CHAPTER 1 Late one brilliant April afternoon, Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston. He had lived there as a student, but for twenty years and more, since he had been professor of philosophy in a western university, he had seldom come east, except to take a steamer for some foreign port. Wilson was standing quite still, contemplating with a whimsical smile the slanting street with its worn paving, its irregular, gravely-coloured houses, and the row of naked trees on which the thin sunlight was still shining. The gleam of the river at the foot of the hill made him blink a little, not so much because it was too bright as because he found it so pleasant. The few passers-by glanced at him unconcernedly, and even the children who hurried along with their school bags under their arms seemed to find it perfectly natural that a tall brown gentleman should be standing there, looking up through his glasses at the gray housetops. The sun sank rapidly, the silvery light had faded from the bare boughs, and the watery twilight was setting in when Wilson at last walked down the hill, descending into cooler and cooler depths of grayish shadow. His nostril, long unused to it, was quick to detect the smell of wood smoke in the air, blended with the odor of moist spring earth and the saltiness that came up the river with the tide. He crossed Charles Street between jangling street-cars and lumbering drays, and after a moment of uncertainty wound into Brimmer Street. The street was quiet, deserted, and hung with a thin bluish haze. He had already fixed his sharp eye upon the house which he reasoned should be his objective point, when he noticed a woman approaching rapidly from the opposite direction. Always an interested observer of women, Wilson would have slackened his pace anywhere to follow this one with his impersonal, appreciative glance. She was a person of distinction, he saw at once, and, moreover, very handsome. She was tall, carried her beautiful head proudly, and moved with ease and certainty. One immediately took for granted the costly privileges and fine spaces that must lie in the background from which such a figure could emerge with this rapid and graceful gait. Wilson noted her dress, too, for in his way he had an eye for such things, particularly her brown furs and her hat. He got a blurred impression of her fine color, the violets she wore, her white gloves, and, curiously enough, of her veil as she turned up a flight of stairs in front of him and disappeared. Wilson was able to enjoy lovely things that passed him on the wing as completely and deliberately as if they had been dug-up marvels, long anticipated, and definitely fixed at the end of a railway journey. For a few pleasurable seconds he quite forgot where he was going, and only after the door had closed behind her did he realize that the young woman had entered the house to which he had directed his luggage from the south station that morning. He hesitated a moment before mounting the steps. Can that—he murmured in amazement—can that possibly have been Mrs. Alexander? When the servant admitted him, Mrs. Alexander was still standing in the hall. She heard him give his name and came forward holding out her hand. Is it you, indeed, Professor Wilson? I was afraid you might get here before I did. I was detained at a concert and Bartley telephoned that he would be late. Thomas will show you your room. Had you rather have your tea brought to you there, or will you have it down here with me while we wait for Bartley? Wilson was pleased to find that he had been the cause of her rapid walk, and with her he was even more vastly pleased than before. He followed her through the drawing-room into the library, where the wide back windows looked out upon the garden and the sunset in a fine stretch of silver-colored river. A harp-shaped elm stood stripped against the pale-colored evening sky, with ragged last year's bird's nest in its forks, and through the bare branches the evening star aquivered in the misty air. The long brown room breathed the peace of a rich and amply guarded quiet. Tea was brought in immediately and placed in front of the wood-fire. Mrs. Alexander sat down in a high-backed chair and began to pour it out, while Wilson sank into a low seat opposite her and took his cup with a great sense of ease and harmony and comfort. You have had a long journey, haven't you? Mrs. Alexander asked, after showing Gracie's concern about his tea. And I am so sorry Bartley is late. He is often tired when he is late. He flatters himself that it is a little on his account that you have come to this Congress of psychologists. It is, Wilson assented, selecting his muffin carefully, and I hope he won't be tired to-night, but on my own account I am glad to have a few moments alone with you before Bartley comes. I was somehow afraid that my knowing him so well would not put me in the way of getting to know you. That's very nice of you. She nodded at him, above her cup, and smiled. But there was a little formal tightness in her tone which had not been there when she greeted him in the hall. Wilson leaned forward. Have I said something awkward? I live very far out of the world, you know, but I didn't mean that you would exactly fade dim even if Bartley were here. Mrs. Alexander laughed relentingly, oh, I'm not so vain. How terribly discerning you are. She looked straight at Wilson, and he felt that this quick, frank glance brought about an understanding between them. He liked everything about her, he told himself, but he particularly liked her eyes. When she looked at one, directly for a moment, they were like a glimpse of fine, windy sky that may bring all sorts of weather. Since you noticed something, Mrs. Alexander went on, it must have been a flash of the distrust I have come to feel whenever I meet any of the people who knew Bartley when he was a boy. It is always as if they were talking of someone I had never met. Really, Professor Wilson, it would seem to me that he grew up among the strangest people. They usually say that he has turned out very well, or remark that he was always a fine fellow. I never know what reply to make. Wilson chuckled, and leaned back in his chair, shaking his left foot gently. I expect the fact is that we none of us knew him very well, Mrs. Alexander. Though I will say for myself that I was always confident he'd do something extraordinary. Mrs. Alexander's shoulders gave a slight movement suggestive of impatience. Oh, I should think that might have been a safe prediction. Another cup, please? Yes, thank you. But predicting, in the case of boys, is not so easy as you might imagine, Mrs. Alexander. Some get a bad hurt early and lose their courage, and some never get a fair wind. Bartley—he dropped his chin on the back of his long hand and looked at her admiringly—Bartley caught the wind early, and it has sung in his sails ever since. Mrs.  He liked the suggestion of stormy possibilities in the proud curve of her lip and nostril. Without that, he reflected, she would be too cold. I should like to know what he was really like when he was a boy. I don't believe he remembers, she said suddenly. Won't you smoke, Mr. Wilson? Wilson lit a cigarette. No, I don't suppose he does. He was never introspective. He was simply the most tremendous response to stimuli I have ever known. We didn't know exactly what to do with him.  Of course, she said, I now and again hear stories about things that happened when he was in college. But that isn't what you want, Wilson wringled his brows and looked at her with the smiling familiarity that had come about so quickly. What you want is a picture of him standing back there at the other end of twenty years. You want to look down through my memory. She dropped her hands in her lap. Yes, yes, that's exactly what I want.  There he is, away with perspective, no past, no future for Bartley, just the fiery moment, the only moment that ever was or will be in the world. The door from the hall opened, a voice called, Winifred, hurriedly, and a big man came through the drawing room with a quick, heavy tread, bringing with him a smell of cigar smoke and chill out of door's air. When Alexander reached the library door, he switched on the lights and stood six feet and more in the archway, glowing with strength and cordiality and rugged, blonde, good looks. There were other bridge builders in the world, certainly, but it was always Alexander's picture that the Sunday, supplement men wanted, because he looked as a tamer of rivers ought to look. Under his tumbled, sandy hair, his head seemed as hard and powerful as a catapult, and his shoulders looked strong enough in themselves to support a span of any one of his ten great bridges that cut the air above as many rivers. After dinner Alexander took Wilson up to his study. It was a large room over the library, and looked out upon the black river and the row of white lights along the Cambridge embankment. The room was not at all what one might expect of an engineer's study. Wilson felt at once the harmony of beautiful things that have lived long together without obtrusions of ugliness or change. It was none of Alexander's doing, of course. Those warm consonances of color had been blending and mellowing before he was born. But the wonder was that he was not out of place there, that it all seemed to glow like the inevitable background for his vigor and vehemence. He sat before the fire, his shoulders deep in the cushions of his chair, his powerful head upright, his hair rumpled above his broad forehead. He sat heavily, a cigar in his large, smooth hand, a flush of after-dinner color in his face, which wind and sun and exposure to all sorts of weather had left fair and clear-skinned. You are off to England on Saturday, Bartley, Mrs. Alexander tells me. Yes, but for a few weeks only. There's a meeting of British engineers, and I'm doing another bridge in Canada, you know. Oh, everyone knows about that. And it was in Canada that you met your wife, wasn't it? Yes, at Alway. She was visiting her great aunt there, a most remarkable old lady. I was working with McKellar then, an old Scotch engineer who had picked me up in London and taken me back to Quebec with him. He had the contract for the Alway bridge, but before he began work on it, he found out that he was going to die, and he advised the committee to turn the job over to me. Otherwise, I'd never have gotten anything good so early. McKellar was an old friend of Mrs. Pemberton, Winifred's aunt. He had mentioned me to her, so when I went to Alway, she asked me to come to see her. She was a wonderful old lady. Like her niece, Wilson queried. Bartley laughed. She had been very handsome, but not in Winifred's way. When I knew her, she was little and fragile, very pink and bright, with a splendid head and a face like fine old lace somehow. But perhaps I always think of that because she wore a lace scarf on her hair. She had such a flavor of life about her. She had known Gordon and Livingston and Beaconsfield when she was young, every one. She was the first woman of that sort I'd ever known. You know how it is in the West, old people are poked out of the way. Aunt Eleanor fascinated me, as few young women have ever done. I used to go up from the works to have tea with her and sit talking with her for hours. It was very stimulating, for she couldn't tolerate stupidity. It must have been then that your luck changed, Bartley, said Wilson, flicking his cigar ash with his long finger. It's curious, watching boys. He went on reflectively. I am sure I did you justice in the matter of ability. Yet I always used to feel that there was a weak spot where some day strain would tell. Even after you began to climb, I stood down in the crowd and watched you with—well, not with confidence. The more dazzling the front you presented, the higher your facade rose, the more I expected to see a big crack zigzagging from top to bottom. He indicated its course in the air with his forefinger, then a crash in clouds of dust. He was curious. I had such a clear picture of it, and another curious thing, Bartley. Wilson spoke with deliberateness and settled deeper into his chair. Is that I don't feel it any longer. I'm sure of you. Alexander laughed. Nonsense. It's not I you feel sure of. It's Winifred. People often make that mistake. No, I'm serious, Alexander. You've changed. You have decided to leave some birds in the bushes. You used to want them all. Alexander's chair creaked. I still want a good many, he said, rather gloomily. After all, life doesn't offer a man much. You work like the devil and think you're getting on, and suddenly you discover that you've only been getting yourself tied up. A million details drink you dry. Your life keeps going for things you don't want, and all the while you are being built alive into a social structure you don't care a wrap about. I sometimes wonder what sort of chap I'd have been if I hadn't been this sort. I want to go and live out his potentialities, too. I haven't forgotten that there are birds in the bushes. Bartley stopped and sat frowning into the fire. His shoulders thrust forward as if he were about to spring at something. Wilson watched him, wondering. His old pupil always stimulated him at first, then vastly worried him. The machinery was always pounding away in this man, and Wilson preferred companions of a more reflective habit of mind. He could not help feeling that there were unreasoning and unreasonable activities going on in Alexander all the while, that even after dinner, when most men achieve a decent impersonality, Bartley had merely closed the door of the engine room and come up for an airing. The machinery itself was still pounding on. Bartley's abstraction and Wilson's reflections were cut short by a rustle at the door, and almost before they could rise Mrs. Alexander was standing by the hearth. Alexander brought a chair for her, but she shook her head. No, thank you, I only came in to see whether you and Professor Wilson were quite comfortable I'm going down to the music room. Why not practice here? Wilson and I are growing very dull. We are tired of talk. Yes, I beg you, Mrs. Alexander. Wilson began. But he got no further. Why, certainly if you won't find me too noisy, I am working on the Schumann Carnival, and though I don't practice a great many hours I am very methodical, Mrs. Alexander explained, as she crossed to an upright piano that stood at the back of the room near the windows. One followed, and having seen her seated, dropped into a chair behind her. She played brilliantly and with great musical feeling. Wilson could not imagine her permitting herself to do anything badly, but he was surprised at the cleanliness of her execution. He wondered how a woman with so many duties had managed to keep herself up to a standard, really professional. It must take a great deal of time, certainly, and Bartley must take a great deal of time. Wilson reflected that he had never before known a woman who had been able, for any considerable while, to support both a personal and an intellectual passion. Sitting behind her, he watched her with perplexed admiration, shading his eyes with his hand. In her dinner dress she looked even younger than in her outdoor clothes, and for all her composure and self-sufficiency she seemed to him strangely alert and vibrating, as if in her, there were something never altogether at rest. He felt that he knew pretty much what she demanded in people, and what she demanded from life, and he wondered how she squared Bartley. After ten years she must know him, and, however one took him, however much one admired him, one had to admit that he simply wouldn't square. He was a natural force, certainly, but beyond that Wilson felt he was not anything very really or for very long at a time. Wilson glanced toward the fire, where Bartley's profile was still wreathed in cigar smoke that curled up more and more slowly. His shoulders were sunk deep in the cushions, and one hand hung large and passive over the arm of his chair. He had slipped on a purple velvet-spoking coat. His wife, Wilson surmised, had chosen it. She was clearly very proud of his good looks, and his fine colour. But with the glow of an immediate interest gone out of it, the engineer's face looked tired, even a little haggard. The three lines in his forehead, directly above the nose, deepened as he sat thinking, and his powerful head drooped forward heavily. Although Alexander was only forty-three, Wilson thought that beneath his vigorous colour he detected the dulling weariness of oncoming middle age. The next afternoon, at the hour when the river was beginning to redden under the declining sun, Wilson again found himself facing Mrs. Alexander at the tea-table in the library. Well, he remarked, when he was bidden to give an account of himself, there was a long morning with the psychologists, lunch in with Bartley at his club, more psychologists, and here I am, I've looked forward to this hour all day. Mrs. Alexander smiled at him across the vapor from the kettle. And do you remember where we stopped yesterday? Perfectly. I was going to show you a picture. But I doubt whether I have colour enough in me. Bartley makes me feel a faded monochrome. You can't get at the young Bartley except by means of colour. Wilson paused and deliberated. Suddenly he broke out. He wasn't a remarkable student, you know, though he was always strong in higher mathematics. His work in my own department was quite ordinary. It was as a powerfully equipped nature that I found him interesting. That is the most interesting thing a teacher can find. It has the fascination of a scientific discovery. We come across other pleasing and endearing qualities so much oftener than we find force. And after all, said Mrs. Alexander, that is the thing we live upon. It is the thing that takes us forward. Wilson thought she spoke a little wistfully. Exactly, he assented warmly. It builds the bridges into the future, over which the feet of every one of us will go. How interested I am to hear you put it in that way. The bridges into the future, I often say that to myself. Bartley's bridges always seem to me like that. Have you ever seen his first suspension bridge in Canada, the one he was doing when I first knew him? I hope you will see it sometime. We were married as soon as it was finished, and you will laugh when I tell you that it always has a rather bridal look to me. It is over the wildest river, with mists and clouds always battling about it, and it is as delicate as a cobweb hanging in the sky. It really was a bridge into the future. You have only to look at it to feel that it meant the beginning of a great career, but I have a photograph of it here. She drew a portfolio from behind a bookcase, and there you see, on the hill, is my aunt's house. Wilson took up the photograph. Bartley was telling me something about your aunt last night. She must have been a delightful person. Winifred laughed. The bridge, you see, was just at the foot of the hill, and the noise of the engines annoyed her very much at first. But after she met Bartley, she pretended to like it, and said it was a good thing to be reminded that there were things going on in the world. She loved life, and Bartley brought a great deal of it into her when he came to the house. On Eleanor was very worldly in a frank, early Victorian manner. She liked men of action, and disliked young men who were careful of themselves, and who, as she put it, were always trimming their wick as if they were afraid of their oils giving out. McKellar, Bartley's first chief, was an old friend of my aunt, and he told her that Bartley was a wild, ill-governed youth, which really pleased her very much. I remember we were sitting alone in the dusk after Bartley had been there for the first time. I knew that Aunt Eleanor had found him much to her taste, but she hadn't said anything. Suddenly she came out with a chuckle. McKellar found him sewing wild oats in London, I believe. I hope he didn't stop him too soon. Life coquettes with dashing fellows. The coming men are always like that. We must have him to dinner, my dear. And we did. She grew much fonder of Bartley than she was of me. I had been studying in Vienna, and she thought that absurd. She was interested in the army and in politics, and she had a great contempt for music and art and philosophy. She used to declare that the Prince Consort had brought all that stuff over out of Germany. She always sniffed when Bartley asked me to play for him. She considered that a new-fangled way of making a match of it. When Alexander came in a few moments later, he found Wilson and his wife still confronting the photograph. Oh, let us get that out of the way, he said, laughing. Winifred, Thomas can bring my trunk down. I've decided to go over to New York to-morrow night and take a fast boat. I shall save two days. End of Chapter 1 CHAPTER 2 On the night of his arrival in London, Alexander went immediately to the hotel on the embankment at which he always stopped, and in the lobby he was accosted by an old acquaintance, Maurice Mainhal, who fell upon him with effusive cordiality and indicated a willingness to dine with him. Bartley never dined alone if he could help it, and Mainhal was a good gossip who always knew what had been going on in town, especially he knew everything that was not printed in the newspapers. The nephew of one of the standard Victorian novelists, Mainhal, bobbed about among the various literary cliques of London and its outlying suburbs, careful to lose touch with none of them. He had written a number of books himself, among them a History of Dancing, a History of Costume, a Key to Shakespeare's Sonnets, a Study of the Poetry of Ernest Dawson, etc. Although Mainhal's enthusiasm was often tiresome, and although he was often unable to distinguish between facts and vivid figments of his imagination, his imperturbable good nature overcame even the people whom he bored most, so that they ended by becoming, in a reluctant manner, his friends. In appearance Mainhal was astonishingly like the conventional stage Englishman of American drama, tall and thin, with high shoulders and a small head glistening with closely brushed yellow hair. He spoke with an extreme Oxford accent, and when he was talking well, his face sometimes wore the rapt expression of a very emotional man listening to music. Mainhal liked Alexander because he was an engineer. He had preconceived ideas about everything, and his idea about Americans was that they should be engineers or mechanics. He hated them when they presumed to be anything else. While they sat at dinner, Mainhal acquainted Bartley with the fortunes of his old friends in London, and as they left the table, he proposed that they should go to see Hugh McConnell's new comedy, Bog Lights. It's really quite the best thing McConnell's done, he exclaimed, as they got into a handsome. It's tremendously well put on, too. Florence Merrill and Cyril Henderson. But Hildeberg going's the hit of the piece. Hugh's written a delightful part for her, and she's quite inexpressible. It's only been on two weeks, and I've been half a dozen times already. I happen to have McConnell's box for tonight, or there'd be no chance of her getting places. There's everything in seeing Hilde while she's fresh and apart. She's apt to grow a bit stale after a time, the ones who have any imagination do. Hildeberg going, Alexander exclaimed mildly, why, I haven't heard of her for years. Mainhal laughed. Then you can't have heard much at all, my dear Alexander. It's only lately, since McConnell and his set have got hold of her, that she's come up. Myself, I always knew she had it in her. If we had one real critic in London, but what can one expect? Do you know, Alexander? Mainhal looked with perplexity up into the top of the handsome, and rubbed his pink cheek with his gloved finger. Do you know, I sometimes think of taking to criticism seriously myself. In a way it would be a sacrifice, but dear me, we do need someone. Just then they drove up to the Duke of Yorks, so Alexander did not commit himself, but followed Mainhal into the theatre. When they entered the stage-box on the left, the first act was well under way, the scene being the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland. As they sat down, a burst of applause drew Alexander's attention to the stage. Miss Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their heads in at the half-door. After all, he reflected, there's small probability of her recognizing me. She doubtless hasn't thought of me for years. He felt the enthusiasm of the house at once, and in a few moments he was caught up by the current of McConnell's irresistible comedy. The audience had come forewarned evidently, and whenever the ragged slip of a donkey-girl ran upon the stage there was a deep murmur of approbation. Everyone smiled and glowed, and Mainhal hitched his heavy chair a little nearer the brass railing. You see, he murmured in Alexander's ear as the curtain fell on the first act. One almost never sees a part like that, done without smartness or mockishness. Of course, Hilda is Irish, the Burgoynes have been stage-people for generations, and she has the Irish voice. It's delightful to hear it in a London theatre. That laugh now, when she doubles over at the hips. Who ever heard it out of Galway? She saves her hand, too. She's at her best in the second act. She's really McConnell's poetic motif, you see, makes the whole thing a fairytale.  Alexander, annoyed by Mainhal's sighs and exclamations, watched her with keen, half-sceptical interest. As Mainhal had said, she was the second act, the plot and feeling alike depended on her likeness of foot, her likeness of touch, upon the shrewdness and deaf fancifulness that played, alternately, and sometimes together, in her mirthful brown eyes. When she began to dance, by way of showing the gossoons which she had seen in the fairy-rings at night, the house broke into a prolonged uproar. After her dance she withdrew from the dialogue and retreated to the ditch-wall back of Philly's borough, where she sat singing The Rising of the Moon and making a wreath of primroses for her donkey. When the act was over, Alexander and Mainhal strolled out into the corridor. They met a good many acquaintances, Mainhal, indeed, knew almost everyone, and he babbled on inconstantly, screwing his small head about over his high collar. Presently he hailed a tall, bearded man, grim-browed and rather battered-looking, who had his open coat on his arm and his hat in his hand, and who seemed to be on the point of leaving the theatre. McConnell, let me introduce Mr. Bartley Alexander. I say, it's going famously to-night, Mac, and what an audience! You'll never do anything like this again, mark me. A man writes to the top of his bend only once. The playwright gave Mainhal a curious look out of his deep, set, faded eyes, and made a writhe face. Then have I done anything so foolish as that now? He asked. That's what I was saying. Mainhal lounged a little nearer and dropped into a tone even more conspicuously confidential. And you'll never bring Hilda out like this again. Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn't possibly be better, you know. McConnell grunted, she'll do well enough if she keeps her pace, it doesn't go off on us in the middle of the season, as she's more than likely to do. He nodded curtly and made for the door, dodging acquaintances as he went. Poor old Hugh, Mainhal murmured, he's hit terribly hard. He's been wanting to marry Hilda these three years and more. She doesn't take up with anybody, you know. Irene Burgoyne, one of her family, told me in confidence that there was a romance somewhere back in the beginning. One of your countrymen, Alexander, by the way, an American student whom she met in Paris, I believe. I daresay it's quite true that there's never been anyone else. Mainhal vouched for her constancy with a loftiness that made Alexander smile, even while a kind of rapid excitement was tingling through him. Blinking up at the lights, Mainhal added in his luxurious, worldly way. She's an elegant little person, and quite capable of an extravagant bit of sentiment like that. Here comes Sir Harry Town. He's another who's awfully keen about her. Let me introduce you. Sir Harry Town, Mr. Bartley Alexander, the American engineer. Sir Harry Town bowed, and said that he had met Mr. Alexander and his wife in Tokyo. Mainhal cut in impatiently. I say, Sir Harry, the little girl's going famously to-night, isn't she? Sir Harry wrinkled his brows judiciously. Do you know, I thought the dance a bit conscious to-night, for the first time. The fact is, she's feeling rather seedy, poor child. Westmere and I were back at the first act, and we thought she seemed quite uncertain of herself. A little attack of nerves, possibly. He bowed as the warning bell rang, and Mainhal whispered, you know Lord Westmere, of course, the stooped man with the long grey mustache talking to Lady Dowell. Lady Westmere is very fond of Hilda. When they reached their box, the house was darkened, and the orchestra was playing The Cloak of Old Gaul. In a moment Peggy was on the stage again, and Alexander applauded vigorously with the rest. He even leaned over the rail a little. For some reason he felt pleased and flattered by the enthusiasm of the audience. In the half-light he looked about at the stalls and boxes, and smiled a little consciously, recalling with the amusement Sir Harry's judicial frown. He was beginning to feel a keen interest in the slender, barefoot donkey girl, who slipped in and out of the play, singing, like someone winding through a hilly field.  When Alexander returned to his hotel, he shook off Mainhal at the door of the theatre. He had some supper brought up to his room, and it was late before he went to bed. He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for years, indeed he had almost forgotten her. He had last written to her from Canada, after he first met Winifred, telling her that everything was changed with him, that he had met a woman whom he would marry if he could. If he could not, then all the more was everything changed for him. Hilda had never replied to his letter. He felt guilty and unhappy about her for a time, but after Winifred promised to marry him, he really forgot Hilda altogether. When he wrote to her that everything was changed for him, he was telling the truth. After he met Winifred Pemberton, he seemed to himself like a different man. One night, when he and Winifred were sitting together on the bridge, he told her things that had happened while he was studying abroad that he was sorry for. One thing in particular, and he asked her whether she thought she ought to know about them. She considered a moment, then said, No, I think not, though I am glad you ask me. You see, one can't be jealous about things in general, but about particular, definite, personal things. Here she had thrown her hands up to his shoulders with a quick impulsive gesture. Oh, about those I should be very jealous. I should torture myself. I couldn't help it. After that it was easy to forget, actually, to forget. He wondered tonight, as he poured out his wine, how many times he had thought of Hilda in the last ten years. He had been in London, more or less, but he had never happened to hear of her. All the same. He lifted his glass.  You've made things come your way, and I never thought you'd do it. Of course, he reflected. She always had that combination of something homely and sensible, and something utterly wild and crazy, but I never thought she'd do anything. She hadn't much ambition, then, and she was too fond of trifles. She must care about the theatre a great deal more than she used to. Perhaps she has me to thank for something after all. Sometimes a little jolt like that does one good. She was a wild, generous little thing. I'm glad she's held her own sense. After all, we were awfully young. It was youth and poverty and proximity, and everything was young and kindly. I shouldn't wonder if she could laugh about it with me now. I shouldn't wonder. But they've probably spoiled her so that she'd be tiresome if one met her again. Bartley smiled and yawned and went to bed. CHAPTER III The next evening Alexander dined alone at a club, and at about nine o'clock he dropped in at the Duke of Yorks. The house was sold out, and he stood through the second act. When he returned to his hotel, he examined the new directory and found Miss Burgoyne's address still given as Off Bedford Square, though at a new number. He remembered that, in so far as she had been brought up at all, she had been brought up in Bloomsbury. Her father and mother played in the provinces most of the year, and she was left a great deal in the care of an old aunt who was crippled by rheumatism and who had had to leave the stage altogether. In the days when Alexander knew her, Hilda always managed to have a lodging of some sort about Bedford Square, because she clung tenaciously to such scraps and shreds of memories as were connected with it. The mummy room of the British Museum had been one of the chief delights of her childhood. That forbidding pile was the goal of her true and fancy, and she was sometimes taken there for a treat as other children are taken to the theatre. It was long since Alexander had thought of any of these things, but now they came back to him quite fresh and had a significance they did not have when they were first told him in his restless twenties. So she was still in the old neighbourhood near Bedford Square. The new number probably meant increased prosperity. He hoped so. He would like to know that she was snugly settled. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. She would not be home for a good two hours yet, and he might as well walk over and have a look at the place. He remembered the shortest way. It was a warm, smoky evening, and there was a grimy moon. He went through Covent Garden to Oxford Street, and as he turned into Museum Street he walked more slowly, smiling at his own nervousness as he approached the sullen grey mass at the end. He had not been inside the museum, actually, since he and Hilda used to meet there, sometimes to set out for gay adventures at Twickenham or Richmond, sometimes to linger about the place for a while and to ponder by Lord Elgin's marbles upon the lastingness of some things or in the mummy-room upon the awful brevity of others. Since then Bartley had always thought of the British Museum as the ultimate repository of mortality, where all the dead things in the world were assembled to make one's hour of youth the more precious. When trembled, lest, before he got out, it might somehow escape him, lest he might drop the glass from over eagerness and see it shivered on the stone floor at his feet. How one hid his youth under his coat and hugged it, and how good it was to turn once back upon all that vaulted cold, to take Hilda's arm and hurry out of the great door and down the steps into the sunlight among the pigeons, to know that the warm and vital thing within him was still there and had not been snatched away to flush Caesar's lean cheek or feed the veins of some bearded Assyrian king. They in their day had carried the flaming liquor, but today was his. So the song used to run in his head those summer mornings a dozen years ago. Alexander walked by the place very quietly as if he were afraid of waking someone. He crossed Bedford Square and found the number he was looking for. The house, a comfortable, well-kept place enough, was dark except for the four front windows on the second floor, where a low, even light was burning behind the white, muslin, sash curtains. Outside there were window-boxes painted white and full of flowers. Bartley was making a third round of the square when he heard the far-flung hoof-beats of a handsome cab-horse driven rapidly. He looked at his watch and was astounded to find that it was a few minutes after twelve. He turned and walked back along the iron railing as the cab came up to Hilda's number and stopped. The handsome must have been one that she employed regularly, for she did not stop to pay the driver. She stepped out quickly and lightly. He heard her cheerful, good-night, cabby, as she ran up the steps and opened the door with a latch-key. In a few moments the lights flared up brightly behind the white curtains, and as he walked away he heard a window raised. But he had gone too far to look up without turning round. He went back to his hotel, feeling that he had had a good evening, and he slept well. For the next few days Alexander was very busy. He took a desk in the office of a Scotch engineering firm in Henrietta Street, and was at work almost constantly. He avoided the clubs and usually dined alone at his hotel. One afternoon, after he had tea, he started for a walk down the embankment towards Westminster, intending to end his stroll at Bedford Street and to ask whether Miss Burgoyne would let him take her to the theatre. But he did not go so far. When he reached the abbey he turned back and crossed Westminster Bridge and sat down to watch the trails of smoke behind the houses of parliament catch fire with the sunset. The slender towers were washed by a rain of golden light and licked by little flickering flames. Summer set house and the bleached gray pinnacles about Whitehall were floated in a luminous haze. The yellow light poured through the trees and the leaves seemed to burn with soft fires. There was a smell of acacias in the air everywhere, and the lebernums were dripping gold over the walls of the gardens. It was a sweet, lonely kind of summer evening. Remembering Hilda as she used to be was doubtless more satisfactory than seeing her as she must be now, and, after all, Alexander asked himself, what was it but his own young years that he was remembering? He crossed back to Westminster, went up to the temple, and sat down to smoke in the middle temple gardens, listening to the thin voice of the fountain and smelling the spice of the sycamores that came out heavily in the damp evening air. He thought, as he sat there, about a great many things. About his own youth and Hilda's. Above all, he thought of how glorious it had been and how quickly it had passed, and when it had passed, how little worthwhile anything was. None of the things he had gained in the least compensated. In the last six years his reputation had become, as the saying is, popular. Four years ago he had been called to Japan to deliver, at the Emperor's Request, a course of lectures at the Imperial University, and had instituted reforms throughout the islands not only in the practice of bridge-building but in drainage and road-making. On his return he had undertaken the bridge at Moorlach, in Canada, the most important piece of bridge-building going on in the world, a test, indeed, of how far the latest practice in bridge structure could be carried. It was a spectacular undertaking, by reason of its very size, and partly realized that, whatever else he might do, he would probably always be known as the engineer who designed the great Moorlach bridge, the longest cantilever in existence. Yet it was to him the least satisfactory thing he had ever done. He was cramped in every way by a niggerly commission, and was using lighter structural material than he thought proper. He had vexations enough, too, with his work at home. He had several bridges underway in the United States, and they were always being held up by strikes and delays resulting from a general industrial unrest. Though Alexander often told himself he had never put more into his work than he had done in the last few years, he had to admit that he had never got so little out of it. He was paying for success, too, in the demands made on his time by boards of civic enterprise and committees of public welfare. The obligations imposed by his wife's fortune and position were sometimes distracting to a man who followed his profession, and he was expected to be interested in a great many worthy endeavors on her account, as well as on his own. His existence was becoming a network of great and little details. He had expected that success would bring him freedom and power, but it had brought only power that was in itself another kind of restraint. He had always meant to keep his personal liberty at all costs, as Old McKellar, his first chief, had done, and not, like so many American engineers, to become a part of a professional movement, Akash's board member, Anester de Pontebus. He happened to be engaged in work of public utility, but he was not willing to become what is called a public man. He found himself living exactly the kind of life he had determined to escape. What, he asked himself, did he want with these genial honours and substantial comforts? Hardships and difficulties he had carried lightly. Overwork had not exhausted him. But this dead calm of middle life which confronted him, of that he was afraid. He was not ready for it. It was like being buried alive. In his youth he would not have believed such a thing possible. The one thing he had really wanted all his life was to be free, and there was still something unconquered in him, something besides the strong workhorse that his profession had made of him. He felt rich tonight in the possession of that unstultified survival. In the light of his experience it was more precious than honours or achievements. In all those busy, successful years there had been nothing so good as this hour of wild light-heartedness. This feeling was the only happiness that was real to him, and such hours were the only ones in which he could feel his own continuous identity, feel the boy he had been in the rough days of the Old West, feel the youth who had worked his way across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone to study in Paris without a dollar in his pocket. The man who sat in his offices in Boston was only a powerful machine. Under the activities of that machine, the person who, at such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading and dying. He remembered how, when he was a little boy and his father called him in the morning, he used to leap from his bed into the full consciousness of himself. That consciousness was life itself. Whatever took its place, action, reflection, the power of concentrated thought, were only functions of a mechanism useful to society, things that could be bought in the market. There was only one thing that had an absolute value for each individual, and it was just that original impulse, that internal heat, that feeling of one's self in one's own breast. When Alexander walked back to his hotel, the red and green lights were blinking along the docks on the farther shore, and the soft white stars were shining in the wide sky above the river. The next night, and the next, Alexander repeated this same foolish performance. It was always Miss Burgoyne whom he started out to find, and he got no further than the temple gardens and the embankment. It was a pleasant kind of loneliness. To a man who was so little given to reflection, whose dreams always took the form of definite ideas reaching into the future, there was a seductive excitement in renewing old experiences in imagination. He started out upon these walks half guiltily, with a curious longing and expectancy which were wholly gratified by solitude. Solitude, but not solitariness. For he walked shoulder to shoulder with a shadowy companion, not little Hilder Burgoyne by any means, but someone vastly dearer to him than she had ever been, his own young self, the youth who had waited for him upon the steps of the British Museum that night, and who, though he had tried to pass so quietly, had known him, and came down in LinkedIn Arm in his. It was not until long afterwards that Alexander learned that, for him, this youth was the most dangerous of companions. One Sunday evening at Lady Walford's, Alexander did at last meet Hilder Burgoyne. Main Hall had told him that she would probably be there. He looked about for her rather nervously, and finally found her at the farther end of the large drawing-room, the center of a circle of men young and old. She was apparently telling them a story. They were all laughing and bending toward her. When she saw Alexander she rose quickly and put out her hand. The other men drew back a little to let him approach. Mr. Alexander, I am delighted. Have you been in London long? Bartley bowed, somewhat laboriously, over her hand. Long enough to have seen you more than once. How fine it all is. She laughed as if she were pleased. I'm glad you think so. I like it. Won't you join us here? Miss Burgoyne was just telling us about a donkey boy she had in Galway last summer. Mr. Harry Towne explained, as the circle closed up again. Lord Westmere stroked his long white mustache with his bloodless hand, and looked at Alexander blankly. Hilder was a good storyteller. She was sitting on the edge of her chair as if she had alighted there for a moment only. Her primrose satin gown seemed like a soft sheath for her slender, supple figure, and its delicate color suited her white Irish skin and brown hair. Whatever she wore, people felt the charm of her active, girlish body with its slender hips and quick, eager shoulders. Alexander heard little of the story, but he watched Hilder intently. She must certainly, he reflected, be thirty, and he was honestly delighted to see that the years had treated her so indulgently. If her face had changed at all, it was in a slight hardening of the mouth, still eager enough to be very disconcerting at times, he felt, and in an added air of self-possession and self-reliance. She carried her head, too, a little more resolutely. When the story was finished Miss Burgoyne turned pointedly to Alexander, and the other men drifted away. I thought I saw you in McConnell's box with Main Hall one evening, but I supposed you had left town before this. She looked at him frankly and cordially, as if he were indeed merely an old friend whom she was glad to meet again. No, I've been mooning about here. Hilder laughed gaily. Mooning! I see you mooning. You must be the busiest man in the world. Timon's excess have done well by you, you know.  Alexander blushed and bowed. Timon's excess have been good friends to both of us. Aren't you tremendously pleased with yourself? She laughed again and shrugged her shoulders. Oh, so so. But I want to hear about you. Several years ago I read such a lot in the papers about the wonderful things you did in Japan and how the Emperor decorated you. What was it, Commander of the Order of the Rising Sun? That sounds like the Mikado. And what about your new bridge, in Canada, isn't it?  Bartley shook his head and smiled droly. Since when have you been interested in bridges? Or have you learned to be interested in everything? And is that a part of success? Why, how absurd! As if I were not always interested! Hilda exclaimed. Well, I think we won't talk about bridges here at any rate. Bartley looked down at the toe of her yellow slipper which was tapping the rug impatiently under the hem of her gown. But I wonder whether you'd think me impertinent if I asked you to let me come to see you some time and tell you about them. Why should I? Ever so many people come on Sunday afternoons. I know, Main Hall offered to take me, but you must know that I've been in London several times within the last few years, and you might very well think that just now it was a rather inopportune time. She cut him short. Nonsense. One of the pleasantest things about success is that it makes people want to look one up, if that's what you mean. I'm like everyone else, more agreeable to meet when things are going well with me.  Does it? Oh, how fine it all is. You're coming on like this. But I didn't want you to think it was because of that that I wanted to see you. He spoke very seriously and looked down at the floor. Hilda studied him in wide-eyed astonishment for a moment, then broke into a low, amused laugh. My dear Mr. Alexander, you have strange delicacies. If you please, that is exactly why you wish to see me. We understand that, do we not?" Bartley looked ruffled, and turned the seal ring on his finger about awkwardly.  Come, don't be angry, but don't try to pose familiar. To be anything but what you are. If you care to come, it's yourself I'll be glad to see, and you thinking well of yourself. Don't try to wear a cloak of humility, it doesn't become you. Stalk in as you are, and don't make excuses. I'm not accustomed to inquiring into the motives of my guests. That would hardly be safe, even for Lady Walford in a great house like this. Sunday afternoon, then, said Alexander, as she rose to join her hostess. How early may I come? I'm at home after four, and I'll be glad to see you, Bartley. She gave him her hand, and flushed and laughed. He bent over it a little stiffly. She went away on Lady Walford's arm, and as he stood watching her yellow train glide down the long floor, he looked rather sullen. He felt that he had not come out of it very brilliantly. End of Chapter 3 CHAPTER 4 On Sunday afternoon, Alexander remembered Miss Burgoyne's invitation, and called at her flat. He found it a delightful little place, and he met charming people there. Hilda lived alone, attended by a very pretty and competent French servant who answered the door and brought in the tea. Alexander arrived early, and some twenty odd people dropped in during the course of the afternoon.  He seemed to have made a resolute effort at tidiness of attire, and his sister, a robust, florid woman, with a splendid joviality about her, kept eyeing his freshly creased clothes apprehensively. It was not very long, indeed, before his coat hung with a discouraged sag from his gone-to-shoulders, and his hair and beard were rumpled, as if he had been out in a gale. His dry humor went under a cloud of absent-minded kindness which, Mainhol explained, always overtook him here. He was never so witty or so sharp here as elsewhere, and Alexander thought he behaved as if he were an elderly relative come into a young girl's party. The editor of a monthly review came with his wife, and Lady Kildare, the Irish philanthropist, brought her young nephew, Robert Owen, who had come up from Oxford, and who was visibly excited and gratified by his first introduction to Miss Burgoyne. Kildare was very nice to him, and he sat on the edge of his chair, flushed with his conversational efforts, and moving his chin about nervously over his high collar. Sara Frost, the novelist, came with her husband, a very genial, implicit old scholar, who had become slightly deranged upon the subject of the Fourth Dimension. On other matters he was perfectly rational, and he was easy and pleasing in conversation. He looked very much like Agassiz, and his wife, in her old-fashioned black silk dress, over-skirted and tight-sleeved, reminded Alexander of the early pictures of Mrs. Browning. Hilda seemed particularly fond of this quaint couple, and Bartley himself was so pleased with their mild and thoughtful conversation that he took his leave when they did, and walked with them over to Oxford Street, where they waited for their bus. They asked him to come to see them in Chelsea, and they spoke very tenderly of Hilda. She's a dear, unworldly little thing, said the philosopher, absently, more like the stage-people of my young days, folk of simple manners. There aren't many such left. American tours have spoiled them, I'm afraid. They have all grown very smart. Lamb wouldn't care a great deal about many of them, I fancy. Alexander went back to Bedford Square a second Sunday afternoon. He had a long talk with McConnell, but he got no word with Hilda alone, and he left in a discontented state of mind. For the rest of the week he was nervous and unsettled, and kept rushing his work as if he were preparing for immediate departure. On Thursday afternoon he cut short a committee meeting, jumped into a handsome, and drove to Bedford Square. He sent up his card, but it came back to him with a message scribbled across the front. So sorry I can't see you. Will you come and dine with me Sunday evening at half-past seven? H.B. When Bartley arrived at Bedford Square on Sunday evening, Marie, the pretty little French girl, met him at the door, and conducted him upstairs. Hilda was riding in her living-room under the light of a tall desk-clamp. Bartley recognized the primrose satin gown she had worn that first evening at Lady Walford's. I'm so pleased you think me worth that yellow dress, you know," he said, taking her hand and looking her over admiringly, from the toes of her canary slippers to her smoothly parted brown hair. Yes, it's very, very pretty. Everyone at Lady Walford's was looking at it. Hilda curtsied. Is that why you think it pretty? I have no need for fine clothes and max play this time, so I could afford a few dutties for myself. It's owing to that same chance, by the way, that I am able to ask you to dinner. I don't need Marie to dress me this season, so she keeps house for me, and my little Galway girl has gone home for a visit. I should never have asked you if Molly had been here, for I remember you don't like English cookery. Alexander walked about the room, looking at everything. I haven't had a chance yet to tell you what a jolly little place I think this is. Where did you get those etchings? They're quite unusual, aren't they? Lady Westmere sent them to me from Rome last Christmas. She is very much interested in the American artist who did them. They are all sketches made about the villa-dest, you see. He painted that group of cypresses for the salon, and it was bought for the Luxembourg. Alexander walked over to the bookcases. It's the air of the whole place here that I like. You haven't got anything that doesn't belong. Seems to me it looks particularly well to-night, and you have so many flowers. I like these little yellow irises. Rooms always look better by lamp-light, in London at least, though Marie is clean, really clean, as the French are. Why do you look at the flowers so critically? Marie got them all fresh in Covent Garden Market yesterday morning. I'm glad, said Alexander simply. I can't tell you how glad I am to have you so pretty and comfortable here, and to hear everyone saying such nice things about you. You've got awfully nice friends," he added humbly, picking up a little jade elephant from her desk. Those fellows are all very loyal, even main hall. They don't talk of anyone else as they do of you. Milne sat down on the couch and said seriously, I'm a neat little sum in the bank, too, now, and I own a might-of-a-hut in Galway. It's not worth much, but I love it. I've managed to save something every year, and that's with helping my three sisters now and then, and tidying poor cousin Mike over bad seasons. He's that gifted, you know, but he will drink, and loses more good engagements than other fellows ever get. And I've travelled a bit, too. She opened the door and smilingly announced that dinner was served.  It was a tiny room, hung all round with French prints, above which ran a shelf full of china. Hilda saw Alexander look up at it. It's not particularly rare, she said, but some of it was my mother's. Heaven knows how she managed to keep it whole through all our wanderings, or in what baskets or bundles and theatre-trunks it hasn't been stowed away. We always had our tea out of those blue cups when I was a little girl, sometimes in the queerest lodgings, and sometimes in a trunk at the theatre, queer theatres, too, for that matter. It was a wonderful little dinner. There was watercress soup and soul, and a delightful omelet stuffed with mushrooms and truffles, and two small, rare ducklings, and artichokes, and a dry yellow rind wine, of which Bartley had always been very fond. He drank it appreciatively, and remarked that there was still no other he liked so well. I have some champagne for you, too. I don't drink it myself, but I like to see it behave when it's poured. There is nothing else that looks so jolly. Thank you. But I don't like it so well as this. Bartley held the yellow wine against the light, and squinted into it as he turned the glass slowly about. You have travelled, you say. Have you been in Paris much these late years? Hilda lowered one of the candle-shades carefully. Oh yes, I go over to Paris often. There are a few changes in the old quarter. Dear old Madame Alger is dead, but perhaps you don't remember her? Don't I, though. I'm so sorry to hear it. How did her son turn out? I remember how she saved and scraped for him, and how we always lay a bed till ten o'clock. He was the laziest fellow at the Beaux-Arts, and not saying a good deal. Well, he is still clever and lazy. They say he is a good architect when he will work. He's a big, handsome creature, and he hates Americans as much as ever. But, Angel, do you remember Angel? Perfectly. Did she ever get back to Brittany in her Bound-de-mer? Ah, no. Poor Angel. She got tired of cooking and scouring the pots and pans in Madame Alger's little kitchen, so she ran away with a soldier, and then with another soldier. Too bad. She still lives about the quarter, and, though there is always a soldat, she has become un blanche suisseuse de faim. She did my blouses beautifully the last time I was there, and was so delighted to see me again. I gave her all my old clothes, even my old hats, though she always wears her a Bertrand headdress.  How jolly it was being young, Hilda. Do you remember that first walk we took together in Paris? We walked down to the Place Saint-Michel to buy some lilacs. Do you remember how sweet they smelled? Indeed I do. Come, we'll have our coffee in the other room, and you can smoke. Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished to change the drift of their talk, but Bartley found it pleasant to continue it. What a warm, soft spring evening that was, he went on, as they sat down in the study with the coffee on a little table between them. And the sky over the bridges was just the color of the lilacs. We walked on down by the river, didn't we? Hilda laughed and looked at him questioningly. He saw a gleam in her eyes that he remembered even better than the episode he was recalling. I think we did, she answered demurely. It was on the chi that we met that woman who was crying so bitterly. I gave her a spray of lilac, I remember, and you gave her a franc. I was frightened at your prodigiality. I expect it was the last franc I had. What a strong brown face she had, and very tragic. She looked at us with such despair and longing out from under her black shawl. What she wanted from us was neither our flowers nor our francs, but just our youth. I remember it touched me so. I would have given her some of mine off my back if I could. I had enough in despair then, Bartley mused, and looked thoughtfully at his cigar. They were both remembering what the woman had said when she took the money. God give you a happy love. It was not in the ingratiating tone of the habitual beggar.  It had the anguish of a voice of prophecy. Until she spoke, Bartley had not realized that he was in love. The strange woman and her passionate sentence that rang out so sharply had frightened them both. They went home sadly with the lilacs, back to the rue Saint-Jacques, walking about very slowly, arm in arm. When they reached the house where Hilda lodged, Bartley went across the court with her and up the dark old stairs to the third landing, and there he had kissed her for the first time. He had shut his eyes to give him the courage, he remembered, and she had troubled so. Bartley started when Hilda rang the little bell beside her. Dear me, why did you do that? I had quite forgotten. I was back there. It was very jolly, he murmured lazily, as Marie came in to take away the coffee. Hilda laughed and went over to the piano. Well, we are neither of us twenty now, you know. Have I told you about my new play? Mack is writing one, really for me this time. You see, I'm coming on. I've seen nothing else. What kind of a part is it? Shall you wear yellow gowns? I hope so. He was looking at her round, slender figure as she stood by the piano, turning over a pile of music, and he felt the energy in every line of it. No, it isn't a dress-up part. He doesn't seem to fancy me in fine feathers. He says I ought to be minding the pigs at home, and I suppose I ought. But he's given me some good Irish songs. Listen. She sat down at the piano and sang. When she finished, Alexander shook himself out of a reverie. Sing the harp that once, Hilda, you used to sing it so well. Nonsense. Of course I can't really sing, except the way my mother and grandmother did before me. Most actresses nowadays learn to sing properly, so I tried to master, but he confused me just. Alexander laughed. All the same. Sing it, Hilda. Hilda started up from the stool and moved restlessly toward the window. It's really too warm in this room to sing. Don't you feel it? Alexander went over and opened the window for her. Aren't you afraid to let the wind blow like that on your neck? Can't I get a scarf or something? Ask a theatre lady if she's afraid of drafts. Hilda laughed.  There, just in front. He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder straps. There, that will do. It looks like a bib. She pushed his hand away quickly and stood looking out into the deserted square. Isn't London a tomb on Sunday night? Alexander caught the agitation in her voice. He stood a little behind her and tried to steady himself as he said. It's soft and misty. See how white the stars are. For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke. They stood close together, looking out into the wan, watery sky, breathing always more quickly and lightly, and it seemed as if all the clocks in the world had stopped. Suddenly he moved the clenched hand he held behind him, and dropped it violently at his side. He felt a tremor run through the slender yellow figure in front of him. She caught his handkerchief from her throat and thrusted at him without turning round. Here, take it. You must go now, Bartley. Good night. Bartley leaned over her shoulder without touching her and whispered in her ear. You are giving me a chance? Yes. Take it and go. This isn't fair, you know. Good night. Alexander unclenched the two hands at his side. With one he threw down the window, and with the other, still standing behind her, he drew her back against him.  Are you going to let me love you a little, Bartley? she whispered. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 OF Alexander's Bridge This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Alexander's Bridge by Willa Cybert Cather Chapter 5 It was the afternoon of the day before Christmas. Mrs. Alexander had been driving about all the morning, leaving presents at the houses of her friends. She lunched alone, and as she rose from the table, she spoke to the butler. Thomas, I am going down to the kitchen now to see Nora. In half an hour you are to bring the holly and mistletoe up from the cellar and put them in the library. Mr. Alexander will be home at three to hang them himself. Don't forget the step ladder and plenty of tacks and string. You may bring the azaleas upstairs. Take the white one to Mr. Alexander's study. Put the two pink ones in this room, and the red one in the drawing room. A little before three o'clock Mrs. Alexander went into the library to see that everything was ready. She pulled the window blinds high, for the weather was dark and stormy, and there was little light even in the streets. A foot of snow had fallen during the morning, and the wide space over the river was thick with flying flakes that fell and wreathe the masses of floating ice. Winifred was standing by the window when she heard the front door open. She hurried to the hall as Alexander came stamping in, covered with snow. He kissed her joyfully, and brushed away the snow that fell on her hair. I wish I had asked you to meet me at the office and walk home with me, Winifred. The common is beautiful. The boys have swept the snow off the pond, and are skating furiously. Did the cyclimans come? An hour ago, what splendid ones, but aren't you frightfully extravagant? Not for Christmas time. I'll go upstairs and change my coat. I shall be down in a moment. Tell Thomas to get everything ready. When Alexander reappeared, he took his wife's arm and went with her into the library. When did the Azaleas get here? Thomas has got the white one in my room. I told him to put it there. But, I say, it's much the finest of the lot. That's why I had it put there. There is too much colour in that room for a red one, you know. Bartley began to sort the evergreens. It looks very splendid there, but I feel pigish to have it. However, we rarely spend more time there than anywhere else in the house. Will you hand me the holly? He climbed up the stepladder, which creaked under his weight, and began to twist the tough stems of the holly into the framework of the chandelier. I forgot to tell you that I had a letter from Wilson this morning explaining his telegram. He is coming on because an old uncle up in Vermont has conveniently died and left Wilson a little money. Something like ten thousand? He's coming on to settle up the estate. Won't it be jolly to have him? And how fine that he's coming into a little money. I can see him posting down State Street to the steamship offices. He'll get a good many trips out of that ten thousand. What can have detained him? I expected him here for luncheon. Those trains from Albany are always late. He'll be along sometime this afternoon. And now, don't you want to go upstairs and lie down for an hour? You've had a busy morning, and I don't want you to be tired tonight. After his wife went upstairs, Alexander worked energetically at the Evergreens for a few moments. Then, as he was cutting off a length of string, he sighed suddenly and sat down, staring out of the window at the snow. The animation died out of his face, but in his eyes there was a restless light, a look of apprehension and suspense. He kept clasping and unclasping his big hands as if he were trying to realize something. The clock ticked through the minutes of a half-hour, and the afternoon outside began to thicken and darken turbidly. Alexander, since he first sat down, had not changed his position. He leaned forward, his hands between his knees, scarcely breathing, as if he were holding himself away from his surroundings, from the room and from the very chair in which he sat, from everything except the wild eddies of snow above the river, on which his eyes were fixed with feverish intentness, as if he were trying to project himself thither. When at last Lucius Wilson was announced, Alexander sprang eagerly to his feet and hurried to meet his old instructor. Hello, Wilson. What luck. Come into the library. We are to have a lot of people to dinner tonight, and Winifred's lying down. You will excuse her, won't you? And now what about yourself? Sit down and tell me everything. I think I'd rather move about if you don't mind. I've been sitting in the train for a week, it seems to me. Wilson stood before the fire with his hands behind him and looked about the room. You have been busy. Bartley, if I'd had my choice of all possible places in which to spend Christmas, your house would certainly be the place I'd have chosen. Happy people do a great deal for their friends. A house like this throws its warmth out. I felt it distinctly as I was coming through the Berkshares. I could scarcely believe that I was to see Mrs. Bartley again so soon. Thank you, Wilson. She'll be as glad to see you. Shall we have tea now? I'll ring for Thomas to clear away this litter. Winifred says I always wreck the house when I try to do anything. Do you know, I'm quite tired. Looks as if I were not used to work, doesn't it? Alexander laughed and dropped into a chair. You know, I'm sailing the day after New Year's. Again? Why, you've been over twice since I was here in the spring, haven't you? Oh, I was in London about ten days in the summer. Went to escape the hot weather more than anything else. I shan't be gone more than a month this time. Winifred and I have been up in Canada for most of the autumn. That moorlock bridge is on my back all the time. I never had so much trouble with a job before. Alexander moved about restlessly and fell to poking the fire. Haven't I seen in the papers that there is some trouble about a tide-water bridge of yours in New Jersey? Oh, that doesn't amount to anything. It's held up by a steel strike. A bother, of course, but the sort of thing one is always having to put up with. But the moorlock bridge is a continual anxiety. You see, the truth is, we are having to build pretty well to the strain limit up there. They've crowded me too much on the cost. It's all very well if everything goes well, but these estimates have never been used for anything of such length before. However, there's nothing to be done. They hold me to the scale I've used in shorter bridges. The last thing a bridge commission cares about is the kind of bridge you build. When Bartley had finished dressing for dinner, he went into his study where he found his wife arranging flowers on his writing table. These pink roses just came for Mrs. Hastings, she said, smiling, and I am sure she meant them for you. Bartley looked about with an air of satisfaction at the holly and the wreaths in the windows. Have you a moment, Winifred? I have just now been thinking that this is our twelfth Christmas. Can you realize it? He went up to the table and took her hands away from the flowers, drying them with his pocket handkerchief. They've been awfully happy ones, all of them, haven't they? He took her in his arms and bent back, lifting her a little and giving her a long kiss.   Sometimes, of late, I thought you've looked as if you were troubled. No. It's only when you are troubled and harassed that I feel worried, Bartley. I wish you always seemed as you do tonight, but you don't always. She looked earnestly and inquiringly into his eyes. Alexander took her two hands from his shoulders and swung them back and forth in his own, laughing his big, blonde laugh. I'm growing older, my dear. That's what you feel. Now, may I show you something? I meant to save them until tomorrow, but I want you to wear them tonight. He took a little leather box out of his pocket and opened it. On the white velvet lay two long pendants of curiously worked gold set with pearls. Winifred looked from the box to Bartley and exclaimed, Wherever did you find such gold work, Bartley? It's old Flemish. Isn't it fine? These are the most beautiful things, dear, but you know I never wear earrings. Yes, yes, I know, but I want you to wear them. I have always wanted you to. So few women can. There must be a good ear to begin with, and her nose, he waved his hand, above reproach. Most women look silly in them. They only go with faces like yours. Very, very proud, and just a little hard. Winifred laughed as she went over to the mirror and fitted the delicate springs to the lobes of her ears. Oh, Bartley, that old foolishness about my being hard. It really hurts my feelings. But I must go down now. People are beginning to come. Bartley drew her arm about his neck and went to the door with her. Not hard to me, Winifred, he whispered. Never, never hard to me. Left alone, he paced up and down his study. He was at home again among all the dear familiar things that spoke to him of so many happy years. His house tonight would be full of charming people who liked and admired him. Yet all the time, underneath his pleasure and hopefulness and satisfaction, he was conscious of the vibration of an unnatural excitement. Amid this light and warmth and friendliness, he sometimes started and shuttered as if someone had stepped on his grave. Something had broken loose in him, of which he knew nothing except that it was sullen and powerful and that it rung and tortured him. Sometimes it came upon him softly in innervating reveries. Sometimes it battered him like the cannon rolling in the hold of a vessel. Always now it brought with it a sense of quickened life, of stimulating danger. Tonight it came upon him suddenly as he was walking the floor after his wife left him. It seemed impossible. He could not believe it. He glanced intrudingly at the door as if to call her back. He heard voices in the hall below and knew that he must go down. Going over to the window, he looked out at the lights across the river. How could this happen here in his own house among the things he loved? What was it that reached in out of the darkness and thrilled him? As he stood there he had a feeling that he would never escape. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cold window glass, breathing in the chill that came through it. That this, he groaned, that this should have happened to me. On New Year's Day a thaw set in and during the night torrents of rain fell. In the morning, the morning of Alexander's departure for England, the river was streaked with fog and the rain drove hard against the windows of the breakfast-room. Alexander had finished his coffee and was pacing up and down. His wife sat at the table watching him. She was pale and unnaturally calm. When Thomas brought the letters, Bartley sank into his chair and ran over them rapidly. Here's a note from old Wilson. He's safe back at his grind and he says he had a bully time. The memory of Mrs. Bartley will make my whole winter fragrant. Just like him. He will go on getting measureless satisfaction out of you by his study fire.  Bartley sighed, pushed the letters back impatiently and went over to the window. This is a nasty sort of day to sail. I have a notion to call it off. Next week would be time enough. That would only mean starting twice. It wouldn't really help you out at all. Mrs. Alexander spoke soothingly and you'd come back late for all your engagements. Bartley began jingling some loose coins in his pocket. I wish things would let me rest. I'm tired of work, tired of people, tired of trailing about. He looked out at the storm-beaten river. Winifred came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. That's what you always say, Port Bartley. At bottom you really like all these things. Can't you remember that? He put his arm about her. All the same. Life runs smoothly enough with some people. And with me it's always a messy sort of patchwork. It's like the song, Pieces Where I Am Not. How can you face it all with so much fortitude? She looked at him with that clear gaze which Wilson had so much admired, which he had felt implied such high confidence and fearless pride. Oh, I faced that long ago when you were on your first bridge up at Old Allway. I knew then that your paths were not to be paths of peace, but I decided that I wanted to follow them. Bartley and his wife stood silent for a long time. The fire crackled in the grate. The rain beat insistently upon the windows. And the sleepy Angora looked up at them curiously. Presently Thomas made a discrete sound at the door. Shall Everett bring down your trunk, sir? Yes, they are ready. Tell him not to forget the big portfolio on the study table. Thomas withdrew, closing the door softly. Bartley turned away from his wife, still holding her hand. It never gets any easier, Winifred. They both started at the sound of the carriage on the pavement outside. Alexander sat down and leaned his head on his hand. His wife bent over him. Courage, she said, gaily. Bartley rose and rang the bell. Thomas brought him his hat and stick and ulster. At the sight of these, the supercilious Angora moved restlessly, quitted her red cushion by the fire, and came up, waving her tail in vexation, at these ominous indications of change. Alexander stooped to stroke her, and then plunged into his coat and drew on his gloves. His wife held his stick, smiling. Bartley smiled, too, and his eyes cleared. I'll work like the devil, Winifred, and be home again before you realize I've gone.  Alexander sat with his hands clenched on his knees. As the carriage turned up the hill, he lifted one hand and brought it down violently. This time, he spoke aloud, and threw his set teeth. This time I'm going to end it. On the afternoon of the third day out, Alexander was sitting well to the stern, on the windward side where the chairs were few. His rugs over him, and the collar of his fur-lined coat turned up about his ears. The weather had so far been dark and raw. For two hours he had been watching the low, dirty sky, and the beating of the heavy rain upon the iron-colored sea. There was a long, oily swell that made exercise laborious. The decks smelled of damp willums, and the air was so humid that drops of moisture kept gathering upon his hair and mustache. He seldom moved much except to brush them away. The great open spaces made him passive, and the restlessness of the water quieted him. He intended, during the voyage, to decide upon a course of action. But he held all this away from him for the present, and lay in a blessed gray oblivion. Deep down in him, somewhere, his resolution was weakening, and strengthening, ebbing and flowing. The thing that perturbed him went on as steadily as his pulse, but he was almost unconscious of it. He was submerged in the vast, impersonal grayness about him, and it intervals the side-long roll of the boat measured off time like the ticking of a clock. He felt released from everything that troubled and perplexed him. It was as if he had tricked and outwitted torturing memories, had actually managed to get on board without them. He thought of nothing at all. If his mind now and again picked a face out of the grayness, it was Lucius Wilson's, or the face of an old schoolmate forgotten for years, or it was the slim outline of a favorite grayhound he used to hunt jackrabbits with when he was a boy. Around six o'clock the wind rose and tugged at the tarpaulin and brought the swell higher. After dinner, Alexander came back to the wet deck, piled his damp rugs over him again, and sat smoking, losing himself in the obliterating blackness and drowsing in the rush of the gale. Before he went below, a few bright stars were picked off between heavily moving masses of cloud. The next morning was bright and mild, with a fresh breeze. Alexander felt the need of exercise even before he came out of his cabin. When he went on deck, the sky was blue and blinding, with heavy whiffs of white cloud, smoke-colored at the edges, moving rapidly across it. The water was roughish, a cold, clear indigo breaking into white caps. Bartley walked for two hours, and then stretched himself in the sun into lunchtime. In the afternoon he wrote a long letter to Winifred. Later, as he walked through the deck, through a splendid golden sunset, his spirits rose continually. It was agreeable to come to himself again after several days of numbness and torpor. He stayed out until the last tinge of violet had faded from the water. There was literally a taste of life on his lips as he sat down to dinner and ordered a bottle of champagne. He was late in finishing his dinner, and drank rather more wine than he had meant to. When he went above, the wind had risen and the deck was almost deserted. As he stepped out of the door, a gale lifted his heavy fur coat about his shoulders. He fought his way up the deck with keen exhilaration. The moment he stepped almost out of breath, behind the shelter of the stern, the wind was cut off and he felt, like a rush of warm air, a sense of close and intimate companionship. He started back and tore his coat open as if something warm were actually clinging to him beneath it.  He threw himself upon them. He talked delightfully to the older ones and played accompaniments for the younger ones until the last sleepy girl had followed her mother below. Then he went into the smoking room. He played bridge until two o'clock in the morning and managed to lose a considerable sum of money without really noticing that he was doing so. After the break of one fine day, the weather was pretty consistently dull. When the low sky thinned a little, the pale white spot of the sun did no more than throw a bluish luster on the water, giving it the dark brightness of newly cut lead. Through one after another of those gray days, Alexander drowsed and mused, drinking in the grateful moisture. But the complete piece of the first part of the voyage was over. Sometimes he rose suddenly from his chair as if driven out and paced the deck for hours. People noticed his propensity for walking in rough weather and watched him curiously as he did his rounds. From his abstraction and the determined set of his jaw, they fancied he must be thinking about his bridge. Everyone had heard of the new cantilever bridge in Canada. But Alexander was not thinking about his work. After the fourth night out, when his will suddenly softened under his hands, he had been continually hammering away at himself. More and more often, when he first wakened in the morning, or when he stepped into a warm place after being chilled on the deck, he felt a sudden painful delight at being nearer another shore. Sometimes, when he was most despondent, when he thought himself worn out with this struggle, in a flash he was free of it, and leaped into an overwhelming consciousness of himself. On the instant, he felt that marvellous return of the impetuousness, the intense excitement, the increasing expectancy of youth. The last two days of the voyage Bartley found almost intolerable. The stop at Queenstown, the tedious passage up the Mercy, were things that he noted dimly through his growing impatience. He had planned to stop in Liverpool, but instead he took the boat-train for London. Emerging at Euston, at half-past three o'clock in the afternoon, Alexander had his luggage sent to the Savoy, and drove it once to Bedford Square. When Marie met him at the door, even her strong sense of the proprieties could not restrain her surprise and delight. She blushed and smiled, and fumbled his card in her confusion before she ran upstairs. Alexander paced up and down the hall, buttoning and unbuttoning his overcoat, until she returned and took him up to Hilda's living-room. The room was empty when he entered. A coal fire was crackling in the grate, and the lamps were lit, for it was already beginning to grow dark outside. Alexander did not sit down. He stood his ground over by the windows until Hilda came in. She called his name on the threshold, but in her swift flight across the room she felt a change in him, and caught herself up so deftly that he could not tell just when she did it. She merely brushed his cheek with her lips, and put a hand lightly and joyously on either shoulder. Oh, what a grand thing to happen on a raw day! I felt it in my bones when I woke this morning that something splendid was going to turn up. I thought it might be Sister Kate, or cousin Mike, would be happening along. I never dreamed it would be you, Bartley. But why do you let me chatter on like this? Come over to the fire. You're chilled through.  When did you come, Bartley, and how did it happen? You haven't spoken a word. I got in about ten minutes ago. I landed at Liverpool this morning and came down on the boat train. Alexander leaned forward and warmed his hands before the blaze. Hilda watched him with perplexity. There's something troubling you, Bartley. What is it? Bartley benched lower over the fire. It's the whole thing that troubles me, Hilda. You and I. Hilda took a quick, soft breath. She looked at his heavy shoulders and big, determined head, thrust forward like a catapult in leash. What about us, Bartley? She asked in a thin voice. He locked and unlocked his hands over the grate and spread his fingers close to the bluish flame, while the coals crackled and the clock ticked, and a street vendor began to call under the window. At last Alexander brought out one word—everything. Hilda was pale by this time, and her eyes were wide with fright. She looked about desperately, from Bartley to the door, then to the windows, and back again to Bartley.  I'll do anything you wish me to, Bartley. She said, I can't stand seeing you miserable. I can't live with myself any longer, he answered roughly. He rose and pushed the chair behind him and began to walk miserably about the room, seeming to find it too small for him. He pulled up a window as if the air were heavy. Hilda watched him from her corner, trembling and scarcely breathing, dark shadows growing about her eyes. It hasn't always made you miserable, has it? Her eyelids fell and her lips quivered. Always, but it's worse now. It's unbearable. It tortures me every minute. But why now? she asked piteously, wringing her hands. He ignored her question. I am not a man who can live two lives. He went on feverishly. Each life spoils the other. I get nothing but misery out of either. The world is all there, just as it used to be, but I can't get at it any more. There is this deception between me and everything. At that word, deception, spoken with such self-contempt, the colour flashed back into Hilda's face as suddenly as if she had been struck by a whiplash. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in front of her. Could you sit down and talk about it quietly, Bartley, as if I were a friend and not someone who had to be defied? He dropped back heavily into his chair by the fire. It was myself I was defying, Hilda. I have thought about it until I am worn out. He looked at her and his haggard face softened. He put out his hand toward her as he looked away again into the fire. She crept across to him, drawing her stool after her. When did you first begin to feel like this, Bartley? Into the very first. The first was sort of in play, wasn't it? Hilda's face quivered, but she whispered, Yes, I think it must have been. But why didn't you tell me when you were here in the summer? Alexandra groaned. I meant to, but somehow I couldn't. We had only a few days, and your new play was just on, and you were so happy. Yes, I was happy, wasn't I? She pressed his hand gently in gratitude. Aren't you happy, then, at all? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to draw in again the fragrance of those days. Something of their troubling sweetness came back to Alexandra, too. He moved uneasily and his chair creaked. Yes, I was then, you know, but afterward. Yes, yes, she hurried, pulling her hand gently away from him. Presently it stole back to his coat sleeve. Please tell me one thing, Bartley. At least tell me that you believe I thought I was making you happy. His hand shut down quickly over the questioning fingers on his sleeve. Yes, Hilda, I know that. He said simply.  You see, my mistake was in wanting you to have everything. I wanted you to eat all the cakes and have them, too. I somehow believed that I could take all the bad consequences for you. I wanted you always to be happy and handsome and successful, to have all the things that a great man ought to have, and, once in a way, the careless holidays that great men are not permitted. Bartley gave a bitter little laugh, and Hilda looked up and read in the deepening lines of his face that youth in Bartley would not much longer struggle together. I understand, Bartley. I was wrong. But I didn't know. You've only to tell me now. What must I do that I've not done, or what must I not do? She listened intently, but she heard nothing but the creaking of his chair. You want me to say it, she whispered. You want to tell me that you can only see me like this as old friends do or out in the world among people. I can do that. I can't," he said heavily. Hilda shivered and sat still. Bartley leaned his head in his hands and spoke through his teeth. It's got to be a clean break, Hilda. I can't see you at all, anywhere. What I mean is that I want you to promise never to see me again, no matter how often I come, no matter how hard I beg. Hilda sprang up like a flame. She stood over him with her hands clenched at her side, her body rigid. No, she gasped. It's too late to ask that. Do you hear me, Bartley? It's too late. I won't promise. It's abominable of you to ask me. Keep away if you wish. When have I ever followed you? But if you come to me, I'll do as I see fit. The shamefulness of your asking me to do that. If you come to me, I'll do as I see fit.  Bartley, you're cowardly. Alexander rose and shook himself angrily. Yes, I know I'm cowardly. I'm afraid of myself. I don't trust myself any more. I carried it all lightly enough at first, but now I don't dare trifle with it. It's getting the better of me. It's different now. I'm growing older, and you've got my young self here with you. It's through him that I've come to wish for you all and all the time. He took her roughly in his arms. Do you know what I mean? Hilda held her face back from him and began to cry bitterly. Oh, Bartley, what am I to do? Why didn't you let me be angry with you? You asked me to stay away from you because you want me? And I've got nobody but you. I will do anything you say, but that. I will ask the least imaginable, but I must have something. Bartley turned away and sank down in his chair again. Hilda sat on the arm of it and put her hands lightly on his shoulders. Just something, Bartley. I must have you to think of through the months and months of loneliness. I must see you. I must know about you. The sight of you, Bartley, to see you living and happy and successful? Can I never make you understand what that means to me? She pressed his shoulders gently. You see, loving someone as I love you makes the whole world different. If I'd met you later, if I hadn't loved you so well. But that's all over long ago. Then came all those years without you, lonely and hurt and discouraged, those decent young fellows and poor Mac and me never heating, hard as a steel spring. And then you came back, not caring very much, but it made no difference. She slid to the floor beside him, as if she were too tired to sit up any longer.  Don't cry, don't cry, he whispered. We've tortured each other enough for tonight. Forget everything except that I am here. I think I've forgotten everything but that already, she murmured. Ah, your dear arms. During the fortnight that Alexander was in London he drove himself hard. He got through a great deal of personal business and saw a great many men who were doing interesting things in his own profession. He disliked to think of his visits to London as holidays, and when he was there he worked even harder than he did at home. The day before his departure for Liverpool was a singularly fine one. The thick air had cleared overnight in a strong wind which brought in a golden dawn and then fell off to a fresh breeze. When Bartley looked out of his windows from the Savoy the river was flashing silver and the grey stone along the embankment was bathed in clear light sunshine. London had wakened to life after three weeks of cold and sodden rain. Bartley breakfasted hurriedly and went over his mail while the hotel valet packed his trunks. Then he paid his account and walked rapidly down the strand past Charing Cross station. His spirits rose with every step and when he reached Trafalgar Square blazing in the sun with its fountains playing and its column reaching up into the bright air he signaled to a handsome and, before he knew what he was about, told the driver to go to Bedford Square by way of the British Museum. When he reached Hilda's apartment she met him fresh as the morning itself. Her rooms were flooded with sunshine and full of the flowers he had been sending her. She would never let him give her anything else. Are you busy this morning, Hilda? He asked as he sat down, his hat and gloves in his hand. Very. I've been up in about three hours working at my part. We open in February, you know. Well, then you've worked enough, and so have I. I've seen all my men, my packing is done, and I go up to Liverpool this evening. But this morning we are going to have a holiday. What do you say to a drive out to Q in Richmond? You may not get another day like this all winter. It's like a fine April day at home. May I use your telephone? I want to order the carriage. Oh, how jolly! There, sit down at the desk.  I shan't be long. All the morning papers are on the table. Hilda was back in a few moments wearing a long grey squirrel coat and a broad fur hat. Bartley rose and inspected her. Why don't you wear some of those pink roses? he asked. But they came only this morning and they have not even begun to open. I was saving them. I am so unconsciously thrifty. She laughed as she looked about the room. You've been sending me far too many flowers, Bartley. New ones every day. That's too often. Though I do love to open the boxes, and I take good care of them.  I know a good deal about pictures. Hilda shook her large hat as she drew the roses out of the tall glass. No, there are some things you can't do. There's the carriage. Will you button my gloves for me? Bartley took her wrist and began to button the long grey suede glove.  That's because I've been studying. It always stirs me up a little. We pushed the top of the glove up slowly. When did you learn to take hold of your parts like that? When I had nothing else to think of. Come, the carriage is waiting.  I'm in no hurry. We've plenty of time. They found all London abroad. Piccadilly was a stream of rapidly moving carriages, from which flashed furs and flowers and bright winter costumes. The metal trappings of the harness shone dazzlingly, and the wheels were revolving discs that threw off rays of light.  I'm not going until tomorrow, you know. Bartley announced suddenly, I'll cut off a day in Liverpool. I haven't felt so jolly this long while. Hilda looked up with a smile which she tried not to make too glad. I think people were meant to be happy a little, she said. They had lunch at Richmond, and then walked to Twickenham, where they had sent the carriage. They drove back with a glorious sunset behind them toward the distant gold-washed city. It was one of those rare afternoons when all the thickness and shadow of London are changed to a kind of shining, pulsing, special atmosphere when the smoky vapours become fluttering golden clouds, necrious fails of pink and amber, when all that bleakness of grey stone and dullness of dirty brick trembles in oariet light, and all the roofs and spires in one great dome are folded in golden haze. On such rare afternoons the ugliest of cities becomes the most beautiful, the most prosaic becomes the most poetic, and months of sodden days are compensated for by a moment of miracle. Just like that with us Londoners, too, Hilda was saying. Everything is awfully grim and cheerless, our weather and our houses and our ways of amusing ourselves, but we can be happier than anybody. We can go mad with joy, as the people do out in the fields of a fine witsunday. We make the most of our moment. She thrust her little chin out defiantly over her grey fur collar, and Bartley looked down at her and laughed.  He patted her glove with his hand. Yes, you are a plucky one. Hilda sighed. No, I'm not. Not about some things at any rate. It doesn't take pluck to fight for one's moment. But it takes pluck to go without. A lot. More than I have. I can't help it, she added fiercely. After miles of outlying streets and little gloomy houses they reached London itself, red and roaring and murky, with a thick dampness coming up from the river, that patoken fog again tomorrow. The streets were full of people who had worked indoors all through the pressless day, and had now come hungrily out to drink the muddy leaves of it. They stood in long black lines, waiting before the pit entrances of the theatres, short-coated boys and girls in sailor hats, all shivering and chatting gaily. There was a blurred rhythm in all the dull city noises, in the clatter of the cab-horses and the rumbling of the buses, in the street calls, and in the undulating tramp-tramp of the crowd. It was like the deep vibration of some vast underground machinery, and like the muffled pulsations of millions of human hearts. Seems good to get back, doesn't it? Bartley whispered, as they drove from Bejewater Road into Oxford Street. London always makes me want to live more than any other city in the world. You remember our priestess Mummy over in the Mummy Room, and how we used her long to go and bring her out on nights like this? Three thousand years, ug! All the same, I believe she used to feel it when we stood there and watched her and wished her well. I believe she used to remember, Hilda said thoughtfully. I hope so.  I could eat all the dinners there are in London tonight. Where shall I tell the driver? The Piccadilly restaurant? The music's good there.  Why not that little French place in Soho, where we went so often when you were here in the summer? I love it, and I've never been there with anyone but you. Sometimes I go by myself when I am particularly lonely. Very well, the soul's good there. How many street-pianers there are about tonight? The fine weather must have thawed them out. We've had five miles of Il Trovatore. They always make me feel jaunty. Are you comfy, and not too tired? I'm not tired at all.  Why did you remind me of the mummy? Life seems the strongest and most indestructible thing in the world. Do you really believe that all those people rushing about down there, going to good dinners and clubs and theatres, will be dead some day and not care about anything? I don't believe it, and I know I shan't die, ever. You see, I feel too, too powerful. The carriage stopped. Bartley sprang out and swung her quickly to the pavement. As he lifted her in his two hands he whispered, You are powerful. The last rehearsal was over, a tedious dress rehearsal, which had lasted all day and exhausted the patience of everyone who had to do with it. When Hilda had dressed for the street and come out of her dressing-room, she found Hugh McConnell waiting for her in the corridor. The fog's thicker than ever, Hilda. There have been a great many accidents today. It's positively unsafe for you to be out alone. Will you let me take you home? How good of you, Mac! If you were going with me, I think I'd rather walk. I've had no exercise today, and all this has made me nervous. I shouldn't wonder, said McConnell, dryly. Hilda pulled down her veil, and they stepped out into the thick brown wash that submerged St. Martin's Lane. McConnell took her hand and tucked it snugly under his arm. I'm sorry I was such a savage.  Not a bit of it. I don't wonder you were peppery. Those things are awfully trying. How do you think it's going? Magnificently, that's why I got so stirred up. We are going to hear from this, both of us. And that reminds me, I've got news for you. They are going to begin repairs on the theatre about the middle of March, and we are to run over to New York for six weeks. Bennett told me yesterday that it was decided. Hilda looked up delightedly at the tall grey figure beside her. He was the only thing she could see, for they were moving through a dense opagness as if they were walking at the bottom of the ocean. Oh, Mac, how glad I am. And they'd love your things over there, don't they? Shall you be glad for any other reason, Hilda?  It proved to be only a lamppost, and they beat in farther from the edge of the pavement. What do you mean, Mac? Hilda asked nervously. I was just thinking there might be people over there you'd be glad to see. He brought out awkwardly. Hilda said nothing, and as they walked on, McConnell spoke again, apologetically. I hope you don't mind my knowing about it, Hilda. Don't stiffen up like that. No one else knows, and I didn't try to find out anything. I felt it even before I knew who he was. I knew there was somebody and that it wasn't I. They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The buses had stopped running, and the cab drivers were leading their horses. When they reached the other side, McConnell said suddenly, I hope you are happy. Terribly, dangerously happy, Mac. Hilda spoke quietly, pressing the rough sleeve of his greatcoat with her gloved hand. You've always thought me too old for you, Hilda. Oh, of course you've never said just that. And here this fellow is not more than eight years younger than I. I've always felt that if I could get out of my old case, I might win you yet. It's a fine, brave youth I carry inside me, only he'll never be seen. Nonsense, Mac. That has nothing to do with it. It's because you seem too close to me, too much like my own kind. It would be like marrying cousin Mike, almost. I really tried to care as you wanted me to, away back in the beginning. Well, here we are, turning out of the square. You are not angry with me, Hilda. Thank you for this walk, my dear.  You'll be having a great night tomorrow. She put out her hand. Thank you, Mac, for everything. Good night. McConnell trudged off through the fog, and she went slowly upstairs. Her slippers and dressing gown were waiting for her before the fire. I shall certainly see him in New York. He will see by the papers that we are coming. Perhaps he knows it already. Hilda kept thinking as she undressed. Perhaps he will be at the dock. No, scarcely that. But I may meet him in the street even before he comes to see me. Marie placed the tea-table by the fire and brought Hilda her letters. She looked them over and started as she came to one in a handwriting that she did not often see. Alexander had written to her only twice before, and he did not allow her to write to him at all. Thank you, Marie. You may go now. Hilda sat down by the table with the letter in her hand still unopened. She looked at it intently, turned it over, and felt its thickness with her fingers. She believed that she sometimes had a kind of second sight about letters, and could tell before she read them whether they brought good or evil tidings. She put this one down on the table in front of her while she poured out her tea. At last, with a little shiver of expectancy, she tore open the envelope and read, Boston, February My dear Hilda. It is after twelve o'clock. Everyone else is in bed, and I am sitting alone in my study. I have been happier in this room than anywhere else in the world. Happiness like that makes one insolent. I used to think these four walls could stand against anything, and now I scarcely know myself here. Now I know that no one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person. Two people, when they love each other, grow alike in their tastes and habits and pride. But their moral natures, whatever we may mean by that canting expression, are never welded. The base one goes on being base, and the noble one noble, to the end. This week has been a bad one. I have been realizing how things used to be with me. Sometimes I get used to being dead inside, but lately it has been as if a window beside me has suddenly opened, and as if all the smells of spring blew into me. There is a garden out there, with stars overhead, where I used to walk at night, when I had a single purpose and a single heart. I can remember how I used to feel there, how beautiful everything about me was, and what life and power and freedom I felt in myself. When the window opens, I know exactly how it would feel to be out there. But that garden is close to me. How is it, I ask myself, that everything can be so different with me when nothing here has changed? I am in my own house, in my own study, in the midst of all these quiet streets where my friends live. They are all safe and at peace with themselves, but I am never at peace. I feel always on the edge of danger and change. I keep remembering locoed horses I used to see on the range when I was a boy. They changed like that. We used to catch them and put them up in the corral, and they developed great cunning. They would pretend to eat their oats like the other horses, but we knew they were always scheming to get back at the loco. It seems that a man is meant to live only one life in this world. When he tries to live a second he develops another nature. I feel as if a second man had been grafted into me. At first he seemed only a pleasure-loving simpleton of whose company I was rather ashamed, in whom I tried to hide under my coat when I walked the embankment in London. But now he is strong and silent, and he is fighting for his life at the cost of mine. That is his one activity, to grow strong. No creature ever wanted so much to live. Eventually, I suppose, he will absorb me altogether. Believe me, you will hate me then.  Nothing at all. The little boy drank of the prettiest brook in the forest, and he became a stag. I write all this because I can never tell it to you, and because it seems as if I could not keep silent any longer, and because I suffer, Hilda. If anyone I loved suffered like this, I'd want to know it. Help me, Hilda. P.A. End of Chapter 8