The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Twentieth Century Idealist, by Henry Pettit

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View from Pinnacle on Roof of Cathedral—the Delectable Mountains beyond.
Among the Himalayas. Supposed highest summits on the earth’s surface.
Elevation, 29,000 feet. From near Sundookphoo, 1885.

A TWENTIETH
CENTURY
IDEALIST

BY

HENRY PETTIT

Under the Surface of the Ordinary Life Lie Great Mysteries—
The Real Part of Man Is in His Ideals

THE GRAFTON PRESS

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1905,
BY
HENRY PETTIT

TABLE OF CONTENTS
AND
PLAN OF THE BOOK

ILLUSTRATIONS

“Nature herself is an idea of the mind and is never presented to the senses. She lies under the veil of appearances, but is herself never apparent. To the art of the ideal is lent, or, rather, absolutely given, the privilege to grasp the spirit of all, and bind it in a corporeal form.”

“Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely free. And this is accomplished by awakening, exercising, and perfecting in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world (which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down with a brute influence); to transform it into the free working of our spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas. For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth: it rears its ideal edifice on truth itself—on the solid and deep foundation of Nature.”

—From Schiller’s The Use of the Chorus in Tragedy.

PROLOGUE

A TWENTIETH CENTURY
IDEALIST

I
INQUISITIVE ADMIRATION

THERE certainly is a subtle charm from personal intercourse with those who seek a comprehensive view of life, and strive to live according to their own ideals. People who live upon broader lines than their neighbors are apt to be interesting from that fact alone, and the charm becomes quite fascinating when these ideals take form and they practice what they profess. Even if they do not succeed according to our notions, and fail to grasp until late in life some of the profound concepts which underlie the manifest workings of the mind of nature, the effort on their part counts in their favor—their actions speak louder than words.

The Doctor was in his library when he mused thus. Books upon peculiar subjects lay around him, some open, others closed; and his eye fell upon a few articles which had been selected for their special significance quite as carefully as the books. The Doctor was much interested in what he called “the hidden meaning of things,” and the character of his library, with its peculiar contents, showed the fact.

Putting aside his cigar, he looked across the room, as if to give audible expression to his thoughts, towards a younger man of quite a different type, an individual whose very presence suggested he had not ignored athletics while at college, even if the studies had been exacting.

The Doctor was about to call him by name, when he hesitated, his deeper interest in the young fellow asserted itself; he concluded to take a good look at him first, and avoid if possible any error in approaching the subject he wished to bring up. He already knew him so well that it did not take long to recall certain facts bearing upon the situation.

Paul was not as a general thing given to bothering about hidden meanings. His diving below the surface had been chiefly as a swimmer, from early boyhood until more recent experience. He possessed a keener appreciation of surface values and the exhilaration from a good bath rather than what he might bring up by deep diving. But being young, energetic, and sincere, his very energy itself was bound to bring him down to the verge of deeper experience. In fact as the Doctor looked at him he appeared like unto one standing upon the rockbound coast of the ocean of life ready to take the plunge, whenever—he felt like it.

“Take things as they are,” was one of Paul’s favorite expressions.

The Doctor concluded he would, and broke the silence:

“How did you enjoy last evening?”

“Immensely.”

“Thought you would.”

“Yes? Greatly obliged for the introduction,” and Paul continued examining some illustrations in a periodical apropos of the coming coronation in England.

The Doctor determined to rivet his attention.

“I admire Adele Cultus greatly, don’t you?”

“No doubt she would look well, wearing a coronet like this—look at it.”

The Doctor did not look, but continued:

“She certainly has some ideal of her own about life in general, and, I suspect, about herself in particular.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Paul, laconic.

“But she is thoroughly sincere about it.”

“Possibly, but last night the sincerity was all on my side.”

“How so?”

“Well, I would have danced with her the evening through, if she had let me—she loves dancing.”

The Doctor’s eyes twinkled: “Don’t you think she is a striking personality?”

“Striking? Oh, yes! gracefully so, deux-temps spirituelle. I felt the effect at once.”

“In character?”

Paul smiled. “I call it strikingly practical—no nonsense; she wouldn’t let me, and that settled it.”

“Of course she had her own way—at a ball,” remarked the Doctor dryly.

“Oh, of course! of course! She certainly would support a coronet first-rate; it would not be the coronet’s part to support her.”

“No doubt you are right, Paul. I was only asking some test questions,” and the Doctor subsided, as if he had more to say but would not venture.

“Test questions? Whom were you testing?” asked Paul.

“Both of you,” said the Doctor.

“Where did you first meet her?” asked Paul, still examining the periodical.

“Where?—we didn’t meet! I heard her voice through the crack of a door.”

“H’m!” And Paul put down his book.

“It was while I was convalescent at the hospital after that bicycle accident. She was a volunteer nurse, and a remarkably good one among not a few devoted women. You were right about her being practical and spirituelle, and so was I about her being spiritual.”

Paul took up a cigarette. A cloud of smoke enveloped his head, his facial expression hid behind the cloud. The Doctor continued:

“You know it takes a fair combination of the practical and spiritual to make a true nurse?”

Paul agreed mentally, but all the Doctor heard was a voice from behind the cloud, “she dances like an angel.”

Angelic dancing not being in the Doctor’s repertoire of investigation, he changed to another point of view.

“While I was convalescent at the hospital it was very amusing to read hands by palmistry. I read her hand.”

“You held her hand, you mean?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you read her character by the lines written in her hand! Nonsense!”

“I did not. I merely noticed the natural tendencies of the individual as shown by the form of the hand. Her characteristics, not her character.”

“I don’t believe in it,” remarked Paul, positive.

“You don’t? Well, just swap hands with some other fellow and observe the consequences.”

Paul laughed. “Excuse me—quite satisfied with my own.”

“Just so,” said the Doctor, “and there is good reason why you feel the satisfaction; the consequences would be not only absurd, but positively disastrous.”

Paul began to feel interested as the Doctor forced the practical issue upon his attention.

“The consequences of any change from the special form of your own hand would only prove that the other fellow’s hands do not fit your personality.”

Paul, who really knew much more about persons than personalities, blew another cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, and listened.

“You know, Nature never makes any mistakes.”

“I hope not, or I’m a goner,” quizzed Paul.

“And personality is really made up of three in one, a trinity of the physical, mental, and spiritual. You’re a sort of trinity yourself, my boy. You’ll find it out some day if you don’t swap hands with some other fellow and spoil your own combination.”

“What did you learn by holding Miss Cultus’ hand?”

The Doctor was a little slow in replying, in fact, choosing which of the many things he had observed was the particular one to which he had best call Paul’s attention. Then he spoke:

“She shows marked individuality based upon rather a rare type, yet a mixed hand; most Americans and Chinese are mixed. You know, pure types are very rare.”

“You don’t say so?” quizzed Paul; “‘mixed,’ and like the Chinese. What a wonderful insight for diagnosis palmistry possesses!” The Doctor continued:

“In the main, her hand manifests the exceeding rare psychic type,—that is, she loves and seeks the truth for its own sake.”

“There! I told you she was angelic, a practical angel,” interrupted Paul. The Doctor kept straight on:

“And with this there are other features indicating both the useful and the philosophic elements in her make-up, very strong, each in its own relative domain.”

“Extraordinary! truly!” quoth Paul. “The useful must have come to the front when she was acting nurse, and the philosophic when she told me we had danced enough for one evening. As to the psychic,—let me see! the psychic!—well, to be frank, Doctor, I can’t say I have seen that as yet.”

“Oh, yes, you have,” thought the Doctor, “or you would not be showing the interest you are taking just now.” This sub rosa, and then he turned the topic once more:

“Where do you suppose she got those traits, so forcible in combination?”

“Got her hands?” exclaimed Paul the practical. “Inherited them of course, even the skin-deep profundity of palmistry is not required to guess a diagnosis for that.”

The Doctor’s eyes again twinkled. “Whom did she inherit them from?”

“Father and mother,—what nonsense to ask!”

“Why not her grandparents?”

“Give it up,” said Paul. “Take things as they are.”

Now, the result of this decidedly mixed but suggestive conversation was to excite curiosity in both the Doctor and Paul. Not that they formed a conspiracy to learn about Miss Cultus’ forbears; quite the contrary. Simply by friction in time they learned something of the natural causes which had produced her charming personality, so attractive to all who met her.

That they both had been led to respect and admire her upon short acquaintance was only too evident,—on the surface. What was not quite so evident, for neither of them had said so, was that each had noticed her devotion to her mother, constant, ever thoughtful, as if to make her appear to the best advantage: as to her father, she simply idolized him.

Some of the items they learned had best be stated at once, for her ancestors, in immediate relationship, certainly did cast their shadows before; and the blending of the shades and shadows later on in her life, formed a character that was lovely and inspiring.

II
HOW THE PROFESSOR WAS WON

FEW who knew Mrs. Cultus in after years, when as an active woman of the world she displayed much tact dominated by kindly consideration for others, would have suspected the peculiar phases of development through which she passed in younger days, during the immature period of youth when the same natural tendencies took different forms, and were so different in degree. From one point of view the difference in degree produced a difference in kind—she appeared to be a different sort of woman. What she did when young was often mistaken for selfishness alone, whereas the same natural tendency, operating as reasonable ambition, after finding its true sphere, exerted a far nobler activity, profoundly different in both degree and kind. Not a few expressed surprise when her ambition to lead became coupled with a determination to help others along at the same time. Always ambitious, and with strong social instincts, she read the book of life rather than literary productions; but when she did deign to peruse a popular novel, her criticism punctured the absurdities of modern snap-shot incongruity. She was never selfish at heart, but she certainly did have a way of using the world without abusing it, personally; and her own way of expressing herself.

As to the Professor, her husband, he found himself going to be married without having fully analyzed the case.

Charming manners and cultivated tastes, largely inherited from antecedents in the professional walks of life, had led Professor Cultus to fascinate and charm not a few during his youth and early manhood,—what more natural! He was slow however to realize that in so doing he might encounter another, gifted as himself yet of an entirely different type, complementary; and so it came to pass.

While returning from a congress of anthropologists which met on the Continent, where there had been much discussion of the genus homo through many stages of development, the Professor was fated to be himself taught a lesson in anthropology which never after lost its hold upon him. It gave him much subject for thought, but not exactly of the kind suitable for a technical paper before the next congress.

He met an individual whose antecedents no doubt did have the same number of fingers and toes as his own, but whose “thinking matter” in her brain seemed to operate differently from his own; and whose experience in life had been very different; one of whose position in the chain of physiological development he knew much intellectually, but whose innate appreciation of facts and ability to perform he had no adequate realizing sense whatever; her avenue to truth, through heredity, being quite different from his own.

They were fellow passengers upon one of the palatial steamers which then first appeared upon the North Atlantic, and it took her only the ten days’ voyage to capture the Professor, his charming manners, his intellectual efforts and his anthropological researches, all complete.

How did she do it? and what did she propose to do with him after she got him?

The answer might be given in a single sentence: she met him first with his own weapons, charming manners and an intellect as bright as his own; then caught him because he was objectively philosophic and for pure science, so called, while she was subjectively philosophic and for pure material results. She was quite as philosophic as he was,—also knew chalk from cheese when she saw it. The Professor preferred to analyze the composition before forming an opinion. While he was analyzing, she so mixed the ingredients in his mental laboratory that he could no longer differentiate or reason upon the subject of a marriage at all: and in truth it must be stated, his own youth was not much inclined that way either. His heart got the better of his head.

Thus was the youthful Professor actually forced to accept the situation philosophically. He flattered himself that in time he would be able to investigate more fully, and make any needed adjustments later on. She flattered herself that she would be quite equal to any emergency that might arise, as she proposed not only to push him to the very front among his contemporaries, but also use his exalted position to attain her own social ends.

When they first met, both away from home, in mid-ocean, their mental activities alert, stimulated by what each had experienced abroad, and little on hand to occupy the time, the conditions were favorable. Even the menu on board ship was highly seasoned after its kind, during the day, and after dark the stars twinkled doubly in the heavens above, and the mysterious depths below, while they looked at “the Dipper” together.

No sooner did the charmingly vivacious young lady observe the Professor’s attractive appearance than she made up her mind; and noticing that he sat at the Captain’s table as one of the selected few on board, she determined to know him personally.

Professor Cultus in young manhood certainly did look handsome, of the intellectual type. His dark eyes were noticed by others besides Miss Carlotta Gains. The prospect of this new acquaintance was quite enough to cause her to exert herself, so she frankly told Fraulein Ritter, under whose care she was returning home, that she would like immensely to have that gentleman presented to her.

Carlotta had been to Berlin, taking lessons in singing under Fraulein Ritter’s direction and chaperonage; had been under rather strict surveillance while studying, and had not much enjoyed that particular phase of a young woman’s student life in Berlin. When once clear of the Continental proprieties, the American girl began again to assert herself. Carlotta was certainly fortunate in having such a one as Fraulein Ritter to consult, for she in turn was quite an authority in her own branch. Educated at Weimar during the days of Liszt’s supremacy, Fraulein Ritter had no small reputation afterwards from her publications relating to music in general and voice culture in particular. Incidentally she had met not a few of the members attending the congress,—in fact, Professor Cultus had already been presented to her in Berlin; so there being nothing to shock Fraulein’s German sense of propriety in granting Carlotta’s request, an introduction followed.

“Professor, allow me to present you to my pupil, Miss Carlotta Gains. Possibly you have heard of her father, Mr. Anthony G. Gains, of Silverton, Eldorado.” Why Fraulein should have supposed that any knowledge of Anthony Gains out in Eldorado could possibly have reached the Professor can only be attributed to the benign influence of Carlotta’s lucky star, and the other well authenticated fact that “the world is not so big after all.” As luck would have it, the Professor had known Mr. Gains fairly well, and not so many years back, when at the early stage of his career he had been called upon to give expert testimony in a certain law suit involving technical information. The Professor had found Mr. Gains a first-rate, all-round, square-minded American, from his point of view, and Grab Gains, as his Eldorado friends dubbed him, had much appreciated the young scientist’s unbiased clear statements as a witness. Being astute and practical in business, upon gaining the law suit he had given his expert, on the spot, the biggest fee he had received up to that time,—not for his testimony—oh, no,—for some other work which came up incidentally, quite beyond his expenses and regular charge.

Gains’s business foresight was not devoid of results. The Professor at once thought he knew much about the antecedents of the young lady, and expressed himself as delighted to meet the daughter of his former friend. Of course he referred to the general circumstances under which they had met, and praised Eldorado as a locality of great scientific interest.

Miss Carlotta put two and two together, and recalled her father’s remark that he would never have gained that case if the Professor had not “talked science so that the jury could understand.” The Professor seemed pleased to know it. Carlotta at once determined to appreciate the Professor just as that jury had done; so she immediately introduced a topic bound to be of interest to him.

“What a success your congress proved to be, Professor.”

“Quite so,—more than we anticipated. But I did not suspect it would attract your attention.”

“Why not? Fraulein takes all the publications; I intend to read your paper with special interest,” her ambition leading her more than half way.

The Professor looked quizzical. “I fear you will find it rather slow for cursory reading.” Then his responsive manner getting the best of him he added with considerable effect: “It will give me the greatest pleasure to make it clear if I can.”

Carlotta took him up at once,—but on a topic she did know something about as well as he, and stated it after her own fashion.

“I noticed that one of the discussions was about the peculiar costumes of certain tribes. Now, I never did understand why the darker races should introduce brilliant colors in dress so much more naturally and effectively than we do.”

The Professor instantly looked at her own dress and thought it very effective, in excellent taste. Carlotta continued:

“Now, with us color is often so arbitrary, mere fashion, the arrangement artificial, and when the thing is unbecoming you feel just like a martyr;” then, musingly, “but he won’t find that in me.”

Professor Cultus laughingly replied that “he really knew little about dress”—which was a fib for an anthropologist—but he supposed that “Dame Fashion was a capricious jade who often made her reputation by producing whims to meet the demand for something new; she had certainly been known to introduce what was hideous to many, simply to cover up the defects of a favorite patron.”

Carlotta at once thought, “Well, there’s nothing hideous about me. I wonder what he means?”

The Professor once started, went on about the darker races using the primitive and secondary colors only with such marked effect; that they really knew little about hues and shades as our civilization differentiates colors and effects. He was then going on to add something about color in jewels adding great effect to rich costumes, when Carlotta gave a little start, drew her wrap about her and said she felt cold and chilly.

Fraulein at once suggested they should leave the deck for the saloon. Carlotta acquiesced as if very grateful, and begged the Professor to excuse her.

Of course he did so promptly, with sympathy excited by fear lest she might have suffered in consequence of his keeping her standing too long in a cold wind.

Nothing of the sort. It was the reference made to jewels by the Professor which had caused her impromptu nervous chill. Could he possibly have noticed the too many rings she wore and concluded she might be rather loud in her taste? That must be rectified at once,—so Carlotta caught a chill on the spot, merely a little sympathetic chill, but enough to get away and arrange things better for the next interview. Certainly her tact showed foresight as well as power to meet an emergency from her point of view.

She knew instinctively the value of sympathy as well as propinquity. She had gained her first point, an introduction; now for the second, sympathy: and she was not slow to act,—much quicker than the Professor dreamed of. She did things first and discussed them afterwards; that was one of her accomplishments which he often observed later on.

No sooner in her state-room than Miss Gains snatched off every ring, all but one, a fine ruby rich in color but not too large; “rubies never are,” she said, pensive. On this one she looked with much satisfaction, it would meet her requirements yet not excite suspicion, the removal of all might do so.

But why the ruby?

Carlotta was astute, like her papa, much more so than the Professor imagined,—he learned that also later on. What troubled her now was no new matter, and largely in her own imagination. A biologist would have told her it was inherited. Being a pronounced blonde of the florid type, vivacious, fond of excitement, she had often noticed that her hands became rather rosy in color. So the ardent yet astute Miss Gains had evolved the brilliant yet practical idea that the ruby would be “the very thing to throw the other red into the shade—people will notice the ruby and speak of that.” If she could not avoid being too rosy, in her own imagination, the ruby should take the blame.

Carlotta was politic also, like her papa, much more so than the Professor thought—he found that out also later on. So she retained the ruby only, and wore a red tocque when next on deck. She would no doubt have put on her golf jacket if on shore, so determined was she to make those hands look as refined as possible.

The Professor’s sympathy was now to be encouraged. If the too many rings were to be kept out of sight, it was far more important to keep the object of sympathy in sight. Carlotta determined not to get over that chill too soon,—not to remain so chilly that the state-room was the only warm place, but just chilly enough to seek convalescence wrapped up in a becoming garment, resting in an easy chair in some retired corner, or on deck where the lights illumined others, and not herself. Just chilly enough to require the little attentions of a sympathetic friend, whose sympathy she could make warmer as her own cold chill wore off.

Miss Carlotta was diplomatic, as the Professor also found out. Once ensconced in that easy chair with the Professor to keep the chills off, her success was already assured. Her greatest triumph consisted undoubtedly in that she displayed such a bright intelligent appreciation of the Professor’s point of view about everything, anything from chalk and cheese to volcanoes and earthquakes, not omitting the science of games, especially ping-pong, and the usual dose of theosophy; and so much policy and diplomacy as to her own point of view, that to this day the intellectual scientist ascribes the results primarily to his own ability in courting.

It was in fact a double game of life and chances, the game of all games, of heart and head, that two can play at. Carlotta won for life, whereas the Professor began by taking chances. Propinquity at sea,—floating on the waves from which rose Aphrodite.

Of course it became evident to the Professor that Carlotta was precisely the person he most desired in life,—so appreciative, intellectually bright, much knowledge of the world for her age; and as she had incidentally remarked on one occasion, quite comfortable as to worldly goods;—although, to be frank, he laid little stress upon the latter at that time, having much confidence in his own resources. He was often glad of it, however, later on; it also proved one of the things he learned subsequently.

Before they left the steamer there was an understanding, and the way seemed smooth to expect a favorable consideration from Carlotta’s parental governor. Her mother was no longer living, which accounted for Carlotta’s being under the care of Fraulein.

As a matter of fact Anthony Gains was not surprised in the least when his daughter returned engaged to be married, and easily accepted the situation philosophically; indeed, rather congratulated himself that she had not been too independent, like some, but deigned to go through the formalities of making the announcement subject to his approval.

“Much better to avoid unnecessary fuss,” he said to himself, “and it gives me a good chance to spare the Professor’s feelings. In case they had given me the slip, I suppose a rumpus would have been in order. Carlotta’s sensible,—I know her well,—I’m glad she lived in the West before going to Europe.” Her father did know her well, much better really than he who then desired to take the chances. Papa also remembered with much satisfaction the young scientist who had given “plain talk to that jury.” He concluded he might be able to give plain talk to his household if emergency required it. Finally he told them frankly:

“Having gone through the mill myself, I guess you two can manage your own business first-rate. I don’t suppose you object if I coöperate.”

As his practical coöperation took effect even before the marriage, when he settled a handsome sum upon Carlotta, the Professor thought still more highly of his prospective father-in-law.

Not till all was over, the ceremony an accomplished fact, and the young people off on another tour apropos of the occasion,—not till then did Anthony Gains allow himself to whisper in a room where there was no telephone:

“They’ll be comfortable anyhow. These scientific fellows make so little they are not extravagant as a class. I guess it will be all right—God bless ’em.”

Such had been an early but important chapter in the experience of the immediate ancestors of Adele Cultus;—of her whom both the Doctor and Paul had admired,—Paul because she was practical, the Doctor because she was spiritual.

PART FIRST

III
ADELE HERSELF

IT is not so much what was said, as who said it and how they said it, that will convey an adequate impression of the charm exerted by Adele upon those she met. Of her two dozen desperately intimate friends at school, each had been known to exclaim, “Why, of course I know her; isn’t she just too lovely for anything?” and that covered the whole ground.

When during college days a coterie of Juniors decided to invite some Seniors to “a tea,”—not “to tea,” for all were excruciatingly academic at that period, there was a spirited debate as to the special duties of each girl during the function, but not the slightest doubt that Adele should head the Reception Committee. “Why, my dear, she’s just the one for that place. Don’t you see it? We’ll show them the proper ’pose.’”

As a matter of fact, Adele did receive; also “poured out” at times; also introduced some strangers to her own kindred spirits to banish any feeling of uneasiness; and finally achieved the undoubted triumph of making two girls friends again, the girls much excited, holding diametrically opposite opinions upon the momentous question of Cleopatra’s cruelty to animals.

When she graduated, valedictorian of her class, she made an address neither too long nor too short, not unlike her gown, precisely as it should be,—pointedly academic to start with and meet the case, then somewhat more colloquial, recalling the good times they all had passed, and concluding with a touching appeal “never to forget Alma Mater.” The entire class mentally promised they never would, “nor you either, Adele,” and she was deluged with so many future-correspondents that the prospect became really alarming.

When she made her début, scarcely an evening passed that some “man” did not tell her confidentially: “You look lovely to-night, Miss Cultus;” and when upon a certain full-dress occasion she sat with Mr. Warder on the stairway, presumably with none but the old stand-up clock to listen, the first remark she heard was, “Oh, I’m so glad, Miss Cultus, we can have a chat, alone!” “Alone!” exclaimed Adele. “Why, certainly, alone in the crowd,”—and as she drew her skirts aside to allow four other couples and a queue of waiters to pass, her clear responsive laugh appreciative of the situation, made Mr. Warder enjoy the public seclusion immensely.

Evidently there was a personal magnetism about Adele which affected all more or less, and many whose own characteristics were totally unlike hers.

At a glance anyone would have noticed her light hair flowing free, yet under control, tinged with sunlight, the sunlight of youth; hers was a fair complexion like her mother’s, yet with her father’s lustrous eyes. She was a blonde with dark eyes; once seen, a picture in the mind’s eye.

Her father’s facial expression played over her countenance, manifesting that responsive personal interest which drew many to her. Her mother, as we already know, could express that responsive attitude also, and exercise the personal influence when she chose, but with Adele it was spontaneous, perfectly natural, and her smile sincere, ingenuous, rather than ingenious, one of the most precious and potent gifts a woman can possess.

And some of her other gifts by heredity were also very evident, but modified. Dame Nature had been exceedingly kind, and given her as it were only those elements which intensified the better traits of the previous generations. Her active mind reminded one of her father’s intellectual ability in science, but it was so modified by her mother’s more comprehensive susceptibility and impressionability in many directions, her worldly wisdom and promptness, that in Adele it took a different turn from either one of the parents. Her social instincts could not be suppressed, but fundamentally they tended towards an appreciation and insight of the humanities and ethical subjects rather than the material interests one might look for in the granddaughter of Anthony Gains, or the intellectual abstractions which might have come from the Professor’s mode of thought.

Before graduating, some one asked her what she proposed to do after leaving college, for all felt a brilliant career was open. Adele was rather reserved in answering this question, and generally replied that there was so much which ought to be done in the world, no doubt she would be very busy. But to her mother she confided on one occasion her innermost thought, she “would like to work in the slums.” This so horrified Mamma that Adele’s name was entered upon the fashionable Assembly list for the coming season without delay, as an antidote in case of emergency, although somewhat premature as to time.

It would never do to oppose Adele. She was already unaccustomed to that sort of management, and would assert herself even if she regretted it afterwards. A compromise was in order. She did not go to work in the slums, and did attend fashionable functions with her mother, but after serious conversation with her father on the subject of the practice of medicine by women, and her own observations of the constant demand for trained nurses who would not upset the whole household, she concluded to look into that matter herself, and volunteered to serve in the hospital during war times.

“I must do something to help along; and nobody need know, unless I choose.” It was while thus serving that the Doctor and Paul had first met her, when the Doctor was a patient after his bicycle accident in a miniature cyclone. It was in the hospital that Doctor Wise had first read her hand, and made a note of it as approaching the psychic type more clearly than any other he had then met.

From the Doctor’s point of view Adele’s hand was indeed suggestive, but not so purely psychical as to intimate mysticism to excess. It was rather that of a vivid idealist than a moody mystic,—too much intellectuality in the upper part, as well as assertion in the thumb and clearness in the head-line, not to influence and modify the natural tendency and scope as shown by the general form. It was not the hand of one whose vague aspirations after the good but unattainable would lead to extremes either in the activities of communism or socialistic vagaries, nor in the opposite direction towards the passive life of an ascetic. Either one would have soon disgusted Adele. It was the hand of one who endeavored to be logical, and did have common sense; yet in the exuberance of feeling sometimes put her hero upon a pedestal only to find the pedestal had a crack in it and the hero was in danger. As to the hero himself, he was never affected; she remained true to her hero, no sawdust in him; but she certainly did put him quietly aside on the shelf when she found herself beyond his point of view. She simply put him on the shelf to “think it out for himself,” as she had done for herself,—and in consequence had more would-be heroes following in her train, striving to catch up, than is generally found in the domain of hero worship.

Youth has its sway. Adele was most delightfully enthusiastic at times, often bent upon what she called “having a good time.” Then she was a picture worthy of Fortuny’s art in a sunny Spanish patio; but in quieter moments as introspective as one of Millais’ peasants; rather over-confident in her own resources, having really not met as yet any opposition worthy of the name, unless perhaps a weak patient who refused to take medicine. Then she took a sip herself, and told him “Now you’ve got to take it,” and he did,—because her actions spoke louder even than her words.

Her father had several times told her to read the world as if it were a book, and she had heard her mother refer to certain society leaders who acted a part that did not suit their own style. She determined to know and read all passers-by, from cooks with a sauce-pan to princesses with a crooked coronet, including Tom, Dick and Harry of course; and she found it so highly interesting, that when about eighteen she thought she might—yes—she might, in time,—write a novel herself; in fact she did write the title page, and the chapter on “Direful Conflict,” in which the sauce-pan and coronet almost came to blows. Whether to make that chapter the beginning of her novel or the ending, proved the poser, so it too was put upon the shelf with the heroes.

The most interesting thing to people is people themselves. Adele’s maternal instincts told her this very soon.

Things are of real value about in proportion to the effort they cost. Her instincts from her father suggested this, but she did not believe it at first. It might be, but was not pleasant to think of. She knew well enough that all that glitters is not gold, but sometimes thought that glitter might be when it wasn’t. When she found herself deceived in this respect her conclusions took a pronounced feminine form of expression. “Mother! I don’t think so very much of Mr. Upham they all talk about. He tries to show off—absurdly condescending, and talks as if he knew more about it than anybody else. Nobody really thinks of what he says, only of him. I think him a bore.”

“Well, don’t let him know it, my dear,” promptly answered Mrs. Cultus. “One has to become accustomed to trifles. I generally look the other way and avoid them.”

“I’m not going through the world on stilts, anyhow,” laughed Adele.

“No, my dear, I trust not, nor on a bicycle either; neither is becoming.”

Adele watched her father whenever they went out together, with almost precocious interest. She wished to discover how he made himself so agreeable to others and finally concluded that “Father’s manners are perfection.” She followed her father’s advice quite as naturally as she did her mother’s, the wisdom of which often appealed to her also; but in spite of her affection for both, she soon began to perceive there was something much more subtle in life than worldly wisdom. Things seen were by no means so potent as some other things unseen. She would use the world, but not let it use her. “I shall soon be used up myself” was the way she expressed it after having had rather too much of a good time.

Without actually formulating the pros and cons in her own mind, she really decided not to attempt any part unless she could do justice to it under the stimulus of her own approval.

Things seen, and never ignored, were already becoming subservient to things unseen.

Such was Adele as a girl, and during the few years when her college experience was prime factor in her life.

IV
ADELE HEARS THE WORDS OF A SONG

THERE was just enough of chilly winter left to make the springtime fascinating and a wood fire still acceptable in the cozy library where Doctor Wise and his younger friend Paul Warder sat together expecting guests. They occupied bachelor apartments in common. A delicious aroma from wood logs permeated the atmosphere.

There was music also, for the eye as well as the ear. The firelight played in crescendo and diminuendo, with now and again marked rhythm and very peculiar accents. The sound of wheels reverberated clearly in the cool night air and ceased opposite the portal. An expectant waiting, but no response, no frou-frou from silken skirts passing along the hallway as anticipated. Instead, Benson,—Benson the butler, his countenance a foot long.

“Some one, sir!”

“I presume so.”

“Some one, with his—his trunk.”

“His trunk!” The Doctor lowered the bridge of his nose, and peered at Benson over his eye-glasses.

“Yes, sir! a big one.”

“What’s that for? What will he do with it? What will we do with it?”

“Show him up, Benson,” said Paul, promptly; “trunk and all.”

Paul’s eyes twinkled as he vanished through the doorway.

“Never heard of such a thing,” mused the Doctor, “bringing a trunk to a musicale. Must be some mistake! Benson! I say, Benson! Show him next door.”

“Not yet I hope,” and amid shouts of laughter in rushed two fellows,—Paul bringing Henri Semple—“Harry”—of all their musical friends the one most welcome and opportune.

The Doctor was delighted, and gave him a good squeeze—no time for much else.

“Benson! put Mr. Semple’s trunk in his own room, you know the one I mean; and now, Harry, if you don’t get inside that trunk quickly as possible the state of the country will not be safe, an invasion is threatened at any minute. Put on your regimentals at once, and help us out.”

Semple, who understood the Doctor’s lingo from many years back, took in the situation at a glance. He had hardly time to laugh about the Doctor’s being “the same old chappie as ever,” when he was literally thrust towards the stairway, to follow the trunk, and put on his evening clothes.

The episode had been one of Paul’s agreeable surprises so often had in store for the Doctor.

Semple’s name had appeared upon the passenger list of an ocean flyer just arrived. Paul sought him by telephone, caught him, and insisted upon his coming. Semple, already in traveler’s shape, had “hustled” to reach his old friends. The time was short, but Harry in true American fashion had “got there”—that was all, with the regimentals ready to be put on.

It is not necessary to produce the bachelor’s visiting list and mark off all those who honored the occasion with their presence. Paul always made it a point to have plenty of men on hand at his entertainments; whether at chit-chat-musicale or conversational game of whist, all went off with a rush. Those who took their pleasure more seriously were furnished excellent opportunity in the library, while the conversational music-racket progressed in the parlor.

The trio, Doctor, Paul and Semple, were already standing in line, like three serenaders in white waistcoats, when Mrs. Maxwell was ushered in. She had kindly consented to act as matron, knowing all so well; in fact had entertained both Paul and Semple at her picturesque cottage, “The Kedge.” Her vivacious presence at once brought with it a breezy atmosphere from the romantic coast of Maine, where “The Kedge” stood perched like a barnacle upon a boulder, and the winds wafted white spray falling like a lace mantle upon dahlias and nasturtiums at her feet.

And with her Miss Dorothy, her niece, whose charming letters the winter previous from Ischl had given vivid pictures of experience abroad, Vienna life, and Egyptian mysteries known only to herself and the Sphinx.

A dozen or more soon followed. Conversation already at its height when Professor and Mrs. Cultus entered, also their daughter Adele whom the Doctor had before met under such peculiar circumstances at the hospital. Adele looked radiant, having brought with her an intimate friend, Miss Winchester, for whom she had requested an invitation. The Doctor greeted them with both hands, for he had already detected the devotion which had sprung up between these two girls. They seemed a host in themselves wherever they went. He made Miss Winchester feel at home at once, and she accepted the situation promptly; she had the happy faculty of doing that sort of thing. The Doctor enjoyed her frankness. She was like, yet very unlike Adele; no doubt much in common between them, yet of a very different temperament. The inquisitive Doctor perceived this at a glance. “Must read her hand,” he cogitated, for his interest in Adele made him curious to know more of the one to whom Adele seemed especially devoted.

Others dropped in later, the rooms became well filled. The guests sought easy chairs, Paul taking special pains to see that Mrs. Cultus was comfortably settled. Mrs. Cultus in turn had made up her mind to hear Paul sing with the Doctor as accompanist. She had heard that they performed “stunts,” whatever they might prove to be, and now was her opportunity; also, she wished the stunts just as soon as possible. “Keep it up,” said Mrs. Cultus, sotto voce.

Of course Paul could not refuse point blank, but he must be permitted to do so in his own way, for none knew better than he and the Doctor that their music together was of such a peculiar nature that unless led up to judiciously the effect would be utterly ruined. In fact there was nothing in it but “the spirit of the thing,” and little technique whatever except to meet the demand of this spirit of the thing. They had never had either time or inclination to cultivate and keep technique-on-tap,—a thing to be turned on and off like a fountain before an admiring public. Nevertheless, the little they could do gave a deal of pleasure to those not already hypnotized by digital gymnastics, or become satiated from eating too much candy-music.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Cultus’ ideas about leading up to anything in the domain of music had been originally formed upon her experience when leading in the german, and in spite of her short but higher experience in Germany, her natural propensities often prevailed. As to any preparation of the mind and ear for the reception of given musical sounds and kindred forms of artistic and poetic expression, she was lamentably wanting, in fact her tactics often little better than a box of tacks to irritate the acuter sensibilities of those to whom she appealed with so much apparent appreciation. Mrs. Cultus never listened for the tone-color, simply because she could not constitutionally; she really could not, it was not in her to hear what she could hear.

The music commenced, and Mrs. Cultus waited for the stunts. Henri Semple opened with some of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, charmingly vivacious and contagious, also played in some duets with the Doctor on Creole and Florida negro themes. Racial and national dance music seemed not a bad overture to harmonize with the gay spirits already in vogue, yet lead on to something else. Herr Krantz then favored the company with some German songs; he appreciated the value of continuity, yet did not ignore the power of contrast. Herr Krantz was an artist; his first song in rather quick tempo with a dramatic climax, his second full of suppressed emotion; each most artistic in effect. All enjoyed his robust tenor voice, also his admirable interpretation of the sentiment of what he sang. Mrs. Cultus and the Doctor led in the applause; Mrs. Cultus because she detected that the whole thing was as it ought to be, especially the dramatic climax of the first song, and the tears suggested when the second song died away. Mrs. Cultus was much given to applauding when songs died away in tears, she wished the singer to understand that he died with good effect. The Doctor admired all artistic productions and renditions of any kind; even a good performance on a jew’s-harp or a xylophone was appreciated by him from the standpoint of art as art. If it did not manifest the sacred fire of the soul above all else, it was to be enjoyed and applauded nevertheless, as truth for its own sake, if not the highest form of truth through musical expression. He had heard mocking-birds sing like nightingales, yet they were not the veritable rossignole; he had long since learned that perfect technique was not the only way of expression, since the sacred fire burst through all bounds and made terrible mistakes (technical), yet was truth enduring, truth soaring towards immortality and enduring as memory endures.

Paul in the meantime had induced Miss Winchester to follow Herr Krantz; and since his German artistic rendition had excited her imagination, her fingers fairly twitched with desire to respond, ready to the interpretation of what she felt. She knew she could play well because in the mood, delicious sensation.

Miss Winchester’s talent for melodic expression was decidedly of the romantic school. Her idol was Schumann, and at times Tschaikowsky, but never when in their morbid humor, then she shut up their compositions and left them to be morbid alone, not with her. Fact is, Miss Winchester’s versatility and intellectual vivacious activity were so pronounced that she could render many original or rare wild fanciful “morceaux,” provided they were vivacious and embodied with personal experience, or what one might call the racial or national rhythm of those people who did sing and dance naturally. She and her brother were both extremely gifted in this respect, and to hear them play together was not unlike attempting to enjoy two glasses of champagne at the same time.

Miss Winchester was soon leading the whole company through some Mexican danzas with a spontaneous abandon perfectly delightful; then some half-Spanish or old-time Creole reminiscences, very dansante in their time and place, and yet with a peculiar strain of languor which pictured the sunny southern clime in one of its most characteristic moods. Also one of her brother’s waltzes which quite lifted the hearer off his feet, very difficult to interpret as she did; simply because not being a singing waltz, neither of the kind that draws the feet downwards towards the floor in tempo strict and strong, but quite the contrary lifts the dancer up, carries him beyond, without fatigue, borne upon the wings of time into the realm of graceful motion.

Mrs. Cultus could not quite make out whether this strange rhapsodical style of waltzing was quite up to the standard of the occasion. It certainly was rather effective, but not as she ever remembered hearing it in the german. “’Twas impossible to count two or three to such a thing as that and keep up with it;” therefore suspicious. So the politic Mrs. Cultus hid behind her jewelled lorgnette, looking alternately at the performer and the audience before making up her mind.

The susceptible Doctor was quite fascinated, translated, as he entered into the spirit of the thing. He thought of scenes in Delibes’ ballets, of Sylvia and Coppelia, also of the wonderful grace of Beaugrand upon Walpurgis night when she first appears enveloped by a cloud descending upon the stage, the cloud disappearing, the dancer wafted forward to whirl amid a maze of fascinating melody.

Adele and Paul also could not resist the temptation to “try it in the hall,” but soon gave that up; Adele expecting to sing herself, therefore careful of her voice, and Paul because the fascination was quite sufficient without the dancing just then. They were again caught sitting on the stairs under the benign countenance of “Fanny,” the old family clock, who ticked on solemnly as if accustomed to witness waltzing and flirtations, in past times as well as to-night,—this when the Doctor put in an appearance to ask Adele to sing.

Adele was an enchanting personification of youthful enjoyment when Paul led her into the room, her dark eyes lustrous and full of fire, yet but little conscious of self when she at once dropped Paul’s arm to rush up to Miss Winchester and thank her for the treat she had given them. “I never heard you play better in my life, my dear! Oh, how I wish I could do it!” and then, feeling her own position, became more subdued in manner as she approached the piano. Henri Semple had kindly offered to accompany her—they had often sung together as she called it, so felt in unity at once. Only a word was necessary to Henri, “Please go straight on, if I should trip I’ll catch up again.” Henri smiled and began the introduction.

Adele first sang a rather pretentious florid aria. Her mother had insisted upon this, evidently thinking that all should be informed at once that her daughter had been educated under the best masters, as she herself had been under Fraulein Ritter. Adele complied with her mother’s request, even if she herself had different notions as to the result. Mrs. Cultus had “dropped her music” soon after the bills had been paid for her education, and never picked it up again except in nursery rhymes for Adele. Those nursery songs had won their way to Adele’s heart, she sometimes sang them yet, but their greatest triumph had been to excite within her a desire to really sing herself. She now proposed to hold on and not drop what she had striven for, to make her voice the means towards expression of higher things, feelings which words could not always express. As to the florid aria to commence with, “Oh, yes! it would do to try the voice and bring out the notes, but the real thing must not be expected until later.”

Her innermost thoughts were quite in this vein when enthusiastic applause greeted her singing. She had sung well. Herr Krantz complimented her, evidently sincere, so she took his appreciation sincerely, but soon turned to Mr. Semple to select something more to her own taste. She chose a composition with which she was very familiar, one of her special favorites, and passed it to Henri.

Semple glanced it over, and being himself of kindred spirit with her own at once detected certain signs,—how it had been well used but carefully handled, certain passages marked, some private marks, evidently her own.

“Miss Cultus, don’t you play this accompaniment yourself?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I thought so—let me resign!”

“Don’t you know it?—it’s not difficult.”

“So I see, but I’m sure none could play it exactly as you would feel it.”

Adele knew this to be true; no one could really accompany the songs she really loved so completely to her own satisfaction as herself, that was the way she had learned to love them.

“You won’t be offended if I do?”

Semple responded at once and stood beside her, but he felt intensely curious to know exactly why, since she was so different from many, she desired to do so with this particular piece,—the accompaniment did not appear to be especially exacting, so he asked her about the peculiarities of the composition.

“I like to be near the composer, near as I can,” was all she said in reply, and without further ado seated herself at the instrument.

Some noticing her movement were disappointed, others delighted; the latter were those who loved music which came from the heart,—the former those who admired what came from the head.

The Doctor asked her father if she preferred to accompany herself. “Only at times,” said the Professor, and he appeared rather serious himself when he observed the mood she was in. It would probably be Adele at her best, but by no means likely to command the most general appreciation. Then he told the Doctor: “She knows that head and heart must work together as one if any true emotion is to come with the music, and she thinks this is such a subtle matter in her own case that she must become as near like the composer himself as she possibly can to render the music as he originally conceived and felt it. She insists that every good song is fundamentally emotional, the spirit dominating the art. To get close to this spirit in the piece, to become the composer and try to re-create the piece, is what she is after. One soul and mind, the voice soul and the artistic accompaniment; both had come originally from one creative source, the composer, whose whole being must have throbbed with one emotion when he wrote the piece if worth anything. Those who would really feel the same emotion must try to be like him and follow him in spirit and in truth. She wishes to reproduce the intimate sympathetic blending of voice and accompaniment which the composer had felt when he wrote the song.”

“How intensely she must feel!” said the Doctor, pensive, and turned to listen, giving attention to the singer to recognize her personality as creator for the time being of the song,—the singer giving new life, a renaissance or resurrection to the song.

What Adele sang was a melody by Gounod with simple chords in the accompaniment, the piano filling in like a second voice when her own was not prominent. The second voice sang with her, that is, to her and for her, and the two blended as one, a veritable duet of heart and head as one. The piano gave the atmosphere in which the melody lived, moved and had its being, and the melody itself was the voice of a living soul singing in truth and purity.

To sing it as she did required intense mental effort, herself under admirable control;—the dominating emotional spirit within. It was the divine art, the purity in the art, hence divine in origin. Art dominated by the Spirit of Truth that is Holy, in Music. Music as Truth, for a religious fervor lay deep within the song. It was the overflow of her own feelings which others heard and felt, yet she sang as if no one was present,—none,—herself alone,—Adele an Idyl. As she continued, the melody seemed to gain in spiritual significance, so pure, so true, so simply lovely, the good, true and beautiful, as one, a trinity of inner experience, and thus possessing a high spiritual significance. All who heard, associated with her voice their own best thoughts. They “became one” with her,—and while she thus led them towards higher and better things, the melody soared upon the wings of a dove, rising as if nearing the celestial choir. It did not diminish, grow less, nor die away, but passed from hearing; it was heard, and then it was not heard, gone—gone to live among the melodies of immortality, for the truth in her music had made it an immortal song—none could ever forget, neither her, her song, nor how she sang it.

“How angelic!” whispered those who heard her.

“She is an angel,” said her mother, who knew her best.

The Doctor mused; he was still thinking some time after the song ceased. There was to him a feeling of both exhaustion and exaltation,—the human and the divine in his own personality.

As to Paul,—the emotion was rather strong for him, rather too much just then, the complications of feeling decidedly confusing, especially as he would be called upon to sing next. He felt perfectly limp. “What on earth can I do, after an angel has carried the whole crowd into the upper regions!”

The suppressed applause which followed Adele’s sacred song had hardly ceased, the hum of appreciation still heard, and Adele herself about to ask Henri Semple for the bouquet of American Beauties which he held for her, when she caught the eye of Paul and gave him a slight inclination of the head to approach.

Paul had been asked to sing next. She knew it,—she also knew the style of his music, that it could not possibly sound to advantage immediately after her own success. She also knew Paul’s sensibility, yet desire to oblige. In the kindness of her heart, now so sensitive from the holy spirit in music which had prompted her singing, she wished in some way to aid Paul to bridge over the dilemma into which her mother’s lack of appreciation of the personal element in music threatened to lead him, for it was Mrs. Cultus who had insisted upon his singing as soon as Adele finished.

May it not also be said that Adele herself was about to take another step forward in her musical career? namely, by a very practical appreciation of the vast domain of melodic expression,—in other words the comprehensiveness of “the art of putting things” and the wonderful difference in methods and means by which spiritual effects may be produced. She knew that Paul’s voice did appeal to mankind, at least to some, quite as positively as her own; he also was sensitive about it, but his emotional feeling was so different from her own. She wished to be altruistic, and assure Paul fair treatment.

Paul joined her. “I never heard you sing better.”

“I’m glad you were here,—I felt like it,—Gounod is a great friend of mine.”

“I wish I had a friend on hand.”

“How so?”

“To sing for me, my voice is scared to death.”

“It doesn’t sound that way, but I know what you mean.”

“’Pon honor!—the crudity of it! and then to be asked to sing after you.”

“Never mind that, think of the music, and forget yourself.”

“What! forget the music and think of myself!” He had hardly uttered the thought upside down before it seemed to suggest something to him. He said nothing, however, for a moment, and then seemed to brace up, and began talking about other things, until Mrs. Cultus approached.

Adele knew, or rather thought she knew, that if her mother pressed him too hard in his present mood she might receive a refusal in return, a polite apology for not singing. Much to her surprise, Paul consented with considerable cordiality, saying he would do his best gladly; but there was a twinkle in his eye which he could not disguise as he said it. Adele wondered what the twinkle meant. Mamma felt sure he would do “stunts.”

What had influenced Paul so suddenly? The twisted words giving a new association of ideas had suggested yet another motive for singing. “Forget the music, and think of you, Adele.” He had thought of a songlet which did just that sort of thing—he would try it.

Why had Adele failed to appreciate the twinkle? Simply because she did not then know him well enough to recognize one of the strongest elements in his character, namely, a certain sure reserve power which men of his type are apt to possess, and manifest in positions of this sort with marked individuality in form of expression. Paul was just such a man.

With him it had been Adele’s first song, the florid aria to show off her voice, which had made the passing impression, not the second; in fact, the train of thought first excited had continued on through Adele’s second song, blinding him to a certain extent,—so that although he did hear the beautiful finale when her voice passed from hearing, he was preoccupied; he heard it only as another instance of her highly cultivated technique, nothing more. Its real spiritual significance had been lost upon him because his mind was preoccupied in another direction. Having ears he had not heard, yet being what he was, he had; consequently his impressions of her performance were complicated. He had appreciated her cultivated voice as fully, probably, as any in the room, but also remembered how at the hospital some time before she had sung much less ambitious music which excited even greater sympathy, bringing tears rather than applause. He did not wish Adele to lose her charm in that respect, and now, in his present frame of mind, feared lest she might do so. In fact, being somewhat askew in his own mind, yet rather sensitive about her, he jumped to the conclusion that she might give up the old simplicity of real power in order to electrify society by flights of vocalization. Thus the spirituality of a sincere, practical man did not differ fundamentally from that of another with greater æsthetic and artistic development, but the manifestation of it took an entirely different form.

Evidently Paul was quite as much interested in Adele’s success as she was in his,—but how different the motive and varied the form of expressing the emotion. Paul determined to give her some sort of a hint as to how he felt, and in a way she alone would recognize. If he had been older, no doubt he would have told her so direct, but youth is fonder of playing games in which self-reliance takes a prominent part. He made up his mind to sing anyhow, and quick as a flash the thought had come to him, “her effect was through the music, not the words, why not forget the music and think of the words?—try it with a style and with a purpose so different from hers that no comparison can possibly be in order?” He would force attention to the words rather than the music, and compel the audience to listen for the sake of the words. As to sentiment! His eyes twinkled as he thought of it; the audience could interpret that, each after his own fashion,—as for him, he would forget the music and think of Adele.

Paul went to the piano, telling Adele not to listen, as it was only some verses from “Life” which the Doctor had set to music. This was quite enough to excite Adele’s curiosity, and made her more attentive even than the others.

Paul’s voice was a rich baritone with but little cultivation, and fresh as nature had given it to him, with some few rich masculine notes as soft as velvet. When he felt intensely, yet kept himself under control, and the song brought into play those particular notes, Paul could make even a society reporter listen with sincerity. His articulation being clear, the listeners heard the words without effort, and the music became a harmonious medium of communication.

Much to his satisfaction he felt this mood coming over him. The Doctor, too, knew by his manner that Paul would be at his best, so played the accompaniment to sustain the voice, yet allow expression absolutely free with Paul,—a condition of things only possible to those who have personal sympathy as well as melodic instinct.

Each line of the song told its own tale;—the sentiment, not the cultivation of the voice nor accompaniment, attracted attention;—a few gestures gave the proper emphasis.

“She is so fair,

And yet to me

She is unfair

As she can be.

“Were she less fair,

I should be free;

Or less unfair,

Her slave I’d be.

“Fair, or unfair—

Ah! woe is me;

So ill I fare—

Farewell to thee!”

The effect was peculiar. Some caught what they thought were puns in the words, and called for a repetition to catch them better; others said the fellow was a fool to give up the girl so soon,—she was not really so unfair as she appeared to him. Society amused itself hugely over the absurd situation.

Adele turned to the Doctor. “I don’t care for that song.”

“No! Why?”

“The girl was misunderstood.”

“How strange! I didn’t see it that way at all,” said the Doctor.

“What did you see?”

“The young lady did not appreciate her admirer.”

“What is it called?” asked Adele.

“A Paradox.”

Paul overheard them and noticed an introspective expression on Adele’s countenance. Was she trying to recall the words? He would make sure of them, so in response to the encore repeated after this fashion:

“Thou art so fair, and yet to me

Thou art unfair as thou canst be.

“Wert thou less fair, I should be free;

Or less unfair, thy slave I’d be.

“Fair, or unfair—Ah! woe is me;

So ill I fare,—farewell to thee.”

And as he sang, the peculiar twinkle in his eyes again appeared. To the hearers it seemed very appropriate to the song, part of the spirit of the thing. Paul was more interested as to how it would affect Adele.

Adele was more confused than ever. Did he, or did he not, intend anything? She hardly knew how she ought to address him the next minute. It would be foolish to lay any stress upon such a song, merely a play upon words at best; yet her womanly instinct told her it might mean a great deal. She had no time, however, to think much about it, and did not care much anyhow, so tried to put the matter quite aside.

“What absurd words!—not so bad either ... but he certainly made them tell,” and she looked around the room as if to notice what others thought.

People were still discussing the Paradox.

“The impression seems to last,” said she.

The Doctor caught her final word.

“What lasts, Miss Adele?”

A twinkle in her eye this time.

“Paul’s song,—wasn’t it amusing?” and they both laughed heartily.

“The supper is served,” whispered a waiter to the Doctor, and shortly after Adele was seen entering the supper-room on the Doctor’s arm. Paul escorted Miss Winchester.

V
AFTER DARK IN THE PARK

AFTER the guests had departed the Doctor decided he would fill his lungs with fresh air by a short stroll in the park before retiring. Thus to saunter was a favorite experience with him after an evening spent in close quarters. He could be alone, yet not alone,—in the world, yet not of it.

“These breathing places are delicious,” he mused, “good for all, day or night; to the poor a blessed change from close and narrow homes, and to the wealthy if they only knew it, from their over-heated rooms. Fresh air in the lungs and a good quaff of pure water are the most healthy somnorifics I know. Thank Heaven, this park furnishes such luxuries to all.” This as he took a seat near a fountain which overflowed conveniently for the thirsty wayfarer.

The trees overhead were coming into new leaf, and the grass plots newly trimmed,—the resurrection of spring evidently near at hand. Arc lights from a distance shone through, giving a silvery lustre to the undersides of the new foliage, and a radiant glow which permeated the long vista.

He looked above into the azure,—it was a starlit night; also towards the horizon, down one of the wide avenues which intersected at the park. Upon a public building in the distance some statuary above the cornice stood distinct in outline against the sky, but from time to time the figures were obscured by clouds of smoke or steam enveloping as in a luminous mist. The figures came and went as if they themselves were endowed with movement. He watched the smoke-mist, tracing to its source,—a press establishment,—the newspaper workers busy while the public slept. He hoped that to-morrow’s issue might bring news of something better than the smoke of war, mists of politics, and the vile conflicts of the debased side of humanity. Why not accentuate the good in the world instead of the evil? Such would be the way of truth in life, to overcome the evil with the good. But he did not feel very sanguine that to-morrow’s issue would be of that sort,—certainly not so long as the use and abuse of head-lines purposely to mislead the public for the sake of cash obtained.

He then looked more carefully at the fountain. It was a gift to the city from a dear friend of both himself and Paul, their old friend John Burlington, whose philanthropy took many practical forms for the benefit of the public. He skirted the park on his way out, and noticed a barber shop across the street in which a few days previous he had been shaved. Why that particular shop? Because therein he had been shaved by a young woman, of whom in justice it must be said she did it remarkably well. “Woman’s sphere is rapidly increasing,” he mused, “but in such matters, at what a terrible risk and sacrifice of womanly reserve; a gain in wages and publicity, a loss of refinement and the other feminine attributes. Is not woman’s head-gear sufficiently complicated already to furnish employment to experts of her own sex without attempting to scrape a man’s chin? Certainly the latter was a risky business for a woman to attempt on short notice.”

There was a hotel on the corner. He stopped to purchase a cigar, but it was too late. Too late for that, but not too late for others passing in and out. A couple passed through an inconspicuous entrance with a peculiar dim lantern in the vestibule near by, and soon disappeared. They appeared to be sneaking in, yet perfectly familiar with the premises.

A gay crowd of young people on bicycles passed by; it seemed unusually late to see so many out. As they wheeled off, talking in high spirits, there was naught, however, to distinguish them from a party of industrious young workers who had been kept indoors during the day, and whose youth demanded outdoor exercise, even if it had to be taken after dark.

“Where are their parents? still snoozing?” queried the Doctor,—“a ride after midnight may lead to a ‘skip by the light of the moon,’ but that’s none of my business,” and the bachelor doctor wended his way back towards his own domicile.

He was just about to enter when he spied a slight, agile figure, an elderly lady dressed in black, approaching and motioning to detain him. He could not mistake that light airy step, the nervous activity, the characteristic gestures. It must surely be she whose activity in good works he had known so long and well, yet he little expected to see her alone in the public street at that hour.

He ran down to meet her, took her arm under his and begged her to come in.

“I can’t, my dear, positively I can’t,” in a voice sweet and cheerful, as if she wished it but was too busy.

“Well, let me escort you home, then,” insisted the Doctor.

“No, my dear, not necessary at all, not a bit. I never have any difficulty at night. I wouldn’t take you on any account. I’ve been to the——” and she hesitated.

“Well, what can I do for you, Aunt Mary?”

She smiled as if the name was most welcome,—patted the Doctor on the back, called him one of “her boys,” and stopped a minute to chat.

But who was Aunt Mary?