gallantly. "That will be quite
easy," he said.
Her ladyship smiled, but Hemingway did not see the smile. He was
looking past her at a girl from home, who came across the terrace
carrying in her hand a stenographer's note-book.
Lady Firth followed the direction of his eyes and saw the look in
them. She exclaimed with dismay:
"Already! Already he deserts me, even before the ink is dry on
She drew the note-book from Mrs. Adair's fingers and dropped it
under the tea-table.
"Letters must wait, my child," she declared.
"But Sir George--" protested the girl.
"Sir George must wait, too," continued his wife; "the Foreign Office
must wait, the British Empire must wait until you have had your tea."
The girl laughed helplessly. As though assured her fellow
countryman would comprehend, she turned to him.
"They're so exactly like what you want them to be," she said--"I
mean about their tea!"
Hemingway smiled back with such intimate understanding that
Lady Firth glanced up inquiringly.
"Have you met Mrs. Adair already?" she asked.
"No," said Hemingway, "but I have been trying to meet her for
Perplexed, the Englishwoman frowned, and then, with delight at
her own perspicuity, laughed aloud.
"I know," she cried, "in your country you are what they call a
'hustler'! Is that right?" She waved them away. "Take Mrs. Adair
over there," she commanded, "and tell her all the news from home.
Tell her about the railroad accidents and 'washouts' and the
latest thing in lynching."
The young people stretched out in long wicker chairs in the shade
of a tree covered with purple flowers. On a perch at one side of
them an orang-outang in a steel belt was combing the whiskers of
her infant daughter; at their feet what looked like two chow puppies,
but which happened to be Lady Firth's pet lions, were chewing each
other's toothless gums; and in the immediate foreground the hospital
nurses were defying the sun at tennis while the Sultan's band played
selections from a Gaiety success of many years in the past. With these
surroundings it was difficult to talk of home. Nor on any later occasions,
except through inadvertence, did they talk of home.
For the reasons already stated, it amused Hemingway to volunteer
no confidences. On account of what that same evening Harris told
him of Mrs. Adair, he asked none.
Harris himself was a young man in no way inclined to withhold
confidences. He enjoyed giving out information. He enjoyed
talking about himself, his duties, the other consuls, the Zanzibaris,
and his native State of Iowa. So long as he was permitted to talk,
the listener could select the subject. But, combined with his loquacity,
Hemingway had found him kind-hearted, intelligent, observing, and
the call of a common country had got them quickly together.
Hemingway was quite conscious that the girl he had seen but once
had impressed him out of all proportion to what he knew of her.
She seemed too good to be true. And he tried to persuade himself
that after eight months in the hinterland among hippos and zebras
any reasonably attractive girl would have proved equally disturbing.
But he was not convinced. He did not wish to be convinced. He
assured himself that had he met Mrs. Adair at home among hundreds
of others he would have recognized her as a woman of exceptional
character, as one especially charming. He wanted to justify this
idea of her; he wanted to talk of Mrs. Adair to Harris, not to learn
more concerning her, but just for the pleasure of speaking her name.
He was much upset at that, and the discovery that on meeting a
woman for the first time he still could be so boyishly and ingenuously
moved greatly pleased him. It was a most delightful secret. So he acted
on the principle that when a man immensely admires a woman and
wishes to conceal that fact from every one else he can best do so by
declaring his admiration in the frankest and most open manner. After
the tea-party, as Harris and himself sat in the consulate, he so expressed
"What an extraordinary nice girl," he exclaimed, "is that Mrs. Adair!
I had a long talk with her. She is most charming. However did a
woman like that come to be in a place like this?"
Judging from his manner, it seemed to Hemingway that at the
mention of Mrs. Adair's name he had found Harris mentally on
guard, as though the consul had guessed the question would come
and had prepared for it.
"She just dropped in here one day," said Harris, "from no place
in particular. Personally, I always have thought from heaven."
"It's a good address," said Hemingway.
"It seems to suit her," the consul agreed. "Anyway, if she doesn't come
from there, that's where she's going--just on account of the good she's
done us while she's been here. She arrived four months ago with a
typewriting-machine and letters to me from our consuls in Cape Town
and Durban. She had done some typewriting for them. It seems that
after her husband died, which was a few months after they were married,
she learned to make her living by typewriting. She worked too hard
and broke down, and the doctor said she must go to hot countries, the
'hotter the better.' So she's worked her way half around the world
typewriting. She worked chiefly for her own consuls or for the American
commission houses. Sometimes she stayed a month, sometimes only over
one steamer day. But when she got here Lady Firth took such a fancy to
her that she made Sir George engage her as his private secretary, and she's
been here ever since."
In a community so small as was that of Zanzibar the white residents
saw one another every day, and within a week Hemingway had met
Mrs. Adair many times. He met her at dinner, at the British agency;
he met her in the country club, where the white exiles gathered for
tea and tennis. He hired a launch and in her honor gave a picnic
on the north coast of the island, and on three glorious and memorable
nights, after different dinner-parties had ascended to the roof, he sat
at her side and across the white level of the housetops looked down
into the moonlit harbor.
What interest the two young people felt in each other was in no
way discouraged by their surroundings. In the tropics the tender
emotions are not winter killed. Had they met at home, the
conventions, his own work, her social duties would have kept the
progress of their interest within a certain speed limit. But they
were in a place free of conventions, and the preceding eight
months which Hemingway had spent in the jungle and on the plain
had made the society of his fellow man, and of Mrs. Adair in
particular, especially attractive.
Hemingway had no work to occupy his time, and he placed it
unreservedly at the disposition of his countrywoman. In doing so
it could not be said that Mrs. Adair encouraged him. Hemingway
himself would have been the first to acknowledge this. From the
day he met her he was conscious that always there was an intangible
barrier between them. Even before she possibly could have guessed
that his interest in her was more than even she, attractive as she was,
had the right to expect, she had wrapped around herself an invisible
mantle of defense.
There were certain speeches of his which she never heard, certain tones
to which she never responded. At moments when he was complimenting
himself that at last she was content to be in his company, she would
suddenly rise and join the others, and he would be left wondering in
what way he could possibly have offended.
He assured himself that a woman, young and attractive, in a
strange land in her dependent position must of necessity be
discreet, but in his conduct there certainly had been nothing
that was not considerate, courteous, and straightforward.
When he appreciated that he cared for her seriously, that he was
gloriously happy in caring, and proud of the way in which he
cared, the fact that she persistently held him at arm's length
puzzled and hurt. At first when he had deliberately set to work
to make her like him he was glad to think that, owing to his
reticence about himself, if she did like him it would be for himself
alone and not for his worldly goods. But when he knew her better
he understood that if once Mrs. Adair made up her mind to take
a second husband, the fact that he was a social and financial
somebody, and not, as many in Zanzibar supposed Hemingway
to be, a social outcast, would make but little difference.
Nor was her manner to be explained by the fact that the majority
of women found him unattractive. As to that, the pleasant burden
of his experience was to the contrary. He at last wondered if
there was some one else, if he had come into her life too late.
He set about looking for the man and so, he believed, he soon
Of the little colony, Arthur Fearing was the man of whom Hemingway
had seen the least. That was so because Fearing wished it. Like
himself, Fearing was an American, young, and a bachelor, but,
very much unlike Hemingway, a hermit and a recluse.
Two years before he had come to Zanzibar looking for an
investment for his money. In Zanzibar there were gentlemen
adventurers of every country, who were welcome to live in any
country save their own.
To them Mr. Fearing seemed a heaven-sent victim. But to him their
alluring tales of the fortunes that were to rise from buried treasures,
lost mines, and pearl beds did not appeal. Instead he conferred
with the consuls, the responsible merchants, the partners in the
prosperous trading houses. After a month of "looking around" he
had purchased outright the goodwill and stock of one of the oldest
of the commission houses, and soon showed himself to be a most
capable man of business. But, except as a man of business, no one
knew him. From the dim recesses of his warehouse he passed each
day to the seclusion of his bungalow in the country. And, although
every one was friendly to him, he made no friends.
It was only after the arrival of Mrs. Adair that he consented to show
himself, and it was soon noted that it was only when she was invited
that he would appear, and that on these occasions he devoted himself
entirely to her. In the presence of others, he still was shy, gravely
polite, and speaking but little, and never of himself; but with
Mrs. Adair his shyness seemed to leave him, and when with her
he was seen to talk easily and eagerly. And, on her part, to what
he said, Polly Adair listened with serious interest.
Lady Firth, who, at home, was a trained and successful match-maker,
and who, in Zanzibar, had found but a limited field for her activities,
decided that if her companion and protegee must marry, she should
Fearing was no gentleman adventurer, remittance-man, or humble
clerk serving his apprenticeship to a steamship line or an ivory
house. He was one of the pillars of Zanzibar society. The trading
house he had purchased had had its beginnings in the slave-trade,
and now under his alert direction was making a turnover equal to
that of any of its ancient rivals. Personally, Fearing was a most
desirable catch. He was well-mannered, well-read, of good
appearance, steady, and, in a latitude only six degrees removed
from the equator, of impeccable morals.
It is said that it is the person who is in love who always is the
first to discover his successful rival. It is either an instinct
or because his concern is deeper than that of others.
And so, when Hemingway sought for the influence that separated
him from Polly Adair, the trail led to Fearing. To find that the
obstacle in the path of his true love was a man greatly relieved
him. He had feared that what was in the thoughts of Mrs. Adair
was the memory of her dead husband. He had no desire to cross
swords with a ghost. But to a living rival he could afford to be
For he was sure no one could care for Polly Adair as he cared,
and, like every other man in love, he believed that he alone had
discovered in her beauties of soul and character that to the rest
of mankind were hidden. This knowledge, he assured himself, had
aroused in him a depth of devotion no one else could hope to
imitate, and this depth of devotion would in time so impress her,
would become so necessary to her existence, that it would force
her at last into the arms of the only man who could offer it.
Having satisfied himself in this fashion, he continued cheerfully
on his way, and the presence of a rival in no way discouraged
him. It only was Polly Adair who discouraged him. And this,
in spite of the fact that every hour of the day he tried to bring
himself pleasantly to her notice. All that an idle young man in
love, aided and abetted by imagination and an unlimited letter of
credit, could do, Hemingway did. But to no end.
The treasures he dug out of the bazaars and presented to her,
under false pretenses as trinkets he happened at that moment
to find in his pockets, were admired by her at their own great
value, and returned also under false pretenses, as having been
offered her only to examine.
"It is for your sister at home, I suppose," she prompted. "It's
quite lovely. Thank you for letting me see it."
After having been several times severely snubbed in this fashion,
Hemingway remarked grimly as he put a black pearl back into his
"At this rate sister will be mighty glad to see me when I get
home. It seems almost a pity I haven't got a sister."
The girl answered this only with a grave smile.
On another occasion she admired a polo pony that had been
imported for the stable of the boy Sultan. But next morning
Hemingway, after much diplomacy, became the owner of it and
proudly rode it to the agency. Lady Firth and Polly Adair walked
out to meet him arm in arm, but at sight of the pony there came
into the eyes of the secretary a look that caused Hemingway to
wish himself and his mount many miles in the jungle. He saw
that before it had been proffered, his gift-horse had been rejected.
He acted promptly.
"Lady Firth," he said, "you've been so awfully kind to me, made this
place so like a home to me, that I want you to put this mare in your
stable. The Sultan wanted her, but when he learned I meant to turn
her over to you, he let her go. We both hope you'll accept."
Lady Firth had no scruples. In five minutes she had accepted, had
clapped a side-saddle on her rich gift, and was cantering joyously
down the Pearl Road.
Polly Adair looked after her with an expression that was
distinctly wistful. Thus encouraged, Hemingway said:
"I'm glad you are sorry. I hope every time you see that pony
you'll be sorry."
"Why should I be sorry?" asked the girl.
"Because you have been unkind," said Hemingway, "and it is not your
character to be unkind. And that you have shown lack of character
ought to make you sorry."
"But you know perfectly well," said Mrs. Adair, "that if I were
to take any one of these wonderful things you bring me, I wouldn't
have any character left."
She smiled at him reassuringly. "And you know," she added, "that
that is not why I do not take them. It isn't because I can't afford to,
or because I don't want them, because I do; but it's because I don't
deserve them, because I can give you nothing in return."
"As the copy-book says," returned Hemingway, "'the pleasure is in
the giving.' If the copy-book don't say that, I do. And to pretend
that you give me nothing, that is ridiculous!"
It was so ridiculous that he rushed on vehemently. "Why, every
minute you give me something," he exclaimed. "Just to see you,
just to know you are alive, just to be certain when I turn in at
night that when the world wakes up again you will still be a part
of it; that is what you give me. And its name is--Happiness!"
He had begun quite innocently; he had had no idea that it would
come. But he had said it. As clearly as though he had dropped
upon one knee, laid his hand over his heart and exclaimed: "Most
beautiful of your sex, I love you! Will you marry me?" His eyes
and the tone of his voice had said it. And he knew that he had
said it, and that she knew.
Her eyes were filled with sudden tears, and so wonderful was the
light in them that for one mad moment Hemingway thought they were
tears of happiness. But the light died, and what had been tears
became only wet drops of water, and he saw to his dismay that she
was most miserable.
The girl moved ahead of him to the cliff on which the agency
stood, and which overhung the harbor and the Indian Ocean. Her
eyes were filled with trouble. As she raised them to his they begged
of him to be kind.
"I am glad you told me," she said. "I have been afraid it was
coming. But until you told me I could not say anything. I tried
to stop you. I was rude and unkind--"
"You certainly were," Hemingway agreed cheerfully. "And the more
you would have nothing to do with me, the more I admired you. And
then I learned to admire you more, and then to love you. It seems now
as though I had always known and always loved you. And now this
is what we are going to do."
He wouldn't let her speak; he rushed on precipitately.
"We are first going up to the house to get your typewriting-machine,
and we will bring it back here and hurl it as far as we can off this cliff.
I want to see the splash! I want to hear it smash when it hits that rock.
It has been my worst enemy, because it helped you to be independent
of me, because it kept you from me. Time after time, on the veranda,
when I was pretending to listen to Lady Firth, I was listening to that
damned machine banging and complaining and tiring your pretty
fingers and your dear eyes. So first it has got to go. You have been
its slave, now I am going to be your slave. You have only to rub
the lamp and things will happen. And because I've told you nothing
about myself, you mustn't think that the money that helps to make
them happen is 'tainted.' It isn't. Nor am I, nor my father, nor my
father's father. I am asking you to marry a perfectly respectable
young man. And, when you do--"
Again he gave her no opportunity to interrupt, but rushed on
impetuously: "We will sail away across that ocean to wherever
you will take me. To Ceylon and Tokio and San Francisco, to Naples
and New York, to Greece and Athens. They are all near. They are
all yours. Will you accept them and me?" He smiled appealingly,
but most miserably. For though he had spoken lightly and with
confidence, it was to conceal the fact that he was not at all confident.
As he had read in her eyes her refusal of his pony, he had read, even
as he spoke, her refusal of himself. When he ceased speaking the girl
"If I say that what you tell me makes me proud, I am saying too little."
She shook her head firmly, with an air of finality that frightened
Hemingway. "But what you ask--what you suggest is impossible."
"You don't like me?" said Hemingway.
"I like you very much," returned the girl, "and, if I don't seem
unhappy that it can't be, it is because I always have known it can't
"Why can't it be?" rebelled Hemingway. "I don't mean that I can't
understand your not wanting to marry me, but if I knew your
objection, maybe, I could beat it down."
Again, with the same air of finality, the girl moved her head
slowly, as though considering each word; she began cautiously.
"I cannot tell you the reason," she said, "because it does not
concern only myself."
"If you mean you care for some one else," pleaded Hemingway,
"that does not frighten me at all." It did frighten him extremely,
but, believing that a faint heart never won anything, he pretended
to be brave.
"For you," he boasted, "I would go down into the grave as deep as
any man. He that hath more let him give. I know what I offer. I
know I love you as no other man--"
The girl backed away from him as though he had struck her. "You
must not say that," she commanded.
For the first time he saw that she was moved, that the fingers
she laced and unlaced were trembling. "It is final!" exclaimed
the girl. "I cannot marry--you, or any one. I--I have promised.
I am not free."
"Nothing in the world is final," returned Hemingway sharply,
"except death." He raised his hat and, as though to leave her,
moved away. Not because he admitted defeat, but because he
felt that for the present to continue might lose him the chance to
fight again. But, to deliver an ultimatum, he turned back.
"As long as you are alive, and I am alive," he told her, "all
things are possible. I don't give up hope. I don't give up you."
The girl exclaimed with a gesture of despair. "He won't understand!"
Hemingway advanced eagerly.
"Help me to understand," he begged.
"You won't understand," explained the girl, "that I am speaking
the truth. You are right that things can change in the future,
but nothing can change the past. Can't you understand that?"
"What do I care for the past?" cried the young man scornfully. "I
know you as well as though I had known you for a thousand years
and I love you."
The girl flushed crimson.
"Not my past," she gasped. "I meant--"
"I don't care what you meant," said Hemingway. "I'm not prying
into your little secrets. I know only one thing--two things, that
I love you and that, until you love me, I am going to make your
He caught at her hands, and for an instant she let him clasp them
in both of his, while she looked at him.
Something in her face, other than distress and pity, caused his
heart to leap. But he was too wise to speak, and, that she might
not read the hope in his eyes, turned quickly and left her. He
had not crossed the grounds of the agency before he had made up
his mind as to the reason for her repelling him.
"She is engaged to Fearing!" he told himself. "She has promised
to marry Fearing! She thinks that it is too late to consider another
man!" The prospect of a fight for the woman he loved thrilled him
greatly. His lower jaw set pugnaciously.
"I'll show her it's not too late," he promised himself. "I'll show her
which of us is the man to make her happy. And, if I am not the
man, I'll take the first outbound steamer and trouble them no more.
But before that happens," he also promised himself, "Fearing must
show he is the better man."
In spite of his brave words, in spite of his determination, within the
day Hemingway had withdrawn in favor of his rival, and, on the
Crown Prince Eitel, bound for Genoa and New York, had booked his
On the afternoon of the same day he had spoken to Polly Adair,
Hemingway at the sunset hour betook himself to the consulate. At
that hour it had become his custom to visit his fellow countryman
and with him share the gossip of the day and such a cocktail as
only a fellow countryman could compose. Later he was to dine at
the house of the Ivory Company and, as his heart never ceased
telling him, Mrs. Adair also was to be present.
"It will be a very pleasant party," said Harris. "They gave me a
bid, too, but it's steamer day to-morrow, and I've got to get my
mail ready for the Crown Prince Eitel. Mrs. Adair is to be
Hemingway nodded, and with pleasant anticipation waited. Of Mrs.
Adair, Harris always spoke with reverent enthusiasm, and the man
who loved her delighted to listen. But this time Harris disappointed
"And Fearing, too," he added.
Again Hemingway nodded. The conjunction of the two names surprised
him, but he made no sign. Loquacious as he knew Harris to be, he never
before had heard his friend even suggest the subject that to Zanzibar
had become of acute interest.
Harris filled the two glasses, and began to pace the room. When
he spoke it was in the aggrieved tone of one who feels himself
placed in a false position.
"There's no one," he complained suddenly, "so popularly unpopular
as the man who butts in. I know that, but still I've always taken his
side. I've always been for him." He halted, straddling with legs
apart and hands deep in his trousers pockets, and frowned down
upon his guest.
"Suppose," he began aggressively, "I see a man driving his car
over a cliff. If I tell him that road will take him over a cliff,
the worst that can happen to me is to be told to mind my own
business, and I can always answer back: 'I was only trying to
help you.' If I don't speak, the man breaks his neck. Between
the two, it seems to me, sooner than have any one's life on my
hands, I'd rather be told to mind my own business."
Hemingway stared into his glass. His expression was distinctly
disapproving, but, undismayed, the consul continued.
"Now, we all know that this morning you gave that polo pony
to Lady Firth, and one of us guesses that you first offered it to
some one else, who refused it. One of us thinks that very soon,
to-morrow, or even to-night, at this party you may offer that
same person something else, something worth more than a polo
pony, and that if she refuses that, it is going to break you all
up, is going to hurt you for the rest of your life."
Lifting his eyes from his glass, Hemingway shot at his friend a
glance of warning. In haste, Harris continued:
"I know," he protested, answering the look, "I know that this is
where Mr. Buttinsky is told to mind his business. But I'm going
right on. I'm going to state a hypothetical case with no names
mentioned and no questions asked, or answered. I'm going to
state a theory, and let you draw your own deductions."
He slid into a chair, and across the table fastened his eyes on those
of his friend. Confidently and undisturbed, but with a wry smile
of dislike, Hemingway stared fixedly back at him.
"What," demanded Harris, "is the first rule in detective work?"
Hemingway started. He was prepared for something unpleasant, but
not for that particular form of unpleasantness. But his faith was
unshaken, and he smiled confidently. He let the consul answer his
"It is to follow the woman," declared Harris. "And, accordingly,
what should be the first precaution of a man making his get-away?
To see that the woman does not follow. But suppose we are dealing
with a fugitive of especial intelligence, with a criminal who has
imagination and brains? He might fix it so that the woman could
follow him without giving him away, he might plan it so that no one
would suspect. She might arrive at his hiding-place only after many
months, only after each had made separately a long circuit of the
globe, only after a journey with a plausible and legitimate object.
She would arrive disguised in every way, and they would meet as
total strangers. And, as strangers under the eyes of others, they
would become acquainted, would gradually grow more friendly,
would be seen more frequently together, until at last people would
say: 'Those two mean to make a match of it.' And then, one day,
openly, in the sight of all men, with the aid of the law and the
church, they would resume those relations that existed before the
man ran away and the woman followed."
There was a short silence.
Hemingway broke it in a tone that would accept no denial.
"You can't talk like that to me," he cried. "What do you mean?"
Without resentment, the consul regarded him with grave solicitude.
His look was one of real affection, and, although his tone held the
absolute finality of the family physician who delivers a sentence
of death, he spoke with gentleness and regret.
"I mean," he said, "that Mrs. Adair is not a widow, that the man
she speaks of as her late husband is not dead; that that man is
Hemingway felt afraid. A month before a rhinoceros had charged
him and had dropped at his feet. At another time a wounded lioness
had leaped into his path and crouched to spring. Then he had not
been afraid. Then he had aimed as confidently as though he were
firing at a straw target. But now he felt real fear: fear of something
he did not comprehend, of a situation he could not master, of an
adversary as strong as Fate. By a word something had been snatched
from him that he now knew was as dear to him as life, that was life,
that was what made it worth continuing. And he could do nothing
to prevent it; he could not help himself. He was as impotent as the
prisoner who hears the judge banish him into exile. He tried to adjust
his mind to the calamity. But his mind refused. As easily as with his
finger a man can block the swing of a pendulum and halt the progress
of the clock, Harris with a word had brought the entire world to a full
And then, above his head, Hemingway heard the lazy whisper of the
punka, and from the harbor the raucous whistle of the Crown Prince
Eitel, signalling her entrance. The world had not stopped; for the
punka-boy, for the captain of the German steamer, for Harris seated
with face averted, the world was still going gayly and busily forward.
Only for him had it stopped.
In spite of the confident tone in which Harris had spoken, in spite of
the fact that unless he knew it was the truth, he would not have spoken,
Hemingway tried to urge himself to believe there had been some
hideous, absurd error. But in answer came back to him snatches
of talk or phrases the girl had last addressed to him: "You can
command the future, but you cannot change the past. I cannot
marry you, or any one! I am not free!"
And then to comfort himself, he called up the look he had surprised
in her eyes when he stood holding her hands in his. He clung to it,
as a drowning man will clutch even at a piece of floating seaweed.
When he tried to speak he found his voice choked and stifled, and
that his distress was evident, he knew from the pity he read in the
eyes of Harris.
In a voice strange to him, he heard himself saying: "Why do you
think that? You've got to tell me. I have a right to know. This
morning I asked Mrs. Adair to marry me."
The consul exclaimed with dismay and squirmed unhappily. "I
didn't know," he protested. "I thought I was in time. I ought to
have told you days ago, but--"
"Tell me now," commanded Hemingway.
"I know it in a thousand ways," began Harris.
Hemingway raised his eyes hopefully.
But the consul shook his head. "But to convince you," he went on,
"I need tell you only one. The thousand other proofs are looks they
have exchanged, sentences I have chanced to overhear, and that each
of them unknown to the other has told me of little happenings and
incidents which I found were common to both. Each has described
the house in which he or she lived, and it was the same house. They
claim to come from different cities in New England, they came from
the same city. They claim--"
"That is no proof," cried Hemingway, "either that they are married,
or that the man is a criminal."
For a moment Harris regarded the other in silence. Then he said:
"You're making it very hard for me. I see I've got to show you.
It's kindest, after all, to cut quick." He leaned farther forward,
and his voice dropped. Speaking quickly, he said:
"Last summer I lived outside the town in a bungalow on the Pearl
Road. Fearing's house was next to mine. This was before Mrs.
Adair went to live at the agency, and while she was alone in
another bungalow farther down the road. I was ill that summer;
my nerves went back on me. I couldn't sleep. I used to sit all night
on my veranda and pray for the sun to rise. From where I sat it was
dark and no one could see me, but I could see the veranda of Fearing's
house and into his garden. And night after night I saw Mrs. Adair
creep out of Fearing's house, saw him walk with her to the gate, saw
him in the shadow of the bushes take her in his arms, and saw them
kiss." The voice of the consul rose sharply. "No one knows that but
you and I, and," he cried defiantly, "it is impossible for us to believe
ill of Polly Adair. The easy explanation we refuse. It is intolerable.
And so you must believe as I believe; that when she visited Fearing
by night she went to him because she had the right to go to him,
because already she was his wife. And now when every one here
believes they met for the first time in Zanzibar, when no one will be
surprised if they should marry, they will go through the ceremony
again, and live as man and wife, as they are, as they were before he
fled from America!"
Hemingway was seated with his elbows on the table and his face in
his hands. He was so long silent that Harris struck the table roughly
with his palm.
"Well," he demanded, "why don't you speak? Do you doubt her?
Don't you believe she is his wife?"
"I refuse to believe anything else!" said Hemingway. He rose, and
slowly and heavily moved toward the door. "And I will not trouble
them any more," he added. "I'll leave at sunrise on the Eitel."
Harris exclaimed in dismay, but Hemingway did not hear him. In
the doorway he halted and turned back. From his voice all trace
of emotion had departed. "Why," he asked dully, "do you think
Fearing is a fugitive? Not that it matters to her, since she loves
him, or that it matters to me. Only I would like to think you were
wrong. I want her to have only the best."
Again the consul moved unhappily.
"I oughtn't to tell you," he protested, "and if I do I ought to tell the
State Department, and a detective agency first. They have the call.
They want him, or a man damned like him." His voice dropped to a
whisper. "The man wanted is Henry Brownell, a cashier of a bank in
Waltham, Mass., thirty-five years of age, smooth-shaven, college-bred,
speaking with a marked New England accent, and--and with other
marks that fit Fearing like the cover on a book. The department and
the Pinkertons have been devilling the life out of me about it for nine
months. They are positive he is on the coast of Africa. I put them off.
I wasn't sure."
"You've been protecting them," said Hemingway.
"I wasn't sure," reiterated Harris. "And if I were, the Pinkertons can do
their own sleuthing. The man's living honestly now, anyway, isn't he?"
he demanded; "and she loves him. At least she's stuck by him. Why
should I punish her?"
His tone seemed to challenge and upbraid.
"Good God!" cried the other, "I'm not blaming you! I'd be proud of the
chance to do as much. I asked because I'd like to go away thinking she's
content, thinking she's happy with him."
"Doesn't it look as though she were?" Harris protested. "She's followed
him--followed him half around the globe. If she'd been happier away
from him, she'd have stayed away from him."
So intent had been the men upon their talk that neither had noted
the passing of the minutes or, what at other times was an event
of moment, that the mail steamer had distributed her mail and
passengers; and when a servant entered bearing lamps, and from
the office the consul's clerk appeared with a bundle of letters
from the Eitel, both were taken by surprise.
"So late?" exclaimed Hemingway. "I must go. If I'm to sail with
the Eitel at daybreak, I've little time!"
But he did not go.
As he advanced toward Harris with his hand outstretched in adieu,
the face of the consul halted him. With the letters, the clerk
had placed upon the table a visiting-card, and as it lay in the
circle of light from the lamp the consul, as though it were alive
and menacing, stared at it in fascination. Moving stiffly, he
turned it so that Hemingway could see. On it Hemingway read,
"George S. Sheyer," and, on a lower line, "Representing William
To the woman he loved the calamity they dreaded had come, and
Hemingway, with a groan of dismay, exclaimed aloud:
"It is the end!"
From the darkness of the outer office a man stepped softly into
the circle of the lamp. They could see his figure only from the
waist down; the rest of him was blurred in shadows.
"'It is the end'?" he repeated inquiringly. He spoke the phrase
with peculiar emphasis, as though to impress it upon the memory
of the two others. His voice was cool, alert, authoritative. "The
end of what?" he demanded sharply.
The question was most difficult. In the silence the detective
moved into the light. He was tall and strongly built, his face
was shrewd and intelligent. He might have been a prosperous man
"Which of you is the consul?" he asked. But he did not take his
eyes from Hemingway.
"I am the consul," said Harris. But still the detective did not
turn from Hemingway.
"Why," he asked, "did this gentleman, when he read my card, say,
'It is the end'? The end of what? Has anything been going on here
that came to an end when he saw my card?"
Disconcerted, in deep embarrassment, Harris struggled for a word.
But his distress was not observed by the detective. His eyes,
suspicious and accusing, still were fixed upon Hemingway, and
under their scrutiny Harris saw his friend slowly retreat, slowly
crumple up into a chair, slowly raise his hands to cover his
face. As though in a nightmare, he heard him saying savagely:
"It is the end of two years of hell, it is the end of two years
of fear and agony! Now I shall have peace. Now I shall sleep!
I thank God you've come! I thank God I can go back!"
Harris broke the spell by leaping to his feet. He sprang between
the two men.
"What does this mean?" he commanded.
Hemingway raised his eyes and surveyed him steadily.
"It means," he said, "that I have deceived you, Harris--that I am
the man you told me of, I am the man they want." He turned to the
"I fooled him for four months," he said. "I couldn't fool you for
The eyes of the detective danced with sudden excitement, joy, and
triumph. He shot an eager glance from Hemingway to the consul.
"This man," he demanded; "who is he?"
With an impatient gesture Hemingway signified Harris.
"He doesn't know who I am," he said. "He knows me as Hemingway.
I am Henry Brownell, of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank into
the palms of his hands. "And I'm tired--tired," he moaned. "I am
sick of not knowing, sick of running away. I give myself up."
The detective breathed a sigh of relief that seemed to issue from
"My God," he sighed, "you've given me a long chase! I've had
eleven months of you, and I'm as sick of this as you are." He
recovered himself sharply. As though reciting an incantation, he
addressed Hemingway in crisp, emotionless notes.
"Henry Brownell," he chanted, "I arrest you in the name of the
commonwealth of Massachusetts for the robbery, on October the
eleventh, nineteen hundred and nine, of the Waltham Title and
Trust Company. I understand," he added, "you waive extradition
and return with me of your own free will?"
With his face still in his hands, Hemingway murmured assent. The
detective stepped briskly and uninvited to the table and seated himself.
He was beaming with triumph, with pleasurable excitement.
"I want to send a message home, Mr. Consul," he said. "May I use
your cable blanks?"
Harris was still standing in the centre of the room looking down
upon the bowed head and shoulders of Hemingway. Since, in
amazement, he had sprung toward him, he had not spoken. And
he was still silent.
Inside the skull of Wilbur Harris, of Iowa, U. S. A., American
consul to Zanzibar, East Africa, there was going forward a mighty
struggle that was not fit to put into words. For Harris and his
conscience had met and were at odds. One way or the other the
fight must be settled at once, and whatever he decided must be
for all time. This he understood, and as his sympathies and
conscience struggled for the mastery the pen of the detective,
scratching at racing speed across the paper, warned him that only
a few seconds were left him in which to protest or else to forever
after hold his peace.
So realistic had been the acting of Hemingway that for an instant
Harris himself had been deceived. But only for an instant. With
his knowledge of the circumstances he saw that Hemingway was not
confessing to a crime of his own, but drawing across the trail of the
real criminal the convenient and useful red herring. He knew that
already Hemingway had determined to sail the next morning. In
leaving Zanzibar he was making no sacrifice. He merely was
carrying out his original plan, and by taking away with him the
detective was giving Brownell and his wife at least a month in
which to again lose themselves.
What was his own duty he could not determine. That of Hemingway
he knew nothing, he could truthfully testify. And if now Hemingway
claimed to be Henry Brownell, he had no certain knowledge to the
contrary. That through his adventure Hemingway would come to
harm did not greatly disturb him. He foresaw that his friend need
only send a wireless from Nantucket and at the wharf witnesses
would swarm to establish his identity and make it evident the
detective had blundered. And in the meanwhile Brownell and
his wife, in some settlement still further removed from observation,
would for the second time have fortified themselves against pursuit
and capture. He saw the eyes of Hemingway fixed upon him in appeal
The brisk voice of the detective broke the silence.
"You will testify, if need be, Mr. Consul," he said, "that you
heard the prisoner admit he was Henry Brownell and that he
surrendered himself of his own free will?"
For an instant the consul hesitated, then he nodded stiffly.
"I heard him," he said.
Three hours later, at ten o' clock of the same evening, the detective
and Hemingway leaned together on the rail of the Crown Prince
Eitel. Forward, in the glare of her cargo lights, to the puffing and
creaking of derricks and donkey engines, bundles of beeswax, of
rawhides, and precious tusks of ivory were being hurled into the
hold; from the shore-boats clinging to the ship's sides came the
shrieks of the Zanzibar boys, from the smoking-room the blare of
the steward's band and the clink of glasses. Those of the youth of
Zanzibar who were on board, the German and English clerks and
agents, saw in the presence of Hemingway only a purpose similar
to their own; the desire of a homesick exile to gaze upon the mirrored
glories of the Eitel's saloon, at the faces of white men and women, to
listen to home-made music, to drink home-brewed beer. As he passed
the smoking-room they called to him, and to the stranger at his elbow,
but he only nodded smiling and, avoiding them, ascended to the shadow
of the deserted boat-deck.
"You are sure," he said, "you told no one?"
"No one," the detective answered. "Of course your hotel proprietor
knows you're sailing, but he doesn't know why. And, by sunrise,
we'll be well out at sea."
The words caught Hemingway by the throat. He turned his eyes to
the town lying like a field of snow in the moonlight. Somewhere
on one of its flat roofs a merry dinner-party was laughing, drinking,
perhaps regretting his absence, wondering at his excuse of sudden
illness. She was there, and he with the detective like a shadow at
his elbow, was sailing out of her life forever. He had seen her for
the last time: that morning for the last time had looked into her
eyes, had held her hands in his. He saw the white beach, the white
fortress-like walls, the hanging gardens, the courtesying palms,
dimly. It was among those that he who had thought himself content,
had found happiness, and had then seen it desert him and take out of
his life pleasure in all other things. With a pain that seemed impossible
to support, he turned his back upon Zanzibar and all it meant to him.
And, as he turned, he faced, coming toward him, across the moonlit deck,
His instinct was to cry out to the man in warning, but his second
thought showed him that through his very effort to protect the other,
he might bring about his undoing. So, helpless to prevent, in agitation
and alarm, he waited in silence. Of the two men, Fearing appeared the
least disturbed. With a polite but authoritative gesture he turned to the
detective. "I have something to say to this gentleman before he sails,"
he said; "would you kindly stand over there?"
He pointed across the empty deck at the other rail.
In the alert, confident young man in the English mess-jacket,
clean-shaven and bronzed by the suns of the equator, the detective
saw no likeness to the pale, bearded bank clerk of the New England
city. This, he guessed, must be some English official, some friend
of Brownell's who generously had come to bid the unfortunate fugitive
Assured of this, the detective also bowed politely, and, out of
hearing, but with his prisoner in full view, took up a position
against the rail opposite.
Turning his back upon the detective, and facing Hemingway with
his eyes close to his, Fearing began abruptly. His voice was sunk
to a whisper, but he spoke without the slightest sign of trepidation,
without the hesitation of an instant.
"Two years ago, when I was indicted," he whispered, "and ran
away, Polly paid back half of the sum I stole. That left her
without a penny; that's why she took to this typewriting. Since
then, I have paid back nearly all the rest. But Polly was not
satisfied. She wanted me to take my punishment and start fresh.
She knew they were watching her so she couldn't write this to me,
but she came to me by a roundabout way, taking a year to get
here. And all the time she's been here, she's been begging me to
go back and give myself up. I couldn't see it. I knew in a few
months I'd have paid back all I took, and I thought that was enough.
I wanted to keep out of jail. But she said I must take my medicine
in our own country, and start square with a clean slate. She's done
a lot for me, and whether I'd have done that for her or not, I don't
know. But now, I must! What you did to-night to save me, leaves
me no choice. So, I'll sail--"
With an exclamation of anger, Hemingway caught the other by the
shoulder and dragged him closer.
"To save you!" he whispered. "No one's thinking of you. I didn't
do it for you. I did it, that you both could escape together, to
give you time--"
"But I tell you," protested Fearing, "she doesn't want me to escape.
And maybe she's right. Anyway, we're sailing with you at--"
"We?" echoed Hemingway.
That again he was to see the woman he loved, that for six weeks
through summer seas he would travel in her company, filled him
with alarm, with distress, with a wonderful happiness.
"We?" he whispered, steadying his voice. "Then--then your wife is
going with you?"
Fearing gazed at him as though the other had suddenly gone mad.
"My wife!" he exclaimed. "I haven't got a wife!" If you mean
Polly--Mrs. Adair, she is my sister! And she wants to thank you.
He was not allowed to finish. Hemingway had flung him to one
side, and was racing down the deck.
The detective sprang in pursuit.
"One moment, there!" he shouted.
But the man in the white mess-jacket barred his way.
In the moonlight the detective saw that the alert, bronzed young man
"That's all right," said Fearing. "He'll be back in a minute. Besides,
you don't want him. I'm the man you want."
THE LONG ARM
The safe was an old one that opened with a key. As adjutant,
Captain Swanson had charge of certain funds of the regiment and
kept in the safe about five thousand dollars. No one but himself
and Rueff, his first sergeant, had access to it. And as Rueff proved
an alibi, the money might have been removed by an outsider. The
court-martial gave Swanson the benefit of the doubt, and a reprimand
for not taking greater care of the keys, and Swanson made good the
Swanson did not think it was a burglar who had robbed the safe.
He thought Rueff had robbed it, but he could not possibly prove
that. At the time of the robbery Rueff was outside the Presidio,
in uniform, at a moving-picture show in San Francisco. A dozen
people saw him there. Besides, Rueff held an excellent record.
He was a silent, clerk-like young man, better at "paper work" than
campaigning, but even as a soldier he had never come upon the books.
And he had seen service in two campaigns, and was supposed to
cherish ambitions toward a commission. But, as he kept much to
himself, his fellow non-coms could only guess that.
On his captain's account he was loyally distressed over the
court-martial, and in his testimony tried to shield Swanson, by
agreeing heartily that through his own carelessness the keys
might have fallen into the hands of some one outside the post.
But his loyalty could not save his superior officer from what was
a verdict virtually of "not proven."
It was a most distressing affair, and, on account of the social
prominence of Swanson's people, his own popularity, and the name
he had made at Batangas and in the Boxer business, was much
commented upon, not only in the services, but by the newspapers
all over the United States.
Every one who knew Swanson knew the court-martial was only a
matter of form. Even his enemies ventured only to suggest that
overnight he might have borrowed the money, meaning to replace it
the next morning. And the only reason for considering this explanation
was that Swanson was known to be in debt. For he was a persistent
gambler. Just as at Pekin he had gambled with death for his number,
in times of peace he gambled for money. It was always his own money.
From the start Swanson's own attitude toward the affair was one
of blind, unreasoning rage. In it he saw no necessary routine of
discipline, only crass, ignorant stupidity. That any one should
suspect him was so preposterous, so unintelligent, as to be nearly
comic. And when, instantly, he demanded a court of inquiry, he
could not believe it when he was summoned before a court-martial.
It sickened, wounded, deeply affronted him; turned him quite savage.
On his stand his attitude and answers were so insolent that his
old friend and classmate, Captain Copley, who was acting as his
counsel, would gladly have kicked him. The findings of the
court-martial, that neither cleared nor condemned, and the
reprimand, were an intolerable insult to his feelings, and, in a
fit of bitter disgust with the service and every one in it, Swanson
resigned. Of course, the moment he had done so he was sorry.
Swanson's thought was that he could no longer associate with
any one who could believe him capable of theft. It was his
idea of showing his own opinion of himself and the army.
But no one saw it in that light. On the contrary, people said:
"Swanson has been allowed to resign." I n the army, voluntarily
resigning and being "allowed to resign" lest greater evils befall,
are two vastly different things. And when it was too late no one
than Swanson saw that more clearly. His anger gave way to extreme
morbidness. He believed that in resigning he had assured every one
of his guilt. In every friend and stranger he saw a man who doubted
him. He imagined snubs, rebuffs, and coldnesses. His morbidness
fastened upon his mind like a parasite upon a tree, and the brain
sickened. When men and women glanced at his alert, well-set-up
figure and shoulders, that even when he wore "cits" seemed to support
epaulets, and smiled approvingly, Swanson thought they sneered. In
a week he longed to be back in the army with a homesickness that made
every one who belonged to it his enemy.
He left San Francisco, where he was known to all, and travelled
south through Texas, and then to New Orleans and Florida. He
never could recall this period with clearness. He remembered
changing from one train to another, from one hotel to the next.
Nothing impressed itself upon him. For what he had lost nothing
could give consolation. Without honor life held no charm. And
he believed that in the eyes of all men he was a thief, a pariah,
and an outcast.
He had been in Cuba with the Army of Occupation, and of that
beautiful island had grown foolishly fond. He was familiar with
every part of it, and he believed in one or another of its pretty
ports he could so completely hide himself that no one could
intrude upon his misery. In the States, in the newspapers he
seemed to read only of those places where he had seen service, of
those places and friends and associates he most loved. In the
little Cuban village in which he would bury himself he would cut
himself off from all newspapers, from all who knew him; from
those who had been his friends, and those who knew his name only
to connect it with a scandal.
On his way from Port Tampa to Cuba the boat stopped at Key West,
and for the hour in which she discharged cargo Swanson went
ashore and wandered aimlessly. The little town, reared on a flat
island of coral and limestone, did not long detain him. The main
street of shops, eating-houses, and saloons, the pretty residences
with overhanging balconies, set among gardens and magnolia-trees,
were soon explored, and he was returning to the boat when the martial