.UNIV. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES 
 
 The Substance of His House
 
 Her eyes ran over him as if appraising his value. 
 FRONTISPIECE. See Page 351.
 
 The Substance of 
 
 His House 
 
 BY 
 
 RUTH HOLT BOUGICAULT 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 M. LEONE BRACKER 
 
 'Many waters cannot quench love nor can the floods drown 
 it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for 
 love, it would utterly be contemned" 
 
 The Song of Songs 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1914 
 
 UMV, i)F CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 Copyright, 
 BT LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPAMT. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published, February, 1914 
 
 Reprinted, February, 1914, (twice) 
 
 Reprinted, February, 1914, (three times) 
 
 ^9 rf nil If 
 8. J. PARKHILL & Co., BOSTON, U.S.A.
 
 To MARGARET MAYO 
 
 friend oj my heart, out of the years behind us 
 I've plucked and weaved this chain of leaves 
 for you. 
 
 Knowing its little worth, except to bind us 
 With one tie more which time cannot undo. 
 
 Yowrj was the gift; and yours the faith unbroken 
 When fate assailed and life but mocked my tears, 
 
 Take now my thanks, and though so slight the token 
 NLy love that grows still greater through the years. 
 
 21260B3
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Her eyes ran over him as if apprais- 
 ing his value Frontispiece 
 
 She gave him kiss for kiss, again and 
 yet again PAGE 61 
 
 "You know" he answered signifi- 
 cantly 72 
 
 Long they sat in front of the fire on 
 
 the old wooden settle .... 374
 
 Book I
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "The stars some cadence use, 
 Forthright the river flows, 
 In order fall the dews, 
 Love blows as the wind blows: 
 Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows 
 The courses of his chart? 
 A spirit that comes and goes, 
 Love blows into the heart" 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 THE long drawing-room of Sir Arthur 
 Stanhope 's town house in Whitehall Gar- 
 dens had an air of waiting, of expect- 
 ancy. Its low, French windows stood open to the 
 spring night, and the wind just barely stirred the 
 folds of the heavy curtains. It was a perfect 
 room of its kind, its time-softened tints of old- 
 rose and gray repeated over and over in the walls, 
 the carpet, the furnishings. Graceful Louis 
 Quinze chairs and sofas were sprinkled about at 
 judicious intervals, their shadows faintly mir- 
 rored in the polished floor. Against the gray 
 background hung a few choice pictures in mas-
 
 4 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 sive gold frames, and here and there an exquisite 
 bit of statuary or a vase was placed, with an ef- 
 fect of studied appreciation. The whole air of 
 the place was one of assured taste, correct for- 
 mality, cold, dignified, even stately. Through 
 the open doors leading to the hall, the stairway 
 was visible, a fine old stairway of oak, with a 
 balustrade of the Jacobean period. 
 
 The door-bell rang, and the butler ushered into 
 the drawing-room a broad-shouldered, brown- 
 faced young man, of about thirty-five. Hie. face 
 was of the clean-cut type, with long, thin features, 
 and a mouth whose stem expression illy con- 
 cealed its humorous twist. Humor lurked, too, 
 about the eyes, which were steady and gray, and 
 which would have been too sharp but that an ex- 
 pression of kindliness softened their keenness. 
 Altogether he had the look of one whom no man 
 (or woman either) could deceive, of one who could 
 look through the deeds of people to the motives 
 behind them, and having analyzed them, bear the 
 revelation, whatever it was, with a twinkle of tol- 
 erance and a large indifference. His superficial 
 air was slow and lazy, but it barely covered a 
 nervous energy which was felt rather than seen 
 in his personality. 
 
 "Her Ladyship is at dinner, now, sir, and they 
 have guests the Duke and Duchess of Norther- 
 land, sir. They have nearly finished. What 
 name, sir?" 
 
 "Baldwin," answered the tall young man.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 5 
 
 "Just tell her Ben Baldwin, her old friend." 
 
 The butler disappeared with a somewhat doubt- 
 ful look as soon as the guest's back was turned. 
 Evidently an American, he thought, by his accent 
 and the cut of his clothes, and his general air of 
 unreserve. Strange creatures, Americans! Her 
 Ladyship was one. One never knew what they 
 would do next; but it would be something unex- 
 pected, one could be sure of that. 
 
 Left to himself, Mr. Ben Baldwin sauntered 
 up and down the room once or twice. One thing 
 after another which spoke of wealth, rank, taste, 
 an old and established nobility, a family heritage, 
 caught his attention. His first round of the room 
 brought him back to his starting-point with a 
 rather puzzled expression. 
 
 "Little Mary," he mused, "wild-hearted little 
 Mary! How does she fit into it all?" 
 
 Then the pictures came in for their share of his 
 attention. He was somewhat of a connoisseur in 
 pictures. He stood for some moments in front of 
 one, a long panel, beautifully painted. It was 
 rather unusual in composition, and represented a 
 woman standing upon a threshold. She held the 
 opened door in one outstretched hand, and the 
 doorway made a frame for her buoyant figure, 
 which seemed to be just arrested in its quick step 
 toward him. The pose was wonderfully caught, 
 but what held Ben Baldwin's gaze was the face of 
 the woman. Under masses of shadowy hair soft 
 light brown hair, with warm lights in it a pair
 
 6 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of very beautiful eyes looked out. They gazed 
 straight at him, confident, challenging eyes, good, 
 gay, and blue ; and Ben Baldwin said aloud, as he 
 smiled at them: " That's she that's she." He 
 stood off a little way and regarded the picture. 
 ' * She was always looking for something wonder- 
 ful to happen just around the corner. Wonder 
 if she's found itr over the threshold there 
 here?" 
 
 Then he went back to his chair and thoughtfully 
 bit off the end of a cigar. Recollecting where 
 he was just as he was about to light it, he 
 put it back in his pocket and went on with his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Let's see how long is it? Must be eight or 
 nine years Lord! Wonder if she's changed 
 much wonder if she's happy? Jolly fine place," 
 he looked about him appreciatively, "but some- 
 how doesn't seem like Mary. Wonder if she is 
 ever homesick?" He began to hum "Mid pleas- 
 ures and palaces" and stopped short. The 
 august butler was re-entering with coffee. 
 
 "The ladies are just coming, sir," he said, as 
 he put the tray down. 
 
 Then came the sound of voices and laughter. 
 Ben Baldwin stood up and found himself eagerly 
 trying to distinguish which belonged to his host- 
 ess; not that deep one, surely no, that was an 
 older woman's; nor that light tone, that couldn't 
 be Mary ah, there it was, warm and rich, the 
 voice he remembered.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 7 
 
 ' ' Wait for me here, you two, ' ' it said. ' ' I must 
 find my old friend, and then we'll join you." 
 And a second later the lady of the picture stood 
 in the doorway, with gracious, outstretched hands, 
 and impulsive speech. 
 
 "Ben Baldwin! Dear old Ben! How glad I 
 am to see you. Why, how did you get here so 
 soon? I didn't expect you until Saturday. Oh, 
 you came a boat earlier than you planned, of 
 course ! ' ' 
 
 "After I got your letter, Lady May." 
 
 "Lady May! Hark to that! Don't you dare 
 call me such a thing, Ben!" 
 
 "Isn't it right?" he asked somewhat anx- 
 iously. 
 
 She laughed merrily. "Not a bit like it! I 
 am just May to you, I hope, or Mary. Which do 
 you like better ? I 'm both. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know yet," he answered, smiling, and 
 scrutinizing her rather keenly. 
 
 She put both her hands on his shoulders with 
 frank friendliness. "You dear old thing! Of 
 course you don't. Why, how long is it since no, 
 don't tell me it makes me feel old. How's Jes- 
 sie?" 
 
 "Sis is awfully well and happy. Got two 
 splendid boys, you know. Sent you all kinds of 
 love." 
 
 "Bless her. Oh, Ben, how nice it is to have 
 you here. You're just the same as ever. How it 
 puts the clock back, seeing you I It might almost
 
 8 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 seem as if you had come to take Jessie and me to 
 the theater. Let's play it's so! We'll take the 
 elevated. ' ' 
 
 "Or the surface car." 
 
 "The tram, you mean?" she laughed at him, 
 "and we will go in our best bibs and tuckers, re- 
 gardless of the fact that they are only suited to 
 carriages. Not having carriages, what care wet 
 What fun it all was!" 
 
 "You're homesick," he suggested gently. 
 
 "No, only sentimental," she laughed at herself, 
 and Ben Baldwin wondered why it made some- 
 thing catch in his throat. "But good gracious, 
 I'm forgetting the Duchess and Lady Kitty. 
 Come and meet them. They are in the morning- 
 room. Turnbull, please bring coffee in there. 
 We are a small party to-night." 
 
 "Thank goodness!" said Ben Baldwin. "I 
 know I shall like the Duchess ; Sis reads me bits of 
 your letters, you see." 
 
 "I'm very fond of her; she and the Duke are 
 my oldest and best friends in England. They 
 knew my people. I never did, you know. ' ' 
 
 " I know, poor child. You were a lonely little 
 kid." 
 
 "Until I found Jess at school, and she took me 
 home with her, one vacation. It's a wonder 
 Auntie let me go ! How kind you and your peo- 
 ple all were to me! Here we are. Duchess, let 
 me introduce my old friend, Ben Baldwin. He's
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 9 
 
 almost my brother. His sister was my dearest 
 friend at school." 
 
 "I know," said the Duchess, "I have often 
 heard you speak of them both." She graciously 
 extended her hand which Ben shook heartily. 
 
 "And Lady Kitty Carew," continued his host- 
 ess. 
 
 ' ' How-d '-you-do ? ' ' said Lady Kitty, with a lazy 
 smile. She was small and fair, and held a ciga- 
 rette between her fingers. "It must be awfully 
 jolly for you to meet again. Is it long since you 
 have seen each other?" 
 
 Ben smiled. "Lady May wouldn't let me say 
 how long," he answered., 
 
 "Listen to him 'Lady May,' : mocked his 
 hostess. 
 
 "Well, why not?" asked Lady Kitty, inventing 
 a white lie to set the stranger at his ease. "We 
 all call you so; it isn't correct, of course, but it 
 suits you." 
 
 "Why?" said Ben, mystified. 
 
 "Oh well " Lady Kitty hesitated. "She's 
 too dignified to be just 'May,' and too frank and 
 sweet to be such a distant person as 'Lady Stan- 
 hope' sounds. So we compromise. Quite wrong 
 of us but we do. Besides, being an American, 
 she can break rules, not being er quite " 
 
 "Not being quite one of you," her hostess 
 finished quietly. 
 
 "My dear "
 
 10 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 . . 
 
 'It's quite true," continued Lady Stanhope, 
 "I'm not. But you like me all the better for it, 
 don't you." She smiled winningly, not asking it 
 as a question, but asserting it as a fact. 
 
 "Huh!" said the old Duchess, with blunt scorn, 
 "why waste time caring whether people like you 
 or not? If it's a man the man make him! If 
 it's a woman well, you are safer if she dislikes 
 you!" 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Lady Stanhope. 
 
 "It's true, my dear. Then you don't tell her 
 things, and then she doesn 't repeat 'em. Besides, 
 the dislike of some people is a compliment." 
 
 "Well, I can't bear any one not to like me not 
 even a chambermaid," laughed Lady Stanhope. 
 
 "No one does dislike you," said the old Duchess 
 dryly. ' ' 'Twould be better for you if they did ! " 
 
 Lady Kitty Carew looked up swiftly. ' * I scent 
 a scandal," she said mischievously. "May, what 
 does she mean? Have you any idea, Mr. Bald- 
 win?" 
 
 "No," answered Ben sturdily. "And I 
 wouldn't believe it, if I had." He saw the quick 
 look which his hostess shot at Lady Kitty, and 
 wondered a little. The Duchess asked if this was 
 his first visit to England. 
 
 "No," Jie answered her. "I had a year here 
 about ten years ago! I was sent over to be 
 'finished off.' " 
 
 She nodded approvingly. "Very good thing. 
 Mr. Carmichael was saying at dinner, just now,
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 11 
 
 that his people sent him to America to be 'smart- 
 ened up' I think that was his expression- 
 after he left college. ' ' 
 
 "Very good thing," echoed Ben, with his 
 twinkle. 
 
 "I can't imagine that Mr. Carmichael ever 
 needed any smartening up," drawled Lady Kitty. 
 1 ' He 's quite too brilliant as it is. The Duke tells 
 me that the party has great hopes for him. They 
 say his first speech was tremendous. Your hus- 
 band, too, May, said he had a fine career in front 
 of him if he goes on like this." 
 
 "Sir Arthur is a good judge," answered Lady 
 Stanhope evenly. 
 
 "Huh!" remarked the Duchess, in her down- 
 right fashion. It was so peculiarly honest and 
 individual that it nearly always made people 
 laugh. They did so now, and then Lady Kitty 
 asked: "Why 'huh'?" 
 
 "Because," answered the old lady with energy, 
 "I know the type; I know the family the Car- 
 michaels, root and branch and I know this one in 
 particular. Oh, yes, they're clever, their brains 
 are facile and quick. But things come too easily 
 to them. That's why they never learn values. 
 And they have too much temperament." 
 
 "What an accusation to bring against an Eng- 
 lishman ! ' ' laughed Lady Kitty. 
 
 "Not English, Irish." 
 
 "So he is Carmichael. Why, it's as Irish as 
 Carew."
 
 12 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Much more so," said the Duchess with em- 
 phasis. "It stands for all the usual Irish quali- 
 ties : instability, a soft tongue, a wandering heart, 
 rare gifts and qualities and the ability to make 
 nothing of them all, through some perverse streak 
 in the nature." 
 
 Lady Stanhope who had been silent, now said 
 warmly: "I think you are very hard on them, 
 Duchess at least, on this one of them. He has 
 great ability and power. Sir Arthur thinks so, 
 anyway. ' ' 
 
 "And he's very magnetic," put in Lady Ititty, 
 just to tease the Duchess, who snorted contempt- 
 uously. "And very handsome," she added, "and 
 interesting for just look how we are all talking 
 about him!" 
 
 "Of whom are you talking?" asked Ben Bald- 
 win. 
 
 "Philip Carmichael, M. P.," Lady Kitty 
 answered. 
 
 "What!" Ben exclaimed, "Phil Carmichael! 
 I wonder if it can be the same? But it must 
 be!" 
 
 They all turned to him with interest. "You 
 know him?" the Duchess asked. 
 
 * ' I knew a Phil Carmichael about er eight or 
 nine years ago, in New York. It must have been 
 during the period of his 'smartening up,' " he 
 twinkled again at the Duchess. "Do you mean to 
 say that he is dining here to-night? Well, I shall 
 be mighty glad to see him again."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 13 
 
 "Did you know him well?" asked Lady Stan- 
 hope curiously. 
 
 "Oh, yes, in the sort of way young chaps of 
 that age know each other. He couldn't have been 
 more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and I was 
 a bit older. We went about quite a lot together. 
 Think I showed him over town pretty thoroughly. 
 I lost track of him afterwards different lands, 
 different careers, you know." 
 
 "But where was I?" she persisted, "and why 
 didn't I meet him?" 
 
 "Oh, you and Sis must have been still in school. 
 In fact, I think all this was before I ever had the 
 pleasure of meeting you." 
 
 "The pleasure was mine," she answered gaily. 
 "I never seemed to have had any before. Poor 
 Auntie was such a formalist, you remember. I 
 never went anywhere or did anything until I was 
 really 'out' except those lovely vacations with 
 Jessie ! And big brother Ben was so nice to us ! 
 He took us to the theater and the opera, and we 
 tea-ed at the Waldorf and lunched at Sherry's 
 quite unchaperoned. I thought it beautifully 
 wicked! Oh, and Ben! Do you remember the 
 night we all went to Coney Island?" She 
 laughed gaily at the remembrance, and he joined 
 in quietly, while the others listened. "I rode a 
 camel, with much glee and gusto, and we met a 
 senator whom we knew, and he took charge of 
 us and our party kept growing. Finally we had 
 accumulated our favorite matinee idol, an animal
 
 14 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 trainer, and a few Lilliputians from the local 
 'Show,' and heaven knows who else! It was a 
 most conglomerate party and great fun and your 
 mother was very wroth with us all afterwards." 
 
 "What fun you Americans have!" said Lady 
 Kitty half enviously. "We don't have half so 
 much freedom until we are married. Yet I think 
 our marriages are generally happier. At least, 
 they last longer!" 
 
 "And what of the mixed ones?" asked Ben 
 Baldwin. 
 
 "Oh offhand, I should say there isn't a happy 
 one among them ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh," remonstrated Lady Stanhope. 
 
 "It's true, my dear of course, present com- 
 pany excepted. American women are the most 
 charming hostesses in London and the most un- 
 happy wives." 
 
 Again Ben noticed the quick look that his host- 
 ess sent toward her guest, and again wondered. 
 He found himself waiting with curiosity to see 
 what Sir Arthur Stanhope was, and what he had 
 contributed toward the subtle change which he 
 found in his old friend. For the change was not 
 on the surface. Outwardly, indeed, she was the 
 same warm-hearted, frank, sweet Mary that he 
 had known eight years ago, whom Jessie had 
 adored, whom indeed, all his people had greatly 
 liked, he among them. What high spirits she had 
 had, what a sense of fun, what splendid health, 
 with its resultant buoyancy of temperament. Her
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 15 
 
 nature overflowed with kindness toward every 
 one, and nothing could restrain the expression 
 of it, not even the worst of her aunt's somewhat 
 austere reserve and formality. The good lady 
 had passed away soon after her niece's marriage 
 to Sir Arthur Stanhope, and some of the re- 
 straint, the dignity which she had tried to in- 
 culcate in her lifetime seemed to have settled 
 upon her niece at last. Ben saw this and won- 
 dered if that might make the difference he felt 
 in her. After all, he had not seen her for eight 
 years, and marriage greatly changes a woman. 
 But though he told himself this, he felt, in spite 
 of himself, some other thing, some deeper reason 
 for reserve, some feeling held strongly in check. 
 He was a lawyer, and used to reading minds and 
 sifting the motives that guide them. So he 
 waited. 
 
 ''Yes, they are going to return to the House 
 after dinner," Lady Stanhope was saying, when 
 he came back from his momentary abstraction. 
 "Ah, here they come now. Arthur " she turned 
 to her husband, resting one hand lightly on his 
 arm, "this is my old friend, Mr. Ben Baldwin. 
 You have often heard me speak of him." 
 
 "I have, indeed," said Sir Arthur, as he 
 grasped his guest's hand cordially, "and I am 
 very glad to meet you at last. We have been 
 looking forward to your coming. I hope you will 
 make our house your headquarters, and command 
 us in any way during your stay."
 
 16 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Ben, taking his usual rapid measure of the new 
 personality before him, saw a man in early middle 
 age somewhat heavily set, with strong, immobile 
 features, behind which, he guessed, lay a passive 
 obstinacy of character. Sir Arthur's manner 
 had a certain weight and impressiveness, as 
 of one accustomed to be looked up to and con- 
 sulted on difficult questions. Ben's quick glance 
 took in all this and noted the thinning gray hair 
 and the stolid, kindly face, even while he himself 
 was replying simply: "You're very kind, sir." 
 
 He had a native dignity and great naturalness 
 of his own, which gave him an odd charm, it rang 
 so true. Sir Arthur approved him at once, and 
 turned to introduce him to a slender, dark-haired 
 man who had followed him in. * * Cannichael, let 
 me oh, you know each other!" 
 
 The two men were shaking hands warmly, and 
 Carmichael 's gay voice was saying : * * Shades of 
 the past! Ben Baldwin, is it you! Did you step 
 off a balloon or out of a train of thought ! I was 
 thinking of you only the other day. Dear old 
 chap! Why, it's six seven years since I've seen 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, quite," said undemonstrative Ben, but 
 he was beaming. It was a pleasant welcome. 
 
 "But you don't show it, in the least!" 
 
 "And you less." 
 
 "Ah, but I do!" returned Carmichael. "This 
 gay exterior covers a multitude of " 
 'Sins?" put in Lady Kitty wickedly. 
 
 . k
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 17 
 
 He gave her a boyish look of comical dignity. 
 1 'Cares, madam, cares. The responsibilities of 
 Empire weigh me down ! ' ' 
 
 "Feather-down," sniffed the Duchess. 
 
 "Further down than that," twinkled Car- 
 michael, while they all groaned and protested. 
 
 "Same old Phil," said Ben affectionately. 
 "Are you never serious?" 
 
 "Always, dear boy; that's why they never think 
 me so ! But tell me how you happen to be here, 
 and how long you are going to stay, and all about 
 yourself." 
 
 "Oh, I got a bit tired out and had to slacken 
 up. Life's pretty strenuous over in New York. 
 Doctor suggested * sea- voyage, ' so I wrote to my 
 old friend, Lady Mary, and took the first boat 
 after I got her reply. And here I am." 
 
 "I'm so glad you are here," Lady Stanhope 
 smiled with frank affection. "Ben is like a big 
 brother to me," she added to Carmichael. 
 
 "But have you known each other long?" he 
 asked, puzzled. 
 
 "Oh, I 've known Ben always before I was mar- 
 ried, ever since my school days." 
 
 "But " he said, still puzzled, "I was in 
 America about that time. "Why didn't I, also?" 
 
 "It was just after you went back to England, 
 Phil; after your 'smartening up' that my sister 
 brought her chum, Mary Lord, home for a Christ- 
 mas vacation," Ben explained. 
 
 "Ah, that's how I missed you, then," Car-
 
 18 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 michael exclaimed. "And to think that if old 
 Ben here had known you a little earlier say at 
 the summer vacation I might have known you, 
 too! Things happen strangely, don't they, some- 
 times ? ' ' 
 
 "They happen for the best," she answered 
 evenly. Ben Baldwin caught the end of the 
 glance that passed between them, and it gave him 
 something like an electric shock. Carmichael's 
 was daring, ardent, compelling. Hers was veiled. 
 
 "Don't you think so, Ben?" she added lightly. 
 
 "It depends," he answered slowly, "on whether 
 you are able to get what you want or to want 
 what you get." 
 
 "Very profound very clever," said the Duke 
 of Northerland, joining them. Ben turned to 
 meet a sweet-faced old man of over sixty, with the 
 most courtly manner he had ever seen. Lady 
 Stanhope introduced them, and they continued 
 the conversation. 
 
 "And in which case do you think things happen 
 for the best?" said the Duke. "When you get 
 what you want, or when you want what you get?" 
 
 "It's obvious, I think. Getting what you want 
 involves paying a price for it of one sort or an- 
 other and so often it turns out to be not worth 
 what you paid I But wanting what you get im- 
 plies the philosophic mind a priceless thing in 
 itself." 
 
 The Duke nodded in approval. But Ladv 
 Kitty pouted.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 19 
 
 " Suppose you haven't got that kind of a mind; 
 you must just go on wanting and wanting " 
 
 "Until you get what you don't want!" said the 
 Duke, smiling. "Because, when you get it, you 
 will have ceased to want it. ' ' 
 
 "What a cynic you are, Duke," said Mary. 
 
 "Not I, my friend. But I am a realist. " 
 
 "And what am I?" she asked. 
 
 "An idealist, purely. The thing you imagine 
 is more real to you than the thing that is." 
 
 "Well, anyway," she defended herself, "I am 
 faithful to my desires. Just because I get them, 
 I don't cease to want them." 
 
 "You're a very steadfast person, child," he 
 answered, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, dear! that's the end of the argument, 
 then. He always says ' child' when he means 
 'period'! I have no more to say," she explained 
 to Ben. "If he were less gentle, he would have 
 said 'you're a very obstinate person.' " 
 
 "I'll be less gentle then," said the Duke. 
 "You're an obstinate idealist." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Sir Arthur, coming to the 
 rescue of his wife. "Mary isn't an idealist at 
 all. She's as practical and er full of com- 
 mon sense as er as can be!" 
 
 "And who knows, anyway," said Carmichael, 
 with his eyes on Lady Stanhope, "who knows but 
 the idealists have the truer vision? Who knows 
 but the ideal is the real!" 
 
 "Who, indeed?" answered the Duke softly.
 
 20 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 \ 
 
 "This is getting beyond me," said Sir Arthur, 
 with a good-natured laugh. "I prefer the de- 
 bate in the House." 
 
 He had a bluff, almost brusque way of speaking, 
 that gave the effect of great honesty of charac- 
 ter, which Ben divined truly that he had. A solid 
 man, he thought, without heights or depths of na- 
 ture, without a past or a future, very representa- 
 tive of his particular class and country; stable, 
 admirable; very fond of his life, of his occupa- 
 tions, whether in the way of sport or work ; very 
 fond also of his home, his position in the world, 
 his wife, certainly very fond of the latter in a 
 quiet, undemonstrative British way. 
 
 Ben found himself wondering what the par- 
 ticular attraction in him had been for Mary. Ah, 
 but she had been young, and the marriage had 
 been largely of her aunt's making. Sir Arthur 
 was about fifteen years her senior. Was she 
 happy! Ben wondered, and checked himself on 
 the threshold of an impertinence, even for such 
 an old friend as himself. But do what he would, 
 his thoughts persistently went back to the sweet, 
 wild-hearted hoyden of eight years ago. And 
 side by side with that picture of the past stood the 
 woman of to-night, full of gracious charm and 
 hidden fire ; full of tranquil tact and secret springs 
 of feeling that never overflowed into expression. 
 He wondered how he knew they were there! The 
 only answer was he knew it. The impulses 
 were all controlled now ; the training of her Eng-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 21 
 
 lish life had given her a restraint and social com- 
 mand that were very fascinating to his fastidious 
 requirements in a woman. But underneath all, 
 he felt she was the same Mary he had known not 
 free now, but the same, and broader, far, far 
 bigger of heart and brain than then. What had 
 so developed her! Her husband! No. Some- 
 how, Ben divined that he was quite outside her 
 real life, a pleasant but not an intimate part of 
 it. Well, to natures like hers, experience was 
 bound to come ; whether for good or ill, it would 
 come. 
 
 She and Carmichael had drawn a little apart 
 from the others, over by one of the windows that 
 opened on to the strip of garden sloping down to 
 the embankment. 
 
 "Do you ever wish,'* he said to her, "that you 
 could go on forever, like the river there, always 
 to something new never passing over the same 
 place twice but going on and on " 
 
 "But isn't that just what we do?" she asked. 
 "We never can live over the same thing twice. 
 Life is always new and different. ' ' 
 
 "Is it?" he answered moodily. "To me, 
 at present, it is a dead level, and so hemmed 
 in by conventions, restrictions " He left 
 the sentence unfinished and stared out into 
 the night. There was a little silence, and 
 then she said lightly: "Well, so is the river a 
 dead level, and hemmed in by banks and gar- 
 dens and other safe and pleasant barriers."
 
 22 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 " Pleasant barriers?" He frowned, a vibrant, 
 eager note in his voice. "Mary, are barriers 
 pleasant, ever?" 
 
 "They are safe," she answered. 
 
 "What if the tide should rise?" he said dar- 
 ingly. 
 
 "It would spoil the garden." She spoke sim- 
 ply, almost literally. But the veiled look was 
 over her eyes again, and he could not read what 
 kind of a dream, if any, lay behind them. 
 
 "You leave so much to the imagination," he 
 said. "One never knows how much or how lit- 
 tle you mean." 
 
 She only smiled at him for answer. Her lithe 
 and beautiful figure was sharply outlined against 
 the old-rose curtain, and one arm was stretched 
 along the opened glass door as she leaned against 
 it. The man stood for a moment, drinking in the 
 beauty of her, of the upturned face, with the lure 
 of its perilous dream unveiled for an instant, un- 
 der his eyes. Only for an instant, then her lids 
 hid the splendor again. But he had seen. His 
 pulses were singing. 
 
 She turned without apparent effort to her other 
 guests. "It really is heavenly outside, to-night, 
 Duchess. Wouldn't you like a wrap and to come 
 out for a stroll?" 
 
 "Not I, my dear, thank you; my moonstruck 
 days are over." 
 
 Sir Arthur was saying good night to his guests, 
 and apologizing for having to return to the House.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 23 
 
 11 Where are you staying?" he said to Ben. 
 "Savoy? Good. We shall hope to see much of 
 you. My dear," he turned to his wife, "you 
 will make your old friend feel quite at home, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "Lunch with me to-morrow, at the Bachelor's 
 Club," said Carmichael to Ben, as he prepared to 
 accompany his host, "and we'll have a talk over 
 old times dear old Ben." He gave him an af- 
 fectionate slap on the shoulder and departed. 
 Lady Kitty also said good night, as she was go- 
 ing on somewhere else. The Duke and Duchess 
 remained for a while, and the little party of four 
 drew closer together. 
 
 Ben Baldwin felt the tension relax somewhat, 
 and the charm of the environment stole over his 
 tired nerves. How orderly, how dignified it all 
 was, how tranquilly these English people ar- 
 ranged their lives. With what charming tact 
 they made him feel one of themselves, choosing 
 subjects that he knew, speaking of America, of 
 life in the States, east and west, just touching on 
 political systems, and on everyday philosophy and 
 religion. Their friendship for Lady Mary was of 
 course their common ground. They had known 
 her as a child in arms before her parents went to 
 live in America. They really were god-parents 
 to her, though she used the word in speaking to 
 the Duke only, who seemed particularly fond of 
 her. 
 
 "I don't know how I ever would have got
 
 24 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 through that first London season without them," 
 she told Ben laughingly. " I made so many mis- 
 takes and scandalized Auntie over and over. 
 But these dears seemed to like me from the first. 
 What Auntie called my ' gaucheries' they said 
 were so 'delightfully American.' They made 
 everybody else think so, too, even Sir Arthur. I 
 married at the end of my first season." 
 
 "That," said the Duke, with a twinkle, "was 
 almost the only thing you ever did, Mary, that 
 really pleased your august aunt." 
 
 "Yes, wasn't it?" She smiled. "Poor 
 Auntie! Well, it must be very hard to bring up 
 somebody else's different little child! She was 
 kind to me in her way, but we never understood 
 each other. My father had wished me to be 
 brought up in America his country and though 
 Auntie hated it, she made herself a martyr to the 
 wish, and stayed there with me most of the time, 
 until my school-days were over. Happy days 
 they were, too, back there in New York." 
 
 "That is just what Carmichael was saying at 
 dinner," said the Duke. 
 
 "Fancy!" she returned, "and I didn't know 
 until then that he had ever been there!" 
 
 "Have you known him long!" asked Ben 
 casually, but he found himself waiting for her 
 answer. 
 
 "Let me see." She considered a moment. 
 "Why, it must be less than a year. You remem- 
 ber, Duke, when he made his speech that you all
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 25 
 
 thought so wonderful? Sir Arthur brought him 
 here soon after that." 
 
 "It was an unusually able and brilliant 
 presentation of a most difficult question," the 
 Duke replied. "Frankly, the man interests me." 
 
 ' * Why, particularly I ' ' she asked. 
 
 "Because he puzzles me, I suppose. Those 
 mixed temperaments are full of surprises, even for 
 the people who think they know them best." 
 
 "Does anybody really know Mr. CarmichaelT" 
 asked the Duchess. 
 
 "I knew him intimately ten years ago," said 
 Ben staunchly. "He was taking some post- 
 graduate law courses at Yale. Precious little 
 study he ever did!" he laughed reminiscently. 
 "But, as you suggested, Duke, a more able, quick- 
 witted speaker, I never heard." 
 
 "Gift o' the gab huh!" remarked the Duchess 
 laconically. 
 
 This, as usual, made them all laugh, and the 
 little party broke up with a hospitably expressed 
 hope from the Duke, as he shook Ben's hand, that 
 they might see more of each other. Then Mary 
 asked him to dine with them to-morrow, and he 
 smilingly accepted. 
 
 But as he walked back to the Savoy and began 
 to sort out his impressions of the several new per- 
 sonalities that he had met that evening, it became 
 more and more difficult to find his old friend, 
 Mary, among them. In spite of her warm hos- 
 pitality, in spite of her spontaneous sweetness of
 
 26 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 manner, her impulsive utterance, and her quick, 
 sympathetic comprehension of him, which he felt 
 unchanged in her, he could not find the woman 
 herself. It was as if all these things were veils, 
 as if her very frankness and simplicity concealed, 
 instead of revealing^ her. His perceptions were 
 very keen, his intuitions even keener. He seemed 
 to feel in her depths beyond depths, and it made 
 him wonder and dread what was in her heart. 
 
 And then he thought of Carmichael. His mind 
 went back to that period of seven years ago when 
 they had seen a good deal of each other. How 
 gay he had been, what a companion, reckless, gen- 
 erous, extravagant! What scrapes he had pulled 
 the boy out of! One in particular Ben remem- 
 bered with something like disgust ; and insensibly 
 he quickened his pace as if to leave the remem- 
 brance, whatever it was, farther behind in the 
 past. "Beastly business,'* he thought. "Some 
 day must speak to Phil about that perhaps to- 
 morrow, if he gives me a chance.*' 
 
 Last of all he thought of Sir Arthur, but the 
 probe of his questions fell back blunted. Sir 
 Arthur was like a solid wall which could not 
 be pierced. He found that he could not even sur- 
 mise regarding his attitude toward any given 
 question, or as to what he would do in any con- 
 tingency. He put him down as a "quiet man"; 
 but as to what went on beneath that quietness, or 
 whether anything did, Ben, with all his acuteness, 
 could not determine.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 27 
 
 But, somehow, as lie paused for a moment be- 
 fore going in, to sum it all up, he had an uneasy 
 premonition that he was sitting in the audience, 
 waiting for the curtain to go up.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "Keep me, dear lips, oh, keep 
 The great, last word unspoken! 
 Lest other eyes go weep, 
 And other lives lie broken/' 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 BUT if Ben Baldwin felt a sense of uneasi- 
 ness at what might be in the heart of his 
 old friend, Lady Stanhope, it was as 
 nothing compared to the wonder and dread of 
 the woman herself. Beneath her pleasant world- 
 liness the result of her circumstances and en- 
 vironment beneath her gay good-nature, and 
 easy friendliness, was the stock of the Puritan 
 that knew no compromise with evil. Mostly con- 
 vent-bred, her natural purity of idealism had 
 not been sullied by any taint of temptation. She 
 had never met it, never known it. There were 
 in her immense, unmeasured depths of power and 
 feeling, which gave ardor and passionate fidelity 
 to her few friendships. As a child she had 
 starved for the expression of natural affection, 
 of which the early loss of her parents had de- 
 prived her. Later, a girl at school, love became 
 to her a dream, an ideal. As a young woman it 
 was still that, never taking tangible shape, never 
 touching reality, never embodied. Yet her warm
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 29 
 
 nature drew many people to her, and lovers were 
 not lacking as soon as she had been introduced to 
 the world. She and her aunt had possessed very 
 little money, but the social connection of the latter 
 had been of great advantage to the girl, and at 
 the end of her first season in London there had 
 been several proposals for her hand. Of them 
 all, her aunt had preferred Sir Arthur Stanhope. 
 He was older, possessed of moderate wealth, of 
 excellent position, and was genuinely in love with 
 the girl. She liked him, too, immensely. They 
 were congenial companions, and as they were 
 thrown more and more together, the somewhat 
 wistful young heart, seeking it knew not what, 
 found, or seemed to find, an answer to its un- 
 conscious question. She began to love his love 
 of her, and she thought, not unnaturally, that she 
 loved him, himself. She had never known love 
 nor even seen it the love of one for one. 
 
 And they were married. 
 
 They had been eight happy years, on the whole. 
 Her nature had expanded under the greater af- 
 fection of her husband and the greater freedom 
 of her life. Her old friends, the Duke and 
 Duchess of Northerland, had been her social 
 sponsors, and her own tact and beauty had won 
 her an enviable position in her world. She was 
 one of the most popular hostesses of the younger 
 set. Not having children, her energies flowed out 
 in many ways, social, intellectual, philanthropic; 
 and Sir Arthur watched her and admired her in
 
 30 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 his quiet, undemonstrative way, but never needed 
 her, being strong and sufficient unto himself. 
 
 Perhaps, after a time, bit by bit, she felt that ; 
 perhaps it was the thing that prevented her giv- 
 ing him the whole of her rich nature ; but she was 
 probably unconscious of it, except in a vague way, 
 as many people are of the deepest things, until 
 suddenly, out of the blue, they rush upon the 
 heart with a conviction that indicates foreknowl- 
 edge. 
 
 Philip Carmichael, coming into their lives at 
 this juncture, struck that chord in her; the chord 
 that needed her for its own completion. He was 
 just at the beginning of his career, flushed with 
 his first success, with the applause of his party 
 still in his ears. He was being rapidly taken up 
 by the best people; house after house was open- 
 ing to him, and from the position of a somewhat 
 obscure and impecunious, Irish, younger son, his 
 own gifts of brain and breeding were carrying 
 him on to phenomenal success, if there were any 
 truth in prophecy. He had great personal mag- 
 netism and a natural gift for oratory, with some- 
 thing of an actor's power over an audience, and 
 something of a diplomat's ability to utilize a 
 situation. He was keen-witted, resourceful, am- 
 bitious. But a curious double nature in him 
 hindered his development. With a self-conceit 
 which gave him courage, he had also a self-dis- 
 trust which made him as dependent as a child 
 is on the spoken word of praise. This was a
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 31 
 
 weakness in him, yet, inconsistently, perhaps, it 
 made him the more lovable. 
 
 To a woman like Mary Stanhope, it was a 
 direct call. It provided a new outlet for her 
 overflow of kindness. It was something for her 
 warm heart to help. Often, when a hard debate 
 lay before him, he had come to her, not for in- 
 spiration, as a more poetic man might have done, 
 but just to be believed in, to be made confident, 
 to be made strong. And she never failed him, 
 because her faith in him, in his power, was genu- 
 ine. He grew to need her, to depend upon her, 
 and she grew to love the need and the dependence. 
 No one had ever asked so much of her before, 
 and to no one had she ever given so much men- 
 tally. 
 
 And suddenly, without a spoken word or sign, 
 the troubled consciousness of both registered 
 deeper vibrations, greater needs and a tremen- 
 dous, unknown force trembled into life between 
 them. 
 
 To the man it brought a sense of exhilaration, 
 of power, as of a tribute paid to a conqueror. 
 To the woman it brought an overwhelming sense 
 of dread, of fear. There was joy in it, too, secret 
 and intense, but her mind was too pure to in- 
 dulge in it. For her it could mean only one 
 thing utter renunciation. She saw as little of 
 him as possible, and it only increased his ardor; 
 she saw him only in the company of others, and 
 her self-command, her apparent coolness, only in-
 
 82 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 flamed his passion, until he grew to think of one 
 thing only, the possibility of possessing her love, 
 of making her own to it, confess it and then 
 Even Philip Carmichael's daring imagination 
 could not travel further than that moment. Her 
 dignity was so truly of the soul, her purity so 
 almost virginal, it was the best part of the man 
 that reached out to her. He was used to attain- 
 ing his ends, conquests had been more or less easy 
 to him. But no woman before had given him this 
 great quality of friendship, which held in it the 
 germ of love. 
 
 Coming down-stairs dressed for a drive on the 
 day after Ben Baldwin's arrival, Mary Stanhope 
 met Mr. Philip Carmichael just as he was about 
 to be announced. 
 
 "Oh, were you just going out?" he said, and 
 then, seeing the carriage at the door, 4 * Well, take 
 me with you, won't you?" 
 
 She reflected, irresolute, for a moment, then 
 smiled. "No, it isn't important. Henry, send 
 away the carriage, please, and take Mr. Car- 
 michael to the drawing-room. I'll take off my 
 hat and be with you in a moment." 
 
 She laughed lightly at his protestations, and 
 went back up-stairs. Carmichael, meantime, 
 walked up and down the drawing-room in moody 
 excitement. The footman had opened the long 
 windows to the late afternoon sun, and the little 
 slope of garden bounded by the sleepy river made 
 an enticing picture. He felt restless, with an
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 38 
 
 odd, inward excitement that was partly torture 
 and partly exhilaration, but was wholly out of 
 harmony with the tranquil surroundings. "What 
 had brought him there? Why had he come at an 
 hour when he guessed she might be alone? And 
 what should he say to her now that he was there I 
 If only he were sure of her 
 
 She was softly coming down the stairs; he 
 heard the gracious stir of her movement and the 
 lilt of a little song she hummed as she walked. 
 His pulses quickened. Eagerly he leaned for- 
 ward for the first glimpse of her. It was a thing 
 to look for that easy freedom of movement 
 which yet held the right restraint, that confident 
 carriage of the head with its shining, shadowy 
 hair. A line of an old poem came into his head 
 and he said it aloud, as she moved toward him: 
 "When first I saw my lady, 'twas in her father's 
 hall" 
 
 " Husband's hall," she corrected lightly. 
 "By the way, did you see him? I was thinking 
 of driving down to the House and bringing you 
 both back to tea. ' ' 
 
 "Very nice of you," he answered. "You see 
 I didn't even wait to be asked. I just had to see 
 you." 
 
 She was all sympathy and attention at once. 
 ' ' Something particular ? Can I help you ! What 
 is it!" 
 
 The frank good faith of her! He kept back 
 a sigh as he turned away. She thought it was
 
 34 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 something to do with his career, his prospects, 
 his promotion. She was always ready to listen, 
 to counsel, to assist in any way she could. And 
 how much she had helped him, in every way, al- 
 ready. He walked the length of the room and 
 back with nervous indecision, and she, knowing 
 his erratic ways, waited with a smile. 
 
 "No," he said at last, pausing before her. 
 "It's nothing particular just a mood and I 
 need you. I seem to need you a lot, don't It 
 You're awfully good to me, Mary." 
 
 "What nonsense!" 
 
 "No, it's true. You give me so much. I don't 
 think I realize it myself, until I remember what 
 it was like before." 
 
 "Before?" 
 
 "Before I met you. I had never known a 
 woman's friendship until then." 
 
 "Philip Carmichael!" she remonstrated with 
 utter unbelief. 
 
 "It's true," he said again. "Of course one 
 has had experiences. One has known women. 
 One has been in love scores of times well, no, 
 but once or twice. But this is different. You 
 can't think how much it means to me." 
 
 "I'm glad," she said simply. 
 
 "You see I never had anything like it. And 
 when I won my election, and things began to 
 open up for me, and I met you, it made me realize 
 how much I had missed all these years. Strange 
 how things happen, isn't it?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 35 
 
 "Yes," she said, rather puzzled. "But 
 what" 
 
 "Oh, I was just thinking how we ought to have 
 met, years ago, in America through Ben and his 
 people, you know. It might easily have happened. 
 Only it just didn't." 
 
 "Perhaps it's just as well," she said. "We 
 mightn't have liked each other then." 
 
 "That isn't conceivable." 
 
 She smiled happily. "No, I really don't think 
 it is. Still, it is odd how people come into your 
 life and influence it mightily at one time, who 
 never could have any effect upon it at another. ' ' 
 
 "You would always have influenced my life, at 
 whatever time you came. But I wonder if I could 
 have altered yours, Mary!" 
 
 "Bather a fruitless speculation, isn't it?" she 
 asked lightly. 
 
 "Perhaps, now, but it mightn't have been 
 then." 
 
 "I wonder." She spoke dreamily, looking out 
 at the garden and noting how the shadows were 
 growing longer. 
 
 "You know," he went on, "I've had to do 
 nearly everything for myself! I haven't any 
 people of my own, now, and there wasn't much 
 money left after my education was finished 
 meaning, of course, when it had just begun. It 
 began in America " He stopped suddenly. 
 Some thought contracted his straight brows for 
 a moment, then he shook it off vigorously, much
 
 36 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 as a spaniel shakes water from his coat, when 
 he reaches dry land, and continued: "I'm nearly 
 thirty-four now, and I've only just begun to 
 live." 
 
 "Dear boy, few people begin before," she said 
 sagely. 
 
 "Have you begun?" he asked searchingly 
 suddenly. 
 
 She evaded him laughingly. "IT Well, I'm 
 not thirty-four." 
 
 "Don't fence, Mary. You know what I mean. 
 Have you found the thing that makes it worth 
 while, or would make it so if you could have it? 
 Are you content fulfilled satisfied? Or are 
 you, too I wish I knew!" he broke off. 
 
 "Phil, dear, everybody feels like that at times. 
 It's the Spring. It will pass. Think how splen- 
 did it is that you have begun, that things are 
 coming to you, at last." 
 
 "And now that they are," he answered, speak- 
 ing out his thoughts just as they came, "now 
 that it all lies before me opportunity success 
 ultimate reward what is it worth to me? 
 These are the things I wanted years ago and they 
 seem worth nothing at all now without the other 
 thing I want. And I 'm still a long way from that. 
 It's as if some one led me to another person's 
 garden and allowed me a peep through the shut 
 gate. And I stand outside and long for it to be 
 mine!" 
 
 The silence, heavy with feeling, hung between
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 37 
 
 them for a moment. Carmichael held his breath, 
 it became so oppressive. A trouble was growing 
 in her face, and she kept it turned from him and 
 from the room, still watching the garden paths. 
 Finally she moved gently over to the window and 
 stood there with her back to him. She could not 
 pretend that she had not understood him but 
 how to answer him what to say! He could not 
 see her face, but he watched her figure. Its lines 
 were expressive always, its gentle pliancy just fit 
 to be folded in arms that longed for her, he 
 thought. If he only knew what was passing 
 through her mind if he only dared. He drew 
 nearer and asked impetuously: "What are you 
 thinking?" She hesitated a moment before an- 
 swering. 
 
 "I was thinking of your garden and its shut 
 gate and of how nothing ever stays the same 
 and of how the shadows have been lengthening 
 even as we talked. Look out there! The little 
 rosebush's shadow reaches nearly to the cypress 
 tree!" 
 
 One phrase of all this he caught up eagerly. 
 "'Nothing ever stays the same!' Mary, 
 honestly, would you have things stay the same 
 between us just as they have been, just 
 friends!" 
 
 "Of course," she said simply. "You see it is 
 that or nothing, and " she gave him a beauti- 
 ful look "I couldn't bear it to be nothing! 
 It's meant so much to me, given me such an in-
 
 38 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 terest. I couldn't do without it now; I couldn't 
 do without my friend." 
 
 "I'm not that, Mary. I'm" 
 
 "Don't say it, Phil!" she entreated quickly, 
 "don't say what you're going to; it mustn't be 
 said." 
 
 "It doesn't have to be," he answered, "because 
 you know." Their eyes held each other for a 
 moment, then she turned away. 
 
 "Yes I know," she just breathed. 
 
 "Mary what are we going to do?" 
 
 Her eyes closed, and she did not answer. He 
 came close, with sudden passion, and held her 
 hand hard against his breast, bending to kiss it 
 over and over through the quick, hot words. 
 
 ' ' I love you I love you you must have known 
 it, so there 's no harm in saying it. Oh, I love you ! 
 There's nothing else to say or think but that. 
 But you you love me, too. I didn't know that 
 before. I saw it in your eyes just now. Open 
 them, and let me know it again." She swayed 
 into his arms. "God!" he said, as they closed 
 around her, "what a different world it is!" 
 
 So they stood for a little while, wrapped around 
 with the old, immortal spell. Outside, the wester- 
 ing sun had sent the rosebush's shadow quite to 
 the cypress tree. But neither noticed it now. 
 Eyes on eyes they lived an unmeasured moment. 
 But before their lips had met, she gently released 
 herself, putting his arms away from her. He 
 saw that she fought for self-control ; and the man
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 39 
 
 in him exulted for joy of her, for joy of her 
 beauty, and the spirit that inspired it. 
 
 She stood a little way off from him and looked 
 at him very wistfully, very sadly. Meeting that 
 look, and the things it said without words, 
 his own joy faded out of his face. He knew he 
 faced a forlorn hope. Still, he could not give 
 it up. 
 
 "It's in your hands now," he said. 
 
 "Ah, Phil! why did you do it?" 
 
 "It had to be, Dearest." 
 
 "Yes," she repeated, "it had to be. I always 
 knew that you would speak; but I hoped you 
 wouldn't. It's bound to change things between 
 us." 
 
 "My Sweet!" he said, almost in a whisper, 
 "what can we hope?" And then, lower still: 
 "What dare we do?" He would have taken her 
 again in his arms, but with a grave gesture of 
 detachment, she restrained him. Not looking at 
 him at all, but looking, as it were, inward, she 
 said and her words were almost toneless 
 "There is nothing to hope or do. There is 
 nothing for you and me." 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 With her beautiful honesty, she turned and 
 faced him, not attempting to deny or conceal her 
 feeling, but letting the frank force of it shine out 
 of her eyes. 
 
 "You have said the most precious thing in the 
 world to me, Philip, the most precious thing
 
 40 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and I can never forget it. All my life will be rich 
 for it. But it ends our friendship." 
 
 "It begins our love." 
 
 "You know, Dear, there can't be love for us," 
 she said gently. "And, oh, there can't be friend- 
 ship either, for that is past ! Philip Philip, what 
 shall I do without you?" 
 
 There was the ring of grief and renunciation 
 in her tone. Her mind had leaped ahead to the 
 inevitable sequence of this interview, to a life 
 bereft of its primal purpose, its absorbing in- 
 terest. But he, not seeing her vision, answered 
 her words. 
 
 "You don't have to do without me. And I 
 can't do without you. I need you I want you 
 and you love me, too! Don't you know feel- 
 ings like these can't break off in the middle; they 
 must go on to some conclusion. You can't stop 
 a love-force by just denying it." 
 
 "I thought I could help you," she went on. 
 "I seemed to see what you needed, and I gave it. 
 It was sweet to me to give it, for it gave me some- 
 thing, too a new, high interest in life. You 
 made me feel that I might help to make a man 
 great, and that he needed me just me. ' ' 
 
 "He does," said Carmichael, deeply. 
 
 "And now," she continued, not heeding him, 
 "don't you see how you have changed things? 
 I can't help you any more. I could only harm 
 you, because you have shown me that we are not 
 really friends ; we are just a man and a woman ! ' '
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 41 
 
 ''Just that, a man and a woman who love each 
 other. Thank God for it!" 
 
 "No," she said very quietly, "we must put it 
 behind us, Philip. We must play fair." It 
 was the phrase of a schoolboy, but perhaps for 
 that very reason it caught his attention. 
 
 * * You don 't love me then, as I thought, ' ' he said 
 bitterly. 
 
 "I don't love any one," she answered proudly, 
 "enough to sin for him." 
 
 He took her hands masterfully in his. "I will 
 make you love me even enough for that!" he 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, don't, don't!" She was trembling. 
 
 "But you mustn't send me away, Mary. Why, 
 even to meet on the old terms, and pretend this 
 talk had never taken, place anything, in fact, 
 would be better than that. Think of the times 
 we have been together in the last six months; 
 think of what you've been to me!" 
 
 "Phil, dear," she said wearily, "I can't argue 
 about it or reason; but I know it's right we 
 shouldn't meet very often for a time at least." 
 
 "But why why!" he persisted. 
 
 Mary Stanhope turned her face to him again, 
 with the crystal honesty that was her rare gift. 
 
 "Because I don't dare," she said. 
 
 And then he knew he was loved, indeed. With 
 sudden humility he raised the hands he still held 
 and kissed them before he left her. 
 
 But she went up-stairs to her bedroom, where
 
 42 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 she shut herself in, alone, well knowing that the 
 hardest part of her hard task was with herself, 
 with her own unruly heart. She walked up and 
 down for some time, her figure passing and re- 
 passing in the mirrors. One reflected the tumult 
 of emotion set free from conventional restraint, 
 and it brought a deep color to the cheeks and a 
 rare light to the eyes, which closed over the secret 
 ecstasy of the words re-echoing in her brain: "I 
 love you there's nothing else to say or think 
 but that." Re-opening them, and seeing herself 
 as the mirror faithfully portrayed her, she turned 
 away, fiercely crushing the feeling back, with a 
 shudder of self-loathing. It was a troubled, 
 struggling woman for many moments, uncon- 
 scious, passionate gesture betraying the longing 
 which would not be controlled, yet which could 
 not control her. After a while she forced herself 
 to face the reality calmly. She was young, 
 beautiful, and two men loved her. One she loved 
 and there was a wrong in it. One loved her, 
 and there was no wrong in it, except that she did 
 not return the love. Put so simply, there could 
 be but one decision for her. There was some- 
 thing wrong in herself, something to be conquered, 
 forever kept under, forever renounced. The 
 trouble began to go out of her face, the strain 
 out of her body, and the mirrors in the room re- 
 flected a growing sadness, a gradual release of the 
 light from eyes which became slowly blind with
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 43 
 
 tears. Groping, she found her way to her little 
 
 prie-dieu and sank on her knees with hidden face. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Sir Arthur, knocking on her door an hour or 
 two later, gave an exclamation of pleasure at the 
 radiant figure which confronted him over the 
 threshold. 
 
 "By Jove! How rippin' you look, my dear. 
 What's on to-night? Do we dine with the 
 king?" 
 
 "That's it!" she answered gaily. "And here 
 he is !" She gave him a swift little pat and swept 
 him a curtsey. "Come in and admire, and do 
 make a fuss about it, for it 's only just come home 
 and I hate to think what it cost!" 
 
 "So do I!" replied her husband, with a lugu- 
 brious groan, as he seated himself somewhat 
 heavily and prepared to admire. "Rippin' 
 simply rippin'!" 
 
 She pretended to misunderstand him and said : 
 "Where, oh, where?" in mock dismay, and made 
 much merriment in which Dawes, the pleasant- 
 faced maid, joined discreetly. In their different 
 ways both Dawes and Sir Arthur thought her the 
 most beautiful creature in the world. Each felt 
 a certain pride of possession, too. She did in- 
 deed look very lovely, her eyes and cheeks bright 
 again with the effort she was making. She wore 
 a wonderful shade of green, which set off her fair- 
 ness and gave it depth; around her head was a
 
 44 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 broad band of gold, turning her hair to bronze 
 by contrast. 
 
 "I thought we would do a theater after din- 
 ner," she said brightly, "you and Ben and I; 
 and I asked Lady Kitty, too. If you feel like it, 
 we might go on to the Savoy for supper. Hence 
 this regalia." 
 
 "Very well," said Sir Arthur resignedly. 
 When pleasures ran late he was apt to feel his 
 five-and-forty years. 
 
 She laughed at him sympathetically. "Poor 
 old dear!" she said, with the quick little pat on 
 the coat-sleeve which seemed to be her one form 
 of caress. ' ' But we must give Ben a good time. ' ' 
 
 "Of course," he agreed. "By the way, May- 
 sie, I liked your friend very much. Odd and 
 original and shy a little, isn't he? For 
 Heaven's sake, teach him to call you either May 
 or Lady Stanhope. I can't stand Lady May!" 
 
 "Oh, he'll get used to May in time. The Lady 
 preface is a little mark of respect because he 
 hasn't seen me for eight years. It is difficult 
 to pick up a friendship after all that time, just 
 where you left off." 
 
 "Yes," he said speculatively, "it is often easier 
 to make a new one with a stranger." 
 
 She flashed him a quick look, wondering if any 
 meaning lay under the words, but Sir Arthur was 
 looking out of the window and apparently did not 
 see.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "How you have known her, yet not known her " 
 
 MARY BURT MASSER. 
 
 THE London season was approaching its 
 height, and mid-June found Lady Stan- 
 hope already longing for the end of it. 
 She was alternately feverishly gay, or, in strong 
 reaction, utterly worn out. She kept her cal- 
 endar full, and from morning to night, and often 
 from night to morning again, went a gay round 
 of pleasure. Nothing stopped her but utter 
 physical exhaustion, and people in their various 
 ways according to their several view-points began 
 to comment. 
 
 "You have a wonderful zest for life, Mary," 
 said Lady Kitty languidly and half-enviously. 
 
 "You'll have a wonderful zest for death, if you 
 don't let up a little," said the Duchess bluntly. 
 The Duke looked at her thoughtfully one evening 
 when she and Sir Arthur had dined with them 
 en famille. "What's got into you, child?" he 
 asked. "You are going a bit too hard, aren't 
 you! It doesn't pay, you know. You look over- 
 strained. ' ' 
 
 She looked at him a little pathetically. "Does 
 it matter?" she asked.
 
 46 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Of course it does," said the Duke sturdily. 
 "Everything matters." He regarded her nar- 
 rowly for a moment. "I think you would better 
 get away from town into the country, soon. 
 Don't you!" 
 
 "No," she said, "I won't run away." 
 
 The phrase caught his attention. Bun awayt 
 From what, he wondered. He was a tactful old 
 gentleman, and he forebore to question further, 
 but it started a speculation in his mind. 
 
 Carmichael never came to Whitehall Gardens 
 now. Ben noticed it and was glad. He guessed 
 the reason and quietly pitied them both, having 
 once known love himself which is another story. 
 Sir Arthur was absorbed in politics and the press 
 of their many social engagements and entertain- 
 ments. One day, in making up a prospective din- 
 ner list, he suggested to his wife: "Ask Carmi- 
 chael; he has scarcely been here at all of late." 
 
 "He has rather neglected us, hasn't he!" she 
 said easily, "and to punish him I think we won't 
 ask him. Let's have young Mr. Martyn-Dale in- 
 stead. Lady Kitty likes him. ' ' 
 
 "But we'll have him, too." Not wishing to 
 make a point of it, Mary acquiesced reluctantly. 
 Later, her husband remembered how reluctantly, 
 but at the time he did not think of it. She need 
 not have troubled about it, however, for Carmi- 
 chael replied, regretting a previous engagement. 
 This, perhaps, was the first thing that puzzled Sir 
 Arthur. They had been on such an intimate,
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 47 
 
 friendly footing that ordinarily Carmichael would 
 have thrown over almost any engagement for 
 them, and his apparent indifference rather ir- 
 ritated Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Silly ass!" he said, "his head is probably 
 quite turned by all the flattery he has been get- 
 ting lately. I thought he regarded us as 'his 
 social sponsors and was properly grateful. I'm 
 disappointed in him." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "Perhaps he has fallen in love and is spending 
 all his time with some woman," he continued, 
 dismissing the subject. But the words had star- 
 tled Mary, and her husband was puzzled by the 
 look her face wore before she turned quickly 
 away. 
 
 The dinner, however, passed off brilliantly. 
 Lady Stanhope was one of the most charming 
 hostesses in London trained, tactful, kind, and 
 buoyant. Her gay spirits always infected every 
 one. She instinctively found the very best that 
 each had to offer, and drew it out, developed it 
 into a specialty, and made the happy guest feel 
 that never before had any one quite understood 
 him. Not a soul realized what a drain it all was 
 on her ; least of all did she herself realize it. Yet 
 often, when the day was over, and the weary, 
 pleasure-filled night also had nearly passed into 
 another day, she would be vaguely conscious of a 
 strong ebb-tide of the spirit. 
 
 At those times her life would seem to her just
 
 48 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 a sandy shore, sterile, unproductive, and terribly 
 lonely. And the farther the waters of her spirit 
 receded, the sharper the hard facts of material 
 things stood out like boulders uncovered by the 
 retreating sea. Her heart was not in her mar- 
 riage ; try as she would, spur the mental energies 
 and starve the senses as she would, her heart 
 was not in it. She did not dwell upon it unduly, 
 nor descend to morbid self-pity, only she quietly 
 knew it and accepted it. If only there had been 
 children, little children to yearn over, to train and 
 teach, and spend love on but these had never 
 come to them. She always had been a lonely 
 person with an interior nature utterly untouched 
 by any human soul, until the day that Philip 
 Carmichael's had seemed to call to hers. 
 
 Slowly the days passed into mid-summer, and 
 each one seemed to take from Mary some of her 
 zest of life: Health and spirits began to fail. 
 The Duchess was full of motherly scolding, the 
 Duke of kind solicitude, for he dearly loved his 
 godchild. "We must send her away to Switzer- 
 land," he said to Sir Arthur, who listened 
 gravely. 
 
 "I suggested it," he answered, "but she won't 
 hear of it, says she's quite all right, only a bit 
 fagged at the end of the season." The Duke 
 walked restlessly up and down the library where 
 they were talking, before he asked rather 
 abruptly: "Do you think she's fretting about 
 anything?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 49 
 
 "Why, what should she fret about?" said Sir 
 Arthur. ' ' She has everything. ' ' 
 
 But he began to surmise. They did not live 
 very close together, he and she. They had 
 separate interests, he in politics, she in society. 
 They had drifted, as people so often do, farther 
 and farther apart, allowing outside influences and 
 pursuits to encroach more and more on the domes- 
 tic life. He wondered sincerely if he should re- 
 proach himself for neglecting the young life that 
 had been given to him to protect and care for, but 
 he decided that he need not. He had loved her 
 loyally, and any withdrawal from close associa- 
 tion had been quite as much on her side as on his, 
 and was really unconscious and gradual with them 
 both. If he had thought of it at all, he would 
 have thought their placid relation the natural 
 course of marriage as it entered the years that 
 stretched toward middle age. Middle age? But 
 Mary was only eight-and-twenty ! 
 
 He began to watch her gravely, and it was not 
 long before he realized something of the strain 
 she was enduring. Very little things began to 
 catch his attention: a word, a look, upon some 
 political discussion wherein Carmichael's name 
 came up, something said, would awaken an in- 
 voluntary interest, instantly suppressed in her. 
 And presently, as he watched Ms wife, he knew 
 how it was with her. He could not have told how 
 he knew, but the knowledge was absolute. 
 
 He had been accustomed to take life easily, its
 
 50 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 blessings for granted, its trials with stoicism, and 
 in a quite primitive sort of way, he resented the 
 havoc made with his peace of mind by his new 
 discovery. Of all women, Mary! Mary, so 
 above all sorts of frailties common to the rest 
 of her sex, so superior to any sort of sin, so al- 
 most virginal in the stainless character of her 
 womanhood Mary, to have a temptation of this 
 sort even in thought, to have given it any power 
 over her Mary, to have to struggle against a 
 mortal sin! Sir Arthur did not mince words to 
 himself as he thought about it. He had an old- 
 fashioned way of calling things by their true, ugly 
 names. Faugh! His idol was defiled! Yet he 
 hated himself for the thought. 
 
 That was the first stage. Then, by slow de- 
 grees, as their life went on in its accustomed 
 ways, apparently without any stir under the 
 smooth surface, a different spirit entered into 
 his judgment of her. He saw her struggle and 
 win over herself, saw every vagrant mood sub- 
 dued, saw her give herself in a thousand ways to 
 all who asked anything of her, felt the utter 
 sweetness of many little services, and guessed that 
 they were the penance for hours when her spirit 
 had been vanquished. It gained his slow, unwill- 
 ing admiration finally that she was able to put by 
 the greatest thing in life. The greatest thing? 
 No. There must be Something even greater, 
 which enabled her to put it by. He was not a 
 spiritual man in any sense, but he began dimly to
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 51 
 
 perceive the reaches of her climbing soul. And 
 when he did perceive it, there came into his 
 thought of her a great admiration, a new honor. 
 
 At the same time, she seemed, in some indefi- 
 nable way, not to belong to him any more. She 
 was his wife by book and bond, in the eyes of the 
 world, in the sight of God, but something had 
 broken the mystic tie that held them. "What 
 God hath joined together," he thought, and then 
 began to wonder if it really had been God who 
 joined them together. Had it not been really the 
 will of the world to which they both belonged, 
 the comfortable convention of their time? Sir 
 Arthur had always stoutly declared: "Things 
 are not right because they are conventional ; they 
 are conventional because they are right." For 
 the first time in his life, his faith in all the rules 
 he lived by was shaken. What if there were 
 something beyond and above rules and that 
 something the voice of God speaking through 
 pure nature to the heart? 
 
 He knew that her nature was pure. There was 
 the essence of the primitive woman in her. Under 
 all the divisions and subdivisions of character 
 lay the nature of woman as divinely planned. 
 In a dim sort of way he recognized this, and also 
 the fact that this was the thing that he had never 
 possessed in her. However she accepted the posi- 
 tion he had given her, however she had fulfilled 
 his demands of one sort or another, however she 
 had submitted her will to his, yet, back of it all
 
 52 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 was the woman herself, never wholly given to 
 him nor to any man. These thoughts irritated 
 Sir Arthur. His was not the type of mind that 
 delights in speculation on the subtleties of the 
 inner being. Philip Carmichael might delight in 
 expanding the personality in imagination, in con- 
 tracting it in facts, but Sir Arthur was of an- 
 other temper. He faced things squarely. He 
 reasoned clearly, and he reached his conclusions 
 by direct routes always. Once reached, his deci- 
 sions were unalterable ; to a temperament like that, 
 the suspensive condition of thought and action 
 which precedes decision was well-nigh unbearable. 
 It could not last long. The strain was too great, 
 for as usual, the mental state had its effect upon 
 the physical. As his way was, he said little about 
 it, however, and in the general friendly concern 
 over Lady Stanhope's more obvious lack of 
 strength, his own need passed unnoticed. 
 
 Things were in this unsettled state at the time 
 of the Duchess' ball which she was giving for her 
 niece, Lady Kitty Carew. Lady Kitty, whose 
 husband had died in India some two years before, 
 had just begun to go into society again, and the 
 dance was to be a welcome home to her, and one 
 of the last big events of the season. Lady Kitty 
 had taken a great liking to Ben Baldwin, and they 
 were often seen about together, looking rather 
 like a big mastiff and a small kitten. 
 
 1 'He's such a man," she said one day to Mary 
 Stanhope, when lunching alone with her. "He
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 53 
 
 makes all the others seem merely gentlemen!" 
 
 "But he's that himself," Mary answered, 
 laughing at the little widow's way of putting 
 it. 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Kitty somewhat doubtfully, 
 and a little disappointedly, "but if he is, he's 
 more original than most a different sort, don't 
 you think? He's so big! When I look at him, 
 he reminds me of the houses of Parliament and 
 Big Ben and in my mind that's what I've 
 christened him." 
 
 "Kitty," said Mary sternly, "I forbid you to 
 go making Ben fall in love with you. I simply 
 won't have his heart broken by any such mis- 
 chievous, fickle, whimsical " 
 
 "Pile it on," said Lady Kitty resignedly. 
 
 "Little flirt as you so there!" 
 
 "You don't happen to be in love with him your- 
 self, do you?" asked the astute little widow. 
 
 "No of course not." 
 
 "Of course not!" echoed Lady Kitty. "But 
 speaking of breaking hearts, etc., what have you 
 been doing to Philip Carmichael? He is a 
 changed man used to be as gay and genial as a 
 May morning. I could have loved him myself 
 and now he is a grumpy-tempered, irascible being, 
 and all because you " 
 
 "Kitty," said Mary, rising suddenly, "don't 
 be" 
 
 "An ass," finished Lady Kitty. "Well, I 
 won't." But inwardly she thought: "Ah ah,
 
 54 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 so it is rather serious 'm poor dears !" Aloud, 
 she continued: "Well, I want you to look your 
 loveliest at my party, and that is very lovely, in- 
 deed. What are you wearing?" 
 
 "Rose color Doucet would you like to see it? 
 It has just come home," and chatting of purely 
 feminine interests, they went up-stairs together. 
 Dawes was putting away some medicine bottles 
 in Sir Arthur's dressing-room, as they passed 
 through on their way to Mary's boudoir. 
 
 "What have you there, Dawes?" Mary asked, 
 and as the woman hesitated, she took the bottle 
 from her. "Why, it is ammonia! Has Sir 
 Arthur had one of his attacks?" 
 
 "Well my lady Dickinson said as how Sir 
 Arthur had rather a bad turn thisjnorning, but 
 that he left orders you were not to be worried 
 with it. I don't think it's serious, 'm, as he's 
 gone for a drive." 
 
 "Of course it isn't serious," said Lady Kitty 
 reassuringly, seeing the trouble in Mary's face. 
 "Men always exaggerate things so ; think they are 
 dying if they have a little finger-ache. He's 
 probably over-smoked and under-exercised." 
 
 "That is possible," Mary answered. "Still, if 
 we shouldn't turn up to-morrow at the dance 
 but I'll telephone you in the morning." 
 
 But in the morning Sir Arthur was apparently 
 "as right as rain," as he said himself, and really 
 more genial and like himself than he had been 
 for some time. His wife noted this with relief
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 55 
 
 and straightway forgot the whole incident. They 
 called back and forth at intervals through the 
 connecting rooms, as they dressed for the dance, 
 and in the gay naturalness of it, they forgot for 
 a while the impalpable thing that hung between 
 them. He was grumbling and lugubrious at hav- 
 ing to go at all, and she laughed at him and 
 teased him for his " premature senile depres- 
 sion," which, as Dawes said to Dickinson after 
 they had gone, "was some langwidge for her 
 Ladyship to use." 
 
 But Mary was full of an odd, inward excite- 
 ment, an unusual sense of youth and exhilaration 
 which sent a splendid color into her face, and made 
 her eyes shine like blue pools of light. Dawes 
 wound her pale brown hair around her head in 
 such a way as to reveal its contour, and its lifted, 
 graceful carriage. And when the rose-colored 
 gown was slipped over her shoulders and she stood 
 arrayed in it, she was, and knew herself to be, 
 one of the most beautiful creatures of her day. 
 She was too simple-hearted and unselfconscious 
 to be vain of it; she simply acknowledged it one 
 moment and forgot it the next. Sir Arthur ac- 
 knowledged it, too, mentally, with a twinge of the 
 heart almost like envy, for he knew he possessed 
 only the vision of her. But aloud he merely said : 
 "You look very nice, my dear, but we'll be the 
 last arrivals if you prink any more." 
 
 They were rather silent on the drive over; he 
 worked methodically at his problem, not having
 
 56 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 reached its solution; she still had that odd sense 
 of excitement, as of Destiny rushing to meet her. 
 So definite the feeling was that it made a picture in 
 her mind. She seemed to see a wave of the ocean 
 gathering far, far out gathering, growing, ap- 
 proaching, resistless. Then suddenly she seemed 
 to be in the ocean going out to meet that wave. 
 That was Destiny. Would it carry her on its 
 friendly crest, high and safe, to the shore! or 
 would it She turned away from the mental pic- 
 ture of the great roller, for as it curved to break, 
 its comb seemed like strong and cruel teeth. 
 
 "My dear, you're shivering; are you quite sure 
 that wrap is enough?" asked her husband's kind, 
 practical voice at her side. She had a sudden 
 longing for human sympathy, for the touch of 
 loving arms about her, to still the nervous excite- 
 ment from which she was suffering, to banish the 
 abstractions of her mind in warm, concrete real- 
 ity. She half -turned to her husband, wishing he 
 might guess, but Sir Arthur sat quietly in his 
 corner^; jwith nothing in his eyes beyond a polite 
 solicitude for her comfort. So the moment passed 
 the little moment that might have meant so 
 much to them and then she said lightly: "I 
 shall soon be warm dancing. ' ' 
 
 "The first for me as usual?" he said. 
 
 "Why, of course." 
 
 They were regarded as quite a model, old- 
 fashioned couple for that. They always kept the
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 57 
 
 first dance for each other, and then perhaps did 
 not meet again till the end of the evening. 
 
 Lady Kitty, receiving the guests with her aunt 
 and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Northerland, 
 was a radiant and vivacious little figure. She 
 gave a joyous exclamation as she caught sight of 
 Sir Arthur and Lady Stanhope. 
 
 "I'm so glad," she said, "you are better then, 
 Sir Arthur? Mary Mary what a vision you 
 are! You positively outshine the Stanhope dia- 
 monds ! Here's Mr. Baldwin. I don't let him get 
 far from me, for fear, you see oh, Mr. Car- 
 michael!" 
 
 It was inevitable, of course. They were bound 
 to meet sometime. Mary turned, quelling a sud- 
 den faintness, to smile languidly. They shook 
 hands with the usual conventional greetings. She 
 immediately included Ben in their little group and 
 they moved apart. Both asked for her card, and 
 both wrote their names against certain dances. 
 
 "Why, you aren't engaged at all!" said Car- 
 michael. 
 
 "Only for the first." 
 
 "And the last," he replied, writing P. C. 
 against it, "and the middle." 
 
 "That's supper" 
 
 "Yes, I know; that's why!" His eyes chal- 
 lenged her. 
 
 "Here whoa where do I come in?" said Ben, 
 taking the card from him.
 
 58 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "And I, Lady Stanhope?" said young Mr. 
 Martyn-Dale, joining them. 
 
 She was soon surrounded. Keaction from the 
 momentary faintness sent the blood flowing faster 
 through her body. The nervous excitement 
 caught her up again. The heads which turned, 
 the half -caught whispers of admiration which fol- 
 lowed her, intoxicated her. She gave herself up 
 to the spirit of the dance, flinging off the restraint 
 of the last few weeks, and yielding her mood 
 freely to the gay irresponsibility of the hour. 
 The Duke's eyes followed her with pride. 
 ''That's better," he thought. "More like her 
 old self." Aloud, he said to the Duchess: 
 "Mary is wonderful to-night, isn't she!" 
 
 "She'll do," said the Duchess, which was high 
 praise for her. "Who's she dancing with, now?" 
 
 "Why, it's it's bless me His Highness, 
 Prince " 
 
 "Most disreputable man in Europe," said the 
 Duchess, with prompt disgust. "Kitty, what 
 d'you ever have him for?" 
 
 "Dances divinely," retorted Lady Kitty. 
 
 "Huh!" said the Duchess. She put up her 
 glass to survey the scene, truly a brilliant one. 
 An ambassador or two, statesmen, diplomats, 
 some of the oldest nobility in England, beautiful 
 women of several nationalities ; the Duchess, look- 
 ing down a diminishing vista of years of worldly 
 success, approved it all. Mary flashed by and 
 smiled radiantly as she caught her eye.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 59 
 
 "Most beautiful creature in the room," said the 
 Duchess with conviction. 
 
 "And a great spirit," the Duke answered 
 thoughtfully.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "Some star-lit garden grey with dew, 
 Some chamber flushed with wine and fire, 
 What matters where so I and you 
 Are worthy our desire?" 
 
 MINE." Philip Cannichael was claiming 
 his dance. 
 "Yours.'* She surrendered herself 
 to his arms and the measure, and in a second was 
 transported to another world. They seemed to 
 be floating far out into the night, over wet 
 meadows, faintly moon-lit, past sweet-smelling 
 hedges, down dim roads, through a wonderful, 
 empty world. She and the intimate companion- 
 spirit were alone in it, dancing down the night 
 and up the dawn together. Neither spoke. The 
 communion of their silence beggared words. 
 
 The chime of a clock striking twelve somewhere 
 could be heard through the music, and the room 
 began to thin out, as the hungry couples found 
 their way to supper. Yet still the rhythm of the 
 music and the delirium of the movement carried 
 them on its resistless tide. When they finally 
 stopped, they were near a flower-filled alcove 
 which led on to a balcony overlooking the strip 
 of lawn and shrubs sweet with the June night. 
 She came out of her dream to find herself alone
 
 She gave him kiss for kiss, 
 again and yet again. Page 61
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 61 
 
 with the man she loved. He drew her behind a 
 screen of leaves and flowers, and they looked each 
 other in the eyes for a moment. Then, as she 
 swayed under his glance, he folded her in his em- 
 brace, his eager, seeking lips leaving kisses on 
 neck and face and resting finally in ecstasy upon 
 her mouth. 
 
 And she gave him kiss for kiss, again and yet 
 again. It was the primitive instinct, the delight 
 and desire of creature for creature, and so truly 
 natural that for the first few seconds no thought, 
 no scruple, obtruded upon the consciousness of 
 either. Only for a moment, however, and then, 
 with a long sobbing breath of realization, Mary 
 Stanhope released herself and turned her face 
 away toward the night. 
 
 And still they had not spoken a word. With 
 Carmichael thought was blurred in emotion; his 
 ready speech was stilled in reverence for her. 
 She had given herself into his arms, had lain 
 against his heart with an abandon so passionate 
 and profound that it stirred in him something 
 like awe, near to worship. Her trust in him 
 troubled his sense of chivalry, but his longing 
 for her overrode all. It was he who broke the 
 silence with a whisper through the darkness of 
 the balcony. 
 
 "My love!" 
 
 And her whisper answered: "Oh, Philip, 
 what have we done?" 
 
 "What we shall do again and again. You
 
 62 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 are mine, you must be mine; don't you feel it, 
 know it?" 
 
 She shuddered away from him. "Don't, oh, 
 don't! I dare not." 
 
 "Dare not?" he said, with a ring of scorn in 
 his voice. "Dare not live? This is life that has 
 come to us both for love is life. Here is the cup 
 of joy at our lips! Mary, my dear, my sweet, 
 what is the fear that keeps you from drinking 
 deep of it with me?" 
 
 * * The fear of myself, ' ' she whispered, ' ' because 
 of what I should think afterward." 
 
 1 'After what?" 
 
 "After ' she faltered at the words and then, 
 with her crystal honesty, forced herself to say 
 them, "after I had given myself to you irrev- 
 ocably. For it would be irrevocable with me, 
 Philip. I know there are people men and 
 women like us who love lightly and change 
 easily. But my love is made of sterner stuff. 
 I've never known it before. It never will change. 
 It's yours for keeps." 
 
 "My darling my darling! Then don't you 
 see there would not be any afterward for us? 
 Why torture yourself with these misgivings? 
 May, my beautiful May, give me yourself; we 
 have only this little present. I was defrauded of 
 the past." 
 
 "But in the future if " 
 
 "Oh, dearest, what do you fear in the future? 
 When two people care as we care, it makes the
 
 63 
 
 future it makes the world. Remember the little 
 poem we read together once : 
 
 " 'What matters where, so I and you 
 Are worthy our desire?' 
 
 Let's be worthy our desire. Promise!" 
 
 He had taken both her hands in his. All the 
 influences of the time and hour were on his side. 
 From the strip of garden below came the cheep 
 of sleepy insects, stirring in the grass, and 
 through the branches of the tall old elm that 
 leaned over the balcony a friendly star showed. 
 Leaf shadows fell in lacey patterns at their feet, 
 and all the sweetness of a June-thrilled world 
 stirred them. But her other nature was awake 
 now and fighting valiantly. 
 
 "Promise!" he repeated. 
 
 "Philip it isn't that I fear your love would 
 fail, or " she was thinking aloud, and the words 
 came slowly, every one with weight, " or not 
 be enough for me. It is myself I fear, my self- 
 abasement: to give all position honor myself 
 into your hands; to come to you not happily, 
 not freely and gloriously, but stained with scan- 
 dal, bedraggled by every common tongue, cen- 
 sured by all, and even pitied by a few no, oh, 
 no ! I could not bear it ; it would drag you down, 
 too." 
 
 "Sweetheart, none of these things need be. 
 Since you feel like that, I can't ask such a sacri- 
 fice from you. I won't ask you to change your
 
 64 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 life. I only ask you to love me, to let me love 
 you secretly happily " 
 
 She drew back sharply. "I don't understand! 
 You don't want me to to go away with you? 
 You want " 
 
 "I want you you, close in my arms, but I 
 daren't ask you to sacrifice yourself your posi- 
 tion for me." 
 
 "I see," she said slowly and with difficulty, 
 ''you only ask me to sacrifice my honor to lead 
 a double life to be true to no one, not even my- 
 self is that it ?" 
 
 "Understand!" he said almost sternly, as he 
 took her strongly by the shoulders. "Under- 
 stand, it is for your sake, not for mine. I let 
 nothing weigh against my love for you; I mean, 
 you are worth everything to me do you see! 
 But I'm a man, and no woman can afford to pay 
 such a price; and no man is worth it. And, oh, 
 my sweet," he took her face gently between his 
 hands and turned it up to the starlight, "won't 
 it be the more sacred, the more precious for 
 the secrecy? I will kiss away the conscience. 
 May May, my love when will you come to 
 me?" 
 
 She released herself gently. "Never." 
 
 "May?" 
 
 "Never. Phil, it has been a terrible tempta- 
 tion, but I can't do it. I must give you up go 
 on without you. ' ' 
 
 'But," he said very tenderly, "go on to what? 
 
 < i
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 65 
 
 You must look it in the face, Mary. Will you go 
 on to a bleak, barren, loveless round of years, to 
 a perfunctory existence, to all the hideous, duti- 
 ful, commonplace things that you call morality? 
 You ! You, with your wealth of heart and brain ! 
 May, don't you see you are wasting the good gift 
 of life? Don't you see you are leaving out the 
 best thing, the only thing that makes it all worth 
 while?" 
 
 "Yes, I see." 
 
 "Then why, in the name of all that is happy, 
 do you delay? But I can't argue any more. 
 Here are a man's arms, a man's worship, a man 
 in need of you your inspiration, your help. 
 Give them to me ; give me yourself. ' ' 
 
 She turned away from the balcony to the ball- 
 room. He followed and put his arms about her, 
 as they stood in the alcove. 
 
 "Say 'yes,' Mary." 
 
 "I can't, Philip. I can't argue any more, 
 either. But I know, I know, I can never be that 
 to you." 
 
 "But why why '" 
 
 ' ' Because it would be a sin Hush ! ' ' 
 
 Some one was approaching their retreat, and 
 as they emerged into the light of the outer room, 
 the Duke's kind voice said briskly: "Oh, there 
 you are, my dear. I was looking for you. I have 
 a message. Your husband said he hoped you 
 wouldn't mind, but he has gone on home. He 
 wasn't feeling very well, so "
 
 66 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Oh," she said, a sudden panic seizing her, 
 "is he ill!" 
 
 "No, no," he answered soothingly. "He 
 looked quite well, but said you would understand, 
 and that it was better for him to keep quiet. He 
 often has these turns, doesn't he?" 
 
 "Oh, now and again." 
 
 "Well, there's nothing to worry about, then," 
 said the Duke kindly. "He particularly said so 
 and that you were not to hurry away. May 
 I " he hesitated a moment, glancing from her 
 to Carmichael, "may I get you some supper!" 
 
 "No, I think I'll go to him at once," Mary 
 answered. "Will you be so kind as to order my 
 carriage?" She turned to Carmichael. 
 
 "Certainly," he answered. "I will take you 
 home. ' ' 
 
 "If you really feel you must go," said the Duke 
 gravely. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" She was almost feverish. 
 
 "Then let me see about getting your wraps." 
 He drew her hand through his arm protectingly, 
 and they walked across the empty ballroom in 
 silence. She was so preoccupied that she did not 
 even notice the silence. The Duke looked straight 
 ahead of him, frowning a little. At the door of 
 the cloak-room he laid his hand for a moment 
 over hers, and she smiled up at him affectionately. 
 The smile vanished under his grave, stern look. 
 
 "Mary," he said quietly, "Sir Arthur passed 
 the alcove where you were a few minutes before
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 67 
 
 I was with him. ' ' And in pity, he turned away 
 from the sight of the tide of feeling that swept 
 over her. Face and throat and bosom were dyed 
 with it. Without a word, she left him. When 
 she came down, a few moments later, scarf and 
 cloak drawn close about her, the Duke and Car- 
 michael, talking easily and lightly together, were 
 waiting in the hall. Groups of people coming in 
 from the supper-room were passing. She slipped 
 past them quickly to the door, hoping to pass 
 unnoticed, for it was early, and no one had left as 
 yet. 
 
 1 'Good night," said the Duke, in his most genial 
 and spacious manner. "I'll make your adieux 
 to Kitty. Too bad too bad. But I think you'll 
 find he will be better in the morning." He 
 pressed her hand gently. "Good night, my 
 dear. ' ' 
 
 She looked past him not at him. "Thank 
 you," she said mutely, her lips just moving. 
 
 In the carriage with Carmichael there came to 
 her again, as it had come before when with her 
 husband, that vision of the long, green swell 
 the ninth wave and as it curved to break, its 
 comb was like cruel, tearing teeth. Only this 
 time as she shuddered away from it, she felt a 
 warm magnetism beside her. 
 
 "Dear what is it?" 
 
 "Nothing; only I am fanciful and afraid." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "I hardly know. It's intangible. It's as if I
 
 68 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 were afraid of the dark, just because it is dark, 
 and I can't see or feel ahead." They were 
 silent during the rest of the short drive. 
 
 When they reached the house, Carmichael said 
 quietly: "I would like to inquire how Sir Ar- 
 thur is. ' * 
 
 "If you'll wait, I'll send you down word. 
 Good night." 
 
 He took her hand. "Good night." 
 
 Turnbull, the butler, left him in the drawing- 
 room after switching on the electric light, and 
 followed his mistress up-stairs. He returned 
 shortly with the message that Sir Arthur was 
 resting comfortably and thanked Mr. Carmichael 
 for his inquiry. He would also like to ask Mr. 
 Carmichael to be kind enough to stop on his way 
 to the House to-morrow afternoon, as there might 
 be some message which Sir Arthur would like to 
 send, in case he was not able to go. 
 
 Carmichael replied that he would call im- 
 mediately after luncheon and left the house.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "For wholly as it was, your life 
 Can never be again, 
 My dear, 
 Can never be again" 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 GOME in," said Sir Arthur, in answer to 
 his wife's knock. 
 She entered, still in her cloak and scarf, 
 as she had come from the ball. Just inside the 
 door she paused in surprise. Her husband was 
 still in immaculate evening dress, leaning against 
 the mantel and smoking quietly. 
 
 "I thought you were ill! You left a message 
 which quite frightened me, and I came on at 
 once. ' ' 
 
 1 i I am sorry it frightened you. ' ' 
 
 "But the Duke said that you had had quite 
 a bad turn." She spoke in nervous little jerks, 
 beginning to unbutton her cloak. 
 
 "So I had quite a bad turn." He looked at 
 her gravely, and she caught his meaning and 
 straightened instinctively. The gesture, uncon- 
 scious though it was, hurt him. It was as if she 
 expected him to strike her and stood braced for 
 it. 
 
 "You look like a tragic Madonna with that
 
 70 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 scarf around your head," he said lightly. "Sup- 
 pose you go and take it off and make yourself 
 comfortable and then come back and talk to me 
 a few minutes. There are things I need to say 
 to you." 
 
 "Are you sure," she said in a very low voice 
 and without moving, "that you had better say 
 them?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "Very well." She turned away and passed 
 out. 
 
 Sir Arthur remained standing by the mantel, 
 smoking quietly. A curious sort of peace, a sense 
 of finality settled upon him. His suspense was 
 over. He knew what he meant to do. The 
 doubt, the uncertainty, the perplexity of the last 
 few weeks vanished completely, and his purpose 
 stood out strong and clear against the back- 
 ground of foreboding thoughts. Where the pur- 
 pose would lead, and what its effects would be on 
 their lives he could not foresee, but the purpose 
 itself was plain. It was definite, strong, un- 
 changeable as fate, and the relief of decision was 
 so great to his methodical mind that he did not 
 stop to calculate results. It had come to him all 
 in a moment. There had been, first, the stunned 
 realization of the situation in the alcove and 
 that the Duke shared his unwilling knowledge of 
 it; then the strangest feeling in his head, as if 
 every drop of blood were beating and hammering
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 71 
 
 the detestable truth in upon his brain, as if 
 every nerve were shrieking the secret to the 
 world at large. The pressure of it had been 
 agony for a moment or more he had not realized 
 how long it was but when it had passed, he found 
 himself alone with the Duke, who forced upon him 
 a stiff drink and talked the while of indifferent 
 things. And Sir Arthur hajd made a strange 
 sound was it a laugh? and had turned the 
 whole thing off as one of his not unusual "at- 
 tacks." Both men had lied valiantly, and each 
 knew that the other was lying, but that was the 
 convention of their class, the homage paid to the 
 goddess of propriety. Sir Arthur had left at 
 once, and in a moment, as soon as he was alone 
 in the carriage, his purpose leaped up in his 
 mind. It was not supported by any plan as yet, 
 but that would come later. Meantime he smoked 
 and waited for his wife. 
 
 She was not gone long. She came in, as she 
 had often come before, in boudoir gown and 
 slippers, with loosely plaited hair, for a good 
 night chat. But the difference between this one 
 and all the others that had preceded it must have 
 struck them both. She remained standing, 
 though Sir Arthur pushed forward a chair for 
 her. 
 
 "No," she said, "let's get it over. I know 
 something of what you have to say." 
 
 "Do you?" said Sir Arthur, with an inscm-
 
 72 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 table smile. "I hardly think so; and as it may 
 take me some time to say it, don't you think you 
 had better sit down! " 
 
 She obeyed in silence. 
 
 11 That's right," he continued. "Now, what- 
 ever happens, let us talk sensibly and quietly. 
 There is no need for either of us to become agi- 
 tated. I've been thinking for some time, Mary, 
 that things can't go on as they are." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "You know," he answered significantly. 
 "You are surely not going to pretend that you 
 don't care for him?" 
 
 "I don't pretend it." 
 
 "Then you see how impossible the situation 
 is." 
 
 "I don't see how it is to be helped." 
 
 "Well, I see. Our divorce might help it." 
 
 She sprang up in amazement. 
 
 "Arthur! You can't mean it! Why, it's it's 
 monstrous it's impossible! There's nothing I 
 mean there's no reason you couldn't oh!" 
 She turned away, words choking in her throat. 
 
 He looked at her once, and the look was per- 
 fectly friendly and kind, but his purpose remained 
 unshaken by her outburst. 
 
 Suddenly she turned and faced him. 
 
 "What did you see or hear to-night?" 
 
 "I saw you go in together, and when I passed 
 there with the Duke, on our way to the supper- 
 room, I heard silence, and I knew."
 
 " You know,'' he answered significantly. Page 72.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 73 
 
 The words cut her like a whip-lash. So then, 
 even that moment, that supreme moment of her 
 life, which only to remember was to recreate, 
 even that brief Eden moment had not been with- 
 out its serpent of suspicion. Her whole soul re- 
 belled against the thought that its most sacred, 
 most secret thing was known was dragged out 
 into the light was spoken of. She had had the 
 courage to put temptation from her, and that in 
 the very height of it; she had looked into the 
 eyes she loved, and left the arms she longed for. 
 And the denial, dear as it cost, had yet left her 
 with the glory and joy of the dream. But 
 now, since it was known to any other than they 
 two to whom it belonged, the glory and the joy 
 were tarnished. 
 
 "And so, you see," Sir Arthur continued, after 
 a moment, "I feel that our life together is impos- 
 sible, since your love is elsewhere." 
 
 "But even if it is," she said, "I have done 
 no wrong. You cannot divorce me for a feel- 
 ing." 
 
 "I do not propose to divorce you. I propose 
 to allow you to divorce me." 
 
 "But why why when there is no ground, no 
 complaint, no just cause? If you had had 
 stayed to listen oh, of course you wouldn't, but 
 if you had you would have seen that -that I 
 she drew a long breath, " I find it very difficult 
 to speak of it at all but " 
 
 "Yes," he encouraged kindly.
 
 74 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "That I refused to indulge this feeling that 
 I can't help," she finished desperately. 
 
 "Of course you would," he said, still kindly, 
 ' ' of course. That happens once or twice, or even 
 three times, when it comes to a woman like you. 
 But there is another time when she can't refuse 
 it, when it overwhelms everything. It is that 
 time that I want to guard against, Mary." 
 
 "Thank you," she said, "I can guard myself." 
 
 They stood looking at each other for a mo- 
 ment, she with a fine, proud anger, he with a sort 
 of judicial kindness. 
 
 "I know you think so," he continued, "but you 
 deceive yourself, you underrate your own feel- 
 ing. It will change all your life, Mary. It can- 
 not fail to do so. You are that sort of woman." 
 
 "What sort of woman?" 
 
 ' ' Single-hearted. ' ' 
 
 She began to move about the room restlessly, 
 taking up one thing after another and putting 
 each down again. She seemed every moment 
 about to speak, but each time her teeth shut 
 firmly down over her lower lip, and she moved on 
 to another place. Sir Arthur watched her sym- 
 pathetically in silence. Finally she turned and 
 spoke impetuously. 
 
 "Arthur, I don't know how to answer you, but 
 I do know that I am not the sort of woman who 
 could sin even for love. I can understand it 
 and forgive it in other women, but I could never 
 do it myself ; or, if I should it is unthinkable !
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 75 
 
 but if I should, I could never go on doing it.'* 
 She was looking at him now straightforwardly. 
 "Except what you saw or guessed to-night, I 
 have done no wrong. You believe that, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ' * And I could not. Love with me could never 
 be stained." 
 
 He looked at her rather sadly. " You are 
 young, Mary, and you have never had your birth- 
 right. I ought to have realized it before I mar- 
 ried you, but I didn't. However," he straight- 
 ened himself and spoke with purpose, "I can right 
 it now. I can set you free. ' 
 
 ' ' I don 't want to be free. ' ' 
 
 "Still you must be. And so must I. There's 
 nothing else for us, there's nothing left." 
 
 "Arthur! You fill me with amazement. It 
 seems to me I've never known you. Nothing left ! 
 Why, there's just what there was before." 
 
 "No, not even that." 
 
 "Not even that!" she said in astonishment. 
 "Do you mean to tell me it was so little, then?" 
 
 "Comparatively, yes. Compared to what you 
 know now and what I once knew real love. ' ' 
 
 She dropped weakly into the nearest chair, and 
 her hand went up to her head in a gesture un- 
 familiar to him a gesture of bewilderment. 
 
 "I don't understand at all," she said. "Don't 
 you love me, then? T never thought about it be- 
 fore. I just took it for granted."
 
 76 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 * * Of course I love you. But it is different from 
 the feeling you have for some one else and dif- 
 ferent from the feeling I had, long ago, for some 
 one other than you." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, her surprise merging 
 into a faint sort of sympathy, "I never knew " 
 
 "Of course you didn't. It didn't belong to 
 you. It was before your time. She died. It 
 wouldn't have been a suitable marriage, but I 
 loved her. It's that that makes me understand 
 you, now." 
 
 Again her hand went up to her head with that 
 unusual, bewildered gesture. "I am very sorry 
 for you," she said gently, after a moment. "I 
 wish I had known before; I might have been 
 more to you." 
 
 "My dear girl, you've been all I needed or 
 wanted. You were in every way " 
 
 " 'A suitable marriage?' " she said, with an 
 odd little smile and a catch in her voice. 
 
 "Well, yes; put it that way. By birth and 
 training and beauty and charm you fitted into 
 the outside part, and by our very honest affec- 
 tion and friendship we haven't done so very badly 
 with the inside part, have wet" 
 
 "We've been very happy," she said, keeping 
 the tears out of her eyes, but not able to keep 
 them out of her voice. 
 
 "In a way, yes. But, as I said before, even 
 that has gone now. We couldn't be happy again 
 with this between us. We must face it, Mary.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 77 
 
 And for the love of God, let us face it honestly 
 and not be sentimental about it ! ' ' 
 
 She was startled, almost frightened, at the 
 vigor of his tone. 
 
 - ' ' Do you think, ' ' he went on, speaking with 
 strong feeling, "that I could ever be content with 
 second place ? To know that, in spite of yourself, 
 your thoughts were leaking out to him? To live 
 by you, day after day, year after year, sharing 
 bed and board ah, you wince! I thought so. 
 Do you think I could bear to go on living with 
 you, and know it all the time?" 
 
 She pushed out her hands as if to ward off the 
 effect of his words and then drew them swiftly 
 back to cover her face, as she moaned: "Don't, 
 don 't ! I can 't bear it. Oh, don 't. ' ' 
 
 "But you must bear it," he said relentlessly. 
 "You must realize it. You must see how impos- 
 sible the thing is." 
 
 * * I have put it from me. ' ' She spoke very low. 
 "It doesn't belong to me this love. It came into 
 my heart unbidden and unwelcome. It is strong, 
 but not stronger than I. I will conquer it. ' ' 
 
 "My poor child, you can't conquer nature." 
 
 "I can and I will." 
 
 1 ' Then, ' ' he spoke with a certain cold contempt, 
 "you force me to the conclusion that I am not 
 dealing with a single-hearted and strong passion 
 as I thought, but with an ordinary and common- 
 place 'affair,' degrading to you and him and 
 love!"
 
 78 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 She sprang up and faced him with flashing 
 eyes. 
 
 * * How dare you say such a thing to me ! Love 
 isn't degraded by being denied. Love is only de- 
 graded by sin. I utterly reject it on such terms. 
 You have spoken of divorce. I refuse it 1 I will 
 not permit you to do me this wrong. You have 
 no cause, no justification ; you cannot divorce me. 
 And I will not divorce you. I don't believe in it, 
 and everything forbids it religion, custom, posi- 
 tion. You outrage them all by daring to suggest 
 such a thing!" She was white-hot with anger, 
 but stopped, startled, by her husband's ex- 
 pression, which had a strange fierceness and 
 fixity. 
 
 "Oh what is the matter!" she cried anx- 
 iously. "Arthur speak! what is it!" 
 
 By degrees his look relaxed. "There's the 
 strangest feeling in my head," he said wearily. 
 "Had it once before to-day. Never mind. 
 What were you saying! I remember now. So, 
 for religion, custom, etc., you would deny the 
 greatest thing in the world! Why, Mary, it is 
 like denying God." He spoke with a terrible 
 solemnity. 
 
 "No," she answered with equal earnestness, 
 "it's obeying the law of God. 'What He hath 
 joined together' you know. It may not be a very 
 good joining, but such as it is, it is there. We 
 must make the best of it." 
 
 He laughed derisively. "God never joined us
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 79 
 
 together," he said trenchantly. "What God had 
 joined together, no man could put asunder." 
 
 They were forceful words and produced a still- 
 ness between then. Finally she said gently: 
 "Let us not speak of this any more to-night. We 
 don't seem to understand each other." 
 
 "I disagree with you. We understand each 
 other rather well, x I think. You are pleading iriy 
 side, or what ought to be, perhaps and I yours, 
 unconsciously. Funny, that," he laughed a little. 
 "Well, we'll say no more to-night. But it's got 
 to be. And after a while, you'll marry Car- 
 michael. I will make your way easy. Since we 
 have had no child, it is the only honest course." 
 
 She paused on her way to the door, arrested by 
 his last sentence. " 'Since we have had no 
 child ! ' Arthur, would that have made such a dif- 
 ference T ' ' 
 
 "Of course it would. It's the only thing that 
 matters. It's what marriage is for." 
 
 She stood looking at him pathetically. "I 
 don't seem to have known you all these years," 
 she said. "I thought you were a man absolutely 
 made by your class and its conventionalities, and I 
 find you a strangely primitive, natural person, 
 without any moral standard at all ! " 
 
 "With the higher morality which is nature," 
 he corrected gravely. "It's odd, but I was think- 
 ing much the same sort of thing about you only 
 the other way 'round. I thought you were a sort 
 of wild creature, with a great, natural heart, and I
 
 80 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 find you hemmed in by conventionalities you call 
 4 right' and 'wrong.' Poor child, you'll have a 
 hard time finding wjiich is which, in this hurly- 
 burly. There comes a time when you lose faith 
 in both, they get so mixed up together. Then you 
 have only your instinct to guide you the voice of 
 nature." 
 
 "And the voice of God," she said reverently. 
 
 "They are one and the same," he said. 
 
 "Ah, no!" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" he answered strongly, then more 
 gently: "There, never mind, we can get no far- 
 ther with the question now. You'll see it soon. 
 Good night. Try to sleep. Yes, so will I. Don't 
 worry. You'll see it will all come right."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "Look thou deep down into my soul and see 
 The way in which I love thee; test and prove 
 The spirit's passion, and the strength thereof" 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTOK. 
 
 RATHEE faint, and with a trembling of 
 body and spirit, Mary Stanhope reached 
 her own room and turned the key in the 
 door. She was terribly tired, emotionally ex- 
 hausted. Yet no sleep came to her relief, no re- 
 laxation to her tense body. Whichever way her 
 mind turned it came back to live through again 
 some scene of the evening. The remembrance of 
 Carmichael's embrace, the sense of his enfolding 
 personality stole over her tired nerves, the very 
 thought of him bringing rest. But she knew she 
 must not rest in that thought and thrust it forci- 
 bly from her. Back came the tension, and once 
 again, in imagination, she saw the Duke's kind, 
 stern eyes, and felt again the hot tide of humilia- 
 tion rush over her. It was well-nigh unbearable. 
 He, even he, would misjudge her, would blame 
 her. Her pride bled from its hurt. 
 
 And then her mind worked around again to the 
 scene she had just lived through. In amazement, 
 in utter amazement, she reviewed each word of 
 her husband. If any one had told her yesterday
 
 82 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that Sir Arthur would ever give voice to the 
 things she had heard him say, she would not have 
 believed it. She had thought she understood so 
 well this grave, quiet man. She had been so sure 
 of him, of his dignified affection, of his fidelity 
 and honor. And all the time, as she now saw, she 
 had not known him at all, but he had known her 
 better than she knew herself. 
 
 That was the amazing thing: that he had known 
 her, and she had not known herself, or him. "I 
 thought you a wild, natural creature," he had said. 
 Well, was she not f Could any other have yielded 
 even for a moment to such a tide of passion as 
 had swept her away! Could anything else excuse 
 it 1 That impetuous, still, wonder-filled moment ! 
 She closed her eyes, and the memory of it en- 
 croached on her mind. And once again she thrust 
 it fiercely away, springing up to walk with rapid, 
 noiseless step up and down the long room. 
 "Great-hearted" her husband had called her. 
 Was she! That was for time to test and show. 
 For the moment she was too bewildered, too over- 
 whelmed with feeling, to think clearly; but the 
 surge of emotion beating through the channel of 
 her mind every now and then threw up some ex- 
 pression that struck like a rock on her brain. 
 
 "God never joined us together; if He had, no 
 man could put us asunder." Startling 1 as the 
 idea was, combating as it did the stand of her 
 Church, something deep within her seized on the 
 suggestion with conviction. It shocked her to
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 83 
 
 find her instinct stronger than her training, to 
 realize her husband's just valuation when he 
 called her ' ' a wild, natural creature. ' ' That crea- 
 ture knew that he was right. What God had 
 joined, no man could put asunder. But if God 
 had not joined them, who had? Her mind ques- 
 tioned, and a mind beneath that seemed to 
 answer: "No one; you two are not joined." 
 Laboriously she tried to thread her way through 
 this labyrinth of thought and conjecture. Not 
 joined she and the man whose name she bore, 
 whose life she shared ! No child had blessed their 
 union, and she knew from the night's revelations 
 there were large spaces in the character of each 
 unknown to the other. But the blessing of Holy 
 Church had been given to their marriage; surely 
 that was the joining the way appointed of God 
 to hallow the union of a man and a woman. She 
 clung to that thought, as the one sure thing in a 
 world that was whirling about her. Yet yet 
 what was that voice in her heart crying that the 
 Divine Sanction was given to love alone, the su- 
 preme, predestined love that recognized its mate, 
 even though that mate were found outside the 
 marriage bond? 
 
 Philip Carmichael's eyes Philip Carmichael's 
 voice saying: "When two people care as we 
 care, it makes the future, it makes the world;" 
 and her husband's endorsing it, in substance: 
 "It will change all your life, Mary, it cannot fail 
 to do so," came to her, almost simultaneously.
 
 84 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Had both these men some wisdom that joined with 
 her own instinct against the accepted code, the 
 established law of things? Or were they all 
 wrong, and the only truth really in her religion, 
 in the teaching of the Church of the sacredness 
 and the indissolubility of marriage? Marriage 
 was a sacrament, an outward and visible sign of 
 an inward and spiritual grace, but when it was 
 only an outward sign, and the inward grace of it 
 was lacking, was it then a sacrament still? 
 
 Very wearily her tired mind traced and re- 
 traced its way through these strange new paths, 
 seeking for some light upon her problem. Sud- 
 denly, upon an impulse, she took her Bible from 
 the prie-dieu where it lay and let it open where 
 it would. Kneeling, almost dreading to read, as 
 the oracle of fate must often have been dreaded, 
 she saw that the book had opened to the "Song 
 of Songs." Her eyes fell on the words: "I 
 opened to my beloved ; but my beloved had with- 
 drawn himself, and was gone : my soul failed when 
 he spake ; I sought him, but I could not find him : 
 I called him, but he gave me no answer. 
 
 "The watchman that went about the city found 
 me, they smote me, they wounded me ; the keepers 
 of the walls took away my veil from me." 
 
 The mystical words shed upon her soul a sense 
 of fear, of foreboding, yet she read on through 
 the rest of the great poem to the verse : * ' Many 
 waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods 
 drown it: if a man would give all the substance
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 85 
 
 of his house for love, it would utterly be con- 
 temned. ' ' 
 
 All the substance of his house! What it cost 
 this love! All simply all. And even then 
 "it would utterly be contemned!" 
 
 Shaken as she was to the core of her being by 
 the strange, deep force that had come into her 
 life, Mary Stanhope was too Catholic-minded, too 
 well-grounded in the tenets of her religion to give 
 it up lightly. Her High-Church training was not 
 easily put aside. It had made the whole habit of 
 her mind, it would always sway her, and though 
 the instinct that warred with it might trouble her 
 peace, it yet could not govern her action. Some- 
 thing higher than her own instinct, something 
 mystical, divine, would always control her when it 
 came to the crucial test. Not for the first time the 
 woman kneeling at her prie-dieu in the early 
 dawn, crying out for guidance, for strength, felt 
 the fading away of material things, and the whis- 
 per of unseen presences. That wonderful sense 
 of protection which God gives to His children who 
 seek Him gradually enveloped her. She slipped 
 from her kneeling position unconsciously, until 
 her head rested upon the cushion of the stool, and 
 merciful sleep came to her at last.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "Friends old friends 
 And what if it ends? 
 Shall we dare to shirk 
 What we live to learn? 
 It has done its work, 
 It has served its turn; 
 And forgive and forget 
 Or hanker and fret, 
 We can be no more 
 As we were before. 
 When it ends, it ends 
 With friends" 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 THE Duke meanwhile had had rather an un- 
 comfortable evening after Mary had left 
 the ball with Carmichael. He had had to 
 explain her sudden departure to the Duchess and 
 Lady Kitty, and neither of them was easy to de- 
 ceive. Lady Kitty, indeed, quite startled him 
 by the calmness with which she answered the 
 Duchess' question: "But I suppose Mr. Car- 
 rnichael will return?" with the assurance, "No, 
 hardly." The Duchess glanced at her sharply 
 but forebore comment. The Duke met Ben 
 Baldwin's straight look and felt very uncomfor- 
 table. 
 
 Young Mr. Martyn-Dale, who was standing 
 near, and who had heard some of the explana-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 87 
 
 tions, said to his partner, a Mrs. St. Clair, as they 
 turned away: "Oh, well, I dare say it is nothing 
 serious with Sir Arthur. At any rate, Car- 
 michael will console Lady Stanhope." 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. St. Clair, "every one 
 knows they are simply crazy about each other. ' ' 
 
 "What?" said the Duke below his breath. 
 
 As they moved away, Mrs. St. Clair continued : 
 "I don't understand why Sir Arthur permits it, 
 mari complaisant, I suppose." 
 
 Lady Kitty looked after the couple with great 
 disapproval in her dainty face. l ' I don 't think, ' ' 
 she said evenly to the Duchess, "that we need to 
 see very much of those two in the future, need we, 
 Aunt!" To which the Duchess answered with 
 her "Huh!" a little fiercer than usual. All of 
 which had caused the Duke a good deal of misgiv- 
 ing and distress. That Mary, of all women, 
 should have a love affair, was sufficiently deplor- 
 able, but that other people knew of it, spoke of it 
 lightly, linking her good name with a man's quite 
 openly and assuredly, was cause for consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 In wakeful intervals of the night, he found him- 
 self wondering what course to take with regard 
 to her. Could he venture a word of warning, of 
 counsel? She was like a child to him, he had 
 known her so long and so well. And he had 
 known both her parents as she herself, poor child, 
 had never known them. They had given him a 
 charge concerning her, when he stood sponsor for
 
 88 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 her at her baptism. His mind went back to that 
 time. It was before he succeeded to the title, 
 which he had not then expected to do. He could 
 see again his young friend, Christopher Lord, 
 who had been attached to the American Embassy. 
 He remembered his marriage to the English 
 girl, who was Mary's mother. How happy they 
 had been that first year or two, how happier 
 still when the little daughter came! How re- 
 sponsible and proud he, too, had felt, when 
 his friend had asked him to be godfather, and he 
 had held the tiny human thing awkwardly in his 
 arms, and it had gazed at him with serene and 
 fearless eyes. Of her childhood he had known 
 little, as after the death of her parents she was 
 under her aunt's care, mostly in America; but 
 in her early young womanhood they had met 
 again and had become fast friends. It was he 
 who had brought her to her confirmation; it was 
 he who had given her away in marriage. His 
 heart stirred with many memories of her, so fresh, 
 so spontaneously gay, so darling! that was it 
 so utterly lovable. She had a freedom he 
 was unused to in English girls, and a reserve he 
 had never seen in Americans, a fine combination 
 of the best qualities of both. The Duke sighed. 
 He had not known until very recently that her 
 life was not all it seemed to be on the surface. 
 He slept badly and woke late in consequence. 
 During the morning he was not surprised to re- 
 ceive a note from Mary, which only said: "Can
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 89 
 
 you come to me at once? I need your advice and 
 help." 
 
 He felt somewhat relieved on the whole. Now 
 a few words of wisdom, which he had garnered 
 into his barns of experience, would probably be 
 of use to both these young friends. He would 
 sympathize, chide, advise. Probably that would 
 be all that was necessary. He was quite prepared 
 to do each of these things with as much tact and 
 reserve as the situation permitted. 
 
 When he reached Whitehall Gardens, he was 
 shown at once into Lady Stanhope's own morn- 
 ing-room. She was lying down, looking very 
 tired and listless ; but she sprang up as he entered. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she exclaimed, 
 the look of strain deepening in her face. ''I have 
 so needed you." 
 
 "My dear child," said the Duke gently, as he 
 took her hand. 
 
 She held his tightly, unconscious of her grasp, 
 while she searched for words. 
 
 "I don't know where to begin or how to tell 
 you," she said helplessly. "You won't believe 
 it; it's too incredible!" 
 
 "I dare say it won't even surprise me," said 
 the Duke, by way of encouragement. 
 
 "It surprised me," she answered. Then she 
 faced him directly. "When I came home last 
 night, Arthur was waiting for me. He wasn't 
 ill. We talked. The long and short of it is, he 
 wants to divorce me."
 
 90 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "What?" said the Duke slowly, in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, I thought it would astonish you." 
 
 "But he can't!" He looked at her search- 
 ingly. "Can he?" 
 
 "Of course he can't." She turned away with 
 a sick loneliness. That had been a bitter sec- 
 ond when even her godfather had found it neces- 
 sary to ask: "Can he?" Even he had not 
 known her ! 
 
 "I should have said, perhaps," she went on, 
 "that he wishes me to divorce him. It comes to 
 the same thing." 
 
 "Not at all the same thing," the Duke answered 
 warmly. "A man can divorce a woman for in- 
 fidelity; a woman can divorce a man only for in- 
 fidelity and cruelty. Both charges have to be 
 proved. ' ' 
 
 "I know. It seems very unjust." 
 
 "Law is not justice, though it has justice for 
 its object. It is often very unjust in individual 
 cases." 
 
 "But surely it is for individual cases that one 
 appeals to the law." 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 "Well, then," she said, troubled, "surely I 
 oh, dear Duke, I can't talk abstractedly or in the 
 third person. This concerns him, me, concretely 
 and vitally. What I want to know is, how the law 
 concerns him and me; what protection have I 
 against his strong wish to set me free?" 
 
 "Mary, my child, you amaze me! Surely you
 
 91 
 
 have misunderstood your husband, or taken too 
 seriously something said in the heat of anger. " 
 
 * ' But he wasn 't angry ! ' ' 
 
 The Duke, puzzled, continued: "Arthur is 
 very proud. It is quite natural that he should 
 have resented " he nerved himself to face her 
 unflinching eyes "what took place last night in 
 the alcove. Any man who cared for his wife 
 would have been disturbed by ijt." 
 
 "Of course," she answered quietly, "but he 
 does not care for me. ' ' 
 
 "I don't think that is true," said the Duke. 
 
 "I mean, not in that way. He cares for me be- 
 cause I am his wife, but not for me as me, do you 
 see? So long as I have his name and place in 
 the world, he has to care for that, because it is 
 a part of himself. That is why he wishes to sep- 
 arate from me. Then he need not care even for 
 that any longer." 
 
 The Duke walked up and down in much per- 
 plexity. He had expected to play the part of 
 peacemaker and smooth over a family difficulty. 
 He had thought there would be tears and contri- 
 tion on the woman's side, and probably a reserved 
 forgiveness on the man's. With that he had 
 hoped to patch up a peace that would last until 
 the source of trouble was removed, which source 
 was, of course, Carmichael. The Duke hoped he 
 might be removed perhaps at the next election, 
 but if not that, at least delicately dropped from 
 the set in which they were used to seeing much
 
 92 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of him. And now, instead of the trouble being 
 removed, it had precipitated itself into the lives 
 of his two friends, and into his own. He was find- 
 ing it not easy to be an arbiter of destiny. 
 
 "You say Arthur was not angry?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' No, not angry, exactly no, far from that ; but 
 he said the most extraordinary things." 
 
 "What sort of things?" 
 
 "That that we couldn't go on living together, 
 since I cared for some one else; he hinted that 
 it would be desecration of one's finest instincts, 
 war against something God has planted in us 
 and that I shouldn't always be able to control 
 it, as I did last night She stopped, appalled 
 at speaking of such things. 
 
 "Yes," said the Duke encouragingly, marvel- 
 ling much. 
 
 "And that he wished to set me free to protect 
 me from myself, before before " 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "And that I was the sort of woman single- 
 hearted, he called it whose whole life would be 
 changed by a feeling." 
 
 "What did you say?" asked the Duke curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "I said, of course, that I wouldn't even con- 
 sider divorce; that everything forbade it, reli- 
 gion, custom, everything." 
 
 The Duke looked relieved. "My dear girl," 
 he said, after a little, "feelings change. Love 
 is only a feeling, the most inconstant of all. You
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 93 
 
 think not, now ; but in a year or two you will have 
 forgotten it yes, forgotten it, completely." 
 
 She shrank from the words. "Then I should 
 despise myself,'* she said. 
 
 "Of course you think so now, but wait." He 
 came over to her and laid both hands on her 
 shoulders with much kindness. "I'm an old man, 
 Mary, child, and I've lived much. It all passes, 
 all. The only thing that lasts is your character : 
 that house you build to live in all the years of 
 your life, and to die in and take with you the 
 only thing you can take into the next life." 
 
 "I know, dear Godfather." There were tears 
 in her voice. 
 
 He went on thinking aloud, his hands still on 
 her shoulders, punctuating his speech with gentle 
 pats that were kindness and affection itself. 
 "In any emergency, any sudden crisis of feeling, 
 any unforeseen situation, we do the thing we are 
 not the thing we might wish to do if we had 
 time to think about it but the thing which we 
 are, which we have made ourselves all along the 
 way which led up to the situation, all along the 
 way which built up the character. It's the char- 
 acter that acts. These are platitudes, I know, 
 child. I'm only saying them that you may real- 
 ize that I understand you could not do a real 
 wrong, because you are something different. 
 Therefore I know whatever decision my Mary 
 comes to, it will be a right one." 
 
 She buried her head against his shoulder, that
 
 94 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 he might not see the tears which his kindness 
 had started. After a minute she said impul- 
 sively: "And you never said a word of blame, 
 though you know as well as I do that I am not 
 blameless. But what am I to do?" 
 
 "Well," said the Duke reflectively, improvi- 
 sing as if he were telling a fairy story to a child, 
 "suppose you go and sit in the upper room of 
 that house we were talking about just now the 
 house of your own character that you have 
 builded yourself the highest room of it, and 
 meditate on what you want to do." 
 
 "I don't have to meditate. I know. It isn't 
 what I want, but what is right. And divorce is 
 not right, Godfather not for me, for us." 
 
 After a moment the kind old voice answered 
 her. "You know what it means the absolute 
 relinquishment, the giving up forever " 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted hurriedly, not looking 
 at him, and then more slowly, her voice breaking : 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 The Duke looked at her with compassion. 
 That wonderful, wild, sweet call of one to another 
 that we name love surely she was made for it 
 if ever a woman was, surely she deserved it, if 
 ever a woman did, surely she could return it in 
 far greater measure than most women ever know 
 how to do ! He noted, almost as if her familiar, 
 dear face were strange to him, how clear and 
 fine the features were, and what a wealth of pas- 
 sion and suffering looked out of the eyes.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 95 
 
 "You care so much?" lie said in a whisper. 
 
 She nodded without speaking. 
 
 "And you are willing to give up what you think 
 your happiness for the sake of a scruple? You 
 will send your lover away and go on with your 
 life on its own old lines, just because it is right?" 
 
 "What else?" she answered. "It is what 
 makes all the difference to love." 
 
 The Duke's face kindled, and he stood sud- 
 denly taller. 
 
 "It is the one thing greater," he said 
 solemnly. 
 
 A rare moment fell like a blessing upon them 
 both, in which each caught something of the in- 
 spiration of united thought. To the Duke it was 
 the vindication of the old faith he had loved and 
 lived by these many years, which demanded and 
 received, fresh and spontaneous, its free-will of- 
 fering from the heart of the younger generation. 
 To the woman it brought the consolation of sacri- 
 fice, of the precious ointment spilled, and ac- 
 cepted by the Lord of love. 
 
 To both of them, in that high mood, the en- 
 trance of Sir Arthur came like a shock. He 
 stood quietly surveying them, gathering from 
 their faces something of the import of what they 
 had been saying. When he spoke, after a mo- 
 ment or two, he said in a quite ordinary voice: 
 
 "Very glad Mary sent for you, Duke. Most 
 sensible thing she could have done. I hope you 
 have been giving her good advice."
 
 96 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 1 'She doesn't need it," said the Duke gently, 
 "but I'm afraid you do, Arthur." 
 
 "So?" returned Sir Arthur imperturbably. 
 Then, after a moment: "So that's where you 
 stand, is it? Then I have you against me, too." 
 He said it evenly, without animosity, but simply 
 as if he were weighing it for future use, adding 
 it to the sum total of his knowledge in a disin- 
 terested manner. 
 
 "My dear fellow," said the Duke, "you must 
 not think such a thing for a moment. I am not 
 'against' either of you, but for both of you to- 
 gether. There can be no other way for you and 
 Mary. She thinks so, too. And I'm sure you 
 will, soon, even if you don't already. Of course," 
 he added diffidently, "this is all very extraor- 
 dinary and er difficult and I feel like apolo- 
 gizing for intruding so far into your private con- 
 cerns, but since circumstances have led up to 
 it, you must put down my participation in your 
 affairs to my genuine solicitude for your wel- 
 fare." 
 
 "Quite so," returned Sir Arthur. "I under- 
 stand and appreciate it. And even if I didn't, 
 you have every right, since Mary is, in a sense, 
 your ward. You are the first person to whom she 
 turns, you see. Your points of view would 
 naturally coincide. But I hope, for all our sakes, 
 that you both may change your present convic- 
 tions. For I am set on my course." 
 
 He spoke quietly, but with immense force
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 97 
 
 behind his words, and the glitter of his eye 
 startled the Duke. 
 
 "But my dear Arthur," he expostulated with 
 warmth, "your course is a very extraordinary 
 one, and you cannot pursue it in the light of 
 reason ! ' ' 
 
 "Then without it," said Sir Arthur inflexibly 
 with an ironical smile. 
 
 Two red spots had begun to glow in Mary Stan- 
 hope 'a tired face. A look came into the Duke's 
 eyes like the gray glint on steel. All three had a 
 sense of quickened pulses, as of battle drawing 
 nearer. 
 
 "You propose," said the Duke, his voice grown 
 suddenly cold and challenging, "to attempt to 
 divorce your wife." 
 
 "I propose that she shall divorce me." 
 
 "You know the laws of our country, on what 
 terms only, such a divorce can be procured ? ' ' 
 
 "I do not propose to use the laws of my 
 country, but of hers America." 
 
 "Good heavens!" 
 
 "It is much simpler there. We can be 'incom- 
 patible' or 'deserted' or anything she likes to 
 call it, in several States. She can choose which 
 one she likes, settle there for a time, bring the 
 suit, and I will not even defend it." 
 
 "You forget," said the Duke sternly, "that 
 Mary, as your wife, is no longer an American. 
 Your country is her country. In point of law, she 
 is English."
 
 98 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "That is true," Sir Arthur returned thought- 
 fully. "Yet I am sure that can be got around. 
 American wives do divorce English husbands and 
 remarry." 
 
 "I should never remarry in your lifetime, even 
 if divorced, ' ' said his wife quietly. 
 
 * ' And an American divorce would probably not 
 free you. You could not remarry while she 
 lived," said the Duke. 
 
 "Bless you, I don't want to! It's Mary who 
 must, not me. This is for her, not me because 
 I believe it to be right." 
 
 "But she does not." 
 
 "She doesn't understand yet; but she will. 
 It's her right, her due, her portion in life, and 
 I'll not keep it from her. She hasn't sought it, 
 it has come to her; she has honestly struggled 
 against it, she has thrust it away from her. I've 
 watched. I've seen. I know. And its claim is 
 the more inexorable because it is denied. I'll not 
 stand between her and the secret desire of her 
 heart. It's a part of the secret purpose of God. 
 And what have I to offer her in comparison with 
 it? We like and respect each other, and that's 
 all, now." 
 
 * * Arthur, ' ' said the Duke, with a tremble in his 
 old voice, "when people come to the pass where 
 you and Mary are now, there are two things that 
 save them. One's pride and the other's time. 
 Take time now to consider ! Go away for a while 
 separate for six months or a year on any ex-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 99 
 
 cuse; it will be well worth while. Think, if this 
 divorce really came up, how your pride would 
 suffer, what your family would say! What your 
 place in your party would mean! You say you 
 like and respect each other. Well, marriages of 
 respect are apt to fail, but in the long run they 
 are apt to win out, too. Kemember that." 
 
 Sir Arthur, with a broad, negative gesture, 
 brushed the words aside. "Those things don't 
 matter," he said. 
 
 "Don't matter?" exclaimed the Duke. 
 
 "No. As for my pride, it would suffer far 
 more to go on as we are now, than to separate 
 forever. As for my people, there is only my 
 brother, who will come into what I have, when I 
 am dead, since we have had no child. Don't 
 wince, Mary, and don't mind. Such things are 
 ordained. And as for my party, it will make no 
 difference, after the nine days' wonder! No, not 
 one of these things matters. What matters is 
 our sincerity and Mary's happiness." 
 
 ' ' She '11 find that in her own way, not in yours. ' ' 
 
 "She'll find it in Carmichael." 
 
 "Think what it would mean for him! A 
 breath of scandal touching his career at this time 
 would ruin it!" 
 
 "One must pay something for everything. 
 Mary would compensate." 
 
 A servant knocked and entered with a card. 
 Sir Arthur took it. 
 
 "Mr. Carmichael! Ask him to come up," he
 
 100 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 continued, paying no attention to the exclama- 
 tions of the other two. "I asked him to call to- 
 day, before going to the House. I thought by 
 that time I should have thought things over 
 and have something to say to him. Well, I 
 have thought, and I have something to say to 
 him." 
 
 "Arthur I must beg this is between us," 
 said Mary Stanhope. 
 
 "And I must protest," said the Duke. "Stan- 
 hope, I don't think you realize how impossible 
 a thing you are doing. It's outrageous! It's in- 
 credible ! I will not be a part of such a proceed- 
 ing!" 
 
 "You can withdraw if you like," said Sir 
 Arthur coldly. "No, not you, Mary, it concerns 
 you. You had better remain." 
 
 The Duke walked up and down with quick, 
 nervous steps. There was a glitter in Sir Arthur 
 Stanhope's eye which almost frightened him. 
 A doubt came into his mind if he were quite sane. 
 Surely nothing else could account for so ex- 
 traordinary a course. He noted Mary's tense at- 
 titude as she stood with strong control, immov- 
 able by the window. He made one last attempt 
 for her sake. 
 
 "Let me beg you," he said almost beseechingly, 
 "before this goes too far, to wait until some 
 calmer time ; do not let this scene be known to an 
 outsider. 
 
 "He is very much inside," returned Sir Arthur
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 101 
 
 drily, as the servant ushered in Carmichael. 
 "What will you do, Duke?" 
 
 The Duke did not answer in words but stepped 
 quickly to Mary's side. She did not turn or 
 
 ''How are you, Carmichael!" said Sir Arthur. 
 They did not shake hands. Carmichael had en- 
 tered nervously, hat and stick in hand. He made 
 some conventional rejoinder, and was about to 
 add an inquiry for his host's health, when he en- 
 countered, full and square in the face, Sir 
 Arthur's look. Their eyes held for a minute, 
 each unflinching. Then Carmichael 's wandered 
 to Mary Stanhope, by the window. He saw she 
 was in anguish of mind, and made an instinctive 
 movement toward her, checking it instantly as his 
 glance crossed the Duke's. The old man stood, 
 full of the unconscious pride of race, and with 
 the conscious pride of protection in his attitude. 
 Philip Carmichael noticed this with relief, and 
 then turned back to Sir Arthur in silence, wait- 
 ing for whatever might follow. After a slight 
 pause, Sir Arthur said slowly: 
 
 "You come at an opportune moment, Mr. 
 Carmichael. I asked you to call to-day, because 
 I thought I should have matured my plans by 
 then. I have done so. After last night you will, 
 I think, hardly be surprised if I suggest that 
 that Lady Stanhope should have the benefit of 
 your protection in future, since she will not have 
 mine. ' '
 
 102 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 The Duke groaned. "Good Lord, Stanhope, 
 what a way to put it!" 
 
 "What does it matter," answered Sir Arthur 
 fiercely, "how one puts it? The blunter the bet- 
 ter ! I propose, Mr. Cannichael, that Lady Stan- 
 hope shall divorce me in America, as quickly and 
 easily as possible, and when that is done " 
 
 "When that is done," said Cannichael quickly, 
 his mind instantly grasping the situation, "if 
 Lady Stanhope will do me the honor to marry me, 
 I shall be proud." 
 
 Again the two men looked each other in the 
 eyes, neither shirking it. Sir Arthur's expres- 
 sion was insolent, demanding. Carmichael's was 
 equally insolent, commanding, as if he, not the 
 other, were the master of the situation. He con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "But, it is only fair to warn you beforehand, 
 before you proceed, or force Lady Stanhope to 
 proceed, to this extreme measure, that there has 
 been nothing in our relations to warrant it. ' ' 
 
 Again the Duke groaned. 
 
 "Do you suppose," said Sir Arthur, and the 
 whole weight of his personality lay behind his 
 words, which fell like blows, "if there had been, 
 that I would give you this chance? I'd have 
 killed you for a thief!" 
 
 The Duke broke in gently. "Mary, my dear," 
 he said, patting her hand, "may I speak 
 for you?" She nodded, immovable otherwise.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 103 
 
 Turning to the two men, his demeanor hardening, 
 he said with perfect courtesy, but coldly : 
 
 ''Neither of you sees where he is drifting, and 
 both of you, I think, are reckoning without the 
 only important consideration the consent of 
 Lady Stanhope herself. She will never consent, 
 either to divorce, or to remarriage. Why should 
 she? There are no grounds for divorce, and it 
 cannot be forced upon her ! Why should she give 
 up rank, home, husband, position, a safe and dig- 
 nified life, and all those things she is accustomed 
 to and go into voluntary exile, for a sudden im- 
 pulse of the heart? You must be mad, Stanhope, 
 to suppose it for a minute! But if you do seri- 
 ously mean to threaten her with it, if you try 
 to force this issue, there are those who love and 
 honor your wife, who will resent it for her, 
 among whom I stand first! I will see that she 
 is protected, vindicated, restored, by every means 
 in my power. Because you are trying to take an 
 unfair advantage of her; it is not playing the 
 game!" He turned with gleaming eyes to the 
 other. "And you, Carmichael, you are not play- 
 ing it, either. You have no place in either of 
 these lives; how did you get here! It wasn't 
 cricket; it won't do! But since you are here, 
 you must thwart this purpose, this idea, for your 
 own sake as well as hers. A hint of scandal con- 
 necting your names is enough to spoil your career, 
 if your political enemies get hold of it. The real
 
 104 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 scandal such as your marriage following divorce 
 would be would ruin you! Your party would 
 not return you; you would be defeated; it would 
 mean social disgrace and exile. Are these things 
 fit offerings for the woman you love! That de- 
 feat, that exile, she would share! How would 
 they compensate her for all that she would lose 
 through you? You see it won't do, Carmichael. 
 It isn't playing the game!" 
 
 The Duke turned away, feeling he had done his 
 utmost. He was breathing excitedly as he re- 
 joined Mary at the window. Her eyes thanked 
 him, but she did not speak. There was a silence 
 in the room, each mind busy with its own set of 
 visions. Through Carmichael 's passed rapidly 
 a succession of concrete pictures called up by the 
 Duke's words. The West End and the life he 
 knew, clubs, dinners, promotion in his own profes- 
 sion which had been everything to him, until he 
 met Mary Stanhope retreated from his sight. 
 He knew that the Duke was right. He realized it 
 suddenly and was appalled. He had neither cap- 
 ital nor income above a bare two hundred pounds 
 a year. How could they live on that and 
 where? not even in Ireland. It would mean 
 emigration, the seeking of new fields, new work, 
 and utterly changed life exile, in short, as the 
 Duke had said. Yet, realizing these things, he 
 discounted them all before the trouble in the face 
 he loved, which he had loved with a torturing 
 hunger since they had first pronounced each
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 105 
 
 other's Christian names. Just to see her, as she 
 stood there with the morning sun on her fair, 
 brown hair and that tired, enduring look under the 
 eyes, was to call to his tenderness and chivalry. 
 There came a moment, big in inner significance, 
 when a moving procession of pictures stamped 
 themselves on the film of his mind. He saw him- 
 self go step by step from honor to honor, saw prize 
 after prize to which he might attain, which had 
 been until then the end and aim of his whole am- 
 bition; and there followed on the heels of that 
 moment another, when he felt his ambition fall, 
 struck through with a force that hurt and healed 
 at once. From the depths of that stricken mo- 
 ment, something fine in him rose and triumphed. 
 He turned to Mary with a new look, a look which 
 even she who knew him at his best had never seen 
 in his face before. 
 
 "All that the Duke says is true," he acknowl- 
 edged. "I have nothing to offer you in com- 
 parison with what you would give up for me. 
 Yet if you will give it up, if you will dare to ac- 
 cept the different circumstances, the different 
 fate, I promise you the love and devotion of all 
 my life." 
 
 The words were spoken so simply, so almost 
 apologetically, that it took from them any sug- 
 gestion of effect other than that of entire sincer- 
 ity. Mary's eyes shone radiantly upon her lover 
 for an instant in acknowledgment, before she 
 turned away. Her husband's, on the contrary,
 
 106 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 contracted painfully, and he surveyed Carmichael 
 with a look that was like a knife-thrust. 
 
 " You waited so long to make your fine speech," 
 he said, with cutting emphasis, "that I began to 
 think you couldn't afford it." 
 
 A hot red showed in Philip Carmichael 's cheek, 
 but before he could answer, Mary Stanhope came 
 forward with decision. There was that in her 
 attitude which held them silent, a nobility, aloof 
 and detached from their excitement, as though 
 she saw things from a higher plane, which made 
 them look small. 
 
 "It is I," she said clearly, "who cannot afford 
 it, not for fear of disgrace or exile, or any of 
 those things you mention, Duke. That disgrace, 
 that exile, I would share gladly, welcoming it as 
 a proof of what love is worth, if it is right. But 
 it is not, in this case. The proposal you make to 
 me, ' ' she turned to her husband without speaking 
 his name, "outrages me in every instinct, in 
 every principle. I will not permit you to do me 
 this wrong. I shall not try to prevent your sep- 
 arating from me if you wish. But I will not 
 divorce you, nor will I marry again should you 
 succeed in divorcing me." 
 
 She turned with a fine, formal pride to Car- 
 michael. "I thank you for your chivalrous offer, 
 but I could not be a burden in any man's life, 
 even under happier circumstances. ' ' 
 
 "You could never be that," said Carmichael 
 quickly.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 107 
 
 "No," said Sir Arthur quietly, "you could 
 never be anything but a blessing. ' ' 
 
 The Duke made a movement of weariness and 
 disgust. "Faugh! It is like a French farce. 
 It's too bizarre for words! The husband recom- 
 mending the wife to her lover! Stanhope, the 
 position you take in this matter is beyond be- 
 lief!" 
 
 Sir Arthur controlled himself. "I do not ex- 
 pect you to understand it," he replied, "I do not 
 expect Lady Stanhope to, yet. But she will. It 
 is the position of absolute sincerity, against 
 hypocrisy and convention. I cannot, for my part, 
 understand how two people can go on living a 
 lie, once they have discovered it is a lie, shameful 
 shams to themselves and all the world ! But you 
 don't see things like that. Well, I'm sorry; but 
 this is her problem and mine. She'll see it as I 
 do soon, and meantime I think Mr. Cannichael 
 already does." 
 
 "I do," Philip answered quickly. "But I wait 
 for Lady Stanhope. We are entirely in her 
 hands." 
 
 "I have answered you," she said. 
 
 "And you have reached a deadlock!" the Duke 
 exclaimed. "Break it, Carmichael; you are the 
 only one who can. Withdraw from the problem, 
 and there is none. Don't you see? Play the 
 game!" 
 
 The schoolboy phrase was most compelling. 
 Philip Carmichael smarted under it.
 
 108 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I'll play it my own way!" he retorted fiercely. 
 "No one can force me into any position against 
 my will, and I recognize only Lady Stanhope's! 
 Mary," he went a step toward her, "for all our 
 sakes, end this! Let us know for good and all 
 where we stand!" 
 
 "I have already told you." 
 
 "But think again before you let it pass, for- 
 ever," he urged. "No one can do your thinking 
 for you; we can only point out what your life 
 will be either way you decide it. Think what it 
 will be here, in your own environment, with your 
 husband with this thing between you. And 
 then think what it would be with me under other 
 conditions poorer and harder but surely more 
 honest, more real? I don't want to influence you 
 against your own judgment. Perhaps it is bet- 
 ter that I say no more, since it is obvious that 
 the benefit is so entirely on my side, if you decide 
 to let the divorce take place, and marry me." 
 
 There was a hostile admiration in Sir Arthur's 
 look as he listened, and he turned to note the ef- 
 fect of Carmichael's words upon his wife. Her 
 expression was beautiful with understanding, as 
 she answered him, as if they two were alone. 
 
 "Do you think I don't appreciate, Philip, what 
 you would give up for me ? Do you think I don 't 
 see, clearer than you do, what it would mean to 
 you? the sacrifice of your whole career! And 
 do you think I am the sort of woman who could 
 accept such a sacrifice!"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 109 
 
 "It is not a sacrifice. I need you." 
 
 "Ah!" The light in her eyes dimmed for an 
 instant, then shone out clear again, as she con- 
 tinued impetuously: "If anything in the world 
 could change me, that could! It is so wonderful 
 to be 'needed' ! And I would give myself to your 
 need in any hardship, if it were right, if it were 
 only right!" She controlled her deep feeling 
 with visible effort, and after a moment added 
 quietly: "But it is not. That is all there is to 
 be said. And now you must go. This is good- 
 by." 
 
 She stretched out her hand to him, standing 
 very strong in her own strength, in the middle 
 of the room. 
 
 In the tense silence that followed, the veins in 
 Sir Arthur's temples stood out like cords. The 
 Duke heard his own heart beat. Carmichael 
 slowly took the offered hand, held it dumbly for 
 an instant, then started to go. Before he reached 
 the door something like a bomb exploded in Sir 
 Arthur's brain. His face turned purple, his 
 hands gripped the back of the chair on which they 
 rested as if he would hurl it at CarmichaePs head. 
 His strong control gave way to frenzied anger. 
 
 ' * Wait ! " he shouted. ' ' Wait ! This cannot be 
 settled so! You fools! You hypocrites, cheat- 
 ing God and yourselves! I demand of you both 
 a better courage to face this issue!" 
 
 His wife's eyes flamed into his own. 
 
 "If we had gone the whole length of sin you
 
 110 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 could not demand more of us!" she said, in a 
 white heat of anger. "I refuse any longer to 
 be subjected to this ; I refuse I refuse ! Let me 
 pass!" 
 
 "Arthur!" gasped the Duke, aghast at the sud- 
 den madness in Stanhope's face. "Arthur, they 
 have done no wrong!" 
 
 "No wrong?" he shouted, and laughed with a 
 horrible sound. "No, by God! The cowards!" 
 
 Before any one could prevent him, he had taken 
 his wife by the throat. Carmichael was at her 
 side in a flash, and Sir Arthur's left hand caught 
 him also by the throat. He held them both. 
 
 "No wrong?" he said again. "You have only 
 taken her love ; take also the woman ! ' ' He flung 
 them both violently from him, and his glare was 
 savage as he turned it upon Carmichael. "Go!" 
 he said, "go, and never come in my sight again 
 in this house or any other, for as sure as you do, 
 by God, I'll do my best to k " 
 
 The word died in his throat inarticulate. His 
 aspect became awful, the face contorted and fixed 
 in the same way his wife had seen it last night, 
 only far more horribly. With a frightened gasp 
 she was at his side in an instant, the Duke spring- 
 ing to her assistance in another. They were too 
 late, however, to catch the strong figure and pre- 
 vent it from falling. Carmichael, whose Irish 
 blood was thoroughly up, fell back dazedly before 
 the prostrate form. 
 
 "Help me move him to the sofa," said the
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 111 
 
 Duke sharply. "It's a slight shock, I think. 
 Unfasten his collar, Mary, so that he can breathe. 
 Carmichael, telephone for Doctor Nelson. " 
 
 Shaken as they were by the scene through 
 which they had just passed, they yet obeyed like 
 soldiers. Mary and the Duke worked over Sir 
 Arthur, trying to restore consciousness by all 
 the expedients which lie in the knowledge of 
 the ordinary person. Yet when Carmichael re- 
 turned, after some minutes, there was no change 
 in the terrible rigidity of the figure, and not a 
 muscle of the contorted face had relaxed. 
 
 "The doctor wasn't in," he said. "They 
 didn't know where they could find him, as he is 
 on his rounds. I left word for him to come the 
 moment he returns. ' ' 
 
 "Eight!" said the Duke shortly. "Meantime, 
 you'd better not be here, in case Sir Arthur re- 
 vives. No, there isn't anything you can do, 
 thanks, except " 
 
 "I will go," said Carmichael quietly. "You 
 will let me know, Mary, if you need me?" She 
 nodded without looking at him, and he left reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 It was a long hour after that, when, as they 
 worked over him, almost giving up hope, they 
 saw Sir Arthur's face relax, and he fought his 
 way feebly back to sane consciousness. 
 
 "What is it what has happened!" he asked 
 rather thickly, attempting to rise. 
 
 "Never mind now," said the Duke cheerily,
 
 112 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 pushing him back again. "You gave Mary and 
 me quite a scare. Better be still now for a time. 
 Dr. Nelson will be here shortly. Mary sent for 
 him." 
 
 "Nonsense! Don't need him. Just need lit- 
 tle air and movement don't feel as if I could 
 move. Strange!" He took his head in his 
 hands. "Got a queer full feeling here." He 
 was slowly getting up. "Is that brandy, Mary? 
 Yes, give me some a good stiff drink." 
 
 She obeyed, watching him anxiously, while 
 the Duke concealed his apprehension admirably, 
 sauntering to the window, but anxiously scanning 
 the street for a sign of the doctor. 
 
 "That's better," said Sir Arthur, as he put 
 down the empty glass. "Puts new heart into 
 one. Sorry to have frightened you, my dear." 
 He was speaking in his ordinary voice, with no 
 trace of anger or excitement, but thickly and jerk- 
 ily. 
 
 "Very tiresome of me. I must get Nelson to 
 put an end to these little attacks. Can't think 
 why I should have one." 
 
 "Do they occur often?" asked the Duke casu- 
 ally. 
 
 "No, not often. Had a queer feeling in my 
 head yesterday, I remember; meant to have seen 
 Nelson, but forgot it. Can't think what brought 
 this on." He passed his hand slowly over his 
 brow. 
 
 "Don't try." His wife's cool fingers rested
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 113 
 
 for a moment on his head, and he reached up and 
 held them there. 
 
 "That's right, I won't. I'm quite well now, 
 my dear girl. Don't worry any more. What 
 time is it? Good Lord! I must be on my way 
 to the House." 
 
 "Oh no!" she said almost beseechingly. "I 
 don't think you ought. Let it go for once. It's 
 more important that you should save your 
 strength. ' ' 
 
 "Nonsense! Besides, I must go. There's a 
 measure coming up for discussion this afternoon 
 on which I want to speak. It's 
 
 "Well, then, wait at least till Dr. Nelson 
 comes!" she entreated. "He won't be long, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 "But I'm all right, I tell you." He stood up 
 and patted her cheek. "I appreciate your solici- 
 tude, Mary, but there 's really no reason to worry. 
 Tell Nelson, if he comes, that I'll see him be- 
 fore dinner or, if it would relieve your mind, 
 send him after me. Now ring for my things like 
 a good girl, and don't argue any more. If I must 
 go, I must." 
 
 She saw it was useless to try to keep him. 
 
 "I'll come with you," said the Duke, to her 
 great relief. Tacitly they both understood that, 
 by some merciful providence, he seemed not to 
 remember the scene through which they had just 
 passed. Also they realized that he must be 
 guarded and protected from the memory of it for
 
 114 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 a time. She saw them ready to depart, with a 
 feeling of apprehension. At the last moment, she 
 came and stood gently beside him, her hand on 
 his arm, looking up at him wistfully. 
 11 You '11 come back early, Arthur, won't you!" 
 He kissed her cheek affectionately. "Of 
 course I will, dear girl, if you wish it. There, 
 we must be off. Good-by. ' ' 
 
 She saw them both get into the waiting motor 
 and waved her hand, but as they whirled out of 
 sight a chill seemed to creep over her heart, and 
 she went back to her little sitting-room, shivering 
 in the sunlight.
 
 CHAPTER Vin 
 
 "Let it lie where it fell far from the living sun. 
 The past, that goodly once, is gone and dead and done." 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 HOW the next few hours passed, Mary 
 Stanhope never clearly remembered. 
 Her cheerful room looked strange to her, 
 because of the extraordinary scene which had 
 taken place in it. The familiar aspect of her 
 life, too, was distorted from its tranquillity. 
 Never again could it be the same. Never again 
 could she look ahead to years of serene self-ad- 
 justment to her environment, as it had been. 
 Vainly she tried to picture it, to imagine what 
 their life would be, hers and her husband's, but 
 she could not see one step beyond the present 
 moment. The forces which had been loosed upon 
 them all, like wild beasts coming up from hidden 
 caverns in their natures, had totally destroyed 
 her peace, her innate harmony of thought and 
 action. She had an odd prescience that nothing 
 could set her world in order again but a shock 
 as great as that which had disrupted it. 
 
 Finally, in exhaustion, she sank down on the 
 chintz-covered couch of the morning-room, draw- 
 ing up first one foot then the other, as her strain, 
 nervous and mental, relaxed a little. She did not
 
 116 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 sleep, for behind her shut eyes her brain was 
 torturing her, laying question after question like 
 a lash on her naked heart. How was it possible 
 that she could have become involved in such 
 scenes as she had lived through in the last twenty- 
 four hours! How could she face either of these 
 men again? And how, oh, how, could she bear 
 the rest of her life? 
 
 It must have been about two hours after the 
 Duke and Sir Arthur had left the house, that her 
 maid, Dawes, knocked softly at the door of the 
 morning-room and entered. 
 
 "Are you awake, my Lady? Ah, yes! Will 
 you have tea brought in here?" 
 
 ''Yes," answered Mary dully, sitting up. 
 "But first, my hair and give me a tea-gown 
 any one; I am alone." 
 
 She resumed her usual habits perfunctorily. 
 In her bedroom adjoining she changed from her 
 morning blouse and skirt, unthinkingly, to the 
 soft white gown Dawes brought her, and sub- 
 mitted to the maid's deft fingers as they rear- 
 ranged her hair. 
 
 "Thanks," she said at last, "that will do. 
 Yes, you may bring me a cup of tea in the morn- 
 ing-room. And tell Turnbull I'm not at home 
 to any one." 
 
 Dawes departed to give these orders. A mo- 
 ment later there came a loud ring at the door- 
 bell. Some instinct made Mary stop in her walk
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 117 
 
 up and down the room and wait impatiently for 
 word to be brought her. 
 
 "Well!" she said, as Dawes re-entered. 
 
 4 'Oh, your Ladyship, it's Mr. Baldwin, and he 
 says he must see you he " 
 
 ' ' Send him up at once ! ' ' Her peremptory tone 
 astonished her own ears. Dawes vanished. 
 Mary stood with her hands pressed against her 
 heart as if to hold it still, her face straining to- 
 ward the door waiting. It seemed an eternity 
 before she heard his step. 
 
 "Ben!" she said sharply, as he entered, and 
 then in a whisper: "What is it?" 
 
 He came quickly to her and took both her hands 
 firmly in his strong ones. 
 
 "Mary," he said very gently, "they have sent 
 me to break some bad news to you. The quick 
 way is the merciful one always, isn't it?" 
 
 She just breathed : ' < Philip ? ' ' 
 
 "No. It's it's your husband, Mary." 
 
 She drew a long breath of relief. "Oh! he's 
 had another of those attacks! They are dread- 
 ful, but they are curable. That's not so very bad, 
 Ben; don't look so solemn!" She was rallying 
 all her forces, and he felt it. "I thought it was 
 something much worse an accident or some- 
 thing. But these attacks I've seen before. I 
 know what to do. Ring. We must have the 
 motor at once and bring him home. Where is 
 he?'
 
 118 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ' ' They are bringing him. ' ' 
 
 She turned swiftly to him. "Bringing him?" 
 she said, with a strange clutch at the heart. 
 
 "He is unconscious. The doctor is with him. 
 He arrived soon after it happened. The Duke 
 wouldn't leave him. He sent me ahead to tell 
 you Mary, can you bear it! that it is very 
 serious. " 
 
 After a moment she spoke out of a strange 
 calm. "Is he dead!" 
 
 "No," said Ben quickly. "No, thank God." 
 
 "Thank God!" she echoed. Then almost im- 
 mediately she asked: "How did it happen! 
 Were you there!" 
 
 He hesitated a moment. "I was there, in the 
 visitors' gallery with Lady Kitty. We saw Sir 
 Arthur rise to speak. He looked much as usual, 
 when suddenly ' he stopped. 
 
 "Yes," she said, straining forward, "yes, go 
 on, Ben. What brought it on!" 
 
 He was silent, full of anxious pity for her. 
 Then, his kind face full of trouble, he answered: 
 "The Duke said I was to tell you anything you 
 wanted to know ; he said it would be the best way 
 to prepare you, but it is difficult, Mary!" 
 
 Her eyes never left his face, and her thought 
 leaped ahead of his halting words. 
 
 1 1 Ben answer ! Did they meet ! ' * 
 
 "They hadn't time. Sir Arthur, in the midst 
 of his speech, saw Philip enter. It seemed as if 
 his eyes would burst out of his head. . He pointed
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 119 
 
 at him, and said terrible things, Mary! I can't 
 repeat them. The whole House heard them. It 
 was awful! He tried to reach Philip. I think 
 he would have killed him. There was a com- 
 motion the Duke tried to stop him and then 
 quite suddenly he was stricken where he stood. ' ' 
 He had put his arm under hers, and she leaned 
 upon it for support, while her other hand shielded 
 her face from his pitying eyes. He continued: 
 "When I got there, almost at once, the Duke 
 seized me and sent me off to you. He said that 
 it was better you should know the truth. He 
 said youM take it standing." 
 
 "Thank you. Yes. Yes, of course." She 
 roused herself with a strong effort of the will. 
 "What can I do for him for Arthur? That's 
 what I must think of now." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Ben gently, patting her 
 hand awkwardly, "there isn't much to do, dear." 
 
 Her startled eyes darkened with dread of the 
 thought behind his words, but before she could 
 speak, there came to them both a strange sound 
 a sound which they who have heard the like, 
 never forget. There was a murmur of the 
 lowered voices of men, and the careful tread of 
 those who carry something heavy. 
 
 For a moment, Ben thought she would faint. 
 Then she freed herself from his supporting arm, 
 and stood alone, her head very high. 
 
 "There they are," she said quietly. "I must 
 go." At the door she turned. "Thank you for
 
 120 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 telling me the truth," she said, and passed out 
 of his sight. 
 
 Sir Arthur lay in his great bed, breathing 
 heavily, and unconscious still. The Duke and 
 Doctor Nelson were with him, the others having 
 been put out of the room. The two men stood 
 together near a little table where the doctor was 
 mixing some medicine. 
 
 4 'No, there's nothing you can do," he said, 
 in answer to the Duke's anxious inquiry, "except 
 answer me some questions, quickly. You say he 
 had an attack. What sort of an attack? What 
 brought it on?" 
 
 The Duke hesitated. "A fit of great anger," 
 he said, after a second. 
 
 "Ah! Had he been complaining of any 
 strange feeling in the head before that fit of 
 anger?" 
 
 "Really, I don't know; I wasn't with him long 
 before yes, I do remember; he said after he re- 
 covered, before he went to the House, that he 
 had had a 'full feeling' yesterday, and that he 
 had meant to see you about it, but forgot." 
 
 "Ah!" said the doctor again. "What brought 
 it on yesterday?" 
 
 "Why, really, I don't know. I hadn't seen him 
 for a week or so, until last night." 
 
 "You don't know whether he had been worry- 
 ing over anything serious, or had any kind of a 
 shock?"
 
 Through the Duke's mind passed the memory 
 of Sir Arthur's face as he had stood by the al- 
 cove where he had seen his wife disappear with 
 Philip Carmichael. He shuddered as he remem- 
 bered his laugh, the laugh which had tried val- 
 iantly to pretend. The doctor was waiting for 
 his answer. 
 
 " Well, I hardly think you could call it a shock," 
 he said reluctantly. ''Just a well, it was like a 
 bit of bad news." 
 
 "What did you do for him?" 
 
 "What any man would; gave him a good stiff 
 whiskey and soda. ' ' 
 
 "Worst thing in the world for him. I suppose 
 you did the same for him to-day, before he left 
 for the House?" 
 
 "Yes; brandy and soda." 
 
 The doctor sighed impatiently. "That helped 
 on the trouble a good bit. And then he caught 
 sight of Mr. Carmichael, who had been connected 
 with his previous fit of anger ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When he left for the House you say he was 
 quite composed ? He seemed not to remember his 
 late rage?" 
 
 "I'm quite sure he didn't remember anything 
 about it. It's strange, isn't it?" 
 
 They both turned at an odd sound from the 
 bed. Sir Arthur was breathing very heavily, 
 with terrible difficulty. It was painful to hear. 
 
 "Is he suffering, Doctor?"
 
 122 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "No, he's unconscious. That's what we call 
 staircase breathing, and it means oh, if only he 
 had not seen Cannichael again, if only he hadn't 
 had that second attack of rage ! ' ' There was the 
 regret of professional skill baffled by circum- 
 stances too hard for it, in the doctor's voice. 
 
 Neither of them, in their pre-occupation, had 
 seen the door open. Mary Stanhope stood on the 
 threshold which separated her rooms from her 
 husband's, just as she had stood last night was 
 it only last night? when Sir Arthur had said: 
 "There! Don't worry. Go to sleep. Yes, so 
 will I. You'll see it will all come right." She 
 had heard the doctor's words, and as if in a 
 dream, she heard the Duke say: 
 
 "You mean if he hadn't had the second at- 
 tack?" 
 
 The doctor nodded curtly. "Yes; we might 
 have pulled him through the first, with care; but 
 the second it's done for us, Duke. It's cerebral 
 hemorrhage. ' ' 
 
 "Good God! You mean" 
 
 "I mean he will never speak again, and prob- 
 ably won't live the night out. The heart will go 
 on for a few hours but the brain has stopped." 
 
 There was a gasp from the doorway, and they 
 turned in dismay. Mary Stanhope stood there 
 in dumb anguish, with eyes dilated with dread. 
 
 "Don't say it!" she said hoarsely. "Don't, 
 don't, Doctor, it can't be true! We must do 
 something. Oh, can't you do something?" She
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 123 
 
 stretched appealing arms across the bed to the 
 physician on the other side. 
 
 "My poor lady," he said very gently and sadly, 
 "if you only knew how often I hear those words !" 
 
 "0 God!" she said, her head buried at the side 
 of the bed, and rocking from side to side like one 
 distraught. "O God, do something for us! 
 Don't let this be. I can't bear it I can't bear 
 it! It's all my fault, but I didn't know I didn't 
 know! Pity and forgive! There should be time 
 allowed to make up but not this not this 
 not to go like this ! ' ' 
 
 Her extended hands were clutching at the 
 counterpane, and her eyes were wild as the doctor 
 raised her and said with authority: "Calm 
 yourself, control yourself, Lady Stanhope, I beg 
 of you. We shall need you all your resources 
 and strength." 
 
 He had placed his finger on the right note. It 
 always responded in Mary Stanhope. Whoever 
 needed her had but to ask. In a moment she had 
 forced herself to quietude, beating back for a 
 time the anguish that would overwhelm her in 
 other, freer hours. 
 
 "What must I do?" she asked apathetically. 
 
 ' ' Best, ' ' said the doctor promptly. ' ' I will give 
 you a sedative. You have a hard night before 
 you. ' ' 
 
 "I have rested. I don't want a sedative. I am 
 ready for the night as I am. Oh, isn't there any- 
 thing I can do?"
 
 124 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I telegraphed for a nurse. She will be here 
 directly, but dear Lady Stanhope, try to bear the 
 truth there isn't anything any one can do." 
 
 The Duke went quickly to her, and put his arm 
 around her. She leaned her head back against 
 his shoulder with shut eyes, and for several 
 minutes there was no sign of movement, nor 
 sound in the room except the breathing of the 
 dying man, now faint, now difficult and loud. 
 Finally she said, recovering, and facing them both 
 with a great simplicity : 
 
 "Then, if that is so, I beg of you both to leave 
 us alone together. ' ' 
 
 The last word died in a whisper. It was inde- 
 scribably pathetic. "Together" they two, who 
 were already so far apart, the 6ne going toward 
 Death, the other toward Life. 
 
 "We will be within call," said Doctor Nelson, 
 as they withdrew. Outside he said to the Duke: 
 * ' It will be a merciful interlude. Poor lady, she is 
 of an intensely emotional and nervous temper- 
 ament ; it is best to give her time to grasp the ca- 
 lamity by herself and quietly. ' ' 
 
 The Duke found Ben Baldwin waiting in the 
 morning-room, where Mary had left him. 
 
 "Ben," he said heavily, using the Christian 
 name for the first time, and not noticing it, "she 
 knows he can't live the night through. Will you 
 stay to be within call if needed? I must go to my 
 wife and Kitty. They will be terribly anxious. 
 I'll come back later."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 125 
 
 "I'll stay," said Ben, "of course." 
 The hours passed as those terrible hours do in 
 a house which the great dark Angel has entered 
 and made his own. The nurse arrived, silent and 
 efficient, full of tact, too. She waited, for the 
 most part, out of sight and sound of the suffering 
 woman crouching against the bed. The doctor 
 came in at intervals and withdrew again. Mary 
 was hardly conscious of them, but they were in- 
 tensely conscious of her. She was living over 
 again, in strong, vivid memories, many pictures 
 of the past. Sometimes her eyes smarted and 
 filled ; then the tears dried, and the present reality 
 overwhelmed her. Always, out of the jumble of 
 her thoughts, she came back to that silent figure on 
 the bed, came back to the obstinate hope that this 
 might not be the end but a new beginning. 
 Sometimes she prayed brokenly, in the inarticulate 
 utterance of the heart, for time to retrieve their 
 blunders; that the terrible hours of the last two 
 days might be blotted out forever, and the 
 words and thoughts of them forgotten. Once 
 Ben came to her with a note, which he put into 
 her hand, and then left at once. When she opened 
 it, she read: "Dearest let me know the mo- 
 ment I can be of the least service, and count on 
 my love always. Philip." 
 
 Passionately she kissed the words, and then, in 
 a horror, sprang up and crumpled the message in 
 her hand, thrusting it in her bosom. It had 
 brought back all her agitation, which she had so
 
 126 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 nearly subdued, and once again her light, nervous 
 step went pacing from one room to another in ex- 
 hausting repetition. The agony of remorse that 
 tore her heart was yet powerless to blot out the 
 thrill of relief and joy which the message had 
 brought her. Here, in the hour of her need, her 
 lover had sent the only comfort tnat he could. 
 Then she hated herself, that at that moment, that 
 solemn and terrible moment, it should matter to 
 her. She could bear her own thoughts no longer, 
 and opening the door she called softly across to 
 the morning-room : * * Ben will you come here 7 ' ' 
 
 "Who brought this?" she said, when he entered. 
 
 "Philip's man, Mary." 
 
 "Has he gone?" 
 
 "Yes; he said there was no answer." 
 
 "No, there was no answer," she repeated me- 
 chanically. "No answer no answer. Ben, what 
 a mystery it all is!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Life and love and death. No answer!" 
 
 * ' No none. ' ' 
 
 "You know it, too?" 
 
 "Yes I know." 
 
 "How did you find it out? Oh, Ben, tell me, 
 talk to me; I don't want to think! Did you love 
 some one, too?" 
 
 "Yes. Long ago." 
 
 "And that's why you don't mind, don't seem 
 to think it's so wicked for us oh, I don't want 
 to talk about that! Tell me, did she die?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 127 
 
 "No she just didn't love me. There was 
 nothing romantic about it. She loved some one 
 else." 
 
 "Poor Ben!" She laid a gentle hand for a mo- 
 ment on his arm. 
 
 "I guess I didn't care enough, perhaps," he 
 went on, willing to beguile her from her sadness ; 
 "you have to care a great lot, you know, to win 
 out." 
 
 1 ' But if you do care ' a great lot, ' you think you 
 can 'win out'?" she asked with earnestness. 
 
 "Well, it's all in the draw," he answered, with 
 his droll smile. "It takes two, you know. Most 
 everything's possible when two care enough." 
 
 "Think so?" She dropped into his staccato 
 vernacular unconsciously. 
 
 "Sure! The way's cleared for them, unless, of 
 course, it hurts somebody else." 
 
 "I think I'd rather be hurt than hurt any one 
 else; they say you are bound to be or do one or 
 the other in this world. Oh, what mysteries they 
 are those three things: life and love and death! 
 And the greatest of these is death! And just 
 think some time we shall know ! ' ' 
 
 They stood silent a moment. Then she held out 
 her hand. 
 
 1 ' Good night. Have they made you comfortable ? 
 Good. I feel better for seeing you, for knowing 
 you are here. You're so sane and normal and 
 kind ; bless you, dear old Ben!" 
 
 She went back to her watch the better for
 
 128 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the little interlude. It was close to mid- 
 night, now. She got her Bible, and sat by 
 the bedside in the softly-shaded light. The 
 breathing of the unconscious man was more quiet. 
 The doctor, who was staying the night, had just 
 left him and had thrown himself down on 
 the couch in the dressing-room beyond. Mary 
 was practically alone. She opened the Book, 
 feeling a sense of calm and strength from 
 the very touch of it. The mark was in the third 
 chapter of Ecclesiastes. 
 
 ''That which hath been is now, and that which 
 is to be hath already been, and God require th that 
 which is past." 
 
 That which is past ! Not that which is to come 
 only, but that which is past, as well, all of it. It 
 was very still in the house, solemnly, strangely 
 still. She pondered the words until they seemed 
 to flap noisily about in her brain like bats in an 
 empty room. Then, suddenly, her mind became 
 filled with the image of her husband, not as he lay 
 unconscious on the bed now, but as he had looked 
 last night when he had said: "God never joined 
 us together; if He had, no man could put ua 
 asunder." And then came the thought of his 
 last words: "There, don't worry. You'll see it 
 will all come right. Go to sleep. Yes, so will I. ' ' 
 He seemed to be standing in the doorway there, 
 saying them now. "You'll see it will all come 
 right." She turned toward the doorway as 
 though listening to him. But he was not there.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 129 
 
 She turned back to the bed, where the figure 
 lay quite still. What was it she missed? Ah, the 
 breath had ceased! 
 
 Sir Arthur Stanhope had passed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "In the year that's coming on, rich in joy and sorrow, 
 We shall light our lamp, and wait life's, mysterious morrow" 
 
 W. E. HENLEY. 
 
 SHE won't see him at all," said Lady Kitty 
 to Ben Baldwin. "I don't know what in 
 the world to do for her or with her. I'm 
 at my wits' end. She won't respond to any- 
 thing." 
 
 They were talking in Lady Kitty 's little boudoir 
 at her uncle 's house. The Duke and Duchess were 
 both there, and the subject of their discussion 
 was Mary, as it was apt to be. In the month that 
 had elapsed since Sir Arthur's death they had 
 talked of little else; and Ben Baldwin, partly by 
 reason of his old friendship for Lady Stanhope, 
 and a good deal on his own account also, had 
 slipped into an intimate place in the family cir- 
 cle. Mary turned to him for help in many ways ; 
 Lady Kitty found him a "safe" person to "out- 
 pour to" as she would have said; while the Duke 
 of Northerland instinctively recognized in him 
 those stable qualities by which men trust each 
 other. Even the Duchess, who gave herself less 
 readily to new enthusiasms than the others of her 
 family, had taken a warm liking to him, so that 
 at the end of his short three months in England,
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 131 
 
 Ben found himself on a very unusual and intimate 
 footing with these people who had been strangers 
 to him so short a time before. 
 
 "Truly, I'm in despair," Lady Kitty continued. 
 "She simply wants to be left alone." 
 
 "Well, then," said Ben sensibly, "why not 
 leave her alone?" 
 
 "Because she simply mustn't be. She'd die, 
 moping about the way she does. She must be 
 roused, brought out of herself." 
 
 "But how to do it?" 
 
 "Well, as uncle suggested just now, there's Mr. 
 Carmichael. You'd think he'd be the natural 
 person to do it. But she won't even see him. 
 And he's in despair." 
 
 * ' Yes, it is pretty hard on him, ' ' Ben agreed. 
 
 1 1 Hard on him ! Huh ! ' ' exclaimed the Duchess. 
 "If it hadn't been for him, there wouldn't have 
 been any trouble. Sir Arthur might have been 
 alive to-day!" 
 
 "Oh, Aunt, don't!" Lady Kitty implored, 
 "don't say such things!" 
 
 1 * They are being said by others than me. And 
 they are true," returned the Duchess grimly. 
 Lady Kitty moaned, and the Duke gave a troubled 
 sigh. Ben drummed nervously on the table. 
 Lady Kitty broke the silence impetuously. 
 
 "Well, we must stop such things being said! 
 They may be true a little but they are cruelly 
 unjust. Those two poor dears! It's awful that 
 people should have it in their power, just by talk-
 
 132 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ing, to upset their lives. They don't deserve it. 
 We must all quash this gossip by every means in 
 our power. And we can, we're strong enough; 
 and Mary's whole character helps. Besides, it 
 isn't as if they had really done anything wrong " 
 she stopped, rather appalled at going so far. 
 
 " Still, tongues have clacked," said the Duchess, 
 knitting vigorously as her habit was, when dis- 
 turbed, "and will clack for some time. I don't 
 say it can't be lived down. Most things can, if 
 it comes to that. But that doesn't help us now." 
 
 "I don't think Carmichael's part in it can be 
 lived down," said the Duke soberly. "It's bound 
 to injure him politically, as it probably has already 
 socially. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I am not thinking of him!" exclaimed the 
 Duchess scornfully. 
 
 "Well, then, I am!" Lady Kitty said warmly. 
 "He is a dear, decent fellow, and I like him, and 
 so does Mary; and that's enough for me." 
 
 "Kitty!" 
 
 "It's true, Aunt. And I don't see why they 
 shouldn't be happy even yet." 
 
 " Kitty Carew!" 
 
 "Auntie, there's no use trying to make me purr 
 when I want to scratch ! I must relieve my feel- 
 ings somehow. There have been enough pent-up 
 feelings around here this season to burst a bat- 
 tle-ship! And it isn't good for people. It isn't 
 good for Mary. We must get her out of it, get 
 her away."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 133 
 
 " But she won't go," said the Duke, in a trou- 
 bled voice. 
 
 "She'll have to, soon," the Duchess replied, 
 with a sigh. "Poor Mary, she will have very lit- 
 tle left. Ronald Stanhope succeeds to everything, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, but of course he'll look out for her," re- 
 turned the Duke. 
 
 1 1 If she '11 take it. ' ' This was from Lady Kitty. 
 
 "My dear, why shouldn't she? She has every 
 right." 
 
 "Yes, but Mary takes odd notions. She is mor- 
 bid, too, just now. You don't see her as I do, 
 Aunt. She doesn't talk of it, of course, but she 
 goes about looking as if she had committed some 
 crime that God couldn't forgive her for. She 
 can't forgive herself for some imaginary wrong. 
 It just goes straight to my heart to see her so 
 miserable. ' ' 
 
 "It's so useless," said the Duchess, with an- 
 other sigh. 
 
 "Of course. And she won't see Mr. Car- 
 michael, or write to him. And he's about sick 
 with the suspense of it. ' ' 
 
 "Huh!" 
 
 "Aunt," said Lady Kitty severely, "you al- 
 ways seem to think that women do all the suffer- 
 ing that's done in this world. 'Tisn't true a bit. 
 Men feel things just as much as we do!" 
 
 Ben's mouth twisted humorously. 
 
 "Really now?" he said.
 
 134 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Fine fat lot you know about it!" sniffed the 
 Duchess. 
 
 "My dear Aunt!" 
 
 "I don't think Mr. Carmichael matters in the 
 least. He's failed every way: as a man, as a 
 friend, and, it's quite clear, as a lover. She won't 
 have anything to do with him. That's as it 
 should be. We don't need to think about him any 
 more. He's as good as done for. But we must 
 think of her our poor Mary. Can't you suggest 
 something, Mr. Baldwin?" 
 
 "I've been thinking that the best thing she 
 could do would be to go back to America. It 
 would give her a big change, and I could take her 
 over with me, to my sister Jessie," Ben replied. 
 
 "That's a capital idea!" exclaimed the Duke. 
 
 "Poor Philip Carmichael!" said Lady Kitty 
 softly. 
 
 "Why do you feel so sorry for him? ".Ben 
 asked curiously. 
 
 She gave him quite a fierce look. "Because 
 they care for each other," she said. "And I 
 hate to see real feeling going to waste!" 
 
 "Well, I think you are right," he answered, 
 smiling at her pretty vehemence. "But if it is 
 real, it won't go to waste, be sure of that. Mean- 
 time it is hard on poor old Phil. It must be dread- 
 ful to face the curious glances in the House 
 day after day, and to pretend you don't see or 
 hear the looks and whispers. And to get nothing 
 but that out of it, after all. I imagine his work
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 135 
 
 and his career meant everything to him; and 
 it's had a big setback." 
 
 ''It's had more than that," said the Duchess 
 grimly. "It's over." 
 
 "Surely it is not as serious as that!" 
 
 "Wait until the next election and see," she 
 answered. "It would have been a hard struggle, 
 anyway, but a scandal like this is a sword in the 
 hands of his enemies. He hasn't a chance." 
 
 Ben's consternation showed in his face. 
 
 "What will he do?" he enquired. 
 
 "You talk to Mary," said Lady Kitty earnestly. 
 "You have more influence with her than any of 
 us. It will take her out of herself more than any- 
 thing else can interesting her in another per- 
 son's trouble. And it is a big enough trouble to 
 interest anybody ! A man 's whole career spoiled, 
 perhaps even his whole life. Make her see that 
 she is partly yes responsible. ' ' 
 
 "But what could she do?" inquired the Duke. 
 
 "Do? Why, make him happy, somehow or 
 other. Give him something to hope for, at least. 
 What would a man do for a woman whose life 
 he had compromised? Well, she ought to do the 
 same for him ! ' ' 
 
 "It would ruin them both," said the Duchess. 
 
 "Well, let it! They'd get some happiness 
 first!" 
 
 "Kitty, you are not to be trusted out of ear- 
 shot! If I were not by, to correct and explain 
 you, any one would think you really held the views
 
 136 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 you advocate. Your warm-heartedness carries 
 you away. Mary owes Philip Carmichael 
 nothing. His infatuation for her has placed her 
 in a terrible position, but she is not in the least 
 responsible for the fact that he, too, is placed 
 there." 
 
 Lady Kitty preserved a rebellious silence, and 
 Ben, feeling sorry for her, said kindly: "I'll do 
 my best for them both, if either of them gives me 
 an opening. Of course, I can't force confi- 
 dence. But I wouldn 't worry over them any more, 
 if I were you, Lady Kitty. Leave things to time 
 to adjust. You know sometimes the man is better 
 without the woman, and the woman without the 
 man, even when they care a great lot for each 
 other." 
 
 "And happiness isn't the only thing in the 
 world," added the Duke. 
 
 "No, but it is the best thing!" flashed Lady 
 Kitty. 
 
 The two men, each of whom, in his different 
 way, knew something of the renunciations of life, 
 smiled a little over her head, as she sat between 
 them. She looked up swiftly and caught the end 
 of it. 
 
 "At least," she added, rising to the full height 
 of her small figure, with hurt pride in every line 
 of it, "it's the best thing for ordinary human be- 
 ings. Of course, I don't know how it is with su- 
 perior people or saints." And she withdrew 
 with much dignity.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 137 
 
 The Duchess looked after her indulgently and 
 then twinkled, as she caught Ben's low chuckle of 
 amusement. 
 
 "Isn't she a darling?" she said. "I have to 
 rebuke her, but I secretly enjoy her little 
 tempers ! ' ' 
 
 The twelfth of August was approaching, and the 
 breaking up of Parliament. Mary had accepted 
 the invitation of the Duke and Duchess to go 
 with them to one of their country places and live 
 very quietly and healthfully among the Highland 
 hills for a month or two, until her plans should 
 shape themselves, and she should decide what was 
 to be done with the rest of her life. Ben was to 
 be of the party, and Lady Kitty, and that was all. 
 These old friends, the nearest to a family circle 
 that she now had, came close to her in her loneli- 
 ness ; but even from these she subtly withdrew her- 
 self, glad indeed of their society, but reserved in 
 it; grateful for all their interest and sympathy, 
 but calling upon it as little as possible. She did 
 not understand herself and her own needs and de- 
 sires. Since the shock of her husband's death, 
 she had been another woman. Some reproach 
 was gnawing at the heart of her, which Lady 
 Kitty divined, without fully comprehending. 
 Mary did, indeed, feel herself unforgiven not of 
 God but of herself. 
 
 Of Philip Carmichael she thought as little as 
 possible. She was too wrapped in her own 
 anguish to realize his. They had not met since
 
 138 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the fateful day when their secret had made such a 
 public scandal. Secluded, as she had been since, 
 she scarcely realized the extent of it. But every 
 day increased the difficulty of his position. At 
 first there had been the whispers and looks; he 
 knew himself pointed out, talked about, even 
 pitied. But when groups of men would disperse 
 as he joined them ; when in clubs and restaurants 
 men, who had been cordial, would pass with a bare 
 civility; when hostesses no longer found him in- 
 dispensable; when he was left out of one party 
 after another, and finally invitations ceased alto- 
 gether, he began to realize what it meant. Worst 
 of all, his party chiefs were silent and reserved, 
 and it was not difficult to foresee the end from 
 their attitude. He was a marked man one of 
 the brilliant failures, a social outcast. Sir Ar- 
 thur's incoherent anger had all the force of an 
 ante-mortem accusation. His death, following so 
 immediately, gave the affair a sinister aspect 
 which Carmichael's best friends could not conceal 
 from him. By swift degrees he was made 
 aware that his career as a statesman was over. 
 The years he had given to preparing for 
 it, the success he had attained in it, counted 
 for nothing against the overwhelming public 
 prejudice. Bitterness entered into the soul of 
 him, the more so as he knew himself impotent 
 against the injustice of it. He was a beaten man. 
 One letter he had had from Mary in answer to 
 one from him, begging to see her. "Dear Philip
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 139 
 
 later much later I daren't trust myself yet, 
 nor my love nor my sorrow. But oh, Philip, to 
 retrieve! And we can't. There isn't any way. 
 Through the wrong that we did it was a sin in 
 truth, if not in fact a soul has gone into the si- 
 lence of God and I can't forgive myself. I can't 
 find any peace. Pity me if you can and leave 
 me for a little while, to my own struggle. When 
 I can be of any use to you, I will, and perhaps, 
 by and by, we may find again that wonderful 
 friendship which made life so precious to us both. ' ' 
 To this he had returned an impetuous reply. 
 
 "My Dearest 
 
 ' ' You speak of our love as if it were a sin. Love 
 isn't a sin in itself only in the way it is treated. 
 And you have nothing to reproach yourself with 
 in that way. We didn't seek it; it came upon us 
 both out of the blue. And now, surely now, there 
 isn't any reason why we should not acknowledge 
 it to each other and to all the world. Tell me 
 when I may come to you and let it be quickly; 
 for my arms are longing to fold you in. A stag- 
 gering thought has just stopped my pen that 
 some day some day you will let me call you 
 aloud what I do now to myself my wife my Be- 
 loved my wife." 
 
 He posted this with that inner exhilaration that 
 is a sort of ecstasy in itself. Whatever might 
 happen, whether his fortunes went down or up, 
 no matter what fate decreed, he felt sure of her,
 
 140 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of her tenderness, of her love. It was balm to his 
 smarting spirit, stung as it had been to the quick, 
 by the withdrawal of public favor. There was 
 strength in it, too, strength to go on with, because 
 one woman and that a great woman, as every one 
 who has come under her influence acknowledged 
 still believed in him, still loved him, in the face 
 of untoward circumstance and of reversed public 
 opinion. He knew, if he could live it down, face 
 it out, fight it through, that he would be the 
 stronger for the temporary setback ; that it would 
 engender new forces within him to win his world 
 again. Every obstacle surmounted becomes a 
 stepping-stone to one's end. Philip Carmichael 
 felt a new surge of purpose. 
 
 But the days passed, and no reply came. He 
 excused it, explained it, until it was no longer pos- 
 sible to explain it. Then it bewildered him, and 
 finally one morning, in desperation, he rang the 
 bell of her house in Whitehall Gardens. He must 
 at least know what was happening to her, he told 
 himself. He was informed that her Ladyship had 
 gone to church. 
 
 "But it isn't Sunday," he said, puzzled. 
 
 "No, sir, but her Ladyship sometimes goes on 
 other days," Turnbull had replied respectfully. 
 
 He turned away with a new purpose. He knew 
 the church at which she worshipped. He would 
 find her there. All the better that it was not Sun- 
 day. They could talk. 
 
 It was not far. As he entered silently, he
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 141 
 
 seemed at first to be the only occupant. Think- 
 ing that possibly she had not yet arrived, he sat 
 down in one of the back pews to wait. Far at the 
 end of the aisle, the red lamp burned in the sanc- 
 tuary, and a pervading Presence filled the place 
 with peace. By soft degrees, it seemed to slip 
 into his soul. The natural, poetic part of him 
 yielded itself to the mystic influence, and the bit- 
 terness of the past days went out of him. After 
 all, what did it matter, in the sum total, what peo- 
 ple thought? A man had his work to do, the best 
 he could, and not even his own soul could judge it. 
 Only God. 
 
 Something like that his thoughts went, as he 
 laid his tired head on the back of the seat in 
 front. When he raised it again, after an interval, 
 a new note of color caught his eye; a warmth of 
 soft hair against the stone-gray of a pillar. His 
 heart gave a glad leap. 
 
 Even in the dim light and at a distance, he 
 could see the change in her. All the gracious 
 gaiety was gone out of her, all the youth! Her 
 slender figure in its widow's black gave him a 
 shock. She might almost have been one of the 
 Sisters who were connected with the parish. The 
 old longing for her filled his heart. She was so 
 exquisite, kneeling there in the silence, her face 
 laid in her hands. Presently she arose and left 
 her seat, genuflected before the Sacrament, then 
 came up the aisle toward him. She did not see 
 him until she was within arm's length of him.
 
 142 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "You!" she said in a hushed breath, as their 
 hands met. He did not reply, but there had al- 
 ways been that understanding between them which 
 could speak without words. He watched light and 
 color flow into her face, as a picture is illumined 
 by a light from behind or above. Her beauty 
 seemed to deepen and become radiant under the 
 touch of his hand on her pulse. In that instant, 
 while her eyes hung on him as if in fear that he 
 would vanish like a vision he knew himself her 
 master ; and she knew it, too. 
 
 His voice shook a little as he said quietly: 
 "Will you come back with me a moment! 
 Straight up to the sanctuary?" And without re- 
 leasing her hand, he led her like one in a dream, 
 till they knelt at the chancel rail. 
 
 What they said in their two hearts only God 
 knows. What mixture of human worship with di- 
 vine He saw in the two souls bare before Him, who 
 can tell ? But before they left His altar the sense 
 of benediction was upon them both. 
 
 They turned into one of the back pews and 
 talked in whispers, although there was no one in 
 the church but themselves. 
 
 "I came for the answer to my letter," he said 
 gently. > 
 
 "And I came here to ask it of God, and I find 
 you!" Her whisper died in a long breath. "It 
 seems very wonderful and beautiful as if we were 
 forgiven and at peace at last. And that's the 
 answer, Philip. That's the end."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 143 
 
 " Dearest, that is no end!" His hand closed 
 firmly over hers, and she let it remain there al- 
 most unconsciously, while the soul in her eyes/ 
 yearned toward the Sanctuary they had just left. 
 
 "Sometimes,'* she said, "I seem to know there 
 is another relationship for men and women who 
 can grasp it that is not love and is not friend- 
 ship that God blesses above both. But just as 
 I reach out for it, it is not there!" 
 
 "Because it is not real, dearest. There is only 
 the old, real thing, as it always was, and always 
 will be. And that is for us. There is no wrong 
 in it now." 
 
 She shook her head and released her hand. "I 
 can't feel it, Philip. It has been shocked out of 
 me by all that has happened in the last month or 
 two. I am afraid! Just here, to-day, I have 
 found a little peace, because I renounce what 
 seems what is my happiness. Oh, leave me my 
 little peace ! It 's all I have left ! ' ' 
 
 She had risen, and he heard the vibration of her 
 voice stop short of a sob. 
 
 They walked up the aisle to the door. 
 
 "You give me no hope at all, Mary?" 
 
 "Only the hope that I have myself," she an- 
 swered, after a moment, "that somehow, out 
 of all this suffering, after a long time, perhaps, 
 we may find each other again, on some other plane 
 that can be blessed, but not now not yet." 
 
 It seemed to Philip Carmichael that he could 
 not relinquish her so. Words and desires pressed
 
 144 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 strongly to his lips only to die before the look of 
 her eyes. They were so still, so apathetic, as she 
 turned from him and lowered her veil. It shut 
 her subtly away from him, as though behind its 
 shadow her grief descended upon her again and 
 left her inviolate to any softer touch. A strong 
 and reverent pity possessed him and held him 
 silent. He put her into her waiting carriage with- 
 out a word. As she drove away, he had the feel- 
 ing that she tried to smile bravely, but something 
 was wrong with his own eyes, and he could not 
 be sure.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "The half o' that, I'll take" says she, "And more, too, if 1 
 
 can," 
 THE COURTING OF DINAH SHAD. 
 
 NOTHING could have been better for 
 Mary, in the state of mind which dom- 
 inated her at that time, than the environ- 
 ment of her god-parents' home in the Highlands. 
 They lived very simply up there, and Lady Kitty 
 and Ben Baldwin were the only other guests for 
 a time. To restore her normal happiness was the 
 chief concern of each member of the little house- 
 hold, and in their several ways, they succeeded 
 wonderfully. The Duchess ' vigorous and friendly 
 scoldings, the Duke's gentle solicitude, Lady 
 Kitty's vivacity, and Ben's native drollery were 
 strong helps, while the splendid Highland air and 
 the natural joys of living out-of-doors did their 
 part in bringing back her health, and, to some ex- 
 tent, raising her spirits. She was a capital horse- 
 woman and rode every day over the moors and 
 down to the sea, generally with Ben and Lady 
 Kitty, but sometimes alone. It was only then, 
 when alone, that she wondered dully how to shape 
 the rest of her life. It seemed so lacking in mo- 
 tive, in purpose. Her place in the world had been 
 taken from her, and she did not know how to make
 
 1445 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 herself another. It had been decided, however, 
 that she was to return to the States when Ben's 
 holiday was over, to visit his sister Jessie, her 
 old school friend. Ben had promised to escort 
 her as far as New York, and to put her on the 
 train for San Francisco. 
 
 "Sis will do the rest," he said; "she and Cali- 
 fornia are the best treatment in the world for 
 Mary. ' ' 
 
 Lady Kitty and Mary carried out their inten- 
 tion of spending a week in town to attend to vari- 
 ous shopping and dressmaking needs. Ben saw 
 them safely bestowed in the Duke's London house, 
 with their maids and luggage, and then went off 
 to his old quarters at the Savoy. 
 
 The three met daily at tea or dinner. Most 
 of the rooms in the great house were closed, and 
 most of the servants away, so these meals were 
 generally served informally in the little morning- 
 room which was particularly Lady Kitty's, or in 
 the beautiful old library, the Duke's favorite 
 place when he was at home. Under these happy 
 circumstances, the three developed an intimacy so 
 close and sweet that the memory of it remained 
 with each of them ever afterward. 
 
 The week had nearly passed, and they had seen 
 nothing of Philip Carmichael. Ben thought he 
 must be out of town, as he had not been able to 
 find him. Lady Kitty was getting quite desperate 
 about it, feeling, as she told Ben, that it was "now 
 or never" with them. "And if she ever gets off
 
 to America without seeing him, it will be 
 never ! ' ' 
 
 One night, when the two women talked late, 
 she ventured to say something to Mary about it. 
 The latter was standing in front of a long glass, 
 braiding her light brown hair. Lady Kitty 
 paused in her own vigorous brushing, to say 
 softly: "How Philip Carmichael always loved 
 the color of it!" 
 
 Receiving no answer, after the little silence that 
 followed, she continued softly: 
 
 "Don't you ever think of him, Mary?" 
 
 ' ' Yes. But I can 't talk of it, Kitty. ' ' 
 
 "Why not?" asked the little widow. "It 
 would do you good, Mary. It would do you more 
 good to see him ! It would do you most good of 
 all to marry him ! ' ' 
 
 Mary looked so startled that the other almost 
 laughed. She contained herself, however, and 
 said very gently: 
 
 "Forgive me if I trespass where I shouldn't, 
 because my only motive is to make you happy, 
 you poor dear. And why shouldn't you be? 
 Talk to me, Mary, tell me about it. It will help 
 you, believe me. ' ' 
 
 "There is nothing to tell." 
 
 * ' Tell me you love him, in spite of anything you 
 can do to prevent it. You do love him, Mary, 
 don't you?" 
 
 ' ' How do you know that ? ' ' 
 
 "Dear idiot! I can read the signs! Mary,
 
 148 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 don't you see, that if you are a lover, you really 
 ought to marry him?" 
 
 "No, I don't see that,'* said Mary slowly. 
 
 Her friend took the moment resolutely into her 
 hands. "Your husband is dead," she said. 
 "You would be but following out his wish if you 
 married the man you love. And he needs you. 
 You have hurt his life. You must make it up to 
 him." 
 
 "I hurt his life?" 
 
 "Yes, you. He has lost his ambition, his 
 hope. He would find them again with you." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" 
 
 "Because he loves you." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Dear idiot dear fellow-idiot!" said Lady 
 Kitty, putting on her whimsical look of patience, 
 "I don't know how I know; but I seem always to 
 understand every degree of the disease even in 
 other people!" 
 
 Mary's low laugh rewarded her sally, but it 
 stopped almost at once. 
 
 "I can't talk about it, dear," she said gravely, 
 "but I'll think. No, I don't mind your having 
 broached the subject. Only, it isn't time yet to 
 go on with it." 
 
 And with that, the warm-hearted little widow 
 had to be content. 
 
 Destiny, however, was on her side. What all 
 her friendly plotting could not bring about, it ac- 
 complished for her quite easily. On the very last
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 149 
 
 day of their stay in town, as the two widows were 
 driving home after a fitting, Lady Kitty gave a 
 sudden command to the coachman, and the car- 
 riage came to a standstill. She stretched out her 
 hand over the side. 
 
 4 'How do you do, Mr. Carmichael?" she said 
 gaily, as he came up. 
 
 It all happened so suddenly that none of them 
 realized quite what they were doing. Mary 
 flushed and paled again, nervously, as they shook 
 hands. Lady Kitty, in high spirits, did most of 
 the talking. She insisted that Carmichael get in 
 and drive back with them to tea. 
 
 1 'Ben is coming," she said happily, "and he has 
 been wanting to see you for ever so long, hasn't 
 he, Mary?" 
 
 Carmichael 's eyes questioned her. "Yes," she 
 answered, trying to avoid them. "Yes do 
 come." 
 
 "It will be your last chance to see either of 
 them," Lady Kitty prattled on, as he obeyed, and 
 the carriage started again. "For we are off to 
 the Highlands again to-morrow, and very soon 
 they are going to America." 
 
 She laughed at his puzzled expression. "No, 
 they are not eloping," she continued. "At least 
 they haven't told me so though personally I 
 think it would do Mary good " 
 
 "Kitty!" from Mary in protest. 
 
 "Still, perhaps it wouldn't be quite 'clubby' 
 under the circumstances!" her friend continued,
 
 150 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 twinkling radiantly. She was talking just for the 
 sake of talking, but her gaiety was spontaneous. 
 Philip Cannichael was recovering under its in- 
 fluence. 
 
 "Same delightful Madame Frivolity," he said, 
 with a smile. 
 
 ' ' Just the same. And awfully glad to see you, 
 Mr. Carmichael. ' ' The cordiality of her tone 
 rang true. 
 
 "Nice of you to say it," he returned gratefully. 
 The quick perceptions of both women read into 
 the simple words the history of many a secret hurt. 
 They talked more generally, telling him of Mary's 
 plan to visit Ben's sister, and speaking mostly of 
 America, until the house was reached. 
 
 Then Lady Kitty left them alone in the dim, 
 cool library and went away to give some instruc- 
 tions about tea. They had scarcely spoken di- 
 rectly to each other, and when they were alone, 
 there still seemed nothing to say. She was trou- 
 bled, and he stirred with the old longing for her, 
 and over these feelings, their eyes met. Then 
 suddenly they found themselves in each other's 
 arms. Every explanation vanished, every scruple 
 broke down before the reality in them both the 
 strong and terrible reality that makes or breaks 
 the lives of men and women as nothing else can. 
 When they drew away and looked each other in 
 the eyes after a long minute, there seemed nothing 
 between them and the desire of their hearts. 
 
 "It is not ' wrong' now," he said, with a smile.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 151 
 
 "Philip, it makes me afraid like a miracle. 
 It is so sudden! I can't believe that it may be 
 really right, and blessed after all. ' ' 
 
 "I love to hear you say 'blessed' like that." 
 
 "But just think! Only a month or so ago we 
 were fighting this thing with all our strength, try- 
 ing to deny its existence, and now " 
 
 "Now," he said, taking her hands between his 
 palms, "now, when will you marry me, Mary?" 
 
 She looked swiftly up and away again. "Oh, 
 Philip, we can't speak of that yet!" 
 
 He was silent, respecting her scruple, even while 
 he rebelled at it. She seemed to follow his 
 thought, for after a moment, withdrawing her 
 hands in one of those big, honest gestures that 
 seemed to express her whole personality, she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Yet, after all, why not? Why should we not 
 speak of it? The real thing is the right thing. 
 We love each other. Only let it be not hurried; 
 we owe that to others. Shall I say in a year?" 
 
 ' ' A year ! ' ' He was aghast. 
 
 She laughed. "You child! Does it seem so 
 long? Why, I've only known you a little over a 
 year ! And just think of all the other years that 
 are left." 
 
 "A year!" he repeated, as if he had heard only 
 that. "Why, Mary, I couldn't wait a year! I 
 couldn't stand it the strain of the whole situa- 
 tion. You don't know what it's like! You don't 
 know how they talk about you, too."
 
 152 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 11 About me I" she said slowly and proudly. 
 
 " About us. Every one expects us to marry, 
 and soon. But of course, that's neither here nor 
 there, what they expect. Still, what people think 
 has a good deal to do with a man's life, I've found. 
 Of course I shan't stand for the next election. I 
 shall want to go away; and, oh, I shall want to 
 take you with me ! " 
 
 1 1 Philip, do you mean it ? That you won 't stand 
 on account of oh, it's impossible!" 
 
 "Why, dear," he said quietly, "it's over the 
 whole thing. I know it as well as if I had been 
 dismissed by an employer. Think of the faces of 
 my constituents, if I tried to run again! No, I'm 
 only thankful that I am through at the close of this 
 session. I am, or shall be soon, 'out of a job.' 
 There, don't worry about it ! I'll find another." 
 
 "But it was your whole interest, your life, a 
 year ago!" 
 
 "Yes, a year ago, but now 
 
 Her eyes filled. "What will you do?" 
 
 Carmichael ran his hand through his hair with 
 a fine, free gesture, as if he were pushing off a 
 load to fall behind him. Then he started to walk 
 up and down, as his habit was when interested or 
 excited, hands crammed in pockets. 
 
 "I'll tell you. I've been thinking it over a bit 
 of late, and I'm ready for the question!" He 
 twinkled merrily, and his speech relapsed into its 
 natural Irish intonation, which it was apt to do 
 on occasions. "It was gloomy thinkin', when I
 
 wasn't sure of you, darlin' but now, now that 
 I am oh, my dear my sweet could you be con- 
 tent to come with me, even to another country, 
 and start again at something else! Where people 
 don't know us, where we'd be poor like the rest, 
 and work like the rest, and, like the rest, build our 
 house and live in it the remainder of our lives! 
 Could you, Mary, could you ? ' ' 
 
 "You don't mean Canada?" 
 
 "No, California. I've a tiny bit of property 
 out there an old uncle of mine left me. It's 
 nothing. He used to raise oranges and barely 
 made a living. It would be just that for us, too. 
 Hard work for a living, not for the joy of the 
 work. Oh, I shouldn't ask it of you. It's dead 
 selfish I am. No, I'd better go first, and make my 
 fortune and then come back for you, my Mary." 
 He twinkled again, irresistibly. "Only, by the 
 time I'd made it, we might be old and gray. 
 Would you wait for me, Mary?" 
 
 "No, sir," she retorted with spirit. "The 
 making belongs to me as much as the fortune." 
 
 "Faith, more! There won't be any fortune, 
 but there'll be plenty of makin' it!" 
 
 She laughed outright then sobered quickly. 
 "Phil, dear, I want to share from the start. I'm 
 poor, too. I can't take anything from Ronald 
 Stanhope. You don't mind?" 
 
 "I wouldn't have it!" 
 
 "And I'm not very useful, but I'll learn. I 
 won't be a burden."
 
 154 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A bur" 
 
 " Don't say it!" He took her in his arms with 
 sudden passion. "Do you really mean it, my 
 dearest: that you'll come with me, that you're 
 not afraid to try a new life new and hard with 
 met" 
 
 "I'll go anywhere with you!" she said, with 
 shining eyes. 
 
 "Wide world over!" 
 
 "Wide world over!" 
 
 "Ah, you're a rare one! You make me feel 
 like crying. . . . Mary!" He put her suddenly 
 away from him, with a new thought. 
 
 "What is it!" 
 
 "You're not marrying me to save me?" He 
 was in sober earnest. 
 
 She looked bewildered, then broke into laugh- 
 ter. "Dear idiot, of course not. What should I 
 save you from?" 
 
 "Because, you know, I've my own pride. And 
 I wouldn 't want to be married out of pity or corn- 
 pa ssion, or because you might think that you 
 
 "That I owed it to you," she finished for him. 
 "No, it isn't for any reason of that sort that I 
 shall marry you. It's because you offer me the 
 two greatest things in life love and work 
 alongside of each other, and both for you. There 
 will be such busy days you don't know Cali- 
 fornia, do you ? I do and such wonderful nights, 
 cool and deep and soft, with the smell of flowers
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 155 
 
 all the time, and plains and mountains and stars ! 
 Oh, Philip ! you are leading me into an enchanted 
 land. It isn 't into exile we are going ; it is home ! ' ' 
 
 "My dear one!" 
 
 They were silent for a moment, then he started 
 to his feet, with one of his sudden movements. 
 
 "Are you going?" she said, disappointed. 
 
 "Yes, to get the tickets to book passage." 
 
 "But you will not need them until Christmas, 
 at least! 'Faith,' as you say, it is clear I am 
 marrying a madman!" 
 
 "And it's clear I am marrying an angel!" 
 
 "Oh, don't!" 
 
 "Well, then, a great lady with a great, sweet 
 heart my dear my dear." 
 
 She lay against his breast, her slenderness 
 wrapped around by his strong arms as by a man- 
 tle, whose warm fold would ever stand between 
 her and that shiver of the heart which is loneli- 
 ness. 
 
 "But what," said Lady Kitty the next day, as 
 they were on their way to the Highlands, "what 
 will Aunt Theodora say?" 
 
 Her consternation was comical. "She'll say I 
 put you up to it!" 
 
 "So you did," said Mary mischievously. 
 ' ' And I expect you to bear the brunt and break the 
 news for me!" Then she added more seriously: 
 "I do really think you had better do it, Kitty. 
 Choose your own moment and I will help you out. " 
 
 It happened a day or two after their return to
 
 156 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the Highlands that the Duke and Duchess were 
 made acquainted with her plans. Mary, coming 
 back to the house after a ride one morning, 
 glanced into the morning-room on her way up- 
 stairs. She was still in riding clothes, and had 
 brought the glow and stir of triumphant health in 
 with her. Color and life were in her face, and her 
 hair, loosened a little from its neat braiding, blew 
 in soft little waves about her forehead. She wore 
 a three-cornered hat of soft felt, which crushed 
 down on her hair, utterly unlike the usual stiff 
 English derby. She was a picture as she stood 
 in the doorway. The Duke put down his paper to 
 smile at her, then got up and went over to the win- 
 dow, turning his back on the room, a way he had 
 when something unpleasant was being threshed 
 out in family council. 
 
 "Heavens!" exclaimed Mary brightly. "How 
 solemn you look like an owl in an ivy-bush, 
 Duchess! Whatever is the matter? " 
 
 "And you," retorted the Duchess, "look like a 
 western cow-girl in that hat. Do take it off, 
 Mary, and try to get used to a civilized English 
 derby. * ' 
 
 "I never heard of a * cow-girl'," said Mary, 
 laughing, * * but I '11 take it off. I was just going to 
 change, anyway." 
 
 "I've been telling them," said Lady Kitty, 
 * * that I think the hat suits you beautifully and it 
 will probably suit you still better in California." 
 
 The bolt was shot.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 157 
 
 Mary felt the quick look that both her old 
 friends turned upon her. The Duke's was trou- 
 bled, the Duchess' somewhat indignant. 
 
 "My dear Mary," she said, "Kitty has been 
 telling us the most extraordinary things. I re- 
 fuse to take them seriously. I said I would wait 
 until you corroborated them. ' ' 
 
 After a second Mary said, in that tone that 
 Lady Kitty described as "her wonderful voice": 
 
 "They are blessedly true." 
 
 " ' Blessedly true!' Huh!" The Duchess 
 scoffed. "Mary, you must be out of your senses. 
 There, my dear, I didn't mean to hurt you; for- 
 give an old woman's hasty speech!" she added, as 
 she saw the deeper color of resentment encroach- 
 ing on Mary's face. "But you surely can't mean 
 such things! I simply won't believe it. I I 
 won't allow it!" she finished up. 
 
 "Aunt!" remonstrated Lady Kitty. 
 
 "I'm sorry you should take it like this," said 
 Mary gently, "because, you see, I'm so happy I 
 should like you all to share it, to be happy with 
 me for me. But if you can't " She paused 
 and looked wistfully at the Duke. His hands 
 clasped behind his back were twisting nervously, 
 but he gave no other answer to the mute appeal. 
 
 "If you can't," she continued, "you can't, of 
 course. But I'm sorry." 
 
 "It will make no difference to you our objec- 
 tions, I suppose?" asked the Duchess, knitting 
 vigorously.
 
 158 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Oh, yes a great difference but " 
 
 "But it won't change your determination!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where's Ben Baldwin?" asked Lady Kitty 
 plaintively. 
 
 "I'm glad he isn't here at this moment," 
 snapped the Duchess. "We may as well keep this 
 thing to ourselves until until Mary changes her 
 mind. ' ' 
 
 "I shall never change it." 
 
 The Duchess grew desperate. She had a 
 violent temper when it was aroused, and the 
 sense of opposition and a foreknowledge of de- 
 feat were rousing it now, to an unusual degree. 
 
 "Mary Stanhope!" she cried, and the knitting 
 dropped into her lap. "Do you mean to stand 
 there and tell me that you mean to leave home, 
 friends, country, to go with a man whom you 
 scarcely know what's a year's acquaintance! 
 whom none of us likes or trusts ; who is socially an 
 outcast by this time ; who has nearly ruined your 
 life as it is and will ruin it yet; to go with such 
 a man to a strange country and to a hard, poor 
 life you, used to everything that's worth living 
 for ? I can 't believe it ; you won 't, when you come 
 to think it over, let yourself do such a thing." 
 She was softening as she ended, but Mary's face 
 had hardened, and her head was very high. The 
 things said of her lover had cut deep. After a 
 while she said slowly : 
 
 "I'm sorry you don't like Mr. Carmichael
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 159 
 
 but I love him. If he is 'socially an outcast* as 
 you say, it is partly my fault. He hasn't ruined 
 my life, he's completed it; and there's nothing 
 else worth living for but him." 
 
 Her words but added fuel to the anger and con- 
 sternation of the old Duchess. She arose and 
 left her seat. 
 
 "It's exile, disgrace, poverty, work, estrange- 
 ment of your friends and God only knows what 
 ruin at the end!" 
 
 "I'll share it all," said Mary steadfastly. 
 
 The Duchess gave a gesture of despair. "Then 
 there's nothing else to say. I wash my hands of 
 you ! ' ' And she left the room. 
 
 Lady Kitty bestowed a warm hug on Mary, 
 standing silent in the doorway, turning the three- 
 cornered hat round and round in her hand. * ' My 
 dear, you are wonderful," she said, "and I love 
 you for it!" Then she, too, passed out, leaving 
 her friend alone with the Duke. He turned at 
 once, his face full of grave solicitude. 
 
 "Well, Godfather?" 
 
 "Well, my child." 
 
 "Are you going to leave me, too?" 
 
 "You know that could never be. But, my child, 
 though they sound hard, perhaps, to you now, the 
 Duchess has said a great many true things." 
 
 Mary's face, which had softened naturally 
 under the old man's gentleness, grew stern again. 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Of your friend, Philip Carmichael. Mary, I
 
 160 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 could wish with all my heart that your affection 
 had been given to almost any other man we 
 know. ' ' 
 
 1 ' Godfather!" 
 
 "Yes, almost any other. Not that I don't like 
 him immensely, personally, and enjoy him 
 every one does ; but, well, my objection is one that 
 a woman wouldn't understand. But a man 
 would." 
 
 Mary replied, standing very tall and straight: 
 
 "Well, it doesn't matter, anyway any one's 
 'objection' for it couldn't weigh with me one jot 
 against the man I love and against my given word. 
 Don't you see? Nothing matters, nothing can 
 matter, but just his need of me and mine of him." 
 
 "The splendid selfishness of lovers," said the 
 Duke patiently, with, however, a sigh not quite 
 of resignation. "Other people need you, too, 
 Mary." 
 
 "Not as he does. And I need him." 
 
 "But supposing you knew, supposing you could 
 be made to see, that it would be really unwise 
 to marry him ; that it would produce only unhappi- 
 ness for you, because he is by nature and tempera- 
 ment incapable of making another happy for long; 
 supposing you knew his history and inheritance, 
 and it should show you, as it would, that it is a long 
 chance you are taking, Mary, what then?" 
 
 "Why, I'd take it just the same," she said, 
 "because I love him, Godfather."
 
 He turned away helplessly. ''How blind 
 women are!" he said. "How blind love is!" 
 
 Some of her native buoyancy danced in her eyes 
 for a moment. She came close and laid her hand 
 on his arm caressingly. 
 
 "Isn't it lucky?" she said. 
 
 He patted her hand kindly. "You know, my 
 dear, I understand what has happened to you, I 
 understand the feeling don't think I don't, 
 though it takes me back a good many years but 
 I understand, too, what you don't as yet " 
 
 "What's that, dear Godfather?" she asked, as 
 he hesitated. 
 
 "Why that it passes. It passes. It passes 
 forever. ' ' 
 
 She stared at him, uncomprehendingly, unbe- 
 lievingly. 
 
 "I know you can't realize it now," he went on 
 patiently. "You couldn't be expected to, at your 
 age. But we always long to save others from the 
 mistake we've made ourselves." 
 
 She returned to his former words in her answer. 
 
 "What passes?" 
 
 "Love passion emotion whatever name you 
 call it the thing that you think binds you to one 
 of the other sex; it passes it all passes away." 
 
 Mary looked at him pityingly, and he almost 
 laughed as he met the look. 
 
 "It's grim that," he said, "that you should 
 pity me for what I can't feel any more, while I
 
 162 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 am standing here wasting sympathy on you for 
 what I know you've got to go through." 
 
 "I do pity any one who can think love passes 
 away," she said gravely. 
 
 * ' I didn 't say quite that. ' ' 
 
 11 Didn't you ?" 
 
 "No. What I meant to say was, that human 
 love passes that which makes you single one man 
 out from his fellows." 
 
 "I can't believe that, either." 
 
 The Duke passed his hand slowly over her shin- 
 ing light brown hair. 
 
 "Ah, well," he said, "at your age I didn't, 
 either. We each have to live and learn. I would 
 have spared you unhappiness if I could, but per- 
 haps, after all, I was wrong to try. It is some- 
 times one's best friend sorrow and always 
 one 's greatest teacher. ' ' 
 
 Mary smiled rather ruefully. "I seem to be 
 starting out on my new life with a unique set of 
 congratulations," she said. 
 
 "My dear little child," he said very tenderly, 
 "what can I say to you! You are going to marry 
 a man whose stability and character I doubt. I 
 must say it this once. I'm a better judge of men 
 than you are. ' ' 
 
 " I don't judge him; I love him." 
 
 "Just so. But not loving him, and loving you 
 very much, I must judge him. He isn't quite a 
 man's man. If he were, he wouldn't take you like 
 this to such hardships, such work. But there!
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 163 
 
 Let that pass. They are not what I dread for 
 you. You've spirit enough to surmount such 
 things. What I dread for you " 
 
 "Yes," she said puzzled, "what on earth is this 
 dark thing you seem to dread so much ? Trot out 
 the hobgoblin, show me your spectre, and I'll show 
 you it's only an imaginary one, born of your too- 
 great concern for me. Now, what is it ? " 
 
 The Duke answered after a moment's silence: 
 "Your disappointment in the man himself, Mary. 
 You'll have to acknowledge it, one day. Will you 
 be able to stand it? You are such an idealist! 
 You can't realize it now, but how will it be with 
 you when you do 1 " 
 
 After a moment's silence, she said with a tone 
 of finality: "Godfather dear, Philip is my por- 
 tion for good or for evil ; if for good, well ; if for 
 evil, well, too. But whichever it is, he is my por- 
 tion of life the blood of nay heart, the breath of 
 my soul, my gift of God. I love him." 
 
 "Lord so you do!" said the Duke despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 She smiled brightly. "So, you see, all that be- 
 ing so, there's no use warning me, or arguing 
 with me, is there ? You must just put up with me, 
 with us, and make the best of us, won't you?" 
 
 Her head had found his shoulder, and her arm 
 crept up to his neck. 
 
 "You'd charm the birds off the trees," he said 
 half angrily. 
 
 "Godfather"
 
 164 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Yes" 
 
 * ' If great things like these great, deep, beauti- 
 ful feelings do pass 
 
 "Yes, well?" 
 
 "If they do as you think why, what on earth 
 lasts?" 
 
 The Duke gave her a strange look. "That's 
 for you and him to find out," he said mystic- 
 ally. 
 
 Afterward, speaking to the Duchess, he said: 
 "She's a wonderful woman, Mary is. I meant 
 thoroughly to frighten, thoroughly to discourage 
 her, but she was so well, wonderful there's no 
 other word for it that I I didn't succeed." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks! Being * wonderful' as you call 
 it, won't pay bills," said the Duchess. "Not 
 Mary's bills, anyway. No, there'll be plenty of 
 billing if not cooing! And what do you mean, 
 anyway, by your 'wonderful'! It seems to me the 
 most ordinary sort of absurd infatuation." 
 
 The Duke laughed. "Everybody else's in- 
 fatuation always seems like that. But what is 
 wonderful about Mary is her almost if it were 
 any one else but her, I should say almost un- 
 modest pride in it. It's superb in its way; quite 
 fearless of opinion or consequences or anything 
 but the supreme fact of the moment. She loves 
 him and glories in it!" 
 
 The Duchess groaned. "It's hopeless! And 
 so are you, Edward. Talk about idealism! 
 You're as bad as she. I believe you'd positively
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 165 
 
 encourage her mad feeling. You'd call it 
 * wonderful' or 'big' or some other asinine 
 thing" 
 
 "My dear Theodora," the Duke remonstrated 
 meekly, his eyes twinkling, "such language!" 
 
 " 'Tisn't half bad enough, and don't contradict 
 me!" 
 
 "I didn't, did I?" 
 
 "Well, don't. As for Mary, she's obsessed 
 not wonderful. I'm out of patience with her. I 
 thought she had more sense. A scamp, like Car- 
 michael ! If he were even a man " 
 
 "We know nothing against him, Theodora." 
 
 "I wish we did!" said the Duchess, with an- 
 other groan. 
 
 "It wouldn't make any difference to Mary." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that any sane woman 
 oh, but she isn't sane! do you mean to say that 
 any woman can't be made to see the rocks she's 
 heading for 1 ' ' 
 
 1 1 Not till she gets to them, ' ' answered the Duke, 
 "and feels them." 
 
 "Well, I wash my hands of her!" 
 
 He regarded her with amusement semi-detached 
 from sadness. "You know perfectly well, my 
 dear, that you 'd do anything in the world for her 
 from stopping her marriage to enduring it, if 
 you have to! So why pretend this desertion?" 
 
 "Well," said the Duchess crossly, very angry 
 at being detected in an amiable weakness, "if I'm 
 a fool, you needn't throw it up to me!"
 
 166 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 The Duke retired, chuckling. His wife was 
 thoroughly upset, as he saw, but he knew he could 
 trust to her good heart and good sense, and that in 
 the end, if she could not convert Mary to her 
 views, she would at least keep silent about them. 
 The Duchess however had not yet given up hope. 
 
 "Isn't there anything," she said later in the 
 day to Ben Baldwin when they were discussing it, 
 4 ' anything in the life of Philip Carmichael, which, 
 if she knew of it, might prevent Mary from mak- 
 ing this marriage 1 She 's a woman of such high 
 principle. Hasn't he ever done anything which 
 we could get hold of and use against him!" 
 
 ' ' Aunt ! ' ' said Lady Kitty indignantly. 
 
 "She wouldn't believe it," answered Ben. 
 
 "Ah, then there is something!" cried the Duch- 
 ess keenly. 
 
 "What do you mean!" asked Ben, mystified by 
 her sudden conviction, which had seemed to come 
 from his words. 
 
 "Mr. Baldwin," she said earnestly, "you knew 
 Philip Carmichael well years ago. A man with a 
 character like his must have sown a good many 
 wild oats. I beg of you, if you know of anything 
 that he has ever done, something that might prej- 
 udice Mary against him, which might just pos- 
 sibly prevent this marriage to speak of it!" 
 
 Lady Kitty was leaning forward, looking at her 
 aunt in amazement. 
 
 The Duke said gravely: "Don't you think that
 
 it is taking a good deal on ourselves to inter- 
 fere now 1 ' ' 
 
 The Duchess paid no attention to either of them. 
 "Well, Mr. Baldwin, do you know something 
 which, if Mary knew, might cause her to hesitate 
 perhaps change her mind entirely?" 
 
 "Aunt! you are making it dreadfully difficult 
 for Mr. Baldwin!" 
 
 "Oh, no," answered Ben slowly. "Only, you 
 see, Phil Carmichael is my friend. And even if 
 there were anything of the sort you mean, of 
 course I well, naturally, I couldn 't speak of it. ' ' 
 He hesitated an instant, then finished: "But I 
 don't know of anything, I'm glad to say, that need 
 prevent Mary from marrying him. ' * 
 
 The Duchess gave him a searching look. 
 
 "Mary is your friend, too," she said almost 
 warningly. 
 
 "Yes," Ben returned, unflinching. "My very 
 dear friend; they both are." 
 
 "Yet I think you share our feeling in regard to 
 this marriage," she persisted. 
 
 "Our feelings can't change things," he an- 
 swered. "We can't judge for them, can we! 
 They are deeply in love with each other. If it 
 turns out to be a blessing, they have a right to 
 it; if it turns out to be a mistake, they have a 
 right to that, too. Whatever it is, it's theirs, not 
 ours. We can 't interfere. ' ' 
 
 There was a little silence, and then the Duchess,
 
 168 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 almost at the breaking point, said, quite meekly 
 for her: "I suppose you are right." 
 
 "You see," the Duke explained rather heavily, 
 4 * it is hard for us ; we are very fond of our Mary. 
 She's grown to be like a daughter to us and we 
 shall lose her." 
 
 Ben felt intensely sorry for them both this 
 childless pair, whose loneliness would be so im- 
 mensely augmented when their much-loved god- 
 child should go away. 
 
 "Don't take such a gloomy view of it," he said 
 kindly. "America's not so far away, after all. 
 And in time you'll grow to like Carmichael 
 when you see that they are happy together. He 's 
 a fine chap." 
 
 "Not fine enough for Mary," said the Duchess. 
 
 "You wouldn't think any one that," said Lady 
 Kitty. "But I like him, always did. Ben does 
 too, Aunt, and he knows him better than we do." 
 
 The Duchess sighed. 
 
 "Well, it relieves me to think that Mary will be 
 with her old friends you and your sister. What 
 are her plans, do you know ! ' ' 
 
 "I do," said Lady Kitty. "We were talking 
 about them before tea^ She means to pack and 
 ship her own personal things almost immediately, 
 and return to America when Mr. Baldwin does. 
 Then she will go to Mr. Baldwin's sister in San 
 Francisco and wait for Mr. Carmichael. He will 
 probably join her there by Christmas; then they 
 will be married and go to his place in the southern
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 169 
 
 part of the State near Los Angeles, I think she 
 said. ' ' 
 
 The Duchess looked at her in consternation. 
 
 ''It's all settled?" she asked slowly. 
 
 "Yes, Aunt, I'm afraid it is. Mary told me 
 Mr. Carmichael had planned it all. He is no 
 longer an M. P. now that Parliament is dissolved, 
 you see, and he won't stand again, so he will fol- 
 low her out as soon as he can arrange his affairs 
 here. They mean to be married and start in on 
 their fruit-ranch as soon as possible. " 
 
 "I wouldn't have believed that Mary could do 
 such a thing!" the Duchess exclaimed. "To put 
 aside the conventional period of mourning- 
 Mary ! Why, it shocks me ! " 
 
 The Duke, feeling as troubled as his wife, yet 
 knowing more of the intimate facts, said : "Well, 
 I think Sir Arthur would have wished her to do 
 just what she is doing. He made a great stand, 
 you know, for the absolutely sincere thing 
 wished to give her her freedom for just this 
 cause. ' ' 
 
 "Well he gave her her freedom," the Duchess 
 answered solemnly.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "Heart-breaks and songs, 
 
 Fate leave us these, 
 Since no man prolongs 
 Love's joy and peace." 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 THE day of departure for America drew 
 near. Mary had returned from her visit 
 in the Highlands wonderfully improved in 
 health and spirits. She set herself to the task of 
 packing and shipping her personal possessions 
 with an enthusiasm that she had not shown for 
 years. The Duchess, who had remained in the 
 Highlands, had been splendid in the end, putting 
 her personal prejudice aside, and anxious to help 
 Mary in any way possible. When it came to say- 
 ing good-by, she quite broke down and cried un- 
 restrainedly. 
 
 "My dear," she said, between her sobs, "you 
 are going so far away! I shan't be able to look 
 after you or scold you any more. I shall not 
 be able to be of use in any emergency; but you'll 
 let me know, just the same as ever, if I can be, 
 won't you?" 
 
 The Duke had promised to see her in London 
 before she sailed, and one day when he was not 
 expected, he rang the bell of the house in White-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 171 
 
 hall Gardens. He was left for a few minutes in 
 the drawing-room while the august Turnbull went 
 to announce his arrival. The Duke realized the 
 strange aspect of the house with a great sinking 
 of the heart. The furniture and hangings were 
 shrouded in linen coverings, the polished floor no 
 longer reflected gay shadows of rose and gold. 
 Most of the ornaments had been put away, and 
 the room lacked any sense of intimate personal 
 touch. "It misses her already," he thought. 
 "It doesn't look lived in!" 
 
 Mary came hastening to meet him. 
 
 "Godfather, dear, I didn't expect you, but, oh, 
 I'm so glad to see you!" She put her arms 
 around his neck and kissed his cheek. 
 
 "Just think!" she said, "it is only day after 
 to-morrow ! ' ' 
 
 1 i I know, ' ' he sighed. 
 
 He released her gently and stood looking about 
 the dismantled place. 
 
 "When I think of all this room has seen!" he 
 said. "How you came here a bride, how you 
 have reigned here like a queen, how you stood here 
 a widow! And always I've been with you; it 
 was I who came back with you after the funeral ; 
 it was I who introduced you to London ; it was I 
 who gave you away in marriage! I shall not be 
 able to do that this time, my girl." 
 
 "No," Mary answered, with a lump in her 
 throat. "And, oh, there aren't any words to say 
 how I shall miss you. Of all that I am leaving
 
 172 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 behind, not one thing really matters but you! 
 You've been a father to me, almost more than a 
 father, if that could be. There isn't anything I 
 couldn't tell you; there isn't any trouble or any 
 joy I couldn't share with you, and know you'd 
 share with me. I don't know," her voice broke 
 a little, "how I shall ever do without you; for 
 you've been with me in almost every big event of 
 iny life!" 
 
 "In every sacrament," he answered dreamily, 
 "which you have had so far: Baptism, Con- 
 firmation, Holy Communion, Holy Matrimony. 
 Mary, these are the big events!" 
 
 "So they are." 
 
 "For they last. And they prepare you for the 
 life that lasts. This one passes oh, so swiftly 
 away ! ' ' 
 
 She had drawn a low stool close to his chair, 
 and sitting there, leaned her head against the arm 
 of it. He could not see her face, but his hands 
 stroked her hair delicately, tenderly. 
 
 ' * Godfather, dear, you forgot one of the Sacra- 
 ments in which you couldn't be with me penance. 
 The very morning of the day when Philip came 
 back into my life I had gone to confession and com- 
 munion. I made a clean breast of it before God ; 
 all that was wrong in it, all that through my weak- 
 ness or or sin, I had made other people suffer. 
 After I had received absolution, I went and 
 prayed before the Blessed Sacrament. I begged 
 for guidance, that I might be shown so clearly that
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 173 
 
 I could not doubt what was right for me to do. I 
 prayed a long time. There was no one there but 
 our Lord and me, no one at all, at first, so I said 
 all that was in my heart. And when I came up 
 the aisle to go out, I met Philip near the door." 
 
 The Duke waited in a great stillness. 
 
 "Wasn't it my answer?" she went on, after a 
 minute. ' * Just as I had asked for it, so plain that 
 I could not doubt it. Think of his coming there, 
 at that hour, in the morning ! ' ' 
 
 "You drew him to you," answered the Duke, 
 with his mystic look. 
 
 "Mightn't it have been God?" she asked in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Again they were silent together for a time. 
 Then she said, in a more usual tone : 
 
 ' * I wanted you to know. I wanted you to under- 
 stand. It's the more wonderful because Philip is 
 such a heretic!" She laughed a little sadly. 
 "He really doesn't like our High Church ways; 
 he is very simple, you see, and our ritual doesn't 
 appeal to him." 
 
 "But the great facts of our religion; what of 
 them does he believe in them, Mary?" 
 
 "He said they 'didn't mean much to him'," she 
 answered. 
 
 The Duke looked pained. "You must make 
 them mean much; you must convert him. Is he 
 baptized?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, his people saw to that, and confirmed, 
 too."
 
 174 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Then he has the mystic mark," the Duke an- 
 swered, relieved, "and sooner or later its power 
 will be made manifest in his life. Those who have 
 that sign in their foreheads may wander a long 
 way from the Cross, but they come back they 
 must always come back. 'I have called thee by 
 name, thou art Mine, saith the Lord.' Remem- 
 ber!" 
 
 "Yes, dear Godfather." 
 
 A sudden idea came to the Duke. "I would 
 like to see him," he said, "before you go away. 
 Why should you not put on your things and drive 
 back with me to my house? Ben Baldwin is there. 
 He is staying with me until he sails. We can 
 telephone Carmichael and ask him to join us." 
 
 Mary agreed, and an hour later they were all 
 four assembled in the Duke's library. Mary 
 poured tea for them, and while they drank it, 
 talked gaily, telling of their plans with frank con- 
 fidence. She made merry over the picture she 
 drew of herself as mistress of a ranch, appealing 
 every now and then to Philip to set her right on 
 some point. He, drawn out by her enthusiasm 
 and the Duke's kindness, spoke of their new life 
 with a kind of boyish hope that was rather touch- 
 ing. 
 
 "It may seem to be a somewhat hard environ- 
 ment for her after the luxury she has always 
 had," he said rather diffidently to the Duke, "but 
 it's a fine life in its way. Of course, I've gone 
 into all the particulars as closely as I can at this
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 175 
 
 distance. I wrote to the agent out there and re- 
 ceived some pictures of the place, the other day. 
 I have them here." He was searching his pockets 
 eagerly. "Ah, here they are. The little house 
 is rather charming, I think. But there are one or 
 two improvements I'm going to have made for 
 Mary." 
 
 They bent over the pictures with the delighted 
 interest of children. "See, here's the ground- 
 floor plan," said Carmichael gaily. "Look, there 
 is this window," comparing it with the picture of 
 the house. "It is quite a good-sized room the 
 drawing-room. ' ' 
 
 " 'Drawing-room' on a ranch!" scoffed Ben, in 
 his inimitable drawl. "Lord, they'll think you a 
 tenderfoot if you talk like that out there ! That's 
 the parlor." 
 
 "Oh, let's say * living-room'," laughed Mary. 
 "Look at this foliage and the pepper-trees! I 
 remember them, all soft and feathery with scarlet 
 berries. And the roses right up to the roof! 
 Oh, isn't it beautiful!" 
 
 The Duke watched them wistfully, Ben with 
 amusement, until he saw the lines deepen in his 
 host's fine old face. Then he said cheerily: 
 
 "When you two have got it in really good run- 
 ning order, you can invite us all out to spend 
 Christmas with you some year ! Mind, I say good 
 order. I don 't wish, ' ' with an elaborately superior 
 air, "to share any 'rough western hospitality.' 
 "When Phil can plough and pick, and chase the
 
 176 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 chickens in at night, and Mary can bake good 
 pies and pluck the chickens as well as the 
 oranges then, and not until then, need you waste 
 an invitation on me ! ' ' 
 
 They were laughing at him all the way through, 
 the Duke more heartily than any. His drollery 
 saved them from the sadness which their ap- 
 proaching separation made inevitable. Looking 
 back on it afterward, it seemed to them all one of 
 the happiest hours of that eventful year. 
 
 The Duke had a detached moment with Philip 
 while Mary was talking to Ben. 
 
 "Treasure her," he said, "for she is a treasure, 
 the greatest save God! that a man can have 
 on earth, and sometimes, I think, in heaven, 
 either. ' ' 
 
 "Mary is heaven and earth to me," Philip an- 
 swered simply. * * She 's all I have or want. ' ' 
 
 Meanwhile Mary was saying to Ben: "You'll 
 understand what the others can't, Bennie. They 
 think I'm giving up so much, such a rich, full life, 
 they actually pity me! Think of it! Why, I'm 
 throwing off a life that has held me down, that 
 didn't belong to the real me at all. I was an- 
 other person while Lady Stanhope. Now I am 
 going back to myself, I'm going home; then you'll 
 see the real Mary." 
 
 "Mary Carmichael will be the real Mary?" 
 
 "Mary Carmichael!" she said, with a catch in 
 her voice. "Oh, Ben, doesn't it sound beautiful?'' 
 He laughed at her kindly, and suddenly, as if she
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 177 
 
 had only just realized it, she looked about her 
 with saddening eyes. 
 
 "When shall I see this dear old room again?" 
 she said. "Godfather dear, come down to the 
 drawing-room, and let me sing you your favorite 
 song before I go. You must keep one lovely mem- 
 ory of me." 
 
 "Only one?" said the Duke, smiling sadly. 
 
 They passed out together, his fine old face work- 
 ing under its cameo calmness of line, and soon the 
 phrases of "I'm wearin' awa', Jean," came softly 
 up to the two men left in the library. It was the 
 first time they had been alone for several months. 
 
 "And so," said Ben, regarding his friend af- 
 fectionately, "you'll soon be 'Benedict the mar- 
 ried man'." 
 
 "By New Year's, I hope," Philip answered. 
 "I only wait to sell my little place in Ireland, 
 and wind up my affairs there forever. Then I 
 shall put every shilling I have into the California 
 property for Mary." 
 
 "Good. It will be a big change for you, Phil, 
 the different work." 
 
 "I think I shall like it. Anyway, I'm going 
 to settle down to it in earnest. ' ' 
 
 "Well, you've had a long youth and a bril- 
 liant one. I wouldn't have believed that you 
 would stay unmarried until what is it thirty- 
 four? You were such a popular fellow back in 
 the nineties, especially with the girls." 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Philip.
 
 178 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I really thought one affair was serious, you 
 remember?" 
 
 Philip's straight brows contracted. 
 
 "You mean Sheelah? Yes, of course I remem- 
 ber." He turned away and walked over to the 
 window. "I wish I didn't. Worst thing I ever 
 did in my life, for she was straight. However, 
 it was a matter of a few weeks only and I did 
 the best I could by her in the end. ' ' 
 
 "Never heard from her?" 
 
 "Never, from that day to this. And it's years 
 ago, now. That sort of thing is all behind in the 
 past. There hasn't been any woman in my life 
 for the past two years, and of course there never 
 will be now but Mary. The slate's clean." 
 
 In the pause that followed came the last line 
 of the song: 
 
 "We'll meet and aye be fain 
 In the land Q the leal" 
 
 and a moment later Mary's voice called: "Oh, 
 Phil! are you ready to take me home?" 
 
 He went down to join her, and Ben was left 
 alone. He stood leaning against the mantel, his 
 thoughts many miles and years away. 
 
 "Poor little Sheelah," he said softly. The 
 sound of their good-by came to him, and he went 
 to the window and waved to them cheerily. Then 
 he came back to the mantel, nervously bit off the 
 end of his cigar, lit it, and drew a long breath. 
 
 "So the slate is wiped clean," he said thought- 
 fully.
 
 Book II
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 'And the cedars are brushing the archangel's feet, 
 And time is eternity, love is divine, 
 And the world is complete. 
 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 
 Thou art strange, thou art sweet!" 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 LONG after the Minnehaha had left her pier, 
 and while the white chalk cliffs of Eng- 
 land were fading from her sight in the 
 twilight gloom, Mary Stanhope stayed on deck, 
 and let her thoughts drift as they would. A 
 great reaction was upon her. The excitement of 
 preparation, the rush and hurry of last things, 
 the calls of friends, the final good-bys had passed. 
 She leaned back in her deck-chair with a sense 
 of comfortable weariness. Everything about her 
 seemed to relax. The wrench was over the 
 wrench of parting from the old Duke, the wrench 
 of temporary separation from Philip, the hold of 
 her old life. It was all over, left behind. She 
 felt an odd sense of its unreality, as if it had been 
 a dream, and before her lay the awakening. 
 Something like this she said to Ben Baldwin, 
 when he joined her on deck after dinner. 
 
 "You know, Ben, looking back, it seems as if 
 it had never really belonged to me, my life there
 
 182 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 in Whitehall Gardens. It wasn't the real me who 
 lived there all those years; it was me acting the 
 part of Lady Mary Stanhope. I don't mean that 
 I was unhappy; I wasn't. I liked the part as a 
 part. But it is different from real life." 
 
 "So you are going to be real from now on?" 
 he asked, smiling a little at her earnestness. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I can't imagine any one being any- 
 thing else in America. They wouldn't stand for 
 it, would they?" 
 
 "Don't idealize it too much," he said warn- 
 ingly, "or you will be disappointed. 'Life is real, 
 life is earnest' over there, sure enough, but it's 
 far from perfect. You'll miss many things, meet 
 many disappointments, find many changes." 
 
 "The things that don't matter!" she answered 
 with gay confidence. "The disappointments that 
 teach you things, the changes that are good for 
 you! Bennie, don't you be a dismal old prophet 
 of woe. I'm not afraid of anything; I'm going 
 to be happy." 
 
 "Of course you are," he assented, "you 
 couldn't, with your nature, be anything else, for 
 long. Besides, you will have all that is necessary 
 to make you so, in my opinion." 
 
 "I'm so glad you see that, Ben," she said 
 eagerly. "Because, you know, the others don't. 
 They pity me, actually pity me!" She laughed 
 gaily. "They think I am giving up so much! 
 They think London society the only thing in the 
 world, and a town house and dinner-parties and
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 183 
 
 entertainments and a place in the country, the 
 only things worth striving for!" 
 
 "Well, they are pretty nice," he said, smiling. 
 
 "Of course, if everything else is. But I'd 
 rather share in a struggle with the man I love 
 and so would any woman than halve a ready- 
 made position with any other. Maybe Philip is 
 giving up much, but not I. Do you think he will 
 miss his work very much, Ben?" she finished wist- 
 fully. 
 
 "Not too much," he answered. "Phil's many- 
 sided and adaptable. He'll find other work to 
 interest him. He is the sort of man who will al- 
 ways be good at his job." 
 
 Her face glowed. "Isn't he splendid, my 
 Phil ! ' ' They were silent a moment, sympathetic- 
 ally. Then she continued: "Have you ever 
 thought, Ben, that a woman's natural position in 
 love is to look up to a man? Our eyes are a 
 hand's breadth lower than yours; and, oh, 
 wouldn't it be dreadful if we had to look down, 
 or even across at you?" 
 
 From out of his wider experience and more 
 tolerant knowledge, Ben looked at her kindly and 
 smiled. 
 
 "Mothers look down," he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, on babies and children!" 
 
 * ' To mother-women, I guess we men are always 
 babies," he answered. 
 
 She subsided into the depths of her steamer 
 chair.
 
 184 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Well, I'm glad I can look up to my man," 
 she said contentedly. 
 
 The memory of his face came before her as he 
 had looked when they said good-by. She saw the 
 look of the blue-gray eyes, the lines which 
 tightened around the mouth, as he kissed her 
 sharp and sudden, and then held her away from 
 him. She thrilled under the memory of it, and 
 trembled under the thrill. It was so tremendous, 
 this force which swept them together, so impa- 
 tient of control, so wonderful as it searched out 
 the deep, secret places of her nature, filling them 
 with itself as a high tide fills an ocean cave. 
 
 Then she thought of the Duke, and in her mind 
 saw his face, too, as she had clung to him with 
 tears. 
 
 "There, there," he had said cheerily, making 
 a great effort himself, as he patted her and faced 
 her with dry eyes, "good-by, my Mary. This is 
 the last I shall see of my Mary ; it will be Philip 's 
 Mary when we meet again." 
 
 "Oh, Godfather dear, when will that be!" 
 
 "Sooner than you think, perhaps. Who 
 knows?" he had answered cheerily. Then he had 
 added, taking her face tenderly between his hands : 
 "Go to your happiness, child of love; but set up 
 no idol in your sanctuary. One One only reigns 
 there. Good-by, my Mary." 
 
 Her eyes were wet as she recalled the fine con- 
 trol of the face, the erect figure, and, as the big 
 boat glided away, the raised hat and the beautiful
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 185 
 
 courtesy of manner which always set him apart 
 from his fellows. Long after she would remem- 
 ber him so, would see him the more clearly 
 through dimming eyes. 
 
 She and Ben had many happy talks during the 
 voyage. She made him tell her all he could re- 
 member of California, refreshing her own memory 
 of it, which was only that of the ordinary tourist. 
 
 "Has the rainy season come yet?" she would 
 ask, "or is it still all brown and burned-up and 
 dusty? We shall miss the English rain, shan't 
 we? Just think of days and days without a cloud 
 in the sky!" 
 
 "You'll miss the English servants more than 
 anything," he answered. 
 
 "Oh, but there'll be Chinese, won't there, or 
 Japanese?" 
 
 "If they stay," he replied grimly. "Poor Jess 
 writes me terrible tales of woe about hers, now 
 and then." 
 
 "Well, I don't mean to be dependent on them, 
 anyway," she said. "I mean to learn how to do 
 everything myself." 
 
 He lightly lifted her hand by its forefinger and 
 gave it a little shake. 
 
 "This?" he said, laughing. "This learn how 
 to wash and iron and cook and scrub?" 
 
 "And plant and hoe and dig," she answered, 
 nodding gaily. "Oh, I shall love it all! I shall 
 be so busy and so happy. It will be real ! I shall 
 actually be of use in the world, a real woman full
 
 186 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of work. You don't realize, you men, how 
 splendid it is to have real, necessary work to do !" 
 
 "Well, I wish you joy of it," he said, "but I 
 advise you to learn all you can from Jess in this 
 month or so that you are with her. She knows 
 the country and the conditions and you." 
 
 "I wish she didn't live so far from us; and 
 you, Ben, couldn't you move your stock-broking 
 business, or whatever it is, from New York out 
 to San Francisco! It would be so nice if we 
 could all be together!" 
 
 ' ' Want to found a colony of your friends t ' ' 
 
 "Well, yes; and in time I'll get the Duke and 
 Duchess to come and bring Lady Kitty," she 
 added slyly. 
 
 But Ben refused to be drawn on that subject. 
 
 "That'd be fine," he agreed laconically. 
 
 The voyage came to an end, and Ben put her on 
 board her train for San Francisco. "Wish I 
 could come, too," he said, "but Sis will meet you 
 at the other end, and I'll come out for a visit be- 
 fore long. My love to her and the kiddies. How 
 they'll welcome you! I expect you will be 'Aunt 
 May ' to them in no time. ' ' 
 
 * * Dear Ben, how bully you Ve been to me ! ' ' 
 
 "Getting quite American already," he noted. 
 
 "Am," she answered proudly. 
 
 "So long," he said, as the last "all aboard" 
 sounded. "So long good luck good-by." 
 
 Mary was glad of the five days' journey and 
 the quiet of her own happy thoughts. She read
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 187 
 
 a little, but mostly dreamed as she sped over the 
 prairies and plains, through the great farm lands 
 of the middle west, and over the stupendous Rock- 
 ies and the fertile region beyond, until the sense 
 of another sea grew imminent to her, and she 
 realized that the great continent was crossed, her 
 long journey ended, and that before her were the 
 waiting eyes and welcoming hands of friends. 
 
 It was a most simple, yet happy and complete 
 American home to which Jessie Dwight took Mary 
 straight from the Overland Limited at Oakland. 
 The two women, who had not met for years, were 
 so full of reminiscence and questions, of gossip 
 and comparison of experiences, that the journey 
 in the motor from the station to the house seemed 
 to take no time at all. Mr. Dwight, who had come 
 with his wife to welcome her friend, sat on the 
 front seat and occasionally turned to point out 
 something of interest, but it scarcely interrupted 
 their conversation, except for a perfunctory 
 glance, and then they were absorbed again in their 
 chatter and laughter. 
 
 "Of course Ben wrote me something about it 
 all," Mrs. Dwight said, her hand closing warmly 
 on Mary's, under the lap robe. "And, my dear, 
 it is the most romantic story ! I want to hear the 
 whole of it from you, when you feel like telling 
 it to me." 
 
 "That will be soon," said Mary. "Oh, Jess, 
 how good it seems to be talking confidences to
 
 188 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 you again ! I suppose you will soon be ordering 
 me about, you executive little person, just as you 
 used to do!" 
 
 Mrs. Dwight laughed delightedly. "Of course 
 I shall. And one of the first things I shall order 
 is that you take off this somber black, and grow 
 into our gay-hearted May again. " 
 
 "I know I've changed," said Mary, in a low 
 voice. "And if the black depresses you, perhaps 
 before long, I may lay it aside." Her hand 
 smoothed her knee nervously, and Mrs. Dwight, to 
 change the subject, asked: "When is Mr. Car- 
 michael coming ? ' ' 
 
 "By Christmas, I hope." 
 
 "Well, we must have you looking like a bride 
 by that time; it's less than two months away, but 
 we can do it. California can do marvellous 
 things. You won't know yourself after a few 
 weeks of our heavenly climate. Here we are. 
 Don't look back yet. Let us show you our view 
 from the porch." 
 
 The car had stopped at a charming little house 
 in the quiet, residential section. Two boys of six 
 and eight, who had been playing ball in front of 
 the house, stopped and came down to the side of 
 the car at once, half-eagerly, half -shyly. 
 
 "Frank Roger this is mother's old friend, 
 Lady Stanhope ; and perhaps if you are very nice 
 to her, she '11 let you call her Aunt May. ' ' 
 
 The boys shook hands with frank friendship;
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 189 
 
 one of them took her bag and the other her um- 
 brella, and escorted her up to the porch. 
 
 "Now you can see the view!" said Roger 
 proudly, pointing west. 
 
 Mary turned, and her face lit up with enthu- 
 siasm. * ' It is most beautiful ! ' ' she said. 
 
 "Sure it is," answered Eoger. "That's the 
 Golden Gate out there." 
 
 "Really?" she cried. "Between those two 
 great headlands?" 
 
 "Sure," answered the boy. "You can see the 
 sun drop down between 'em in a few minutes. 
 There she goes now just coming out o ' that pink 
 cloud! Now do you see why it is called the 
 Golden Gate?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I see! Why, it seems to be raining 
 gold!" ' 
 
 "That's California!" laughed Mr. Dwight. 
 
 Frank came up and interrupted this rhapsody. 
 "Ah Sin has made a most bee-utiful supper for 
 you," he announced solemnly. 
 
 Laughing, they adjourned to the inside of the 
 house. An elderly Chinaman in immaculate white 
 coat and blue trousers bowed a dignified welcome 
 and smiled a radiant, Oriental smile, which quite 
 fascinated Mary. She followed Mrs. Dwight up- 
 stairs, the boys in the rear, falling over her bag 
 and umbrella, while Mr. Dwight, in the hall below, 
 begged them not to be long. They were all chat- 
 ting cheerily and freely, and she felt her heart
 
 190 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 warm to them and to the cordial family life which 
 was to be hers for the next few weeks. 
 
 Mrs. Dwight turned the boys out and gave 
 Mary a second hug. " A real one," she said, "for 
 there wasn't time at the station. May, darling, 
 this is one of the loveliest things that ever hap- 
 pened to me: that our paths should cross again, 
 that you should have come all these thousands 
 of miles actually to live in the same State. It 
 seems too wonderful to be true." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it!" 
 
 "I've always thought real life more wonder- 
 ful than books. Why, people wouldn't dare write 
 the real stories of life. It's too terrible and 
 beautiful. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," Mary answered, "ours has been like 
 that, terrible and beautiful, too. But now the ter- 
 rible part is all behind. It is all over, done with. 
 We start in a new country with a clean slate. 
 You'll like my Philip, Jessie." 
 
 "Of course I shall, you blessed girl. And is it 
 to be soon!" 
 
 "As soon as Philip comes, by Christmas or New 
 Year's, anyway." 
 
 Mary thought she noted a look of surprise on 
 her friend's face. But Mrs. Dwight kissed her 
 and said nothing. Mary, however, was quick to 
 feel the reserve, and though she put the thought 
 of it from her at the moment, she remembered it 
 later.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 191 
 
 They walked down-stairs together, their arms 
 around each other like schoolgirls. Mr. Dwight 
 beamed at them from the depths of his easy chair 
 and then struggled to his feet as they entered the 
 room. 
 
 "You make a picture!'* he said genially. 
 "Don't you think the wife has grown pretty, Lady 
 Stanhope?" 
 
 "She always was," said Mary affectionately. 
 
 "He loves to make out that I am a walking ad- 
 vertisement for his care and good treatment," 
 laughed Mrs. Dwight. "This, my dear, is the liv- 
 ing-room. We used to call it 'the parlor' in un- 
 regenerate days, but that isn't done any more 'in 
 the best circles.' " 
 
 Mary looked about her with appreciation. A 
 log fire was burning in the large, brick fireplace. 
 Comfortable easy chairs stood before it, a table 
 with papers and magazines was placed on one 
 side of the hearth, another table full of miscel- 
 laneous sewing on the other. A dog lay on the 
 rug, and a cat arched its back against her skirt. 
 In the wide window-seat the two boys were play- 
 ing, and beyond the garden showed, still gay with 
 geraniums, though it was November. Simple as it 
 was, and small as the little house appeared to her, 
 the charm of intimate, family life was over it all. 
 Every corner of it seemed used and lived in and 
 made happy by the inmates. 
 
 Ah Sin, in his immaculate dress and with his
 
 192 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 gleaming smile, cooked and served the evening 
 meal. " Heathen food," Jessie said, "but we 
 eat it with a Christian blessing. ' ' 
 
 It was all very delicious, very simple, very 
 merry and kind, as was the talk afterward before 
 the fire in the living-room. Mr. Dwight described 
 to her that part of the country which was to be 
 her new home: its climate and seasons, its 
 products and prices, its advantages and disadvan- 
 tages. 
 
 "George does know his subject," said Mrs. 
 Dwight, her hand resting on the arm of her hus- 
 band's chair. "He is a native Calif ornian, you 
 know, May, and they all love to expatiate on the 
 glories of their State." 
 
 "I don't wonder." 
 
 Mr. Dwight 's face beamed at her enthusiastic 
 tone. "Well, it is a great State, and you are go- 
 ing to one of the most lovely parts of it, there in 
 the south. It 's really a sort of earthly Paradise. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Santa Rita is its pretty name. You know she 
 Saint Rita is the saint of the impossible," said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Well, I hope the place won't be impossible," 
 said Mrs. Dwight. 
 
 "It is probably a little township of few families, 
 each living on and operating a big orange ranch," 
 her husband returned. "I wonder what sort of 
 social conditions you'll find and how you will like 
 them, Lady Stanhope." 
 
 "I wonder?" she replied. "But I don't think
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 193 
 
 I shall mind them, whatever they are, under the 
 circumstances." 
 
 He smiled at her kindly. "You mean the cir- 
 cumstances of a happy marriage?" he said 
 jovially. "Tell us, when is it to be?" 
 
 "As soon as Mr. Carmichael arrives by Christ- 
 mas, I hope." 
 
 Mary saw his face change as his wife's had 
 changed up-stairs, when she had told her. She 
 inferred that they were a little surprised, pos- 
 sibly a little shocked, at the curtailing of her 
 period of mourning. But her conscience was 
 clear on that point. In her heart she did not 
 mourn her husband. How could she, with another 
 live love singing there? She thought of Sir Ar- 
 thur often, but with no sense of disquietude; 
 rather as of an old friend, gratefully, ap- 
 preciatively, sometimes sadly, and frequently 
 with a sense of loss. But she was doing the thing 
 he himself had wished her to do. She would 
 never have consented to divorce. To death, she 
 must perforce consent. 
 
 "Mr. Carmichael must stay with us when he 
 comes," said hospitable Mrs. Dwight. 
 
 "It will be only for a day or two," answered 
 Mary. ' ' You have met him, haven 't you ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, yes, ten years ago! He stayed with us 
 one summer vacation. But we were all children, 
 at least it seems so now. Why, it was before I 
 knew you, Mary! I couldn't have been eighteen. 
 I didn't know him very well. He and Ben were
 
 194 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 away together a good deal in New York, I remem- 
 ber." 
 
 Before they separated for the night, Mrs. 
 Dwight came into Mary's room and began to help 
 her unpack her dressing-bag. 
 
 ' * That is the worst of a Chinaman-run house, ' ' 
 she grumbled good-naturedly. "You never get 
 any ladies-maiding! Ah Sin can do every- 
 thing but that. Your trunks will be up in the 
 morning, dear, first thing. Can I lend you any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "I think I have everything," answered Mary, 
 beginning to unwrap "the most important arti- 
 cle," as she said. 
 
 Jessie watched her with interest. "Oh," she 
 exclaimed at last, when a heavy silver frame was 
 disclosed, "I might have known it would be his 
 picture ! ' ' 
 
 Mary placed it on the table and stood before 
 it, worshipping it with her eyes. Jessie, standing 
 beside her, said thoughtfully: 
 
 "Do you know, it never struck me before, but 
 he is rather like you, only more so; you know 
 what I mean? Gray eyes aren't they instead 
 of blue like yours, and brown hair, instead of 
 what color is your hair, Mary?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Mary, smiling. 
 
 "Well, fairish. Anyhow, you'll go together 
 like two shades of the same color. He's the 
 darker shade of you, or you the lighter one of 
 him, whichever way you want to put it. Oh, my
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 195 
 
 dear, blessed, sweet old chum, I do hope you'll 
 be happy!" 
 
 They clung together a moment in silence. 
 
 " Don't love him too much," Jessie said warn- 
 ingly, after a little. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it isn't good for men. Oh, yes, I 
 know we long to give freely, as they think they 
 want it. But they don't really. They want to 
 have to beg for every bit. Make 'em beg!" 
 
 "Pshaw! Story-book cynicism, Jess, second- 
 hand! You don't mean a word of it!" 
 
 "Do, too!" asserted Jessie. 
 
 "Don't believe you!" smiled Mary, dropping 
 into the odd staccato of the family utterance. 
 "And, anyhow," she continued, "I'm so rich I can 
 afford to give more than I get!" 
 
 After Jessie left her for the night, she stood a 
 long time looking into the pictured face. All 
 Philip's gay audacity smiled back at her. The 
 familiar charm of his personality came to her as 
 freshly as if he were in the room with her. She 
 put her hand with a caressing gesture over the 
 face. 
 
 "Dear, level eyes, set far apart, dear hands, 
 dear heart, come soon ! ' ' she said aloud, softly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Set me as a seal upon thy heart, 
 As a seal upon thine arm: 
 For love is strong as death. 
 
 SONG OF SOLOMON. 
 
 THE weeks slipped by swiftly. Thanks to 
 practical Mrs. Dwight, Mary really did 
 learn something about the manage- 
 ment of a small house on a small income. The 
 two went shopping together in San Francisco, for 
 Mrs. Dwight insisted that Mary needed " com- 
 moner clothes" for the ranch. "I haven't yet 
 seen you wear a thing that wouldn't scandalize 
 the natives by its extravagance!" she scolded 
 sweet-temperedly. So blue serges and cotton 
 stuffs came back to Oakland from the shops, and 
 were made up at home, while they busily sewed 
 and chatted and planned. Philip's letters came 
 twice weekly, and he expected to be with them by 
 Christmas. It seemed best, he wrote, that he 
 should go straight to the ranch, see that it was 
 habitable for her, and then come and fetch her. 
 He wanted to be sure that it was at least in some 
 sort of comfortable condition before taking her 
 there. 
 
 Early in December Mary had his wire : ' ' Just 
 landed, starting west to-morrow. In Santa Bita
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 197 
 
 by Friday, with you week after. Be prepared to 
 come with me. All my love." 
 
 Mary read it with shining eyes and face flush- 
 ing with joy. ''Actually in the same country!" 
 she cried excitedly. "Almost here!" 
 
 "Half way to Chicago I suppose, by now," said 
 Jessie teasingly, but equally excited. "He 
 doesn't say whether Ben is coming," she added. 
 
 A few days later there came a letter from Ben, 
 saying: "Saw dear old Phil in New York for a 
 few hours. Seemed like old times. Mighty sorry 
 I can't be with you. My partner balled things 
 up so during my absence in England that I sim- 
 ply daren't leave again at this juncture. Give 
 my love to Mary. You'll be disappointed, Sis, I 
 know, that I'm not coming, but nothing like as 
 much as I am." 
 
 "Oh!" said Jessie disconsolately, as she folded 
 the letter. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mary, "Oh, oh, oh!" 
 
 "Well, I suppose it can't be helped," said 
 Ben 's sister, with a sigh. ' ' Gracious me, but New 
 York does seem a long way off when one remem- 
 bers that all one's family is there 'cept who are 
 here!" 
 
 "Well, there are quite a lot of us here!" Mr. 
 Dwight exclaimed indignantly, "what with me and 
 the boys ! ' ' 
 
 They all laughed, but the disappointment was 
 keen. 
 
 "And it is all very well for Philip Carmichael to
 
 198 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 say 'Be prepared.' Just like a man!*' Mrs. 
 Dwight scolded ; * ' when we haven 't settled a thing 
 about the wedding from waiting to hear from 
 Mm!" 
 
 Mary smilingly drew Jessie's arm through 
 hers and said: "Come up-stairs with me, and 
 we'll settle it now." As they opened the door 
 leading into the hall, they saw a messenger boy 
 standing there with a telegram. Mary seized it, 
 while Jessie signed for it. 
 
 "Find things fairly comfortable here, old care- 
 taker in charge. Will be with you Monday. All 
 my love. Philip," read Mary aloud. 
 
 "Monday! Why it's Saturday now!" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Dwight. 
 
 Mary seized her and began to waltz her about 
 "Oh, Jess, Jess, Jess! Isn't it too wonderful to 
 be true. ' ' 
 
 "My goodness, yes!" panted Mrs. Dwight. 
 "Here Roger Frank come here and save 
 Mother from this wild bear-hug!" 
 
 The children joined in the romp with much 
 glee, and each was "bear-hugged" by Mary, and 
 each fought valiantly for his escape, amid cries 
 of "Kill the old cinnamon! There she goes! 
 Old Cinnamon's dead!" as Mary, flushed, dishev- 
 eled, and breathless, fell laughing on the stairs. 
 "Stop insulting my hair," she said, when she 
 could speak. " Old cinnamon, indeed ! Shall you 
 be sorry to lose your 'Lady May,' you scamps?" 
 
 "Shan't lose you!" said Frank stoutly.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 199 
 
 "Well, then, you shan't, dears," she answered, 
 "but like the fairy, you lose one, to gain two." 
 
 "Who's the other?" "Will he be a lord?" 
 they inquired simultaneously. 
 
 "He'll be my lord," she answered, as she went 
 up-stairs, "and master." 
 
 When they reached her room, she turned to 
 Jessie. "You've been such a darling, taught me 
 such a lot, and I'm so grateful. I appreciate it 
 all the more because I can't help feeling that in 
 your hearts you and George are rather shocked 
 at my marrying so soon." 
 
 "Oh, George is a Presbyterian," said his wife, 
 drawling the word out in Scotch fashion, "and a 
 great stickler for the conventions. Don't mind 
 him. As for me, whatever you do is right for me. 
 So that settles that!" She gave Mary an af- 
 fectionate kiss and added, to change the subject: 
 "Well, we can't really do anything until Philip 
 comes, can we?" 
 
 "Except pack," said Mary, rolling back her 
 sleeves and preparing to start in. 
 
 After the first eager, tumultuous moments of 
 reunion had passed moments without words or 
 the need of them, to the lovers, moments which 
 held a frightening joy, so powerful was the feel- 
 ing between them they spoke almost in whis- 
 pers. 
 
 "Lord, how I've wanted you, Mary! And you 
 tell me it'd be sweet to hear you say it; have
 
 200 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 you wanted me, too?" He tried to see her face, 
 which she kept hidden against his breast. 
 
 "I daren't tell you how muchl" 
 
 He crushed her to him, so hard that it hurt, 
 and she shut her eyes and held her breath, and 
 loved the pain of it. Finally he swept her off her 
 feet and carried her bodily over to the sofa. 
 
 "Now, then," he said eagerly, "are you ready 
 to come back with me in a day or two?" 
 
 4 'I'm all packed," she answered, smiling. 
 
 * * That 's splendid ! I 'm ready, too ! " He drew 
 a package from his pocket. "I've got the mar- 
 riage license and the ring; try if it fits you, dear- 
 est." 
 
 "It's perfect!" she said, slipping it on. 
 
 1 ' See it opens. " He took it from her, to show 
 her the trick of it. "Have you ever seen this 
 kind of a wedding-ring? No? Give me a pin." 
 He inserted the pin into a minute hole on the in- 
 side, and the ring fell into two circles, so inter- 
 locked that they could not be separated. She gave 
 a little cry and examined them closely. One was 
 inscribed "Philip," one "Mary." 
 
 "There we are, you see," he said; "we can't 
 get apart; yet we fit together again so that you 
 can't even see the crack." He pressed the two 
 circlets together, and to all appearances it was a 
 conventional wedding-ring once more. 
 
 "Oh, Phil, it is charming!" 
 
 "I thought you'd like it It is called 'Val-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 201 
 
 liance,' I believe. When will you put it on 
 'for keeps,' dearest!" 
 
 "We'll talk it over when Jessie comes in; where 
 is Jessie, by the way?" 
 
 Just then the telephone bell rang in the living- 
 room where they were sitting. Mary answered it. 
 
 ' 'Hello!" she heard, in a familiar voice. 
 "Hello, is that Mr. Carmichael?" 
 
 "No," she answered, wondering. 
 
 " Oh, it 's Mary !" said the voice. ' ' Well, Mary 
 dear, this is Jess. Please, have I given you two 
 time enough for the present? I'm down in the 
 kitchen, and I really can't stand Ah Sin much 
 longer. I mean, of course, that he can't stand 
 me!" 
 
 "Oh, Jess, you goose, come at once!" said 
 Mary, laughing. 
 
 She came, of course, a moment later, and gave 
 Philip a cordial and merry welcome, scolded him 
 for not bringing Ben, and demanded to know all 
 their plans at once. 
 
 "I am sorry old Ben couldn't come," said 
 Philip sincerely. "He and I have been friends 
 so long and Mary and he, too. It seems odd 
 that she and I shouldn't have met years ago with 
 such connecting links as Ben and you, Mrs. 
 Dwight." 
 
 "You mean," asked Jessie, "that if you had 
 met you and Mary years ago, you would have 
 fallen in love just the same?"
 
 202 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Why, of course," he returned. "Only if it 
 had been then, it would have been another story 
 for us both." 
 
 ' * Ah, well, * ' said Mary quickly, wishing to chase 
 away the shadow from his face, "this story is 
 good enough. I 'm content, Phil. ' ' 
 
 Somehow, whenever the question of the definite 
 date of their marriage came up, it always got 
 shelved. They talked all day about it, and when 
 Mr. Dwight came home in the evening, and added 
 his cordial welcome to his wife's, they still had 
 fixed no definite time. 
 
 "Ben would have made a splendid best man," 
 said his sister, with a sigh. 
 
 Philip's face wore a look of consternation. 
 "Oh, good Lord! Mary, we don't have to have a 
 best man, do we? I had hoped it might be the 
 simplest thing that would be legal." 
 
 "Aren't you going to promise to love, honor, 
 and obey, Mary?" asked Mrs. Dwight. 
 
 "Of course," she answered. 
 
 * * Obey ! ' ' said Mr. Dwight, with a chuckle. ' ' I 'd 
 like to see any woman obey nowadays. Why, 
 they won't even promise to do it!" 
 
 "I think it is very stupid to make such a fuss 
 about it," said Mary, with her gentle seriousness. 
 "It's much harder to love and honor; yet no one 
 objects to promising that. And if you can love 
 and honor, it's easy to obey." 
 
 "Hear hear!" said Mr. Dwight. "Take note 
 of that, old lady," he turned to his wife, "for I
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 203 
 
 wish to state I do most of the obeying that is done 
 in this house!" 
 
 "Presby-tee-rian platitudes, George, really! 
 Well, let him rave!" his wife answered re- 
 signedly. 
 
 Philip began to tell them of his house at Santa 
 Rita. "It's the simplest sort of little place, but 
 rather charming in its way: made of adobe and 
 timber, and the beams are exposed on the inside. 
 It's rough, of course, but they give the place a 
 homey look. And there 's a fireplace in the living- 
 room of field-stone. I want you to come over to 
 San Francisco to-morrow, Mary, and choose a 
 rug and some other things for it. Why shouldn't 
 we take a motor and make a day of it? Mrs. 
 Dwight won't mind sparing us, and we can com- 
 plete all our arrangements." 
 
 "Capital idea," said Jessie. "You'll have a 
 heavenly time, planning it all." 
 
 Philip had left his bag at a near-by hotel, and 
 had decided to stay there, as the Dwights' house 
 was more limited than their hospitality. When 
 he arose to go, his kind hostess, to make an op- 
 portunity for the lovers to be alone a mo- 
 ment, said: 
 
 "Will you light Mary's candle for her, Philip? 
 You'll find it on the hall table." 
 
 His eyes thanked her, and they passed out into 
 the hall after saying good night. They talked 
 happily while he was putting on his coat, and then 
 he lit her candle and handed it to her, as she
 
 204 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 stood leaning against the bannister, smiling at 
 him. The light was beautiful on her face and 
 hair, and she looked very young in her soft white 
 crepe dress. As they drew together, his kiss was 
 like a husband's, a deep stillness of surety in it, 
 unlike any he had given her before. 
 
 "My Mary," he said. "Good night. God love 
 you as I do." 
 
 "And you, Beloved." 
 
 And then the outside door closed, and he was 
 gone. She turned and went slowly up-stairs, like 
 one in a dream. 
 
 Mary sat long by the window thinking, after 
 her light was out. She was deeply and intensely 
 happy, yet, curiously, a sense of sadness, very pro- 
 found, was also settling over her spirit. In this 
 particular hour of her life, she wanted her par- 
 ents her young parents, who had loved each other 
 and had died, when they were younger than 
 she was now. She thought of them with longing, 
 with a sense of irreparable loss. She had no other 
 family ties. Philip, too, was almost as lonely as 
 she, though he had an elder brother somewhere 
 in Ireland. No wonder they clung together, he 
 and she! But for each other, they would have 
 been two lonely souls. They must be all in all 
 to one another. 
 
 She looked out into the darkness. The sky was 
 murky, for there had been recent rains. Not a 
 single star broke through the gloom, and the gar- 
 den lay hushed and dark. It came to her sud-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 205 
 
 denly that this would be the last night in which 
 this particular kind of loneliness would be hers, 
 that in all the days and nights of her life to come, 
 Philip would have an integral part. Precious 
 thought warming the heart like wine ! She sank 
 on her knees by the open window and stretched 
 out her arms, in exaltation of spirit. 
 
 "0 great God of day and night and life and 
 time God of the night in which no star is, hide 
 not my love from the heart of my Love, but let 
 him know it, wherever he goes, whenever he needs 
 it, whatever he does. He is my soul the better 
 part of me, and mine is Thine, in great thanks for 
 blessing life with love. Amen." 
 
 The next morning was beautiful, and they 
 started out for their shopping expedition to San 
 Francisco like two children going on a picnic. 
 Mrs. Dwight waved them good-by from the porch. 
 
 1 'She's such a dear," said Mary, "I shall miss 
 her." 
 
 "Yes," Philip answered, "one will miss old 
 friends. We have nearly everything else that is 
 necessary to happiness, but the old friends are 
 far away. I hope I can make up to you, my 
 Mary." 
 
 "Dearest boy! Having you, I don't need any- 
 thing else, not even old friends ! ' ' 
 
 He smiled with pleasure. There was that child- 
 like quality in him which could be easily cheered 
 or depressed by a word. 
 
 "There is a little colony of English people
 
 206 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 there," he went on. " Mostly fruit-growers, like 
 ourselves, luckless scamps, some of them, and 
 others are younger sons of rather influential folk 
 at home. They are quite possible neighbors, so 
 MacGregor tells me.' He's the funny old care- 
 taker, who was my uncle's foreman on the ranch. 
 He's quite a character." 
 
 "Does he live with us!" she inquired. 
 
 "Well, he's living in the house at present, but 
 he needn't, if you don't like. He's the only serv- 
 ant there now and quite a handy old chap, both 
 indoors and out." 
 
 They had reached the shop where Jessie had 
 advised them to look for their rug, and the next 
 hour was spent in absorbed study of various 
 Oriental weaves and patterns. Finally the sales- 
 man showed them one of most beautiful and in- 
 tricate design, in dim, soft, woodland colors, repre- 
 senting a tree with many branches. Mary was 
 delighted. 
 
 "That's the one I" she cried, and then, her more 
 prudent second thought prompting her, "that is, 
 if it isn't too expensive." 
 
 It proved to be rather staggering in price, but 
 Philip insisted on buying it. He wouldn't hear 
 of any other and laughed away her protestations. 
 
 "We must start right," he said, "stand on the 
 right thing at the beginning ; and it is the one you 
 wanted." 
 
 "See it is the tree of life,'* she whispered, 
 while the salesman rolled up the rug, "and we
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 207 
 
 shall walk on it every day. Oh, Phil, it is beau- 
 tiful ! I do long to see it in our little house. ' ' 
 
 An idea was growing in Philip's mind a dar- 
 ing idea that made him tingle inwardly with a 
 sense of exhilaration and excitement. Their pur- 
 chase completed, they moved away. 
 
 1 'I feel positively light-headed with joy," Mary 
 said, laughing at nothing. 
 
 "I'm drunk with it," he answered. "What 
 shall we do now? Where shall we go? Let me 
 buy you something, Mary, something intimate and 
 personal, just for you. Let me buy you oh, what 
 shall I buy you ? I 'd like to give you the world ! ' ' 
 
 She raised her face to look at him, but the lids 
 drooped over her eyes before they met his. 
 
 "My dear, you will," she answered. 
 
 It stirred him, and his excitement mounted. 
 
 "Let us have a really gorgeous day all to our- 
 selves," he said. "First, we'll lunch, in a private 
 room somewhere, for I couldn't stand it in a pub- 
 lic one, I'm too insanely happy. Then we'll take 
 an automobile, drive about in the park, and have 
 tea at some Japanese tea-garden. What do you 
 say shall we?" 
 
 Of course she said yes to it all. The private 
 room was obtained, and when the discreet waiter 
 had withdrawn for a moment, Philip came to her 
 and helped her divest herself of coat and veil and 
 gloves. She trembled under his touch during this 
 unwrapping. 
 
 "Hurry," he whispered, "he may be back in a
 
 208 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 moment, and more than food or drink I want your 
 kisses, Mary." 
 
 And he had them, answering his own. 
 
 "You look like a bride," he said, as he released 
 her. "How came you to wear white to-day, my 
 darling?" 
 
 "I often do." 
 
 "Is the coat warm enough for the motor!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, it's a motor coat," she laughed, throw- 
 ing the white, woolly thing on a chair, and 
 demurely taking her place at the table. The 
 waiter found them thus, sitting in great decorum 
 opposite each other, speaking as formally as 
 strangers. Lovers are like ostriches with their 
 heads in the sand. Thinking themselves hidden, 
 they deceive no one, least of all, waiters. These, 
 soft -footed and self-effacing, see most when no- 
 ticing least. Theirs is the grand-stand view. 
 Mary's cheeks were a splendid scarlet, her eyes 
 "blue pools of light," so Philip said in another 
 stolen interlude, which the thoughtful waiter fur- 
 nished them. They drank foolish, happy toasta 
 in golden wine, and enjoyed it all like children 
 playing truant. 
 
 At the end, when the waiter had gone, Philip 
 leaned across the table, laying his hand on hers and 
 said: 
 
 "You're really all ready to leave, Mary?" 
 
 "Trunks packed, and two of them locked," she 
 answered.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 209 
 
 "Then why should we wait?" he said daringly. 
 "Why shouldn't it be now, to-day?" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Why not?" he persisted, his touch on her 
 hand tightening. "We can be married by a jus- 
 tice of the peace, and leave by the night boat for 
 Los Angeles. To-morrow morning we'll get a 
 motor and be home, home, Mary, before night to- 
 morrow. " 
 
 "Oh, Phil dear, I couldn't why I haven't any 
 things with me," she said helplessly. 
 
 "We'll get them." 
 
 "And Jessie and George. Oh " 
 
 Mary thought swiftly. She remembered the ex- 
 pression of reserve on the faces of both George 
 Dwight and his wife, when she, a widow of not 
 six months, spoke of the probability of her mar- 
 riage. Though she knew they sympathized with 
 her in a way, she felt they were troubled by 
 scruples. She suddenly saw that it might be bet- 
 ter not to ask them to lend themselves to the oc- 
 casion at all. To steal away and be married 
 quietly, like this, might seem, might be, in fact, 
 very ungrateful, but it would relieve them of any 
 awkwardness they might possibly feel at having 
 to countenance a ceremony with which they were 
 not in full concordance. But still, to-day 
 
 Philip's eyes never left hers. His mind 
 traveled the road of her thoughts, instinctively 
 knowing them. He was silent until they reached
 
 210 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 this point. Then he broke in upon them. He 
 crossed to her side of the table, pulling her out 
 of her chair into his arms. 
 
 "Sweetheart, I want you, I can't wait. Come 
 to me; let's go home!" 
 
 That did it. "I'll come," she said. "I leave 
 it all to you." 
 
 He rocked her in his arms, speaking in jerks 
 when he could detach his lips long enough from 
 hers. 
 
 "You'll never regret it. It's best to do it 
 quickly and quietly. I want you to be all mine, 
 my Darling, my Love, my Wife. I begrudge every 
 moment taken from our happiness together. Let 
 it begin to-day and go on forever!" 
 
 His exuberant extravagance made her smile, as 
 it never failed to do. It always modified their 
 emotional moments with a streak of fun. 
 
 He left her little time to think. Having made 
 a few inquiries, he rushed her away in a cab, and 
 soon they were standing in a lawyer's office, ex- 
 plaining their desire to be married forthwith. 
 The necessary forms having been complied with, 
 the lawyer looked over the top of his spectacles, 
 smiled benignly on them, and said : 
 
 "Yes, now I can marry you, but we'd better 
 have a couple of witnesses. Any friends you'd 
 like to call on?" 
 
 "No," said Philip quickly, as Mary hesitated. 
 "No, any one will do the office-boy or the lift-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 211 
 
 man or the janitor; it doesn't matter, so long as it 
 is legal." 
 
 The lawyer went out to find some one, return- 
 ing a few minutes later with the janitor and the 
 scrub-woman. They stood respectfully by the 
 door, while Philip and Mary drew together near 
 the desk where the lawyer stood. He asked them 
 both the grave question: "Do you take this 
 woman to be your wife do you take this man to 
 be your husband?" and when both had said 
 "Yes," he said with much solemnity: 
 
 "Then I pronounce you, according to the laws 
 of the State of California, husband and wife. ' ' 
 
 "Is that all!" asked Philip, surprised at the 
 simplicity of it. 
 
 "That is all," said the lawyer, "except that it 
 is customary to kiss the bride and to put on the 
 ring at this point." 
 
 Philip obeyed these suggestions gravely. 
 
 "But are we really married?" asked Mary. 
 
 "You are, my dear Madam, tied hard and fast 
 by our laws. And may no man or woman put you 
 asunder. You are man and wife. Allow me to 
 congratulate you. If you will wait a moment, I 
 will make out the record of marriage and give you 
 a duplicate." 
 
 Mary thanked the witnesses, and Philip re- 
 warded them. Then, taking the copy of the mar- 
 riage certificate, which the lawyer handed her, they 
 were bowed out by that gentleman, whose day's
 
 212 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 earnings had been substantially increased by 
 Philip's generosity. 
 
 "Now," he said, as he put her in a cab, "first, 
 to the office of the Steamship Company to reserve 
 a cabin, then to the shops to get whatever 
 'things' you want; then we'll finish the afternoon 
 in the park and say good-by to San Francisco." 
 
 "I must write to Jessie and tell her, and ask 
 her to send on my trunks." 
 
 "Telegraph from the boat," he suggested. 
 
 ' * No, no, I must write and explain. I can make 
 her understand better," she said. 
 
 Inside the cab, he put his arms about her, and 
 she leaned back in them, abandoning herself to his 
 embrace. 
 
 "My wife," he whispered. "Really, at last, 
 my wife." 
 
 While they were shopping, and Mary was buy- 
 ing some particularly lovely garments which 
 Philip was not encouraged to see, a ripple of 
 gayety broke every now and then through their 
 decorum. They still had the feeling of truants, 
 like children eluding their elders, having done 
 something secret or wrong. 
 
 At last the purchases were completed, and there 
 still remained an hour or so of golden afternoon 
 to be whiled away before the boat sailed. They 
 took a carriage and were driven through the park, 
 talking and laughing at each other's little sayings 
 in the fond and foolish way of lovers, for whom 
 the world has just been re-made entirely "to the
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 213 
 
 heart's desire." After a while they got out of 
 the carriage, asked the cabman to wait, and walked 
 about on the grass, among the trees. When they 
 were hidden from their driver, who was the only 
 person in the park at that spot, except themselves, 
 Philip kissed the hand he held, with the wedding- 
 ring upon it, and said again : 
 
 "My wife." 
 
 "How simple it was," she said, "we merely 
 'took' each other for husband and wife. No 'for 
 better, for worse'; no 'love, honor and obeying' 
 about it; no big, solemn, beautiful words. We 
 just 'took' I, you; you, me for husband and 
 wife, and we were !" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "that's what I liked about 
 it, its simplicity. No form or ceremony, just the 
 plain fact." 
 
 "But I don't feel married," she laughed. 
 
 "Words can't marry people," said Philip. 
 "Would you have felt happier, my dearest, to 
 have made all the old vows, gone through all the 
 old forms ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I think I would," she answered a little 
 hesitatingly. "You see, I think of marriage as a 
 sacrament, not just as a legal form." 
 
 "Do words make a sacrament?" he asked, with 
 the relentless reasoning that characterized him 
 at times. "No, it is what comes after, May, the 
 love that unites people. That's the real sacra- 
 ment." 
 
 "Yes," she spoke slowly, thoughtfully.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "There must be love, of course, or it isn't com- 
 plete, but yet, love itself isn't a sacrament, nor 
 are words, of course. Yet marriage is. It's the 
 union of two meanings; it's higher than either. 
 It's mystic. I can't explain; do you see at 
 all?" 
 
 "I think so." He was following her thought, 
 rather allured by it. "You mean, to put it con- 
 cretely, if you and I had been married, say with 
 the church form, said by a priest, that, loving each 
 other as we do, that would have been what you call 
 a sacrament!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that the form isn't enough, without the 
 love, or the love isn't enough, without the form, to 
 make it so?" 
 
 "No. It needs both. The 'outward sign' and 
 the * inward grace '. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I don 't agree with you, ' ' he said. ' ' Our 
 love is enough to make a sacrament of marriage. 
 We'll make it so. Don't you feel ours is a real 
 marriage?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! That's for this world marriage; 
 but a sacrament has to do with the world to 
 come ! ' ' 
 
 "And love?" 
 
 "Love has to do with both. It's for now and 
 forever." 
 
 " So it is, ' ' he answered. Then he took her face 
 between his hands. "Your eyes glimmer like blue 
 water in a well, Mary, my Mary! And I can see
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 215 
 
 the stars in them, as they say you can in a well 
 at midday. Do you love me ? ' ' 
 
 "You know oh, you know!" 
 
 "And your kisses," he said, after an interval, 
 putting her roughly away from him, "are like 
 wine ; they intoxicate me ! We must go home, ffly 
 Love, my Sweet." 
 
 At the end of the little path they turned and 
 looked back. 
 
 "I shall always love that spot," said Mary. 
 
 They got into the carriage again and drove back 
 to town. As they topped the hill, "Look ahead 
 now," said Philip. "Look! There's the Golden 
 Gate ! Kemember how you said, far away in Eng- 
 land, that I was going to take you to an enchanted 
 land home ! ' ' 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "Well, we're going there; it's just beyond, 
 through the Golden Gate." 
 
 Deep blues and violets hung over the two great 
 headlands, darkening in the shadows of late 
 afternoon. The sky glowed with the memory of 
 a beautiful day past, the promise of a beautiful 
 day to come. Pouring splendor came from the 
 sun. They turned their faces to the west, drink- 
 ing in its radiance, steeping their souls and 
 senses in its glory. Finally she turned from it 
 to the twilight gray of his eyes. 
 
 "Philip Philip, my king!" 
 
 They sent a rather lengthy letter to Jessie and
 
 216 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 signed it with both their names, Philip and Mary 
 Carmichael; and from the boat they telegraphed 
 to Ben, in New York. Mary was rather 
 distressed over the letter to Jessie. 
 
 "I feel, Phil dear, almost as if we had abused 
 their hospitality, stealing off in this way." 
 
 "Believe me, dear, they'll be positively re- 
 lieved at not having to countenance what they 
 couldn't put a good face on!" he twinkled in 
 reply. 
 
 She laughed and agreed it had been her thought, 
 too. "Ben wouldn't feel that way," she said. 
 
 "Ben's great," answered Philip; "our best 
 friend." 
 
 He left her in their cabin, which was the best 
 on the boat, to unpack her parcels and boxes and 
 make ready for dinner. She was humming hap- 
 pily as she brushed out her long fair hair, 
 with golden lights in it, and arranged it freshly. 
 When it was done and she was ready, she stood 
 looking at herself in the little strip of mirror, 
 it must be confessed, with pleasure. She was 
 very glad she had, quite by chance, put on a soft 
 white serge dress that morning. Everything 
 about her had been white : hat of felt with a white 
 feather, veil, gloves, even coat and fur. She 
 had been a dainty vision as they left Mrs. 
 Dwight's house. But she hadn't then the deep, 
 warm color in cheeks and lips that she had now. 
 She couldn't help smiling at the woman in the 
 glass, who, of course smiled back, looking di-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 217 
 
 vinely young and bride-like. Then she went up 
 on deck to join her husband. 
 
 Her hand in his arm, they walked about the 
 deck while the twilight gathered into darkness. 
 They had agreed to stay out until they had 
 passed through the Gate. As they approached it, 
 the light, fast-fading, showed the first star in the 
 sky, which, from faintness, blazed into sudden 
 beauty like a note in music. 
 
 "Make a wish," said Philip, smiling down at 
 the enraptured face. 
 
 About them was the sound of many waters, the 
 swell of the great Pacific carrying them on its 
 mighty bosom far from the blurring outlines of 
 the land they left behind. They passed through 
 the Golden Gate and out into the dim mystery be- 
 yond. The wind swept by with a welcoming 
 "Hail Well met!" as the boat's nose turned 
 south. 
 
 "No wishes left," she said, looking up at the 
 star. "That's the benediction on them all." 
 
 They were very late at dinner, which made it 
 the merrier and happier for them, as they were 
 almost alone. They sat side by side, their backs 
 to the salon, facing the port-holes through which 
 the sound of the rushing waters reached them. 
 Philip drew little plans of the house on the table- 
 cloth, with the dull side of his knife-blade. 
 
 "The living-room is really very jolly," he said; 
 "it has windows which open straight into the 
 garden at each end, a fireplace on one side, and
 
 218 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the other side opens into the house. Across a 
 little hall, which is only a sort of a vestibule, is 
 the dining-room, and behind that the kitchen. 
 Here are the bedrooms.*' He was drawing as 
 he spoke. "Ours has a jasmine flower climbing 
 all over the window; you'll like that. It's very 
 sweet. The garden is neglected now, for no one 
 has tended it for some years, but it can be made 
 very pretty. There's a hedge of geraniums 
 higher than a man can see over. I wouldn't 
 have believed it if I hadn't seen it, all in blossom 
 scarlet! The house is plainly furnished; but 
 we'll almost live out of doors." 
 
 "I'm longing to see it. I know I shall love it," 
 she said. 
 
 They finished dining and sat out on deck 
 warmly tucked up in their chairs, while Philip 
 had his smoke. She had taken off her hat and 
 tied her veil over her hair. Little wisps of it 
 blew loose, now and then, and he put them back 
 with a privileged hand which lingered. Once she 
 turned her face into it and kissed it in the palm. 
 Philip had beautiful hands slender, but very 
 strong. The caress thrilled him. His cigar went 
 out unheeded. Their talk fell into whispers, then 
 into silence. In the darkness their hands found 
 each other. Presently she arose, and he walked 
 with her to the door of the salon. 
 
 When Mary entered their cabin, she looked 
 about in amazement. It was transformed. 
 Koses roses everywhere! The smell of them
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 219 
 
 sweetened the room. They were on the ledge by 
 the window, on the wash-stand, hiding its ugli- 
 ness, on the table by the double bed everywhere, 
 in fact. Philip must have ordered them while 
 they were at dinner. Her heart warmed to him 
 for the compliment. She undressed quickly, 
 bathed, and braided her hair. It hung below 
 her waist. Then she turned out the electric light 
 and stood by the window, watching the pale 
 glimmer of star-shine on the water. The room 
 was faintly lit from the deck outside. Last of 
 all, she knelt by the bed and lifted up her heart, 
 full to overflowing with its thanksgiving of joy. 
 
 Philip found her so when he came in softly. 
 She looked like a child, kneeling there in her 
 white nightgown, with the rope of hair falling 
 over her shoulder. He closed the door softly and 
 joined her on his knees, throwing one arm lightly 
 about her. So for a few moments they stayed, 
 moments that neither of them ever forgot, feel- 
 ing this supreme hour of both their lives, purged 
 and purified, laid like a burnt-offering of incense 
 on the altar of their love. The smell of the 
 roses, the sound of rushing waters, the sense of 
 each other's nearness, all things blended into a 
 rapture of peace, which neither had ever known 
 before.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "Breath o' the roses through the scentless palms 
 That spread their fans in blessing overhead 
 
 Hiding the great blue sky, 
 Heaven is out of sight, stretch out your arms, 
 
 For this is Eden given us instead 
 Even you and I." 
 
 DOLF WYLLARDE. 
 
 THEY were landed at San Pedro the next 
 day and proceeded from there to Los 
 Angeles, where Philip hired an automo- 
 bile to take them to their destination. The day 
 was one of those rare ones which seemed to have 
 slipped through from heaven, and the air ex- 
 hilarated like wine. They rode for miles over 
 the plains, with prosperous ranches of all kinds 
 spreading away on either side, with now an old 
 mission of the early Spanish Fathers, and now a 
 new and up-to-date hotel to claim their attention. 
 They stopped for lunch at one of these and saw 
 the great Pacific again in all its glory, with three 
 lines of white breakers foaming on its sandy 
 beach. Mary was enchanted with whatever her 
 eyes fell upon: the great, soft, feathery pepper- 
 trees with their red berries, the blue-green of 
 eucalyptus, the wide, brown plains, the mountains
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 221 
 
 topped with snow, and the hundreds of flower- 
 ing gardens and groves. 
 
 ''Don't let us linger!" she said, "beautiful as 
 it is. I want to see our share of it all. I want 
 to get home." 
 
 Philip laughed boyishly in anticipation, and 
 they were rushed away again in the motor as 
 soon as their early lunch was finished. In a few 
 hours they were there. The houses, which had 
 been separated by long distances from each other, 
 with hundreds of acres of well-sown land between, 
 now occurred at shorter and shorter intervals, 
 and soon before them, in the plain, they saw the 
 little town of Santa Rita. It nestled under the 
 foot-hills, within the arms of the white-capped 
 mountain, as it were, and its orange groves, 
 spread out in orderly array, sent a pleasant per- 
 fume of greeting to the home-coming bride while 
 she was still a long way off. 
 
 "Behold the metropolis!" said Philip, smiling 
 down into her eager face. , 
 
 A church spire, one large, imposing building 
 which might be a bank, or a public library, or a 
 town hall, and which turned out to be all three in 
 one, a red brick schoolhouse and many scattered 
 homes among fields of alfalfa, by-roads bordered 
 with- mimosa, palm, and eucalyptus trees, all 
 these they saw hurriedly as the car bore them 
 swiftly to their destination on the other side of the 
 town. Finally, at a little distance from it, they 
 drew up, under Philip's direction, before a gate
 
 222 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 in a hedge of geraniums. He paid and dismissed 
 the chauffeur, and the car sped away down the 
 country road. Then he opened the little gate 
 in the high hedge of scarlet geraniums and 
 darted within, like a boy at play, leaving her out- 
 side. 
 
 "Toll, before the gate is opened, my faire 
 ladye!" he said, leaning toward her. She lifted 
 her face to him, and they kissed over the gate, 
 which a second later he swung wide. 
 
 "Welcome to your Castle in Spain, my dear 
 Chatelaine! Behold, it is called 'El Tejado 
 Querido,' which is 'The Beloved Roof !' " 
 
 "Oh, Philip how beautiful!" 
 
 Two tall cedar trees guarded the gate and threw 
 a pleasant shade. Past these, the garden 
 spread, tangled and confused and overgrown with 
 the neglect of two years, which in California is 
 equal to ten in colder climates. Roses were 
 everywhere, all sorts and kinds of roses, border- 
 ing the walk, in bushes, covering the house in 
 vines, climbing even to the roof. It stood, the 
 little house, in the very middle of the garden, 
 with walks branching away from it in all direc- 
 tions. A splendid purple passion-flower covered 
 the porch, and Mary noted where the jasmine 
 sprung to the bedroom window. They passed 
 under the low lintel of the door, into the little 
 hall and on into the living-room. Then Philip 
 took his wife in his arms. 
 
 "Home, dearest."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 223 
 
 "Home, at last. Home! Phil, what a beauti- 
 ful, round, sweet word it is!" 
 
 His boyish laugh rippled out again. ' * It 's only 
 these little four walls." 
 
 "Oh, no, it's these great four arms, binding us 
 in together." 
 
 "Want to explore?" he asked, after an in- 
 terval. 
 
 "Oh, yes, at once! Take me all over it." 
 
 "All over this immense castle! What -an or- 
 der, my chatelaine! Why, there are as many as 
 seven rooms one for every day in the week!" 
 
 Happy as children with a new toy, they ex- 
 amined it thoroughly. Three rooms down-stairs 
 and a hall and pantry, four bedrooms up-stairs. 
 "And a bath," said Philip, in a tone of awe. 
 "One for the servant he'll probably be a China- 
 man, Mary one for a dressing-room, one for a 
 den, and one for us. When Ben comes, we'll 
 have to put him in the den, or the attic! And if 
 any one else comes why, we'll have to build an 
 addition." 
 
 "I don't suppose we'll have much company," 
 said Mary. 
 
 "I didn't mean company," he answered. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She flushed and wondered, and her heart grew 
 still with the mighty thought of what women are 
 dowered with. And in that instant, born of his 
 words, a new desire took root in her to give him 
 more than she ever had given yet something
 
 224 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that she alone of all the world could give to him 
 more, even, than the gift of herself. 
 
 Hand in hand they stood in the kitchen door- 
 way, looking down the little rise on which the 
 house stood, to the orange grove below. A soli- 
 tary figure was approaching from one of the out- 
 houses. 
 
 "That's MacGregor," said Philip, "our one 
 servant as yet. But he's a wonder! He'll cook 
 us dinner, and give us gossip and pearls of wis- 
 dom about irrigation and religion and harvesting, 
 and the way to make money by side issues, on a 
 ranch. We'll soon have the place going full 
 tilt." 
 
 The old man approaching slowly had both 
 hands full, they noticed. He was duly greeted 
 and presented to Mary, whose natural gracious- 
 ness won her instant favor always. 
 
 "I'm fair glad to meet ye, lady," said Mac- 
 Gregor. "An' more than glad that ye've elected 
 to come out heere to live. I've made bold to 
 bring you a bit of an offering. It sairs me keen 
 it is nae white heather; but for the bride, I be- 
 lieve, they're the recht flowers." 
 
 With a smile that seemed to crack his dry old 
 face in a hundred places, he presented Mary with 
 a bouquet of orange blossoms. She thanked him 
 prettily and tucked some of it in her belt. Then 
 he turned to Philip. 
 
 "For you, sir, I've something mair substantial. 
 You can wear it inside, not outside of ye!" and
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 225 
 
 drawing his left hand from behind his back, he 
 revealed a fresh-killed chicken. 
 
 "Will ye hae it for supper, sir?" 
 
 " Thankfully," answered Philip, smiling, "if 
 you'll cook it, MacGregor." 
 
 "Oh, I would na presoome in Mrs. Car- 
 michael's kitchen!" 
 
 "Oh, please do, MacGregor," said Mary. 
 "You see I don't know much about it yet. I rely 
 on you to teach me. ' ' 
 
 She and Philip, leaving him quite alone at his 
 task, spent the rest of the afternoon walking over 
 the place, discussing improvements and additions. 
 Philip explained the problem of irrigation to her, 
 and she listened with real interest to details 
 about the digging of wells and the probable cost 
 of extra facilities. 
 
 "The only thing is," he said, "it always seems 
 to require money to make money; and we 
 haven't much capital to start with. To put this 
 place on a really paying basis would need the 
 expenditure of several thousand dollars; and we 
 simply haven't got it. Why, it is more than our 
 income for as many years." 
 
 "Philip! Really, is it only about a thousand 
 a year?" 
 
 "That's all. Does it frighten you?" 
 
 "No. But oh, Phil ! We shouldn 't have bought 
 the rug! Why, that was a year's income!" 
 
 He laughed. "I see you are going to be 
 Martha as well as Mary," he said. "A year's
 
 226 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 income is very little to give for a thing that one 
 is going to like all one's life. Those are the real 
 household gods the worth-while things that you 
 make sacrifices for." 
 
 "Yes, but Phil darling, I haven't made any 
 sacrifice for it. And I wish to contribute my 
 share." 
 
 He smiled down at her without a word, but his 
 look seemed to say: "Haven't you?" 
 
 "Let us think how we can economize, so as to 
 put all our income into the improvements," she 
 continued. "What would Ben call it?" She 
 thought for a moment. "Oh, yes! Turning the 
 profits back into the business; that's what we 
 must do!" She nodded, proud of her percep- 
 tion. 
 
 "But there aren't any profits yet," said 
 Philip. 
 
 "Well, then our income. We must use our in- 
 come to make the improvements." 
 
 "And what should we live on, meanwhile?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Why, on tilings out of the garden, and 
 chickens and pigs and things." 
 
 He laughed outright. "But what should we 
 feed them with?" 
 
 She looked a little crestfallen. "Oh, yes, of 
 course they have to be fed, don't they." 
 
 "Of course they do," he answered, "and so do 
 servants. And in harvesting time that will be 
 quite an item. No, dear, we must make haste
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 227 
 
 slowly. We shall need our income, every bit of it, 
 to live on this first year while we are getting the 
 place in order, and then next year, when the crop 
 is salable, we can put those profits back into the 
 business for the improvements. Oh," he ex- 
 claimed, after a look at her thoughtful, attentive 
 face, "I often think, Mary, it is no kind of life 
 to have brought you to ! You are so far above it ! 
 I ought to have waited until I had something bet- 
 ter to offer you. ' ' 
 
 "And wasted these golden years! Pure gold, 
 that's what they are, my Philip. We are going 
 to fill them up, brim-full, with the very best we 
 have of love and work. Wait! Why, Phil, I 
 wouldn't be cheated out of one day of it! One 
 day with you, sharing whatever conies in it, is 
 better than a thousand waiting for you, what- 
 ever wealth you brought me at the end." 
 
 * ' You dear of mine ! You very dear. ' ' 
 
 They walked on under their blossoming trees, 
 hand in hand. The perfume of the orange 
 flowers was almost like a visible presence to 
 greet the bride. It filled her with long thoughts 
 that led back to that garden made when the 
 earth was young, and a man and a woman just 
 created upon it. Now that it was old, the 
 miracle was still young, of a man and a woman 
 building, ever building in their garden. 
 
 1 ' Ever a man and a woman, ' ' she said softly, out 
 of her thoughts, "and ever a garden to build 
 in!"
 
 228 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 The short California twilight was closing in as 
 they turned back to the house, where, through the 
 lighted windows, they could see MacGregor at his 
 homely tasks. Just at the end of the grove Mary 
 turned to her husband. 
 
 "Love of my heart," she said, "do you 
 realize it is just two years since we met and loved 
 each other at once, 'out of the blue,' as you sayT 
 What a difficult way we have walked, in these 
 two little years, to this wonder-place that is our 
 happiness! If we could only have foreseen it, 
 we wouldn't have cared for a stone upon the 
 path!" 
 
 "Nor have appreciated the garden when we 
 found it," Philip answered. 
 
 She remained upon the porch a moment after 
 he had gone inside. She stood there in the twi- 
 light, turning her wedding-ring around upon her 
 finger. 
 
 "Round and round and round! No beginning 
 no ending forever and ever a ring a cir- 
 cle eternity!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "I love thee to the level of every day's 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light." 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 SO Philip Carmichael, before he was thirty- 
 five, found his whole life plan altered. 
 All his adult years had been spent in the 
 training of his fine talents for a statesman's serv- 
 ice, and that training was of no use to him now, 
 in this new environment. He had to start all 
 over again, accumulate wisdom and experience 
 along a totally different line, in which his previ- 
 ous training was more of a handicap than a help. 
 And he had a double responsibility. A man may 
 hazard any sort of change in his purposes while 
 he is alone, but with the welfare of another 
 bound up in his own, he must hesitate. 
 
 However, he had not hesitated. He had ac- 
 cepted the challenge of fate, and having done so, 
 meant to take all the consequences. He had been 
 called an ambitious man, he had been so. He had 
 built up his ambition proudly, year by year, step 
 by step, hoping, as so many men of his class do, 
 to incorporate love into it, in time, the kind of 
 love that is either a spur or a stepping-stone, but 
 never a disturbance. And yet when it had come, 
 this love, it had demanded of him a complete
 
 230 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 sacrifice of every purpose of his life. It 
 had demanded of him a complete abandon- 
 ment of the work for which he had been 
 trained, of the career for which he was peculiarly 
 fitted. It had demanded of him nothing less than 
 a new beginning at a new craft. And he had not 
 hesitated. It augured well for his ultimate suc- 
 cess and happiness as a man, as even his enemies 
 admitted, that he should have met the situation 
 and made whatever personal sacrifice there was 
 so promptly and quietly, putting straight out of 
 his life, by a strong and definite act of the will, 
 any possibility of promotion in his old career. 
 The only question was whether the demand could 
 justify itself, the sacrifice seem worth while, in 
 the years to come. 
 
 That was how the old Duke and Duchess were 
 speaking of it, over in England; he realizing it 
 from the man's point of view more completely 
 than she could possibly do, prejudiced as her mind 
 was toward Carmichael. 
 
 "Oh, I daresay they'll make a living!" she said 
 lugubriously. "But will they live? What sort 
 of life can it be for them, mental people as they 
 are, both of them, to farm? I try and try to 
 imagine them at it, but I fail. Fancy Mary peel- 
 ing potatoes instead of playing sonatas! And 
 him planting and plowing in his shirt-sleeves 
 very likely, instead of being one of the best 
 turned-out men in London! I simply can't imag- 
 ine it!"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 231 
 
 "Why, Aunt, I think you've imagined it beauti- 
 fully!" laughed Lady Kitty. "Quite a picture!" 
 
 "But where does it lead!" persisted the Duch- 
 ess. 
 
 "Pictures don't lead anywhere. They just 
 live," returned Lady Kitty. 
 
 But the two in California were utterly ab- 
 sorbed in the game they were playing with sky 
 and soil and sun. Such mornings, crisp and 
 sharp sometimes at that period of the year, for 
 Philip, starting out on some of his many tasks, 
 in gray shirt and trousers, as the Duchess had 
 imagined him, with the bluer gray of his eyes 
 bright and clear with health. Such days for 
 Mary, after she had kissed him and waved from 
 the porch, and then gone about her many house- 
 hold tasks of sewing, sweeping, weeding the 
 garden and watering it, working really hard with 
 her hands, and transforming the little house 
 into a veritable home. Such merry reunions after 
 the few hours' separation, when they met again 
 for their mid-day meal, each of them with a sharp 
 hunger that gave a zest to the simple food. They 
 had a Japanese man servant of all work, whose 
 oriental temperament was a continual source of 
 entertainment to them. And then the afternoons, 
 as busy as the mornings, while in various ways 
 they reclaimed their little property from the 
 waste it had been for the past two years or more, 
 since Philip's uncle had died. 
 
 And then the evenings! Short, because of
 
 232 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 their weariness from the outdoor work which sent 
 them early to bed; short, but close and sweet with 
 companionship that answered every mood, that 
 sympathized with and understood every purpose 
 and plan which either had. These evenings 
 might be passed with Mary at the piano, which 
 Philip had insisted on buying for her; and the 
 low, full tones of her voice, never a lajjge one, 
 but always beautifully equalized and true, made 
 such music in the room that Philip's book would 
 drop, from sheer pleasure of giving himself up 
 to her speJJ. Or, at other times, she would sew, 
 and he would read aloud to her. Through tke 
 English papers and periodicals they kept in touch 
 somewhat with the old life, though it seemed a 
 different world. Once she saw and was startled 
 to see a look almost of wistfulness on his face. 
 He had been reading the speech of a certain 
 minister in the House, and he had said enthusias- 
 tically: ''It's great, isn't it! I tnight have 
 known he would take that stand. He's my old 
 chief, and I always knew how he would view any 
 question long before he spoke on it. Just think," 
 he had added, as he folded the paper, "I knew 
 him really intimately! How strange it seems, 
 and how long ago, already!" 
 
 It was then that Mary had been surprised at 
 the wistfulness that bad settled unconsciously 
 over his face, as he sat thinking of the great game 
 that was always going on in England, the contest 
 of nations in which he no longer had any share.
 
 THE SUBSTAttfil^OF HIS HOUSE 233 
 
 And in consequence of that look on her husband 's 
 face, a quick alarm shot through the heart of the 
 woman. Could she be worth it to him? Could 
 she make this life out here compensate for what 
 he had given up! 
 
 But that was not usual. Generally the even- 
 ing passed happily, with Philip bending over 
 columns of figures, making estimates and plans, 
 and Mary sitting near by, sewing, with the lamp- 
 light shining on her soft hair, and their frank 
 affection sweetening every prosaic detail. Or, 
 too tired to plan or sew, they sat together by the 
 fire and talked of big and little things. Some- 
 times he sat at her feet on the hearth-rug, his 
 knees drawn up with his arms around them like 
 a schoolboy, and she would pull his head back 
 into her lap and run her fingers through the sleek, 
 dark hair. But often it was she who sat thus, 
 drawing a low stool beside the little sofa where 
 he lay, at right angles to the fire, and perhaps 
 reading to him. It was generally poetry, for 
 there was a deep feeling for it in each of them, 
 and they were in the heyday of their youth and 
 love. And perhaps, after they had both re- 
 sponded to the immortal .thoughts of the poem, 
 he would gently take the book from her, with a 
 "Read no more!" and draw her head to his 
 breast. And both, sitting so, would look into the 
 fire and dream the old, great dream of the world. 
 
 They were getting in touch with the little com- 
 munity, too. Mary was glad to find her church
 
 234 THE SUBSTANf F HIS HOUSE 
 
 in the little town. She and Philip drove in to 
 the service the very first Sunday and met the 
 priest at the door afterward, who, seeing they 
 were newcomers, said a few cordial words and 
 promised to call at once. Something oddly 
 familiar in his face arrested Mary's attention. 
 It seemed as if she had seen him before, but she 
 could not verify the impression. But when he 
 called during the week following, she found that 
 he had the same feeling in regard to her. He 
 thought that she was English, and she guessed 
 that he was. He was called Father John, and 
 he was about thirty-eight or thirty-nine years of 
 age. As they talked and spoke of places in Eng- 
 land, he suddenly asked her where she was con- 
 firmed. She replied, and he clapped his hands to- 
 gether smartly. 
 
 ''That's it!" he cried. "That's the place! I 
 knew I had met you before! Your face was 
 known to me, but I couldn't think where. My 
 dear Mrs. Carmichael, you and I were confirmed 
 together ! ' ' 
 
 "Really?" said Mary, rather bewildered. 
 
 "Don't you remember a long, lean, lank young 
 man, who was presented to the Bishop at the same 
 time you were! Don't you remember speaking 
 sweetly to me afterward! I remember what you 
 said: that since we had shared a sacrament, \\v 
 should shake hands before we parted, and though 
 you didn't know my name, you wished me happi- 
 ness." 
 

 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 235 
 
 "Did I really say that?" asked Mary, laugh- 
 ing. "How young it sounds! But I was prob- 
 ably trying to be kind. ' ' 
 
 "You were," he answered genially. "I re- 
 member I told you that I was a recent convert 
 and was going out to one of the missionary dis- 
 tricts of America to study for Holy Orders. 
 That was let me see twelve or thirteen years 
 ago! I have been a priest for seven years. 
 Much may happen in twelve years, Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael." 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "one's whole life may 
 change in much less time than that." 
 
 "Won't you tell me something of yourself?" 
 he asked gently. ' ' I mean when you feel inclined. 
 I remember your godfather was the Duke of 
 Northerland, a wonderfully fine man. How came 
 you to be here? Don't think me intrusive, but 
 I shall be your only spiritual adviser here, as 
 there is no other church of ours within miles." 
 
 "It is not in the least intrusive," said Mary. 
 "But the answer to your question is simple. I 
 married Mr. Carmichael, and we came to settle 
 upon the only property we possessed. That is 
 how we are here, like the rest, I fancy, to make 
 a living." 
 
 "And do you like it?" asked Father John. 
 "I ask because it seems to me it must be such a 
 different life to what you were accustomed to 
 there at home. ' ' 
 
 Mary saw Philip coming along one of the
 
 36 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 garden paths, and her face lighted up. She 
 turned to her guest. 
 
 "I should like any life where my husband is. 
 It doesn't matter whether it is here or there," 
 she said. 
 
 Father John rose to meet Philip, and they all 
 three chatted happily over tea in the garden. 
 "Quite in the English fashion," as the priest 
 said. 
 
 "Ah, but think of this time of year in Eng- 
 land!" answered Philip. "Rain and darkness, 
 nrist and mud!" 
 
 "Our rains are due, too," Father John an- 
 swered. "You haven't experienced them yet, 
 have you?" 
 
 "Only a few days of them. I have been in the 
 country only a short time." 
 
 "Really! Well, we shall soon make you feel 
 one of us. I count it an unexpected pleasure to 
 number you among my parishioners." 
 
 Indeed, his rugged face looked very happy as 
 they shook hands with him by the gate in the 
 hedge and said good-by. He felt they both liked 
 him, and he returned the feeling heartily. Philip, 
 watching him trudge away down the country road, 
 said: 
 
 "Poor chap! I'll bet he's been lonesome out 
 here." 
 
 And Mary felt again that quick, momentary 
 sinking of the heart, wondering if he spoke out 
 of a fellow-feeling.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 237 
 
 A few days later, just as she had finished hang- 
 ing some chintz curtains, which she had made 
 herself, in the living-room, she saw another 
 visitor, a lady, coming up the garden path. It 
 was too late to escape, for she felt that she had 
 been seen, so, just as she was, in white sewing- 
 apron over her blue serge dress, she waited until 
 the Japanese announced, "Mrs. Hughes" and then 
 welcomed her as charmingly as if it had been at a 
 reception where such things as aprons and mussed 
 hair are unknown. Mary's breeding always 
 showed best when there was a slight strain put 
 upon it. She saw at once that Mrs. Hughes was 
 a lady and said to the Japanese: 
 
 "Chia o molte kite, kudasai, Tanaka." 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Hughes, smiling apprecia- 
 tively, "you are picking up a little Japanese. 
 How quick of you!" 
 
 "That's the only thing I can say," laughed 
 Mary, "and I'm so proud of it I say it on all 
 occasions. I asked him to bring tea; did you 
 know?" 
 
 "Yes, I guessed. I, too, tried the language 
 when I first came. We all do, we English; we 
 try everything for a while." 
 
 "I thought you were English," said Mary. 
 "But I'm not. I'm an American." 
 
 Mrs. Hughes remarked that she would not have 
 believed it, and Mary asked if she had been long 
 in the country. Her visitor had interested her 
 from the first. She had a vivid face, with hair
 
 238 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and eyes of a dark brown, and a very clear-cut 
 profile. There was a look of restlessness and of 
 something akin to discontent about her that made 
 its appeal to Mary. She found herself wonder- 
 ing if she were unhappily married, or was dis- 
 satisfied with her position in life, or what it 
 was which gave that almost tragic look to her 
 mouth. 
 
 1 'Captain Hughes and I have been here about 
 three years," she answered. 
 
 "Do tell me something about the place and the 
 people; what do you do for amusement, for in- 
 stance ? ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hughes smiled rather wearily. "I'm 
 af ra id there isn 't much, "she answered. ' ' Every- 
 body is too busy working for a living. Still, I 
 believe they do dance sometimes in the town hall 
 a sort of Saturday evening social club and 
 there is bridge, too, and they picnic in the canons, 
 and there is a little tennis and some very bad 
 golf. Of course there are not many young peo- 
 ple." 
 
 Mary noticed that she invariably said "they" 
 as if she were not a part of the life of the place, 
 and she naturally wondered why. 
 
 "Oh, well," she said lightly, "amusement 
 doesn't really matter out here, where it is so lovely 
 just to live. And Los Angeles isn't too far to go 
 up for a little treat now and then." 
 
 "That is what we do," answered Mrs. Hughes. 
 "It is our only hope of not dying of boredom and
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 239 
 
 ennui. We keep in touch with the theater there, 
 see all the new plays, and hear all the music 
 there is. But, heavens, what a life ! You '11 miss 
 'home' more and more, Mrs. Carmichael." 
 
 "This is 'home' to me," said Mary, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, yes. One forgets that you are not Eng- 
 lish. But Mr. Carmichael is, is he not!" 
 
 "Yes Irish." 
 
 "I knew he was a member of Parliament. I 
 fancy we must have known many of the same peo- 
 ple at home." 
 
 Mary felt inwardly sorry for that. She had so 
 hoped to start life in this new place unfettered 
 by any gossip from the past. She had not spoken 
 of her previous marriage, even to the priest. It 
 was not that she needed to conceal it, but that she 
 was so completely Mary Carmichael that she 
 hated any one to even think of herself as Lady 
 Stanhope. And now here was this strange 
 woman very likely knowing something of the 
 whole story. 
 
 "That was why I called," said Mrs. Hughes. 
 "Because I felt you would soon miss your old life, 
 Lady er Mrs. Carmichael even if you do not 
 already; and I wanted you not to feel as lonely 
 as I have sometimes." 
 
 "Oh! I'm sorry," said Mary gently. "Well, 
 we must be good friends. I don't think I shall 
 mind it here, but then, I'm not English-bred, 
 though I was born there. My people were Ameri- 
 cans, however, and I went to school here in New
 
 240 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 York, I mean. That makes such a difference, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 They talked a little longer, and when Mrs. 
 Hughes rose to go, she said: 
 
 "It has been a pleasure to meet some one of my 
 own class, and kind, again. I am sure we have 
 much in common." 
 
 Just what she meant by that, Mary did not 
 realize at the moment, but when speaking of it 
 to Philip that night at dinner, she said: 
 
 "She gives me the feeling that there is some 
 mystery about her." 
 
 "I met Hughes in the town," Philip answered. 
 "There's some gossip about them; I did not 
 gather what it was. He has a sort of beaten 
 look, as if he had found life not worth the strug- 
 gle." 
 
 "Oh! what a pity," she said sympathetically. 
 "It's so splendidly worth it, don't you think, my 
 dear?" 
 
 "Of course I think so," he answered, smiling 
 across the table in the way that set her heart to 
 singing. "But I'm not Hughes." 
 
 That was the mood she loved to see him in 
 the good, gay, purposeful mood which generally 
 dominated him, to do him justice. It was only 
 occasionally, when he was very tired, that she 
 noted the wistful look which she had learned to 
 dread settling upon his face, as he looked back- 
 ward to the life behind, instead of forward to the 
 good years ahead. She under stoQd it, in a
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 241 
 
 measure, dimly guessing that a man must miss 
 his life-work when it was as big as Philip's had 
 been. But she did not realize it, her own work 
 for him so completely absorbing her, her love so 
 wonderfully inspiring her, through all the hard 
 places, and past all the sordid, prosaic details of 
 their economies and labors. He appreciated all 
 she did and was, and he loved her in every way, 
 past either of their dreams of loving, when they 
 had first drawn together. But sometimes, in 
 spite of himself, in spite of his real endeavor to 
 put the past out of his thoughts entirely and 
 concentrate upon the immediate work of the pres- 
 ent, his unused talents, his unfulfilled mental 
 energies would confront him and contend for ex- 
 pression. And there was no expression for them 
 in the life to which he had given himself. 
 
 A few days after Mrs. Hughes' call, Mary re- 
 ceived another from Mrs. Bourke, wife of the 
 physician in the town. She was a voluble, cheer- 
 ful little wojnan, with a very rosy face and hair 
 just beginning to turn. She was evidently very 
 frank and outspoken, and Mary felt at home with 
 her at once. 
 
 "We always look for you in church every Sun- 
 day," she chattered, with the frequent emphasis 
 which Americans often use, in lieu of any other 
 punctuation to their speech. "And I say to my 
 husband, the doctor: 'There's that perfectly 
 stunning couple again.' The first time I said: 
 4 1 wonder who they can be;' then I heard your
 
 242 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 name from dear Father John, and I said: 'I 
 wonder what they are doing here. ' ' 
 
 "And now you have come to find out!" said 
 Mary, laughing. 
 
 "My dear, I don't mean to be personal, but you 
 are simply too beautiful for words; and your 
 husband half the women in the place think he is 
 fascinating! We are so glad you have come 
 among us, and so glad you are in our church. 
 We want to make you feel welcome at once. Am 
 I your first caller!" 
 
 "Almost," answered Mary. "Mrs. Hughes 
 called a few days ago. By the way, I never see 
 her in church." 
 
 "Mrs. Hughes? Well, I should say not! Do 
 you mean to tell me she called on youf Well, I 
 never heard of such nerve!" 
 
 "Why?" asked Mary, mystified. 
 
 "My dear! She isn't really Mrs. Hughes at 
 all. She's Lady Fitzroy, and she and Captain 
 Hughes eloped, and her husband simply won't 
 divorce her; and the poor things aren't received 
 even out here!" 
 
 "Oh! They must be very lonely." 
 
 "Well, I suppose they are; but what can you do 
 with people like that? They don't fit in, do they? 
 They ought to go and live in a big place where 
 things don't get known. Here everybody knows 
 everything about one." 
 
 "She looks very unhappy, poor lady!" 
 
 "I should think she would! They say she left
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 243 
 
 a good husband and a beautiful home and a fine 
 social position, and everything of that sort just 
 to go away with Captain Hughes and what she 
 saw in him, I can't think! Aren't women fools, 
 my dear?" 
 
 "Are they?" asked Mary, smiling a little sadly. 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean when they give 
 up everything for nothing." 
 
 "I suppose they always think they are giving 
 up nothing for everything," said Mary. 
 
 "But how do they get so topsy-turvy? You 
 know, I'd help any woman out of any scrape; 
 but I simply can't pretend to understand how she 
 ever gets in ! " 
 
 "I'm sure you are a great dear," said Mary, 
 laughing in spite of herself at the little lady's 
 comical earnestness. 
 
 "But do you understand it?" Mrs. Bourke 
 asked. 
 
 "Well, I suppose she must have cared a great 
 deal." 
 
 "But, my dear, it doesn't last! Look at 'em 
 now! Couldn't she have looked ahead and imag- 
 ined it would end like this? Why, when a 
 woman has got a man whom she trusts and 
 doesn't dislike on the whole, can't she be content? 
 Why bump oneself trying to fly, when one might 
 walk with dignity and safety?" 
 
 "I see," said Mary, much amused. 
 
 "Your little house is charming," Mrs. Bourke 
 continued, changing the subject. "I'm so glad
 
 244 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 you kept the old Spanish name El Tejado Que- 
 rido the beloved roof. Old Mr. Carmichael 
 was very fond of it. Did you know him!" 
 
 "No, he died before I had met my husband." 
 
 "Well, he was an eccentric old dear. Some- 
 body told me that all the Carmichaels were." 
 She looked interrogatively at Mary, who laughed. 
 
 "I only know one of them, and he isn't in the 
 least eccentric." 
 
 Mrs. Bourke laughed also. "Well, if you don't 
 live to think your husband eccentric you're 
 lucky," she said. "Really, I think you and Mr. 
 Carmichael will be happy in Santa Rita, when you 
 know us a little better. Every one out here works 
 pretty hard, but we do have good times too. It's 
 a social little place. You mustn't be surprised 
 if the man who calls for your grocery order asks 
 you how many dances you'll give him on Satur- 
 day, or if " 
 
 "What!" interrupted Mary in astonishment. 
 
 "Oh, yes! He's very likely some scapegrace 
 young Englishman sent out here with a hundred 
 pounds or so, and told to straighten up, or the 
 younger son of a good family too poor to find an 
 opportunity in England. You'll be astonished 
 when you know the different elements we manage 
 to incorporate into our mixed and exclusive 
 society!" She was twinkling at her own clever- 
 ness. "Why, only the other night at a restau- 
 rant in Los Angeles, my husband shook hands 
 with the man who pulled out my chair for me!
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 245 
 
 Unusual, you'll admit? He turned out to be 
 the son of a man in the Life Guards Dr. 
 Bourke had known him years ago got into some 
 scrape over there, I suppose, and came out here 
 to live it down or up whichever appeals to 
 him most. It's a wonderful environment for ex- 
 tremes, either way." 
 
 Mary was laughing heartily. "It's a true 
 democracy, isn't it!" she said. She had taken 
 a liking to little Mrs. Bourke. 
 
 The months passed quickly into spring, and 
 they were by that time on pleasant, friendly 
 terms with most of the little community. The 
 house was transformed under Mary's taste and 
 by her busy hands. Soft chintzes, covering the 
 shabby chairs in the living-room and hanging 
 over windows and doorways, made the place 
 wonderfully dainty and homelike ; and the beauti- 
 ful rug which Philip had bought on their wed- 
 ding-day was a constant source of joy. Little 
 window-boxes made of the bark of a tree and filled 
 with bright flowers adorned the outside sill; and 
 the garden beyond became more and more at- 
 tractive. MacGregor sometimes helped her there. 
 "It's not much short of Paradise, is it, ma'am?" 
 he asked one day, when he had finished clip- 
 ping the cypress hedge which divided the flowers 
 from the kitchen garden. "I should think ye'd 
 feel ye'd discovered the garden of Eden." Mac- 
 Gregor was of a deeply religious turn of mind. 
 
 "With all the work we do in it?" answered
 
 246 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Mary, laughing. "Good gracious, MacGregor, 
 where's your scriptural accuracy?** She rolled 
 her r's mischievously in the last two words. 
 
 The old man wagged his head appreciatively. 
 "Eh, you're recht, ma'am, ever. 'Twas beyond 
 the gate o' the garden that the work began.'* 
 
 Inside the house, up-stairs, changes had been 
 wrought also. Flowered cretonne curtains over 
 the windows mellowed the powerful sunlight. 
 Rag carpets covered the floors and harmonized 
 delightfully with their environment; and in the 
 room they called the "den," which was to be 
 Ben's when he should come, they had put furni- 
 ture of willow, which was very cool and comfort- 
 able. This room looked north and east and had 
 a little balcony with steps which led down to the 
 garden. Mary found its shadiness delightful, as 
 she sat and sewed on summer mornings, or re- 
 plied to the letters which kept her in touch with 
 far-away dear ones. The Duke wrote cheerily, 
 thankful at her happiness and well-being, and al- 
 ways sent a friendly message to Philip. The 
 Duchess wrote admonishingly, telling her not to 
 do too much, not to spoil her hands, and for 
 heaven's sake to avoid freckles and never sent 
 a message to Philip. Lady Kitty wrote wistfully 
 that she was sick to death of England, was think- 
 ing of emigrating, and would Mary have her to 
 board? Mary smiled, never taking her seriously. 
 Jessie wrote often. She and George had been 
 rather relieved, as Philip had surmised they
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 247 
 
 would be, and not too much surprised, when he 
 and Mary had slipped away and been married. 
 And after her first letter of wonder and scolding, 
 she had settled down into a faithful corre- 
 spondent, like the good, practical friend she was. 
 Ben wrote shortly, at long intervals, sometimes 
 to Philip, sometimes to Mary. He had managed 
 to find a spare week to spend with them during 
 their first summer. They knew that they were 
 both very dear to him, and they greatly looked 
 forward to the day when he might be able to come 
 out to them for a longer visit. 
 
 In that first year of their marriage, close and 
 sweet as their companionship was, they but 
 touched the rim of their cup of life. Very grad- 
 ually they became adjusted to their environment, 
 found its opportunities, its duties, its pleasures, 
 its demanding tasks. Each, at times, realized 
 something of sacrifice, something personal which 
 had to be given up for the good of the partner- 
 ship. To Mary it brought an added joy, made 
 her love just that much more worth while, what- 
 ever more it cost. And it cost much in many 
 kinds of service. 
 
 But to Philip, a greater artist, and not so great 
 a lover, it brought not joy, but care. His re- 
 sponsibility was greater than hers, his need for 
 mental expression greater, too. He had not only 
 to wrest their living from the earth, he had also 
 to direct the currents of their lives toward some 
 end that should make it worth the living. Sub-
 
 248 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 sistence he could win for her garden and or- 
 chard and plain were prolific under his hus- 
 bandry; but a man of his caliber could not long 
 live by bread alone. And of that other substance 
 of the spirit, what could he give her! In their 
 narrow sphere, among easy, comfortable, low- 
 aimed people, rich in content if not in energy, 
 what purpose should redeem the mere living of 
 their lives! His vigorous mind, used to the 
 handling of larger projects, felt cramped at its 
 present tasks. Had children come to them, prob- 
 ably his own ambition and desires might have 
 been put by in hope for them, but without them 
 his dreams were seedless, and his unfulfilled ca- 
 reer seemed a sterile sacrifice to the joy of life. 
 And this mere joy of life, an end in itself to 
 most people, was to his restless spirit only a 
 means toward the great end of life, which is 
 work, work which enlists all the faculties, feed- 
 ing not one but all the powers craving expression. 
 These thoughts seldom came to him when he 
 was within the radius of his wife's warm person- 
 ality, but often at night, when she lay sleeping 
 beside him, within reach of his arm, they haunted 
 him. He loved her. Her tawny hair, a dim soft- 
 ness against the pillow, the dark-lashed lids closed 
 over the eyes whose beautiful color he knew by 
 heart, the adorably sweet lines of mouth and chin 
 and neck, were precious to him. Her hands, 
 harder and browner than they had been, but still 
 slender and lovely, were dear also. He kissed
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 249 
 
 one of them softly in a kind of contrition, as if 
 his clamoring thoughts contained some subtle dis- 
 loyalty to her. Oh, yes, he loved her; but love 
 did not fill his life as it did hers. He did not 
 acknowledge it, he did not even know it, but 
 unconsciously his need of her had lessened. 
 
 And down deep in the root-reaches of his spirit, 
 in that space where every soul goes alone, a new 
 need was being born.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "Once when I was young I hoped without attaining, 
 Yet I felt all Earth was well within my scope. 
 Something we must lose for all that we are gaining 
 Now I have attained but I no longer hope." 
 
 DOLF WYLLARDE. 
 
 IN the year that followed, the conditions of 
 their life became intensified by the lack of 
 money. The new wells for necessary irriga- 
 tion proved unexpectedly expensive, and to meet 
 the cost they had been obliged to borrow from 
 their capital. This troubled Philip a good deal, 
 but Mary had agreed to it heartily. 
 
 "You realize what it means," he said to her: 
 "we have reduced our income to nearly half, and 
 it was small enough before." 
 
 "Yes, but we can put it back when the place is 
 yielding double what it does now. The place is 
 our capital, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, but it means so many sacrifices for you, 
 dear girl." 
 
 "I don't mind," she answered contentedly. 
 "I'm better than I've ever been in my life, and 
 I know enough now to be able to do without a 
 servant. Let me, Philip. That will be thirty- 
 five dollars a month saved, quite an item when it 
 comes to paying the wages at harvest time."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 251 
 
 At first he would not hear of it. His pride 
 rebelled at the thought of her working at menial 
 tasks. But when he realized that they practic- 
 ally had to live on the price they could get for 
 their oranges that year, he yielded reluctantly. 
 She cajoled him into it. But it was a bitter pill 
 to swallow, and instead of mitigating, it 
 nourished his ailment of pride. She, however, set 
 herself to downright drudgery, as if it were the 
 very poetry of life. She sang over all the dull 
 tasks, cooking and cleaning and sweeping, even 
 washing and ironing. She developed a wonderful 
 capacity for keeping the knowledge of how much 
 work she really did from Philip, guessing his 
 sensitiveness. He never spared himself, indoors 
 or out, helping her in every way he could think 
 of. But he did not realize the immense amount 
 of actual service which she rendered him, nor the 
 absolute unselfishness of it all. If he thought of 
 it at all, he thought that they were partners work- 
 ing together for a common interest; but if she 
 thought of it, perhaps when she was tired, she 
 revived with the remembrance: "It is for him 
 my Beloved." 
 
 They had not made very much out of their 
 second year's crop. The freight rates to the 
 Eastern markets, which all the fruit-growers in 
 their section of the country complained of bit- 
 terly, ate largely into the profits from their sale. 
 So much money had been needed for repairing, 
 improving, and irrigating, that they had not yet
 
 252 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 been able to invest in the by-products which Mac- 
 Gregor assured them would make the ranch pay 
 better. So that, by their second Christmas, they 
 found themselves in need of using the most rigid 
 economy to get through until the next harvest- 
 time, unless they wished to draw still further 
 from the capital'which provided their small, sure 
 income. This Philip was unwilling to do, real- 
 izing it would leave them with no reserves in case 
 of illness or accident, and with no protection for 
 Mary in case of his death. It was odd for him 
 to feel such a sense of responsibility. His boy's 
 laugh, infectious because so unrestrained, was 
 heard less frequently than it had been, for it took 
 more to provoke it. All work and no play was 
 not proving beneficial. The sense of exile was 
 closing in upon him, too, and the futility of ex- 
 ile. Often he thought they should have remained 
 upon the scene in England and fought it out there, 
 living down the scandal instead of flying from it. 
 They were fitted by nature and training, both of 
 them, for that life, not for this. He pictured that 
 life with a wife like Mary her social tact and 
 charm, her beauty, her gifts a small house in 
 Mayfair at first, changing to a larger one wJlen. 
 preferment came, as it most surely would, in the 
 work for which he was fitted. He pictured them 
 both in a more brilliant environment, as life broad- 
 ened and opened to him the gates of large op- 
 portunity. He saw them placed high in the Ship 
 of State, surrounded by the finest minds of their
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 253 
 
 generation for intimate associates; he visioned 
 the years deepening, mellowing to a prime of 
 dignity and honor ; and suddenly beside the vision 
 obtruded the reality of exile, lower aims, inade- 
 quate resources, and thwarted expression of the 
 best purposes of his life. And all for what, he 
 asked himself bitterly ; for an undeserved scandal 
 which he should have ignored entirely. So he 
 came to think of it, and so he came to think the 
 California move a great mistake. It was not 
 only for his own sake he thought so, but also, al- 
 most as much, for hers. Without being inten- 
 tionally selfish, his embittered mood of disap- 
 pointment gradually enveloped him. He never 
 once actually spoke of it, but he brooded con- 
 stantly. It did not occur to him that Mary would 
 see or feel the change in him. He would not 
 consciously so have hurt her. 
 
 But of course she realized it and suffered ac- 
 cordingly, divining that she had cared more than 
 he, surmising that she had cost him more than 
 she had been able to be worth to him. It was 
 the bitterer, the sadder, because to her he had 
 been worth every sacrifice which she had made, 
 though she never thought of them as sacrifices, 
 but as opportunities to prove the completeness of 
 her love for him, in big and little ways. 
 
 Yet before their third Christmas in Santa Rita, 
 the sense of disappointment was creeping into 
 their relations toward each other, the conscious- 
 ness of a spoiled career cankering the man's mind,
 
 254 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the feeling of failure frightening the woman's. 
 To give all one has, and have that all not enough 
 for the one beloved! So she thought, grieving 
 alone over the barrier which his very reticence 
 had erected between them. 
 
 In her heart of hearts she bore a disappoint- 
 ment deeper than his. Her womanhood was still 
 unfulfilled by any hope of children. She was 
 tortured by the longing to give him this supreme 
 great gift to put his child in his arms, compound 
 of the finest essence of them both, and restore 
 that oneness of spirit which had united them in 
 the first months of their marriage. This longing 
 had never been realized, but perhaps it developed 
 the mother-quality in her, which, having nothing 
 else to lavish itself on, spent itself as an added 
 element in her love for him. 
 
 Outwardly their life went on in its normal nar- 
 row grooves. Sometimes the doctor and his wife 
 joined them at informal little dinners and re- 
 turned the hospitality in kind. Often Father 
 John drove back with them after church on a Sun- 
 day and partook of the mid-day meal. He had 
 become very much interested in them bbth in the 
 two years since they had been under his spiritual 
 care. Because of his slight tie with the past, he 
 and Mary had soon become friends, and she was 
 very useful to him in many ways : kind and sweet 
 to his sick, generous to his poor, faithful in all 
 ways, as it was her nature to be. But his real 
 interest was in Philip, perhaps because he saw
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 255 
 
 the man needed interest more than the woman, 
 his struggle being fiercer, his face less turned to 
 the Light than hers. They told him one day 
 about their marriage in San Francisco, about the 
 lawyer's musty room the mighty question the 
 two short answers ''Yes" "Yes" and the 
 tremendous fact that stood completed by that sim- 
 ple ceremony. He listened gravely, not sharing 
 their light-hearted acceptance of the manner in 
 which they were made one. Later, when Philip 
 had gone out on some business, he said to Mary: 
 
 "Will you tell me, my daughter, why you, a 
 child of the Church, elected to dispense with her 
 ministrations in perhaps the most important 
 event of your life?" 
 
 "Don't scold me, dear Father John!" she en- 
 treated, "for my dear Duke did that two years 
 ago! Yes, I'll tell you. It was because the 
 Church forms mean so little to my husband, 
 though he would have endured them for my sake 
 if I had insisted. ' ' 
 
 "Well, then, why f" 
 
 "Because I wanted him to be quite sincere. I 
 thought it would be better than to burden him 
 with forms and ceremonies which he doesn't 
 understand or believe in. And then besides," she 
 hesitated a moment, then faced the acknowledg- 
 ment with her usual honesty, "besides we got 
 carried away. We wanted it done at once." 
 
 "I see." * 
 
 "Do you think it so very wrong?"
 
 256 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 He smiled at her gently. "Why ask? You 
 know what I must think as a priest of our Holy 
 Church." 
 
 "But why?" she persisted. "Just why?" 
 
 He hesitated a moment, then replied with great 
 gentleness : 
 
 "Human love is often so close to divine, that 
 we have to take care lest it supplant the divine. 
 It is to refuse the sanction of God, to find it apart 
 from Him." 
 
 Mary repeated rather stunned. 
 
 " 'To refuse the sanction of God!' Father, 
 did I do that?" 
 
 "Didn't you?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "Suppose it were your earthly father," said 
 the priest; "wouldn't you have invited him?" 
 
 That conversation left her less at peace with 
 herself. Perhaps longing to have it refuted, she 
 said to Philip after dinner that evening: 
 
 "Phil, dear, tell me do you ever regret?" 
 
 "Regret?" he said, with a quick look almost 
 like alarm at being detected. "Regret what?" 
 
 "Our marriage." 
 
 He hesitated for the fraction of a second. 
 
 "Oh, my dear girl! What's the use of going 
 into that? Of course I don't. Besides, it's 
 done. ' ' 
 
 He thought no more about it and went on with 
 his book. But she, after a few tensely-enduring 
 minutes, slipped out of the bright room into the
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 257 
 
 garden, which lay dim and magical in the spring 
 moonlight. She felt dazed, blind with tears, 
 strangled with suppressed sobs. His words said 
 themselves over and over: "What's the use of 
 going into that; it's done!" Was it for this that 
 she had slighted God? 
 
 "It's done." It was useless to regret, he 
 meant ; oh, did he, could he, mean that ! * ' What 's 
 the use of going into that; it's done!" 
 
 She was sobbing her heart out at the foot of 
 her own Baroness rose-bush. She found herself 
 passionately kissing one of the blossoms, lavish- 
 ing upon it the tenderness within her which had 
 no other outlet. It was at least something alive 
 in the suddenly lonely world. 
 
 "I've cost him too much," she whispered to the 
 rose. "Too much! And I haven't been worth it 
 to him!" Lower went her head to the very 
 ground. ' ' I haven 't been worth it ! " 
 
 Presently a lane of light struck the garden path, 
 and Philip stood in the open doorway. 
 
 ' ' Mary ! " he called, ' ' Mary, where are you, dear 
 girl?" 
 
 "Here," she said faintly. 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't wonder you prefer to stay out. 
 What a ripping night ! But do you mind coming 
 in for a moment f I need you. ' ' 
 
 She drew a quick breath, "I need you." The 
 every-day, unconscious comfort of it! That was 
 the real thing! She summoned all her self-com- 
 mand, pulled her hair about her face, dabbled her
 
 258 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 eyes with her pocket handkerchief, and made her 
 voice quite cheery and natural. 
 
 '"All right, dear. I'll be there." 
 
 And Philip, absorbed in some new plan, the de- 
 tails of which he eagerly explained to her, actu- 
 ally noticed nothing.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "Oh, how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
 Against the wrackful siege of battering days?" 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 IN th'e spring of their third year, the terrible 
 news of the earthquake at San Francisco 
 shook the world. Jessie's letters were full 
 of it, letters so vivid with description that they 
 read like an impossible romance. "And yet," 
 Philip said, "I don't suppose they anything like 
 come up to the reality." They talked of little 
 else for weeks, sending what help they could spare 
 from their own scanty means toward the tre- 
 mendous need of their fellow-citizens. "Just 
 think," Philip said one day, with the newspaper 
 in his hand, "all that down-town section the 
 building where we were married, you remember 
 is destroyed! And all the records are gone 
 marriage records and all. And think of the lives 
 lost!" 
 
 "Oh, it's too terrible!" 
 
 "By Jove!" He was scanning a partial list of 
 names of some victims of the fire. "Here's that 
 chap that married us, I do believe. What was 
 his name? Do you remember?" 
 
 * ' Something like Jennings, I think. ' '
 
 260 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ' ' You Ve got a copy, haven 't you, dear ? Do get 
 it and see." 
 
 She found it in one of the drawers of her writ- 
 ing-table and brought it to him. 
 
 "Yes, it's the same, W. D. Jennings, and the 
 same address. Poor chap! It seems to bring it 
 close home to us, doesn't it?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes ! ' ' she answered, with pity. ' ' Tell me, 
 what does it say!" 
 
 "That all in the building are supposed to have 
 perished. What were the names of our wit- 
 nesses?" 
 
 "Smith and Hangartner," she read from the 
 copy of the certificate in her hand. "They were 
 the scrub-woman and the janitor. I remember I 
 wondered at the time which was Smith, which was 
 Hangartner." 
 
 "Well, they are both alike now," answered 
 Philip solemnly. "Here are the names among the 
 dead. The entire building collapsed." 
 
 "Oh Phil!" 
 
 "Yes, it does seem to bring it close to us, doesn't 
 it. Except that paper in your hand, Alary, there 
 isn't a single proof of our marriage." 
 
 Standing behind his chair, she made her arms 
 a chain around his neck. "We have a living 
 proof," she said; "we have each other." 
 
 As they sat together in the evenings, he was 
 often very silent, glooming over the past, spec- 
 ulating on the future; but, except the night when 
 she had cried in the garden, she never gave way
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 261 
 
 to dark moods. Not that she didn't feel them, 
 not that the spectre of doubt, of fear, didn't dog 
 her spirits also ; but whenever it seemed about to 
 overtake her, she heard again his "I need you." 
 Many times a day she heard it. "Are you busy, 
 Mary? Just a moment I need you." Or when 
 he had just come in, he would call: "Up-stairs 
 or down, dear? I need you look here!" And 
 always she put the spectre to flight by her blithe 
 answer: "All right, dearest, here I am!" 
 
 Unconsciously, Philip's selfishness grew, fos- 
 tered, no doubt, by her unselfishness. His ego, 
 with its warring forces, its thwarted expression, 
 absorbed him. He was rather an interesting 
 figure in his own eyes, a man who had made a 
 romantic sacrifice for love, who had been sent to 
 the wall by a woman for whom he had given up 
 the world. That she, also, had given it up for 
 him, he admitted ; taking it for granted, as he took 
 all other things from her, little services, little ten- 
 dernesses, little thoughtful acts which ministered 
 to his comfort in a hundred ways. Gradually he 
 ceased to consider them at all. They became a 
 part of the marriage relationship, things to be 
 expected from a wife, demanded if need be, but 
 with finished people like them, counted on without 
 having to demand them. 
 
 And she not all at once, in flashes, as some 
 people experience a revelation, but gradually, very 
 gradually began to perceive his character the 
 integral quality of him which made him what he
 
 262 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 was, which placed him where he was, which inter- 
 preted him to her psychic vision with that clear- 
 sighted certitude which comes from reason alone. 
 She penetrated his elusive, erratic personality 
 and knew it to be fed by secret springs of mascu- 
 line vanity and conceit; she realized his disap- 
 pointed ambition and self-absorption, the reverse 
 side of the medal whose face-stamp was ideality 
 and power. And because she saw both sides, a 
 new element came into her consideration of him, 
 a feeling that old wives sometimes attain to, of 
 profound tolerance, watchful solicitude. There 
 was something to be forgiven daily in the moods 
 of their life. It was forgiven him beforehand by 
 her, but the fact that it had to be broke the 
 pedestal under the idol. It mattered not. He 
 was her idol still. She rallied all her mental and 
 spiritual forces to realize her ideal in him, to make 
 him realize his own ideal in himself. She set her- 
 self to the fight, knowing she could not fail while 
 she went on fighting. 
 
 Sometimes she succeeded very well. He re- 
 sponded to the spur, infected by her hope and 
 purpose. She encouraged him to write, and his 
 natural gift of oratory expressed itself through 
 the written as well as it had through the spoken 
 word. But it tended nowhere, unguided by any 
 set purpose, and there was no market for it. So 
 it redounded to his additional discouragement and 
 irk at life. Another talent wasted in the dull 
 round of a farmer ! What was the use of it, any-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 263 
 
 way! So he thought. But Mary set herself to 
 her household tasks with vigor, to his plans with 
 courage and purpose. Her talent lay in loving. 
 
 Things were in this state between them toward 
 the end of their third summer, when they had 
 word from Ben that he expected to "run out to 
 see Jess and the kids," and he would "take them 
 in" en route, if they would "put him up." The 
 cordiality of their reply must have pleased him. 
 Truth to say, each felt the need of an intimate 
 third person. Mary knew that he would, see, 
 would feel, whatever there was to see and to feel 
 in their relationship. But she knew also that she 
 need not dread his seeing. "Ben is so under- 
 standing," she thought, "he'll see, but he'll under- 
 stand his sight. So few people do that ! ' ' 
 
 And Ben did. His coming helped them greatly. 
 He brought a breath of larger life in broader 
 spheres of action, and since they were his friends, 
 they shared in that greater world. Their shut- 
 in little motives, instead of looming large in their 
 own eyes, began to merge in the common lot of the 
 workers of the whole country, of the whole world. 
 Divining in the minds of his friends a sense of 
 their lost importance in their sphere, wise Ben set 
 himself to the task of reinstating them in their 
 own domain. He made them feel their personal 
 worth to the community as if it were almost a 
 responsibility. 
 
 "Glad you have taken out naturalization 
 papers," he said to Philip. "The country, par-
 
 264 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ticularly this West, needs men like you, men of 
 culture as well as skill, men who know as well as 
 do. ' ' And Philip would feel that perhaps it might 
 become worth while, after all. 
 
 Ben saw that some of the heart had gone out 
 of them both and guessed at a good deal which 
 he didn't see. Once Philip unburdened himself, 
 as they were returning through the orchard where 
 they had been inspecting some work going on 
 there. 
 
 "Our little doings must seem very small to you, 
 used to dealing with the markets of the world," 
 he said. 
 
 ' ' Small ! ' ' said Ben. " Not a bit of it. It 's fine 
 to get them at first-hand, before they reach the 
 markets of the world." 
 
 ' ' Humph ! You wouldn 't think so, if you had to 
 live here. Think of it; three hundred days or so 
 of sunshine three hundred days of sameness 
 season after season, year after year! Three hun- 
 dred days of meeting again the same pleasant, 
 stupid little people, of doing again the same 
 pleasant, stupid little tasks! How Mary stands 
 it, I don 't know ! I often think it was a mistake 
 to bring her out here. And as for me what a 
 waste ! If one is born to plan, to talk, to organ- 
 ize, one is lost trying to plow and sow and reap. 
 I used to talk to men, get at the fruit of their 
 minds ! I can 't ' ' he waved his hand impatiently 
 in a wide, circular gesture which took in the whole 
 orchard ' ' talk to orange-trees ! * '
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 265 
 
 "I don't believe 'twould hurt them," returned 
 Ben, with his droll solemnity. Then he added: 
 "I think you and Mary both want a little change. 
 Let's have a spree, the three of us. We'll go up 
 to Los Angeles and see a play to-morrow night, 
 have a jolly little supper after, stay over night 
 at a hotel, and motor down the next day. What 
 do you say? You are to be my guests." 
 
 Philip said Mary would like it awfully, and he 
 would also. So it was arranged, and Ben wired 
 for, and obtained, a box at the theater, and ac- 
 commodations at the hotel. 
 
 Mary gave him a pleasant surprise when she 
 came down-stairs dressed and ready to go. He 
 had grown accustomed to seeing her about the 
 ranch in blue serge or brown linen dresses, chang- 
 ing to the very simplest sort of house-dress for 
 their informal dinners. But to-night she was like 
 her old self, in a reconstructed, but rich black 
 evening-dress. Ben thought it enhanced her 
 tawny fairness and made her look very lovely 
 and distinguished. 
 
 "Seems to me we're very gorgeous!" he said, 
 smiling, as he put on her coat for her. 
 
 "But you like me," she answered, with a flash 
 of her old surety. 
 
 "I always like you." 
 
 He saw she was thinner than of old. The dress 
 revealed it. And there were other changes. The 
 hair, charmingly arranged in its light brown 
 abundance, had not quite that deft, smart touch
 
 266 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 which it used to have; the hands were a little 
 rough, the forefinger of one covered with needle- 
 pricks, the wrist of the other just healing from 
 a burn. And the eyes were not quite as gay, 
 though quite as sweet, as blue. Yet, he realized, 
 she was still a woman for any man to admire, 
 a wife for any man to worship, a queen every 
 inch, with power to sway the minds of men, if the 
 opportunity ever came. 
 
 Philip, too, was transformed. He looked what 
 he had started out to be a thorough man of the 
 world, well-born, well poised, with that careless 
 ease which is the hall-mark of his class. The 
 ranchman had been laid aside with the ranchman's 
 clothes. Mary told him gaily if he went on look- 
 ing like that, she should fall in love with him all 
 over again. Ben noted the glasses leveled at their 
 box and caught some of the comments of the 
 audience, with a pleased pride in his two friends. 
 
 The play was "The Doll's House," and it was 
 the opening night of the company in that town. 
 It happened that none of them had ever seen it, 
 and its bright opening scenes pleased them 
 greatly. Norah's romp with the children was 
 prettily done, and Norah herself an oddly inter- 
 esting personality. Mary, sitting a little in front 
 of the two men in the box, did not see the start 
 that each gave when she came on the stage. 
 Ben's glass went up quickly, as if to verify the 
 sight of his eyes, and Philip's face went a shade 
 whiter without the aid of the glasses. Mary did
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 267 
 
 not see these things, but at the end of the act she 
 looked through her programme for the name of 
 the actress. 
 
 * ' Sheelah Delayne, ' ' she read. ' ' What a lovely, 
 liquid sound it has! Odd name, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Ben, as Philip said nothing. 
 
 "She's very good, don't you think? And so 
 beautiful! But the children were sweet, espe- 
 cially that dark-haired boy why, look!" Her 
 finger was on the programme. "His name is the 
 same as ours Carmichael! Michael Carmi- 
 chael. ' ' 
 
 "So it is," said Ben, as Philip was still silent. 
 
 "I wonder," Mary went on, "if any of them 
 are her own children? One feels so curious 
 about stage people; and the dark-haired boy is 
 rather like her." 
 
 Philip looked at her strangely, and Ben caught 
 his breath and then shut his mouth on it. The 
 same thought had come to the minds of both. A 
 thought too awful to be entertained. 
 
 After the next act Mary said: "I wonder if 
 it is my fancy, or if the actress what's her pretty 
 name? Sheelah Delayne did look over at us 
 several times? Perhaps she thought there were 
 friends in the box." 
 
 An attendant of the theater knocked and 
 entered at that moment. 
 
 "Mr. Baldwin?" he inquired. 
 
 "Here," said Ben. 
 
 "I have a note for you, sir."
 
 268 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Ben took the envelope and, asking indulgence, 
 read its contents. 
 
 1 'Well," he said, after a moment, "you are not 
 far wrong, Mary. She does think she knows me 
 Miss Delayne. She wants me to go behind the 
 scenes and see her. Will you excuse me for a 
 moment if I do?" 
 
 "This door here, sir, leads right to her dress- 
 ing-room," said the attendant, "and she's ex- 
 pecting you. There's a twelve-minute wait be- 
 tween these acts." Ben followed the man out, 
 and then Philip spoke almost for the first time 
 since the play began. 
 
 "I seem to remember a girl named Sheelah 
 who was a friend of Ben's, years ago. But her 
 other name wasn't Delayne. Probably that's 
 why he didn't remember her." 
 
 On pretext of needing a smoke, he left his wife 
 alone for a few moments and went outside. He 
 walked moodily up and down in the foyer, vaguely 
 uneasy, feeling himself approaching some crisis 
 which refused to reveal itself. His memory took 
 him back to ten or twelve years before, and to 
 "a girl named Sheelah" as she had been then. 
 He saw her again, in imagination, a slender, 
 ardent, sweetly passionate girl of eighteen, a 
 laughing, quick-silver spirit, restless, flashing, 
 beautiful, and under it a little girl's crying heart. 
 Fiercely he tried to put the image from him, but 
 it possessed him. Then suddenly it vanished, 
 and in its place came the face of the boy whose
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 269 
 
 name Mary had read on the programme "Mi- 
 chael Carmichael." That awful thought had 
 come into his mind again. It had whitened his 
 face, it had stopped him dead in his walk. 
 " Pshaw a coincidence the names! Why, the 
 whole thing was nearly twelve years ago ! ' ' And 
 then, swiftly, another thought had him by the 
 throat, as though to shake certitude into him. 
 
 Michael Carmichael was about eleven years 
 old! Underneath Philip's horror another thing 
 was growing a strange, dumb wistfulness. 
 
 Meantime, Mary, left alone in the box, turned 
 the leaves of her programme idly. She had 
 caught a glimpse of the room into which Ben had 
 vanished. It connected directly with the box, 
 with only the door between, and this must have 
 been thin, for the murmur of voices reached her, 
 though indistinctly. Once a laugh startled her, 
 a woman's laugh strained with suffering, or sus- 
 pense, and then a word or two. 
 
 "His what did you say? His wife?" and 
 then the laugh again, followed by some one's: 
 "Hush, hush; they might hear you." 
 
 Could that be Ben? Mary marvelled much, 
 imagining they must unwittingly have stumbled 
 on an old romance. 
 
 In a few minutes Ben came out, but instead of 
 entering the box, he went straight past it, to the 
 front of the house. Mary was surprised, but 
 thought he must have caught sight of Philip and 
 gone to join him. A moment later the door be-
 
 270 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 tween the box and the dressing-room was thrown 
 open, and Sheelah Delayne stood there. She was 
 out of sight of the audience, but almost within 
 arm's length of Mary. Behind her the brightly- 
 lit dressing-room showed, its walls hung with 
 many-colored dresses, its table strewn with 
 make-up, brushes, jewelry, and all the parapher- 
 nalia of an actress. And curled upon a trunk in 
 the further corner, the dark-haired boy lay, fast 
 asleep. The doorway was a couple of steps 
 higher than the floor of the box, so that, as Mary 
 half arose at the actress' entrance, she looked up 
 at her. Sheelah Delayne returned the look fix- 
 edly, her arms tightly folded over her breast as 
 though holding down some strong inward feeling. 
 She had extraordinarily magnetic eyes under 
 brows drawn together tensely, and her gaze, force- 
 ful, compelling, held Mary silent. For a full 
 minute the women looked each other in the face 
 without a word. 
 
 Then Sheelah Delayne said slowly, as if she 
 could not realize it: "Mrs. Philip Carmichael!" 
 
 A second later she had gone as suddenly as she 
 had appeared, and Mary sank back in her chair, 
 trembling without knowing why. 
 
 The two men did not return to the box until 
 just as the curtain was rising on the last act, so 
 there was no opportunity to speak of what had 
 happened during their absence until they were 
 all seated at supper afterward in the hotel. 
 Then Mary noticed that what she told them dis-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 271 
 
 turbed them both, so she tactfully dropped the 
 subject. But a cloud had settled over the little 
 party which was to have been so happy, and 
 though they all tried to disregard it, none of them 
 quite succeeded. They separated early, agreeing 
 to meet at breakfast at nine. 
 
 Philip was very thoughtful of his wife that 
 night, unpacking her bag, laying out her slippers 
 and dressing-gown, and performing several un- 
 wonted little services for her. She thanked him 
 sweetly, laying her head against his shoulder with 
 content. 
 
 "Poor Norah!" she said. "Oh, Phil, dearest, 
 I'm glad I haven't got 'a strange man' for a 
 husband ! ' ' 
 
 In the night she awoke struggling, gasping for 
 breath. He raised her in his arms, really 
 alarmed, and she clung to him desperately. 
 When she could speak, she said in uneven 
 breaths : 
 
 "It's that wave the ninth. It forms far out 
 and grows bigger and bigger as it comes to- 
 ward me. I saw it once before, when when 
 just before Arthur died that night we kissed 
 each other in the alcove. I'm so afraid of it; 
 oh, Philip, I'm so afraid!" 
 
 He comforted and petted her. "It's the hour 
 and the night, dear, that's all; just a dream that 
 you will have forgotten in the morning." 
 
 She was shaken by long shudderings. "I'm 
 afraid to go to sleep," she said. "I'm afraid of
 
 272 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that great green wave. It's made up of so many 
 waters ! ' ' 
 
 But gradually, under the reassurance of his 
 presence, she relaxed in his arms peacefully, and 
 he was left to his own problem in the dead hush 
 of the night.
 
 CHAPTER VH 
 
 "That which hath been, is now; and that which is to be 
 hath already been; and God requireth that which is past." 
 
 ECCLESIASTES. 
 
 AT breakfast the next morning, it was de- 
 cided that Ben should take Mary home in 
 the automobile, and that Philip should 
 follow later by train. He was interested in the 
 purchase of a new threshing machine, and wished 
 to take advantage of being in Los Angeles to 
 examine it and to get several other things neces- 
 sary for the ranch. So, regretfully, they left 
 him, after being assured that they could not help 
 him in his shopping. To say truth, he was glad 
 to be alone for a few hours. He had had a shock 
 the night before, which was like no other which 
 he had ever experienced. The past, dead and 
 buried, as he had thought, was suddenly dug up, 
 and was become alive again a thing to be 
 reckoned with, not put aside and ignored, as he 
 had been accustomed to do all these years. What 
 Mary had told him about Sheelah Delayne coming 
 into the box and staring at her and then pro- 
 nouncing her name had disturbed him greatly. 
 What had she meant by it? What did she intend 
 to do? And then the child! Evidently her own,
 
 274 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 since, as Mary had told him, she had seen him 
 asleep in the dressing-room, quite at home, as he 
 naturally would be, in his mother's room. But 
 why was it called by his name? Why Carmi- 
 chael? Had Sheelah simply chosen it as a stage 
 name Michael Carmichael possibly thinking it 
 a striking one, on account of its alliteration, or 
 was there another, deeper reason, why his name 
 should father the child's! Philip shuddered, but 
 instinctively something within him reached out to 
 the boy. If he had only known it, that instinct 
 was perhaps the strongest proof of his relation- 
 ship. It was every moment corroborating what 
 had been at first a mere surmise. 
 
 Meantime, for Mary and Ben the day passed 
 pleasantly. As they sped homeward in the motor 
 which Ben had hired, they talked, principally of 
 Philip. 
 
 "Do you think he is very unhappy!" she asked 
 wistfully. "I mean about his work; of course 
 he misses it." 
 
 4 'Naturally." 
 
 "It was everything to him. He was com- 
 pletely wrapped up in it. It must be hard for a 
 man to give up his work." 
 
 Ben said nothing for a moment. He was think- 
 ing that Philip had been really wrapped up in 
 himself more than in his work, and that when 
 Mary had come, he had been "wrapped up" not 
 in her, but in his own desire for her. Not for the 
 first time Ben sensed a selfishness in his friend
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 275 
 
 which he could not understand. But the thought 
 was disloyal; he refused to entertain it. 
 
 The day wore on, and Philip had not appeared. 
 It was nearly dinner-time, and they had begun 
 to wonder about him, when a telegram was 
 brought to Ben. 
 
 ' ' Oh, ' ' Mary said, * * I hope it is no bad news ! ' ' 
 
 Ben's face had changed from astonishment to 
 consternation as he stood staring at. the bit of 
 paper in his hand. She heard him say softly: 
 1 'My God!" and then he reread it and looked at 
 her strangely. 
 
 "What has happened ?" she said anxiously. 
 "Tell me, what is it, Ben?" 
 
 "It's something I have to break to you, 
 Mary. ' ' 
 
 "He's not hurt?" she cried. 
 
 "No, he's been arrested for it must be a 
 mistake " 
 
 "Arrested?" she echoed in astonishment. 
 "Philip!" 
 
 "Yes, the telegram is from Mr. Merrill. He's 
 your lawyer, isn't he?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, in a sort of daze. 
 Something made her mind connect with the in- 
 cident of the previous evening, and she seemed 
 to see again Sheelah Delayne standing before her, 
 saying almost accusingly: "Mrs. Philip Carmi- 
 chael!" 
 
 She turned to Ben and asked quietly; "What 
 is he arrested for?"
 
 276 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Ben wondered how he could tell her. The word 
 "bigamy" trembled on his lips, but he held it 
 back. With men, the short way was the merciful 
 way always, but women must be prepared for 
 shocks, he reflected. 
 
 "You remember the woman you saw last night 
 at the theater Sheelah Delayne!" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 " It is she who has brought suit against Philip. ' ' 
 
 "But what for!" she persisted. 
 
 And then he told her. 
 
 "It is called in law bigamy." 
 
 Her mind grasped the situation only slowly. 
 
 "But, does she mean that that my husband 
 is her husband, too ! ' ' 
 
 "I'm afraid that is her claim," Ben answered. 
 
 Mary looked at him piteously. "It is a mis- 
 take, of course," she said. "But, oh, what shall 
 we do!" 
 
 Ben thought rapidly. "Know his house ad- 
 dress Merrill's I mean in Los Angeles? Try 
 to get him on the long distance 'phone. I'll talk 
 to him if you wish. We must find out the par- 
 ticulars at once and see if it is possible to get 
 him out on bail." 
 
 "Get him out!" she cried, her horror deepen- 
 ing as realization took concrete hold upon her. 
 Philip in prison! Philip! Arrested for what 
 was that awful word ! Bigamy I It startled and 
 stunned her like a thunder-clap, paralyzing for the 
 moment her power of thought. She picked up
 
 the crumpled telegram from the table where Ben 
 had thrown it. It read: 
 
 "Carmichael wishes you to break to his wife 
 news of his arrest for bigamy, complaint of Shee- 
 lah Delayne. Wish to see Mrs. Carmichael my 
 office to-morrow morning ten o'clock. H. Mer- 
 rill." 
 
 She heard Ben in the hall getting into tele- 
 phone communication with Mr. Merrill, and she 
 began to walk up and down, up and down, in her 
 suspense, her hands clasping and unclasping 
 themselves, her body tense with feeling. 
 
 Presently Ben rejoined her. He met her eyes 
 for a second, and immediately turned his own 
 away. The intense question out of the blue of 
 hers stabbed him. It was characteristic of his 
 sincerity that he did not try to evade or even to 
 palliate the truth. 
 
 "We can do nothing to-night/' he said, "and 
 Merrill tells me to be prepared for an ugly ordeal. 
 To-morrow I'll go with you to his office, and if 
 there is any possible solution to the problem, 
 we '11 thresh it out there. He hopes to reach some 
 settlement with with Sheelah Delayne out of 
 court. Failing that, if the case is brought to trial, 
 well, of course she has got to prove it. ' ' 
 
 Her eyes searched his face and probed to his 
 mind behind it, as she asked: 
 
 "But tell me is it true?" 
 
 Though she spoke quietly, he noted how her 
 hands gripped the back of the chair on which they
 
 278 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 rested, and how the knuckles of them stood out 
 white. As mercifully as he could he said : "I'm 
 afraid, Mary, there is some truth in it, or she 
 would not dare proceed.'* 
 
 Suddenly she fell to trembling, and reaching 
 out blindly, found her hand supported by Ben's. 
 He put her gently in the chair and stood over her, 
 strong and protecting, while she clung to him in- 
 stinctively, as women do to men, in a crisis. 
 Presently she said: 
 
 "I can't realize it I can't! 'Some truth in 
 it!' I don't believe it. What does she mean! 
 Does she mean to say that my husband is also 
 hers! How can that bet He has been mine for 
 nearly three years, and I knew him for more than 
 a year and a half before that. How dare she do 
 this thing! It's a monstrous calumny; it must 
 be! I have heard there are women who do these 
 things for what do they call it! Blackmail." 
 
 "Sheelah wouldn't do it for that," said Ben 
 gravely. 
 
 She turned on him swiftly. "Sheelah! You 
 know her, Ben, well enough to call her by her 
 Christian name, well enough to know what she 
 would do! Oh, in fairness to me, tell me the 
 whole story!" 
 
 "I would, Mary, if I knew it, but I don't. I'm 
 just trying to piece it together, and it is a most 
 awful puzzle, for it is all so long ago. You see, 
 we knew her " 
 
 "You and Phil!"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 279 
 
 "Yes. It must be quite twelve years ago, even 
 before I knew you, just before, I think. Phil 
 was over here taking some kind of an extra course 
 at Yale, and she was about eighteen, I should say, 
 just starting in her stage career. The company 
 which she was with came through New Haven, 
 and we met after the play. We all had supper 
 together, a crowd of us. There was nothing un- 
 usual about it, the sort of thing one does time after 
 time ; only from the first they were rather taken 
 with each other ' he stopped, distressed at the 
 necessity of giving her pain. 
 
 ''Yes," she said, "go on. You needn't be 
 afraid of hurting me. Whatever happened 
 twelve years ago can't hurt as this does now. So 
 they fell in love, but they were not married!" 
 
 "Not so far as I know," answered Ben, "but 
 they well they used to play at it." 
 
 * ' You mean they lived together. ' ' 
 
 Ben was silent, deeply troubled. It was neces- 
 sary that she should know the facts in order to 
 be prepared to fight them. He knew that she 
 was face to face with a terrible crisis. At the 
 same time the habit of man's loyalty to man was 
 strong in him. 
 
 "I wish," he said, out of his perplexity, "that 
 Philip were here to tell you himself, Mary. I am 
 sure he would. He would never intentionally de- 
 ceive you. Whatever happened was before your 
 day, and was the sort of thing that happens to 
 very many men. He was a very irresponsible
 
 280 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 boy, and Sheelah was a gay-hearted little girl 
 with a tremendous amount of natural feeling. 
 Oh," he broke off, "I don't suppose such a woman 
 as you could comprehend it; men and women are 
 so different!" 
 
 She looked at him sadly. "Not so very dif- 
 ferent," she said. "You needn't fear, Ben, that 
 I shall misjudge. You don't have to plead 
 Philip's cause to me. I understand. I know life 
 - and us and how one drifts into things one 
 never meant to do." 
 
 "That's it!" he said quickly. "I don't think 
 Phil meant seriously for a minute, but she she 
 was very young and eager and they played at 
 being married. He used to introduce her as his 
 wife, just in fun, to some of the fellows. We used 
 to join the company she was with at various 
 towns in their tour through New England and 
 New York State, and when the season was 
 over " he hesitated a moment, then continued, 
 "you are bound to know, and perhaps it is better 
 you should know from me than from a court of 
 law they were together for some time at an hotel 
 in New York. That's what I meant that you 
 couldn't, with your ideals, comprehend." 
 
 Her face was dropped in her hand which 
 shielded it from his gaze, but her voice came low 
 and clear. 
 
 "I understand, I tell you both." Suddenly 
 she sprang up and exclaimed: "But why does 
 she come now, at this distance of time, to make
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 281 
 
 this terrible trouble? Is she still in love with 
 him? If they were not married, she hasn't the 
 shadow of a claim! What is her motive? Is it 
 revenge? Does she want to hurt him ruin 
 him?" 
 
 "She isn't a little woman," said Ben gravely. 
 
 "Then why?" 
 
 There was a short silence while Ben dreaded 
 to reveal more. Mary's anguish deepened. 
 
 "What is her motive?" she asked again. 
 
 She stood staring at him a moment, and then a 
 low cry broke from her. It was hardly more than 
 a breath, but it had a queer whimper in it, like 
 some little animal in pain. 
 
 "Oh, not that not that!" 
 
 Ben turned away, sick at heart with pity. That 
 small, stifled sound had told more than words 
 could do of hopes that had never been realized, of 
 dreams foredoomed to failure, of desire hindered 
 from its divine expression. Mary sank upon the 
 window-seat and turned her face away from him, 
 out toward the garden, and Ben heard her say: 
 
 "Her child her child and his!" 
 
 "I imagine," he said, after an interval, "that 
 she means to claim common-law marriage to 
 legitimatize her child. She has given it his 
 name." 
 
 "Michael Carmichael," said Mary softly. 
 
 "You guessed?" he asked, in surprise. 
 
 "Yes. He has Philip's look. Oh, my poor 
 Phil! not to have known all these years that he
 
 282 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 had a child like that! Did you know, Bent 
 When did you first find out I ' * 
 
 "Last night. She told me herself." 
 
 "Did you tell him?" 
 
 "No. But I think he knew; somehow I felt he 
 knew. ' ' 
 
 "My poor Phil !" She was sobbing softly now. 
 "And poor little lad without his father all these 
 years! And now! Oh, Ben, Ben, you ought to 
 have told me. You ought not to have let me marry 
 in ignorance of all this story!" 
 
 "Don't think that I'm not saying that to my- 
 self now. Don't think that Philip isn't, either," 
 he answered earnestly. "The only thing to be 
 said in extenuation of either of us is that we 
 neither of us knew how serious it would be. 
 Neither of us knew that she could claim common- 
 law marriage if she can, which remains to be 
 proved. And of course neither of us knew any- 
 thing of the child. Years had passed without 
 word or sign from her. Both of us thought it 
 was over and done with, and it is not the sort of 
 thing one man tells of another. I mean, it's the 
 sort of thing all men do sometimes." 
 
 The endurance in her eyes smote him with some 
 dim inner shame. 
 
 "There was no intention to deceive you!" he 
 went on, talking to cover his own disquietude 
 under that look of hers. "No trying to conceal 
 anything; only those things naturally aren't 
 spoken of. Philip would never have married you
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 283 
 
 except in entire good faith; you believe that, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she answered, "but it shows me that 
 men and women are different, after all. Had it 
 been I, I would have told him." 
 
 "You see he didn't know half," Ben pleaded. 
 "I don't suppose he was with her more than a 
 few weeks. He couldn 't have dreamed of the con- 
 sequences : of the child and this ! " 
 
 "We can never dream of the consequences. 
 Oh, my poor Philip ! ' ' She broke into low sob- 
 bing again, restrained and very pitiful to hear. 
 "He will be suffering so, and I I can't comfort 
 him!" 
 
 Ben's eyes smarted. "He's probably thinking 
 the same about you," he said huskily. After a 
 moment he continued: "We must try to think 
 what our plan of defense will be. I don't see how 
 she can possibly prove her case, and of course 
 we '11 fight every step of the way ! ' ' 
 
 "I could bear it better if there were only the 
 woman," Mary answered. "But, oh, Ben, to fight 
 against a child ! I can 't do it, I can 't ! " 
 
 "But, Mary, you must! For Philip's sake, 
 and your own; your honor is at stake. It is a 
 part of his. What else can you do but fight?" 
 
 4 ' I don 't know, I don 't know, ' ' she moaned de- 
 spairingly. Suddenly she broke down utterly and 
 clung to his arm with both hands. "Oh," she 
 said, "help me help me! Tell me, what am I 
 to do?"
 
 284 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 But that was a question still unanswered when, 
 the next morning, they started for Los Angeles 
 to keep their appointment at the lawyer 's office. 
 Neither had slept much, and both showed it in 
 different ways. Mary was pale and heavy-lidded, 
 the victim of a sick depression. Ben was tense 
 and preoccupied. Indeed, his position was pain- 
 ful, looked at from any angle. In the old days be- 
 fore he knew Mary, he had known and cared much 
 for Sheelah Delayne Sheelah Brent then. His 
 friend had won her and then left her. And now 
 he stood with that friend's wife, fighting their 
 cause against the woman he had once loved ! She 
 had her own case, her own tragedy, separate and 
 terrible; and her claim in its way was as strong 
 as Mary's. Yet Ben's loyalty to the latter never 
 wavered. The inner rights of the case, he felt, 
 were Mary's, and whatever courts might decide, 
 he stood committed to her cause. For Sheelah 
 he now felt something like horror. The thing she 
 was doing was so appalling: assailing the honor 
 of a man whose protection he felt sure she had no 
 moral right to claim, after all these years of 
 silence ! 
 
 His memory contrasted the girl he had known 
 with the woman who had confronted him in the 
 dressing-room at the theater that night, and could 
 find scarcely any resemblance between them. He 
 felt the strength, the self-sufficiency and poise 
 of the woman who succeeds. She had asked him 
 who the lady in the box with them was, and when
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 285 
 
 he had told her, for just a moment she had lost 
 her self-command. 
 
 "His wife!" she said. "Did you say his 
 wife!'* Then, with superb control, she had 
 lowered her voice again and pointed to the sleep- 
 ing boy. 
 
 "There lies his son," she had said. 
 
 The news had staggered him, given as it was al- 
 most within earshot of his two other friends ; but 
 having stated the tremendous fact, Sheelah had 
 preserved an obstinate silence. He had had no 
 idea, even then, what claim she was planning, or 
 that she was planning anything. She must have 
 acted very swiftly. 
 
 They were very silent on the journey up to Los 
 Angeles and when they reached Mr. Merrill's of- 
 fice, he received them at once in his inner room. 
 A few words sufficed to make the terrible situa- 
 tion plain. In spite of their consideration and 
 gentleness for her, Mary felt that both men real- 
 ized they were encountering a tremendous task. 
 
 "Please tell us just what the case is," Ben said, 
 after Mary had introduced the two men. "I'm 
 one of Carmichael's oldest friends, and if there 
 is anything to be done, I want to do it." 
 
 "My partner is away now, arranging for bail," 
 Mr. Merrill replied, "if, indeed, Mr. Carmichael 
 will be allowed out on bail. That is in the judge 's 
 discretion, you know. But I rather fear that on 
 account of the peculiar circumstances of this case, 
 the judge may refuse bail."
 
 286 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "How do you mean peculiar circumstances?" 
 Ben asked. 
 
 "Well, on account of Miss Delayne's profession, 
 her stay in the State is short, and the case may be 
 brought up for trial almost at once in less than 
 ten days, I should say, and possibly in even 
 shorter time." 
 
 Ben thought for a moment and then said: 
 "Well, I can be of no use here, for the moment, 
 and I think, Mary, I will leave you in Mr. Merrill's 
 care and see if I cannot do something for Philip. 
 Tell me where I can find your partner, Mr. Mer- 
 rill, and perhaps I can be of service to my friend. 
 I'll come back for you, Mary, as soon as possible." 
 
 Mr. Merrill gave him the necessary directions, 
 and Ben went away, leaving lawyer and client to- 
 gether. Mary looked at him bravely and tried to 
 force herself to smile. 
 
 "Please tell me the truth," she said, "and don't 
 trouble to soften it. What chance has my hus- 
 band against this charge?" 
 
 "I will not try to disguise from you, dear 
 Madam, that the charge is serious, very. So seri- 
 ous that I dread having it come into court at all, 
 and for that reason ! 
 
 At that moment a clerk knocked and entered 
 with the announcement: "Mrs. Philip Carmi- 
 chael." 
 
 The words came like a shock to Mary. She had 
 not thought that any other woman could use that 
 name. Her questioning eyes turned to the lawyer.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 287 
 
 "I will see her in a moment," Mr. Merrill said, 
 dismissing the clerk. Then he turned to Mary. 
 
 "It is Miss Delayne. She claims the name, you 
 see, from the start. As I was saying, I greatly 
 fear having a case of this sort go to a jury; the 
 child you see er is a strong plea. It occurred 
 to me that it might be possible to settle it out of 
 court, and for that reason I asked her to come to 
 my office this morning. My dear Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael," he leaned toward Mary, and his manner 
 was very earnest. "I may be asking a difficult 
 thing of you, but I feel sure you would not hesi- 
 tate at anything that might help your husband 
 over this crisis, would you?" 
 
 1 ' Oh, no ! Tell me what I can do ? " 
 
 "See this woman and find out if there is any- 
 thing she will accept in settlement of her claim 
 and if possible induce her to give up the suit." 
 
 Mary shrank. "Oh, I couldn't talk to her!" 
 
 Mr. Merrill waited in silence a moment, while 
 her mind rapidly reviewed the situation: Philip 
 in disgrace, in prison, his honor smirched, his good 
 name gone. Oh, surely anything that she could 
 do, she must do, to save him. She turned to Mr. 
 Merrill. 
 
 "I'll see her," she said, "if you really think I 
 can do any good in the matter. ' ' 
 
 "It's our only chance," the lawyer replied ear- 
 nestly. "It's for your husband's sake." 
 
 "For my husband's sake, of course," she re- 
 peated almost mechanically. Her mind was leap-
 
 288 THE SUBSTANCE OF. HIS HOUSE 
 
 ing ahead, grappling with the difficult task before 
 her. 
 
 "I'll leave you alone together, for a time," Mr. 
 Merrill said, "but I'll be within call, if you want 
 me. " He pressed a button and his clerk appeared 
 at once. "Ask that lady to come in," he said 
 briefly. Mary noticed that he gave her no name. 
 She arose and stood by the window, her back to 
 the room, while Mr. Merrill greeted the woman 
 who entered. Then she turned. 
 
 She saw before her a strong and splendid per- 
 sonality, a figure lithe, nervous, finely poised, a 
 face, which for its years, held the epitome of ex- 
 perience. There was something universal about 
 her, as if she stood for the figure of Woman, all 
 women, not only one, throughout all generations. 
 She was of a type allied to all times, to all races. 
 Her figure, though still slender, was cast in a 
 heroic mould ; and her head rose from her shoul- 
 ders like a goddess', free and fearless. The 
 weakness of the face, if any, lay in the too small 
 nose, the tender mouth; but over these were set 
 magnificent eyes, deep in color, rich in expression, 
 under a singularly noble brow. Black hair sprang 
 from either side of the parting in loose, heavy 
 waves, with a vitality of its own which fitly 
 crowned the regal individuality. Mary, as she 
 looked at her, felt a hot pain of jealousy that was 
 primitive and fundamental. It had nothing to do 
 with her reason. It was instinctive. As it ebbed 
 away, it left her cold with a strange, new fear.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 289 
 
 Mr. Merrill introduced the two women rather 
 nervously and added: 
 
 "I have brought you together to see if it is 
 not possible for us to arrive at some reasonable 
 adjustment of er the circumstances in this er 
 rather difficult case." 
 
 Sheelah Delayne looked at him with quiet scep- 
 ticism. 
 
 "What do you call 'reasonable"?" she asked. 
 Her voice was warm and low in its natural quality. 
 Mr. Merrill replied hastily: 
 
 "Oh well, suppose you talk that over, you two 
 who are most concerned, and if there is any way 
 of settling the question and preventing a most sad 
 scandal, I'm sure we shall all be better off. My 
 aim, of course, is to save my client, Mr. Car- 
 michael, from a public trial which would be very 
 sensational ; but I am also anxious to prevent you 
 ladies from undergoing what I am sure would be 
 a distressing experience. You will, perhaps, 
 speak more freely if I am not here, but I shall be 
 just out there," he motioned toward the ante- 
 room, "if either of you wants me." 
 
 "I left my boy there," said Sheelah Delayne. 
 
 "I'll keep an eye on him, Madam. Meantime 
 let me urge you both to arrive at some compro- 
 mise." 
 
 He withdrew, and left them looking fixedly at 
 each other. They remained standing. 
 
 " I do not know what ' compromise ' your lawyer 
 has in mind, Madam, ' ' Sheelah Delayne said after
 
 290 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 an interval, ''nor do I know what we can have to 
 say to each other. We are in opposite camps. 
 We are fighting for different things.'* 
 
 Mary answered, finding voice at last, out of 
 her teeming thoughts. "In opposite camps, per- 
 haps, but surely fighting for the same thing. It 
 is more than our own personal honor. I have 
 looked at you, and I am sure it is something 
 bigger than yourself which has driven you to 
 this extreme measure; and since we are both 
 fighting for that dearer thing than our own little 
 selves, surely, we can reach some agreement 
 surely?" 
 
 Sheelah Delayne regarded her steadfastly. 
 "What is that 'dearer thing* you mean!" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Why Philip!" answered Mary simply. 
 
 The other drew off and threw back her head 
 with a scornful laugh in one syllable. "Is he 
 dearer to you than your own honor!" she said. 
 
 "Than anything in the world!" 
 
 "Then I'm sorry for you, for he was to me 
 once." Her voice was hard. "But now it is not 
 his honor, nor himself, nor his wife, that matters 
 to me one whit! It is his child." 
 
 It was Mary's turn to draw away trembling. 
 "I know," she just breathed, "I know." 
 
 "Then, if you know, how can you think that 
 any compromise is possible! The man your 
 man matters nothing at all to me! But what 
 should I say to my child in years to come when
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 291 
 
 he, too, is a man if I neglected to place his claim 
 now?" 
 
 Mary summoned the last of her fortitude and 
 faced the other bravely. The flame of her heart 
 shone through her. 
 
 "What will your child say to you in the years 
 to come if you ruin his father?" 
 
 Their looks encountered and grappled with the 
 mind behind each, like two strong fighters in 
 a ring. Then Sheelah Delayne shook herself 
 free. 
 
 "He is mine not his father's!" she said. 
 
 "Not if you prove your marriage," answered 
 Mary earnestly. "Then his father's claim is at 
 least equal to yours." 
 
 "His claim equal?" said Sheelah Delayne, 
 and glared like a tigress. "How dare you say 
 such a thing! I bore my son in shame and terror 
 too deep for you even to dream of. I brought 
 him up, alone, in such destitution as you can't 
 even imagine. I toiled and struggled day and 
 night; I went ragged and hungry because of him 
 worse ! I saw him go ragged and hungry, too ! 
 And in spite of all my struggle and final success, 
 it has marked the child and made him something 
 different to others! My little lad my little 
 lad!" Her voice broke, but had a wild music in 
 it, like strong trees shaken by the wind. "I 
 couldn't give him all his due his right of child- 
 hood but I gave him all I could my time, my 
 love, myself! And you dare say that any man
 
 292 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 any strange father can present a claim 'equal* 
 to mine!" 
 
 The long vibrations of her voice, which had 
 deepened instead of rising in intensity, reached 
 and shook the soul of Mary Carmichael. As she 
 listened, she forced back tears of sympathy, until 
 they broke from her in passionate pity. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "I can imagine and feel and 
 understand it all what you've been through 
 the long fight of it alone 1 But Philip didn't 
 know! Why did you hide from him all these 
 years! He didn't even know about the child." 
 
 "No, I know that; he left me before I knew my- 
 self." 
 
 "There I was sure of it! Then, when you 
 knew, why didn't you tell him!" 
 
 The other hardened again. "Because he had 
 left me; he was tired of me. I didn't try to find 
 him because I knew that. I had my own fierce 
 pride then. I don't care now only for the boy. 
 It isn't the man I want, nor his name, nor his sup- 
 port, nor anything but his child and to prove his 
 legitimacy ! ' ' 
 
 "But think of the awful cost. Oh, is it worth 
 it! To condemn a man the child's own father 
 to such public shame " 
 
 "We have had shame!" 
 
 "Ajid such a misery of self-reproach unde- 
 served ! ' ' 
 
 "I have had that, too! There isn't anything 
 you can appeal to me with, because there isn't
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 293 
 
 anything else I want but to start my boy right, 
 with the proved right to his name. When that is 
 won, and I am declared Philip Carmichael's law- 
 ful wife, I'll divorce him, and you can re-marry 
 him, if you still wish to. He may have other 
 children. I will renounce for my son, his first- 
 born, all property rights. But his name I claim 
 for the boy! To get that, I'll fight to the last 
 ditch!" 
 
 "And to keep it unstained, I'll fight to the last 
 ditch, too," said Mary steadfastly. 
 
 They measured each other with deep looks. 
 Sheelah Delayne saw in her opponent a courage 
 that matched her own, a greater self-command, 
 a finer, more delicate breeding; for the first time 
 in the interview she heard the ring of steel in the 
 voice that had been all sweetness and pleading. 
 Then she drew herself up with an air of finality. 
 
 "So be it!" she said, "but I'm sorry for you! 
 God! Why are two such women wasted on such 
 a man!" 
 
 Mary moved toward the door. "It is useless 
 to prolong this," she said. "I'll call Mr. Mer- 
 rill." 
 
 She opened the door, but instead of the lawyer 
 there entered with a rush and a laugh Michael 
 Carmichael. He went straight to Mary and laid 
 his head against her arm, his eyes turned the 
 other way, toward Mr. Merrill. 
 
 "Mother," the child said gaily, "he's been tell- 
 ing me such funny stories ! Oh, it isn't Mother!"
 
 294 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and he would have drawn away, but she caught 
 his shoulder gently, and slowly passed her hand 
 down his arm, releasing him to the length of her 
 reach, but keeping his hand in hers, while her eyes 
 searched his face. The boy looked back at her 
 frankly, curiously, and as for Sheelah Delayne, 
 after the first instinctive movement toward her 
 son, she stood stark still and watched them. 
 
 "Philip's mouth Philip's eyes and the same 
 look out of them! Oh!" Mary let go his hand, 
 and her own fell at her side clinched hard, to keep 
 back the utterance of her pain, which in spite of 
 her broke through. "Thank God it isn't a 
 woman-child oh, thank God!" 
 
 They passed out silently, the boy with a linger- 
 ing backward look. 
 
 Mary did not wait for Ben to return for her but 
 left a message for him that she had gone directly 
 home. At all costs she had to be alone after the 
 rack of the scene through which she had passed. 
 Ben followed on the next train. She came to 
 meet him as soon as she heard his step on the 
 porch. She had been wandering like a lost soul 
 about the house. 
 
 1 'Did you see Philip!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How did he look? What did he say? Did 
 you give him my message?" 
 
 "I told him that you sent your love, and that 
 you said you understood." 
 
 "Yes?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 295 
 
 "He didn't answer, Mary. He turned away, 
 and I couldn't see his face." After a moment, 
 he added; "I spoke of bail, but he wouldn't hear 
 of it, begged me not to do anything about it, said he 
 'couldn't face Mary until he was cleared.' I 
 think the judge will deny it, anyway, in view of 
 the special circumstances." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that the case is to be rushed to trial 
 on account of Miss Delayne having to leave the 
 State shortly. Philip will be indicted by the 
 grand jury to-morrow, probably, and the trial 
 will take place a few days after." He went to 
 her and took her hands in his strong, kind grasp. 
 "You are to command me in any way," he said. 
 "Anything I can do, you know. I'll stay with 
 you. And we'll see it through and win out, 
 yet." 
 
 She leant her weight wearily on his supporting 
 hands. 
 
 "I think, and think," she said, "but I don't 
 see any way out. I don't even know what's 
 right, any more. I'm all confused! Oh, Ben, 
 Ben, what am I to do?"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "The watchmen that went about the city found me, they 
 smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took 
 away my veil from me." 
 
 THE SONG OF SOLOMON. 
 
 THROUGH the days which intervened be- 
 tween the arrest and the trial, Mary bore 
 herself outwardly with calm and intense 
 reserve. Inwardly, she felt a creeping sickness 
 a fever of fear and the kind of jealousy that 
 belongs to primitive instinct and is "cruel as the 
 grave." That glorious creature, Sheelah De- 
 layne, who claimed to be Philip's wife, even 
 though she was not, in reality, was yet the mother 
 of his child, and ought to be his wife, for they 
 were a family, Philip, Sheelah, and Michael. 
 She, Mary, was the one outside. So she thought, 
 morbidly, and then brought herself up sharply 
 and condemned such a thought as absurd. She 
 was Philip's wife; she only had the right to his 
 name. Marriage was not a claim which a strange 
 woman could institute; it was a sacramental 
 union of two people in a life-partnership, and 
 though theirs had been only a civil ceremony, it 
 had been hallowed by love and mutual faithful- 
 ness. But the love had it been great enough to 
 withstand the disillusion of everyday life, of dis-
 
 appointment, of failure? Had it? She com- 
 pelled her relentless honesty to answer, and the 
 answer was: her love had survived all tests to 
 which it had been put, but his had not. She 
 faced the acknowledgment of it in her own heart 
 silently, fearlessly, absolutely. She conceded her 
 own failure. And she asked the old bitter 
 "why?" of immemorial woman. In spite of all 
 her sacrifice and service, somehow she had failed 
 to mean all to him. Having admitted that to her- 
 self, many recollected things confirmed it, and she 
 came to see that Philip had never loved her as 
 she had loved him. She knew he had adored 
 what he called her "dear ways" little tricks of 
 speech, little gentlenesses of manner but in the 
 place to which she was now come, she revolted 
 from these husks which held no kernel of the 
 grain for which her soul was hungering. 
 Philip's feeling for her was what he might have 
 for any woman in the natural, human tie, and not 
 the divinely ordained thing which she had thought 
 it. There grew in her a passionate longing 
 for her true portion in him, and she knew not 
 how to obtain it. Meantime, she had his case to 
 fight, his honor to defend, him to stand by, how- 
 ever the day went, whether they won or lost. 
 She had only got as far as that when the day for 
 the trial came. 
 
 Ben, sorely against his will, had been sub- 
 poenaed as a witness for the State. "I can't 
 think what on earth they expect to get out of me
 
 298 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 to help their case," he said, "for I hope my evi- 
 dence may quash it." 
 
 They sat in the courtroom with many other 
 listeners, for the case by its very nature had 1 
 attracted widespread attention. Friends and 
 neighbors from Santa Rita jostled elbows with 
 total strangers. Mary was very pale, behind her 
 veil, and her eyes "the good gay blue" eyes, as 
 Ben always thought of them were tragic. He 
 sat beside her, very nervous for his friend, very 
 solicitous for his friend's wife. As Philip came 
 in, his glance searched the room and swiftly found 
 her. She put back her veil for a moment, with 
 courage and sweetness, and made her look meet 
 his with a tender smile. His eyes thanked her 
 and then fell, as he went on to his place. They 
 had not met since the day after the play more 
 than a week before. As she lowered her veil 
 again, Mary felt a sob in her throat. Her Philip 
 her beloved to suffer this terrible ignominy, 
 for an unf orgiven sin of many years ago ! What 
 would she not give to be able to save him from 
 it! 
 
 The prosecutor was bringing the charge against 
 Philip for bigamy. In the terse, terrible lan- 
 guage of the law, Mary heard it set forth that the 
 said Philip Carmichael and the said Sheelah De- 
 layne had agreed, as permitted by the laws of the 
 State of New York to live together as man and 
 wife. The evidence further set forth that he did 
 desert her and leave her with unborn child. That
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 299 
 
 he did on December 18, 1903, in San Francisco, 
 marry Lady Mary Stanhope, and up to the time 
 of his arrest was living with her in Santa Rita. 
 In his address to the jury, the prosecutor stated 
 that he expected to prove his charge, both by the 
 testimony of witnesses who would swear to the 
 truth of the claim made by Miss Delayne (to give 
 her her stage name), and also by the written evi- 
 dence of an entry in the hotel guest-book, May 
 20, 1895. The register was duly shown to the 
 judge and jury, and the signature of "Mr. and 
 Mrs. Philip Carmichael" examined. Following 
 this came the testimony of the hotel clerk who 
 had been on duty at that time and who identified 
 the plaintiff as the person who had been a guest 
 at the hotel, under that name. This witness 
 proved quite unshakable, and when it was sar- 
 castically suggested by the defense that he could 
 hardly remember a guest at so great a distance 
 of time or might mistake her for somebody else, 
 the hotel clerk replied: 
 
 "No one who has ever seen her could forget 
 her or think she was any one else." 
 
 A murmur of interest and approbation went 
 about the courtroom, which was a tribute to the 
 actress. Then Sheelah Delayne was called to the 
 witness chair. To the question of her name she 
 answered distinctly: "Sheelah Carmichael." 
 
 The name came as a shock to many there, and 
 again a whisper of interest stirred the spectators. 
 The judge called for quiet in the court. Then,
 
 300 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 under the skilful, guiding questions of the public 
 prosecutor, Sheelah Delayhe told her story. 
 
 With another type of woman, it might have 
 been a pitiable and hackneyed tale of a young 
 girl's too generous trust, and so might have held 
 an appeal to men's chivalry and protection, but 
 never for a moment did this woman descend to 
 such an overture. She made no bid for pity but 
 based her claim solely upon the law of the State, 
 which protection, only, she demanded. In quiet 
 tones she answered every question put to her, and 
 her strength of character, her repose and re- 
 sourcefulness, made a deep impression on all who 
 heard her. Bit by bit the prosecutor established 
 her statements of how she had met Mr. Car- 
 michael, how he had come on again and again to 
 join the theatrical company with which she was 
 acting at the time, how he had proposed marriage 
 to her, and that they had not been able to have the 
 civil ceremony performed because they were not 
 in one place long enough to get a license, or she 
 was under age for the law of that State. There 
 was always a satisfactory reason why the civil 
 ceremony was not performed. 
 
 "And when you got to New York at the end of 
 the season, why did you not have the civil cere- 
 mony performed there!" the prosecutor asked! 
 gently. 
 
 "It was not necessary, since common-law mar- 
 riage was at that time perfectly legal in New 
 York," she replied.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 301 
 
 "You did not regard yourself as Mr. Car- 
 michael's wife until you reached New York?" 
 
 "I did not, until then." 
 
 The judge bent over his desk. 
 
 "Now, you must know, Madam, that common- 
 law marriage depends upon the consent and in- 
 tention of both parties to the union. Your claim 
 is sufficient proof of your intention. Have you 
 any proof of Mr. CarmichaePs?" 
 
 It was an intense moment, and every one 
 strained forward, looking and listening. Ben 
 confidently expected that question to be too much 
 for the witness. He thought to see her break 
 down. For the space of a breath or two she 
 hesitated, while the silence deepened in the court- 
 room. Then she straightened herself and drew 
 a ring off the thumb of her left hand. 
 
 1 l 1 have this ring, your Honor, which was given 
 to me in lieu of a wedding-ring, by my husband. 
 It bears the coat of arms of his family. He drew 
 it off his own finger to give to me the night we 
 decided to make our union legal. You can see it 
 is a man's ring too large for me. Is that evi- 
 dence of his intention?" 
 
 The prosecutor retained the ring. "I have 
 finished with this witness, your Honor," he said. 
 He knew she had told a good, strong story and 
 saw its influence on the minds of the jury. Mary 
 felt that things began to look very black for 
 Philip. From where she sat, she could see him 
 distinctly, and she noted how his expression
 
 302 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 changed to incredulity when the ring was spoken 
 of. Ben's watchful kindness followed her 
 thought. 
 
 "I feel sure that's a lie about the ring," he 
 said. "Look at Phil's face! He never gave it 
 to her. Don't be discouraged. Merrill will 
 shake her testimony, if it is false." 
 
 Mr. Merrill, after a moment's consultation 
 with his client, arose to take up the cross-examina- 
 tion, and Sheelah Delayne, realizing she had 
 passed from the friendly handling of the public 
 prosecutor, braced herself to the encounter with 
 the enemy. Her arms were tightly folded, and 
 her look met his squarely. 
 
 "You say," began Mr. Merrill suavely, "that 
 you did not regard yourself as Mr. Carmichael's 
 wife until you reached New York ? ' ' 
 
 "I was not, until then." 
 
 "Yet you had lived with him while on tour!" 
 
 The prosecutor was on his feet at once. "Your 
 Honor, I protest 
 
 "Overruled," came the Judge's even tones, 
 and Mr. Merrill repeated the question. 
 
 "You had lived with him previously?" 
 
 "Yes." The admission came defiantly. 
 
 "So that, when you reached New York, the af- 
 fair was pretty well over ; you agreed to separate 
 soon after, did you not?" 
 
 "On the contrary, when we reached New York, 
 we agreed to live together as man and wife for the 
 rest of our lives!"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 303 
 
 "Ah! and how long did you live together in 
 New York?" 
 
 "About a month." 
 
 Men smiled cynically, women pityingly. Mr. 
 Merrill continued: 
 
 "You were seeing a good deal of other men at 
 this time, were you not! You knew, for instance, 
 Mr. Baldwin, and the man whose name you bear 
 on the stage Mr. Delayne ?" 
 
 "I knew Mr. Baldwin slightly. Mr. Delayne I 
 did not meet until Mr. Carmichael had left me." 
 
 "How long after Mr. Carmichael left you was 
 the child born?" 
 
 "Within eight months." 
 
 "And you claim that he is Mr. Carmichael 's!" 
 
 "Certainly I do!" 
 
 "In view of your subsequent life with Mr. De- 
 layne, that statement may need proof. You 
 are called by Mr. Delayne 's name, you are sup- 
 posed to be his wife. How do we know he is not 
 the father of your child 1 ' ' 
 
 Mr. Merrill had succeeded in angering the wit- 
 ness. The prosecutor was on his feet again, 
 vehemently protesting, but again tne Judge's 
 even "Overruled" backed up the question. 
 
 Sheelah Delayne seemed suffocating, as she 
 forced herself to answer in low, dead-level tones : 
 
 "Let my son come here a moment." 
 
 The boy was brought to her and placed on the 
 witness-stand beside her. He lifted a sensitive 
 face and turned shyly away from the room and
 
 304 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the gaze of so many strangers. She took his hand 
 in one of hers, and with the other she made a 
 gesture indicating the likeness between the boy 
 and Philip, and said magnificently: 
 
 "This is my answer!" 
 
 The action was superb, and the likeness was 
 undeniable. The same dark brown hair, the same 
 look out of the eyes, although the boy's were 
 brown in color, the same distinctive mouth and 
 chin. It was a living witness to corroborate her 
 claim. 
 
 "That is all," said Mr. Merrill. And indeed 
 he felt it was more than enough. The effect on 
 the jury was marked. A mother and child will 
 appeal to men's minds against every other claim 
 in the world. Mr. Merrill felt he had gained lit- 
 tle from his cross-examination, even though he 
 had managed to defame the woman's character, 
 making known her irregular connection with Mr. 
 Delayne. As they left the witness-box, Philip's 
 eyes followed the boy almost hungrily, and the 
 child caught the look and returned it wonder- 
 ingly. They sat down, not far from Mary. Be- 
 hind her veil she saw and noted everything, and 
 her busy, bewildered mind kept crying : 
 
 "What shall I do; oh, what can I do to save 
 him?" 
 
 Then a Mr. Kinney was called by the prose- 
 cutor. He had been an actor in the company 
 when the plaintiff was known by her maiden 
 name of Sheelah Brent and was now associated
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 305 
 
 with her present company. He testified that he 
 had heard the defendant, Mr. Carmichael, promise 
 to marry Sheelah Brent while they were on tour 
 through New England, and also that he had met 
 them afterward in New York, when Mr. Car- 
 michael had introduced him gaily to "his wife." 
 His statements, like those of the hotel clerk, were 
 simple and quite unshakable. When he left the 
 witness-stand, there seemed little hope for Philip. 
 
 And then Ben was called. Sheelah Delayne 
 looked at him closely as he passed her on his way 
 to the stand, and Mary thought she dreaded his 
 testimony. The thought revived her courage. 
 After a few preliminary questions, the prosecutor 
 asked : 
 
 "What is your address!'* 
 
 "I am staying at present in Santa Eita, with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael." 
 
 "You have known them both for some time?" 
 
 "Oh, yes many years." 
 
 "Have you ever visited them before!" 
 
 "Yes, for a few days shortly after their mar- 
 riage." 
 
 * ' Did Mrs. Carmichael tell you about the circum- 
 stances of their marriage?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. She often spoke of it." 
 
 "You knew the plaintiff, Miss Delayne, before 
 her marriage?" 
 
 * * I knew her when she was Miss Sheelah Brent. " 
 
 "You recognize her as Mrs. Carmichael?" 
 
 "I do not."
 
 306 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ''Were you never introduced to her as Mrs. 
 Carmichael ? ' ' 
 
 Ben hesitated. "Only in fun," he replied. 
 
 "But you were introduced to her under that 
 name! By whom!" 
 
 Ben's answer came unwillingly. 
 
 "By my friend, Philip Carmichael but only 
 in fun." 
 
 "There's no fun about matrimony," said the 
 prosecutor severely, and oblivious of the laughter 
 in the room, he continued : 
 
 "You admit, then, that you have known Miss 
 Delayne as Mrs. Carmichael?" 
 
 "I do not," said Ben. 
 
 "But you have admitted it. You have said 
 that your friend, Philip Carmichael, presented 
 you to his wife, Mrs. Carmichael." 
 
 "He did it with a twinkle in his eye. There was 
 no intention on either side." 
 
 "Strike out that last clause," said the judge, 
 "state facts, not opinions, Mr. Baldwin." 
 
 "Can you prove that there was no intention!" 
 
 "No, but I know it." 
 
 The prosecutor opened a series of rapid-fire 
 questions meant to confuse the witness. 
 
 "How can you know it!" 
 
 "Because I knew of the relation between my 
 friend and Miss Delayne, and it was not matri- 
 mony." 
 
 "Yet he called her his wife?" 
 
 "Yes," unwillingly from Ben.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 307 
 
 "And lived with her as such?" 
 "I believe so," still more unwillingly. 
 
 ' * You visited them at the hotel where they were 
 registered as Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael?" 
 
 "Yes once." 
 
 "And when you sent up your card, or were an- 
 nounced, presumably you asked for Mrs. Car- 
 michael?" 
 
 "I do not think so." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I did not regard her as Mrs. Car- 
 michael. I would have called upon my friend, 
 Philip Carmichael." 
 
 "Did you ever call upon Miss Delayne after 
 Mr. Carmichael had left the country?" 
 
 Ben's memory took him back to a very mo- 
 mentous occasion. He stirred restively. 
 
 "I would rather not speak about it," he said, 
 "it has nothing to do with the case." 
 
 "It has this to do with it," snapped the prose- 
 cutor, "that when you called upon the woman 
 known at that hotel as Mrs. Carmichael, you pre- 
 sumably asked for her by that name ? ' ' 
 
 "Presumably," Ben admitted. 
 
 "Ah," said the prosecutor with satisfaction, 
 and he slackened the speed of his questions a little. 
 
 "You admit, then, that you were presented by 
 your friend to his wife, Mrs. Carmichael ; that you 
 know him to have lived with her as such; that you 
 have yourself called upon her as such " 
 
 "Yes, but"
 
 308 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "It is enough. I have finished with this wit- 
 ness, your Honor." 
 
 Mr. Merrill regarded Ben thoughtfully before 
 taking up his cross-examination. "I have but one 
 question to put to this witness,*' he said, as he 
 arose. "It is: Did you, as an intimate friend 
 of both parties, know of any pledge given or ex- 
 changed by them, such as the ring which Miss 
 Delayne speaks of!" 
 
 "I did not," answered Ben, with relief. But 
 he left the witness-stand with the feeling he had 
 done little good for his friend. 
 
 The judge asked for further proofs of the sec- 
 ond marriage. 
 
 "The public records were lost in the fire at the 
 time of the San Francisco earthquake," the prose- 
 cutor replied, "as were all marriage records. Be- 
 sides Mr. Baldwin's testimony, I took the precau- 
 tion to obtain the newspapers of that date, and I 
 found two notices of the marriage." 
 
 "No other proof!" asked the judge. 
 
 "None; they are known as Mr. and Mrs. Car- 
 michael in Santa Rita, where they have an estab- 
 lished residence." 
 
 "But are there no witnesses to the ceremony!" 
 
 "I understand that both witnesses perished in 
 the fire, your Honor." 
 
 The judge sat thoughtful, and the prosecutor 
 added: "That is the case for the people, your 
 Honor." 
 
 In his address to the jury, Mr. Merrill said that
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 309 
 
 he hoped to prove that his client, Mr. Cannichael, 
 was innocent of the charge against him, because 
 innocent of any intention or agreement to marry 
 the plaintiff, Miss Delayne. He said: "People 
 don't become man and wife simply by living to- 
 gether. They must intend to be married. Many 
 men have been held for blackmail by taking a 
 girl from the tenderloin district to a hotel for a 
 few days or hours. This case is similar. The as- 
 sociation was short, the matter of a few weeks, 
 and was begun and ended in ignorance of the law. 
 While that excuses no man, it should greatly miti- 
 gate judgment in this case, as Mr. Carmichael was 
 at that time an alien, though he has since applied 
 for naturalization. I would like to add that since 
 1902 the law of the State of New York has 
 changed, and people can no longer claim com- 
 mon-law marriage on such slim evidence. Thus 
 you see how the government has come to con- 
 demn the very law on which the plaintiff is bas- 
 ing her claim. Had her association with Mr. Car- 
 michael taken place since 1902, instead of prior 
 to it, she would not have any ground on which to 
 proceed. I will ask my client to testify for him- 
 self." 
 
 Amidst the most intense interest and curiosity, 
 Philip took the witness-stand. He was dimly 
 conscious of it, of the faces of friends and neigh- 
 bors in Santa Rita, and of business acquaintances 
 in Los Angeles. And somewhere in the back- 
 ground, he saw the rugged face of Father John,
 
 310 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 full of solicitude and trouble. His heart warmed 
 to the priest, and he felt his presence like a strong 
 tower of defense. He saw Sheelah, and the glint 
 of her eyes was that of a watchful foe. And be- 
 side her he saw his child, the central thread of all 
 this tangle. Last of all he saw Mary, effacing 
 herself as much as possible against the wall. The 
 quiet tones of her dull blue dress contrasted 
 with the rich costume of her rival, as her shrink- 
 ing demeanor was the antithesis of Sheelah 
 Delayne's self-assertion. He guessed the look 
 of the blue eyes behind the veil and summoned 
 all his fortitude to answer his lawyer's ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "Was there ever any intention on the part of 
 either you or Miss Delayne to enter into the mar- 
 riage relationship?" 
 
 "Absolutely none." 
 
 "Did you ever ask her to marry you?" 
 
 1 1 1 may have done so. It is so long ago, I don 't 
 remember. ' ' 
 
 "You did live with her?" 
 
 The question was obnoxious to Philip. After 
 a slight pause he replied : ' * She has herself said 
 so." 
 
 "You did not regard her as your wife nor de- 
 ceive her concerning the relationship between 
 you ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Most emphatically, I did not. ' ' 
 
 "So that, even if you had promised to marry 
 her, the promise was never fulfilled?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 311 
 
 "I do not think I ever even promised, but if I 
 did, the promise was certainly never fulfilled." 
 
 "And you never gave her any ring such as she 
 has spoken of in lieu of a wedding-ring!" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 ' * Thank you. That is all. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Merrill sat down, and the prosecuting at- 
 torney confronted Philip with a stern face. 
 
 "Your remembrance and lack of remembrance 
 is very convenient, Mr. Carmichael. You do not 
 recall trying to obtain a marriage license in any 
 town in New England ? ' ' 
 
 1 'I do not recall it, for I never did it," an- 
 swered Philip simply. 
 
 "Did you never promise to marry Miss De- 
 la yne?" 
 
 "I do not remember." 
 
 "But you remember registering her as Mrs. 
 Carmichael at the hotel in New York?" He 
 opened the hotel guest-book and showed Philip 
 an entry. 
 
 "That is my writing," Philip answered. 
 
 "Ah! You acknowledge that! You were not 
 aware that that constituted a claim for common- 
 law marriage?" 
 
 "I was not aware of it, or I would not have 
 done it." 
 
 "But you did introduce the young girl as your 
 wife." 
 
 "Only in fun; it was all a joke." 
 
 "A very grim joke!" almost shouted the prose-
 
 312 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 cutor, and proceeded with his rapid-fire questions 
 as he had with Ben. "You did introduce her as 
 your wife " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And did live with her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Thus doing her irreparable injury and spoil- 
 ing her chances for making any other marriage! 
 You did finally abandon her?" 
 
 "I returned to my home when the college term 
 was over." 
 
 "You left her with an unborn child?" 
 
 "I knew nothing of the child." 
 
 "Had you known, would you have regarded 
 your tie as binding?" 
 
 It was another crucial moment. Philip felt 
 the strain of it and showed it. Also he saw the 
 boy's eyes fixed on him. They were full of the 
 clear and terrible understanding which makes old 
 a young face. 
 
 "Well, well," said the prosecutor, in a hector- 
 ing manner of impatience, "answer the question. 
 Would you have considered the tie a binding one, 
 if you had known about the child?" 
 
 "Of course." Philip's answer came low. 
 
 "Ah! Now in regard to this ring. It is 
 yours ? ' ' 
 
 "It is mine." 
 
 "Did you give it to Miss Delayne instead of a 
 wedding-ring ? ' ' 
 
 "I did not give it to her at all."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 313 
 
 "How does it come in her possession?" 
 
 "I can only surmise that I lost it or left it be- 
 hind, and that she found it." 
 
 "We will leave the question of the ring for the 
 moment. In regard to the child: are you willing 
 to acknowledge him and be responsible for his 
 support and education?" 
 
 "Yes." The answer came quietly and without 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Good. Now, Mr. Carmichael, you have ac- 
 knowledged point by point nearly all of Miss 
 Delayne 's evidence. You have admitted that you 
 introduced her as your wife, registered her as 
 such, and lived with her as such. You have even 
 acknowledged the child. With all this, what pre- 
 vents you from acknowledging the plaintiff as 
 your true and lawful wtfe?" 
 
 Philip looked at him in astonishment. "Why, 
 I never intended to marry her," he said. 
 
 He left the witness-stand feeling like a beaten 
 man. The nerves of his mind, as it were, lay bare 
 to the hurting thoughts of all about him. It had 
 been a frightful ordeal the exposure of such a 
 poor, soiled chapter in his life. No one there, he 
 felt, but believed him guilty of duplicity. The 
 wrong done to the young girl, Sheelah, seemed 
 a small thing compared to the case they were mak- 
 ing out against him the wilful deception of two 
 women. They were actually proving a marriage 
 which had never been a marriage, and the proof 
 would be based upon the untrue statement about
 
 314 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the wedding-ring. He wondered, if they suc- 
 ceeded in proving him guilty in law, what the 
 consequences would be? Prison, probably, for a 
 term of years! It was the first time he had 
 thought of it concretely. It had not occurred to 
 him before that a man could be proved guilty in 
 law of a thing of which he was actually innocent. 
 Scarcely a soul there, he felt, would believe in 
 his innocence, except Ben and Father John and 
 Mary. It was wonderful how he knew that she 
 would understand, that she would never fail him. 
 
 They were calling her to the witness-stand. 
 Philip had a moment of anguish when he saw the 
 look of her face. It was so full of dread, of be- 
 wilderment. The place, the situation, the part 
 she must perforce play in it, was so utterly 
 foreign to her. Why did his imagination revert 
 to pictures of her as she had been in England, 
 when he had first known her! He saw her gay 
 assurance there, her buoyant kindness, her merry 
 good-fellowship; he felt the old Duke's delight 
 in her, the old Duchess' pride, Lady Kitty's af- 
 fection. And beside those pictures he must put 
 now this shrinking woman. He had brought 
 her to this! It seemed to him that he groaned. 
 But as no one appeared to have heard, he realized, 
 startled, that he had only dreamed the groan in 
 the travail of his spirit. 
 
 "Your name?" 
 
 "Mary Carmichael." Her tone was so low 
 that she was requested to raise her voice. The
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 315 
 
 silence in the room was intense, as all leaned for- 
 ward with interest or curiosity or pity. The dull 
 blue dress she wore seemed to add to her pallor, 
 as did the white veil which she was asked to raise. 
 It fell softly over her shoulders, like the drapery 
 about the head of a pictured Madonna, and like 
 the Madonna's, too, were her eyes. Mr. Merrill's 
 manner was full of kindly reassurance as he ad- 
 dressed her. 
 
 "How long have you been married to Mr. Car- 
 michael?" was his first question. 
 
 She heard the question through a maze of con- 
 flicting thoughts. The faces in the courtroom 
 seemed floating before her eyes. 
 
 "This is the third spring," she answered. 
 "We have been together two years and a half." 
 
 "Had you never heard Mr. Carmichael speak 
 of Sheelah Delayne?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Had you, at any time prior to this matter be- 
 coming public, any knowledge that Mr. Car- 
 michael was not free to marry you?" 
 
 "Why no." 
 
 "By the way, all records of your marriage were 
 lost in the San Francisco fire, were they not?" 
 
 "I can't answer," Mary said. "I have never 
 seen the records. ' ' 
 
 Through her mind was going an insane sing- 
 song: "What shall I do oh, what shall I do, to 
 save him? What shall I do oh, what shall I do, 
 to save him?" And suddenly, like a blinding
 
 316 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 flash of light, came the answer. She saw what 
 she must do. The thought shot her to her feet 
 for a trembling instant, then she sank back and 
 closed her eyes in intense concentration. In the 
 dark, behind the shut lids, she looked, as in a mir- 
 ror, into the grieving eyes of her soul. Hut the 
 mirror was larger. It was Love. 
 
 Much puzzled by her extraordinary behavior, 
 Mr. Merrill turned to confer with his client, and 
 the prosecutor took up his cross-examination. 
 
 4 'You have, surely, some other proof of your 
 marriage besides the record which was lost? 
 You have a copy of the certificate, for instance?" 
 
 And very distinctly came her answer, 
 
 "There are no proofs." 
 
 "No proofs!" 
 
 "No, for there was no marriage." 
 
 There was amazement in the room. Even the 
 lawyer seemed dumbfounded. 
 
 "No marriage! But why here is the news- 
 paper notice of it ! " 
 
 "That is not a proof," answered Mary calmly. 
 
 The jurymen were all craning forward in their 
 seats. The judge's gaze was searching her face. 
 The spectators were spellbound. Mary was 
 dimly conscious of Ben's astonishment, of 
 Philip's consternation, deepening into horror as 
 he began to realize her purpose. Scarcely know- 
 ing how to continue, the prosecutor put his ques- 
 tions : 
 
 "You were never married to this man?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 317 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You went through no form of ceremony which 
 constitutes a marriage?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But you have lived with him!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "As his wife?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Each time the monosyllabic answer fell with an 
 accent of finality. 
 
 "You say," the attorney continued, quite non- 
 plussed at the unexpected turn of things, "you 
 say that you lived with Mr. Cannichael as his 
 wife, you were introduced as such, yet you do not 
 regard yourself as his wife ? ' ' 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 "But people believe you to be Mrs. Carmichael 
 your guest, Mr. Baldwin, for instance. He 
 says you spoke of your marriage to him. ' ' 
 
 "Naturally, I let him believe in it," she an- 
 swered with difficulty. 
 
 In Mary's heart the hunger of days and weeks 
 past was stabbing like sharp pain. Her denial 
 of her marriage was done in a moment of self- 
 less inspiration, and she rather looked to see 
 Philip rise and vehemently protest her statement, 
 and uphold her honor even at the expense of his 
 own. "When he did not, when she saw by his 
 silence that he meant to accept this, her last sac- 
 rifice for him, a despair was born in her. She 
 concluded that love, as she knew it, he had never
 
 318 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 felt for her, that her whole life with him had been 
 in vain a terrible mistake. Mentally, with a 
 violent wrench of the spirit, she renounced her 
 own happiness laid it down then and there, a 
 pitiful offering of passion and tears, to the God 
 of Higher Things. 
 
 But, actually, Philip's love for her, the real 
 love that kindled and liberated his spirit, was just 
 being born. He was seeing for the first time her 
 soul and his own and the right relationship of 
 things. The greatness of her sacrifice, the giving 
 up of the most precious of all things in the world 
 to a wife her married honor staggered him. It 
 passed belief such love; it belonged to the 
 realm of impossible, miraculous things. He re- 
 membered how, long ago in England, she had said 
 proudly : 
 
 "I don't love any man well enough to sin for 
 him!" And here she was, now, committing the 
 grave sin of perjury for his sake. Thflt was what 
 held him silent. He knew it was a punishable of- 
 fense. But in his inner nature, he was worshipr 
 ping her not the thing she had done for him, but 
 the motive which had inspired it. He saw her as 
 she was in one fine, great moment. So that, when 
 she thought she gave up all, she really gained all. 
 Though she knew it not, her whole heart's de- 
 sire began to set toward her in a strong, return- 
 ing tide. 
 
 The prosecutor continued his cross-examina- 
 tion.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 319 
 
 "If you were introduced as Mr. Carmichael's 
 wife and lived with him as such, yours is as much 
 a common-law marriage as the first, is it not ? ' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 She braced herself for her climax, steadfastly. 
 
 "I have heard his Honor say that common-law 
 marriage depends partly upon intention. Mr. 
 Carmichael never promised to marry me. We 
 just agreed between ourselves to live together." 
 
 The simple statement sounded so impossible, 
 coming from a woman of her character and dig- 
 nity, that the prosecutor was aghast. 
 
 "Think what you are saying, Madam," he said 
 earnestly. "If you are trying to protect Mr. 
 Carmichael, think well what you are doing! 
 You are swearing away your honor, your married 
 honor, your good name and position in our com- 
 monwealth. If you are not his wife, what are 
 you?" 
 
 Mary's eyes looked past him until they found 
 Philip. Her face and voice had a grave beauty. 
 
 "I'm just the woman who loves him," she 
 said simply. 
 
 The prosecutor looked incredulous. "You 
 have no other claim than that ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' None, whatever. ' ' 
 
 The watchmen that went about the city in- 
 terpreting its laws had indeed smitten her. The 
 keepers of the walls of modern society had taken 
 away her veil. It was torn and rent that mar-
 
 320 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 riage-veil but through its shreds the sacred 
 mystery stood revealed, the transfiguring, human 
 love which in its selflessness blended with the di- 
 vine. Her look was luminous. "Terrible as an 
 army with banners," it swept over Philip, and 
 all his own forces went down before it. 
 
 Mr. Merrill, with a triumphant smile, arose and 
 called for a dismissal of the case. The conclu- 
 sion had been utterly unforeseen and indeed un- 
 premeditated, but he was quick to seize the ad- 
 vantage for his client. The judge asked if the 
 prosecutor could supply any evidence of the sec- 
 ond marriage to Lady Mary Stanhope T When 
 none was forthcoming, he called upon the jury to 
 rise. 
 
 "I instruct you," he said, "to acquit the pris- 
 oner, Philip Carmichael, of the charge against 
 him."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "Withal there is one whom I fear; 
 I fear to see grief upon that face. 
 Perchance, Friend, he is not your God; 
 If so spit upon him. 
 By it you will do no profanity. 
 But I . . . 
 
 Ah, sooner would I die 
 Than see tears in those eyes of my soul" 
 
 STEPHEN CRANE. 
 
 WHEN Mary left the courtroom, she suc- 
 ceeded in eluding even Ben. Without 
 one backward glance, without turning to 
 right or left, silently and swiftly, she escaped 
 from the place. Once outside, she never stopped 
 until she was on the train for Santa Eita. She 
 knew her time was short for what she meant to 
 do, and she wasted none of it. 
 
 When she reached the gate of their little house 
 in Santa Eita, a crowding host of memories and 
 glad moments almost overcame her with the sense 
 of what her renunciation meant. The garden was 
 beautiful with its spring jubilance of song and 
 scent and color. Gay hands of flower-trees 
 reached out to her, little low flowers smiled up 
 from the ground, great bushes of blossom burst 
 on her like bells rung on a quiet Sabbath morn- 
 ing. Darting birds filled the air with happy notes, 
 and the beneficent sun looked down with a
 
 322 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 fathering eye upon his frolicking garden-children. 
 Conscious, but regardless of the beauty of it all, 
 she sped up the little path, over the lawn, to the 
 house. There, just for a moment, her heart 
 failed her. Almost overgrown with the passion- 
 flower vine, the words "El Tejado Querido" 
 stood out among the blossoms. The old Spanish 
 name, "The Beloved Roof," with all its associa- 
 tions of tenderness and work, started the sobs in 
 her throat. But she crushed them back and en- 
 tered. There was no one within. Old Mac- 
 Gregor, she knew, would be busy about the place 
 at that hour, and the house would be alone. She 
 wasted not one movement nor moment in carry- 
 ing out her plan. Her first action was to go to 
 the drawer of her writing-table and take from it 
 the copy of her marriage certificate. This she lit 
 at one corner and threw into the grate. -When: 
 not a vestige of it remained but the blackened 
 paper, she drew off her wedding ring, kissed it 
 with tears, and laid it on the mantel. It fell into 
 its two circles which, though separate, could not 
 get apart. The symbolism of this struck her for a 
 second, then she dashed the tears away and went 
 on to her bedroom, where she packed a few neces- 
 sary clothes and such valuables and money as she 
 possessed. Her haste was extreme. Last of all, 
 she wrote : 
 
 11 Philip Beloved there's no other way I 
 must go. Don't follow me, don't try to find me.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 323 
 
 I couldn't bear it if you did, and I must bear it, 
 alone. Good-by and God love you as I shall 
 always. 
 
 Your 
 MAEY. ' ' 
 
 Then, still with deft, swift movements, she 
 flung the harness on the old horse, lifted her 
 heavy bag into the buggy, and drove fast down 
 the road to the station beyond Santa Bita. So 
 great had been her fear of Ben or Philip return- 
 ing before she could get away, so tremendous had 
 been her concentration of haste and effort, that 
 she was shaking as she took up the reins and 
 realized that so far she was safe. She had no 
 definite plan, but she began to form one as she 
 drove. She would leave the horse at the station 
 and pay the station-master to return it. Then 
 she would take the train for Los Angeles and 
 from there go to San Francisco at once, or per- 
 haps to New York. The main thing was to escape 
 from Philip, for she could not trust herself 
 and her love of him. She knew that if she were 
 to meet him, she could not do the thing which she 
 was doing. His dominating personality would 
 override her conscience, her honor, her very soul. 
 She knew his importunity. She could not stay 
 and fight it ; she could only fly from it as the great 
 temptation of her life. 
 
 In the train for Los Angeles, she looked back 
 over past events and saw, with clear, sad eyes,
 
 324 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that Philip and her love for him had been just 
 that the great temptation of her life. It had 
 separated her from God instead of uniting her to 
 Him. While she had the big human love and 
 could give it manifold and beautiful expression, 
 she had not needed the divine. Now how she 
 longed for the divine healing and compassion 
 the sense of God, like a mother, coming quick to 
 the need of His child. The need was so keen, the 
 cry of it so piteous though she neither spoke nor 
 moved, nor, as yet, even prayed that He who 
 knows, He who cares, was rushing assistance to 
 her with every turn of the wheels which brought 
 her nearer to Los Angeles. 
 
 For in the station, while she was trying to 
 wrench some decision from her mind, she sud- 
 denly came upon Father John. 
 
 She would gladly have avoided him, but he had 
 seen her and came quickly toward her. He looked 
 troubled and anxious, but his face cleared as he 
 caught sight of her. 
 
 "I am so glad to have met you," he said thank- 
 fully, as he took her hand, "for I was thinking of 
 you that moment, wondering " he hesitated. 
 
 "I'm wondering, too," Mary answered, trying 
 to smile, "wondering where I'm going, now." 
 
 "Are you in a hurry T If not, will you talk to 
 me a moment!" 
 
 He took her bag, and they found a quiet cor- 
 ner and sat down. Father John looked at the 
 clock.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 325 
 
 "The next train for Santa Rita leaves in half 
 an hour. I have to get it. Are you returning, 
 also?" 
 
 "No, Father. " 
 
 "Will you tell me your purpose, my daughter? 
 You see I was there, and I'm not surprised to 
 find you like this. If I can help you, let me!" 
 His tone was pleading, the whole big, rugged ex- 
 terior seemed trying to express his concern, his 
 sympathy. Mary's lips trembled a little. 
 
 "You were there?" 
 
 "Yes, I heard it all." 
 
 "You heard me lie. But what could I do?" 
 
 "What made you do it?" asked the priest 
 gently. 
 
 "Why to save my husband. They would 
 have sent him to prison ; they would have proved 
 a lie against him." 
 
 "I do not think the dismissing of the case 
 proved the first marriage," answered Father 
 John. 
 
 "Surely it did!" 
 
 "And it was no marriage," he continued. 
 
 "As much so as mine, in the eyes of the law," 
 she replied. 
 
 Father John sat pondering the question in deep 
 distress. Finally he spoke gently. 
 
 "I have never known a lie to prosper, however 
 fine its motive. This one may have terrible con- 
 sequences for you, my daughter. ' ' 
 
 "I know," she answered steadfastly; "I must
 
 326 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 bear them." She was thoughtful for a moment 
 and then said: 
 
 1 'In a sense, perhaps, it wasn't a lie. Of course 
 it was perjury," she added quickly, meeting his 
 grave look squarely. "But was it a lie to say I 
 do not consider myself Philip Carmichael's wife! 
 In view of all that has happened the claim of 
 the woman who gave him a child such a wonder- 
 ful child! I do not any longer feel myself his 
 wife. That is why I am going away. Don't you 
 see I must! I couldn't go on living with him 
 with this between us, even if the Church as well 
 as the law had married us." 
 
 "The Church would consider your marriage 
 binding, even though she did not perform the cere- 
 mony. You are both her children. The other 
 was no marriage." 
 
 "I know, oh, I know that, of course. But hav- 
 ing entered into that relationship, he had no right 
 to contract a marriage. He had a duty to the 
 previous bond ; and if I stayed, I might come be- 
 tween since the child's own mother is living." 
 
 "But what of your duty toward your hus- 
 band?" the priest asked gravely. 
 
 She pressed her palms together tensely, as if 
 to hold down her tremendous feeling. 
 
 "I must lay down my duty to him with my right 
 to wifehood. Father, it may be wrong or not. I 
 don't know. But I can't see it any other way. 
 He wasn't free to marry me, and I stand between 
 him and what is right for him to do. I must lay
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 327 
 
 down my claim, leave him free to do what is 
 right by them. Terhaps our marriage can be 
 annulled, if that is necessary. I shall always con- 
 sider it binding on me. But he oh, he won't un- 
 derstand!" Her voice broke, and she turned to 
 the priest beseechingly. * l Father, could you make 
 him understand? He may think I am going be- 
 cause I don't forgive him don't love him, and 
 really it's because I do both! When I'm quite 
 gone, could you tell him, sometime, that I did it 
 because I loved him not for any other reason in 
 the world?" 
 
 Father John's eyes behind his glasses were 
 moist. 
 
 "I'll do my best for you and for him," he said. 
 "But now, what are you going to do?" 
 
 The question brought back her indecision, and 
 an overwhelming sense of homelessness oppressed 
 her. 
 
 "I don't know," she said, "I must go some- 
 where to be alone and think and plan where no 
 one knows me and I must find some work, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 The priest sat thoughtful and troubled. The 
 extraordinary conditions of the case, the gravity 
 of the issues involved, obscured for the time even 
 his sure sense of right and wrong. But soon his 
 face cleared. 
 
 "When pne is puzzled," he said, "there is only 
 one thing to do: ask the guidance of the Holy 
 Spirit and yield one's self to it with faith. How
 
 328 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 would you like to go to the Sisters' convent for 
 a time, my daughter? You would be in retreat, 
 and in peace and quietness you could get your 
 bearings and mark out your course." 
 
 Mary's face had brightened, also. 
 
 "That is what I will do," she said earnestly. 
 "Can I start now 7" 
 
 "I'll telegraph for you and put you on the 
 train," Father John answered, a great relief in 
 his heart. 
 
 "And you'll not tell my husband! Because, 
 you see, he would only come after me and make 
 it all the harder. I cannot tell what the solution 
 of it all will be," she went on, her voice trembling 
 with the heartbreak behind it. "But, oh, I know 
 I am right so far! in going away, I mean. We 
 must work out our salvation separately." 
 
 "Each of us must do that." 
 
 When he had sent the telegram and bought her 
 ticket for her, he walked with her to the train. As 
 they shook hands at parting, Mary looked up at 
 him with gratitude. "I can't thank you for your 
 interest, your kindness " 
 
 "Never mind," he said hastily, "You can't 
 know what a priest feels for every member of his 
 family each a separate trust from God. It is so 
 good if one can fulfil any of it be of use to any 
 one. I feel like thanking them for letting me serve 
 Him so. Good-by, my child. Keep in touch with 
 me. I shall pray for you." 
 
 ' ' Good-by, dear Father. ' *
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 329 
 
 And Mary, as the train bore her farther away 
 from the center of all her love and life, faced the 
 future, in spite of her desolation, with a com- 
 forted heart. The strong, invisible hand of the 
 Church had given her help in her need. The in- 
 visible strength of the Spirit would support her in 
 whatever followed. As it ever had been, and ever 
 would be in all her crises of experience, she felt 
 the enfolding of the everlasting arms and 
 leaned back hard on the love of God. 
 
 Philip and Ben came home together after the 
 trial was over. When they reached the little 
 house in Santa Rita, Ben lingered in the garden, 
 leaving Philip to enter and meet Mary first alone. 
 And just as she had done an hour earlier, Philip, 
 too, passed under the name "El Tejado Querido" 
 with a tightening of the throat. Poignant mem- 
 ories of precious hours in her love and faith 
 came crowding upon him, and his whole soul 
 longed to compensate to her a thousandfold for 
 her sacrifice to him. His heart was on its knees 
 to her as he cried her name in the silence of the 
 deserted home. 
 
 "Mary!" and when no answer came, "My 
 Mary!" more urgently, more longingly. 
 
 And then the silence began to smite him with 
 foreboding. 
 
 He ran up-stairs to their bedroom and found 
 it out of its usual order ; the wardrobe seemed al- 
 most empty; her little box on the dressing-table 
 where she kept her trinkets stood open, its treas-
 
 330 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ures gone. For an instant, the possibility of 
 thieves crossed his mind, but the idea received 
 no sanction from his deeper consciousness. He 
 went down-stairs again, fighting against a grow- 
 ing certainty. And in the living-room he found 
 her wedding-ring and her note, and as he sank 
 down on the settle beside the hearth, he saw the 
 blackened ash that had been the white paper of 
 their marriage certificate. 
 
 When Ben came in, a few minutes later, he 
 found him sitting so, the note in one hand, the two 
 entwined circles of gold in the other, Philip him- 
 self blind and dazed with grief. 
 
 "She's gone," was all he said. 
 
 "Gone!" Ben's mind grasped it instantly. Of 
 course that was just what Mary would do. Why 
 had he not foreseen it in time to prevent itt That 
 was why she had not returned to her seat beside 
 him when she left the witness-stand, but instead 
 had passed straight out of the courtroom. Ben 
 had been too occupied with Philip at the moment 
 to notice it, but now he remembered that Mary 
 had not once hesitated or turned her head. She 
 must have conceived her whole plan in one instant 
 and have carried it out, so far, unfalteringly. 
 Before such swift decision he stood marvelling, 
 and the next moment his heart quailed at what he, 
 even then, felt would be his friend's irrecoverable 
 loss. 
 
 "Where can she have gone?" he said. 
 
 "Why should she go?" asked Philip.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 331 
 
 " Because don't you see? She feels she is no 
 longer your wife. ' * 
 
 "But she is!" 
 
 ''Of course. But it was not proved, and she 
 denied it herself. You accepted her denial. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Good God ! " burst from Philip. ' < If I hadn 't, 
 she would have been convicted of perjury!" 
 
 1 'Yes, I know. It was perjury, and it was mag- 
 nificent ! But it's wrecked her, Phil. ' ' 
 
 Philip, on the low settle by the hearth, sat with 
 his head hidden in his hands. He did not answer 
 or look up. Ben continued: 
 
 "It is just possible that Mary imagined there 
 was a previous marriage, or that there ought to 
 have been, and that she stands between you and 
 an obvious duty." 
 
 "The child you mean? Yes." 
 
 "And the child's mother." 
 
 "No!" said Philip strongly. "No! That's 
 past twelve years ago. If she had made her 
 claim then but now! it's too late. I've only 
 one real duty in the world and that's to Mary. 
 If I can only find her ! ' ' He dropped back to his 
 first position, elbows on knees, head bowed into 
 his hands. 
 
 "She'd go to the Duke," suggested Ben, "or, 
 perhaps, first to Jessie. You'll find her never 
 fear." As he spoke, more to cheer Philip than 
 because he really believed it, he looked at his 
 friend curiously. For once, he failed to under- 
 stand him. With all his acute, divining sym-
 
 332 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 pathy, Ben could not guess the agony of shame, 
 the torture of fear, that beat like relentless foes 
 at the gate of Philip's pride of heart. Inevitably 
 the gate must go down before them, the pride be 
 levelled, and the invaders ravage the territory 
 they conquered. But Ben could not hear the 
 sound of their blows. He looked at his friend 
 again and wondered. Though his judgment was 
 tempered by pity, still it was judgment. It was 
 even condemnation. In spite of the stout stuff of 
 his friendship and the loyalty with which it was 
 embroidered, Ben could not but remember the 
 faces of the two women who had loved this man, 
 the two big natures which had given, each of her 
 best, to him Sheelah, the enamored passion of 
 her youth ; Mary, the stiller love of her maturity. 
 And both in vain, Ben thought, looking covertly at 
 Philip in the silence which deepened between 
 them. He could -not know that Philip felt his 
 thoughts as though they had been spoken, that he, 
 too, was judging and appraising himself lower 
 than his friend would ever appraise him. Ben 
 saw a fine life turned to failure, its gifts lost, its 
 purposes spoiled, he did not know why. Philip, 
 thinking deeper, knew and writhed upon the rack 
 of that knowledge. It had a hundred points; it 
 searched out every hidden sore, every secret sin. 
 It tore at his very vitals until it seemed to him he 
 must shriek with the agony of his own guilt. 
 And then confession gushed out of him. 
 "It is my own damned selfishness I " The
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 333 
 
 words stained the air for a moment, and vainly 
 the habit of reserve tried to stop the flow which 
 poured past it. 
 
 "My God, my God! When I think of it from 
 the beginning! It was myself always; always I 
 have taken, never given. Always I have been 
 loved, never loved; always I have had the lion's 
 share, coerced, cajoled, got it somehow just for 
 myself! At home, in school, at work, I served 
 myself alone. My career had one aim : to acquire 
 prizes for Philip Carmichael. My ambition had 
 one end : to glorify Philip Carmichael. And then 
 came Mary a something different to shed new 
 luster on Philip Carmichael. God!" His voice 
 broke under the stress of his own arraignment. 
 "I've been like an actor playing to the gallery 
 of my own egotism ; its hoots or praises have been 
 my rule of life. And I never knew it until to-day, 
 until she did that stupendous thing that awful 
 beautiful thing! Until that moment I thought 
 it was I who had made the sacrifices; I who was 
 paying the price and bearing the burden; and 
 then, suddenly, I saw it had been hers all along. 
 While I dreamed, she sewed and worked and 
 planted. Look! that's her garden; these are her 
 curtains; this chair her dear hands covered. 
 While I repined and regretted she went singing 
 about her tasks. And all the while, I see now, I 
 was her burden, not the things I brought her to 
 though they were enough, God knows but I, 
 myself, her disappointment in me. And yet
 
 334- THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and yet," his voice swelled then diminished again, 
 "she could do that tremendous thing out of her 
 love. Think what it must have meant to her 
 to stand there and deny her honor! Mary! My 
 God, what must it be to have a soul like that! 
 And, oh, Ben, where shall I go what shall I do 
 how shall I hide from myself?'* 
 
 Ben stood appalled before the uncovered feel- 
 ing of the man, as it jolted out of him between 
 unchecked sobs. Philip was far past self-con- 
 sciousness now. He leaned his arms upon the 
 mantelpiece, his head bowed upon them. He was 
 hearing again his wife's voice in the utter sweet- 
 ness of her renunciation: "I'm just the woman 
 who loves him. ' ' He was seeing again her face 
 and the light in it like a window over a shrine. 
 A moment in the still space between storms his 
 vision held her, and he knew her a holy thing, 
 bearing to him a mysterious message. 
 
 And then he became conscious that Ben was 
 speaking, had been speaking for several minutes 
 kind, staunch old Ben. He couldn't understand 
 what he was saying; it was a long way off, and 
 didn't matter. But in the great deeps of him a 
 strange thing had happened. He had found 
 Mary. Something of her had flowed toward him. 
 Something of him had gone out to meet it. He 
 knew they were indissolubly joined. 
 
 "And so," Ben finished, "perhaps it took all 
 this to bring you two to the very best. Where are
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 335 
 
 you going?" for Philip, with a rapt look, was put- 
 ting on his hat and coat. 
 
 * * To find her, ' ' he answered. 
 
 And Ben knew he had not heard one word.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 My heart is a homeless beggar 
 A house with the blinds all down 
 A nest less bird, a hope deferred 
 A monarch without a crown. 
 
 An Adam without a help-mate; 
 A grief that cannot weep; 
 A barren womb; an unmarked tomb; 
 A sleeper that cannot sleep. 
 
 My heart is a homeless beggar 
 / weep and reap and weep. 
 
 AUBREY BOUCICAULT. 
 
 BEFORE Philip had gone far on the road 
 to the station, he recognized his own 
 horse and buggy approaching, driven by 
 a lad whom he did not know. His intuition im- 
 mediately connected it with Mary, and he stopped 
 the boy and inquired what he was doing with his 
 horse. 
 
 "Are you Mr. Carmichael?" the boy asked. 
 "A lady left this team with my father. He's the 
 station-master." 
 
 "Not at Santa Rita?" 
 
 "No, Dominico the next down the line. She 
 asked my father to return it to Mr. Carmichael. ' ' 
 
 "How long ago?" 
 
 "I guess it was about two hours. She left on 
 the train for Los Angeles."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 837 
 
 Philip reflected for a minute, then got in and 
 drove back to his house to consult with Ben. He 
 found him busy packing. When Philip told him, 
 he said: 
 
 1 ' There 's no use looking for her in Los Angeles. 
 She will probably have gone to my sister. Pack 
 a bag and come with me. We can get the night 
 train out of Los Angeles for Oakland and be there 
 in the morning. I think you will find Mary there, 
 and you can then bring her back with you." 
 
 So old MacGregor was summoned and left in 
 charge of the place. Philip little thought how 
 long it would be before he returned. 
 
 Mrs. Dwight met them at the station in Oak- 
 land the next morning. She had had Ben's tele- 
 gram the night before and had read the account 
 of the case in the morning papers. But she had 
 no news of Mary. Her delight in seeing her 
 brother was lost in her quick sympathy at the 
 sight of Philip's face. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me, Jess, that you haven't 
 had a telegram or any sort of word from Mary?" 
 Ben asked, when their first greetings were 
 over. 
 
 "No word of any sort." 
 
 The three looked at one another in consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 "Perhaps she sent a night message and it is at 
 the house, now," suggested Ben. 
 
 "I'll telephone and find out," replied Mrs. 
 Dwight at once. But telephoning brought no
 
 338 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 comfort. Ah Sin answered, saying no message 
 had come for Mrs. Dwight since she left the house. 
 
 "Where can she be!" Ben exclaimed. 
 
 Jessie looked grave. "Wherever she is, I don't 
 think she means to be found," she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 But Philip heard. "Yet I'll find her!" he said. 
 
 "Come back to the house and have breakfast, 
 and we '11 talk it over, ' ' the little woman suggested 
 kindly. 
 
 Philip thanked her and refused. "I can't rest 
 or eat until I find her," he said. "Since she isn't 
 here, I must look for her elsewhere. She prob- 
 ably took the Santa Fe out of Los Angeles, for 
 the east. I'll get the next train that goes. Per- 
 haps I'll overtake her in Chicago. If not, I'll go 
 on to New York. I'll be able to find her on any 
 ship that sails." 
 
 "You think she will have gone back to Eng- 
 land?" said Mrs. Dwight. 
 
 "Since she isn't with you, yes. She has no 
 other close ties here. I'm sure she'd go to the 
 Duke." 
 
 They secretly doubted it but forebore to say 
 so. Ben did everything possible for his friend, 
 to the last. A train happened to be leaving al- 
 most at once for the east. They waited and saw 
 Philip aboard. Ben got an address both in 
 Chicago and in New York, to which he could tele- 
 graph in case he had any news. 
 
 "And you'll let us know if you find out any-
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 339 
 
 thing, won't you?" he said anxiously, "or if 
 you're sailing 
 
 Philip was preoccupied as he shook hands with 
 Mrs. Dwight and said good-by. When it was 
 Ben's turn, he tried to thank him. But no words 
 came. 
 
 " Can't get it out," he said at last jerkily. 
 "But you know don't you!" 
 
 Ben nodded without speaking, and the two 
 grasped hands. Then the great Overland Limited 
 started on its long journey. Ben and Jessie 
 turned away, rather sick at heart. 
 
 "It doesn't seem long since I went down to meet 
 the Overland, bringing Mary to me," said Mrs. 
 Dwight. "She came alone, and now he's going 
 alone." 
 
 Ben answered, his practical mind following 
 Philip's needs. "He has only a hand-bag with 
 him. If he sails at once, he will want clothes. 
 I'd better wire MacGregor to pack a trunk and 
 send it on to the New York address he gave me." 
 
 And that message was the first word MacGregor 
 had of the indefinite absence of his master and 
 mistress. The old man packed the required 
 things sorrowfully. He came upon a light woolen 
 dressing-gown of Mary's and put that in, also. 
 He did not know that they were not together, and 
 he thought she might need it, as he remembered 
 it was colder there in the east. His packing done, 
 he quietly closed the door of the room that had 
 been Philip's and Mary's and all the other doors
 
 340 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 on the upper landing. Then he went down-stairs, 
 looked into the living-room forlornly, and softly 
 drew the curtains, shutting out the sunlight. 
 
 "Eh, MacGregor," he said, as he closed the 
 door of that room also, "ye 're gettin' auld an* 
 lonesome. Yet ye were never lonesome before 
 they came." 
 
 He went limping away to his own quarters, and 
 the little house in the midst of the blossoming 
 garden seemed to settle down and wait. 
 
 Philip reached New York and made the rounds 
 of the steamship offices, searching every pas- 
 senger list for Mary's name. When he failed to 
 find it, he could not believe it was because she had 
 not sailed. Rather, he concluded she had booked 
 passage under an assumed name, on one of the 
 boats which had left the Wednesday before he 
 arrived in New York. On that assumption, he en- 
 gaged passage and sailed the following Saturday 
 for London. 
 
 Many times, as he paced the decks during that 
 voyage, the thought of his previous one out to 
 America offered a sharp contrast. Then he had 
 been going to his love, to the certainty of her wel- 
 coming eyes and arms, to splendid hopes and ef- 
 forts, and a lifetime full of the things that make 
 for happiness, as Mary put it concretely: "love 
 and work. ' ' He had been tried by both and found 
 wanting. His denunciation of himself was com- 
 plete and scathing. He had not known himself 
 or his right relationship to the world in which he
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 341 
 
 lived. It seemed to him, in his bitter self -arraign- 
 ment, that his whole life had been one evasion 
 of responsibility. Love had come easily, he had 
 taken it more than once, more than twice or 
 thrice. Those easy loves had perhaps borne bitter 
 fruit in the lives of more than one woman. His 
 heart separated Sheelah and Mary the first and 
 the last as the wheat is separated from the chaff. 
 One had given him a child, and one was his wife. 
 It seemed to his suffering mind a monstrous thing 
 that they should not have been one and the same. 
 The boy should have been Mary's. Strange, he 
 thought, that he and Mary, who belonged to each 
 other, should both have undersold their birthright 
 by belonging to another first. The years of youth, 
 the great glad years, each had wasted, he wildly 
 in dissipation, she tamely in a duty which she 
 should never have assumed. In the hours that 
 Philip paced the deck, under the starlight, these 
 thoughts became audible things to him. He saw 
 that not only in his own heart but in Mary's, too, 
 the whisper of God had been silenced by the 
 clamor of the world. Dimly, in the silence of 
 those night hours, he began to perceive the inner 
 meaning of marriage as God ordained it, the in- 
 finite promise of the finite thing. Very humbly 
 he began to pray in his heart: "Let it not be 
 too late!" 
 
 The time came when he stood before the Duke in 
 the latter 's library and read in his eyes before his 
 words confirmed it, the vainness of his quest.
 
 342 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Perhaps Philip had not realized until that moment 
 how absolutely he had hoped to find Mary there. 
 Until that moment he had not really doubted that 
 he would find her and prevail upon her to come 
 back with him. When, after his long journey, his 
 headlong haste, he met only with disappointment, 
 it was almost too much for him. The room swam 
 for a moment, and he leaned heavily upon the 
 mantelpiece, gripping it with nails that turned 
 white and bloodless under the pressure. 
 
 It was the same room in which they had talked 
 on Mary's last day in England. He remembered 
 how she had always loved it and its dim harmo- 
 nies of bronze and russet and gold. It was liter- 
 ally lined with books, the shelves rising from floor 
 to ceiling on every side, their serried lines broken 
 here and there by some picture or engraving. It 
 was a room which, dwarfing the merely personal 
 perspective, deepened and greatened the sense of 
 life, making the visitor realize himself the heir of 
 all the ages, in touch with colossal contributions 
 of master minds. But their aloof calm held no 
 significance for Philip. He felt his own tragedy 
 cry aloud in the stately place. He had to meet 
 the Duke's quiet and terrible question: 
 
 "What have you done to my Mary that you ask 
 me where she is!" 
 
 Bluntly and briefly Philip related all that had 
 happened, not sparing himself, and beyond the 
 mere telling of the story, saying little of Mary. 
 Indeed he could not trust himself. His voice
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 343 
 
 trembled on the utterance of her name, so that he 
 found himself saying "she," like a common 
 laborer speaking of his woman. 
 
 The Duke listened, sitting in his armchair, his 
 face partially shielded by his hand, from under 
 which he watched Philip intently, as he stood or 
 walked. When the sorry tale was finished, the 
 Duke sat in silence for some time. Finally he 
 said: 
 
 "You say you had no idea, at the time you mar- 
 ried Mary, that the first woman had any legal 
 claim?" 
 
 "She hasn't any even now! That was made 
 clear. The case was dismissed." 
 
 "Then she will bring it again," said the Duke, 
 with conviction, "and she'll prove it the next 
 time. A woman like that won't stop at anything, 
 when there's a child to be considered. Yes," he 
 added thoughtfully, "and that's partly Mary's 
 reason for going away ; now that I know the story, 
 I can trace her motives." 
 
 "I can't," said Philip, "I can't understand." 
 
 "Don't you see? She thinks you have a duty 
 to the previous bond, and that she stands in the 
 way of your fulfilling it. You'll never find her, 
 or if you do, she'll never live with you again un- 
 til she is satisfied that you have fulfilled your 
 obligation. ' ' 
 
 Philip was staggered by his words. "You 
 can't mean that Mary would desert me," he said 
 slowly.
 
 344 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I shouldn't say 'desert'; I should say relin- 
 quish renounce. ' ' 
 
 "But she's my wife," Philip broke out hotly. 
 "There isn't any 'relinquish' or 'renounce' to 
 that! I haven't any obligation except to her!" 
 
 "She must think otherwise, or she would not 
 have left you," returned the Duke. 
 
 "If you mean the child," said Philip with dif- 
 ficulty, "of course, I recognize my responsibility 
 there. I'll look after him as far as I can. But 
 that is no reason why Mary should separate from 
 me." 
 
 "Perhaps she was thinking also of the child's 
 mother." 
 
 Philip looked incredulous. "That's so use- 
 less!" he said. "She is not my wife, never was, 
 never will be. ' ' 
 
 "Yet she has stood in that relationship to you," 
 said the Duke almost sternly. "And now that 
 Mary has denied her marriage, there is nothing 
 to hinder Miss Delayne from claiming common- 
 law marriage. If she established her claim, she 
 would have to divorce you before Mary could re- 
 marry you. And I think I know Mary well 
 enough to say she would never marry a divorced 
 man." 
 
 Philip had not sat down at all during their 
 talk, and now he came and stood squarely in front 
 of the Duke. 
 
 "Mary is my wife," he said. "I've never been 
 married to any one else, whatever their damnable
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 345 
 
 laws prove! So I can't be divorced. The idea is 
 as hateful to me as it would be to her, though I 
 haven't her religious standpoint. But what is my 
 own I will keep!" 
 
 "You have to find her first," said the Duke 
 coldly. 
 
 "Yes." He picked up his hat. "You will let 
 me know cable me at once if you do hear from 
 her, won't you!" he said. 
 
 The Duke hesitated before replying. "I think 
 I will not bind myself to any promise," he an- 
 swered, after a moment. "If Mary seeks me, I 
 must be guided by her wishes in the matter." 
 
 "But I have a right " began Philip fiercely, 
 then checked himself and moved toward the 
 door. 
 
 "I'm sorry for you, Carmichael, " said the 
 Duke kindly. "I can't tell you how sorry. You 
 are paying the uncommon price for the common 
 sin; but she's paying it, too, and she didn't de- 
 serve it Mary!" 
 
 "Whereas I did," said Philip quietly. 
 
 "You have said it. And now, how can I help 
 you? What are your plans f " 
 
 "To find her that's all." 
 
 "Won't you stay and meet the Duchess and 
 Lady Kitty!" 
 
 "No," Philip answered bluntly, adding 
 "Thanks" by an afterthought. 
 
 "I'll help you find her," suggested the Duke 
 wistfully. "We'll use every possible means."
 
 346 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Not until I've exhausted my own means, and 
 I shall have found her before that.'* 
 
 "Carmichael," said the Duke gently, "don't be 
 so proud with an old man. You can't wonder at 
 my feeling as I do. I'm desperately sorry for 
 you, but Mary is my charge. I love her as if she 
 were my own child." 
 
 Philip grasped the hand held out to him. "I 
 understand," he said thickly. "You can't think 
 as badly of me as I do of myself. And I love 
 her more than you. ' ' 
 
 A moment later he had gone. The Duke walked 
 about for a time in excitement and perplexity, 
 weighing and considering what course to pursue. 
 Finally he returned to his armchair, where he sat 
 pondering deeply. The Duchess and Lady Kitty 
 came in and found him in the dark. Lady Kitty 
 switched on the light. 
 
 "Uncle dear!" she exclaimed, when she caught 
 sight of his face, "are you ill?" 
 
 The Duchess same hurrying to his side. 
 "What is the matter, Edward!" she asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 He stopped them both with a gesture. "It's 
 terrible news of Mary Carmichael," he said. 
 
 When at last, after many questions and inter- 
 ruptions, the story was told, their comments were 
 characteristic. 
 
 "I knew it would come," said the Duchess, "I 
 always felt something in the man that didn't be- 
 long to Mary."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 347 
 
 "But, oh, poor Maysie! What can we do for 
 her?" cried Lady Kitty. 
 
 "Find her," answered the Duke. "We must 
 find her.'* 
 
 That was what Philip was saying, as he sailed 
 back to America, after his fruitless quest. "Find 
 her I must find her. ' ' 
 
 But there was a thing to do first. He must 
 get in touch with Sheelah Delayne and come to 
 some agreement about the boy. Since that was 
 Mary's will, as the Duke had interpreted it to 
 him, it seemed to bring him closer to her to do it. 
 Besides, there was a hunger in his heart for a 
 sight of the lad. It seemed connected with his 
 hunger for Mary. Ah, if only they could have 
 belonged to each other, as he belonged to them 
 both! 
 
 Through one of the dramatic papers, he found 
 Sheelah without difficulty. He wrote to her form- 
 ally at the theater where she was playing and ob- 
 tained an appointment to call at her hotel on 
 the following day. When he did so, he was taken 
 at once to her apartment, which was a modest one 
 merely two bedrooms and a small sitting-room. 
 She was not there when he entered, and he walked 
 about looking at the photographs. They were 
 mostly of the boy ; Michael as a little serious baby 
 Michael as a toddling two-year-old with a shovel 
 and wheelbarrow Michael with a primer under 
 his arm, on his way to school Michael at 
 play with his big dog; and one very lovely one
 
 348 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 on the mantel, of mother and child together, sit- 
 ting in front of a fire, she in a big armchair, with 
 her arm around the boy as he sat on the floor, 
 leaning his head against her knee. Philip 
 divined this to be a stage-picture, but it was very 
 artistic and natural. He was looking at it with 
 an unconscious wistfulness when Sheelah Delayne 
 entered quietly from one of the bedrooms. She 
 caught sight of his expression in the mirror over 
 the mantel, and in the same glass he saw her and 
 turned at once, his expression changing. 
 
 " Won't you sit down?" she said coldly, sitting 
 herself, and she added, as he obeyed her mechan- 
 ically: "I feel like beginning as they do in the 
 old melodramas : 'To what am I indebted for the 
 honor of this visit!' 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment in 
 silence, two frank foes without the pretense 
 of any other relation between them. Then Philip 
 answered: "There is only one reason why I 
 should trouble you, and that is, of course, the 
 thing we have in common the child." 
 
 She breathed a little more quickly, but waited. 
 Philip continued, speaking slowly and choosing 
 his words: 
 
 "Your suit, which was unjust, as you know, 
 failed; but the child's claim is true. I acknowl- 
 edge my responsibility toward him and am anx- 
 ious to discharge it. We must come to some 
 agreement about him and about his future. 
 What do you suggest?"
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 349 
 
 Her eyes flashed. "I will not permit you to 
 interfere in any way ! ' ' 
 
 And he answered, his own intensity astonishing 
 him: "You cannot prevent it. He is mine as 
 well as yours! You admitted my parentage 
 in a court of law, and a child belongs to its 
 father!" 
 
 "Not outside the marriage bond!" Her eyes 
 were dilated and deepened in color, but she kept 
 her self-control, though there came a sound of 
 strain in the quality of her voice. ' ' I claimed com- 
 mon-law marriage, thinking it would benefit the 
 child. I didn't care whom I hurt, you or your 
 wife or myself, so long as I got what I wanted for 
 the boy. I failed and I am glad now that I did. 
 "When your wife did what she did that brave, 
 big thing and you allowed it, accepted it, without 
 a protest, I despised you so utterly I could have 
 died of shame to think you had any part in my 
 son. I shall bring no further claim against you. 
 It is better for the boy to be illegitimate than 
 that you should have any rights over him. I can 
 do for my child myself, thank God! We do not 
 need you ! ' ' 
 
 Philip, white to the lips at the lashing of her 
 words, arose to go, and at the same moment the 
 boy himself knocked and entered at once. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," he said, catching 
 sight of a visitor, "I didn't know there was any 
 one with you, Mother." He would have with- 
 drawn, but encountering Philip's look, he hesi-
 
 350 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 tated. After a second, he looked at his mother 
 questioningly. 
 
 "It is my father, isn't it?" 
 
 She nodded without speaking, and they both 
 watched the child. He went to Philip rather dif- 
 fidently, but with beautiful manners, and offered 
 his hand. 
 
 "How do you do!" he said. "I never had a 
 father before, so I don't know quite what to do 
 with one. Will you teach me!" He smiled, and 
 his smile was very winning and frank and merry. 
 
 Philip's throat contracted painfully. 
 
 "I'm afraid it is you who will have to teach 
 me, Michael," he said gently. "Would you like 
 tot I mean would you like to come and visit me 
 sometimes!" His eyes encountered Sheelah's 
 over the boy's head. Hers were stormy, but she 
 controlled her feeling and waited for the child's 
 answer, patiently. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Michael at once, then hesitated. 
 "That is, would -Mother come, too!" 
 
 "No," she answered shortly. 
 
 He seemed disappointed, but turned at once 
 with his unchildish courtesy to Philip. 
 
 "Then, you see, I couldn't," he said, as if that 
 settled the matter; "but I thank you all the same 
 for asking me." 
 
 "Are you answered!" said Sheelah quietly. 
 
 "Shall I go away, Mother!" asked Michael 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "Yes, dear, for a few minutes."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 351 
 
 He turned to Philip again and slowly held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "Good-by Father," he said simply. 
 
 It was a very agonizing moment for the man 
 and the woman. The child waited, expectant of 
 something more than a mere handshake. After 
 a second Philip laid one arm about the boy's 
 shoulders and with the other hand gently lifted 
 Michael's face. 
 
 "Good-by, my son," he said, as simply as the 
 child. " Don't forget me, will you?" 
 
 " Never," Michael answered, looking him in the 
 eyes. Then he withdrew. 
 
 Philip walked to the door, then turned and 
 looked back at Sheelah. He felt hopeless and de- 
 jected, but he made one last appeal. 
 
 "I will do anything I can for him," he said, 
 "or for you." 
 
 She smiled ironically. "What would your 
 wife say to that?" 
 
 "She would wish it, if she knew." 
 
 "If she knew! Isn't she with you?" 
 
 "No. She left me, I believe because she 
 thought you had a prior claim." 
 
 She smiled again. "I renounce it as she 
 did!" Then, quite pitilessly, she added: "It's 
 not worth fighting for such a claim to such a 
 man." Her eyes ran over him as if appraising 
 his value, and she added, not bitterly, but softly, 
 in a kind of wonder: "God! what is there in 
 you, Philip Carmichael, that two strong women
 
 352 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and one little child should have given you so 
 much ? ' * 
 He left her without a word.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee 
 Save me save only me!" 
 
 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 
 
 BITTER loneliness descended upon Philip 
 when he returned to his hotel. The clerk 
 in the office said to him, as he gave him 
 his key: 
 
 "A trunk arrived for you, Mr. Carmichael, the 
 day after you sailed. We kept it, not knowing 
 where to send it. Would you like it brought up 
 to your room?" 
 
 "Yes," said Philip listlessly. 
 
 But after it had come, he did not unlock it for 
 some time. He walked up and down moodily, 
 trying to arrange his plans, trying to make any 
 headway against the depression that over- 
 whelmed him. He saw himself devoted to one 
 purpose and one only: to use every means, se- 
 cretly at first, and if that failed, then openly, to 
 find Mary. 
 
 "First detectives and secret service agents, 
 then advertising. I'll exhaust every resource un- 
 til I find her," he thought. ''To-morrow 1*11 
 start. But now I must get out get away not 
 stay in here and brood. ' ' 
 
 Then he caught sight of the trunk and opened
 
 354 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 it. Pinned to the lid of the top tray, he found a 
 letter from MacGregor. It read: 
 
 "Mr. Carmichael 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 "Mr. Baldwin telegraphed for me to send you 
 on some clothes. I put in one of her ladyship's, 
 too, asking your pardon for making so bold, but 
 fearing she may need it. I hope you will not be 
 long away, but I'll take care of the ranch as be- 
 fore, until you and your good lady return." 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 ANDREW MACGREGOB." 
 
 Philip wondered over the "her ladyship" then 
 decided it was MacGregor 's fanciful way of put- 
 ting it. He had a great admiration for his mis- 
 tress. The next thing Philip's hand came upon 
 was the soft white dressing-gown of Mary's. It 
 almost unmanned him, it spoke so intimately of 
 her, recalled such sacred things which only they 
 two knew. 
 
 It was over a month since she had gone away. 
 He had been to England and back, traveled thou- 
 sands of miles to find her, and was no nearer her, 
 perhaps not so near her, as when he started. 
 Something like despair came over him as 
 he realized the situation and the utter blank- 
 ness of his life. He was in an alien country; 
 in all that city he had no friend, no one to 
 turn to, nowhere to go. His life was in ruins, 
 his reputation gone; hopes and ambitions were
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 355 
 
 dead and done with forever. There remained one 
 thing to go on living for, one purpose: to find 
 his wife and somehow to make it up to her. He 
 folded the dressing-gown tenderly and laid it 
 away. 
 
 "I'll spend all I have," he said resolutely, 
 "everything, to find her. And when it is quite 
 gone then " 
 
 Dark thoughts came to him, perilous, dark 
 thoughts. 
 
 "But not till then," he said. 
 
 The year had gone around again before he re- 
 turned to Santa Eita. His search was still un- 
 rewarded, his means greatly diminished by reck- 
 less expenditure. Every resource of money and 
 skill had been exhausted. The Duke and Duch- 
 ess had joined in the search with consternation 
 and love, but so far all their efforts to find Mary 
 had proved unavailing, and they had begun to 
 doubt if she was still alive. 
 
 Philip, whatever his doubts, never desisted for 
 an hour from his endeavor. He had used all the 
 capital he possessed, sacrificed it without hesi- 
 tation, and it was to get more by the sale of his 
 place, that he returned to Santa Eita. He had 
 become a man with one idea. It dominated him, 
 making him frugal even to poverty in the things 
 that concerned himself, but prodigal in expendi- 
 ture for anything which he thought would further 
 his purpose. 
 
 One evening in the fall, he walked into the
 
 356 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 garden and through the orchard, avoiding the 
 house, until he came upon MacGregor, putting up 
 his horse for the night. The old man stopped at 
 once and came to meet Philip with a hearty greet- 
 ing, which fell gratefully on the ears of the home- 
 less wanderer. The fixed look of his face re- 
 laxed for a moment in his old, kind smile, and he 
 shook hands with his servant warmly. He would 
 not have done that once. 
 
 "Glad to see you again, MacGregor." 
 
 ' ' And I, you, sir. ' ' But the old man 's look went 
 searching beyond Philip, as though looking for 
 some one. 
 
 ' ' She 's not with me, ' ' Philip answered the look, 
 adding: "Surely you heard, MacGregor!" 
 
 "Yes, sir, afterwards after you had gone, and 
 I had sent the box. I was turrible sorry, sir. 
 You haven't found her?" 
 
 c ' No. You have no news of her here ? ' ' 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Philip's gaze wandered over the dry and dusty 
 plain, over the little house on its slight rise, over 
 the burnt-up garden which had been Mary's de- 
 light. 
 
 "I couldn't do much with the garden, sir; there 
 wasn't time, but the crop was fine this year," said 
 MacGregor, with pride. 
 
 "Good. I need the money." 
 
 "It's banked for you, sir." 
 
 "Thanks. I'm going to sell the place, Mac- 
 Gregor."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 357 
 
 "Oh, sir not the good land! Why, your uncle 
 loved it every stick and stone of it." 
 
 "I know but I need the money to find her. 
 I'll look after you, don't fear. You've been a 
 faithful steward. But, except for that which is 
 yours, everything must go till I find my wife." 
 
 It did not occur to him to wonder at his speak- 
 ing so frankly to a servant. But that, too, was 
 unlike the old Philip Carmichael. MacGregor 
 stood turning his hat around in his hands. 
 
 "If it's not making too bold, sir, why don't you 
 just stay here and wait. She '11 come home some 
 day." 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 "Well then, sir, wait as long as ye can. Ye 're 
 young yet. Sell everything but the house and the 
 land; leave that till the last, for ye may need it. 
 Ye've not been in, yet!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It's all shut up. I didn't expect ye. No one's 
 been there since the day you left. Shall I come 
 and get ye some food, sir?" 
 
 "Thanks later," Philip answered. 
 
 He went on alone, longing for, yet dreading the 
 next hour, and MacGregor, with a deep misgiving 
 about the master in his mind, trudged off on his 
 nightly visit to the post-office, for the evening 
 paper. 
 
 Philip passed through the kitchen and dining- 
 room hurriedly, crossed the little hall, and entered 1 
 the living-room. He closed the door behind him
 
 358 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and leaned against it, looking about him with 
 hungry and desolate eyes. Nothing was changed. 
 If Mary had only just then left the room, it could 
 not have spoken more eloquently of her. There 
 was her work-basket full of homely mending, and, 
 farther on, her work-table with the knitting-nee- 
 dles still thrust through balls of bright-colored 
 worsteds. There was the piano, open as she had 
 left it, with the last song she had sung such a 
 gay little French song! and there, too, was her 
 writing-table, with its household account books. 
 He recalled the little frown of importance which 
 she used to wear when she was figuring in those 
 books. They never would balance, and he used to 
 laugh at her hopeless struggles with them. He 
 laughed now, too remembering but it ended in 
 a gulp that hurt his throat. The very pillow in 
 her easy chair had kept the impress of her head. 
 He touched it reverently and turned away, sick 
 at heart. 
 
 Moments went by; the silence and the shadows 
 deepened ; yet still Philip Carmichael sat with his 
 head bowed in his hands. 
 
 He was finally aroused by a knock on the 
 outer door, and upon opening it, saw Father John 
 standing on the porch. 
 
 "I met your servant at the post-office, and he 
 told me you had returned," the priest said 
 heartily, "so I just stopped in for a minute, to 
 say how glad I am to see you." 
 
 "You're very kind," answered Philip, "come
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 359 
 
 in." He found some matches and lit the candles. 
 While he was doing so, Father John, though talk- 
 ing naturally and cheerfully the while, was ob- 
 serving him closely. The flare of the match re- 
 vealed the hollows under the eyes, as of one who 
 needed sleep, and the look of the face was thinner 
 and sharper than of old, with all the features a 
 shade more finely drawn. There were other 
 changes, too< The ready smile and irresistible 
 twinkle of fun and Irish humor which had be- 
 longed to the original Philip Carmichael were 
 missing; so, too, was the debonair, well-groomed 
 look which used to distinguish him. His appear- 
 ance now, though neat enough, was shabby, almost 
 careless. A changed man, indeed, yet Father 
 John liked the change, somehow. 
 
 "What have you been doing with yourself?'* 
 he asked, after they had talked awhile. 
 
 "Nothing but look for my wife. It has kept 
 me on the go; following one clew after another, 
 which led nowhere. It seems incredible ! It is a 
 year and four months since she went away that 
 was in June and I seem no nearer her 
 now ! ' ' 
 
 "That is what I wanted to see you about, Car- 
 michael, because it seems to me the time has come 
 to tell you something." 
 
 A quick look of hope came into Philip's face, 
 but died out as the priest continued : 
 
 "No, don't set your heart on it. I have no 
 definite news for you, but I did know where Mrs.
 
 360 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Carmichael was for the first three months after 
 she left you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Where ? Oh, why didn 't you tell me ? " 
 
 "You went rushing off and never asked me. 
 Besides, she had implored me not to do so, and 
 though I didn't promise, I would have respected 
 her wish if it hadn't been that she left the convent 
 where I placed her, over a year ago, and they have 
 lost all track of her." 
 
 A smothered groan broke from Philip. Father 
 John then recounted what had passed between 
 him and Mary in the railway station in Los 
 Angeles, adding that he had kept in touch with 
 her while she had been in retreat, by means of 
 letters. 
 
 "But after she had been there about three 
 months," he said, "she wrote me that she had de- 
 cided to become a secretary to some lady with a 
 social position, and that she would write me more 
 fully from her new environment, in a few days. 
 I never heard again from her, and that is quite 
 a year ago." 
 
 "But didn't you make any inquiries any ef- 
 fort!" 
 
 "Of course I did," Father John answered ear- 
 nestly, "by letter and in person. I called upon 
 the lady who had employed her and whose ad- 
 dress I got from the Sisters. The lady said that 
 she had left her employ, and she didn't know- 
 where she had gone. Neither would she give me
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 361 
 
 any reason for her going, but she seemed very 
 bitter and jealous. I couldn't account for it." 
 
 " What's the name and address!" said Philip. 
 "I'll make her account for it!" 
 
 "Gently, Carmichael. What an impetuous fel- 
 low you are ! Suppose this clew does lead to your 
 finding her; what then I" 
 
 "That's in her hands." 
 
 "She evidently doesn't want to be found, since 
 she won't trust even me. And if you do find her, 
 I'm afraid I'm afraid for you, Carmichael that 
 you will meet even a greater heart-break and dis- 
 appointment than you have now." 
 
 "Then I'll meet it," Philip returned quietly, 
 "when it comes. But why shouldn't she let you 
 know where she is!" 
 
 "Obviously, for fear that I might tell you, as 
 I certainly would now, if I knew. Don't think 
 that I haven't done my best to find her, Car- 
 michael. She is my charge, too, you know. I 
 have interested myself personally and particu- 
 larly in her, and have instituted all sorts of in- 
 quiries. We shall find her sooner or later, for 
 she is a child of the Church, and sooner or later 
 she will seek its ministrations in some way. 
 When she does, I feel sure I shall know. Mean- 
 time, like you, I have not given up either hope or 
 effort. But when you do find her, I fear it will 
 do you little good." 
 
 "I know the standpoint that you all share,"
 
 362 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Philip replied. "I know the idea that is keeping 
 her from me. I went over it with the Duke, her 
 godfather. You think I have a duty to the former 
 bond, which gave me my son. God knows I have ! 
 God knows I'd pay it if I could, for the child's 
 sake! But I can't. It's too late. And I'm not 
 free. You know, Father, before all must come 
 my wife." 
 
 "But if she can't see things that way, if she 
 won't come!" 
 
 ' ' She must. I '11 make her see them. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, that's what she feared!" 
 
 "But it's right!" said Philip fiercely. "How- 
 ever little I deserve it, the fact remains, ours is a 
 marriage. The other was not. That's the 
 whole of it. I acknowledge my sin. It's before 
 me day and night. She pays poor girl! My 
 punishment is that I can't; that the cost must be 
 paid for me by a woman and a child!" 
 
 "No, each pays his own cost, his own way." 
 
 "If I could only pay for all !" 
 
 "Souls cost more than that," said Father John. 
 "God wants the individual heart. You cannot 
 offer your brother's only your own." The 
 priest sent a fine, direct look into Philip's eyes, 
 which fell before it. 
 
 "I do," he said humbly. "Only it isn't worth 
 offering. It's too poor a thing!" 
 
 "It's all you have, isn't it!" Father John re- 
 turned tenderly, with a little smile. "And He 
 can make it all He would have ! Do you know,
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 363 
 
 Carmichael, ' ' he added more slowly and solemnly, 
 "I think that through all this, God is fashioning 
 you for an instrument of great service, in His 
 hand?" 
 
 "Me?" said Philip incredulously. 
 
 "You." Father John laughed genially at his 
 amazement, and the wholesome sound seemed to 
 restore the everyday balance of life. "Shall you 
 be here long?" he added. 
 
 "Not long. I shall raise some more money by 
 the sale of these things and then follow up the 
 clew you gave me." 
 
 "You won't go rushing off again without say- 
 ing good-by, will you? You see, now that I've 
 got hold of you again, I don't intend to let go!" 
 
 "No, don't let go," answered Philip, out of his 
 besetting loneliness. 
 
 "No fear!" said Father John heartily, as he 
 prepared to go, "and I'll help you in any way I 
 can. ' ' 
 
 He walked home with a blithe heart. He had 
 done a man good, and he knew it. He had 
 changed the haunting shadow in a fellow-crea- 
 ture's eyes to a smile, for a moment, at least. 
 And somehow he had got a confession from the 
 man, though the man himself wasn't aware of it. 
 
 "And I don't think," Father John reflected 
 conscientiously, with a little, whimsical smile, 
 ' ' that I was very religious about it ! " 
 
 Philip followed MacGregor's advice and de- 
 cided to hold the house and land until the last.
 
 364 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 But all his effects that were convertible into cash 
 he sold. To a firm in Los Angeles went the fur- 
 niture and the beautiful rug which they had 
 bought on the day of their wedding. The house 
 was despoiled of all its comfort and charm, and 
 only the barest necessities were left : a few kitchen 
 utensils, the couch in the living-room, in case he 
 should return and want to put up for the night, 
 and the wooden settle by the hearth. Every- 
 thing else went, and Philip himself was going 
 again. 
 
 ' * Eh, ' ' said old MacGregor sadly, when the last 
 of the wagons had departed, "if Mrs. Carmichael 
 should return, she'd find a changed hoose!" 
 
 4 ' If she should return, we would never live here 
 again," Philip answered. Then he added, sens- 
 ing the loneliness of the old man: "You're com- 
 fortable in your bit of a cottage, aren't you, Mac- 
 Gregor?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir, I lack nothing." 
 
 "Then wait a bit longer till I come again 
 and I'll either stay, or take you with me, if you 
 want to go." 
 
 "Where, sir?" 
 
 * ' That I don 't know. But I '11 provide for you. ' ' 
 
 Then he went to say good-by to Father John. 
 He found him in his study, which was in the 
 church building. 
 
 "I'm off to follow up the clew you gave me," 
 he said. "I shall find her this time." 
 
 "How do you know that?" asked the priest.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 365 
 
 "Because what I have now is my last except 
 the house and land and I've had a queer feeling 
 from the first, that it would take all I have, and 
 that then she would be given me again. Odd 
 how one gets such notions, isn't it? But it has 
 become a faith with me." 
 
 "God reward it!" 
 
 "Thanks. There's something I wanted to ask 
 you. What did you mean the other night, when 
 you said I was being fashioned for 'an instru- 
 ment of service in His Hand'; what sort of serv- 
 ice?" 
 
 "There are so many kinds," the priest an- 
 swered slowly, "among the outcasts of earth; in 
 prisons; among the living and the dying in the 
 army; in the mission-fields and the pestilence dis- 
 tricts; in the quiet country places, in the sordid 
 towns. In all these, men are needed, men of gifts, 
 men who have suffered, men who know life." 
 
 Philip looked disappointed. 
 
 "I would be of no use in any of them," he 
 said, * ' and yet, you said me. ' ' 
 
 Father John gave him the direct, forceful look 
 characteristic of him. 
 
 "Will you ask me that question again, when 
 you come back, Philip Carmichael ? ' ' 
 
 And his was the last friend's hand which 
 Philip touched, and the last friend's face which 
 he saw, as he turned again, indomitably, to his 
 quest.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "All which I took from thee, I did but take, 
 
 Not for thy harms, 
 But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. 
 
 All which thy child's mistake 
 
 Fancies as lost, I have but stored for thee at home: 
 Rise, clasp My hand, and come." 
 
 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 
 
 IT was a deserted house the wind shrieked 
 through during that rainy season. Empty 
 rooms, dismantled of all which had made 
 them gay and comfortable, cried aloud their 
 loneliness. A desolation of dirt and debris lay 
 over them. Unmolested mice romped at large, 
 instead of peeping furtively as of old. Doors 
 sagged on their hinges, yawning cupboards gaped 
 their emptiness, and one loose shutter banged at 
 monotonous intervals. The rain came down in 
 torrents, washing the house and flooding the 
 garden. The high wind, as it passed, howled de- 
 rision on the abandoned home that once had held 
 so much of life and love and cheer. 
 
 Yet it stood, silent and enduring, very old, very 
 little, very cold and dark like a mind through 
 which so much has passed, it has forgotten all, 
 from which the last memory and hope and even 
 dream have been obliterated. 
 
 Once again Philip Carmichael had returned,
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 367 
 
 and once again old MacGregor stood with him in 
 the comfortless living-room. Both men were in 
 rough boots, from which the water soaked out at 
 every step. The bare boards, once covered with 
 soft carpets, creaked under their feet. Philip 
 took off his heavy coat and flung it, all dripping 
 as it was, over the stair-rail in the hall. Old 
 MacGregor kept his on, and rivulets of water ran 
 down and formed a little pool in the spot where 
 he stood. He related the news of the place, such 
 as it was principally the well-being of the ani- 
 mals in his care and Philip listened patiently. 
 He had grown strangely patient of late, partly 
 perhaps because so few things really mattered to 
 him. He was roughened and more careless in 
 outward appearance, but the inner texture of the 
 man seemed stronger and finer. The old gay 
 charm of manner and smile, which had endeared 
 him to many, was still his, though it showed less 
 frequently than it had once done. It shone out 
 kindly on MacGregor, when the old man, his story 
 done, moved toward the door. 
 
 "I'll share your supper with you, MacGregor, 
 if you ask me." 
 
 "Oh, sir, ye 're maist welcome. But I would 
 ha' brought it in to ye." 
 
 "No, I'll come to you, if I may." 
 
 "Ye 're never thinking of sleeping here, sir, for 
 the nicht!" 
 
 "That lam!" 
 
 ' ' Eh, sir, 'tis too dismal for ye. I can give ye
 
 368 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 a mair comfortable cot in my ain hoose 1" Philip 
 thanked him but refused, saying he would shake 
 down where he was for the night. To-morrow 
 he would be gone again. Meantime the couch was 
 comfortable enough, and there were plenty of 
 blankets. 
 
 "All I want is a candle and a bit of fire. I'll 
 come out presently and get some wood. Have 
 you anything to read, MacGregor?" 
 
 "No, sir, but I'll bring ye something, when I 
 go down for the evening paper. ' ' 
 
 "Thanks, do." 
 
 MacGregor turned on the threshold. 
 
 "Beg pardon," he said, hesitatingly, "but had 
 ye no luck on your journey? No news?" 
 
 "No, nothing definite." 
 
 The old man withdrew sorrowfully. Philip 
 walked up and down the empty room a while, 
 moodily, hands crammed in pockets, head bent. 
 The blue-gray eyes had lost their smile now, and 
 a look of settled sadness returned to them. The 
 short winter twilight was closing in on the murk 
 of the sodden day. He stood a while by the win- 
 dow, looking out on the cheerless garden, then 
 came back slowly and sat down on the settle by 
 the cold hearth, reaching for his pipe and to- 
 bacco. Absently he filled and lighted it, his mind 
 far away, and drew several long breaths. His 
 figure gradually relaxed, and he leaned forward, 
 elbows on knees, absorbed in his inner contempla- 
 tion. The events of all his life seemed to be
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 369 
 
 passing before his mind, and occasionally a bitter 
 word or phrase fell into the silence of the room. 
 "Fool!" he said once very quietly; "missed 
 everything." "All my own fault." And again: 
 "Had everything the best of all." His pipe 
 dropped unheeded on the floor, his hands fell be- 
 tween his knees, and his head sunk forward in 
 deep dejection, almost desapir. After a little his 
 eyes caught the glint of gold on the hearth, and 
 stooping, he saw it was her wedding-ring. 
 
 It had fallen from the mantel where she left 
 it, and he saw their names on its interlocked cir- 
 cles: "Philip" on one, "Mary" on the other. 
 He pressed the two halves together, and it was a 
 conventional wedding-ring again. 
 
 But the man could bear no more. He cried 
 aloud "Mary!" to the stillness, then steadied him- 
 self, crushing back a strange, inarticulate sound 
 in his throat. Groping, he found the door, flung 
 on his coat, and passed out into the rain. 
 
 He had been gone only a few moments, when 
 to the low doorstep, blown against the unlocked 
 door, came a wind-driven figure. The latch 
 yielded to her unconscious, accustomed touch; 
 then the door closed behind her, and she stood 
 in the little hall. As if from old habit, she un- 
 loosed her cloak to hang it up, but the chill of the 
 place struck through her, and she drew its rags 
 about her thin shoulders again. Her face was 
 wan, her eyes unnaturally bright and dazed, with 
 a look in them as of one to whom the imaginations
 
 370 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of the mind are more real than the actual ma- 
 terial evidence of the senses. Like a sleep- 
 walker who sees nothing, hears nothing, she was 
 dominated by her dream, and it upheld her with 
 a strength that did not come from her fragile 
 body. As she stood hesitating, the little flight of 
 stairs lured her, and she went up them with a 
 light step, like one expectant of joy at the top. 
 The upper rooms were nearly as dreary as the 
 lower, but the short winter twilight had not set- 
 tled down on them yet. The woman passed over 
 the threshold of the largest room, with the step 
 of a queen coming into her own. She did not see 
 its emptiness. Her imagination furnished it. 
 As she entered, she instinctively made a gesture 
 as if holding back a curtain. So natural it was, 
 that one might almost see its folds fall behind her, 
 and be startled that there was really nothing 
 there but the shadows. 
 
 Then for the first time she spoke, in a voice as 
 soft as the silence. 
 
 "Dear," she said, "dear, I have come home." 
 Outside the wind shrieked its anathema on all 
 it passed by; the tortured shutter banged vio- 
 lently against the house, and following the 
 other sounds came a dry rustling like little whis- 
 pers. The woman looked toward the light. 
 There, in the outer window-boxes, gaunt and dead, 
 were the dry husks of what had been summer 
 blossoms once. Their withered stalks blew to- 
 gether and rustled against the window-pane. But
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 371 
 
 to the woman's eyes, memory-haunted, they were 
 still in bloom. 
 
 "My pretties my pretties," she said, and 
 walked toward them in the fast-gathering dark- 
 ness. As she put out her hand to touch them, 
 she hesitated and stopped. Bewilderment came 
 into her eyes. These were not flowers these dry 
 brown wisps! Swiftly she turned and peered 
 into the room. The horror of reality broke over 
 her face of reality and recognition. There were 
 the low, slant walls ; but where were their pictures, 
 their trophies? There were the old, uneven 
 floors; but where were the rugs, the chairs, the 
 tables, the common, daily things of life? There 
 was the mantel and below the cold hearthstone, 
 but where was the fire that had burned there ? 
 
 She threw out her arms shudderingly, as if to 
 keep knowledge and sight at a distance, while she 
 stood at bay with terrible realization. Then her 
 arms fell, and a gasp broke from her. 
 
 "Where are you oh where are you?" she 
 breathed into the stillness. 
 
 But the only answer was the tapping on the 
 pane of the dry blossoms, like little whispers. 
 
 With a cry the woman fled down the stairs. 
 She passed into the deserted living-room, and 
 again came that gesture of one who brushes aside 
 a curtain, as she stood on the threshold, staring 
 into the dark and gloom. With piteous, growing 
 terror, her gaze roamed over the place and 
 struggled to understand. But in her mind she
 
 372 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 saw the open piano, the scattered music ; the couch 
 with its comfort of pillows, in what had been 
 her own particular corner; the pictures, the books, 
 and all that had made life sweet there. And of it 
 all, nothing was left. 
 
 Her haunted, hungry eyes saw the reality 
 sharp against her mind's contrasting picture. 
 Why, from all they had held of laughter and song 
 and friendly counsel, and the dear interchange 
 of the common currency of life, the walls seemed 
 thrilling still! Yet, for music now, there was 
 only the wail of the wind ; and for furniture, there 
 were only the shadows. 
 
 A cloud seemed to settle over her mind, and 
 she swooned for a moment against the wall. 
 When she recovered, the dazed look had passed 
 out of her eyes, but in its place was a blight of 
 despair, which crept down over her body. Slowly 
 she dragged herself about the room, past her 
 familiar places, past the imagined piano, where 
 her hands went out as if groping for the keys, past 
 the spot where the bookcase had stood, and again, 
 like a spirit-hand, hers touched nothing. All the 
 while, little moans and tendernesses of action and 
 articulation broke from her. Almost she felt her- 
 self a ghost, in this place of shadows where sub- 
 stances had been. Finally she came to the cold 
 hearthstone, and sank down upon it like a spent 
 wave. 
 
 Kecovering after a little, she sat up, propping 
 herself with one hand behind her on the floor.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 373 
 
 Suddenly she started. She had encountered the 
 bowl of Philip's pipe, which he had let fall, and 
 it was still warm. She struggled to her feet, half- 
 terrified, as she realized that the house was not 
 so deserted as it seemed, that some one must 
 have been there quite lately, perhaps was still 
 there. She carried the pipe over to the window 
 and examined it. In the waning light she could 
 just make out, on the silver ferule, the initials 
 "P. C." She whispered "Phil!" and turned to 
 the window, to look for him without, as she often 
 had done before. 
 
 But he was within. In the noise of the wind 
 and the rain, she had not heard him enter, had 
 not seen him as he stood in the doorway, his arms 
 full of firewood, watching her with fascinated 
 eyes. He had not guessed her presence, either, 
 until she had made the little startled sound when 
 the pipe had burned her. Then his instinctive 
 movement toward her was somehow mysteriously 
 checked. She was so unaware of him, as she 
 passed him in the darkness and went to look for 
 him in the fading light. 
 
 Outlined against it, he could see her plainly, 
 himself unseen. Her delicacy, her destitution, 
 clutched at his heart. He saw that her clothing 
 was shabby and rain-bedraggled, her hair dishev- 
 eled, her slender hands of extreme thinness. He 
 guessed the look of the eyes which he longed and 
 dreaded to see. When he had first caught sight 
 of her as he entered, he had wanted to cry her
 
 374 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 name, to fling down his kindling wood and clasp 
 her to him. Some strange intuition had stopped 
 him. It controlled him now as he began, silently 
 and swiftly, to lay the fire. 
 
 Suddenly she turned, divining, without seeing, 
 another presence in the room. He felt he had 
 known that she would. He longed to fold her in 
 the warmth and safety of his arms, but some di- 
 vine instinct taught him on how frail a thread 
 her spirit and her sanity hung. He put by his 
 own aching need of her, he denied himself his re- 
 covered joy, he even refused himself the priv- 
 ilege of touching her to help her; he let her come 
 slowly to herself, linking himself with nature and 
 the merciful moments of time. And she watched 
 him break up the sticks, humming a little tune 
 over his homely task, in the most ordinary and 
 beautiful way in the world. So, by sweet and 
 gradual degrees, the wild question died out of her 
 eyes, and they brimmed with tenderness and 
 tears. 
 
 The blaze leaped up, and by its light the man 
 and the woman saw each other's faces and per- 
 haps each other's souls for the first time. 
 Speechless, they turned into each other's arms, 
 he lifting her bodily and holding her high against 
 his heart at last. 
 
 Long they sat in front of the fire on the old 
 wooden settle ; talking brokenly of all that lay be- 
 tween this time and the last when they had sat 
 there. Philip had gathered her into his arms, as
 
 Long they sat in front of the fire on the old wooden 
 settle. Page 374.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 375 
 
 one does a child, and she lay across his lap, her 
 head on his breast, very frail and spent, as he 
 saw. With a terror that was new to him, he 
 noted her light weight, the delicate hollows of her 
 cheek and neck, the way the blue veins stood out 
 on her temples and in her hands. Intermittently 
 she told him her story, with long pauses and 
 many gaps which his imagination had to fill in or 
 his experience interpret. More than once she 
 had to stop to comfort him, it was such pain to 
 him to hear it. Yet he insisted on knowing it 
 all. 
 
 She had no knowledge of, or capacity for, earn- 
 ing her own living. She had had no training. 
 There were only one or two things which she could 
 do. She tried first being a sort of social sec- 
 retary to a lady to whom the Sisters recommended 
 her. "It was all very well for a time," Mary 
 said, "but I had to be secretary for her husband, 
 too, now and then, and he got in the habit of 
 needing me more and more so I had to give it 
 up." 
 
 Philip remembered what Father John had said 
 about the lady's attitude being so odd and jealous, 
 when he had called to inquire for Mary. He 
 thought he understood the whole story. 
 
 "Then I tried to be a working housekeeper," 
 Mary went on. "I thought I knew enough for 
 that. But you've no idea, Phil, how difficult it is 
 to house-keep for somebody else. And one must 
 know so much about cookery have such a reper-
 
 376 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 toire of dishes! Those that I knew, I could do 
 well, of course, and I worked hard, early and 
 late, and found out many new ones; but I couldn't 
 stand the strain, and presently I broke down and 
 had to be sent to a hospital. When I came out, 
 I was quite weak and had no money. So I became 
 a nurse to some children. They were darlings. 
 I loved the children, but there were complica- 
 tions I can't explain old, wearisome complica- 
 tions so I left that place, too. And then I sang 
 in a church, until something I said one day led to 
 their finding out who I was and the whole story. 
 They came to me and asked me to leave. They 
 said they didn't quite like the scandal to be con- 
 nected with their church, and though they put it 
 quite nicely to me, I could see they felt the posi- 
 tion was impossible. I was sorry, for though the 
 salary was small, I felt I was safe. Then, for a 
 long time, I had no work, and I got discouraged 
 and ill. And after a while, I began to know- 
 she hesitated, and her arm went up to his neck, 
 and her face turned toward his breast, as one 
 turns to the wall. 
 
 Philip, too, began to know. This newly found 
 treasure would be his for a short time only. He 
 had a sensation as of something breaking within 
 him as it were the sack which had held the 
 dreams and desires and hopes and purposes of all 
 his years. They had come, one and all, to center 
 about the beloved life that was flowing away in 
 his arms.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 377 
 
 "Phil, my dearest, my love, you mustn't you 
 mustn't!" 
 
 He gathered her close to him and hid his face 
 in her hair. 
 
 After an interval, they fell to talking again. 
 "It is exposure and exhaustion which has brought 
 you to this," he said, refusing to believe his own 
 intuition, "but we'll change all that, now that you 
 have come home." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, looking at him 
 very tenderly and gravely. Then she said: 
 
 "I would not have come except to say 
 good " 
 
 "No!" he cried sharply, "don't say it, Mary! 
 You came because you loved me, and because you 
 know I would be miserable without you; and you 
 are going to stay for just those two reasons." 
 He looked around him at the desolation and added 
 stoutly: "We'll build it up again, my sweet, bet- 
 ter than before." 
 
 Her eyes had a mystic look. "Yes," she said. 
 
 ' * I must go and get you some supper and make 
 you comfortable for the night 
 
 But she clung to him. "Don't go; don't go 
 even across the threshold. I don't want anything 
 but you but you." 
 
 Presently, after another interval, there came a 
 knock at the door and old MacGregor's voice: 
 "I made bold to bring your supper in, sir, seeing 
 ye did na come for it." 
 
 Philip looked questioningly at his wife.
 
 378 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 She smiled and said : ' ' Come in ! " 
 
 "For the love of God!" said the old man in 
 the doorway. 
 
 * ' You see now why I did not come to supper on 
 time," said Philip and added with a determined 
 gayety: "It's always a lady that makes a man 
 late to his dinner!" 
 
 They smiled at the little jest with wet eyes, and 
 the heart-breaking moment passed. MacGregor 
 said huskily: 
 
 "I'm thinking he'd miss it entirely for you, 
 ma'am. Our hearts were sair to part wi' ye. 
 Ye '11 stay with us noo, awhile. Do ye like soup? 
 Eh, I remember ye do. I'll just lay this oot on 
 this bit of a box, sir, for a table, for her ladyship, 
 an' I'll go back for another portion for you." 
 
 "Thanks," said Philip simply. 
 
 The old man deftly spread a napkin over a soap- 
 box which he had brought in with him, and pro- 
 ceeded to lay upon the improvised table, soup, a 
 roasted chicken, vegetables smoking hot, and 
 even a salad and cheese. He surveyed his efforts 
 with pardonable pride, his market-basket on his 
 arm. 
 
 "I'll come back with the tea, sir, or perhaps 
 ye '11 like to make it, ma'am? I'll bring the kettle 
 in." 
 
 "You're very kind, MacGregor," said Mary. 
 
 "Huff!" the old man answered roughly. He 
 looked back from the doorway. 
 
 "Why should ye not take my hoose for the
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 379 
 
 nicht? I could shake down here better than ye, 
 and ye 're maist welcome." 
 
 "Oh, no, thanks!" said Mary quickly, then 
 added with compunction, "yet it would be more 
 comfortable for you, Philip?" 
 
 "No," he answered, sensing her longing for 
 their own home, poor as it was. "No, we'll do 
 very well here, MacGregor, thank you. The old 
 couch is comfortable; there *s plenty of bedding; 
 and I '11 take the settle." 
 
 "And in the morning you'll bring us some 
 breakfast, won't you, MacGregor?" said Mary. 
 
 "That I will, ma'am. You're not lookin' over- 
 strang. Ye '11 be wanting to see the doctor in the 
 morning?" 
 
 "Yes, and Father John, and perhaps a neigh- 
 bor or two. I'll tell you in the morning." She 
 held out her hand to him. "Good night and 
 thank you." 
 
 He shook it awkwardly. "I'm faire glad to set 
 e'en on ye again, ma'am faire glad to have ye 
 home." 
 
 They sat side by side on the settle and ate their 
 supper in front of the fire, Philip watchfully solic- 
 itous for her, she doing her best to satisfy his de- 
 mand that she should eat. 
 
 "I can't do very much," she said at last, "for 
 I've only been a little while out of the hospital." 
 
 "Dear, you never told me that! What was it 
 this time?" 
 
 "They called it brain-fever," she answered in-
 
 380 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 differently. "They said I 'wandered.' It was 
 only that I kept having a dream about you you 
 here, alone and it seemed as if I could help. So 
 I managed to get away. Only I was a long time 
 finding you. I walked and walked and at night 
 I stayed in railway stations until it was time to 
 walk again and finally " she leaned against his 
 shoulder weakly, "oh, Phil, you are so strong and 
 big and it is so good to be home." 
 
 "It's just a camp," he said sadly, looking about 
 him with eyes that remembered. 
 
 "But you are here," she answered, as though 
 that fact compensated for everything. 
 
 He took away the supper things and made a fire 
 in the kitchen stove to heat water for her. Then 
 he remembered her dressing-gown, which Mac- 
 Gregor had packed in his trunk more than a year 
 and a half before. He found it without difficulty, 
 and the comfort of it seemed to refresh her al- 
 most as much as the warm bath. It was a great 
 joy to do every little service for her, but all the 
 while that he fetched and carried there was a cry- 
 ing in his heart for something yet undone, and a 
 strange feeling that his time for doing it was 
 short. 
 
 When he returned with more wood for the fire, 
 he found her in bed on the couch, which he had 
 made comfortable for her. She looked very frail 
 and small. Yet she had been there came a gulp 
 in his throat as he thought "had been" a little 
 over the medium height of women. Now she
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 381 
 
 seemed strangely shrunken to the proportions of 
 a slender girl in her teens. From between the 
 braided ropes of fair, brown hair, her face her 
 own beautiful and beloved face smiled up at him 
 from the pillow, with the smile he knew. He 
 drank it in for a moment, then he put down his 
 armful of wood, came over and gathered her up, 
 blanket and all, into his arms, on the settle before 
 the fire. 
 
 For some time they sat in silence too profound 
 for words. There were things Philip wanted to 
 say, but he did not know how. He wondered how 
 expression had always been so easy in the old 
 days, when there was so much less to express! 
 Finally, he laid his hand gently over her eyes, that 
 she might not see his face. 
 
 "Mary, my Mary," he said brokenly, "there's 
 something I've wanted to say so long. It's only 
 you forgive t" 
 
 She gave a little cry and pulled his hand from 
 her eyes to her lips, kissing it in the palm. 
 
 "Don't!" she implored. "Don't let there be 
 any talk of forgiveness between you and me ! 
 Weren't we both wrong? Haven't we both suf- 
 fered 7 Don 't we both understand ! ' ' 
 
 And the silence wrapped them about again, like 
 the wings of angels.
 
 CHAPTER XIH 
 
 \ 
 
 IN the morning Dr. Bourke called. He made 
 the usual professional examination during his 
 visit, but very cheerfully and casually, and 
 Mary brightened under the stimulus of his ener- 
 getic personality. Philip 's eyes never left the 
 physician's face, and when he arose to go, he fol- 
 lowed him out into the hall. He saw him brace 
 himself mentally, as one does who has to break 
 bad news. 
 
 "You needn't bother," said Philip, answering 
 the doctor's unspoken thought. "For you see 
 I know." 
 
 Dr. Bourke looked at him gravely. 
 
 "I'm glad you do," he said at last. 
 
 "The only thing I don't know is will it be 
 long!" 
 
 "That I can't tell, no one can. It's absolute ex- 
 haustion and starvation. No, she won't suffer 
 much now. It will probably be sudden, at the 
 end." He laid his hand on Philip's shoulder for 
 a moment, much moved himself. Then he went 
 away, and Philip returned to his wife. 
 
 A little later Father John came. Each 
 stretched out welcoming hands to him, and 
 Philip moved the settle nearer to the couch where
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 383 
 
 Mary lay. The priest kept a hand of each for 
 a time, like a very old and intimate friend, and it 
 made a chain of feeling between them that trans- 
 mitted unspoken sympathy. It was Mary herself 
 who made the first allusion to her illness, after 
 they had talked a while. 
 
 "Why should we evade or conceal what is to 
 be?" she said quietly. "I've known for some 
 time and Philip knows, now and I see in your 
 face, Father, that you know, too. I need you." 
 
 Philip kissed the hand he held and went out, 
 leaving her alone with her confessor. 
 
 When he returned he found the priest about to 
 depart. 
 
 "Many people are already asking for you," 
 Father John was saying. "Mrs. Hughes asked 
 me this morning when I thought she might call." 
 
 "Why to-day!" Mary answered. 
 
 "Are you sure it won't tire you too much?" 
 said Philip anxiously. 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. "Tell her to- 
 day," she said to the priest, with a slight em- 
 phasis on the last word. Philip heard it, and it 
 went through his heart like a sword. She might 
 almost as well have said : 1 1 Because there may not 
 be a to-morrow." She added, to Father John: 
 
 "And you'll bring my communion in the morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter early." He looked back 
 at them with great tenderness as they sat to- 
 gether.
 
 384 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I'm thinking that you do not need St. John's 
 commandment," he said slowly. 
 
 Their faces questioned him. 
 
 " * Beloved, let us love one another: for love is 
 of God,' ' he quoted and added: "Good-by, my 
 children." 
 
 They sat very still in the wonder of their new 
 intimacy which could speak fearlessly of sacred 
 things or leave them unspoken when the heart 
 heard. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Mrs. Hughes called. 
 Philip opened the door for her and left them 
 alone together. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Carmichael," Mrs. Hughes said, 
 as she entered "I'm so sorry to hear you are not 
 well oh!" She stopped, appalled at the change 
 in Mary's face. "Oh, my dear!" she faltered, 
 "I didn't realize how ill you have been!" 
 
 Mary, propped up with pillows, very weak but 
 quite cheerful, smiled reassuringly. 
 
 "I'm ever so much better," she said, "I shall 
 soon be all right. It's so good to be home." 
 
 Mrs. Hughes looked about her at the bare room 
 and looked back to the bright face. Her amaze- 
 ment gave way to emotion, and she suddenly burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "Why," said Mary, surprised in her turn, 
 "why, what is it? Tell me." 
 
 "When I think," Mrs. Hughes sobbed, "of all 
 you were of all you had of what you came from 
 to this! You see, my dear, I know. I know
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 385 
 
 all about you who you were, what your life was 
 over there in the old country I knew you made 
 the same mistake I did. It drew me to you from 
 the first. I was so sorry for you. I knew you'd 
 regret it as I did. Oh, my dear, why do we so 
 ruin our lives?" 
 
 She was actually sitting on the floor with her 
 face hidden at the side of the couch. Mary put 
 her hand on Mrs. Hughes' shoulder. 
 
 "What's your Christian name?" she asked. 
 
 " Helen." 
 
 "Helen, what makes you think you have made 
 a mistake? Because you have lost so much?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! Home, husband, children, position 
 everything ! ' ' 
 
 "Haven't you gained anything in exchange?" 
 
 "Nothing that balances, nothing that makes 
 up." 
 
 "Then why don't you go back?" 
 
 "My children are estranged, my position is 
 gone, my husband is recently dead. He was a 
 soldier, you know." 
 
 "Did you care for him?" 
 
 "No not like that. I cared only for Captain 
 Hughes that way. ' ' 
 
 "Then why wasn't it worth it?" 
 
 "I don't know. It didn't last. I suppose the 
 sacrifice was too great for each of us. ' ' 
 
 "No," said Mary. "No, it was not that the 
 sacrifice was too great, but that the love was not 
 great enough,"
 
 386 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Hughes met her eyes for a moment. 
 
 "Do you think that was it!" she asked. 
 
 11 Helen, we only learn by our mistakes, most of 
 us. Do you love him still? Of course you do. 
 Don't be afraid of it. Don't be afraid of giving 
 too much of it, or of giving up too much for it if 
 it is right. Always that. But don't be afraid 
 of loving. Why should you! You can only lose 
 the thing you love not the love. That lives." 
 
 "You're wonderful!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear " for the first time tears came 
 into Mary's voice, "it's so hard when you look 
 forward, but so simple, when you look back!" 
 
 She felt the other's wet cheek on her hand. 
 
 "I'm looking back," she went on, after a mo- 
 ment. ' ' You think I Ve lost everything. No, I 've 
 gained everything. For things don't matter, 
 only love. Just think, we've found it, here and 
 now, short of heaven ! ' ' Her voice had a sort of 
 awe. Then it changed again to simple, everyday 
 sweetness. She drew Helen Hughes to her and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "Mind you tell me that, too, when you see me 
 again ! ' ' she said. 
 
 After Mrs. Hughes had gone, she sat looking 
 out at the garden for some time. The rain had 
 stopped. The face of the world laughed back to 
 the sun. The spring had come. Flowers and 
 trees and birds declared it in a thousand joy- 
 ances. Philip came in softly and found her face 
 full of a straining wistfulness.
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 387 
 
 "Darling girl, what is it?" 
 
 "Phil!" she cried sharply, "Phil, it is so beau- 
 tiful so beautiful ! And I love it so ! Oh, hold 
 me close don't let me go. I can't bear it, I 
 can't! Every day now will be longer and love- 
 lier and all over the world there will be lovers 
 laughing and whispering and you and I oh, Be- 
 loved Beloved ! ' ' 
 
 She lay against his breast, spent with sobbing. 
 
 Then Philip Canmchael astonished himself. 
 
 "You and I," he said, "will be laughing and 
 whispering, too, of the things that last the 
 things of God for a man and a woman." 
 
 That night she was terribly exhausted. She 
 fought for breath, which alternately almost 
 ceased and then came again in heavy moans. 
 She went from feverish excitement into sleep that 
 was like a swoon. Dr. Bourke, who was with 
 them most of the time, ministered to them, but 
 all his skill and faithfulness could do nothing 
 more than hold at bay the approaching visitor. 
 Finally he left them, telling Philip to send for him 
 if there were any change in his patient. 
 
 "I think she will sleep until morning," he said. 
 "But if you need me, my house is not far, and 
 MacGregor will come like a shot. Good night." 
 
 The hours wore on one, two, three the little 
 hours that so often are the great ones. Philip 
 sat on the floor by his wife's bedside, holding her 
 unconscious hand in his, thinking new, deep 
 thoughts. His somber eyes stared into the dying
 
 388 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 fire and saw the whole procession and pageant of 
 life, and failed to find the meaning of it. Then 
 they came back to her face, and suddenly he saw 
 it writ large in every line. The light pencilings 
 about the eyes, the deeper ones about the mouth. 
 What did they speak of but the repression of self 
 and the sweetness of service for others? It 
 seemed so singularly unrewarded, since here she 
 lay, this beautiful and gifted woman, dying, and 
 not yet thirty-three years of age ! Yet, there was 
 no life which hers had touched which had not been 
 in some way quickened or comforted in the con- 
 tact. And he saw that no life could be viewed by 
 itself alone, but only in its relationship to others, 
 beginning with God and going on to its fellow- 
 men wherever its lot was cast. 
 
 He was not surprised, when he looked up after 
 a while, to find her quiet eyes upon him. They 
 had the look, he thought, of one who had come 
 back from a far distance, just to speak to him. 
 He had to bend close to catch the sweet, faint 
 trail of tone. 
 
 "I've been thinking, too," she said, as if she 
 had heard his thoughts, and they joined on to her 
 own. "What will you do, dear, by and by?" 
 
 He answered after a moment : 
 
 "I'll start out on another quest for you, my 
 Mary, and, please God, find you again in the 
 end." 
 
 Her eyes shone on him. "Oh, yes, I'll be wait- 
 ing! But meanwhile, there's so much I wanted to
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 389 
 
 do ! It's been taken from me. Will you do it for 
 me, Philip? There are so many children I 
 wanted to mother, and so many sick and sad in 
 the hospitals and on the streets. I meant to help 
 them all, when I got well. You see, one doesn't 
 realize when one is safe and happy at home." 
 
 "I know," he answered. "I'll do anything 
 for any one of them that I think you would have 
 done. It will be all I shall have left." His 
 voice broke. 
 
 "No," she whispered, "not all." She drew his 
 head to her breast and passed her hand gently 
 over his hair. "I have always loved your name. 
 There was a disciple once, named Philip. It was 
 he who said: 'Lord, show us the Father and it 
 sufficeth us.' Remember?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I always felt a sympathy with him for want- 
 ing to be shown! But when one is shown " 
 
 Philip raised his head and looked her in the 
 eyes. It seemed to him that time stood still, while 
 a mysterious, long-urged call grew clear to him, 
 grew as clear as a trumpet and as deep as that 
 "voice like the sound of many waters," heard of 
 old. It passed like a vision which had caught him 
 away and returned him to earth again in time to 
 catch the faint human whisper : 
 
 "Why should there not be another disciple 
 named Philip?" 
 
 They spoke no more then. 
 
 Some time after she moved wearily. "I wish
 
 390 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 it were morning," she said wistfully. "Do you 
 think he will come early?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, very early. He said so." 
 
 He opened the shutters and pushed her couch 
 up to the window. The first glimmer of light was 
 coming, and the world had that weird hush which 
 it wears before the dawn. She lay watching the 
 day break and feeling the wind blow freshly upon 
 her, half -supported by her husband's arms. 
 Neither of them spoke. They listened to the stir 
 of the awakening earth, as if it were the music of 
 the spheres. 
 
 When the dawn had come, they heard the gar- 
 den gate click, and saw Father John approaching. 
 They waved to him. 
 
 "The door is unlocked," said Philip, through 
 the open window; "come in." 
 
 The priest entered, and shortly after they were 
 joined by old MacGregor, as it had been agreed 
 that he was to receive his communion with them. 
 
 Father John made his simple preparations and 
 began his celebration. And solemnly, powerfully, 
 mystically, the great words of the Mass sank into 
 their minds while the light grew full. Father 
 John first received the sacrament then Mac- 
 Gregor then Philip, and last of all, Mary. As 
 one in a dream she heard in her turn, the final 
 words : 
 
 "The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which 
 was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul 
 unto everlasting life."
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 391 
 
 A stillness came upon her spirit, a sense of an 
 imminent Presence, the knowledge that she had 
 received her last Communion on earth. She heard 
 nothing more of the service until the final bless- 
 ing: 
 
 "The peace of God which passeth all under- 
 standing. ' ' 
 
 Into that peace she swooned for a few moments, 
 and came by long, slow heart-throbs, to look again 
 into the loving faces bending over her. She tried 
 to smile and speak, but could not for weakness, 
 and finally sank deeper on her pillow, with closed 
 eyes. 
 
 When she opened them again, after an hour or 
 more, only Philip was with her. He raised her 
 in his arms with infinite gentleness. And sud- 
 denly her voice came quite clear and sweet. 
 
 "Phil, dear, do you remember reading once 
 with me : 'If a man would give all the substance 
 of his house for love, it would utterly be con- 
 temned!' " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All the substance of his house! Philip, we 
 have given it all down to the clothes you wear, 
 and the bed I lie on. All the substance, life itself ! 
 What does it matter? No wonder it would be 
 'utterly contemned.' It is all too little to give 
 for what we have found " 
 
 She fell back in his arms. 
 
 "Love!" he cried to her in his fear. "Love 
 my love ! ' '
 
 392 THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 She revived raised herself looked far past 
 him as if at Divinity. 
 "Love!" she said with her last breath. 
 
 So naturally it came that for a few moments 
 he held her in his arms, not knowing. Then the 
 absolute stillness smote him. He listened for her 
 breath her heart-beat and there was neither. 
 For a moment his own stood still. Then he ten- 
 derly laid her down, looked his long last into the 
 blue of her eyes, before he closed them forever, 
 and fell on his knees. 
 
 When he looked up, he saw that already there 
 had settled over her face a luminous peace, hint- 
 ing of ineffable promise. 
 
 THE END
 
 DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LBRABY 
 
 A 000128087 4