NY 
 s 
 GAL sont 
 
 
 
 ie | 
 

 

 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
BY HENRY VAN DYKE 
 
 Little Rivers 
 
 Fisherman’s Luck 
 
 Days Off 
 
 Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land 
 
 The Ruling Passion 
 The Blue Flower 
 
 The Unknown Quantity 
 The Valley of Vision 
 Half-Told Tales 
 
 The Golden Key 
 
 Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts 
 Companionable Books 
 Six Days of the Week 
 
 Poems, Collection in one volume 
 
 Songs Out of Doors 
 
 Golden Stars 
 
 The Red Flower 
 
 The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems 
 The White Bees, and Other Poems 
 The Builders, and Other Poems 
 Music, and Other Poems 
 
 The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems 
 The House of Rimmon 
 
 
 
 Studies in Tennyson 
 Poems of Tennyson 
 Fighting for Peace 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
 

 
 a" : ar i . n { ‘ ri 
 7 2. gl y g - a ’ 
 r : Fe te a ae t 
 ae _— ee bahay Sh ee eq eceier ) A mean te ae BENS ee pene fete om ee 
 = i @ ag i - 4 7 
 it Gant’ a= 
 
 ‘ 
 . 
 » 
 ¥ 
 . 
 2 
 2 
 

 
 f late. 
 
 im O 
 
 ted hi 
 
 isl 
 
 ad v 
 
 ash 
 
 *h 
 
 suc 
 
 but not 
 
 r 
 > 
 
 urely 
 
 am, s 
 
 e 
 
 a dr 
 
 Tas 
 
 It w 
 
THE GOLDEN * 
 
 
 
 STORIES OF DELIVERANCE 
 BY 
 
 HENRY VAN DYKE 
 
 The soul awakes and wondering sees 
 In her mild hand the golden keys. 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
 1926 
 
Copyricut, 1921, 1926, sy 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 
 
 Published October, 1926 
 Reprinted October, 1926 
 
 
 
 Leather Edition, October, 1926 
 
 
 
DEDICATED 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 GEORGE FOSTER PEABODY 
 
 WHO HAS BROUGHT DELIVERANCE 
 TO MANY THAT WERE BOUND 
 

 
TO THE IMAGINED READER 
 GENTLE OR SIMPLE 
 
 Here are twelve tales that I have known for some 
 time but never could find leisure to write. Now re- 
 lease from all sorts of official duty has set me free to 
 work at whatever I like. 
 
 As they are brought together it appears that these 
 are all stories of deliverance from some kind of peril 
 or perplexity or bondage. 
 
 The book could have had as a motto: There is 
 always a way out. 
 
 But this might be too sweeping,—misleading to 
 light readers who look for a “happy ending” in tune 
 with their own desires. 
 
 Life is not made that way. The doors of deliver- 
 ance are often different from what we expected. 
 Sometimes one that looks dark leads into liberty. 
 However that may be, I believe that in all God’s 
 world there is no hopeless imprisonment nor endless 
 torment. 
 
 So instead of a motto I have chosen for this book 
 a symbol: The Golden Key. Take it and use it as you 
 
 will. 
 
Do not look for pointed morals here. These are 
 only tales founded in fact, with changed names of 
 places and people, lest the writer should offend by 
 making public use of private affairs. 
 
 The last story is a pure romance woven on a back- 
 ground of reality. Separate the threads for yourself - 
 if you choose. 
 
 The first of the tales was printed in Scribner’s 
 Magazine in 1921. (Grateful acknowledgments to 
 the Editor.) All the rest have been written within 
 
 this year and with much joy in the writing. 
 
 HENRY VAN DYKE. 
 SYLVANORA 
 Seal Harbor 
 September, 1926 
 
 Vill 
 
CONTENTS 
 To Avernus and Out 
 A Cast-Off Son 
 The Sweet Influence of the Pleiades 
 A Queen’s Deliverance 
 The Devil at Sea 
 A Wilful Andromeda 
 A Sunflower in the West 
 A Garden Enclosed 
 A Blind Lamplighter 
 A Gashiont of Praise 
 The Silver Doctor 
 “The Head that Wears a Crown” 
 
 133 
 
 203 
 233 
 243 
 261 
 303 
 

 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Ti was a dream, surely, but not such as had vis- 
 
 uted him of late Frontispiece 
 : } Facing page 
 
 The two voices alternated, one light and clear, the 
 other husky and tremulous 36 
 
 A head was coming up through the trap-door. 
 . After that came a huge body of a man 76 
 
 “It’s breaking my heart. General Earl 1s so fine, 
 so noble—just the greatest man I ever knew 
 
 well”’ 142 
 “The new day has come for me. The future is 
 
 with you” 224 
 Eve . .. asked him to explain why they would 
 
 persist in laying only when eggs were cheap 300 
 
; Wee I 
 ate 
 hve ees 
 hen 
 , 
 
 i 
 
 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 

 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 I 
 
 THE gaunt old elms of Stuyvesant Square thrust: 
 their long, bare, ungainly arms up into the brumous 
 night. They seemed trying to push back the folds 
 of fog that hung over the city. The low houses in 
 their faded gentility slept blindly around the open 
 space, as if exhausted by the day’s effort to keep up 
 appearances in a September hot spell. The heavy 
 moisture in the air gathered on the pavement like 
 a dim unlustrous dew. St. George’s loomed dark 
 brown on one corner, and the Friends’ Meeting- 
 House glimmered gray on the other. It was the 
 dead hour, between midnight’s revelry and morn- 
 ing’s work, when New York comes nearest to slum- 
 ber. 
 
 A motor-car, shabby but smooth-running, slipped 
 quietly along the street that divides the park, and 
 stopped a few blocks farther north, at the corner of 
 Second Avenue opposite the grand building of the 
 New Hospital, where a few lights were still glowing 
 
 3 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 softly in the windows. Four men stepped noiselessly 
 from the car and turned up the side street toward 
 the Old Hospital with its long, low front of brick, 
 painted dull yellow, facing a huge junk-yard, heaped 
 full of old iron and worn-out tires and broken en- 
 gines and automobiles in all stages of decay and 
 dissolution. In the darkness it seemed like a bit of 
 chaos, audibly haunted by lean, fierce cats. 
 
 It was not a savory region. To the west lay the 
 placid oasis of Gramercy Park. To the east, just 
 beyond the New Hospital, was a row of little red- 
 brick houses with elaborate cast-iron porticoes and 
 balconies, speaking of a time when the neighbor- 
 hood had a modest residential tone. Opposite was 
 the great High School, in gray-stone Gothic, and a 
 little yellow Slovak church, of no namable architec- 
 ture. Farther east the street ran into the populous 
 desert of the Gas House district and the alphabetical 
 Avenues. ; 
 
 But the block where the four men were walking, 
 —going quietly but not creeping or sneaking,—was 
 different, and had a character of its own. It was 
 made up mostly of old stables, buildings of one or 
 two stories: no doubt they once belonged to the 
 mansions of Gramercy Park, and held stately ba- 
 
 + 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 rouches, luxurious victorias, and _ high-stepping 
 horses. But evil times had come upon them: they 
 were transformed into rag and bottle shops, dingy 
 and ill-smelling garages, storehouses for all sorts of 
 damaged goods. A few old-fashioned tenements 
 were sandwiched in among them. In this depressed 
 and depressing region the Old Hospital had stood 
 for a quarter of a century, under charge of the 
 Sisterhood of the Holy Heart, performing its pa- 
 tient work.of ministry to the sick and wounded. 
 The four men advanced toward it through the 
 misty night as persons who knew exactly where ~ 
 they were going and what they had to do. At least 
 this was true of three of them,—hard-faced young 
 gangsters of the slick New York type,—“Terry the 
 Wop,” “Red Butch,” and “Slider Jim.”’ The fourth 
 man was older,—anywhere between forty and sixty, ' 
 grizzled and very much the worse for wear. He 
 seemed to go reluctantly, or uncertainly, as if. be- 
 wildered or unwilling. He was apparently inclined 
 to argue with his companions, but Red Butch held 
 him by the elbow and marched him along. They 
 did not whisper, but spoke in low voices less audi- 
 ble than a whisper. When they came in front of 
 the hospital Slider Jim hurried west to the avenue 
 5 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 to act as lookout, while the driver of the car kept 
 watch on the eastern corner of the block. The 
 three others slipped over the low iron railing into 
 the shallow area and lifted the old-fashioned wooden 
 lid which covered one of the gratings opening into 
 the cellar. 
 
 “The stuff’s in this wing,—cubby little orfice,— 
 tin safe,—dead easy,” muttered Terry. 
 
 “How d’yer know?” growled Butch. 
 
 ““Sawr it,” answered Terry, “w’en I was in for a 
 mealy sicker Jas’ week. Two big wads o’ bills, 
 bundle o’ paipers, looked like lib’ty bons, an’ some 
 silver choich things,—it’s a cinch !” 
 
 The older man, who had been working with some 
 kind of a concealed flame, melting the solder which 
 held the hinge of the grating in place, straightened 
 up and turned around when he heard the last words. 
 
 “Nothing doing,” he said. ‘“‘Here’s where I get 
 off. It’s too much like robbing a church. Those 
 sisters,—good women——”’ 
 
 “Wot d’yer mean?” said Terry. “Hurry up with 
 that grating, ye poor fish.” 
 
 “We can lift ’er now,—go easy!”’ said Butch. 
 The grating yielded to the four straining hands and 
 
 was turned over quietly on the wooden cover. The 
 6 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 older man stood over the black hole, his hands 
 
 twitching, his face drawn and haggard, his sunken 
 eyes lit with dull fire. 
 “It’s sacrilege,’’ he muttered. “I'll be damned if 
 I do it. And they shan’t do it either. I'll 4 
 He lifted his head and opened his mouth as if to 
 
 call out. But he was too late. A rough hand was 
 
 
 
 clapped over his lips, and another clutched his throat. 
 
 “The ole stiff’s goin’ to pig on us,” hissed Terry. 
 ‘Give ’im the woiks, quick, Butch.” 
 
 A piece of lead pipe wrapped in carpet makes no 
 noise when it strikes, but it does the work. Two 
 blows were enough. The older man went limp, sank 
 on the edge of the black hole, and toppled over 
 into the cellar, as a soggy stick disappears in dark 
 water. 
 
 “Les’ beat it,” mumbled Terry, with his hands 
 on the railing. But the steady Butch, listening in- 
 tently, held up his finger. 
 
 “Jest a minnit,” he said. “Nobody comin’,—no 
 rush,—les’ put things straight.” 
 
 Deftly and silently they replaced the iron grating 
 and the wooden cover, climbed the fence, and hast- 
 ened down the street with that swift unnoticeable 
 gait, neither a run nor a walk but a kind of ser- 
 
 i 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 pentine glide, with which a drifter “moll” disap- 
 
 pears through a crowd when she is wanted. 
 
 At the corner the driver of the car was waiting, 
 and Slider Jim quickly joined them. 
 
 “W’ere’s the stuff?’’ asked the two spotters. 
 ““W’at d’yer do wid ole Woimy Reck?” 
 
 “Shut up,” grunted Butch, “ sot nothin’ ,— 
 bumped the dam’ squealer off,—gave him his! Now 
 beat it.” 
 
 The shabby car slid silently away eastward in 
 the fog. Deep gloom settled on its occupants. Their 
 late comrade lay broken on the cellar floor of the 
 Old Hospital,—his right leg twisted under him,—a 
 thin trickle of blood running down his chin,—dirty, 
 haggard, dishevelled, an abject creature at the 
 very bottom of Avernus. 
 
 IT 
 
 Vernon Recklin’s life had begun on high ground. 
 The path by which he made his descent to Avernus 
 had been a long one and a crooked one, but it had 
 never been really an easy one. At every turn there 
 were barriers to break through or creep around. 
 Inherited restraints of taste and behavior; the con- 
 ventions of his class and breeding; a certain sensitive- 
 
 8 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 ness, you might even call it fineness, in his natural 
 liking for clean and beautiful things; and perhaps 
 some moral quality, some instinctive admiration 
 and respect for real goodness; all these made it 
 difficult, at times, for him to continue the descent. 
 He often hesitated, stopped, even turned back a 
 few steps. But in the end he went on again. The 
 restraints were too weak to withstand the force that 
 pulled him,—a secret conviction that the world owed 
 him pleasure,—entire, full, overflowing,—and a re- 
 solve that he would have it, take it, capture it if 
 necessary,—at all events nothing should stand in 
 the way of what he conceived to be complete self- 
 expression, the satisfaction of all his desires. 
 
 He was the son of the highly respected minister 
 of a rich suburban church, whose early religious en- 
 thusiasm had been crusted over by a passion for 
 popularity and a stately eloquence, both of which 
 he retained to the last. Vernon’s mother, after 
 piously spoiling her only child for fourteen years, 
 passed away, and the boy was sent to a costly pre- 
 paratory school and then to a costlier university, 
 where he showed brilliant scholarship, handicapped 
 by a fondness for gilt-edged diversions. In course 
 of time his father died, leaving a small estate of 
 
 9 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 nine or ten thousand dollars, and the young man, 
 now his own master, entered a famous law school 
 and graduated with honors, expensive habits, and 
 Pistol’s firm persuasion: “the world’s mine oyster.” 
 
 At first it seemed as if he would open it without 
 delay or difficulty. His progress was helped some- 
 what by his father’s friends, but even more by his 
 own ability. He was taken into junior partnership 
 in a steady old law firm, but it was too slow for him. 
 He wanted more money for his growing expenses. 
 On the strength of his reputation and his convincing 
 personality, he set up in practice for himself. But 
 his great expectations were not immediately realized, 
 and he began to look around him for some means, 
 any means, of putting them through. He formed 
 intimacies with men of shady character, noted for 
 their cleverness in keeping just within the fences of 
 the law while they slipped their hands through the 
 wires to grab whatever they could’ reach outside. 
 He accepted cases which were worse than doubtful 
 and tried them with a cynical skill which took ad- 
 vantage of every subterfuge. He carried it off with 
 a certain bravado, and through all he remained 
 agreeable in conversation, attractive in person, 
 rather a captivating figure. 
 
 10 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 Meantime, he contracted certain private habits, 
 in his quest of self-expression and gratification, 
 which bit inward, and fastened a hold on him. 
 Gambling, which was at first only a diversion, be- 
 came an inveterate passion. He followed it merrily 
 over the little green tables, and gloomily over the 
 stock-market ticker. He liked wine and women, 
 and in both he was regarded as a connoisseur. It 
 was not often that he drank to excess, but his amours 
 were notorious. They were favorite topics of con- 
 versation in the corners of the Cornucopian Club. 
 
 His father’s old friends, respectable and steady 
 persons, began to shake their heads and look grave 
 when they spoke of the young man. 
 
 “What’s wrong with Vernon Recklin?” asked 
 Judge Plowland one day when he was lunching with 
 Chauncey Larue at the Lawyers’ Club. 
 
 “TI don’t know,” said Larue, “but when a man’s 
 deliquescing inside, some of it usually leaks out.” 
 
 And yet all the time Recklin’s descending path 
 was difficult. Not even the primroses of dalliance 
 could make it easy. His instincts, his memories, his 
 finer tastes, the remnants of those early beliefs which 
 had never quite deepened into principles, revolted 
 against some of the conditions in which he was grad- 
 
 11 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ually immersed. They were not outwardly vile, but 
 there was a close and sickening odor about them 
 that spoke of decay. 
 
 Many a morning he woke disgusted with himself. 
 As he came out of the cold water of his bath, he 
 made the usual vows. “Never again. No more 
 wine, no more women, no more gambling, no more 
 crookedness. I'll cut it out.”’ But the sharpness of 
 the knife was what he could not, or would not, bear. 
 By the next day his resolution had withered. He 
 was as bad as ever,—perhaps a little worse. When 
 the leaf of a good purpose falls away it leaves a 
 scar, a hard spot. 
 
 There was one point in his career where it seemed 
 as if a return to better ways might have been pos- 
 sible. Strangely enough, it was an episode in which 
 the Scribes and Pharisees would have suspected only 
 evil. Recklin’s attachment to Madame Colette 
 Lamy began when he was about thirty years old. 
 She was a beautiful Frenchwoman, well born and 
 well bred, who had fled from a drunken brutal hus- 
 band in France and come to New York with her 
 little daughter Marguerite, a brown-eyed, auburn- 
 haired child of nearly six years. Madame Lamy had 
 managed to save and bring with her about half her 
 
 12 
 
 ae a 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 dot of a hundred thousand francs, and with this she 
 set up a modest but extremely chic embroidery shop 
 in one of the side streets near Madison Avenue. AI- 
 most at once it became quietly fashionable and mildly 
 profitable. She loved gaiety and music, and went to 
 theatres, little dances, and studio concerts, where no- 
 body cared that she kept a shop, but everybody felt 
 that she was charming, delicious. It was at one of 
 these concerts that Recklin met her, and immediately 
 became convinced that she was necessary to his hap- 
 piness. 
 
 At that time he had not lost his good looks, nor the 
 convincing magic of his manner. He was slender, 
 erect, quick, and firm in his movements. His light- 
 brown hair rolled above a square forehead, and his 
 mustache of a darker brown was smooth and well 
 cared for. His gray-blue eyes, though a little sunken, 
 were large, very clear, and eager. His slightly pale 
 face was without tell-tale wrinkles. He talked like an 
 affable archangel and made love like a young Sir 
 Launcelot. 
 
 On the moment, Madame Lamy was taken with 
 him, and her instant liking grew into something deep- 
 er, stronger, irresistible. .He appealed to her in a hun- 
 dred ways, by his satire and by his sentiment, by the 
 
 13 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 candor with which he owned his faults and by the 
 scorn which he had for them, by the lightness of his 
 touch and the urgency of his will. But she was a de- 
 vout Catholic, and would not consent to marry him 
 because the thought of divorce was horrible to her. 
 
 ** Mais non,” she murmured with her arms around 
 his neck, “‘dee-ar Vairnon, I lofe you,—zat ess a sin- 
 fool zing, but it may be pardon. But divorce,—mar- 
 riage aprés? Non, zat ees imposseeble, zat ees not to 
 forgeef. Let it be as now, cher ami.” 
 
 So it was. I am not writing a commentary on 
 the story; I am merely telling it as it happened. Co- 
 lette kept her promise,—of a loving friendship,— 
 miraculous, incredible, but true! During the two 
 years of their intimacy Recklin was nearer a return 
 to the upward path than he had ever been since he 
 started for Avernus. He liked her inexhaustible gai- 
 ety better then the grim excitement of gambling. She 
 cheered him like good wine, and he became able to 
 she ke off the hold which stronger liquors were getting 
 on him. Not for the world would he have had the lit- 
 tle Marguerite see him brutalized by drink. She was 
 so pure, so gentle, so full of a serious joy,—like a ray 
 of light falling through the stained glass of an old 
 cathedral window. She had one of those naturally 
 
 14 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 religious souls to which the beauty of truth is revealed 
 at birth, even as the truth of beauty is to others. In 
 her thin, sweet, childish voice she sang through the 
 house. Often her songs were echoes of the canticles 
 that she had heard in church, but always with little 
 grace-notes and quavers added to them in a quick- 
 ened tempo. When these three had a day together in 
 the country, under the lace-leafy woods of early 
 spring, or beside the slow-breathing ocean of summer, 
 Marguerite ran joyfully with bare feet along the edge 
 of the foam-scallops, or danced among the wild-flow- 
 ers with innocent, quaint motions like one of Fra 
 Angelico’s youngest angels. 
 
 It was an idyl; and it lasted two years. Then,— 
 Colette caught pneumonia and died in five days. 
 Marguerite was left by her will to the care of the Sis- 
 ters of the Holy Heart. Recklin was thrown out 
 again, alone on the slippery hillside, between the ris- 
 ing and the sinking path. 
 
 What would have happened if this had not come 
 to pass? Suppose Colette had recovered and lived; 
 suppose the wretched husband in France had drunk 
 himself to death; suppose she had married Recklin; 
 what would have happened ? 
 
 I do not know. It is not my business. It is God’s 
 
 15 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 business. He knows everything as it is. If it is cer- 
 tain, He knows it as certain. If it is uncertain, He 
 knows it as uncertain. As far as possible He lets us 
 choose, not what life will do to us, but what we will 
 do with life. I can only tell you what Recklin did, not 
 why he did it. 
 
 He was very ill for three months. When he recov- 
 ered,—if you call it recovery,—he had the cocaine 
 habit. From this point Avernus-road was straighter 
 and steeper. It seemed almost like a plunge. Of 
 course the barriers and restraints were there, but with 
 this magic powder he could make them disappear, for- 
 get them, escape from them. If he was going down, 
 at least he could go comfortably and happily. So he 
 dreamed with the help of his powder. It even gave 
 him the illusion that he could turn back whenever he 
 liked. 
 
 But that clean-looking white salt has a devilish 
 power. It is full of false promises and fatal purpose. 
 It exalts the imagination while it cripples the will. 
 It plays havoc with the inner life long before its 
 deadly effects on the body are visible. 
 
 Recklin looked well, even vigorous. He went about 
 his old ways as boldly, he talked as brilliantly, he act- 
 ed as carelessly as ever. But inwardly he was all 
 
 16 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 gone. There was nothing to hold him back; nothing 
 
 to consider, except that old desire, now stronger than 
 ever,—the dream of self-realization, satisfaction, the 
 draining of the full cup,—yes, of all the cups. If he 
 had any misgivings, there was the white powder to 
 drive them away and make everything seem easy. 
 
 His friends,—for he had some who really cared for 
 him in spite of his debonair aloofness and the self- 
 absorption which he concealed under his charming 
 manner,—saw and felt what was happening to him, 
 and a few of them tried to turn him the other 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Dallas Wilton, a lady whose real goodness 
 was unfortunately handicapped by her fervent too- 
 goodness, had what she called a “serious talk”? with 
 him. : 
 
 “Dear Vernon,” she said in her smoothest voice, 
 “you know how much I loved your father, a saintly 
 man! For his sake,—well, you know my deep affec- 
 tion for you. That gives me the right to say almost 
 anything to you, doesn’t it? You know there are 
 some very ugly rumors going about you. Heavy 
 drinking, high gambling, disreputable company,—I 
 don’t need to specify, do 1? Of course I have contra- 
 dicted the rumors as firmly as I could with my limited 
 
 17 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 knowledge. But they have troubled me awfully. 
 What would your sainted father think of them? 
 Can’t you follow in his footsteps? Why should you 
 trifle with temptation?” 
 
 Recklin got up to poke the wood-fire. Then he 
 turned smiling slightly and sat down beside her. 
 
 “Dear lady,’ he said with that confidential air 
 which made him seem so far away, “how can I thank 
 you enough for your warm defense of me? It helps a 
 man when good women believe in him. Let me as- 
 sure you that I have not been trifling with tempta- 
 tion, nor do I mean to do so. But as for being like my 
 father, that I fear is far beyond me. You see, times 
 change, and men and manners with them. Take for 
 example the old Roman dinner customs as compared 
 with ours.” 
 
 From this he gently turned the conversation into a 
 fascinating description of the banquets of Lucullus 
 and Petronius Arbiter, with such details in regard to 
 the light costumes and behavior of the flutists and 
 harp-players as he thought Mrs. Wilton’s chaste ears 
 would relish. 
 
 “*She lapped it up,”’ he said to some of his cronies 
 late that night, “as a cat would eat cream. Said it 
 was wonderful,—so artistic,.—wanted to know why we 
 
 18 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 couldn’t have something like that in New York! 
 Well, we do,”’ he added, chuckling, “but not at that 
 old cat’s house, eh, Molly ?” 
 
 Tom Richards tried his hand at persuading Recklin 
 to reform, but in a different way. 
 
 “Look here, old man,” he said one night when 
 they were walking home together from a gay college 
 dinner, “you seem to be riding for a fall. Why don’t 
 you pull up?” 
 
 “Too much trouble.” answered Recklin. “Be- 
 sides, if I did I should go over the horse’s head.” 
 
 “Tt will be easier now than later,” said Richards. 
 “You’re losing your best friends rather fast, and tak- 
 ing up with a spotty lot,—that Unterstein crowd,— 
 rotters all of them. I beg your pardon. It’s none of 
 my business, of course,—but you know we were class- 
 mates,—I can’t help speaking frankly even if you cut 
 me for it. Have you by any chance,—you know you 
 are very much altered since your illness,—well, I will 
 put it straight,—have you formed one of those devil- 
 ish drug-habits ?” | 
 
 The two men had stopped under a lamp-post on 
 the corner of 45th Street. There was a dark flush of 
 anger on Recklin’s cheeks. He drew himself up and 
 spoke with a hard, quick voice. 
 
 19 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “Mr. Richards, I will thank you to mind your 
 
 own ~ 
 
 Then he paused; his face and his voice changed; he 
 went on more slowly: 
 
 “No, Tom, I’m a fool to take it that way. What I 
 mean is that I do thank you now for being frank with 
 me. You have a right to do it. But you see, you 
 don’t really understand the case at all. Suppose you 
 had lost the only thing you had ever really cared for 
 in the world. And then suppose you found something 
 that helped you to get on after a fashion without the 
 lost thing, to forget yourself, to have some hours of | 
 pleasure, to carry on your work with more snap, to 
 keep up the adventure of life and hope for better 
 days. Wouldn’t you take it? That’s my case.” 
 
 “It looks to me like a bad one,” said Richards. 
 “You are fooling yourself,—or that stuff is fooling 
 you. I wish you would give it up.” 
 
 “TI will,” answered Recklin, “but not yet,—not 
 till I have no more need of it,—not till I find 
 what I’m looking for,.the joy of life, full up, all- 
 round happiness, that’s what I’m after,—eh, old 
 man? Then I'll cut out all exciting things and join 
 you on the steady path,—I promise you! Well, here 
 I’m going west,—I have a date at Regenwetter’s with 
 
 20 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 a couple of friends. So long, Tom, and thank you 
 again.” 
 
 He turned into 45th Street, walking rather heavily 
 with dragging steps, as if he were trudging through 
 sand. When he got beyond Seventh Avenue and the 
 glittering zone of lights, he paused in the shadowy 
 middle of the block, took a little phial from his vest 
 pocket, shook a pinch of white powder into his left 
 hand, and snuffed it up eagerly. 
 
 “That makes me feel better,”’ he said to himself. 
 “Poor old Tom, what does he know? But some day 
 I'll keep my promise, and surprise him.” 
 
 The surprise came; but not as Recklin had dreamed 
 it. Three sudden plunges carried him completely out 
 of the world in which he still lived, though on suffer- 
 ance. First there was the celebrated Unterstein di- 
 vorce case,—collusion, bigamy, false papers,—in 
 which he was so far implicated that he was advised 
 te withdraw from the Bar Association as having dis- 
 regarded the ethics of the legal profession. Then 
 there was the famous poker game at Stingfield’s 
 place, in which young Harmon Garrett lost fifty thou- 
 sand dollars in a night. Recklin was in the party, and 
 held one of the I. O. U.’s. He said he never intended 
 to cash it. Nothing was proved against him; but the 
 
 21 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 game was undoubtedly queer; marked cards were 
 found. Recklin may have known nothing about 
 them, but he was a winner in the game,—and was 
 asked to resign from the Cornucopian Club. Finally 
 came the notorious scandal at Alty Devens’ week-end 
 party. Of course, Cissy Devens was a fool girl, and 
 loved playing with fire. But that was no excuse. 
 There are some things that a man simply must not 
 do,—at least with people of a certain standing. So 
 Recklin was cast out, finally and with scorn, from the 
 golden sunshine of society into the region of alternat- 
 ing glare and obscurity, where the high white lights 
 flash and flare, and the low red lights wink in the 
 darkness. 
 
 The upper world to which he had been attached 
 knew him no more, passed him in the street without 
 . recognition. The underworld took note of him and 
 waited for him. The Untersteins and the Stingfields 
 welcomed him and sympathized with him against 
 ‘the Pharisees.’’ When he was sober their talk made 
 him rather sick. But when he was slightly intoxicated 
 it pleased him. 
 
 “After all,” he told himself, “hypocrisy is the only 
 thing in the world that is absolutely wrong.” 
 
 From the club he dropped to the café and the cab- 
 
 Q2 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 aret, and from them to the unmitigated saloon and 
 the “broad” hotel. His talents and accomplishments 
 did not seem to be extinguished, but only perverted. 
 He put them at the service of any one who would pay 
 for them, and at first he made enough money to keep 
 him in comfort and a kind of luxury. He was “legal 
 adviser’’ to a firm which dealt in fraudulent divorces. 
 He conducted the “propaganda”’ for certain preda- 
 tory stock corporations. He was hand in glove with 
 many members of the swell mob. But his profits did 
 not last long: he spent lavishly and gambled wildly. 
 The solemn Wall Street tapeworm ate up most of his 
 gains. 
 
 The swell mob, the higher circle of graft, is not 
 given to permanent personal affections. It is divided 
 into two classes: those who contrive big hauls and get 
 away with them into some new country; and those 
 who have the misfortune to be “pinched”’ and go to 
 jail. Recklin was not in either class. He never got 
 away with big money. He never was caught and con- 
 victed. Consequently he fell between the stools, and 
 was always an alien in this section of Alsatia,—re- 
 garded with contempt by those who had their ambi- 
 tions set on climbing toward Belgravia, and with mis- 
 trust by those who were confirmed picaroons. He was 
 
 23 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 constantly displeased and angered both by the con- 
 
 tempt and by the mistrust. Avernus-road was far 
 from pleasant in those years. But he was too proud, 
 or too weak, to turn back. 
 
 It was easier, in fact it was inevitable to go on 
 downward, into membership of one of the criminal 
 “gangs”? which included clever thieves and bold 
 highwaymen, grafters, and gunmen of all kinds. 
 Here his natural abilities, his legal knowledge, and a 
 certain deftness of hand which he curiously devel- 
 oped, gave him a kind of reputation. But it was not 
 leadership; he was not of the tribe; the story of his: 
 respectable past,(much exaggerated,) clung to him 
 and made him a suspect. He was not bad enough. 
 He had curious prejudices,—against blasphemy of 
 the name of Jesus, and dirtiness, and violence to 
 women, and assassination,—which marked him as an 
 outsider at heart. He kept on with the gang, because 
 it seemed impossible to do anything else. But the 
 grimy conditions of his life revolted him; often he 
 was almost crazy to break away from it. 
 
 Then the Great War came and seemed to offer him 
 a chance at least to die with honor. By a miraculous 
 effort he braced up physically, cut out drugs and 
 drink, made himself clean, and enlisted under an as- 
 
 Q4 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 sumed name, giving his age as twelve years younger 
 than it was. He served with credit in France, won a 
 decoration for heroic conduct in the field, was mus- 
 tered out, and came home to—what? 
 
 A parade,—and then oblivion ! 
 
 He had been severely gassed and his lungs and 
 heart were permanently weakened. His nerve was 
 broken. He was incapable of continuous hard labor. 
 Even if he could have done it, there was none for him 
 to do. No man cared for his soul. He struggled for a 
 while, and then sagged back, naturally and sullenly, 
 into his old habits and the old gang. But now he 
 came at their price, on a lower level. They used him 
 for what he was worth. He was only forty-five, but 
 he looked sixty-five. It was for this reason that they 
 twisted his name into “ Wormy Reck.’’ He was really 
 a learned slave, an unvenerable Helot to those nimble 
 and ruthless young brigands. They did not trust him, 
 but they made his brains and his skill serve them. 
 He hated it, but he could see no way out of it. 
 
 So the taskmaster’s whip drove him down, deeper 
 and deeper, until at last he lay like a discarded thing 
 in the pit of Avernus, abandoned to death in the cel- 
 lar of the Old Hospital. 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Il 
 
 Sister Colette Marguerite was the youngest nurse 
 in the hospital, full of energy and zeal. It was part of 
 her duty in that month of September to make the 
 early morning round, unlocking the front doors and 
 putting up the window-shades. It was still quite dark 
 in the lower hallway, so she carried a light in her 
 steady hand. As she passed the cellar-stair it seemed 
 as if she heard a slight sound below like some one 
 groaning or breathing raucously. It startled her, but 
 she was not afraid. She went down the steps quietly 
 and opened the creaking door. 
 
 Perhaps it was the noise, perhaps it was the light 
 falling on his face, that penetrated Vernon Recklin’s 
 stupor and brought him half-awake. Painfully he 
 propped himself on his right arm and stared silent at 
 the vision in the doorway. It was a dream, surely, 
 but not such as had visited him of late. Was it an 
 angel with pure face and compassionate eyes, sent to 
 warn him? No, the dark robe, the black veil folded 
 over the white cap, the linen band across the brow, 
 —it was one of the sisters,—he was caught at last! 
 He moaned with pain and sank back into his stupor. 
 
 The little sister ran swiftly for help. They carried 
 
 26 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 the inert body up-stairs, and laid it, half-undressed, 
 
 on a bed. The doctor came quickly and made an ex- 
 amination. Evidently the right leg had a compound 
 and comminuted fracture, and the left collar-bone 
 was broken. There was also a bruise behind the ear 
 made by a heavy blunt instrument,—certainly a 
 brain-concussion, perhaps a slight fracture of the 
 skull,—impossible to tell yet. 
 
 “The injuries are serious,” said the doctor, “but 
 not hopeless, unless he is one of those drug-fiends 
 with a ruined constitution. That’s what he looks 
 like,—yes, see, here’s a bottle of the stuff in his 
 pocket. Sister, this time I reckon you have caught 
 a real burglar, a ‘bad ’un.’” 
 
 She shook her head and answered gently: “Have 
 we any right to judge him before we have heard him? 
 He looks to me more like a victim. Perhaps some one 
 tried to rob and murder him, and then threw him 
 down the cellar to get him out of the way and put 
 suspicion on him. Anyhow, no matter what he is, we 
 must do our best to heal his wounds. That is what 
 the hospital is for, isn’t it?” 
 
 The difference of opinion in regard to the man con- 
 tinued. The police were called, but could throw no 
 clear light on the affair. They agreed that he must 
 
 27 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 be kept where he was, under surveillance, while they 
 “investigated.” So the doctor took charge of the case, 
 and Sister Colette Marguerite of the man. From the 
 first she seemed to consider him her own frouvaille, 
 her special property, her ward temporal and spiritual. 
 
 There was something that drew her toward him 
 in spite of his degradation,—a filmy thread of unde- 
 fined reminiscence,—something that she felt she had 
 lost and could not quite recall. She knew by instinct 
 that his life was stained and dishonored, yet she was 
 sure that in some strange way it was connected with 
 her, belonged to her. There was nothing in his 
 threadbare face that she could recognize; but now 
 and then a tone in his voice seemed familiar, a look 
 in his faded eyes awakened vague memories that puz- 
 zled her. 
 
 “It is only a foolish imagination, I guess,” she 
 acknowledged to the Mother Superior. “Probably I 
 never saw the man before. Certainly I never knew 
 any one named Victor Roberts, as he calls himself. 
 But, Mother, may it not be that God sent him to 
 me to save, to be my first convert? Will you permit 
 me to make that my special intention and do all that 
 I can to fulfil it?” 
 
 The Mother Superior smiled a little at the phrase 
 
 28 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 “God sent him”’; it was assuredly an extraordinary 
 method of Divine sending, to dump a man in the 
 cellar like a sack of coal; but 1t was possible,—all 
 things are possible. The sincerity and devotion of 
 the little sister were beyond doubt; she had the vo- 
 cation,—and she was a clever nurse too. So she had 
 her way, and looked after the wounded man as if he 
 were her child. 
 
 The doctor, of course, directed the case from the 
 surgical and medical side; and it was a long one and 
 a difficult one, but it finally began to improve. The 
 other sisters took their share of the nursing, of course, 
 when their turns came; and they did their duty faith- 
 fully, though none of them especially liked the man. 
 But it was the little Sister Marguerite who adopted 
 him and cared for his soul and undertook to win it 
 back from Avernus. 
 
 After the first week he had a relapse, and was un- 
 conscious or delirious for many days. When reason 
 returned to him he was very silent and passive; he 
 did not seem to care what became of him. His in- 
 juries pained him atrociously, but the clean sheets 
 and the cool bathing, the order and quiet of the room, 
 gave him a comfort that he had not known for years. 
 Most of all the friendly presence, the firm, cool touch 
 
 29 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 of the little sister’s hands, soothed and refreshed him. 
 Even when he was feverish and fractious, hungering 
 for his familiar devil-drug, she could make him quiet. 
 He talked little, but his eyes followed her with the 
 questioning, trusting look which you sometimes see 
 in the eyes of a good dog, beginning to grow a soul. 
 
 “Surely I know her,” he thought vaguely, “‘some- 
 where in the world we have been together before this. 
 Where have I seen those wide brown eyes, that curly 
 russet hair which sometimes shows under her coif ? 
 And her voice, so light and clear? Ah, I have it now. 
 I will ask her what her real name is.” 
 
 She answered the question very simply. “You 
 know in this Congregation of the Holy Heart we are 
 allowed to keep our baptismal names. Mine is Co- 
 lette Marguerite, — after my mother and Sainte 
 Marguerite,—it is the name of a flower, too.” 
 
 » “Yes,” he sighed contentedly, settling back on his 
 pillow, “I know,—I mean, it is a very pretty name. 
 I like it. Thank you, Sister Marguerite.”’ 
 
 As he grew better, their conversations were longer. 
 She talked to him of what was happening in the hos- 
 pital and outside, and of her education at the con- 
 vent-school in the Bronx, and of what she could re- 
 member of her childhood and her mother. 
 
 30 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 “Best of all were the days that we spent in the 
 
 country, in the spring or the summer. There was a 
 friend, a splendid man, who used to go with us and 
 play wonderful games with me in the woods and build 
 sand-forts on the seashore. I can’t recollect his name 
 but I shall never forget him. I wish I could see him 
 again.” 
 
 The man listened as if entranced by tales of wonder- 
 ful adventure. Heencouraged her to go on, but he told 
 her nothing of himself. He was afraid and ashamed. 
 He felt like a bad child whom his mother comforteth. 
 
 Thus skilfully and slowly the little sister laid her 
 lines and intrenchments round him for her great in- 
 tention, the capture of his soul, her first conversion. 
 She won his confidence. She had an ally within the 
 fortress. Then, one Sunday afternoon, she advanced 
 to the direct attack. — 
 
 “My friend, I tell you all about me. You listen, 
 but you tell me nothing about you. Why is that?” 
 
 “You know my name already. You see what I am. 
 There is nothing more worth telling.” 
 
 “But it is yourself that I want to know about. 
 Your name is nothing,—it can be put on or off as 
 you please. Tell me about yourself. Have you been 
 
 a bad man?” 
 31 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “Bad?” he said in a low, shaking voice. “‘That is 
 not the word for it. Say wicked, worthless, miser- 
 able. I will tell you, since you ask it, what I have 
 done.” 
 
 “No,” she interrupted gently, laying her hand on 
 his arm, “‘that is not what I ask. Those sins are not 
 for me to hear. They are for the priest in the confes- 
 sional,—they are for God to forgive. Will you tell 
 them to Him ?”’ 
 
 “Is there a God to forgive such a man as me?” 
 The tears ran down the little sister’s face. 
 
 “There is, there is,” she urged, “I know it. I am 
 as sure of it as that we are here. Hasn’t he spared 
 your life? Hasn’t he sent you here to me?”’ 
 
 *““’Yes,—perhaps it may be so,—but for what?” 
 
 “To save you,” she pleaded. “‘He sent you to me 
 for that. Listen; let me tell you.” 
 
 Then she unfolded the mysteries of her simple 
 faith; the wideness of the heavenly mercy, like the 
 wideness of the sea; the seeking love of the Holy 
 Heart of Jesus, who died on the cross between two 
 thieves and took one of them with him to Paradise. 
 Recklin had heard it all a hundred times before, but 
 never on this wise, never with such intense reality as 
 
 if it had happened in this very city, never so close 
 32 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 to the dark background of his own downward 
 path. | 
 
 He yielded. He turned. He faced the light. His 
 heart opened. 
 
 “Yes,” he said quietly, “I'll do what you say,— 
 make confession, repent, believe,—the priest may 
 come to-morrow. Only you must not go far away 
 from me, Sister Marguerite, for what I believe most 
 of all is that God sent me to you to be saved.” 
 
 Father Read was a wise and kind old man of much 
 experience, who knew how to build on a frail founda- 
 tion without crushing it by too heavy pressure. His 
 instructions from day to day were brief but adequate, 
 —the meaning of faith, and penitence, and the sacra- 
 ments. Yes, confession was needful, of course; but 
 it was always sacred and would never be violated; 
 and it was not necessary to confess other people’s 
 offenses, only your own. There was no fear of betray- 
 ing others. Baptism need not be repeated. The way 
 into membership of the church would be open after 
 a few weeks of teaching and trial. Divine assistance 
 would be given in answer to prayer. Thus the up- 
 ward path was made clear; and the fallen man, be- 
 ginning to climb with the remnant of his strength, 
 felt that the day of his deliverance had come and 
 
 33 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 held fast to his deliverer, the little Sister Marguerite. 
 
 She was filled with humble joy. Her heart sang 
 canticles of gratitude for her first convert, the wreck 
 that had been sent to her to be saved, the lost sheep 
 that she had brought back to the Shepherd. But 
 there were times when she had her fears and misgiv- 
 ings. 
 
 ‘““Have I been too proud ?”’ she asked Father Read 
 one day after her own innocent confession. “‘Have I 
 trusted too much in my own intention and effort ? 
 Do you think he is really converted and saved? Do 
 you think he will stand fast? Will he be able to re- 
 sist temptation after he goes back into the world?” 
 
 “My child,” said the old man, knowing more of 
 life in general and of Vernon Recklin’s kind of life in 
 particular than she would ever know, “daughter, you 
 must cast away pride and put your confidence in 
 God. He is almighty; the devil is only strong. You 
 must rely on the grace of the sacrament, on the mercy 
 of Providence, to guide your convert through the 
 temptations that will surely meet him. If they are 
 too strong for him,—and it may be so,—Providence 
 will surely find a way of deliverance for him. But 
 meantime see that you give him all the help you 
 can.” 
 
 34 
 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 
 So she did. Every day she talked with him cheer- 
 fully and confidently, made little plans for the future, 
 fixed the times when he should come back to see her 
 and bring her his report. It was almost like a mother 
 preparing her boy to go away to school. Through her 
 friends outside she had secured a lodging for him and 
 a good place to work. 
 
 On the morning when he was to leave the hospital 
 she took him to the altar of the Virgin Mary where 
 she had lit the seven candles. 
 
 “See how bright they burn,” she said; “that is 
 because it is so still here. But out in the wind you 
 would need to shield them. Now, my friend, I am 
 going to give you three things that will keep the light 
 in your soul from being blown out. Every day you 
 must say the ‘Hail Mary.’ ” 
 
 “I say it with all my heart,—ave Maria plena 
 gratia.” 
 
 “Then you must say the Pater noster every eve- 
 ning.” 
 
 “I do say it, and Ill never forget,—our Father.” 
 
 “Then there is a special prayer that I want you 
 to say every morning. Please repeat it now after 
 me.” 
 
 They bent their heads before the altar and folded 
 
 35 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 their hands, he with knotted fingers, she with smooth 
 palms. The two voices alternated, one light and 
 
 clear, the other husky and tremulous. 
 
 “Vouchsafe, O Lord—” 
 vouchsafe, O Lord, 
 “To keep me this day—”’ 
 to keep me this day, 
 “Without sin—” 
 without sin. 
 **O Lord in thee have I trusted,” 
 O Lord in thee have I trusted, 
 
 “Let me never be confounded ’’— 
 let me never be confounded. 
 
 “Now you must go, my friend,” said the little 
 sister. ““He sent you to me, and he will keep you 
 safe.” But she wept and trembled behind the green 
 door of the hospital as Vernon Recklin went down 
 the steps. 
 
 As he turned the corner of the avenue, Terry and 
 two others of the old gang met him. By the “wire- 
 less” of the underworld they knew what had hap- 
 pened in the hospital, and were waiting for him. 
 
 “Hello,” they cried, “here y’are, all cleaned up. 
 Well, Butch is pinched, and Slider’s pinched, and we 
 want you, old squealer. So come along wid us.” 
 
 “No,” he said, facing the two who spoke, while 
 
 36 
 

 
 The two voices alternated, one light and clear, the other husky 
 and tremulous. 
 

 
TO AVERNUS AND OUT 
 Terry slipped behind him, “I haven’t squealed on 
 
 you, and don’t mean to. But I won’t go with you,— 
 never.” 
 
 Two pistol-shots cracked from the gun in Terry’s 
 pocket. 
 
 “You've got yours now,” he cried as he disap- 
 peared with his companions in the noon-day flood of 
 people. 
 
 Vernon Recklin sank to the pavement, two bullets 
 close to his heart. A little crowd quickly gathered 
 round him. Some one lifted his head. 
 
 “Tell her,’ he labored as the blood rose in his 
 throat, “Sister Colette Marguerite,—Old Hospital, 
 —tell her—I’m out—saved !” 
 
 His hand made the sign of the cross, and dropped 
 
 on his breast. 
 
 37 
 
a (Tae 
 tad 
 DN 
 
 vay) 
 
 ae 
 
 ike 
 VFR itis 
 
 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
b 
 
 Aya RU Say Bo he 
 aly 4H fae 
 ; 4 erect 
 
 Abe 
 
 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 WHETHER the following tale be true altogether, 
 
 or caly in part, I know not. Of a part we may be 
 sure, because it is written in a scripture of high au- 
 thority. The rest is open to doubt. I recount it as 
 told me by a ragged Arabian story-teller in Da- 
 mascus,—a city wherein are many romancers, and 
 
 some liars. 
 
 So without further preface, to our story. 
 
 It begins with a man called Abram Ben Terah, a 
 dweller in Ur of the Chaldees many ages ago. His 
 name signifies “exalted father’; and this indeed 
 «was his character, for at bottom he was passion- 
 ately patriarchal. He craved nothing else so much 
 as to be the father of a family and to hand down 
 his seed to many generations. 
 
 At the same time he was of a roving, venturous 
 temper, not indeed brave, nor except on one occa- 
 sion warlike, but fondly addicted to travels and ex- 
 plorations in strange lands. These brought him 
 
 4] 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 into many a strait and perilous pass, out of which 
 he escaped, not always with credit, but always with 
 a sound skin, and often with great increase of goods 
 and flocks and herds, for he was a master ‘hand 
 with sheep and cattle. In his rovings he was not a 
 servant of idols nor a consulter of necromancers, 
 but he was obedient unto his unseen God, whom 
 he called JAH, and who had promised to make of 
 him a great nation, possessor of many of the lands 
 through which he journeyed. On the fulfilment of 
 this promise Abram was firmly bent, and willing to 
 apply himself with vigor to its consummation. 
 
 You should know that in his father’s house his 
 eyes had fallen on his half-sister, a lively and buxom 
 Summerian maid with bright brown eyes and ful- 
 vous hair,—a girl of such high mettle and quick 
 spirit that she was called Sarai, the meaning of 
 which is “contentious.” She was much given to 
 laughing, whether in sport, or in scorn. But of her 
 temper the adventurous Abram recked little. With 
 his eyes his desire had fallen on the fair Sarai, and 
 he proposed to make her his wife, in order that the 
 heavenly promise might be fulfilled. 
 
 Now among us it is not lawful or seemly that a 
 man should marry his father’s daughter. But who 
 
 42 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 are we that we should find fault with the manners 
 of the patriarchs and the custom of the country 
 wherein they were bred ? 
 
 So Terah gave his consent and his fair daughter 
 Sarai to Abram, his adventurous son, and they took 
 the road together, under the favor of Jah, for a 
 long life of companionry. They dwelt in tents, or 
 in a guest-free palace, as the case might be. To- 
 gether they endured hardships and dangers. To- 
 gether they sported and took their pleasure. Sarai 
 laughed, and Abram grieved at the delay of his hopes 
 as a patriarch. Ever as they journeyed, their flocks 
 and herds, their men servants and maid servants 
 increased and multiplied about them. But no son 
 was born in the tent of Sarai. 
 
 Then she was vexed by the evident discontent of 
 her husband. His chagrin irked her. Now she had 
 among her servants a young maid brought from 
 Egypt whose name was Hagar, which means “flight.” 
 She was slim and fine and strong, like the women of 
 Egypt,—very pleasant to look upon. Her skin was 
 of the color of old ivory, and her eyes were long and 
 still like pools of night with stars in them. 
 
 Sarai brought this maid to Abram and said in 
 short: 
 
 43 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “She is mine. I give her to you. Take her, and 
 do as you like with her.” 
 
 So Abram did. © 
 
 In due time Hagar had a son whom she named 
 Ishmael, which signifies, “God Hears,” because, 
 said she: 
 
 “God has heard my affliction.” 
 
 Here, at last, we come to the gist of the tale, 
 which has to do with the fate of the son of Hagar. 
 He grew apace, slender and supple as a young leop- 
 ard. The charm of Egypt was in his look, the dream 
 of the desert on his dark face. For all his leanness 
 he was full of vigor, courage, and skill; a hardy 
 rider, a fearless hunter, sure with the bow, infalli- 
 ble with the spear; an ardent youth and high-tem- 
 pered, yet most lovable and winning in his ways. His 
 sober-sided father wondered and doted on him, and 
 of his mother’s heart he was the light and the joy. 
 
 Matters continued in this way for some years. 
 The lad was daily fretted by the strict rule of the 
 family, and by Sarai’s heavy hand and scornful 
 laugh for him and his mother. But in the main he 
 was content with what was given him; and Abram, 
 half-content, grew so fond that he thought to make 
 this slim, eager Ishmael the heir of all his worldly 
 
 44 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 gear and of the patriarchal blessing. On this point 
 the good man consulted his God. 
 
 “Oh that Ishmael might live before thee,” prayed 
 the patriarch. 
 
 “Nay,” answered Jah, very distinctly, “this is 
 not my intention. You must wait and do your duty. 
 Your wife whom I now name Sarah, (that is, the 
 Princess,) shall bear you a son. His shall be the 
 heritage. Your name shall henceforth be Abraham, 
 (that is, father of a multitude,) for from you shall 
 come nations and kings of peoples. Ishmael, whom 
 you love, cannot be one of the Patriarchs, yet he 
 also shall have a blessing, but different.” 
 
 So Abraham was obedient. And in due time, as 
 it were by a miracle, Sarah being well stricken in 
 years, her son was born. Then she was uplifted and 
 proud, so that her hand upon the household was even 
 heavier than before. She named her child Isaac, 
 (that is, “laughter.’’) 
 
 At this time Ishmael was about fourteen years 
 old, and in a foolish hour he mocked at the infant 
 Isaac who wept loudly on the day that he was 
 weaned. So the Princess Sarah was very angry and 
 not minded to suffer this indignity from the son of 
 a handmaid. 
 
 45 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “Cast out this Egyptian woman with her off- 
 
 spring,” she cried to her husband, “for I cannot 
 bear the sight of them.” 
 
 This grieved Abraham to the heart, for he was 
 tender in his affections and a man who loved peace 
 and quietness. He looked down his nose, which 
 was long and hooked. Two tears fell upon the un- , 
 melting snow of his beard as he pleaded humbly 
 with the Princess, for the thing pleased him not. 
 
 “Must it be so?” said he. “Do you not remem- 
 
 39 
 
 
 
 ber that you 
 
 But she cut him short with “It must be so!” 
 
 Then Abraham knew that obedience was the duty 
 of a patriarch. Very early in the morning he rose 
 up with a heavy heart, and called Hagar and his 
 first-born son. He took bread and a skin of water 
 and put them upon the mother’s shoulder and sent 
 her forth with the boy into the wilderness. 
 
 Here we take our leave of Abraham and his Prin- 
 cess, to follow the fortune of Hagar and the lad 
 named “‘God Hears.”’ 
 
 It seemed as if they must be gone out of God’s 
 hearing in that day, for they were cast off, by no 
 fault of theirs, unless it were that young, ignorant 
 mocking of the baby patriarch by the boy Ishmael. 
 
 46 
 
" A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 Now the wilderness where they went was a horrid 
 place, fearful and very wearisome. The rocks were 
 black around them and the gullies deep and dread- 
 ful. Green grass was there none, but a few blood- 
 red pimpernels and pallid rock-roses withered be- 
 tween the stones. No trees were there, but only 
 twisted thorny bill4ns and apples of Sodom with 
 smooth fruit full of bitter dust. 
 
 Through this dry despair of earth the outcasts 
 plodded on, not knowing whither they went nor 
 where they might find a refuge in the world. In 
 the tormented thorn-thickets foxes barked, and 
 from a black gully there came the fierce snickering 
 of a hyena. Hand in hand for comforting went 
 mother and son. The sun beat upon them with a 
 fervent heat. They were footsore and outdone. 
 
 “Is it too hard for you, son?” asked the mother. 
 
 *““No, mother,” said the boy, “but I crave a drop 
 of water.” 
 
 Hagar took the flapping bottle of goatskin from 
 her back, shook it, pressed it, wrung it. It was 
 empty as a last year’s bird’s-nest. There was not 
 even a drop of water in it. Then the lad, spent with 
 travail and thirst, fell at her feet in a swoon. 
 
 **Where is God, that He does not hear?” 
 
 47 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 With breaking heart she strained to lift her son 
 and laid him under the shade of a bush. His face 
 was paler than the greenish-white poison-flowers of 
 the datura above him. She withdrew from him 
 about the flight of an arrow, and covered her head. 
 
 > 
 
 “He is dying,” she wailed, and as she wept she 
 felt the broken pieces of her heart fall down within 
 her. “How can I bear to look upon the death of 
 my first-born child?” 
 
 Then there was a footfall beside her, and she 
 looked up to see a messenger of the God whose eyes 
 had been upon the fatherless and the outcast in 
 their wandering. 
 
 “Fear not,” said the messenger, “since He who 
 sent me has heard the voice of the lad. Take him 
 up in your arms once more, for he shall live and 
 shall become a great nation.” 
 
 Then Hagar felt her heart made whole again 
 within her. She lifted the slender boy, holding him 
 close on her breast; and as she followed the messen- 
 ger her eyes were cleared of weeping, so that she 
 saw a pure fountain of water springing out among 
 the rocks. There she laved the face and the wrists 
 of the lad and gave him gently to drink, a drop at 
 a time. Presently he sat up, and looked at his 
 
 48 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 mother, and spoke,—he whose voice she had thought 
 never to hear again. 
 
 “What place is this, mother ?” 
 
 “Son, I know not,” said she, “cand I care not, 
 since it is here that you have come back to me from 
 the grave.” 
 
 For many days after this they went on with the 
 messenger, who showed them the way, and found 
 shelter for them, and fed them with food convenient 
 for them, and made their path smooth,—yet not too 
 smooth! It was still a venture. There were chances 
 to take and dangers to face, rough hills to climb and 
 strangers to encounter who might be enemies. 
 Every day was a new day, full of fresh hazards and 
 novel scenes. In all this the boy rejoiced and was 
 glad. It made him a man. He rose to meet it as a 
 falcon rises to meet the wind of the wilderness, feel- 
 ing the power of his wings. 
 
 So they travelled through the land that is called 
 Negeb, where there were green vales of pasture be- 
 tween the long stony ridges, and black clustering 
 tents of herdsmen, and wells of water with cattle 
 gathered round them, and ancient towns of gray 
 stone, and caravans of camels rocking on their way 
 to Egypt. 
 
 49 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 Then they turned eastward, rounding the Sea of 
 
 Bitterness by the south, crossing many ravines and 
 wadis, and climbing at last by a steep way to the 
 high table-land that cast its shadow from the east 
 over the dead salt lake. Here on a knurly cliff, safe 
 set from all attack and looking far across the dis- 
 mal valley and its lifeless sea, they saw a town of 
 gray stone, larger, stronger, more ancient than the 
 others,—Kir Moab, the head city of that wild 
 country. To the gate of this city the messenger led 
 Hagar and Ishmael, and there left them. 
 
 “Farewell,” he said, “my errand is done. God 
 be with you and hear you.” 
 
 With that he was gone in a moment as if carried 
 away by the air; and Hagar with her son stood 
 wondering at the city gate. Within they saw an 
 old, old man who came to meet them followed by 
 many servants. He was tall and stately; his white 
 beard fell below his girdle; his brown cloak was of 
 finest camel’s hair; his white head-cloth was of silk, 
 bound with a circle of twisted gold, and about his 
 neck was a golden chain, for he was very rich, the 
 chief man of the city and of the tribes roundabout. 
 They called him Melek, that is “‘ King.” He greeted 
 the strangers courteously and eyed them sharply. 
 
 50 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 “Who are you?” he asked. “From what country 
 do you come on foot and without protection ?”’ 
 
 “Sire,” answered Hagar meekly, in her lovely 
 voice, “we have been under protection of a messen- 
 ger of God, but he has left us at your royal gate. 
 I am a woman of Egypt and this is my son. We 
 come from the tents of Abram Ben Terah in the 
 land of Canaan.” 
 
 At this Melek’s dark brows drew together. 
 
 “T have heard of that man,” he said, “and I like 
 him not. He is a rover who grows rich. He gathers 
 cattle that he has not bred and feeds them in pas- 
 tures where his fathers were not known. Has he 
 sent you hither to spy out the land?” 
 
 “Not so, my lord,’ she answered in hex lovely 
 voice, bowing down to the ground in shame, “verily 
 not so, but far Otherwise. Abram has cast me off, 
 with this his first-born son. He has sent us away 
 into the wilderness into the hands of chance. We 
 shall not look upon his face again.” 
 
 “That is well,” said Melek, “for he who casts off 
 his own flesh and blood is not worthy to be looked 
 upon. But there is no such thing as chance, woman ! 
 All is written. Doubtless the messenger of Him who 
 writes has led you to this city where God has taught 
 
 51 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 us never to deny hospitality to the stranger. Come 
 in to the house of the king.” 
 
 It was a fair, large house, though the furniture 
 of it was rude. Yet it was full of comfort to the 
 travellers, and after they were bathed from the 
 stains of their journey and clad in fresh raiment, 
 they were abundantly refreshed with venison and 
 bread of fine flour and bowls of goat’s milk and cups 
 of wine made from the grapes of Eschol. And so to 
 bed when they had supped, Hagar with the women, 
 Ishmael with the men. Thus it continued for some 
 days, and daily they found more favor in the eyes 
 of Melek. For Hagar was yet very comely, and 
 Ishmael was a brave, upstanding lad, ready for any- 
 thing. 
 
 On a certain day Melek sought to test him. 
 
 “What can you do?” he asked. “What manner 
 of life are you for?”’ 
 
 “My lord,” said the lad boldly, “I am a hunter.” 
 
 “At your age!” laughed the old man. ‘Can you 
 draw the bow? Can you thrust the spear?” 
 
 “Sire,” answered the lad, “I can try.” 
 
 “Good,” said Melek, who had been a mighty 
 hunter in his youth. “You shall have your trial 
 whether you are fit to stand before the king. A 
 
 52 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 black-maned lion has been rending and devouring 
 our flocks in the country beyond the river Arnon. 
 He is yours for the hunting. Will you go alone? 
 Or shall I send a company with you?” 
 
 “My lord,”’ said Ishmael, “this lion is for my 
 own bow and my own spear. But two companions 
 I would have with me, to carry my body home if 
 evil should befall me.” 
 
 So the three rode forth at daybreak, and passed 
 over Arnon at the setting of the sun, and slept under 
 an oak, but saw no lion. The next day they rode 
 up the valley, and made a wide cast around it to 
 northward, but saw no lion. That night they slept 
 under a terebinth, and heard a lion roaring far 
 away. Before the sun was up the next day they 
 rode eastward to the edge of the desert. There in a 
 rocky hollow where a small spring flowed and made 
 a green cup of grass, they heard and saw the lion. 
 
 He was big like a bull, and the hair of his head 
 and neck was long and black, very terrible in aspect. 
 His fangs and his claws were bloody; his lips and 
 his tawny breast were dabbled with red. He was 
 rending and tearing a ram of the flock that he had 
 carried off. He growled as he ate, like a fierce 
 feeder. 
 
 53 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “Here is my lion,” said Ishmael, dismounting. — 
 ‘Bide you here while I go and get him.” 
 
 So the two companions held the horses while 
 Ishmael crept craftily among the rocks to the rim 
 of the green cup, where the musky smell of the lion 
 came to his nostrils plainly, for the wind blew 
 toward him. Then he fitted an arrow to the bow- 
 string, drew it to the head, and let it go. But the 
 wind in the hollow was curving, and it veered the 
 arrow so that it struck the ground beside the lion. 
 He lifted his black head growling, and stood up 
 to look about him. 
 
 Then Ishmael drew another arrow, and sent it 
 swift and strong as a levin-bolt, and it struck the 
 lion in the flank. He sprang high in fury, caught 
 sight of the two men with the horses, and went 
 leaping and bounding up the hill toward them, 
 roaring as he ran. When he was near to the rock 
 where Ishmael sheltered, the lad stepped out to 
 face him, holding his tough spear stiff and strong. 
 It caught the lion full in the throat, where neck 
 meets breast, and pierced him to the heart so that 
 the blood gushed forth. Man and beast fell together 
 in the hot scarlet flood. 
 
 The two companions came running down the hill 
 
 54 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 with drawn knives, thinking to find their captain 
 dead. But it was the lion that was dead, and Ish- 
 mael was alive, though Uorele buffeted and a little 
 torn. So they took the skin of the great beast with 
 his black head and rode back to Kir Moab rejoic- 
 ing. 
 
 When Melek saw them coming he was very glad, 
 for he had been troubled, loving the young man ex- 
 ceedingly, and fearing for his safety. But now the 
 lion-skin, borne on a pole between two of the horses, 
 made the old chief happy and sure that all was 
 well. He came out to meet the young man and em- 
 braced him, kissing him on both cheeks. 
 
 “Now you have been tested,’ said the old man, 
 “and you are worthy to stand before the king,— 
 nay, to sit beside him, for you shall be my heir, 
 since God has taken all my proper sons from me 
 by death.” 
 
 The people were glad when they heard this, for 
 Ishmael had won all their liking and they saw in 
 him a man of valor to lead them against their en- 
 emies. The heart of Hagar sang a little song of 
 joy. The king, who had been long widowed, looked 
 upon her comeliness and observed her amiable 
 nature with growing inclination to make her his 
 
 55 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 wife. Though she was a little mistrustful of aged 
 men, yet for her son’s sake and because she saw 
 that Melek was of a generous and noble disposition, 
 she was not unwilling to yield to his desire. So she 
 did, and she warmed and comforted his old age. 
 
 Ishmael now lived as a Prince in all freedom 
 and merriment. The dew of the morning was upon 
 him and he rode and hunted where he would. His 
 people loved him and followed him. The hand of 
 the neighbor tribes was against him because he was 
 wild and masterful; but then his hand was also 
 against them, and it was the quicker and stronger, 
 so that he went where he pleased and took what 
 he needed. Melek gave the young sheik his own 
 daughter and his sister’s daughter to wife. The days 
 of Ishmael were passed in hunting and raiding and 
 his nights were filled with good cheer and repose. 
 
 On a certain day Hagar said to her husband, 
 “Sire, I have a request.” 
 
 “Name it,”” said he. 
 
 “I would fain go down to Egypt,” she answered. 
 
 “For what purpose?” he asked. 
 
 “To see my former home,” she replied, “‘and my 
 old friends, and to fetch a wife for my son.” 
 
 “But why?” asked the old sheik, surprised. 
 56 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 ‘He is already well provided with wives. Why bring 
 
 another from a far country ?” 
 
 “It was my own country, sire,” answered Hagar 
 with tears in her voice, “‘and the damsel will speak 
 the tongue of my childhood; that will be pleasant 
 to hear.” 
 
 So Melek, being much at ease and full of kind, 
 grateful thoughts, agreed to her petition. 
 
 “You shall go,” he said, “and God be with you. 
 Only tarry not too long, for I am old.” 
 
 Hagar was mounted upon a white, smooth-pacing 
 camel, with plentiful gear for the journey, and a 
 retinue of servants to protect and serve her. In 
 high state she rode down to Egypt. 
 
 There she was made welcome and spent two years 
 in visiting and colloguing with her friends,—looking 
 always for a fit consort for her son. Among all the 
 maidens she found but one to her mind, the daughter 
 of Pharaoh’s chief huntsman, a fine, fearless dam- 
 sel; clean-limbed, deep-bosomed, fleet-footed; with 
 hair of a soft blackness and long eyes like pools of 
 night with stars in them. She was a huntress by 
 inheritance. 
 
 To the father of this damsel Hagar spoke wisely 
 of her son’s wealth and prospects, and of the dowry. 
 
 57 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 To the damsel herself she spoke of those things 
 
 which women tell to one another in whispers. So 
 the matter was concluded to the satisfaction of both 
 parties, and Asenath rode on the white camel with 
 Hagar back to the highlands of Moab. 
 
 In the meantime the old king had passed away, 
 at peace, in the ripeness of his years, and Ishmael 
 ruled in his stead. He it was who came to meet the 
 women in the gate of Kir Moab, with the white silk 
 keffiyeh on his head, bound with the agal of twisted 
 gold. When Asenath saw him she was enamoured 
 of him, and to her his soul leaped as a deer to its 
 covert. She came into his house with rejoicing and 
 the other wives made her welcome in the wedding- 
 feast. 
 
 (Here my ragged story-teller eyed me a moment 
 and interrupted his tale to say, “Be not offended 
 at the number of the wives, Effendi, for it was the 
 custom of the country; and your own Scriptures 
 say that God winked at those times of ignorance.”’) 
 
 Thenceforward the days of Ishmael ran like a 
 river full of water, now dashing in the swift rapids, 
 now flowing smooth and sleepy in pleasant places. 
 With riding and raiding, with hunting and herding, 
 with cherishing his people and beating down his 
 
 58 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 enemies, he was ever busy and had great joy of 
 life. Twelve strong sons were born in his house, and 
 as these grew to manhood they rode at their father’s 
 side, his bodyguard in the fight, his scouts in the 
 chase. 
 
 Bears and lions he killed for prey; ostriches for 
 their feathers; fallow deer and gazelles for food. The 
 fleet wild ass of the Arabian desert could not escape 
 him, for he learned to snare it with a rope. For 
 sport he rode one, a noble beast of white, so that 
 men said, “Lo, the wild ass of the desert is coming,” 
 and they fled away to hide. 
 
 Far and wide he roamed in Araby, and it is re- 
 ported that he saw many wondrous things which 
 have now vanished. He saw the Phcenix, bird of 
 red and gold, which lives a hundred years, and 
 builds a nest of fragrant boughs on which it is 
 burned, and the young Phecenix springs from its 
 ashes. He saw the Amazons, warrior-women, who 
 suffer no man in their island kingdom; but by night 
 they cross the water to Chaldea that they may find 
 lovers. These women Ishmael liked not, because 
 each of them had one breast seared away, in order 
 to use the bow and shield better. 
 
 Of these marvels I speak not with assurance, but 
 
 59 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 only to show that the life of Ishmael was wild and 
 venturesome. When he was beyond fifty years old, 
 he went raiding in the land of Canaan where he was 
 born. His twelve tall sons rode by his bridle-rein. 
 As he came toward Hebron, by the oaks of Mamre, 
 where Abraham was wont to camp, he saw a man 
 of middle age and gentle aspect, sitting in the shade 
 of a large black tent, meditating. 
 
 To this man Ishmael rode swiftly, with his twelve 
 sons following. Then the man was afraid, for he 
 suspected violence. But Ishmael knew him by his 
 long hooked nose, and saluted him with courtesy. 
 
 “Fear not,” he said, “we come in peace. I think 
 you are my half-brother Isaac. I am Ishmael, the 
 eldest son of Abraham, and these are my twelve 
 sons.” 
 
 “We thought you dead,”’ murmured the patriarch 
 Isaac. 
 
 “Not yet,” laughed Ishmael. “And your mother 
 Sarah,—is she still living, and is it well with her?” 
 
 “She died some years ago,” sighed the patriarch, 
 “‘and my father buried her in the cave of Macpelah, 
 near by.” 
 
 “God rest her soul,” said Ishmael. “But is our 
 father yet in the land of the living?” 
 
 60 
 
A CAST-OFF SON 
 
 “He married again,”’ said the patriarch, “and by 
 this wife Keturah he had six sons. To these he gave 
 gifts and sent them away into the east country. 
 
 “Yesterday he died, and to-day we bury him in 
 the cave of Macpelah. Will you break bread with 
 me, brother, in my tent, and then go with me to 
 lay our father to rest ?” 
 
 Ishmael thought for a moment and said gravely, 
 “With good-will and peace.” 
 
 So when they had buried their father and set the 
 great stone at the mouth of the cave, the half- 
 brothers gave each other the parting kiss of peace, 
 and Ishmael said to Isaac: 
 
 “Now I know that there is no anger in my heart 
 toward our father. For though he cast me off, and 
 sent me away into the wilderness with my mother 
 to perish, God has turned it all to good for us and 
 delivered us into freedom and a large joy. I could 
 never have borne the burden of being a patriarch. 
 
 Freedom is my breath.” 
 
 Here my ragged story-teller broke off and waited 
 for his reward. I asked him if that was the end of 
 the tale. 
 
 “There are other chapters, Effendi,” he replied, 
 
 61 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “but this is enough to show that the Almighty de- 
 
 livers men by strange ways. Ishmael was the father 
 of the Arabians, and we believe that he lies buried 
 
 beside Hagar in the holy city of Mecca.” 
 
 62 
 
THE SWEET INFLUENCE OF 
 THE PLEIADES 
 

 
THE SWEET INFLUENCE OF 
 THE PLEIADES 
 
 HIE was not an astrologer,—one of those people who 
 think that our life is controlled by the stars and that 
 a man’s destiny can be read in his horoscope. Her- 
 schel Wheaton had too much science and too much 
 Yankee common sense to take any interest in such 
 superstitions as that. 
 
 But undoubtedly he believed in his plain, practical 
 way,—yes, we may even say he knew by experience, 
 —that the stars have a certain real influence upon 
 our lives through our thoughts and emotions. 
 
 “Just as the mountains defend us,” he would say, 
 “by the feeling of strength and security they give 
 us when we look at them; just as the ocean attracts 
 and overawes us by its breadth, its mystery, its 
 changeful sameness; so the stars guide us by their 
 beautiful order, their shining obedience to inflexible 
 laws, their steady movement on far roads. It’s all 
 in the Bible, you know, this idea of our getting some- 
 thing real from Nature, from the works of God which 
 are as divine as his words. The mountains stand for 
 
 65 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 his righteousness; the sea for his deep, strange judg- 
 
 ments. ‘The stars in their courses fought against 
 
 Sisera.’ What does that mean? Not astrology,— 
 
 that’s nonsense! Sisera was a robber-chief, a wild, 
 
 lawless man. The sight of the big, calm stars shining 
 
 over him while he rode on his fierce raid humbled his 
 pride and weakened his nerve. So his courage broke 
 
 and he lost the fight. I suppose that is how the stars 
 
 fought against Sisera.”’ 
 
 You must not infer from this little sermon on Scrip- 
 ture that Wheaton was a preacher. He was some- 
 thing much more practical and difficult. He was the 
 principal of a great seminary for girls and young 
 women in Brooklyn, and with his wife he conducted 
 the big boarding-house for out-of-town pupils which 
 stood next to the massive gray mid-Victorian build- 
 ing of the Institute. 
 
 This double task was by no means an easy, sooth- 
 ing business. It was as full of trials, tribulations, and 
 surprises as a thicket of cat-briers is of thorns. A 
 boarding-house is a natural nursery of the microbes of 
 discontent, jealousy, and gossip. Attaching it to an 
 Institute does not change its nature. A family of fifty 
 or sixty, all girls, is not a sedative proposition. Nor 
 was it a tranquil job to teach four or five hundred 
 
 66 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 young female minds to shoot in the direction of 
 knowledge and wisdom. They were distracted by 
 the flirtation-complex and the manias of school-poli- 
 tics. They had “crushes” on one another, and ro- 
 mantic “crazes’”’ about certain good-looking boys 
 who used to stroll slowly along the open fence of the 
 big Institute garden on their way home from the 
 Polymathic Academy. There were rivalries, social 
 competitions and conspiracies, and emotional adven- 
 tures which sometimes threatened danger. 
 
 Moreover there was always the alleged conflict be- 
 tween science and religion to make the pathway of 
 an honest teacher, who was also an honest Christian, 
 rough and agitated. 
 
 Anxious parents would come to Professor Wheaton 
 with inquiries which were sometimes pathetic and 
 sometimes angry. 
 
 “Do you think it’s right to destroy my girl’s faith 
 in the Bible by letting her study this horrid stuff 
 about Evolution ?” 
 
 Well,” Wheaton would reply mildly, “you know 
 that the theory which has been incorrectly named 
 after the great Darwin is only a working hypothesis, 
 after all. But all the scientific teachers are using it 
 in their search for the truth about the actual method 
 
 67 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 of creation,—a subject on which the Bible, as I un- 
 derstand it, was not intended to instruct us. You 
 can’t get a decent text-book on biology which doesn’t 
 make use of the evolutionary theory. If Darwin’s 
 idea is false, the only way to find it out is to study it. 
 But if it’s true, it can’t possibly destroy anybody’s 
 faith in God, can it?” 
 
 *““No matter! We don’t want our girl to study 
 Evolution,—not even to look at it. It will poison her 
 mind. Her mother and grandmother were educated 
 ladies and they got on very well without it.” 
 
 “Quite so. Very well. Then your daughter should 
 give up her course in biology and substitute a course 
 in astronomy. That is a perfectly safe science. Even 
 the Fundamentalists agree that we may believe that 
 the earth is round and that it revolves around the 
 sun, without abandoning our Christianity. Mathe- 
 matics is a good safe study too. There’s nothing 
 more important for us than to know and always re- 
 member that two and two make four, not five or 
 three. Do you see any danger to religion in that?” 
 
 Thus gently and calmly did Herschel Wheaton deal 
 with the perturbations of fretful parents. In the 
 same spirit he dealt with the ebullitions and occa- 
 sional explosions of young female minds and with 
 
 68 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 the chronic discontent and acute complaints of board- 
 ers. Engaged in a profession which is singularly full 
 of troubles and small irritations, he was in fact the 
 calmest, most tranquil man I ever knew. 
 
 Tall, lean, muscular, full of vigorous manhood, at 
 forty he looked somewhat like Lincoln, but less rug- 
 ged in the face. Physically he was distinctly of the 
 Lincoln type. He had plenty of native humor in re- 
 serve, and all the natural passions of a man which 
 he kept well in hand. I suppose he sometimes went 
 off at a tangent in thought or feeling, but not in con- 
 duct. He was devout but not offensively pious,—cer- 
 tainly not pietistic. A convinced Christian of a sim- 
 ple kind, and a steady seeker after the truth of things 
 as they are, his noteworthy qualities were his unfail- 
 ing energy and his steady poise. 
 
 This last trait, I am sure, if not originated, was 
 greatly deepened and developed by his intimate and 
 loving friendship with the stars. This was his ruling 
 passion. He confessed it himself. 
 
 “T love them,” he said, “not only because they are 
 beautiful, but because they are so steady. 
 
 ‘Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see,’ 
 they go on their vast ways, rejoicing, I believe, be- 
 69 ; * 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 cause they are obeying the infinite Wisdom and keep- 
 ing the everlasting law.” 
 
 “But what good can they do us? There is no prac- 
 tical use in studying them. They are too far away.” 
 
 “That makes it all the easier to watch them and 
 follow their motions. They are not too close to us 
 for clear observation, like many things on this planet 
 where we live. They have a long perspective. They 
 are silent to our ears, yet they speak to us. As for 
 “practical use,’ that depends on what you mean by 
 practical. To have larger thoughts and deeper, 
 steadier feelings,—I call that a practical use.” 
 
 “But doesn’t it humble you and crush you to see 
 how many stars there are, and to think how enor- 
 mous some of them must be?” 
 
 “It humbles me certainly, but it doesn’t crush 
 me at all. Why should it? We can understand them, 
 at least in part, but there’s no reason to suppose they 
 
 _can understand us. You remember Pascal: “Man is 
 but a reed, the weakest thing in nature, but he is a 
 reed that thinks.’ It’s a great thing to know that you 
 are a significant part of an immense universe.” 
 
 ‘But don’t you wonder whether any of those other 
 stars is inhabited like the Earth? Mars, for in- 
 stance ?”’ 
 
 70. ree 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 “Mars, my dear, is a planet. Yes, I wonder 
 whether there are Martians. It is possible. But I do 
 not expect we shall ever be able to prove it while we 
 are on the Earth. One thing is sure. If any of the 
 other planets or stars contain life it must be in an 
 outward form absolutely different from what we 
 know as life here. But now let us get on with our 
 study of the Pleiades.” 
 
 Thus the tranquil teacher on a clear moonless night 
 of October, in his little working observatory, perched 
 on a tower high above the dormant Institute, talked 
 with his favorite pupil, Fanny Brawne. The city 
 slumbered below them: “the very houses seemed 
 asleep.” ‘The night lay around them like a dark- 
 blue sea around an island. The vast constellations, 
 the sparkling star-clusters, the long, luminous pro- 
 cession of the Milky Way, wheeled slowly, majesti- 
 cally above them. They were isolated in space. It 
 seemed as if nothing could disturb them, no danger 
 could come near them, lifted up as they were from 
 the small concerns and conflicts of earth. 
 
 Yet two perils, two trials of his calm, were coming 
 very close to Wheaton in the stillness of that circular 
 sky-parlor. It was very bare; nothing in it but the 
 astronomical instruments, a small table, and a couple 
 
 71 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 of wooden seats; no openings, except a trap-door in 
 the floor which led to a narrow iron stair spiralling 
 down to the top story of the Institute, and the long 
 aperture in the revolving dome through which the 
 telescope peered at the slow-moving stars. There was _ 
 no apparent hiding-place in that round room of 
 twenty feet diameter. Yet danger could hide there. 
 Fanny Brawne was a brilliant girl of nineteen,— 
 brilliant in every way; quick in mind, ardent in tem- 
 perament, glowing in form. She was born in Louis- 
 ville; but the model of her was made in Greece in 
 the days when the Venus of Melos was fashioned. 
 Every line of her was a curve of beauty. Every mo- 
 tion of her was full of vital charm. Her hair was 
 warm brown with gold-dust in it; her forehead can- 
 did as the dawn; her eyes like star-topaz, if there be 
 such a shining jewel; and her full red lips, innocent 
 of paint, parted and met with an irresistible attrac- 
 tion in her eager talk. When she walked on the 
 street or rode in a ’bus, men and women could not 
 help looking at her. She was “One of Our Conquer- 
 ors,” as George Meredith puts it; a good girl, no 
 doubt, but a born pirate of masculine affections. 
 When she saw a fine man’s head she instinctively 
 wanted his admiration to hang at her belt as a scalp. 
 
 72 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 Herschel Wheaton, her father’s former protégé and 
 chum in college, and now her tranquil teacher, was 
 the finest man she had ever met. She admired him 
 intensely, adored him romantically, and was curious 
 to find out whether his calm could be shaken by a 
 personal devotion to her. Beyond this even in her 
 thoughts she did not go, being an honest girl. But 
 thus far, being a woman, she went. 
 
 The work which these two persons were doing in 
 the observatory,—verifying a diagram of the Pleia- 
 des,—brought them close together, Wheaton bending 
 over the table, Fanny leaning above him. He could 
 feel the warmth of her shoulder upon his, catch the 
 fragrance of her dark hair as he breathed. Something 
 that was not altogether calm stirred perceptibly 
 within him. He got up from the table and went to 
 the telescope. 
 
 *“Come,”’ he said, “look at these seven sister-stars 
 again, and get them clear in your memory. The big- 
 gest and brightest of them is Alcyone. Three hun- 
 dred and fifteen years it takes for her light to reach 
 us. Some astronomers once thought that she was the 
 centre of the starry universe, the point around which 
 all the other stars are turning, making the revolution 
 in about twenty-two million years. The smallest and 
 
 73 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 dimmest one of the sisters is Merope. She has a lu- 
 minous cloud about her. You can hardly see her with 
 the naked eye. The Greeks called her ‘the lost 
 Pleiad,’ because she fell in love with the mortal Sisy- 
 phus and so faded away. Fine fancies those old 
 Greeks had !” 
 
 Fanny turned from the telescope and came very 
 close to him, laying her hands upon his arms. Her 
 star-like eyes spoke to him, drew him. 
 
 “Do you know,” she murmured softly, “you are a 
 very wonderful man? You are so strong, you have 
 such big thoughts, you know so much. I care for you 
 more than I can tell you. Wouldn’t it be great if we 
 could fly off together to one of those stars,—Alcyone, 
 or even poor Merope? Would you care for me as I 
 eare for you?” 
 
 Wheaton was silent fora moment. Then he pulled 
 himself up steadily and his kind gray eyes had a smile 
 in them. 
 
 “Dear Fanny,” he said, “I care for you already 
 very much indeed. You are the daughter of my old- 
 est friend, a beautiful girl, and my best pupil. What 
 would you think of me if I made love to you now? 
 You would like me less, I’m sure, and that would be 
 very unpleasant for me. Let’s not talk nonsense 
 
 74 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 about flying off to Aleyone. Even if we went on the 
 wings of light we should be more than three hundred 
 and fifteen years old when we got to her, and she 
 would burn us up instantly with her flaming fire. 
 Come, it’s getting late, the astronomy lesson is fin- © 
 ished, time for you to go to bed, run along and sleep 
 well.” 
 
 Was it tears that stood in the girl’s eyes for a mo- 
 ment? Then she smiled and held up her face to be 
 kissed. 
 
 “Yes,” she said, “you are right, my teacher. My 
 lesson is learned. We mustn’t spoil a fine thing by 
 foolishness. Good night, and pleasant dreams.” 
 
 So she went through the trap-door and down the 
 spiral stairway,— Wheaton could hear her heels click- 
 ing on the iron steps,—and the first danger was past. 
 
 Whether his dreams were pleasant or not, no one 
 knows. He sat for half an hour with his elbows on 
 the table, looking out through the long aperture of 
 the dome toward the Pleiades. But I doubt whether 
 he saw them. 
 
 Then he took up the diagram again and worked 
 on it till midnight. The clock on the city hall was 
 just striking the hour when he heard a slight noise 
 behind him and turned sharply around. 
 
 75 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 A head was coining up through the trap-door,—a 
 shaggy head of yellow hair streaked with gray. After 
 that came a broad, pallid face with bristling eyebrows 
 and large pale-greenish eyes set close together. After 
 ‘that came a huge body of a man, almost a giant. 
 
 ‘“This is Professor Wheaton, I believe,” he said, 
 with a slight foreign accent. 
 
 “That is my name. May I ask yours?” 
 
 “Tt is not known to you, but I will tell it you. 
 My name was Svenson. I was born in Sweden and 
 came to this country when I was a little boy. I have 
 been very sick at the Long Island Hospital. I have 
 been born again. I know now that my real name is 
 John Baptist.” 
 
 A slight sensation of coldness ran down Wheaton’s 
 back. He suspected that this man was probably a 
 religious fanatic. Rather awkward to be shut up with 
 a crazy Hercules at midnight in this lonely observa- 
 tory. No bell, no telephone, no possible way of call- 
 ing help. Wheaton felt that he would need to have 
 all his wits about him. If he got excited, lost his 
 head, who could tell what might happen ? 
 
 “Glad to meet you, Mr. Baptist,’’ he said, holding 
 out his hand. “Won’t you take a seat?” 
 
 “Not mister,” replied the stranger, sitting down 
 
 76 
 

 
 A head was coming up through the trap-door. ... After that 
 came a huge body of a man. 
 
<a 
 
 x » ifs - ’ . “ 
 oa | ache Ww 
 OTe 
 
 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 heavily, “just plain John,—a messenger of the 
 Lord.” 
 
 “Well, then, John Baptist, please tell me why you 
 have come here at this late hour. What is it that 
 you want?” 
 
 “T will say it in the right time. You wait and lis- 
 ten. I tell you first about me. I was a wild, bad man. 
 I was sorry but could not help it. I went to church, 
 to prayer-meeting, but no good came. The devil was 
 in me. He would not come out. I drank much gin, 
 ran after women, fought men. Then the great sick- 
 ness came. In hospital I was strapped in bed, very 
 crazy. Then inside me something broke. I was weak, 
 like a baby. Then they unstrapped me. The devil 
 was out of me. I converted. I read the Bible and 
 prayed very much. Then I was born again, a new 
 soul given me. I was plucked from the burning. I 
 knew that I was John Baptist, sent to prepare the 
 way of the Lord. You see?” 
 
 “Yes, I see what you mean. But why did you 
 come to me? What brings you here?” 
 
 ““A message from God. Listen. Glad tidings of 
 great joy!” 
 
 The man came closer, so that the heat of his vast 
 body was perceptible, and the faint, dead smell of 
 
 fir 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 his fetid breath. His pasty face flushed a dark red. 
 The pupils of his eyes contracted and expanded rap- 
 idly like winking lights. His upper lip hung and 
 trembled as if he were about to cry. His words tum- 
 bled over one another. 
 
 *You call yourself Professor Wheaton, but I know 
 who you are. I heard you often pray and speak in 
 prayer-meeting. I followed you about the city, al- 
 ways meek and gentle, always doing good. You are 
 the best man in Brooklyn,—in the world! You are 
 Messiah! You are Christ come back to earth! God 
 sent you to save this wicked city, and I must help 
 you because I am John Baptist. Do you see now?” 
 
 His voice was loud and raucous. His yellowish 
 eyes flickered like candles in the wind. Blue flames 
 darted through them and they almost screamed, as a 
 rusty gas-jet screams when it is lighted. It was clear 
 to Wheaton that he was face to face with a maniac 
 approaching the acute stage of his delirium. 
 
 What to do? How to gain time for escape? 
 
 “Your message is a strange one. Such an idea 
 never entered my mind. Are you sure it’s true? 
 How do you know?” 
 
 “TI tell you it came to me right from Heaven. I 
 did not make it up. It came, and I know it’s true.” 
 
 78 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 “But how shall we prove it? How shall you and 
 I set about saving the city?” 
 
 “By a miracle,—a miracle! a miracle! We shall 
 push ourselves through that long window. It’s nar- 
 row, but we can get through. Then we shall throw 
 ourselves from the tower. Then’’—(his face took on 
 a look of insane rapture) “then we shall see the an- 
 gels all around us. We shall feel their soft wings 
 brushing us, their soft hands touching us, bearing us 
 up lest our feet dash against the stones. It will be 
 like flying, lovely, beautiful! We shall land safely 
 on the sidewalk. AIl Brooklyn shall wonder, and 
 convert to you, Messiah!” 
 
 “But how will they know about the miracle? The 
 streets are empty now. Look, listen, no one is pass- 
 ing by. The people are asleep.” 
 
 “The angels will wake them, and tell them, and 
 call them. There will be crowds and crowds, I tell 
 you. When they see us they will believe and shout 
 hallelujah! Messiah has come! The city is saved! 
 Glory !” 
 
 Wheaton glanced around the observatory to see if 
 there was any weapon that he could use, any way of 
 escape from this ghastly peril. Nothing! Before he 
 could get to the trap-door the maniac would grab 
 
 79 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 him. The iron crank for turning the telescope was 
 too far away to reach. Without some kind of a 
 weapon he would be helpless against those huge 
 hairy hands like the paws of a bear, those heavy 
 shoulders and long steel-sinewed arms. There would 
 _be a short, dreadful struggle on the floor, rolling to 
 and fro, straining and gasping in that horrible clutch. 
 Then the knotted fingers would close on his throat 
 and the light would go out. 
 
 But would it? The Pleiades would still be shining. 
 Would they not send their light into his soul, their _ 
 sweet influence upon him? 
 
 “My friend,” he said, “what you tell me is very 
 unexpected, so strange that I cannot help being in 
 doubt about it. You remember that chapter in your 
 Bible where Christ was called to cast himself from a 
 pinnacle of the Temple. It was the devil who tempt- 
 ed him, and he refused.” 
 
 The lunatic sprang up and paced the floor, mutter- 
 ing and grinding his teeth. But his voice was weaker 
 and lower when he spoke. 
 
 “That was different. I am no devil. I am the 
 messenger sent before your face. You must not 
 doubt. You must believe me. Christ did. If you are 
 afraid, if you do not obey God’s will, then I shall 
 
 80 
 
INFLUENCE OF THE PLEIADES 
 
 _ throw you out of that long window. You shall see 
 what happens to the disobedient. There shall be no 
 miracle. The angels shall not come. You shall be 
 dashed in pieces on the stone steps.” 
 
 “Very well. But will you not grant me a couple 
 of minutes to prepare myself? I want to look once 
 more at that little group of stars up there. I love 
 them. They have been my friends for a long time. 
 Perhaps God will send me another word through 
 them.”’ 
 
 “Friends with stars is nonsense. But I give you 
 your way. Look at your stars if you want to.” 
 
 Swinging the dome of the observatory with a 
 touch,—it moved easily on its cannon-ball bearings, 
 —Wheaton brought the Pleiades again into the tele- 
 scopic field of vision. Serene, beautiful, dear to his 
 heart as ever, it seemed as if they must have some 
 gift for him, some message of calm wisdom that 
 would be like a golden key to let him out of the 
 prison of peril. 
 
 In a moment he knew that they had a message. 
 He knew what it was. The first line of Horatius 
 Bonar’s lovely hymn flashed into his mind: 
 
 “Upward where the stars are burning.” 
 
 Upwarp—that was the key of deliverance. 
 
 81 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 He turned from the telescope and went over to 
 the lunatic, whose fit of exaltation had abated, leav- 
 ing him depressed. Wheaton laid a gentle hand upon 
 his arm and spoke with authority. 
 
 “My friend, John Baptist,” he said, “the second 
 message has come. This is it: 
 
 “The miracle of gumping down from the tower is 
 too small. You and John must go down and jump up. 
 That would be a greater miracle.” 
 
 The crazy man’s eyes were bewildered, dim, lack- 
 lustre. With the fragment of reason that was left in 
 him, he was thinking hard, trying to puzzle the mat- 
 ter out. 
 
 “'Yes,—yes,”’ he said, slowly, “‘that would certainly 
 be a greater miracle. Doubters couldn’t say, then, 
 that we used parachutes to come down with. They 
 would be convinced. They would have to believe 
 when they saw us rising to the tower. We shall do it. 
 But not to-night. The street is bare. To-morrow 
 noon. We want crowds and crowds to see our ascen- 
 sion. Come, let’s go down now. I know the way.” 
 
 So the strange pair descended the winding stair, 
 Svenson ahead, and passed through the long, empty, 
 echoing halls from story to story, and came out, at 
 last, on the broad stone steps of the Institute. 
 
 82 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 

 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 THAT sacred book which is named after its hero- 
 
 ine “Esther” is held in singular esteem and rever- 
 ence by the Jews. This is not because of its reli- 
 gious teaching, for the name of God: is not once men- 
 tioned in it; nor because of its moral value, for that 
 is mainly negative; but probably because it records 
 the deliverance of the chosen people from a peril 
 in the ancient kingdom of Persia, and explains the 
 origin of the great festival of Purim which is ob- 
 served even to this day in honor of that far-off 
 event. 
 
 Moreover it is an exceedingly well-told tale, 
 written with great frankness and a vivid touch, 
 and showing an intimate knowledge of human na- 
 ture and of Oriental ways and manners. This makes 
 it exciting and well worth reading by any one who 
 is curious in these matters and has enough imagina- 
 tion to illustrate the story as he reads. 
 
 But beside this national tradition which has given 
 the book a place in the Old Testament canon, there 
 
 are certain outside legends which have grown up 
 85 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 around it, and have been long current among the 
 Persians. One of these, as it came to me through 
 a gentleman in a black turban who was in Paris 
 during the strife about peace in 1921, seemed of 
 sufficient interest and moral significance to be worth 
 
 writing down. So here it is. 
 
 You remember that the book of Esther begins 
 with a story of Vashti, the first wife of the great 
 King Ahasuerus. This same King was none other 
 than the famous Persian monarch Xerxes, who ruled 
 a hundred and twenty-seven provinces from India 
 to Ethiopia, and afterward came to grief when he 
 tried to conquer Greece. 
 
 Whatever obedience was paid to him in those 
 provinces, (and history says that it was noteworthy,) 
 there was one domain wherein he was not absolute, 
 and that was his Queen Vashti. 
 
 He had made a gorgeous banquet for his princes 
 and nobles in the palace of Shushan, a feast which 
 lasted a hundred and eighty days. Naturally, as 
 the banquet progressed, those who took part in it 
 were brightly illuminated with wine, so that they 
 forgot those reserves and restraints which are ob- 
 served by good society even in the Orient. Then 
 
 86 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 Xerxes, being apparently flushed with that idiotic 
 pride which comes with much drinking of intoxi- 
 cants, sent his seven chamberlains to bid Queen 
 Vashti come and display all her rare beauty, with- 
 out regard to her modesty, before the princes and 
 the people great and small who were assembled 
 at the King’s feast. 
 
 But the Queen was very properly holding a feast 
 of her own with her women. This command to show 
 herself unveiled before a throng of men was con- 
 trary to the custom wherein she had been brought 
 up. It offended her queenly dignity as well as her 
 womanly sense. So she refused pointblank. 
 
 Her refusal threw Xerxes into a fit of embarrass- 
 ment and rage, and he sent for his wise men and 
 said to them: 
 
 “What shall we do unto Queen Vashti according 
 to the law?” 
 
 It may be noted that the royal despot seems to 
 have gone somewhat in fear of his royal spouse, 
 since he hesitated to do anything to her that was 
 not strictly legal. 
 
 Then up spoke one of the wise men named Mem- 
 ucan and delivered his opinion as follows: 
 
 “Sire, this deed of the Queen is not only an in- 
 
 87 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 jury to your Majesty; it is also an attack upon the 
 good order of the whole realm. It will be noised 
 abroad to all the women of Persia and Media to 
 make them disobedient and contemptuous to their 
 husbands. It will lead to a female revolt in which 
 our ancient civilization will undoubtedly perish. 
 Therefore my advice is that your Majesty should 
 not only put away Vashti forever, but also send out 
 a decree to all Persian and Median women both 
 great and small, that they must absolutely obey 
 their husbands, and that every man shall be the 
 ruler in his own house.” 
 
 So the King, greatly relieved, followed the coun- 
 sel of Memucan to the letter. Vashti was ejected 
 from the royal palace. The women in all the other 
 palaces and houses and cottages and huts of Persia 
 and Media were duly admonished to strict obedi- 
 ence. 
 
 You might think that with this the question of 
 woman’s rights in the dominion of Xerxes was 
 ended. 
 
 But not so. For the King, apparently regretting 
 the absence of Vashti, and following still the ad- 
 vice of Memucan, began to search among the vir- 
 gins of Persia for one to take her place. The search 
 
 88 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 was conducted by a curious method which does not 
 particularly concern the story though it is fully 
 narrated in the scripture. It seems to have em- 
 braced most of the beautiful maidens in the king- 
 dom and to have been based upon a process of trial 
 and error. 
 
 But doubtfully as we should regard this method 
 in our days, it was apparently turned by providence, 
 (though not so mentioned in the scripture,) to the 
 great benefit of Xerxes. 
 
 For there was in Shushan at that time a young 
 Jewess, as beautiful as she was virtuous, and as 
 brave as she was beautiful. She was an orphan who 
 had been adopted and carefully brought up by her 
 cousin Mordecai, a Jew of excellent parts and no- 
 table adroitness. Her real name was Hadassah, 
 which means “the myrtle,” an evergreen shrub of 
 sweet fragrance,—a pretty name to fit a pretty 
 maid. She was in truth exceeding fair, altogether 
 desirable, and fit for love. 
 
 The adroit Mordecai, perceiving this, managed 
 that she should be embraced among the damsels 
 who were gathered under charge of the chief eunuch 
 for the King’s experiment and choice. But her 
 cousin and foster-father, knowing the law of the 
 
 89 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Medes and Persians that the Queen must always 
 be chosen from among the noble native houses of 
 the country, changed the name of Hadassah to 
 Esther, which means “a star,” and much resembles 
 the name of Ashtar, one of the favorite goddesses 
 of the East. Thus renamed, and charged straitly by 
 her cousin not to make known her people nor her 
 kindred, the obedient Esther came into the King’s 
 house royal in fair raiment, having been purified 
 six months with oil of myrrh and six months with 
 sweet odors and other things. Her success in this 
 primary campaign for the crown was brilliant as the 
 rising of a star. 
 
 We know not the color of her hair nor of her eyes, 
 nor does it greatly matter, for in these things the 
 tastes of men differ. Endow her in your fancy with 
 such charms as you prefer; but be sure that she had 
 that one charm which is above all others, the will 
 and the power to please. To this Xerxes surrendered 
 in the first encounter. He was delighted with her 
 to the marrow of his bones. 
 
 “By Marduk and Nebo, by Zarpaint and Ash- 
 tar, and all the divinities of Babylon,” he cried in 
 ecstasy, “this girl is sweeter than a dream and more 
 beautiful than desire. My star, you shall rise and 
 
 90 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 shine with me, and be the splendor of my house 
 royal.” 
 
 > 
 
 “As you will, my King,” responded the pliant 
 and supple Esther, most lovely in her meek- 
 ness. 
 
 So Xerxes, deeply penetrated with love, made her 
 his wife and Queen, and celebrated the event by a 
 splendid feast. There is no record, however, that 
 he bade his new Queen display her charms unveiled 
 to the mob of banqueters. More wisely he marked 
 the day by releasing the provinces from taxes and 
 distributing royal largesse. 
 
 Now began a new life for the lovely and discreet 
 young Queen, a life full of action and emotion. 
 A plot of two rough-neck eunuchs to assassinate 
 Xerxes, according to the custom of the country, 
 was unearthed by the clever Mordecai. He told 
 Esther, and she told the King in time to save his 
 life. Haman, a pompous and purse-proud favorite 
 of the court, having conceived a hatred of Mordecai 
 and found out that he was a Jew, conspired and 
 deluded the King to decree the destruction of all 
 the people of that race throughout the realm and 
 the spoiling of their goods. But Mordecai sent the 
 news to his cousin Esther, persuading and encourag- 
 
 91 
 
. THE GOLDEN KEY 
 ing her, at risk of her own life to beseech the King 
 
 to revoke the decree. 
 
 “Who knoweth,” said he, “whether thou art not 
 come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” 
 
 Esther did not know, of course. But she was 
 brave enough to try anything once. So she came in, 
 uncalled, to the King, (which was a transgression 
 punishable by death,) and by such arguments as a 
 woman may use with one who loves her, she in- 
 duced him to reverse the decree. The villainy of 
 Haman in plotting against the Queen and her peo- 
 ple was laid bare. He was disgraced and deposed 
 from all his high offices and hanged upon that very 
 lofty gallows which he had built for his rival Mor- 
 decai. The Jews in Shushan and throughout the 
 realm, being forewarned and forearmed, resisted the 
 myrmidons of Haman and slew them by the thou- 
 sands, but laid no hand on the spoil. Thus origi- 
 nated the great feast called Purim, or “the casting 
 of the lots.” 
 
 So the good and charming Queen was happy and 
 much beloved, not only by the doting King, but by 
 her country folk, and by all the people of Media 
 and Persia and the other lands under the sway of the 
 great Xerxes. , 
 
 92 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 Cousin Mordecai also prospered according to his 
 deserts and desires. He was arrayed in royal attire, 
 and rode upon a royal steed, and stood next to the 
 King in all things. Xerxes being a vain and capri- 
 cious monarch, exorbitant and luxurious, full of wild 
 visions of world-wide empire, and given to that 
 excess of wine wherein he knew not his right hand 
 from his left nor wisdom from folly, leaned more and 
 more upon the adroit Jew in the conduct and man- 
 agement of affairs. It was natural that the man 
 whom the King delighted to honor should obtain 
 an immense increase of riches, fame, and power. 
 
 But with this increase, whether fairly earned or 
 due in part to his relationship to the wise young 
 Queen, (which was of course merely an accidental 
 consequence of his uncle’s fruitful marriage in 
 Judea,) the pride of Mordecai grew and flourished 
 excessively. He rode abroad in state on a horse 
 padded with cushions like a bed. When he walked, 
 which was but rarely, the people bowed down be- 
 fore him. He was fed with flatteries and besieged 
 with petitions. His house was a palace next in 
 splendor to the abode of the King. His word was 
 almost a law. His favoring nod was a title of dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 93 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 All this was of course as pleasant as the eating of 
 sweetmeats. But it was not healthful. It brought 
 on a severe attack of that self-complacency which is 
 the balm of life and the bane of character. 
 
 The man who had been so admirable in adversity 
 ‘grew odious in prosperity. The diet of unbroken 
 success was too rich for his blood. 
 
 To all except the King, whose temper he still 
 feared and whom he still flattered skilfully,—to all 
 others Mordecai was haughty and abrupt. 
 
 It was, “Here, fellow,” or ‘There, fellow”; ‘‘Cer- 
 tainly not,” or “Perhaps I will, if I feel like 1t when 
 the time comes.” 
 
 He fancied himself immensely as the architect of 
 his own fortunes. Worse yet, he conceived the idea 
 that he was the originator, promoter, guardian 
 angel, practically the creator, of his glorious little 
 cousin the Queen. For her success he secretly took 
 the credit. Of her conduct he was inclined to take 
 full charge. He regarded her as a mere woman, and 
 therefore incapable of sound judgment or the man- 
 agement of affairs. He went back in his ideas to 
 that ancient, disappointing dictum of the King: 
 
 “Every man shall bear rule in his own house.” 
 
 Thus you see, (according to the Persian legend, 
 
 94 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 the truth of which I dare neither affirm nor deny,) 
 
 the world-old question of woman’s rights came up 
 again and brought consequences. 
 
 “Is she not my daughter by adoption?” said 
 Mordecai to himself. “‘Have I not trained this little 
 Queen Esther, née Hadassah, and made her what 
 she is? Her beauty is but skin deep and will wear 
 away. But I am a wise experienced man. My judg- 
 ments and counsels have enduring value. Does she 
 not owe me obedience? She being my adopted 
 daughter, her house is my house, in which I pro- 
 pose to bear rule. I will speak to her with authority. 
 She shall follow my instructions.” 
 
 The first point on which he endeavored to con- 
 trol her was her manner of treating her husband. 
 As one of the family Mordecai was readily admitted 
 to the presence of the Queen. Having been ushered 
 in through the damask curtains by the chief eunuch, 
 he found her Majesty busy embroidering a certain 
 silken vest for Xerxes, whereof we shall hear later. 
 
 Mordecai began his discourse: 
 
 “Cousin,” he said, “I have observed that the 
 King does not look well. His eyes are puffy, and his 
 hand trembles. He is too much given to the cup 
 and the platter.” 
 
 95 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “T know it,” said Esther, meekly and sadly. 
 
 “IT must tell you then,” continued Mordecai as a 
 master might admonish a pupil, “that you neglect 
 your duty toward your husband. You must warn 
 him against these indulgences.” 
 
 “TI have done so,” sighed Esther, “as wisely and 
 gently as I could. By the delights of our mutual 
 love I have sought to turn him away from those 
 grosser pleasures.” 
 
 “But that is not enough,” said her Mentor. “ You 
 must be strict and stern with him. You must not 
 plead with him. You must prohibit.” 
 
 ’ 
 
 “Excuse me,” said Esther with rising anger, “I 
 will leave that for you to do. I know the King’s 
 temper better than you. Where reason and love 
 prevail not with him, prohibition will never suc- 
 ceed.”’ 
 
 “But you have the power to enforce your will,” 
 persisted Mordecai with the nasal drone of a vain 
 weak man. “You must do as I tell you. Withdraw 
 yourself from him until he yields.” 
 
 Then Esther’s eyes flashed fire and her voice had 
 a certain ominous ring. 
 
 “That will I not do,” she cried, “for then he 
 
 would cease to love me. But what business is this 
 
 96 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 of yours, sir meddler? Go your way! You have the 
 Queen’s permission to withdraw.” 
 
 So Mordecai went out through the damask cur- 
 tains, somewhat abashed. Esther continued her 
 embroidery; but she pricked her finger and made 
 several false stitches. 
 
 The next matter on which he sought to make his 
 masculine will and wisdom prevail was in truth a 
 very difficult and dangerous one, though to his im- 
 becile conceit it seemed quite trivial and easy. It 
 was the question of dress. 
 
 For some years the girdle of the Queen had been 
 lengthening slightly, and very naturally, for she 
 had borne two children. But Mordecai judged that 
 the manner of her attire was much in fault, and con- 
 ceived that it was his duty as a man of infallible 
 taste to set it right. 
 
 “Cousin,” he said, having with difficulty ob- 
 tained a private audience, “I have observed that 
 you are growing stout.” 
 
 “What !”’ flashed the Queen, “you dare——”’ 
 
 “T have also observed,” continued he with irri- 
 tating calm authority, “that women cannot endure 
 to hear the plain truth about fatness. Now I tell 
 you, and I know, that you must no more wear 
 
 97 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 those short garments. They make you look dumpy. 
 You must always wear long, flowing, fringed robes.” 
 
 *“Hideous and awkward things,” she cried, “‘like 
 window-curtains. I hate them.” 
 
 “Also in the matter of colors,” pursued the in-— 
 fatuated arbiter of elegance, “your taste is bad. 
 You shall no longer affect gay hues, but use 
 tints more suitable,—dark purple and _ sober 
 green.” 
 
 “Dark purple I detest,” laughed Esther, who be- 
 gan to see the humor of the case, “and sober green 
 I abhor. Lilac trimmed with silver and rose broi- 
 dered with gold are my favorite colors. Xerxes also 
 admires them, and I shall wear them no matter 
 what you say.” 
 
 “You forget the deference that you owe me,” 
 persisted Mordecai. “Have I not brought you up 
 from a child?” 
 
 “You have,” she answered, smiling, “‘and now I 
 am a woman. I shall please myself to please the 
 King. You know no more of woman’s dress than a 
 camel knows of dancing. So go your way, cousin, 
 and leave me in peace.” 
 
 But when he had gone out from her presence and 
 turned into the long dark gallery beyond, she heard 
 
 98 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 a sudden noise of scuffling and violent struggle and 
 a muffled cry of “Help, help!” 
 
 Esther ran out, fearless, and found two Persian 
 chamberlains of the court who hated Mordecai for 
 his rich arrogance, and who had leaped upon him 
 in the darkness, seeking to strangle him with a 
 noose of twisted silk. These craven murderers she 
 buffeted fiercely with her bare hands, cutting their 
 faces with her heavy rings. 
 
 “Begone, vile ruffians,” she cried. And when 
 they saw who it was, they fled like antelopes. 
 
 She loosed the cord from the victim’s neck, and 
 presently helped him to his feet with much tender- 
 ness, for her affection was not dead. 
 
 “Dear old cousin,” she said, “‘have those wicked 
 rascals hurt you?” 
 
 “Terribly,” answered the trembling man. “I 
 should have perished, but the Queen has saved my 
 life. I am her devoted slave forever.” 
 
 But this, as a matter of fact, he was not. For as 
 soon as his strength returned, with it came back 
 his vain dominance as a man of parts and power. 
 He was obsessed with the desire to control Esther, 
 and through her to direct the King. 
 
 On every occasion he corrected her, instructed 
 
 99 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 her, reproved her with his eyes even when he was 
 afraid to speak. He vexed and oppressed her with 
 his masterful airs. He thwarted and burdened her. 
 He was a collar of thorns about her neck and a cloak 
 of lead on her shoulders. 
 
 It was about this time that Xerxes meditated and 
 prepared his gorgeous and disastrous expedition to 
 conquer Greece. By this he intended that Asia 
 should subjugate and rule Europe. Mordecai was hot 
 for the enterprise in which he foresaw great profit. 
 
 “It is a noble plan,” he told the Queen, “and it is 
 your duty to encourage and urge the King to go 
 COMES 
 
 “I think not,” she answered quietly, for she had 
 pondered the project deeply. “My opinion is right 
 against it, for it will bring expense, sorrow, and 
 much evil.” 
 
 “Your opinion, madam,” he said in a superior 
 tone, “is neither here nor there. It is your plain 
 duty to hearten the King in this undertaking on 
 which he is already resolved. You must certainly 
 do this.” 
 
 “I will not,” she replied firmly. “On the con- 
 trary, I shall dissuade him by all means in my 
 power. I have received a warning from above, and 
 
 100 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 have made up my mind to oppose this mad enter- 
 prise.” 
 
 “Then you will sin against your father’s instruc- 
 tion and your lord’s will,” said Mordecai. And he 
 went out in a rage. 
 
 But Esther communed with her own spirit and 
 was greatly troubled. Yet her conviction and her 
 courage did not fail. Once again, as in former time, 
 she faced the danger of going in to the King unbid- 
 den. So she put on her robe of rose broidered with 
 gold and went in. 
 
 When he saw her she obtained favor in his sight, 
 even as before, and he held out to her the golden 
 sceptre of clemency. This she touched, and knelt 
 at his feet. 
 
 “What wilt thou, Queen Esther ?” he asked, “and 
 what is thy request? It shall be given unto thee 
 even to the half of the kingdom.” 
 
 “My lord,” she answered, “if I have found favor 
 in your eyes, this is my humble petition: that the 
 King should turn back from this enterprise against 
 the Greeks who dwell beyond the sea.” 
 
 “By Bel and Marduk,” he laughed, “this is no 
 humble petition. It is more than half the kingdom. 
 This is a new world that I go to subdue.” 
 
 101 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “Is not my lord’s dominion already very great,” 
 she replied, “and richer than any other upon the 
 earth? Does it need increase? These Greeks are a 
 poor people beside the Persians and the Medians 
 and the Babylonians and the Egyptians over whom 
 my lord rules. What profit is there in a triumph 
 over beggars? It is not wise to wager a crown of 
 jewels against a wreath of green leaves.” 
 
 “But the land of Greece has high renown,” an- 
 swered Xerxes. “She boasts herself of greater wis- 
 dom than Persia. She has poets and philosophers, 
 sculptors and painters, of whom she is proud, 
 though she uses money of iron and dishes of earth- 
 enware. I will humble these haughty ones and make 
 them eat out of my hand.” 
 
 “Yet they are strong fighters,” said the Queen 
 anxiously, “and skilful mariners,—a hardy race. 
 Their youths and maidens are trained to bodily 
 vigor and prowess. They dare all for their country 
 and know not when they are beaten.” 
 
 “They shall know, when I have come to them,”’ 
 bragged Xerxes. “I will overwhelm them and 
 trample them and make their poets sing my praise 
 and their sculptors carve images of me. Dissuade 
 me no more.” 
 
 102 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 “But, my lord,” said Esther trembling, “I have 
 
 had warning in a dream,—a dreadful dream of a 
 bridge swept away by a flood, and a huge ship 
 broken on the rocks, and a mighty host scattered 
 in defeat. Go not up against these Greeks, my lord, 
 I beseech you by love.” 
 
 “To love will I listen to-night, lovely Queen,” 
 laughed Xerxes, “but not to dissuasion. I also have 
 been visited by a dream. Three times it came and 
 promised me the conquest of Greece. I am surely 
 going to my triumph. But has my Queen no smaller 
 petition that I may grant?” 
 
 Esther thought a while before she answered. 
 
 “My request is that the King would send my 
 cousin Mordecai to be royal governor of Paphla- 
 gonia on the shore of the Black Sea. It is a distant 
 province, and cold, but the honor of the position © 
 will comfort him.” 
 
 > 
 
 “TI have a better thing in store for him,” said 
 Xerxes, “he shall go-with me to the war and 
 be a general in my army. Does that content my 
 Queen ?”’ 
 
 “It pleases me,’ 
 
 > 
 
 she answered, smiling faintly, 
 “for when he is away I shall govern the royal house 
 here with care and bring up our children with dis- 
 103 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 cretion. For the rest, I am ready now to yield to 
 the King’s desire and long for his return.” 
 
 So this matter was concluded, and the next day 
 Xerxes, well satisfied, set out on his grand expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 Enormous was the host that followed his proud 
 insignia. There were twelve hundred and seven huge 
 vessels in the fleet and more than five million war- 
 riors in the unwieldy army. 
 
 Strange was the aspect of that barbaric throng 
 advancing like a horde of locusts to devour the land. 
 There were the Persians with their long bows and 
 many-colored tunics protected with steel plates; 
 the Assyrians with their brazen helmets and large 
 clubs studded with iron; the Scythians with their 
 long breeches and short spears; the Caspians clad 
 in skins and carrying javelins and scimitars; the 
 Ethiopians with their goat-horn lances and helmets 
 made of horses’ heads; the Paphlagonians with netted 
 casques and high boots; the Thracians of Asia, with 
 purple buskins and helmets adorned with horns of 
 oxen; the Nysians with small leather shields and 
 javelins hardened in the fire; and what other fries 
 and nations I know not, nor have time to tell. 
 
 Their commanders were bedecked with gold and 
 
 104 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 gems. They had golden and silvern vessels for their 
 food; horses and asses for their conveyance; servants 
 and concubines for their pleasure; carriages for the 
 women. In a chariot drawn by Nisan steeds rode 
 Xerxes the Great. A bodyguard of a thousand nobles 
 attended him. Ten thousand picked footmen, trail- 
 ing spears, followed the chariot. Then came an 
 equal number of Persian cavalry. Quarter of a 
 mile behind them straggled a vast, disordered, and 
 promiscuous mob. 
 
 They ate up the country like a cancer. They 
 drank the rivers dry. To the regions which welcomed 
 them they were a calamity. To those which resisted 
 them they were a curse. They left behind them 
 famine, disease, and misbegotten children. 
 
 When Xerxes looked upon his gigantic host in 
 the plains of Abydos he wept aloud. 
 
 “Why does the Great King weep?” asked Arta- 
 banus, one of his generals who had advised against 
 the war. 
 
 To think that in a hundred years not one of this 
 great multitude will be left alive.” 
 
 “In less time than that,” said the philosophic 
 general, ““most of these people may have perished. 
 When we begin a thing the end is hidden from us.”’ 
 
 105 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Hearing with anger that the bridge he had built 
 over the Hellespont had been destroyed by a storm, 
 Xerxes commanded that the rebellious sea should 
 be punished with three hundred lashes and a new 
 bridge erected without delay. Over this the army 
 and the camp-followers were driven with whips. 
 Seven days and nights were spent in the cross- 
 ing. ; 
 
 After this fashion the famous invasion of the 
 West by the East was accomplished. But this was 
 not the end of it. 
 
 Then followed the heroic resistance of Leonidas 
 with his three hundred Spartans at Thermopyle, 
 and the costly, fruitless after-battle. The citadel of 
 Athens was taken and burned to no purpose. The 
 Greek fleet remained alive and ready for action at 
 Salamis. Xerxes took his seat upon a little hill to 
 witness the crushing of the three hundred and eighty 
 ships of Greece by his proud armada of twelve hun- 
 dred ships sweeping down from the north like a huge 
 flock of cranes. 
 
 But the Greeks were not frogs. They were hawks. 
 They ripped and tore and harried the vessels of the 
 barbarians; drove them upon the shoals where they 
 were helpless; split them asunder and sank them; 
 
 106 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 boarded them and exterminated their sailors and 
 warriors. It was a rout, an overthrow, a marine 
 ruin. The Persian King on his green hillside saw his 
 glittering armada disperse and melt like snow upon 
 the waters. 
 
 Xerxes in terror, left Mardonius, (was this Mor- 
 decai?) in command of the remnants of his army in 
 Greece, and fled by devious ways toward Asia. 
 Many and mean were the adventures of his flight. 
 But at last he came to Sardis in Lydia, a rich city 
 and full of sensual delights. Here he tarried, giving 
 himself to the pleasures of cup and platter and to 
 entanglements with beautiful women. 
 
 Meantime Queen Esther kept the King’s house at 
 Shushan and nourished her children. When a swift 
 messenger came with news of Xerxes’ entrance into 
 Greece and the capture of Athens, she rejoiced. 
 When a second messenger came to announce the 
 disaster to the fleet and the King’s flight, she wept. 
 When a third messenger came, telling of Xerxes’ 
 sojourn in Sardis and whispering that a fair lady 
 there, named Artaynta, boasted that he had re- 
 warded her favors with a certain embroidered vest 
 made for him by the Queen, Esther knew that she 
 was free from her bonds. 
 
 107 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 So she sent another messenger, very trusty, with 
 this letter to King Xerxes. 
 
 ‘Esther, once the King’s wife in Shushan, to the 
 Lord of the Medes and Persians, ruler of a hundred 
 and seven and twenty provinces, sendeth due greet- 
 ing. If ever she found favor in the King’s eyes, and 
 if now he has given the silken vest which she broi- 
 dered for his body to a woman named Artaynta, then 
 this is the petition of Esther and this her humble 
 request of her lord. That he would grant unto her 
 a certain house which belongs to him in Tarsus, 
 with provision for its care, that she may live 
 there in quietness and bring up his children in 
 honor.” 
 
 “Let her have it,” said Xerxes to his treasurer. 
 And he went on his way, sporting, fighting, drink- 
 ing, dallying, until the fatal dagger provided by his 
 son Artaxerxes let out the hot stream of his life on 
 the floor of the seraglio. 
 
 But in the pleasant city of Tarsus, in her house 
 by the silver Cydnus, Esther lived at peace. The 
 lilac and the rose, the lily and the oleander bloomed 
 in her garden. The nightingale and the thrush sang 
 among her trees. Her son and her daughter grew 
 beside her in strength and beauty. Her days went 
 
 108 
 
A QUEEN’S DELIVERANCE 
 
 by as smoothly and sweetly as the river. There was 
 no more rebellion, for she was released. 
 
 This is the end of the Persian legend concerning 
 Queen Esther, who was first named Hadassah, that 
 
 is to say Myrtle, a flower of peace. 
 
 109 
 

 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
’ i ), 
 TAR 
 net 
 
 Ne 
 jj 
 
 vy 
 
 , 4 
 rh 
 
 * 
 
 A 
 
 A | 
 
 ee 
 
 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 THIS is a true tale of Holland in war-time. But it 
 is not a military story. It is a story of the sea— 
 
 “The opaline, the plentiful and strong”— 
 
 likewise the perilous. 
 
 I 
 
 In the quaint Dutch village of Oudwyk, on the 
 shore of the North Sea, lived the widow Anny Min- 
 derop with her sons. In her girlhood she had been a 
 school-teacher, and had married Karel Minderop, 
 the handsome skipper of a fishing-smack. Her hus- 
 band was lost in a storm on the Dogger Bank; but 
 he left her two boys, a little brick cottage, and a 
 small sum of money invested in Dutch East India 
 bonds. The income from these she doubled by turn- 
 ing her cottage into a modest tea-and-coffee house 
 for the service of travellers by “‘fiets” or automobile, 
 who “biked” or motored from The Hague, or Ley- 
 den, or Haarlem, to see the picturesque village with 
 its ancient, high-shouldered church and its “koe- 
 
 > 
 
 pelije,” commanding a wide view over the ragged 
 dunes and the long smooth beach. 
 
 113 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 The tea-house, with its gaily painted door and 
 
 window-shutters, was set in a tiny, exuberant gar- 
 den on the edge of the sand-hills, looking out across 
 the tulip-flooded flatlands toward Haarlem, whose 
 huge church of St. Bavo dominated the level land- 
 scape like a mountain. 
 
 The drinkables provided by Mevreuw Minderop 
 for her transient guests were cheering, and she had 
 secret recipes for honey-cake and jam roly-poly of an 
 incredible excellence. The fame of her neatness, her 
 amiability, and her superior cookery spread abroad 
 quietly among the inéelligentsia in such matters. 
 There was no publicity,—no advertising except a 
 little placard over the garden-gate, with WELTE- 
 VREDEN in gilt letters on a bright blue ground. 
 But there was a steady trickle of patrons, and busi- 
 ness was good enough to keep the house going. 
 
 I fell into the afternoon habit of riding out from 
 my office in The Hague when work was slack, to 
 have a cup of tea, a roly-poly, and perhaps a tiny 
 glass of anisette with my pipe. These creature com- 
 forts were mildly spiced by talks with the plump 
 widow in my stumbling Dutch, or her careful, creak- 
 ing English. 
 
 She always reminded me of the epitaph,—in an 
 
 114 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 Irish church I think,—which recorded of a certain 
 lady that “she was bland, passionate, and deeply 
 religious, and worked beautifully in crewels.’’ Anny 
 Minderop was a Calvinist of the straitest sect, but 
 distinctly of the Martha-type. She did not allow her 
 faith in the absolute foreordination of all events to 
 interfere with her anxious care in the baking of 
 honey-cake and the brewing of tea and coffee. 
 
 The passionate element of her nature was centred 
 on her two boys, who were rapidly growing to be 
 equal to one man. He was a two-sided man. Karel, 
 the older, was a brown-haired fleshy youth, with 
 slow movements and a deep-rooted love of garden- 
 ing. He had already found a good place with a tulip- 
 grower in Oudwyk-Binnen. Klaas was a tow-headed, 
 blue-eyed lad about thirteen years old, sturdy in 
 figure, rather stolid in manner, but full of adventure. 
 He dreamed of more exciting things than the grow- 
 ing of bulbs. He had the blood of old Tasman and 
 Heemskerck in his veins. The sea had cast her spell 
 upon him. He was determined to be a sailor, a fish- 
 erman, an explorer, a captain; and ultimately, of 
 course, in his dreams he saw himself an admiral, or 
 at least a rear-admiral,—a schout-bij-nacht, as the 
 Dutch picturesquely call it. 
 
 LS 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 ‘Little Mother,” he would say, “didn’t Holland 
 
 win her glory from the sea?”’ 
 
 “Yes, sonny,” she would answer, “but it cost her 
 dear. Many brave Dutch bones sleep under the — 
 waters.” 
 
 ‘What difference? It’s as good sleeping under the 
 waters as in the wormy dust of the graveyard. A 
 man must die some time.” 
 
 “But you’re not a man yet. You're only a boy. 
 It is foolish to risk losing your life before you’ve 
 got it.” 
 
 “T’ve got it already, mother. Look how big and 
 strong I am for my age. None of the boys can 
 throw me; and Skipper Houthof says I can tie all 
 the sailor’s knots. You don’t want me to waste all 
 that sticking bulbs in the ground and waiting for 
 °em to grow.” 
 
 “Gardening is a good business, sonny; it was the 
 first that God gave to man. It is safe and quiet. 
 It is just reaping the fruit of His bounty.” 
 
 “Yes, but the Bible says that they that go down 
 to the sea in ships behold His wonders in the deep. 
 I’d rather see one wonder than raise a million tulips. 
 Och, mammy dear, let me be a sailor.” 
 
 “But how are you going to do it? Nobody wants 
 a boy.” 
 
 116 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 “Mother dear, I'll tell you. Skipper Houthof is 
 going to sail in his new lugger Zeehond, June fifth, 
 for the herring-fishing. He’s got a great crew,—those 
 big Diepen brothers, very strong men, elders in the 
 kirk, and the two brothers Wynkoop, and little Piet 
 Vos, and old Steenis, and Beekman, and Groen and 
 Bruin who always go together, and Brouwer,—those 
 are all good Christians, you know, always go to the 
 meeting and sing hymns. The skipper is taking 
 young Arie Bok,—you know that nice boy in our 
 school,—just my age,—as cabin-boy,—says he'll take 
 me too. Won’t you please let me go?”’ 
 
 “That would make just thirteen on the ship,” said 
 the widow, who had been counting her crochet 
 stitches. 
 
 “Yes, but what difference? You always told me 
 not to have these by-beliefs.”’ 
 
 “That is right. Yet old customs sometimes have 
 good reasons. You must let me weigh it over in my 
 mind, Klaas; to-morrow I will tell you.” 
 
 The boy went out of the room, and the widow 
 Minderop turned to me as I sat smoking and think- 
 ing. 
 
 “It is hard to decide,” she said. “‘Skipper Houthof 
 is a good man, though he’s young for his place. 
 Those big Diepen brothers are fine seamen, none 
 
 mus 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 better; they’re God-fearing men, too, though they 
 
 shout too loud in meeting, and sometimes they drink 
 too much old Jenever and make trouble in the village. 
 _ But it isn’t the captain or the crew I’m afraid of. 
 “It’s the sea,—the hungry sea that took my lad’s 
 father.” | 
 
 “Well,” I answered, “it surely is hard to decide for 
 others; not easy even to decide for ourselves. Per- 
 haps it is Just as well that in the long run a Wiser 
 Person decides what will happen to us. Your Klaas 
 is a good boy, and this seems to be a good crew. 
 When a lad is in love with the sea, you may hold 
 him back for a while, but the only possible way to 
 cure him is to let him try it,—and even that doesn’t - 
 always work. Perhaps it ought not to. It is in God’s 
 hand,—the sea also is His.”’ 
 
 “‘I believe it,’ she answered, “but it is a strain 
 
 93 
 
 
 
 on my faith, when I remember 
 
 II 
 
 The fifth of June came around in due season. The 
 sturdy Zeehond, spick and span with her new rig- 
 ging, fresh paint, brown sails, nets neatly stowed 
 under tarpaulin, rowboats on deck, lay with the 
 rest of the herring fleet in the small stone-walled 
 
 118 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 haven, easily the queen of the fleet. Flags and 
 
 streamers fluttered in the light breeze; the stone 
 walls were lined with people, chattering, singing, and 
 shouting huzzah. As the little ships began to stir 
 some one struck up a hymn. The loudest singers 
 were the big Diepen brothers, tall, heavily built, 
 masterful men. Their light gray eyes shone under 
 heavy brows in their tanned faces, like lustrous 
 shells in a tangle of brown seaweed. They shouted 
 the familiar tune an octave below the key. 
 
 Some of the crowd were weeping. There is some- 
 thing like a wedding in the sailing of a ship; it draws 
 tears from the sentimental. 
 
 But Anny Minderop was not crying. She wanted 
 her eyes clear to see the last of her boy Klaas. She 
 wanted her silk handkerchief dry to wave to him as 
 he leaned over the hakkebord, looking back. 
 
 Nothing could have been more fair and promising 
 than the departure of the herring fleet that year. It 
 is true that the green-gray expanse of water which 
 is called in Germany the German Ocean, and else- 
 where the North Sea, is always harsh and treacher- 
 ous, often covered with danger-hiding fog, and some- 
 times swept by insane tempests. It is true also that 
 in the gruesome war-time the perils of the deep 
 
 119 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 were increased by German submarines and floating 
 mines. For these the cautious Captain Houthof kept 
 a sharp lookout. But the big Diepen brothers, and 
 under their influence the rest of the crew, recked 
 little of these uncharted dangers. Their mind was on 
 the fishing and the profits to follow. A typical Dutch- 
 man faces a risk calmly if there is a chance of good 
 gain behind it. 
 
 The reports from the fishing-banks were all en- 
 couraging. The fish were already there, and coming 
 in abundantly. They could be seen on the surface, 
 milling around in vast circles, as if baby whirlwinds 
 were lightly passing over the water. It was going to 
 be a great catch for the Zeehond, predicted the 
 Diepens. God was on their side, this time. He was 
 going to make them rich if they obeyed Him. 
 
 “Even you,” said the giant Simon, clapping the 
 boy Klaas on the shoulder with a hand like a baked 
 ham, “even you, my young one, shall carry home a 
 pocketful of gulden to your mother, if you are good 
 and say your prayers every day.” 
 
 The boy stood as stiff as he could under the heavy 
 caress and thanked the big man, who seemed to be 
 really fond of him. 
 
 So far as I was able to learn afterward, the voy- 
 
 120 
 
THE DEVIL‘AT ‘SEA 
 
 age went splendidly for about three weeks. Weather 
 fair; fishing fine; eighty tons of herring; every body 
 working hard and cheerful. Klaas and Arie wore 
 their fingers sore hauling and mending the nets. The 
 salt stung them fiercely. But it was great fun. They 
 ate like pigs and slept like logs. Simon Diepen never 
 would let them go to sleep without saying their 
 prayers. The tone of the lugger was a compound of 
 fervent piety, tense work, and high good humor. 
 Even if the other men had wanted to slacken on the 
 piety, the Diepens would not allow it. By their big- 
 ness, their strength, and their masterful ways they 
 bossed the ship, including the young captain. Little 
 Piet Vos followed them like a dog. He looked on 
 them as Apostles. The rest of the crew stood in awe, 
 and if they sinned at all, were careful to do it out 
 of sight and hearing of the devout giants. 
 
 With the fourth week of the voyage came a 
 strange alteration in the luck. Weather grew cold, 
 rough, foggy, dangerous. Fish became scarce and 
 hard to catch. Worst of all, the gin, of which a 
 liberal supply had been provided for daily use, gave 
 out entirely. The Diepens, who were heavy drink- 
 ers but always steady on their legs, felt the lack 
 more than they knew. They grew nervous, moody, 
 
 121 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 quick-tempered, overbearing. They brooded over 
 the Bible, and said there was something wrong with 
 the Zeehond ; God’s judgment followed her for sin. 
 
 One evening in a billowing fog the lugger ran close 
 to a mass of wreckage from some lost ship. En- 
 tangled in it were two wooden cases. The Diepens 
 pulled them aboard, and took them down below to 
 open them. No one dared dispute their right. They 
 found the cases full of bottles, one of which they © 
 uncorked. It was a strange liquor, but it looked, 
 and smelled, and tasted like dark gin. It made them 
 feel at home. The second bottle added to this effect. 
 The third and fourth bottles they took up to the 
 skipper. 
 
 “Look, captain,” they said very solemnly, “here 
 is a proof that we are not yet castaways. God has 
 warned us. Now if we repent and put away our sins, 
 He will spare us. But we must pray hard and do 
 His will.” 
 
 Then they went below and opened another bottle. 
 But before it was finished they fell asleep with the 
 Bible open between them at the Book of Revelation. 
 
 In the morning gray they came on deck and Piet 
 Vos followed them. The skipper was taking a turn 
 at the wheel. All three of the men seemed steady 
 
 122 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 on their legs, but their eyes were wild. Simon lifted 
 up his face and began to talk with God. The skipper 
 said he could not hear the words, but he heard the 
 trombone voice in which God answered. Then Simon 
 came up close, and said: 
 
 “TI am Christ. God has just told me that I must 
 clean the Devil out of this ship. He is here, in the 
 things, in the men, especially in that damned old 
 helmsman, Steenis. You can see the Devil looking 
 out of his eyes.” 
 
 “But what will you do?” asked the skipper. 
 “Have a care! We must answer for everything.” 
 
 “IT have no care,” said Simon, “but to do what 
 God tells me. You must follow. Men will judge us, 
 but our conscience will be clean. My brother Jan 
 and Piet Vos heard God speak to me. The ship 
 must be cleaned. Do not interfere, or the Devil will 
 get you too.” 
 
 Simon turned on his heel and went below. From 
 that moment on the lugger a fatal insanity reigned 
 and a superstitious cowardice trembled before it. 
 
 Just what happened on the doomed vessel will 
 never be fully known. A week later a Norwegian 
 steamship picked up the Zeehond, drifting helpless 
 on the water. Three men were missing; mast and 
 
 123 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 rigging, gear and boats, all gone; deck and forecastle 
 
 smeared with blood; she was a gruesome floating 
 ruin. The Norwegian towed her into Hull. 
 
 The big Diepens, Piet Vos, and two others were 
 sent to Holland in a fast steamer. The skipper and 
 four others were brought on a slower boat, not yet in. 
 
 The general outline of the tragedy had been — 
 printed promptly in the newspapers. But I wanted 
 to know the particulars. What happened to the two 
 boys? Was my blue-eyed friend Klaas safe? How 
 had he been affected by his first adventure at sea? 
 
 It 
 
 The summer day brightened and gloomed in the 
 sky as I wheeled along the beach toward Oudwyk 
 and the cottage Weltevreden. 
 
 “Well contented”? the name means. It is much 
 used for houses great and small in Holland, and rep- 
 resents one aspect of the Dutch character. Would 
 Mevrouw Minderop be so well contented now, after 
 this tragedy? Or would her calm be broken, as the 
 July afternoon threatened to break under the heavy 
 thunder-clouds looming in the west ? 
 
 After I had passed the populous bathing-station of 
 Scheveningen the coast stretched before me in long 
 
 124 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 monotony. On the right rose the dunes; steep banks 
 and hillocks, yellowish gray on their face, crested 
 above with rusty shrubs and tufts of wire-grass, like 
 the wisps of hair on an old man’s head. Under my 
 wheel crunched the ashen sand of the desolate beach; 
 bare of life, empty even of beautiful shells; tossed 
 and tormented by the fitful wind in the dry places; 
 corroded and wrinkled in the damp places by the 
 waves, which advanced menacing and roaring, spread 
 out, and then withdrew whispering, as if they con- 
 spired some day to conquer and overwhelm this 
 low-lying, rich, obstinate land of dikes and dunes. 
 On the left the North Sea brooded; pallid, verddtre, 
 like the rust on copper; a curious, envious, discon- 
 tented sea, darkened by black cloud shadows, lit 
 suddenly and strangely by vivid streaks of light like 
 signals of danger, fading on the horizon into the 
 gray mist and leaden clouds. 
 
 What wonder that the Hollanders, facing ever this 
 menace and mystery of seeping tides and swelling 
 billows that threaten to rob them of their hard-won 
 land, have developed the stubborn courage, the dour 
 pertinacity that mark their race? What wonder 
 that on the other side, having thus far won the vic- 
 tory of resistance to wild waters and foreign tyrants, 
 
 125 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 they are at times extravagantly merry, full of loud 
 laughter and song, the best fighters and feasters in 
 the world? Look at the brave gaiety of Franz 
 Hals’ Arquebusiers, or Van der Helst’s Banquet of 
 the Target Company. 
 
 When I pushed my bicycle up one of the sandy 
 tracks that lead inland, I found myself in another, 
 and to my eyes pleasanter, world. The sea was hid- 
 den, for the most part, by the crest of the dunes. 
 The hills and hollows lay around me in green con- 
 fusion. Mosses and trailing vines covered the ground. 
 Clumps of pine-trees, clusters of oaks, thickets of 
 birch and alder, were scattered here and _ there. 
 Larks warbled from the sky; wrens and finches sang 
 in the copse; rabbits scuttled into the thick bushes. 
 It was a little wilderness, but no desert. 
 
 Presently the outlying houses of Oudwyk appeared, 
 and at last the red gable and blue gate of Welte- 
 vreden, sitting quiet in its gay little garden. Roses 
 and lilies, geraniums and fuchsias portioned the light 
 into many colors by the secret alchemy of flowers. 
 The reseda sweetened the air with its clean scent. 
 The place was a monument of the skill and care with 
 which man makes the best of Nature’s gifts. 
 
 Within, the widow Minderop sat at her crochet- 
 
 126 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 work in the tea-room. The uncertain weather had 
 hindered other guests. She rose from her chair, drop- 
 ping her work, and came to meet me with unusual 
 eagerness. 
 
 ’ 
 
 “Yes, mynheer,”’ she cried as if there were only 
 one subject worthy of speech, “my Klaas is safe. 
 God has delivered him from the sea and from those 
 wicked men. I have a telegram from him. He is 
 coming home to-day. Och, how I hanker to see him, 
 to know really how he is.” 
 
 A moment later the door opened and the boy 
 came in; tanned, weather-beaten, a bit the worse 
 for wear, but stark and sound as ever. Only his 
 face was older, as if he had lived through years. 
 He embraced his mother with boyish affection, 
 saluted me with grave friendliness, and then sat 
 down at the table to partake of coffee with unlim- 
 ited honey-cakes and rolls. 
 
 At our request he began to unfold the story of his 
 weird adventure. Reluctantly at first, and with 
 some interruptions, (which I leave out,) he told what 
 had happened on the lugger, and how it had struck 
 him. 
 
 “In the beginning,” he said, “it was splendid. 
 The weather was good. The Zeehond is a great ship. 
 
 127 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 She rides over the waves like a water-fowl. None of 
 them could smash her. The fishing was lucky. 
 Everybody was in good humor. Och, mother, the 
 sea is just wonderful. I love it. 
 
 “TI don’t know how long it was before the change 
 came. The fishing petered out; the gin,—you know 
 how much those big Diepens drink,—was all gone. 
 They got cross and grumpy and angry at nothing. 
 
 ‘They sang and prayed more than ever; but it 
 sounded to me as if they were not praying fo God 
 so much as at some one that they hated on the ship. 
 
 “Mother, that’s an awful thing,—to hear men 
 pray at people instead of fo God! It scared me. 
 What if God should overhear them ? 
 
 “Then, after four or five days, those Diepens 
 fished up two boxes out of the sea, and took them 
 below. They were full of strange liquor, and Simon 
 and Jan began to drink again, more than ever. But 
 the drink did not make them cheerful and friendly. 
 It made them black and sour and full of wickedness. 
 
 “Something happened on deck in the morning, 
 before I was up. Simon told how God had spoken 
 to him, and said that ‘he was Christ our Saviour, 
 and that there were devils in the ship, and that 
 Simon must clean them out, by hook or by crook, 
 
 128 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 no matter what it cost, no matter who got hurt. 
 That was what our Saviour did on earth.’ 
 
 “But, mother, when Christ was here many peo- 
 ple who had devils came to Him and He never hurt 
 one of them. He was kind to them. He delivered 
 them. He made them well. That is why I was sure 
 that it could not be the spirit of Jesus who entered 
 into Simon. It was the big Devil himself who came 
 in with pride and anger and strong drink. 
 
 “But Jan believed what Simon said because he 
 was like him. And Piet Vos believed because he 
 was Simon’s little hound. And the skipper thought 
 he had heard God’s voice speaking to Simon; but 
 he was really just plain scared because the Diepens 
 were so big and strong and fierce. The rest of the 
 crew were scared too, except three men. These 
 were the ones that Simon said had devils because 
 he hated them. 
 
 “The first was old Steenis the helmsman. He 
 wouldn’t give in to the Diepens at all. He said they 
 were just crazy. So Jan and Simon fell on him at 
 the wheel; cracked his head open with a belaying- 
 pin so that the blood and brains spilled on the deck; 
 and threw him into the sea. 
 
 “Och, mother, it was frightful. Arie Bok and I 
 
 129 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 were scared sick. But inside I was not afraid. I 
 remembered what you told me about God taking 
 care of us if we try to do right, and I thought that 
 a real Hollander ought never to show that he’s - 
 afraid anyhow. 
 
 “Why didn’t we do something to stop the butch- 
 ery? But what could we do? If we had stood up 
 against those big, beastly men, they would have 
 laughed, and snapped us in two like a pipe-stem. 
 All we could do was to cry, and beg them to stop, 
 and say our prayers, and keep as far as we could 
 from the bloody work. 
 
 “The next two that were killed were Beekman 
 and Brouwer. They were quiet men, kind of dull 
 and stupid. But Simon said they had devils,— 
 dumb devils, he called them. So he made them 
 dance on the deck for about an hour to shake the 
 devils out. 
 
 “But Simon and Jan and little Piet said the danc- 
 ing was bad,—Devil-dancing, they called it; no good 
 at all. So they drove poor old Beekman and Brouwer 
 down below, and bashed their heads in with iron 
 bars, and cut their breasts open with knives to let 
 the devils loose. Then they dragged the bodies on 
 deck, all bloody, and threw them into the sea. 
 
 130 
 
THE DEVIL AT SEA 
 
 While they were doing this all of them sang a hymn. 
 
 “Mother, it made me so sick, I thought I was 
 going to die. 
 
 “The next day they set to work on the ship. 
 They said it was poisoned by the devils and must 
 be cleansed all over. So they cut down the mast 
 and the rigging and threw them overboard. The 
 rowboats, the nets, the empty barrels that stood 
 on deck, everything was chucked into the water. 
 Even the woodwork was hacked and broken. It 
 made my heart bleed to see the lovely Zeehond 
 abused and spoiled that way. She was so good and 
 strong. What harm had she done? 
 
 “Then we drifted around three or four days,—I 
 don’t know how long,—like a log in the sea. We 
 had no food except salt herrings and a few crusts of 
 bread. But at every meal those black Diepens 
 prayed and sang hymns and drank gin. It was 
 filthy. 
 
 “Then a ship from Norway picked us up, and I 
 got home somehow, I don’t know just how. Och, 
 mother, mother, I’ve been through hell.” 
 
 The lad lost control of himself; fell on his knees 
 beside his mother and put his head on her lap, 
 shaken by the dry sobs of a boy ashamed to cry. 
 
 131 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 She stroked his yellow hair gently and dropped a 
 
 kiss on it. 
 
 “Cry, darling,” she murmured, “cry! It will do 
 you good. You’ve come through. God has delivered 
 you. And now you know what the sea can do to 
 men, you'll give it up.” 
 
 The boy lifted his head. His blue eyes sparkled 
 through tears. His lips were firm again. 
 
 “Mother dear,”’ he cried, “‘it was not the sea. It 
 was the beastly men. The sea is clean. The sea was 
 kind to us. It was vanity and hatred and drink that 
 made the trouble. Rum and religion don’t mix well. 
 They let the big Devil into proud men. I’m going 
 to sea again, some day. But I'll stay with you, 
 
 dearest, till I grow up.” 
 
 132 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 

 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 THE famous old Spanish playwright Calderon gives 
 his judgment of woman—that topic about which men 
 
 say so much and know so little—in a sharp couplet. 
 
 “He is a fool who thinks by force or skill 
 To turn the current of a woman’s will.” 
 
 I am not sure that the Don is right. At least it 
 seems to me that his judgment is too absolute and 
 dogmatical. 
 
 The trouble with men is that they seek either to 
 break down a woman’s will by bullying, or else to 
 outwit it by craft and guile, deceiving her a little and 
 flattering her a good deal. Resenting the first meth- 
 od, and seeing through the second, no wonder she re- 
 fuses to submit. She either declares her independence 
 by an outbreak which might almost be called an act 
 of violence, or else she hides it by a counter-camou- 
 flage which makes you think she has yielded when 
 in fact she had not changed her mind a bit. 
 
 But there is a third way of turning a woman's will, 
 a via media, which partakes of force only in the sense 
 
 135 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 that reason is forceful, and of skill only in the sense 
 that it skilfully lets in a new light of facts on a sub- 
 ject that has already been too much debated in vain. 
 The conviction that this third way often proves good, 
 leads me to tell a story that I know about a girl who 
 
 once was in danger of making a mess of her life. 
 
 Of all the lovely damsels who have illuminated the 
 fame of Baltimore, Nancy Lang was one of the pretti- 
 est, gayest, simplest, most romantic, and obstinate. 
 A fashionable finishing-school had polished but by 
 no means finished her. She knew everything about 
 the newest dance-steps, and a little, very little, about 
 other subjects. Her mind, lively in its motions, was 
 in that state where she believed all that she read in 
 the “Sun paper,”’ (the journal which for so many 
 years has moulded the matutinal opinions of Balti- 
 more). Novels of the modern Ouida type gave form 
 and color to her secret dreams. On the surface she 
 was a delightful flirt, but under the bosom of her 
 filmy dress she carried “a heart as soft, a heart as 
 kind” as that of the lover in Herrick’s song. Her 
 flirtations were trifles. She had a half-dozen a year. 
 But her sentimental ideals were sacred to her, and 
 she was as religious as a good child. 
 
 136 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 This singular combination of frivolity, innocence, 
 and devotion made her very likable; but it also ex- 
 posed her to perils from designing and undesirable 
 young men who danced in the fortnightly German at 
 Lehman’s Hall. Her father, Archibald Lang, Esq., 
 was a strict Presbyterian elder, passing rich. His gen- 
 tle Virginian wife had persuaded him to bear with 
 Nancy’s harmless frivolity; but the thought that she 
 might be carried off by some impecunious fortune- 
 hunter was a torment to his Scots mind. His other 
 children were comfortably married. Nancy was his 
 unsolved problem. 
 
 “What shall we do about her?” he asked his wife 
 in bed one night. “It worries me; especially since 
 that fat congressman from Louisiana has been hang- 
 ing around.” 
 
 “Really,” she answered sleepily, “I don’t know, 
 Mr. Lang,” (for she called him thus even in their 
 most intimate moments). “You know how hard it 
 is to change her when she takes a notion. Perhaps 
 you might ask Sedgwick Van Allen to come down 
 here and give us his advice.” 
 
 Van Allen was the Langs’ nephew, the young bach- 
 elor rector of a high-church parish in New York, 
 strictly Anglo-catholic in his views, broad in his char- 
 
 137 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ities, and genial in his social relations among smart 
 people. In fact the Langs called him, half in derision, 
 “the worldly clergyman.” But they liked his com- 
 pany and had confidence in his judgment on affairs 
 of the world. For his part, he was very fond of his 
 aunt and uncle, and still more fond of his cousins, par- 
 ticularly Nancy. Also he had a weakness for canvas- 
 back ducks, and terrapins, and pre-war claret. He 
 was always a willing visitor at the Charles Street 
 mansion. 
 
 ’ 
 
 *“Now tell me, sir,” said Van Allen to his uncle, 
 as they were smoking after dinner before the marble 
 mantelpiece in the room called by courtesy the li- 
 brary, “what is it that you want my advice about? 
 Is it Nancy?” 
 
 “It is,” said Mr. Lang, irritably. “That girl fair 
 fashes me. She’s soft as a kitten and stubborn as a 
 mule. I don’t know what to do with her.” 
 
 “But where is the particular necessity of doing 
 anything? She seems to me a very good girl. I can’t 
 believe she has been naughty.” 
 
 “Naughty, indeed! I’d like to see a child of mine 
 dare to be naughty! But I'll tell ye the way of it. 
 There’s a congressman from New Orleans come up 
 
 here. He calls himself General Earl,” (Ur-rul, Lang 
 138 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 pronounced it,) “but where he got the general no- 
 body knows. He’s been making up to Nancy,—old 
 enough to be her father,—but I’m sure the girl is 
 taken with him. He comes here two nights in the 
 week and talks with her in the parlor till I put the 
 lights out in the hall. He sits on the stairs at the 
 German and talks to her,—poetry and religion and 
 ideels,—oh yes, he can talk like a gramophone when 
 ye put the disk on. But none of my friends in New 
 Orleans or Washington can tell me anything deefinite 
 about him. All I’m sure of is that the girl thinks she 
 loves him.” 
 
 “How did you find that out?” 
 
 “She confessed it. I told her that he had never 
 asked me permission to pay his addresses, and that 
 he was too old for her, and that he was not able to 
 support her, and that he was a gas-bag. Then she 
 began to cry and said he was her ideel. Then I 
 told her I’d forbid him the house, and she cried 
 more.” 
 
 “But, my dear uncle, they could meet in Druid 
 Hill Park where Nancy walks or rides every day. 
 You can’t have a detective to follow her around and 
 keep this invading general off.” 
 
 “Perhaps not. But I can make the girl understand 
 
 139 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 what I told her, that he shall not hang up his hat in 
 
 my house.” 
 
 “What did she say?” 
 
 “She only cried more. Then she went up to bed, 
 and as she went out she said something about ‘going 
 to him.’ Now what do you think of that ?”’ 
 
 “Tt looks a bit dangerous, but I don’t believe it’s 
 final. You see I have never met this general.” 
 
 “N 0, and ye don’t need to,—the crafty gold-dig- 
 ger, the swaggering reaver of other men’s lambs. 
 But tell me, you that are so wise in the world, how 
 will I get rid of him? How will I break the girl’s 
 will?” 
 
 “That would be a hard job, I’m afraid. You see 
 she’s your daughter.” 
 
 “That she is. And for that reason she must mind 
 what I say. This man must be dropped. She’s fair 
 silly about him,—a man of no standing and no busi- 
 ness except politics! She must be daft to think of 
 him. Ill break it off short. I'll disinherit her.” 
 
 “But that might lead to something very unpleas- 
 ant, an elopement, a family quarrel. You know how 
 you would hate to see it all in the newspapers,—with 
 snap-shots of the principal parties. You remember 
 what happened to Cabot Winslow last summer,— 
 
 140 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 two daughters most carefully brought up,—one ran 
 off with the electrician, the other with the chauffeur. 
 The old gentleman was so shocked and mortified that 
 he wouldn’t go to his club for three months. And in 
 the end he will have to surrender. The only advice 
 I can give for the present is not to do anything hasty 
 or harsh. After all Nancy loves you. Let me have 
 time to think over the affair, and meet this general, 
 and get some lines on him. There must be a way out, 
 though I can’t see now what it will be. Meantime 
 let’s sleep on it. La nuit porte conseil.” 
 
 The next morning Van Allen came down rather 
 late to breakfast, and Nancy was there most charm- 
 ingly to pour coffee for him. She looked at him with 
 demure eyes. 
 
 “You and father were up late last night.” 
 
 “Yes, we had a lot to talk about,—politics, and 
 society, and the church,—all sorts of things.” 
 
 “And me?” 
 
 “Well, yes, your name was mentioned several 
 times, if I remember rightly.” 
 
 “You bet it was. You know you can’t fool me. 
 That was the point of the whole play.” 
 
 The girl’s eyes flashed, and her lips took on that 
 mutine curl which made them so fascinating. Then 
 
 141 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 she pulled a chair over beside him and put her arm 
 over his shoulder, greatly to the hindrance of his 
 business of eating an egg, English fashion, out of the 
 shell. She pulled out the flute-stop in her voice. 
 
 “Dearest Sedgy, you're not going to be against 
 your fond little cousin in this thing, are you? It’s 
 ‘breaking my heart. General Earl is so fine, so noble, 
 —yjust the greatest man I ever knew well. But father 
 is so unreasonable, so hard, almost cruel sometimes, 
 —though I love him as much as ever. But he can’t 
 expect me to give up my ideal just because he orders 
 me, can he? You're not going to be against me, are 
 you? I’m so unhappy.” 
 
 No man can be expected to blurt out the entire 
 truth under conditions like that. So Van Allen took 
 her left hand in his and squeezed it and told part of 
 the truth. 
 
 “Nan darling, you know I never could be against 
 you. I’m really for you all the time. Your father 
 must put up a better reason than ‘orders’ if he wants 
 you to give up your ideal. It isn’t done nowadays, 
 —indeed it never was truly done that way. But look 
 here,—I have an idea! Why not come to New York 
 with me on the ten o'clock? You have never seen 
 my rectory yet. Aunt Sabrina Sedgwick is keeping 
 
 142 
 
aa 
 
 eS 
 
 Soa 8" 
 
 _- iy 
 
 if) 
 Se 
 v 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ——_.... ——_ -___; —--- 
 
 <— 
 
 a S = = ONG 
 PL terrae MO NIERE IR attire eee PORT Toren NE pe 
 
 General Earl is so fine, so noble, 
 
 “Tt’s breaking my heart. 
 
 be) 
 
 just the greatest man I ever knew well. 
 

 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 house for me. She’d be delighted to have you and 
 so would I. Come along. Run up like a blue streak 
 and pack your bag. You'll only need one dinner- 
 dress.” 
 
 The girl jumped up and clapped her hands. 
 
 “Old thing,” she cried, “you’re absolutely great ! 
 _ How did you ever think of it? But—”’ (here she 
 hesitated, looking at him shyly)—“but could I,— 
 could I,—well, could I see my friends there? Sup- 
 pose, f’rinstance, General Earl should come to New 
 York. Could he,—could he,—well, you know,— 
 could he call on me?” 
 
 Van Allen suppressed a smile. 
 
 “Sure,” he said, “not only call, but be asked to 
 dinner. Don’t forget to put that in your telegram. 
 Ill make this visit all right with your mother. Speed’ 
 up now on that bag or we shall be late.” 
 
 The telegram was sent, the easy Journey made, 
 the rectory reached in time for a late luncheon. Aunt 
 Sabrina,—a Sedgwick of Stockbridge, if you please, 
 representative of New England’s blue blood, wise, 
 witty, and full of Victorian formalities which she 
 called principles,—was instantly captivated by 
 Nancy and received her warmly. General Earl called 
 at five o’clock, saw Nancy alone, (having forgotten 
 
 143 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 to send up a card for her aunt), and was invited to 
 dinner at eight o’clock. 
 
 When he appeared Van Allen’s fears were con- 
 firmed. The general was a dark pudgy man, with a 
 fat upper lip adorned by a short bristling mustache, 
 and a bald place on top of his head which he partly 
 concealed by letting his hair grow long on one side 
 and brushing it over to the other side. He wore a 
 dinner-coat, gray waistcoat with white mother-of- 
 pearl buttons, and a white satin necktie. His man- 
 ner was that of a colored head waiter in a Saratoga 
 hotel,—florid. But he could talk,—and he did, to 
 an excruciating degree. 
 
 “Will you have a glass of wine with me?” asked 
 Van Allen as the entrée was served. “My father 
 brought it over long before the war,—Chateau La 
 Rose 1904,—so Mr. Volstead’s ban does not affect 
 ib.5y 
 
 “Sir,” said the general, “I never drink wine. I 
 regard it as a reprehensible and dangerous habit. 
 Wine, sir, in any form is a virulent poison. You re- 
 call what Shakespeare said about it.’’ (Then he de- 
 claimed the well-known speech of Cassio.) “It is a 
 treacherous friend and a subtle foe. It is the main 
 cause of all the misery in the world. The greatest 
 
 144 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 thing a man can do to relieve the sufferings of human- 
 ity is to abandon, nay to prohibit the use of wine 
 absolutely. Mahomet was wise and humane when 
 he forbade his followers to partake of the fomented 
 juice of the grape. I hope you agree with me, sir.”’ 
 The host could not say anything; Nancy listened 
 with adoring eyes; Miss Sabrina, whose face ex- 
 pressed first astonishment, and then one of her Vic- 
 torian formalities, put an icy question to the speaker. 
 “Do you regard the Turks as especially noble and 
 humane, and Mahomet as wiser than our Lord ?”’ 
 “Madam,” said the general, “you will pardon me 
 for saying that your interrogatory is without applica- 
 tion or pertinence to the question we are now dis- 
 cussing. It is not a question bearing on or appertain- 
 ing to the grea-a-at crusade by which the human race 
 is to be led into the Golden Age. Yes, sir,—yes, la- 
 dies,—the grea-a-at New Era so long foretold by 
 prophet and bard is now upon us. The suffering race 
 of mankind,—I mean, of course, the noble white race, 
 divinely chosen to rule and govern the world,—under 
 the leadership of men of vision and courage, will 
 shake off the timid trammels which have been im- 
 posed upon it by leaders falsely so called,—I mean, 
 of course, churchmen, and physicians, and financiers, 
 145 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 —and leaping responsively to the call of that elo- 
 quence which speaks directly to the heart of the mass 
 of mankind,—I mean, of course, the mass of the 
 heart of mankind,—will press forward to an era of 
 universal health, wealth, and happiness.” 
 
 Nancy’s face shone with admiration; Miss Sabri- 
 na’s eyes sparkled with restrained Yankee common 
 sense; Van Allen trifled with his salad and put a po- 
 lite question. 
 
 “How do you intend to accomplish this great re- 
 sult ?”’ 
 
 “By legislation, sir,” replied the general, “by 
 courageous, forward-looking, all-embracing legisla- 
 tion which shall regulate every detail of human life 
 from birth to burial. A Congress freely chosen by 
 the noble white race of America shall mark out the 
 path wherein all the people must walk. No babe shall 
 enter the world without congressional license; no de- 
 funct citizen shall be laid in the tomb otherwise than 
 as Congress may decree. Everything,—food, bever- 
 ages, medicine, education, marriage, every human 
 function,—shall be congressionally controlled. Thus 
 shall America very wonderfully become the home of 
 the free and the land of the brave. Thus shall she, 
 this grea-a-at democracy, standing aloof in gorgeous — 
 
 146 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 insulation from the old world with its rivalries and 
 prejudices, shaking off the trammels of history, which 
 is bunk, and the fallacies of economics, which were 
 invented by bankers, set a glorious pace of progress 
 for all humanity and deliver the world from the can- 
 cers which are now fanning the whirlwinds which are 
 at present digging our graves.” 
 
 Here the general, slightly out of breath, paused 
 for a moment, and wiped his fat upper lip with his 
 handkerchief, while Nancy gazed on him in a trance 
 of fascination, Miss Sabrina’s head shook so that her 
 tiny lace cap trembled, and Van Allen concentrated 
 his attention on cracking a walnut. 
 
 “Do not imagine, sir,” continued the general, hav- 
 ing caught his second wind as if from one of the whirl- 
 winds he had mentioned, “do not hypothecate that 
 I am opposed to everything that is old,—churches, 
 universities, learned societies. But these things must 
 be regulated and controlled by Congress, the fontanus 
 et origens of the people’s wisdom and power. Noth- 
 ing must be taught without congressional sanctum. 
 Nothing must be held sacred without its amponentur. 
 This will give uniformity to liberty, and clothe the 
 action of the individual with the egis of legislative 
 authority. We must make a new world for the new 
 
 147 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 era. Take that ancient institution which you, sir, 
 represent so well. The church,—what is it now but 
 a dusty congeries of moth-eaten rites and cerements, 
 a voice telling fairy-tales in the wilderness? I do not 
 say it must be abolished, for we can still use it for 
 our purposes,—to elect uplifters to Congress and to 
 compliment their legislation with the sanctums of 
 religion. But I say without hesitation that if the 
 church is to be worth what it costs in exemption from 
 taxes, we must have a brand-new Christianity, some- 
 thing big and buoyant and belligerently pacifist. It 
 must get rid of all this stuff about penitence, and 
 cross-bearing, and humility, and brotherly love. 
 Brotherly justice is what we want. What happened 
 down in Judea makes no difference. One hundsed per 
 cent American legislation is what the world needs to- 
 day to bring in the Age of Gold.” 
 
 By this time Van Allen had succeeded in catching 
 his aunt’s eye, which was growing rather wild. She 
 rose and nodded to Nancy, who was still entranced 
 by the general’s eloquence. The rector stood up and 
 opened the door for them; the two ladies went to the 
 drawing-room, the elder marching like an indignant 
 little grenadier, the younger glancing back with soft 
 reluctance. The men remained to smoke that fra- 
 
 148 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 grant Indian weed which is supposed to soothe the 
 nerves and promote digestion with good humor. At 
 least that was Van Allen’s intention as he offered the 
 general a mild, well-seasoned Corona. 
 
 “Tobacco, sir,” said the irrepressible one, tipping 
 back in his chair and waving his pudgy forefinger to 
 enforce his remarks, “tobacco next to alcohol is one 
 of the greatest curses of the human race. The man 
 who uses it in any form is committing suicide. I 
 never use it.” 
 
 “Tt is a pity,” said Van Allen slowly as he lit his 
 cigar with care,—pausing slightly between the puffs, 
 —“‘‘because your friends the Turks seem to be rather 
 fond of it.” 
 
 “That, sir, is a defect of ignorance. They have not 
 yet attained to that degree of scientific knowledge 
 which is common among the plain people of Amer- 
 ica. We know, sir, that the juice of tobacco, which 
 I may tell you is called nicotine, is a deadly and per- 
 suasive poison. It penetrates all the tissues of the 
 body, the nerves, the muscles, the sinews, the flesh, 
 even the bones. Yes, sir, post-morbid examination 
 has revealed the relaxing presence of nicotine in the 
 bones of confirmed smokers. Think of that, sir!” 
 “Do you happen to know whether this relaxing 
 
 149 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 presence has been observed in the bones of the 
 skull?” 
 
 “Certainly, beyond a doubt it has. It must have 
 been. You have probably noticed that smokers are 
 loose thinkers, vague, incoherent. That is because 
 the bones of the head are relaxed. Only those who 
 abstain from tobacco have perfectly solid heads.” 
 
 “That is a very, very serious thought,” said Van 
 Allen tossing the remainder of his cigar into the open 
 fire. “I believe it will come back to me after many, 
 many days. Then I shall thank you for bringing it 
 to my attention. And now shall we join the ladies ?” 
 
 Miss Sabrina was in the back drawing-room softly 
 playing over some of Mendelssohn’s “Songs. With- 
 out Words” on an old-fashioned grand piano. Nancy 
 was in the front drawing-room seated in an S-shaped 
 téte-a-téte chair built for two. Evidently she awaited 
 the general, who promptly sat down opposite her, and 
 dived plump into the depths of a profound conversa- 
 tion. Van Allen lingered for a moment by the piano, 
 and then excused himself on the plea of having some 
 work to do for the coming Sunday. 
 
 But when he got into his den, where a pleasant fire 
 of logs was burning on the hearth, he did not turn 
 to his books or his pen. He lit a big pipe and gave 
 
 150 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 himself up to thoughts which were apparently not 
 altogether happy. After a while Miss Sabrina 
 knocked lightly at the door and came in without 
 waiting for an answer. She perched on the edge of 
 the sofa. 
 
 ““My dear boy,” she cried, “did you ever see such 
 a—really I can’t describe him,—such a flamboyant 
 bumpkin, such an embroidered gunny-bag? Really 
 an insufferable person, quite beyond words. How 
 can that lovely cousin of yours be taken with him ? 
 Every word he said trod on your toes. How can 
 Nancy stand him?” 
 
 “Love, my dearest aunt, laughs at manners, as 
 well as at locksmiths.” 
 
 “But you must do something to stop this infatua- 
 tion. She is like a pretty little bird fascinated by a 
 fat boa-constrictor. You must save her, do some- 
 thing to break it off.” 
 
 “But how?” 
 
 “You can find out something discreditable about 
 him, I’m sure. I don’t believe he is such a paragon 
 of all the virtues as he pretends to be. You can un- 
 
 cover some dark places in his record if you look it 
 
 >> 
 
 up. 
 **Even so, Nancy might not believe in them. She 
 151 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 might say his enemies invented them. And if she 
 
 did believe, she might cling to him all the closer on 
 
 that account. Ministering angel, you know,—help ~ 
 
 him to redeem his past in the glorious future to which 
 
 he is dedicated. A girl revels in that réle. It sets her 
 
 33 
 
 up. 
 
 *““You’re too cynical, Sedgwick. It’s a bad fault in 
 a clergyman. Nancy is such a darling. I’m certain 
 the man is an adventurer, too—a fortune-hunter. 
 He probably has no property and no business to 
 speak of. Show him up to Nancy.” 
 
 “Tf I did she would probably think Iwas showing 
 him off. Noble adventurer, despises money! Pov- 
 erty shared with him would be bliss.” 
 
 “You take this thing too lightly, nephew. If she 
 marries him she'll be wretched. He won’t wear well, 
 —shoddy stuff! If she quarrels with her father there 
 will be a great misery, a broken heart, perhaps two. 
 His will is hard as nails, and hers, under all her pretty 
 softness, is hard as—well, as tacks. Something must 
 be done, and very soon, before this silly affair goes 
 too far.” 
 
 “I know it, auntie; and the affair is not really 
 silly, it’s terribly serious. There is probably only one 
 way out of it, and I don’t know whether I can find 
 
 152 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 that. But I will do my best, my very best, I promise 
 you. You must be satisfied with that.” 
 
 So they said good night. Half an hour later Nancy 
 tapped lightly at the study door, and came in with 
 radiant face. 
 
 “Oh,” she cried, “T’ve had the most wonderful 
 talk—simply thrilling! He’s gone now, had to take 
 the midnight train for Washington, congressional du- 
 ties. He has the strongest sense of duty, you know. 
 Don’t you admire him, Cousin Sedgy? I knew you 
 would. Isn’t he simply wonderful ?”’ 
 
 “He is certainly a remarkable man,” said Van 
 Allen, gravely smiling. 
 
 “TI was sure you would see it, you are so clever. 
 Do you wonder [I |-like him more than any man I 
 ever met? He has such great, noble ideas. How long 
 am I to stay here, Sedgy dearest ?” 
 
 “As long as you like, little Nancy. Certainly over 
 Sunday, that is four days. Perhaps I may have to 
 go to Washington on Monday, then I can take you 
 with me in my new car and leave you at Balti- 
 more.” 
 
 So the girl went to bed contented, but wondering 
 about the reason for her cousin’s possible trip to 
 Washington. It was connected, in fact, with some 
 
 153 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 letters of discreet inquiry that he had written to 
 friends of his at the capital in regard to General Earl. 
 The letters suggested, without definitely saying so, 
 that the eminent statesman had approached the in- 
 fluential clergyman with reference to certain schemes 
 of benevolence. These he was not at liberty to de- 
 scribe at present, but of course he wished to know 
 as much as possible about the promoter. 
 
 The answers were prompt but not very illuminat- 
 ing. The general was an undistinguished congress- 
 man of copious oratorical gifts. He was supposed to 
 be a lawyer, but had no business except politics. He 
 had been involved in a scandal about the harbor im- 
 provements at New Orleans some years ago, but a 
 friendly judge had cleared him. He had changed his 
 party twice, and was not on any committee of the 
 House. His seat was not regarded as very secure. 
 His habits, so far as known, were regular. Men did 
 not like him much, but he seemed very popular with 
 the ladies. One old-fashioned letter called him “a 
 bald-headed beau”’; another, more modern, called 
 him “a fat old philanderer.” 
 
 “Nothing here,” said Van Allen, “that would have 
 the slightest effect on that darling little idiot Nancy. 
 She would say it was all envious gossip.” 
 
 154 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 But on Saturday a note came from Mrs. Schuyler 
 Wendell, a parishioner and great friend of his, who 
 was spending the Spring with her daughter Cristina 
 in her apartment on Connecticut Avenue. Yes, she 
 knew General Earl quite well, through her Cristina; 
 and she wished very much that her dear rector would 
 come down and make them a visit as soon as conve- 
 nient. 
 
 At this point the worldly clergyman thought he 
 saw a ray of light on the way of deliverance. “I knew 
 it,” he said to himself in honest glee, “that fat upper 
 lip made me sure of it.” 
 
 On the Monday he made the southward journey 
 in his swift shining roadster with Nancy, left her at 
 her father’s door in Charles Street, and went on to 
 Washington, where he was welcomed with evident 
 pleasure by Mrs. Wendell, and with friendly raillery 
 by the handsome, clear-eyed Cristina; a tall, shapely 
 young woman of about twenty-five. 
 
 “What brings your reverence here?”’ she asked. 
 “Lobbying ?”’ 
 
 “Not exactly,” he answered. “It is a combination 
 of business and pleasure. My first purpose was to 
 see your mother. I knew you would not let me do 
 that without seeing you,—an added pleasure. My 
 
 155 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 second purpose has a slight connection with Con- 
 gress, I admit.” 
 
 ‘Well then,”’ she said, “since you are so stuck on 
 mother you shall have her all the evening to yourself. 
 I am going to a dinner-dance.” 
 
 “With the nobility, no doubt,” he mocked. “But 
 will you promise to go out with me to-morrow in my 
 little car? It is a beauty. You shall drive,—though 
 I hear you break speed-laws as recklessly as hearts.” 
 
 “Righto,” she laughed, “‘they were made for that. 
 I'll drive you, since you won’t be led. But if you 
 fancy I don’t know already that you have a pastoral 
 lecture in store for me, you’ve got another guess com- 
 ing to you, that’s all. Till to-morrow, reverend sir!” 
 
 The little dinner for two in the apartment was de- 
 lightful: soft lights, no music, suave air coming in at 
 the open windows laden with the delicate fragrance 
 of Spring flowers, and conversation which ranged far 
 on light wings, and was alive with that quick mutual 
 understanding which can leave many things un- 
 spoken. Mrs. Wendell was an “elect lady” like the 
 one described in the New Testament, (see II John,) 
 and her interest in the church was unfeigned and 
 practical. She wanted to know all about the Sunday- 
 School, and the Poor Fund, and the Summer Camp 
 
 156 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 for Working Girls, (to which she promised a generous 
 subscription,) and the Evening Classes for Men, and 
 the Seaside Rest for Tired Mothers, and all the work- 
 ing functions of a modern city parish. The rector 
 told her all the news concisely, and she commented 
 on it with wit and sympathy. Then, after the table 
 was cleared and the chairs were moved to the win- 
 dow where the smoke of Van Allen’s cigar floated out 
 into the blue, she came to the point,—like a woman, 
 —very directly, after fetching a long compass round. 
 
 “T sent for you, my dear rector, to consult you 
 about Cristina. I’m rather worried in regard to her.” 
 
 “Nothing serious, I hope. She’s looking splendid. 
 There can’t be anything wrong, I’m sure.” 
 
 “No, I don’t believe there is anything serious, but 
 it’s very annoying. There is a man named Earl,— 
 a congressman of the garden type,—a quite undesir- 
 able person from my point of view, but an eloquent 
 talker,—he has been devoted to her for three months. 
 He is what we used to call in Victorian days, her 
 ‘suitor.’ In old times one could have suppressed 
 him, simply forbidden him the house. But nowadays 
 that doesn’t go. You know what modern girls are, 
 and I don’t object to it at all, if they will only use 
 discretion. But this Earl person is rather impossible. 
 
 157 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 He seems to be absolutely infatuated. He makes him- 
 self conspicuous, and Cristina,—well, I can’t believe 
 she is in love with him, but she lets him go on. 
 When I speak about it she laughs. He writes to her 
 and even telegraphs to her constantly. He walks 
 with her two or three times a week, and sits out 
 dances with her in the conservatory. The afiair is 
 being talked about, I was afraid you might have 
 heard of it in New York. This man has certainly 
 made an impression on her, though it may not be 
 deep. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. He looks 
 to me like a designing person. What shall I do about 
 him ?” 
 
 “Nothing, dear lady, absolutely nothing, provided 
 you will trust me and persuade Cristina to do the 
 same. The Lord has delivered this Philistine general 
 into our hands.”’ | 
 
 Then he told her about Nancy Lang in Baltimore, 
 —her prettiness, her young innocence, her gaiety, 
 her idealism, her stubborn will, her obstinate devotion 
 to the fat-lipped one. 
 
 “And this, you see,” he added, “‘is really a serious 
 affair. Cristina’s is only an episode in the education 
 of a princess. But my little cousin Nancy is caught, 
 and can’t get out. There is only one way to deliver 
 
 158 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 her from this fellow’s spell. Will you ask Cristina to 
 let me see all the general’s letters and telegrams to 
 her ?”’ 
 
 “I will indeed,’’ Mrs. Wendell answered, “‘and 
 I’m sure Crissie will do it. She has always liked and 
 trusted you, though she sometimes speaks to you so 
 disrespectfully. I hope you don’t mind.” 
 
 “T simply love it,” said the rector, with empha- 
 sis. 
 
 Next morning Miss Wendell carried a neat gray 
 leather despatch-case as she got into the two-seater 
 with Van Allen and took the wheel. She looked beau- 
 tifully efficient as she steered the car among the 
 blooming squares and circles which make the streets 
 of Washington seem like an intermittent park. The 
 soft gray of her dress, her hat, her gloves, the veil 
 over her ears and round her neck, gave the fine rose 
 of her face a perfect setting and deepened the color 
 of her eyes to the purple of a pansy. Her companion 
 talked to her a little, just to excuse his looking at her 
 so much. But she kept her eyes on the road and her 
 hands on the wheel. 
 
 When they came to the Baltimore highway and 
 saw it clear before them, she let the car out to the 
 limit. It was almost like flying,—a smooth, breath- 
 
 159 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 less, gently purring rush through a world of tasselled 
 and embroidered green, flooded with clear joy of 
 sunshine. Every cottage garden was aglow with tu- 
 lips and daffodils, and the hedges of forsythia seemed 
 woven of warm gold. At last the girl was satiated 
 with speed. She relaxed the pressure of her foot on 
 the pedal, and leaned back in her seat. 
 
 “Some car!”’ she said, smiling. “Oh, by the way, 
 I brought those foreign despatches mother said you 
 wanted to see.”’ 
 
 She passed the small gray satchel over to him with 
 her left hand. 
 
 “Thank you, Cristina,” he said as he took it. 
 “You are fine to do this; it means a great deal. I 
 suppose your mother told you the whole story?” 
 
 “Yes, she did, and I don’t care to hear it again. 
 Poor little cousin Nancy! I’m sorry for her. What 
 are you going to do with this rubbish? Show it to 
 her, I suppose.” 
 
 “That is what I intended, with your permission.” 
 
 “Isn’t it rather treacherous to show private let- 
 ters?” | 
 
 “Usually, but you know you can’t be treacherous 
 to a traitor.” 
 
 “Right. The man is a stupid old beast. I should 
 160 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 hate him if I didn’t despise him. I never want to 
 see him or hear his name again. Do what you like 
 with that stuff. But do you know you are going to 
 break your pretty cousin’s heart ?” 
 
 “YT think not. She has too much pride for that. I 
 mean to save this little Andromeda from the drag- 
 on, even against her will. You remember that verse 
 in the Psalms about ‘deliver my darling from the 
 power of the dog’? ‘That is what I mean to do, 
 and this is the only way that I can see to do it.” 
 
 “Gallant chevalier!” said Cristina, (but there was 
 no mockery in her eyes now). “I guess you would 
 dare anything for her sake, wouldn’t you? Perhaps 
 she will reward you some day later, when she gets 
 over her hurt,—a wreath of grateful love to her de- 
 liverer ?”’ : 
 
 “Please don’t talk nonsense,” answered Van Allen, 
 looking straight into the amethystine eyes. “I want 
 nothing at all but to get that wilful Nancy out of 
 the dragon’s power, and to keep your,—your friend- 
 ship,—whatever you can give me!” 
 
 “Your chances seem to me good,” laughed the girl, 
 “that is if you behave nicely,—I don’t mean what 
 you call nicely,—I mean what I call nicely. Now 
 we must hurry home to lunch. You can drive going 
 
 161 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 back if you like. Step on the gas, or we’ll be late and 
 
 mother will scold.” 
 
 It was half past four in the afternoon when the 
 roadster drew up at the marble steps of the Charles 
 Street mansion. Van Allen asked to see “Miss 
 Nancy, alone, in the drawing-room, please, and if 
 any one else calls, Stephen, you can say she is not 
 receiving to-day.”’ The white-haired negro butler 
 bowed and smiled. He understood perfectly, or 
 thought he did,—which amounted to the same thing. 
 
 When the girl came down she looked pale and 
 worn. There had been a sharp scene at dinner the 
 night before. Her father had made fun of her 
 ““ideal’’; she had replied stubbornly: he had stated 
 his commands emphatically: she had left the table 
 in tears, and spent a sleepless night,—at least she 
 thought it was sleepless,—which amounted to the 
 same thing. The chevalier approached his difficult 
 task with reluctance. 
 
 “Nancy, I have just been in Washington.” 
 
 “T know that, stupid. What did you go for?” 
 
 “To see some old friends of mine: Mrs. Wendell 
 and her daughter Cristina.” 
 
 “Is she pretty ?”’ 
 
 “Some people think so. General Earl, for one, 
 
 162 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 must think so, because he has been making love to 
 her desperately for the last three months. I hate to 
 have to tell you this, but it is a thing you ought to 
 know.” | 
 
 “I don’t believe you. You are just lying about 
 him.” 
 
 “That is a hard word, cousin, but never mind it. 
 I don’t expect you to believe me. I have brought 
 you the proofs.” 
 
 “What on earth do you mean?” 
 
 “Miss Wendell has kindly let me have the letters 
 and messages that the general sent to her. Here they 
 are for you to read.” 
 
 “She is a mean old cat. I don’t want to see 
 them.” 
 
 “Whatever she may be, she is not that, I assure 
 you. She is a fine girl, just as proud and honorable 
 as you are. You may say that you do not want to 
 see the letters, but in your heart I know you do. In 
 fact it is your duty to see them, and to read them 
 carefully.” 
 
 “Did you tell that girl about me?” 
 
 rs if did not,”’ he answered, hedging a little, “for 
 some one else had already told her. So she thought 
 you ought to know about the letters.” 
 
 163 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “She wants to get him for herself, that’s it.” 
 
 “On the contrary, she despises him and naturally, 
 too. She will never speak to him again,—said so in 
 very strong language. She has a lot of pride. He 
 would not dare to face her.” 
 
 “Well, then,” said Nancy, rather pitifully, “what 
 do you tell me to do, Mr. Inquisitor?” 
 
 “T don’t tell you to do anything, dear, except what 
 your heart tells you to do. If you want my advice, 
 it is very simple. Take these letters and telegrams 
 with you where you will not be disturbed. Read 
 them side by side with those which you undoubtedly 
 have locked up in your desk. Then make up your 
 mind whether you think the writer is worthy of such 
 a precious thing as your love. No one can force you 
 to give him up. I will stand by you through every- 
 thing. Please do not try to come down to dinner to- 
 night. You will have a headache, and you can ask 
 to have something sent up to your room. When you 
 want to see me, after you have made up your mind, 
 let me know. Will you, Nancy?” 
 
 She nodded, with wet eyes, and went off carrying 
 the fateful, (and hateful,) gray satchel. Van Allen 
 stood looking after her. Though it was not the cus- 
 
 164: 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 tom of his church, he murmured an extempore 
 prayer. “Lord, help this dear child to a proud 
 spirit !” 
 
 The dinner that night was dull and awkward. 
 Not even the diamond-back terrapin and the vintage 
 of the Céte d’Or 1898 could enliven it. Mr. Lang 
 was inquisitive about the visit to Washington; but 
 Van Allen sidestepped the inquiries by declaring that, 
 really, he had no news to tell,—it was only a visit to 
 old friends and parishioners. Later in the evening, 
 finding that the marble mantelpiece got on his 
 nerves, and the postprandial cigar was too strong, he 
 went out with his pipe in the moonlight, to walk 
 around Mt. Vernon Square, where Barye’s bronze 
 lion sits on its haunches hungrily waiting for G. 
 Washington, Esq., to come down from his tall white 
 monument. When the rector got back to the house 
 in Charles Street the snowy-haired butler welcomed 
 him with a confidential whisper. 
 
 “Miss Nancy, suh, she say please infawm rever- 
 end she waitin’ faw him in her boodore, yes suh. 
 Please rest yo’ hat, suh.” 
 
 When he entered the friendly room he found his 
 cousin somewhat dishevelled but still very lovely. 
 
 165 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Her eyelids were slightly swollen, her hair in disorder, 
 but there was a bright red spot in each cheek, and a 
 dancing light in her eyes. She sat at her table, which 
 was covered with papers. 
 
 “Oh, Sedgy,” she cried, “do come here and look! 
 This is perfectly horrible and ridiculous. That old 
 fraud has been writing and telegraphing to her from 
 Baltimore and to me from Washington,—on alter- 
 nate days, mind you! See here.” 
 
 There were the piéces justificatives of the general’s 
 bold perfidy and plentiful lack of originality. Those 
 on yellow paper were restrained as telegrams must 
 be. They spoke in symbolic language. For exam- 
 ple, ““Washington, March 12. To Miss Nancy Lang. 
 Detained by business. Dull weather here. Hope sun 
 will shine tomorrow on Eutaw Place by four o’clock. 
 Leander.” “Baltimore, March 13. To Miss Cristina 
 Wendell. Kept here by business. Weather dreary. 
 Hope sun will be bright in Dupont Circle tomorrow 
 by five o’clock. Leander.” | 
 
 The letters, on pink paper, scented, and surmount- 
 ed with an earl’s coronet, were frankly and floridly 
 amorous. They bubbled with protestations, endear- 
 ments, fond petitions, usually quite varied. But 
 sometimes invention seemed to flag, and a letter to 
 
 166 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 the Washington address looked like the twin of one 
 
 that had been sent to Baltimore. Here is a condensed 
 
 example. 
 
 “Most lovely and adored Nancy (Cristina): 
 
 “In this desert of Washington, (Baltimore,) the 
 thought of you is the oasis of my soul. The light of 
 your brown (blue,) eyes, brighter than topaz, (sap- 
 phire,) is the starry jewel of my sad, strong heart. 
 I have never seen a woman so resplendent, so fairy- 
 like, (queenly,) as you. You control me as the stars 
 guide destiny, (moon rules the tide). The only hope 
 of my existence is to make thee mine, as I am 
 
 THINE ADORING EARL.”’ 
 
 As Nancy read this astonishing two-faced revela- 
 tion of a single soul, she laughed a little and wept a 
 little. 
 
 “O pig!” she cried, “fat, deceiving, double-dyed 
 pig! How did you ever get me to believe in you? 
 Sedgy dear, I’ve m—m—made,” (sobs here,) “a 
 d—d—darned little fool of myself. What shall I do 
 now?” 
 
 He put his arm around her shoulder and patted 
 her gently. 
 
 167 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “Cry it out, old girl, and then forget it. You’re 
 
 young and full of courage. Many a girl makes a fool 
 of herself and doesn’t know it till too late. Anyhow, 
 making a fool of yourself is much better than if God 
 had spared you the trouble by making you one at 
 the start.”’ 
 
 “But what shall I do now? I'd like to box that 
 old wretch’s ears and give him a piece of my mind!” 
 
 “Why waste good material? All you need to do 
 is to make a bundle of this silly stuff, both sections, 
 and send it by post to Mr. Earl, without note or 
 comment. He'll recognize his own effusions and 
 know that the game is up.” 
 
 “Don’t I need to do anything more? Oh! I feel 
 so happy, just as Andromeda must have felt when 
 Perseus cut her loose from that horrid rock. Can’t I 
 show it some way ?” 
 
 “Well, to-morrow morning when the sun is bright 
 on Dupont Circle and Eutaw Place and Charles 
 Street too, you might tell your father that you’re 
 sorry you made such a d—d—darned fool of your- 
 self, and that it’s all right now, and that you are 
 anxious to embrace him if properly invited.” 
 
 “T’ll do it, sure. Anything else?” 
 
 “Only one thing. In cases like this it is customary 
 
 168 
 
A WILFUL ANDROMEDA 
 
 for Andromeda, if not too angry, to kiss her un- 
 
 worthy rescuer good night.” 
 
 Here the curtain-raiser ends and the play begins. 
 You can guess for yourself how it continues. 
 
 No, Nancy does not marry her cousin, but a bril- 
 liant young surgeon of Johns Hopkins Hospital, to 
 whom she makes an admirable wife. It requires two 
 bishops and an archdeacon fitly to perform the nup- 
 tials of Cristina Wendell and the Reverend Sedgwick 
 Van Allen in St. John’s Cathedral, despite which 
 pomp and circumstance they are absolutely happy. 
 The doughty General Earl is retired from public ser- 
 vice without a pension or a wealthy wife. When last 
 seen he is in Montana, ardently pursuing a Miss 
 Arabella Clutch, red-haired and only daughter of a 
 Copper Senator. 
 
 169 
 
1h 0 aber 
 
 PoP ietly ee 
 
 Lee 
 cos yn 
 
 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 

 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 THE vast oval valley of Jackson’s Hole, rimmed 
 with mountain ranges, flushed with the golden light 
 of a September afternoon, was like a cup of jade filled 
 with yellow wine. But in the gradual advance of 
 evening it seemed as if the cup were slowly tilting 
 toward the east, the warm radiance spilling out over 
 the Grosventre hills, the cold shadow seeping in from 
 the base of the Giant Tetons, till presently the gold 
 would be all gone and the gray would fill the beaker. 
 
 The man who was riding through the sage-brush 
 across the ancient lake-bed toward that curious pro- 
 jection called the Timbered Island,—a dark ridge of 
 forest rising abruptly from the pale sea of bluish- 
 green bushes,—felt that the shadowing of the valley 
 was somehow like a process that was going on in his 
 life. I do not mean the inevitable progress of the 
 years and the gathering dusk of old age. That had 
 not yet made itself known in his experience. In his 
 fiftieth year Leroy Macrae was still hale and hearty, 
 sound in body and mind, with a good appetite for 
 the joy of living. But something within his spirit was 
 
 173 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ebbing away, fading out, leaving the world darker 
 and duller around him. 
 
 “Might as well face it,”’ he cai to himself, “I’m 
 growing aged as well as old. I’ve crossed the divide. 
 Now the trail runs down-hill into a dim country,— 
 dismal prospect,—chilly! People think me a suc- 
 cessful man; but I know I’m really a failure. Done 
 some good work: got high wages: but no reward to 
 make it all worth while.” 
 
 Now Macrae is not the hero of this story; but he 
 plays a decisive part in it; and in order to under- 
 stand it and read the meaning of its title, you must 
 know a little more about him. 
 
 He was what Goethe calls a “problematic nature,” 
 —a blend of opposites. A Kentucky boy, adven- 
 turous, dreamy, imaginative, fond of music and 
 poetry, he was gifted, (or handicapped, as you 
 choose to put it,) with a keen mind, great power of 
 application, and extraordinary practical efficiency. 
 He loved his violin, his Shelley, and his Keats. But 
 his university studies, however tough they were, 
 had an attraction for him and he mastered them. 
 Their very toughness was a challenge to his man- 
 hood. 
 
 When he took up modern chemistry with its 
 
 174 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 mysteries of atoms and molecules and fluent ele- 
 ments and strange combinations, it fascinated both 
 sides of his nature, his imagination, and his love of 
 doing things. He was so successful in this branch 
 of science that he made a young renown and won 
 a professor’s chair at Calvinton University. Therein 
 he sat contented for a few years, pursuing his re- 
 searches, teaching his pupils, discoursing mystically 
 
 39 
 
 of “‘the personality of compounds,” and inventing 
 new ones. He also played liberally on the violin, 
 composed ballades and lyrics, and paid harmless 
 rotary court to several lovely ladies,—until the 
 idea struck him that he ought to get married. He 
 did. And by this act his path was turned, marked, 
 and fenced in. 
 
 Olivia Barr was what is known as an awfully 
 pretty girl. Under her golden hair and behind her 
 bright blue eyes she had a firm female mind, not 
 large but very set. She had been well brought up 
 and taught to believe that the things she admired 
 were necessarily admirable and that her modes of 
 conduct were the best if not the only ones. Her ideas 
 of religion were limited to the practices of St. Petro- 
 nius’ Church. Her notions of human intercourse 
 were confined to the customs and manners of her 
 
 175 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 own social set. She scorned anything Bohemian. 
 She was one of those women who keep all the ten 
 commandments but never have a generous im- 
 pulse. 
 
 Macrae’s cleverness and efficiency impressed her; 
 his stalwart good looks attracted her strongly; she 
 accepted him as an important aid to her fixed plan 
 of life, into which she moulded him by her mild per- 
 sistence, for he was really a peaceable man. She 
 made him dissatisfied with a professor’s small sal- 
 ary and intangible reward; focussed his attention 
 on the cash profits of commercial chemistry; and 
 by skilful efforts landed him in the rich berth of 
 Chemical Director and second Vice-President of the 
 immense Dufour Corporation. Here he toiled, 
 shrivelled, and grew wealthy, inventing dyestuffs, 
 high explosives, and poison gases, which he hated. 
 Of his musical gifts she thought little. His verses 
 she never read. Of his romantic dreams she was 
 suspicious, not to say jealous. She faithfully sepa- 
 rated him, so far as she could, from the three things 
 which Martin Luther commended as the cure of 
 folly. He was bound, like Samson in the mill at 
 Gaza, to a dull, steady, interminable grind,—no 
 accompaniment except tinkling gossip about stupid 
 
 176 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 fashionables for whom he cared nothing,—no recrea- 
 tion except vapid amusements like playing Bridge 
 with the same people night after night for money 
 which he did not want,—no religion except atten- 
 dance at St. Petronius; no intimate personal sym- 
 pathy, and companionship at all. He felt like a 
 horse in a treadmill. 
 
 His only escape was in the playtime of summer 
 and autumn when he fled to the mountains and the 
 woods, professedly to hunt and fish, really to “loaf 
 and invite his soul.’ In these outings the days of 
 youth came back to him. Memory fingered his long- 
 neglected violin. Imagination rebuilt those com- 
 binations of temperamental atoms on which his 
 young fancy had climbed for a glimpse over the 
 dividing wall between matter and spirit. What if 
 he had followed that alluring vision and discovered 
 that after all the ultimate atom is just a Divine 
 idea, endowed with force by the Eternal Will? 
 
 Along with these philosophic dreams came reveries 
 of his early friendships and comraderies in which 
 the thoughts and desires of his heart had been in- 
 timately shared. Sometimes, in the green solitude 
 of the forest, or floating at sundown on a lonely 
 lake, he indulged the vagaries of that magic guide 
 
 177 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “What If?” From these airy pathways of vision he 
 
 turned smiling. 
 
 But now in these later years even those little 
 footpaths of escape seemed to be closing. The cares 
 of the world and the deceitfulness of riches sprang 
 up and choked them. The fair and faithful Olivia 
 made up her mind to be his companion everywhere, 
 partly because she wanted to keep an eye on him, 
 partly because her favorite doctor advised outdoor 
 life as a preventive of fat. Even now riding across 
 the valley he knew that his Olivia was sitting in 
 the Chatter Box of the Double C Ranch with Mrs. 
 Salacosa lapping up the details of the latest Philadel- 
 phia scandal. He knew also the precise words with 
 which she would greet his return,—late as usual! 
 where have you been? It seemed rather a dreary 
 prospect of home-coming. But he must go ahead: 
 there was no way out. 
 
 As he rode thus with gray care on the saddle be- 
 hind him, and drew near to the foot-hills of the 
 Giant Tetons, there came one of those theatrical 
 effects of light for which the valley is famous. Be- 
 tween the clear-cut western crags a strong sunbeam 
 slanted down upon the forest. In this illumination, 
 as in a spotlight on the stage, a log cabin stood out 
 
 178 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 from the dark woods, facing a natural meadow 
 through which a willow-bordered brook ran with 
 laughter. The house looked deserted for the time; 
 a wise mongrel collie was waiting for some one in the 
 garden-patch; a pair of vivid stellar jays bickered in 
 
 >> 
 
 the yellowing foliage of the “quakin’ asps.” Macrae 
 rode up to the rail fence at the back of the yard 
 where there was a clump of alders, and stood there, 
 looking over. 
 
 The door of the cabin opened, and a boy of twelve 
 or thirteen stood in the centre of the spot-light, 
 whistling. High boots, a little run over in the heel; 
 blue-jean overalls neatly patched on the knees; a 
 gray flannel shirt open at the neck, round which a 
 red kerchief was loosely knotted; an absurdly broad 
 and floppy sombrero on the back of his head; and 
 under the brim, black hair, a round white forehead, 
 blue-gray eyes set wide apart, a snub nose freckled 
 to the tip, and an Irish mouth with thin lips, now 
 puckered in a way which made the little smiling 
 creases at the corners disappear entirely in the en- 
 forced gravity of the whistler. 
 
 The tune was “Killarney”? as John McCormack 
 sings it, a delightfully flagrant bit of sentimentality. 
 The boy finished it off with a flutelike trill at the 
 
 179 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 end. Then the faint half-circles came back around 
 his mouth, and he tucked his thumbs in his waist- 
 band and stepped quickly toward the small garden- 
 patch. There was a pleasant keenness in the air that 
 made the back of his hands and his bare neck tingle. 
 
 “Frost to-night,” he said to the collie at his side, 
 “hey, Buck? It’s comin’ sure. Wonder if we can 
 fool it a little mite, old boy?” 
 
 Then he ran back to the cabin and came out in a 
 moment with a sheet of paper, pair of scissors, and 
 half a dozen safety-pins. The discouraged garden 
 betrayed the havoc of the earliest touch of near 
 winter a week ago. The sweet-potato vines trailed 
 black along the ground; the hopeless string-beans 
 hung limp from their poles like dead soldiers caught 
 in an entanglement; the bright nasturtiums were all 
 gone into a dull brown world. At the end of the 
 patch there was a tall row of sunflowers, the boy’s 
 particular care and pride. On six of the plants a 
 flower-head drooped dishevelled, like a yellow-haired 
 girl with a broken neck. But on the seventh, per- 
 haps because it had come out later and so escaped 
 the first nip of the cold, the flower was still alive, 
 broad-faced and beaming. 
 
 “Cheer up, old girl,” said the boy, busily snip- 
 
 180 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 ping and folding the paper, “ye’ve gypped one 
 frost,—a little one,—and now I’m goin’ to help ye 
 gyp another,—a bigger one. Ground’ll be all white 
 morrow mornin’, sure,—kind o’ fairy snow,—ye 
 can’t see it fallin’, and ye can’t see it goin’, but jes’ 
 while ye’re lookin’ it’s gone. But it shan’t git you, 
 darlin’. [ll fix ye up fer the night, so’s ye can see 
 the sun fer another day, anyhow!” 
 
 So the boy talked, (like a true cow-puncher, more 
 garrulous with dumb creatures than with people,) 
 while his fingers fashioned the little hood that was to 
 shelter his sweetheart overnight. Then he carefully 
 bent the stalk of the flower toward him. 
 
 “Lean over,” he said, “‘ye’re too tall fer me. 
 Stoop down a mite, so’s I can git this on yer head. 
 Now let me pin it here,—and here,—and here,— 
 and here. Don’t be scared. I won’t stick yer neck. 
 
 D’ye think Id hurt you? Not fer all the world, and 
 
 then some! There now,—jest a minit,—let me put 
 
 bb) 
 
 
 
 in one more pin. There now, ye’re all 
 
 “Hello there, Francie Croy,’”’ said Macrae’s soft 
 
 bass voice. Francie let go of the sunflower gently, 
 
 and it straightened up, rustling its white hood 
 
 among the leaves. Then he turned toward the high 
 
 timber-fence, over which a horseman with gray hair, 
 181 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ruddy face, and very kind eyes, was looking at him 
 in amusement, while his horse furtively nipped the 
 bushes. 
 
 “Hello, Mr. Macrae,” answered the boy with evi- 
 dent pleasure. 
 
 “What are you doing there?” asked Macrae. 
 “Making bonnets for flowers? Giving first aid to 
 the injured? Who were you talking to? I don’t see 
 anybody around.” 
 
 The boy looked embarrassed, stooped to pick up 
 the scissors and the last safety-pin which had fallen 
 from his hand. Then he answered slowly. 
 
 “Well, ye see, it’s goin’ to be some cold, to-night. 
 And I jes’ thought——”’ 
 
 “Oh,” said Macrae, “I understand. You thought 
 you'd save the flower from freezing. Good idea. 
 But why this particular flower? You didn’t do this 
 for the others, did you? And why were you talking 
 to it? Flowers don’t hear. What were you say- 
 ing?” 
 
 Francie shook his head, looking vaguely away 
 into the twilight, as if for words. 
 
 “TI dunno,” he said, “but ye see the others are all 
 dead. I planted ’em all, and this is number seven,— 
 lucky number! Seems like it loved the sun most, so 
 
 182 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 I thought, jes’ one more day, p’raps two if it turns 
 
 99 
 
 
 
 warm 
 
 “Right,” said Macrae, his eyes growing kinder 
 yet, “you are right as rain. And perhaps the flowers 
 do hear a little, after all. Anyway, I hope so. 
 Where’s your father, boy, and your mother?” 
 
 *“Dad’s out, turnin’ the horses on the range,” an- 
 swered Francie, “he’ll be in soon. Mother’s in the 
 house gettin’ supper. Please ‘light, Mr. Macrae, 
 and come in. [ll put your pony in the corral.” 
 
 The kitchen was well warmed by the stove, on 
 which the beans and bacon were simmering and the 
 coffee-pot sending out whiffs of fragrant steam, 
 while ‘Mrs. Croy made him welcome and pulled out 
 the most comfortable chair for him and urged him 
 to stay to supper. 
 
 There was the faintest trace of a Killarney brogue 
 on her tongue,—no more than a good salad recalls 
 of the onion with which you have rubbed the in- 
 side of the bowl,—and her black hair and gray-blue 
 eyes told her race. She must have been a very pretty 
 colleen when her father kept the post-office in a 
 hamlet beside Lough Leane in Queen Victoria’s day. 
 Since then she had travelled far and smiled through 
 some rough times, as lady’s maid, and children’s 
 
 183 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 nurse, and cook, but never lost the edge of her 
 breeding nor the spring of her heart. When she was 
 married, (in Boisé where she was teaching kinder- 
 garten,) to Francois La Croix, ex-voyageur who 
 had hunted and ranched his way down from Quebec 
 through Montana and Wyoming and Utah and 
 brought up at last in Idaho, a widower with a pair 
 of ten-year-old sons and three thousand dollars in 
 the bank,—when Nora Donovan married this lean, 
 courteous, brave little man, fifteen years her senior, 
 the ladies of the Boisé Busy Circle were inclined to 
 endow her with their pity. But she would have 
 none of it. 
 
 “For what,” she laughed, “would those nice 
 ladies be wasting their compassion on me? Isn’t 
 my man a fine man, and doesn’t he worship the 
 ground I tread on? He can play the fiddle better 
 than any one of those ladies can play the melodeon. 
 °Tis a good name, La Croix,—Frank Croy they call 
 him round here,—and that’s a good name too, easy 
 to speak. And for what would I be frightened of 
 his twin boys? They’re healthy young ones, and 
 full o’ fun,—’tis a good start of a family, and, glory 
 be to God, Iwas never one to shun children or 
 work, Tell those nice ladies to wait a while,—just 
 
 184 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 give me time and I'll show them who’s to be 
 pitied !”’ 
 
 So the Frank Croys nested in the Teton country 
 and prospered in their chosen way. Time being 
 given, young Frank was born to a welcome, and 
 called Francie in his mother’s tongue, to distinguish 
 him from his father. Old Frank was known far and 
 wide through the valley and beyond, as a mighty 
 hunter before the Lord and a wise man with cattle. 
 The shack grew into a ranch with a good outfit. 
 The twins became buckaroos of the first order and 
 went out cow-punching on the Buffalo Fork. Nora 
 kept the cabin trim and her body fit with cheerful 
 work; her mind free from rust by reading her ancient 
 favorite books and a few new magazines; and her 
 heart content with old Frank’s love and young 
 Francie’s growth. The boy was her harp of joy, and 
 his father’s puzzle of pride. There was something 
 quaint about him. He was a good rider, afraid of 
 nothing, handy in the woods, already able to cook 
 for an outfit, and master of all his father could 
 teach on the fiddle. But then he often mooned, 
 talked to flowers and birds, hated to kill anything, 
 and cared less for jolly tunes than for some of those 
 queer things he imitated from the phonograph,— 
 
 185 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 *‘shirtsoes,”” old Frank called them. He talked to 
 
 Nora about these eccentric signs. 
 
 “I ’member,”’ he would say, “one time he shoot 
 a beaver,—good shot, straight through head,—but 
 Francie cry more than if he miss. Don’ you think 
 that queer? If he have,—what you call it, du génie ? 
 Me, I think that too. But he sure is different; not 
 made for cowboy. I fear he shall be lonesome in 
 Jackson Hole when we two make the round-up, old 
 girl.” 
 
 “Don’t you worry about the boy,” Nora would 
 answer. “I had him under a good star. He’s born 
 to luck with enough trouble to keep him sweet. 
 We'll stay by him as long as he needs us, and 
 then God will see him through. Don’t you believe 
 that ?” 
 
 Yes, Frank believed it, and therefore took care 
 that the boy had enough hard work to make him 
 tough and ready, and wondered at his fancies, and 
 went sound asleep by the fire when he played a 
 *“‘shirtso”’ on the old violin. 
 
 Leroy Macrae knew something of this uneventful 
 family history, and was musing over it in the kitchen 
 while Nora set the table, and perhaps unconsciously 
 comparing it with his own story of empty success. 
 
 186 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 The “sunflower number seven” had taken root in 
 his mind. 
 
 In the dusk outside the cabin there was a scurry 
 of hoofs on the gravel, a nicker of recognition as 
 the rancher’s pony joined Macrae’s in the corral, a 
 creak and a clatter as the high gate swung shut,— 
 then Frank and the boy came in, sharp set for food. 
 Conversation at meal-time is not the fashion in 
 Jackson’s Hole; but after supper was ended the three 
 men went into the living-room, Frank lit the fire 
 on the hearth, and they stretched out before it in 
 elk-hide chairs to talk. There was an expedition 
 planned for the next day: start at ten sharp from 
 the Double C Ranch for a ride up Death Canyon 
 and a couple of nights out; three pack-horses to 
 carry the stuff; Mr. and Mrs. Macrae to ride their 
 own ponies; Frank Croy guide, and Francie Croy 
 cook,—that was the roster. Everything was to be 
 ready at the dude-ranch on the river at ten o’clock 
 to-morrow morning. 
 
 All being settled, Macrae turned to the boy. 
 
 “You like sunflowers. Do you know the story of 
 Clytie?”’ 
 
 Francie nodded, for he had seen the name in his 
 mother’s “‘Age of Fable.”” Then he shook his head, 
 
 187 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 for he knew by experience that his friend could make 
 
 the story twice as real as any book. “You tell it,” 
 he said. 
 
 So Macrae told the tale, embroidering it as 
 he went along. He laid the scene beside a great 
 lake in a wild country. He made Apollo a kind 
 of celestial sport and cattleman, immensely rich 
 and very proud and handsome, always carrying 
 his golden bow and arrows, for this was before 
 guns were invented. Every day he passed above 
 the lake from east to west in his chariot with twelve 
 horses, driving his white cattle like clouds before 
 him. Now Clytie was a nymph, that is to say a 
 poor rancher’s daughter, with plentiful yellow hair 
 and large brown eyes. She fell deep in love with 
 Apollo because he was so radiant and splendid; but 
 he thought nothing of her, because she had only 
 one dress of green, and that a little tattered on the 
 edges. So he passed above her day after day with- 
 out turning his head. But she looked for him in the 
 east before the first of his horses shook its golden 
 bit above the mountain top, and followed him with 
 her big eyes as he rolled over the blue bridge of the 
 sky, and looked after him long as he vanished be- 
 hind the dark rim of the western forest. Nine days 
 
 188 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 her fond looks thus attended her shining beloved 
 
 one in his triumphal progress, and on the tenth he 
 had compassion of her and granted her a boon. For 
 her feet took fast hold of the earth where she was 
 standing, and her robe was changed into broad 
 green leaves, and she became a sunflower, with this 
 gift, that she could turn her face as she willed from 
 east to west, and so behold the one whom she loved 
 from sunrise even unto sundown. 
 
 Francie nodded and smiled. He had often seen 
 
 93 
 
 his sunflowers follow “the sunwise turn.’’ He rose 
 from his corner quietly, so as not to wake his father, 
 and took the violin from its place in the cupboard. 
 “I know the music of that story,” he whispered. 
 The piece that he played, rather slowly, was a sim- 
 ple version of the intermezzo from “Thais” as he 
 had heard Kreisler’s rendering of it on the phono- 
 graph. Old Frank slept peacefully, while Macrae 
 thought and wondered. 
 
 Riding back to the big ranch by the river, through 
 the moon-silvered sage-brush, past the end of Tim- 
 bered Island, he could not help imagining what a 
 difference it might make to his wife and himself if 
 they had a boy like Francie; what a change it would 
 work in their lives; how it might check their separat- 
 
 189 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ing selfishness by giving them something to love 
 and cherish together. It was a pleasant dream. But 
 it was too late now for his wife to have a child of 
 her own. 
 
 As he clattered down the cobbly hill of the last 
 mesa to the open grove near the river where the 
 orange lights of the ranch-house were glowing, he felt 
 as if he were coming in from rather a long, happy 
 journey. Mrs. Macrae was playing Bridge in the 
 small office beyond the big Lazy-room where a score 
 of young folks were stretched out on bear-skins 
 around the open fire, softly singing. The Bridge-lady 
 glanced up at her husband as he opened the closed 
 door, and said, “You are late for our Bridge-party, 
 Leroy. Where have you been?” 
 
 “At the Croys, making plans for our trip to- 
 morrow. It is going to be fine.” 
 
 “You took a long time making plans, it seems to 
 me. I can’t imagine what you see in those people. 
 They say old Croy is a great bootlegger. Did you 
 have anything to drink?” 
 
 At this there was a laugh from the three other 
 players. 
 
 “Yes,” said Macrae, rather slowly, “yes, my dear, 
 
 190 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 I had something to drink,—there was good coffee 
 for supper and music after, and I took both.” 
 
 Then he went into the Lazy-room and found a 
 place on the floor in a corner. Soon you could hear 
 his voice humming a bass to “The End of a Per- 
 fect Day.” 
 
 II 
 
 The next morning was fair and slightly warmer, 
 with loose clouds in the southwest. At eleven, not 
 sharp, (Mrs. Macrae having found her stirrups, her 
 saddle, and her mount not quite correct,) the party 
 were ready to start. They crossed two of the broad 
 *“benches”’ of the mesa, and the main valley-road 
 where a few belated Fords were still dusting and rat- 
 tling toward Yellowstone Park, and took the still 
 trail through the forest of lodge-pole pines to the 
 Whitegrass Ranch. There they lunched with friends, 
 and set out again about two o’clock. | 
 
 To ride in that high air, seven thousand feet above 
 the sea, was exhilarating. The forest, sombre when 
 seen from above, was friendly green around them,— 
 pines and spruces and Douglas firs, except in the 
 small open glades, where golden aspens quivered and 
 the mountain-ash berries burned red. The trail led 
 
 191 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 by many a curve to the top of a granite ridge, from 
 which they looked far down upon the lake,—lapis- 
 lazuli set in dark malachite. Then they descended 
 by step zigzags, cut in the face of the sheer ridge, 
 until they reached the foaming stream which feeds 
 the lake. By this torrent they turned, following up 
 its course, now near, now far, on an incredibly rocky 
 path, into Death Canyon. The precipices and crags, 
 _ a thousand feet above, closed in upon them. The 
 long ridge of Housetop and the sharp pinnacles of 
 the Grand Teton, where the snow-fields and glaciers 
 cling through the summer, gleamed out of the gather- 
 ing clouds. In the bottom of the valley primeval 
 tribes of the forest lingered,—huge spruces, knotted 
 cedars, massive firs,—gigantic ancient offspring of 
 tiny seeds. Beneath their shade the emerald mosses 
 and yellowing ferns veiled the confusion of tumbled 
 rocks. 
 
 When the horses stopped for a moment to take 
 breath after a sharp scramble, Mrs. Macrae said to 
 her husband: 
 
 “Leroy, I want to tell you something. I asked 
 that man Croy just where we were going to make 
 camp to-night, and he said he didn’t know. Now 
 what do you think of that?” 
 
 192 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 He explained that a really good guide hardly ever 
 
 knows just where he is going to camp on a journey. 
 He has some particular place in view, of course, 
 and tries to make it at least an hour before night- 
 fall. But the trail or the weather may be bad, the 
 party may start late or travel slow, the light may 
 begin to fail sooner than he expected; and then he 
 is ready to camp in any place where he can find 
 wood and water and a bit of level ground. 
 
 But the lady refused to be pacified by these emol- 
 lient words. She was an indignant female. 
 
 “Well, I think it’s shameful to send us out with 
 a man like that,—not a real guide, only a cow- 
 pounder,—isn’t that what you call them? I shall 
 complain about him when we get back to the ranch 
 and have him discharged.” 
 
 Macrae said “the devil”? under his breath; but 
 the lady heard him and frowned, for she was a 
 strict observer of all the taboos of her sect, and it 
 was forbidden to mention the evil one except with 
 reverence. 
 
 As the pack-train climbed slowly on, the after- 
 noon darkened over them, the clouds folded in, the 
 wind blew shrewdly down the gorge, and the cold 
 rain began to spit. 
 
 193 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “I guess we camp here,”’ said Frank, on the edge 
 of one of the belts of forest. The place had pre- 
 viously been used as a camp-ground, and had no 
 particular beauty. But there were tent-poles and 
 some dry wood already cut; the stream was near, 
 and a few young balsam-firs offered their boughs 
 for beds. | 
 
 In a short time a canvas was stretched as a shel- 
 ter, the provisions were unpacked, the tents pitched, 
 a comforting fire was alight, and Francie was ready 
 to cook the supper just as the rain settled in. But 
 old Frank had gone up the trail to look for feed 
 for the seven horses. He came back reporting 
 failure. 
 
 “No good,” he said, “I s’pose mus’ take those 
 horse down to head of lake. I don’ like think they 
 cold an’ hungry too, all night.” So he set off cheer- 
 fully on this extra journey of three miles through 
 the wet and dark, rather than sleep while his cattle 
 went unfed. 
 
 By the time he came back supper was over, the 
 chilling rain mixed with hail was drumming on the 
 canvas, and the lady, much discomforted, had 
 crept under the tent into her sleeping-bag. A pan- 
 ful of corned-beef hash and a big mug of coffee were 
 
 194 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 heated up for the old man, half a dozen of Francie’s 
 excellent biscuit were still warm in the baking-pot, 
 and while old Frank addressed himself to this fare, 
 Macrae and the boy sat on a box by the fire and 
 talked. 
 
 Francie wanted to know about the man who had 
 played that Clytie music for the phonograph. So 
 Macrae told about Fritz Kreisler, what a fine fellow 
 he was; and how he had gone to be a soldier in the 
 war because his country called him, though she was 
 not on the right side; and how he was wounded, and a 
 troop of cavalry trampled over him while he was ly- 
 ing in a trench, and he thought he was killed, and 
 said to himself, “God, what a stupid thing to smash 
 a musician this way’”’; and how he came to his senses 
 and felt himself, and found that only his leg was 
 broken, and said, “‘God, I thank you for sparing my 
 arms and my fingers”; and how at last he got well 
 again, all but his game leg, and was able to play 
 better than ever. It seemed to the boy quite a 
 wonderful story; but he said nothing while it was 
 told, did not even ask what country it happened in; 
 only there was a grateful note in his voice when he 
 said good night, and they all went to bed. 
 
 In the morning the ground was covered with 
 
 195 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 snow; the bushes were draped with heavy white 
 cords and tassels; flurries of big white flakes whirled 
 in the air; drifts lay in the level corners and deep 
 crevices of the mountains; and far above, on the 
 sharp shoulders and bold foreheads of the cliffs, the 
 sunlight breaking through the rifted clouds made 
 the little frosted pine-trees glitter as if they had 
 fruited overnight in jewels. Every turn of the wind, 
 every shift of the sky brought changes in the light- 
 ing of the titanic scene. Crags and precipices seemed 
 to move, to draw nearer or to recede; only the high 
 peaks, beyond the drifting cloud-rack, looked mo- 
 tionless. It was a miracle-morning. 
 
 But the lady was not pleased; she was too cold; 
 the weather was abominable; it was going to snow 
 all day; they had better go back to the ranch as 
 soon as possible. So after old Frank had hunted up 
 the horses, who had roamed far down the lake shore 
 in spite of their hobbles, the packs were made, and 
 the party set out to ride home. 
 
 This was the order of their riding: first, the guide 
 who had not known where he was going to camp; 
 then, the three pack-horses; then, Macrae; then his 
 wife; and last of all, young Francie, whistling in 
 the smooth places. The trail was wet and slippery 
 
 196 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 with melting snow. It passed, at times, along the 
 face of the steep slope, thirty or forty feet above 
 the roaring stream. Mrs. Macrae had been advised, 
 the day before, not to ride in what seemed to her 
 the safest place, the extreme inside of the path, lest 
 her horse, striking against some jutting rock or 
 boulder, might be startled or thrown over the outer 
 edge and so down the gorge. But she rather prided 
 herself on the skill she had attained as a horse- 
 woman in the park; moreover, this morning she was 
 particularly nervous and high-strung, so she rode 
 her own way, with a tight, worrying rein, and as 
 close as she could get to the rocks. 
 
 The probable happened. Her puzzled and irri- 
 tated pony bumped against a projecting corner, 
 was shoved out, made a few excited false steps, and 
 slithered over the edge. Macrae with difficulty 
 turned his pony and clattered back, grasping at her 
 bridle. But the boy was quicker, and rode along a 
 little ledge below her to block her fall if possible. 
 It was too late. Her horse struck his too heavily; 
 both fell; it was a bad mix-up. The lady was luckily 
 tossed into a clump of stiff bushes and escaped with 
 a great scare and a few scratches. The boy clung 
 to his mount longer, went farther down the slope, 
 
 197 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 was rolled upon, and lay among the rocks with his 
 leg broken. 
 
 In justice to Mrs. Macrae it must be told that 
 she behaved well in the serious emergency. She 
 forgot her own bruises and helped her husband make 
 the boy as comfortable as possible, while his father 
 rode down to the lower end of the lake for help. 
 Francie did not talk much, but once he said some- 
 thing to her husband that she did not understand. 
 
 “Jes’ like the fellow who played that Clytie 
 music, ain’t it?” 
 
 Macrae nodded. 
 
 “Yes,” he said in rather a shaky voice, “it is 
 like him. He came out all right, and made a lot 
 more music, and so will you, Francie.” 
 
 They had a hard time getting him down to the 
 J. Y. Ranch on the lake. From there they rushed 
 him in an automobile over to the neat little hospital 
 at Jackson. The Macraes settled down in the hotel 
 and Nora Croy came in from the foot-hills as fast as 
 a horse could bring her. There was no lack of nurses 
 for the wounded soldier. 
 
 The doctor’s prognosis was favorable. The boy 
 was not dangerously injured, there was no internal 
 damage, he was almost certain to get well, and 
 
 198 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 quickly. But the broken leg was rather a bad one. 
 Here the doctor went into a learned explanation 
 about thigh-bones and fractures and ball-and-socket 
 joints. “The boy will be all right,’ he concluded, 
 “but he is pretty sure to have a game leg as long as 
 he lives. Perhaps he can ride a soft pony, but not 
 well,—he will never make a first-class buckaroo.”’ 
 
 Macrae smiled. 
 
 “Sorry he has to give that up, doctor,” said he. 
 “It’s a fine life. But there are others.” 
 
 It was a few days after this conversation that 
 Macrae told his wife about it and some other things. 
 
 “And so you see,” he went on, “the Croys have 
 agreed that as soon as Francie is well enough, he is 
 coming east to live with us, to go to school, and 
 especially to study music, for I think he has the 
 hand and the spirit of a fine violinist, perhaps another 
 Albert Spalding.” 
 
 “But Leroy,” she said, “you ought to have asked 
 me sooner.” 
 
 “My dear,” he replied, with a look in his eyes 
 which he did not often show to her, “I am not 
 asking you now; I am just telling you. This is the 
 plan we have made. There are only two people who 
 could possibly spoil it,—you or the boy. I believe 
 
 199 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 you are both going to love it and make it a suc- 
 cess.” 
 
 She took it wonderfully well. In her heart she 
 had already begun to care for the boy, knowing that 
 he had saved her from disfigurement, possibly from 
 death, and feeling in him something rare and precious 
 that could add a new and distinguished interest to 
 her life,—a famous violinist,—that would be splen- 
 did! 
 
 The same evening Macrae sat by the boy’s bed 
 with his mother, and told him of the plan. His eyes 
 shone, and he looked a question to his mother. She 
 nodded her head, and smiled bravely. 
 
 “The school is a very nice one,” Macrae went on, 
 “‘and there will be plenty of fellows to play with. 
 And you are to have my old violin, a beauty, smooth 
 as silk, brown as a beaver, sings like a bird. It can 
 talk too: you can make it say anything you like, the 
 Clytie story or anything else.” 
 
 Francie was silent for a minute, looking out of 
 the window. Then he spoke. 
 
 “You ’member that sunflower number seven? 
 Mother put the hood on her all right the night we 
 were up at Death Canyon. But the hard frost was 
 too much for her. She died. I’m very sorry. But 
 
 200 
 
A SUNFLOWER IN THE WEST 
 
 I think she brought me luck. That violin’ll be fine, 
 and J’ll like to live with you, Mr. Macrae, and 
 learn music.” 
 
 This was a long speech for Francie. When he 
 ended, the little smiling half-circles came back 
 around the corners of his mouth. Nora Croy smiled 
 too, while she wiped her eyes. And Macrae looked 
 
 like a man in the woods who has found a lost trail. 
 
 201 
 

 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 

 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 WHEN J udge Effingham built the high wall around 
 
 his spacious garden at Calvinton there was much dis- 
 cussion among the neighbors about the meaning of 
 this innovation. Everything new or unusual in that 
 quiet and mildly inquisitive burgh caused talk and 
 speculation as to its purpose. People were always 
 curious, but generally too dignified to ask what a 
 thing was for. They preferred to guess, and then 
 draw conclusions from the motive which they as- 
 signed to the novelty. The majority were inclined to 
 look for a good reason. But there was a little coterie 
 that liked better to find or invent a bad one. Even 
 among the Olympians, you know, there were some 
 jealous and suspicious divinities. 
 
 “That wall is an exhibition of selfishness,” said 
 one. “The judge put it up so that he could have his 
 flowers all to himself. He doesn’t want anybody else 
 to enjoy them.” 
 
 “It looks to me more like pride and ambition,” 
 said another. “He likes to have something different 
 and superior about his place. That wall is rather 
 
 205 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ostentatious, don’t you think? He was on the Supe- 
 rior Court in Pennsylvania, you know, and I suppose 
 he can’t come down from his high perch, though he 
 has retired from office.” 
 
 But these foolish guesses about the wall were put 
 out of countenance when that very bold and lively 
 old lady, Mrs. Black, went to the judge and asked 
 him pointblank: 
 
 “Why did you build that wall?” 
 
 “Madam,” he answered with the courteous and 
 somewhat elaborate manner which he used to all 
 ladies, “I erected the enclosure, which to my great 
 regret does not seem to excite your admiration, for 
 purely horticultural reasons, in order to create an asy- 
 lum or sanctuary for my flowers and shrubs. The 
 wind,—but first will you allow me to give you a brief 
 exposition of my theory of life?” 
 
 “Hmph,” said Mrs. Black, “not necessary, but go 
 ahead if you want to.” 
 
 “Well,” he continued, “I am what may be called 
 a Christian dualist. I hold that those ideas which 
 were expressed by the great Persian philosopher 
 Zarathustra are still valid. The world is the arena of 
 a perpetual conflict between good and evil, light and 
 darkness, life and death, expressed in various forces 
 
 206 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 and principles, which oppose each other and con- 
 tend together constantly. Now the wind, which in 
 some respects, if not abnormally violent, is beneficial 
 to the tall and sturdy trees because it seems to exer- 
 cise and develop their strength in resisting it,—the 
 wind is the enemy of the lowly and lovely flowers. 
 They can only develop their full life and beauty 
 when some kind of a protective shelter is provided 
 for them. It is therefore the duty of a Christian 
 dualist who is also an intelligent horticulturist to de- 
 feat the inimical wind by enclosing——”’ 
 
 “Quite so!” interrupted the lively old lady. “I 
 get your point. Ill put a stop to this silly gossip 
 about the wall. But how shall we see your garden to 
 know whether you are right?” 
 
 “By visiting it, madam,” he answered with an 
 old-fashioned bow. “The more frequently you and 
 our neighbors come to enjoy my flowers the more 
 pleased and honored I shall be.” 
 
 It was in truth a delicious retreat, that garden 
 planted westward in Calvinton on the soft rondure of 
 the hill that sloped gently down to the green vale of 
 Sunny Stream and the larger wooded valley of Stony 
 Brook. Z 
 
 The old burgh itself was not exactly a noisy place, 
 
 207 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 except along the highway where the gigantic motor- 
 trucks rumbled with their heavy loads and the swift 
 pleasure-cars snorted and panted with their mufflers 
 wide open for speed’s sake. Otherwise it was a tran- 
 quil town. There was rarely a racket, save when an 
 intercollegiate football-game was on, or when the 
 students varied their ardent intellectual pursuits 
 with a loud “pee-rade.”” 'To come back from roaring 
 New York, or even from rattling Philadelphia, to the 
 classic shades of Calvinton was like a return from 
 Babel to Eden. 
 
 But within that general calm there was a centre 
 of deeper repose; within those sanctuary precincts a 
 shrine of peace. It was Effingham’s garden enclosed. 
 There the high-vaulted elms, round-headed maples, 
 and wide-armed apple-trees, relics of an ancient or- 
 chard, cast their moon-spun or sun-woven shadows 
 on smooth verdant lawns. There little pathways 
 meandered among thickets of flowering shrubbery, 
 where rhododendrons glistened and glowed, pink 
 dogwoods blushed divinely, and Persian lilacsished 
 their delicate fragrance on the air. There climbing 
 roses covered the tall conical arbors built of cedar 
 poles, like Indian teepees, with rich roofing of red, or 
 yellow, or snow-white. There, in the beds and bor- 
 
 208 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 ders, the earliest flowers of spring rose miraculously 
 from their earthy graves,—pale snowdrop, golden 
 crocus, sapphire scilla, purple hyacinth; and after 
 that a flood-tide of rainbow-tinted tulips; and after 
 that the gorgeous peonies and the stately irises; and 
 after that the clustered bells of lilies, and the summer- 
 swords of gladiolus, and the swaying stars of cosmos, 
 the flames of scarlet sage, and the autumnal tints of 
 perennial chrysanthemums. Each season of time, in 
 smooth relative succession, brought its own tribute 
 of blossom to attest, with florid signature, the reality 
 of the flowing months, and to prove that in this dual 
 world where Ormuzd and Ahriman are at strife, the 
 flowers are grateful for protection from their enemy 
 the wind. 
 
 But the finest bloom of the little paradise was Lil- 
 lace Effingham,—sole daughter of her father’s house 
 and heart. There tas something cloistral in her 
 beauty, though it was in no way frail or morbid. 
 The rose of health was on her cheeks, her gray c. es 
 were lit with intelligence and wonder—the eyes of a 
 child who sees something new in every day. Yet she 
 seemed always a creature set apart from the rude 
 contacts of the world, as if her innocent serenity lay 
 deep within her like a crystal pool which no rough 
 
 209 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 wind had ever moiled or darkened. Her thoughts and 
 visions walked in white. Not dull nor ignorant; 
 quick-minded, joyful-hearted; she was a little sister 
 of happiness, a nun of pure delight. . 
 
 In effect she was just the reverse of the girl in 
 Hawthorne’s strange story of “Rappaccini’s Daugh- 
 ter.”’ All the pains which the weird Italian had taken 
 to imbue his Beatrice with the deadly breath and sap 
 of poisonous flowers, Effingham had spent upon his 
 Lillace to make her like a cup full of vital joy, a plant 
 whose flowers and leaves were rich in healing. She 
 had tutors; she went to school for a couple of years; 
 but the guidance of her education was in her father’s 
 hands, and he loved it. 
 
 There was nothing narrow and censorious about 
 that education: no bans and barriers: no taboos of 
 superstition. 
 
 “Read what you like,” he said to her; “‘but make 
 sure to find out why you like it. And if the reason 
 leaves a bad taste in your mouth, give it up.” 
 
 He taught her to read and write French admirably. 
 Her favorite authors were Lamartine, Victor Hugo, 
 Sully-Prudhomme, and Maurice de Guérin,—rare 
 tastes for a young woman, but to her as natural as 
 the air she breathed. In “The Crime of Sylvestre 
 
 210 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 Bonnard,” Anatole France charmed her; but in his 
 later work, though the limpid style was still enchant- 
 ing, there was something repellent, mordant, satanic. 
 
 > 
 
 “It is a wonderful paradise of words,” she said, 
 “but there are too many serpents in it. And the 
 apples have rotten spots. It wouldn’t be pleasant 
 to get a liking for rotten spots.” 
 
 Her father taught her a little Persian also, just 
 enough to illustrate his favorite judgment that Fir- 
 dausi was far superior, as a poet, to the much-quoted 
 Omar Khayyam. 
 
 “Fitzgerald’s translation made Omar’s reputa- 
 tion,” said the judge. “‘The Persians rank him as a 
 good astronomer but a second-rate poet.” 
 
 Lillace accepted the critical judgment in deference 
 to her father’s general (but sometimes annoying) 
 habit of being right. But her romantic fancy still 
 cherished some of the sad quatrains of the “Ru- 
 baiyat.” 
 
 On the whole, the life of the garden enclosed was 
 happy and not without temperate rejoicing. Passion- 
 ate storms did not enter there. Even the Great War 
 did not shatter its tranquillity. The old judge played 
 his part as a patriot by subscribing to Liberty Loans 
 and publicly denouncing William Hohenzollern as an 
 
 211 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 incarnation of Ahriman, the God of Evil. Mrs. Ef- 
 fingham,—a lady as delicate and beautiful as a bit 
 "of antique point-lace,—busied her white hands inde- 
 fatigably with knitting socks and sweaters for the 
 soldiers, while her thoughts travelled 
 
 “The marvellous current of forgotten things.” 
 
 Lillace was keen to go abroad as a nurse, but her 
 father would not hear of it. So she threw herself 
 eagerly into all the eddies of war-work that swirled 
 through Calvinton,—Red Cross auxiliaries, Navy 
 League chapters, Army Aid groups, societies for roll- 
 ing bandages and packing ditty-bags, teas for the 
 A. O. T. C. in the college, and dances for the U.S. 
 N. R. F. in the graduate school. From these activi- 
 ties she came back to the quiet garden refreshed as 
 an Oread from a bath in the sea. 
 
 Then came the armistice,—the day of jubilation; 
 the sudden, stunning dead-stop of war; the slow, 
 dallying, confused, baffling, foiling return of peace. 
 It was in these months of hope deferred that Mrs. 
 Effingham drifted gently out of life,—a bit of rare old 
 lace worn very thin and carried away by an unseen 
 breeze. The flowers of the garden enclosed were 
 spread over her grave. A year later the judge went 
 
 212 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 out on the long last voyage of discovery to test the 
 truth of that Christian dualism which he had held so 
 sturdily. 
 
 So Lillace was left alone. To tend her garden; to 
 rule her house, full of books and pictures and ancient 
 treasures; to enjoy the “modest competency,” (as 
 we used to call it,) of the estate which was left to her; 
 to continue the placid friendships of her earlier years; 
 and to complete the fine translation of the “Libres 
 Méditations’’ of Sénancour which she had begun be- 
 fore the war: these were the things she had to do, 
 and she did them very happily. 
 
 It was not long after the publication of her ex- 
 quisite book,—so pellucid, so pure, so tremulous with 
 the potency of deep natural feeling,—that the event 
 happened which brought peril to the garden enclosed. 
 
 I know not how to describe her psychic state at 
 this time so that the reader shall see it as clearly as 
 I felt it, and feel it still. She was contented, yet not 
 satisfied; she had rest, but not repose; her dreams 
 were perfect save in the touch of reality; she was 
 ready to believe all that attracted her, yet timorous 
 to adventure the loss of her long-cherished peace. 
 Her spring was past; her summer waned; her autumn 
 delayed; winter was a distant threat. 
 
 213 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Perhaps a passage from Sénancour will be more 
 revealing than my clumsy attempts at description. 
 This is what he says: 
 
 “When an irresistible feeling carries us far beyond 
 the things that are ours, and fills us first with rap- 
 ture, then with regret, giving us a vision of blessings 
 which are out of our reach, this deep and fleeting 
 sense is but the inner proof of the superiority of our 
 faculties over our destiny. And for this reason it 
 lingers but for a while, and is soon changed to regret; 
 it is enchanting, then heartrending, . . . We suffer 
 for not being what we might be; but were we to find 
 ourselves in that order of things for which we long, 
 we should no longer have either that excess of desire 
 or that redundance of faculties; we should no longer 
 enjoy the delight of being above our destiny, greater 
 than our environment, more productive than we 
 have need to be. . . . The things of actual life would 
 no longer be of service to bear us beyond, into the 
 imaginary region of the ideal brought into subjection 
 to the sovereignty of actual man. But why should 
 these things be purely ideal? That is what I cannot 
 understand.” 
 
 Such was the attitude of Lillace Effingham’s mind 
 and heart in her twenty-ninth year, when she met 
 
 214 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 Captain Basil Fitz Roy at a state dinner in Harmon 
 House. His presence was accounted for as a retired 
 British Army officer, invalided out of service by rea- 
 son of serious injuries received in the war,—wounded 
 twice and severely gassed,—in fact very badly 
 knocked about and used up. He was now travelling 
 to regain his health and employing the opportunity 
 to study American methods of military education. 
 This had brought him on a visit to Calvinton, where 
 there was a mathematical gunnery school attached 
 to the college. Some one had put him up at the 
 Town and Gown Club and he was received as a dis- 
 tinguished foreigner in the best social ellipses of the 
 burgh. | 
 
 “Very smart,” said old Mrs. Black. “Talks just 
 like a new English novel. Notice how he clips the 
 ‘g’ off the ends of his words? Wonder where he 
 comes from besides the army. They say he gets no 
 English mail at the club,—except things that look 
 like bills.” 
 
 But beyond a doubt Captain Fitz Roy was the 
 most noticeable male person at the dinner where he 
 met Miss Effingham. He belonged to the lean type 
 of Englishman, tall, well set up, fairly heavy in the 
 shoulders, and distinctly thin in the waist. His hair 
 
 215 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 was black and smooth; his dark hazel eyes were large 
 and deep-set under arched brows; his face was pale, 
 though you could see it had once been well bronzed, 
 and there were many lines upon it, notably two deep 
 creases around the corners of his nose, and a long 
 white scar on his left temple close to the hair. He 
 looked about thirty-five years old, but it was impos- 
 sible to tell his age. He might have been just under 
 thirty or just over forty. He was evidently a man 
 with a past—presumably heroic, certainly adven- 
 turous. He talked well, but not much about himself, 
 and not at all about the war. On that subject he re- 
 fused to be drawn. But he seemed to know most of 
 the people worth knowing in England and France, 
 and to have a store of illuminating remarks to make 
 about them. 
 
 Lillace, whom he took in to dinner, was fascinated 
 by him from the first. She listened to him intently 
 and found something charmingly frank and simple 
 in his very reserves. 
 
 “Lloyd George?’’ he said in answer to her ques- 
 tion, “yes, I know him, but not well. I doubt if any 
 one does. He has very little private life, you know; 
 it’s almost all for the platform. He’s what you call 
 in this country a ‘spellbinder,’ if you understand 
 
 216 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 what I mean. He stands up and smiles at the audi- 
 ence and they all adore him. Then he gets confiden- 
 tial and tells them a lot of things they know already, 
 and they think it’s wonderful. Then he winds up 
 with a burst of eloquence and a snappy phrase, and 
 the house rises at him and lifts the roof with ap- 
 plause.”’ 
 
 Lillace felt as if she had been at the meeting. She 
 went on to ask about other French and English per- 
 sonages. Of all the captain had something interest- 
 ing to tell. 
 
 ** Anatole France,” he said, “is a most extraordi- 
 nary old chap. I breakfasted with him twice,—in 
 Tours and in Paris. You know his real name is 
 Jacques Thibault, but they all call him Anatole,—or 
 cher maitre when they want to be polite. He lives in 
 the most extraordinary way. Something like a mix- 
 ture of Voltaire and one of the old Hebrew patriarchs 
 surrounded by,—er,—ladies. With words he’s a 
 genius, but in other matters his taste is atro- 
 cious.” 
 
 So their talk rambled on over persons and books 
 and things till 1t seemed to Lillace as if she were on a 
 thrilling excursion far away from the familiar pre- 
 cincts of the old burgh and its well-groomed gardens. 
 
 Q17 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Of course the inevitable question had to be asked: 
 **How do you like America?” 
 
 “IT don’t like it,’ answered Fitz Roy with his big 
 sombre eyes lighting up as he looked into hers. “I 
 love it. May I come to see you one day and tell you 
 how much and why? Then perhaps I can talk to you 
 a little about the war, if you wish it, but not here, to 
 all these people.” 
 
 She admitted shyly that she wished it. He came 
 to call not only one day but many days. In fact he 
 became an almost daily visitor, besides showing her 
 marked deference and attention when they met in 
 other places. They had afternoon tea on the veranda; 
 little dinners with two or three other guests, or téte-d- 
 téte. In the mellow light of the Hunter’s Moon they 
 walked the paths of the garden enclosed or sat to- 
 gether on a wooden bench under a spreading apple- 
 tree. Evidently it was an “affair,’? and Calvinton 
 soon began to gossip about it. 
 
 ““Very romantic,” said some. “A real case of love 
 at first sight.’’ (The members of the Alliance Fran- 
 caise preferred to call it coup de foudre, which sounded 
 more knowing.) “But wasn’t it lucky for Lillace, 
 after waiting so long, to have such an intriguing man 
 come after her?” 
 
 218 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 “Hmph,” said Mrs. Black, who had begun to have 
 
 serious doubts about the gallant captain. “Jntrigu- 
 ing is a new-fangled word, but I guess it’s right. 
 Instead of love at first sight, this may be a case of 
 fortune-hunting at close range. Who knows anything 
 about this Fitz Roy? I’ve inquired at the British 
 Embassy in Washington and written to my old 
 friend General Desmond in London, but can’t get a 
 word. There’s a wall around that garden, but there 
 ought to be a caretaker for that girl.” 
 
 The general popularity of the captain had de- 
 clined considerably. His manners were beautifully 
 British, but his habits were a bit queer. He never 
 came down to breakfast, but began the day with a 
 meal which he called “brunch.’’ Sometimes he was 
 very jolly in a restrained way, bright as a new half- 
 crown, and other times he was dull and heavy, 
 plainly depressed and nervous, almost gloomy. 
 These alternations he explained briefly as the result 
 of a malarial fever caught in the marshes around Sa- 
 lonika. But some of the men thought they were the 
 effects of a secret devotion to that adamantine liquor 
 which came into the United States with the Volstead 
 law, or perhaps of a too fond affection for the hypo- 
 dermic needle. There was nothing certain against 
 
 219 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 him, but the fellows who had trained in England 
 
 and served in France thought it rather strange that 
 they had never seen Fitz Roy, nor even heard of him, 
 until they met him in Calvinton as the open admirer 
 of Lillace Effingham. 
 
 To her none of these suspicions came. She was not 
 the kind of a girl to whom people repeat scandal. In 
 her presence, to her eyes, the captain was all that a 
 hero of romance should be; eager, respectful, serious 
 with a touch of wit, a most persuasive talker. 
 
 He was in effect a hunter by race and by ex- 
 perience, a very Nimrod of feminine hearts. He knew 
 the difference between the two kinds of girls: those 
 who may be won by a bold assault, conquering the 
 way to the soul through the senses; and those with 
 whom discretion is the better part of valor and whose 
 entire surrender depends upon the winning of their 
 inmost thoughts and feelings first. The wise hunter 
 knew that his present game was of this latter type. 
 So he went cautiously about the chase. 
 
 His three effective weapons were his eloquent en- 
 thusiasm for her ideals; his grave, ardent praise of her 
 beauty; and his vivid recital of his own adventures 
 and exploits. The becoming reticence on this last 
 point which marked his general conversation quite 
 
 220 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 disappeared when he was talking to her alone. It 
 was a courtship somewhat in the Victorian manner, 
 but still more in the older manner of Othello. He 
 had the air of not wishing to boast of his heroic deeds, 
 but he told about them at full length. 
 
 “It was nothing,” he would say. “All the other 
 chaps would have done the same, or better, if the 
 chance had come to them.”’ 
 
 “But tell me about it,” she urged, “I never heard 
 anything so splendid. Tell me how you felt when 
 ' you came up against the German machine-gun hid- 
 den in the wood where you were scouting with only 
 two men. Tell me what you did to that Prussian 
 captain when he slashed your head with his sword 
 after he had surrendered. Is that the scar on your 
 temple? Tell me all about it.” 
 
 So the captain, with assumed reluctance, went on 
 
 to speak 
 
 *‘of most disastrous chances, 
 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field, 
 
 Of hairbreadth ’scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach,” 
 while his gentle Desdemona “seriously inclined to 
 hear”’ his tales, and the more she heard the more she 
 admired and adored this figure of a noble, valiant 
 man of action. 
 
 221 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 He understood very well that she knew little or 
 nothing about the history and actual events of the 
 war, and this gave him all the freer hand in weaving 
 his vivid tapestry of things he had read and remem- 
 bered. He could put himself on two distant fronts 
 at the same time. He could be in the cavalry, the 
 artillery, and aviation. He could do the incredible, 
 if not the impossible. 
 
 In April 1915 he was in the trenches of Ypres when 
 that horrible green cloud of poison-gas rolled down 
 upon the dismayed Allies. The same month he was 
 landing on a blood-stained beach at Gallipoli, fight- 
 ing his way desperately through barbed wire and a 
 tempest of machine-gun fire to a position on top of 
 the barren, rocky cliff. He was with Townshend in 
 the hell-fire of Mesopotamia and with Haig in the 
 frozen inferno of Loos. He was all over the map. 
 Everywhere he praised his men, their pluck and 
 patience and bulldog grip. But his Desdemona was 
 always thinking: 
 
 “If they were brave, how much braver must their 
 captain have been? The man who led them, this 
 man who is now talking to me!” 
 
 With his discourse of battles he mingled praise of 
 peace as the normal state of man. 
 
 222 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 “War is a horror,” he said, “a wide-awake night- 
 mare, a cruel, crazy thing. Wasn’t it your old Gen- 
 eral Sherman who said ‘war is hell’? When a chap 
 comes to it he has to wade through it for his coun- 
 try’s sake, of course. But when he comes out he 
 ought to pray and work to make its return impossi- 
 ble. That’s what the League of Nations is for. 
 That’s what the British and American fleets are for. 
 That’s what the Anglo-Saxon race wants and will 
 always be ready to fight for,—Peace !” 
 
 These sentiments in a soldier seemed to Lillace 
 thrillingly fine. But even more thrilling were the per- 
 sonal sentiments toward herself which he allowed 
 himself to express with discreet fervor. He was 
 careful not to alarm her modesty by touch or 
 gesture. He knew that his bird was timid and 
 must be approached gently. But his words were 
 ardent. . 
 
 “Even when he is fighting,” said he, “or slogging 
 at a long march, or shivering in the trenches, a man 
 has his ideal, his beautiful dream to console him. 
 You were my dream. I couldn’t see your face, didn’t 
 know your name. But now I see you and know you, 
 and my dream comes true. Lillace, I love you more 
 
 than tongue can tell.” 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 He took her hand and raised it to his lips. The 
 moonlight in the garden fell full upon her face. He 
 saw it blanch and her lips tremble. His bird was 
 frightened. He must not go too fast, must not “rush 
 his fences.” He laid her hand back upon her knee, as 
 if it were something sacred. Her eyes were turned to 
 him very seriously. Then she looked down. 
 
 “*T like you,” she murmured, “‘more than any man 
 I have ever met. But I know you so little. It all 
 seems so strange to me.” 
 
 “I will tell you everything about myself,”’ he said, 
 “you shall know everything there is to know. I was 
 well off once, but I’m pretty poor now. However, 
 I’m able to work again, and I have good prospects 
 and plenty of strong friends. I was married when I 
 was only a boy. My wife was not of my class. She 
 was careless and extravagant, but she was a good 
 girl, and pretty, and loyal. I was devoted to her. 
 She died the second year I was in France. Our only 
 child died six months before her. It nearly broke 
 my heart. See, here is her picture.” 
 
 He pulled from his pocketbook a faded photograph 
 of the type that used to be called carte-de-visite. She 
 looked at it with swimming eyes. How strange it was 
 for him to show her this now! There was something, 
 
 224 
 

 
 bP 
 . 
 
 with you 
 
 is 
 
 The future 
 
 ome for me. 
 
 iy has ¢ 
 
 di 
 
 “The new 
 

 
 : ‘ 
 an | * 
 = ‘ 
 t 
 ai ire 
 * | 
 : - P 7 
 : a 4 ’ 
 =<! 
 - +¥ -" . 
 ay ; it, 
 er LN ye 
 > = a 
 ar . a: as 
 af 85 y 
 i / —_s 
 i ral , 
 [ 1 72 » F 
 3 i 4 ee " 
 wi . a _- 
 ; " ; $ 
 ~~ *. 
 ‘ 
 aC nf _ 
 is *" . 
 ‘ 
 { 
 #5 ' 
 - Tia 
 a Bes *) 
 ' 
 i 
 * sf ‘ 
 rad 
 f 
 “~~ 
 . 
 ot 
 f 
 r 
 o] 
 t : 
 ‘ p- 
 ‘ 
 ’ 
 ‘ bey 
 ¢ 3 ' 
 A 
 ‘ 
 ¢ 
 ‘’ 
 i! 
 st 
 "¢@ 
 Ve « 
 > 
 ( - © ya 
 me  * 
 ; wh 
 + . 4 
 fs 
 i 
 & 
 io 
 h. 
 9 
 i] 4 
 ’-, i 
 if : 
 (s 
 re ; 
 ’ if 
 a ie ® 
 ‘ j ¥ ot 
 7 Bi t adds 1a i 
 * 
 ae 
 hy J ' 
 ® ‘ hat a y 
 te 
 ¥, 
 » 
 iz 
 wile 2 ys 
 ‘ » 
 ew, 
 ' ey 
 Pvt eet 
 t “as s i. 
 A oa he 7 ay 
 
 a“ 
 
 A is Ad 
 (We e d +4 Re " 
 i? ve So 
 
 e A ® “ge 
 
 os 
 
 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 too, in the words he had spoken which vaguely 
 troubled her. | | 
 
 The picture showed a woman of about twenty-five, 
 pretty in a commonplace way, with curiously arched 
 eyebrows and an appealing, puzzled look in her eyes 
 like that of a faithful dog. She was dressed in plain 
 black. 
 
 “That was taken soon after our child died,”’ said 
 Fitz Roy. “She sent it to me in France. I always 
 carry it with me. But it all belongs to the past now. 
 Please keep the picture. The new day has come for 
 me. The future is with you. My own lovely dream 
 come true, I adore you. Will you marry me?” 
 
 He moved toward her, but was stayed by her look, 
 her unconscious gesture. 
 
 “You must give me time,” she said. “This is very 
 serious. I must think it over alone. Will you come 
 back to-morrow afternoon at five? No one else will 
 be here. Good night.” 
 
 She put out her hand to him. It trembled a little 
 in his. He almost thought it returned his grasp as 
 he bent over it. The silvery chime of Trinity Church 
 was striking half after nine when he passed out of the 
 garden. Lillace went into the house for a shawl and 
 came back to another bench to sit in the moonlight, 
 
 225 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 looking now at the faded picture, now at the pale 
 cosmos flowers against the wall. 
 
 The steps on the grass behind her were so light 
 that she did not hear them, but she felt that some 
 one was near her. She looked up and saw a woman 
 dressed in black, with curiously arched eyebrows 
 and an appealing look in her eyes, staring out of a 
 face once pretty but now worn and pathetic. At 
 first she thought it must be a ghost,—the ghost of 
 the dead woman whose picture lay on her lap. 
 
 > 
 
 “TI beg your pardon,” said the woman in a low, 
 pleasant voice, “but are you Miss Effingham?” 
 
 “That is my name,” answered Lillace, controlling 
 herself with an effort, “but how did you find your 
 way here, and why have you come so late?”’ 
 
 “T hope I am not too late,” replied the visitor, “I 
 hope to God I am not too late! They told me at the 
 Inn that you lived here, in the house with a wall 
 around the garden. They told me, too, that my hus- 
 band is in this town and that he comes to see you 
 every day. Is that true?” 
 
 Lillace looked at the photograph and back again 
 at the face of the woman. The likeness was unmis- 
 takable. 
 
 “Do you mean Captain Basil Fitz Roy ?” 
 
 226 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 *'That’s what he calls himself now, I believe. He 
 has a dozen names, but his real one is Ben Fitts,— 
 the same initials, you see, that I marked on his linen. 
 That is my picture on your lap. Don’t you recognize 
 it? Do you want me to tell you about him ?” 
 
 It was a terrible moment. The garden enclosed 
 seemed to be rocking and whirling about its mistress. 
 The protecting wall was down and a death-cold wind 
 from the north crept over it. She had no shelter now 
 except her simple faith and her virgin honor. 
 
 “Yes,” she said. “I want you to tell me about 
 ‘him. Sit down here beside me, please, and tell me 
 quietly all the truth and nothing else.” 
 
 “T thank you for your kindness,”’ said the woman, 
 sobbing a little. “I was afraid you would despise me. 
 But now I know you are good. It is not an easy 
 story to tell. Ben and I were married eight years 
 ago, while he was in the service. He was a higher 
 class than me, better educated and always very 
 clever. I had a bit of money, not much, but enough 
 to make things easier for him. I believe he was real 
 fond of me then. He was never a captain, you know; 
 just a clerk in the commissariat, but always a beau- 
 tiful talker, never in the fighting. Then something 
 went wrong with his accounts. I'll never believe he 
 
 227 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 stole, but they said he did, so he had to slip away 
 and hide. I helped him. They didn’t look for him 
 too hard, because he had some strong friends who 
 wanted him to get off. It was then he took up chang- 
 ing his name. With his cleverness and my bit of 
 money we got along well enough. We had three 
 children. One died. The others are with my sister 
 in England now.” 
 
 She paused for a minute in her steady narrative 
 while she wiped her eyes, and sobbed. Silent tears 
 were running down the cheeks of Lillace. Her heart 
 was compressed and twisted in her side as if a hard 
 hand had grasped it and were trying to tear it out by 
 the roots. But she made no movement, no outcry. 
 Her sudden sorrow and shame lay upon her heavy as 
 frost and deep as death. 
 
 If this strange visitor were real,—a living woman 
 of flesh and blood, and of that Lillace had a fatal 
 certainty,—then her own dawning love for Fitz Roy 
 was a false dawn, a cruel delusion, a thing to make 
 her tingle with reproach and humiliation. The bright 
 image of a hero of romance that she had created in 
 her garden enclosed, changed dreadfully before her 
 eyes. It was clothed in ragged ignominy and foul 
 deceit. It mocked her trustfulness with grinning lips 
 
 228 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 and outthrust tongue. It leered at her with angry 
 eyes of greed and disappointment. She could almost 
 hear it jeering,—“I nearly had you in my arms,— 
 you were willing,—by a hair’s breadth only I missed 
 you, my little lady!” 
 
 How was this to be met? By the primitive woman, 
 no doubt, with fierce anger, hot resentment, and re- 
 venge if possible. But what good would these do to 
 the heart of Lillace? They were weapons that she 
 could not use without a deeper shame. After all, 
 the wrong done her was nothing compared with the 
 wrong done to this sobbing woman at her side. A 
 saying from an old book that she loved to read 
 glowed in her mind: If troubles overwhelm thee, find 
 deliverance in a good deed. On that she steadied, and 
 turned to her visitor with a great kindness in her 
 look. 
 
 “TI believe all that you have told me,” she said. 
 “Now, if you are a little rested, and can do it without 
 distress, won’t you go on and tell me more about 
 your life?” 
 
 “T’ll say we were happy enough till Ben took to 
 drinking and using drugs. Then we had some hard, 
 rough times, and had to live in some mean dirty 
 places. When he was himself he was the perfect 
 
 229 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 gentleman, lovely to look at and listen to. But when 
 he was full it seemed like a devil entered into him. 
 You noticed that white scar on his forehead. He got 
 that in a fight in a bar. You see this crooked elbow 
 on me? (She pulled up her sleeve.) That’s where 
 my arm broke one night when he threw me down- 
 stairs. Then my money ran very low. Ben started 
 out on his travels, looking for a job, he said. But I 
 never knew what he was doing. Once in a while he’d 
 send me a little money, but he never gave me his real 
 address. It was always some post-office. I got work 
 in a milliner’s shop, and was living with my sister who 
 runs a fancy laundry in the West End, but it was 
 awful lonely, spite of the children. He was in Buenos 
 Aires for a while; then he came to the States to do 
 some university work, he said. I just couldn’t live 
 without him any longer. So I parked the children 
 with sister and came over to look for him and got 
 on his track and found that he was here. Everybody 
 said he was making love to you. But I’m his wife. 
 Look, here are my marriage lines. I love him still, 
 spite of everything. Dear lady, won’t you give him 
 back to me?” 
 
 “No, my friend,” said Lillace, whose eyes were 
 now cleared of weeping, “I won’t give him back be- 
 
 230 
 
A GARDEN ENCLOSED 
 
 cause he is not mine. He is yours. I'll send a note to 
 him, and he shall come for you in the morning to 
 take you home. [ll finance the journey. You are 
 going to sleep in my guest-room to-night. Come, no 
 excuses. You got here just at the right time, and I’m 
 very grateful to you. Now let’s go to bed. We are 
 both very tired.” 
 
 What was in Lillace Effingham’s note no one ex- 
 cept Ben Fitts ever knew. But he came early in the 
 morning and took his wife away with him. The gar- 
 den is still enclosed and May is filling it with radiant 
 
 virginal bloom. 
 
 231 
 
DL aN 
 
 guy) Ry “ , 
 See ae 
 AAG wey ite 
 
 rape 
 
 
 
A BLIND LAMPLIGHTER 
 

 
 La 
 an, 
 
A BLIND LAMPLIGHTER 
 “J USED to see him going his rounds in B——,” 
 
 said my old schoolmate Charles Frost, (whom no- 
 body could call a sentimentalist, for he was inclined 
 by nature to be rather hard and a doubter,) “in those 
 days after we graduated from the ‘Poly’ I often saw 
 David Gray tapping his way along the streets, busy 
 with his odd task of lamp-lighting. It always gave 
 me a curious feeling. There was something incongru- 
 ous about it. Singular, that a man just so handi- 
 capped should have just that work to do, and that he 
 should do it so well, seem to find so much satisfaction 
 in it. It puzzled me; and you know I like to under- 
 stand and explain everything if possible. 
 
 “How long ago this was you may judge from the 
 fact that the lamps which he lighted were gas-burn- 
 ers. You remember them? They were enclosed in 
 square glass lanterns, perched on iron posts eight or 
 ten feet high,—just about the right height to tempt 
 mischievous boys to throw stones at them when the 
 ‘cop’ was not in sight. The lamp-posts stood at 
 the street-corners, and sometimes there was one in 
 
 235 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 the middle of a long block. The light which they 
 
 shed was not dazzling,—a faint, fulvous iliumination 
 at best; and when the burner was half stoppered by 
 rust or by an accumulation of gritty dust, it gave out 
 only a broken yellow fan of pale radiance, pierced by 
 a blue streak of shrill whistling flame. 
 
 **But after all the street-lamps were an immense 
 improvement on the primitive oil-lanterns which 
 made darkness visible when B—— was a growing 
 village. They served to embarrass nervous robbers, 
 to cheer the yawning policeman on his beat, to 
 guide the belated citizen on his homeward way. The 
 iron posts were a godsend to the fuddled reveller: 
 who embraced them and clung to them while he 
 regained his lost balance and courage to pursue his 
 zigzag journey. 
 
 “Old David Gray took a lot of pride in his job. 
 I don’t know why I should call him ‘old,’ except that 
 we often use that word for a man that we really like, 
 —you know how the French say ‘mon vieux,’—and 
 the English ‘old thing.’ But Gray was about thirty 
 when [ first met him as a lamplighter. It turned out 
 that I had known him before. 
 
 “It was just before sunset on one of those cool, 
 
 clear, October evenings when the saffron glow is held 
 236 
 
A BLIND LAMPLIGHTER 
 
 long in the western sky, exquisite, regretful. Some- 
 thing in his face was familiar. I watched him at 
 his work. He did it deftly. 
 
 “Tn his right hand he carried a stick about six feet 
 long. At the upper end it had a metal contrivance 
 for opening the doors of the glass lanterns and turn- 
 ing the cocks of the burners, and some kind of a 
 lamp covered with a tin cylinder for lighting the gas. 
 The whole thing was done with three motions in half 
 a minute. The lower end of the stick he used as a 
 cane, tapping the pavement before him now and 
 then, but not all the time. He seemed to know his 
 way about almost as if he were walking in his own 
 room. You would hardly have thought him blind 
 but for the thick blue spectacles that completely 
 covered his eyes. A seeing man would not have 
 worn these at twilight. 
 
 “As I looked at him more closely the familiarity 
 of his face came out more clearly. He was undoubt- 
 edly a former clerk in my father’s shipping-office. 
 As a boy I had known him well and liked him a lot. 
 He was a quiet, plodding fellow, always cheerful, and 
 very friendly in supplying me with those ‘shipping- 
 cards’ which we boys used to collect. You remember 
 them,—‘ The White Dove,’ ‘The Swift Arrow,’ ‘Fly- 
 
 Q37 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ing Eagle,’ ‘Queen of the Sea,’ ‘Sailor’s Darling.’ 
 The cards, in addition to mercantile information, 
 displayed wonderful mid-Victorian pictures. The 
 good-natured fellow had helped me to make a larger 
 collection of these art treasures than any of the other 
 
 boys. Of course I was grateful in a boy’s dumb and 
 
 
 
 awkward way. And now 
 
 “Is that you, Mr. Gray ?’ I asked. : 
 
 “Yes, Mr. Charles, this is David Gray,’ he an- 
 swered, recognizing my way of speaking instantly. 
 
 “Then I started to say a fool thing. “Shake hands. 
 You’ve had an ac—,’ but some instinct stopped me, 
 and I went on a better tack. ‘You've got a new job, 
 I see.’ 
 
 “Yes, and a good one too,—lighting up things. 
 Your father got it for me. But please excuse me, I 
 must hurry on now,—thirty more lamps to tend be- 
 fore dark.’ 
 
 “T asked him if I might walk with him, and he 
 readily agreed. As we paced those quiet streets he 
 outlined his story very modestly. When the Civil 
 War broke out he wanted to enlist, but my father 
 dissuaded him. He had a young wife and a baby. 
 Then came the draft. But his name was not drawn. 
 
 “A rich abolitionist, who was very fierce about 
 
 238 
 
A BLIND LAMPLIGHTER 
 
 ‘smashing the South’ but had no stomach for facing 
 personal danger, offered a thousand dollars for a 
 substitute to go to the war in his place. Gray did not 
 care a hoot from Hades about abolitionism, nor about 
 the millionaire. He couldn’t see why the United 
 States didn’t pay the slave-owners and emancipate 
 the slaves, as England had done,—that would have 
 cost far less than a war. But he was ready,—yes, 
 keen,—to fight for the saving of the Union and the 
 honor of his country. Moreover, the bonus money 
 would be extremely useful to his little family. 
 
 “So he accepted it and went to the war. One of 
 war’s terrible things promptly happened to him. A 
 lighted grenade had fallen beside an ammunition 
 dump, and lay there sizzling. It threatened death to 
 a hundred men. Gray ran and picked it up to throw 
 it into the river. The brute thing exploded as it 
 left his hand and put out both of his eyes forever. 
 
 ‘He was well nursed in hospital, well cared for in 
 the blind asylum, taught to read with his fingers, to 
 weave baskets and rugs, and all that sort of thing. 
 But that would not support his wife and child. 
 What could he do? 
 
 “He did not have the peculiar gift that a good 
 piano-tuner needs, but it seems that he had a quite 
 
 239 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 remarkable instinct for finding his way in the dark 
 which perpetually surrounded him. Lead him over a 
 path once and he could follow it again inerrantly. 
 It was like a seventh sense. He felt the points of the 
 compass in his mind. He had ‘an ear practised like 
 a blind man’s touch.’ He had also that patient cheer- 
 fulness, that touching alertness, which so often 
 beautifies those who cannot see with their eyes. 
 
 “There was a place open for a lamplighter in 
 B——. My father recommended him for it, and 
 backed him warmly. After some hesitation it was 
 agreed to take him on trial. At first his wife went 
 with him on his rounds. But he soon passed beyond 
 the need of her aid. He knew his way all right; he 
 was regular, dependable, ‘calm as a clock,’ as they 
 say in Maine. I recall his saying on one of our earlier 
 walks, ‘Nowadays my little girl sometimes comes 
 with me. But it isn’t for guidance, it’s just for com- 
 pany. Here is my last lamp. To-morrow I must 
 come around at daybreak to put them all out. But 
 you know, Mr. Charles, dusk and dawn make no 
 difference to me.’ 
 
 “So we shook hands good-night. Many a time 
 have I walked a mile or two with him since then. I 
 used to visit him occasionally in his home,—three 
 
 240 
 
A BLIND LAMPLIGHTER 
 
 small rooms on a narrow street, but his wife kept 
 them wonderfully bright and clean. 
 
 “He regretted that the ‘movies’ were no good to 
 him, but thought that his small phonograph was a 
 God-given compensation. He had a set of records of 
 religious music, hymns and anthems, sung by a fine 
 church choir. He used to turn them on, Sunday 
 mornings, and hum a doubtful bass accompaniment. 
 But Sunday nights he preferred to go with his wife 
 to some plain meeting-house where the singing was 
 hearty and he could ‘join in.” He knew the old 
 
 hymns by heart. His favorite was: 
 
 ‘Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear, 
 It is not night if Thou art near.’ 
 
 “When the gas-lamps were replaced by electricity 
 he was retired on a small pension. If he could have 
 lived to hear the radio, he would have regarded it as 
 a special miracle wrought for the blind and the hard 
 of hearing. He liked to philosophize half humor- 
 ously about the strange contrast between his condi- 
 tion and his work,—giving people light which he 
 could not see. He had a singular pleasure in recalling 
 it. He often said: ‘There are many things in life 
 which we can help others to enjoy though we can’t 
 get them for ourselves.’ 
 
 241 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “Good thought to steer by, that. If it’s true, 
 
 Gray sees why it’s true, now. 
 
 *You know, my friend,” continued Frost, “I am 
 what they call an agnostic. I cannot feel as sure of 
 God and the soul as you seem to do. But I am sure 
 there was something in that blind lamplighter which 
 scientific chemistry and biology cannot explain, 
 something which darkness can never conquer. When 
 one of my heavy despondent moods comes over me,— 
 and every honest agnostic has them,—I think of 
 David Gray and remember Wordsworth’s lines in 
 
 “Resolution and Independence,’— 
 
 ‘I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 In that decrepit man so firm a mind.’” 
 
 242 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
ih 
 
 P y 
 Tete Mails 
 
 he a) x i 
 
 LT 
 
 AN ons + en 
 "eee hig YC 
 x PY & 
 Wey i 
 ¥ 
 
 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 DURING a year of active service in the American 
 Navy, with a roving commission for all the naval 
 stations, I learned far more than I taught. Many 
 genial officers and their wives hospitably entertained 
 the itinerant chaplain and refreshed him with curi- 
 ous stories of life, love, and adventure on the “* West 
 African Station” and other romantic homes of myth 
 and legend. The following tale is really too short 
 and slight to be called a story—it is only a sketch. 
 
 It was given to me by the veteran Rear-Admiral 
 B——,, while we sat smoking one night on the broad 
 veranda of the Commandant’s House in the ancient 
 navy-yard of Portsmouth, beneath the spreading 
 silver maples and trembling aspens, where Roose- 
 velt had led the feet of the Russian and Japanese 
 envoys toward the path of peace in 1905, and where 
 the hum and hammering of equipment for the World 
 War were faintly heard under the August moon of 
 1918. At that time, in those surroundings, with the 
 admiral’s gentle Southern wife knitting beside us in 
 a mercifully silent rocking-chair, his very simple 
 
 R45 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 narrative seemed to have a certain significance 
 which went deep into the springs of human con- 
 duct. Perhaps it threw a little light on one of the 
 hidden causes of the personal misunderstandings 
 and domestic strifes and international wars which 
 vex and hamper this poor mortal life of ours. Pos- 
 sibly I exaggerate this meaning. But you shall judge 
 
 for yourself if you care to read: 
 
 What the Admiral Told Me. 
 
 When I was in command of the North Carolina 
 in 190-, we were sent on a friendly visit to Japan. 
 Of course we were well entertained with public re- 
 ceptions and private feasts. The Japanese under- 
 stand beautifully how to do these things. Even 
 when they courteously adopt Occidental customs, 
 their imitation is creditable and pleasant. But when 
 they know and like you well enough to do things in 
 their own quaint and dainty way, it is much better. 
 
 There was an unofficial banquet for half a dozen 
 of us officers at the Maple Club in one of the Tokyo 
 parks. A Geisha entertainment of the refined type 
 adorned the feast. After dinner the flower-like girls 
 pleased us with a few of their dances—more like 
 brief pantomime plays than our idea of dancing, 
 
 246 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 which seems to be a mechanical repetition of set 
 motions without meaning under the tyrannical noise 
 of a barbaric band. But this performance of a people 
 whom we call in our ignorant pride, “little brown 
 monkeys,” was vastly more civilized than our ball- 
 room gyrations or cabaret convulsions. It was 
 graceful, intelligent, full of poetry and sentiment. 
 Evidently it made a great impression on my 
 fourth officer, Lieutenant C——, from Charleston, 
 South Carolina. You really ought to have known 
 that young man in order to appreciate, or perhaps 
 even to believe, this story. He was a thoroughbred 
 of old Huguenot stock; quick-minded, clever, highly 
 sensitive, devout, and extremely imaginative. His 
 impulses were lively but his sense of duty was strong. 
 He was a first-rate officer, with firm principles under 
 quiet manners, and an independent spirit which 
 obeyed orders promptly as long as they came with 
 authority. But one always had a feeling that if he 
 were released, or released himself, from that au- 
 thority, there was no telling what C——’s queer 
 combination of a passionate love of beauty with an 
 extreme conscientiousness might not make him do. 
 Well, as I said, he was fascinated by this deco- 
 rously beautiful performance at the Maple Club. 
 Q47 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 The brilliant joyous garments, the pliant gestures, 
 the waving fans and woven paces, seemed to create 
 an atmosphere of charm which carried him away 
 from himself and from the rest of us. His attention 
 was centred on a certain little girl about ten or 
 eleven years old who appeared to be the attendant 
 and pupil of the leading Geisha. Around this state- 
 lier person the exquisite small creature danced like 
 a sunbeam around a tall purple foxglove. Her glossy 
 black hair, her lustrous almond eyes, her tiny mouth 
 curved in an unconscious smile, rose from a shim- 
 mering gold-thread robe embroidered with silver 
 flowers. Every motion of her body was light and 
 glad as if she were in an ecstasy. 
 
 “Look at that little one, sir,” C—— whispered to 
 me. “Isn’t she perfect? She’s like a child fairy. 
 She’s the very bud of the East. The others are 
 sometimes a bit ponderous. But that ray of sun- 
 light reminds me of a verse from the Old Testament, 
 —‘a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’ ” 
 
 Of course such high-flown sentimental talk made 
 me a little uneasy about C——, knowing his tem- 
 perament as I did. But I must say his conduct was 
 faultless. He went back to the ship with the rest 
 of us, and during the remainder of our stay in Yoko- 
 
 248 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 hama, so far as I know, he made no effort to find 
 out anything about his “bud of the East.” But I 
 have no doubt he carried a pretty vivid image of 
 her in his romantic heart. It did not interfere at 
 all with his exemplary doing of his duty. 
 
 In a short time he got his promotion as Lieu- 
 tenant-Commander and was sent back to Japan 
 and Korea on a special, confidential mission. He 
 was most successful and brought home a valuable 
 report. But his work was not recognized by the 
 Government, nor even visibly appreciated by the 
 Department. His sensitive nature was deeply 
 grieved and wounded by this apparent neglect. 
 He had not yet learned that to carry on a life of 
 service in the Navy a man at times must have a 
 patient temper and a bit of alligator-skin over his 
 heart. C 
 
 felt that he was pierced in a vital spot, and his con- 
 
 
 
 did not have this armor-plating. He 
 
 science told him that he must resign his commission. 
 I did not agree with him, but that was no reason why 
 I should blame him or question his sincere patriotism. 
 
 In his disappointment he turned more intensely 
 than ever to religion. He wanted to Americanize 
 the world by pacific methods, by teaching Chris- 
 tianity in that particular form and garb which ap- 
 
 249 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 pealed to him most. So he entered an institution 
 for training missionary teachers. His natural gifts 
 carried him quickly through the course, and he ob- 
 tained a place in a famous school in a certain ancient 
 city of Japan—a city which I will not name, for ob- 
 vious reasons. 
 
 Meantime his beautiful “bud of the East,”—O Yei 
 Tama,—was of course unfolding and growing up. 
 She came of a good Samurai family. Her father’s 
 bankruptcy had forced her, in a daughter’s devo- 
 tion, to turn toward the profession of a Geisha. 
 But in some way or other he had recovered most of 
 his property and, perhaps in gratitude for this, had 
 become a convert to Christianity and had entered 
 the lovely Yei Tama in the great school to which 
 C—— was preparing to come as a missionary 
 teacher. There she was when he arrived. After 
 some observation and inquiry he identified this 
 favorite pupil and assistant teacher with the fairy 
 child who had danced into his heart at the Maple 
 Club eight years ago. 
 
 Imagine the situation ! Yes, it was quite dramatic,— 
 in the moving-picture style,—but it really happened. 
 dis- 
 covers that the seed of love has not been withered 
 
 250 
 
 
 
 You foresee how the story goes on. C 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 by absence, but has taken deep hold on him, and 
 
 now grows up and flowers wonderfully. Yei Tama 
 is captivated by her handsome and dignified teacher, 
 listens enchanted to the lover’s tale of his long-ago 
 dreams of her, yields to his pleading, responds to 
 his ideal passion, and gladly becomes his wife. C—— 
 has a modest fortune of his own; buys a pretty 
 bungalow in a suburb at the foot of the Sacred 
 Mountain; surrounds it with a garden in the fashion 
 of Tea Neck, New Jersey; furnishes it in American 
 style; and enters into matrimonial bliss. And that 
 is that! 
 
 But the part of the play that seems to me most 
 interesting and significant,—the part that nearly 
 turned it from a genteel comedy of love into a sor- 
 rowiul tragedy of despair,—that part came a little 
 later. 
 
 C——,, you must know, had the idiotic but popu- 
 lar notion that the only way for East and West 
 ever to meet is for East to become absolutely and 
 entirely West. If that were so, what would be the 
 use of their meeting? It would be nothing but a 
 repetition, a mirror-meeting, a mere increase of 
 something of which we already have perhaps a 
 little too much. Wouldn’t it be better if West, 
 
 251 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 bestowing gifts, could enjoy something that East 
 has to give? Couldn’t Christianity be as real and 
 true in Oriental dress, and manners, and ways of 
 reasoning and speaking, as it is in the modes of 
 Boston and Baltimore? Certainly it began East of 
 Suez. You can’t really understand the Bible unless 
 you remember that it employs Oriental methods of 
 thought and expression,—poetical illustrations in- 
 stead of logical arguments,—parables and symbols 
 instead of definitions. I am sure our Lord Jesus, 
 and His fishermen-disciples, and the sisters Mary 
 and Martha, used costumes and customs that be- 
 longed to East much more than to West. At least, 
 that is what I think about it. 
 But my intense young friend C 
 
 did not think 
 
 that way. He believed that the mission of America 
 
 
 
 was to make the world one hundred per cent Ameri- 
 can. He thought that the only way to Christianize 
 people was to make them dress and act like the 
 folks at a Consecration Conference in Soda Springs, 
 Arkansas. Of course he held that religion is a life 
 in the spirit; but he had the idea that a good way 
 to promote it is to work from the outside inward, 
 to reshape the dress and manners of a convert in 
 order to conform the soul to the fashion which C—— 
 
 252 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 approved. He tried this method on his fair Yei 
 
 Tama with lamentable results. 
 
 You may remember that the modes of feminine 
 apparel which Paris sent to New York at the be- 
 ginning of the twentieth century, and which gradu- 
 ally filtered out to missionary circles, were not of 
 an ideal beauty. They compressed a woman’s form 
 like the steel sides of a destroyer. They promoted 
 ungainly protuberances at bow and stern. They 
 used a superfluous amount of costly material to no 
 good purpose, and they simply rioted in unneces- 
 sary rigging of streamers, knots, and frills. 
 
 Some such attire as this,—you understand that I 
 am no expert in describing the details,—the infatu- 
 ated C 
 He insisted that she should wear it as an outward 
 
 provided for the beauteous Yei Tama. 
 
 
 
 and visible sign of her conversion and Americaniza- 
 tion. She yielded to his desire with the sweet pliancy 
 of a true daughter of Nippon. But she knew right 
 well that these clothes did not suit her at all. They 
 made her look like a badly stuffed German doll, 
 with humps where there should have been hollows, 
 and angles where there should have been flowing 
 lines. A woman, East or West, knows when her 
 dress is unbecoming, and she does not like it at all. 
 253 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 It makes her awkward and unhappy, and she can’t 
 help showing it. 
 
 But there were other changes even more irksome 
 on which the infatuated uplifter of womanhood in- 
 sisted mildly but firmly,—changes in manners and 
 habits. The quaint appealing Japanese salutation 
 to a welcome stranger must give way to the stiff 
 American nod, or the pump-like handshaking. The 
 pretty tripping walk must be transformed into a 
 stately stride. She ought to be more dignified, more 
 reserved, more like the wife of an American mission- 
 ary teacher. The easy idle talk of birds and flowers 
 should be replaced by serious conversation on politics 
 and theology. The little dance-steps a l’impréviste 
 that moved her feet when she was merry should be 
 given up. The long-handled guitar should be laid 
 aside. The small curious songs that came to her lips 
 so easily when her feelings were moved should be re- 
 pressed. They were too emotional, not appropriate 
 to her position. They belonged to the past which 
 was abandoned when she embraced Christianity 
 and her husband. 
 
 While the conscientious idiot was painfully and 
 vainly engaged in trying to remake the woman God 
 had given him, Yei Tama was uncomfortable and 
 
 254 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 sad, in spite of her abiding love. So was he. He 
 felt that his efforts were unsuccessful. His woman 
 was not really changed; she was only obedient. This 
 troubled him greatly. He did not blame her; he 
 blamed himself for his failure to accomplish the im- 
 possible. He began to believe that she would never 
 change to his pattern. All that he had done thus 
 far was to suppress the very charm which had first 
 drawn him to her. What was left? Nothing but an 
 obviously poor imitation of the good women whom 
 he had approved but who had never charmed him. 
 
 Was his marriage then a mistake? Had he put 
 his head into a wreath of flowers only to find that 
 it hid a yoke and a heavy burden? You see at this 
 time he thought, like some reformers, mainly of him- 
 self. He told me so afterward. He did not inquire 
 about Yei Tama’s marriage,—whether that also had 
 been a mistake? Whether she too had a yoke and 
 burden to bear? 
 
 Affairs came to a head at a little dinner to which 
 C 
 
 American friends who were visiting the ancient 
 
 
 
 invited my wife and me with a few other 
 
 Japanese city a year or so after his wedding. He 
 
 wanted us to see his new house and wife. He had 
 
 the hospitable instincts of a Southerner,—at least on 
 255 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 the material side. The dinner was properly cooked 
 and decorously served. The house was neat, orderly, | 
 and dull. But on the convivial side,—the side of 
 joyous fellowship,—the feast was what the boys call 
 “‘a washout.” There was nothing in it. 
 
 C 
 
 apprehensive, glancing at his wife to see how she 
 
 
 
 sat at one end of the table, constrained, 
 
 acquitted herself in her new position, and listening 
 with one ear to her conversation even while other 
 people talked to him. Yei Tama sat at the other end 
 of the table, anxious, embarrassed, trying to catch a 
 look of approval in her husband’s eyes, but never for 
 a moment at ease or happy. 
 
 Her natural beauty was entirely obscured by her 
 fatal dress. I did my best to enliven the occasion. 
 Others tried to make a little breeze of joy intalk. Mrs. 
 Leventritt ventured one of her most lively stories. 
 The poor young hostess did not know whether to 
 laugh or look shocked. C did not help her. He 
 was like a watchful graven image. I could see peo- 
 ple thinking, “Now what the deuce induced C—— ?”’ 
 
 After the depressing dinner the other guests drove 
 home to the hotel. But I kept one of the jinrikishas 
 
 waiting and stayed on for a little while to have a 
 
 
 
 talk with Yei Tama. She was very frank and charm- 
 256 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 ing with me, and I got from her a good idea of the 
 state of affairs. I took an old man’s privilege of giv- 
 ing her a word of friendly advice,—not strictly ortho- 
 dox, I fear, but good enough as sailing orders in an 
 
 came in from the veranda, where 
 
 
 
 emergency. C 
 he had been gloomily smoking his pipe, and asked if I 
 would take a short moonlight walk with him. Iagreed 
 readily, for there was another word of unorthodox 
 advice that I wanted to give to him personally. 
 
 We went along the road about a quarter of a mile 
 in silence. Then we took a path across a field and 
 turned into one of those miraculously beautiful 
 forest glens which furrow the side of the Sacred 
 Mountain. You know the sort of thing,—tall solemn 
 evergreens like columns in a cathedral; luxuriant 
 ferns and undergrowth faintly glistening where a stray 
 moonbean pierced the green roof; a small brook, a 
 mere rivulet, tinkling and purling down the glen; 
 and where it made a turn, a smooth, open place car- 
 peted with moss. Here we sat down on two big rocks 
 and my young friend unburdened his heart to me. 
 
 He told of his preposterous intentions, desires, and 
 efforts in regard to his wife. He was very much de- 
 pressed, evidently at the end of his rope. Of course 
 I can give you only the gist of our talk. 
 
 957 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “I felt it my duty both as a Christian and as an 
 
 American,” he said at last, “to bring her into an en- 
 tirely new life in which she would become an alto- 
 gether different woman. But I have failed miserably. 
 I have killed the thing I loved. But I cannot create 
 the thing I planned. What is left for me? How can 
 I get out of this hole? I have thought of suicide, but 
 that would be impossible for a man of our family. It 
 would be dishonor. Divorce? There is no ground for 
 it, and besides, we old South Carolinians do not be- 
 lieve in divorce; it seems to us disgraceful. I don’t 
 know what to do. Can you, sir, out of your long ex- 
 perience of life advise me?”’ 
 
 “IT surely can,” was my answer. “The advice will 
 be of service to you if you take it. It is all very 
 well for you to be one hundred per cent American 
 and Christian. But there is no need of your being 
 fool. It’s the doctrine of America that 
 
 
 
 also a 
 every person has a right to ‘life, liberty, and the 
 pursuit of happiness.” Why not grant this to your 
 wife? Christianity tells us that we may not judge 
 one another. Why not apply this to your wife? You 
 have no commission to make her over again. That is 
 God’s affair, if he thinks it best; and I don’t believe 
 he will, because he has already made her very lovely 
 258 
 
A GARMENT OF PRAISE 
 
 and good enough for any man. What you have 
 promised to do is to love, honor, and cherish her as 
 she is. Try that, and see how it works. 
 
 “My young friend, half the troubles in the world, 
 and a good many of the wars, come from the insane 
 desire of some people to compel others to conform 
 to their notions of the true, the beautiful, and the 
 good in every detail of life. That is impossible with- 
 out force, and force cannot change nature. Only 
 grace can do that. 
 
 “Your thinking of suicide or divorce is absurd, 
 overstrained, neurotic. Your saying that you have 
 ‘killed the thing you loved’ is ridiculous, a silly 
 quotation from some pessimistic novel. You cer- 
 tainly have not killed her because she is very much 
 alive, and she loves you and you love her. Do you 
 know, I told her what you said at the Maple Club 
 long ago about her ‘garment of praise,’ and she was 
 immensely pleased. Then I asked her if she could 
 put it on, or something like it, and come up here with 
 her maid to fetch us home. She said she would not be 
 afraid, except of displeasing you. I assured her that 
 would be all right. Look, if I am not mistaken, there 
 she is now, coming up through the forest.” 
 
 Among the dark-red trunks of the pine-trees, 
 
 259 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 through the shadows and the pools of moonlight, 
 holding her long-necked guitar and stepping light 
 and shy as a fawn, came the lovely Yei Tama. She 
 dropped her dark cloak and showed her robe of soft, 
 clear yellow like an evening primrose; round her waist 
 was a broad obi of old rose richly embroidered with 
 gold and silver; and beneath the robe, a kerchief of 
 white silk covered her breast. As she walked she sang 
 to her guitar the “Song of the Cherry Blossom,” and 
 when she came to the space of open ground covered 
 with moss she did a few steps and gestures of that 
 graceful dance. Her sandalled feet shone on the 
 green like pearls in a cup of malachite. Then she 
 dropped her guitar, ran to her husband, and threw 
 her bare arms around his neck in silence. 
 
 “O Yei,” he said, “dearest Yei Tama, God has 
 given you back to me. I love you just as you are, 
 in your garment of praise. Are you all mine this 
 way?” 
 
 “Every way,’ said she. 
 
 At this point I thought it best to leave them and 
 scramble down the glen, following the maid, for I 
 knew that my dear wife would be waiting for me at 
 the hotel. 
 
 260 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
, 
 
 / 
 + ey ‘ 
 
 4a . 4) 
 4 isnt 
 
 oath eee 
 ‘ ‘ 
 
 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 I 
 
 THE CASE 
 
 GEORGE BREWSTER was one of those rare phy- 
 sicians who know the limitations of physic, and the 
 potencies of mental treatment administered by a 
 doctor who is fortunate enough to have a mind. He 
 used medicines of course: tonics with discretion, sed- 
 atives with wisdom, narcotics with parsimony. 
 When needed, he would give a whisper to the sleepy 
 liver, a soother to the irritated lungs, a calmer to the 
 jumpy heart. 
 
 “If Nature has provided specifics for certain or- 
 gans,” he said, “there is no reason why we should 
 not employ them to help us out. It reduces friction. 
 But what I really try to get into shape is not only 
 the organ, but also the organist. Do that, and you’re 
 pretty sure of better music.” 
 
 Of the knife, (which he could use at need with great 
 skill,) he thought chiefly as a first aid to the injured 
 or the last call in an emergency. He was no indis- 
 criminate carver. 
 
 263 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 He considered it well for a normal man, barring 
 internal and external accidents, to carry to his coffin 
 all that he had in his cradle; and if possible, a few 
 extra things, such as teeth and hair. 
 
 These views were regarded as antiquated and ec- 
 centric among the higher specialists. But they did 
 not prevent him from having a great many patients 
 who swore by him, not at him, and for whom as a 
 rule he did exceedingly well. 
 
 Among them an aggravating and disappointing 
 favorite was Van Buren Gilbert. He was a Wall 
 Street man in the early thirties who had made an 
 amazing success in his business at a frightful cost to 
 his health. Close application had worn him down to 
 a fine fragile point, like an over-sharpened pencil. 
 Press on it a shade too hard and it will snap off. 
 The strenuous forms of exercise which he practised, 
 —court tennis and polo,—wore him out more than. 
 they refreshed him. He was so keen to win that he 
 got little fun out of the games. At last they became 
 impossible for his shaken nerves, and he went on the 
 melancholy “invalid list.” 
 
 He really had chronic dyspepsia, insomnia, and in- 
 tercostal neuralgia. He imagined that he had suc- 
 cessively (1) heart disease, (2) galloping consump- 
 
 264 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 tion, (3) cancer, (4) paresis. None of these things 
 actually ailed him; but imagining them made him 
 frightfully gloomy and cross. He was simply, (or, 
 rather, complicatedly,) suffering from an intense 
 neurasthenia,—that many-sided play-actor among 
 human ailments. 
 
 But it was real enough, if you come to that, and 
 unless he could be delivered from it, it might easily 
 bring him to the insane asylum, or leave him to walk 
 the world as a malade imaginaire, a walking indiges- 
 tion. 
 
 Doctor Brewster, who had been an intimate friend 
 of his since college days, sized up the case promptly, 
 and treated it patiently for over six months, doing 
 all he could to relieve the distressing symptoms with 
 appropriate remedies and diet. The sick man simply 
 would not get well. He was sent to a sanitarium, and 
 kicked. He was brought home to his own house, and 
 languished. Every morning between two and three 
 he thought he was dying. Every afternoon about 
 five he was really quite low. 
 
 “George,” he complained, “‘you don’t seem able 
 to do much for me. Have I got to die at thirty-four ? 
 That’s rather hard lines.” 
 
 “Look here, Van,” said Brewster, whose patience 
 
 265 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 was worn out, ‘“‘there’s nothing at all the matter with 
 you except a bad case of what Mrs. Malaprop called 
 ‘nervous prosperity.” There isn’t a single organic 
 lesion in your body, so far as I can find out. But 
 your mind is split between pious self-pity and pro- 
 fane rebellion. You can be cured; but nobody can 
 do anything for you as long as you keep on saying 
 ‘damn! damn! damn!’ inside of yourself all the 
 time.” 
 
 Gilbert grinned, for this struck him as funny. 
 
 “Well,” he said, “you swore first, anyhow. Now 
 quit it, and tell me what you want me to do. I know 
 I’ve been rather a beast, awfully hard to handle. 
 But I'll be good and do whatever you tell me without 
 a single damn.” 
 
 “It is very simple. The best thing for you is a 
 water-cure,—but not at one of those sodden hotel- 
 hospitals which the British call a ‘hydro.’ That 
 would finish you,—too many self-sick people hang- 
 ing around telling each other about their symptoms. 
 What you need is water au naturel. There’s a 
 wonderful little spring up in the Alleghany Moun- 
 tains,—not known to the public yet, never bottled,— 
 but it’s a specific for just such cases as yours. It 
 flows into a beautiful brook called the Brightwater, 
 
 266 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 which has two or three fine swimming-holes in it. 
 On the bank of the stream there’s an old-fash- 
 ioned inn named after it; in fact, the annex almost 
 hangs over the water, so that you can hear it sing- 
 ing and rippling down all day,—and all night, too, 
 if you could only stay awake, which you can’t. 
 There are some pretty trout in the brook; well- 
 educated fish; you must try to catch them.” 
 
 “But, George, that would be too violent exercise 
 for me. You know I can’t walk a couple of blocks 
 without a palpitation. Besides, I haven’t fished since 
 I was a boy in college. It seems childish.” 
 
 “That’s just the trouble with you. You’ve dis- 
 carded all the nice, simple, silly things that make life 
 pleasant and wholesome, and given yourself soul and 
 body to making money. Well, you’ve made enough 
 to last the rest of your days; yes, and longer than 
 that if you don’t pull out of this sickness. Use some 
 of your money, it will only take a little, to help you 
 away from the misery you are in now.” 
 
 “But my interests, doctor, my investments; they 
 are important. I must stay here to keep my eye on 
 them.” 
 
 “Much good your eye is now! Besides, what’s the 
 matter with your friends’ eyes? You’ve retired from 
 
 267 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY : 
 
 the firm, but your old partners are good business 
 men; you can trust them better than you can trust 
 
 yourself in your present condition. Give Jimmy 
 
 Hope your power of attorney. Cut all the strings of 
 
 business behind you, and ‘hie to the mountains, my 
 
 own stricken deer.’ ”’ 
 
 ‘But the journey, George, the journey in the train 
 will be too much for me. I can’t stand it. And there 
 will be no doctor at this place in the mountains,— 
 whatever you call it.” 
 
 “Pish! and posh! You are not going in a train, 
 you are going in your own absurdly luxurious car,— 
 a lovely drive across Jersey and through the Water 
 Gap. Your man Jenkins is a first-rate chauffeur and 
 a good nurse in emergency. There’s an excellent 
 country doctor half a mile from Brightwater. But 
 you won’t need a doctor, or a nurse. What you'll 
 need in a couple of weeks is a gillie! 
 
 “Remember, now, two birch-bark cupfuls of that 
 spring-water every morning before breakfast, and a 
 daily plunge in one of those pools as soon as the 
 weather gets warm enough. I’ll send you around a 
 fly-rod and all the other tackle this afternoon. Off 
 you go to Brightwater to-morrow. So long, and 
 good luck to your fishing !” 
 268 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 The packing of two suitcases and a steamer trunk 
 was deftly done by Jenkins, while Gilbert looked on, 
 mildly excited. The fishing things, including a pair 
 of waterproof waders and brogans, were sent by the 
 doctor. Gilbert eyed them with curiosity and con- 
 tempt. 
 
 “Oh, put ’em in if you like. They’ll be about as 
 much use to me as skates to a one-legged man. But 
 I don’t want to hurt the doctor’s feelings.” 
 
 Jenkins said “ Yessir’? and obeyed the doctor’s in- 
 structions. He also prepared a sort of couch in the 
 back part of the limousine, for Gilbert insisted that 
 he was too feeble to sit up. A luncheon-basket he 
 fleered at; but Jenkins packed one with a tiny 
 silver flask, a thermos bottle of clear coffee, and 
 plenty of thin chicken sandwiches. Through the 
 grinding tangle of New York and the dingy, clanging 
 streets of Hoboken, the invalid reclined and grunted. 
 But when the car swept across the Newark meadows 
 and climbed the Orange Hills, he began to sit up and 
 take notice. 
 
 *‘ Jenkins, it seems to me this air is a little better, 
 easier to breathe. What?” 
 
 “Yessir, more like country air, sir. Much health- 
 ier, Z think.” 
 
 269 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 “How about that front seat? It rides smoother, 
 doesn’t it? My back is almost broken with this 
 bumping. This beastly couch is too short. What?” 
 
 “Yessir. It’s much smoother here. You can get 
 a look in at the country, too. Seems a bit like Dor- 
 set, if you'll excuse me saying so. I'll arrange this 
 seat, sir.” 
 
 There is nothing spectacular about the scenery of 
 Northern New Jersey, but it is lovely and pleasant, 
 —a consoling landscape, full of friendly charm. The 
 hills were discreetly folded about the valleys with a 
 protective air. The meadows and broad fields where 
 the early ploughman was tracing his furrows had an 
 expectant look, eager for spring. In damp places the 
 grass was greening, and the pussy-willows were 
 showing their fur. The forests were not primeval, 
 but they were kind and cheerful, evidently getting 
 ready for a festival. Bright leaves of May-apple 
 spread over the carpet of withered foliage on the 
 ground, tassels and delicate embroideries of poplar 
 and maple and birch filled the upper air. In the 
 towns of Montclair and Caldwell and Dover and 
 Netcong the yellow Forsythia gilded the cottage 
 yards. The little rivers were full of water making a 
 cheerful noise unto the Lord. At a friendly corner 
 
 270 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 on the bank of the Musconetcong, soothed and sub- 
 consciously invigorated, Gilbert spoke up more like 
 a man than he had spoken for many months. 
 
 “Jenkins, I saw you hide a lunch-basket in the 
 car. What about it? What’s in it?” 
 
 “That’s what I say, sir. We can find out if we 
 open it. A try would do no harm. We'll pull out of 
 the road a bit here and sit in the car while we eat, 
 sir, if that would suit you.” 
 
 “Better get out,” said Gilbert, much to the chauf- 
 feur’s surprise. “It will do us good to stretch our 
 legs. Those rocks look dry. Let’s see if we can find 
 a soft side on them. What?” 
 
 The contents of the little silver flask, mixed with 
 aqua pura from a spring, made two good appetizers; 
 the thin sandwiches went “‘down the red lane’”’; the 
 coffee was hot and heartening; a short smoke after- 
 ward seemed to fill the bill completely. 
 
 The car rolled smoothly on over the hills and down 
 the long grade to Delaware; across the bridge above 
 the broad, brimful river; between the steep moun- 
 tains of the Water Gap; through the town of Strouds- 
 burg, and up the winding valley of Brodhead’s Creek. 
 As the sun declined, the hills seemed to come nearer, 
 dark in the west but still brightly glowing in the east. 
 
 Q71 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Ancient mill and ruined tannery, yellow farmhouse 
 and red barn looked larger in the half-day. The 
 lilac twilight was weaving its diaphanous veil over 
 the countryside as the automobile turned up the 
 Brightwater Valley, crossed the stream, and arrived 
 at the old-fashioned, rambling, wooden Inn. 
 
 By this time Gilbert was depressed again. He was 
 tired, low in his mind, nervous at finding himself in 
 a strange, far-off place, though in the morning he 
 would have sworn there was nothing he wanted so 
 much as to get away from the stale luxuries of his 
 bachelor apartment on Park Avenue. 
 
 But the welcome of John Woodman and Lottie 
 his wife, who ran the Inn, was so warm and quiet; 
 the supper of scrambled eggs and bacon, with fresh 
 asparagus on toast, was so satisfying; the rooms in 
 the annex overhanging the stream were so clean and 
 simple, with good beds and plenty of blankets for a 
 cool night, that Gilbert’s jumpy heart was reassured 
 and quieted. He began to feel a sense of something 
 that the Scotch call “couthy” in the place. 
 
 “Jenkins,” he said, “this is not so bad, after all. 
 Lay out my things and help me off with my boots, 
 will you? Your room is just back of this; so if I call 
 or knock on the wall you can come in at once. No, 
 
 Q72 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 I don’t think I'll take my ‘sleeper’ to-night. Don’t 
 feel as if I needed it.—Absolutely nothing on my 
 mind except sleep.” 
 
 “Right you are, sir,”’ said the wise Jenkins. “And 
 if I was you, Id drop off all those medicines as fast 
 as I could. In the long run you just get dependent 
 on ’em,—kind of slavery, if you see what I mean. 
 I'll be handy, sir, and with you in a minute if you 
 eall,—but I don’t think you will. It’s a fine cool 
 night for sleeping and the sound of that brook is kind 
 of soothing. Good night, sir.” 
 
 “Thank you. Remember to lay out my knickers 
 and heavy boots in the morning. But don’t call me 
 if you value your life.” 
 
 He sat on his bed for a few minutes, wondering 
 what to-morrow would be like in this strange place, 
 listening to the water-music and the faint, monoto- 
 nous chant of a whippoorwill far down the valley. 
 Then he felt chilly, turned in between the coarse 
 linen sheets under the warm blankets, and before he 
 knew it had rolled over the edge of consciousness 
 
 into the timeless depths of perfect sleep. 
 
 273 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 II 
 
 THE TREATMENT 
 
 He was awakened next morning by the impetuous 
 carolling of two rowdy robins who were putting up 
 a residence in the Virginia creeper that curtained the 
 veranda of the annex. They worked like beavers and 
 sang like exhilarated college students. Between their 
 bursts of headlong music Gilbert could hear the dis- 
 creet, tuneful voice of a little song-sparrow from a 
 bush in the meadow below. His watch showed the 
 hour as six-thirty. 
 
 **Real time,” he said, “not the fool time that silly 
 men have invented to persuade themselves to get up 
 an hour earlier by telling a lie about it. Just like 
 most of our asinine civilization,—call a lie a social 
 convention, and it goes.” 
 
 He knocked on the wall for Jenkins, put on his 
 gray Norfolk suit and thick boots, and went down- 
 stairs to inquire about the wonder-working spring. 
 
 “It’s just beside the annex,”’ said John Wood- 
 man. “Go down those stone steps into that kind of 
 a shallow well and you'll find it.”’ 
 
 “Doctor Brewster said something about using a 
 birch-bark cup. He seemed to think the water would 
 do me more good that way.” 
 
 Q274 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 John laughed. 
 
 “'That’s an old hobby of the doctor’s. He always 
 makes his own cups; pins ’em together with wooden 
 pegs and a cleft stick for a handle. But there’s a 
 gourd dipper down there now; guess that’ll do you 
 just as much good.” 
 
 The five stone steps led down into a circular walled 
 enclosure, from the bottom of which a gnarled apple- 
 tree stretched its arms into the air. At the foot of 
 the tree was the spring, gushing out beneath a 
 stratum of the mother rock. Through the crystal 
 water you could see tiny cones of white sand dancing 
 and disappearing and dancing again where the in- 
 visible current came in. Gilbert drank two gourdfuls 
 with delight, hung the dipper on its nail again and 
 went up to breakfast. 
 
 There were three ladies in the room,—bird-struck 
 maiden ladies who came up to the Inn every year 
 to watch and annotate the warblers, vireos, and 
 thrushes; for Brightwater lies on a through line of the 
 semiannual migration. To these ladies the newcomer 
 was duly presented by Mrs. Woodman. There were 
 also two disciples of Izaak Walton, members of a lit- 
 tle company formed to protect the stream from rus- 
 tic poachers and the Inn from urban innovators. 
 
 275 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 These brothers of the angle made Gilbert welcome, 
 
 (Doctor Brewster, an old member, had written to 
 announce his patient’s coming,) invited him to share. 
 the dish of trout they had caught the day before, 
 provided him with a license and a ticket for the 
 waters of the Preserve, and fell into talk about fish 
 and fishing. They compared rods and reels, fly- 
 books and leaders, and disputed the relative merits 
 of a March Brown and a Cowdung fly. Gilbert was 
 modest and rather silent, but much entertained to 
 see how earnest middle-aged men could be about an 
 idle pastime. They offered to show him the stream. 
 One of them was going to fish up, where it was 
 more rough and brushy; the other was going to fish 
 down, where the water was open. They invited him 
 to choose. 
 
 “Thank you very much,” he said, “but I’m only 
 a novice, I don’t want to bother either of you. Be- 
 sides, you see I’m an invalid,—bad heart,—fishing 
 would be too hard work for me. Later perhaps, in 
 the summer, I can do it.” 
 
 In the morning he went up-stream with the bird- 
 struck maiden ladies to learn about the different 
 kinds of warblers. The Blackburnian seemed to him 
 
 276 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 the most brilliant, but the little Parula with its tiny 
 sapphire necklace and its soft dreamy song was more 
 attractive. In the afternoon he napped a little, and 
 toward sunset walked alone down-stream. In the 
 short pools among the pussy-willows in the horse- 
 pasture he saw plenty of small trout rising. Follow- 
 ing the winding path through the rhododendrons, he 
 came to a long pool with a big rock in the middle; 
 and there, in smooth shallow water at the foot, was a 
 larger trout, at least ten inches long, leisurely sucking 
 in the floating flies and leaving a round “kiss”’ on the 
 surface of the water as each morsel disappeared. He 
 began to wonder whether he could possibly catch 
 that fish, and whether up-stream or down-stream 
 would be the better way to approach it, and how 
 soon he would be well enough to try his hand at the 
 fishing. 
 
 That evening there was a mild rubber of Bridge. 
 By the time Gilbert was half-way across it, he was 
 sleepy; and at half after nine (real time) he excused 
 himself and went up to bed. 
 
 “How does this place please you, Jenkins?” he 
 asked as he was undressing. 
 
 “Looks to me like a little bit of all right, sir, if 
 
 Q77 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 you'll pardon me saying so. That home-cured bacon 
 reminds me of my old uncle in Dorset. It almost 
 brings the tears to my eyes.” 
 
 “What do you think of the people? I don’t mean 
 the boarders, but the people who run the house.” 
 
 “First-rate, sir; so natural and friendly,—‘com- 
 mon’ they call it. If you’ll excuse me, sir, that’s what 
 they called you, meaning it complimentary, of course. 
 Mr. Woodman, he used to be watchman on the 
 stream, a ‘keeper,’ as we say in the old country. 
 And Mrs. Woodman, she was a farmer’s daughter 
 with a good schooling. They had a little money laid 
 by, and they were terrible fond of each other. So 
 they joined hands and took a chance on running this 
 place. The fishing gentlemen that come here helped 
 "em. Good sort of people, sir, fishermen generally, 
 easy-going and generous, don’t you think?” 
 
 “Yes, I suppose you can say that much of anglers 
 without exaggeration. They’re usually easy-going. 
 In fact I’ve almost made up my mind to try being 
 one, for a little while at any rate. It’s a childish 
 sport, utterly unreasonable, working all day for a 
 few small fishes that you could buy for less money 
 than your tackle costs. It is a form of lunacy, but 
 there’s something soothing about it, so I am going 
 
 278 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 to try it. Good night, call me at six-thirty standard. 
 Those robins may forget.” 
 
 For three or four days the invalid continued this 
 pleasant loafing life, drinking his two gourds of the 
 miraculous spring-water each morning and growing 
 steadier and stronger every day. When it rained he 
 had a box of old books, like “Lorna Doone,” “A 
 Princess of Thule,” “Redgauntlet,” “A Maid of 
 Sker,”’ “‘White Heather,’ which Brewster had sent 
 up to entertain him. There were a few good new 
 ones like Buchan’s “John McNab,” and Donn 
 Byrne’s “Hangman’s House.” All of them had 
 something about sport in them, and none of them 
 dabbled in morbid sex-psychology. 
 
 The avian amateurs taught him to distinguish five 
 of the fifty kinds of warblers and how to tell a red- 
 eyed vireo from a Pennsylvania vireo. The anglers 
 went over his fly-book carefully with him, and point- 
 ed out the flies to which the trout of the region were 
 supposed to be most susceptible,—Queen of the 
 Water, Royal Coachman, Hare’s Ear, Red Hackle, 
 Black Gnat, and so on. Over the Seth Green they 
 fell into dispute, the one alleging that it was a 
 “worthless concoction,” the other affirming that on 
 certain days it was “the most killing fly on the 
 
 279 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 stream.” .About the value of the Hackstaff chee 
 
 were agreed. 
 
 ‘It was invented right here on this brook, by one 
 of our old members. You see it is all gray, with a yel- 
 low bunch at the end of the body. That represents 
 the sac of eggs which the natural fly is about to de- 
 posit on the water. On a good day, warm and slightly 
 cloudy, no normal trout can resist it. But there are 
 no Hackstaffs in your book. Let us give you half a 
 dozen.” 
 
 Jenkins’ favorable verdict on the character of 
 anglers was confirmed. Gilbert’s secret interest and 
 ambition increased. On the fifth day after his arrival 
 at the water-cure he put on his waders and brogans, 
 tightened up his courage and his belt, jointed his rod 
 and rigged a cast of flies, slung a creel over his shoul- 
 der, and started out, almost surreptitiously, to try 
 his luck up-stream. 
 
 At first he went as delicately as Agag. His feelings 
 were uncertain and tremulous. Suppose he should 
 have one of his fainting turns. Suppose he should 
 fall on the rocks and break his leg, or tumble face 
 down in the stream and be drowned. 
 
 From these morbid thoughts the vireos and war- 
 blers fluttering through the thickets diverted his 
 
 280 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 mind. The trout that he saw in the pools allured 
 and irritated him. Why did they dart away as he 
 approached? Why couldn’t he lightly drop his flies 
 over them before they vanished? Why did he get 
 hooked up so often in the branches of overhanging 
 trees? He lost three leaders and seven flies in that 
 absurd way. He was not going to let this silly 
 pastime get the better of him. He was determined 
 to learn how to do it. So he waded and cast reso- 
 lutely until at last he hooked and landed an ex- 
 tremely ignorant seven-inch trout. With this he 
 went home, very tired and late to lunch, but secretly 
 elated because he had not been entirely “‘skunked.” 
 
 The next day he went down-stream and did better, 
 —three trout in the creel and only two leaders left 
 in trees. The day after, the balance between profit 
 and loss was still further improved: debit, one cast 
 of flies; credit, four fish, one of them nine inches long. 
 He also made the acquaintance of two affable rose- 
 breasted grosbeaks who were locating their summer 
 cottage in a young birch-tree. Thus 
 
 “‘Happily the days of Thalaba went by,” 
 each bringing some new small adventure, some live- 
 lier sensation of well-being. His excursions on the 
 brook grew longer and longer, leading him up be- 
 281 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 yond the deserted mill, and down beyond the Wood- 
 
 mans’ wood-lot, and Billy Lerns’ spring-house, and 
 the Snaky Glen, and the Naiad’s Elbow, a good three 
 miles away. From these more distant expeditions he 
 had the car to bring him home. Once he drove over 
 to Pocono to explore that creek, and once to Para- 
 dise Valley to fish the brook beside which Joe Jeffer- 
 son wrote the play of Rip van Winkle. But no other 
 stream comforted and pleased him like the Bright- 
 water. It seemed to flow through his heart. 
 
 New people came to the Inn, but Gilbert kept 
 company chiefly with his first friends and chatted 
 much with the Woodmans. Lottie told him curious 
 tales of the Pennsylvania Dutch who inhabited the 
 region roundabout. They had ‘“powwows,’’—se- 
 cret, traditional charms,—infallible against certain 
 diseases and calamities. . 
 
 “Grandmother believed in those things,”’ said Lot- 
 tie, “but mother was a healthy doubter. There was 
 an old woman who had a powwow for rheumatism. 
 She used it on Billy Lerns and he got better. But J 
 guess it was because he gave up drinking ‘Jersey 
 lightning.’”’ 
 
 Of course Gilbert had his relapses, his bad days, 
 when his heart fluttered or his imaginary cancer gave 
 
 282 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 him a pain in the stomach. But by refraining from 
 conversation about these things he seemed to reduce 
 their importance and lessen their reality. The stren- 
 uous world of Wall Street, the jazzing world of the 
 Great White Way, receded from him; the little world 
 around this valley-dimple on the flank of Mount 
 Pocono became more real and intimate. He had 
 roadside talks with the farmers ploughing or plant- 
 ing their stony fields. He observed the curious con- 
 tents of the cottages turned inside out by the con- 
 vulsion of spring cleaning; chairs and tables piled up 
 on the porches, carpets and bed-quilts hanging on 
 the fences. He noted also the form and walk of the 
 young women and girls who hung out the wash in 
 the yard, or strolled along the road on their way to 
 school; their firm necks, their swinging shoulders, 
 their broad hips, their easy stride. What a pity that 
 such creatures should be withered into the stiff and 
 sallow anatomy of some of the farm-wives. 
 
 In the bird-ladies at the Inn he saw new and 
 attractive features: the silky softness of Miss Simp- 
 son’s abundant gray hair, the fugitive dimple and 
 the pearly teeth in Miss Lowman’s smile, the 
 kindness of Miss Frame’s brown eyes behind her big 
 round spectacles. 
 
 283 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 It is an odd thing, (but I have frequently observed 
 
 it,) that when a man has passed through a severe ill- 
 ness and begins to feel the rising tide of health again, 
 the first sign of it is a heightened susceptibility to 
 womanly charms. You remember Henry Drowne 
 made his hasty marriage shortly after his recovery 
 from typhoid fever. How many men have wedded 
 their nurses, often happily, but sometimes otherwise ! 
 Only two months after he got up from a double pneu- 
 monia, Jack Barnes discovered his priceless wife in 
 a schoolmistress. 
 
 Perhaps it is a natural effect of the returning vigor 
 of manhood. Perhaps it is the result of enforced re- 
 flection on the brevity and uncertainty of life and a 
 fear that it may be cut short before it has yielded the 
 best it has to give,—which best, according to Robert 
 Browning and others, is Love with a capital letter. 
 (See “Love among the Ruins,” “‘ Meeting at Night,” 
 and other poems.) Perhaps it is a practical deduc- 
 tion from that truth which the great Jehovah put 
 into nine short words in Eden: “It is not good for 
 man to be alone.” Who can tell the psychological 
 reason and the physical cause? It often happens; 
 that is all we can say. And it happened to Gil- 
 bert. 
 
 284 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 He was certainly not meditating matrimony. | 
 There was nothing in the bird-struck ladies at the 
 Inn, or in the restless “flappers’”” among the new 
 guests, to suggest that solemn thought. Nor did he 
 recall with pleasure the memory of his few amatory 
 adventures in college and afterward, and wish to 
 repeat them. They were as dusty as an ancient 
 masked-ball costume, hanging for years forgotten 
 in a closet. It was a long time since “the ever- 
 womanly” had played any part in his tense life of 
 financial success and vital failure. He was now 
 simply and half-unconsciously returning to normal- 
 ity; considering whether the world had not some- 
 where in its vast population a complete comrade to 
 give him for his life-journey, which was apparently 
 to continue longer than he had thought; wondering 
 whether by some good fortune he might not find 
 “that not impossible she,’’ whom he could make en- 
 tirely happy and with whom he could realize full 
 happiness. In short, while he loafed and fished and 
 made friends with nature, he was ripening for real 
 love. 
 
 His step grew firm and springy as he followed the 
 angler’s path or waded the stream. His eyes bright- 
 ened; his face took on a wholesome brown; the plain- 
 
 285 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 tive down-creases at the corners of his mouth dis- 
 appeared. His angling improved daily; he could cast 
 more accurately and strike a rising fish more quickly. 
 He took a fancy to the lower reaches of the stream, 
 where it cuts through the big Red Rock. There the 
 pools are deeper, the trout larger. One afternoon he 
 came back from there with a proud basket: eleven 
 trout over ten inches in length, and one,—well, let 
 us say, for the sake of brevity, a foot long. It was 
 the catch of the season. 
 
 He resolved to go there again very early the next 
 morning, taking a cold breakfast with him in the 
 car, and having a plunge in one of the pools before 
 he ate. The car rolling through a world of auroral 
 beauty, stopped in the road high on the hillside and 
 let him out. He made his way down by the side of 
 a gardenful of peonies and iris, blooming around a 
 comfortable, well-kept house, and entered the thick 
 woods which lay between it and the brook. Unjoint- 
 ed rod in hand, he walked carefully and noiselessly 
 among the dark hemlocks, the smooth beeches, the 
 laurel thickets. Coming to the water’s edge, but still 
 hidden by the bushes, he looked across the pool and 
 saw the loveliest vision of his life. 
 
 A Naiad of the stream, or was it the Dryad of a sil- 
 
 286 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 ver birch-tree, was at her bath. A light loin-cloth 
 of blue girdled her hips. Her snowy arms and breasts 
 glistened against the dark green of the rhododen- 
 drons on the opposite bank; her footing gleamed 
 white through the crystal water above the red rock 
 which bottomed the pool. Her face was fairer than 
 the sun, clearer than the moon; her hair of russet 
 gold was a crown upon her head; her eyes were bluer 
 than fringed gentians. Motionless and silent she 
 stood, as one in a dream, the clear drops falling from 
 her arms and sides, one hand on her bosom, her look 
 fixed upon the flowing water as if she searched for 
 something in the cool depths. 
 
 The man, (no prying Actzon by nature,) was en- 
 tranced and overwhelmed by the beauty of the ap- 
 parition. It seemed supernatural. Yet he knew it. 
 was real. 
 
 “Good God,” he whispered to himself, “I must 
 get away from this as quickly and quietly as I can. 
 If she knew that I was here, she would be so fright- 
 ened and ashamed! It would be terrible,—I couldn’t 
 stand it. Lord help me out of this thicket without 
 cracking one dead branch.” 
 
 He crept through the wood, made a wide circle 
 around the house, climbed the hill, found his car 
 
 287 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 waiting, and climbed in, without having set up his 
 rod or wet a line. Jenkins was astonished. 
 
 “Was anything wrong with the stream, sir? Did 
 you find some one fishing there ahead of you?” 
 
 **Yes,—that is, no,—it’s of no consequence,—drive 
 home,—I’ll get my breakfast at the Inn.” 
 
 That meal was a spare and silent one, so far as 
 Gilbert was concerned. He paid no attention to it. 
 
 His mind was down the brook. 
 
 III 
 THE RELAPSE 
 
 The day which had opened so brightly with a rosy 
 sunrise turned dark in the forenoon, and by eleven 
 o'clock a drizzling rain set in. It changed to a steady 
 downpour by three and the mountains hid their 
 heads in cloud. Gilbert’s spirits sank with the ba- 
 rometer. His heart tried to turn somersaults. His 
 pulse fluttered awhile and then hammered hard. He 
 was sure his blood-pressure had gone far above nor- 
 mal. He accused himself of low conduct, ungentle- 
 manly spying on a helpless girl, mean and cowardly 
 behavior. He could feel something gnawing in his 
 left side,—probably that old cancer getting to work 
 again after a short rest. How treacherous these dis- 
 
 288 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 eases were! He was horribly depressed and went to 
 bed before supper, after sending Jenkins to the post- 
 
 office with a telegram for the doctor. 
 
 > 
 
 “Much worse please come at once tf possible. VAN.’ 
 
 The answer was received in a couple of hours. 
 
 ** Not worse you only think so coming to-morrow Sun- 
 
 day noon. GEORGE.” 
 
 This bucked the patient up a little, but the effect 
 was not lasting. It was a hard night, especially for 
 Jenkins. One sleeping-draught, a long massage, an- 
 other sleeping-draught, a mustard foot-bath to draw 
 the blood from the head, two powders,—all without 
 effect. Then a stiff, hot lemonade did the neces- 
 sary business, brought on a wholesome sweat and a 
 blessed forgetfulness of self. His only dreams were 
 rather pleasant; very brief, no conclusions, only van- 
 ishings. 
 
 Gilbert slept very late. The rain had put a damper 
 on the rowdy robins. The first sound that he heard 
 was the louder song of the full brook, rejoicing down 
 toward the Red Rock. His watch showed that it was 
 past ten o’clock. Incredible that time should still 
 be going on as if nothing had happened. He called 
 
 289 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 for a cup of strong tea and two slices of toast. He 
 filled his favorite pipe and lit it. Then the doctor 
 came in, fresh and moist after his ride from Pocono 
 Station in a touring-car through the rain. 
 
 “Hallo, old man, how are you? Much better, I 
 see. You must have gained ten pounds. Healthy 
 color. Healthy look. Eyes a little heavy this morn- 
 ing. How do you like that wonderful spring-water ?” 
 
 “Fine. I’ve taken it every morning until yester- 
 day, then I forgot.” 
 
 “That was naughty. How is the appetite?” 
 
 “Splendid, till yesterday. It seemed to leave me.” 
 
 “How about sleep?” 
 
 “Perfect,—till yesterday,—well, last night I had 
 a hard struggle to go ‘by-by.’” 
 
 “Foolish! 'That’s not the way to the Land of Nod. 
 Struggle is the road to insomnia. Relax, and wait, 
 and don’t look at your watch. Bed does you good, 
 even if you lie awake, provided you don’t worry. 
 But tell me about the fishing. Have you enjoyed it? 
 Was it good?” 
 
 “Excellent. [ve improved a lot. Caught some- 
 thing every day up to yesterday. One day I landed 
 twelve good trout, the biggest a foot long. But yes- 
 terday I got nothing.” 
 
 290 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 “Yesterday! Yesterday! What the devil was 
 wrong with yesterday? Was it an unlucky day?” 
 
 “TI don’t know; can’t say yet. But it was certainly 
 an amazing day, overwhelming, upsetting. Nothing 
 like it ever happened before. It troubles me fright- 
 fully. Dl tell you about it,—in confidence.” 
 
 Gilbert, evidently with some embarrassment, de- 
 scribed the Miraculous Vision of Red Rock. He did 
 not go into unnecessary details, but he made the 
 outline quite clear. He was emphatic about his con- 
 fusion of mind, and how much he was ashamed of 
 himself. 
 
 Brewster concealed a smile. 
 
 “I can’t see why you should be in such distress, 
 my dear fellow, most men would consider the experi- 
 ence rather agreeable. It wasn’t in any way your 
 fault, was it?”’ 
 
 “TI suppose not.” 
 
 ‘And the girl? She was not at all to blame for it, 
 was she ?”’ 
 
 “By Jove, no! It’s impossible to think of blame 
 in connection with such a heavenly creature. She 
 was so pure and perfect, I can’t believe she was real.” 
 
 ‘But she is, I can assure you; and what’s more, I 
 can tell you her name, if my guess proves right. 
 
 291 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 What was that house like? Did you notice it on 
 your way to the pool?” 
 
 “Yes, it had a hipped roof and dormer windows, 
 a broad piazza with white pillars, and an uncom- 
 monly big stone chimney. Cottage-colonial type, 
 and very pretty.” 
 
 “T am right, then. It was built by Adam Prime, 
 who used to teach history to us in college. You re- 
 member him? Ten or twelve years ago his wife ran 
 away with a play-actor, leaving Prime with a young 
 daughter on his hands. There was some foolish gos- 
 sip in the town; Prime got very angry, resigned his 
 chair, said the town and college could go to—wher- 
 ever they wanted to go—if he could only keep his 
 child and do his work in peace. So he came up here 
 to the Inn and built his cottage in the valley; makes 
 his living by writing text-books and stories, amuses 
 himself by pretending to farm. He goes into town 
 to the Contrary Club once a month; you must have 
 met him there. No? Not amember? Too old fogy 
 for you, I suppose. Prime is a little odd, but a good 
 fellow, and a most entertaining talker. Daughter’s 
 name is Evelyn,—rather pretty, isn’t it—Evelyn 
 Prime? She graduated from Smith College about a 
 year ago; acting as secretary to her father now. She 
 
 292 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 must have been your Miraculous Vision of Red 
 Rock. But I wouldn’t say anything about that at 
 present, if I were you.” 
 
 “Shouldn’t I own up and behave like a man?” 
 
 “Behave like a man, by all means. You’re capa- 
 ble of it. You’re on the road to robust health. But 
 you don’t need to boast about your luck and be fresh. 
 You must certainly go to call on the old professor to- 
 morrow. He'll welcome you as an ‘old pupil.’ You’ll 
 like him, and he can tell you more about the fishing 
 than any one in the region; he used to be a dab at it 
 before he went lame. But listen: after lunch, (if you 
 can give me some,) will you lend me Jenkins and 
 your car to take me down to Stroudsburg to catch 
 the evening express? All right. Remember, now! 
 Be a man; hold up your head and go forward; no 
 
 more silly nervous nonsense about relapses !”’ 
 
 IV 
 THE CURE 
 Monday was fine, and Gilbert began to feel all 
 right again. He did not fish in the morning; in the 
 afternoon Jenkins drove him, sans waders or rod, to 
 the cottage at Red Rock. He knocked at the door, 
 and Professor Prime opened it. He was a small gray 
 
 293 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 gentleman, with a military mustache, a twinkle in 
 his eye, and a decided limp in his left leg. He recog- 
 nized his visitor almost at once. 
 
 “You look very like an old pupil of mine, Van 
 Buren Gilbert. You are he? Iam mighty glad to see 
 you again. Comein,comein. You must tell me all 
 about yourself, where you have been, what you have 
 been doing. I remember I flunked you in Renas- 
 cence History in Junior year; but you made it up all 
 right, and got your sheepskin. Now sit down in this 
 easy chair, take a pipe if you will, and give me your 
 postgraduate report.” 
 
 In the low-ceilinged room, lined with thousands of 
 books and smelling faintly of Russian leather, the 
 old man and the young man renewed acquaintance 
 and built up friendship in easy talk. Prime told of 
 his adventures in making books, some for a living 
 and some for the pure pleasure of it; of his disap- 
 pointments with the chickens and the pigs on the 
 ““farm’”’; of the building of the house and the trouble 
 with smoky chimneys, which was finally conquered; 
 of this and that and the other experience of a book- 
 man’s life in the country. Gilbert told of his brief 
 war-service, his strenuous work in finance, his per- 
 plexing illness, and his prospect of recovery. They 
 
 294 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 joined in praise of that excellent doctor, George 
 Brewster. Then the talk fell on fishing. 
 
 “Tm afraid, sir,” said Gilbert, “‘that I have to 
 confess and apologize to you for an offense innocently 
 committed. I was fishing straight down the stream 
 one day without thinking of private rights, and I’m 
 afraid I,—er—er, I must have trespassed on your 
 property.” 
 
 “Not at all,” replied Prime heartily. “‘No apology 
 is needed, for no offense has been committed. I gave 
 my fishing rights to the Brightwater Preserve some 
 years ago. In return I have the privilege of fishing 
 the whole stream where and when [ like. I cannot do 
 much now, with this confounded game leg. But I 
 can give you some points on the fishing. Now it is 
 time for tea, which I hope you will take with us. 
 My daughter Evelyn will serve us. She has just ta- 
 ken her degree at Smith College, but she is not 
 a bluestocking. Eve! Eve!” 
 
 He called across the hall, and Eve appeared, 
 dressed in a flowered organdie with a white fichu at 
 the neck, quite demure. She was like a pink laurel- 
 blossom, delicate and virginal. She carried the tea- 
 tray; perhaps because she knew it was the sacred 
 hour; perhaps because she preferred to have her 
 
 295 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 hands occupied. She smiled and nodded gaily when 
 
 Gilbert was introduced as one of the professor’s old 
 pupils. 
 
 “Ah,” she said, “‘father finds them everywhere. 
 They spring up around him, like flowers in the foot- 
 steps of May. I’m very glad to know you, Mr. Gil- 
 bert. You must tell me how to make your tea.” 
 
 “Can a graduate of Smith College, a Maid of Arts 
 I suppose, condescend to make tea?” 
 
 3 
 
 “Certainly,” she replied laughing. ‘“‘Don’t you 
 know that the two most popular courses at Smith are 
 tea and theatricals? Smith girls understand acting. 
 How do you like yours? Sugar, I guess; and then 
 what? Milk or lemon?” 
 
 “Lemon, please,’’ he answered, “‘but not too much, 
 only a small slice. I am an invalid, and a very little 
 acid, in books, people, or drinks, is all I can stand.” 
 
 “But you don’t look at all like an invalid,” she said 
 with a rapid glance at his face, “you look quite life- 
 like. And I understand you are an ardent angler. 
 That doesn’t sound like a sick man. Have you had 
 much luck along our stream?” 
 
 He quickly searched her innocent-seeming eyes for 
 a hidden meaning, and then felt sure there was none. 
 
 He answered modestly. 
 
 296 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 *““Some,—probably more than I deserve, for I’m 
 only a duffer. But you know it’s bad luck for an 
 angler to brag. Let’s talk about our ‘bright college 
 years.’ Did I know you when your father was a pro- 
 fessor?” 
 
 *““No indeed. I was too little for a grand person 
 like you to notice. But J knew you. You were on the 
 football-team, weren’t you? All we kidlets wor- 
 shipped the team, and asked no questions about 
 character.” 
 
 “That was very lucky for me,” he answered 
 gravely. 
 
 Six o’clock came before they knew it, and the vis- 
 itor said he must go, or be late for dinner at the Inn. 
 But he promised to come back again on Wednesday 
 when the strawberries would be ripe. So he did. 
 Likewise on Friday, and on Sunday for an early din- 
 ner. 
 
 Thus began for Gilbert the happiest time of his 
 life, full of contentment and comradeship and fun. 
 There were excursions in the car to distant streams 
 where the three picnicked joyously. Eve showed 
 him her chickens and asked him to explain why they 
 would persist in laying only when eggs were cheap. 
 She had long talks with him about her favorite books 
 
 297 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 and his. She took him to the top of her best-beloved 
 
 hill, from which there was a glorious view over the 
 long wooded ranges of the Alleghanies down to the 
 sharp cuts of the Water Gap and the Wind Gap be- 
 side it. Professor Prime was a quaint and delightful 
 companion. Gilbert no more thought of being ill 
 again than he did of committing forgery. And Eve, 
 —well, there are no words in the dictionary fitly to 
 describe her. 
 
 One evening toward the end of June they had an 
 early supper at the cottage, for the fishing was taper- 
 ing off with the season, and Gilbert wanted to try 
 the pools below Red Rock after sundown. 
 
 “I am going to tell you something special about 
 the Brightwater fishing,” said Prime. “‘Have you 
 ever heard of the Silver Doctor?” 
 
 “You don’t mean George Brewster, do you?” 
 
 “No, although he deserves the name. But what I 
 mean is an artificial fly, silver body and party-colored 
 feathers. Do you know it?” 
 
 “Yes, but I thought it was a salmon-fly.”’ 
 
 “It is also a trout-fly, and the best on this stream, 
 if you use it just between dusk and dark, or by early 
 moonlight perhaps. See, here is one, tied on a num- 
 ber 8 hook. You must put it on your lightest leader, 
 
 298 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 —only a single fly, mind you,—and try it this eve- 
 ning. Fish up-stream, cast very lightly, let the fly 
 sink an inch or two, and draw it slowly toward you. 
 You may catch a big one.” 
 
 “Father has given you the fly,” said Eve, “now, 
 Van, if you’ll be very good I’ll take you to the trout. 
 I marked him down this morning, a beauty, a mon- 
 ster, he must weigh two pounds. He’s under the 
 rock in the deep pool. Do you know where that is ?”’ 
 
 Did he know! Good Lord, could he ever forget ! 
 Would he ever dare to tell her how well he knew? 
 
 They went out on the edge of the dark. Eve led 
 the way through the shadowy woods, Van followed 
 the glimmer of her dress. At the water’s brink they 
 stopped for a moment and looked into each other’s 
 eyes by the dim moonlight. The other side of the 
 pool was shaded. 
 
 “See,” said Eve, turning away, “isn’t my trout 
 rising there at the head of the pool where the current 
 comes in? I thought I saw a little break in the rip- 
 ple. You must get that fish, he’s the prize of the 
 stream.” 
 
 “I mean to get the prize of the stream to-night, if 
 I can,” said Van. He stepped very gently into the 
 water, waded quietly up along the bank, careful to 
 
 299 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 make no sound, or splash, or wave. Then he cast; 
 once ! no response; twice ! the Silver Doctor lit lightly 
 in the ripple, came slowly down and checked an in- 
 stant. The angler struck with a turn of the wrist and 
 the big fish was fast. 
 
 How he played in the moonlight and in the shade! 
 What gallant rushes! What swift turns! Van han- 
 dled him like a master. Eve watched anxiously, 
 never giving a word of advice,—blessed girl,—but 
 standing ready with the net when the fish came in. 
 Van gave him the coup de grace and laid him at Eve’s 
 feet. Then he washed his hands, dried them carefully 
 on his handkerchief, and came very close to the girl. 
 
 “‘He’s yours,” he said, “but my darling Eve, wo- 
 man that God made for me, I have something that I 
 must tell you,—now,—to-night. I’m afraid, but I 
 must tell you.” 
 
 “What is it?”’ she whispered trembling. 
 
 “Nearly a month ago, coming to fish this pool I 
 saw you bathing alone in the early morning. I didn’t 
 mean it. I couldn’t help it. I prayed God to let me 
 get away without a sound. I would rather die than 
 make you ashamed. I love you better than all the 
 world. Eve, can you forgive me? Won’t you speak 
 to me?” 
 
 300 
 
AS 
 y» 
 
 \ 
 ~ 
 
 ~ 
 
 (A 
 
 LI fart 1 lly C= he 
 
 —, 
 
 
 
 Eve . . . asked him to explain why they would persist in lay- 
 ing only when eggs were cheap. 
 
THE SILVER DOCTOR 
 
 He took both her hands and drew her to him. She 
 smiled softly and looked down. 
 
 “T did not hear you,” she whispered, “but I saw 
 you for an instant. I was ashamed then,—a little,— 
 but not now,—since we love each other.” 
 
 She lifted her face to him, and they kissed full on 
 the lips. 
 
 301 
 
Late 
 Wh) 
 
 ‘ 
 
 SP ail nat be he j if ‘ Sy ‘ 
 Kis Hi vat J af RS ps | Mi 
 
 <7 
 
 a 
 
 wid 
 
 <7) 
 
 rears | 
 
 
 
‘‘THE HEAD THAT WEARS 
 A CROWN’”’ 
 

 
““THE HEAD THAT WEARS 
 A CROWN ’”’ 
 
 THE head of Mirande Amélie, reigning sovereign 
 of the Principality of Wallenburg, was most lovely 
 to look at. Masses of dark-brown hair above a fore- 
 _ head pure and smooth as alabaster; eyes of deep blue 
 almost violet in certain lights; nostrils fine and sensi- 
 tive, over a rosy mouth that was at once proud and 
 gentle; the upper lip rather short, the lower a little 
 full, a wistful mouth; chin delicately firm and 
 rounded, completing the clean oval of the warm pale 
 face; this perfection of maiden beauty at twenty 
 years was carried on a slim white neck rising from a 
 body tall and slender, supple and strong. It was 
 like a wild rose. It was like a virgin lily. God knows 
 what it was like, for he never made anything else so 
 singularly beautiful and appealing. 
 
 That was what Herbert Dabney, (American engi- 
 neer and youngest vice-president of the Nazareth 
 Steel Company,) thought when he was presented to 
 the Princess in private audience by the dry old diplo- 
 mat who represented the United States at the Court 
 
 305 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 of Wallenburg, as well as in the neighboring King- 
 dom of Neerlandia. His Excellency Pierre Eyden, the 
 aged Minister of State, who had nursed the little Prin- 
 cipality like a baby for nearly thirty years and who 
 loved Mirande Amélie like a favorite grandchild, 
 stood at one side of his adored Mistress, the American 
 Minister at the other. An image of immortal youth 
 between two statues of enduring age. Dabney’s 
 heart was still capable of quick and strong emo- 
 tions of admiration and devotion. He felt them 
 now, as he made his formal salutation and waited, 
 according to etiquette, for this royal girl to address 
 the first question to him. | 
 
 She bade him welcome graciously and asked what 
 errand brought him to Wallenburg at this time. 
 
 “Madam,” he answered, “the Nazareth Steel 
 Company has sent me to study, if your Royal High- 
 ness will permit, some of the methods of steel- 
 making used in your dominion.” 
 
 “But,” she replied in a soft voice, speaking excel- 
 lent English with an accent delicate as the fragrance 
 of a pansy, “I thought that you Americans were al- 
 ready the greatest steel-makers in the world. What 
 can you learn from a little country like mine?” 
 
 “Madam,” said Dabney, “your Royal Highness 
 
 306 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 knows that it is not size which determines the ability 
 to teach. There is an electrical process in use here 
 in making steel of which I have heard much and 
 should like to learn more, with your consent.” 
 “An inquiring spirit is always to be encouraged,” 
 she said, with a slight smile, “at least when it in- 
 quires with a friendly purpose like yours. You know 
 I have many of my people now living in the United 
 States, not less than two hundred and fifty thousand, 
 just about as many as there are here in Wallenburg. 
 Can you tell me if they do well? Are they good 
 citizens, as our friend the American Minister here 
 assures me that they are?”’ 
 said Dabney. “So far as 
 
 my knowledge goes the Wallenburgers are one of the 
 
 > 
 
 * Excellent, madam,’ 
 
 best elements in our foreign-born population; indus- 
 trious, self-reliant, orderly, they make fine citizens. 
 We should be glad to have more of them.” | 
 “Ah, no,” she answered, shaking her head, “we 
 have too few at home. Yet perhaps they would be 
 better off in your country, now.” (A sadness passed 
 over her face, like rain over a summer landscape.) 
 “Now that Wallenburg has been invaded and occu- 
 pied,—not conquered, you understand,—it is hard 
 for my people to earn a living. They suffer. I suffer 
 307 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 with them, for I am their Princess.’’ (A ray of proud 
 sunlight broke through the rain-cloud.) “Your visit 
 to the steel-mills will be arranged, Mr. Dabney, by 
 my Minister of State. And we shall wish you to 
 dine with us at our Summer Castle soon.” 
 
 As Dabney made his parting bows he looked to 
 see if there was a crown on the young monarch’s 
 head. He saw only a circlet of rich pearls, glisten- 
 ing on her brown hair like celestial tears. 
 
 The three men went down the long stone steps of 
 the ancient Spanish palace into the narrow streets of 
 Wallenburg. The American Minister’s automobile 
 was waiting, for he had to hasten back to his principal 
 post in the famous capital of Neerlandia, a city dedi- 
 cated to world-peace in the midst of world-war. As 
 he stepped into the car he shook hands warmly with 
 Pierre Eyden, for whom he had a deep affection and 
 respect. 
 
 Au revoir, Excellency. Please take good care of 
 our young friend here, and keep an eye on him. He 
 is younger than he looks. I’m afraid he is a rather 
 romantic man of business.” 
 
 “That is sometimes the best kind,” said Eyden, 
 with his genial smile. “But don’t worry, my dear 
 colleague. I'll keep an eye on him like an old mother- 
 
 308 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 ly eagle. I’m taking him home to luncheon with me 
 now. You must come to see us again as soon as you 
 can. My royal mistress likes Americans, and you 
 are persona grata.” 
 
 Eyden’s home was a modest, ancient house be- 
 tween the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Cathe- 
 dral with its twisted columns. The ceilings were low, 
 the rooms small, the furniture well worn; but an air 
 of dignity and ease pervaded the house, rare pictures 
 and mementos hung on the walls, the capacious 
 cellars were stocked with precious vintages of the 
 Saar, the Moselle, and the Marne valleys, and the 
 golden hillsides of Burgundy. Here in a contented 
 bachelorhood Pierre Eyden lived in his eightieth 
 year, cared for by his faithful old servants, and still 
 unwearied in his devotion to his chosen task of pre- 
 serving the independence of his small country and 
 watching over his beloved Princess. 
 
 He was a statesman of extraordinary ability and 
 insight, a singularly accomplished man of the world, 
 who had been on familiar friendly terms with both’® 
 Bismarck and Thiers. In fact you might almost call 
 him a genius living by choice in a narrow sphere. 
 First, last, and all the time his life was for Wallen- 
 burg. If you had opened his heart you would have 
 
 309 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 found written inside of it Mirande Amélie. Naturally 
 it was about his sovereign that he began the intimate 
 conversation with Dabney when the coffee and cigars 
 were brought in after luncheon. 
 
 “What did you think of our Princess of Wallen- 
 burg ?”’ 
 
 “Excellency,”’ said Dabney, a little embarrassed, 
 “TI cannot tell you because I have no words fine 
 enough. Certainly she is the most gracious and ex- 
 quisite royalty I have ever dreamed of.” 
 
 Eyden nodded his gray head, and his brown eyes, 
 set in his brown face above his white beard, glowed 
 approval. 
 
 “Yes, she is all that, and more! She isa good girl, 
 une trés bonne fille, one of the best and purest hearts 
 that ever lived. That is why, loving her as I have 
 done since her childhood, I am terribly sorry for her. 
 She is going through purgatory,—she who does not 
 need it! Her God, in whom she believes absolutely, 
 ought to have spared her that.” 
 
 “But, sir,” stammered Dabney, somewhat amazed 
 and bewildered by the old man’s impassioned frank- 
 ness, “I am afraid I don’t understand you. You 
 must make allowance for my ignorance. I come from 
 the other side of the Atlantic where we know little 
 
 310 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 about the minor affairs of Europe, except as our 
 trade touches them. If it is not indiscreet, I would 
 beg you to explain to me why and how your lovely 
 Princess suffers so much ?” 
 
 ***Minor affairs’ is good,”’ grunted Eyden, “you 
 Americans measure things only on the large scale! I 
 should like you to know that in principle this case of 
 Wallenburg is one of the major affairs.” (Then his 
 face softened and he spoke more genially.) “But I 
 am sure that you are an honorable young man, and 
 if you can bear with a long talk from a veteran, I 
 will ‘put you wise’—isn’t that your New York 
 phrase ?—to the situation of our little country and 
 its sovereign.” 
 
 “Nothing could please me better,” said Dabney, 
 earnestly. “You need not fear that what you choose 
 to say will be repeated. Some of us Americans know 
 the old rules of hospitality. You have no ‘rose’ hang- 
 ing from your ceiling. But I take it conversation 
 around the dining-table is always sub rosa and con- 
 fidential.”’ 
 
 “Good,” said Eyden, “I can trust you. Take a 
 fresh cigar and prepare to listen. You know what 
 Wallenburg is, a table-land of a thousand square. 
 miles, lifted up in the midst of great jealous nations. 
 
 311 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY | 
 Half of it is rough and cold, the other half is smooth 
 
 and warm, but all of it is beautiful and rich, either 
 in fertile fields, abundant forests, or productive 
 mines. Consequently for centuries the big kingdoms 
 quarrelled over it and grabbed it one from the other, 
 like a football. But all the time the Wallenburgers 
 wanted nothing but peace and liberty.” 
 
 “Modest wishes,” said Dabney, “but hard to 
 obtain in Europe in those days.” 
 
 “Yes, and hard now, God knows. But they were 
 granted to Wallenburg in the first half of the nine- 
 teenth century. It was made an independent state 
 with a parliament, but under a crown-union with 
 Neerlandia, so that the King of that country was 
 also Prince of Wallenburg. It kept the peace, but it 
 didn’t work well. Wallenburg suffered and the people 
 were discontented. 
 
 “Then a very curious thing came up. Wallenburg 
 had the Salic Law which forbids a woman to occupy 
 the throne. But when the old King of Neerlandia 
 died in 1890, after the death of his two good-for- 
 little sons, it was clear that his kingdom must pass 
 to his young daughter. Equally clear that the con- 
 stitution of Wallenburg would prevent her from 
 wearing the crown of our country. What to do? 
 
 312 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 “The crown-union was dissolved by mutual con- 
 sent. According to a family compact another branch 
 of the same House was called to our throne. Then 
 the most curious thing happened. Our first Prince 
 was a fine man but already old. He died leaving 
 only one son. This son, our second Prince, had an 
 excellent wife who bore him six children, all girls. 
 Then he fell into what was plainly a fatal illness. No 
 male heir ! 
 
 “The situation was embarrassing, almost absurd. 
 Again, what to do? Simple answer: set aside the 
 Salic Law. So we did. After her father’s death, in 
 1912, the eldest and finest of the six fair sisters suc- 
 ceeded him on the throne and a woman wore the 
 crown of Wallenburg. Wasn’t that passing strange ?”’ 
 
 “It was indeed,” said Dabney, “most extraordi- 
 nary! Almost like Kismet.” 
 
 “Perhaps so,”” said Eyden, “I know little about 
 those celestial matters. But it was not a happy fate 
 for my dear Princess. She has a fine mind, a noble 
 spirit. But her nature is sensitive, tender, extremely 
 devout. She takes religion very seriously. As a girl 
 she did not want to be a Queen; her desire was to 
 follow the religious life, to devote herself to good 
 works. She used to say that her sister Gertrude,—a 
 
 313 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 bolder, more adventurous nature, called in childhood 
 ‘that little imp Gertrude,’—ought to have been born 
 before her. Her mother and I had a hard time in 
 persuading Princess Mirande Amélie that it was her 
 Christian duty to accept the place God gave her and 
 do her good works there. All the Wallenburgers 
 loved her. To change the order of succession would 
 be dangerous, might lead to conflicts and upset the 
 whole situation. At last she yielded and took the 
 crown she did not want.” 
 
 “Such a crown,”’ said Dabney, “must be heavy for 
 a head so young and fair.” 
 
 “Heavy !” cried the old Minister. “It is crushing. 
 For look what has happened now! The great Powers 
 absolutely neutralized our land in 1867; razed our 
 only fortress; reduced our army to two hundred and 
 fifty men; positively forbade us to have anything to 
 do with war. That was exactly what we wanted: 
 peace and prosperity and to mind our own business. 
 We got it for a little while. But now the greatest of 
 the powers that made Wallenburg neutral and dis- 
 armed her has violated the neutrality which it cre- 
 ated and swore to protect ! 
 
 “Listen! That low thunder which you can hear 
 all the time, and which sometimes shakes the win- 
 
 314 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 dows, is the roar of battle in Gallia, forty miles south 
 of us. It has been roaring that way more than a 
 year. Thousands of guns, a million soldiers, were 
 sent through neutral Wallenburg by our big Eastern 
 neighbor to make that battle. It was a breach of the 
 law of nations, an act of dishonor, a damnable out- 
 rage! But what could we do? Nothing but protest. 
 We had been disarmed. 
 
 “The little motor-car of the Princess, drawn up 
 across the road where thousands of soldiers were 
 pouring in unasked, could not stop them. They 
 shoved it into the ditch. She wept. They laughed 
 and sang their raucous songs,—and made their army 
 headquarters in her city. 
 
 “They say they are not at war with Wallenburg, 
 have not attacked or annexed our land, only occupied 
 it to protect the railways against Gallia. But Gallia 
 was our good friend and never violated our neutral- 
 ity. Occupied? They have enslaved our land. Ten 
 thousand soldiers here as a garrison! Everything 
 regulated, restricted, ticketed. You must have 
 twelve bread and meat cards to buy food. A ham 
 costs fifty dollars. The glove-makers and glass- 
 blowers have no work. The poor are starving, in 
 rags. The Princess weeps every day with her suffer- 
 
 315 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 ing people, but she can do nothing. There are in- 
 trigues, plots, divisions in the Court. Some idiots 
 urge her to marry a Teuton princelet or dukeling. 
 Pfui! That would be accepting insult with injury. 
 She would rather die. Don’t you see now why I 
 grieve for her?” 
 
 “T see, sir,” answered Dabney, his deep voice 
 deepening, his clean-cut bronzed face glowing, “and 
 I tell you, Excellency, though I have only seen your 
 Princess once, I think a man would gladly encounter 
 death to spare that lady any pain or shame.” 
 
 The old Statesman looked at him keenly under 
 shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 “So?” he said. “I knew you were rich, and hand- 
 some, and a power in the business world. Now I 
 perceive also that you are one of those highly chival- 
 rous Southerners of whom I have read in novels.” 
 
 ‘At your service, sir,—Herbert Dabney of East- 
 over Hall, Virginia !” 
 
 “Well, well; pray do not take offense where none 
 was intended. Youth is splendid but sometimes in- 
 considerate. I hope you will not indulge any ro- 
 mantic dreams after the charming but impossible 
 style of The Prisoner of Zenda.” 
 
 “Don’t worry, sir,” said Dabney. “I confess to 
 
 316 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 being an enthusiast, but not an ass. I know what is 
 due to a crowned head. But is there any reason why 
 your Princess should not have the admiring loyalty 
 of a young man as well as the life-long devotion of an 
 old man?” 
 
 “Very well put,” said Eyden, nodding. “I feel 
 sure you are to be trusted. You shall have as much 
 opportunity of seeing the Princess as possible in the 
 present disturbed condition of court and social affairs. 
 Her Royal Highness has instructed me to give youa 
 permit to visit all the steel-works, and to put two 
 men of her little police-army at your disposal as an 
 escort for your car. You will not really need them. 
 You see you came to us well recommended in ad- 
 vance; and friendly connections with the United 
 States will be valuable to us for many reasons. If 
 you stay here a month or two, as I believe you pro- 
 pose, you will need outdoor exercise. The two worth- 
 while sports of Wallenburg are reh-shooting in the 
 forests, which is fair, and trout-fishing in the little 
 rivers, which is excellent at this season. You shall 
 have a permit for both, including the royal estates 
 which are considerable. I regret to have a meeting 
 of the Council in half an hour. Come to see me soon 
 again, and let me know of anything that you want.” 
 
 317 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 Il 
 
 Dabney dined alone that night in the high vaulted 
 dining-room of the Hotel Bossert; smoked pipe after 
 pipe of Virginia tobacco on the iron balcony of his 
 comfortable rooms; grimly watched two field-gray 
 squads of the garrison marching glum and sullen to 
 their posts on the railway; listened to the sound like 
 distant thunder muttering of the madness of man- 
 kind under a pure night of dripping stars; and then 
 went to bed, falling easily into a valley of sleep. 
 
 Beautiful dreams walked gently through his slum- 
 ber. Tall slender dreams, clothed in violet, pearl- 
 crowned, with sorrowful kind eyes and wistful lips. 
 They did not break his perfect rest. They were sad, 
 but they brought with them a strange feeling of 
 comfort, almost happiness. From the sweetest and 
 most moving of these visions of the night he woke to 
 sunlight pouring in at his windows and a joyful 
 sense of the day’s work before him. 
 
 Colonel Marrtes, commandant of the foreign garri- 
 son, had politely called and left his card. This paste- 
 board courtesy reciprocated in proper form, Dabney 
 motored south to visit the iron-furnaces and steel- . 
 mills in that district. The business that he did there 
 
 318 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 does not concern this story. It was successful as far 
 as it went. He made some pleasant acquaintances: 
 John Davison, a young engineer from Cornell who 
 had been working in the establishment at Asch for 
 five years and who has a part in this story later: 
 Adolf Mersch, the big, forceful head of the steel 
 concern, the man who kept things going no matter 
 what happened. Quite deaf, happy, genial, full of 
 shrewdness for his competitors and kindness for his 
 thousands of work-people, Mersch was also a con- 
 firmed angler. When he heard that Dabney was 
 given to the same harmless lunacy he insisted that 
 his visitor must go with him next day on a fishing- 
 party to his own little river in the north, the Carfe. 
 
 Happy day! Three charming merry ladies in the 
 party, with Mersch and Davison and Dabney; lunch 
 spread on the greensward beside an old white inn; 
 soft sunlight over the steep folding hills and the long 
 curving valley; a stream that flowed with clear and 
 silent speed between flowery meadows and deepened 
 into pools where the big trout rose eagerly to the fly. 
 An Izaak Walton day! But light airs from the south 
 breathing up the valley brought faintly that ominous 
 muttering as of distant thunder to Dabney’s ears. 
 Before him, as he fished alone up-stream, walked ever 
 
 319 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 that slender dream in violet with pearls, and he was 
 companied by “the star-like sorrows of immortal 
 eyes.” 
 
 Two more days he spent in visiting the mines and 
 forges of the mountainous west of the principality 
 and making acquaintances there and in the city. 
 On the third day he went out by himself to try the 
 Ellert, a wildish waterfally stream marking the 
 western border of the extensive domain of the 
 Summer Castle. In places the little river almost 
 filled a narrow gorge between carved and broken 
 cliffs twenty or thirty feet high. As he passed 
 through one of these places, deep-bowered in mas- 
 sive beech-trees and spreading firs, he heard voices 
 above him, chattering, singing, laughing, calling out. 
 Then a voice that his heart knew cried in sharp 
 terror, “Come back! you will fall!” 
 
 He looked up and saw on the edge of the cliff a 
 little group of women and children in white walking- 
 dress. A weathered crag of limestone like a pillar 
 jutted out from the cliff, joined to it only by a narrow 
 ridge of crumbly rock. On top of this pinnacle stood 
 a child of perhaps eight years, long hair loose on her 
 shoulder, arms outstretched, shouting “Look at me! 
 I am the Nixie of the stream. I can’t fall!” 
 
 320 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 But already her voice trembled; her eyes had 
 
 fear in them. Her footing was so narrow that she 
 could not turn; a touch, a sudden noise, perhaps even 
 a downward look, would topple her down to death 
 or maiming. What to do? 
 
 A pace beyond the pillar and perhaps ten feet 
 lower was a smoother sloping ledge of rock, moss- 
 covered. Here the man climbed noiselessly. Hold- 
 ing out his arms he quietly commanded the child. 
 
 “Fly down, Nixie. I am the Lord of the Stream. 
 I will catch you.” 
 
 Something in the tone of the deep voice, the look 
 of the strong kind face, mastered the pranksome crea- 
 ture. She jumped boldly and his arms clasped her. 
 
 “Naughty Nixie,” he laughed. But she put her 
 hands on his shoulders and pushed herself back. 
 
 “Remember your manners,” she said. “I am Al- 
 tesse, Highness !” 
 
 “Highness,” he answered with mocking gravity, 
 *‘let me bring you a little higher,—up to your royal 
 sister.” 
 
 She nestled on his shoulder. He carried her care- 
 fully up the steep bank and set her down in front of 
 the Princess. 
 
 “How can we thank you, sir?” she said, holding 
 
 321 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 out her hand, trembling slightly. “‘ You arrived in 
 the nick of time. You have rendered us a very great 
 service.” 
 
 He touched the hand, bowing over it; then with 
 a frank look into her face he said, ““Madam, if the 
 service to you were far greater I should be the more 
 glad, and ask no thanks.”’ 
 
 Her cheeks showed a mounting color as she an- 
 swered slowly: “But you must accept them, all the 
 same. Now I will present you to the woodland com- 
 pany in our favorite playground. Mr. Dabney of 
 Virginia; my sisters, Gertrude, Antonia, Marta, 
 Ottilie, and Irma, the wildest of us after Gertrude; 
 my junior lady-in-waiting and dear companion, 
 Countess Montjoie; and look, coming over the hill 
 there are our supposed guardians, my chamberlain 
 Baron Peyrouse and the commander of my toy 
 army Major Van Doorn, rather late for their duty. 
 You will meet all these people when you dine with us 
 day after to-morrow. But our meeting to-day must 
 be forgotten, otherwise little Irma will be scolded by 
 her mother and punished. That I do not wish. Can 
 you forget, monsieur ?” 
 
 “Princess, I cannot forget easily, but I can keep 
 silence splendidly.” 
 
 S22 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 “That is a specially good quality for a knight er- 
 
 rant of damsels in distress. Till Thursday evening, 
 then, aw revoir.” 
 
 The dinner was an informal family affair, though 
 richly served with fine food and rare wines. Dabney 
 was duly presented to the Dowager Princess, a 
 stately pale lady in deep black; then to the five 
 princesses, who suppressed their giggles, with twin- 
 kling, curious eyes; then to the two ladies-in-waiting, 
 (did the rosy Countess Montjoie nearly wink at 
 him ?); then to the stout chamberlain and the thin, 
 earnest-looking Major Van Doorn, troubled by the 
 responsibility of his toy army in a situation which 
 might at any hour become perilous for his Mistress. 
 Minister Eyden did the presenting gravely but with 
 a funny look, as if he knew a good joke that he 
 could not tell. 
 
 The conversation was general, carefully avoiding 
 European politics, but rambling over America, its 
 magical new cities, its wonderful mountains and 
 rivers, its vast plains, once barren, now swiftly en- 
 chanted by water into fertility. Dabney could an- 
 swer questions about these things more readily than 
 most Americans, who boast of the bigness of their 
 country, but seem to love it so little that they do not 
 
 323 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 care to visit it. His professional work as well as his 
 keen passion for sport had led him into every State 
 of the Union. 
 
 “TI think,” said he, “that we have two real cities, 
 New Yo and San Francisco. Some of the others 
 are wealthy, active, magnificent, like enormous 
 villages suddenly grown rich and powerful. Even 
 Washington, beautiful as it is in spots, is little more 
 than a luxurious camp for politicians and diplomats 
 and a fine location for memorials. My friends in 
 Chicago, or Philadelphia, or St. Louis, or Los 
 Angeles, would annihilate me for saying this. The 
 old Bostonians would scalp me with cold contempt. 
 But it seems to me true.” 
 
 “The rest of the world,” said the Princess, at 
 whose left he was sitting, “has an idea that Ameri- 
 cans worship only bigness and wealth.” 
 
 “Not all of us, and not altogether,’ he answered 
 quietly. “There are other things for which we care 
 more. Beauty, strength of heart, order with freedom, 
 fine ideals with simple manners.” 
 
 “But we hear that you spoil your women,” she 
 said smiling, “you indulge them too much.” 
 
 “Impossible, madam,” he replied. “It is right to 
 indulge a fine woman, but she cannot be spoiled.” 
 
 324 
 
 i i Ss 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 Then the talk turned on sport. He told modestly 
 
 of hunting bighorn sheep in Montana, mountain- 
 lions in Utah, and Kadiak bears in Alaska. Gertrude 
 and one of her sisters expressed an interest in fly- 
 fishing and a wish to learn the gentle av: Dabney 
 said he would gladly teach them what he knew, if it 
 was permitted. 
 
 The ladies rose, following the Princess. The gentle- 
 men did not linger long over their cigars and coffee. 
 Led by the stout chamberlain they rejoined the 
 ladies in the great drawing-room. The Princess told 
 Dabney that she wished. him to see her garden of fox- 
 glove and delphinium in the moonlight. They looked 
 out upon it from the bay window at the far end of 
 the room. Serene and delicate, the flowers lifted 
 their heads in the cool radiance as if to meet the em- 
 brace of Diana. 
 
 ““Isn’t it entrancing ?”’ said the girl, “so beautiful 
 that it brings sad thoughts to my mind.” Then with 
 a sudden turn she continued. “‘Mr. Dabney, I should 
 like to hear more abott your country, I mean about 
 the hills and valleys, the quiet places. It would rest 
 me. Perhaps also I should like to tell you more 
 about my own country. It would be a relief to speak 
 to such a listener. Often in the afternoons I walk 
 
 325 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 with Montjoie along the woodland path above the 
 Ellert. If you should be fishing on the stream and 
 see me on the path and climb up, it would be no in- 
 trusion.”’ 
 
 “Princess,”’ he said, “you are most gracious to me. 
 I shall not fail.” 
 
 Three days later, idling attentively down the 
 Ellert, he looked up through green branches and 
 caught a glimpse of a white dress at the top of the 
 cliff. He climbed and found the Princess on a rustic 
 bench under an old beech-tree with a book open on 
 her knees. He made his bow, smilingly declined the 
 place she offered him on the bench, and sat on the 
 grass at her feet, looking up to her. 
 
 They talked of hills and valleys, of forests and 
 streams, of the friendly silent trees that are a refuge 
 from noisy people, of the sweet natural things, yes, 
 and the great elemental powers, the stars, the wide 
 waters, the winds, that speak of God. Then she 
 talked of her loved Wallenburg, of its present op- 
 pression and misery, of her own perplexity in the 
 midst of intrigues, her shame at being forced into 
 even an indirect connection with a war after the great 
 nations had sworn that her country should always 
 be neutral and at peace. 
 
 326 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 “Many a night I cannot sleep for the pain of it. 
 Many a day my soul is harrowed by the suffering of 
 my people. Those poor glove-makers! Only a 
 quarter of them have work now. They take it by 
 turns. Those that work divide their earnings with 
 those that are forced to be idle. You know I did not 
 want the crown. But when my mother and my dear 
 Minister Eyden persuaded me that it was my duty 
 to accept it, I told my people in plain words what it 
 was that I desired. To be a good sovereign; to inter- 
 est myself in all; to be fair, easy of access, ready to 
 give aid; to try to realize within our small limits the 
 Beautiful, the True, the Good; above all to keep the 
 honor and independence of my country intact by 
 observing the neutrality to which we were pledged. 
 That was what I said. That was what I swore to do. 
 And now,—dear God, look at it, have pity!” 
 
 The tears overflowed and rolled down her face. 
 Dabney was shaken to the core. Yet his voice was 
 clear and steady when he spoke. 
 
 **Princess, I understand. My whole heart feels 
 for you. If there were anything in the world I could 
 do for you, I would thank God.” 
 
 “But there is nothing,—except to comprehend and 
 sympathize.” 
 
 327 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “Tf that is any help it is altogether yours. One 
 
 thing more.” (He hesitated an instant, then re- 
 strained himself firmly and went on.) “I want you 
 to know my belief that you have done more to pre- 
 serve your country from riot and rapine than any 
 man could have done. Your patience has been an 
 example. Your fortitude in trial, your wise and calm 
 words of counsel have kept your people from a hope- 
 less revolt. You have saved Wallenburg from the 
 worst.” 
 
 “Ah, that is good hearing, my friend. You have 
 helped me much. We must talk again. Montjoie 
 will be looking for me now. For to-day, fare- 
 well!” 
 
 He kissed the hand that she held out to him, and 
 went down into the valley. The tall slender dream 
 moved before him up the stream, through the 
 green shade. It was not clothed now in violet and 
 pearls, but in pure white. 
 
 Twice more, at longer intervals, these two had 
 comradeship under the beech-tree and exchanged— 
 what? Not declarations of passion and mutual 
 embraces. But something more rare and sacred,— 
 more heavenly. 
 
 The last time he came to say good-bye. He must 
 
 328 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 go home to America, to do his duty, part of which 
 was to help his country to see that she must enter 
 the war to end it and deliver the world from its horror 
 and anguish. Because it was the last time, he spoke 
 more freely and openly of what they both knew so 
 well. 
 
 She had been talking of the varied natural beauty 
 of America. She asked which of its valleys he 
 thought most beautiful. 
 
 “The fairest of our valleys,” he answered, “to my 
 mind, is the Shenandoah, my home country. I wish 
 that you could see it. Would God I could bring you 
 there into happy peace. I would carry you on my 
 hands, give you all your heart desires, serve you with 
 my whole life. You know already that I love you 
 far above all women.” 
 
 “Yes,” she said, looking at him tenderly, “surely 
 I know. It makes me glad and proud and sad, for you 
 are most dear to me.” (She laid her thin hand on 
 her breast as if to check something that fluttered 
 there. Then she continued, laying the same white 
 hand upon his brown one.) “‘ You know as well as I 
 do that it is impossible. This grief we must share. 
 If—if—we had met five years ago,—who knows? 
 But we have to do now not with ifs,—but with things 
 
 329 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 as they are. I must,—what is that old Scotch word, 
 —I must ‘dree my weird,’ carry my heavy crown. 
 Then if God brings my country free and safe I am 
 vowed to Him who bore a crown of thorns for all of 
 us. Do you understand?” 
 
 “Perfectly. I shall remember what I owe you as 
 long as I live. Most dear Princess, in three days I 
 shall be gone. God bless and keep you forever.” 
 
 Stooping to kiss the hand that lay on his he felt it 
 lifted to his lips, pressed closely against his mouth. 
 He walked down into the forest like a blind man, led 
 by the hand of his white dream. 
 
 iil 
 
 But it was more than three days before Herbert 
 Dabney set out for home. This is how it happened. 
 
 On the second evening before the appointed day 
 of departure he was in the Café “Star of Wallen- 
 burg” with his friends Davison and Pellatori, a 
 gentleman of Italian blood whose family had been 
 settled for two generations in Wallenburg and had 
 made splendid benefactions to the city. He was mar- 
 ried to a Belgian countess, and they lived in a charm- 
 ing hunting-lodge some three miles out of town on 
 
 330 
 
 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 the edge of a deer-forest. The things said in that 
 
 house about the Imperial army of “occupation” 
 could not be repeated outside. 
 
 There were thirty or forty people in the café, 
 mostly Wallenburgers, quietly drinking their beer, or 
 playing dominos, or talking of harmless affairs. But 
 at a small table where three men were sitting not far 
 from Dabney there was more noise. Two of them 
 were horse-dealers who had suddenly grown rich. 
 The third was a Borussian named Quieregg,—Von 
 Quieregg he called himself,—a loud-tongued, scar- 
 cheeked, pimply fellow with bulbous eyes. He had 
 been cashiered from the army for conduct unbecom- 
 ing an officer and a gentleman. But owing to his 
 skill in Janguages a use had been found for him in the 
 _lowest branch of the secret service as an agent provo- 
 cateur. He was holding forth to his companions and 
 anybody else that chose to hear, in that booming, 
 trampling voice in which men of his type betray 
 themselves when excited. 
 
 “America!” he said, “what is America? A big 
 mushroom. A puff-ball. An ignorant nation of ped- 
 dlers and bluffers. America will do anything for 
 money and nothing without. She is cowardly and 
 greedy. She will never enter the war until she gets 
 
 331 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 her price. Who will pay it? She is a strumpet for 
 sale to the highest bidder.” 
 
 Dabney’s brows were black and his clinched jaws 
 grew white. He would have risen, but his friends 
 held him back. The Wallenburgers eyed him with 
 curiosity and sympathy. The infatuated Quieregg 
 boomed on. 
 
 “There are women like that even among the high- 
 born. This little mealy-mouthed Princess here— 
 what is she? A trickster in a country of double- 
 dealers. She plays false, false with both sides. She 
 professes that her honor is offended, but she tries 
 
 even now to entrap one of our fine Borussian 
 
 
 
 princes 
 
 An angry murmur ran through the room. Chairs 
 grated and fell as they were pushed back. Men 
 sprang to their feet. There was a buzzing like a 
 swarm of furious bees. 
 
 Dabney shook off his friends’ hands, and rose 
 quickly. He had the ominous look, frowning eyes 
 and twisted smiling mouth, well known of old on the 
 faces of “the duelling Dabneys of Eastover.” 
 
 “Please let me pass, gentlemen,” he said to the 
 others. “My country has been insulted. This is my 
 affair.” 
 
 332 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 He stepped quietly over to Quieregg’s table, carry- 
 
 ing a full glass of wine without spilling a drop. He 
 rested the fingers of one hand on the table, leaning 
 slightly forward and holding the wine-glass in the 
 other. 
 
 “Dummer Junge,” he said, (for he had been in a 
 student corps at Heidelberg and knew the fighting 
 words,) ““Schweinhund, you have dared to speak ill 
 of my country. You are a lost liar. You have de- 
 famed her, the pure and noble. You have spit your 
 venom at her, the highest of all. Your mouth is foul. 
 Wash it with this!” 
 
 He threw the wine into the pale pimply face. Then 
 he spoke in a very low voice inaudible to the room at 
 large. 
 
 “My friend, Mr. Davison, will be at the Hotel 
 Bossert this evening. No doubt you will send one of 
 your friends to arrange the cartel.” 
 
 He walked with Pellatori and Davison through 
 the narrow streets to his hotel. 
 
 To Davison he said: “Let the cartel be simple. 
 The choice will be ours. Pistols; sunrise to-morrow; 
 twelve paces; one shot. I will smash that lying 
 mouth forever.” 
 
 To Pellatori he said: “I ask your help, sir. Have 
 
 383 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 you a pair of matched pistols? Do you know of a 
 quiet place? Can this be arranged without scan- 
 dal?” 
 
 “Yes, to all three questions,’ 
 “But the last is the most difficult. I have a pair of 
 pistols, of the finest Italian make. I shall bring them 
 within the hour to Mr. Davison, so that both parties 
 
 > 
 
 replied Pellatori. 
 
 can examine them. As to the place, there is an open 
 glade in the forest back of my house,—you know 
 where that is,—no one ever passes there in the early 
 morning. As to scandal, it will be difficult, but I 
 think it can be prevented. I am not an ardent 
 admirer of the Princess, yet there is no reason why 
 a lady’s name should be dragged into this. Your 
 country was grossly insulted in your presence,—in- 
 tolerable to a man of honor. She whom you adore 
 was publicly defamed by that dirty, arrogant sculpin. 
 You are a high-spirited, sensitive man,—a man after 
 my own heart. Frankly, I do not see how you could 
 have acted otherwise than you did. I have some 
 influence with the newspapers here and shall use it 
 to choke gossip. We shall not meet to-morrow, but 
 I shall wish you well. A sound sleep will help you. 
 Good night.” 
 
 “TI shall have it. Six hours at least. I thank you 
 
 334 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 heartily, Signor Pellatori, and bid you adieu,—and 
 
 au plaisir.” 
 
 The cartel was satisfactorily arranged between 
 Davison and one of Quieregg’s horse-dealers. The 
 morning sun rose fair above the oval glade; shining 
 dew on the short grass; small birds singing merrily 
 on the sunny westward side; on the eastward side the 
 shadow lingered, but the light was beautifully clear. 
 
 The principals were placed here by their seconds, 
 at twelve paces. A surgeon from the hospital, confi- 
 dential friend of Pellatori, had opened his instrument 
 case under the trees. The word was given: one— 
 two—three—a split second before the last word was 
 completed the Borussian fired. 
 
 The ball struck the Virginian’s right forearm, 
 breaking the smaller bone. He caught the loaded 
 pistol in his Jeft hand, took a gray-squirrel aim, and 
 hit his adversary on the side of the chin. The bullet 
 shattered the right jaw-bone and glanced on into the 
 woods. It was a ghastly wound, but not necessarily 
 fatal. 
 
 The surgeon did the emergency bandaging for 
 both men, with despatch. Two motor-cars were 
 waiting on the border of the wood. Quieregg was 
 hurried to the hospital, where he disappears from 
 
 335 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 the story. Dabney, in much pain but able to sit up 
 and to walk, found himself at the door of Eyden’s 
 time-worn house. As if he had been expected he was 
 quietly installed in the guest-chamber, where the 
 gray-haired butler had already arranged his luggage. 
 “I told them at the hotel, sir, that when you came 
 in from hunting you were going to stay with His 
 Excellency a few days. Was that right, sir?” 
 
 > 
 
 “It was,” said Dabney, grinning in spite of his 
 pain, “‘quite right! Now help me out of my clothes, 
 but very carefully, please. I hurt my arm in the 
 forest. I want to lie down awhile.” 
 
 At noon, when the doctor had finished sterilizing 
 the wound, setting the bone, binding the splints, 
 Dabney looked up into the quizzical face of Pierre 
 Eyden at the foot of his bed. 
 
 “My young friend, you once told me that you 
 were an enthusiast, but not an ass. I think you were 
 mistaken.” 
 
 “Perhaps I was.” 
 
 “Not perhaps, but certainly! Rather a lovable 
 ass, however. It is the people we love who often 
 make us the most trouble.” 
 
 “Honestly, I’m sorry.” 
 
 **And honestly, I’m not so sorry as I’m busy. You 
 
 336 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 know Wallenburg is a small place, full of spies. 
 Rumors in a small place run around like—like cock- 
 roaches in an old kitchen. The first thing we have to 
 do is to give the right news a good start. This is what 
 will be in the papers this afternoon and to-morrow | 
 morning.” 
 
 Dabney took the proof-slip in his hand and read 
 the paragraph in the local language. 
 
 REGRETTABLE ACCIDENT 
 
 Herr von Quieregg, a stranger within our gates but quite 
 well known in Wallenburg, has suffered a severe and dan- 
 gerous accident. The Herr is devoted to the chase, and as 
 he was hunting in the forest south of the city, just at sun- 
 rise, he made a misstep and fell. The gun was discharged 
 and the ball struck him in the mouth, inflicting a grave but 
 not necessarily fatal wound. He is now in the Pellatori 
 Hospital, receiving the best of care and nursing. It is 
 hoped that he will ultimately recover. But his powers of 
 speech, which were somewhat unusual, may be perma- 
 nently impaired. 
 
 “Will the people be satisfied with that?” asked 
 Dabney, grinning. 
 
 “Entirely,” answered Eyden, grinning back, “the 
 people will be highly satisfied when they read that 
 news about a dirty spy.” | 
 
 “But will they believe it is the whole story?” 
 
 337 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “The people will. As a matter of fact every word 
 
 of it is true. They will not ask what he was hunting, 
 or what kind of a misstep he made, or whose gun 
 was discharged. But the znner circle, those who really 
 want to know things, will certainly ask for more in- 
 formation.” 
 
 “What will they be told?” 
 
 “Privately, that a hot-headed young Virginian, 
 hearing his country traduced and vilified in a public 
 place by a stranger, took it as an unforgivable insult, 
 demanded satisfaction,—and got it.” 
 
 “Will that be all?” 
 
 “Yes, that will be all, for the inner circle. The 
 inmost circle,—tried and faithful ones, half a dozen 
 of us,—will know without telling that there was 
 really something more, but they will never give a 
 name to it. That exalted name must not be touched 
 by gossip. Understand, young man, you have been 
 rash and careless about that name.” 
 
 “My God, sir, no! I would die to defend it.” 
 
 “That is precisely what you must not do. You 
 must live and keep your mouth shut. 
 
 “Now listen, this is about yourself. Colonel 
 Marrtes called on me this morning. He regards you 
 aS a suspicious person, dangerous to the peace of 
 
 338 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 Wallenburg. He says your presence here can be 
 tolerated no longer. You must be told to go home at 
 once or run the risk of being arrested, imprisoned, 
 perhaps shot as a spy. Curse his arrogance! But he 
 has the power. I gave my word that you should be 
 practically interned in my house and sent home as 
 soon as you recovered from your accident,—a broken 
 arm. He laughed, and said that would be correct. 
 Marrtes is quite a decent fellow in some ways, spite 
 of his arrogance. The doctor says you will probably 
 be able to travel in four days. We shall put you in 
 your car with one of our own soldiers in uniform be- 
 side your chauffeur. You can take the same road you 
 used coming in. I shall go with you to our frontier. 
 From Neerlandia your excellent Minister, (my best 
 regards to him,) can easily secure a homeward 
 passage for you. Is that all right?” 
 
 “Perfectly. I thank you warmly for everything. 
 Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to sleep.” 
 
 The broken arm behaved well. There was no 
 fever. In the late afternoon of the third day Eyden 
 came in, his face a mask of his thought. 
 
 “There is a nun down-stairs,—a Poor Clare,— 
 looks like a nursing sister. She wants to see you. 
 May she come up?” 
 
 339 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 “What do you think about it?” 
 
 “She says she has a message for you,—for your ear 
 alone. Shall I let her come?”’ 
 
 “By all means!” 
 
 The Poor Clare entered the room and stood quietly 
 by the bed, looking down at him with sisterly com- 
 passion. There was something familiar to him in the 
 slender form wearing the dark robe. Under the stiff 
 white coif concealing hair and brow, the eyes of 
 violet-blue were not the eyes of a stranger. When 
 she spoke her low voice thrilled him with remem- 
 brance. 
 
 “TI come at the wish of a lady who knows you, and 
 wishes you well. She has heard of your accident. 
 She thinks you have done wrong. But she is not 
 angry with you,—oh, no! She wants to hear of your 
 health.” 
 
 “It is better every minute,—every second.” 
 
 **As for me,—I am only the poor Sister Miranda, 
 —I think you could not help doing what you did. 
 I honor you for it. God will forgive you. I will re- 
 member it and pray for you at His altar. See, here is 
 that lady’s picture with her name written. But you 
 must not open it now.” 
 
 340 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 “With all my heart I thank you, Sister Miranda, 
 —and that lady! Can I send her a message?” 
 
 “Easily.” 
 
 **Let her know, then, how much better I am,—far 
 better since you came,—and everlastingly grateful. 
 Tell her I shall be fighting soon in a finer way,— 
 fighting against war,—fighting for her deliverance 
 and the liberty of her country. Let her know surely 
 that I shall never forget and always be glad.” 
 
 “She will surely know.” 
 
 “And now, kind Sister,—dear Sister Mirande 
 Amélie,—would it be right for you to complete your 
 ministry of healing by giving me a parting kiss?” 
 
 “Tt would be right. Not one, but three.” 
 
 Her lips lightly touched each of his closed eyes. 
 Then his mouth, which answered. 
 
 ‘For silence and faithful memory,”’ she whispered. 
 
 He opened his eyes. She was passing through the 
 
 doorway with bowed head. He never saw her again. 
 
 IV 
 When Herbert Dabney reached New York his first 
 
 duty was to make his cenfidential report to the Naz- 
 areth directors about the steel business in Wallen- 
 
 341 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 burg. Owing to the disturbed condition of Europe 
 nothing definite and practical could be done at 
 present. But there was certain valuable information 
 to be conveyed, there were certain tentative plans 
 and “‘gentlemen’s agreements” in regard to patents, 
 royalties, divisions of the field, and so on,—to be 
 considered when the orgy of bloodshed and destruc- 
 tion was ended. The report was satisfactory and 
 promising as far as possible. Dabney, having been 
 duly thanked and congratulated, resigned his vice- 
 presidency, joined the officers’ training-camp at 
 Plattsburg, and after his course there began to make 
 speeches before learned and patriotic societies 
 throughout the country. Some of the things he said 
 were remembered. 
 
 “As long as secret treaties are kept through fear 
 and open treaties violated by force the world will not 
 be safe for any kind of peaceful government.” 
 
 “America’s bigness protects her, for the present, 
 from every enemy except selfishness, cowardice, and 
 greed.” 
 
 “Peace without victory is splendid, but sometimes 
 victory is the only road to peace.” 
 
 “Tf our forefathers had received half the outrage 
 that has been thrust upon our lawful trade and travel, 
 
 342 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 they would have taken arms to end it two years 
 ago.” 
 
 “The vital interests of these United States are 
 now world-wide. Our duties as a Great Power cover 
 the same latitude and longitude.” 
 
 “Certainly we should mind our own business. But 
 we can’t mind it unless we keep it.” 
 
 “Isolation is a peril if it means insulation. To 
 have no foes is a happy state. But it is too costly to 
 buy at the price of having no friends.” 
 
 When at last America was forced to enter the war, 
 Dabney was one of the first to volunteer and be com- 
 missioned. He fought in the Argonne, was decorated, 
 wounded in the same old arm, and sent to the great 
 hospital at Neuilly. After the Armistice, being con- 
 valescent, he tried to get a three days’ leave and a 
 permit to visit Wallenburg. For some unknown 
 reason it was denied him. “Regret—impossible at 
 present.” 
 
 All he could learn of the Principality was that his 
 friend Pierre Eyden had died of age and trouble. 
 There had been political controversies and conflicts, 
 almost a riot in the street before the old Spanish 
 Palace. The Princess had come out on the balcony 
 and spoken the people calm. Soon after, she had re- 
 
 343 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 signed the crown in favor of her sister, and intended 
 to enter a Bavarian convent where a relative of hers ° 
 was Abbess. 
 
 This was all the news. It moved Dabney deeply. 
 He could not tell whether regret or relief was the 
 dominant feeling. He wrote a letter which was never 
 answered, perhaps because it was not delivered. The 
 mail of abdicating royalties is not very secure or 
 regular. 
 
 Then he went to the United States to get his hon- 
 orable discharge from the service. The business 
 world had no more attraction for him. He had wealth 
 enough and no worldly ambition to gratify. All that 
 he wanted was a man’s life in quiet with a chance to 
 do a little good. ) 
 
 Hastover Hall in the Shenandoah Valley, among 
 his “own people,” with its white-pillared portico 
 looking down the long avenue of trees that his grand- 
 father had planted and over the broad acres of 
 tilth and woodland where he had rambled as a boy, 
 called him irresistibly home. 
 
 He raised fine cattle, and “farmed it”’ with his one 
 good arm. He looked after the welfare of his work- 
 people, building new houses for them, new schools 
 for the colored children, and co-operating with his 
 
 344 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 neighbors to erect and endow a modern hospital in 
 _the near-by village. He fished for bass in the sum- 
 mer, hunted partridges in the fall, rode to hounds in 
 the winter. 
 
 In all these comings and goings, honest tasks and 
 simple pleasures, he was companioned by his ineffa- 
 ble dream. He saw her now in violet and pearls, 
 smiling at him; again, in pure white, reading under 
 a smooth beech-tree; again, in the long robe of a 
 nun, with her dark blue eyes glowing under her snowy 
 coif and her red lips bending over him for a sister’s 
 farewell. Always the vision brought him sorrow and 
 comfort and inspiration. He was content. He had 
 _ known the best in the world. She stayed with him in 
 his soul, in his good work. 
 
 One night as he sat before the open wood fire, read- 
 ing by the clear light of four tall candles,—the light 
 he preferred to all others because it was most pure 
 and soft,—a foreign letter was brought to him. It was 
 from Bavaria, from the Abbess of the hill-convent of 
 
 Sancta Clara. This is what it said: 
 
 Si: 
 
 This letter is written to you at the request of our very 
 dear and cherished Sister Miranda, the late Princess of 
 Wallenburg. I think you were a friend of hers. She 
 
 345 
 
THE GOLDEN KEY 
 
 spoke often of you to me, but never to others. She said you 
 had been of help to her when she carried the crown of her 
 troubled reign. It may be therefore that you will care to 
 know of her life here and of her last days. 
 
 She was thin and frail when she came to us, worn by 
 her hard task, too heavy for her strength. But she was 
 very content to be with us,—happy in her heart and giving 
 happiness to others. She was extremely faithful in all the 
 small duties assigned to her. She seemed glad to be only 
 a Sister, not a Queen any more. But she wasted away and 
 faded month by month till she was almost like a sweet 
 shadow of herself. 
 
 Her religion was very simple and real to her. She was 
 constantly comforted by its practice and its hopes. You 
 will pardon me, dear Sir, for saying that I trust you share 
 these hopes. They are the only path to a happy immor- 
 tality. She prayed for you every day. This I know be- 
 cause she told me. 
 
 Her final days on earth were full of peace. She received 
 the last Sacrament with a sigh of deep content. At the 
 end her mind wandered a little through weakness. She 
 seemed to be trying to lift something from her head. She 
 said, “‘Please take it away, mother, it hurts me.” I as- 
 sured her that there was nothing there, and she grew 
 quieter. She asked, “‘Are there crowns in Heaven, and 
 must J wear one?” I told her they were crowns that had 
 no weight, more like wings than burdens. She said, “I’m 
 glad of that,—very, very glad. If our Lord commands me 
 I will take it.””> Then she murmured a few words of the 
 Nune Dimittis, and fell asleep, and passed away. 
 
 Before her strength wholly failed she asked for a pencil 
 and with great effort wrote a few words for you. I am in 
 doubt about sending them. But after prayer it seems 
 
 346 
 
A CROWNED HEAD 
 
 right. She was my dearest niece, a good girl,—the best I 
 ever knew. I love her forever in Christ. And so, I hope, 
 
 Viens Faithfully, 
 ADELAIDE, ABBEsS OF SANCTA CLARA. 
 
 A half-sheet of thin paper fluttered to the floor. 
 The man picked it up and read in tremulous letters: 
 “You have helped me—dearest friend—wvery good to 
 me—do not forget—let us meet again—please God. 
 Your M. A.” 
 
 Dabney took from the drawer of his desk an old- 
 fashioned gold locket with his mother’s miniature. 
 He laid the folded paper in the back of the case and 
 put it in the pocket over his heart. He stood a mo- 
 ment looking far into the rosy embers of the fire. 
 Then he said to himself,—or was it to her? “I will, 
 please God, I will.” 
 
 347 
 
is WAN 
 Tea 
 
 A.) 
 
 
 
a, 
 
 . 
 
 AUS TER ID iy die? 
 y Pee aN Oey aa 
 
 qe, 
 
 a 
 
 +e 
 
 4 OE) 
 Ms (acs) 
 4h b : high 
 i ivy . 
 
 
 
Date Due 
 
 
 
 
 
; 
 3 
 ny 
 Ae 
 ' 
 tit 
 4 
 
 
 
PZ3 .V24G61 
 The er key: stories of deliverance, 
 
 ton Theological Seminary—Spe 
 
 iM 
 
 iil 
 
 1 1012 00005 7051