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PS 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY, 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3515.I71C2 
 
 The cage / 
 
 3 1924 022 477 669 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022477669 
 
THE CAGE 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 By Charlotte (Teller, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1907 
 
COPTBIOHT, 190T, BT 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANT 
 
 
 Published February, 1907 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 TAGS 
 
 Prologue 1 
 
 BOOK ONE 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. — ^The Back Pohch 7 
 
 II. — The Hollow Pedestal 25 
 
 III.— ^Dk. Hartwell's Study 41 
 
 IV. — ^A Lost Opportunity 49 
 
 V. — Maggie's Influence 56 
 
 VI. — Romance in the Dusk 62 
 
 VII. — ^Kafpee Klatsch 70 
 
 VIII. — From Mrs. Scanlan's 81 
 
 IX.— The Concert 95 
 
 X. — An Important Interview 102 
 
 XI. — After the Meeting Ill 
 
 XII. — ^Her Father's Decision 123 
 
 XIII. — An Acknowledged Temptation . , . . 140 
 
 XIV.— The World Enters 153 
 
 XV. — The Day op Independence 162 
 
 V 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK TWO 
 
 CHAPTER FAGS 
 
 I. — ^The Return to Suspicion 179 
 
 II.— The Fire 190 
 
 III. — ^The Suspicion Confirmed 204 
 
 IV. — His Work and Her Honor 219 
 
 V. — ^A Morning of Gossip . .... 228 
 
 VI.— Alec's Promise 238 
 
 VII. — ^A Visit op the Committee 252 
 
 VIII.— Two Decisions 257 
 
 IX. — ^A Chance for Strategy 267 
 
 X.— The Riot 277 
 
 XI.— The Mark op Men 281 
 
 XII. — ^Lange and the Law 303 
 
 XIII. — Frederica's Exultation 308 
 
 XIV.— The World Enters Again 323 
 
 XV.— The Day op the Law 333 
 
 VI 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 nE stood on the upper deck of a steamer which 
 was leaving Hungary's only seaport. The 
 houses on the hillsides, the buildings along the 
 strand, were growing smaller and smaller; the 
 sunlight lit them cheerfully as though to cast a memory 
 of comfort. Gulls fluttered between the ship and the 
 waiting specks of men and women on the dock. He saw 
 one of the crew below waving a greasy dish towel from 
 a porthole to the group of children seated on the edge 
 of the dock. Officers of the ship were hurrying about 
 in the first energy of accomplished departure. 
 
 The deck steward brought him the mid-afternoon lunch, 
 but he refused it, for he was watching the steerage pas- 
 sengers, who stood unmoved, with their eyes on the shores 
 of Hungary. They were massed in silence and made no 
 sound as the picture grew more and more blurred. He 
 knew what was in their hearts, for it was in his. They 
 might have, however, the fear of never seeing Hungary 
 again; he had the fear that he might. Not one sound 
 came up from the hundreds standing there to show 
 whether it was the courage of adventure or a reckless 
 despair which had brought them to the great ship sailing 
 for an unknown land. There was not a sound to indicate 
 whether hope or desperation was in their hearts. It was 
 too late now to turn back. Without volition they were 
 being carried into their future. 
 
 3 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Fiume was now but a streak of irregular white on the 
 coast line, and he turned to go in, when suddenly from 
 below came the sound of all their voices in a chant which 
 must have been the song of the church. It came from 
 them standing shoulder to shoulder as one man. And 
 as he stood there his eyes wandered to the streak of gray 
 that had once been his home. 
 
 But not once again during the voyage did they sing. 
 
BOOK ONE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THK BACK POEOH 
 
 ^^^k^O Mrs. Flanagan, who lived in the rear house 
 ■ Cj and had her memories, the Hartwells' back 
 ^^^^^ porch looked like a booth at an Irish fair. It 
 was curtained by the vines which grew in boxes 
 upon the railings; they clambered up the posts to the 
 Schneiders' back porch on the second story, and trailed 
 down to the hard soil of the back yard. On either edge 
 of the short flight of steps which led down to the yard 
 were potted geraniums all in red bloom. 
 
 It made quite a bit of scenery for the Flanagans. In- 
 deed, they had the best of it, for anyone on the back porch 
 itself had to look at the Flanagans' house, which was 
 small and dingy and adorned by nondescript garments of 
 faded calico and flannel, flapping on a ramshackle railing. 
 
 Michael Flanagan was on the police force and could 
 have afforded a better place had he had a small family; 
 but there were ten for him to support, and Mrs. Flanagan's 
 doctor bills to pay. One hope only gleamed through the 
 murky present: that he might be promoted. Then they 
 would move into a house that fronted on the street and 
 had more than four rooms, and some chance for air on a 
 hot August day, such as was now drawing toward dusk. 
 
 Maggie Flanagan came out to gather up some of the 
 airing garments of her seven brothers and sisters. She 
 
 7 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 was sixteen, with tousled hair and bare throat. As she 
 looked across at the Hartwell porch and saw Anne Fores- 
 ter ironing, she was impressed as usual by the appearance 
 of Anne, whose dress was without smudge or wrinkle, 
 whose face was without line of worry, and whose hair 
 waved upward into the knot on the top of a well-shaped 
 head. Maggie's admiration of this woman, twice her age 
 and more, was that of a child for a princess in a fairy tale. 
 At any moment Maggie expected to see white horses and 
 carriage dash up into the alley gate and carry the prin- 
 cess ofi to that mysterious land uptown where she really 
 belonged. But there she stood in front of the ironing 
 board, one end of which was on a barrel and the other 
 on the back of a chair, and there was the basket of 
 sprinkled clothes in the battered easy-chair near the ice 
 box. 
 
 " It's awful hot, isn't it ? " Maggie called across. 
 
 "But this has to be done," answered Anne. She was 
 always hoping to encourage the Flanagans to greater do- 
 mestic endeavor. 
 
 "We don't iron; we just wash in hot weather," an- 
 swered Maggie, " and we don't wash more'n we have to." 
 
 Anne was wondering what to say to impress her. 
 
 " Say, Miss Annie," said Maggie, " I saw your sister 
 to-day in a carriage. She looked just grand." 
 
 Anne knit her brows. 
 
 " Just grand," repeated Maggie. " She had a white 
 parasol. I pointed her out to one of the girls, and she was 
 awful surprised. She wanted to know why you lived over 
 here on the West Side when your sister was such a swell. 
 She said perhaps you were disinherited. I told her it 
 wasn't that because you never had any fellows hanging 
 
 around " 
 
 8 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 Anne flushed over the towel she was ironing. 
 
 " Say," questioned Maggie, with a touch of coquetry, 
 " say, why do you live here ? " 
 
 "Maggie, I've told you a dozen times." Anne was 
 forcible. 
 
 "Aw, now," said the girl, "that ain't the real reason. 
 You don't love those little Mikeys and Ikeys that come 
 to your school, do you ? You can't make me believe that ! " 
 
 " Of course," said Anne. 
 
 Maggie looked incredulous. The pushing and crowding 
 of seven little human destinies against her own comfort 
 and pleasure had deadened her interest in children in 
 general; and that anyone should choose to work for them 
 when there were spacious rooms, a carriage, a white para- 
 sol, and the freedom from child squabbles — she could not 
 sense it. She brought the situation as near to her vinder- 
 standing as possible when she said : 
 
 " I bet Dr. Hartwell and Miss Freda couldn't get along 
 without you. Ma says they couldn't. She thinks you're 
 an awful good worker; she thinks an awful lot of you, 
 ma does " 
 
 At that moment a shrill voice from within broke upon 
 her stumbling reflections. " When do you think I want 
 those things, Mag ? " 
 
 Maggie took up the last tattered dress and disappeared 
 within, saying : " You don't let me talk to nobody, front or 
 back!" 
 
 The sharp edge of Maggie's question had cut through 
 Anne's idea of herself: her real reason for living on the 
 West Side? 
 
 She stood there thinking, and ironing with more energy 
 than skill, for she had not been brought up to use an iron. 
 In her own home she had had a laundress of her own, as 
 
 9 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 well as a maid and a seamstress. But one day, three 
 years before, she had been much moved by Dr. Hartwell's 
 talk to the Beneficent Society of the church, and, with 
 the directness which was in everything she did, she had 
 dismissed her three servants, packed her trunk, and come 
 over to help him. And not only had she followed his ad- 
 vice and started a kindergarten, but she had insisted upon 
 helping his daughter Frederica do the work of the small 
 home. The two, Frederica, who was twenty, and Anne, 
 who was thirty-five, were now like sisters. Anne was full 
 of Dr. Hartwell's belief in the dignity of work, and in- 
 sisted upon doing the heaviest tasks of the house. Even 
 on a hot August day she felt that she got a certain uplift 
 in ironing on the back porch. 
 
 Maggie had brought Anne home to herself when she 
 said: "Dr. Hartwell and Miss Freda couldn't get along 
 without you." 
 
 For three years now she had thought of herself as a 
 woman who was sacrificing much comfort to do good. 
 The thought had given her a certain primness and con- 
 ventional air of philanthropy. But to-day a little Irish 
 girl had pricked both primness and philanthropy ; and as 
 she slapped away at the fringed table napkins she ad- 
 mitted to herself that she was in love. 
 
 There was some exultation in the gesture when she bore 
 the basket of ironing into the kitchen. There was a flush 
 on her cheeks when she came out again to put up the iron- 
 ing board, and she knew a delight and a satisfaction that 
 had never dawned before. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell's step in the kitchen made her smile; 
 she pushed the old easy-chair to a spot where there 
 might be a little of the lake breeze coming from the 
 east. 
 
 10 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 " Please come out and rest," she said, her voice vibrat- 
 ing with her new realization. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell paused on the threshold, holding the 
 screen door open. He was tall and thin, his forehead was 
 high; his long face, smooth-shaven, had hollows in it. 
 Long ago Anne had decided that he was the sort of idealist 
 who needed a practical person to look after his worldly 
 affairs, and she had assumed that role without realizing 
 what would come of it, to herself at least. 
 
 "I have met a very interesting man," he said. The 
 word " interesting " was pronounced with hesitation. It 
 covered the confusion, the impossibility of description 
 with which the doctor was face to face ; it was a safe word. 
 
 " But come way out," urged Anne. " You are letting 
 the flies in!" 
 
 The aspiration which usually marked his face was 
 dimmed by weariness ; there was a line of uncertainty, of 
 self-distrust on his lower lip. Had Anne been less ex- 
 ultant over her self-discovery and less joyous in finding 
 that she was, after all, a romantic person, she would have 
 noticed. 
 
 "What is he?" she asked. 
 
 " He is an Austrian." Dr. Hartwell paused. 
 
 "Is he out of work?" 
 
 " No, oh, no ! But he is interested in that problem.'' 
 
 Anne gave a sign of unpleasant recognition. " I sup- 
 pose he represents some charity." 
 
 "Well" — ^the doctor was clearly hesitant for fear of 
 prejudicing Anne — " not exactly. He is an Austrian So- 
 cialist." 
 
 " Oh ! " It was clear that Anne had no idea of finding 
 him " interesting." 
 
 " He — I have asked him to supper." 
 2 11 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 There was a suspicion of a scowl on her forehead. 
 "People stir you too much. You are getting thin; it 
 must be the excitement," she said. 
 
 " It is not that Anne, it is not that ! " The doctor rose 
 and walked the length of the porch. " It is my failure." 
 He made a gesture of finality. " I can't get the men to 
 come to church. I can not get the men! " 
 
 Anne was encouraging. " Why, men never go to 
 church. It isn't as though they had come and then 
 stopped coming." 
 
 The doctor was not encouraged. He was a man whose 
 temperament would have made him flagellant had he been 
 bom a Catholic; as it was, he made his own ropes for 
 flagellation from the knowledge of his weakness. It was 
 not enough for him that the women and children crowded 
 his chapel. He wanted to appeal to men. 
 
 Por ten years he had been on the West Side. Before 
 that he had been one of the successful ministers in a 
 well-to-do church, whose congregation had delighted in 
 his emotional power, praised his rhetoric, and criticised 
 in a lenient way his vagaries, excusing him for his im- 
 practical enthusiasm on the grounds that he was a clergy- 
 man. Some had even read his book on " Marriage and the 
 Spiritual Law," and had pretended that they under- 
 stood it. 
 
 Yet it had not been discontent with his surroundings 
 (which, after all, he had only sensed vaguely) that had 
 led him to resign from his position of pastoral comfort. 
 He had thought that he heard the Macedonian cry from 
 the other side of the Chicago River, and promptly cross- 
 ing the Twelfth Street Viaduct to answer it, had found 
 himself in the lumber-yard district. To his spiritual 
 fancy it was a cry in all the languages of Europe. Bo- 
 
 12 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 hemian, German, Italian, Pole, Jew, and Catholic — all 
 these he thought were needing him. 
 
 When he had recrossed the viaduct he sought out an 
 old classmate, Alexander Sloans, a lumber dealer who was 
 rapidly doubling his first million of dollars. 
 
 " I am going to give up my present pastorate," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 Sloane wondered why. 
 
 " I am going over to live with the poor of the city, with 
 the men who work for you in the lumber yards," explained 
 the doctor. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Sloane. " I pity you." 
 
 " Will you build a chapel if I can get my present people 
 to use it as a mission and pay me enough to live on ? " 
 
 " They won't," said Sloane, and played the prophet suc- 
 cessfully. They didn't. In the end Sloane put up the 
 chapel and paid the salary. The chapel was plain and 
 roomy, the salary small. Not that the rich man was nig- 
 gardly, even though he did shrug his shoulders, distrust- 
 ful of the idea ; but Dr. Hartwell would take only a small 
 salary. He was enveloped in a consciousness of Christian 
 sacrifice,- and felt warm enough to defy all winds and 
 weathers of worldly desires. That he did not realize the 
 scantiness of the garment, and did not see that it was 
 insufficient to cover his wife and little child, could not be 
 laid up against him. Self-sacrifice usually strides over 
 unwilling associates whose dependency drags them into 
 a close relationship. 
 
 Mrs. Hartwell had not heard even the echo of the Mace- 
 donian cry. She had crossed the viaduct reluctant in 
 spirit although at first without spoken protest. She hated 
 the smoke, the dirty streets, the noise, the odors of indus- 
 try, and close-packed humanity. She rebelled inwardly 
 
 13 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 against the disorder, the uncouth ways of West Side trade. 
 She felt alien to the people, and could not bring herself 
 to desire any understanding of them, any comradeship 
 with them. Souls they might have, but to her there were 
 racial chasms even on the soul plane. 
 
 To her own unhappiness — perhaps after all only a mat- 
 ter of over-refined nerves — ^was the terror of seeing her 
 child of ten forced to grow up in such a neighborhood. 
 She would have put her hands over Erederica's eyes to 
 shut out what she felt were awful expressions of life. She 
 would have walled her up in some room where the noise 
 of tongues and the crashing of wagon wheels on cobble- 
 stones could not reach her. But she could do neither. 
 Erederica entered the public school, attended Sunday 
 school, and ran to and from the stores in the neighbor- 
 hood — apparently without seeing or hearing the horrors 
 that beat upon her mother. 
 
 Within a few weeks Mrs. Hartwell had begun to com- 
 plain ; she refused to believe that any Christian duty made 
 her husband's work necessary. He could have preached 
 over here and lived in comfort somewhere else, she thought. 
 Nor did she see any reason why he should take the small- 
 est salary possible for his work. The minister's problems 
 became many in the face of his wife's growing bitterness. 
 Erederica, young as she was, sided with her father and 
 grew very unhappy; and it seemed dreadful to her that 
 her mother should not appreciate her father's unself- 
 ishness. 
 
 The situation had become almost impossible for all 
 three when Mrs. Hartwell had gone to visit relatives who 
 sympathized with her. There, in the midst of the much- 
 desired luxury, she had been taken sick and had died. 
 ITeither her husband nor her child had reached her in time 
 
 14 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 to see her alive, and it had seemed to Dr. Hartwell that 
 she had planned to die rather than return to a life she 
 hated. 
 
 To Frederica the mystery of death veiled all her mem- 
 ories of the petulant, spoiled mother, and gave to her a 
 dignity which she could not have had in the child's eyes 
 had she lived. 
 
 Frederica had heen a fanciful child, and young for her 
 age. The house was very quiet after her mother's death, 
 and when she found that her father could give her little 
 of his time, she turned to books and read herself into new 
 worlds where she was not lonely. She took her friends 
 out of the books and shared with them her life. She felt 
 that Little Nell had left London to live with her in Chi- 
 cago. She entertained Evangeline, and Eebecca out of 
 " Ivanhoe," and when she read " Oliver Twist " she 
 stopped early in the book so that she might " invite him 
 over " and have a tea party where he could eat all that he 
 wanted. It was a quaint child-play, and no one knew of 
 it. Her father used to wonder why she talked to herself 
 so much, but it did not worry him. He was too much 
 occupied with his work in behalf of his Macedonian souls. 
 
 For ten years he had worked hard in this neighborhood, 
 and had kept up hope that in the end he would have great 
 religious results. He was always planning to bring all the 
 men who worked in Sloane's lumber yard — and there were 
 at least two thousand — into his chapel. He looked for- 
 ward to the day when he would have to go to Sloane and 
 tell him that he needed a bigger place — a church instead 
 of a chapel. But for some reason this summer had been 
 without enthusiasm or hope. He could no longer draw 
 upon himself for confidence, and the circiunstances war- 
 ranted none. The men would not come to church ! 
 
 15 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Many times he and Anne had gone OTer this same 
 ground, and Anne had found it impossible to cheer him. 
 For that reason she was glad at this moment to see Fred- 
 erica come into the back yard through the gate in the 
 side fence, holding a small Flanagan by the hand; they 
 were taking steps to the music of a hand organ on the 
 next street. At the porch Frederica paused. 
 
 " Now, Michael Angelo Flanagan," she asked, " are yez 
 goin' straight home ? " 
 
 The boy of six nodded. 
 
 " And now, listen," she said with a serious undertone ; 
 " you are not going to gamble any more, are you ? " 
 
 Michael, with newly aroused shame, looked down at 
 shoes too large for him, and made no reply. 
 
 "You are going to grow up to be a good man, aren't 
 you, like your father ? " 
 
 " He's a policeman," piped Michael, and was off at the 
 end of his ambiguous response, and into the rear house. 
 
 Frederica ran up the steps, threw her hat on one chair 
 and her bundles on another, kissed her father on the top 
 of his head, and then exclaimed in consternation : 
 
 " Anne, I forgot the bread ! You'll have to make 
 biscuits. You see, I found Mikey gambling, and it put 
 everything out of my head." 
 
 " Gambling ! " said Anne. 
 
 " Yes, playing marbles for keeps with Tim. I stopped 
 it; I boxed Tim's ears; he wanted all the marbles back 
 that Mikey had won from him." 
 
 " And you let Mikey keep them ? " Anne asked. 
 
 " Of course not." Frederica was condescending to 
 Anne's density. " I took them. I acted the part of the 
 law." 
 
 With that she went into the kitchen and came out again 
 16 
 
THE BACK PORCH 
 
 with the sprinkling can. While she watered the flowers 
 she gave the neighborhood news to Anne. 
 
 " Mrs. Rosenberg is sick in bed. I left part of the meat 
 there. She needs good nourishing food. The doctor says 
 her children have come too fast. I told her I'd bring the 
 baby home with me to-morrow and keep it until she gets 
 better. She has named it after me." 
 
 Anne laughed. " That makes ten Eredericas for this 
 year. And how can you take care of a baby ? " 
 
 Frederica shrugged her slight shoulders. " I don't be- 
 lieve in walking with them or feeding them too often. 
 That was why the Balowskys' baby had spasms — it's better 
 to-day." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell heard the front door bell and went in, 
 still moody. When Preda gossiped about the women and 
 children, it only reminded him of the unresponsive hus- 
 bands and fathers. To-day it seemed that his daughter 
 was very young for her age, and very unthinking. 
 
 Anne gave Frederica potatoes in a pan and a knife. 
 " Pare plenty of them, because your father expects com- 
 pany for supper." 
 
 " Who, now ? " questioned Frederica, seating herself on 
 the lower step of the stairs which led up to the Schneiders' 
 back porch. Whenever any of the Schneiders came down 
 Frederica had to get up from the lower step, for the stairs 
 were narrow; but such probable interruptions never pre- 
 vented her from taking her favorite seat there in the 
 afternoons. 
 
 " Your father has asked some Socialist — some foreigner 
 — ^to come to-night. I wish he would not have such people 
 to stay to supper." 
 
 " I hope he will ask him to wash his hands," said Fred- 
 erica. "He does it so beautifully. They think it is a 
 
 17 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 kind of ceremony in the Hartwell house." She laughed 
 at her thought. 
 
 Erederica had only begnin to pare the potatoes when 
 there was a sound of scuffling below the far end of the 
 porch. Without stirring from the step she called out, 
 "Adolph!" 
 
 There was a pause in the scuffle, and a voice with pre- 
 tended interrogation answered, "Yes'm?" 
 ' "Let your brother alone, won't you?" She had not the 
 smallest idea which brother it was. 
 
 " It don't hurt him none," came the expostulation. 
 
 " Adolph " — ^Erederica was grieved — " repeat to me what 
 I told you yesterday." 
 
 Adolph, still invisible, declaimed with a burst of dra- 
 matic memory : 
 
 "We are a free and noble people; we believe in justice; 
 and the American citizen jSghts only for his liberty, and 
 the citizen who " 
 
 Freda cut him short. " See that you act on that prin- 
 ciple — ^the American principle, Adolph." 
 
 Quiet ensued at the end of the porch, and she was satis- 
 fied, not knowing that Adolph, fleeing from the light of 
 American principles, had dragged Eritz into the cellar, 
 where he sat on him imtil he got what he desired. Fred- 
 erica was not one to recognize the place of a dark cellar 
 in a democracy. 
 
 Anne went in to see who was calling, and left her to 
 pare the potatoes. It was not a sensible thing to do, for 
 Frederica was a dreamer. In a very few moments she had 
 forgotten her task. Elbow on knee, chin in hand, she 
 watched the storm clouds piling up in the east above the 
 roofs of the houses which were crowded together or scat- 
 tered into place as though some giant had thrown them 
 
 18 
 
THE BACK PORCH 
 
 down by the handful. The houses varied somewhat in 
 shape and size, but they were all one color, poverty gray ; 
 and the shingles on all the roofs were smoke-blackened. 
 Here and there, in the distance, a dull red-brick building 
 looked down upon these sullen homes, like a foreman on 
 factory hands. Far off, showing above the highest roofs, 
 there was a church spire and a factory chimney side by 
 side, each asserting its claims to superiority. 
 
 Frederica watched the shadows of late afternoon chang- 
 ing colors in the dismal spaces between the houses, and 
 she looked at the clouds through the mesh of telephone 
 and telegraph wires which seemed to her to make a net 
 above the city to keep human thoughts from wandering 
 too far. 
 
 There was a lake tranquil on the other side of this 
 confusion, and the breeze from it blew her straight, 
 mouse-colored hair into more disorder than usual, mak- 
 ing the outline of her head very indefinite. Although she 
 had a will not to be broken, Frederica was not at all a 
 decided person in appearance. She was not very tall, 
 and she was very thin. 
 
 " Ach, ja, you should much milch trinken," Mrs. Schnei- 
 der was always saying with the inflections of pity. " Van 
 you get nicht dicker, you vill nicht get married." 
 
 And Frederica would look meditative and say : " I 
 wouldn't be as fat as you are, not even to have Mr. Schnei- 
 der for a husband — and you know how much I think 
 of him." 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. Schneider would say, " Ach, ja ! " with 
 a sigh of pity for her own flesh; and then, for her hus- 
 band she would add : " He's a gut man, mein Adolph ; but 
 he works already too hard for to make a rich man get 
 more money." 
 
 19 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 The conversation always stopped there out of consid- 
 eration for Frederiea's feelings, because the " rich man,'' 
 Mr. Schneider's employer, was Alexander Sloane, whose 
 reputation was naturally high in the Hartwell household. 
 
 All the lines in Frederiea's face except those of her 
 eyebrows, which were straight and black, had an upward 
 tilt, so that even in repose she looked alert and gave you 
 the impression that she was listening to something very 
 far away. Her eyes, too — gray and changeable under the 
 black brows — ^had the look of one who listens. Anne very 
 often worried over the luminous intentness of the girl's 
 eyes and of the black shadows under them ; for frail beauty 
 made no appeal to her ; it was inconsistent with her ideas 
 of health; it was ethereal, intangible, elusive, and so, to 
 her, fuU of uncomfortable mystery. Yet to anyone else, 
 the pallor of Frederiea's face never suggested weakness 
 and ill health. She was one of the delicately built women 
 who can endure without breaking, although she had not 
 yet discovered her own strength. 
 
 It was very quiet with the hush of the oncoming storm. 
 Anne had gone in and left her alone on the back porch. 
 The Schneider boys were no longer audible; none of the 
 little Flanagans were crying or fighting, and whatever 
 sounds came over from the other back yards were subdued. 
 Frederica was not thinking of anything in particular ; she 
 was sitting in a sort of contentment and calm which 
 belonged to her late afternoons. The pan of potatoes stood 
 on the floor by her; the hand which held the paring 
 knife hung motionless by her side. 
 
 She had no idea how long she had been sitting there 
 idle when she thought she heard Anne come through the 
 kitchen to the screen door. She turned her head to make 
 some remark about the clouds, which she intended should 
 
 20 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 distract Anne's attention from the potatoes, but she found 
 herself facing a stranger, a man who looked as though 
 he had never before seen a back porch, nor a girl sitting 
 on steps that led up to the second floor. She thought he 
 must have been exceedingly surprised to find her staring 
 at clouds out there, and she was surprised at him, too, 
 for he was so " different " — she used the word " different " 
 with the same feeling that her father had used " interest- 
 ing" in describing this man to Anne. 
 
 Although she was used to strangers, for they strayed in 
 from all sorts of bypaths, she forgot the usual formalities, 
 and sat looking up at him. And as she did not speak, 
 he had to. 
 
 "Dr. Hartwell asked me to wait here. He is at the 
 present occupied with some one." 
 
 His inflections and pronunciation were foreign. 
 
 Frederica rose from the step, dropping her knife and 
 upsetting the potatoes. 
 
 "It is cooler out here and very pleasant," she said. 
 " I am Frederica Hartwell." She opened the door and he 
 stepped out and stooped to pick up the potatoes. 
 
 " And I am Eugene Harden. I had not the expectation 
 to find you so — domesticated," he said. 
 
 She laughed. " That is the word ; but I'm not ! I am 
 quite wild yet — ^I forget to pare them when I have them 
 in my hand." 
 
 He was a little confused, and she explained to him that 
 he had made a blunder in his English. 
 
 " I have no excuse," he said, " for I have lived much 
 in England." 
 
 " Well," she said, for she shared her father's prejudice 
 against the English, " they are domesticated ; but I am not 
 English. I had an Irish grandmother and I loved her." 
 
 21 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Harden said that he was an Austrian and that one of 
 his grandmothers was a Hungarian ; he was sure she was 
 just as lovable as Prederica's Irish one. She leaned for- 
 ward to argue. 
 
 " She may have been fascinating, but I cannot believe 
 she was gentle, as mine was. I wish I had been a Hun- 
 garian," she added suddenly. " They dance in front of 
 fires at night, and sleep on fir branches, and let their 
 naked babies roll around in the dirt." 
 
 Eugene Harden caught a whiS of Hungarian memory as 
 she spoke, and he looked at her in wonder. " Why do you 
 live here, then ? " His tone was a criticism of the place. 
 
 " Bom to it, I suppose. And I like it, too," she said 
 argumentatively, as though she thought he had no right 
 to criticise a Chicago back yard just because she was 
 thinking with pleasure of his grandmother's native coun- 
 try. " Don't you like it ? " she asked. " This is our sum- 
 mer -resort. A back porch is really a luxury over here. 
 Besides, we have a view." 
 
 He followed her gaze to the line of house roofs against 
 the sky and saw only the terrible squalor and sordidness. 
 She could look close at him while he looked off, for his 
 head was silhouetted against the wall of the house; the 
 lines were clear and rather rugged, without any curves 
 of tenderness. It was a massive head, set firm upon 
 shoulders squared against attack, and belonged to an Atlas, 
 unbent as yet by a burdening world. He roused her curi- 
 osity. She wondered where her father could possibly 
 have met him, and she was glad he had been invited to 
 supper. 
 
 " When the vines grow more," she said in a gentle per- 
 turbation at the necessity of saying something, " it will 
 be very pretty out here, don't you think so ? " 
 
 22 
 
THE BACK POECH 
 
 "If they grow close and thick enough to shut out 
 that — " he pointed to the view she had boasted. " You 
 should not live so close to poverty and sadness." 
 
 Frederica laughed. " But I have such a beautiful way 
 of thinking about it." She rose and leaned against the 
 railing. " The roofs of the houses," she said, " are the 
 covers on caldrons full of souls. Some pass out of the 
 caldrons — ^those that die; and little new souls come into 
 them — and some day " — she spoke softly — " the spirit of 
 God will stir them and they will live beautifully." 
 
 He leaned forward. " This is all a dream to you. Tou 
 live here and do not see the ugliness ? " 
 
 " I think I am awake," she said, but not as though she 
 were absolutely certain. 
 
 A church bell, blocks away, rang the first stroke of the 
 angelus. A deep-toned whistle, far distant, blurred with 
 it and filled the spaces between the strokes of the bell. 
 
 Frederica turned directly to him. " This is my hour," 
 she said. "It is so comforting to think of men coming 
 home from work to get rested." 
 
 " You think of that? " he asked. 
 
 " Every night," she answered. " Usually I go out to 
 walk at this time so that I can see them. It is like a 
 procession — and I cannot tell you what it seems like to 
 me." Then she asked impulsively: "Would you like to 
 go with me to see it now ? " She felt at once a strange 
 eagerness to lead him into her world. 
 
 He hesitated. It was as though some forest dryad were 
 inviting him into unknown paths. Her face was lifted 
 toward him with the question in the eyes of a child, 
 waiting. 
 
 " Perhaps you are not interested," she said, conscious of 
 the pause. 
 
 23 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " ' Je t'attendais, je veux te suivre, 
 Oil tu m'emmeneras — j'irai.' " 
 
 He spoke the French words almost to himself. Evi- 
 dently she did not understand. He had forgotten that 
 few Americans know any foreign language. 
 
 "I don't know even now if you are going," she said, 
 laughing. " What did you say ? " 
 
 " That it was my great desire to follow you, that where 
 you wish to lead me, there I go." 
 
 She picked up her hat and went down the steps into 
 the ugly yard, and through the side gate into the alley 
 which led into Desplaines Street. He followed. The 
 back porch was left quiet, and the potatoes were not pared 
 when Anne came out a few moments later. 
 
 24 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 ^TM-^HILE Frederiea was setting the table for supper 
 W I ^ she listened to Eugene Harden and her father, 
 \^Lm "^^o were talking in the next room. It would 
 have been more interesting if the Austrian had 
 been talking about himself instead of drawing her father 
 out, and asking questions about the men they had met 
 upon their walk a half hour before. At the time he had 
 said very little, and apparently had not been impressed 
 with anything " comforting " in the sight of her pro- 
 cession of home-coming workers. On her return Fred- 
 erica had told Anne that he had " clenched his face," and 
 Anne had laughed at the word, although it was the ex- 
 pressive one. 
 
 "If he had hurled himself against something, I 
 shouldn't have been surprised," she said, " And yet you'd 
 think that he would not care about such things." 
 
 "Why?" asked Anne. 
 
 " He doesn't dress like most of the men who care." 
 
 Now, as she moved about the dining room, she realized 
 that his clothes did not occupy his own mind, at any rate. 
 He was asking about house rents, prices of meat and gro- 
 ceries, about schools and wages, and the average number 
 of children, and whether the Slavic families were larger 
 or smaller than the Teutonic. It was a regular catechism 
 
 25 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 he was putting her father through. Occasionally her 
 father would begin to talk about the religious phases of 
 the various peoples. Harden would listen politely, but 
 without interest, and soon ask another question about 
 their material welfare. 
 
 When they were seated about the table in the hot, stuffy 
 little dining room. Dr. Hartwell took up the burden of his 
 daily disappointment: that in all the ten years he had 
 worked over here he had not been able to get the men 
 to come to church. 
 
 Harden said that that was true of all workingmen all 
 over the world. " They wiU not take their religion from 
 the employing class,'' he said. " They will take every- 
 thing else — abuse, long hours, small wages, and sentimen- 
 tal philanthropy — ^but they will not accept religion." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was almost angry. " We have no classes 
 in America," he said. 
 
 Harden emphasized his first statement. " Tou have the 
 greatest class distinction of any country in the world. 
 Your classes are fighting each other with greater vio- 
 lence than was ever shown in conflict between lord and 
 peasant." 
 
 Frederica was stirred by the sound of what he said, 
 although she did not believe it could be true, and she 
 was not sorry when her father insisted upon his side of 
 the argument that if men were good individually, each 
 one filled with the Christian spirit, everything else would 
 settle itself. " First, the law of love," he said, " then 
 the laws of men." 
 
 " But you have just admitted," said Harden, " that you 
 cannot get them to listen to your gospel. How can you 
 fill them with the spirit, if they do not come to hear 
 you?" 
 
 26 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 " There must be a way to get hold of them," said Dr. 
 Hartwell, and began thereupon to tell how many ways he 
 had already tried, without success. 
 
 The only satisfaction that Frederica could draw from 
 this one-sided conversation was that she could study their 
 guest's face while he was looking at her father. She had 
 seen so many men in that place at table, for Dr. Hart- 
 well was exceedingly hospitable. Any man who came to 
 see him in the late afternoon was urged to stay to supper. 
 Sometimes it was a conservative minister from uptown, 
 whose curiosity had brought him to call. More often it 
 was a detached person looking to the doctor for assistance 
 in getting a job ; or a home missionary who sprinkled his 
 discussions with theological phrases. Occasionally the 
 doctor had hailed in a workingman, whose visit encour- 
 aged him to believe that at last he was going to succeed 
 in his attempt. 
 
 Eugene Harden was not in the least like any of these 
 guests. Erederica was trying to describe him to herself, 
 as she sat there paring her potato (for they had been 
 boiled with their skins on) ; but she could not find any 
 words which would make the picture. He looked foreign, 
 and she would have said it was because of the way he held 
 his head, as though he were looking down upon people. 
 Her democracy discovered the idea to be fascinating. The 
 next thing she noticed was that his hair was black, and 
 that it curled wherever he had let it grow long enough 
 to have its own way. All the lines of his face were 
 straight; even his nostrils and his lips had angles and 
 no curves. His skin was clear and dark, and had a sort of 
 glisten to it that she had never seen before. 
 
 As she stared he looked toward her suddenly with the 
 question: "Do you think with your father?" And she 
 3 27 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 was so far outside the conversation that she was startled 
 and did not know what to say. He smiled, and she knew 
 that he had been conscious of her gaze. 
 
 " Erederica has a very remarkable grasp of these ques- 
 tions," said Dr. Hartwell with pride. By that time she 
 had at least clutched the probable subject of conversa- 
 tion, and began to look intelligent through her heightened 
 color. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " this is a wonderful place to live in. 
 I would not want to live on any of the avenues, or just 
 where there were only Americans." 
 
 Harden leaned toward Frederica. "Tou like foreign- 
 ers ? " There was something very personal in his move- 
 ment and in his voice, which could not have escaped 
 Anne, who had, however, just gone out to the ice box. 
 Frederica knew that what he said was : " After studying 
 me all this time, do you like me ? " 
 
 But she said "Yes," without embarrassment. 
 
 He reached his hand across and put it on hers, which 
 lay on the edge of the table. " I am very glad," he said. 
 
 Anne came in with the blackberries, and saw him with- 
 drawing his hand from Frederica's, and then Frederica was 
 relieved that her father was going on with his description 
 of the motley mass of humanity in whose midst they were 
 living. No hand had ever felt like the one which had 
 just closed over hers ; she would never have believed that 
 any hand had so much sympathy — ^no, it was more than 
 sympathy — so much intimacy in it. She fancied she could 
 still feel his fingers. Covertly she watched his hands now 
 instead of his face; they were not unusual, they were 
 close-knit, moderately large, and darker-skinned than his 
 face. In spite of the conventional white cuffs and the 
 carefully kept nails, they were savage hands. It may 
 
 28 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 have been the fine black hair on them which made them 
 seem so; her father's were as smooth as a woman's, and 
 she had never noticed any other man's. 
 
 When Anne spoke to her about the call they ought to 
 make on the Balowskys after supper, she came back to 
 her surroundings and began to tell anecdotes of the 
 neighborhood. The realities of her life were almost hid- 
 den by a sense of humor which hung about her like a 
 brig'ht veil. It was usual for her, whenever she went out 
 to the store or to a neighbor's, to come back with a 
 tripping bit of narrative which, until she met it, had 
 plodded along as some unprepossessing fact of stem ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Harden sat listening to her, in apparent surprise that 
 she was not sentimental in her attitude toward these peo- 
 ple of another class. He did not know that her Sunday- 
 school class was likely to break out with laughter when 
 she pointed a moral, nor that the Mother's Wednesday 
 Afternoon Prayer Meeting was the social event of the 
 week for most of the women who came, because of the 
 pleasure experienced in telling Frederica all the news — of 
 the youngest OTlaherty in the kindergarten, and of the 
 expected promotion of Mrs. Eosen's husband. Gossip she 
 heard, too, but none that was malicious; that never rose 
 to the surface when her quick eyes peered into the depths 
 of neighborhood experience. In some strange way she was 
 her own protection from unpleasant reality, although not 
 consciously shirking it. Her father went along ponder- 
 ously spading up the garden of men in hopes of a harvest, 
 while she followed after with a small trowel and turned 
 up things which lived just below the surface, delighting 
 in what she found, but without any serious care for the 
 future. 
 
 29 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Anne, ■who had watched her often just as she was watch- 
 ing her now, wondered always what any quiet mood of 
 hers betokened, for the child, gay and whimsical, which 
 was living on in Frederica was, after all, what Anne 
 loved best. It may have been that she dreaded seeing 
 the girl become a full-grown woman with the humdrum 
 woman's problems, or it may have been that she resented 
 a little the idea that Dr. Hartwell should have a grown- 
 up daughter. 
 
 To-night Anne was particularly stirred by the presence 
 of a guest, and when she saw the doctor's face brighten 
 with its old enthusiasm, she began to lose her instinctive 
 distrust of the "foreigner." She asked Eugene Harden 
 why he was so much interested in the things they were 
 discussing. Harden hesitated a moment, as though to 
 adjust his answer to their understanding. Erederica rec- 
 ognized the pause as a sign of a bigger experience; she 
 felt it to show that he thought them all children, and it 
 put her on the defensive. She moved toward her father 
 as though to take sides with him against this newcomer, 
 who had perhaps only been drawing them out in order to 
 discover their limitations. 
 
 " I am a fighter," he said, " and I have come to this 
 country because it is here that there will be the first 
 great conflict.'' 
 
 Dr. Hartwell moved his glass of water to one side in a 
 meditative way. 
 
 "Tou may be right. I had not thought of it as a 
 conflict — as battle," he said. " I shall find a text for that 
 next Sunday.'' He seemed already to be working out the 
 sermon in his mind, moving his spoons and dishes as he 
 always did when he began to arrange paragraphs on a 
 page. 
 
 30 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 Harden interrupted him. "Are you free — ^to choose 
 such subjects for sermons ? " he asked. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell showed surprise. " Free ? Why, in Amer- 
 ica, my friend, we are all free — ^free to say or do just 
 what we please." 
 
 " That is, within the law ? " questioned the Austrian. 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," answered the older man ; " but 
 the law is with us a humble servant. We never think of 
 the law, do we, Frederica ? " 
 
 " I never have," she said. 
 
 Anne asked him if, in Austria, he thought very much 
 about law. 
 
 "It is like a cage," he answered. "At first you are 
 used to seeing the outside world streaked with the cross- 
 ing of its bars, but after a while it becomes intolerable, 
 and you have to get out — ^get away — come over here." 
 
 "Tou should destroy it," said Frederica, "for it wiU 
 make men like monkeys to live in it." 
 
 "But when monkeys become men the cage will itself 
 dissolve into air," he said. " It's only when you can no 
 longer live with monkeys that you desire to leave — ^to 
 come where men are men." His enthusiasm for America 
 showed in his manner. 
 
 Anne said she thought a man's first duty was to his 
 home, to his associates; she insisted in a polite way that 
 he had no right to be in America if conditions were so 
 bad in Austria. 
 
 But Frederica leaned on the table and replied to her 
 directly that she was glad he had come ; that if they would 
 all leave Europe — but her logic failed her and she turned 
 to Harden. " Are you going to live in this country ? " 
 
 "If I succeed," he answered; and then he spoke of his 
 intention to speak to all the unions in the city in behalf 
 
 31 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 of that eight-hour day which was to be demanded by all 
 workingmen throughout the world of industry. 
 
 After he had explained, Erederica was not very clear 
 in her mind. She was used to the idea of great masses 
 of men going each morning to work and coming home 
 again at night. She knew that they had trouble with 
 their bosses, and were always complaining of their wages 
 and their hours; but she had heard the complaints just 
 as she heard fault-findings with the weather and with 
 the behavior of children. The conditions were as uncer- 
 tain as the weather, and to her mind quite as inevitable. 
 
 And here was a man who spoke of changing the condi- 
 tions, and so speedily that within a few months hun- 
 dreds of thousands of men would on the same day, May- 
 day, stand together on one issue and force a standard day 
 of eight hours upon the whole system. 
 
 " The romance of it catches you," he said to her. 
 
 " Romance ? " said Anne, who was paying more atten- 
 tion to Dr. Hartwell's interest in this stranger than she 
 was to the discussion. 
 
 " In every age," said Harden, " the romance is always 
 in the greatest conflict. There was the struggle for re- 
 ligious freedom in one age, the struggle for political free- 
 dom in the next, which was in the last century. To-day 
 we struggle for industrial freedom." 
 
 " And you mean to be a general ? " said Erederica, who 
 kept bringing the conversation back to a personal basis. 
 
 " No," — ^he had taken her remark quite seriously — " I 
 am one of the adventurers who came into the fight for 
 the sake of the excitement." 
 
 " Why are you on the side of the working people ? " 
 asked Anne, who insisted upon her right to suspect him 
 of "motives." 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 He seemed to give her reason for suspicion, for he 
 shrugged his shoulders in foreign fashion. " There is 
 more excitement on that side," he said. "More of the 
 romance," and he looked at Frederica for acquiescence. 
 
 But she was staring at her saucer in disappointment. 
 Some way she had been making a hero of him, had been 
 picturing him as the high-souled champion of an un- 
 certain and unpopular cause, and he had not only stepped 
 down from his pedestal, but kicked it, to show what a 
 hollow one she had given him. She felt that she had the 
 right to demand a noble motive from him, for she had 
 been brought up by her father to demand that of everyone. 
 When she looked up, conscious of his gaze, she found it 
 amused and far from serious. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I am an adventurer. Every age must 
 have a few men who risk their lives for the pleasure of 
 it — but to-day one can only risk one's money, which is, 
 though, far more than life." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell pushed his chair back from the table and 
 crossed one leg over the other. Frederica recognized the 
 beginning of a long dissertation and, for the first time 
 in her life, was displeased at the idea. It was because 
 she knew what he would say, and she wanted to hear 
 Eugene Harden. 
 
 Her father spoke of his desire to give the men a con- 
 tented spirit and so prepare them for peace, not for con- 
 flict. " The brotherhood of man is what we must preach," 
 he said. 
 
 " But many of the brothers have got to fight for their 
 share of the inheritance. The meek shall only inherit 
 the earth if their meekness covers craft and cunning." 
 
 The door bell rang just then and Freda had to go. 
 Anne was glad of the interruption, because she saw the 
 
 33 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 flush of enthusiasm leaving Dr. Hartwell's face, and she 
 felt that he had been led to the top of a hill only to be 
 shown the misery in the valley on the other side. Be- 
 sides, the conversation was becoming too abstract, too 
 much in the air for her. It always irritated her when 
 Dr. Hartwell discussed heaven, even, as a " state of being." 
 She was, to be sure, spiritual in a practical way; but had 
 she been closely questioned she would have had to admit 
 that in her heaven — if she were to look forward to it with 
 comfort — the mansions must be numbered, the golden 
 streets named, and the city hall properly ventilated. 
 Heaven was a definite municipal ideal. Chicago was its 
 antithesis, and there was nothing mysterious nor abstract 
 in the conditions of Chicago. 
 
 Erederica came back with Alec Sloane, the son of the 
 man whose philanthropy had made Dr. Hartwell's work 
 possible. Alec was like one of the family; he was five 
 years older than Frederica, had spent most of the time 
 since he had graduated from college the year before in 
 trying to learn his father's business and in sitting 
 around the Hartwell house. He was broad-shouldered 
 and blond, and given to theories. Ereda had said that 
 he always had theories to insert in vacancies where there 
 should have been facts. She had said, too, one time in 
 a sort of exasperation, that whenever he found he could 
 not climb a tree for the fruit he tried to shake the fruit 
 down. She meant him to see that she preferred men 
 whose muscles allowed them to climb. But he was not 
 moved by her figures of speech, nor by her occasional 
 show of temper. He expected to marry her one of these 
 days, and then she would like his perfectly safe way of 
 shaking fruit into her lap, instead of endangering his life 
 and limb by climbing. 
 
 34 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 To-night when he came into the room he stared at 
 Harden. This was not the sort of man he was used to 
 seeing at the Hartwells' table. He recognized what the 
 others had not, that Harden was " a man of the world," 
 that mysterious and sophisticated being who is regarded 
 by simple people as a " dangerous person," by others as the 
 highest accomplishment of civilization. Alec was glad 
 that he had come dressed in a way which showed his 
 knowledge of etiquette and fashion. He was glad, too, on 
 the Hartwells' account that he had dropped in, for it 
 would give this stranger a better idea of them that they 
 had such callers. The house itself, and the simplicity of 
 the three people was not likely to give the right impres- 
 sion, he thought. 
 
 He told them, when he had been introduced, that he 
 had come in from his father's place on the north shore 
 to see if they would not come out for a week. He brought 
 his father's and mother's invitation to all three, and as 
 he gave it to them, he alluded to the leisure and luxury 
 which was to be at their service. He wanted to make 
 their guest aware that although they lived in this place, 
 they had friends who could afford to give them an agree- 
 able visit. 
 
 "You ought to get out of this heat," he said. 
 
 "Let's go out on the back porch," answered Freda. 
 
 They laughed at her quick response, but she said that 
 there was a breeze from the lake out there, and they left 
 the table. Alec asked her as they went out who the man 
 was and where her father had met him. 
 
 " I don't know," she said, and her answer was truthful; 
 but it g'ave a sense of false security to Alec, who took 
 it for indifference instead of confusion of mind. He sat 
 down beside her on the stairs and showed quite an unusual 
 
 35 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 interest in everything she said, was ahnost affectionate in 
 his replies. But Frederica was trying to listen to Harden 
 and her father, and did not notice this new attitude of his. 
 Anne did, however, and began to plan for the acceptance 
 of Alec's invitation. After all, Erederica was not the 
 sort of girl to continue living in such surroundings as 
 these, and the doctor needed only one woman to help him 
 in his work. She felt quite generous as she meditated in 
 the dark of the porch. 
 
 Harden had asked all the questions possible, it seemed 
 to Erederica, and had told nothing of himself. He had 
 learned that the doctor's chapel was in the center of an 
 industrial district, large and polyglot; that there were 
 factories and mills close about them; that not far away 
 were Mr. Sloane's lumber yards, where two thousand men 
 were employed the year round. Alec had given him the 
 details of the business with the usual American pride in 
 its success, and Harden had asked him, too, about wages 
 and hours and many commonplace things. Under every 
 word she heard his voice, a full, rich voice with leisure 
 in it and a quiet sort of assertiveness. Occasionally he 
 paused for the right word, and she would give it to him. 
 Einally he rose and stood near her, looking across at the 
 houses which still showed gray-walled and black-roofed 
 in the moonlight. The mysterious silhouette beyond was 
 like a jagged wall. 
 
 " I have now seen the secret places of your country," 
 he said. " Of all this " — ^he swept the confused picture 
 with his hand — " we hear nothing in Europe." 
 
 They all looked out at the scene with a sense of never 
 having looked at it before. 
 
 " I did not believe that democracy would permit this," 
 he said. 
 
 36 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 "We shall always have poverty," replied the doctor, 
 " and it has its compensations. Alec here will tell you 
 how much it has meant to his father to give of his wealth 
 to these poorer brothers." 
 
 "Who produce the wealth?" Harden spoke very 
 quietly and looked at Frederica. " If you could choose," 
 he said, " would you give charity to these people or help 
 them to change conditions so that there would be no need 
 of charity?" 
 
 She looked up at him through the dim light. " Why, 
 change things," she said, "only of course you can't. I 
 suppose if I had to choose between praying in that alley 
 with Bunyan or trying to tear down those ramshackle 
 fences with Don Quixote, I'd take the excitement — I love 
 to change things — even furniture in a room." And then 
 she realized what she had said. 
 
 " You are an adventurer, too," he said. 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied quickly. 
 
 "You wiU ride a white horse and wear silver armor 
 for the sake of the romance." 
 
 " That would be dreadful," she said, and he laughed 
 down at her. 
 
 Alec rose to go. He went over to where Anne and the 
 doctor were sitting, and urged them to come out the next 
 day. He would sleep in the town house that night and 
 call for them in time to get the noon train. He repeated 
 all that he had said when he first came in, standing irres- 
 olute between his desire to get back to fresher air and 
 his newly awakened jealousy ; for he heard Frederica and 
 Harden talking as they leaned over the flower boxes and 
 looked into the moonlit chaos of houses and back fences. 
 He turned, with a sense of diplomacy, and spoke to the 
 Austrian. 
 
 37 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "We should like to have you come out and see us," 
 he said. 
 
 Harden thanked him. " I am to spend a week with the 
 Gilfeathers out there in September. Perhaps I can see 
 you then." 
 
 Anne was surprised, for the Gilfeathers were the 
 wealthiest people in Lake Woods, and not likely to listen 
 to any such conversation as she had been bored by dur- 
 ing the last two hours. Then she smiled to herself at 
 her own density. 
 
 " Miss Marian is just come from Europe, isn't she? " 
 
 " I do not know," he said. " I have only met Mr. Gil- 
 feather at the club. He has the greatest factory of its 
 kind in the world. He is most interesting." He shook 
 hands with her and with Dr. Hartwell, and then went 
 back to where Freda still stood looking at the Flanagans' 
 house, which was in the shadow of their own and so unlit 
 by the moon. " You have promised," he said, as he took 
 her hand. 
 
 Alec and he went out into the close hot street together 
 and crossed the viaduct to the cooler district which lay 
 close to the lake. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell went into his study to read the evening 
 paper, Anne and Freda went to wash the supper dishes; 
 they were both rather quiet. Freda was going over in 
 her mind the impressions she had received since the 
 Austrian had appeared at the screen door. There was a 
 most joyous sense of adventure within her. She lifted 
 the cups and saucers with a careful precision, as though 
 she were keeping time to the music which was swing- 
 ing through her thoughts. Anne interrupted her by 
 asking what she would take with her to wear at the 
 Sloanes'. 
 
 38 
 
THE HOLLOW PEDESTAL 
 
 Freda stopped short on her way to the kitchen. " Oh, 
 I don't want to go," she said. 
 
 Anne looked at her in amazement. "Prederica Hart- 
 well, this very morning you were wishing they would ask 
 us to come out there ! " 
 
 " I know — ^but " — she hesitated ; she could not admit 
 that the city had suddenly become intensely interesting 
 to her because of a newcomer therein. 
 
 Anne heard the unspoken words. " What did you prom- 
 ise Mr. Harden?" she asked. 
 
 Prederica was mistakenly filling the dish pan with 
 cold water instead of hot. " I promised him that I would 
 show him the beautiful things over here. He wants 
 to meet some of my friends, and visit my 'Mothers' 
 Meeting.' " 
 
 That was not sufficient reason to Anne's mind that 
 Ereda should spend the hot August days in town. " You 
 can show him those things later." 
 
 " We are going walking to-morrow,'' said Frederiea. 
 
 " But he heard the invitation Alec gave you." 
 
 Frederiea admitted that. " I suppose," she added, " that 
 he is not going to be here very long." 
 
 Anne spoke sharply. "He told your father that he 
 might make Chicago his home." 
 
 " Did he ? " Frederica's pleasure was evident. She 
 caught Anne's look and colored. 
 
 " Alee came in on purpose," said Anne. " He will be 
 very much disappointed. Tou must go." 
 
 " I am not going," said Frederiea. " I think it would 
 be very selfish to go off to a cool place, when the people 
 over here have to stay and endure the heat." 
 
 "There is another reason, too, why you should go," 
 said Anne — and then paused before she added: "Alec 
 
 39 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 wants you to. I think, Freda, that he wants to — to pro- 
 pose to you." 
 
 Frederica leaned up against the wall. There was no 
 reason why she should be so shaken by Anne's words, 
 for she had known that they all thought of her as Alec's 
 sweetheart — ^his father and her father, too. But it had 
 never been put so clearly before. Certainly never by 
 Alec himself, nor by her even in her own mind, and now 
 Anne used the word "propose," and was urging her to 
 go out to his home so that he could propose. If she had 
 had any difficulty in getting a good excuse to stay in 
 town she had a real one now. 
 
 It is to girls like Frederica who have grown up in the 
 companionship of men that the idea of love and mar- 
 riage comes as the greatest surprise. The girl in a convent 
 who dreams of lovers is not nearly so shy as the one who 
 has had boys for playmates, who has thought of them 
 only as fellow-beings. Frederica's face burned ; she looked 
 frightened, and, moreover, rebellious. Anne began to 
 wish that she had not put it so baldly ; she tried to laugh 
 it off. 
 
 " You queer girl," she said, " you know Alec is in love 
 with you. And think what it would mean if you would 
 marry him ! Think how much good you could do over here 
 — ^how you could help your father ! " 
 
 Before she had finished her sentence, Frederica had 
 rushed out on the back porch and sat down in the old 
 easy-chair. Anne followed her and found her in tear 
 
 " I won't go ! " said Frederica. 
 
 iO 
 
CHAPTER ni 
 
 DR. HARTWELL'S STUDY 
 
 OR. HARTWELL'S study was full of books, and 
 to-day there were several bowls of asters, Fred- 
 erica's favorite flower, which she had arranged 
 with the idea of brightening up the day for her 
 father, who had been much depressed by her refusal to 
 make the visit to the Sloanes. 
 
 Anne had not urged the matter when she realized that 
 Ereda was unhappy at the idea of going. And she had 
 told Dr. Hartwell of Freda's tears. That was what had 
 depressed him. He had really hoped for her marriage 
 with Alec — ^but if she cried when it was mentioned ! He 
 noticed, too, that when Alec came for them in a carriage 
 — which they had not expected him to do — ^Freda was 
 not at home. She came in afterwards and said that she 
 had been over to Mrs. Rosen's to get the asters. She 
 was still stirred by the new idea that she was to be con- 
 fronted by a proposal, and in her shjmess she had gone 
 to the Rosens' before eleven and stayed there until after 
 the noon whistle had blown. 
 
 For three hours now she had been restless and variable. 
 Yet whenever she thought of the danger she had avoided 
 she took a long breath. Her father had not said any- 
 
 41 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 thing to her about Alec, but she felt his distressful 
 eyes upon her. And to distract him after their mid- 
 day dinner she had suggested that they write the sermon 
 for Sunday. 
 
 "'So, Prederica," said Dr. Hartwell, "I am not in a 
 mood to write a sermon." 
 
 So she went into her room and tried to make her hair 
 smooth, drawing it back far too tight on her head, until 
 her face, without any soft lines about it, looked sharp 
 and elfish. She dropped her comb when the door bell rang. 
 She heard Anne go to the door, and then Eugene Harden's 
 voice. In a moment she had forgotten her appearance 
 and her fear that he would not come because it was rain- 
 ing, and she went into the study. 
 
 He spoke to her with the ease of manner which made 
 him seem an old friend. His gray clothes, the gray tie 
 with the pearl in it, made his black hair and dark skin 
 even more noticeable. The men she knew had no such 
 feeling for color; they wore indistinguishable browns and 
 blues and didler grays; and her father's black suits were 
 always dingy even when new. 
 
 " You did not go to the country ? " he said, as he took 
 her hand. 
 
 " Of course not," she answered, looking up at him. 
 " I had promised to go with you." 
 
 " But I thought that perhaps your father and Miss — 
 Miss " 
 
 "Forester," said Frederiea. 
 
 " I thought they might wish you to — and they are older 
 friends than I." He spoke very directly. 
 
 " But I had promised you," she replied, and she knew 
 as she said it that she was telling him two things — ^first 
 that she kept her promises, and second that she was in- 
 
 42 
 
DE. HARTWELL'S STUDY 
 
 dependent and could keep her promises in spite of Anne 
 and her father. Now that he had his answer and knew 
 that she was in the hot, smelly city on his account, he 
 told her she ought to have gone to the country. 
 
 " It must have disappointed Mr. Sloane." 
 
 "I — ^I didn't see him when he came," she said. 
 
 Her father found the occasion to his need. " He was 
 very much disappointed, Prederica," he said, and looked 
 at her significantly. 
 
 It was raining too hard now to go out. Frederica sat 
 down near the window. Dr. Hartwell leaned back in his 
 desk chair and began to question Harden. 
 
 " I am a very practical man," he said, " and whenever 
 a new idea comes to me I must make some use of it. You 
 talked yesterday of the army of industry — ^I am going 
 to write a sermon on that — to the men." He turned 
 to the big Bible on the end of the long study table and 
 opened it. While he was seeking his place Harden turned 
 to Frederiea: 
 
 " Think how green the fields are under the rain — think 
 of the beauty you are missing." 
 
 "But I like it here," she said, and looked around at 
 the bowls of asters, one high up on a book-shelf, one on 
 the table, and another on her father's desk. 
 
 In reality Frederiea did not miss the country. She 
 found her hours of beauty every day in the city. At the 
 close of a hot day, when the sun at the end of the street 
 changed into golden mist the dust rising from the day's 
 traffic and lit up the windows of the houses, she held her 
 breath in enjoyment of it. Moonlight falling on the one 
 tree before the house, or on the flower boxes on the back 
 porch, was full of subtle promise to her; and on rainy 
 days when the smoke from factory chimneys swung low 
 4 43 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 over house roofs, she thought she lived in the gods' twi- 
 light. She resented his lack of feeling for it. 
 
 " If you don't like the city why do you stay in it ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I might not like a camp of war," he answered, " hut 
 if I am to fight I have to stay in it. You can live peace- 
 fully outside." 
 
 She wondered if he, too, knew Alec's intention, and 
 she colored — ^to the tips of her ears. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell had the place he was looking for. " I 
 have found my text," he said, and quoted in his "Bible." 
 voice, as Freda called it : " ' When I blow with a trumpet, 
 I and all that are with me, then blow ye the trumpets 
 also, on every side of the camp — and say: the sword of 
 the Lord and of Gideon.' " 
 
 Frederica caught the question in Eugene's face. " Per- 
 haps Mr. Harden does not know that story of Gideon," 
 she said to her father. 
 
 Harden laughed. " I have forgotten Gideon — if I ever 
 knew him." 
 
 "Put the story in one sentence, Frederica," said 
 Dr. Hartwell. That was his test of her knowledge 
 always. A story had to be well known to be put that 
 way. 
 
 She looked at the Austrian meditatively and said: 
 " Gideon won his battle for Israel against their enemies, 
 the Midianites, by making a great noise around their 
 camp " 
 
 "Tou have forgotten the main point," said her 
 father. 
 
 "I know I have," said Frederica. "Now listen — this 
 is better: When Gideon and his chosen three himdred 
 made a great noise about the camp of their enemies, the 
 
 44 
 
DE. HAKTWELL'S STUDY 
 
 Midianites, the Midianites in confusion and fright killed 
 each other, and the victory was for Israel." Then she 
 looked at her father. " But it's a question, after all," she 
 said; "whether the noise Gideon made is the most im- 
 portant point, or the Midianites killing each other.* 
 
 Dr. Hartwell said it was the enemy destroying them- 
 selves which seemed most providential. 
 
 " But it was the noise of trumpets and breaking pitchers 
 that made them," insisted Freda. 
 
 Harden was evidently amused at the discussion. "In 
 your sermon," he said, " call first for noise, and at the end 
 prophesy the destruction of the enemy." 
 
 Suddenly he rose and took a chair nearer to Dr. Hart- 
 well. " I should like to have your help," he said. " We 
 wUl make the noise and win a peaceful victory. Apply 
 the principles of American democracy to American busi- 
 ness; rouse the desire for justice in the great masses of 
 your people, and then we shall have a world victory for 
 labor." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell's face reflected Harden's ardor. "I will 
 begin on Sunday." He turned to Freda. " We must ad- 
 vertise this sermon," he said. " I think I shall have some 
 handbills printed with the text on them." 
 
 " And at the top," said Harden, " put these words : ' You 
 have nothing to lose but your chains, you have a world 
 to win.' " 
 
 Dr. Hartwell turned about to his desk to write the 
 words. " But at the very top of the page," he said, " I 
 shall put, ' To the Men of the Bethesda Chapel ' " 
 
 "Why not put it 'To the Workingmen of the West 
 Side ' — ^you will get outsiders, then," suggested Harden. 
 
 " Good," said Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 Frederica did not guess that her father was being in- 
 45 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 fluenced by this stranger even more than herself. She 
 only knew that she had never before seen him flushed 
 with so great an enthusiasm. It occurred to her that he, 
 too, might be an adventurer in this new conflict, and that 
 gave her a sense of her ovra. excitement being justified. 
 While the two men talked she sat on the edge of her chair, 
 elbow on knee, chin in hand — her characteristic attitude 
 of attention. 
 
 Harden was describing the effect his walk on Halsted 
 Street had made on him. Dr. Hartwell listened because 
 Halsted Street was part of his world, to which he had be- 
 come so accustomed that he no longer thought of how it 
 looked; for him it was only the street where Mrs. Rosen 
 lived over the "corn and feed" store, where the Balow- 
 skys, for the sake of the revenue, kept five men boarders 
 in the four rooms with their family of six children, and 
 where the problems of other parishioners needed his con- 
 stant attention. Dr. Hartwell admitted, however, that the 
 paving was a disgrace to any city, and that the houses 
 needed painting. 
 
 " Never have I seen such color for the allegory of de- 
 spair," said Harden. " Grays and browns and red with- 
 out cheerfulness. And trade, confused, in disorder; the 
 shops thrust the smell of decayed vegetables, cheese, and 
 reeking sausages into my nostrils. I saw a shoemaker 
 mending the shoes of the poor; a woman with strong red 
 arms cutting off portions of meat for the stomachs of the 
 poor ; an old man who carried a heavy basket of coal. He 
 was the symbol of the old age of to-day; soot and grime 
 stained his beard and streaked down from his bleared eyes. 
 There were like specimens, mounted, to attract attention 
 to the whole exhibit." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell began to resent this description. "Yes, 
 46 
 
DR. HARTWELL'S STUDY 
 
 yes," he said, "it is sad; but -when the spirit of 
 brotherhood, of love, penetrates them, it will all be 
 changed." 
 
 Anne came to the door -with a note in her hand. " Aleo 
 has written to me that if you will change your mind about 
 going he will call for us in time to get the six o'clock 
 train. He did not go at noon. The boy is waiting for 
 an answer." 
 
 " Tell him that we will be very glad to go." Dr. Hart- 
 well gave his daughter no time to reply. Anne left the 
 room quickly to avoid any discussion, and to send the 
 answer before it was recalled. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " said Frederica, her cheeks flaming ; but 
 he had risen and gone to the door. " Tell the boy, Anne, 
 that we will go on the street cars," he called, not caring 
 to make it more embarrassing for Frederica by making 
 the start as Alec's guest. 
 
 The Austrian rose, and while her father's back was 
 turned, took one of the asters from the bowl without 
 comment. He put it in his pocket, and Frederica said 
 nothing, for there did not seem to be anything to say ; but 
 she could not have looked more surprised if he had taken 
 a picture off the wall. 
 
 "May I call upon you at Mr. Sloane's?" he said to 
 Anne who had appeared with an air of complaisant tri- 
 umph. " Mr. Gilf eather has asked me to go out with him 
 to-night." 
 
 " I think Mr. Sloane will be very glad to have you call," 
 answered Anne. 
 
 And to Frederica he said, laughing, " Je veux te 
 suivre." 
 
 Anne understood him and drew herself up, but he did 
 not seem to notice her at all as he put on his gray gloves. 
 
 47 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "Gloves in August!" thought Anne. To her mind it 
 certified him as dangerous. 
 
 Frederica felt her heart rise with joy, and her knees 
 trembled. The moment he was out of the door she ran 
 to her room and began packing in the hope that Anne 
 would leave her to herself. And Anne, not knowing what 
 she could possibly say now, did. 
 
 48 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A LOST OPPORTUNITY 
 
 ffi 
 
 'ES. SLOANE was a woman who cared little for 
 society, who had no desire to make any show 
 of her wealth; who would have been quite as 
 contented if her husband had had a small salary 
 — would perhaps have been happier, because she demanded 
 for her happiness his companionship; and his business 
 made it impossible for her to have that. Of late he had 
 been more than usually abstracted, and even at home was 
 somewhere else in thought. 
 
 She and Anne Forester had become very warm friends 
 through their common admiration for Dr. Hartwell. 
 Frederica she liked very well, but could not understand. 
 
 There was no entertaining. Mrs. Sloane took it for 
 granted that they wanted to rest, to sit on the beach 
 which belonged to the grounds, to read imder the trees, 
 and to have tea on the wide piazza which overlooked the 
 lake. 
 
 Anne and Dr. Hartwell found the quiet and the lux- 
 ury ideal — ^not that he was conscious how much he was 
 enjoying it, for he talked more than ever of his plans for 
 worksand what must be done in the neighborhood where 
 he lived 
 
 Mrs. iSloane, who was a religious woman, felt very 
 grateful that her husband's wealth was being used for 
 
 49 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 such a noble purpose; and she talked to Dr. Hartwell 
 about the church -which he hoped to need. And his belief in 
 himself was strengthened by her great interest. It meant 
 more to him in a way than Anne's, because Mrs. Sloane 
 was an outsider, and he felt with her that increase of dig- 
 nity which comes only when one is interesting outsiders in 
 his work. Encouragements and harmony in the home are 
 very essential, but they are not stimulating. 
 
 Anne Forester listened to many of these conversations 
 between the two, and followed her own thoughts. She had 
 a plan which she had been wanting to carry out for some 
 time, but she had not yet broached it to Dr. Hartwell. 
 It had to do with her own wealth, which was by no means 
 to be disregarded in the list of fortunes. The surprising 
 thing was that her father was not generally known to be 
 very wealthy. Anne knew, and had become in heart a 
 sort of miser, saving her income and watching the interest 
 on her capital with anxious eyes. She meant to build 
 that church herself. But she did not want to build it 
 until she was sure that it was needed. Dr. Hartwell never 
 appealed to her for funds to carry on any of his work. 
 From the moment she came into his house he seemed to 
 have forgotten that she came from a home of wealth, and 
 nothing in her behavior was likely to recall it in his mind. 
 
 It was natural for Alec Sloane to devote himself to 
 Frederica's comfort. His first thought in the morning 
 was the plan for her day. At first she avoided him on 
 the pretense that she was tired; but when she saw that 
 he was behaving just as usual, and apparently not watch- 
 ing for an opportunity to talk of marriage, she became 
 less nervous. They went boating and walking and driv- 
 ing, and their companionship seemed as natural and easy 
 as it always had been. 
 
 50 
 
A LOST OPPORTUNITY 
 
 Frederica was not conscious that this natural and easy 
 companionship was a great strain upon Alec, and that 
 he spent many hours while she was there on her visit in 
 walking about the near woods, trying to make up his 
 mind to speak very definitely to her ; to ask her to marry 
 him. But he never could quite reach that decision, be- 
 cause he always recalled that little air of reserve on her 
 part, which was more chilling to his ardor when he was 
 with her than any absolute coldness or conscious disap- 
 proval of him would have been. Without knowing it, she 
 made him very careful to be always the companion and 
 never the lover. 
 
 There was one day of her visit when he was almost 
 desperate in his resolve to come to her directly and get 
 a " yes " or " no." It was a day when Frederica was ex- 
 pecting Harden; had dressed for him, and sat with her 
 eyes on a book which she was not reading. And he knew 
 what was in her thoughts, and felt quite sure that she 
 was much disappointed when the Austrian did not come. 
 He sat on the piazza watching her, not daring to inter- 
 rupt even her pretense of reading, when Anne came out 
 of the house. 
 
 Alec jumped to his feet. "Are you going for a walk? " 
 he said. 
 
 Anne had not intended to, but something in his voice 
 made her change her mind. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I would like very much to go, if you 
 will go with me. And Frederica," she added, " you have 
 had absolutely no exercise to-day." 
 
 But Frederica excused herself because she was tired, 
 and Alec was rather glad. He wanted to talk to Anne, 
 and he was even willing to risk Eugene Harden's call in 
 his absence. 
 
 51 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 However, it was not so easy to talk to Anne after they 
 had gotten started. He talked of everything else that he 
 could think of, and it was she who brought the conver- 
 sation back to Prederica. 
 
 "Just this one week out here in the country makes 
 her look like a different person," she said. 
 
 " She ought to stay," said Alec. 
 
 " Yes," said Anne. " I don't think the city is the place 
 for Prederica to live — particularly where we are." 
 
 Alec stopped and turned directly to Anne. " You 
 know perfectly well. Miss Forester," he said, "what I 
 want." 
 
 Anne did not make it too easy for him by admitting 
 that she knew, for she was anxious that he should put it 
 into words for her, so that she could be an open assistant 
 in bringing Frederica to her senses. 
 
 He continued : " I would like to keep her here now. I 
 do not see any reason why we should not get married, if 
 she cares for me." 
 
 That was not the easiest thing for Anne to answer. 
 But she exaggerated her own wish into an opinion. " She 
 does care for you. Alec. It is only that she has never 
 thought about marriage and about love." 
 
 " Do you think I ought to ask her ? " said Alec. 
 
 Anne hesitated. " Alec, I think," she said, " I would 
 just take things for granted. If you make up your mind 
 that she is going to care for you, if you will just study 
 her, you will find the right time to speak to her. But I 
 wouldn't this week. Alec." 
 
 And so it was that Alec went back and kept his secret 
 to himself ; did everything that he could to make Freder- 
 ica at home and easy; and she never guessed that Anne 
 had become his accomplice. 
 
 52 
 
A LOST OPPOETUNITT 
 
 But Frederica's first thought every morning was 
 ■whether Eugene Harden would call. She did not know 
 that the town of Lake Woods was being much stirred by 
 his visit. It even enjoyed his " altruism," as his interest 
 in industrial problems was called, for he was found to be 
 capable of persiflage; and when he was intense they said 
 he had " temperament." His apparent indifference to 
 women won them, and they were likely to interrupt his 
 conversations with their husbands and fathers, and draw 
 him from the discussion of modern capitalism to some- 
 thing more feminine and personal. 
 
 However, in these discussions, he was listened to with 
 respect, because he appeared to be a gentleman of leisure. 
 Nor was any great pitch of excitement ever reached, even 
 when his views were violently opposed to those of his 
 host, for it was felt that his position was natural, justifi- 
 able in Austria or Kamchatka or anywhere else than in 
 America ; and it would have been quite as foolish to take 
 issue vdth him. There was, however, a clashing of intel- 
 lectual cymbals before him, and once in a while they wan- 
 dered into the Utopia of industrial freedom which he 
 pictured, and found it a very pleasant place. 
 
 Marian Gilfeather, the daughter who had just come 
 back from Europe, prided herself on her knowledge of 
 men, and used to boast that they never could escape from 
 the categories in which she placed them. But she was 
 a little puzzled by Eugene Harden. "You can predict 
 nothing of his morality," she said, " from his manner; for 
 he laughs at everything — ^yet in quite an impersonal way." 
 
 She enjoyed this inability of hers to judge him, for 
 it lent the charm of adventure to all of their conversa- 
 tions, even when she found that she could not bring him 
 into the paths of personality, but had to remain in the 
 
 53 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 highroad, the public highroad of convention, of the com- 
 monplace. 
 
 She rather liked, too, the current impression that he 
 was her guest instead of her father's, for to her mind 
 he was in every respect a distinguished man. He was 
 quite as straightforward as any American man that she 
 knew, and yet he had all that charm of unknown back- 
 ground, of mysterious European civilization, to enhance 
 his qualities of mind and manner. He had admitted once 
 when questioned that his name had a von before it. And 
 his democracy in not using the title to which it entitled 
 him was favorably commented on, particularly by the 
 men. Besides, unlike most of the foreigners who were 
 the guests of Lake Woods' best families, he seemed to 
 have money, and spent it with excellent taste, so that at 
 the end of a week his several hosts were really indebted 
 to him instead of the other way around. Probably this 
 independence of his made him more popular with the men 
 than anything in his personality or principles. 
 
 On the third day of his visit Miss Gilfeather said that 
 she was going to take him driving. She was planning 
 that they should take the most romantic drive in Lake 
 Woods; and when they started out she purposely let the 
 conversation languish in order that he shotdd feel how 
 completely responsive she was to the beauties of nature ; 
 for she had noticed that he was much affected by trees 
 and all the other paraphernalia of natural scenery. After 
 the pause had become almost intense he turned to her. 
 She waited eagerly to see what question would spring 
 from the past few moments' silence. 
 
 " Do you know," he said, " where the Sloanes live? " 
 
 Marian Gilfeather urged the horse on. " Yes," she said, 
 " we have just passed the house." 
 
 54 
 
A LOST OPPORTUNITY 
 
 "I thought so," he replied. "I fancied I saw Miss 
 Hartwell on the piazza. I should like very much to call 
 there if it might be convenient when you return. I im- 
 agine you are all informal enough to permit of such a 
 call under these circumstances." 
 
 " Who is Miss Hartwell ? " asked Marian. 
 
 " She is Dr. Hartwell's daughter," said Eugene. 
 
 " Oh," said Marian, and after a pause, " I know Mrs. 
 Sloane, and I know Alec, and I believe they did say that 
 he was engaged to Dr. Somebody's daughter. Perhaps 
 she's the one." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Eugene, and when they came back he 
 did not suggest stopping at the Sloanes; and she had no 
 intention of recalling his wish to his mind; for by that 
 time she looked upon any woman of whatever age, color, 
 or condition as a possible, even though a vague, rival. 
 Indeed, she went so far as to take another road which 
 did not pass the Sloanes' house ; and she took great pains 
 to keep the conversation going at full tilt, chatting like a 
 magpie upon all the kings of Europe, upon the fashions of 
 Vienna, upon whatever seemed farthest removed from 
 Lake Woods and Lake Woods' visitors. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, " I think I have met a 
 brother of yours, an Austrian oificer, although I can't be 
 quite sure. I am going to look up one of my dancing 
 programmes. His first name was Felix." 
 
 "I have a brother Eelix," said Eugene, "who is an 
 ofiicer in the Austrian army." 
 
 "I think there is some resemblance," she said. "You 
 reminded me of some one the first time I saw you. Your 
 brother is married, isn't he ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Eugene, and something in his manner 
 forbade her to question him further. 
 
 55 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MAGGIE'S INFLUENCE 
 
 ffi 
 
 'AGGIE FLAl^rAGAN was on her way out of 
 church when she noticed the "good-looking 
 Bohemian," as she had dubbed him. He was 
 watching her, and when she went down the 
 flight of steps he followed and spoke to her. Maggie did 
 not know that the tremor she felt was like that felt by 
 another Margaret who was spoken to on the church steps, 
 and so when she tossed her head and said, " I don't know 
 you," she was not conscious of the significance of the 
 look he gave her. She had never read " Faust." 
 
 " But I know you," he said. " You're Maggie Flana- 
 gan, and you work at the Fair Store." 
 
 Maggie paused. " And my father's Irish and a police- 
 man on this beat," she said. 
 
 "Yes, and he lets me talk to him." 
 
 Gustav Lange fell into step with her, and she took this 
 last statement as sufficient reason for dropping barriers 
 of convention. They walked down Twelfth Street. Mag- 
 gie was dressed in her best dress, and was capable of pride 
 that Lange had well-blackened shoes and walked with a 
 swagger that drew people's attention. She avoided go- 
 ing directly home because she did not want him to know 
 that she lived in a rear house. 
 
 "Where do you work?" she asked. 
 56 
 
MAGGIE'S INFLTJENCE 
 
 "Out of a job — trying to get a place in tlie lumber 
 yards," he said, "but you need a word from somebody 
 when you're new in a town like this." 
 
 There was a certain elegance in his speech, to Maggie's 
 ears, and she was proud that he should be walking with 
 her. " Perhaps I can get somebody to say the word," she 
 said with a hint of boastfidness. 
 
 " You ? " He pretended surprise. In fact he was sur- 
 prised that she was so quick to answer to his desires. 
 
 " I know an awful good friend of Mr. Sloane," she said. 
 
 "Do you know him well?" 
 
 " My, yes, I should say so. We live — next door to them." 
 
 It was agreed, then, before they had walked six blocks 
 that she was to introduce him to Dr. Hartwell and say 
 she had known him a long time. Maggie did not hesitate 
 before the idea of making such a statement. 
 
 "It does seem as if I had," she said. She knew that 
 when she got home she would be scolded for not coming 
 directly from church, and yet she loitered, not knowing 
 how to get rid of him before turning into her own street. 
 She stopped at the corner and looked down at her prayer 
 book. " I must hurry," she said. 
 
 " I'll go with you," said Lange. 
 
 "I'd rather you shouldn't. Ma doesn't like my hav- 
 ing fellows." 
 
 " She must spend most of her time ' not liking,' then." 
 
 Maggie was pleased with the compliment. " When can 
 I see that man who lives next door ? " asked Lange. 
 
 "I'll get a recommend — in writing," said Maggie, dis- 
 tressed at her predicament. 
 
 " ITo, I want to see him," said Lange. 
 
 "Well, we don't live next door. I was codding you. 
 We live behind them — in their back yard." She felt 
 
 57 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 romance crumbling. He would never walk with her again 
 after that admission. 
 
 " That's next door, only in a different direction. I 
 knew where you lived," he said. 
 
 Maggie's eyes shone with gratitude and she laughed. 
 " I was walking the wrong way so's you wouldn't find it 
 out, and you knew," she said. 
 
 " I thought you wanted the air," he answered. " Let's 
 go to the park. It's too hot to go in." 
 
 Maggie gave one quick thought to the waiting work 
 and the Sunday dinner she ought to be getting, and went 
 with him. 
 
 The people who met them in the park noticed them 
 because the man looked of another class from the girl. 
 Anyone who had cared to look closer would have seen 
 that he was trying to appear a workingman and was not 
 very successful. 
 
 " I must get home before dark," said Maggie, while they 
 were sitting on a bench after a lunch at a cheap res- 
 taurant. She would not let her mind rest upon what 
 awaited her there. 
 
 " When will you take me to the man ? " he asked, wish- 
 ing the engagement to be certain. 
 
 " To-morrow after supper." 
 
 " And will you go walking with me afterwards ? " 
 
 " It'll be like having a steady," she said. 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked, and moved closer to her on 
 the bench, which was in a secluded path. Before she had 
 seized the idea that he was asking to be her " steady," 
 he had kissed her. To his surprise her face went quite 
 white. He put his arm about her and held her against 
 his shoulder and kissed her again. 
 
 She pulled away and jumped to her feet. "You're 
 58 
 
MAGGIE'S INFLUENCE 
 
 pretty sudden for a new steady," she said. The color had 
 come back, but she looked on the edge of tears. 
 
 He took hold of her hand and drew her down beside 
 him. 
 
 " I ain't never been kissed except by boys," she said 
 apologetically. 
 
 " That's right," he answered. " I'm a good deal older 
 than you are." 
 
 " How old are you ? " she asked, trying to make con- 
 versation after he had kissed her again. 
 
 " Thirty." 
 
 " That's old," she said. " You'd ought to be married 
 by this time. I suppose you're hard to suit." 
 
 All the way home she kept her arm through his and 
 walked proudly. But she left him at the comer, so as 
 to face alone the anger of her mother. It was not as 
 bad as she had expected, because Mrs. Flanagan had spent 
 the day in pain, and was too weak to fuss very much. 
 Besides, her father had taken her side. " Maggie's got 
 sense," he said. " She would not pick up anybody who 
 wasn't aU right, would you, Mag ? " And somehow Mag- 
 gie believed that he knew who her companion had been. 
 
 After supper the next evening she went out to the 
 comer to wait for him. Even if he did know where she 
 lived she did not want to let him see the house itself, its 
 disorder and the seven dirty children. She pretended 
 to be looking down the street for one of the younger 
 Flanagans when Lange appeared. He took hold of her 
 arm at once. The boldness delighted her, because he was 
 so much older and dressed so well. 
 
 " I guess I ought to know your name," she said. 
 
 He told her and she repeated it several times. 
 
 A few moments later she stood for the first time in her 
 5 59 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 life at the Hartwells' front door. She was not altogether 
 at ease, and became almost boisterous, trying to appear 
 so. Dr. Hartwell looked surprised when he opened the 
 door; his first thought was that they had come to be 
 married. He led them into his study before he could get 
 a good look at the man. Then he saw a dark thick-set 
 man with a good head. Frederica was there, too, and she 
 was interested in this friend of Maggie's, for he was bet- 
 ter looking and older than most of the unmarried men of 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 " I've brought Gus Langy to you to get a recommend," 
 said Maggie the moment she could get her breath. " He 
 is an old friend of mine, and he wants to work at 
 Sloane's." 
 
 "You are out of work?" asked Frederica, offering 
 Lange a chair. Her smile was quick, evanescent, but left 
 a trail of warm sympathy. 
 
 Lange looked at her and nodded, but said nothing. 
 Dr. Hartwell began asking him questions. The answers 
 were direct and short. Lange wanted to get any sort of 
 work in the lumber yard. He wanted out-of-door work, 
 he said, because he was used to it. He had worked in 
 New York as a teamster, but had thought Chicago was 
 the place to come to. Dr. Hartwell sat down to write a 
 note to Mr. Sloane, and Maggie stood by the desk watch- 
 ing him; her cheeks flushed with her successful manage- 
 ment. Lange's eyes never left Frederica. They wandered 
 — or covered her face, her hair, her hands, her slight 
 girlish figure. He was perfectly quiet, and yet it seemed 
 to Frederica that he was the noisiest person she had ever 
 been near. He deafened, blinded her, frightened her. She 
 sat rigid and was glad that he was on the other side of 
 the table. 
 
 60 
 
MAGGIE'S INFLUElSrCE 
 
 Maggie took tlie letter from Dr. Hartwell and gave 
 it to Lange. " Here, Gus ," she said. " You'll get a job 
 witli this. Dr. Hartwell's got lots of influence." 
 
 They went out together after the usual embarrassment 
 of thanks and appreciation. 
 
 " How can he be an old friend of Maggie's if he has 
 just lately come to Chicago ? " asked Frederica when her 
 father came back from the front door. 
 
 " Do you think that Maggie would tell an untruth? " 
 
 "No" — ^Frederica paused — "not unless he made her." 
 
 "Perhaps I was too hasty in writing that note," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 . Both of them felt vague discomfort over the episode. 
 The doctor was conscious of having acted on impulse, 
 and Frederica still felt the man's eyes on her. Neither 
 one of them guessed the real meaning of the few mo- 
 ments. Nor did Maggie, who was walking down Des- 
 plaines Street with new pride in her face. She had 
 proved her usefidness to Gustav. 
 
 "If I wasn't a Catholic I'd want Dr. Hartwell to 
 marry me," she said. 
 
 Lange drew her into the shade and kissed her. She 
 accepted it this time without any tremor of surprise. 
 
 61 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 ROMANCE IN THE DUSK 
 
 03 
 
 'AGGIE'S heart beat fast as she walked along 
 the high fence on the north side of the lum- 
 ber yard. At the comer she would turn and slip 
 in through the gate and find him seated in a 
 corner where two piles of seasoned wood made a sheltered 
 trysting-place. Lange had described it so that she could 
 not possibly miss finding it. He had gotten his job and 
 had been at work a week, but she had not seen him until 
 to-day, when he had met her on her way to work, and 
 she had hinted that she wanted to go walking, and he 
 had told her to meet him in the yards. 
 
 Curiosity as well as romance hurried her along the 
 distance. Before she got to the comer she slackened with 
 the thought that she ought to let Lange arrive first, so 
 as to be sure not to make any mistake about the place. 
 Her eyes were shining, and she pulled her belt down a 
 little and felt of her hat and pressed her red lips to- 
 gether, as though it would give her the dignity which 
 she felt underneath her excitement. 
 
 She turned the corner and stopped in bewilderment, for 
 at the gate, which was twenty yards beyond, were two 
 men. She had not thought that she might have to pass 
 anyone, but now it flashed across her that the lumber yard 
 gate was always shut at six o'clock and a watchman put 
 
 62 
 
ROMANCE IN THE DUSK 
 
 there. Lange must have forgotten that. Disappointment 
 brought her to a standstill, and she was divided between 
 the desire to turn back and the bolder desire to go on 
 and face these men, and in some way get into the yard. 
 She peered through the dusk and her heart beat hard; 
 she recognized Gustav Lange, and he was talking to a 
 policeman. Without knowing that she moved she crept 
 nearer. Suddenly she turned and almost ran back to the 
 comer and aroimd it, where she leaned against the high 
 fence — ^she had recognized her father. 
 
 In that moment of recognition she felt suddenly 
 wicked. Eomance grew sinister and faced her, demand- 
 ing that she admit where she was going. She did not 
 wonder why her father and Lange were there in conver- 
 sation; she was thinking only of herself. Suppose her 
 father should come to this comer! She began to run in 
 the shadow of the fence, a little self -accused figure of 
 trepidation. But again she stopped, because she remem- 
 bered that his regular beat was in the other direction. 
 And Lange! Perhaps he had been waiting for her and 
 was going away; perhaps she had mistaken the time. It 
 did seem darker than it was usually at half -past seven. 
 
 When she thought of Lange leaving she turned and 
 retraced her steps to the comer, and standing close to 
 the fence, looked around it. Michael Flanagan was al- 
 most at the other comer, walking in official calmness, 
 swinging his billy. Lange was not in sight. Maggie 
 watched her father turn the corner. Should she go home 
 where her mother sat shiftlessly rocking, and the children 
 were having their usual bedtime quarrels ? Eomanee and 
 curiosity had both left her; the desire to see Lange was 
 not pulling at her as it had at first; but the picture of 
 her home, and the thought of the dull hours she would 
 
 63 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 spend there waiting for her own bedtime, pushed her on 
 until, without making any decision, she was at the lum- 
 ber yard gate. 
 
 It was ajar. No one was in sight. The street was 
 empty, and as far as she could see through the bars of 
 the gate the yards were empty. Drops of rain splashed 
 down upon her suddenly and made her jump, as though 
 some one had spoken to her. She thought of her hat with 
 its chiffon bows which would be ruined by the rain, and 
 she ran quickly through the gate, turned to the right as 
 Lange had directed, and found herself face to face with 
 him, seated on a pile of planks under a protecting roof. 
 
 Her heart stopped. She stood rigid, looking at him. 
 Some high excitement in his face had changed it. Maggie 
 could not analyze the change, she did not know that he 
 had pushed back his hair and showed the broad high 
 forehead of an idealist; she did not know that a great 
 discovery was beating in his head and transfiguring his 
 features so that they looked larg'er and stronger than 
 usual, and that his eyes were gleaming with a new pos- 
 sibility of victory — of victory soon and sure. She did 
 notice, however, that the cords of his neck were tight, 
 as though his square iU-shaven jaws were set. 
 
 He was looking at her, but not seeing her, and that 
 was what frightened her. It seemed a dreadful moment 
 to her, and she would have fled from it, but that it was 
 raining hard now, and, inconsequent as it might be, she 
 was conscious of her hat. She drew a long breath. " Mr. 
 Lange ? " she said. 
 
 He reached out and took hold of her hand and pulled 
 her to the ledge where he was sitting. " It is you, Mag- 
 gie, who are my mascot," but he said it in Hungarian, 
 and she shivered, though he was smiling and apparently 
 
 61 
 
KOMANCE IE" THE DUSK 
 
 seeing her very clearly now in spite of the dusk. As she 
 sat down abruptly and awkwardly on the pile of lumber 
 she caught a whiff of his breath. At once she was 
 relieved. 
 
 "I guess you're a little drunk," she said. "It makes 
 you look so queer." 
 
 The fact that he was a little drunk made her freer with 
 him, less self-conscious and much more responsive. He 
 had become, in her mind, the younger of the two, and 
 she the responsible one. A look of the maternal came 
 into her Irish eyes, and she moved closer to him. But he 
 did not heed her remark, except by a pressure of his arm 
 about her waist. She had come into his moment of ex- 
 citement, she was a part of it, but for the time being, not 
 a person to him. 
 
 Maggie waited another moment before she spoke again. 
 " My father always talks a lot when he's had too much, 
 but you're not like him — I suppose it's because you're 
 a Bohemian." She was trying so hard to get into the 
 commonplace with him, out of this uncanny, rain-en- 
 veloped silent joy — ^for she felt that whisky had made 
 him joyous, not fault-finding and voluble, as she had 
 thought all men were when they were drunk. She leaned 
 forward and looked up in his face with the woman's in- 
 evitable demand for attention. Her warm breath touched 
 his neck, and suddenly his exuberance knew no bounds; 
 he threw his other arm around her and pressed her closer 
 and closer to him with her face still upturned and her hat 
 hanging back, pulling her curly hair with it. 
 
 One of the secondary instincts made her pretend to 
 herself that he was joking, that this was part of a game, 
 and that she must not let him know that she was quiv- 
 ering in his arms. 
 
 65 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " I was just thinking you didn't know I had come yet, 
 but I guess you do." She spoke breathlessly, and her lips 
 were dry on her teeth. 
 
 Then he released her and stood up as though he were 
 going out into the rain which was coming through the 
 roof in places and was bringing the fragrance of forests 
 from the piles of lumber. A forest cut into planks, dis- 
 honored by saw and plane, lay within an inclosing fence 
 — ^the fence itself as degraded as a prison warden set to 
 jail his fellows. But the rain beating upon it vehemently 
 called out the memories from every board, and the air 
 was full of pungent primeval perfume, not to be withstood 
 by any human who had the animal strong in him. 
 
 The great primeval world smelled strong in the dusk, 
 and man's first passion was not the passion of love, but 
 of conflict. Primeval man used to come back to his 
 abiding place and the woman waiting there became part 
 of his sense of triimiph, as the touch of her ran into his 
 blood, heated by a great fight. Lange was f idl of his own 
 triumph and unconscious of Maggie. And she was irre- 
 sistibly attracted by whatever it was that was surging 
 within him, and afraid that he was going to leave her. 
 
 She jumped down from her seat, too, and took hold 
 again of his hand. " What are you thinking about ? Tou 
 ain't thinking about me," she said. 
 
 " I think about you all the time," he said. 
 
 Maggie had succeeded in dragging him down from his 
 exultation into the boundaries of her own thoughts. So 
 it was perhaps that the vanity of woman helped the prime- 
 val man to deceive himself as to the place of woman. 
 But his answer did not quite satisfy her, willing as she 
 was to be flattered in words, as she had previously been 
 flattered by his notice of her. 
 
 66 
 
KOMANCE IN THE DUSK 
 
 " That ain't the real truth," she said. 
 
 " You're right," he replied. His triumph began to ooze 
 out in a boastfulness which might endanger him. " The 
 real truth," he repeated, " is that I'm playing a big game 
 and it's going my way." Suddenly he stretched up his 
 arms and threw back his head. " I win ! " he said, and it 
 soimded like a challenge to some one who might deny his 
 assertion. 
 
 Maggie's curiosity allowed her a moment's freedom 
 from self -consciousness. "Who are you playing the 
 game with ? " and there was cunning in the ordinary tone 
 of voice she assumed, which was likely to suggest that she 
 already knew, but was willing to hear it from his lips, 
 if he needed a confidante. 
 
 "I'm playing against a man who took what belonged 
 to me!" 
 
 " Who ? " she asked, leaning forward, impressed by 
 his manner, though not knowing it was the tone of ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Lange was looking off toward the gate. He saw some 
 one pass and peer in, and he pulled Maggie back into 
 a deeper shadow, where she repeated her question, " Who 
 is it ? " referring to the man in the game and not the one 
 at the gate. But the presence of an outsider, however 
 indistinct in the growing darkness, recalled Lange to 
 himself and to his natural reticence, and he turned to 
 Maggie for the first time in his usual way and felt her 
 little warm hand holding his fingers in a tight clasp; 
 he was no longer exultant nor exalted, but his blood stiU 
 ran fast. 
 
 " Come on," he said. 
 
 " I can't," she answered, " the rain will spoil my hat." 
 
 " I'll get you another." 
 
 67 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She laughed, and taking ofF her hat, slipped it under 
 her outer skirt and held it proteetingly. Then they went 
 out of their shelter. A big arc light flared upon them 
 at the instant, and Lange started. 
 
 "If it hadn't rained, this would have been a good 
 enough place," he said. 
 
 At the gate Maggie paused. "I've got to go now," 
 he said, " so good night." 
 
 She could have cried. What a disappointing time she 
 had had, sitting on a pile of boards in the rain, and now 
 going home again. She did not know what she had been 
 expecting at the tryst, but she had come in high hopes. 
 Her "good night" showed her state of mind to Lange, 
 and he faced her. 
 
 " Maggie, I told you to come here because I was going 
 to ask you some questions about some one you know ; but 
 some one else told me before you got here." 
 
 " Oh, my father ! " she said, as though she had been 
 cheated. 
 
 Lange spoke sharply. " You saw us ? " 
 
 "What did he tell you?" she asked. Curiosity was 
 taking the place of hurt romance. 
 
 " Ifever mind." He brushed away the possibility of 
 her repeating her question. "Does he know that you 
 know me?" 
 
 " I never told him," said Maggie, feeling that she was 
 deceiving Lange, for she was sure her father knew. And 
 she started through the gate. 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Lange, and took hold of the 
 hand that had held her hat under her skirt. He had 
 jerked it a little and the hat fell in the mud, white chiffon 
 and all. " Oh ! " She stooped and picked it up and her 
 tears fell upon the wreck. That was her final and un- 
 
 68 
 
KOMANCE IN THE DUSK 
 
 conscious appeal to him. He forgot his triumph and his 
 game. He took the hat out of her hand, bent it in an 
 unrecognizable wad, and flung it over the fence into the 
 middle of the street. 
 
 " Come, now," he said, kissing her rather wildly. " Tou 
 shall have another one to-morrow, the finest one you want. 
 And I think we'd better go." 
 
 The long weird shadows thrown by the arc light, the 
 heavy dropping of the rain, and the strong smell of many 
 woods, seemed grewsome to him. And, besides, he had 
 been talking so lately to her father, and he remembered 
 that Flanagan's face was not without pride of a sort. 
 
 69 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 KAFPEE KLATSCH 
 
 M^^^HE day that Erederiea got back to the city was 
 m t\ full of warm sunshine and lake breezes. The 
 ^L^V little house had that air of loneliness and ex- 
 pectancy which is almost depressing on the re- 
 turn from a vacation. It seemed as though something 
 had left it, and Erederiea became almost irritable as the 
 day passed and the house kept its unfamiliar look. She 
 did not realize that it was because she had gone out 
 in the expectation of something which had not come to 
 pass ; and that as she had crossed the threshold in going 
 she had imagined herself coming back in a certain mood, 
 and had not. 
 
 Erederica's mind had been for so long accustomed to 
 its round of duties and neighborhood experiences that 
 she did not realize that it was romance which was calling 
 her now, and that she was occupied with the thought of 
 Harden as a romantic person. She had never used any 
 adjective but "interesting" in thinking of him to her- 
 self, and her unconsciousness of his charm for her made 
 that charm much more powerful. 
 
 Anne and her father were full of exuberance and re- 
 newed their work in high spirits, not even noticing Ered- 
 erica's depression. But a week had passed before Harden 
 gave any indication of his presence in the city again. 
 
 70 
 
KAFPEE KLATSCH 
 
 Then he came to Dr. Hartwell to ask for a letter of 
 introduction which -would enable him to speak before the 
 Conference of Ministers which was to be held early in 
 September. He stayed but a few moments and saw only 
 Dr. Hartwell. Freda was over at the Flanagans helping 
 Mrs. Flanagan put little Michael to bed, for the child 
 had been suddenly taken ill, and it was feared that he 
 had scarlet fever. She came into the study just after 
 Harden had gone out, and she stopped on the threshold, 
 a queer look passing over her face. " Who has been 
 here?" she said to her father. 
 
 " Mr. Harden," answered her father, not looking up 
 from his work. 
 
 Frederica said nothing as she went back into her own 
 room, her heart feeling very heavy that she should have 
 missed seeing him. Then suddenly she asked herself 
 how it was that she had known that he had been there. 
 There had been nothing in the look of the room, he had 
 left nothing behind him, there had been no sound of clos- 
 ing doors or of departing footsteps. Tet before she asked 
 her father, she had known of his presence in the room. 
 She could not explain it to herself. Frederica's sense 
 of smell, although she did not know it, was very acute. 
 
 The next afternoon when she was sitting out on the 
 back porch sewing, she heard his voice in the study, and 
 jumped to her feet to go in. Then suddenly remember- 
 ing that he had not called at Lake Woods, she hesitated. 
 But the impulse to go was stronger than her hesitation, 
 and in she went, her heart beating fast. 
 
 Harden interrupted himself in the middle of a sen- 
 tence and rose to greet her. There was a certain formality 
 in his manner which she felt instantly, and she scarcely 
 smiled at him ; her gray eyes looked into his with surprise. 
 
 71 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "You did not go to Lake Woods after all." She had 
 not intended to say that. Something within her cen- 
 sured her the moment the words had passed her lips. In 
 her confusion she crumpled the ruffles she was making 
 into a ball as a boy would have done. 
 
 Harden looked at her curiously. "Yes, I was there 
 for a week," he answered. " Did you enjoy your visit ? " 
 
 " Very much," replied Dr. HartweU, and with the nat- 
 ural egotism of a man who does most of the talking for 
 his family, he excluded Frederica and went back to the 
 subject under discussion, quoting the interrupted remark 
 which Harden had just made. 
 
 Erederica stood there for another mioment and then 
 turned and left the room. Her father did not notice her 
 departure, and Harden sat down and gave him renewed 
 attention. She took her sewing into her room and tried 
 unsuccessfully to smooth out the wrinkles she had made, 
 but her mind was not on her work, and every few mo- 
 ments she pressed her lips together and shook her head, 
 as though denying something to herself. She was trying 
 to pretend that she was not hurt, and that she was not 
 trying to listen to the men's voices as they came through 
 dining room and kitchen into the little side room where 
 she sat on the foot of her bed. Anne, coming from the 
 rear house, called to her that Michael Flanagan only 
 had the chickenpox and would she go upstairs to Mrs. 
 Schneider and tell her so, for the two boys, Adolph and 
 Fritz, had been kept in the house all day by their mother, 
 who had the most extreme fear of contagious diseases. 
 
 " Ach, ja," sighed Mrs. Schneider with relief, as Freda 
 stood at the back door upstairs; "it is gut das der 
 boys can again in der yard spielen. In two more hours 
 mit her boys in der house I could to die. Heraug!" she 
 
 T2 
 
KAFFEE KLATSCH 
 
 shouted, laughing, to the two noisy children who scut- 
 tled downstairs and whooped loudly for five minutes. 
 
 Frederica started to follow them, but Mrs. Schneider 
 pulled her into the kitchen. " Gewiss, sure, you stay by 
 me for a cup of cofEee. Nein ! " she exclaimed, " it ia 
 besser I bring coffee und meine f rische Kuchen down mit 
 der papa und Miss Anne — Kaffee Klatsch, ach, ja ! " 
 
 Frederica smiled. "That's a splendid idea," she said. 
 " I'll go down and get the table ready on the porch. We 
 hare a friend there." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider's love of social occasions was flamboy- 
 ant. She opened her preserved fruit and put her fresh 
 cakes into stately piles on her best plate, while Frederica 
 flew down and first of all ran into the study. 
 
 " Kaffee Klatsch," she said enigmatically to her father, 
 who answered in her mood ; " another ? So soon ? " He 
 explained to Harden. " Our friend upstairs always shares 
 her fresh cakes with us. It is my theory that we should 
 eat together in the name of friendship." 
 
 " Theory ! " exclaimed Freda, laughing. " Tou know 
 it's the cakes ! In five minutes I will call you," and she 
 disappeared again. Only for an instant had her merry 
 eyes turned to Harden, but the flash had burned whatever 
 barrier had risen between them. 
 
 After she had put the white cloth on the little porch 
 table, placed where the outer world was completely 
 hidden by the vines, and had put a great jar of golden- 
 rod in front of the prosaic ice box, she ran into her room 
 and called through the window to Mrs. Schneider, who 
 was coming heavily down the back stairs with the 
 loaded tray, that she was getting dressed for the Kaffee 
 Klatsch and not to be too quick in putting the things on 
 the table. She hurried into her best summer dress, the 
 
 73 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 one she had put on several afternoons at the Sloanes' in 
 the hope that Mr. Harden would call, and she brushed her 
 hair, although she knew perfectly well that in fire min- 
 utes it would all be flying loose again. 
 
 " Eoses in der cheeks ! " exclaimed Mrs. Schneider with 
 delight when Erederica appeared in the door. The coffee 
 smelled as only festival coffee can, the cakes were still 
 warm and dusted over with sugar and spice, the preserved 
 fruit g'listened in the little glass dishes. Erederica 
 pushed the chairs into social disarray, stuck a red ge- 
 ranium in Mrs. Schneider's ample belt, and called to her 
 father. Anne had gone down the street on some errand 
 and they did not wait for her. 
 
 Mrs. Schneider was disposed for a moment to be a 
 little stiff with the stranger, but when he spoke to her 
 in German, she melted into her usual exuberant volubil- 
 ity, and laughed before and after every one of her own 
 jokes. Harden laughed a great deal, too, and so did Fred- 
 erica. How she had seized upon Mrs. Schneider's idea for 
 her own use! Her castle of dreams in which she was 
 living quite unconsciously was flooded with the after- 
 noon light. To be sure, she was sitting on the balcony 
 with him as yet; he had not crossed the threshold, but 
 she had no thought of asking him in. Her delight and 
 gayety came from the warmth of the sunshine, and from 
 the memory that only a half hour before she had been 
 standing in a cold mist, groping for the path that led 
 away from the castle. 
 
 But she did not speak of Lake Woods again. Ereder- 
 ica was one who shut the door upon reasons for things. 
 The feeling of her own wonder, her own curiosity, al- 
 ways frightened her. She was by instinct afraid of what 
 she could not on the instant understand. She might 
 
KAFFEE KLATSCH 
 
 pretend to understand, in order to get away from any 
 subject which held in it the unknown motives or be- 
 havior of another. That was one reason why she was so 
 popular in the neighborhood. She came into the lives 
 of the community just as far as they wished her to, and 
 when she paused, it was not with a question but with 
 a nod, which indicated that no explanation of anything 
 was necessaiy. 
 
 For some reason Eugene Harden had not kept his word 
 about calling at the Sloanes', and Freda had been hurt 
 when she realized it fully ; but in her customary way she 
 had shut the door upon her desire to learn the reason, 
 and promptly forgot that he had been in Lake Woods, 
 and that she had been quite miserable waiting to see 
 him there. He was here on the back porch, and talking 
 with great interest to Mrs. Schneider in German, which 
 her father could follow, but she coidd not. 
 
 Mrs. Schneider's face grew earnest, and the red deep- 
 ened in her cheeks. "Ach, ja," she said suddenly, to 
 Dr. Hartwell, " der gentleman understands well wat my 
 Otto believes. In Europe over all, gentlemen understand 
 was here in America only der Arbeiter — workingman un- 
 derstand." She drew herself up in conscious dignity. 
 For the first time she felt there was a bridge across the 
 social chasm which separated her from the Hartwells, 
 and here was a fine-looking man with an air of wealth 
 and ease standing on that bridge with her and looking 
 down into the rushing chaos in the chasm. 
 
 Anne came in presently and at once the atmosphere 
 lost some of its merriment. Mrs. Schneider, who was 
 quite at home with Dr. Hartwell, felt Anne's philan- 
 thropic self -consciousness, although she would not have 
 known what to call it. But to-day, buttressed by the in- 
 6 75 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 terest of Harden, she held out for some time in her en- 
 thusiasm and her native tongue. She had the advantage 
 of Anne there, and besides, Eugene Harden was inter- 
 ested. He had asked her many questions about her hus- 
 band's work. At length he said he would like to meet 
 him, and Mrs. Schneider, in sudden eagerness, invited 
 him to stay to supper. 
 
 " I will," he said, and then he asked Dr. Hartwell where 
 he could find a telephone so that he could break an en- 
 gagement with Mr. Gilfeather. 
 
 The name brought to Frederica an indistinct vision 
 of a banquet served in luxurious surroundings which he 
 was probably giving up for the sake of making Mrs. 
 Schneider happy — for it did look as if all her happiness 
 hung upon his acceptance of her invitation. She thought 
 it very fine in him, not knowing, of course, that the 
 Gilfeather dinner was a much more commonplace and 
 much less significant affair to him than Mrs. Schneider's. 
 
 While he was out telephoning, Mrs. Schneider gathered 
 her belongings together and went upstairs in excitement, 
 begging Freda to entertain her guest until she could get 
 the supper cooked and her husband into his best clothes. 
 
 " Sit mit him inside, Miss Freda ; Otto he comes der 
 back stairs up in his work Kleider; und you come also to 
 supper. Der boys will eat outside." 
 
 Frederica wavered, but finally accepted, in spite of 
 the disapproval which showed in Anne's eyes. Later, in 
 the study, just as Harden was coming up the front steps, 
 her father asked her not to go up. " They will talk Ger- 
 man, Freda, and that will be hard on you, or else they 
 will think they must speak English, and that will not be 
 fair to them." 
 
 She saw his point, and after a half hour's talk, when 
 76 
 
KAFFEE KLATSCH 
 
 the summons to supper came through Adolph, standing 
 sheepishly in the study door, she showed Mr. Harden 
 up the front stairs, and then told Mrs. Schneider she 
 must help Anne, and go to prayer meeting afterwards. 
 As she turned to go down Harden came to her — ^Mrs. 
 Schneider had gone to see what delayed her husband in 
 his dressing. 
 
 "When are you going to tell me some more of your 
 dreams ? " he asked. 
 
 "My dreams?" She stood demure and hesitant. 
 
 He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her 
 eyes. " You are a child of dreams." 
 
 She shook under his touch, and he dropped his hands 
 quickly and stepped back as though she had pushed him. 
 
 "A child?" he repeated, questioning himself. 
 
 Mrs. Schneider returned with her arm through Otto's, 
 whose face was flushed with the quick toilet which, to 
 his disgust, his wife had insisted upon, but he showed 
 big white teeth in his smile of welcome, and thrust out 
 a hand hard as the oak beams he worked with everj' 
 day. 
 
 While the men were shaking hands there was a knock 
 at the back door, and Mrs. Schneider went to open it. A 
 moment afterwards she came in, followed by Gustay 
 Lange, who stood to one side, waiting to speak to Mr. 
 Schneider. He was not so well dressed as he had been 
 when Frederica had first seen him, and his hair was 
 rough and his hands dirty, as though he had just come 
 from work. Schneider introduced him to Harden, and 
 Frederica, who was standing near the door ready to go 
 downstairs, and yet reluctant, saw the Hungarian start 
 and put his hands behind him. From where she stood 
 she could not see his face, but she could see his hands 
 
 77 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 clincliing and iinclinclimg behind his back. It was as 
 though he was revealing himself to her unwittingly. She 
 listened to hear what they would say, but they spoke 
 in German. Harden's voice was as genial and undis- 
 turbed as it had been when he had met Mr. Schneider. 
 Lange's voice shook, and before Frederica left he had 
 gone back into the kitchen, and she heard the outer door 
 slam. On the way downstairs she was oppressed, just as 
 she had been after Lange's departure from her father's 
 study. She had a sense of strong physical repulsion which 
 amoimted to fear. 
 
 In the dining room below Anne was remonstrating 
 with Dr. Hartwell for his offer of the chapel for Harden 
 to speak in. "What do you know about him?" she 
 asked, " except what he says of himself ? " Her ani- 
 mosity was not so great as was her protective instinct. 
 She scented danger for the idealist ; she dreaded his grow- 
 ing interest and excitement as likely to end in another 
 disappointment. She had known his enthusiasms before. 
 Besides, if he were to cooperate with the Austrian, Fred- 
 erica would naturally see more of the man; and Anne 
 was determined that she was to marry Alec Sloane, only 
 now she had learned she must be politic and let neither 
 one of them guess her interest in them. 
 
 Dr. HartweU was not to be persuaded just yet, how- 
 ever. 
 
 "Tou are prejudiced, Anne," he said. "Mr. Harden 
 has made many friends among the men I know. They 
 would not be likely to have anything to do with an im- 
 poster." He seated himself at the table and began look- 
 ing for a possible bit of white meat on the platter before 
 him — then remembered that he had eaten most of it at 
 noon and Freda had taken the rest over to little Michael 
 
 rs 
 
KAFFEE KLATSCH 
 
 Flanagan. " I feel sure that when I have had a chance to 
 discuss certain points with him that he will begin to 
 see we must work from within, from the spirit, not as he 
 now insists: in the material affairs of these men. And 
 you must not forget, Anne, that it is my duty to share 
 my light with him." 
 
 Anne could not answer him if he believed that he was 
 the one to influence and not the passive one, so she 
 changed her tactics abruptly. 
 
 " Well," she said, " he is in love with Frederica ! " 
 
 The doctor dropped his fork and stared across the table 
 at her. 
 
 " Didn't you notice how he never took his eyes off her 
 while they were in the study ? " 
 
 Dr. Hartwell took a deep breath of relief that her 
 theory was based on so flimsy a thing. 
 
 " She was talking to him. How could he help it ? 
 Why, Anne, I didn't know you were so romantic." 
 
 " You didn't ? " said Anne, with a touch of sarcasm in 
 her voice, for now that she had discovered her own state 
 of mind toward Dr. Hartwell, she was likely to grow a 
 little bitter if he continued to take her as a matter of 
 course, as a practical and efficient person, static in the 
 friendly relation in which she stood to him. 
 
 As Frederica came in he looked up, shaking his head, 
 on the point of repeating Anne's absurdity, as he thought 
 it; but there was something so far removed from jest in 
 her face that he did not. 
 
 "Mr. Schneider is a very fine man," said Frederica, 
 taking her place at table. 
 
 "Have you just discovered it?" asked Anne. 
 
 "He is rather a dangerous man," said her father; "a 
 freethinker, and exceedingly discontented. Mr. Sloane 
 
 79 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 has been very forbearing in letting him keep his place in 
 the lumber yard." 
 
 "But he is a good workman. Alec says." Frederiea 
 spoke carefully. 
 
 "He stirs up the men. He has been the ring-leader 
 in two strikes." 
 
 "That's splendid!" said Freda. 
 
 For the second time Dr. Hartwell dropped his fork. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" Anne said to him. 
 
 She had not told him anything which could possibly 
 be considered as relevant to Frederica's remark about Mr. 
 Schneider, but Dr. Hartwell understood. 
 
 " Have you chosen the hymns for to-night ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why, yes ! " answered Freda, looking from one to the 
 other in perplexity. 
 
 80 
 
OHAPTEK VIII 
 
 HREDEEICA was distressed when she reached 
 Mrs. Scanlan's, where the Mothers' Meeting 
 was to be held, to find the shriveled little 
 woman tired out and excited. Mrs. Scanlan 
 had just moved into the small brick house opposite the 
 lumber yards, and had herself papered and painted the 
 rooms. All the morning she had been cleaning for the 
 meeting, and had hung the coarse lace curtains at 
 the windows to hide the view of the black fence across the 
 street. When Frederica came in she was sitting in the 
 back room drinking a cup of hot water. " I feel so cold 
 and queer," she said. She was trembling, and her face 
 looked a dead gray under the iron-gray hair. Her 
 wrinkles were deeper than ever, and her sunken eyes 
 duller. 
 
 The boy sat on a chair close to his mother and watched 
 her. Frederica felt, as she had many times, the horror 
 of his constant watching. The boy was epileptic and par- 
 tially paralyzed. He had been that way ever since he had 
 had the scarlet fever fourteen years before, when he was 
 a baby. Mrs. Scanlan had told Frederica about it one 
 time. 
 
 "We didn't have a doctor for him," she explained, 
 "his father bein' out of a job through Sloane's black- 
 
 81 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 listin' him; and afterwards the doctor says it was the 
 fever did it. He wasn't very sick, but the days I went out 
 scrubbin', and his father lookin' for work, he wasn't took 
 care of, and it left him queer and limpsy." 
 
 And for fourteen years the boy had watched his mother 
 just as he was watching to-day. Only when he slept did 
 she have any release from his constant gaze. 
 
 "When the Mothers come," said Frederica, "I shall 
 send them home until next week, until you feel better." 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs. Seanlan sharply, " they must stay, 
 they mustn't go. I've worked hard to make the rooms 
 nice, and Seanlan would be disappointed if they don't 
 see 'em." 
 
 Frederica praised the cleanliness and the order, and 
 after some further discussion had to promise to let the 
 meeting go on. But only a few of the women had come 
 when Mrs. Seanlan fainted and fell off her chair. Her 
 first words, however, when she opened her eyes again, 
 were: "'Now, ye're not goin' home on account o' this — 
 I'm just tired; nothin's the matter!" 
 
 At first the boy had been stunned by what he saw; 
 then he rose shakily from his chair, and began moving 
 about the kitchen. Faster and faster he walked from 
 one of the women to another, peering into each face. 
 
 " Hold me ! Hold me ! " he said in a voice that stif- 
 fened Frederica, who was making a cup of strong tea. 
 Mrs. Benson put her large strong arms about his limp 
 shoulders and kept him by her side, knowing that he was 
 afraid he was going to have a fit. He stood quiet and 
 watched his mother trying to drink the tea. 
 
 The other women came in one by one, some with shawls 
 over their heads. They became very much subdued when 
 they saw Mrs. Scanlan's face, and talked in whispers. At 
 
 82 
 
FEOM MRS. SOANLAN'S 
 
 last the speaker came, a Mrs, Parrish from the North 
 Side. Frederica let her in and explained that the meet- 
 ing must be short. Mrs. Parrish was short, thickset, and 
 very plain, and on these missionary visits she dressed 
 severely, in order to set an example to the poor. 
 
 When she was seated in a chair between the two front 
 windows, and the women had taken the chairs placed 
 along the two sides of the front room, and in the wide 
 double doorway leading into the kitchen, Frederica opened 
 the meeting. 
 
 "Mrs. Parrish, who comes from a big church on the 
 Horth Side, is going to talk to us to-day on ' Our Duties,' " 
 she said, and then sat down quickly; she was too much 
 stirred by what had just happened to say any more. 
 
 While Mrs. Parrish was making the usual opening re- 
 marks, Frederica looked over the heads of the women to 
 where Mrs. Scanlan was sitting in the kitchen. To her 
 relief Mrs. Schneider, who was making the coffee for the 
 refreshments, was keeping an eye on her. The boy had 
 dragged his chair close to his mother's, and sat looking 
 at her more steadily than ever, 
 
 "My good friends," began Mrs, Parrish, "We are all 
 sisters, sisters of the Lord. We have souls to care for, 
 and we must not forget our rraponsibilities." 
 
 That was the way Mrs. Parrish usually spoke. Fred- 
 erica had heard her several times, so her mind wandered. 
 She sat looking at the women before her. Sisters they 
 might be. Mrs. Benson with a square peasant face; next 
 to her withered old Mrs. Johnson, in whose eyes dwelt 
 surprise, as though at some time she had been startled 
 by one or another fact of existence and had never re- 
 gained composure. In the comer sat Mrs. CuUom, or, as 
 Frederica had named her, " Vanity in Despair," a woman 
 
 83 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 of fifty, who wore cheap rings on her scragly hands, a 
 pink ribhon and amber beads around her yellow neck, 
 torn lace in her sleeves, and broken feathers in her old 
 velvet bonnet. Mrs. Flanagan, who came as guest, sat 
 with tears in her eyes, listening with her whole shrinking 
 body, carrying imder her heart another burden who was 
 to crowd still more the destiny of the Flanagan house. 
 Mrs. Balowsky, who sat in the doorway, was rotund con- 
 tentment, indifferent to all troubles so long as the baby 
 at home was not having a spasm. 
 
 Sisters these might be, but Frederica had never felt 
 their differences so acute, nor contrasted their lives with 
 those of other women like Mrs. Parrish, who at the mo- 
 ment was saying : 
 
 " We must ask the Lord to give us contentment and 
 patience." She was quite carried away by the attention 
 of the women and the sound of her own metallic voice. 
 " Patience is what we need. And when we get to heaven, 
 my sisters, we will live in the glory of the Lord, in blessed 
 peace and praisegiving. Let us pray." 
 
 She closed her eyes and began to pray quite loud and 
 distinctly. Frederica was amazed at the anger which 
 was rising within her, and she opened her eyes as a protest 
 against the prayer. 
 
 It was as though the seeds which had dropped from 
 the conversations between her father and Eugene Harden 
 had suddenly taken root, and that for the first time the 
 rather vague ideas of their discussions were becoming 
 vivid and full of life so unexpectedly as to be painful 
 to her. 
 
 She had heard her father insist that the law of the 
 spirit, that resignation, meekness, contentment with one's 
 own lot, whatever that lot might be, was the great law 
 
 84 
 
PKOM MRS. SOANLAN'S 
 
 of progress. And here in this one hour she saw that 
 there was contentment and resignation and meekness, and 
 as a result, nothing in that little room but what might 
 bring tears in her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan was not crying out against the awful 
 destiny which held her son there, speechless and watch- 
 ful. Vanity in Despair made no demands, did not even 
 sigh deeply for the things of the flesh which years ago 
 as a young girl she had wanted and never attained. Mrs. 
 Balowsky was resigned to whatever came into her life, 
 and there was not any one of the women who was not 
 meek. 
 
 And here before them stood a stout, plain, severely 
 dressed woman of wealth, whose experience in life had 
 been dull and monotonous, who did not now have the men- 
 tal vision which almost any one of these foreign women, 
 coming from a dozen difEerent places across the water into 
 a land of hope, had had, and still might have. And this 
 woman was urging them to believe in a future life, a 
 life where the rewards were to offset the suffering of the 
 present. Not that she was insisting that these sufferings 
 were very great. One could doubt that she realized at 
 all the destinies written in the faces before her. 
 
 Frederiea read them. Almost up to the time when she 
 had come into Mrs. Scanlan's this afternoon, she had been 
 rather indifferent; she had accepted their experiences as 
 inevitable; she had seen so much of the humor, and they 
 had rather kept from her their own sadness. Now the 
 sympathy which she felt, which was so mingled with a 
 growing anger, was all the warmer, all the more human 
 because of the firm basis of friendship which had been 
 without pity and without analysis. Had she been a girl 
 from another part of town come over here to lead this 
 
 85 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 meeting, and had been much stirred by what she saw, her 
 emotions might well have been questioned as morbid. But 
 she was perfectly natural; she was at home there; these 
 women were more to her than any other women in the 
 world; and as she sat there listening to the sharp voice 
 and commonplace words of Mrs. Parrish, she had a great 
 desire to fling her arms about those whom she loved and 
 tell them that she was angry. She would have liked to 
 stand up there in Mrs. Parrish's place and urge them 
 to cast aside meekness and resignation, to go back to 
 their husbands with wrath in their hearts ; to say to every 
 man in their homes : " We must fight ! We must change 
 the conditions which have brought to us little of leisure 
 and less of comfort ! " She would have liked to tell them 
 the things that she had heard Eugene Harden telling, of 
 the great movement in Europe, of the thousands of men 
 who were moved by one great idea, one great desire — the 
 desire for industrial freedom. She would have liked to 
 put into the simplest language the prophecies she had 
 heard him make to her father — ^that before another year 
 had passed, if the workingmen of America would stand 
 together, there should be at least a measure of freedom. 
 There would be a day of eight hours work and sixteen 
 hours for human living. She would have liked to repeat 
 to them in terms of groceries and meats and clothing 
 what it would mean if all these things were sold at the 
 cost of producing, and not, as now, to give big profits 
 to a few men. 
 
 Her muscles tightened as she sat there, and she would 
 have liked the best of all to urge them to fight. She 
 had read as a child of her revolutionary forefathers with 
 a feeling that she, too, was a fighter. She had not felt 
 that she belonged to an age where the lifting of one 
 
 86 
 
FKOM MES. SCANLAN'S 
 
 man's hand against another was a thing to be deplored. 
 She realized that the blood that was stirring in her was 
 the blood of combat, a thing to be read of in history with 
 admiration, though mocked at to-day. She could almost 
 fancy that were there a call to arms she could lead this 
 band of women into the middle of the street and fight 
 with them. But in spite of all her emotion she sat quite 
 still, swallowing hard every once in a while to keep down, 
 the tears, and wishing that Mrs. Parrish would get 
 through. 
 
 Then she saw Mrs. Scanlan get up from her chair and 
 come toward the door of the bedroom. Some of the 
 women looked at her from under their eyelids when she 
 passed them, the boy close at her heels. Without inter- 
 rupting the prayer, Frederica went to her and opened the 
 bedroom door. Mrs. Scanlan threw herself on the bed 
 in the little dark hole of a room. Frederica closed the 
 door behind them. 
 
 " Good Lord ! Good Lord I " said Mrs. Scanlan, cov- 
 ering her face with her shaking hands. "I'm so sickl 
 I'm so sick! Go out and leave me." 
 
 Frederica left her with the boy, who sat on the edge 
 of the bed watching her. 
 
 When Mrs. Parrish had finished her prayer, Frederica 
 gave some notices to the women about their next meeting. 
 In her soul was conflict indescribable. 
 
 Then the bedroom door opened and out again came Mrs. 
 Scanlan. "I thought ye mightn't enjoy the refresh- 
 ments if I was in there," she said. Mrs. Schneider 
 poured her a cup of coffee, and then passed the coffee 
 among the women. Mrs. Balowsky was going about with 
 the plate of cake. First they served Mrs. Parrish, who 
 was not quite at ease, now that she was through talking. 
 
 87 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She handled the cup as though she were not sure it was 
 clean, and left her cake untasted, and was condescending 
 to the women who were brought up and introduced to her 
 by Mrs, Benson. There was constraint until Mr. Scanlan 
 came in, his face full of anxiety. On his arrival they 
 began to go. Mr. Scanlan put his dinner pail on the back 
 of the stove and talked in a whisper to his wife, who 
 was dully trying to explain. 
 
 "I felt so queer, worse'n sick, and he was likely to 
 have a time." She pointed to the boy, who had left his 
 chair and was standing close in front of his father. Fred- 
 erica saw the boy lift his weaker hand and put it on his 
 father's shoulder and look at him. Some question, greater 
 than any others that had pressed his dim consciousness, 
 lay in his eyes. His whole limp being acknowledged the 
 overwhelming mystery of human existence. Circum- 
 stances had left him uncared for when he was a baby, 
 some natural law had been transgressed and he was pay- 
 ing the penalty. The question deepened in his eyes. 
 " What is the matter? " he said in a thick voice. 
 
 Mr. Scanlan made no answer, for had there been an 
 answer it could not have reached the boy who had only 
 come into life as far as the question. Frederica put her 
 hand to her throat, afraid that she was going to show her 
 emotion. It was anger that she felt — and why anger? 
 Why not pity? 
 
 Mrs. Parrish was going. She told Frederica to call 
 upon her again; she felt that it was her duty to help 
 these people. She shook hands with Mrs. Benson and 
 went out to her carriage. Frederica helped to wash the 
 coffee cups, while Mr. Scanlan put the chairs straight, 
 and the boy ate scraps of cake from the plates. Mrs. 
 Scanlan spoke to Frederica when she started to go. 
 
 88 
 
FEOM MRS. SCANLAN'S 
 
 " I'm much obliged," she said. " I'm glad they stayed. 
 I'd V hated to see 'em go after I'd fixed it up for 'em." 
 
 " Tou're a wonderful woman, Mrs. Scanlau ! " That 
 was all that Frederica coidd say, she was so stirred at 
 the courage of the gray face before her in the dusk. 
 When she went out she saw the boy draw up his chair 
 close to his mother's. Mrs. Benson was going to stay and 
 get supper. 
 
 As she started down the street Frederic a's heart beat 
 quickly; Eugene Harden was walking toward her. She 
 took a long breath of relief, for she meant to tell him 
 about the Scanlans and her own feelings at the Mothers' 
 Meeting. 
 
 " Miss Forester told me you were here," he said as he 
 came up to her. "Let us go across the viaduct before 
 supper." 
 
 "I must walk a long time," said Frederica, "and I 
 cannot talk for — ^for a little." To her surprise she was 
 fighting tears in her heart. He fell into step and they 
 walked in silence, looking ahead at the dreary, muddy 
 street, while now and then a gust of wind blew pieces 
 of torn paper and rags across the sidewalk. 
 
 On the viaduct she felt that she was crossing into 
 another world, and she relaxed. He seemed to know, and 
 spoke of the men meeting them. " Your procession is 
 in a hurry to-night." 
 
 " Poor men ! " she said. 
 
 Harden stopped short. " Why ? " he asked. 
 
 "You know why," she answered. "You are the one 
 who has made me feel their struggle." 
 
 " Struggle ? " He repeated the word. " You face that 
 word's meaning now ? " He looked into the face she had 
 lifted toward him. 
 
 89 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "It's like a horrible picture," she said. "Men fight- 
 ing, fighting, and going into the darkness ! " 
 
 He paused and leaned against the railing and looked 
 at the railroad tracks running in many parallels far off 
 into the dimness. Trains were passing under them; 
 carloads of lumber stood alongside the low freight- 
 house. Steam and smoke hung over it all. Frederica 
 saw a new look of exultation in Harden's face. She 
 wondered at it, for she thought she had learned from 
 him her unhappiness in the conditions of these men, 
 whose lives and limitations she had always accepted as 
 part of the inevitable scheme of life. And now when she 
 was deep in a new sense of it, he was showing a kind 
 of joy as he stood looking off at the tracks. 
 
 " Not going into the darkness, Erederica." He seemed 
 to use her name unconsciously — it was the first time. 
 " This is only the dawn of the world — grand and somber, 
 yet with flashes of a great light now and then ; not enough 
 to show the way, but enough to light the faces of the men 
 who are struggling in this dawn — of the men and a few 
 women." He turned and put his hand on her shoulder. 
 " You are one of the women. You are going to suffer, 
 child!" 
 
 " I do now," she said, and yet at that very moment joy 
 was pressing upon her. He had called her " Erederica," 
 and his hand was on her shoulder. That he called her 
 " child," too, did not lessen her gladness. 
 
 They went on over the viaduct and reached the open 
 space near the lake and turned north. " Are you tired ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 She was not. 
 
 " Then you will like my plan perhaps. We are going 
 to the concert — after we have had dinner." 
 
 90 
 
FROM MRS. SCANLAN'S 
 
 Prederica's pleasure was troubled by the thought that 
 she had on an old green dress and hat. She did not like 
 to speak of that, though, so she said : " I'm afraid Anne 
 and my father may worry." 
 
 " I asked your father," said Eugene. 
 
 " But these — I'm not dressed for a concert." To her 
 mind the dinner was vague. 
 
 He laughed. " No, you are not dressed for a concert, 
 you are dressed for a meeting of wood nymphs. They 
 are waiting for you somewhere — ^but you can't go ! " 
 
 Before she realized it they were entering the dining 
 room of the Leland and she was sitting at a table near 
 the window. There were not many people in the room, 
 and the waiters were very quiet. It held a sort of en- 
 chantment for Frederica. She really knew nothing of 
 this life of easy service and quiet, except through books. 
 She had never missed it ; but now that she was in it, it was 
 fascinating her. She forgot Mrs. Scanlan and the boy; 
 she did not remember Mrs. Parrish, who certainly could 
 not have belonged to a place like this. While Harden, 
 without constdting her, was ordering the dinner, she let 
 herself sink into the comfort of being in the luxurious 
 room. The mirrors, the chandeliers, the flowers, and well- 
 dressed women, the clink of dishes and silver, made a 
 subtle music which was creeping through her blood. Eu- 
 gene Harden caught the look of it in her face, and 
 watched her closely over the top of the menu. He seemed 
 surprised that she should be yielding so completely to 
 the influences about her. He did not speak so long as she 
 was occupied with the new impressions, but when at last 
 her eyes came back to him, he asked her if she would have 
 wine. 
 
 "No, indeed," she said quickly; and then a second 
 7 91 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 thought pressed upon the shocked idea of herself being 
 invited to take wine. "I suppose everyone drinks wine 
 in Vienna." She said it as though apologizing for him. 
 
 While they were eating and talking he watched her 
 hands, small and thin. Every once in a while she raised 
 one to push back a straggling lock of hair which kept 
 falling over her forehead. 
 
 Her gayety was hushed somewhat by the sense of 
 strangers in the room with her, but she was enjoying it 
 all, particularly the sound of his voice and his intent 
 eyes. All the outside world dropped back and left only 
 that one room hanging in space, and there she was swing- 
 ing in it with this man who had come so unexpectedly 
 into her life. It was enchantment. 
 
 But just as dessert was brought to them the spell was 
 broken. She saw Alec Sloane going out of the dining- 
 room door. He had come from the other side of the room 
 and had not passed her, yet he must have seen her ; and the 
 idea that he had been in the room with them made her 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 Harden had not caught sight of the young fellow, but 
 he saw her face. " What is it ? " he asked. 
 
 "Alec Sloane just went out," she said. "He was 
 here.'' 
 
 " Do you want me to bring him back ? " He started to 
 rise. 
 
 " ITo ! Oh, no ! " said Erederica quickly. 
 
 " Tour father likes him." 
 
 " Yes," said Erederica, " but I don't want to — to marry 
 him." The words had slipped out, and yet she was not 
 sorry. 
 
 "Do you think I ought to marry him?" she asked. 
 "Anne says that it is a wonderful opportunity to do 
 
 92 
 
FEOM MES. SCANLAN'S 
 
 good, because I could keep him interested in the work 
 over there." 
 
 " You must only marry for the sake of your own hap- 
 piness," said Eugene; and after a pause, with a little 
 effort, he said: "Perhaps he could make you happy." 
 
 Frederica put down her cup with a gesture of remon- 
 strance. "I shall never marry for happiness," she said. 
 " That would be selfish, and I do not want to think about 
 myself, but about others." 
 
 Harden spoke definitely, leaning toward her. " Then 
 do not marry at all. It would make you think about 
 yourself. You could not help it." 
 
 " Anne says that he needs me." 
 
 " But do you need him? " 
 
 She raised her eyes with the light of new seK-knowledge 
 in them. 
 
 "No," she said, "I don't need him. Is that the test 
 you make for loving ? " 
 
 The waiter came with the bill, and Frederica thought 
 her question might go unanswered, but Harden spoke as 
 the waiter left. " I do not know what test I should 
 make." He looked thoughtfully at the flowers on their 
 table, and she became aware of his silence over these 
 things. M'ever before had their conversation even touched 
 on romance. 
 
 She spoke impulsively. "Is it because you love your 
 work that you don't want to love anyone and do not want 
 anyone to love you ? " 
 
 " How is it that you know that ? " He looked into 
 her eyes with a sort of fear in his which she felt. She 
 wished she had not spoken. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "But the roots of your 
 heart grow way down into a love for people. You would 
 
 93 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 not want to pull them up for the sake of just one 
 person." 
 
 " Frederica," he said, " you are not quite grown up yet." 
 He looked relieved at her answer. 
 
 Pain flashed into her eyes for a moment. " No," she 
 said almost in a whisper, " and it hurts — ^to grow. It 
 hurts!" 
 
 He rose from the tahle with the necessity of keeping 
 silence. She was glad to go, too. The outside world 
 had gotten into the room by some ill chance. 
 
 94 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE CONCERT 
 
 ■^^^^^HET walked the short distance to the old Ex- 
 M CA position Building, where the orchestra played 
 ^^^^V every evening. This concert was to be a new 
 experience, because she went into the place with 
 her nerves strung tight. The musty smell of the big 
 barnlike room was streaked by the odors of beer, to- 
 bacco, and sawdust, of fir trees which stood about, and 
 of the freshly printed pink programmes. In the middle 
 of the room and in front of the platform were the rows 
 and rows of chairs, many hundreds of them filled. Far- 
 ther back were the small tables and their chairs and the 
 little green trees doomed to a tub existence, which were so 
 usual in the concert halls and gardens that Eugene Har- 
 den knew abroad. He sat down at one of these tables 
 and asked Erederica if she woidd have lemonade or an ice. 
 Then he asked her if he might smoke. It was the first 
 time she had ever seen him smoke. She knew that it was 
 absurd, but she began to feel very worldly, and it was 
 a pleasant feeling. 
 
 Before this when she had come to a concert it had 
 been in the afternoon, and she had always gone into the 
 first rows of the twenty-five cent seats and had not even 
 looked around at the people sitting at the tables ; they had 
 belonged, in her mind, to a world so far outside her own 
 
 95 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 and her father's. To-night she found herself in the very 
 midst of that world. 
 
 The chairs and the music stands for the orchestra 
 stood expectantly on the platform, which was banked with 
 gay artificial flowers; from behind somewhere came 
 broken bits of melody as the cellos and violins were 
 tuned. The long dim galleries on either side were empty, 
 except of shadows and cobwebs, and perhaps of forgotten 
 music. The chairs had filled, waiters were serving the 
 people at the tables. Everything seemed to be waiting. 
 The members of the orchestra came in and took their 
 seats, the leader of the orchestra was greeted by ap- 
 plause as he took his place and gently tapped his music 
 stand with his baton. Frederica was perfectly happy. 
 
 It was a Wagner night. Occasionally the leader made 
 his entire programme from that one man's music. The 
 first number was the " Tannhauser March," the " Over- 
 ture," and the " Evening Star." Erederica never moved. 
 She sat leaning forward, absolutely possessed by the power 
 of the music. At the end of the number she turned to 
 Eugene Harden, who had been watching her attention 
 rather than listening himself. 
 
 " This is your wine," he said ; " be careful ! " 
 
 She laughed. " Does wine make you feel this way, ex- 
 cited and as though you were going up and up ? " 
 
 "How intoxicated you are," he said, shaking his head 
 in mock pity. 
 
 Then came the "Lohengrin" number, and she forgot 
 him again, forgot everything, and listened with every 
 nerve in her body. Wot once did he take his eyes from 
 her, but he was listening, too, now, and was quite as 
 motionless as she. 
 
 During the intermission they watched the people walk- 
 96 
 
THE CONCERT 
 
 ing lazily about the great room, but they did not leave 
 their places. Harden relit his cigar and was lost in 
 thought for a few moments; then he moved his chair 
 toward her side of the little table. 
 
 " It is very wonderful," he said. " And I have been 
 listening to it through you. Were you thinking of Elsa ? " 
 
 " I have never seen the opera." 
 
 " Elsa thought she loved a man who came an unknown 
 into her life, and she married him; and then her curi- 
 osity made her ask questions which he could not answer — 
 so that it was necessary for him to go away." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, " I remember now — ^I have read it. 
 Elsa did not trust him." 
 
 " No woman would." He made the assertion as though 
 it were a question. 
 
 "I hated her for being suspicious, but I suppose she 
 could not help asking. I suppose it would have been 
 dreadful to live on with that secret between them." She 
 was looking up at the dim shadowy gallery with thought- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 Harden leaned back without response; a look of weari- 
 ness came into his face. She saw that as she brought 
 her eyes and thoughts back to themselves, and she began 
 to color slowly, as though some idea were trickling 
 through her veins. 
 
 "Would you be afraid of a secret?" he asked seri- 
 ously and yet very impersonally. 
 
 "I never had any," she answered, trying to misun- 
 derstand him. 
 
 " If Alec Sloane had a secret, and you knew it when 
 you married him, would you become unhappy and " 
 
 Frederica leaned toward him with a look of ang'er in 
 her eyes. " Please don't ! " she said. " It — it sounds — " 
 
 97 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She paused, unable to find expression for her displeasure 
 that he should bring Alec so close to her even in con- 
 versation. He knew what she meant by the hesitant 
 words. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said. 
 
 The men of the orchestra were again taking their 
 seats, the audience strolled back to their places, and the 
 leader came in and raised his baton. Frederica did not 
 lose herself in the music at once. " Siegmund's Love 
 Song " pressed upon her. She was conscious now that she 
 was listening, and when it came to an end she did not 
 look toward Eugene Harden, nor did he speak to her. 
 
 There was only a moment's silence, and then the or- 
 chestra began to play the "Eide of the Valkyries." At 
 first the ascent was without excitement, but little by lit- 
 tle it grew more impetuous and carried her with it. 
 She felt herself moving, struggling, breathless, to get 
 higher and higher, and feeling that his hand was in 
 hers, that he, too, was being swept upward. She had 
 seen somewhere a picture of one of the Valkyrie riding 
 a white horse, leaping up toward the higher crags of the 
 mountain ; and she remembered that the war-woman car- 
 ried the body of a man killed in battle, holding him 
 lifeless before her. The picture was in her blood. She 
 felt herself strong and vital, astride a horse of Walhalla. 
 But the man was not dead that she carried; there was 
 hope for him if she could bring him to the very top, if 
 she could take one long deep breath instead of breathing 
 harder and harder, as though it were breath that was 
 motion. And it was only a war-woman, a Valkyrie, who 
 could bring a man into the home of the gods. From 
 the wild clamor of the music and her own feelings she 
 heard again the words, " a white horse and silver armor." 
 
 98 
 
THE CONCERT 
 
 The end came, and it was as thougli she had been 
 thrust back and down just before she had reached the 
 summit. Her nostrils were tense, and she did not relax, 
 even though she sat with her hands folded in her lap, 
 a most unusual attitude of quiescence for her. " Wotan's 
 Tarewell," and the " Eire-music " came to an end, too, and 
 there was another intermission. As the audience stirred 
 in its places and began to move about the aisles. Harden 
 rose. 
 
 "You must not stay longer," he said, bending over 
 Frederica. "If you are too long away from the real 
 world you will never go back to it." 
 
 She showed her surprise by not moving for a moment. 
 Then she said : " Tou are not going to stay ? " Sud- 
 denly she noticed that his hand, as it rested on the ledge 
 of the table was shaking, and that his face was white, 
 a strange dead white, made most noticeable by the black 
 of his hair and brows. " Tou are sick," she said, and rose 
 quickly. 
 
 " 'No." He smiled with lips that were white, too. " It 
 is of you I am thinking." 
 
 Frederica was not used to double meanings, so that 
 it was natural for her to take his words in the simplest 
 sense and believe that he did not think music good for 
 her. Tet she slipped into her jacket and picked up her 
 programme with eyes lowered. ^He must be feeling sick, 
 she thought, yet he was evidently the sort of man who 
 would not admit it. Suddenly came again the picture 
 of the Valkyrie carrying the man she had saved from 
 death. Frederica hurried toward the door and out into 
 the night air. When they reached the car they were 
 to take, she asked: "Do you feel better?" Her ques- 
 tion was timid. 
 
 99 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 His answer was not direct. " You must stay in a real 
 world. I will not take you to another concert." 
 
 All the way home they were perfectly sUent. Ered- 
 erica was not embarrassed; she felt that she was helping 
 him, and her body was tense as with an effort to lift a 
 burden. 
 
 A half hour later she was sitting before the mirror 
 of her home-made dressing table. The room was so small 
 that she had only room for this table, her cot, her book- 
 shelf, and two chairs. It opened off the kitchen and 
 had a window on the back porch. To-night the light had 
 been turned very low, and as Erederica had stepped over 
 the threshold it seemed a place from which she had been 
 gone a long time. She had turned up the light and 
 seated herself before the mirror to think. It was like 
 talking to a confidante to sit there looking into her own 
 eyes. Her thoughts began at the viaduct and were trav- 
 eling over their walk, the dinner, the concert, and her 
 home-coming, when some one stepped softly on the back 
 porch. 
 
 She was startled, held her breath, and was glad her 
 window shade was down. The steps approached her win- 
 dow, and she heard Maggie Flanagan's voice: "Miss 
 Ereda?" 
 
 Erederica pulled up the shade and found Maggie's 
 face over the sill. It was red and troubled, the curls on 
 her forehead were little damp rings. 
 
 " Miss Ereda, I've been waiting for you to come home. 
 You were out so late with him ! " 
 
 "Is anyone sick? " asked Ereda. 
 
 " No, no ! " said Maggie, reaching her hot hand through 
 the window and putting it on Ereda's arm. "Did he 
 make love to you ? " 
 
 100 
 
THE CONOEET 
 
 " Maggie ! " Erederiea looked at the face before her 
 in surprise. 
 
 " Don't you ever let him make love to you," said Mag- 
 gie quickly, "nor don't you stay out so late with him 
 again. Good night." She left the window. "I had to 
 see you," she said softly from the steps. 
 
 " Maggie, come back," called Erederiea ; but the girl 
 was already up the Flanagans' steps, and Erederiea could 
 hear the sound of Mrs. Flanagan's querulous scolding of 
 her. 
 
 Anne in her dressing gown opened the bedroom door. 
 "Did you call, Freda?" 
 
 Freda turned with a start from the window. "Yes," 
 she said. " I heard Maggie and I wanted to ask how her 
 mother was." 
 
 "Well, that might wait until morning," said Anne. 
 "Tou scared me." And she went back to bed. 
 
 Erederiea sat down again before her mirror and stared 
 at herself — she had lied! She had lied! And why? 
 
 And what did Maggie mean? 
 
 101 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW 
 
 XT was two weeks after that night that Frederica 
 met the woman from the Home of Unfortu- 
 nates. 
 " You have come to see about Maggie Flana- 
 gan?" she said. "Her father sent you." 
 
 " Yes, he is feeling very bad, and it is a disgrace to the 
 family. He wants her to be put where she can be 
 watched." 
 
 "I don't suppose you are to blame," said Frederica, 
 speaking fast. " You are paid to go out and do such 
 work; but I should think you could have seen what Mr. 
 Flanagan is. You ought to have taken him and locked 
 him up and watched him. I was almost glad when I heard 
 that Maggie had gone away." 
 
 The woman stared in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, I was," intensified Frederica. "If he feels dis- 
 graced he could have let her alone. But he goes to you 
 and cries and says he ' doesn't understand ' why this fell 
 on his family ! " 
 
 Frederica leaned forward and looked the head of the 
 Home of Unfortunates in the eye. 
 
 "You understand, don't you?" she said. "You know 
 that if you lived in a house of four rooms with such a 
 father, a sick mother, and seven children — dirty, fighting, 
 
 102 
 
AN IMPOETANT INTEEVIEW 
 
 crowding — and if you were young and pretty and wanted 
 to be clean — ^just clean — wanted a place to hang your 
 clothes, a white bed, something fit to eat, and a little 
 rest when you came home from standing behind a coun- 
 ter all day selling pins — you know you would go with 
 the first man that wanted to take you. You couldn't help 
 it. You couldn't!" 
 Frederica stopped for breath. 
 "But, MissHartwelll" 
 
 " Oh, I know," said Frederica. " I know what you 
 are going to say. 'Put her in a home and she will be 
 sorry.' But why should you put her where she must 
 think of the thing that her father says disgraced him 
 — ^keep her mind just on what happened as a result of 
 all that went before ? It is sinful to do that. Maggie is 
 not a bad girl. She worked hard, she gave all her money 
 to her mother. When she came home after work she 
 would try and wash up the house and the children, but 
 what was the use of it? It wasn't two weeks ago she 
 came here to me crying: 'There's going to be another,' 
 she said. Her life couldn't be so fearful anywhere as at 
 home — ^not anywhere. Why don't you make the father 
 feel ashamed ? Why don't you say to everyone you know 
 that it's his sin, and the landlord's sin, and the church's 
 sin, and the law's sin ? " 
 
 The head of the Home had become adamant. " That is 
 not my work," she said with affronted dignity. " If you 
 will not tell me where Maggie is I shall have to report 
 to her father that I can do nothing." 
 
 " That is the very best thing you can do," said Fred- 
 erica, and the woman left. 
 
 Frederica went back into the study, and there in the 
 dining-room door stood Eugene Harden. 
 
 103 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Were you in there ? " she asked, startled. 
 
 " You have Maggie here with you? " he asked. 
 
 " Upstairs," answered Frederica. " She came here — 
 afterwards." 
 
 Harden walked to the window without speaking. Then 
 he turned. " Where will your heart lead you I wonder — 
 and where will it lead some of us ? " 
 
 "I had to go to a dreadful place," said Frederica, 
 looking up at him. "If it hadn't been that you had 
 made me feel such things were not the real evils, I — I 
 couldn't have gone." 
 
 Harden started and spoke sharply. " Where did you 
 go ? " he asked. 
 
 Frederica colored slowly. She had not expected to 
 shock him. "Into one of those — houses on Bunker 
 Street. But they were very polite," she added hastily, 
 seeing the unexpected anger rising in his face. 
 
 " Why did you go ? " asked Harden. " Why did you not 
 send some one ? " 
 
 " I wanted to see Maggie myself and tell her that her 
 father was coming, and that she might as well go vdth 
 me instead of having a scene with him." 
 
 Harden was curious. "How did you know she was 
 there ? " he asked. 
 
 "I've had Mikey watch. He came running in yester- 
 day and then took me there." 
 
 " And who was the man ? " asked Eugene. 
 
 Frederica shut the door between the dining room and 
 study. " I don't know. She did not want to tell me, 
 and so I have not spoken about him since. She's going 
 to stay with Mrs. Schneider until to-morrow and then 
 I have a place for her to work — a long ways from here." 
 
 " Will she do as you wish ? " Harden was watching 
 104 
 
AN" IMPOETANT INTEEVIEW 
 
 the struggle between Frederica's inexperience and her in- 
 stinct. He could see that she felt she was proving her- 
 self a practical person by taking Maggie's destiny in 
 hand; and he was hoping that she would not have to 
 learn much of human nature in this episode which she 
 was veiling with her own delicacy. 
 
 "Maggie loves me and — she was only two days with — 
 away from home." 
 
 Two days! Ifot a long time in Frederiea's life, but 
 long enough for the other girl to leave one world and 
 enter another. He went back to what she had first said. 
 
 "You told me that something I have said made it 
 possible for you to do this. I didn't know that you ever 
 thought of what I said." 
 
 She had been standing while she talked, but now she 
 sat down on the couch, and he seated himself beside her. 
 
 "Do you think you could be coming here every day 
 and talk with my father and I wouldn't listen ? I think 
 you think that I am not capable of understanding, but I 
 understand you much better than he does. All the time 
 you are talking to him you know that he cannot do very 
 much. You do not believe that religion is going to help, 
 but you pretend to, because you want to encourage him, 
 and then " — she paused, looking at the floor a moment — 
 "you get a better chance to study Americans than you 
 would just to be with the workingmen." 
 
 There was some defiance in her last sentence, as though 
 she resented his studying her father. 
 
 " How else can I learn about Americans ? " he asked. 
 
 Frederica changed the subject herself this time. " We 
 are going to have a fine night for our meeting," she said, 
 looking out into the day of flying wind and ungentle 
 sunshine. 
 
 105 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Are you going ? " he asked. 
 
 " Of course ! Why, I have thought of nothing else for 
 days. All the women in this neighborhood are going." 
 
 The meeting to which she looked forward with so much 
 eagerness was being arranged in order to encourage the 
 lumber-yard men who had struck the week before for 
 an eight-hour day, a recognition of the union, and a 
 raise in wages. Harden had told Dr. Hartwell that he 
 had urged the strike for principle more than for direct 
 benefit. He had asked the clergyman to speak at the 
 meeting, too, and Erederica's interest had become a 
 double one. Her sympathies were naturally astir and 
 stimulated by her father's influence in behalf of human- 
 ity, and she wanted something to be done for their partic- 
 ular and familiar portion of it. She sat whole afternoons, 
 chin in hand, elbow on knee, listening to her father and 
 Harden discuss the principles and methods of industrial 
 democracy. 
 
 Little by little her father was coming to agree with 
 Harden that it might be better to change material con- 
 ditions before demanding that the individual soul be up- 
 right. Yet so far they had never agreed at that point in 
 the discussion where Dr. Hartwell would say: "But we 
 must teach these working people to respect the laws of 
 the land." 
 
 And Harden would always answer: "We must change 
 the laws so that they can be respected." 
 
 At this point, too, Erederica was likely to break in 
 and ask them how they were going to do either one thing 
 or the other. Dr. Hartwell would say, "By educating 
 them," and Harden, " By rousing their desire for change." 
 
 Before the truth had been thrashed out to the satis- 
 faction of the older man, this strike had been called, and 
 
 106 
 
AN IMPOETANT INTEEVIEW 
 
 Harden had gotten Dr. Hartwell interested in it to such 
 an extent that he had promised to speak at this first 
 meeting. Harden had not asked him what he would say. 
 It was enough that Sloane's friend and salaried mis- 
 sionary should speak from the platform in hehaK of the 
 strike, and as the doctor had admitted that the strike 
 was justified, he could he expected to advise the men to 
 hold out for their rights, even though he might clothe 
 his advice in scriptural language. 
 
 Eugene was waiting for him to come in that he might 
 inform him of the new facts of the situation; that the 
 whole two thousand men had "come out," and that 
 Sloane was going to try to get non-union men into the 
 yards, but had given his old employees twenty-four hours 
 in which to return before beginning hostilities. Finally, 
 Harden left this information with Prederica and went 
 back to the union headquarters. 
 
 She went to the window to watch him go down the 
 street. It seemed very wonderful to her that he should 
 be so interested in the problems of these men. He had 
 not been here three months, and yet he knew more of 
 the men at Sloane's by name than her own father did. 
 Frederics was not impressed by the fact that it was un- 
 usual for a man of his type to be concerning himself at 
 all with industrial questions. But neither Frederica nor 
 her father had ever thought of that, nor expressed any 
 curiosity as to his former life. 
 
 Anne was the only one who had not yielded to his 
 claim for friendship and cooperation. She was uneasy 
 because he seemed out of place down there; and fancied 
 he might be an adventurer. She was unconsciously jeal- 
 ous, too, because he took so much of Dr. Hartwell's time, 
 and took him away from home so much. But she framed 
 8 107 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 her jealousy in words of disinterested caution. "I 
 know," said she, "you never make inquiries about any- 
 one." 
 
 The doctor was sometimes annoyed at Anne's worldli- 
 ness and conventional suspicions. "It is my religion — 
 a part of my religion — ^that every man has good in him. 
 I think, Anne, that we are the ones who are influencing 
 Mr. Harden." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Anne. "He is teaching all his the- 
 ories to you and Freda. It may not hurt you, but she is 
 a child in so many things. He is a — ^fascinating man. 
 He lends you books, she reads them. Why, she talks 
 familiarly of the human race and economic this and in- 
 dustrial that. I should not be surprised if she went on 
 the lecture platform." 
 
 But the doctor refused to grow worried, and Anne 
 could find no excuse to bring up the subject again. 
 
 As Prederica was leaving the window she caught sight 
 of a young man who was looking for the house numbers. 
 He came up their steps and she went to the door. 
 
 " Does Dr. Hartwell live here ? " he asked. 
 
 "Tes, but he is not at home." 
 
 "Perhaps you can tell me what I want to know," he 
 said after a moment's hesitation, 
 
 Frederica invited him into the study. She was always 
 hospitable, even to book agents. 
 
 "I am from the Herald," he said, "and I was sent 
 here to find out about to-night's meeting. I understand 
 Dr. Hartwell is to speak to the strikers." 
 
 " Tes ? " said Frederica, and waited for him to go on. 
 
 " He is friendly to the strikers ? " asked the reporter. 
 
 " Oh, very," she answered. " They are friends of ours." 
 
 " And he believes in the eight-hour day ? " 
 108 
 
AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW 
 
 Erederica's first opportunity to spread her new gospel 
 had" arrived. 
 
 " Why, don't you know,'' she said, " that if there were 
 an eight-hour day all over the country there would he 
 just as much work done as there is now? The men 
 would be fresher and stronger and the spirit of industry 
 would be greater. Besides, it would be just and fair and 
 more truly democratic." 
 
 " Are you Dr. HartweU's daughter ? " asked the re- 
 porter; his eyes showed admiration of her enthusiasm. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 Evidently he had not cared for her views on the eight- 
 hour day. jHis next question, however, started her off 
 again. " What does your father think about unions 
 going into politics and having a party of their own ? " 
 
 " Oh,'' said Erederica, " the advantage of this coun- 
 try is that everything can be improved through politics 
 — ^by the ballot. And of course if the workingmen want 
 to improve their conditions they will have to have a 
 party of their own, because the other two parties never 
 put anything into their platform about hours or wages 
 or the ownership of the tools of production." J 
 
 The reporter looked around the room. '''Have you lived 
 here long ? " he asked. 
 
 " Ten years. It is the most interesting part of Chi- 
 cago. It is the very heart of it. I wish you could meet 
 some of the people who live around here." 
 
 " Do you know the walking delegate. Harden, that has 
 made all the trouble for Sloane ? " 
 
 Erederica sat up in surprise. " Walking delegate ? 
 Why, he isn't a walking delegate ! " 
 
 " What is he, then? He called this strike." 
 
 "He's — he's — " Erederica did not know how to char- 
 109 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 acterize him. "He's just a friend of the men; just in- 
 terested in justice." 
 
 " What for? " asked the reporter. " Where did he come 
 from?" 
 
 " From Austria, from Vienna," she replied. 
 
 "What did he do over there?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He didn't like their laws, I thi-nk." 
 
 "Doesn't seem to like ours either. Is he a working- 
 man?" 
 
 " No, indeed," said Erederica. Then she brightened in 
 the possession of an explanation. " He is studying Amer- 
 ican industries and conditions." 
 
 " Well, why did he call the strike — or get some one 
 else to call it ? Sloane is one of the fairest employers in 
 the city." 
 
 " That's just it," she said. " The men think he will 
 give in and that will affect the other employers." 
 
 The reporter rose. " Tour father is sure to speak to- 
 night at that meeting ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," she said, and opened the door for him. 
 
 It was Erederica's first interview with a newspaper 
 man, and she had no idea of the importance of his ques- 
 tions. Just as he reached the lower step he turned. 
 " Mr. Sloane built that chapel for your father, didn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, and he went down the street. 
 
 110 
 
CHAPTEE XI 
 
 AFTER THE MEETING 
 
 ^-p-^HEN" Frederica entered the hall she looked first 
 ^ I ^ of all to the stage. There sat her father and 
 \ I M Harden with a number of other speakers. They 
 were almost as much hidden behind the thick 
 curtain of tobacco smoke which rose from the main floor 
 of the house as they were behind the fog of public opin- 
 ion rising all over the city. She went up to the gallery 
 where most of the women were sitting, and from there 
 the crowd of men who had come to listen was a confused 
 mass of black and pink, neutralized and blurred by the 
 smoke. The pink faces bobbed and turned in rising ex- 
 citement. Waiters carrying four glasses of beer in each 
 hand hurried among the tables at the back. Frederica 
 knew that her father would have been pained had he seen 
 the beer-drinking, and she was glad that he was near- 
 sighted. As for her, beer had subsided into the moral 
 background and was not so important a factor in the 
 problem of evil as it had been. 
 
 Anne was feeling greater excitement than Frederica, 
 for she had combated the idea of Dr. Hartwell's speaking 
 at this meeting. She had told him that she thought he 
 ought not to speak out of his pulpit, nor out of his 
 usual religious line of subjects. Having come, however, 
 she preferred to sit down in front of the stage; but the 
 
 111 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 number of men who were crowded there had changed her 
 mind. Both Anne and Frederica were kept bowing and 
 speaking to the people who came into the hall. The door 
 was almost directly under the gallery, and as the men 
 came in they were likely to pause to locate up there 
 some woman member of their family or some woman 
 friend. Those who knew the two women of the Hartwell 
 household were the husbands and fathers of Dr. Hart- 
 well's congregation. 
 
 " They speak to us rather condescendingly," said 
 Anne. 
 
 " We need it," answered Frederica. " We have chosen 
 to sit above them and look down at them." 
 
 Anne was annoyed. Freda's democracy was getting far 
 too personal. But she had no chance to show her an- 
 noyance, for at that moment Alec Sloane came up and 
 took the empty chair next her. Mrs. Scanlan and the 
 boy were coming into the gallery from the other side, 
 and Freda was so engrossed in watching them that she 
 did not see Alec. Mrs. Scanlan came and sat next to her 
 and began at once to point out the men of labor promi- 
 nence on the floor below. 
 
 " Scanlan's a great one for knowing everybody," she 
 explained. " Committee's been meetin' at our house. 
 Scanlan says the Mothers ought to join in and fight for 
 the men. He was for goin' himself to-day to talk to 'em. 
 Was it a good meetin' ? " 
 
 Frederica told her of the meeting. " The Mothers are 
 all here to-night, I think," she said, looking around. Her 
 glance fell upon Alec Sloane. He leaned forward in 
 front of Anne. 
 
 "I thought it might be disagreeable for you to be 
 in this crowd without a man," he said. 
 
 112 
 
AFTEE THE MEETING 
 
 " We have many friends in it,'' said Frederica. " Be- 
 sides, they are not wild animals." 
 
 Fortunately a German Sing-Verein came forward on 
 the platform for their first number on the programme. 
 Everyone — except the waiters — settled back into attitudes 
 of attention. The singing society was encored and the 
 hall resounded with the "Marseillaise." Voices from 
 every side joined in, and at the close the applause was 
 tremendous. 
 
 Alec leaned over to take up the conversation with Fred- 
 erica. " They sing like wild beasts, anyway." 
 
 Frederica, whose heart had been stirred by the song 
 and by the response of the men to its martial call, was 
 offended by his flippant criticism and simply looked at 
 him. 
 
 Anne laughed. " Freda is treading on clouds to-night," 
 she said. " You'd better be careful." 
 
 The first speaker of the evening was the walking dele- 
 gate of the lumber workers' union, a little wiry man with 
 a thin voice. He gave an outline of the difficulty facing 
 the union, and spoke without fire or vigor. The other 
 speakers would deal with the justice or the injustice 
 of the lumber workers, he said. 
 
 When he sat down Alec looked at Anne. " Noble son 
 of toil, isn't he? Makes his living by the use of his 
 tongue." 
 
 Frederica edged over toward Mrs. Scanlan. The meet- 
 ing was to be spoiled for her by the joking criticism of 
 Alec. She had come with such a sense of its serious 
 meaning, and already a mocking listener had disturbed 
 her. She was afraid, too, that others near them would 
 hear him and think that she and Anne were in the same 
 attitude of raillery. 
 
 113 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan was in a very talkative mood and en- 
 joyed the interruptions more than she did the speaking. 
 She always came to Erederica for the neighborhood news, 
 and to-night she thought that the girl might have some 
 for her about Maggie. 
 
 " It's a terrible thing," she said. " Flanagan was tell- 
 in' my husband. He cried when he talked about it. He 
 said he thought he knew who the man was, but that 
 Maggie swore on the Bible it wasn't that one, and she 
 wouldn't tell him who it was. I told Scanlan I bet it 
 was one o' the men at the store. Maggie is awful 
 pretty." 
 
 Erederica pressed her lips together. She resented this 
 gossip. She made absolutely no reply, and Mrs. Scanlan 
 was encouraged by the silence to a repetition. 
 
 " Elanagan's had good luck," she said. " The new 
 foreman at Sloane's has made him night watchman. He 
 gets extra money now for bein' on that beat around the 
 lumber yards. That's the way he happened to stop in at 
 our house, bein' as we're right across from the yards." 
 
 Erederica said she was glad. " Mr. Elanagan is a kind 
 man to his family," she said, " and they have an awfully 
 hard time to get along." 
 
 A more flamboyant speaker followed the walking dele- 
 gate. He called to the men to make the union a great 
 success by winning this strike for the eight-hour day. 
 " Don't wait for the rest to begin to fight next May," he 
 said, " but be the first to get a human work day for the 
 human being." Whenever he came out with some Tinion 
 principle he paused and the crowd broke into applause. 
 
 "He ain't much good," whispered Mrs. Scanlan, "but 
 he's way up in the Knights o' Labor and they has to put 
 him on the programme. Scanlan's workin' to get another 
 
 114 
 
AFTER THE MEETING 
 
 man for his place. There's politics in these things, 
 more'n you'd think, to hear 'em all talkin' from the same 
 platform.'' 
 
 Alec had turned in his seat so that he could watch Fred- 
 erica. He seemed to have forgotten the speaker, and to 
 be thinking deeply. His gaze was even harder to bear 
 than his conversation. She was doubly glad when her 
 father rose to talk. She heard Anne breathe deeply, and 
 was surprised that she should be so much excited. But 
 a glance at Anne's face revealed the reason for it. For 
 the first time Frederica realized the romance that had 
 been going on so close to her. There was no mistaking 
 the light in Anne's eyes and the quiver of her lips. Fred- 
 erica was glad that Alec was looking at her and so was 
 not likely to share the discovery. She sat apparently lis- 
 tening to her father's opening remarks; but in reality 
 she did not hear a word. She was fighting her first jeal- 
 ousy. Anne loved her father! 
 
 She tried to think whether she had any reason to be- 
 lieve that her father loved Anne. In her mind she re- 
 newed all the small episodes of their life. The most im- 
 portant was Anne's eagerness for her to marry Alec. So 
 that was the reason the marriage was desirable? And 
 her father's approval of Anne's eagerness. He probably 
 wished her out of his home, too — yet, jealous as she was, 
 she could not bring herself to believe that. But she began 
 to feel the strongest antagonism against the woman sit- 
 ting next to her. What right had Anne to come into their 
 home and win her father's love? Tet, had she won his 
 love? The confusion of emotion and facts stranded her, 
 and she was forced to come back to her surroundings. 
 There stood her father talking to a big audience of work- 
 ingmen; and he had done it in spite of Anne's protests. 
 
 115 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 That was some comfort. The thought followed, too, that 
 he was there because of Eugene Harden's influence. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was warming to his subject. He was tell- 
 ing the story of Gideon, telling with great earnestness 
 and without theology how that champion of the Israelites 
 had made use of noise to win a victory. " The camp of 
 the Midianites was in darkness as great as the darkness 
 which prevails over the camps of Capitalism to-day." 
 
 Alec leaned in front of Anne to catch Frederica's at- 
 tention. "I didn't expect to hear your father talking 
 like that," he said. 
 
 Frederica made a sign for him to be still. " I did," she 
 whispered shortly. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell approached his conclusion. All the way 
 through his address he had been interrupted by bursts of 
 applause. The audience, suspicious at first, had become 
 trustful. Now quite without warning the clergyman 
 adopted the pulpit maimer and appealed to them to heed 
 his advice. He had perfect attention. 
 
 "I want you to show a Christian spirit," he said — 
 " the spirit of meekness and lowliness. I want you to set 
 an example not only to your fellows who are watching 
 you so closely, but to the whole world. I want you to 
 arbitrate this strike. Arbitration is the noble, the peace- 
 able, the grand way of settling your difficulties. I call 
 upon you in the name of God to make use of the oppor- 
 tunity which has come to you and prove yourselves Chris- 
 tians. Arbitrate ! " 
 
 When he sat down the applause was very weak. All the 
 enthusiasm which he had stirred was chilled by his re- 
 turn to the religious phraseology, and to the unpopular 
 tenet of arbitration. 
 
 Erederica's heart sank. It was as though her father 
 116 
 
AFTEE THE MEETING 
 
 had blown out his light, hidden his trumpet, and care- 
 fully set the pitcher where it could not break. She knew 
 that there would be no confusion in the camp of the 
 enemy as a result of his address. In the midst of her 
 embarrassment that the applause was so weak, Alec spoke 
 again. 
 
 "Your father's all right," he said. "He gives them 
 the sort of thing they like up to a certain point, and then 
 he lets them have a bit of good advice." 
 
 Alec seemed to expect her to join in this praise, but 
 she looked at him without any approval in her face. Anne 
 had relaxed and was leaning back. Erederica thought 
 that probably she was relieved as Alec was about her 
 father's conclusion. She wished she was not sitting any- 
 where near them, and she turned to Mrs. Scanlan. 
 
 " I suppose your husband doesn't want arbitration, does 
 he?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan was embarrassed in her answer. "If 
 your father'd ever been a union man he'd see it ain't 
 no good to arbitrate, at least not until they've got the 
 bosses in a comer. But your father talks interestin'. It's 
 the first time I've heard him, as I can't go to hear him 
 Sundays." 
 
 The Sing-Verein was lifting the roof with another song, 
 and conversation was impossible. Frederica watched the 
 waiters, whose hands were still full of beer glasses. Men 
 were standing in groups about the sides of the hall; the 
 smoke was thicker than ever. She saw Eugene Harden 
 talking to the man next him on the platform, and she 
 wondered whether he was disappointed in her father's 
 address to the wage laborers. 
 
 When the song was at its lusty end the chairman rose 
 to introduce the next speaker. Frederica knew that Alec 
 
 117 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 was watching her, so she tried to look indifferent. But 
 when Harden rose, she felt the color come into her face 
 in spite of the determination to hide her interest. 
 
 He looked taller and broader-shouldered standing there 
 than he ever had in her father's study. He was the most 
 distinguished-looking man she had ever seen, and in this 
 gathering of toilers he looked of another sphere. She 
 wondered if the audience felt his distinctness from them 
 as he let his glance range through the rows of men before 
 him. His look reached the gallery and she wished that 
 he could see her through the smoke. It was this moment 
 of pause before he began to speak that gave him his first 
 hold upon the audience, which grew very quiet waiting 
 for his first words. Frederica held her breath. 
 
 Harden spoke very simply and with a realization of 
 his audience's multiple characteristics, coming as these 
 men did from all over Europe. He spoke to them as 
 though they were Americans and he a stranger visiting 
 them. He told them that he had believed in the Ameri- 
 can principles, in the Declaration of Independence, \mtil 
 he had arrived in this country. But that now he began 
 to doubt the strength of the American feeling. He voiced 
 for them any bitterness which they might be feeling, and 
 expressed more fully than they could possibly have done 
 the disillusionment of the European who had come with 
 dreams to the land of promise. 
 
 But when he had expressed all that, he turned to them 
 as to American citizens, and called upon them to win 
 back the truth of these principles of democracy and jus- 
 tice. In so speaking he allowed them no loophole of 
 escape from their responsibilities, and for that reason 
 his talk had more patriotism in it than any native-bom 
 American could have expressed. There would be direct 
 
 118 
 
AFTER THE MEETING 
 
 results from what he said because he crystallized their 
 half-wavering thoughts into clear and definite purpose. 
 His manner of speech was slow and easy, as though he 
 was thinking as he went along, and as though they al- 
 ready knew what he was saying and he was only repeat- 
 ing these words to them that they might freshen their 
 memories. He was interrupted many times by applause, 
 but it spoke well for the spirit of hope and optimism 
 that the applause was greater when he called upon them 
 to stand for justice and democracy than it was in the 
 first part of his talk, when he was expressing his doubt of 
 Americans' sincerity. 
 
 The applause lasted so long that the men of the Sing- 
 Verein seemed only to be making mouths as they stood 
 there. Little by little, however, their voices rose above 
 the clapping of hands and Frederica heard with amaze- 
 ment that they were singing "My country 'tis of thee." 
 
 "By Jove," said Alec to Anne, "he must have told 
 them to do that. He's a wizard ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, rising, "there's something very 
 strange about him." 
 
 Frederica heard her, but she could not trust herself 
 to speak. She followed Anne and Alec without knowing 
 where she was. The sound of Harden's voice was in her 
 ears. The power he had held over the audience had 
 been for her the final draught of his personality, and it 
 had intoxicated her. The magnetic vitality which had 
 encompassed the several hundred listeners had embraced 
 her and drawn her so close to him as he stood there that 
 she could almost feel the touch of his hand on hers. She 
 kept her eyes on the floor as she passed along the gallery 
 and down the stairs. She did not want to look into any- 
 one's face until she looked into his. 
 
 119 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Outside the door her father was waiting for them. 
 " Harden is detained," he said. 
 
 And the moment of Frederica's abandonment to joy 
 was over, for she was not to see him to-night — and to- 
 morrow ? The word " to-morrow " in her thoughts made 
 a cold shiver run through her. She was afraid of to-mor- 
 row. What did it hold? What might it take from her 
 or give to her? 
 
 Anne and her father went on ahead and that left her 
 to walk with Alec. They did not talk while they were 
 in the crowd of people leaving the hall, but when they had 
 left Halsted Street Alec came closer to her and said: 
 " Let the others go on a little, I want to talk to you." 
 
 Frederica, instead of doing as he wished, hurried her 
 steps so as not to be out of earshot of her father and 
 Anne. 
 
 " I am very tired," she said, " and I must go home 
 quickly." 
 
 Alec put his hand on her arm and pulled her in spite 
 of herself into a slower gait. 
 
 " I know you're tired," he said. " Tou don't look well, 
 and I've made up my mind to take you out of this alto- 
 gether. We can do just as much good if we live out of 
 town, and you won't be so thin and white." 
 
 Erederica did not know what to say. He had not made 
 the sort of a proposal she would have expected. He had 
 not said anything about love or marriage, but had spoken 
 as though it were all settled, and the only point to be 
 discussed was whether or not she would live out of town. 
 
 "I've spoken to your father and Miss Forester, and 
 they want you — to be sensible." 
 
 He was putting his suit in this impersonal way be- 
 cause he was afraid of seeming sentimental to her; and 
 
 120 
 
"AFTEE THE MEETIN-Q 
 
 she was indignant at the mention of her father and Anne. 
 It was like a conspiracy. 
 
 " I hate Anne Forester I " she said unexpectedly both 
 to herself and to him. " I hate her because she wants to 
 get rid of me and marry my father ! " 
 
 Alec stopped short on the street crossing where they 
 were. " She does ? " he ejaculated. " I didn't know that ! " 
 After a pause he added: "Well, why not? She practi- 
 cally takes care of both of you now. So Miss Anne's in 
 love ! " He laughed under his breath. 
 
 Although Frederica saw that she had for the moment 
 at least changed the subject of his thoughts, she was 
 sorry she had spoken. " Don't please ever let anyone 
 know I said that ! " she appealed frankly to Alec. " I 
 ought not to have said it — ^I — I may be mistaken." 
 
 " I think you're right, though," replied Alec. " And I 
 like the idea. Your father's not old, and she's just the 
 one for him — and she's got money." 
 
 It was Frederica who stopped now in surprise. " Alec 
 Sloane!" 
 
 He guessed her criticism. "Not that your father 
 would ever think of that, but it will help — ^his work. And 
 my money will help your work." 
 
 They were within a few blocks of her home now, and 
 Alec turned to her with decision. " When will you marry 
 me, Freda ? " His voice trembled and his forehead was 
 moist with the knowledge that he had put it squarely, 
 and that she would have to answer squarely. 
 
 She did. "Never, Alec," she said. 
 
 They walked on in silence. She heard some one walk^ 
 ing behind them, and she was glad because it would keep 
 Alec from saying anything more. But she was mistaken, 
 for he paid no attention to the fact that there might be 
 
 121 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 a listener. He forgot, too, his reticence and any fear 
 of seeming sentimental. 
 
 " I have always thought you would marry me,'' he said. 
 " It isn't fair, Freda ; for I've never looked at any other 
 girl, and I've been planning ever since I began to think 
 about such things to have you for my wife. Tou knew 
 that — and you let me come to your house with my mind 
 set on it. If you had ever gone out with other fellows, or 
 — flirted, why, I would have felt differently. But you 
 haven't." 
 
 His words came fast and rather loud. Her father and 
 Anne were ahead and just going up the steps of the house. 
 Frederica felt she had to say something. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said, "but I can't help it. I didn't 
 really think about marrying.'' 
 
 " It's that damned Austrian ! " said Alec. 
 
 Frederica turned on him, but her words stayed on her 
 lips. Harden himself was there — it was he who had been 
 behind them. 
 
 " I want to give these papers to your father," he said, 
 ignoring Sloane, and going up the steps. 
 
 " Good night," said Frederica to Alec, and went into 
 the house, and straight to her room. She had no wish 
 to see Eugene that night — nor ever, she thought. She 
 undressed with the gas turned very low, for she did not 
 want to catch any glimpse of herself in the mirror. 
 
 As she put out the light and pulled up the shade at 
 the window, she saw the Flanagans' house dark and quiet, 
 and that made her think of Maggie upstairs with Mrs. 
 Schneider. 
 
 122 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 HEE PATHEE's decision 
 
 HREDEEICA could not go to sleep, but lay 
 straight and motionless in her narrow bed. 
 There had been more horror in the mystery of 
 
 Maggie's behavior than she had realized until 
 the night came on. That morning when she had met 
 the world-old problem as it asserted itself in the shame- 
 faced little Irish friend trembling in a strange room in a 
 house worse than strange, Frederica had asked herself 
 and asked again what it was that terrified her. Then 
 when the joy of the evening had swept through her as she 
 sat in the hall, she had felt that she was approaching a 
 knowledge of sex which was, after all, to be beautiful, 
 and was to reveal her terror simply as ignorance. But 
 when Alee had tried to make her marriage to him seem 
 as a matter of course, she had swung to the far end of 
 dismay again. To cap it all was the mortification of 
 Eugene's having heard Alec's jealousy. Every girl is a 
 nun in cloister until she has some decision to make. If 
 there be no decision, no problem which requires solution, 
 then she may drift into the inner sanctuary of love be- 
 fore she knows whether or not it is a place to be dreaded. 
 If Eugene Harden had not come, Frederica would prob- 
 ably have drifted into marriage with Alec, taking it for 
 granted that her acquiescence and lack of repulsion be- 
 
 9 123 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 tokened the marriage as right and natural. But at the 
 very first touch of Harden's hand upon hers she had 
 begun to awaken. She did not know that her trembling 
 pleasure in his presence was her body's song of love. It 
 had needed this day's experience to prove to her that she 
 was quivering with the wish to love him. 
 
 There in the dark she lay, her head quiet upon the 
 pillow, but with thoughts in it which were going round 
 and round; her little hands with burning palms pressed 
 against the bed; and her heart beating irregularly as she 
 thought now of this and now of that episode of the day. 
 Could she ever face Eugene again, or look at Alec ? And 
 how could she be of service to Maggie now ? 
 
 Physical birth, the first inevitable fact of human ex- 
 istence, is attended with anxiety and care; but the birth 
 of the individual, at the time when he becomes self- 
 conscious as a man or a woman, is ignored, disregarded, 
 left to silence. The boy struggling in his own mind with 
 the problem of passion, the girl with closed eyes before 
 the facts of sex, fearing, hoping, tremulous — these are 
 left to themselves. Herod's slaughter of the innocents 
 was not so great a crime as that of those who leave chil- 
 dren in the dark and let them struggle alone through a 
 second birth. And many are bom dead. 
 
 Prederica lay wakeful in the very dawn of experience. 
 Love? There was Maggie and the unknown lover; she 
 felt fear before that idea of love. There was Alec offer- 
 ing wealth and marriage ; she felt repelled at the thought, 
 even though she did not go in imagination as far as the 
 touch of his hand. There was Anne and her father; 
 she was embarrassed, blushed all over her body at the 
 mere thought of her father as a lover. And there was 
 what she felt for Eugene Harden — a great eagerness to 
 
 124 
 
HER FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 be in the room witt him, to hear him talk — she could not 
 analyze what she felt nor put it into words to herself, 
 nor did she for a moment think of him as having any 
 feeling for her, nor any interest even. Had he been a 
 creature of her imagination solely, he could not have been 
 more absolutely unresponsive to her in her own mind. 
 
 So many thoughts and feelings pressed upon her as she 
 lay there that finally there was a reaction. Perhaps to- 
 morrow she would find she had been dreaming. Perhaps 
 Maggie would greet her laughingly from the Flanagans' 
 steps ; perhaps Alec would be just as usual, and perhaps — 
 She fell asleep, but so lightly that she did not believe she 
 had slept at all. 
 
 When she wakened the day was beginning. She tried 
 to foresee what would happen. What way was there to 
 meet Mr. Harden? Shoxdd she apologize? That was im- 
 possible. Was she master of herself enough to ignore 
 what Alec had said? She must try to do that. She pic- 
 tured him coming into the room. For one thing she would 
 not be in the room when he came, but come in after 
 the conversation was well begun. 
 
 That thought in the dark led to another : probably Mr. 
 Harden would be disappointed in the way her father had 
 spoken, and would not care to come over to see him. 
 Frederica found herself frightened at that. Suppose she 
 were never to see him again! She sat up in bed and 
 reached out her arms in the dark. " Eugene ! Eugene ! " 
 she said aloud. It was the first time she had ever used 
 his name even to herself. She had talked to him in her 
 thoughts as "Mr." Harden. 
 
 Well, and if Alec came? She decided she would rush 
 out of the house if he came. There was nothing more 
 to be said or done as far as he was concerned. He would 
 
 125 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 go to her father and to Anne for their aid in his suit. 
 Then with the thought of Maggie and her intention to go 
 with her to Mrs. Parrish, who had telephoned the day 
 before that she wanted a young girl to train in house- 
 work, Erederica got up. 
 
 It was a dark day, and at half-past six she had to light 
 the gas to see to get dressed. With the first flicker of it 
 the room looked to her as it had the night before, and 
 she sat down on the edge of the bed shivering. Her lit- 
 tle white and blue room had become hatefully strange 
 to her, and she did not know why. 
 
 She dressed quickly and went into the kitchen, which 
 had the cold gray look a kitchen always has when you 
 enter it at an unexpectedly early hour. The oldest 
 Schneider boy had not come yet to make the fire, so she 
 made it herself, rather glad to touch kindling and rattle 
 coal. When it was roaring she began to make muffins for 
 breakfast, but suddenly remembered that it would be an 
 hour before anyone was ready to eat them. She went 
 into the study and dusted it more thoroughly than usual ; 
 arranged the room with the idea of Harden's coming into 
 it. The familiar books and pictures and furniture looked 
 exceedingly time-worn this morning; they were almost 
 gloomy. When her eye fell upon the photograph of her 
 mother she gave a sort of sob. 
 
 It was only seven o'clock, and there was nothing more 
 to do that could be done then, so she went to the front 
 door and took in the morning paper and went back to 
 the kitchen to read it. Now that the kitchen had in it the 
 sounds of a teakettle boiling, Erederica found it more 
 cheerful and sat down in a chair by the window. 
 
 Almost the first thing her eyes fell on was the headline : 
 " Well-known Clergyman Comes Out for Socialism." The 
 
 126 
 
HER FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 column underneath the heading held an account of the 
 meeting. One paragraph was given to the effect of So- 
 cialist propaganda upon the strikers in Sloane's lumber 
 yards. Another paragraph was devoted to the growth of 
 the propaganda in the Knights of Labor. Then followed 
 what purported to be a report of Dr. Hartwell's speech, 
 in which he was quoted as saying that there could be no 
 truce between Capital and Labor, no compromise, and as 
 for arbitration — that belonged to the past. He was 
 quoted as concluding his remarks by saying that he would 
 stand by the workingmen in this strike, as in all others, 
 until they had achieved their rights. No mention, except 
 a passing one, was made of the other speakers. Frederica's 
 astonishment melted into relief. After all, her father 
 was credited with the stand she had wanted him to take. 
 She hoped Harden would read the paper and realize, as 
 she did, that people in general would be impressed with 
 her father's position. 
 
 Although far from cheerful, she began the mufSns with 
 a lighter heart. And when Anne came into the kitchen 
 breakfast was almost ready, a most unusual occurrence; 
 and Frederica was moving about in a serious, distant way 
 which was without explanation, until Anne remembered 
 the girl's experiences the day before with Maggie. She 
 spoke of that. 
 
 " I wish I had known, Freda, what you intended doing 
 yesterday. I should have gone for Maggie myself. It 
 has almost made you sick. Tou look like a ghost." 
 
 Frederica made no response, except that she was glad 
 she had not told her. " Maggie felt better with me, I 
 think," she said. And they made no other reference to 
 the girl. 
 
 At breakfast Dr. Hartwell took up his paper, which 
 127 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 lay folded as usual by his plate. It was his one mas- 
 culine prerogative, to read undisturbed while he drank his 
 coffee and ate his oatmeal. Frederica watched him closely 
 as he began to read. For some reason she had not spoken 
 of the article confronting him. She saw him start with 
 surprise and then read hurriedly. When he looked up — 
 not at her, but at Anne — she saw that he was white with 
 anger. Never before had she seen him angry. And now 
 he was showing anger over what had pleased her. It 
 would have been natural for him to be annoyed, but to 
 hear his voice tremble when he first spoke. 
 
 " Do you suppose that was done maliciously ? " he asked, 
 giving the paper to Anne. 
 
 Frederica felt hurt to be left so completely out of the 
 question, but it was too serious a matter to pretend ig- 
 norance of. " There's nothing malicious about it, father," 
 she said. 
 
 "You've read it?" he asked quickly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did you know it was to appear ? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 "Harden was urging me yesterday to come out defi- 
 nitely on his side — to make use of the opportunity to take 
 a stand for his principles." 
 
 " But you told him you wouldn't ? " said Anne. 
 
 "No." Dr. Hartwell was trying to recall his exact 
 words. " I told him he could rely on me to say the right 
 thing." 
 
 " Then, he probably did give this as what you would 
 say, for there is only one 'right' to him," said Anne 
 aggressively. She was growing more indignant as she 
 realized that this was just what she would have pre- 
 dicted. 
 
 128 
 
HEE FATHEE'S DECISION 
 
 "It would have been a lie. He could not have done 
 that," said Frederica. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was rereading the article, but he looked 
 up at Frederica. " You have heard him say that in war 
 the lie was one of the weapons." 
 
 " But he never said he would use it." 
 
 With a queer look Anne was stirring her coffee. "I 
 noticed when he was here after the meeting that he 
 seemed quite unlike himself — I mean unlike the person 
 he has always pretended to be." 
 
 Frederica shrank against her chair. She was quite sure 
 she knew the reason for his appearance, but of course she 
 could say nothing about that. Anne and her father were 
 discussing the article, paragraph by paragraph, compar- 
 ing it with what the doctor had actually said. Frederica 
 could eat no breakfast ; the muffins had not been touched 
 by any of them. She began to clear the table with a 
 certain aloofness from the two. She did not know that 
 her father, realizing how much she believed in Harden, 
 felt for the first time antagonism in her attitude, and 
 turned instinctively to Anne, who had warned him this 
 long time not to take up any of the industrial questions. 
 Once, as she came in from the kitchen, she heard her 
 father say: 
 
 "What makes me most annoyed is that I saw Sloane 
 yesterday afternoon and had actually persuaded him to 
 arbitrate, had worked him up to that point, so that 
 he said as I left that if by speaking to the men at 
 the meeting on the subject, I succeeded in getting 
 them, I could count on him. Now — of course when he 
 sees this he will think — ^well, I don't know what he'll 
 think." 
 
 Frederica put her hands on the table and leaned 
 129 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 against it. " I think, father, that he is too good a friend 
 to suspect you of lying — as you are suspecting Mr. 
 Harden." 
 
 The repression in her voice and the white of her face 
 startled Anne, who suddenly felt they were making too 
 much of the whole affair. 
 
 " You can explain it easily enough," she said. " Mr. 
 Sloans has known you so long." 
 
 Frederica looked across at her father. " Of course that 
 is what you ought to have said." She pointed to the 
 paper. 
 
 "My child, I am afraid Mr. Harden has been influ- 
 encing you too decidedly," said her father. " You ought 
 to use your judgment — consider both sides of every 
 question." 
 
 Frederica did not feel equal to a discussion, so she 
 withdrew to the kitchen, leaving Anne to give any com- 
 fort her father needed. Under all her dismay and disap- 
 pointment was the sense that it was wicked for her to 
 criticise her father in any respect. She had believed in 
 him so absolutely until now. She could not bring herself 
 to admit that it was an outsider's influence that had come 
 between them. Until last night at the meeting she had 
 believed that her father and she were accepting in the 
 same spirit the doctrines Harden had preached to them 
 in the doctor's study. When the dishes were washed, she 
 took the glasses and silver into the dining room. They 
 still sat there, and Dr. Hartwell was saying: 
 
 " Anne, you must remember that I have promised him 
 the use of the chapel to-night." 
 
 " Under the circumstances," said Anne, " he cannot ex- 
 pect you to overlook this thing. You are justified in 
 telling him that he cannot make use of your position and 
 
 130 
 
HER FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 influence. I should send word to him at once that he 
 cannot have it. He needs the rebuke." 
 
 Erederica waited motionless to see if Anne's advice 
 was to be followed. The doctor meditated. 
 
 "No," he answered after a moment. "No. I cannot 
 do that. I shall let him speak, for I have promised. But 
 I shall take the occasion to explain this." He took his 
 knife and cut the column from the paper. 
 
 If Eugene Harden came this morning, Erederica real- 
 ized that the conversation would be embarrassing, and 
 there might be a break between him and her father. So 
 underneath her desire to see him was the dread of his 
 coming. Suddenly she remembered Maggie. It was time 
 to go to Mrs. Parrish's, and it was probable that she 
 would be gone several hours and miss Harden's call if 
 for any reason he came in the morning. He was likely 
 to come, because there were preparations to be made at 
 the chapel. 
 
 Nevertheless, she put on her things and went up to the 
 Schneiders' to get Maggie, who was all ready and wait- 
 ing to go. The nearness of her own home had worried 
 the girl, for she was afraid to face her father. They went 
 out the front door, followed to the threshold by Mrs. 
 Schneider, who had been a friend in need. 
 
 Maggie was a little shorter than Erederica, and glanced 
 up at her every now and then. " You're in trouble. Miss 
 Ereda," she said, as they got on the car to go to the North 
 Side. 
 
 Erederica looked at her and smiled. "I'm thinking 
 about you." 
 
 "Thinking what you're goin' to say to her, I s'pose," 
 said Maggie timidly. 
 
 "I'm not going to say anything, Maggie, except that 
 131 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 you are a friend of mine and want to learn to do house- 
 work." 
 
 Maggie's heart jumped within her. How she had 
 dreaded that interview with Mrs. Parrish, in which Miss 
 Ereda would tell of what had happened! Yet she had 
 made up her mind to stand it, just to show Frederica that 
 she was anxious to do what was asked of her. To be 
 certain that she was not mistaken, she asked : 
 
 " Shouldn't you tell her I've lost my character? " Her 
 lips trembled and her cheeks flushed, but her long-lashed 
 eyes looked straight into Frederica's. 
 
 " Tou haven't," said Erederica shortly, for she was not 
 equal to saying more at the moment. 
 
 " I want to be honest with her " — Maggie was deter- 
 mined to get absolute assurance — " and I wouldn't want 
 you to say it behind my back." 
 
 Erederica turned to her to explain. "Don't you see, 
 Maggie, she doesn't have to know about your whole life 
 to make you a good housekeeper? It isn't any business 
 of hers what you have done. Tou were unhappy, weren't 
 you ? " Erederica looked questioningly at the face beside 
 her. 
 
 Maggie dropped her eyes. " I was scared we'd be found 
 out," she said. "I could ha' stood everything else I 
 guess." 
 
 Erederica said nothing more. It was all too confusing. 
 Down in her heart she believed Maggie still loved the 
 man, and she did not dare ask. She would not have 
 wanted anyone to ask her if she loved Eugene Harden. 
 If it were none of Mrs. Parrish's business to know of 
 Maggie's life, it was none of hers to pry into Maggie's 
 secret. So quickly had Erederica learned of her own 
 heart that love is a sacredly personal thing. 
 
 132 
 
HEE FATHEE'S DECISION 
 
 Mrs. Parrish was not at home when the two girls got 
 there, but had left word with the housekeeper for Maggie 
 to go to the room ready for her, and to wait. Erederica 
 went, too, into the servants' part of the house and saw 
 that each had a well-kept room. The one given to Mag- 
 gie was not smaller than her own. There were several 
 religious pictures on the walls and some growing plants 
 in the window. She began to think better of Mrs. Par- 
 rish. Maggie was too surprised for speech. !N^ever in 
 her life, in her most imaginative moments, had she 
 dreamed of this. She looked around at everything with 
 a new light in her eyes. And when Frederica started 
 to go, she threw her arms about her neck and kissed her 
 cheek. 
 
 " I guess this is better," she said, as though up to that 
 moment she had been undecided. 
 
 The housekeeper took Frederica downstairs with an air 
 of condescension. After all, if this young woman had al- 
 lowed that Irish girl to kiss her so heartily, she could 
 not be anybody. But Frederica never noticed the conde- 
 scension; she was too eager to get back home. 
 
 Harden was not there when she entered her father's 
 study, and as her father seemed to have been at work 
 without interruption since her departure, she took it for 
 granted that he had not been there at all. And she found 
 it impossible to ask. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell put down his pen. " When you get your 
 things off, Freda, I want to talk to you." 
 
 She threw her hat and coat on the couch and sat down, 
 feeling rather faint, and remembering that she had eaten 
 no breakfast. 
 
 "I am preparing a statement for the paper," he said. 
 "I shall read it to-night at the chapel meeting, and it 
 
 133 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 will appear to-morrow morning. I want you to read it 
 now and see if I have said everything I should." 
 
 "Has Anne read it?" asked Freda. 
 
 "Not yet. Anne has not followed our discussions as 
 closely as you have," he replied. 
 
 In her quick gratitude that she was not being excluded 
 from his confidence, Erederica was almost in a mood to 
 agree with what he had written. He handed the sermon- 
 like manuscript to her, and watched her while she read. 
 As he looked at her his mind wandered to Alec Sloane 
 and the possibility of Frederica's changing her attitude 
 toward marriage with him. Just the faintest suspicion 
 that Harden might be an influence imfavorable to this 
 plan crossed his mind. 
 
 Frederica had finished the last page of the explana- 
 tion. Trouble lay in her eyes, and she looked earnestly 
 at him. "I wish you wouldn't," she said. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell stiffened. "Wouldn't what, Freda?" 
 
 "I wish you woxild not explain — ^not try to explain. 
 You know the men are in the right in this strike; that 
 their work can be done in eight hours; that Mr. Sloane 
 ought to grant all the things they ask. And you ought to 
 tell him that instead of apologizing." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell tried to be patient with her. " Tou don't 
 understand, Freda. This is a test strike. If the men 
 win, all the trades in the city will strike." 
 
 " That would be splendid," said Freda. 
 
 "But Mr. Sloane cannot afford to be the first one to 
 yield. It would hurt him with the other limiber men." 
 
 "But if his employees are in the right, he ought not 
 to think of himself." 
 
 Her father showed exasperation. "I don't think you 
 grasp these problems very well, Frederica. I don't know," 
 
 134 
 
HEE FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 he added, "that there is any reason you should. Tour 
 work is with the women and children. Tou must try 
 and make them happy, show them the light." 
 
 " I am trying," said Frederica with a little defiance in 
 her voice. " I told all the mothers yesterday to stand by 
 the strikers; and they were all at the meeting last night, 
 and they applauded Mr. Harden's speech." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell winced, and then lost his temper. "I 
 wish that man had never come to this house," he said. 
 
 Fortunately Anne called them to limch just then, and 
 asked about Mrs. Parrish and Maggie. And afterwards 
 Anne induced Frederica to take a nap, and exhaustion 
 made her sleep heavily. Nothing had really happened 
 to her ; it had all happened within her. She slept heavily 
 until after five o'clock. When she awakened she could 
 not tell where she was nor what was happening. There 
 were voices in the kitchen, but it was only Anne talk- 
 ing to Mrs. Flanagan, who had come over for the daily 
 comfort which she seemed to require since Maggie had 
 left home. Frederica heard her querulous voice and 
 Anne's soothing replies. Suddenly she heard the front 
 door slam. 
 
 In haste she brushed her hair and slipped on her gray 
 dress, the most unbecoming one she had, but she could not 
 bear to wear the one she had worn to the meeting. She 
 fastened her collar and cuffs with jerky, uncertain fin- 
 gers. It might be that Eugene Harden was in the study, 
 and he might not stay long. With only a word to Mrs. 
 Flanagan, who sat by the stove, she went through the 
 kitchen, into the dining room, and then paused again. 
 The door into the study was open, but there were no 
 voices. She went in and found her father alone, stand- 
 ing in the dusk at the window. The door, then, had 
 
 135 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Blammed after him and not at his arrival. It was as 
 though some one had lied to her. 
 
 " Who was it went out ? " she asked. 
 
 "Mr. Sloane," answered Dr. Hartwell, leaving the 
 window. 
 
 Anne came in, complaining of Mrs. Flanagan's pro- 
 tracted visit, but received no consolation. Dr. Hartwell 
 sighed heavily. " I suppose he is right," he said. 
 
 " Who ? " asked Anne, always afraid of the doctor's 
 trustfulness. 
 
 " Sloane says Harden cannot speak in the chapel to- 
 night." 
 
 "I knew he'd feel that way," said Anne. "And no 
 doubt Alec told him what Mr. Harden said last night 
 at the hall." 
 
 " Sloane thinks there was no doubt of his having given 
 that report to the papers." 
 
 " Well, I think so, too," said Anne, " since he has never 
 come near us all day.'' 
 
 Prederica from the far end of the room asked her 
 father what he had said to Mr. Sloane. 
 
 " There was but one thing to say, Freda." 
 
 Frederica waited. 
 
 " I told him his wishes should be considered." 
 
 "Tou are going to ask Mr. Harden not to speak to- 
 night ? " asked Anne, and voiced Frederica's silent ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " That is the only thing to do,'' replied Dr. Hartwell. 
 " He will understand my position." 
 
 " What is your position ? " interrupted Frederica, com- 
 ing forward as though to confront her father. 
 
 " Mr. Sloane made it quite plain," said Dr. Hartwell, 
 with a slight resentment showing for the first time in his 
 
 136 
 
HEE FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 voice. He went to his desk and sat down in the manner 
 customary to him when he had reached the concluding 
 paragraph of his sermon and knew that it must be writ- 
 ten before he rose. " Mr. Sloane," he repeated, " made it 
 quite plain that my continued use of the chapel de- 
 pended upon my decision not to lend it to — other 
 speakers." 
 
 Anger shone white in Erederica's face. " And you are 
 dependent on him," she said. " You get your salary from 
 him." 
 
 " Tou have always known that ! " said her father irri- 
 tably. 
 
 " No," replied the girl. " I have not always known it. 
 I have learned it just now. Why didn't you tell him he 
 could have his chapel — that you would do with it what 
 you wished or leave it empty?" 
 
 Anne spoke into the discussion. "Don't get wrought 
 up, Freda, When you're calmer you will see that your 
 father has done the right thing." 
 
 Frederica was glad that the room was not light enough 
 to see distinctly, for she was conscious that she was show- 
 ing her excitement. She seemed to be the only one of 
 the three who believed in Eugene Harden. And her father 
 was about to acknowledge to a man in whom he disbe- 
 lieved that that man's principles were being exemplified. 
 She knew that when her father mentioned Mr. Sloane in 
 connection with the chapel Harden would repeat to him- 
 self what he had often said to them, that wage slavery 
 was not limited to the day laborer. 
 
 Besides, there was the humiliation for her father, who, 
 although he had not admitted it, must be embarrassed 
 at the idea of withdrawing a promise and proving himself 
 an economic dependent upon a rich man. As that thought 
 
 137 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 came to her, Frederiea went over to where he was sitting 
 at the desk and leaned over his shoulder to kiss him. 
 It was a new and disagreeable experience for her to be 
 feeling sorry for her father; but she recognized even as 
 she put her lips on his forehead that she had become 
 much older, and was even older than he in some respects. 
 Dr. Hartwell felt a difference in her attitude, and it 
 flashed across his memory that that was the sort of pa- 
 tient, forbearing kiss his vsdfe tised to give him at the 
 end of some of their discussions. At the same time he 
 was too much relieved that there was to be no open dis- 
 agreement to disclaim this tenderness. He put his arm 
 about Frederiea and changed the subject. 
 
 " Sloane says that that man we sent to him — that 
 Lange, is a fine fellow. He has made him a foreman." 
 
 It was not a happy change of subject after all, for 
 it recalled the queer presence of the man who had come 
 in that night. She had seen him several times lately 
 going or coming from the Schneiders'. She loosed herself 
 from her father's arm and went to the window; it was 
 not yet dark. Going into the kitchen, as her father sup- 
 posed, to see about supper, she went on into her own 
 room, put her things on, and slipped out the back door 
 and down the steps into the dusky twilight. 
 
 The half -past five whistles were blowing, and when she 
 reached Twelfth Street the crowds of men were coming 
 over from the South Side. But to-night there was no 
 comfort in the sight of them. She met them without 
 looking at them; and those who looked at her saw a 
 slight figure hurrying with intent eyes and fast-coming 
 breath. One or two looked after her, and one turned 
 and followed her, but far enough behind so that she could 
 not know it. 
 
 138 
 
HER FATHER'S DECISION 
 
 When she came to Michigan Avenue she turned north 
 and walked the half mile to the Leland Hotel, As she 
 entered the door the man who was following went straight 
 on, crossed the street, and sat down on the curbing op- 
 posite to wait. 
 
 She approached the desk and asked for Mr. Harden. 
 The clerk looked at her in surprise when she said she 
 woidd go right to his room. Something in her face made 
 him think of illness or death, and he sent one of the 
 boys up to Harden's suite with her. Frederica had asked 
 to go to Harden's room because she did not know where 
 else to go. She had never been in hotels and knew noth- 
 ing of their parlors nor of their conventions. Her heart 
 almost choked her when at the boy's knock she heard 
 Harden say, " Come in." The boy had opened the door, 
 Frederica stepped in, and it closed behind her. 
 
 10 139 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 'N hour before the arrival of Frederica, Eugene 
 Harden was already dressed for dinner, and was 
 waiting for a Viennese friend of his who was 
 in the adjoining room singing an air of a 
 Strauss waltz, and occasionally ejaculating in his mother 
 tongue while he finished his toilet. He came into the 
 room where Harden sat at his desk, and turning the 
 light up, went over to the long glass and tried again 
 to arrange his tie to his own satisfaction. He was a short 
 blond man, dapper and over-refined physically. His 
 pointed blond beard, his sharp blue eyes, his hair, which 
 grew into a point upon a rather low forehead, gave him 
 the look of a society satyr. One would have expected 
 to find pointed ears. At any rate they were sharp. 
 
 "It is a thing mysterious to me," he said, his back 
 turned to Harden, his attention apparently upon his own 
 appearance, "a thing most mysterious — ^my devotion to 
 you. I have been one week in this barbaric place; I see 
 you only at dinner and then you are somewhere else in 
 your thoughts." He leaned forward and scrutinized the 
 lapel of his coat as it was reflected in the glass, to see 
 if the perfume he had sprinkled upon himself had made 
 any spots. " I will not go to your meetings, Eugene " — 
 he gave the name its French pronunciation. "I do not 
 
 140 
 
AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 love your masses." He turned daintily upon one heel and 
 faced Harden, who was writing busily and paying abso- 
 lutely no attention to these complaints. " Why should 
 I be so devoted — for what? I — ^have — ^not — ^yet — ^met — 
 one — rich — American — girl. I came when I read in the 
 paper that you were engaged to " 
 
 Eugene Harden raised his head. " I told you that was 
 an unpleasant subject," he said. 
 
 "But I thought," went on Hochberg — "I knew of 
 course that it was only rumor — ^that under the circum- 
 stances you would not be so rash even in this land of 
 freedom. But I hoped that I might perhaps be the one 
 to console her. I am not a bad fellow to play Mephis- 
 topheles to your Faust. But I find you have but one 
 mistress^-the mob. You defend the mob as you would 
 your wife's honor" — ^Hochberg touched the point of his 
 beard daintily with fingers tipped with pink nails — " and 
 neither one has honor — ^nor — reason." 
 
 Harden pushed back his chair and rose to go down 
 to dinner. " You know," he said, " that I dislike your 
 flippancy on that subject." 
 
 Hochberg shrugged his shoulders with the air of a 
 society villain in the melodrama. " One woman de- 
 ceives you — ^but all the rest are angels. You have no 
 logic ! " He looked at his watch. " But now let us go 
 down to the place of uneatable food. The soup of the 
 barbarian grows cold." 
 
 Harden paused. "I will be down directly," he said. 
 "I must send a note to Dr. Hartwell, telling him that 
 I shall be late to his meeting." 
 
 Hochberg paused on the threshold. " And that trans- 
 cendental — ethereal follower of your ideals — ^will she be 
 there?" 
 
 141 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "I do not know," said Eugene shortly. 
 
 " I think, perhaps, Eugene " — ^Hochberg drawled his 
 words as though to signify meditation — " I think per- 
 haps I shall go to hear you speak." 
 
 " I would rather not," said Eugene. 
 
 With his hand on the door Hochberg looked down at 
 the point of his shoe. " Love has so many masks, but 
 this of yours — it is most original. A common aim — the 
 uplifting of humanity " — he waved his hand as a premiere 
 danseuse would toss dainty kisses to the first row — " the 
 freeing of men from the hateful yoke of industrial 
 slavery." Then rising on his toes, and making a bow 
 with arms spread outwards, " Beneath the filmy shade of 
 telegraph poles she passed her shadow fingers over the 
 blunders he had made in his manuscript — ^the manuscript 
 of a book which was to show the world how great are the 
 down-trodden — how the worm is to rise upon its tail — 
 how the insects who would have been kept by kind na- 
 ture beneath the rocks are to blink in the sunshine. Ah " 
 — ^he opened the door — ^"I revel in this new dream of 
 love!" 
 
 As the door closed behind him Harden sat down to write 
 his note, but for some moments he was perfectly motion- 
 less and his face was white. Mephisto had pricked 
 deep. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and when Harden 
 called " Come in," somewhat irritated at this further 
 delay of his dinner. Alec Sloane came in. As Harden 
 rose and looked at him questioningly Alec came for- 
 ward and stopped in front of him. 
 
 "I have come," he said, "to apologize for last night. 
 I did not know what I was saying, and I thought that 
 I ought to come and beg your pardon." He spoke very 
 
 142 
 
AlSr ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 direct, and his face was lighted with the determination 
 to do a thing which was very hard, but was very 
 necessary. 
 
 Harden came forward and put out his hand. " Tou 
 need say nothing. Had I heard anything it would have 
 been my own fault. If I did not hear, you need not 
 apologize." 
 
 " But I want to say something else," said Alec, the light 
 dying out of his face, for now he was on questionable 
 ground. "It is not the sort of thing we do in this 
 country, but perhaps you are used to it, and it won't 
 seem so odd. But I came to ask you to teU me if you 
 were going to ask Frederica to marry you." 
 
 A look as hard as steel came into the Austrian's eyes; 
 his long silence was apparently due to his struggle for 
 self-control. " I — I am not used to being questioned. I 
 had thought that in this country — " It was impossible 
 for him to continue. 
 
 "As long as I told you that I knew it was unusual 
 to speak of it," said Alec, biting his lips, "you cannot 
 think me a cad for having done so." 
 
 Harden paced the floor before he responded. " It is 
 my privilege that I need not discuss my affairs with 
 anyone. If at any time I can be of any service to you 
 in other than so delicate a matter, I hope you will call 
 upon me." And he bowed, leaving nothing to Alec but 
 departure. 
 
 The resentment which Alec felt made him walk miles 
 before he returned home. When he did go to the big 
 house on the North Side, he had made up his mind to 
 go away if his father would let him break the contract 
 which bound him to the office for two years. It was not 
 a logical decision for him to make, perhaps, but it was 
 
 143 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 a natural consequence of the hurt pride which was crying 
 just now more loudly than his love of Frederica. 
 
 Again the door opened and closed, but Harden 
 thought it was the chambermaid on her evening duties, 
 and he did not turn from his desk. He was writing now 
 as though there had been no interruption. He had found 
 that he would have to go to a committee meeting, and so 
 would be delayed in making his appearance at Dr. Hart- 
 well's chapel. If it were not for disappointing the doctor 
 he would have broken the engagement altogether. He 
 believed in the cold work of committees more than in 
 the emotional response of an audience. 
 
 Erederica was standing with her back to the door, 
 breathless and absolutely still, taking in half uncon- 
 sciously the details of the room. There were shaded 
 lights on the desk which shone on a few books and framed 
 photographs. There were luxurious chairs and divans, a 
 long cheval glass directly opposite where she stood, and 
 great bowls of chrysanthemums on the table and on 
 the mantel over a grate in which glowed a hard coal 
 fire. The room had even to her breathless gaze a dis- 
 tinct personal air about it. She contrasted it on the 
 instant with the study at home where they had spent 
 so many hours together, and suddenly felt how poor 
 they were; it made her feel tmequal to the task ahead 
 of her. 
 
 It was her long breath, almost a sob, that caught the 
 ear of Eugene. He turned quickly, saw her with amaze- 
 ment, and rose to come to her. 
 
 "What is the mattei^— Miss Hartwell?" 
 
 She saw that he was in evening dress, something that 
 he had never worn at their home, and he called her Miss 
 Hartwell! Without moving she raised her eyes to his 
 
 144 
 
AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 and looked at him steadily. Harden did not ask her to 
 sit down. 
 
 " Is some one ill — what has happened ? " 
 
 "No," she said finally, "but I had to come! I'll tell 
 you when I get — ^my — ^breath." 
 
 " You walked here ? " he questioned. 
 
 "Yes — ^I — forgot my purse — ^I " 
 
 He took hold of her hand and led her to a big cush- 
 ioned chair, but she sat on its edge and shook her hair 
 out of her eyes. 
 
 " I want you to send word to my father that you can- 
 not speak to-night, please ! " 
 
 Eugene looked down at her with growing surprise. " I 
 don't understand." 
 
 " Unless you send word to him, he will have to ask you 
 not to — and that will be so humiliating." She spoke 
 directly and yet with that look of shrinking in her face. 
 
 " Tell me," said Eugene, drawing up another chair op- 
 posite her and seating himself. 
 
 "Mr. Sloane came and told my father this afternoon 
 that he would not allow him to lend the chapel to other 
 speakers — to you! It is just as you said, if a man em- 
 ploys you he owns you. My father is very — uncomfort- 
 able; I could not bear that he should have to break his 
 promise 'to you, so I came to beg your pardon — and ask 
 you to break yours to him." 
 
 Harden leaned toward her and said softly, " Why did 
 pou come ? " 
 
 "I could not bear that he should ask you. It is so 
 much worse for my father to be hmniliated — than for 
 me." 
 
 " But it is what I expected." He tried to speak in a 
 matter-of-fact way in order to calm her. 
 
 145 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " You expected we -would not keep our word ? " She 
 spoke quickly. 
 
 " No ! No ! But that the owner of the chapel might 
 not like my — ^philosophy. I have put your father in em- 
 harrassment and I am very sorry. I ought not to have 
 accepted so readily his helief in his freedom." 
 
 Frederica quivered with this explanation. 
 
 He saw it and went on hastily. " It is really all my 
 fault. Believe me. I will send a note to your father 
 at once that I am ill — suddenly ill, and not able to speak 
 to-night. Then he will not have to make any explanation 
 to anyone." 
 
 She did not look relieved. "Mr. Harden, that would 
 not be the truth. I would not want you to lie — ^for 
 us." 
 
 " Child of truth ! " He rose and went toward his writ- 
 ing table. " I will say, then, that I am leaving unex- 
 pectedly and immediately." 
 
 Frederica rose, too, but restrained her impulse to go 
 toward him. " Is that true ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes." He turned and looked at her. 
 
 Then she came toward him. " I wish you would take 
 me with you ! " 
 
 Eugene grasped the back of a chair until the knuckles 
 of his hands shone white. " I do not think y(}u mean 
 that!" 
 
 " Yes, I do." She took a deep breath. " Take me as 
 your secretary. I can do that kind of work, and I must 
 earn my living." 
 
 The color came back into his face. She had not meant 
 what she had said, after all. 
 
 "Why must you work?" he asked. 
 
 "Because I cannot be supported any longer by Mr. 
 146 
 
AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 Sloane's money. I have been very useful to my father in 
 his work, and I could be useful to you." 
 
 " That is not possible. You know — " he paused before 
 the necessity of explaining conventions to her. 
 
 " I have helped you some — ^haven't I ? " she asked, com- 
 pletely engrossed with this solution of her new and 
 dreadful problem of dependence upon Mr. Sloane, upon 
 Alec's father, who was her own father's employer. 
 
 Harden turned again to his table. " Do not make it 
 harder for me — Frederica. I will write at once." 
 
 He seated himself and she stood a few feet from the 
 table watching him. Her mind was active with what 
 she could do to free herself from dependence, but her 
 heart was stirred by the idea of his going away. She 
 was bending toward him slightly, her eyes wide open and 
 bright, full of the feeling which he was stirring. When 
 he had signed his name he dropped the pen and looked 
 up and saw her intentness. She was the first to break 
 the silence. 
 
 " Can't you tell me what I ought to do ? " 
 
 " I think I must tell you." He came and stood directly 
 in front of her. " I think I must tell you ! " He spoke 
 with decision and with a hard note again in his voice. 
 
 " What ? " she asked, for from the way he spoke she 
 could tell that he was not thinking of what she ought 
 to do, but of something he had kept back from her. 
 
 " I must tell you to put the barrier of your knowledge 
 of the truth between us. If I do not I" — ^he walked to 
 the far end of the room — " But I do not want to tell you. 
 Do you trust me?" He came back and stood close to 
 the chair in which she had again seated herself, reach- 
 ing out his hand to seize hers and then drawing it back. 
 "Do you trust me?" He kneeled to bring his eyes on 
 
 147 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 a level with hers as she sat there, and put his hands 
 on the arms of her chair. She made no answer, and after 
 a moment's waiting for it he bent his head and kissed 
 her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. "Elsa?" he ques- 
 tioned, and mockery either of her or of himself flickered 
 in his eyes as he raised his head again and rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 " If I did not ask you to trust me, you would. Now 
 that I ask, you cannot." He was boastful as he spoke 
 to her, trying to understand. "I could have won you 
 and married you. I have been fighting a great temptation 
 to deceive you — and you have not even guessed it." 
 
 " Ko," said Frederica almost to herself. " And I love 
 you." She said it simply and quietly. 
 
 "I know." He breathed deep for the courage which 
 was slipping from him. " And I am not free. I did 
 not know you were here when I came here to forget my- 
 self. I — did not — ^know — you — ^were here ! " 
 
 He seated himself in the chair nearest him and looked 
 fixedly at the floor. 
 
 " I am so sorry ! " she said, as though speaking to him 
 about something which had nothing to do with herself. 
 " You ought not to suffer, for you are so — wonderful ! " 
 
 But he did not look up. " I should not have come," 
 he said. " I should have stayed over there and faced it ! " 
 
 " Are you — ^married ? " asked Frederica. " Is that it ? " 
 
 He nodded. " Under the law, yes." 
 
 " It is the law there which is making you unhappy — 
 not — not anything you have done ? " 
 
 " Nothing but the law." 
 
 "And my father has always said that we should live 
 according to the higher law — according to ' the righteous- 
 ness of God without the law.' " 
 
 148 
 
AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 " Without the law." Eugene spoke abruptly. " If you 
 were older, had courage, if you knew something of the 
 world, I should say to you that we could go through the 
 form of law over here, for no one, no one in America 
 knows that I am bound. That has been my temptation I " 
 He threw off the burden of it as he spoke. " And now 
 I cannot be tempted — because I have told you. But you 
 must go — ^but you must go." He tried to speak as usual. 
 " Your father may be worried and I must send this note." 
 
 Frederica shivered. " I am so afraid." 
 
 " Afraid — of what ? " he asked. 
 
 " Of to-morrow — alone ! Last night I was afraid of 
 to-day. And now I know why." She got up from her 
 chair. 
 
 " I shall go away at once," he said. 
 
 She clasped and unclasped her hands in front of her, 
 holding her aims rigid. "It's going to kill me." The 
 great rush of emotions within her was terrifying. 
 
 " Oh, no ! Some day you will be glad." Harden 
 dragged his words. 
 
 " But I am so tired here already." She put her hand 
 over her heart. " I should only have to work hard a lit- 
 tle while and walk miles — and never rest — and it would 
 stop." She closed her eyes and caught her breath sharply, 
 with the swinging sensation in her heart. 
 
 " Frederica ! " Eugene put his arm about her and drew 
 her to him. But the moment she opened her eyes he 
 released her and stepped back from her. " You must go 
 now," he said again, his lips white. 
 
 " It is as though I could not," she said. " I don't have 
 to obey you, do I ? I am not a child. I can choose to go 
 with you — if I am not afraid to go without the law. I 
 can choose, if I have courage, can't I ? " 
 
 149 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "No, for it is only the courage of innocence." 
 
 Frederica was absolutely motionless, and he did not 
 make a sign of his presence to disturb her. It was well 
 that she was looking across the room at the glowing 
 coals and not into his face, for had she seen the desire 
 in his eyes she would have been swayed to another de- 
 cision than the one to which she was coming. When she 
 spoke she was trying to smile. 
 
 "It is very strange, isn't it, if we love each other 
 and believe in each other that words — the words of the 
 law should come between us? It doesn't seem real to 
 me." 
 
 "It is real to me!" 
 
 She lifted her head with a memory. " Tou spoke of it 
 as a cage. We ought to destroy it. You have great 
 strength I " In the emotion of her inexperience she was 
 forcing him to bring her down from the vague and veiled 
 heights where she dwelt to the realities of society. 
 
 He went back to what she had said. "Even if you 
 had the courage and I was willing that the world should 
 look at you and misjudge you — ^we should not be free — 
 to work together. My enemies " 
 
 " Enemies ? " said Erederica quickly. 
 
 " Those who think I want to destroy society, who think 
 I want to destroy all law — they would use our life — ^no 
 matter how beautiful it was — against us. They would 
 have the right, as the world is now, Erederica." 
 
 "I had not thought of that." She spoke as though 
 she were seeing dimly what he meant. " I was thinking 
 just of — ^myself." 
 
 Harden went to her and took her two hands in his and 
 spoke as he was used to speaking with her, in self-control 
 — "My work means more to me, Freda, than my happi- 
 
 150 
 
AN ACKNOWLEDGED TEMPTATION 
 
 ness or your happiness. Even if you think I am hard 
 I must say that." 
 
 " That is one reason I love you, I think." She spoke 
 softly, and it shook his calm, but he did not release her 
 hands. 
 
 " You have no idea of what lies outside your own heart, 
 Erederica. I do not want to be the one to open your 
 eyes. My child, if anyone knew you were here — in my 
 rooms — ^they could say that I was a dangerous person." 
 There was a note of sarcasm in his voice which escaped 
 her, but she was listening intently now. " They would 
 not suspect anything of you — ^for you are an American 
 girl, but they might think that I " 
 
 Frederica caught his meaning more quickly than he 
 could have supposed. She withdrew her hands from his 
 suddenly and said in a strained voice : " I must go ! " 
 Then her thought went back to the words she had spoken 
 while she had been trying to free herself from de- 
 pendence upon Mr. Sloane. " When I asked you to take 
 mie with you, I did not know that you loved me; I 
 was— I " 
 
 "You were speaking — of business." He gave her the 
 words although they sounded absurd to him. They re- 
 lieved her, however. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " for I am going to earn my own liv- 
 ing now, and it was natural to come to you first, wasn't 
 it ? " She looked up at him with trembling lips. " And 
 no one knows I am here," she said, " so they cannot make 
 any trouble for you." She paused. " No one — ^that is — 
 except the man downstairs." 
 
 Already she was beginning to suffer for coming. It 
 was a terrible thing to have wakened her to self-con- 
 sciousness. But what else could he have done ? 
 
 151 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " If you -will give me the note, I -will take it to my 
 father," she said, turning toward the door. 
 
 " I will send that by a boy. You would not want him 
 to know that it did not come voluntarily from me.'' 
 
 Erederica had her hand on the door knob when some 
 one knocked. She was startled, and opened the door her- 
 self. There stood her father and Mr. Sloane. She shrank 
 to one side, for there was the "world" entering upon 
 them. 
 
 152 
 
CHAPTER Xiy 
 
 THE WORLD ENTERS 
 
 'LEXANDER SLOANE was a man of sixty- 
 five, to whom opportunity had come when Chi- 
 cago was burned. He had seized it eagerly and 
 had thereby trebled his wealth. He was in all 
 respects the typical American business man, whose one 
 aim was increase of fortune. He was not hard, as em- 
 ployers go, but set in his way. Courteous and open to 
 suggestion from his equals, he was a man to listen to Dr. 
 Hartwell because Hartwell had stood high in their college 
 class. When he handed over the money for the religious 
 work he had nothing more to say. Recently he had, how- 
 ever, come to look to the doctor for help in suppressing 
 discontent among his employees. 
 
 The truth of the situation was that the men as em- 
 ployees of Sloans were discontented, and refused to accept 
 spiritual benefits from him via a kind, idealistic, imprac- 
 tical clergyman. Personally they liked the doctor well 
 enough, but the antagonism to his position was instinc- 
 tive and kept them apart from him. He did not know 
 their real feeling and had begun to consider himself a 
 failure, when Eugene Harden came to him and asked 
 his cooperation and the use of his chapel for men's 
 meetings. 
 Naturally Sloane disliked the idea of trades unions 
 153 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 holding meetings in his church, and when he heard that 
 Dr. Hartwell was making much of a foreign socialist, 
 whose work was to destroy the industrial system whereby 
 he was enabled to make immense profits without much 
 personal effort, he became conscious of his power as mas- 
 ter of the situation, and expressed himself without hesi- 
 tation to his highest employee. Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 " No more anarchists or socialists," he said, " in my 
 church. If there is anything to be said there, you say it ! 
 You never were a judge of human nature. If you must 
 associate with firebrands, keep them at home." 
 
 And Dr. Hartwell had shown no resentment, but an 
 hour afterwards, shortly after Frederica had gone out 
 the back door, he had gone out the front, and taking a 
 car, had caught Sloane waiting for his dinner, and had 
 persuaded him to come over to meet Eugene Harden. Eor 
 some reason, perhaps because the request came unexpect- 
 edly, Alexander Sloane had come back into the city, and 
 was now standing just within Harden's door, but he was 
 not at once introduced, for Dr. Hartwell's surprise at see- 
 ing Prederica robbed him of speech. 
 
 " Why are you here ? " asked Dr. Hartwell, ignoring 
 Harden. 
 
 " I came to ask him to send word to you that he could 
 not speak to-night." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell made a hurried introduction between the 
 two men. Freda saw Sloane look long at the Austrian 
 from under heavy eyebrows, and she thought that she 
 knew what he was thinking. She saw her father's purpose 
 at once : he must be made Harden's friend. She looked at 
 Mr. Sloane and a shade of confusion passed over her face. 
 When he said " Good evening, Freda," she made no an- 
 swer, and met his eye falteringly. He watched her in 
 
 154 
 
THE WOELD ENTERS 
 
 a half -sinister way. Harden pushed forward a chair and 
 tried to distract Sloane's attention from her. 
 
 " I have been unfortunate," he said, " in not meeting 
 you before." 
 
 Sloane answered curtly, " My friend HartweU seems to 
 think that I'm doing you an injustice by not letting you 
 speak to-night." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell turned in surprise at Sloane's manner. 
 
 Harden flushed. " I did not know, Mr. Sloane," he said, 
 " that it was necessary to get your permission to speak 
 in Dr. Hartwell's chapel. Since you feel it so, I wish 
 to say that I was on the point of breaking my engage- 
 ment. But I am very sorry that I should have put Dr. 
 Hartwell in so embarrassing a position." 
 
 Sloane did not take any seat, and turned as if to go. 
 Dr. Hartwell stood there, transfixed with amazement at 
 the position he found himself in. He was very much an- 
 noyed with Frederica, and he was unable to explain the 
 instant dislike which Sloane had already expressed by his 
 manner for Harden. 
 
 Alexander Sloane was a man to whom dignity was not 
 native. Yet he kept up the appearance of it even when 
 his words were insolent. He glanced around the room, 
 his eyes resting particularly upon the flowers. " I had 
 not expected," he said, " to find a labor agitator in such 
 comfortable quarters." 
 
 Harden made no reply and Sloane followed his own 
 remark. 
 
 "I question," he said, "the right that any foreigner 
 has to come over here and stir up trouble. We can look 
 after our own affairs. I do not trust them." 
 
 Frederica spoke from where she stood close to the door. 
 " You can trust Mr. Harden, Mr. Sloane. Your men do." 
 11 155 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Ereda, Freda," said her father. 
 
 Alexander Sloane looked at her from under heavy brows 
 with that expression of suspicion which is the greatest 
 insult to man or woman. " I would like to know, Freda, 
 why your father lets you meddle in these things — lets 
 you come over here to a man's rooms." He turned to 
 Dr. Hartwell. "Tou are too much in the clouds. Hart- 
 well, to have a daughter to look after." 
 
 He had said the words which capped Frederica's con- 
 fusion. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that 
 he was that " world " which Eugene had said would de- 
 stroy his work should it suspect him. She was meeting 
 convention for the first time, and it had come upon her 
 in the guise of destroyer. To her mind there seemed but 
 one thing to do — ^to make these two men friends — to make 
 Alexander Sloane trust the Austrian. She could see 
 no other way that would help. She turned to Eugene 
 Harden. " Won't you explain your work to Mr. Sloane ? 
 I think he doesn't understand what you're trying to do " 
 
 Sloane waved a deprecatory hand and signified to Dr. 
 Hartwell that he wished to go. " I haven't the time to 
 hear theories to-night. I have missed my dinner as it is." 
 
 " But you must," said Frederica, coming toward.- him. 
 
 Again her father spoke her name, for he could see that 
 it was her presence here that had done the mischief, and 
 she was making bad matters worse by playing the cham- 
 pion for the man who should have been allowed to win 
 Sloane by himself. " This is no place for you, Freda." 
 
 He had put the thing into definite expression, and in 
 a moment of excitement, which came upon her as the 
 words fell on her ears, she obeyed a tremendous impulse, 
 which would have been impossible had she been older or 
 more experienced. With an amazing simplicity she 
 
 156 
 
THE WORLD ENTERS 
 
 smiled up at Mr. Sloane and said: "But it is all right, 
 my being here, because I am engaged to be married to 
 Mr. Harden." 
 
 Both Sloane and her father were looking at her or 
 they would have seen Eugene Harden's start of surprise. 
 Dr. Hartwell was utterly lost for a moment, powerless 
 to say anything. 
 
 " This — ^this is unexpected, Frederica." 
 
 " Yes," she said, stifled by a sense of her responsibility 
 in playing the role she had set. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me ? " 
 
 She looked at him helplessly. "Because," she said, 
 " because " 
 
 Eugene came forward. Erederica could not follow up 
 her first lie by the ones which were made absolutely neces- 
 sary by it, and it was for him to take from her the burden. 
 
 " She has not told you. Dr. Hartwell," he said, " be- 
 cause it did not seem wise that this should be discussed 
 with anyone until she was quite certain that she knew her 
 own mind." 
 
 Hochberg, who had tired of eating his dinner alone, 
 had come up into the room in time to hear these words. 
 He pursed his lips and looked in astonishment at his 
 friend. Then, with a slight bow, crossed to the far side 
 of the room and stood by the fireplace. Not again did 
 he look toward the group, but he was listening intently. 
 
 Alexander Sloane then spoke directly to Harden. 
 Anger shook his voice. He had not been very much 
 shocked to find Erederica there, for it was like her and 
 her father to be in unaccountable places at unexpected 
 hours. But this announcement of hers hurt his parental 
 pride, and the resentment which before had been that of a 
 man who feels he has just cause for indignation, was in- 
 
 157 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 creased by the personal feeling that his son had been 
 deceived. "In this country," he said, "the family likes 
 to know about these things, even if they do give Ameri- 
 can girls the right to make their own choice." 
 
 Eugene's courtesy was the more marked because of the 
 other man's manner. 
 
 "Yes," he said very quietly, "it was I who had per- 
 suaded her not to confide it to anyone imtil she was 
 quite, quite certain. If Dr. Hartwell disapproves, why 
 then " — ^he paused — '^ it is not an engagement which shall 
 bind her." 
 
 Sloane turned to Frederica with a forced smile. " It 
 is just enough of an engagement," he said, " to be afraid 
 of." 
 
 Frederica was overwhelmed. She saw now how terribly 
 she had complicated matters and had made them worse 
 instead of better. Of course she did not guess that it was 
 hurt pride that was finding utterance; that Mr. Sloane 
 was cut to the quick to find that his son had been sup- 
 planted. 
 
 She turned to her father. " I am afraid Anne is keep- 
 ing supper for us," she said. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell turned to Harden with constraint in his 
 face and voice. " What you have told me " 
 
 Frederica interrupted. " What I told you, father." 
 
 " Well, well," he said, " it concerns you both. I shall 
 have to consider many sides of this before I can speak 
 of your attachment to each other." 
 
 Frederica did not glance once at Harden, but went 
 straight to the door, her lips pressed tight, but her head 
 held high in the final effort to keep her role. She knew 
 without looking that Sloane was leaving without shaking 
 hands or signifying any interest in Eugene. She knew 
 
 158 
 
THE WOELD ENTERS 
 
 that her father was ill at ease in his own leave-taking. 
 It was a miserable departure. Before she had left the 
 room Frederica knew that she had made a bad situation 
 worse. And there had been a stranger, some friend of 
 Eugene Harden's, who had heard all that had been said. 
 That was what hurt her most of all, for her intuition 
 told her that some explanation would have to be made 
 to this man standing by the fire looking at his own shin- 
 ing boot as it rested on the fender. 
 
 On the way home Dr. Hartwell had no desire to talk. 
 He was one of the men who faces a daughter's decision 
 to marry with something of embarrassment. The abstract 
 principle of a woman's right to choose her husband 
 means the instinctive dread of having the child pass into 
 the mysteries of life away from home. Then, too, he was 
 preoccupied with the immediate problem ahead of him — 
 that of facing a crowd of men who would come in en- 
 thusiasm to hear the Austrian speak, come for the first 
 time to his chapel, after ten years of waiting — and how 
 was he going to be able to hold them without the help 
 of Harden? Down in his heart the doctor dreaded the 
 task before him, and forgot for the moment what had just 
 passed. 
 
 Frederica interrupted his thoughts once by saying: 
 "I hope you will not find it necessary to — tell Anne. 
 I'd rather you didn't." 
 
 " No, no, certainly not," said her father abstractedly. 
 
 Sloane had left them at the door of the hotel and 
 gone home in a mood which was far removed from the one 
 in which he had originally played the philanthropist with 
 Hartwell, His amour propre had been severely wounded, 
 and some one would have to pay. He was one of those 
 tenacious egotists who give up illusions about themselves 
 
 159 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 and their possessions only at the highest price — the price 
 to be paid always by some one else. 
 
 Alec was waiting in the library for him, and, taking 
 no account of his father'-s mood, not knowing that his 
 father was still without dinner, and hence unapproach- 
 able, he asked him to let him off the contract which 
 bound him to the office. 
 
 Sloane turned upon him. " Why ? " he asked. 
 
 "I want to go away," said Alec. "I want to go to 
 New York. I always thought I ought to have a year there 
 before I settled down to work — and I find I am missing 
 it." 
 
 The opportunity was ready for Alexander Sloane to 
 use. He knew perfectly well what was in Alec's mind, 
 but he would not take advantage of the boy's emotion 
 at this moment to ask for explanation or to give ex- 
 planation. He took it for granted that Alec in some way 
 had found out about the engagement. " You stay here," 
 he said. "You stay right here in this town and prove 
 to that girl that she has made an awful blunder. We'll 
 show her yet that an American is the only fit person for 
 a girl to marry." 
 
 Alec straightened a little. He did not want the sub- 
 ject of Erederica brought home to him. He recognized 
 in himself the same desire for the privileges of silence 
 which had just been claimed by the Austrian. He said 
 nothing, and his father made one more remark before 
 going in to his dinner. " I should not be surprised if the 
 engagement were broken to-morrow. I do not think she 
 really cares for him, and I think he " 
 
 Mrs. Sloane came into the room at that moment, and 
 by common consent not another word was said. These 
 two men were likely to protect her from anything dis- 
 
 160 
 
THE WOELD ENTEKS 
 
 agreeable. But Alec realized wten he was left alone 
 there in the library that his father knew more than he 
 did, and that Erederica was really engaged to be married 
 to another man. 
 
 In the room at the hotel which Alexander Sloane had 
 just left, Hochberg was laughing at his friend. " It was 
 a contretemps which must have been disagreeable to 
 you — the American father facing you. But " — ^Hochberg 
 paused, looked at the ceiling — " but he asked you no 
 questions. It was the other man, the portly, the success- 
 ful man, who was displeased. Who was he ? " 
 
 Harden was looking at the floor. It seemed as though 
 he had not heard these flippant questions. When he 
 raised his eyes and looked at Hochberg, there was some- 
 thing in them which rebuked all flippancy. 
 
 The smile died out of the little blond Austrian's face, 
 and he came forward with his two hands outstretched and 
 seized Eugene's. " You do care," he said. " I beg your 
 pardon. What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " I am going away," said Eugene. 
 
 " ITo," said Hochberg, " stay here. Put it off — put off 
 the consummation — ^the American wedding — and you 
 shall be free. I shall be in Vienna within two weeks. 
 If I have to go to the Pope himself — to the Emperor — 
 you shall be free ! " 
 
 161 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE DAY OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 'NOTHER gray morning spread its thoughts be- 
 fore Erederica's eyes. She recalled the hour in 
 Eugene's room as though she had been an on- 
 looker. Nothing that she had said or that she 
 had done up to that moment when she had spoken to her 
 father was in the least clear to her. She got up in the 
 cold and went to her little desk. There in the gray light, 
 without putting anything over her thin nightdress, she 
 wrote a note to him with trembling hands. Her hair 
 fell on her shoulders in straight locks and got into her 
 eyes; but not once did she pause until she had finished. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Harden," she wrote, " I lied last night because 
 I was afraid that by being there I was going to hurt your work. 
 But I did not help you any. I was not thinking when I said I 
 was engaged to you what I should do to-day, but it wUI be very 
 easy. I shall tell my father that I have decided I do not love 
 you enough to marry you. And he will tell Mr. Sloane. I am 
 very sorry. Sincerely, 
 
 "Fkbderica Hartwell." 
 
 She did not read it over, but put it in an envelope, ad- 
 dressed, sealed, and stamped it; and then she began to 
 dress with the same haste she had written. Not once 
 did she look in the mirror, not even while she was fixing 
 
 162 
 
THE DAY OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 her hair. She put on her best hat and her cloak, then she 
 sat down again and wrote a note to her father, saying 
 that she would be gone all the morning, but hoped to be 
 home in time to help get dinner. In a postscript she 
 wrote : 
 
 " I do not love Mr. Harden as much as I thought I did, so I 
 have written him that the engagement is broken. Please tell 
 Mr. Sloane if you see him." 
 
 This note she put on the dining-room table at her 
 father's place, then nodding to the Schneider boy, who 
 was making the kitchen fire, she went out the back door 
 with almost the same impulsiveness as on the even- 
 ing before. She had but one thought, and that was to 
 find some place where she could earn her living. Not 
 another mouthful would she take unless she could 
 pay for it herself. Eor that reason she had eaten 
 no breakfast; it was breakfast bought by Mr. Sloane's 
 money. 
 
 If Frederica's facts had not always presented them- 
 selves to her as so exceedingly simple, her life would not 
 have become so complicated. But with her an idea always 
 carried in it the impulse to action. The moment she felt 
 she ought to do a thing she began trying to do it. This 
 morning she went with the crowd of workers over the 
 Twelfth Street Viaduct — day laborers chattering in 
 many tongues, factory workers, and hundreds of clerks — 
 the youth of a dozen lands pressing into American in- 
 dustry. Harden had often spoken to Frederica of the 
 pathos in the fact that these children of the nations had 
 high hopes and great trust in American principles and 
 did not realize that they were entering the prison houses 
 
 163 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 of the age to be worn out and flung aside •with, greater 
 disregard than in their native places. 
 
 The vagueness of what she intended to do when she 
 got on the other side of the viaduct allowed her mind to 
 wander to the destinies of the hurrying girls and boys. 
 They knew where they were going and how much a week 
 they were getting. Many of them knew each other, and in 
 none of their faces did she see melancholy or fear. She 
 felt suddenly that she was entering a new world, that 
 until this particular day at half -past seven she had been 
 an outsider. Now she was on the great highway of the 
 age — the way to work. 
 
 There should have been a military band playing for 
 these hundreds to march at the day's beginning. It was 
 the army of industry out for its early morning review, 
 going into the day's service without recognition from 
 those who were to be served, those who still slept in 
 warm beds far away from the camp of war. If there had 
 been music and honor and a sense of justice in the air, 
 the gray November day would have begun gloriously. 
 Erederica's cheeks grew red with the new warmth within 
 her. 
 
 At the other end of the viaduct the crowd began to 
 scatter — some north, some south. Many got into the street 
 cars and were carried a long distance to their places of 
 work. It was the crossroads for Frederica. She turned 
 north on State Street and walked ten minutes before she 
 came to a store big enough to give her a sense of being 
 inconspicuous. She went in and asked for the manager. 
 
 In her search for freedom from dependence, it would 
 have seemed more natural and fitting if she had looked 
 for a position of governess or secretary ; but she knew that 
 to get such a position she would have to tell who she 
 
 164 
 
THE DAY OF USTDEPENDENCE 
 
 was and get references, and so bring on the storm of her 
 father's disapproval and Anne's surprise. There was more 
 democracy and personal freedom in a store or factory, 
 she thought. Besides, to find work apparently better 
 adapted to her would require at least several days for 
 application and formality, and with her natural impetu- 
 osity she wanted to go home at noon with her position 
 assured. In her uncompromising way she had left at 
 home her purse with its few dollars, and had almost 
 grudged the stamp she had put on Harden's letter. But 
 as she entered this store she gave a sigh of relief ; she ex- 
 pected success at once, and could see herself coming in 
 that door morning after morning. 
 
 The manager had not come down, and the floorwalker 
 told her she could wait if she wanted to, but that there 
 was no chance of a job, if that was what she had come 
 for. She said that she would not wait and walked between 
 the counters, whose display was still covered with dingy 
 calico. The girls were beginning to arrange things, talk- 
 ing and laughing without rebuke, for there were no cus- 
 tomers at that hour. One of the girls at the ribbon coun- 
 ter, who was putting her remnant box in order, spoke to 
 Frederica as she passed. 
 
 " Looking for work ? " she asked. 
 
 " Tes," said Frederica, pausing. 
 
 " If you can sew hat braid, they're lookin' for girls at 
 Eeissner's — ^up the street two blocks. But they don't pay 
 you enough to live on, unless you're living home and don't 
 have no board." 
 
 " How much do you get ? " asked Frederica. 
 
 " Three dollars, but I live home." 
 
 Frederica thanked her and went on out of the store 
 and up the street. She was still so nerved to the en- 
 
 165 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 counter that courage ran high. The Eeissner wholesale 
 millinery sign did not tempt her, for although she was 
 living home she must pay board. As she walked along she 
 was figuring how much she must earn to pay her board 
 and buy her clothes; six or seven dollars she put at the 
 minimum, because she was planning to pay one-third of 
 their household expenses, just as Anne did. There was 
 rent, fire, light, food, and the service of the washerwoman 
 one day in the week. 
 
 The next big store that Frederica entered was all ready 
 for the day's custom, but as the custom had not yet come 
 in the girls were talking together, exchanging gossip and 
 gayety. The manager was in a small office near the credit 
 department, and outside his door waited a half dozen other 
 girls, who would all take precedence of her in applying 
 for work. She stood in line, and it was nearly half an 
 hour before she went in and the door swung to behind her. 
 She felt the manager taking her measure. 
 
 " What do you want ? " he asked, with a touch of the 
 facetious in his manner. 
 
 " Have you any vacancies ? " she asked. 
 
 " Perhaps we have, if you've had experience." 
 
 " No," said Erederica, turning at once to go. 
 
 "Well, wait — wait," he said, laughing. "You'll never 
 get a job if you're so easily discouraged. What do you 
 want?" 
 
 " Anjrthing," said Erederica. 
 
 " We like to have pretty girls in this store, and you're 
 the first one I've seen this morning. I'll find a place for 
 you.'' He rose to call an assistant, and as he passed 
 Frederica he put his hand familiarly on her shoulder. 
 "You don't look very strong," he said. "And we don't 
 want you here if you are the fainting, hysterical kind." 
 
 166 
 
THE DAY OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 " I have never fainted," replied Erederica. 
 
 " Used to being on your feet ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why — I think so," she said. 
 
 "Meyer," he said to the young Jew who came in, 
 " put this young lady in the men's hose department. 
 Kitty's gone, you know. Tell Gregg to make it easy for 
 her at first." He waved Erederica out, but she did not 
 start to go. 
 
 " How much do you pay ? " she asked, flushing with this 
 first experience of bargaining for her labor. 
 
 " Two-fifty at first," said the manager, sitting down 
 at his desk and pushing the bell for the next applicant 
 to come in. 
 
 " I can't stay here, then," she said. 
 
 Meyer, on the threshold of the other door, showed im- 
 patience. The manager spoke sharply. " Haven't you 
 a family ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, but I want to be independent," she answered. 
 
 He threw back his head with a laugh. " Well, my 
 pretty Miss Nancy, try it on two-fifty; and if you don't 
 want your family to help you, get some friend." 
 
 Erederica looked at him rather blankly. He saw that 
 she did not catch the meaning of the word " friend " as 
 he used it; he became explicit. 
 
 "I am being tmusually kind to you, putting you at 
 the men's hose counter. You can make friends there ; try 
 and make a silk-stocking one. Judge them by what they 
 buy. You needn't do the bargain-counter work, because 
 only their wives come there." 
 
 Erederica, for all her inexperience, understood now; 
 she turned and went out of the office by the same door 
 she had come in, which was not the usual procedure. Out- 
 side the file of girls was a long one, and as she passed 
 
 167 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 them slie looked in terror at them, thinking of the choice 
 they might make inside that office. Perhaps many of 
 them knew what he would say and would not be shocked. 
 And it may have been that Maggie had invited her sad 
 experience in this way. 
 
 It was not yet nine o'clock, but Frederica's courage 
 had passed its noon and was declining. In aU her shop- 
 ping visits to these big stores she had never even sus- 
 pected that any girl's way to work was through such 
 an office. And she could not bring herself to go into an- 
 other store. When she came to Eeissner's, the sobriety 
 of a wholesale place seemed respectable and safe, and she 
 went in. To her relief she was sent to the forewoman in 
 the hat-braiding department. 
 
 " You can make five dollars a week, if you're smart,'' 
 said the woman, and put Erederica between two girls 
 who were sewing rough braids with great rapidity. The 
 forewoman told her how to go to work, gave her a great 
 quantity of braid, and then left her to try alone. Ereder- 
 ica was naturally deft and she soon found the sewing easy, 
 but her fingers were not used to the braid, and after an 
 hour they began to feel sore. The room itself was large 
 and light, and the half hundred girls who were at work in 
 it were almost noiseless. They were doing piecework and 
 were so intent upon the amount they were accomplishing 
 they had no time to talk. Many of them looked nerv- 
 ous and strained. 
 
 For three hours Erederica worked. She was not think- 
 ing of anything except her task and her surroundings; 
 the long uncurtained windows indicated that there was 
 an outside world, but it was as though she knew nothing 
 but what she was seeing. Every once in a while she felt 
 almost overwhelmed with faintness, and when the noon 
 
 168 
 
THE DAT OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 ■whistle blew she suddenly bethought herself of the long 
 walk home to dinner. When she rose from the stooped 
 position in which she had been working, everything grew 
 black before her, and she had to lean against the table. 
 
 One of the two girls next to whom she had been seated 
 came up to her, putting on hat and cloak. "Where are 
 you going to eat ? " she asked. 
 
 " I was going home," said Frederica rather weakly. 
 
 " How far d'you live ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " On Desplaines near Twelfth Street." 
 
 " Gee ! " said the girl, " you won't have time, and if 
 you're more'n half an hour away you may get fired. I'll 
 show you a place next door, around the comer." 
 
 Frederica put on her hat and cloak, but at the door 
 she stopped and put her hand on the girl's arm. " I think 
 I will not eat any lunch," she said. 
 
 The girl put her arm around Frederica's waist and 
 jerked her along gayly. " It's my treat to-day," she said. 
 " You're a new girl, and that's what I always do for the 
 new girls." 
 
 That was the way the girl tactfully covered her belief 
 that Frederica was half-starved and without money. 
 
 Frederica accepted the invitation, and as they ate to- 
 gether in the cheap, dirty restaurant, she felt again the 
 surging warmth within her. She was one of the wage- 
 earners, and she had found the human heart of the age 
 beating in a girl who sewed hat braid and made at the 
 most seventy-five cents a day. 
 
 During the afternoon the work and the surroundings 
 fell back a little in Frederica's mind, and she began to 
 think of herself with regard to Eugene Harden. She 
 wondered if he had left town as he had said he was going 
 to, or if he had felt bound to stay after her wild state- 
 
 169 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 ment. As she sat there sewing gray braid for women's 
 hats, Frederica began to feel a return of the mortification 
 that had swept over her that morning when she remem- 
 bered that she had said she was engaged to a man who 
 had but a few moments before told her that he was 
 married. 
 
 "You look like you had a headache," said Erederica's 
 girl friend; "I wouldn't try to sew too much to-day. 
 I'll bet you can make a dollar a day when you get on 
 to it." 
 
 Erederiea was glad of the interruption, although her 
 body still tingled with the rush of blood from her heart 
 at the full acknowledgment to herself of what she had 
 done. She wondered how the meeting at the chapel had 
 gone off. The thought of her father's bowing to Sloane's 
 tyranny made her ashamed. She made up her mind to 
 tell her father that she was ashamed of him. In young 
 idealism she had no mercy, and did not realize that her 
 father could not be expected to give up all that he had 
 in the world in order that one man, a comparative 
 stranger, should have an hour's talk in the chapel. Like 
 a squirrel, she followed the circle of thoughts — ^Harden, 
 Mr. Sloane, and her father — ^until there seemed nothing 
 more to be thought, and yet she had not reached any 
 place. Was Eugene in Chicago, and would she ever have 
 to see him again? She wanted to explain it all to him, 
 and at the same time she was afraid to see him — for how 
 could she ever trust herself to speak again to him ? "What 
 might she not say? She was face to face with her own 
 strong impulse to go to him and beg him. to forgive her 
 — and way down in her heart she knew that probably she 
 would blunder again if she saw him. As the day grew 
 to a close she began for the first time in her life to see 
 
 170 
 
THE DAY OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 that life had mystery in it, that it was not a wide open 
 place of decided facts and absolute truths, but was a 
 winding road toward the unexpected and unknown. 
 
 It was dark when the girls stopped work. Frederica's 
 fingers were so cramped with their unusual activity that 
 she could hardly button her cloak or pin on her hat. 
 
 " If you're going my way," said the girl next her, 
 " come along now. You won't get paid until to-morrow 
 night, but I've got the car fare." 
 
 Frederiea put her two small hands on the girl's shoul- 
 ders. " You are so good to me," she said. " It has made 
 me almost happy to-day just to know you." 
 
 The girl was embarrassed. Their ways were opposite, 
 and Frederiea was glad of the long walk ahead of her. 
 
 She walked rather slowly because she was tired and was 
 planning what to say at home. The first impulse of 
 making a storm, of setting herself up as an example of 
 independence, was quieted. It would be better to take 
 her actions as a matter of course and consider that the 
 remarkable thing had been that she had not worked be- 
 fore, when there was every reason why she should. It 
 was after seven when she finally paused on the front steps 
 before going into the house. Her father and Anne would 
 be at supper, she thought, and she must be very matter 
 of fact with them, must not let them see any traces in 
 her account of the day's doings which would lead them 
 to suspect her of emotion. Never before had Frederiea 
 been conscious of her behavior before these two people, but 
 never before had she the least thought of any feeling to 
 conceal from them. 
 
 She went softly into the dark hallway and then into the 
 study. Eugene Harden was sitting on the couch, his face 
 hidden by his hands, and he did not hear her enter. Some- 
 12 171 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 thing had happened! Neither Anne nor her father was 
 there, nor were they in the dining room, whose door was 
 open. 
 
 " What has ha.ppened ? " she asked. 
 
 Harden lifted his head and rose quickly. " Frederica ! " 
 he cried, and took her, startled and unresisting, into his 
 arms. 
 
 " What's happened ? " she repeated. 
 
 " We were frightened about you ! " he answered, unpin- 
 ning her hat and throwing it on the floor. 
 
 She was still too startled to think what he was doing; 
 she hardly felt his lips on her rumpled hair and cold 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " he asked, as he helped her 
 out of her old cloak. " Tour father has gone out to 
 telephone Mrs. Parrish, Miss Forester has gone over to 
 the Scanlans', and I just telephoned to Mr. Sloane." 
 
 Frederica seated herself in front of the fire. " What 
 a fuss! Why, it's only a little after seven o'clock.'' 
 
 " Yes," said Eugene, " but you have been gone all day, 
 no one knew where, and your note to me — and the one 
 to your father." He leaned over the chair as though he 
 could not trust her not to slip into invisibility again. 
 
 Frederica, looking at the glowing coals, contracted at 
 the mention of the notes ; she stiffened a little and began 
 to resent the past two or three moments when he had 
 caressed her. 
 
 " I don't know why they should be. I went out to find 
 work." 
 
 Harden came between her and the fire. " Frederica," 
 he said, " don't you love me enough to marry me ? " 
 
 She looked up at him in a dazed sort of way, yet she 
 saw him distinctly as he stood there, tense with his ques- 
 
 172 
 
THE DAY or INDEPENDENCE 
 
 tion ; every little detail of his dress was plain to her, and 
 his eyes under their black brows. 
 
 " I can't," she said in a whisper. 
 
 " Can't what ? " he said, leaning toward her. 
 
 " I can't marry you." She leaned back in her chair so 
 as not to be so near to him, but he took hold of her 
 two hands and pulled her slowly to her feet, his eyes fixed 
 on hers. 
 
 " Freda, to-day I have learned that I am free. Do 
 you love me to-day ? " 
 
 She was pulling back from his hold upon her; there 
 flashed through her mind that perhaps he was not telling 
 the truth, that he was lying to-night as she had lied 
 the night before. But the thought which followed the 
 flash of suspicion was that she would rather be deceived, 
 would rather let him take the responsibility of a lie than 
 to let him go. The strain of the day was telling on her. 
 He stood there offering rest and comfort if she would say 
 yes to his question, if she would surrender in apparent 
 trust of him. Before he could have guessed that she had 
 any thought except of surprise at his news she said, 
 "Yes." 
 
 And when, this second time, his arms were about her 
 and his lips on hers, she knew it by the joy she felt in 
 every nerve. The surrender was intoxication; her eyes 
 closed, and her head, with its thoughts and suspicions 
 quieted, was on his shoulder. 
 
 There was absolute quiet in the room. Eugene was 
 stilled by the sight of her great emotion. He had not 
 thought her capable of anything but a girlish sentiment. 
 He had expected to waken the woman in her, and he was 
 finding it already awake. The discovery brought him a 
 sense of responsibility, and he looked over her head at 
 
 173 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 the opposite wall as though reading many questions there. 
 Erederica looked up and caught the look. It stirred again 
 her suspicion, but again she stifled the distrust; she 
 would not let him go now ! In sudden impulse she threw 
 her arms about his neck and kissed his face again and 
 again. He grew white under it, and spoke her name 
 softly, almost at the same moment that her father, stand- 
 ing in the doorway, spoke it loudly. 
 
 Frederica turned, went swiftly to her father — ^"I am 
 so sorry I frightened you all," she said without one tremor 
 of embarrassment that he had seen her kissing Eugene. 
 " But if I had come at noon I should have lost the place." 
 
 " What place ? " asked Dr. Hartwell, sinking weakly 
 into his big chair, for he had been very much frightened 
 these last two hours. 
 
 " At Eeissner's — ^I got work there this morning." 
 
 " Why ? " asked her father. 
 
 Erederica went to him and stroked his forehead sooth- 
 ingly. " I must be independent," she said, " and earn 
 my own living. I ought to have done that a long time 
 ago." 
 
 There was some annoyance in Dr. Hartwell's sigh. 
 " And do you intend to remain independent ? " he asked, 
 glancing at Harden. 
 
 " Why-T-why — " She looked from one to the other. 
 
 Harden emphasized the question by asking : " Are you 
 independent if you take money from Eeissner's ? " 
 
 " But it's better than taking it from Mr. Sloane," she 
 replied, and at the instant was sorry when she saw the 
 look on her father's face. 
 
 "You need not take it from either, Freda," said Eu- 
 gene, coming over to the two of them. " You shall have 
 money in your own right. It is yours now." Then. 
 
 174 
 
THE DAY OF INDEPENDElf CE 
 
 he turned directly to her father. "I ought hardly to 
 speak of such a thing so soon perhaps — ^but one half of 
 my income is for — my wife." 
 
 Frederica colored and stooped over to kiss her father. 
 It covered her confusion and his, for Dr. Hartwell had 
 not yet thought of her marriage with Harden as any- 
 thing except a vague supposition based on vague possi- 
 bility. 
 
 " This morning you told me — ^you vn-ote me — that — 
 that " 
 
 " I know," interrupted Frederica, " but I was mistaken. 
 I do love him," she whispered. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell rose with a great deal of dignity and 
 took Harden's hand. "This is very serious for me. I 
 shall have to ask you to forgive me if I show little 
 joy. I must get used to her being grown-up — and in 
 love." 
 
 Harden pressed his hand without a word. Frederica 
 felt a new sense of the mystery. It had never occurred 
 to her that her father would be so stirred. She wondered 
 if he would have felt so "serious" if it had been Alec 
 Sloane. 
 
 Just then Anne came in, breathless and anxious. She 
 had run almost all the way home from the Scanlans', 
 hoping to find Frederica. Now that she saw her she cried 
 a little on the girl's shoulder and scolded her gently for 
 worrying them. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell patted Anne's hand as it lay on Freder- 
 ica's arm. " Freda has come back, but I am afraid it is 
 not to stay long. She is going to marry Mr. Harden." 
 
 Harden saw Anne's start of surprise and the look of 
 fear that swept her face. And she knew that he saw it; 
 it made a distinct barrier between them, even when, after 
 
 175 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 a moment, she went to wliere he was standing by the fire 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 "I saw that you were as worried as we were — and I 
 had almost guessed why. But I cannot quite imagine 
 Freda — in love, or married." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider came in through the dining room; her 
 German rotundity almost filled the double door. 
 
 " So late and no Abendessen," she said. " I haf baked 
 cofiee Kuchen for your supper. It goes gut mit coffee.'' 
 
 Anne went back into the kitchen to see it, and Fred- 
 erica, with tremulous lips, began setting the table, while 
 Eugene stayed in the study to talk with Dr. Hartwell 
 just as he had done so many times. 
 
 1Y6 
 
BOOK TWO 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE RETURN TO SUSPICION 
 
 ^I^W^HE train flying fast througli the twilight began 
 m CA to slacken its speed just outside of Chicago. 
 ^^^^^ Frederica looked out upon the shrouded mass 
 ahead with its fringe of outreaching lighted 
 avenues. As the train went on by the suburbs it passed 
 through stretches of uncultivated land lying there quiet, 
 like rural parentheses in the tale of a crowded city. 
 Little by little the dim mass began to grow ragged on its 
 upper edge; chimneys and roofs jutted into the smoky 
 sunset sky. The thousands of chimneys were scratching 
 the creed of industrialism upon a murky sky, a gloomy 
 creed on a dingy page, but Frederica was glad to see it 
 — it was Chicago! 
 
 The lights in the Pullman had not been lit and she 
 could see the gray-purple pictures through the window. 
 Eugene came in from the smoker and sat down beside her. 
 
 " Isn't it wonderful ? " she said, without turning her 
 head. 
 
 For answer he put his hand over her gloved one and 
 looked with her for a moment ; then he let his eyes rest on 
 her. She looked very young as she sat there. He had 
 chosen her hat and traveling coat, and she had never 
 looked so well. Another might have suggested bright 
 colors to light up her pallor and her hair, but it had 
 
 179 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 pleased his fancy to put her in gray, and bo enhance her 
 characteristics — ^which were those of twilight or dawn, 
 half tones, promises of color through mist, indefinite, im- 
 palpable, and subtle. 
 
 Erederica turned suddenly, and he saw that her eyes 
 glistened with tears. 
 
 " Eugene," she said softly, " something will happen. 
 I am too happy — ^I am afraid ! " Her hand turned palm 
 upward under his and clung to it. 
 
 They had been married three months and had been all 
 that time in the South, where they had found the spring, 
 and were now bringing it with them to their old 
 home. There had been two months between the day of 
 Erederica's search for independence and the marriage. 
 During all that time she had lived as in a dream. Not 
 once again did that first flash of suspicion come into 
 her memory, for Eugene was too happy, too wholly re- 
 vealed, to make it seem possible that he had a secret of 
 any sort. And Erederica was bom to trust. Never in 
 her life had she distrusted. 
 
 During the time of the preparation Dr. Hartwell and 
 Eugene had both been so busy with the organization of 
 the lumbermen, that after all they had seen little of Ered- 
 erica and Anne. Dr. Hartwell had shown his resentment 
 of Sloane's order by working much more definitely and 
 energetically for the things for which Eugene Harden 
 stood. He used the chapel only for religious meetings, 
 and the women and children came as usual ; and as usual 
 the men did not come. But he had spoken in a great 
 many of the hall meetings, and had gone several times 
 with Eugene to the committees. 
 
 Little by little Harden had inspired these two thou- 
 sand men with the necessary self-confidence. They had 
 
 180 
 
THE EETUEE^ TO SUSPICION 
 
 won their strike largely through his assistance, although 
 he held an unofficial position. He had gained the pub- 
 lic sjrtnpathy in certain circles uptown for the eight- 
 hour day, and he had won by his magnetism, his vitality, 
 in personal intercourse with the members of the Union 
 League Club, and with the friends of the Gilfeathers; 
 and he had kept withal a certain reserve, a certain im- 
 personal attitude toward the object for which he was 
 striving, which gave him a position such as no other man 
 in Chicago occupied. Once he had spoken at Central 
 Music Hall, and the big auditorium was filled largely 
 with the young business men of the town, and, although 
 he spoke of class antagonisms, and emphasized the con- 
 flicts in industry between capital and labor, he seemed 
 rather to be destroying the antagonism between the two. 
 
 Even into Frederica's dream, while she and Anne sewed 
 and were for the time being conventional women, plan- 
 ning for the bridal, she felt the great stirring in the 
 city. She felt that it was due to this man who had come 
 as a stranger among them. She talked about him with 
 pride to the Scanlans, to Mr. Schneider, even to Mr. 
 Flanagan, who was apparently on the best of terms with 
 the workmen. 
 
 Daily, Frederica grew in stature toward that of a 
 woman who was capable of interest in subjects outside the 
 home. It did not seem that Eugene Harden was trying 
 in any way to influence her toward his beliefs. He had 
 the foreign feeling in his blood about women, although 
 his belief in them was very great. But he told Freder- 
 ica one time that when he flrst saw her he saw her as a 
 young girl, sitting in the sunshine with her lap full of 
 jeweled beads that sparkled, and that he had known in 
 that glimpse that if she was startled she would spring 
 
 181 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 to her feet and scatter them in her terror; and he had 
 told her rather laughingly that he wanted to give her the 
 silken thread of his philosophy, that she might string 
 these bright beads of her life and keep them. Of course 
 he did not know that his shadow, fallen before her, had 
 startled her. He did not guess the very day he appeared 
 was for her the beginning of a conflict between the 
 natural unthinking girl and the woman growing self- 
 conscious. Her father's influence had kept her sym- 
 pathies astir, and she was naturally impulsive in be- 
 half of others. But this man had come with a determined 
 hand, and his own poise and self-control, his intensity of 
 purpose, made him the strongest influence without any 
 effort. So many afternoons she had listened, and only 
 now and then she spoke up in her odd way. Her m^an- 
 ner of speech was always a fascination. It was shadowed 
 by intensity, and for emphasis she let her silence slip 
 in before the word she felt was the climax. The pause 
 was not hesitation, but the flight of the thought from 
 heart to word; for Frederica's thoughts were from her 
 heart. 
 
 Harden treated her somewhat as a child, but little by 
 little he grew proud of her interest and of the grasp she 
 had; and she knew that and planned how they should 
 work together. The book he had been writing on the 
 industrial conditions of America was for her a text-book 
 — not only facts, but of his ways of thinking — and un- 
 consciously she had given him many suggestions, and had 
 shown him where the highest fruit of the land was: un- 
 conscious self-confidence, and a belief, not ashamed of 
 itself, in ideals. Of the things which disillusioned him he 
 seldom spoke, and neither she nor her father guessed his 
 discouragement. 
 
 182 
 
THE EETURN TO SUSPICION 
 
 They were married in tlie chapel, and there were veiy 
 few present. The Sloanes had sent a handsome wedding 
 gift, but without a word of congratulation. Anne had 
 been somewhat depressed, though she tried her best to 
 conceal it. It was not so much that Frederica was leav- 
 ing her as it was her own unhappiness, for she began 
 to think of the future. She would not be able to stay on 
 there at the house after Frederica's departure. Anne's 
 suspicion of Harden showed only occasionally, and it was, 
 after all, only the national conventional feeling against 
 any foreigner. Sometimes she tried to get him to talk 
 about Austria, about the conditions over there, and the 
 laws, but he was always loath to talk about them. He 
 said quite frankly that he wanted to forget that p«i1. of 
 his life. 
 
 Frederica began to realize that his reserve was im- 
 penetrable, not that she was really curious or desirous 
 of going back of the present which was for her so fidl; 
 but it surrounded him with a certain formality which to 
 many women would have been tantalizing. Not to her, 
 because in her dreams she had not conceived of so great 
 an intimacy of body and spirit as had come to her in 
 these three months. 
 
 And now they were almost home. She did not ask 
 where they were going, and got into the carriage that was 
 waiting for them, a little surprised that her father and 
 Anne had not met them. 
 
 " I told them we would see them to-morrow," said Eu- 
 gene. And Frederica knew that she was no longer one 
 of her father's family, but one of his. 
 
 The streets were deserted in the dusk, and Harden 
 looked out at them with an expression that Frederica 
 could not understand. It was the first of May, and their 
 
 183 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 carriage was going through the street where the great 
 labor parade had passed. All that was left of it was 
 cluttered sidewalk, bits of wind-swept bunting, and si- 
 lence. It was like the thoroughfares of the past — empty 
 of the ideals and illusions which had brought the crowds 
 for a short time. Earlier in the day an idea had surged 
 up and down, had marched and sung, but later it was dis- 
 integrated and scattered among alleys and avenues. The 
 street was now a forlorn streak like a dash written be- 
 fore the words " and now ? " It is very dreary to follow 
 in the wake of a people's excitement. 
 
 Frederica touched Eugene's hand sjTnpathetically. 
 " You wanted to be here this morning very much, didn't 
 you?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You ought not to have — humored me ; I was not sick 
 enough to delay ; it was only a cold." 
 
 " But I could not risk your illness." 
 
 " I don't want ever to interfere with your plans, Eu- 
 gene." She spoke almost timidly. 
 
 " A woman can't help that." 
 
 " Oh 1 " she said in surprise, for there was a hint of 
 resignation in his voice. " You believe that I m.ay come 
 between you and your work ? " 
 
 "Very often." He turned as though to kiss her, but 
 she felt he was seeking a compensation for what she might 
 possibly deprive him of, and she managed to look out of 
 the carriage window without his guessing that she had 
 evaded a caress from him. It was the first break in her 
 unthinking happiness as his wife: that he believed she 
 would interfere with his work. 
 
 The day they had planned to start home she had had 
 a chill and a little fever, and he had insisted upon wait- 
 
 184 
 
THE RETUEN TO SUSPICIOIsr 
 
 ing until she was better. At the time she had not 
 guessed that it meant a serious break in his plans, for 
 he was so quiet and matter-of-fact about it. Now that 
 she had discovered his disappointment it was too late. 
 
 For six months he had been working in every way for 
 the demonstration of an accepted idea on this first of 
 May. He had spoken of the day as the first one of a 
 new age, and had planned even the details of the demon- 
 stration itself. Erederica had almost forgotten the sig- 
 nificance of the day, carried away as she was by her per- 
 sonal happiness. Now she was recalling it in the dusk, 
 and in her self-accusation could find no words to give to 
 him. She sat silent until the carriage stopped and she 
 saw that they were at the Leland. 
 
 Everyone there turned about to look at them as they 
 came in, for they were an unusual pair. Eugene's defi- 
 nite lines and fine, striking appearance, Erederica's 
 elusiveness both in line and color, were very marked 
 side by side. The clerk addressed her as Mrs. Harden, 
 and she recognized him as the one she had seen that 
 night she had come over from the West Side. The boy 
 carried their bags to Harden's old suite. Just inside 
 the door her heart almost stopped beating, so vivid was 
 her remembrance of her former entrance. The room was 
 the same, even to Eugene's personal belongings, but there 
 were roses instead of chrysanthemums. In the adjoin- 
 ing bedroom were quantities of flowers, too; in there she 
 breathed more freely because there were no associations. 
 
 Dinner was served for them in front of the fire. While 
 the waiter was placing the dishes, and while Eugene was 
 dressing in the other room, Erederica moved about the 
 room looking at the photographs and books, asking a few 
 questions, and taking the answers very seriously. Now 
 
 185 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 and then she paused wherever she happened to be and 
 listened. How strange it was to have a husband in the 
 next room singing snatches while he dressed! When he 
 stopped short she knew it was because he had met with 
 some difficulty in tying his cravat or putting in his 
 cuff buttons. Eugene came out upon her in one of these 
 fits of attention, and laughed when she told him that the 
 only time he seemed a very real person was when he was 
 occupied with something else. 
 
 " When you're looking at me the way you are now, you 
 are not there and I am not here, but there is something 
 iust between these two places — ^just a — ^just a blended 
 sensation." 
 
 At their dinner she was full of gayety, but afterwards 
 sat a long time looking at the fire, elbow on knee, chin 
 in hand; and he not knowing at all what she was think- 
 ing, sat watching her and delaying the moment when 
 he knew that he must seize her in his arms and question 
 what was in her mind. The quiet, however, was broken 
 by a knock at the door. Erederica jumped. It was like 
 the knock that night when the world had entered with 
 its necessity of convention. Eugene went to the door 
 and took the card that was offered. 
 
 " I will come down," he said. " It is very strange that 
 I should have a caller, for no one except the clerk knew 
 of my arrival to-day. But I must go down." He kissed 
 her and left her in front of the fire. 
 
 After a few moments she roused herself from her half 
 thoughtful reverie and glanced about the room. From 
 outside came the muffled sounds of the night, but in the 
 room it was very quiet. She rose and moved about the 
 room, looking again at the books and pictures. Many of 
 the books were in French and German. The inscriptions 
 
 186 
 
THE EETUKN TO SUSPICION 
 
 on the photograplis were for the most part in one or the 
 other. Frederiea began to realize that Eugene had be- 
 longed to a world whose speech she could not have un- 
 derstood had she been in it. It was not pleasant to think 
 of. One of the photographs was that of a particularly 
 striking woman whose dark eyes and hair and plump 
 shoulders seemed beautiful to Frederica. Yet holding 
 the picture at a distance she decided that, although the 
 woman was beautiful, she would not have liked her. The 
 inscription underneath was a long one in French, but the 
 date was the only thing she could read. It was but two 
 years old. 
 
 Frederica put down the photograph and went to the 
 long mirror and looked steadily at herself. She did not 
 care for what she saw. It was too vague and colorless 
 a girl who looked back at her. There were shadows of 
 weariness under her eyes, and her hair was not in the 
 order it should be. 
 
 She sat down again in front of the fire and waited; it 
 seemed a long time since he had left the room. In a child- 
 ish sort of way she tried to thinic what she should feel 
 if he never came back. Suppose sometime he should go 
 out of the door, and she should wait and wait and in the 
 end never see him? Would all these months, all his love 
 be like a dream, or would it become her reality? She 
 pictured herself back in her little prim room with its 
 few bits of furniture and its outlook on a back porch. If 
 she were in that room to-night, would she feel just as she 
 used to when she crept under the blankets and found 
 a comfortable place for her head on a comer of the pillow ? 
 Or would she be very lonely and unhappy? She could 
 not tell, for neither one thing nor the other seemed real. 
 
 But there was reality in her wish that he should come 
 13 187 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 up from downstairs. Suddenly her heart stopped. Sup- 
 pose the man downstairs had come to tell him that he 
 was known to be married to a woman in Austria! The 
 suspicion which had had but a moment's existence months 
 before, as she supposed, was full of life, and without any 
 reason, unless it was because she was in the room where 
 he had told her that he was not free, and that he had 
 been tempted to pretend to her that he was. Yet at the 
 same instant that her mind touched upon such a possi- 
 bility, the passion that he had roused in her came to 
 conscious life. She sprang to her feet and covered her 
 eyes with her hands, her muscles all tense. The door 
 swung to upon the Prederica that had been. 
 
 Harden found her walking up and down the room. 
 When he came in she looked at him with frightened eyes. 
 
 " Who was it ? " she asked. 
 
 " Sloane's foreman," he answered. " There is another 
 strike, and he seems to be the chief trouble-maker." 
 Then he paused and said doubtfully : " There is some- 
 thing I do not understand. There are a great many new 
 men in the yards." 
 
 " I was afraid that you were not coming back to me," 
 said Frederica in a suppressed voice, going toward him 
 as though she were to take him unawares. She stopped 
 before she reached him. 
 
 "You will always come back to me whenever you go 
 away — ^won't you?" 
 
 "Freda? What is it?" 
 
 "I think it's — ^love," she said. 
 
 He was going to take her in his arms, but she looked 
 up at him. " Don't just now," she said. " I want to get 
 used to myself, first." 
 
 Whether or not he felt her wish as serious, he tried to 
 188 
 
THE EETURN TO SUSPICION 
 
 distract his attention from her and picked up the mail 
 that was waiting for him. As he opened and read the 
 letters she watched him; her eyes gloried in every little 
 detail of his appearance with a new sense of possession. 
 
 Once when he looked up, for he was not seeing what he 
 read at all, and was using all his will to respect her mood 
 whatever it might be, she said: 
 
 " I must learn Trench and German." 
 
 "Yes," he said, wondering why she should think of 
 that. 
 
 One of his letters did catch his attention and held it, 
 so that for a moment he forgot her. She watched his 
 interest and grew jealous. From where she was stand- 
 ing by the fireplace she went to him and put her arms 
 about his neck and her lips on his cheek. 
 
 " Can't your letters wait until morning ? " she asked. 
 
 " Woman ! Woman ! " he laughed, drawing her to him, 
 the last effort at restraint over. 
 
 Frederica started at the word. It capped her new self- 
 consciousness. 
 
 189 
 
CHAP.TER n 
 
 THE FIRE 
 
 '^^^^^HE next morning the papers were full of the 
 M 0\ big fire in the Sloanes' lumber yard. The fire 
 ^^^^V had begun shortly after midnight and had 
 burned its way through the most valuable piles 
 of lumber before it was discovered, and all night it had 
 been burning and had given no chance for the search of 
 the incendiary. 
 
 Outside the committee room of the Lumbermen's Union 
 excitement was running high. Groups of men were read- 
 ing the different accounts in the papers and discussing 
 the effect of this disaster upon the strike. It was not 
 more important for Sloane to know who set the fire than 
 it was for the strikers. Some of them wanted to go out 
 at once to hunt down one or two suspected persons who 
 were supposed to have a grudge against the union, but 
 all waited for Gustav Lange, who had become the power- 
 ful leader since the beginning of the recent trouble. Oc- 
 casionally one of the men in the committee hall expressed 
 a covert joy that there had been this destruction of their 
 employer's wealth, but such remarks were quickly silenced 
 by others who knew that a word dropped incautiously 
 might implicate the whole union. 
 
 190 
 
THE FIEE 
 
 At nine o'clock Lange came in and was approached by 
 a half dozen of the noisiest talkers and questioned as to 
 what should be done in the matter. 
 
 " You know as much about it as I do, boys," he said. 
 He had come in with his usual swagger, but seemed anx- 
 ious to get through into his committee room. As he stood 
 unlocking the door, he turned to those nearest him and 
 said loudly, " The devil's to pay if we don't find the scab 
 who did it. Sloane will accuse the union and run the 
 whole lot of us into jail." 
 
 He went into the committee room alone, leaving the 
 discussion to its vague generalities outside. After he 
 had closed the door behind him, all the bluster and in- 
 difference of his manner dropped from him. He walked 
 restlessly up and down the room, looking out of the win- 
 dow and glancing at the watch which he held in his 
 hand. 
 
 At exactly half -past nine there was a knock on the 
 door, and he jumped as though he had not been expecting 
 anyone. He opened it quickly, however, and let in John 
 Scanlan, who was followed by the noise of discussion and 
 the smell of tobacco. A few men looked curiously into 
 the room before the door was shut, but Lange made a 
 sign that he did not care to have them come in. 
 
 Scanlan held his head high and smiled. " Well ? " he 
 asked in a tone that showed he expected approval. 
 
 Lange rushed toward him. " Tou damned fire-breeding 
 scoundrel ! " he said in a suppressed voice which was far 
 more sinister than any shouting could have been. " Why 
 didn't you follow my directions ? " 
 
 Scanlan's astonishment kept him from replying. 
 
 " You've ruined me ! " said Lange, grabbing the man's 
 arm. 
 
 191 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Scanlan spoke slowly. "You ain't got no interest in 
 the lumber yard, have you ? " 
 
 " Good God ! " said Lange, " why didn't you follow my 
 directions and start the fire in the northeast comer where 
 that old second-hand stuff was thrown ? " 
 
 "You never said where I should start it." Scanlan 
 began to raise his voice. 
 
 "Didn't tell you! Where are the directions you got 
 yesterday ? " 
 
 " Didn't get any," answered Scanlan. 
 
 Lange was petrified. "I mailed them to you day be- 
 fore yesterday in the evening." 
 
 Scanlan shook his head dumbly. "The postman 
 couldn't have left it. I never get any mail." 
 
 N"either of the two men spoke for a moment, and then 
 Lange looked Scanlan straight in the eye. " You wanted 
 to set that fire where it would do most damage I You're 
 lying about that letter." 
 
 Scanlan shook his fist in the other man's face. " I've 
 done your dirty work for you, and I've had my reasons 
 for being glad to do it, but I won't Btand your calling 
 me a liar ! " 
 
 At this moment there was a noise outside, and Lange 
 turned to Scanlan. " The best thing you can do to-day 
 is to keep with the men and talk loud about the disgrace 
 to the union that this has happened. Be the first one to 
 start and hunt for the man who did it. Not that I much 
 care whether you get caught or not 1 " 
 
 Scanlan said nothing. Tear was beginning to show 
 under his anger. He turned and walked slowly to the 
 door, thinking deeply. Just as he put his hand on the 
 door knob, Lange came up close behind him. 
 
 " If they catch you, hold your tongue ! " 
 192 
 
THE riKE 
 
 Scanlan looked at him and went out. 
 
 Again Lange walked up and down the room, apparently 
 unable to decide what to do ; and again he looked at his 
 watch, and left to go to Harden's house. 
 
 At Eugene Harden's house, which, unknown to Freda, 
 he had bought for her on the North Side, Maggie Flana- 
 gan was dusting the library for the twentieth time that 
 morning. It was a large well-lighted room, and its fur- 
 niture and hangings had been chosen by Harden before 
 he went away. It had a foreign look to it, in spite of 
 the fact that Dr. Hartwell and Anne had arranged the 
 things. A large double door led into the hall ; there were 
 long French windows, an open fireplace in which a fire 
 was burning, and the room was in perfect order, except 
 for packing boxes full of books which stood near the 
 bookshelves at the back of the room. Every principle 
 of dusting which had been inculcated by Mrs. Parrish 
 was being put into practice. There was no soubrette 
 flourishing of gay feather duster, but a sober mind 
 and righteous removal of foreign particles with a piece 
 of cheese cloth. To be sure, the cheese cloth was 
 feather-stitched in red and belonged to the set which 
 Anne had made. Maggie was on her knees rubbing 
 the rounds of a chair when Mrs. Schneider came in 
 from the kitchen where she had been helping Anne, and 
 untied a bundle she carried. From her knees Maggie 
 looked with disapproval at the knit lace squares which 
 appeared. 
 
 " What they need is vases, Mrs. Schneider, not tidies. 
 Tidies ain't in style." 
 
 "Ach, ja!" said Mrs. Schneider, carefully putting one 
 of them on an upholstered chair back. "It's against 
 their heads making der new furniture schmutzig — dirty. 
 
 193 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 When I was verheirathet — I had many schoner als 
 dese." 
 
 Maggie folded her dusting cloth and put it in her 
 pocket. " Did you make 'em yourself ? " she asked. 
 
 " Ja, gewiss — sure. All since der time Miss Freda 
 called upstairs, ' Oh, Mrs. Schneider, I am to be married 
 already next month ' — her cheeks red mit joy und glad- 
 ness." Mrs. Schneider laid two more tidies on two more 
 chairs. " Gott ! What for good luck for a girl to marry 
 a rich man und nicht zn wissen ! Gott ! " 
 
 Maggie was silent a moment. " I knew he was rich, 
 but riches ain't — everything." 
 
 " How did you know ? " said Mrs. Schneider. 
 
 Maggie hesitated. " Some one told me — some one who 
 used to know him when he was a foreigner and lived to 
 home." 
 
 The effect of the fourth tidy made a strong appeal to 
 Mrs. Schneider. She stepped back and looked at it ad- 
 miringly. " Schon, nicht ? Nice ? " she asked. 
 
 Maggie looked critical. " D'you like it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Schneider crossed the room to slip the fifth under 
 an imported jardiniere. " But for Miss Freda nicht zu 
 beautiful. Tou stay by her and her man ? " 
 
 " Miss Anne says Mr. Harden may have somebody else 
 for the place, but if he hasn't, I will." 
 
 "It's viel besser for you als workin' in a store, Mag- 
 gie," said Mrs. Schneider, looking at her meaningly. 
 " Viel besser, but nicht so easy." Then, apparently dis- 
 satisfied with Maggie's enjoyment of her decorative ef- 
 forts, she added: "I like to haf Dr. Hartwell come und 
 see." 
 
 She went to the door and called him from the adjoin- 
 ing room, where he was unpacking Harden's books. When 
 
 194 
 
THE FIKE 
 
 he came in Mrs. Schneider indicated the tidies with pride 
 — " Schon, nicht ? Little presents for Miss Freda." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was amazed, hut recovered himself quickly 
 and said: "You are very kind, Mrs. Schneider, but 
 wouldn't it be better to — to put them all in a bundle 
 and — surprise her? " 
 
 She laughed. " Nein ; it's a grosser surprise to see der 
 tidies all out. iDutzend tidies are little over against 
 what you haf been by us. Ten years," she turned to 
 Maggie, "und always busy mit kindness." 
 
 Anne came in with a big box of flowers. " Get me 
 something to put these in, Maggie," she said, and then 
 she explained to the doctor : " They are from Alec Sloane. 
 He shows a very beautiful spirit." She saw the tidies. 
 "Why, Mrs. Schneider!" 
 
 " Schon, nicht ? " said the German woman, who was 
 folding the paper they had come in. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was surveying the room with real pleas- 
 ure in his face. " Her mother used to be afraid that if 
 she grew up on the West Side, in such a poor part of 
 town, that she would never have an opportunity to marry 
 well." 
 
 Anne said nothing. She was always indignant at the 
 idea of Mrs. Hartwell's not having sympathized with her 
 husband's work. He did not expect any answer, and 
 seated himself in the leather armchair with the remark 
 that he would be tempted to come often in order to sit 
 in it. 
 
 "Und jump der babies, so," said Mrs. Schneider as 
 she went out to make Vienna Kaffeekuchen for Mr. 
 Harden. 
 
 Maggie turned from the window in great excitement. 
 " Wisht you could see ! They're coming ! " 
 
 195 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Dr. Hartwell jumped to his feet. Anne shored the 
 empty box and wrapping paper under the sofa out of 
 sight. " And you haven't set the table, Maggie ! " 
 
 "It's not them, but — " She ran out of the room to 
 answer the bell and came back almost immediately, fol- 
 lowed by three men carrying a floral offering in the 
 shape of a monstrous horseshoe in " everlastings," which 
 were suggestive of a funeral. Maggie announced the 
 men with dignity. "The committee," she said on the 
 threshold. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell shook hands with the foremost one, who 
 was looking for a suitable place to put the horseshoe. 
 " The men wanted to show Mr. Harden what they think 
 of him." 
 
 Anne made room on a side table. " Lean it against the 
 wall here," she said. 
 
 Steiner, the head of the committee, put the horseshoe 
 in the prominent place and regarded it. " The luck will 
 run out the two ends," he said, " but they put the words 
 on wrong side up." 
 
 As he turned to go. Dr. Hartwell asked him if he had 
 any further news about the fire in the lumber yards. 
 " It is a dreadful thing," he said, " destruction of prop- 
 erty — a dreadful thing." 
 
 Steiner shook his head. "We don't know anything 
 but what the papers said, that it was started by some 
 man in the union. That is one of their lies to get the 
 sympathy away from us workingmen. We have more 
 sense than to start a fire." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Dr. Hartwell, "I must say that I 
 have never met any of your friends who would be likely 
 to do such a thing as that. But we must find the offender. 
 The laws of this country must be obeyed." 
 
 196 
 
THE FIEE 
 
 Then lie asked him about the strike. But Steiner -was 
 noncommittal and evidently desirous of going back at 
 once to the committee. 
 
 Before he was out the front door Anne gave way to 
 her feelings : " The room is ruined," she said. " Those 
 tidies and that ! " 
 
 Dr. Hartwell said that he liked the sentiment they ex- 
 pressed. " It is really wonderful what a hold Eugene has 
 on the men." 
 
 " Yes," said Anne, with a tinge of nonagreement to 
 the word. 
 
 " You can't get over your dislike for him — can you ? " 
 
 " No," said Anne. Then she went to the door. " Are 
 you going to give up your work and do his ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! No, indeed ! " said Dr. Hartwell. " I must 
 stick to the chapel — look after their souls — on weekdays — 
 well, on weekdays I shall help Eugene look after their 
 bodies. They made a great showing yesterday. A hun- 
 dred thousand men, Anne — a hundred thousand men 
 marching for one idea." 
 
 " Would it be possible for you to live here with — 
 them, and yet keep up your work at the chapel ? " 
 
 " Why, Anne ! " It was not a question, but an ejacu- 
 lation of complete surprise. Anne explained hurriedly. 
 
 " I don't see how I can stay on at your house, with no 
 one else there — it isn't conventional." 
 
 " Nonsense," replied the doctor. " You startled me. I 
 thought there was some real reason." 
 
 " That is real to me," replied Anne, and went out of the 
 room, and the doctor looked after her in perplexity. 
 Then he went to the door and called Maggie. 
 
 "Get me the hatchet, will you," he said; and when 
 she had brought it he ripped off the top of the wooden 
 
 197 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 eases and began putting the books on the shelves, Mag- 
 gie helping' him. Once the doctor looked thoughtfully 
 at her. " I hope, Maggie " — he paused and she seemed 
 a little frightened by the seriousness of his voice — "I 
 hope you are proving yourself worthy of Freda's — of my 
 daughter's confidence in you." 
 
 Maggie brightened. " Oh, yes," she said. " Mrs. Par- 
 rish never asked me any questions, and I just stayed 
 there and worked ever since the day Miss Freda took 
 me there." 
 
 " And you never see — ^that man ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Maggie. " I've never seen him since." 
 
 Then the door bell rang and she was glad of the inter- 
 ruption, but when she came back her little Irish face was 
 drawn and white. She was followed by Gustav Lange, 
 who stopped on the threshold. 
 
 " Is Mr. Harden here ? " he asked. 
 
 " I told you he was not," said Maggie. 
 
 " Then I'll wait," said Lange. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Lange," said Dr. Hartwell, " you've come to 
 get Mr. Harden's advice about the strike? But he has 
 not arrived yet. We expect him any moment." 
 
 Lange said nothing, and Dr. Hartwell asked him to 
 sit down. 
 
 " Mr. Sloane has often told me," he said, " that he could 
 depend on you, but he must be much disappointed." 
 
 " I am a good union man," said Lange. " I have to 
 stand for the union." 
 
 " But you made a contract, didn't you ? " said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Mr. Sloane broke it," said Lange. 
 
 " I am afraid," said the doctor, " that you are not quite 
 fair." Then he turned to Maggie. " I am going now 
 
 198 
 
THE FIEE 
 
 to meet them. I was to call at the hotel and come back 
 •with them so that it would be a complete surprise for 
 Mrs. Harden. Make yourself at home," he said to Lange, 
 and went out. 
 
 Maggie had been dusting books with her back to Lange, 
 but now she turned. " 'Tisn't right you should be here 
 when they come." 
 
 Lange took a step forward. " Why not ? " He seized 
 her arm and looked at her suspiciously. 
 
 It seemed impossible for Maggie to put her reason into 
 words, but he kept his eyes on hers, and she finally said : 
 
 " You don't like him ; and when he comes here, he'd 
 ought to be with people who like him." 
 
 Lange did not release her arm, and she was trembling. 
 " What makes you think I don't like him ? " 
 
 Maggie stared up at him without replying. 
 
 "What makes you?" he said, lowering his voice and 
 looking at her steadily. 
 
 " You told me so." 
 
 " When ? " Lange was startled. 
 
 " That night after you was made foreman at Sloane's." 
 
 " I was drunk, wasn't I ? " 
 
 "Not very." Maggie backed away from him and 
 leaned against the recently decorated table. The arch 
 of the horseshoe framed her curly hair and was not 
 whiter than her face. Lange came in front of her with 
 compelling eyes. " Tell me what I said." 
 
 She shook her head. " You used awful language." 
 
 " What did I say ? " he reiterated, coming closer. 
 
 "I don't remember the words," said Maggie, pushing 
 back against the table. " You were swearing." 
 
 Lange looked relieved. "I always swear at everybody 
 when I'm drunk," 
 
 199 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " What do you want — to-day ? " she asked. 
 
 Lange leaned forward and kissed her suddenly. "To 
 see you." 
 
 She drew her little figure erect. "Don't you ever 
 touch me again ! " she said. " Miss Ereda is coming 
 back." 
 
 Anne called to Maggie, who ran out of the room as 
 though pursued. Lange, left to himself, walked about 
 the room. Then he sat down, lit a cigarette, and at once 
 seemed at ease, without any semblance of the working- 
 man about him. At the sound of the bell, however, he 
 assumed the embarrassed air of his former interview, sat 
 on the edge of his chair, and held his soft hat in his 
 two hands between his knees. When the door opened 
 he jumped to his feet, for Alexander Sloane was there and 
 telling Maggie that he must see Dr. Hartwell at once. 
 
 " He's just gone," said Maggie, " to meet Mr. Harden 
 and Miss Ereda. But Miss Anne is here.'' And before 
 Sloane could say whether or not he wished to see Miss 
 Eorester, she had disappeared. 
 
 When Sloane saw Lange, he stopped in surprise. " Why 
 are you here ? " he asked. 
 
 " On business," said Lange. 
 
 " A fine piece of work last night." 
 
 " It wasn't my fault," said Lange. " Some one who 
 had a grudge against you did the thing." 
 
 " But you picked him," said Sloane, coming toward 
 Lange, with growing anger in his face. " You are respon- 
 sible, you understand. You will have to take the con- 
 sequences." 
 
 " I think not," said Lange. " I think that you would 
 hardly consider it good policy to make me take the con- 
 sequences," 
 
 200 
 
THE FIEE 
 
 "You have destroyed thousands of dollars' worth of 
 lumber, and you'll have to pay for it." 
 
 Lange looked quite indifferent and unmoved, except 
 that his hands were ill at ease and restless. " Let your 
 combine, let the men who are making a cat's-paw of 
 you pay for it." 
 
 Sloane turned and looked at him. "What do you 
 mean ? " he said. 
 
 " Tou know,'' said Lange. " You have not taken me 
 into your confidence, but I'm on to the ganje. You've got 
 to destroy the imions in order to stand in with the trust. 
 They've put the job up to you, and you've put it up to 
 me, and I can prove it. Why are you here ? " he asked, 
 becoming in turn the dictatorial one as he saw that 
 Sloane had not denied his statement. 
 
 The door opened and Alec Sloane, breathless, came in. 
 " It came just after you left." He handed a thick square 
 letter with a foreign stamp to his father. 
 
 Mr. Sloane tore it open and glanced through it. " You 
 were right," he said to Lange, without any animosity in 
 his voice now. It was almost as though he had shaken 
 hands with him. Then he turned to his son. 
 
 " This," he $aid, indicating the letter, " corroborates 
 Lange's story about Harden. I didn't more than half 
 believe you," he said to Lange, whose face had lighted 
 up with the same look of victory as in the lumber yard 
 when he had so frightened Maggie. 
 
 Alec looked from one to the other, and his father met 
 the inquiry. " Our foreign friend has a wife in Austria." 
 
 "Hungary," corrected Lange. 
 
 " Harden ? " asked Alee, who stood petrified. 
 
 His father seemed to enjoy the impression he had made 
 upon him. "You need not be so surprised," he said. 
 
 201 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " I told you he was crooked. Any man who comes into a 
 free country and meddles in its business affairs, stirs up 
 discontent among workingmen — is always crooked. When 
 you first told me about his visits to the Hartwells, I 
 asked you what his motive was." 
 
 Alec looked apprehensively at Lange, who was stand- 
 ing with a pretense of indifference by the fire. 
 
 " Lange knows about it," said his father. " He was the 
 one to put me on to it — but I wasn't absolutely sure 
 until I got this letter from our representative at Vienna." 
 
 " You have come to tell Dr. Hartwell ? " asked Alec, 
 beginning to walk up and down. 
 
 " Naturally," said Sloane. " I shall tell him first, and 
 then give the story out and let Harden face the music. 
 It will be the last of his influence in the labor circles 
 or any other circles in this town." 
 
 Alec faced his father. "It will break them all up. 
 Freda — loves him." 
 
 " The sooner she gets over that the better, and she 
 can hardly expect us to feel much sympathy on that ac- 
 count." 
 
 Alec was moved. He walked over and looked at the 
 floral piece without seeing it. Lange had turned his 
 back on the two and was watching the passers-by on the 
 street. His presence there was far from agreeable to the 
 younger man ; yet it was not in him to accept his father's 
 plan without protest, although argument was seldom 
 successful. 
 
 " Why don't you give him a chance to get out quietly ? 
 That will serve your purpose, and not hurt the Hartwells." 
 
 "He's got to be destroyed entirely — ^not a shred left 
 to his reputation." 
 
 " But think of Freda ! " 
 
 202 
 
THE FIEE 
 
 "Why should I? Did she think of you? Didn't she 
 let you think she was going to marry you and then go 
 off with him?" 
 
 Alec straightened and looked at his father with a new 
 dignity. "I can fight my own battles. I never com- 
 plained, did I? Besides, it was my own fault. I should 
 not have let things drift. The man who wants a woman 
 has the right to seize her. I had always kept my hands 
 behind my back for fear of making her afraid, of start- 
 ling her. He had more sense — and won at the start, be- 
 fore he had known her as many days as I had years." 
 
 Alec's emotion and his very unusual excitement of 
 speech, instead of softening, had the opposite effect upon 
 his father, whose resentment was deepened against Har- 
 den. Lange, too, was watching Alec with a strange look 
 in his eye. 
 
 Mr. Sloane put his hand on Alec's shoulder, not with 
 tenderness, but with determination. "My boy," he said, 
 " I shall fight your battles if I wish, and I tell you I do 
 not care how much Freda Hartwell pays for this. She 
 fooled you " 
 
 "No! "said Alec. 
 
 " Moreover," continued his father, " as an American 
 business man who believes in his rights and in his in- 
 dependence, I have got to beat him." 
 
 " But to come to his house, father ! " Indignation 
 burned in Alec's words. 
 
 " I came to see Dr. Hartwell." 
 
 Through the haU door they heard Maggie's cry of de- 
 light, and a moment after, Frederica in her long travel- 
 ing coat stood there. 
 
 14 203 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 THE SUSPICION CONFIEMED 
 
 fi' 
 
 'REDEEICA stood for a moment in surprise 
 on the threshold. Maggie was close behind 
 her and showed no inclination to come further 
 into the room, although she was quivering with 
 excitement. Frederica looked from Mr. Sloane to Alec 
 and then to Lange. Then she went forward impulsively 
 to Mr. Sloane. 
 
 " This is very beautiful of you," she said, " to be here 
 when I come." She took Alec's hand. " Is your mother 
 here, too ? " she asked. " Where is everybody ? " 
 
 At that moment Anne came in from the adjoining room 
 and rushed to Ereda with outstretched arms. "Why, 
 where is your — ^husband ? Where is Mr. Harden ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Erederica laughed. "He is at the headquarters. He 
 is beginning already to neglect me." 
 
 She did not seem to be conscious of the embarrassment 
 on the part of the men who were there. She was looking 
 about the room in a sort of childish surprise, taking off 
 her gloves and smiling. 
 
 " Eugene telephoned me and told me to come here, that 
 this was our house, and that he would come as soon as 
 he could." Suddenly she turned to Lange. " Are you 
 waiting to see him ? " she said. 
 
 204 
 
THE SUSPICION CONFIEMED 
 
 "Yes," said Lange. 
 
 " Don't you think you'd better go, then, to where he is ? " 
 
 The moment after, before Lange had left the room, 
 she went toward Mr. Sloane. " Eugene is going to make 
 your men go back to work," she said. " He said that he 
 would have them ready to meet you on your terms." 
 
 Lange spoke quickly : " The men won't give in." He 
 was reassuring Sloane, and unfortunately his tone was 
 conciliatory. Alec caught the significance of it, and spoke 
 with a certain authority to the Hungarian. 
 
 " If the men want to come back to us on our terms, 
 we wiU settle with them, not with you." 
 
 " Alec ! " said his father sharply. 
 
 Lange left. 
 
 Anne was shaking hands with Mr. Sloane. " Can't you 
 wait and take lunch with us ? " she asked. " It wiU be 
 splendid. You have no idea how afraid I've been that all 
 these dreadful questions of labor unions were going to 
 come between your family and ours." She said " ours " 
 with a little pride in her voice, for she had been thinking 
 of Dr. HartweU's look when she left him in the library. 
 
 "I am too busy," said Sloane genially. Then turning 
 to his son, "You will come with me?" 
 
 " Not just now, father," said Alec. 
 
 Alexander Sloane had a sense of holding the whole sit- 
 uation in his hand. He did not even resent his son's 
 staying behind; for facts were facts, and he had the 
 proof of them. All that he had felt, all that he had suf- 
 fered as Alec's father, was little beside the anxiety which 
 he now had. His whole future as a business man rested 
 upon the outcome of this strike. The union must be 
 destroyed. To that end he had made use of Lange, not 
 realizing that Lange was making much greater use of 
 
 205 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 him. By making the Hungarian a foreman and getting 
 him into his power, as he supposed, by a gift of money, 
 he had been able to control the union itself for some time. 
 He had quietly, one at a time, dismissed some of the old, 
 steady-going men on one pretext or another, and taken 
 in a less sober, reliable crowd — ^men who would be likely 
 to call loudly for the fight should there be any chance 
 for one. Then he had broken the contract in order to 
 bring things to an issue, and he had practically pledged 
 himself to the other lumbermen (who had a gentlemen's 
 understanding among themselves as to conducting their 
 business) that he would break up the lumbermen's union, 
 which had already begun to affect the conditions of the 
 industry, and to threaten the complete powers of the 
 employers. He had been much disturbed when he heard 
 of Harden's return, and felt that discredit must be 
 thrown upon the union at once, in order that he could 
 refuse to hold out against them. 
 
 But it seemed now that Lange had bungled the job. 
 Instead of a small fire, which would have served the pur- 
 pose, he had been put to a loss of many thousands of 
 dollars. Then, too, he was beginning to be a little dis- 
 trustful of Lange's loyalty. There was something mys- 
 terious in the man's behavior. Sloane had taken him 
 at first to be rather stupid and open to bribes for the sake 
 of the money itself; but he was too keen a man not to 
 discover shortly that Lange was playing a part, and 
 that there were some motives underneath which had not 
 been declared. The encounter this morning at Harden's 
 house led him to believe that Lange might go over to 
 Harden's side, if it were necessary to do that in order 
 to protect himself. Then the game would be up. 
 
 Frederica's unexpected entrance had robbed him of his 
 206 
 
THE SUSPICION CONPIEMED 
 
 wits, and he was only too glad to have an excuse for 
 departure. As he went away he felt a new confidence, 
 for Frederica had practically ordered Lange out of the 
 house, and he knew that the man's hurt, pride would be 
 a timely barrier between him and his siding with Harden. 
 
 Anne felt it might be embarrassing to leave Freda 
 and Alec together, but he had evidently decided to stay 
 whether invited or not, so she tried to make it all seem 
 natural by fussing around and complaining about the 
 way the room had been transformed into a demonstration 
 of affection. Frederica patted one of the tidies, and Mrs. 
 Schneider appeared in time to see her doing so. She 
 was wiping her flour-covered hands on her kitchen apron. 
 A moment after laughter came from Frederica's lips aa 
 Mrs. Schneider threw the floury apron upon the floor 
 and embraced her, saying : " Gott, Miss Freda, was for 
 a kleine Hausfrau; I haf baked Kaffeekuchen for ihr 
 Mann, der new husband." 
 
 Then Anne, in great concern about the Ivmch, confided 
 to Alec that the cook had not arrived and so she must 
 disappear. 
 
 " You will wait ? " she said. 
 
 "Not for lunch," he answered; "but, for God's sake, 
 take that woman with you. I must see Freda alone ! " 
 
 Anne showed dismay, but called to Mrs. Schneider 
 to come and help her, and left the two alone. Frederica 
 was embarrassed, so she talked rather fast and uncertainly 
 about her own surprise at the house and everything. 
 
 " But your father didn't come to welcome me after all, 
 did he ? " she asked. 
 
 "No," answered Alec, "he came to see your father — 
 on — on an important matter." 
 
 Frederica, who was leaning over the inscription on 
 207 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 the horseshoe, straightened. " What is it ? " she asked 
 compellingly, for she jumped at once to the conclusion 
 that Mr. Sloane had come about her father's advocacy 
 of Eugene's work. 
 
 Alec folded his arms and took a breath of deep re- 
 solve. Everything that was boyish had left his face. He 
 stood facing the slight, delicate girl he had expected to 
 marry. His eyes were fixed on hers, whether to give or 
 gain support you could not tell. 
 
 " Sit down, Freda," he said. 
 
 She was impressed by the seriousness of his manner 
 and obeyed him. 
 
 " Eugene knows all about the — ^fire, and he will do what 
 is right," she said. 
 
 Alec started a moment. " Oh, the fire," he said. " I'm 
 not here about that." 
 
 Alec looked steadily at her, and she, not knowing why 
 he had come, could make no beginning for him. Finally 
 he spoke, his eyes fixed on hers. 
 
 "Would you go back to your father, Freda, without 
 any — any trouble, if you thought it was best ? " 
 
 She did not seem to understand his question, and sim- 
 ply looked at him. 
 
 "If I told you, Freda, that you had been deceived — 
 awfully deceived, would you go quietly home and let me 
 look after the rest of it ? " 
 
 " What do you mean? " she asked with white lips. 
 
 " I hate to tell you, Freda — ^you don't know how I hate 
 to." 
 
 "But tell me," she said. 
 
 "You're not really married, Freda. He is married to 
 some one else — in Austria." 
 
 She did not faint nor cry out as he expected, but sat 
 208 
 
THE SUSPICION CONFIEMED 
 
 perfectly still with her eyes on his. He stood the look as 
 long as he could, and then he spoke again : 
 
 " If you'll go home from here — now, I'll keep it all quiet 
 and you need not be talked about at all. I came to you 
 first, because the most depends upon you." 
 
 He put his hand over her clenched one on the arm of 
 her chair, but she jerked hers away. " Who told you S " 
 ehe asked. 
 
 Alec thought that the way she was taking his news 
 showed that she was to be depended on, and he took a 
 breath of relief. 
 
 " Gustav Lange told my father and my father wrote to 
 "Vienna." 
 
 Frederica repeated Lange's name as though it confirmed 
 some great suspicion. Alec thought she was stunned, and 
 waited for her reply. But it was hard for him to endure 
 the continuing silence, and he urged her attention upon 
 his first request. " If you will go to your father's now, 
 I will go with you — and explain." 
 
 Frederica rose and clasped her hands behind her. " I 
 don't want you to explain," she said. " It is all a lie — 
 Gustav Lange's lie ! " 
 
 "We have other proof," said Alec, feeling combat 
 ahead. " We have papers from Austria." 
 
 Frederica looked hard at the floor. She was enveloped 
 in a calm which Alec could not understand because he 
 did not know she was concerned with ideas far different 
 from those with which he was occupied. He thought he 
 had shocked her belief and trust in Eugene Harden and 
 that there must be some tears or complaints. Frederica 
 lifted her head and looked at him with her characteristic 
 intensity. 
 
 " If I don't believe it is so, you can't make me believe 
 209 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 by shotting papers — ^from anywhere. So you need not tell 
 anyone else about it." 
 
 Alec was amazed. " You've got to believe, and I shall 
 tell your father," he said. 
 
 " 'No" said Frederica, " you shall not. I married Eu- 
 gene; my father has nothing to say about us now; our 
 marriage is our affair." She was speaking with perfect 
 ease and decision. 
 
 " Erederica Hartwell ! " Then he paused, struck by 
 what he had said. " That is your name still, under the 
 law," he added. 
 
 "I don't care about laws," she said. 
 
 "You're a child! You're not fit to meet this thing." 
 Tenderness crept into his voice. "It isn't fair that this 
 should have come to you ! And that's why I want to make 
 it as easy for you as I can. We can pretend that you left 
 him. He will go away; and after a while we wiU say 
 that you have gotten your divorce. No one will ask any 
 questions, and there woiddn't be any scandal." 
 
 The truth of his insistence began to have its effect on 
 Erederica, and it frightened her that there was to be any 
 discussion. 
 
 " I don't see why you should have so many plans," she 
 said, flushing. 
 
 He forgot his pity for her in resentment that she had 
 put him outside her life. 
 
 "Perhaps not," he replied; "but I was planning for 
 your good — and your father's. You can act on my plans 
 or else let my father carry out his idea of exposing your 
 — ^husband to the people of this town and to the unions 
 who admire him." Alec's voice held an undertone of 
 angry sarcasm. 
 
 Frederica's very thoughts were paralyzed. It was not 
 210 
 
THE SUSPICION CONEIEMED 
 
 her undisputed right, then, to stay with Eugene Harden 
 if she wished to. It lay in Alexander Sloane's power to 
 talk of it to the world, to use it to destroy Eugene's in- 
 fluence in his chosen work, to make him subject to in- 
 sult and disgrace. For in a moment the whole situation 
 was clear to her. 
 
 "Could your father be so — contemptible?" she asked, 
 her eyes flashing. 
 
 Alec grew red. " We'll not allow you to have anything 
 to do with such a scoundrel." 
 
 Erederica came toward him. " Alec Sloane," she said, 
 " you may go and tell your father that I intend to stay 
 with — ^Eugene Harden — that no one will believe his 
 story." 
 
 Alec straightened, and looked at Frederica in aston- 
 ishment. "Tou will stay with a man who is not your 
 husband ? " 
 
 "If I stay with him," she said, "no one will believe 
 your father when he says that he is not." 
 
 " I've told you already that he has proofs," said Alec, 
 beginning to show anger. He had expected tears and 
 womanly dismay, and had felt himself as the one to whom 
 she would turn for defense. Instead of that he was meet- 
 ing a stubborn, an ahnost placid Frederica. She said in 
 answer to his last remarks: 
 
 "Probably these proofs are a part of the business 
 methods of your father, too." 
 
 He turned to go. "I shall tell Dr. Hartwell and let 
 him use his influence with you. I ought to have seen 
 him first." 
 
 Her confusion of thought released her from the re- 
 pellent attitude she had held, and he believed her to be 
 moved by his last words. 
 
 211 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " I can do everything for you, Freda. I could kill him 
 for this." He came close to her. 
 
 " You're glad of this story — ^you and your father — and 
 I was just thinking what a friend you were, and that 
 you were nohle." Suddenly she began to walk up and 
 down. " Listen," she said, " if this is true, this story, 
 it's your father's fault that I am here." 
 
 Alec looked at her in amazement. What sense could 
 lie in such a statement? She stopped abruptly, for she 
 had reached her determination to tell him. 
 
 " I went to Eugene's room at the hotel," she said, 
 " when your father had made mine go back on his 
 word. I went to ask him not to let my father be 
 humiliated, but to break his engagement at the chapel. 
 Do you remember?" She was a straight and rigid 
 woman speaking. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " And I made love to Eugene. I asked him to let me go 
 with him — without the law — Tes ! " she said, seeing dis- 
 belief in his face. " I — ^I begged him." 
 
 " That does not excuse him, Ereda. He's a man, you're 
 only a girl." 
 
 " Well, he would not take me," said Frederica proudly. 
 " He told me the truth, that he was married." 
 
 Alec's face grew stern. 
 
 " And after that even I begged him ! " 
 
 "Freda!" 
 
 "I— I thought I loved him." 
 
 "And now you don't?" A kind of exultation leaped 
 into his words. 
 
 " Now," said Frederica, " I know that that was but a 
 shadow of love — I didn't know what loving him was then. 
 I do now. But he told me that his work must be first, 
 
 212 
 
THE SUSPICION CONFIRMED 
 
 that even if I had the courage he wouldn't take me— on 
 account of his work. And he told me " — she spoke very 
 slowly now — "that if anyone knew I was in his rooms 
 they could ruin him. And your father came just as I was 
 going." 
 
 She paused, and Alec raised questioning eyes to her, 
 for he had seated himself. 
 
 " And your father said that he didn't trust him, and 
 that it was dreadful for me to he found there, and so — 
 I lied and said I was engaged to Eugene — to protect him 
 — to keep him from your father's story." 
 
 " Oh, Ereda! " Pity shook Alec's voice. 
 
 Prederica looked at him in surprise. " Tou needn't he 
 sorry. I'm glad." She lifted her head. " Suppose I had 
 gone home." Then she came nearer to him, and clasped 
 her hands hehind her, and spoke with a ring. " But the 
 next day he came to me and said that he was free, that 
 there was nothing to prevent us — getting married. And 
 Alec — I'm going to say it to you — ^I never said it to him 
 — I thought for a minute that perhaps he was trying to 
 protect me by a lie (just as I had him), because I had been 
 hunting for work all day, for some way to get free of de- 
 pendence upon your father — and I was so late coming 
 home that they were frightened, and he was there — and 
 frightened. But it was only — a flash of suspicion. After 
 that I trusted him. I know he is free ! " 
 
 " Did he show you any proof ? " asked Alec. 
 
 " Proof ? " she answered. " Oh, you don't know him. 
 He never explains." 
 
 " But you must ask him for proof now," said Alec, ris- 
 ing and beginning to walk now that Freda was quiet. 
 She looked at him as though she were trying to realize 
 something. 
 
 213 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "Why, if I asked him for proofs, he would think I 
 did not trust him — and — and it would be all over." 
 
 "God I" said Alec. 
 
 She was on the defensive in a moment. "He's that 
 kind of a man. He demands his freedom, his right not to 
 be questioned." Never in her thoughts before had she 
 so characterized him. She felt a sort of terror that she 
 might be compelled to try to break his reserve. 
 
 Alec was beginning to lose self-control. " If I should 
 bring his wife here — ^to you — ^what would you do then ? " 
 
 It was the first time that Frederica had met the idea 
 of a flesh and blood woman who might exist — ^perhaps no 
 longer his wife, but still with the memory of having 
 been. She contracted all over and grew white and held 
 her hands clinched. "I — ^I might kill her," she said 
 under her breath. The animal instinct of jealousy was 
 as full of life and strength as though she had been nour- 
 ishing it for years. Alec was held by what he saw. 
 
 " And you wouldn't trust him any more ? " he said. 
 
 "I — ^I" — she was struggling for self-control, for the 
 control of her thoughts, for the blood that was in her 
 was leaping wildly. " I don't know," she said. " But 
 when he comes home to-day — I shall know when I look in 
 his eyes — ^for it's as though you had brought her here." 
 She was seeing the woman in the photograph, the woman 
 with black eyes and hair and plump shoulders. Alec was 
 watching her, and she seemed suddenly to be swept out of 
 the picture he had made. 
 
 " Why does your father want to spread this story ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "I have not spoken of what my father wants," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "But you would not do it — yourself." 
 214 
 
THE SUSPICION CONFIRMED 
 
 He made no reply to that, and she took advantage of 
 the pause which seemed indecision. " Ton would not want 
 to make me unhappy." 
 
 " Your honor, Freda ! " 
 
 " I must not think about that. I must think what this 
 will mean to him." 
 
 Alec had reached the end of his endurance; he turned 
 to go. But Frederica felt that she was losing some 
 chance and sprang forward. " Wait, Alec, wait ! " she 
 said. 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, anger in every line of his face. 
 
 " You must help me think. No ! " — she contradicted 
 her own appeal. " I must be alone to think. I — ^I can't 
 think. There is something besides me in this question. 
 It is a terrible game between your father and me. And 
 you will side with him — of course. You will help him 
 spread this story — ^you are going away now — to do it. 
 You won't give me any time to think." She was making 
 an appeal to him, and that was something. 
 
 "I can't see why you need any time," he said. 
 
 " Because — ^because if he is disgraced it will destroy 
 all that he has done for — the people, for the workingmen, 
 for the poor, for society. It will all be lost ! " She went 
 to Alec and put her hand on his arm. " Can't you make 
 it possible for me to have time to plan some way? I 
 will do whatever is right. I promise yon. Can't you 
 keep your father from saying anything until to-morrow ? " 
 
 Alec looked at the wall opposite, but he put his hand 
 over hers on his arm. 
 
 " Can't you ? " she repeated. 
 
 Anne came to the door with a tray on which was lem- 
 onade and cake, stopped when she saw them, and would 
 have gone again, but Alec went toward her and relieved 
 
 215 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 her of the tray. Freda looked after him. He picked up 
 his hat and turned to her. 
 
 "I will, Freda, until to-morrow.'' He spoke steadily 
 and as though he depended upon her as much as upon 
 himself. But before he could leave, the front door opened 
 and both Dr. Hartwell and Harden were heard in the hall. 
 The doctor was in high spirits and was the first to enter. 
 His emotion over Frederica as she hid her face on his 
 shoulder gave her a chance to regain her self-control, but 
 when she looked up she saw Alec pass Harden, who 
 had put out his hand, without looking at him. As the 
 door slammed Harden's eyes blazed. 
 
 " Why was he here — to greet me ? " he said to Anne. 
 
 " He came with his father," she replied. Then seeing 
 his surprise increase, she said, "and Mr. Sloane came 
 to see Dr. Hartwell." 
 
 " Well, well, Freda," Dr. Hartwell was saying, " I sup- 
 pose you have seen every nook and cranny in the house 
 already." 
 
 " No — ^not yet," said Freda. 
 
 She was looking fixedly at Eugene, who was taking 
 the letters which Maggie just then brought into him. Her 
 father laughed again. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "you are staring at Eugene as 
 though you had never seen him before ! " 
 
 " Am I ? " said Frederica, and began folding her travel- 
 ing coat as though it were a shawl. There was nothing 
 else with which she could busy herself, and she felt the 
 moment unendurable. She had looked at Eugene, had 
 had one deep look from his eyes, and she had felt herself 
 on the point of rushing to him in spite of the three 
 people in the room, and throwing herself into his arms. 
 He had never seemed so fine to her, so trustworthy, so 
 
 216 
 
THE SUSPICION CONFIRMED 
 
 completely hers. The primeval woman in her was trust- 
 ing in spite of evidence and proofs. 
 
 " Eugene ! " She said it almost like a cry. 
 
 He came quickly and put his arms about her. Anne 
 and Dr. Hartwell were a little embarrassed, but almost 
 immediately Erederica tossed back her head to get the 
 hair out of her eyes, and laughed. She had touched him 
 and felt natural and sane again, and in her own world, 
 which was his. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was speaking to Anne. " They think 
 they have found the man who has set the fire," he said. 
 " It is John Scanlan." 
 
 Ereda caught the words and released herself from Eu- 
 gene's embrace. " John Scanlan ? " she asked. " Why, why 
 he has always been such a good man." 
 
 Harden turned to Dr. Hartwell. "He was put up to 
 it by Lange — and Lange is in the pay of Alexander 
 Sloane." 
 
 " Impossible ! " said Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Harden, " but I shall have to 
 expose Sloane to-morrow. Scanlan will have to suffer, to 
 save the union's reputation, but the real blame will be 
 laid on Sloane. I shall see to that ! " 
 
 " Tou mustn't ! You mustn't ! " said Freda wildly. 
 " Tou must, you must keep friendly with Mr. Sloane ! " 
 
 " What do you mean, Freda ? " asked Eugene. 
 
 She did not know what to say, and as she looked at 
 him she guessed that he was thinking of Alec Sloane's 
 behavior. 
 
 Her father answered for her. "Freda is thinking of 
 how long our families have been friends," he said. 
 
 Freda's eyes were still on Eugene's in a fascinated gaze. 
 " I am not thinking of Alec Sloane," she said, which of 
 
 217 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 course roused Harden's memory to vividness. "I am 
 thinkipg of your — ^work, your influence witli the men." 
 
 She saw the passing look of weariness which she knew 
 in his face as a sign of his distrust, as though he were 
 saying: " What a fool I am to believe in anything ! " And 
 she knew she had blimdered. 
 
 " My work ! " His voice had the unanswerable sarcasm 
 in it. " I think you hardly understand my work as yet. 
 Not " — ^he kept her silent by an uplifted hand — " not that 
 I expect you to, nor have I ever hoped you would. No 
 woman cares for a man's work." He gave her no chance 
 to answer, but spoke to her father. " On your account 
 I am very sorry, but if American business conditions al- 
 low of intrigue — the intrigues must be exposed." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider threw open the dining-room doors and 
 displayed the luncheon table with its white cloth, silver, 
 and centerpiece of flowers. 
 
 "You are willkommen, Herr Harden — ^welcome," and 
 she seized his two hands in hers with German enthusiasm. 
 
 "We must forget work now," said Dr. Hartwell, and 
 offered his arm to Anne ; but his gayety was forced, and he 
 did not look back at Frederica and Eugene, who followed, 
 however, at once. 
 
 218 
 
CHAPTEE IV 
 
 HIS WORK AND HER HONOR 
 
 HOE hours Frederiea had wandered about her new 
 house lost in thought. It was lonely, but for 
 a time she did not feel it, because the scene with 
 
 Alec was so vivid. There were two problems 
 before her — one concerned Eugene's work and reputation 
 and the other concerned her position. Eugene Harden 
 had been working for months to create the right 
 spirit among the employees in the lumber yard, and 
 it was through this great interest of his that she had 
 learned to know him. She could not think of him apart 
 from his work any more than she could think of her father 
 as an atheist opposed to church or creed. Frederiea real- 
 ized her own limitations ; she knew that she had only an 
 emotional grasp of the questions with which Eugene 
 was concerned ; but she knew that his interest was a vital 
 one, and could not bear to think that anything should 
 come between him and his accomplishment. Had he been 
 an artist and some one had threatened to destroy a piece 
 of unfinished work, she would have met the enemy with 
 the same intent as she was planning to meet Sloane. 
 
 She could see the conflict between Sloane, representing 
 corporate power, on one side, and Harden, representing 
 the class-conscious worker, on the other, as a great game ; 
 and she must choose sides. All her love of justice, all 
 
 15 219 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 her sentiment, came into her opposition of Alexander 
 Sloane. 
 
 Frederica had never considered the question: Is a lie 
 justifiable? She was not considering it now. She felt 
 that one person's lie for the sake of another might be 
 excusable. She did not go into generalities far enough 
 to consider whether there were always complications 
 afterwards, such as she was facing. Without knowing it, 
 Erederica was meeting this problem of hers without creed 
 or ethical prejudice. She was meeting it as any primeval 
 woman, with instinct and passion as her motive forces. 
 
 If she was not married according to all international 
 laws of all civilized societies, it was her own fault, not 
 Harden's, and she felt that she must not let him pay the 
 penalty — the heavy penalty of failure. She knew that had 
 he to make a definite choice between his happiness, his 
 love of her and his work, in behalf of the men, that he 
 would choose the latter. But Sloane was not going to 
 let him make the choice; he was going to force Harden 
 into complete obscurity for having loved her. 
 
 It is probable that had Frederica been brought up in 
 a more worldly and conventional home, this question of 
 herself would have been a different one for her. She 
 would have had some experience of the world's attitude 
 toward marriage and love. She would, at least, have 
 heard some discussion which would have enlightened her. 
 Cinderella, compelled by older sisters to stay at home, 
 had no doubt heard much of what went on in the world 
 of gayety, so that when she did make her dramatic en- 
 trance at the ball, she was quite as sophisticated as any 
 of the other guests, and had wit enough besides to make 
 the slipper test before accepting the prince's attentions. 
 But Frederica was far simpler than that, and now her 
 
 220 
 
HIS WORK AND HER HONOR 
 
 crisis had found her unprepared, as far as worldly wis- 
 dom might have made her equal to the conditions she was 
 facing. 
 
 Eugene Harden had told her that it was only a legal 
 technicality which bound him to some one else, and not 
 for one moment had she ever thought of him as loving 
 anyone else. She never drew a picture to herself of any 
 other woman. It was as though he had told her that 
 something in his family history had bound him not to 
 marry. She did not know much about men, but her feel- 
 ing was that he, too, had stepped into a new world at the 
 same moment she had. They belonged to each other be- 
 cause they were both carried into their moments of in- 
 tense feeling by the same mood. 
 
 All the afternoon Ereda had been trying to make herself 
 face her problem, but she could not, not even when she 
 recalled Alec's question, " Your honor, Freda ? " Her 
 honor? Now at this hour of the evening she had come 
 up to her room and had just read Eugene's telegram, 
 saying he would not be home until twelve. She would 
 try and think it all out before he came and have some 
 decision made. 
 
 This room of hers was not a place for thought, but she 
 did not know that. It was very unlike the one she had 
 slept in for years. There was no puritan blue and white 
 to cool fancy. Instead, the colors were mellow and glowed 
 in the firelight. She undressed and slipped on a dressing 
 gown of a color that caught the light. Then she sat down 
 on the rug in front of the grate, and as the flames rose 
 and fell, she looked like the bit of wavering fire in an opal. 
 
 She felt the warmth of the fire on her bare throat, the 
 softness of the silk gown where it touched her, the quiet 
 of the house, the shadows on the wall. She stretched out 
 
 221 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 at full length on the rug and pillowed her head on her 
 bent arm. Now she would think! 
 
 From the beginning she ranged remembered events 
 methodically, in order to review them, to find that one 
 which might have dishonor in it, or be the forerunner of 
 disaster. But she found herself lingering over those 
 hours which had brought them most closely together. She 
 realized now that he had taken possession of her that 
 first evening, when some impulse had led him to put his 
 hand over hers on the table. 
 
 Slowly she went over every episode which she could 
 remember that might shed light upon her own personal 
 problem. It was all quite plain now. He had accepted 
 her at her own word that she had courage. He was living 
 according to the law of the spirit, just as she had told 
 him he should. And now? did she have the courage? 
 She began to feel a little resentment that he had never 
 put these ideas into words for her. Why had he not dis- 
 cussed it with her and strengthened her principles ? She 
 felt so in the dark, so confused, that she knew she was 
 not able to judge. 
 
 If she were not his wife, how would she feel after- 
 wards, when she got used to the idea ? Before that ques- 
 tion Frederica was quite helpless. She had no experience 
 at all which could throw any light upon her feeling to- 
 ward the conventions of the world, or the conventional 
 world's feeling toward her. It seemed so perfectly natural 
 to be where she was, in his house, as his wife, that she 
 could not think of herself anywhere else. 
 
 She had nothing in her mind that could fasten itself 
 to this problem, and so she tried to think what it would 
 be if she were to follow Alec's advice and go home to her 
 father. Her heart stopped beating at the thought. It 
 
 222 
 
HIS WOEK AND HEE HONOE> 
 
 seemed as if her father's little house and everything con- 
 nected with her life in it was a small empty shell from 
 which she had escaped. She had been happy while she 
 was there, but she could not go back into it again. 
 
 Supposing, then, that she would again go out and try 
 to earn her living? The memory of her helplessness 
 the day when she tried to do it, six months before, came 
 back very vividly to her, but the desolation that she felt 
 was not that she would be somewhere else, but that he 
 would not be there with her.. It was a terrible thought 
 that swept over her — ^the thought that perhaps it was her 
 own desire to be with him, her own selfishness, which was 
 going to give her the courage to stand by him and to 
 pretend to the world that she was his wife, and in some 
 way to keep 'M.r. Sloane from spreading the story. 
 
 When she became conscious that it was her great desire, 
 and not a noble, self-sacrificing spirit, which prompted 
 her, she began for the first time to see what it would 
 mean to live with him, knowing herself not his wife, but 
 his mistress. All the traditions of a thousand years, 
 which have kept the woman away from freedom, have 
 made the legal restraint the spiritual law for the sex, 
 suddenly appeared to her as a great wall which might 
 fall upon her. When she learned this in a moment, not 
 through any abstraction, not through anything that her 
 father had ever taught her, or that Eugene Harden had 
 ever said to her, but through her own consciousness of 
 herself, and of her body, the great longing that she had 
 to see him (for she was looking toward the door con- 
 stantly, hoping for him to come in, listening for his foot- 
 step), revealed what it was that bound them to each other. 
 It was their great need of each other. He had asked that 
 night when she had told him of Alec's desire to marry her 
 
 223 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 if she needed Alec, and even then she had felt that she 
 needed Eugene. But as she looked back on it, the need 
 was a dim fantasy of the desire which kept her breathless 
 and palpitating now. So she decided that she would not 
 think about herself; she would think about his work. 
 Again and again his words cut her — his words about her 
 interfering with his work. He had not understood ; he did 
 not know that it was his work that she was fighting for. 
 
 In her conversation with Alec that morning she had 
 been much more conscious of Eugene Harden as a man 
 among men, a worker for a great cause, than she was 
 now. Alec was right when he said that if she would think 
 it over by herself she would feel differently. But he had 
 counted on her feeling the shame of the thing when she 
 faced the idea of her relation to Harden without taking 
 into accoimt his work, as she had done with him. Instead 
 of shame she felt an immense joy. All the warring spirit 
 within her rose up to fight. There must be something that 
 she could do to beat Sloane, and she was going to do 
 it now, she made up her mind (for she was very honest 
 with herself), not altogether because of the work of the 
 man she loved, but because of the man himself, and the 
 necessity which she recognized of staying with him. 
 
 With the thought that she had decided, she could no 
 longer sit quietly in front of the fire. She got up and 
 went to the window and threw it up, noisily challenging 
 the silence. The fresh air rushed into the room and she 
 breathed deep of it, leaning out to look down the street; 
 for although she had not reached any solution, had no idea 
 of how she was to meet Alexander Sloane, she had all 
 the sense of having beaten him even now. 
 
 The street was very quiet, and the converging lines of 
 the road and sidewalk ran into the distance and became 
 
 224 
 
HIS WOEK AND HEE HONOE 
 
 only shadows. The street lamps stood wakeful as senti- 
 nels along a past line of march. But there was no one 
 coming, and she had the feeling of being held absolutely- 
 alone, suspended in space between her past and her future. 
 
 She paced back and forth several times as though she 
 were marching to some inner music. After all, the war- 
 woman on the horse carrying the man to Walhalla could 
 not feel the determination which she felt. 
 
 The clock interrupted its own ticking quickstep to 
 strike ten. So there were two hours yet before he was 
 likely to be home. She had two hours more to think out a 
 plan. 'Now and again horses' heels clicked on the asphalt 
 under her window. But everything in the house was 
 quiet. The cook slept at home, and had left early after 
 supper, marveling that a young wife could so soon be left 
 to a lonely meal, shaking her head ponderously over the 
 significance of the thing. Maggie had tried to be com- 
 panionable, and had been most busy, doing \mnecessary 
 things in unexpected places. 
 
 While Frederica was walking toward her own door, still 
 intent upon her own thoughts, she heard the back door 
 slam. She went out of her room quickly and down the 
 hall to the head of the back stairs and called down to 
 Maggie. There was no response. Again she called, and 
 then went down herself, because if Maggie had gone out 
 and left the door unlocked, it was unwise to leave it so. 
 When she got into the kitchen, which seemed most strange 
 to her, for she had hardly noticed the different rooms in 
 her house, so full had her afternoon been of emotions, she 
 saw a white heap in front of the door that opened on the 
 back yard. 
 
 " Maggie ! " she cried, for she felt that the indistinct 
 form huddled there must be Maggie. 
 
 225 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Yes, Miss Freda," said Maggie faintly. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Freda. 
 
 " Some one came," said Maggie, and she rose unsteadily 
 and went groping ahout to find the matches. " I guess it 
 was a burglar," she said, " or a robber." 
 
 "Why, it's too early," said Freda. 
 
 By this time Maggie had lit the gas and Frederica saw 
 that her face was white. 
 
 " Why did it frighten you so ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Maggie. " They knocked twice. 
 I thought it was the milkman and I got out of bed and 
 came down." 
 
 Then Frederica noticed that she was in her nightdress, 
 which hung in funny folds from her slender shoulders. 
 " You poor child ! " she said, and in some way, being in 
 her own house, and having gone through the thoughts 
 of the evening, made her suddenly feel old, and as though 
 she understood all the tremors and terrors that might 
 be in the world. 
 
 Maggie burst into tears. "It must have been a rob- 
 ber," she said; but she knew perfectly well that it was 
 Lange. She had recognized him through the crack in 
 the door, which she had opened very softly on accoimt 
 of her scant attire and her fear of outsiders. The mo- 
 ment she had caught sight of him she had slammed the 
 door again and locked it, and that was what Frederica 
 had heard. 
 
 Maggie crept up to bed and Frederica petted her, telling 
 her not to be a little coward, it must have been some mis- 
 take. Then she went back into her own room and began 
 again to walk and plan. After a little while she began to 
 feel very tired, for she had kept her mind so steadily upon 
 these tilings that confronted her, that it was beginning 
 
 226 
 
HIS WOEK AND HEE HONOE 
 
 to go round and round without clearness. She lay down 
 in front of the fire, and very soon, in spite of her at- 
 tempt to keep awake, she had dropped off to sleep, and 
 had short, queer little dreams, very far removed from 
 those that she had been having. 
 
 Eugene entered into one of these dreams as though 
 by magic. He had made no sound as he came in, but 
 there he was looking down at her. She did not speak, for 
 it might have broken the spell, but she felt his breath as 
 he kneeled beside her. His lips were coming nearer and 
 nearer. She smelled the scent of the tobacco which he 
 used. It had come to be incense on her altar ; her nostrils 
 widened and she caught her breath. 
 
 " Tou will catch cold lying on the floor, Frederica." 
 
 It was a prosaic thing for a man in a dream to say, 
 and she had no answer except to cling tightly to him 
 as he lifted and carried her across the room. He must 
 have been home some time for he, too, was in a dressing 
 gown. She laughed and put her sleep-warm cheeks 
 against his throat where it showed above the loose collar. 
 
 " I waited up for you," she said. 
 
 " Tes, up in the clouds," he answered, as he put her 
 down on her bed, and drew off her slippers. She kissed 
 the back of his head, because it happened to be nearest 
 her lips. 
 
 In the dark, long after he was asleep, she lay there try- 
 ing to puzzle out the relations between a man's work and 
 a woman's honor. 
 
 227 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A MORNING OF GOSSIP 
 
 "M^^i^HE next morning, while Erederica was waiting 
 ■ « I with anxiety for Alec Sloane, and wondering 
 ^^^^^ what she should do if her father or Anne should 
 come over to see her while he was there, Mrs. 
 Schneider came in with a German bouquet wrapped in 
 many papers. 
 
 " All morning I haf to myself said : ' Arme kleine Frau 
 Harden alone in a big house und her new Mann busy mit 
 strikes.' Schon, nicht ? " She handed the flowers to Ered- 
 erica, who thanked her and asked her to sit down. Then, 
 in the effort to appear calm, she took her sewing out of her 
 basket and sat down near the window. 
 
 Mrs, Schneider seated herself comfortably and looked 
 about. " You was lucky to get Mr. Harden for your 
 man! Not many girls over by us can have such luck! 
 I haf told Otto when your man came over by us your 
 papa should be careful. Mein sister in der old country — 
 ach — But Mr. Harden was a gut — all-over gut man — 
 und mit money. Last year in der spring, Lisa, meine 
 sister, died. He gave her money — ach, ja — money, but 
 not a good name. Der boy — ja, she had a little boy — he 
 is here in dis country. He knows — he is big now — he 
 hates rich people und — ach, ja — ^he is bitter." 
 
 Frederica did not ask the particulars of Mrs. Schnei- 
 228 
 
A MOENING OP GOSSIP 
 
 der's sister's life, although she wanted to. To-day she 
 was conscious of but one great fact in human life — the 
 relation of man and woman. But she could not bring 
 the questions she would have asked to her lips. Instead, 
 she put a perfectly commonplace one. 
 
 " Can you make buttonholes ? " 
 
 " Gewiss — ^sure — ^what do you sew ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Flanagan, Maggie's mother, is sick, and I am 
 making some clothes for the twins." Frederica held out 
 a pair of diminutive trousers which looked quite mis- 
 shapen. "I began these before I was — before I went 
 away," she said, " and they are all done but the button- 
 holes. I hate to make buttonholes." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider tried not to laugh. "What for little 
 pants ! " she exclaimed, taking them and holding them 
 between her and the light. " What for little pants ! " 
 
 "Tou take my thimble," said Frederica. "I can get 
 along very well without. But tell me what is the matter 
 with this sleeve." She took a girl's dress out of the 
 basket. 
 
 " Gott im Himmel ! " cried Mrs. Schneider, laughing. 
 "It is wrist in armhole, und shoulder below! What 
 makes you to sew. Miss Freda ? " 
 
 "Don't you laugh, Mrs. Schneider," said Frederica, 
 who was beginning to relax under the kindly criticism 
 of her old friend. " I am making these things because 
 I want Mrs. Flanagan and the rest of you to know how 
 much I think of you — and to know that because I have 
 come over here to live — and the house is bigger — I'm not 
 going to change. And you mustn't change, either, but 
 be just the same." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider leaned forward and patted Frederica's 
 knee. " Tou don't change, gewiss nicht, but you gif me 
 
 229 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 to sew dose little pants und der wrong side up sleeve — 
 ach, ja," she laughed. "After little while you will haf 
 many little pants und dresses to sew." Mrs. Schneider 
 nodded her head several times with matronly significance. 
 
 Quick as a flash Erederiea covered her face with her 
 hand and shrank back. Mrs. Schneider sat up very 
 straight in amazement. 
 
 "Was ist?" she asked. "You don't like to haf 
 babies ? " There was some censure in her voice. 
 
 " You — ^you surprised me," said Frederica, trying to 
 smile. 
 
 "So — ?" Mrs. Schneider's interrogation was long 
 drawn out, and expected an answer, which Frederica gave 
 reluctantly. 
 
 " Children are a great responsibility," she said. What 
 she was thinking showed in her eyes, but Mrs. Schneider 
 did not see that. Frederica was afraid of the thought 
 of a child, because of her decision. A child bom with- 
 out the law was indeed a great responsibility. And 
 her decision might mean that! Until Mrs. Schnei- 
 der had spoken she had not faced that part of her 
 problem. 
 
 " But der liebe Gott will gif many children to so gut 
 a man like yours," said Mrs. Schneider, and patted Fred- 
 erica in a motherly way, moved by the emotion in the 
 girl's face, even though she did not understand it. "It 
 is hard for a little to speak of it, but it is gut." 
 
 Frederica changed the subject by asking after the 
 boys, and Mrs. Schneider was content to talk of them. 
 They sat there sewing when Anne came in, much per- 
 turbed in face and manner. 
 
 "Can I see you alone?" Anne said. 
 
 " Ja, gewiss," said Mrs. Schneider. " I go mit dese." 
 230 
 
A MOENING OF GOSSIP 
 
 " Don't go," said Frederica, " but wait upstairs in my 
 room. I shall need you to help me later." She indicated 
 the troublous sleeves of the little Flanagan costume. 
 Someway she wanted Mrs. Schneider in the house, al- 
 though she could not have told just why. 
 
 The German woman took all the sewing and went up- 
 stairs. Anne had not yet sat down, but was impatient 
 to talk. The moment the door closed on Mrs. Schneider 
 she put her question : 
 
 " Freda, can your father come here to live ? " 
 
 Frederica looked at her in astonishment. "What has 
 happened ? " 
 
 " My family are making an awful row about my stay- 
 ing there with your father — ^without — without a chaper- 
 on." The vials of Anne's protests burst. " Me, an old 
 maid, so commonplace that your father never looks at 
 me — ^needing a chaperon ! " 
 
 In exasperation she pulled off her gloves and rolled them 
 into a ball which she clinched in her hand. " They never 
 wanted me to * work in the slums ' — that's what they 
 called it — and now they think they have this excuse to 
 prevent me." 
 
 Frederica was glad that some one else was restless and 
 face to face with the world's convention. " Why don't 
 you tell them that — ^that it's all right, and for them not 
 to bother you ? " 
 
 " Tell them? " asked Anne. 
 
 " Why, it's nonsense, Anne," replied Frederica. " You 
 are so practical." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Freda," said Anne, " don't call me 
 ' practical ' ! " 
 
 Frederica was surprised. " Why not ? " she asked. 
 
 "I hate to be put in a category and have the label 
 231 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 thrown at me every time anyone speaks to me. I am 
 something else besides ' practical,' I hope." 
 
 " I didn't mean anything unpleasant." 
 
 "Well, can he come, Ereda? He can't stay alone in 
 that house." 
 
 Erederica did not reply for a moment. If she decided 
 to stay with Eugene, could she endure living under her 
 father's eye? It would be lying to him repeatedly, and 
 at every moment of their days together. She rose and 
 went over toward the fire. Anne did not know what to 
 make of this hesitation. Before the wedding she had 
 lived in fear of Erederica expressing a desire for Dr. 
 Hartwell to come into the new home, and she had been 
 on the edge of apprehension. It had never dawned on 
 her that Ereda might not want her father. She had 
 put the question as a matter of form, as an introduction 
 to her own complaint. She looked in astonishment at 
 Erederica's back and waited. 
 
 Erederica spoke with face averted. " I would rather my 
 father did not come until things are a little more — 
 settled." 
 
 " Oh," said Anne, " you mean the strike ? " 
 
 Erederica was relieved at the interpretation. "Yes — 
 when Eugene has gotten the men to go back to work 
 Mr. Sloane will feel naore kindly, and then it will not 
 be embarrassing." 
 
 Anne's suspicion was roused by the quick way in which 
 Erederica spoke. 
 
 "Ereda," she said, "I have never in my life known 
 anyone to be so changed by — ^marriage. Are you — dis- 
 appointed ? " 
 
 Erederica threw back her head. " What a question ! " 
 
 Anne went to her with directness. " What is the real 
 232 
 
A MORNING OP GOSSIP 
 
 reason you don't want your father to live with you ? " 
 she asked, and compelled Frederica's gaze. 
 
 Frederica was trying to control herself. She felt on 
 the verge of confession. But she knew that any mistake 
 now might destroy her service to Eugene. She said noth- 
 ing and went on with her sewing. 
 
 Anne spoke what had lain in her thought for months. 
 " I wish that man had never come to this country. He 
 has had a terrible influence on both of you. He can 
 wind you around his finger and come between you and 
 your father — and his theories about everything have 
 upset your father. I should not be surprised if Dr. Hart- 
 well gave up his Mission and all his good work among 
 the poor and became a radical — ^like your husband ! It was 
 aU so peaceful before he came — and now ! " 
 
 Frederica was glad of Anne's excitement, although she 
 did not know where it would lead them. 
 
 "If he would give up the Mission and help Eugene 
 fight for the rights of the men over there, instead of 
 just praying with their wives " 
 
 " Why, he'd be called a labor agitator, a socialist 1 " 
 interrupted Anne. " I shall do everything I can to keep 
 him from that. I shall not let him come over here to live. 
 I don't care what my family say. Tour father is a mar- 
 tyr, and no one appreciates him. I am the best friend 
 he has," she said, " and I shall stand by him." 
 
 Frederica felt contemptible, but she could not deny 
 Anne's statement without proving the denial by insisting 
 that her father come to live with her. And she was afraid 
 to have him. She wished that Anne would go. She wanted 
 to be alone. Anne read her silence, and began pulling on 
 her gloves, but suddenly covered her face with her two 
 hands and burst into tears. Freda sprang to her feet, 
 
 233 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 but did not for a moment go to Anne nor express any 
 sympathy. She knew that this outburst was from Anne's 
 heart, and she could not quite endure the thought of 
 anyone's romantic attitude toward her father. 
 
 " I can't stay — it's all nonsense to pretend I can. I 
 have got to give it all up and go home." Anne spoke 
 brokenly, but was regaining her self-control. 
 
 Frederica came over to her and put her hand on Anne's 
 shoulder. "I really can't see why you have to do what 
 anyone else wants in this. Tou have your work, and you 
 have lived at our house for four years. If you are happy 
 there, you ought to stay." 
 
 "Because, Freda, people will talk." Anne spoke as 
 though beginning to lose patience with Frederica's atti- 
 tude of complacency. 
 
 " Well "—Freda paused—" what hurt will that do ? No 
 one will believe anything wrong — ^I — 1 can't bear to talk 
 about it — and my own father — it seems vulgar ! " 
 
 " What hurt ? I will tell you. Freda, when I was your 
 age, I was engaged to be married, and I was happy, and 
 there was gossip about the man. My family never let 
 me see him again — and afterwards, when it was too 
 late, I foimd out it was only gossip. That is what hurt 
 it does." 
 
 Frederica drew herself up. "Tou ought not to have 
 let your family interfere. Tou ought to have seen him — 
 have gone to him.'' 
 
 " Tou don't understand," said Anne. " Tou have had 
 very little experience with men, Freda." She turned to 
 go. " I hope you never will imderstand." 
 
 " Anne." Frederica rose above her own personal feel- 
 ings, thought only of what was written in the face be- 
 fore her. "I don't understand, because I don't know 
 
 234 
 
A MORNING OF GOSSIP 
 
 if you'd not be happier away from — ^from our house 
 since my father — doesn't — doesn't seem to feel the way 
 you do." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Anne quickly, " I don't see how I can 
 go away; but I can't bear to be talked about. I have to 
 remember that I have been trying to set an example to 
 those people, to my girls' club — ^to " 
 
 "I think," interrupted Erederiea, "that you are a 
 coward. People who try to set examples always are." 
 
 But before either of them had come back to some con- 
 ventional remark to cover the growing distance be- 
 tween them, Mrs. Schneider came in with red face and 
 wide-open eyes. " Oh, weh ! oh, weh ! Miss Freda," she 
 said, " Maggie is to haf a baby ! " 
 
 Frederica and Anne, forgetting their discussion, looked 
 at each other with the same question: What was to be 
 done? Mrs. Schneider went on with her own thoughts: 
 " She will nicht say the name of der man. And we must 
 find der man, ach, ja! " 
 
 Anne nodded approvingly. " Yes, he must be made to 
 marry her." 
 
 Frederica said nothing. She had heard Eugene's key 
 in the front door, and her heart jumped in sudden remem- 
 brance that he might be coming to tell her that he had 
 heard the story, must go away, must leave her. She 
 watched the door and caught the first glimpse of him as 
 he came in. Then she took a long breath because he did 
 not show any sign of excitement. He spoke to Anne and 
 Mrs. Schneider, who appealed to him at once. 
 
 " Mr. Harden, can you perhaps nicht find der man — 
 Maggie's man? She should to get married." 
 
 Harden went over to Frederica. "Has she never told 
 you, Freda ? " he asked. 
 
 16 235 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "I've never asked her." 
 
 " Well, ask her now," said Eugene. " He must be made 
 to marry her." 
 
 "ITo," said Erederiea, speaking slowly, "I won't ask 
 her." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Anne. 
 
 " Because no one has any right to know if Maggie 
 doesn't want to tell." 
 
 " But ein baby ! " said Mrs. Schneider. 
 
 " It is her baby ! " replied Frederica. " I will take care 
 of Maggie." 
 
 "Frederica," said Eugene, "Mrs. Schneider and Miss 
 Forester are right. Maggie must get married — ^for the 
 child's sake as well as her own." 
 
 "What right have you to say that — to me?" she said 
 suddenly, facing him, forgetful for the instant of the two 
 women, and then frightened at what she had said, for 
 Anne was regarding her with surprise. But Mrs. Schnei- 
 der's interpretation was accepted. 
 
 " Mr. Harden has right to say it to you, because 
 Maggie loves you and will tell you der name. I will say 
 to Maggie you wish her to tell you." She went toward 
 the door. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Schneider I " cried Frederica, 
 
 " Let her go, Freda," said Eugene. " It will be easier 
 for her than for you, and we must find out." 
 
 The authority in his voice was not to be contradicted. 
 Anne looked pityingly at Frederica. It was exactly what 
 she had predicted: a foreign husband was always a 
 t3Tant. 
 
 When Mrs. Schneider had gone, nodding with approval 
 at Eugene's agreement in tactics, Anne came over to 
 Frederica. " You needn't give another thought to your 
 
 236 
 
A MOENING OF GOSSIP 
 
 father, Frederica," she said. "I intend to stay at his 
 house and make him comfortable." 
 
 " Thank you," said Frederica listlessly. She was too 
 much concerned with the discussion over Maggie to go 
 back to that over her father. Anne went away with all 
 sorts of emotions claiming the right to choke her — pity 
 for Maggie, and a little for Freda — a great deal for her- 
 self — and anger distributed wherever pity left any gaps. 
 She went straight back to the little house on Desplaines 
 Street and got lunch for Dr. Hartwell as if nothing had 
 happened. He had been away all the morning and spoke 
 of how he missed Frederica whenever he came home. 
 That was all the reward Anne got, and she pondered over 
 its significance while she washed the lunch dishes. 
 
 237 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 ALEO S PROMISE 
 
 .,^'^yEEDEEICA stood looking at the floor after 
 
 ^^^ Anne and Mrs. Schneider had left the room. 
 
 M ^ Harden watched her a moment and then went 
 
 to her. She drew back from him when he would 
 
 have taken her in his arms. " Don't, please," she said. 
 
 " You must not let Maggie's troubles make you un- 
 happy; we will soon arrange that." 
 
 She resented his way of speaking to her as a child, 
 and answered him quickly. 
 
 " You have no right to interfere," she said. " Sup- 
 pose some one wished to — ^to interfere with our — loving 
 each other ? " 
 
 Eugene laughed. " Could anyone ? " He meant it as 
 a sign of his certainty that nothing could come between 
 them; but she, with the knowledge of what hung over 
 them, took the question with fear in her eyes. 
 
 " Could anyone ? " she repeated to herself. 
 
 Eugene answered her, laughter still in his voice. " No, 
 I should fight like a wild beast if anyone wished to come 
 between us." Again she drew back, lifting terrified eyes 
 to his, so that he sobered instantly. "What is it, 
 Freda?" 
 
 " I was thinking how dreadful it would be if some one 
 238 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 — something should come between — if you had to go 
 away." Suddenly she held out her hands to him. " Don't 
 go away," she said. 
 
 " You love me ! " He took her, resisting, into his arms, 
 and his voice had exultation in it. " I thought you were 
 one of the shadow women — who are never stirred, and 
 it is always my great surprise that you, too, feel love. 
 When I am away from you I doubt your love, I cannot 
 help it. I am always afraid that when I come back you 
 will be gone, that you will be at home with your father 
 just as I found you, without memory even of my — of my 
 passion for you. But you love me ! " He drew her head 
 back so that he coidd see her eyes. 
 
 " Too much." Her voice was quivering with all that 
 lay underneath her words. 
 
 " It is not possible for a wife to love her husband too 
 much." 
 
 " I am afraid to love so much," she said. " I fight it 
 all the time. I have said to myself, ' You must be spirit- 
 ual, you must not tremble when he comes near you, you 
 must not feel your lips so hungry for his.' Eugene — 
 I have struggled not to show it. I did not know there 
 was this torment of joy — ^how could I ? I planned so dif- 
 ferently. I thought we woidd work and love other 
 people." 
 
 He seated himself on the divan and drew her down 
 beside him. For a moment she closed her eyes, with her 
 head against his shoidder. He lifted her hands and kissed 
 their palms. Something in her mood, for all she had ad- 
 mitted her love so intensely, kept him quiet. It was as 
 though he was restraining her from too great self -con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 "Where are your rings, Freda?" 
 239 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She heard the question through a tumult, and drew 
 away from him. 
 
 " I took them off when Mrs. Schneider came. I could 
 not hear to let her see them. She might think I had 
 changed. Why did you give them to me ? " 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 "Why did you give me so much — this house, these 
 beautiful things? Oh, you ought not to have given them 
 to me ! " 
 
 " Why not? " he said again. 
 
 " Because it is wicked for me to have them. And now 
 I shall miss them. I did not know I loved beautiful 
 things until you gave them to me." 
 
 "But you are always to have them." 
 
 " Eugene ! " She rose to her feet and clasped her hands 
 behind her, as she always did when she was determined. 
 He recognized the pose. "I want you to take me over 
 where I lived before we — ^before I left home. I want to 
 live right among the working people and just as they 
 do. I want to wash dishes and sew and work very hard." 
 
 " Why do you wish those things ? " He was facing her 
 in a way she dreaded, because she knew it meant ques- 
 tions. To keep the questions off she answered quickly, 
 and built a reasonable structure as she went along; at 
 least it seemed reasonable to her. 
 
 " It will be much better for me," she said. " This com- 
 fort and beauty intoxicate me. I shall get spoiled. I 
 shall soon think only of clothes — and — rings — and I want 
 to think only of your work. It is better for you to live 
 among the people you are trying to help — ^to be of their 
 class — isn't it ? " She had spoken breathlessly. 
 
 Eugene treated her intensity almost with indifference. 
 " You're a sentimentalist, Freda. I am not trying to be 
 
 240 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 a philanthropist or live humbly in order to do my work. I 
 am with the imder dog, but that doesn't mean I must 
 live in his kennel. It would be as much humbug for 
 me to live over there as it would be for Gustav Lange 
 to come here and live." 
 
 " But I am used to that life over there." 
 
 " I know. It used to hurt me that you were living in 
 such a place. Tou should always have had beauty in 
 your surroundings. It belongs to you." 
 
 " It doesn't belong to me. I did not earn it." 
 
 " But I have given it to you." 
 
 " That is it ! I must not take gifts from you." Her 
 voice was hard and thin. She was so afraid she could 
 not gain her way with him, and afraid, too, that some- 
 thing of the truth would slip out. 
 
 She hurried on. "I love you too selfishly. I work 
 every day with you, but — it's not because of the work, 
 it's because I want to be near you, to see you. Even 
 Anne teUs me I am changed, and you won't love me if I 
 am changed " 
 
 There was something insincere in the way she spoke, 
 which was evident to herself, and it made her pause. 
 
 Harden was regarding her with suspicion. "You are 
 hiding something from me, Erederica," he said. 
 
 She put her clenched hand over her lips, " It is quite 
 true that I want to leave this house, I want to go back 
 —home!" 
 
 It was true. The house had become for her the sym- 
 bol of sin. She had wakened to the fact that her senses 
 were keen to enjoy all this unaccustomed beauty and 
 luxury, and it frightened her. She wished for privations, 
 for the opportunity to slave for him, to struggle, in order 
 to prove to herself that love was not luxury nor depend- 
 
 241 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 ent upon luxury. Everything about her rose up to smother 
 her in sensuous delights. The world of outer things, 
 the hundreds of men waiting for justice, the conspiracy 
 of Sloane with his peers, the saving of souls by her father, 
 all those things were afar off; and she was here in this 
 room with a man whom she loved, who was not her hus- 
 band, who had given her gifts which she was crying out 
 to return to him. And he would not hear her, called 
 her a sentimentalist, would not believe that she knew 
 what she was saying. But she could not explain, and 
 therein lay the beginning of the misunderstanding. 
 
 A man of fine feeling is particularly sensitive to the 
 possibility of a woman being frightened by his emotion, 
 or displeased by her new surroundings. To Harden this 
 outbreak of Frederica was perhaps not a surprise, but it 
 hurt him none the less. 
 
 "Frederiea," he said, "you are free to choose your 
 home." 
 
 Free! The word stunned her. Could it be possible 
 that he was angry enough to fling it at her when, for 
 the first time, they were in argument? Free! That was 
 the reason of all her dismay and unhappiness. Had she 
 only felt herself bound by ten thousand laws! As she 
 looked at him she fancied she saw something in his face 
 which she had not seen before, anger tinged with con- 
 tempt, as though he despised her for having been so 
 eager to be deceived by him. He was waiting for her to 
 say something to him, but she had no words, only a great 
 desire to throw herself into his arms and explain what 
 lay hidden in all that she had been saying. She rebelled 
 inwardly against that desire, for did it not prove how 
 completely she had yielded to a passion which she before 
 this did not know had any existence? She felt her body 
 
 242 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 bum witli new shame, and she turned so that he might 
 not see her eyes full of hot tears. 
 
 " Freda," said Eugene, " don't you think you could have 
 waited a day or two before telling me of — ^your unhappi- 
 ness ? I ought not to think of anything except the strike, 
 of what must be done — and you are making that almost 
 impossible." 
 
 She heard only the reproof in his voice, hot the pain 
 trembling underneath it, and it added to her himiiliation. 
 
 " I am thinking of your work," she said. " It is be- 
 cause I think we should live with the people you are 
 helping." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider came in just then. " Maggie is nicht 
 here!" 
 
 " She was afraid ! " said Freda. 
 
 " Without hat oder money, she is gone." 
 
 " Where do you think she wotdd go ? " Eugene asked 
 Frederica. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I will go and find das Madchen, Maggie," and Mrs. 
 Schneider went back to the kitchen to get her hat and 
 coat, but appeared immediately on the threshold again 
 with Mrs. Scanlan, who had been let in the back door 
 by the cook. "Mrs. Scanlan is here to see you," she 
 said, and was gone to find Maggie. 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan came over to Harden and put a crumpled 
 letter into his hand. 
 
 " This shows he didn't do it," she said. " He never got 
 it. It came the next day, after the fire.'' She was trem- 
 bling and ashen gray. She stood there with her hands 
 resting on the desk while he read it. 
 
 " Start the fire in the northeast comer of the yard at 
 one o'clock. The rubbish will make the best beginning. 
 
 243 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Let the capitalist suffer in Ms pocketbook a little to make 
 up for what you've suffered from him." 
 
 Harden recognized at once that the letter had very 
 little value as evidence. It was typewritten ; the envelope 
 was typewritten ; and there was no possible way of telling 
 who had written it, unless Scanlan could be made to con- 
 fess. He knew, of course, that Scanlan had set the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan began to cry. " He didn't do it," she said. 
 "I know he didn't do it. He's got reason to feel hard 
 against Sloane, but he wouldn't do a thing like this." 
 
 " What reason, Mrs. Scanlan ? " asked Harden. 
 
 " Sloane had him blacklisted when the boy was sick one 
 time. Scanlan couldn't get any work, and that's the rea- 
 son the boy has fits and never got over his sickness. Oh, 
 he hates Sloane, but he wouldn't make more trouble for 
 ourselves by getting the law against us." 
 
 "But he was out very late that night, wasn't he?" 
 asked Harden. 
 
 Frederica was holding Mrs. Scanlan's head on her 
 shoulder and patting her. The woman was terror- 
 stricken. She was unable to deny that her husband was 
 out late, and she knew how for all these years he had 
 nursed his great resentment against the man whose black- 
 listing had ruined their boy's chance in the world. As 
 much as she loved her husband, she began to believe in 
 his guilt. There was too much reason for it. She would 
 not have been strong enough to go over into the yards 
 and light the fire to destroy Sloane's property; but she 
 knew that Scanlan was strong enough, because he was 
 a silent man, and had his will wherever it was possible. 
 
 " Ereda," said Eugene, " you had better go home with 
 Mrs. Scanlan — or keep her here," and he went toward the 
 door. 
 
 244 
 
ALEC'S PKOMISE 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan ran forward trembling from where she 
 stood, and seized Harden's hand. "He had such good 
 reason," she said, " and the boy has been so bad of late. 
 If he'd died when he was a baby, Scanlan wouldn't have 
 got so bitter. Don't tell on him! Put it on some other 
 man who ain't so good ! He's always been good I " 
 
 Harden looked at her with pity in his face; but he 
 made no pretense of easing her anxiety. " It's necessary 
 to sacrifice one man," he said, " to save the union." 
 
 Frederica had seen the hard look come into Eugene's 
 face and her blood turned cold at the idea of his being 
 the one to bring John Scanlan to justice. 
 
 " Eugene," she said, " he isn't to blame. Don't be hard 
 on him." 
 
 Harden did not even reply by a glance as he left. 
 
 The two women sat silent where they were. Mrs. 
 Scanlan was facing the idea of her husband's open dis- 
 grace, Trederica was trying to believe that Eugene would 
 not force the full penalty upon the man. She was con- 
 scious of a certain hardness in him that she had not 
 guessed to be there and she had been completely ig- 
 nored. 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan sat fearful in the expectation of the news 
 coming to her, when the door opened. Alec Sloane was 
 there. At the sight of him Mrs. Scanlan covered her face 
 and began to rock back and forth, believing that he had 
 come to tell them bad news. But he looked at her in 
 surprised indifference and spoke only to Frederica. 
 
 " Can I see you ? " he asked. 
 
 "Mrs. Scanlan," said Frederica, "don't worry. Mr. 
 Sloane hasn't any bad news of your husband. He has 
 come to talk to me about something else. Will you wait 
 in the other room, please ? " 
 
 245 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 The little gray woman got up meekly and went into 
 the dining room, where in stunned sorrow she waited 
 for the news which she knew must come. She felt like a 
 trapped animal, and very soon began moving about the 
 room; the door was open between her and the other two, 
 but she had no idea that another crisis was being reached 
 in there. 
 
 Alec faced Frederica with the question unspoken: 
 What was her decision to be? It was very hard for her 
 now to put it into words. Had he come earlier, before 
 Mrs. Schneider had talked to her of a child, before Anne 
 had made the conventions of the world real, before Eu- 
 gene had emphasized tl^e; necessity of Maggie's marrying, 
 and then had shown herself hara, unmoved by Mrs. Scan- 
 lan's distress — ^Frederica would have felt strong in the de- 
 termination with which late in the night she had fallen 
 asleep : the determination to deny every statement of Mr. 
 Sloane, to pretend, if necessary, that she had proofs 
 contradicting his, to tell Alec what she knew of his father, 
 and threaten him with the exposure. For what was she 
 in this great combat but a weapon to be used by Sloane ? 
 But she could not be used unless she showed herself weak, 
 and admitted her position. 
 
 Alec was here, and now she must put it all into words, 
 and the words woidd not come. It seemed now that she 
 had been pushed outside Eugene's world. Could she, as 
 an outsider, defend him? Had he not ignored her, 
 looked upon her as an antagonist, first because she had 
 pleaded with him for the sacredness of Maggie's secret, 
 and then later for Mrs. Scanlan's husband? She was 
 weakening. And Alec was watching her. She looked up 
 and caught his expectant eyes on her, and she ran her 
 tongue over her lips to moisten them so she could speak. 
 
 246 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 She began indefinitely and as far off from the conclusion 
 as she could. 
 
 "It is like war," she said, "and your father has be- 
 lieved the lies of that Hungarian. It is very simple." 
 
 Alec signified his impatience. " Your decision, Freda ? " 
 
 "Your father is — dishonorable. Alec — did you know 
 that? He has pledged himself to destroy the union — 
 and he can't so long as Eugene stands by the men." 
 
 "If you were a man," said Alec, "I could call you — 
 a liar." 
 
 "But you'd have to prove it!" Anger made up for 
 courage with her now. " I am telling the truth. Eugene 
 is going to expose your father before to-night. The men 
 went back to work this morning, didn't they ? " 
 
 "No," said Alec, fighting against the feeling that she 
 was telling the truth. "We won't take them back until 
 we know who set the fire." 
 
 " We do know," said Erederica, " and he has got to pay 
 the penalty." 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Alec. 
 
 "Your father," she answered. 
 
 "Good Lord!" Alee gave a contemptuous laugh. 
 
 "He used a poor fellow — that woman's husband." 
 Erederica pointed to the other room. 
 
 " There's no sense in our talking this way," said Alec, 
 coming toward her. " Are you going to go home to your 
 father?" 
 
 " No ! " said Erederica, sure of herself now. 
 
 He seized her wrist. "By God, Ereda, you've got tol 
 You don't know what you're saying ! If you can't think 
 of yourself, think of your father ! " 
 
 Ereda winced and tried to free her wrist. He was 
 angry, and he felt the wild beast in him. He took his 
 
 247 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 hand away and put his arm about her and leaned over 
 — " Your honor, Ereda ! " he said through his teeth. 
 
 " My honor ! " flashed from her lips as she drew back 
 from his unexpected embrace, her face white. Then they 
 were both conscious of Mrs. Scanlan, who had approached 
 them and stood looking at Erederica with parted lips and 
 horrified eyes. 
 
 Yet she was seeing these two with a distorted vision, as 
 from a shaken world. Many years she had heard without 
 response John Scanlan's bitter words against the " rich." 
 Suddenly came her answer, not to him, but to those who 
 had become without volition his natural enemies. 
 
 " I'm glad to see it," she said. " Good Lord, I'm glad ! 
 They're over there with John Scanlan, those two, and 
 you're here getting even with them. He's a hard man, 
 your husband, and I'm glad you're playing him." 
 
 Her voice was shrill and cut them both, but it was al- 
 most as though she were speaking a foreign language. 
 Alec was the first to sense her meaning, but he didn't 
 know what to say to her, nor to Erederica, who was trem- 
 bling. Mrs. Scanlan did not pause except for quick 
 breath; all her life through she had plodded unresentful 
 until to-day, when she knew that her husband was to face 
 the penalty of a deed which, to her mind — justified. No 
 law had interposed when Alexander Sloane had black- 
 listed Scanlan, who had at last found his chance to 
 wreak a petty vengeance through fire. And at this mo- 
 ment Sloane again had the upper hand and would de- 
 stroy what little of Scanlan's life was left. And Harden, 
 who had pretended to be the workingmen's friend, was 
 the one to bring this exaction of law to fulfillment. The 
 Austrian had become one with the rich man. 
 
 But here was Sloane's son making love to Harden's 
 248 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 ■wife. Her gray face under the iron-gray hair had grown 
 more haggard in these moments while her husband was 
 on his way to retribution, and she had gone over and over 
 in her mind the excuses which some one ought to be 
 making for him. 'Now she seized with cunning the 
 weapon these two had dropped before her. 
 
 " There are those as will be glad to hear what I've 
 heard sitting yonder, and what I've seen. John Scanlan 
 shan't be put away without his wife doing what will even 
 him up with the law.'' 
 
 She started toward the door, but Alec was too quick 
 to allow her going. He reached it first and put his back 
 against it. She looked at him with age-long craft show- 
 ing from every line of her face. 
 
 " Tou can stand there,'' she said, " but some one will be 
 coming in, and I can say my say as well one where as 
 another." 
 
 And with her purpose full grown in her mind she 
 looked about for a chair. Her eye fell on Frederica, and 
 she looked long at her without a word. She covered the 
 girl with her complete contempt, and Frederica could 
 not speak. What was there to say? 
 
 Alec Sloane knew that something must be said. He 
 must protect Freda, and he must keep this Irishwoman 
 from speech. He had not been conscious of her presence 
 in the room while they were talking, and there was just 
 a chance that she had not understood all that they had 
 said. He did not try subtlety with her, but made a direct 
 approach. 
 
 " You must not repeat anything you have heard here," 
 he said ; " and what you've seen you don't understand." 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan made no answer for a moment. Then 
 she shook her head almost in derision. " Tou can't scare 
 
 249 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 me," she said. " It mayn't make it any easier for Scan- 
 Ian, but it'll show him some things he'll be glad of." 
 
 Alec took his cue from her words. " No, it will make 
 it harder for your husband, because I'll have to prove you 
 a liar, but — " He stopped short with the thought of what 
 he would offer might mean. She caught the idea of 
 barter from his tone and came toward him. 
 
 "But what?" she asked. 
 
 Then he was sure of the wisdom of what he wanted 
 to say. " Why, if you promise to keep still, I'll get your 
 husband off." 
 
 The craft sharpened in her face. " Can he ? " she asked 
 Frederica. 
 
 " I don't know," said Frederica slowly. She was think- 
 ing of Eugene's determination that one man must be 
 sacrificed for the sake of the union, and she was recalling 
 the look of will in his face as he had left. 
 
 Alec spoke sharply. " Tou know I can, Freda. I must. 
 TeU her you know I can." 
 
 " But Eugene ? " she answered. 
 
 " I'll beat him on this if I have to say that I set that 
 fire myself. Tell her I can save her husband, Freda. 
 For God's sake, get her promise ! " 
 
 Mrs. Scanlan looked from one to the other with doubt 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " I swear I'll get your husband off ! " said Alec, al- 
 most shouting. 
 
 "Can he?" asked Mrs. Scanlan again of Frederica. 
 
 Frederica heard Eugene's voice in the outer room. 
 " Yes, Mrs. Scanlan, yes ! " she said quickly, and turned 
 quivering to the window, while Alec stepped away from 
 in front of the door and Harden entered. 
 
 He went straight to Mrs. Scanlan. " I came back to 
 250 
 
ALEC'S PEOMISE 
 
 tell you that your husband is going to wait with me at 
 Mr. Sloane's office until noon, when they expect Mr. 
 Sloane back. Tou can go home and I will come there 
 when we decide what is to be done." 
 
 " I will go now to see your husband," said Alec, fixing 
 the woman with a significant promise in his voice. 
 
 Harden looked at him in surprise but said nothing. 
 Then he spoke to Frederica. "Don't you want to take 
 Mrs. Scanlan home, Frederica ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Frederica, turning again to the window. 
 
 17 
 
 251 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A VISIT OF THE COMMITTEE 
 
 CD 
 
 'RS. SOANLAN went out the way she had come 
 in, and Eugene Harden turned to Frederiea. 
 "What did he mean? What right had he to 
 interfere ? " 
 
 She went swiftly across the room to where he was. 
 " Let Mr. Scanlan get away if he wants to." 
 
 His anger burst its bounds then. " Is it impossible for 
 you to realize the necessity of making Scanlan confess 
 to Sloane? Is it impossible for you to grasp the mean- 
 ing of this strike, of this conspiracy? Have you no 
 sense of justice, or are you like other women, without it ? 
 Can it be that you are so anxious to save an Irishman's 
 freedom at the cost of my honor, at the cost of the honor 
 of the body of men with whom I am working? I had 
 great faith in you. I have deceived myself, believing that 
 you were the wife for me because you did understand. 
 And ever since we came home yesterday you have been 
 trying to interfere." 
 
 " Yes," said Freda, " I know." 
 
 " Why was he here ? " asked Eugene. 
 
 Freda was perfectly still, bit her lips, and looked at 
 the floor. The moment had arrived when either she must 
 lie to him or tell him. It was a tremendous moment to 
 her. As he stood there with the anger in his eyes be- 
 
 252 
 
A VISIT OF THE COMMITTEE 
 
 cause she had been interfering in his work as he thought, 
 she realized what the anger would be should she speak 
 to him about his past life, for if she were wrong either 
 one way or the other, she would pay the penalty. Were 
 he free and married to her, and she were to let him see that 
 she had doubted it, and that she had thought him capa- 
 ble of lying to her, and if his principles were opposed to 
 lying, then it was all over between them. If, on the other 
 hand, he had lied to her and she were to let him know, 
 M'ere to share the knowledge of this thing, she could not 
 then fight Sloane and save his work to him and perhaps — 
 he would give her no chance to stand by him, but take 
 the whole matter into his own hands. 
 
 She was absolutely confused. Silence was her only 
 power, her only dignity. And was she able to keep silent ? 
 Never before in her life had she had anything to conceal ; 
 never before had there been any reason why she should 
 not look at him and tell what was in her mind. But as 
 she looked up, her lips set stubbornly, determined to 
 keep quiet and say nothing, she caught a look in his eyes 
 of whose significance she could not help but be aware, and 
 yet which up to this moment she had never imagined. 
 
 " Why was he here ? " he said. 
 
 And she knew that he was jealous of Alec Sloane. She 
 could not gather her thoughts quickly enough to know 
 whether or not she had given him any reason to be jeal- 
 ous by the words she had used, or whether Alec's manner 
 had done so. But one thought came to her which seemed 
 to offer help and she clung to it, not knowing if she 
 were right or wrong. 
 
 " You always said, Eugene, that no man nor no woman 
 has any right to question the behavior of another. You 
 laughed and called me Elsa once. It was childish then. 
 
 253 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Tou expected me to trust you and you were contemptu- 
 ous on the instant that I didn't. And now you don't 
 trust me. Tou are asking me questions." 
 
 Eugene turned on his heel. He was not in the mood 
 to have his own principles brought to his mind. Whether 
 the things she had said cut him or struck him dully, she 
 could not tell. But she breathed deep with a sense of 
 having kept her own self-respect in keeping her privilege 
 of silence. She woidd not lose that. 
 
 He faced her in a moment. "Tou can at least tell 
 me," he said, " what Alec meant by what he said to Mrs. 
 Scanlan." 
 
 " No," she said, " I cannot." 
 
 Eugene went to his writing table and began to gather 
 up the manuscripts, hardly knowing what he was doing. 
 "I must work,'' he said. "I must write what I intend 
 to say to-night at the meeting. I hope there will be no 
 interruptions; that I wiU not be interfered with in this 
 as well as in the other things which I have been trying 
 to do." 
 
 Frederica put her clinched hand over her lips and 
 looked at him a moment. "I don't think," she said, 
 " that you will be interrupted." She turned and went out 
 of the room. 
 
 Harden sat for some time staring at the papers. Then 
 he began to rearrange them and stared again at the op- 
 posite wall, unable apparently to go to work. 
 
 Suddenly the door was flung open and Mrs. Schneider 
 was standing there with flaming cheeks. " Where is she ? " 
 she said. " Where is the woman that you have done bad 
 by?" 
 
 Eugene went to her and closed the door behind her. 
 "What do you mean, Mrs. Schneider?" 
 
 254 
 
A VISIT OF THE COMMITTEE 
 
 " I mean I haf heard it all. I haf heard how you haf 
 done wrong to our poor Miss Freda — ^that you are mar- 
 ried once already, und that you haf come in dis country 
 to make all der troubles between der poor workingman 
 und der boss. Where is she ? I at once will go to her und 
 take her by her poor father." 
 
 Mrs. Schneider had come close to him in her anger and 
 was staring up at him with demand in her eyes. 
 
 " What story is it you have heard, Mrs. Schneider ? " 
 Harden was nervous, but he put his hands on the woman's 
 shoulders as though to control her anger. 
 
 She stepped back from him quickly and went to the 
 door. " Here they are," she said. " You will hear what 
 the story is." And she opened the front door herself and 
 let in three men — ^her husband, Steiner, and one other of 
 the strike committee. Then she ran upstairs to find Freda. 
 
 Harden waited for the men to come in, and asked 
 them to be seated; but they all stood and kept together 
 near the door. Steiner was the spokesman. 
 
 " Mr. Harden," he said, " we have come to tell you that 
 we don't intend to go back to work to-day. The union's 
 got the right to hold out, and it's just as well that you 
 know that we don't care any more to have you come in to 
 our meetings.'' 
 
 Harden looked at them, drew himself up rather slowly, 
 pressed his lips together a moment, and then said: 
 "Well " 
 
 His attitude demanded an explanation from them, but 
 he did not weaken the effect of it by asking for one. He 
 looked slowly from Schneider to Steiner, and back. Mr. 
 Schneider was unable to meet Harden's gaze ; but Steiner, 
 who was more calloused, and who had been jealous of 
 Harden from the beginning, and was besides a strong 
 
 255 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 partisan of Lange's, was glad to have a chance to humil- 
 iate the other man by putting the story into words before 
 him. 
 
 " We don't care," he said, " to have men like you run- 
 ning our union business. We've just seen the papers that 
 prove you're something else than what you've been let- 
 ting on to be. We have got to look out for the honor of 
 the union." 
 
 Harden folded his arms across his breast and fastened 
 his whole gaze on Steiner. " You accepted the story of 
 some one as to my honor?" he asked. 
 
 Steiner was ill at ease. " We have the proofs. It isn't 
 just hearsay. You can't go back on what we've seen." 
 
 " N"o," said Harden, " we can't go back on that." 
 
 Then he turned to Schneider. " You believed a story 
 without waiting to hear my side of it ? " he said. 
 
 Schneider rubbed his hands together and looked at 
 Steiner for courage. "I could come to you and get an 
 answer, but the others will not wait." 
 
 " Yes," said Harden, and turned his back on them, went 
 to his writing table and sat down at it. They stood look- 
 ing at him, but he did not look up again, and in great 
 embarrassment they left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Schneider, who had been waiting outside, came 
 into the edge of the room. " She is already gone. If she 
 is by her father she knows already. She had it in her 
 eyes this morning." And Mrs. Schneider went back to 
 Desplaines Street to find Ereda. 
 
 256 
 
CHAPTEK VIII 
 
 TWO DECISIONS 
 
 'FTER Anne had finished the noon dishes she 
 went into the study where Dr. Hartwell was 
 reading, and asked if she could interrupt him. 
 He leaned back in his desk chair and smiled 
 contentedly at her. 
 
 " You never interrupt me," he said. " How we do miss 
 Freda!" 
 
 " Yes," said Anne, " that is just what I want to speak 
 to you about." 
 
 It seemed very hard for her to begin. She stood and 
 looked out of the window. 
 
 "It's about the way you miss Frederica," she said. 
 " I have been trying for a week to tell you that we shall 
 have to break up here, I think." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell brought the legs of his chair down upon 
 the floor and took off his glasses: " Why, what is the 
 matter ? " he asked. " I thought we had settled that." 
 
 " I can't stay here," she said, " because my family — " 
 She hesitated and hoped Dr. Hartwell would understand. 
 But he still looked at her in surprise, apparently no- 
 where near a guess as to wfhat she meant. " What about 
 your family ? " he asked. 
 
 " My father has never been in favor of my living over 
 257 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 here, and now he has put his foot down and insists that 
 I cannot stay here alone — with you." 
 
 At this Dr. Hartwell rose to his feet. His face flushed. 
 " Your father doesn't want you to stay here alone with 
 me?" 
 
 It was most embarrassing for Anne. "Tes, that's it," 
 she said. "He doesn't realize that I am old and un- 
 attractive and needn't think of conventionalities." 
 
 The doctor did not see the opening to give her the 
 comfort which would have been hers had he contradicted 
 her. He was hurt at the idea of old Mr. Forester con- 
 sidering him as a dangerous man for his daughter to be 
 with. For so long a time had Dr. Hartwell lived on 
 without considering himself as anything except a minister 
 of the gospel and Erederica's father, that these words of 
 Anne's startled him. He did not know what to say. 
 
 Anne broke the silence. " I think I shall go home to- 
 morrow. I told Freda to-day that I would stay on here 
 with you in spite of gossip, but I have been thinking it 
 over, and I believe it is best to go." 
 
 "I don't know what I shall do," said Dr. Hartwell in 
 a helpless sort of way. "I don't know how I shall get 
 along." 
 
 " I think you must go to Freda," said Anne. " I am 
 sure she would want you to." 
 
 " But my work ? " said the doctor. " I can't live there 
 on the North Side and do my work down here." 
 
 Anne thought a moment. " Of course," she said, " you 
 might get Mrs. Schneider to look after the house." 
 
 " But it will be so lonely," said Dr. Hartwell. " It's 
 very lonely now." 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, "but I am afraid that can't be 
 helped." 
 
 258 
 
TWO DECISIONS 
 
 A great anger was rising in her that she should be 
 standing there saying noncommittal, commonplace things 
 to him instead of crying out as she wanted to that she 
 cared for him, and that she would stay on if there were 
 any chance of his caring for her. He was only fifteen 
 years older than she — a few years ago that would have 
 seemed a great chasm between them, and now it was only 
 a gap across which she willingly would have reached her 
 hand, only that the doctor kept his clasped behind 
 him and thought of himself as an old man quite apart 
 from romance. She wondered a little to herself if he 
 would not miss her with some real feeling apart from 
 the way in which he missed Prederica. But there was 
 not a syllable that she could say to bring this thing home 
 to his mind. 
 
 " Tou think you must go to-morrow ? " he said. " Why, 
 I don't see how you can go to-morrow. I don't see how 
 I can make any arrangements about it so soon." 
 
 He seemed quite unconscious of the selfishness of his 
 statements, and Anne was unconscious of them, too. Then 
 he began to think of her first words. 
 
 "I don't know your father very well, Anne, but I 
 would like to go to him and tell him that there is no rea- 
 son why he should object to your staying here." 
 
 " Oh," said Anne in excitement, " that wouldn't do any 
 good. Of course there's no reason. It's only about un- 
 reasonable things that people gossip. It's just that you 
 are not married and that I am not married and that we 
 are living in the same house. They believe that you could 
 fall in love with some one if you were tempted. But 
 even if you couldn't fall in love and you were single — 
 and there was not any other woman round — ^why, they 
 would talk about conventions and I couldn't stay. I knew 
 
 259 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 when Erederica got married that this would happen, but 
 I didn't want to talk to you about it then, because you 
 were so lonely for her." 
 
 The doctor stood with his hands behind him, looking 
 at the floor. " You don't think it would do any good for 
 me to speak to your father ? " he said. 
 
 " What could you say ? " she asked desperately. 
 
 " Why," said the doctor slowly, " why, I could tell him 
 that it would interfere with my work — that you had be- 
 come a very valuable assistant — that the kindergarten is 
 a great success — ^there is a great deal I could tell him." 
 
 "It wouldn't do any good," said Anne. "I'll come 
 back and help pack your things, if you will go over to 
 Freda's ; or if you want Mrs. Schneider to look after the 
 house, I'll explain everything to her." 
 
 "You must let me think this over," said the doctor. 
 " Don't go to-morrow, Anne. Don't go at least until the 
 day after. By that time I may have some plan. To-day 
 my mind is too full of other things. I am going to speak 
 at Neff's Hall. I promised Eugene that I would be there 
 early." 
 
 "You're going to speak again?" said Anne slowly, 
 with the emphasis of complete surprise. " Why, I thought 
 that you never would speak to strikers again ! " 
 
 " I did not expect to," he said. " But this time it is to 
 get the men to go back to work. Eugene seemed to think 
 that I could have some influence at this meeting. He 
 is very anxious that they go back to work to-morrow 
 morning. Then we shall see whether Alexander Sloane 
 is acting in a double-faced way." 
 
 The doctor drew himself up with dignity. In his in- 
 nermost heart he was very glad to have this opportunity 
 to show his courage and to prove to Eugene Harden that 
 
 260 
 
TWO DECISIONS 
 
 he was a man who could take the side of justice. The 
 doctor's loneliness since Frederica had gone had brought 
 it home very clearly to his mind that he was living in 
 a world apart from other men; and he missed his asso- 
 ciation with Alexander Sloane more than he cared to 
 admit. 
 
 This second strike in the lumber yard had at first been 
 a matter of much concern to him, for he had hoped that 
 the two families would come to terms and be good friends. 
 But when Harden had made the statement that he had 
 about Sloane's business corruption, the doctor could not 
 disbelieve it, and his conscience called him to take sides 
 so that there could be no misunderstanding of his position. 
 At first he had been inclined to go to Sloane and ask him 
 if this were true, but he thought it probable that Sloane 
 would let him hear from him the next day. If the men 
 went back to work in the morning it would be a sign 
 that Harden had, after all, been misled, and Sloane would 
 be indebted to Hartwell that he had taken the side of the 
 employees. If, on the other hand, the men did not go 
 back, then he would know that Sloane was responsible. 
 
 Anne had not been at all concerned with what lay be- 
 hind in the doctor's conscience. She was only afraid for 
 him. 
 
 "Every time you speak outside the pulpit," she said, 
 " you endanger your influence in the church. You can't 
 afford to take sides in these questions. A minister of the 
 gospel ought never to take sides in worldly things." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said the doctor. " It seems 
 to me that my duty often calls me into the thick of the 
 fight." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " to pray beside the wounded men, but 
 not to urge them to go into battle." 
 
 261 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "I am not urging them to that," said the doctor. "I 
 am urging them back to work.'' 
 
 He glanced at his watch and she felt that the one oc- 
 casion for an understanding between them had slipped 
 by her. There was to be no romance in her life. She 
 had come into the room hoping that her embarrassment, 
 if nothing else, would enlighten him ; but he had changed 
 the subject almost immediately, and had only postponed 
 her going twenty-four hours on the ground that it would 
 upset his plans. Yet she could not bear to bring the 
 interview to an end, and he, too, was held by something 
 in her face as she stood there looking at him. 
 
 " You don't want to go, do you, Anne ? " he said. 
 
 That single approach of his to her state of mind un- 
 nerved her. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said, and sat down in a big easy-chair 
 and covered her face with her hands. " This is home. I 
 have been so happy here; and there is nothing congenial 
 where I have got to stay now." 
 
 The doctor came over and patted her shoulder. " I will 
 see that you do not go, Anne," he said. " I will talk to 
 your father. He will have to be sensible about this thing." 
 
 Anne was humiliated now. He had been able to pat her 
 on the shoulder as though she were a child in trouble, and 
 that was the last straw of his practical understanding 
 of the thing. 
 
 She sat there with her hands over her face, wondering 
 how she could get out of the room, when she heard some 
 one come up the front steps; and as the doctor went to 
 the front door, she ran into her bedroom, threw herself 
 on the narrow bed, and wept. 
 
 The doctor opened the door to Alexander Sloane, whose 
 face was far from placid, and whose breath came fast. 
 
 262 
 
TWO DECISIONS 
 
 " What is this," he said, " that I have heard, that you 
 are to speak to-night to the men on strike ? Is it true ? " 
 
 The doctor led him into the study before he answered. 
 Then he turned with some dignity, not at all knowing 
 why Sloane should be excited. 
 
 " You have heard that I am going to speak to-night ? 
 Probably you have not heard that I am going to urge the 
 men to go back to work to-morrow morning." 
 
 Sloane held his hat tight in his two hands. "Yes, I 
 heard that, too," he said. " But I don't know what affair 
 it is of yours whether the men work or don't work, or 
 how these strikes come out. The last time you spoke at 
 the meeting when they decided to hold out against me." 
 
 The doctor interrupted him. " But I spoke for arbitra- 
 tion, Sloane — ^for arbitration — ^you had promised that." 
 
 " This time," said Sloane, ignoring him, " you are speak- 
 ing against the strike. You want the men to go to work. 
 The next time there is trouble you will be on the other 
 side of the fence." 
 
 By this time the doctor's dignity was very real. There 
 was something in the manner of the man before him 
 which, although incomprehensible, was almost insulting. 
 Perhaps it may have been that all these months of listen- 
 ing to Eugene Harden's discourses upon wage slavery 
 and lack of independence had had their effects upon the 
 doctor. At any rate he resented Sloane's tone. 
 
 "I shall always be on that side of the fence where I 
 believe justice is," he said. " This time I think you are 
 in the right ; and I am going to say so to-night." 
 
 Sloane stepped toward him. " You are not going to do 
 anything of the sort. You are not going to that meeting 
 to-night. When I put the money up for a mission over 
 here; built the building, put in the heating apparatus, 
 
 263 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 hired the janitor, got you an organ, even put in stained- 
 glass -windows, and settled on your salary — 1 didn't do 
 it because I wanted any help from you in my business 
 affairs. I did it partly because I believed these people 
 must have religion, and I did it partly because I saw 
 that you would not be happy until you had come down 
 here and got into this work. But I tell you I would never 
 do it again. You have made me trouble from the be- 
 ginning." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell looked at Sloane in amazement. The 
 man's face was hard and grim and taut in every muscle, 
 as though he were restraining himself from saying much 
 more. 
 
 The doctor had a slight perception that after all it was 
 not so much Sloane's interest in whether or not he was 
 to speak at the meeting, as it was some other thought that 
 was responsible for his excitement. He felt that this was 
 the time for a soft answer, and he laid his hand on Sloane's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Alec Sloane," he said, "whatever you thought your 
 reasons were for building the chapel and paying my salary, 
 you have done God's work." 
 
 Sloane's eyes dropped. " Yes," he said, " and that is 
 the work I want you to keep on doing. You will have to 
 leave these questions of strikes and wages and hours 
 to more experienced men, Hartwell. You can't be ex- 
 pected to know business, and you only make things 
 confused. I hope that you will not speak at the meet- 
 ing to-night." 
 
 The doctor had given a soft answer, but his indignation 
 was none the less. " I certainly shall speak to-night," he 
 said. " There was nothing in our agreement as to when 
 and where I should speak, or what the subject should be. 
 
 264 
 
TWO DECISIONS 
 
 I thought when I agreed to speak to-night that I would 
 be doing you a service." 
 
 " That tnay be, that may be," interrupted Sloane, as 
 though he didn't care to pursue the subject along that 
 path. 
 
 " But," said the doctor, " whether or not I am doing you 
 a service, I shall speak." 
 
 " Very well," said Sloane, " there may have been noth- 
 ing in our agreement, but the agreement is at an end. 
 There are plenty of young men who would like to come 
 into that mission who are willing to devote themselves 
 to the souls of their people, and not to meddle in politics 
 and business." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was perfectly calm. He knew without a 
 moment's thought that he was being robbed of his liveli- 
 hood, that he was being thrown penniless into the world, 
 that he was a man whose whole training, whose experi- 
 ences in the last ten years had unfitted him to return to 
 the routine ministerial life. Moreover, he had been very 
 liberal in the doctrines that he had preached, and it would 
 be very hard for him to get into any of the strictly or- 
 thodox churches. Yet his acceptance of Sloane's state- 
 ment was far quieter than any other acceptance of any- 
 thing had ever been. 
 
 " I am very sorry," he said, " that you have proved to 
 me as you stood here that the suspicion abroad in the city 
 that you are responsible for the strike and are trying to 
 destroy the union, is true. And I am sorry, too, that I 
 gave you the opportunity to discharge me, instead of re- 
 signing, as I should have done months ago." 
 
 The doctor's manner plainly showed Sloane to the door. 
 Any dignity which he might ever have lacked in his atti- 
 tude toward this man of money, on whom he was depend- 
 
 265 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 ent, was his now. He was one of the men to whom humil- 
 iation means clearness of vision, who accepts a penalty 
 without self -excuse. 
 
 Alexander Sloane kept his assumption of dignity and 
 got into his carriage; but he was not unmoved by the 
 doctor's statement. It was the first time that it had come 
 to his ears that he was being suspected. Inwardly he 
 cursed the " gentlemen's " agreement under which he was 
 forced to keep up his fighting attitude. 
 
 The doctor went back into his study and stood for a long 
 time with folded arms, thinking deeply. In spite of the 
 fact that now he had no home, no church, he felt greatly 
 relieved, as though he were about to begin life afresh. 
 
 Anne came into the room while he was still in his ex- 
 alted, uplifted mood, and told him that she had decided 
 to go home that afternoon. "I can't stay here after I 
 have decided to go," she said. "I should be hysterical 
 and foolish, for I do love it." 
 
 " I will go with you, Anne," he said. " I think I need 
 a little exercise." 
 
 They went out together. 
 
 When Mrs. Schneider came in an hour later to break 
 the news to Dr. Hartwell, the house was empty, and she 
 thought that perhaps he had already heard and had gone 
 after his daughter. 
 
CHAPTEK IX 
 
 A CHANCE FOR STRATEGY 
 
 ^w^HEN Frederica went to her room she dressed 
 W I ^ quickly and left within five minutes for Mr. 
 \M ^F Sloane's office. She had reached the point where 
 she felt she must do something; that she could 
 not stay at home and feel that the story might be spread 
 in spite of her. All the way down on the street car she 
 went over in her mind what she would say to Mr. Sloane. 
 She did not intend, whatever else she did, to show the 
 white feather. This was war, and if there were any chance 
 for strategy, she would use strategy. She wondered if it 
 would be possible to promise him that he would not be 
 exposed if he would let the men come back to work, would 
 discharge Lange, and would not ruin Eugene's influence 
 and position. She meant to make him see that she be- 
 lieved she was married, for the more she thought it over 
 the more she was convinced that her instincts could not 
 be wrong; that this man could not lie to her. But all 
 these intentions and thoughts were rather vague and rested 
 in her own mind upon what Alexander Sloane would say 
 to her. She meant when she went into the office to ask 
 him at once to let her see the papers. That far she knew 
 definitely what she would do. 
 
 Going up in the elevator, she felt half smothered, but 
 she had a sense of power and of will and of fighting in 
 18 267 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 her that she was not to be dominated by anyone on the 
 other side. 
 
 When she reached the suite of offices in the building 
 which Sloane owned, she presented her card — Mrs. Eugene 
 Harden — to the office boy. It was the first time she had 
 given her card to anyone, and it seemed very strange to 
 her — as if she were playing a part. After all, was there 
 not a great difference between Mrs. Eugene Harden and 
 Frederica Hartwell ? And which was the happier ? 
 
 The boy came back. "Mr. Sloane's clerk says he is 
 gone for the day." 
 
 And then it seemed quite absurd to Frederica that she 
 had been thinking so hard all the way down to the office ; 
 that she had a picture in her mind of the way Alexander 
 Sloane would look when she came into his office ; and that 
 she had any determinations or any plans at all. How per- 
 fectly helpless she was as a himian being in this game! 
 Alexander Sloane was not there, and no amount of will 
 and purpose and desire to protect Eugene could bring the 
 interview about. She thought for a moment she might go 
 to his house ; but it was not likely he was at his house ; he 
 was there very little. Besides, there she might find Alec 
 or Mrs. Sloane; and that would make it very much 
 harder. Should she go back home — that is, back to 
 Eugene's home? 
 
 The necessity for action was growing upon her. It 
 would be easier to go up to the union headquarters; it 
 would be easier to go out and find Maggie; to do almost 
 anything than to go home and sit down and wait for 
 something to happen. 
 
 She was passing a hotel on her way to the street car, 
 for her feet were carrying her back to where Eugene 
 was in spite of her indecision. She turned and went into 
 
 268 
 
A CHANCE FOR STEATEGY 
 
 the writing room, sat down at the desk and wrote a short 
 note to Gustav Lange, telling him to come, as soon as he 
 got it, to her father's house on Desplaines Street. Then 
 she called a bell boy, had him find a messenger, and sent 
 the note to the union headquarters. 
 
 Instead of taking the car for the North Side she de- 
 cided to walk to her father's house. Afterwards she never 
 could remember that walk without suffering, for it seemed 
 that she was walking away from everything which meant 
 happiness for her in the future. It seemed that she 
 was walking into a terrible disaster. She became more and 
 more oppressed as she approached the viaduct and knew 
 that she was almost there where she used to live. The 
 people that she met on the street were moving shadows 
 to her. As she passed each one, she wondered if he or 
 she had ever suffered so. And it was not the suffering of 
 loss; it was not the suffering of a great catastrophe; it 
 was the suffering of mystery, of incomprehension. In 
 spite of all that her father had taught her, in spite of all 
 the sweetness of her childhood and youth, she felt in- 
 tensely bitter — as though she were caught in a trap and 
 was being mocked at. 
 
 When she got to the house and went up the short flight 
 of steps in front and opened the door, she could have 
 cried out. She leaned against the wall in the little entry 
 and tried to regain her courage. She went into the study. 
 It had a fearful, unhomelike look to her. There was no 
 one there; there was no one anywhere in the house; and 
 the house was unlocked. She carefully locked the back 
 door and pulled down the shades in the kitchen which 
 looked on the back porch, for she was afraid that Mrs. 
 Schneider might come down, and she was not equal to talk- 
 ing to her ; and she was afraid that Mrs. Flanagan might 
 
 269 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 come up the back stairs to ask about Maggie, and she 
 could not concern herself now with Maggie. 
 
 She went back into the dining room, pausing for a mo- 
 ment before the door of her own room. She was glad 
 that it was shut so that she did not have to look into 
 it. Then she stopped in front of Anne's door, which 
 was open. She saw that Anne had been packing, that her 
 trunk was locked, and that her little belongings had been 
 taken from the bureau. Some few pictures were stacked 
 against the wall. Everything was upset. Anne had evi- 
 dently decided to be conventional and to go home. And 
 what would her father do now, she wondered ? 
 
 Suddenly she saw herself living again in this little house 
 and taking care of her father; and she felt as if years and 
 years were stretching out ahead of her in utter loneliness 
 and pulling her toward them. She could not see Eugene's 
 face; she could not imagine that he was anywhere in 
 the living world. She tried to think of the house which 
 she had just left. It was all very dim and indistinct. 
 Every once in a while there would be a quick gasp of her 
 body as though it were already growing very hungry for 
 some reality. 
 
 The study was the only room that she could bear to 
 sit in, and it was hard to stay there. She took off her hat 
 and gloves, went instinctively to the mirror in the side 
 wall and looked at herself, moved one or two chairs into 
 place, and then sat down near the window to wait for 
 Lange. In a few minutes she found herself growing very 
 chilly, and she went out into the kitchen, brought back 
 coal and kindling, and made a fire. There was nothing 
 else that could be done, nothing with which she could 
 busy herself. She had only to wait. 
 
 There was a rising excitement in her. Back and forth, 
 270 
 
A CHANCE FOR STEATEGY 
 
 back and f ortli she walked from the window to the fire. 
 Whenever she was at the fireplace she hoped that the next 
 time she looked out the window she would see him come ; 
 and then when she was at the window she would turn 
 back and think that perhaps by the time she had gotten 
 to the fireplace she would hear the door bell. The blood 
 of the beast that tramps in its cage was waking in her. 
 It is very easy to speak of a long' life, but it is very hard 
 to make anyone feel the long life that may lie within 
 an hour unless one has lived through it. And there were 
 two hours for Erederica. 
 
 She satisfied herself that her father had gone home 
 with Anne. Probably Anne had not told him her reason 
 for going, and he had not been curious or upset about it. 
 
 About half -past five she wondered if Eugene would eat 
 his dinner without her, and she saw him very clearly for 
 the first time. She grew almost wild; started to put her 
 hat on once to go back to him, and then stopped and kept 
 to her first intention of waiting there until Lange came. 
 For she had believed that she would see Sloane in his 
 office. The fact that she had deceived herself the first 
 time did not affect the intensity of her own belief now. 
 
 At last, when the glow of the fire was making most of 
 the light in the room, and the windows were becoming in- 
 distinct and" shadowy, she heard steps outside that came 
 up to the front door, and the bell rang. She went into 
 the little dark hall and opened the door, and then, recog- 
 nizing Lange, she went back into the study, and stood 
 near the table, leaning' against it, for her knees had grown 
 suddenly weak and she was very white. The long folds 
 of her gown fell almost straight and lay on the floor. 
 In the half light she looked more unearthly and unreal 
 than ever in her life. Lange closed the door behind him 
 
 271 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 and stood looking at her. And she looked back at him as 
 at some one she had never seen. Had she ever seen him ? 
 
 It was not Sloane's foreman, with the rough hair, un- 
 shaven face, and slouching shoulders, but a man whose 
 bearing, whose dress, whose color, whose eyes, were those 
 of a gentleman. In the dim light she leaned forward to 
 look at him more closely. He answered her unspoken 
 question. 
 
 " I am Gustav Lange.'' 
 
 She recognized his voice. " You surprised me," she an- 
 swered. " Will you sit down ? " 
 
 " You sent for me. What can I do ? I am going away 
 to-night." 
 
 "Please sit down," said Frederica, and seated herself 
 in her father's chair at the desk, her elbows resting on 
 the pile of manuscripts that lay there. Lange drew up a 
 chair as close as possible, but the table was between them. 
 He was watching her very closely, and she felt the same 
 uneasiness that she always did in his presence. It was 
 hard for her not to question him on his changed appear- 
 ance, but she dreaded any personalities between them. 
 
 " You are going away to-night, Mr. Lange ? " she asked. 
 
 " I tell you in confidence," he answered. 
 
 " You ought not to." 
 
 " But I trust you." He crossed his arms on the table, 
 and she took hers off and leaned back against her chair. 
 
 " I mean you ought not to go away to-night," she said 
 quickly. 
 
 " What do you want me to do ? " 
 
 Whenever he spoke to her the pupils of his eyes seemed 
 to dilate, and it made her start with unreasonable fear 
 or resentment — she could not analyze her feeling. 
 
 " I want you to tell Mr. Sloane that you were respon- 
 272 
 
A CHANCE FOE STKATEGY 
 
 sible for the fire in his yards." Frederica spoke slowly 
 and carefully, watching to catch the effect of her words 
 upon Lange. 
 
 He smiled and showed very white, even teeth between 
 full, well-shaped lips. " Why do you want me to do that ? " 
 he asked, and had the advantage of her in a moment, for 
 she had expected denial or indignation. 
 
 " I want you to tell the union, too, that you are re- 
 sponsible for that fire." 
 
 "Why?" he asked sharply. 
 
 " Because you are," said Frederica, glad that she had 
 cut through his smiling superiority. He regained his 
 advantage, however, by allowing a pause to lengthen while 
 he looked at her hands as they rested on the edge of the 
 table. She had the sense of going into the dark after 
 his attention every time she addressed him. He seemed 
 to be without curiosity as to her reason for interfering. It 
 made her more and more afraid. She had imagined that 
 she would startle him by her request at the first, and then 
 that she would have to make a strong appeal to his better 
 nature. But she seemed to have been caught in her own 
 purpose. 
 
 " You feel very sorry for Mr. Scanlan ? " asked Lange 
 in a sympathetic way. 
 
 " Yes, that is — " Frederica tripped in answer, because 
 she knew that it was not her interest in John Scanlan 
 which had prompted her. She had not foreseen that Lange 
 might question her. 
 
 He followed her hesitation by a bend of his head. " Per- 
 haps it is because Mrs. Scanlan insists upon your sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 " Yes," said Frederica helplessly. 
 
 " And she is in a position to make you very unhappy." 
 2Y3 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Then Erederica realized that Lange knew about the 
 agreement between herself and Alec and Mrs. Scanlan. 
 She bowed her head on her arms crossed upon the table, 
 and gave a long sob. She felt in a way relieved in spite 
 of the humiliation of having anyone know. 
 
 Lange rose and came to her side of the table. "Poor 
 little girl ! " he said softly. 
 
 Face buried, she listened with fascinated amazement 
 to the new sound of his voice. This man who was stand- 
 ing there could not be Gustav Lange. 
 
 " Why are you so frightened of Mrs. Scanlan ? No one 
 will believe her." 
 
 " It is because of his work," she said. " It's true, isn't 
 it," she went on, " that if Mr. Sloane proved that I was 
 not his wife, if Mr. Sloane told the newspapers that he 
 had deceived me, that everybody would believe in Mr. 
 Sloane and disbelieve in Mr. — Harden ?" With the courage 
 which was coming now, she began to feel his influence 
 less and to think of him as Alexander Sloane's foreman, 
 in spite of his unusual appearance. 
 
 " That is very true, and Mr. Sloane plans to give that 
 story to-morrow to the papers.'' 
 
 Erederica's face grew rigid. " Then I shall give the 
 papers the story of his wickedness to-night." She crum- 
 pled some of the pages of manuscript in her hands. 
 
 "But I doubt if you can persuade the papers to take 
 your story. Ton have nothing to back it, have you, and 
 Mr. Sloane is a prominent man." 
 
 " What shall I do ? " said Erederica. She spoke to her- 
 self, but Lange, who still stood looking down at her, an- 
 swered her. 
 
 " If I can be sure of your desire to save your — to save 
 Mr. Harden's position with the radicals and working peo- 
 
 2Y4 
 
A CHANCE FOR STRATEGY 
 
 pie, I could tell you the one thing you could do, to close 
 Mr. Sloane's lips and bring public sympathy to Mr. Har- 
 den's side." 
 
 Lange spoke as though in doubt himself; and that 
 brought decision into Frederica's mind. She waited, but 
 he did not g'o on. Instead he turned and walked the length 
 of the room. In the gathering dusk she fancied a likeness 
 to Eugene in his way of walking, and in the curious way 
 he held his head as he stopped in front of the open fire 
 and looked into it. 
 
 She rose and went over to where he was, afraid that 
 the possible solution of her problem was not to be given 
 her after all. 
 
 " You cannot know how sure I am that I want him to 
 have success in this. You must see yourself how disgrace 
 for him would mean that everything would go to pieces. 
 One man's influence is sometimes the keystone in the 
 structure built by many men through a long time. You 
 get so used to believing that it is just a class struggle, 
 a struggle between crowds indistingtiishable. You for- 
 get that there have always been leaders and there always 
 will be. Eugene is one of the leaders, and if he is de- 
 stroyed " 
 
 She had come quite close to him in her earnestness, and 
 he was not looking at her but at the fire. She did not 
 know what he was fighting within him, and she went on 
 intensely : 
 
 "Mr. Lange, I would do anything, anything, to save 
 him." 
 
 " You don't care that he deceived you ? " The question 
 came suddenly and startled her into abrupt confession. 
 
 " He didn't deceive me — not really. I was the one that 
 wanted that we should live together without the law." 
 
 275 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes," said Prederica,""! hegged him to take me, and 
 he was sorry for me. I pretended to myself that I be- 
 lieved him, and he thinks I believe that — that it is all 
 right. But I don't care so much about myself — not while 
 there is this great conflict. It would be different if he 
 were not a leader." 
 
 " There is one thing you can do to gain your end — " 
 But he stopped as though it were hard to come to the 
 point. 
 
 " Tell me ! " said Frederica desperately. 
 
 "You can go off — to-night — ^with Sloane's son. Then 
 he will have to keep still." 
 
 Frederica stared at him. 
 
 He came nearer to her. " You said you could do any- 
 thing." 
 
 No words came to her lips. She was motionless and 
 staring at him. He watched her, his eyes shining with 
 some victory behind them. 
 
 " Sloane would keep still because it was his own son." 
 
 " I understand," said Frederica quietly. Then she threw 
 back her head and reached up her arms as though throw- 
 ing off some burdening thought. 
 
 Lange seized her hands as they fell again at her sides, 
 and, bending over, kissed her palms and her fingers. 
 
 The fury of his lips reached her, and she tried to pull 
 her hands away from him. " You insult — oh, no, I cannot 
 be insulted," she said in a voice from which all life had 
 gone out. " But I can't do that ! " she said. 
 
 2Y6 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE RIOT 
 
 XT was dark when Harden left the house. The 
 loneliness of the place had compelled him to go 
 out into the open. The cook, who had served his 
 dinner to him alone, just as the night before she 
 had served Frederica's, was more than ever surprised ; and 
 she complained volubly of Maggie's departure. 
 
 Involuntarily Eugene set out to walk, and with long 
 strides covered the distance between the house and the 
 business part of the city. Then quite as involuntarily he 
 found himself turning toward the West Side, and, with 
 his nerves resisting, his feet carried him on over into 
 that part of town which had become so familiar to him 
 during the past months. He saw a light in the union 
 headquarters, paused irresolutely on the street corner, then, 
 shrugging his shoulders, went on toward the Haymarket. 
 There were several halls, small and unpretentious enough, 
 which were placarded as meeting places for the protest of 
 the working people. The day before there had been an 
 outbreak further up on the West Side, and several persons 
 had been killed in the fights between the police and the 
 strikers. The outbreak had been a significant event to 
 the striking lumbermen, who had no official connection 
 with these factory workers, but whose spirit of revolt was 
 quite as strong. To-night from every part of the city 
 
 277 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 the working people, and those who had taken sides with 
 them, were coming toward these meeting places to show 
 by their gatherings that they would not stand the op- 
 pression of the police and the ruthless slaughter of their 
 fellowmen. 
 
 Eugene had not read much of the disturbance. He had 
 been so concerned with the particular work in which he 
 was engaged. He had felt so certain of success in his 
 effort to keep this one strong union intact and make it 
 a powerful wedge in his larger plans, that he had scarcely 
 compassed the idea of the uptown trouble. And now he 
 was surprised to see that the meetings were better at- 
 tended than was usual. 
 
 The streets were rather dark where he was — ^neither well 
 lighted nor well paved. There was nothing in that part 
 of town to indicate any millennium or any great change for 
 the betterment of industrial conditions. The people hur- 
 rying belatedly into this or that place of refreshment, for 
 there was certainly no place of amusement down there, 
 were all filled with one idea of spoken protest. 
 
 Harden himself was to have spoken that night for one 
 of these meetings, but he passed the hall without going 
 in and walked on until he came to the corner of Desplaines 
 Street. He wanted more than anything else to follow the 
 narrow, dark street to where she was. But he would not. 
 He walked several blocks in the direction toward her 
 house and then he turned and came back. 
 
 He had passed the police station, and on his return he 
 was surprised to see that a regular battalion of police was 
 standing in front. He went to an onlooker and asked 
 what that meant. " In God's country," said the man, " we 
 are looking for trouble." He spoke sneeringly and left 
 Harden standing there. 
 
 278 
 
THE KIOT 
 
 The police moved up the street, and Eugene, rather idly, 
 followed them. He thought they were undoubtedly parad- 
 ing in order to impress the gathering crowds with their 
 authority. 
 
 In the distance he saw a crowd of several hundreds, 
 standing almost in one body about a wagon, from whose 
 end a man was speaking loudly and forcibly. He saw that 
 the crowd was quiet, ignorant of the approaching blue- 
 coats, and he wondered what would happen when this 
 solid body of moving men began to press upon the crowd 
 which already filled the street from curb to curb. He had 
 not long to wait. Standing on the comer, disliking to get 
 into the thick of what might be a disagreeable fray of 
 the sort that had been more or less common these last few 
 days, he heard the captain call to the crowd to disperse, 
 and he heard the hisses and the protests of various mem- 
 bers of the crowd — refusals to disperse, claims of freedom 
 and right to stand in the street. Again Eugene shrugged 
 his shoulders as though to some intimate, commenting 
 audibly upon the " land of the free." And as he turned 
 to go he heard a terrific explosion. He looked back. Many 
 of the police were lying on the ground. A bomb had been 
 thrown. From where and by whom no one knew. 
 
 The police began to fire, and there were cries and groans 
 from the huddling masses of frightened auditors, who had 
 been taken completely unawares by the bomb. An im- 
 mense rage filled Harden's breast. Why should the police 
 shoot these men who had been listening and not done 
 anything ? He rushed back into the crowd, forced his way 
 to the police captain, and just as he was about to speak 
 to him, to demand that he order the firing stopped, he 
 was struck from behind. 
 
 Harden lost his balance, but did not fall, and swung 
 279 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 round to meet his antagonist, but there was no one in the 
 pressing crowd who was even looking at him. He heard, 
 however, an excited voice saying : " Get out of my road ! " 
 and he saw a man pushing frantically through the mass 
 of humans who were trying to get into danger instead of 
 away from it. Harden followed the one opposing figure 
 and recognized the man as Scanlan. As soon as he had 
 discovered who had struck him he went on through the 
 crowd in another direction. It sickened him that a small 
 personal vengeance should be expressed to-night of all 
 nights. He had no wish to get closer to the Irishman. He 
 was through with the affairs of the man and with the 
 affairs of the union. 
 
 Scanlan, with the idea of possible pursuit and discovery, 
 looked back over his shoulder and saw Harden, apparently 
 unhurt, going off through the thinning crowd. Again 
 the frenzy which had prompted his first blow seized him, 
 and he turned back to follow Harden. The crowd closed 
 between them, and the Austrian was not conscious of 
 the reawakened hatred in pursuit of him. fHe was deep 
 in a new realization of the mob's meaning. ' He was con- 
 scious that within five minutes the work of years had been 
 destroyed; that this terrible deed would be laid at the 
 door of the workingmen, of the radicals who had ad- 
 mitted their discontent. The violent deed of one man 
 and the mob's presence had destroyed all that he had 
 been working for since he had come to Chicago full of 
 enthusiasm and ideals^ These thoughts shut out even the 
 memory of Scanlan, who was but a few feet behind him, 
 cursing the human barrier which still surged between 
 them. 
 
 280 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE MARK OF MEN 
 
 OE, HARTWELL came in and saw with surprise 
 that Frederica sat evid^itly overcome with some 
 great emotion. She straightened as she saw him, 
 and he looked with amazement at Lange's 
 changed appearance, but most of all with concern for Fred- 
 erica. 
 
 " What has happened, my child? " he said. 
 
 "Nothing." She stood up and tossed the hair out of 
 her eyes with the little motion of determination she knew 
 so well. "Nothing has happened. I was talking with 
 Mr. Lange about the strike." 
 
 Then she held out her hand to Lange. " I am sure,'' 
 she said, " that you will do the right thing," and Lange, 
 who already knew that the story had been spread by 
 Sloane, bent over her hand with the courtesy of the old 
 world and left. 
 
 Erederica's impatience to be gone was battling with the 
 necessity of giving some reason why she was there. " I 
 have been waiting a very long time for you, father," she 
 said. " Where have you been ? " 
 
 " I went with Anne," he said. " She felt that she must 
 go home, and I carried her bag." 
 
 " Yes," said Erederica, " Anne is very unhappy." 
 
 The doctor made no reply. 
 281 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Anne cares very much for you, father." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Dr. Hartwell, " I have also thought so." 
 
 "I felt jealous at first," said Erederica; "but if she 
 cares for you, try and make her happy." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell could not understand what prompted 
 these words, and he was becoming more and more im- 
 pressed with the pallor which Erederica was showing in 
 spite of her self-control. 
 
 " You look very ill, Ereda. Is Eugene going to call for 
 yon here after the meeting ? " 
 
 " What meeting ? " asked Erederica quickly. 
 
 "He was to speak to-night to a protest meeting; and 
 I am going to speak, too. He is going to make public 
 to-night the facts which he has learned about Sloane and 
 the Trust. He is going to give an opportunity to the peo- 
 ple of this town to learn the real situation." 
 
 Something in her father's manner showed Erederica that 
 at last he had taken sides — had made his definite choice, 
 with and not against Eugene. She came forward to him. 
 " Eather, you must go at once, and you must tell him not 
 to speak." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Dr. Hartwell. « Why, Ereda ? " 
 
 Twice she walked the length of the room trying to make 
 up her mind whether she could say more. At the far end 
 she turned and looked at her fathei-. " Can you keep 
 him from speaking without knowing why ? " 
 
 " Of course not," said the doctor, irritation of her mys- 
 terious manner showing through his concern. " Of course 
 not. What nonsense ! What has come over you ? " 
 
 It was a very little thing, the tone of his voice, but 
 it was just that small flippant irritation at her manner 
 (which she knew herself was incomprehensible, but knew, 
 as well, that it was concealing the tremendous problem) 
 
 282 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 that was tlie last straw. All of her self-control, all of 
 her determination never to put into words again the things 
 that she had heard, forsook her. Standing where she was, 
 away from the light, and as far away from her father as 
 the room allowed her to be, she made her appeal to him. 
 
 " Then I will tell you why," she said. " I will tell you 
 why he must not speak to-night. Mr. Sloane intends to 
 ruin him. Mr. Sloane is going to say that Eugene has a 
 wife in Austria — and so destroy his influence with the 
 unions." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell did not say a word. A hundred questions 
 were in his mind, but any one of them seemed absurd. 
 "Your husband?" 
 
 " Yes," said Trederica. 
 
 " Has Sloane lost his mind ? " 
 
 " No," she said. " He believes — that he has proofs." 
 
 " Have you seen them ? " 
 
 " No," said Freda. " I went to his office, but he was 
 not there." 
 
 " Then it is a trick. I believe him capable now of any- 
 thing. Who told you ? " 
 
 " Alec," said Frederiea. She seemed to have strength 
 now for only one word at a time. But she was gaining 
 more as she felt her father's confidence in Eugene was be- 
 hind hers. 
 
 " Does Alec believe ? " asked the doctor. 
 
 " Yes," said Frederiea. 
 
 Then he pondered. " Tell me the rest," he said fiercely. 
 " What did Alec say to you ? " 
 
 " Alec told me that these papers came from their repre- 
 sentative in Vienna." 
 
 The doctor wheeled about and faced her. " I should 
 call that proof, Frederiea. Alec wouldn't lie." 
 19 283 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " There may be some mistake," said Frederica. 
 
 " Have you told Eugene ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Why not 2" 
 
 " I did not dare." 
 
 " Why not ? " he said more loudly. 
 
 " Because he told me that night when we were engaged 
 — he told me that I would be asking questions of him, 
 that I would be like all the other women and not trust 
 him — and he told me that there was something in his life 
 that he did not want to talk about. And I trusted him." 
 She leaned against the table for support. 
 
 " But if you heard this story," said the doctor, " trust 
 or not, you should have put it to him and let him meet 
 it. You have behaved most foolishly." 
 
 " But can't you see," she said, " if I had put it to him, 
 he would believe that I did not trust him? And even 
 if it isn't true, he would not care for me any more. He 
 is that kind of a man. I am afraid of his silence — and I 
 am afraid of his eyes if he looked at me after I had asked 
 him. He would not answer me. He would not have told 
 me." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell went toward her. " Have you lost your 
 mind, Frederica Hartwell? Don't you realize that if he 
 is a man he will want to face this ? But you believe that 
 it is true — ^that is why you do not dare to ask him. Now 
 tell me why — tell me why you don't trust him." He took 
 hold of her two wrists, and all the determination which 
 may have been lacking throughout his life, devoted as it 
 had been to the things of meekness and resignation, shone 
 in his face. " Tell me why you don't trust him, Fred- 
 erica. What do you know ? " 
 
 She tried to pull away from him. She felt that she 
 284 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 could not answer ; and yet she knew that she would. " Be- 
 cause," she said, " that night when I went to him he told 
 me he was not free." 
 
 The doctor flung her hands away from him. " I don't 
 understand," he said. " If he told you that, how is it you 
 are married ? " 
 
 For the second time she was telling the story of the 
 most sacred moments that they had spent together — the 
 hour when they had learned, each one, the love of the 
 other; and her dignity, which had been in silence, fell from 
 her. 
 
 " He told me he was not free, and I wanted to go with 
 him anyway. Of course, I did not understand. I did 
 not know what that was, because I did not know what 
 he was. But he told me, too, that if anyone found me 
 in his rooms they could ruin him. And you found me 
 in his rooms, and you brought Mr. Sloane with you. So 
 I lied — because he told me no one in this country knew." 
 
 Immense anger possessed Dr. Hartwell. Without look- 
 ing once at Frederica, he walked up and down the room. 
 " So you have been lying all these months," he said. " So 
 you have become — " He paused before the word, but she 
 heard it and regained herself a little. For although he 
 might fling her to the ground she would not touch the 
 mud that was near her. 
 
 " No," she said, " because he came the next day to me 
 and told me that he was free." 
 
 By this time the doctor's anger was so great that he 
 hardly heard what she said. 
 
 "And I believed him," said Frederica, trying to pene- 
 trate his deafness. " I believed him." 
 
 The doctor faced her suddenly. " Do you believe him 
 now?" 
 
 285 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She was silent. " Do not ask me," she said. 
 
 " So that is the reason " — he spoke slowly and deep- 
 ly — " so that is the reason you are afraid to face the 
 story." 
 
 " I do not know what I am afraid of," said Erederica. 
 " I do not know." 
 
 And she turned and hid her face on her arm. At the 
 sight of her there, dishonored, betrayed, and responsible 
 for her own betrayal, the doctor felt himself capable of 
 murder. He took his hat and went to the door. 
 
 Erederica sprang after him and took hold of his arm. 
 " What are you going to do ? " she said. " Tell me." 
 
 " I am going to find Eugene." 
 
 And she read that pride, that hatred, that strength for 
 murder, which can be read in the faces of the fathers 
 whose daughters are without honor. 
 
 " No," she said, " do not go. I'll go. I'll ask him. I 
 will tell him to meet this story. I believe he can meet 
 this story." She was feverish, eager, afraid of all things, 
 of her father's leaving the room ; and when she talked she 
 tried to pull him away from the door, to get between him 
 and the door. 
 
 " You," he said, and the word was full of the contempt 
 of woman. 
 
 As they stood there they heard the sound of a tremen- 
 dous explosion. The house shook with it; the windows 
 rattled. They started, and for a moment left the crisis 
 they were facing to question the crisis that was being 
 faced somewhere else. 
 
 Erederica was the first to speak. " What was that ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Dynamite," said her father. 
 
 And her first thought went out in a cry: "Eugene!" 
 286 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 for she knew now that he must be somewhere near at some 
 one of the meetings. 
 
 There was the noise of running on the street below 
 them; there were a few confused cries in the distance, 
 and the noise of shooting. 
 
 " It is a riot," said her father. 
 
 Erederica stood staring at him. He could not speak 
 to her. They heard Mrs. Schneider running down the 
 front stairs and out into the street. They heard the pa- 
 trol wagon, and they heard again the cries of dismay, of 
 terror, the mysterious human sound when men face some- 
 thing which they cannot explain. Then some one ran up 
 their steps, the door was thrown open violently, and Alec 
 Sloane stood there. His face was as white as Erederica's, 
 and he looked at her. 
 
 " Erederica," he said, and she knew that her cry had 
 been called out by what had happened. 
 
 The doctor had regained his composure. He asked Alec 
 what it was, and Alec told him in a few words that a 
 bomb had been thrown into the police marching down 
 upon the crowd who were listening to a man talking on 
 the streets. 
 
 " But the shots ? " asked the doctor. 
 
 " The police were shooting into the crowd." 
 
 Erederica felt in that moment not the despair of one 
 who has lost through death, but the despair of one who 
 has lost through her own weakness. Not one moment 
 before, from the very depths of her she had spoken her 
 distrust of the man that she loved. Her father had heard 
 it, and he had thought only of the conventional dishonor 
 of his daughter, and he had not thought once of the tre- 
 mendous dishonor in her own soul. Before the moment 
 of catastrophe out there on the street there had been this 
 
 287 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 great catastrophe in her own soul; and no one knew 
 it but herself. 
 
 They thought her overcome with the horror of his pos- 
 sible death. Alec had heard some one cry out, " Harden 
 is killed ! " It had been a cry of affection in a man's voice. 
 It had been a call to those who had believed in Harden, 
 who had known what he was. And Alec had not waited. 
 He had come at once to get Dr. Hartwell and he had 
 found Freda. 
 
 By some strange chance he had been wandering about 
 the streets, held in a way by the fascination of this crowd 
 of protesting people. He had been listening here and there 
 in the groups that stood on the street corners, to find out 
 whether or not the story had been spread which his father 
 declared that afternoon must be made public. He had 
 been living through a great agony, because he knew what 
 it would mean to Frederica. And he knew, besides, what 
 his father was. He had lost his respect for him, and yet 
 he would not take the weapon out of his father's hands 
 which was to be used against the woman he loved. Even 
 if she deserved that weapon, he was overcome with the 
 shame of its use, and he had been walking the streets 
 trying to regain some calm and to see what would come 
 out of it all. He had heard and seen the destruction, then 
 heard the cry about Harden, and had come at once. 
 
 Again the door was thrust open violently, and Gustav 
 Lange came in, closing it behind him and facing Frederica. 
 He straightened and turned to the doctor, but spoke very 
 calmly with a touch of sarcasm. 
 
 " It is rather too dangerous for one to walk out there. 
 I have taken the liberty of coming in." There was some- 
 thing in his face which was so much more than his words 
 that they waited. " I ought to say, perhaps, before I ac- 
 
 288 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 cept the hospitality which I know you are offering, that 
 the police are chasing me. But," he said in a flippant 
 way, " they didn't see me come in. I shall not stay long — 
 only time to get my breath." 
 
 Suddenly he lurched back, and Alec Sloane caught him. 
 " You've been shot," said Alec. 
 
 " Yes," said Lange, " your American policeman takes 
 very good aim. Still, it may have been by accident. I 
 am not an egotist, nor am I enough of an extremest to 
 have accepted the bullet in order to play the role of 
 martjT." 
 
 Frederica had crouched down and was not listening to 
 them. Suddenly she sprang to her feet. " I must go 
 out ! " she said. " What is the reason I am staying here ? 
 I must go ! " She ran to the door. 
 
 Lange himself put out his hand. There was blood on 
 it. " There is no reason why you should go." 
 
 "But Eugene!" 
 
 " He is quite safe," said Lange. " He is quite well." 
 
 Frederica did not believe him; Alec did not believe 
 him ; and Dr. Hartwell did not care. 
 
 " I think," said Lange, " that he will be here directly." 
 
 Behind all the words that were spoken in the room was 
 the noise of confusion from outside. It increased instead 
 of growing less. Wrath and terror, revenge and resist- 
 ance, were abroad in the streets. It kept them from 
 speaking. 
 
 Lange rose from the couch where Alec had helped to 
 seat him. " I think," he said, " that I must go now." 
 
 " You are not able," said Dr. Hartwell. " Stay where 
 you are." 
 
 " But," said Lange, " it may put you in an embarrass- 
 ing position." 
 
 289 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 " Where is Eugene Harden ? " said Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 " I think," he said, " that he is coming. I am quite 
 sure that I saw him on his way here." 
 
 Even as he spoke Harden came into the hall and looked 
 from one to the other of their faces. The tragedy of what 
 he had just seen was written on every line of his. His 
 hair was pushed back and there was dust on his coat and 
 on his hands. He looked at Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 " Thank God you're here ! " he said. " I was afraid 
 that you had kept your engagement to speak to the men." 
 Then suddenly he clenched his hands and raised them. 
 " Why should you speak to the men ? Why should anyone 
 in this country concern himself with the conditions of 
 these men ? Brute beasts ! " he said. " Animals without 
 courage! Animals who have no trust — and trust is the 
 mark of men I " 
 
 Frederica had been looking at him as though he were 
 not real, as though he was somebody who had come back 
 from the dead. At his last words she cried out. He went 
 toward her to take her hand, but Dr. Hartwell stepped 
 between them and folded his arms. 
 
 " Don't touch her," he said ; " she is still my daughter." 
 
 Harden looked at him. " Oh," he said, " so they have 
 come to you with that story." Then, without moving, he 
 looked once at the floor and raised his eyes again to Dr. 
 Hartwell. " And you believed it, too ? " 
 
 There was a moment of absolute quiet in the room, and 
 then he laughed. " Trust is the mark of men." 
 
 Lange was watching him from where he sat, and a 
 look of great victory was in his eyes. He spoke : " Trust 
 is the dishonor of woman," he said. 
 
 Harden faced him. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Lange. 
 
 290 
 
THE MARK OF MEN 
 
 Harden moved, for the doctor stood between him and 
 Frederica, and he challenged her. "You heard that 
 etory," he said. Her large terrified eyes were raised to him. 
 " You heard that story " — ^he took a deep breath — " and 
 you believed." 
 
 If she had known that the light which she saw shining 
 behind his fixed gaze was hope that she would deny, she 
 woxdd have denied; but he had convicted her. He had 
 spoken the truth. All that she had lived through in the 
 past forty-eight hours came to her plainly now as dis- 
 trust. All the pride which she had felt to keep silent for 
 him, in trying to defend him in her small woman's way, 
 in trying to keep the story down instead of facing it with 
 him — all that came to her mind as the evidence of her 
 inner distrust. The moment's suspicion which she had of 
 him when he told her he was free, and she had yielded 
 to her feeling for him, had poisoned all her trust in him. 
 If she had been honorable, if she had had strength, if 
 she had been anything but a girl in her first burst of 
 passion, she would, that night in front of her father's 
 fire, after her day of search for work, have had the 
 strength to say, " I suspect you. I believe you are lying 
 to me for my sake, and because you, too, are stirred as 
 I am." 
 
 But she had let that moment slip; she had passed on 
 into her dream; she had been as completely surrendered 
 to the things of the flesh, to the beauties and the luxu- 
 ries he had given her, to the comfort that lay in ease and 
 in leisure, as any woman who ever sold her body to a 
 passer-by on the street. 
 
 The thing which crept into Eden was very small and 
 it took a long time to reach the ear of Eve. And it is 
 possible that Eve saw the tiny thing come in and pre- 
 
 291 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 tended to ignore it because it whispered then to her that 
 it -was the master of the Garden of Eden. 
 
 Words did not come to Frederica, but her first honest 
 self -consciousness did; and she turned away from him. 
 There was something in his face which made them all keep 
 still until Alec stepped toward him and held out his hand. 
 
 " I did what I could," he said, " but I was glad to be- 
 lieve that it was true, even though I knew in my heart 
 that it was not." 
 
 Then his hand dropped, for Harden had not seen it. 
 He had only looked into Alec's eyes, and the contempt in 
 his own had grown greater. 
 
 The next moment Harden looked at Lange. " What are 
 you going to do ? " he said. " The story out there is that 
 you threw the bomb." 
 
 Lange did not flinch. " Why shoiddn't I have done 
 that ? " he said. " I am a lover of the rights of the peo- 
 ple. I enjoyed the protests which I heard to-night against 
 the tyranny of capital in the land of the free." Again 
 Lange lurched and they saw his wound, which they had 
 forgotten, for the blood was on his coat. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell spoke to Alec. " Get the doctor," he said. 
 
 " No," said Lange in a loud voice, " there is no need 
 of one." 
 
 But Harden told Alec to go at once. He went over to 
 Lange to take off the man's coat and stanch the wound. 
 Lange resisted him. 
 
 " Don't touch me," he said. " If I am bleeding, I am 
 bleeding inwardly. It's the most I can do." 
 
 Frederica from where she was standing was watching 
 the two men, but the belated silence which had fallen 
 upon her did not allow her to speak. An explanation of 
 Lange's behavior was what she desired most of all, but 
 
 292 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 the contempt that had shown in Eugene's eyes when he 
 looked at her, kept her lips closed. 
 
 Harden, in spite of protest, had made Lange comfort- 
 able. He lay stretched out on the couch, motionless, with 
 his eyes closed. 
 
 Suddenly the noise of running in the street increased, 
 and there were the sounds of a chase and the cries of 
 " Catch him ! That's the one ! " 
 
 Lange sat up and opened his eyes quickly. " Who is 
 it ? " he cried, and would have gone to the window had he 
 had the strength. They were all listening, but they had 
 no answer for him. The noise died away in the distance. 
 
 Lange looked from one to the other, and it was almost 
 as though he had lost consciousness for a moment. 
 « Who was it 1 " he said. " Who was it ? " 
 
 A great deal lay in the question as he asked it. There 
 was knowledge and fear, but not fear for himself. 
 
 They heard steps in the hall, and thought that it was 
 Alec coming back, but it proved to be Mr. Flanagan when 
 the door opened. His policeman's coat was muddy and 
 torn into shreds on the right side. He came into the 
 light, a little dazed, and it seemed as if the anger which 
 was in him kept him from speech. He looked toward 
 Lange. " God damn you ! " he said. 
 
 " He has," said Lange. 
 
 And when Dr. Hartwell started in anger at what he 
 felt was blasphemy, Lange turned to him. " I assure you 
 He damned me before I was bom." 
 
 Flanagan went close to Lange. " Where is Maggie ? " 
 he said. 
 
 " I don't know," said the Hungarian. 
 
 " You're under arrest," said Flanagan. " You threw the 
 bomb." 
 
 293 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Lange laughed. " It was not a good throw. It missed 
 you." 
 
 Flanagan was by this time beside himself, and he jerked 
 Lange to his feet so that Harden had to interfere. " He 
 is a sick man," he said. " Leave him alone. Justice can 
 wait a while, I think." 
 
 "He is under arrest," said Flanagan; but he took his 
 hands off Lange's shoulder. 
 
 "By order of your employer?" asked Lange, showing 
 his teeth in a smile which disguised the pain he was feel- 
 ing. 
 
 Flanagan looked at him without answering. Then he 
 asked again : " Where is Maggie ? " 
 
 Lange made no answer, but again he lay back and 
 closed his eyes; and even Flanagan was quieted by the 
 pain in the man's face. He turned to Harden. 
 
 " Mrs. Schneider told me to-day ! " he said. " There 
 is a child coming ! " 
 
 Lange opened his eyes and stared in terror at Flanagan. 
 "A child?" he said. "Get Maggie here quick! Go for 
 Maggie at once ! " He spoke in a low, intense way which 
 fairly pushed Flanagan out of the room, and they all 
 regarded him with fresh distrust, and seemed not to notice 
 that he said once under his breath, " A child ! " Then he 
 closed his eyes again. 
 
 There was nothing for them to do but to wait for the 
 doctor. Frederiea was the first one to recover her self- 
 control. She went to the medicine cabinet, got brandy 
 and gave it to Eugene without a word. Then she stood 
 holding the bottle while he put some between the man's 
 lips. The faces of the two were brought very close to- 
 gether. Lange gulped down the brandy. 
 
 " Eugene," said Frederiea, " that is your brother ! " 
 294 
 
THE MAEK OF MEN 
 
 Lange turned on his side as though she had spoken 
 from another world, and as he looked at her his eyes grew 
 large and full of many thoughts. 
 
 " Yes," he said very softly, " you are right." 
 
 The brandy renewed his strength, and he insisted again 
 on sitting up and facing them. But he spoke directly 
 though with long pauses to Erederica, and she did not 
 move. 
 
 " I am his brother,'' he said. " The trust of a woman 
 in his father gave me life. I was born without the law. 
 I lived when I was a child where I could see his father, 
 who was my father, giving honor to his mother, while 
 my mother carried the burdens of the peasants on her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " He had the honor of the law, and I came to take it 
 from him. But I am not going back. I know that now. 
 I am not going to be able to tell her of success." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands for an instant, then 
 throwing back his head, he looked at Harden with a sort 
 of defiance that had much pride in it and the spirit of 
 vengeance unsatisfied. 
 
 It seemed as though Harden had not realized what was 
 being said. He did not seem able to believe the words that 
 fell on his ears. All that he said was, " So it was you 
 that told that story?" 
 
 "Tes," said Lange. 
 
 Bitterness crept into Harden's voice. His own egotism 
 mastered any feeling that he might have for the half- 
 brother sitting opposite him and telling the story of his 
 own bitterness. " Your sense of success ought to be great," 
 he said. " They believed that story." 
 
 " But it was not true," said Lange. " Sloane's got the 
 papers. I can make him show you. There is an explana- 
 
 293 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 tion coming to you. You will be all the stronger with the 
 union. I have made a mess of it because — What's the 
 use of talking ? " He leaned back, but did not lie down. 
 And after a moment he looked at Frederica again. 
 " You're married." 
 
 Prederica leaned toward Eugene. " So I am your wife ! " 
 she said, and on the instant that the words had passed 
 her lips she knew that she had confessed to him a second 
 time that she had distrusted him. 
 
 " We are bound by the law, Frederica," was his answer, 
 which to Dr. Hartwell seemed a simple acknowledgment 
 that the story had been false. But to Frederica it meant 
 that he had closed and locked the door upon her. After 
 that all the rest that followed seemed of no importance 
 to her. 
 
 Alec came back with the doctor, and Lange was taken 
 into Dr. Hartwell's bedroom and made as comfortable as 
 possible. It could not be said whether or not he was dan- 
 gerously wounded, but it did not seem wise to probe for 
 the bullet, for he had already lost so much blood. He had 
 not bled inwardly, as he had boasted, for his clothes were 
 saturated. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell wanted to go out to find what the true 
 state of affairs was, but Alec insisted that there was too 
 much danger for him. " You have all been too close to 
 this strike," he said. " I heard them talking of you out 
 there." 
 
 And even as he spoke, a short, thickset low-browed 
 captain of the police thrust open the door, and without 
 asking leave or respecting the rights of the American 
 citizen, faced both Harden and Hartwell. " You are under 
 arrest," he said, " both of you." 
 
 They looked at him questioningly. Dr. Hartwell's ig- 
 296 
 
THE MARK OF MEN 
 
 norance of the law kept liim from asking any of the formal 
 questions which it was his right to ask. He turned rather 
 helplessly to Harden. " What must we do ? " he said. 
 
 " If he wishes us to accompany him," Harden said, " I 
 suppose that is what we had better do." 
 
 Frederica, in perfect terror, came over and questioned 
 the captain. " Why are they under arrest ? " 
 
 " For conspiracy — as accomplices in this awful deed." 
 
 It was unbelievable. To Dr. Hartwell it seemed unreal 
 and vague. To Harden, who had just passed through 
 what for him was the most bitter experience he could have, 
 it did not much matter. It was all of a piece with what 
 he had been going through. That afternoon he had been 
 accused, and not even asked to refute the story of his 
 own dishonor. This evening he had sensed the same dis- 
 trust in the eyes of Dr. Hartwell and of his wife that 
 he had seen in the eyes of the men for whom he had been 
 working for months. And he had just heard an almost 
 melodramatic story of the desire for vengeance, in the 
 words of Lange. Arrest on the charge of conspiracy, 
 arrest on the charge of throwing a bomb, was indeed a 
 small matter. He coidd get up no excitement over it. 
 
 Hartwell admired his son-in-law's courage, and de- 
 cided to do exactly as Eugene should suggest. But Eu- 
 gene was without suggestion. He turned to the policeman 
 after only the slightest pause. " I am quite at your com- 
 mand," he said. " I have no doubt that you have a su- 
 perior to whom you will bring me." 
 
 The man flushed. Egotism and vanity were his moving 
 forces. He was playing a great role, this of protection 
 of the people ; and to his imagination, bred as it had been 
 upon the thoughts of jail, arrests, and upon the course of 
 man's pilgrimage from original sin to the penitentiary, 
 
 297 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 he saw himself looming up as a hero. It was very easy for 
 him to imagine that these respectable gentlemen were dan- 
 gerous enemies of the state. He did not recognize it in 
 himself; but he, too, was getting even with society. He 
 was forcing society to admit that he was a man of power ; 
 so his dignity increased when Harden spoke of a superior. 
 
 " I am in command to-night," he said. 
 
 As Dr. Hartwell and Harden moved toward the door, 
 Frederica saw that there were several policemen outside, 
 for the police captain's personal courage was not so great 
 as his presumption. The sight of the blue-coated figures 
 standing below the steps robbed Frederica of her fear 
 of Eugene's contempt. Instinctively she knew that her 
 father's position could be cleared at once. His very 
 weakness and hesitation in this strike were to be his best 
 defense. If he had spoken with greater courage, and had 
 come out for the men, he might have been in danger. 
 But if it could be proved that any man in the union had 
 thrown the bomb. Harden could be implicated. Freder- 
 ica went to him and threw herself on his breast. He stood 
 quite motionless, not even raising his arm to encircle her 
 waist, and she felt that he was cold and absolutely hard. 
 Yet the touch of her face on his coat was something to 
 her comfort. She believed that he would come out of 
 this danger, because of that very resistance which she 
 was feeling. 
 
 But she knew, too, that she no longer belonged to him ; 
 that the moment when he had looked to her for denial 
 of distrust, and she had not given it to him, had not been 
 ahle to give it to him, that moment was the last one in 
 which he looked to her as the woman he loved. 
 
 She went to her father and took his hand. " This will 
 come out all right," she said. 
 
 203 
 
THE MARK OF MEN 
 
 Alec Sloane came into the room from where he had been 
 with the doctor, and he grew very much excited; put a 
 hundred questions to the captain and a hundred to Har- 
 den ; got no replies that were satisfactory ; and as the two 
 went out with the police captain, he seized his hat and 
 dashed oS uptown to do something — ^he did not know 
 what. 
 
 Erederica was left alone with the doctor and Lange, 
 and Lange had his eyes closed. Very shortly the doctor 
 went, and said that he would send a nurse at once. Ered- 
 erica sat by the bed in her father's room and watched 
 the man lying there. Underneath all the emotions that 
 were pressing upon her — the terror when she felt that this 
 man might die while she was alone with him, that Eu- 
 gene might spend the night in jail, that her father would 
 be thus publicly disgraced — ^underneath all this was a 
 sort of gladness that there was something for her to do; 
 that she need not go back into that little room of hers 
 with its blue and white trimmings and its memories. Just 
 as inconsequent as this is the human mind. 
 
 After fifteen or twenty minutes Lange opened his eyes. 
 " Can you get Maggie ? " he said. 
 
 " I don't know where she is," answered Erederica. 
 
 " She is at my rooms, and they may be sending there 
 for me. Perhaps they have sent there for me already." 
 
 " Maggie was with you 1 " asked Erederica, and all her 
 belief in the little Irish girl went out. 
 
 " I want to see her," he said, and his voice was very 
 weak. 
 
 " As soon as the nurse comes I will go for her," said 
 Erederica. 
 
 The nurse came very shortly — a stout elderly woman, 
 phlegmatic, unthinking, and competent. 
 20 299 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Frederica did not feel it necessary to make any ex- 
 planations, and bending over Lange, she whispered, " I will 
 go now." For whether or not she trusted Maggie, the 
 mystery of these things was so great that she would do 
 what was asked of her. 
 
 The street was quiet. She had his address and he lived 
 only two blocks away. When she got there the house was 
 dark. She thought of ringing the bell; and then, the 
 chance that the door might be open, and that she could 
 go to the rooms which he had said he occupied in the rear 
 upstairs, without letting anyone know, seemed a better 
 plan to her. The door was unlocked; she crept through 
 the dark hall to a staircase, expecting every moment that 
 some door would be opened and she would be discovered 
 like a thief. At the head of the stairs she found the hall 
 stopped short, so the door that she tried must belong to 
 his rooms; but it was locked, and there was no sound on 
 the other side. She tried it several times, and thought 
 she heard some one stirring' within. Then she called 
 through the keyhole to Maggie, and there was no answer. 
 Twice she called, " Maggie ! " Then she bethought her- 
 self, and she spoke low, but very distinctly : " Gustav 
 Lange is dying and sent me for you." 
 
 Maggie must have been close to the door, for it opened 
 at once, quickly and noiselessly, and she stood there in 
 the dark, all dressed and trembling. 
 
 " Come," said Frederica, and they went down the stairs 
 together and out into the street without being discovered. 
 
 Frederica called the nurse out of the room when she got 
 back, and then sent Maggie in ; and she never knew what 
 it was that was said there, but when the little Irish girl 
 came out her face was transfigured. She said nothing. 
 She came and sat in a chair near Frederica and folded 
 
 300 
 
THE MARK OF MEN 
 
 her hands in her lap. "He won't have the priest,'' he 
 said, " so he must not die. He must not die ! " Then she 
 sat perfectly quiet and looked at the floor, and her lips 
 moved. Frederica knew she was praying. 
 
 Occasionally the nurse moved around in the other room 
 and came out for a glass of water or to look at the clock ; 
 hut all night long the two girls sat there, Maggie busy 
 with her prayers, Frederica passing through the darkest 
 hours she had ever known. In some way the bomb and 
 the riot, the consequences of it all, were far away from 
 her thoughts. Over and over again she said to herself, 
 " I did not trust him. He knows I did not trust him. 
 I have lost him." 
 
 She sat most of the night very quiet, and as though the 
 very strength of these thoughts bound her like chains, and 
 then terror came on her. She began to picture Eugene. 
 Of her father she thought very little. For did not her 
 father have his philosophy, his natural optimism, and his 
 belief that nothing could happen to. a good man? But 
 there was Eugene, quite alone, and knowing that she had 
 not trusted him. She could see him hard and immovable. 
 She could see the lines of his face deepening as the 
 thoughts passed back and forth in his mind of what he 
 had learned that evening. And the terror of the picture 
 grew so great that she began to walk the floor. 
 
 Maggie did not look up. Maggie was concerned with 
 the mystery of death that hung in the next room, and 
 Frederica wondered dumbly why the girl did not go in 
 and stay with Lange. 
 
 The lamp began to go out, and the shadows in the 
 room grew heavier. Frederica went into the dining room 
 and brought in another lamp and put it on the table; 
 then blew out the one that was flickering; and the smell 
 
 301 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 of the coal oil and of the burned wick made her sick. 
 And after that night it always made her sick. 
 
 And then she began to walk again and to say over to 
 herself, " I did not trust him, and he knows." 
 
 In the morning she was not tired. She was still walking. 
 The nurse came in and asked her to go again for the 
 doctor, and Maggie went into the room where Lange was 
 as Erederica went out the front door. 
 
 302 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 LANGE AND THE LAW 
 
 'BOUT eight o'clock Dr. Hartwell, looking pale 
 and worn, came into the house. Eugene was at 
 union headquarters. They had spent most of 
 the night at the police station, although there 
 had been no warrant for the arrest, and the ordinary for- 
 malities of the law had been absolutely set aside. Then 
 Alec Sloane had appeared, and using his father's influ- 
 ence, had released the two men. He had gone at once 
 with Harden up to headquarters, for it was necessary to 
 find out what the feeling was there. 
 
 Frederica heard these things, but they gave her no re- 
 lief. She had not really sensed the arrest the night be- 
 fore as anything more than an inconvenience, and the 
 sight of Lange's wound came the nearest to bringing home 
 to her the real situation. This morning a sort of second 
 consciousness allowed her to forget herself and her own 
 problem, and she kept wondering if Lange had thrown 
 the bomb, and what was to be done. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell took the precaution of locking the front 
 door. Then he went in and spoke to the nurse. " This 
 friend of ours," he said, " must not be disturbed to-day, 
 you understand." 
 
 And the nurse, who looked inscrutable, whose heavy 
 face was without much expression, suddenly beamed upon 
 
 303 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 the doctor. " I think," she said, " that he is a hero. My 
 husband would have done that if he had lived." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell started back in amazement. "My good 
 woman," he said, " you are jumping at conclusions. There 
 is nothing which he has done which could have any con- 
 nection with your words." 
 
 Then the doctor went off to Anne's room and fell on 
 his knees and begged to be forgiven for lying, not know- 
 ing that his weak attempt had failed of its mark. He had 
 made up his mind to stand by Lange right or wrong, and 
 he was almost shriveled within because he really believed 
 that Lange was responsible for the catastrophe. He justi- 
 fied himself by saying again and again, " They must 
 prove it by the law. They must show legal proofs before 
 I desert him." 
 
 Ereda was getting breakfast when the back door opened, 
 and in came Anne, white of face and trembling like a sick 
 child. " I came the moment I read the paper," she said. 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 Freda, whose hands were occupied, nodded toward the 
 front room, and Anne rushed in. The doctor was not 
 there. She found him kneeling beside her bed, and she 
 sat down on the edge of it, crying. It was no longer 
 possible for the doctor to ignore the fact that he was 
 loved by Anne. He was a little embarrassed, but as he 
 rose to his feet he took the manly part and soothed her, 
 and in the midst of all the havoc which the last twenty- 
 four hours had made in his quiet, unreasoning nature, 
 there glowed a warmth of feeling which made him almost 
 comfortable for a few moments. 
 
 They waited impatiently for Eugene to come. Anne 
 took charge of the house in her usual capable fashion, 
 and Frederiea found her putting the pictures back on the 
 
 304 
 
LANGE AISTD THE LAW 
 
 walls in her own room. Later she went into Frederica's 
 room and began to dust and clean in there. Frederica 
 could not bear the sight of that and stayed in the study. 
 It held a menace for her. She felt that she was going 
 to be compelled to go back to that little room. And why 
 not, she said grimly to herself, since she had proved that 
 she was worthy only of such a room. If, when she had 
 left that room, she had grown strong and had had courage, 
 she would not now be forced to go back. Occasionally 
 the thought of the house on the North Side came to her, 
 and she wondered rather vaguely what the new cook would 
 think of its desolation ; whether she would leave the doors 
 unlocked when she went home because there was no work 
 to do. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell had sent Maggie into Freda's room to 
 sleep, and then he came back to where Lange was lying, 
 and put his hand on the man's brow. There was prac- 
 tically no fever, and that seemed the best sign. 
 
 Lange opened his eyes and tried weakly to sit up, but 
 Dr. Hartwell forced him gently to his pillow again. 
 
 " Where is Maggie ? " said Lange. 
 
 " I sent her in to sleep." 
 
 "Ask her to come here," said Lange, and the doctor, 
 for fear that opposition might bring on fever, went in and 
 found Maggie, not sleeping, but sitting dry-eyed and 
 motionless by the window. She followed him back into the 
 room. 
 
 " Maggie," said Lange, " are you ready now ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 He put out his hand and patted hers. " It has got to 
 be within the law." Then he turned to the doctor. " Fix 
 it up," he said. " Marry us." 
 
 The doctor looked after it, and that afternoon, although 
 305 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Lange's fever had increased again, Dr. Hartwell married 
 him to the little Irish girl. 
 
 The day passed very slowly for Frederica in spite of 
 thte fact that people were coming and going at the front 
 door all day long. Old friends of Dr. Hartwell's came 
 down in person to get him to leave what they felt was a 
 desperate district. !N^ewspaper reporters came to get his 
 version of the disaster and of his arrest, for with the 
 first light of day the police captain had realized that he 
 had gone too far in molesting the citizen privileges of 
 this minister of the gospel, and by some trick was now 
 withdrawing the assertions which he had made the night 
 before. 
 
 As for Harden, the man shook his head and implied that 
 there was much more than he cared to tell. So the in- 
 terviews with the doctor touched always upon the con- 
 nection of Eugene Harden with the state of affairs in the 
 city. And if Frederica had not been there at his side, 
 he would often have said the wrong thing and brought 
 suspicion more fully against his son-in-law. 
 
 There was not a moment during the day when Frederica 
 was not listening for Eugene to come. He sent word at 
 dusk to Dr. Hartwell not to worry; that he would be 
 working until late that night, and that then he would go 
 to the Iforth Side house to see that everything was all 
 right ; that no doubt Freda was needed where she was. 
 
 And that night there was nothing for her to do but to 
 go to her little room to sleep. Maggie was on the couch 
 in the room where Lange was, Dr. Hartwell slept in the 
 study, and Anne took turns with the nurse in watching 
 the sick man. Freda had begged to be allowed to do this, 
 but when it was refused her on the ground that she 
 looked tired, she had not the courage to protest. 
 
 306 
 
LANGE AND THE LAW 
 
 As she lay there, a hundred memories crept up beside 
 her on the bed. She thought of Maggie as she used to 
 hang over the back railing at the other house. She thought 
 of Mrs. Schneider, who had not come near them all day, 
 and -whom they had not gone up to see, for Schneider had 
 been among those who had been arrested. She thought of 
 Mrs. Scanlan, and wondered whether her husband had 
 gotten off ; but interlaced with all these thoughts was the 
 constantly recurring one of Eugene sleeping all alone in 
 the other house. She lay perfectly still. Her eyes were 
 wide open until toward dawn the exhaustion of the pre- 
 ceding day and night compelled her to sleep. It was no 
 quiet sleep. She dreamed over and over again the same 
 dream — that she was holding his hand, but that the hand 
 was gloved; that she wanted to kiss it; that her eyes 
 were too heavy to raise to his; but that her lips were 
 burning, and finally in desperation she bit through the 
 glove and kissed the white skin underneath, and then 
 discovered that she had bitten the flesh. Each time when 
 she would see the little drop of blood where her teeth 
 had cut into that hand, she would wake up ; and then the 
 awful heaviness of the inevitable future oppressed her 
 until again exhaustion made her sleep and let her dream 
 the same dream. 
 
 307 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 FREDERICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 CHICAGO was stricken with panic. A bomb had 
 been thrown. There was an anarchist conspir- 
 acy, a plot to destroy the city. With wild, un- 
 reasoned conclusions the press called for the sup- 
 pression of all free speech and public meetings. Police, 
 detectives, and newspaper reporters began to rush from 
 place to place, hunting for evidence which might prove 
 their story of a monster conspiracy. A police officer, en- 
 amored of his role of savior of the people, was the most 
 excited of all; and because of what he was by nature it 
 cannot be brought against him that under the necessity 
 of maintaining his honors and position, he invented the 
 only plot which ever had any connection with the Hay- 
 market riots. 
 
 The vanity of one man in the police force was to result 
 in the murder, by the State, of seven innocent men. But 
 Chicago, like a hysterical woman, wanted the excitement 
 which his vanity was ready to offer. He would have re- 
 vealed himself involuntarily to any but a maddened mob. 
 He had bits of shell and packages of dynamite hidden 
 about the West Side, under sidewalks, in old houses, in 
 the park, and then he would send his men to discover 
 these evidences of a far-reaching conspiracy. The re- 
 
 308 
 
FKEDEEICA'S EXIJLT ATIOIST 
 
 porters of the various papers, whose week's wages depended 
 upon their getting the most startling news possible, would 
 hoodwink themselves and write exaggerated stories on 
 false facts. And those who read the stories believed and 
 gloated even while pretending to be stricken with terror. 
 The instinct which makes man scratch his own healing 
 wound is not so revolting as that which makes him revel 
 in the excitement offered by catastrophe. Dignity goes 
 down before the hunger for the sensational. A drab age 
 of industrial routine which has kept animals craving by 
 nature, variety and outlet, in the narrow rut of daily 
 activity, is responsible. 
 
 Day after day the excitement in the city increased un- 
 til it obscured every reason and clouded every sensibility. 
 And seven men had been chosen as the victims on the 
 altar of this appetite for revenge. Harden saw all this: 
 to him were revealed the limitations of a fledgling democ- 
 racy; and he wished that he had not come to America. 
 Still he was free of illusions, and that was something. 
 He would not be longer hampered by a trust and an ideal 
 which were false. All the assertions he had ever made 
 that he himself was an adventurer looking for excitement 
 were laughable, as he recalled them. There was no excite- 
 ment worthy of his spirit of adventure. Occasionally he 
 realized that he should consider the personal experience 
 which had come to him that afternoon of the night of dis- 
 aster as a piece of great good luck. For had it not been 
 for that he would have been the speaker at the Haymarket 
 meeting, and then he would have been killed. But there 
 was not so much comfort in that thought as there should 
 have been, for life had become a nauseating thing. His 
 days were a recurrence of activities without spirit, and his 
 nights of empty loneliness in his own home. 
 
 309 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Frederica had stayed at her father's house, caring for 
 Lange, and Eugene had not suggested her return to their 
 home. He came every day to discuss the conditions of 
 the terror with Dr. Hartwell, and he was always very 
 courteous, and made inquiries as to what he could do. 
 Dr. Hartwell and Anne were having a sort of shy court- 
 ship, which made them feel most tenderly toward Fred- 
 erica. They thought she had been noble in her willing- 
 ness to stay and help take care of the sick man. Her 
 father very soon forgot his moment of contempt for her 
 that she had been distrustful of Eugene — ^for was she not 
 married, after all ? Neither he nor Anne had any idea -of 
 the breach between the two, and they always left them 
 alone together for a few moments. 
 
 Those moments were the hardest for Frederica to face ; 
 for in them there was not even the chance for pretense — 
 as there was when anyone was present. She talked of 
 Lange, of the progress the State was making in the pur- 
 suit of the unknown who had thrown the bomb. She 
 spoke in a hard, dry voice that sounded strange in her own 
 ears — and she could not tell how it fell upon his, for he 
 was absolutely without emotion. That was the most fear- 
 ful thing for her to bear. If he had blamed her, if he 
 had said one word so that she could explain something — 
 anything to him — then she would have had some hope. 
 But he was farther from her than he had been when they 
 were strangers. 
 
 Sometimes Frederica felt that she was on the point of 
 breaking through the silence, but she r^ognized that al- 
 though it was a thing into which she might by an effort 
 thrust herself, still she could not penetrate it; she could 
 never come out on the other side. The silence was not 
 his attempt at self-control, nor his protection; it was 
 
 310 
 
FEEDERICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 his consciousness of being quite alone. She was not even 
 visible to him; she no longer existed. 
 
 A week passed like this, and Freda kept up her part, 
 gave no sign to anyone in the house that she was an out- 
 cast. She did not eat, but that was ascribed to the gen- 
 eral excitement. No one knew that she did not sleep, 
 that she walked for hours in her little room, until her 
 knees would yield to exhaustion, and she would have 
 to lie down. But not for long. The torment of lying 
 quiet with her thoughts would urge her to rise again. 
 In the early morning, as she would pass and repass her 
 mirror, she saw how sick she looked; but by the time it 
 was necessary to appear at breakfast, she found she could 
 make herself look well ; she had just enough fever to keep 
 her eyes bright and to touch her cheeks with color. Eu- 
 gene, on one of his short visits, told her that she was 
 looking very well. "I suppose you get out into the air 
 every day," he said. She made no answer. 
 
 But Anne touched her hand one night. " Freda," she 
 exclaimed, " you're sick. We have been foolish to let you 
 stay here. You must go home vdth Eugene to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " replied Frederica. " I — I should be too 
 lonely." 
 
 However, she did go the next day, because there was 
 no longer any excuse for staying where she was. 
 
 Lange was taken to jail, in spite of Mr. Flanagan's 
 desire to protect him since he had married Maggie. More 
 excitement was needed for purposes of the police, and 
 the arrest was made. Lange took it almost indifferently, 
 and seemed to infuse his own calm into Maggie, who made 
 no scene, and began at once her daily pilgrimages to the 
 North Side jail, where they took him. Eugene was not 
 there at the time of the arrest; but he showed his first 
 
 311 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 emotion since the night of the disaster when he came 
 and found Lange gone. They had never had much to 
 say to each other, Harden apparently from indifference, 
 and Lange from weakness and a sort of light abstraction, 
 as though the game were not his own. There had been 
 no outpouring of warmth on Harden's part when he real- 
 ized that his father's blood was in this man. For all he 
 knew his father might have other bitter sons of peasant 
 mothers. Dr. Hartwell felt that it was a very delicate 
 relationship which had been brought to light in his home, 
 and he decided that it ought to be ignored. Anne did 
 not even know it existed, for Alec was the only one likely 
 to tell her, and he had not come back to the house, al- 
 though he was working night and day for what he believed 
 was justice — ^that is, for a moment of unblinded reason 
 in the city, in which a man's voice might be raised and 
 heard. 
 
 So Frederica packed her bag and got into the carriage 
 with Eugene and drove home. His quiet was of indif- 
 ference, hers of an effort not to show her feeling. It was 
 as though she had not seen the house into whose silence 
 she entered. Eugene opened the door, gave an order to 
 the maid who was to take Maggie's place, and then saying 
 he would be back for dinner, drove off, leaving her to go in 
 alone. 
 
 Fire burned in every nerve fiber and cell as she went 
 up to their room ; and it was shame which was consuming 
 her, not resentment nor passion. It was all very clear 
 to her. If she had only been the sort of a girl that Mag- 
 gie was! Maggie had not ever let the man she loved 
 know that she loved him, when she had learned her lesson 
 of the world's judgment of her position. She had not 
 by a breath let anyone suspect Lange. And in her won- 
 
 312 
 
FREDERICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 derful pride she had not let Lange know that the child 
 was coming. When her secret had been discovered by 
 Mrs. Schneider she had fled from questions — and as she 
 had wandered she had met him again and had gone to his 
 rooms, because there was no other place for her that 
 night. But she had not been there ten minutes when he, 
 full of some thought which put him again outside of her 
 world, had left her and told her not to let anyone in 
 until his return. And out of her silence and her trust and 
 obedience, however blind and unreasoning, had come her 
 honor and his pride in her, his allegiance to her. For 
 Frederica had marked the change in Lange's face when- 
 ever he looked at Maggie. 
 
 She had not been of the same stuff as the little Irish 
 girl. From the very beginning she had talked. She felt 
 now the shame of even having answered Alec when he 
 first told her the story. How readily she had talked! 
 And she ought to have looked at him without a word, 
 until there had been nothing for him to do but to leave her. 
 
 And then she had talked to Lange, had admitted to him 
 her distrust, had appealed to the very man who was re- 
 sponsible for the rumor! Whenever she thought of that 
 she shut her eyes in a sort of frenzy and self-disgust. 
 
 And worst of all ! She had talked to her father. That 
 was when she had admitted in words that she knew her- 
 self. The recollection of her father's anger gave her some 
 comfort. 
 
 Why had she been weak ? What was it in her that had 
 yielded so quickly to the first onslaught? Was she by 
 nature suspicious or disloyal? There was no explana- 
 tion, no chance for her to excuse herself. She had been 
 weak, and now she was paying the penalty. Penalty ! The 
 moment the word swept across Frederica's mind as she 
 
 313 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 sat there rigid in her self-examination, she took a breath 
 of relief. For was there not always an end to a pen- 
 alty? It was not indefinite and eternal — or was it? 
 Would he ever love her again ? She wanted to believe so, 
 but she had to admit that it could never be again as it 
 had been, for she had proved herself quite different from 
 what he had thought her. If he ever cared for her again, 
 it would be as some one else. 
 
 Her mind had been so taken up with the idea that she 
 had lost him, that this was the first time she had thought 
 how he had lost her. And for the first time in all those 
 days the tears came. Eugene Harden, through her weak- 
 ness, had lost something which had been beautiful and 
 dear to him. At last she had forgotten herself and was 
 thinking of him. 
 
 The tears were still in her eyes when Anne and her 
 father were announced. It seemed a pity to Frederica that 
 even in her own house she should have to begin to pre- 
 tend again, but she washed her face in cold water and 
 went down. 
 
 Anne came toward her quickly. " Freda, we came at 
 once to tell you. It is like a confession. Your father 
 and I " 
 
 " I know," said Freda, wishing to spare Anne the em- 
 barrassment which was choking her. 
 
 " No, my child," said Dr. Hartwell, most seriously, 
 " you don't know all. We have just been married." 
 
 Before Frederica could express surprise Anne hurried 
 to explain. " Of course it would have been more conven- 
 tional to have waited, but I wanted to stay with your 
 father." 
 
 Dr. Hartwell interrupted. "Anne is most generous. 
 She wants to devote her money to save those men who are 
 
 314 
 
FEEDEBICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 on trial, and she thought it wiser that I should have au- 
 thority — to carry out her wishes. Where is Eugene ? " 
 
 Frederica said that he had gone to Lange. 
 
 " We are going to my father at once," said Anne — and 
 they left. 
 
 Freda was relieved that her father should find this solu- 
 tion for his loneliness, and she hoped that Alexander 
 Sloane would hear of it at once. Then she returned to 
 her own thoughts, but the interruption had given her a 
 chance to regain her poise. She had felt old and re- 
 served with these two people she loved, and that showed 
 her that she had changed. Suddenly she stopped in the 
 middle of the room and looked fixedly at the floor; but 
 she felt as though she were standing upon a mountain peak 
 and looking down upon herself and Eugene, upon her 
 father and Anne, upon Lange and Maggie. Instead of 
 her thoughts going around and around, so close to the 
 objects that the objects were blurred, she found herself 
 circling at a distance, getting a bird's-eye view. And 
 when she looked up from the spot in the rug which had 
 held her gaze, her face had regained much of its wonted 
 calm. She took a deep breath and sat down comfortably 
 in the big library chair and began again to study the car- 
 pet. For a long time she sat there thinking until the 
 new housemaid came in with a message from the cook 
 that the roast had come too late to be prepared for that 
 night at six. 
 
 " Dinner will not be -erved until seven," said Frederica, 
 with a sense of giving her first word of command. But 
 as soon as the girl had left the room, Frederica seized her 
 hat and coat with little regard for dignity, and dashed out 
 of the house and down the street. She might be changed, 
 but she was quite as impetuous as ever in her motions. 
 21 315 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 At a little after six Eugene Harden put his latchkey 
 into the door and crossed the threshold without any awak- 
 ening anticipation in his face. It would be an ordeal, 
 this first dinner at home. He had put it off as long as 
 he could, and had eaten alone for a week, but there was 
 no longer any excuse for not beginning their life together. 
 The house was very quiet, and it occurred to him that 
 Erederica might not be there. Eor the first time since 
 the night of her self -revelation he bethought himself of 
 her feelings, of what she might have suffered. But his 
 second thought was that he could not help it if she had 
 suffered. Doubtless it was her vanity, her pride, which 
 had been injured, just as it had been her conventional 
 sense of marriage which had suffered through her distrust 
 of him. Yet he felt a certain suspense as he stood there 
 in the hall, and it surprised him. Suppose that, unwilling 
 to face the situation, afraid to stay and confess her weak- 
 ness, she had gone. Then she was a coward, too ! And the 
 surprise yielded to his former hardness as he went into 
 the library. 
 
 She had not gone, neither had she heard him come in, 
 and she was standing under the light looking at a pho- 
 tograph, so intent that he stood a long moment watching 
 her. The gown she wore was one he had never seen. It 
 was thin gray over gray that glistened, like mist over 
 shining water; it clung to her like something full of life 
 and feeling. She had braided her hair and brought it up 
 about her smaU round head in the old Dutch fashion; 
 little strands escaped over her eyes and on the nape of 
 her neck, but it was wonderfully smooth for Frederica. 
 Eugene could not help but notice that the shadows under 
 her eyes made her face all the more delicate in color and 
 contour. Then he noticed the change in the room. The 
 
 316 
 
FREDERICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 furniture was all rearranged — to better advantage — ^he 
 admitted on the instant, and there were spring flowers 
 (rather costly spring flowers from hothouses) everywhere 
 that flowers could be put; they caught a warmth of color 
 from the firelight. He was glad of the open fire, for 
 the day had been gray and cold for a May day. 
 
 Before these impressions had gone deeper than his out- 
 ermost sensibility she laid the photograph face upward 
 on the table and looked around. What were to be the 
 words for this beginning, and what was the meaning of 
 what he saw? One of the passwords of civilization came 
 to him as an inspiration. " Good evening," he said, and 
 came toward her formally. 
 
 Erederica clasped her hands behind her and stood very 
 straight and unsmiling. 
 
 "I am Erederica Hartwell," she said, using the same 
 words she had first spoken to him on the back porch 
 months before. 
 
 " Tes ? " He looked at her in surprise. 
 
 " You are sure you understand ? " she asked. 
 
 He bent his head in a questioning look at her. 
 
 She answered it, " You have been thinking that you 
 were mistaken in me, but it was your mistake." 
 
 Light did not dawn in his eyes, as she had hoped, so 
 she began again. 
 
 " You must try and understand. I am Erederica Hart- 
 well; I am not yet a year older than when I met you. 
 And when I met you I — ^I did not know very much — noth- 
 ing at all except through my eyes, and not all I could 
 have learned through them." 
 
 She paused in such a way that he knew she was going on. 
 
 " You began to teach me right away," she continued. 
 " I suppose you can't understand how you confused me at 
 
 317 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 first, how I had to work hard when I was by myself to 
 find out what you meant when I was with you. Tou 
 taught me a great deal and I learned pretty well until — 
 until that evening I came to you " 
 
 Eugene made a gesture of disapproval. 
 
 "I know," she said quickly, "I know it isn't pleasant 
 for you to think of those things, but you must." She spoke 
 intensely. "You've got to be fair, for your own sake." 
 Then she regained her even voice as though she were 
 speaking as much to herself as to him. " That evening 
 I tried to learn too much on top of what I had learned 
 that day — about Maggie, and Alec, and the meeting, and 
 my father's being owned by Mr. Sloane. You remember. 
 I learned that you loved me, and that you were not free, 
 and that the world was suspicious of such — of such inno- 
 cent things like my coming to your room. And you see 
 they came, my father and Mr. Sloane, before I had gotten 
 all those things through my head. I am not excusing my- 
 self," she said, interrupting her own narrative, "I am 
 only trying to make you understand. You cannot be ex- 
 pected to realize what a — what a simpleton I was. And 
 I lied, Eugene ! " 
 
 She stopped and breathed deep, but did not move, for 
 she had not finished. 
 
 " That was the strange thing — I thought a lie would 
 help you. It did not seem wicked. It doesn't feel wicked 
 now — ^I don't know why it doesn't, but it seems dangerous." 
 Eor a moment her thought paused on what she had said, 
 and then she lifted her head. " So you must see, Eugene, 
 that the next night when I did suspect you of telling a 
 lie to me because you were sorry, can't you see that I was 
 still confused, and it did not seem wicked to me — or dis- 
 honorable or — or anything that you seem to think it is ? " 
 
 318 
 
FEEDEEICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 Eugene made no answer. She could not tell -whether he 
 was understanding what she was saying. Her eyes fell 
 on his hand as it lay on the edge of the mantel, and she 
 clenched her own hands behind her and bit her lips ; she 
 wanted so much to go to him and kiss his hand. In- 
 stead, she raised her eyes to his again. 
 
 " And afterwards, after we were married, I had a great 
 deal to leam that I had not even dreamed. It was beau- 
 tiful, but it was confusing. It wasn't anything I could 
 reason about or talk about, or even whisper to you about. 
 I was learning myself, and learning how wonderful it was 
 to be your wife, to be a woman." Again she paused. 
 " You knew all those things before — ^I just came into your 
 life without shaking it, and so you never guessed that 
 everything in life was being reflected in me as in a stirred 
 pool of water. I don't think you can ever know. A man 
 can't. That's the reason why I believed so easily when 
 I heard the story. I lost my wits. I ought not to have 
 said a word to anyone, I ought to have come to you. But 
 it was that lie I told that kept making me believe you 
 could tell one too — and I was afraid if you had, you 
 would not want me to know." 
 
 She waited for him to say something, but he was look- 
 ing at the fire. 
 
 « That's all," she said; " I have been a fool." 
 
 Eugene started at the word on her lips. 
 
 "I have been everything cowardly and dreadful, but 
 I don't see how I could help it, just because I am Fred- 
 erica Hartwell — ^not somebody who had learned through 
 all sorts of experiences." She bent toward him a little. 
 " Tou wouldn't have — ^have liked me if I had been expe- 
 rienced, so why are you so hard ? " 
 
 It was her first appeal to him and he seemed untouched. 
 319 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She saw no sign of understanding or yielding in him. 
 A gleam of amazement shone in her eyes, and then a quiet 
 sort of anger. She pressed her lips together and waited. 
 
 "I don't think it is a thing we can talk about, Fred- 
 erica," he said finally. 
 
 She folded her arms in front of her and came toward 
 him a step. " Perhaps not ! Tou like to be silent, to be 
 hard, to be merciless. Tou think it is noble and dignified. 
 If anybody explained anything to you that you didn't 
 already know, you would refuse to understand. Tou are 
 so — so conceited ! Tou can be silent if you want to, but 
 I shall talk all I wish to. There is dignity in silence, but 
 perhaps I am not meant to be dignified, perhaps it is 
 not natural for me to go about with my lips pressed to- 
 gether and a great ideal of myself in my own head. And 
 if it isn't natural to be silent, then it's playing a part 
 to try to be — it would be theatrical and not honest. But 
 you ! " — ^her voice swelled with contempt — " you must 
 suffer in silence and boast to yourself that you are lonely, 
 and there is no one you can trust. If most men tell 
 about where they come from and what they think and why 
 they have come to think that way, why shouldn't you? 
 Why are you so great that you must have no questions 
 asked you? I've learned that, too — that your reserve was 
 bound to make me confused, make me blunder in some 
 way. When you said you weren't free, that you were 
 married, I was so simple that I never even thought what 
 that meant. If you had said you had two wives, it 
 wouldn't have meant anything to me. I wouldn't have 
 questioned you, and you would have thought just as I 
 suppose you did think, that you had found some one who 
 was not curious, who respected your dignity, your priv- 
 ilege of keeping everything to yourself. But, Eugene, 
 
 320 
 
FEEDEKICA'S EXULTATION 
 
 ■when I touched you, when I learned what my body was — 
 I — 1 began to think, and to ask questions to myself, and 
 sooner or later I should have blundered in some way and 
 hare asked you. But at first I was afraid, I felt your 
 pride — your conceit, and so I helped you to your silence, 
 just as I would try to pretend I hadn't seen a scar on 
 your body if I had thought you did not want it seen. 
 
 "And when you looked at me the other night I was 
 overcome with shame; I can't tell you just why now; but 
 it was that shame which has taught me this. I have been 
 alone with it for a week. I have cried out to you by 
 myself to forgive me, and I have just been crawling 
 around on my knees to you and feeling I would do any- 
 thing — anything to get you to trust me again, to get you 
 to understand. To-day in this room I had to say to 
 myself that I would have to live on here and eat your 
 bread and take your shelter, and I felt that was part of 
 the penalty. And then quite suddenly I saw what non- 
 sense it all was, how you were condemning me for learn- 
 ing things which I would have to learn just in this way to 
 be your equal. You learned. You wouldn't want to tell 
 me how you learned many things. I know that. I don't 
 want to know. What you are, you are because you have 
 been through all sorts of experiences. And what I am, I 
 am because of my experiences. I am Frederica Hartwell 
 — and I am glad ! I am glad ! " Everything left her voice 
 except exultation. " You have taught me so many things ! 
 You have taught me what a woman is, what a man is, 
 what a lie is, what trust is not, what loneliness is, what 
 passion is. You gave me my eyes for the world about me. 
 You gave me my body, and now you have given me pride 
 and myself — ^myself ! " 
 
 Before he had moved, and she had not been looking 
 321 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 at him while she spoke, but at a great jar of jonquils on 
 the table, the door bell rang. It came into Prederiea's 
 exultation. 
 
 " Listen," she said, " there is the world entering upon 
 us again. And I shall not lie ! " 
 
 She went smiling toward the door and kissed her father 
 as he came in. 
 
 322 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE WORLD ENTERS AGAIN 
 
 ^^^^^HIS is a surprise for you, Eugene," said Ered- 
 ■ C| erica, but without looking at him; "my father 
 ^^^^V and Anne have come for their wedding din- 
 ner." Harden was surprised, collected himself 
 quickly, and was most cordial. Whatever he might have 
 been feeling while Frederica was talking to him, could not 
 come to the surface, and now his pride would necessarily 
 indicate that he must be hospitable and not let these two 
 members of the family recognize the breach which existed 
 between him and the girl in gray moving about the rooms, 
 calling Anne's attention to the flowers, to the way she 
 had arranged things, and to her own gown. 
 
 " But I have never seen that before," said Anne, touch- 
 ing the filmy gray. 
 
 " No" said Frederica, " I bought that this afternoon. I 
 went downtown on purpose." 
 
 Eugene overheard and looked at her in a nonplused 
 sort of way, but she never glanced at him, 
 
 "Who is this?" asked Anne, picking up the photo- 
 graph which Freda had laid down when Eugene came in. 
 
 Eugene glanced at it. " That is my brother's wife," he 
 said. " She is not so beautiful as that now, but she is 
 a very intellectual woman and fine." 
 
 323 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Erederica took a deep breath of comfort. How absurd 
 her hatred of that face had been ! 
 
 Dinner was served ahnost immediately, and the table 
 was decorated with as great a profusion of flowers as the 
 library. The cook, whose natural sociability had been so 
 terribly shocked by the former meals eaten in that house, 
 was glad to be allowed at last any sort of a dinner which 
 could be served to more than one. 
 
 Dr. Hartwell was occasionally so abstracted that they 
 laughed at him. His mind was in a whirl. Here he was 
 married; here was Anne sitting across from him. She 
 began to seem a very different sort of person from that 
 Anne whom he had always known. Here was his daugh- 
 ter, a married woman, too, and in a gown which even to 
 his eyes, unaccustomed as they were to fashion, proved 
 itself a marvel of beauty; and he knew it must have 
 cost a great deal of money. His mind, freed from its 
 usual restraint of abstract spirituality and strict private 
 economy, was fairly reveling in the sense of luxury and 
 ease in which he found himself. He computed roughly 
 that the flowers on the dining table must have cost 
 fifteen or twenty dollars, and he was rather pained 
 when he discovered that he had not been translating 
 that twenty dollars into food for the poor or clothes 
 for the little Elanagans. Could it be, he asked him- 
 self, that already he was yielding so quickly to the things 
 of the flesh? 
 
 But these moments of inner self-examination were in- 
 terrupted by the pleasures of the palate, and it meant 
 so much to him, too, that Erederica should be sitting near 
 him again at table. 
 
 By common consent they kept away from the topic 
 which had come to absorb them so much these last days. 
 
 324 
 
THE WOELD ENTEES AGAIN 
 
 While they were eating they said nothing at all of the 
 catastrophe and of all those things which were now hang- 
 ing in the balance. But when they had gone back to the 
 library, and Frederica, at Eugene's suggestion, was hav- 
 ing the coffee served there, they fell into a discussion of 
 what was likely to happen. Dr. Hartwell, leaning back 
 in a big leather chair, smoked the first cigar that he had 
 smoked for fifteen years, and he could hardly keep from 
 confiding to Anne that it meant a good deal to him that 
 he should be doing it. 
 
 Frederica felt for a few moments a little return of 
 constraint, but she threw it off, and no one could have 
 guessed that she was watching Eugene with eyes greedy 
 for some sign of whether or not he had heard the words 
 she had said to him before dinner. Would he believe in 
 her? Had he been able to see in what she had told him 
 what she herself had seen in the moment when she had 
 stood gazing on the carpet in this same room? She felt 
 as if she had recovered herself, as if she had regained 
 her balance; and the very relief from the strain of the 
 week made her gayer than usual. Once it occurred to her 
 that Eugene might think this gayety was flippant, might 
 think that because she was capable of laughter, and even 
 of a certain tenderness toward him without waiting for 
 any response from him, that she was without real emo- 
 tion; that she had lost already the significance of what 
 she had been through. But even as that fact came to 
 her another followed; and that was that if he was going 
 to go through life judging her by the syllables of laughter 
 or by her tears, instead of by his instincts, and by his 
 own fair judgment, why, she might just as well give up 
 now as any time. She was conscious during the evening 
 of a desire to tantalize him, to make love in a little, al- 
 
 325 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 most childish way, to appeal to him through his senses, 
 just as before dinner she had tried to make the honest, 
 direct appeal to his reason. 
 
 The talk between her father and Harden concerned it- 
 self first of all with Lange. His words to Flanagan, when 
 he had said, "Why should not I be the one that threw 
 that bomb ? " had been repeated by the Irishman in the 
 first rush of his bitterness to a fellow policeman who 
 was a friend of the police captain; and now these words 
 were coming back on Lange's head. 
 
 Harden was loath to admit to Dr. Hartwell that he 
 was carrying on this work now in behalf of the men in an 
 almost listless fashion, because his life had gone out 
 of him when he had discovered the real American spirit. 
 So he followed the doctor's arguments in favor of Lange 
 with as much interest as he could summon, and little by 
 little he found himself warming, and the old desire to 
 enter into the game and to beat his opponent returned 
 upon him. He began to walk up and down the floor. 
 " The only way we can serve these men," he said, " is to 
 discover the man who did the deed." 
 
 " Lange can prove an alibi," said Dr. Hartwell. 
 
 " How ? " asked Frederica, who remembered that Mag- 
 gie had told her that he had left her after she had been 
 in his room for ten minutes. 
 
 " He was at his rooms," said Dr. Hartwell. " Maggie 
 says that he did not go out until he heard the explosion." 
 
 Frederica contracted with the thought that perhaps 
 Maggie had lied. And Harden, who understood these 
 things better, said that he doubted that Maggie's word 
 would have any weight because of her relation to him. 
 
 "It is wonderful," said Anne, "how that little young 
 thing held her tongue all these months when, if she had 
 
 326 
 
THE WORLD ENTEES AGAIN 
 
 come to us at any time, we could have made him marry 
 her. Think what she must have suffered, Freda ! " 
 
 Freda flushed. " I have been admiring Maggie, too," she 
 said. " But after all it is because she has not got so much 
 imagination. She was not thinking ahead through long 
 years. She just had a few facts in her brain, and they 
 ■were very simple. So I don't think that it was so re- 
 markable. If she had been used all her life to seeing 
 things in her own mind, and seeing them as pictures, she 
 could not have kept still. She would have broken down." 
 Frederica got up and walked over to the fireplace, more 
 because the thoughts within her needed motion of body 
 while she expressed them. " I think a great many virtues 
 are in people just because vices have not been developed 
 yet. I think a great many things like honesty and moral- 
 ity just come because men and women have not imagina- 
 tions. And you have got to go through a long stretch 
 of imagination, and you have got to know just how big 
 a fight it is not to let the things you see in your mind affect 
 the things that you are going to do before you can get back 
 those virtues again. Then you know how to hold your 
 tongue ; and then you know what it is to be honest." 
 
 " Why, Freda," said her father, " you are saying that as 
 well as I could myself." 
 
 She turned on him quickly. " But you know perfectly 
 well," she said, " you never thought of it. I never thought 
 of it until to-day." 
 
 Anne laughed. " You have had a very busy day, Freda — 
 what with buying that dress and getting up this dinner, 
 and making a philosophy for yourself." 
 
 " Yes," said Frederica with a little sigh, " I am tired." 
 Then she seated herself again. She did not dare look 
 toward Eugene, for she had been quite unconscious of him 
 
 327 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 while she was giving utterance to her resentment against 
 her own admiration for Maggie — for that is what it 
 amounted to. Whether or not she was right in her con- 
 clusions about Maggie's reticence, was a matter of small 
 importance to anyone. 
 
 When they came to discuss Mr. Schneider, it was not 
 so simple a question. He was undoubtedly a man who 
 could be accused of the most radical socialist position. He 
 had for years been the leader of an organization which 
 had met more or less privately to discuss economic ques- 
 tions of the age. He stood abreast in thought with all 
 the economic leaders of Europe. And that was so far 
 ahead of any economic thought in America that he was 
 now to pay a heavy price for a pioneer position. The fact 
 of his leadership could be used against him ; the fact that 
 he had used the word " revolution " ; that he had said 
 that some day the poor man might come to take dyna- 
 mite as a weapon — ^this would be used against him, too. 
 In the German newspaper were many columns of his in 
 which he had put forcibly and fearlessly the principles 
 which he was advocating. Now he, too, like Lange, was 
 in jail, and with all the public opinion stirred against 
 those things for which he stood, believing that if a man 
 said " dynamite " he was capable of using it, it would 
 be very hard to expect leniency or even justice for him. 
 
 They were deep in a consideration of the best methods 
 to be employed in behalf of him, when the bell rang and 
 the maid brought Alec Sloane into the room. He made 
 no apology for coming uninvited. He had been Harden's 
 right-hand man for eight days now. It was generally 
 understood that if anything of importance occurred while 
 Harden was away from the office, that he was to come 
 and inform him. His whole manner now was that of the 
 
 338 
 
THE WOELD ENTERS AGAIN 
 
 bearer of ill tidings, and the tidings concerned more 
 than one. 
 
 "I don't know that I ought to have come," he said; 
 " but I thought some one ought to go to Maggie at once. 
 She knows, but she ought not to be alone." 
 
 They had all risen to their feet as though drawn sud- 
 denly to motion by the look in his eyes. 
 
 " Lange used dynamite to kill himself." 
 
 A shudder went through the four people who heard him. 
 Each-one had his thoughts. Erederiea knowing what the 
 love of woman for man is, thought of Maggie. Harden 
 thought of Lange as his brother. Dr. Hartwell was won- 
 dering if that meant Lange was guilty. Anne'c thought 
 found an expression first. 
 
 " How coiild he get dynamite ? " she said. 
 
 " I think Maggie gave it to him," Alec said. " She 
 won't say a word." 
 
 Harden was pacing the floor. All the blood which had 
 been common between him and Gustav Lange was surg- 
 ing in his veins. All his own egotism in these last few 
 days, when he might have gone to this man and made 
 up in some way for the years of bitterness and of conscious 
 illegitimacy, flooded him with self-disgust. It was just 
 as Erederica had said — his pride was contemptible. The 
 others in the room felt what he must be going through, 
 and they stood silent. 
 
 Then Anne said that she must go at once to Maggie, 
 and with tenderness and emotion she and Dr. Hartwell 
 parted from Frederica, not even deploring in their own 
 minds the fact that their first evening of comfort had 
 been disturbed. They began on this, the night of their 
 wedding, to serve others, and with a joy which neither one 
 of them had ever experienced in trying to serve alone. 
 
 329 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Alec came further into the room and nerved himself 
 a second time. "I have come to ask you what I ought 
 to do," he said. " I believe — ^I can't keep from believing 
 that my father knows something as to who planned the 
 throwing of the bomb." 
 
 Harden stopped where he was and gave Alec a look 
 which passed for a clasp of the hand. 
 
 "I have come to ask you if you think I should say 
 this to the authorities." 
 
 Harden came forward. " Alec," he said, " these are your 
 own ideas, are they not? You have no proof, have you 
 — ^no evidence ? " 
 
 Alec looked at him a long moment. " No proof under 
 the law," he said; "only the look in my father's eyes; 
 only the knowledge that he has neither slept nor eaten; 
 that he is losing his mind." 
 
 Frederica watched Eugene while she waited for the an- 
 swer. To her the tragedy of it was so plain — ^the son 
 who knew his father guilty, and who knew that the lives 
 of innocent men hung upon the acknowledgment of that 
 guilt, yet who had all of the strong race feeling of a son 
 for a father. And while she waited for Eugene to speak 
 — and he was silent for some time — ^she knew deep in her 
 heart that whatever he said. Alec would do, and she would 
 believe right. Por although before dinner she had spoken 
 a great measure of disdain for what she felt was his 
 weakness, she knew, too, that under that weakness lay 
 an immense strength. 
 
 Harden put his hand on Alec's arm. " You are judging 
 your father by his own actions ; and it may be that you 
 are judging wrongly. He may have dropped some word 
 which he realizes now was taken as an order to break up 
 that meeting. He may have ordered that meeting dis- 
 
 330 
 
THE WORLD ENTERS AGAIN 
 
 persed; but it is impossible to believe that he gave any 
 command of any sort which had dynamite in it. All of 
 your father's training, even in corrupt commercialism, 
 could not be an explanation for such a thing as that. The 
 thing that he is fighting in his soul may be the thing 
 that you are fighting in your soul, and that I am fighting 
 in mine, and that Frederica has won over in hers — a 
 knowledge of his own strength of impulse, which is also 
 a knowledge of weakness. Lange made more use of your 
 father than your father made of him. And so it may be 
 with this unknown man who threw the bomb. He may 
 have made Tise of some hint or suggestion to his own 
 embittered, misshapen end." Suddenly Eugene straight- 
 ened. "Lange was innocent of that," he said. "Lange 
 was my brother." 
 
 Alec sat down, and leaning his head on the table, burst 
 into sobs that shook him for a long time. Erederica went 
 over and stood near him and put her hand on his head; 
 but neither she nor Eugene spoke to him, for what he 
 was passing through could not be touched by words. 
 
 When Alec had recovered himself, Eugene talked a long 
 time to him in a rather impersonal way about motives and 
 consequences, and how in remorse a man might see clearly 
 the very small beginning of a great disaster, and feel that 
 he was responsible for all of the fearful havoc, because 
 he was conscious of having overlooked responsibility in 
 the beginning. 
 
 " If I were you. Alec," he said, " I would go home and 
 watch for that moment when your father's silence breaks 
 down ; when he has told you what is in his mind, then it 
 rests with you to make him do what is right. But from 
 the moment that he confides in you, you will no longer 
 be able to speak of it to anyone else. If he is guilty under 
 23 331 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 the law you will see that he pays the penalty Tinder the 
 law. But if, as I think probable, his mind is full of 
 these tremendous consequences of some business judgment, 
 of something in his own affairs, then you can help him 
 to expiate what he feels his sin by getting him to stand in 
 behalf of Schneider and the others. He may be the means 
 yet of saving these lives." 
 
 Alec was strengthened as much by the calmness of Har- 
 den's voice and the touch of Prederica's hand on his arm 
 as he was by the words themselves ; and he left them and 
 went back to his home. 
 
 Eugene and Prederica were alone. The world had en- 
 tered upon them; and it had brought them both back to 
 themselves as parts of it. It would have been impossible 
 now for either one to take up what had been said before 
 the others came. If Frederica had had any desire to ex- 
 press exultation in having found herself, there was the 
 thought of Maggie. And if Harden had had any wish 
 to explain his privilege of reserve, to claim a superior 
 position, there was Lange. They sat for a long time look- 
 ing at the fire, and the house was very quiet. And then 
 Frederica went over and kneeled down by Eugene and 
 kissed his hand. 
 
 332 
 
CHAPTEE XV 
 
 THE DAY OF THE LAW 
 
 ^^^^^HAT day in November arrived which had been 
 ■ t\ set for the hanging of seven men by the State. 
 ^^^^V All the traditions of justice and all the forms 
 of law had been put to one side, and the mys- 
 tery of the people's vengeance was to be enacted within 
 gray stone walls at twelve o'clock. The light of the No- 
 vember morning was dimmed by the rain which fell every- 
 where, but did not prevent great crowds of curious people 
 from moving toward one place on the North Side. 
 
 At the comer of a street on which the jail was located, 
 the carriage stopped. The mass of human beings who 
 stood there in the rain would not permit its going farther ; 
 and Freda, in spite of a delaying hand on her arm, stepped 
 out of the carriage, Eugene following, and they walked 
 to where they could see the walls which hid the mystery. 
 
 There in the rain stood thousands and thousands of 
 human beings, and underneath the awed look of most 
 of them was a certain kind of joy — the joy of the human 
 animal in catastrophe. Here was something big, some- 
 thing unusual, something fearful going on not far from 
 them. 
 
 Ropes were fastened in such a way as to keep the throng 
 from coming too near the jail, and on the roofs of the 
 great building were kneeling the sharpshooters of the State 
 
 333 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 with their rifles pointed toward the mob, as though they 
 expected that something would burst forth from this ani- 
 mal excitement and menace the completion of the act 
 of vengeance within. And for blocks around the jail were 
 scattered all the police of the city — ^those very men whose 
 approach upon the meeting held by the citizens of the city 
 had been the beginning of this which was taking place 
 inside. 
 
 Frederica and Eugene stood there in the rain and 
 watched the human beings, expectant, watched the police, 
 and now and then looked up at the sharpshooters. And 
 there was nothing to be said. There was no word to ex- 
 press what they saw. 
 
 A few yards from them another carriage stopped, and 
 Alec Sloane with his father got out. The older man was 
 now an old man. He seemed shrunken and collapsed. 
 Neither of them saw Eugene or Frederica, but went as 
 near as possible to the ropes and stood with heads un- 
 covered, with eyes intent upon the walls of the jail. 
 
 Alec stood straight, and with a certain pride, for his 
 father was not guilty of that which he had suspected him. 
 His father's remorse had sprung from the suspicion that 
 he was responsible, for rumor pointed more and more to 
 John Scanlan as the man that had thrown the bomb. And 
 Sloane knew now that Scanlan's bitterness, that the fire 
 which had been set in the lumber yards, that the bomb 
 which had been thrown, if it were thrown by him, were 
 the fruits of his own act — ^that of blacklisting Scanlan 
 fifteen years before, depriving him not only of his day's 
 wages, but of his child. 
 
 Sloane, in the torture of a vision in which he had 
 learned these things, had had revealed to him the intrica- 
 cies of consequence, and he had gone to Mrs. Scanlan and 
 
 334 
 
THE DAY OF THE LAW 
 
 begged her to find out where her husband was that he 
 might know positively if the man had fled from justice 
 for this greater deed or merely from fear of the penalty 
 which he must pay for setting the fire. But Mrs. Scanlan 
 had not known where her husband was. There in that 
 house beside the long fence of the lumber yard Scanlan. 
 had seen the boy, and the boy had stopped watching his 
 mother for a few minutes to look at this man, the first 
 of his kind that had ever crossed their threshold. 
 
 Besides this inner torment of Sloane's, there had been 
 his own failure in business. He had not destroyed the 
 union, for by the efforts of Harden during these six 
 months the union had stood as one man, had kept it in- 
 tact, and had beaten Sloane in the fight, for which Sloane 
 had had no longer any heart. But those men who had 
 had the " gentleman's " agreement with him had destroyed 
 his business ; and although he had come to-day in his car- 
 riage, on the morrow he would be declared bankrupt, and 
 would know himself depending again, as in his early 
 youth, upon his own efforts, except that now he had Alec 
 to help him. He had spent great sums in behalf of these 
 men who were about to be hanged within the walls oppo- 
 site. Alec knew that his father might have saved that 
 money for his own use, but the boy was glad that it had 
 gone. 
 
 Eugene noticed that Frederica had become very pale, 
 and he touched her hand. "We have paid what honor 
 we could," he said. " 'Now let us go back." 
 
 And she, overpowered with what was incomprehensible, 
 turned and followed him back to the carriage. On the 
 way they saw Mr. and Mrs. Schneider standing there in 
 the rain with the others; and the look on Schneider's 
 face, who had been close to this death within, but had 
 
 335 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 escaped almost by a miracle, was the look of a man who 
 had no longer any faith in the righteousness of democracy 
 and the principles of freedom. 
 
 The same gray light of the November morning shone 
 into the eyes of Maggie's baby, and Frederica leaned over 
 him to see if he would smile — sometimes he did. But this 
 morning there was nothing in Frederica's face to call out 
 a smile, and so he lay quite motionless and looked up at 
 her, as she looked down. This was a day for thoughts 
 to reach down to the very beginning of things, and to be 
 held by the unanswerable mystery of all beginnings. 
 Frederica was asking this little creature, that lay there 
 so contentedly, what its inheritance was. There might 
 never be any answer. She knew that, and the rebellion 
 within her against all the secrets which make up the fu- 
 ture, stirred her as though she had not been fighting all 
 these six months for faith and patience. 
 
 "Ah, baby!" she said; and the protest in her voice 
 reached Eugene's ears ; but he did not understand it. He 
 had come into this room, which for half a year had been 
 given up to Maggie, to hand Frederica a letter which 
 had just come. He stopped at the door and watched Freda 
 as she leaned over the child. For him there was mys- 
 tery, too, in this devotional attitude of the woman before 
 the child. He had seen it in Maggie and understood 
 that she was giving to this baby all that she had wanted 
 to give to its father. He had wondered somewhat that 
 this Irish girl, whose youth had been interrupted by a 
 storm of vengeance and passion with which it was al- 
 most impossible to imagine her connected, should be now 
 so quiet, so much like another being. It seemed to dis- 
 prove all the theories of race inheritance. Maggie's ret- 
 icence and reserve, the silence in which she had locked 
 
 336 
 
THE DAT OF THE LAW 
 
 her knowledge of Lange's death, had made her a woman 
 of refinement, and never for a moment did Eugene or Fred- 
 erica question the hold that she had upon them; not as 
 a dependent, not as one who had suffered indirectly 
 through them, but as a friend. And so the child was likely 
 to have any evil in its inheritance offset by the home 
 to which it had come. 
 
 But Frederica's devotion was something that a man 
 could not understand. It was not that of the woman for 
 the child, but it was that of a woman weighed down by 
 a sense of the incomprehensible things in life. In spite 
 of Frederica's gayety on the evening when she had come 
 to a sense of herself and of her own pride, and had spoken 
 to Eugene, she had never been quite the same since then. 
 There was always this undertone of questioning. After a 
 while, perhaps, she would get so used to the question, so 
 used to the fact, to the only positive fact in life — that 
 men know nothing of themselves nor of their associates — 
 that she would regain the girlish, care-free manner. 
 
 Eugene did not analyze this change in her, because it 
 was impossible for him to know what she had been through. 
 "No-w he stood watching her, and from the depths of his 
 being came a sense of her presence which he had never 
 felt before. It was as though a flame had sprung from 
 her to him, and as though their two bodies had been fused 
 by the heat of it. She felt it, too ; looked up at him and 
 forgot the child; but stood quite motionless with her 
 head lifted. Each one was conscious that this was the 
 moment of marriage, and it had sprung from the unknown 
 at an unexpected moment of a gray November morning. 
 
 He came over and handed her a letter, his hand shak- 
 ing. And then he bent over the child to hide his emotion, 
 for speech was not to enter into this moment. 
 
 337 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 Frederica took the letter and sat down at the window. 
 She recognized Alec Sloane's handwriting, and she won- 
 dered at the thickness of what she was about to open. In- 
 side there was but a brief note from him to her, saying 
 that he had foimd this among his father's papers, and 
 he thought that she might want to have it. Then, while 
 Eugene stood there and watched the eyes of the baby, 
 Frederica read the story of his life before he came to 
 this country. It was told very briefly, in a sort of legal 
 way which had no reverence for all of the significance 
 that lay in the facts themselves. But being told in this 
 way it allowed her to read without danger of emotion; 
 and when she had finished she sat looking at the letter, 
 and it seemed as if she had always known what she had 
 just read. The story was unusual, but very simple. 
 
 Eugene Harden had a brother who was in the j4!ustrian 
 army. The brother was married, but afterwards he had 
 made love to a girl whose family was very prominent in 
 Vienna. When as a result of what for him had been a gay 
 flirtation, the girl threatened to destroy his position in the 
 army, to drag the Harden name into notoriety, because 
 she was to pay the heavy consequence of motherhood, 
 Eugene had come forward and had married her. Only 
 her family and his had known the real state of af- 
 fairs. His idealism had made it somewhat easier for him 
 to do this, because he was not in love with anyone else ; he 
 had intense family pride, and he loved his brother. But 
 at the very threshold of his life with the woman, he had 
 learned that he could not cross over; that she was so 
 unworthy of even what he had done that he could not 
 hide it from himself. He had never lived with her. There 
 had been a pretense kept up for some months, and then 
 her natural wildness had been shown in other ways, and 
 
 338 
 
THE DAY OF THE LAW 
 
 she had after all dragged the family name into the mouths 
 of all the gossips of Vienna. 
 
 The idealism of the younger brother had not served 
 for long. For two years he had made every attempt he 
 could to be conventional; but at the end of that time he 
 had sought for a divorce, and had determined to come 
 to this country. For months the legal questions of the 
 divorce dragged along, and because of the Austrian law, 
 and of the Austrian ch\irch, it began to seem impossible 
 for him to obtain one. He had come to this coimtry then 
 in a sort of desperation, for although he might be bound 
 to this woman under the law, he would not stay where he 
 would be likely to see her or those things which reminded 
 him of his bondage. He had left her at his country 
 place in Hungary. Then his lawyer had worked as hard as 
 ever, and had finally brought the thing to pass which he 
 desired, and had cabled Eugene. This letter which Fred- 
 erica was reading had followed almost immediately from 
 the representative of Sloane at Vienna, and had contra- 
 dicted the facts which Sloane had received in a preceding 
 letter from him. 
 
 It seemed to Frederica that she had known these things. 
 And then she realized that in these months which had 
 followed the days of her distrust she had come to learn 
 from the depths of herself the bigness, the generosity, the 
 idealism of Eugene. She did not need the facts of this 
 story to prove anything. 
 
 He was still standing by the child when she finished 
 reading. She had no impulse to go to him and tell him 
 of this letter. There was but one thing for her to do, and 
 that was to make him forget what he had lived through, 
 for though the facts were few, she saw now where he had 
 learned that which had made him what he was. 
 
 339 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 She put the letter on the window sill, went over to him, 
 slipped her hand into his, which were clasped behind his 
 back, and put her cheek against his shoulder. And again 
 there was the great surging warmth of life which swept 
 through every cell in her body and swept through every 
 nerve in his. 
 
 (1) 
 
 340 
 
BY LLOYD OSBOURNE. 
 
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