Jewel Weed

On Saturday evening Mrs. Lenox welcomed the same circle that had met at her home the November before, and Lena’s little heart glowed with the soul-satisfying sense of the difference to her. Then she had been a social waif, received on sufferance. Now she was one of them. She could even afford to have her own opinions. The very memory of past discomforts doubled the present blessedness, and Mr. Lenox looked only half the size that he had six months before. It was a long stride to have taken in half a year, and with reason she congratulated herself on her cleverness. In Mr. Lenox’s gravity of manner as he took her in to dinner, she perceived only respect for Mrs. Percival, not knowing that he had in mind the small episode of the Chatterer, which his wife and Miss Elton had agreed to ignore.

“What very sensible people we are!” exclaimed Mrs. Lenox as she surveyed her small table party. “We shall spend to-morrow in hunting for anemones instead of looking at our neighbors’ spring fineries; we shall catch the first robin at his love song, instead of listening to the cut and dried, much-practised church music; and we shall find rest to our souls. Dick, I am sure you need it. You look worn out. I’m afraid politics is proving a hard mistress.”

“I wonder if it is possible to do too much,” said Dick, rousing himself, with manifest languor. “It’s only the way he does it that plays a man out. Here’s Ellery, now, who works like a galley slave and looks as fresh as the proverbial daisy.”

“Well, come, you are criticizing yourself even more severely,” Mr. Lenox said. “You’ll have to learn the secret, Dick, of letting your arms and legs and brain work for you, while your inner man remains at peace. That’s the only way an American man can live in these hustling days; and if you don’t master it, the young men will come in and carry you out by the time that you are fifty.”

“And there are worse things than that,” rejoined Dick. “I suppose it is the universal experience that when one gets out of the freedom of extreme youth and settles down to the jog-trot, harnessed life, the way looks rather long and monotonous. A fellow can’t help feeling tired to think how tired he’ll be before he gets to the end. To-night I feel as old and dry as a mummy. If you touch me, I’ll crumble.”

“Mrs. Lenox and I have been longer in the game than you, Dick,” answered his host whimsically. “We are getting dangerously near the equator; and we do not find ourselves exhausted. On the contrary, I rather think the scenery improves, in some respects, as we go along.”

“You are hardly capable of measuring the common fate. You have had the touchstone of success, and the world has opened up before you. But what depress me and impress me are the sodden people whom I meet by the hundred; and I can’t help reading my fate in the light of theirs. There are such millions of us, obscure and uncounted except on the census.”

“If you will persist in talking serious things,” said Ellery, “isn’t obscurity, after all, an internal and not an external quality? You’ve got to believe that you are a creature that is worth while. There is no bitterness in belonging to the myriads if the myriads are themselves dignified by nature.”

“But are they?” cried Dick, now rousing himself. “I look at every face I pass on the street. I’m always on the search for some ideal quality; and what do I see? Egotism and greed answer me from all their eyes. The ninety and nine have gone astray.”

“Then it belongs to you to be the hundredth who does not go astray; and who gives a satisfactory answer to the same eternal questioning that meets you in the eyes of other men. It’s not given to any man to play a neutral part in the world conflict. In all the magnificent interplay of forces, I doubt if there is any force strong enough to keep one standing still.”

“Yes, my dear Ellery. And it is just that eternal motion that I am complaining about. It is burdensome to the flesh and wearisome to the imagination to look forward to a future of eternal rushing and striving. I have a multitude of experiences every year, and I straightway forget them; and that deepens the impression that all these little affairs of ours, about which we make such an infernal racket at the time, are matters of very small importance in the march of the centuries. The march of the centuries may be majestic, but the waddle of this little ant of a man is not. It’s insignificant.”

“That’s a dangerous state of mind to be in, Dick,” said Lenox.

“And after all, you can’t help being a very important thing to yourself,” said Madeline. “And it must be of eternal significance to you whether your soul is walking with the centuries or against them.”

“My dear Madeline,” answered Dick, “when I am with you and such as you who live on a little remote mountain, eternity seems a very important matter; but when I am with most people, next Wednesday, when taxes are due, looms up and shuts out eternity. And you will permit me to think that you women who are sheltered and who sit with the good things of life heaped about you, don’t know very much about practical conditions.”

“But why isn’t my conscience as practical as my clothes?” persisted Madeline. “And why is the fortune made to-day in Montana mines and lost to-morrow in Wall Street any more practical than this same majestic march of the centuries and the great thoughts that circle about it? ‘Practical’ is such a foolish word, Dick.”

“Undoubtedly, to you,” said Dick with a little sneer. “But to most of the race to which we have the honor to belong it is the word that makes the dictionary heavy. It is because you do not know its meaning that you women, or perhaps I ought to use the despised term, ‘ladies,’ become the very beautiful and useless articles that you are—works of art, which may thrill and charm a man for a moment, when he has time to look at them, but which bear little relation to the stress of life which you can not comprehend.”

“Dick!” Madeline spoke almost with tears in her eyes. “It is not like you to have a fling at women.”

“You see I’m gathering wisdom as I go along.”

“Gathering idiocy, you mean,” interposed Mr. Lenox. “Dick, you young fool, the ideal woman is the goal toward which the rest of humanity must run; and the sooner you bend all your practical faculties in that direction, and there abase the knee, the better for you.”

He nodded down the table toward his wife, and she pursed up her lips and said, “You nice goose! That’s the way to keep us sweet-tempered.”

“I hope you’re not going to turn cynic, Dick,” said Ellery. “The rôle does not fit you.”

“A cynic,” interposed Mrs. Lenox, “always thinks that he has discovered the sourness of the world. In reality all he has found is his own bad digestion. I should hate to think there was anything on my table to cause acute indigestion, Dick.”

“Perhaps there is a cog loose in his brain so that his wheels do not work together,” added Ellery.

“At any rate, cynicism is self-confessed failure; so don’t give way to it,” Mr. Lenox concluded.

“Oh, I give up. Spare me,” cried Dick.

Mrs. Lenox rose with a little nod, and as Madeline swept past him towards the door, Dick turned for an instant and stopped her laughingly.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean it. I felt like saying something obnoxious.”

“But you always used to want to be nice, Dick,” she answered.

“Miss Elton,” Mrs. Percival spoke severely, as a matron to a heedless girl, “perhaps the gentlemen would prefer to have their smoke alone. Are you coming to the drawing-room with us?”

Later, much later, Lena, in the privacy of her own room, awaited the coming of her husband who seemed to her to prolong outrageously the game of billiards which made his excuse for sitting up a little longer than herself. She shook out her fluff of hair, and arrayed herself in a bewildering pink dressing-gown from beneath which she toasted some very pink toes before the fire. She knew what arguments told on the masculine intellect. And at last Dick came.

“Sit down over there,” she commanded. “No, you shan’t come near me, Dick, until I’ve said my say. I’m really much displeased, and you need not act as though you thought it was a trifling matter.”

Dick sat humbly in the spot appointed.

“Dick, I don’t want you to say any more horrid little things about women. You’ve done it several times lately. The other day you said something to Mr. Early about his ‘glorious freedom’; and you made a sneering remark to Mr. Preston about women’s small dishonesties.”

“Only jokes, I assure you.”

“Everybody knows that women are a great deal better than men.”

“They must be,” said Dick. “Literature is full of statements to that effect.”

“And marriage is far more desirable than ‘glorious freedom’.”

“It is,” answered Dick. “So long as there are things to disagree about, marriage will not lose its savor.”

“You say that in a perfectly mean way, as though you did not really believe anything nice. But whether you believe it or not, I am going to ask you not to talk so any more,” Mrs. Percival went on with dignity, “because it sounds exactly like a criticism of me, and I think you owe it to me to treat me with respect. What must people think of me when you fling in—what do you call them—innuendoes like that around?”

Mr. Percival looked at his wife in silence; then he picked her up, chair and all, and whirled her around in front of a long pier glass.

“Do you see that?” he demanded.

Lena saw and dimpled.

“Now I propose,” Dick went on, “to carry you down stairs, just as you are! I shall then arouse the whole household by my shouts and gather them around you; and when every man jack of them is there, I shall say ‘Ladies and gentlemen, is it possible for a man whose wife looks like this to utter any serious accusation against femininity?’”

“Dick, don’t be silly,” said Lena, pouting with pleasure, and she glanced again at herself in the glass. “I am nice, am I not?”

“Nice!” ejaculated Dick, “Huyler and Maillard and Whitman and Lowney, all rolled into one big candy man, never dreamed of anything so sweet. Did you really think I was disrespectful? Why, little Lena!”

Easter morning dawned, a God-given splendor of blue and spring softness, and the six stood, after breakfast, on the veranda and looked at the day.

“Time and the world are before you. Choose how you will spend the forenoon,” said Mrs. Lenox.

“I should like to drive,” Lena promptly replied. “Mr. Lenox was telling me last night about his new pair of horses. I know he is pining to show them off.”

She cast one of her most fascinating glances at her unmoved host.

“Just the thing. How shall we divide up?” And Mrs. Lenox looked vaguely around.

“Miss Elton and I,” said Norris boldly, “are going to row, just as we used last summer.”

Madeline glanced sidewise at him with some astonishment, as he made this radical statement, but although she pondered a moment, she offered no objection. Dick also glanced at him longingly as he said “last summer”. Our lives seem made of little bits that have small relation with each other. Things just happen. And yet, when we look back over a long stretch we realize that life is a coherent whole, that it leads somewhere, and Dick’s life had led a long way in the past year. So he too became grave but said nothing, as he resigned himself to a back seat beside Mrs. Lenox and watched Lena perched airily beside her host.

“Now I hope that matter will be amicably settled,” Mrs. Lenox began, looking with a satisfied air at the two unmarried people who were starting toward the boat-house.

“What!” Dick exclaimed with a sudden start.

“Are you a bat that you can not see daylight facts?” she cried, turning upon him.

“I dare say I am.” And he looked very sober. “Yes, I suppose it is all right. Norris is one of those fellows who always knows what he wants, and just plods along until he gets it.”

“I said ‘row’,” Ellery remarked as he pushed the boat out from shore, “but I meant ‘loaf and invite the soul’. The sunlight is too delectable for anything strenuous.”

“But inviting the soul is always a solitary experience,” objected Madeline.

“Perhaps. But it is delightful to know that there is a sister soul also inviting herself close at hand. I hope yours will accept the invitation. ‘At home—the soul of Mr. Ellery Norris, to meet the soul of Miss Madeline Elton’.”

A soft flush rose over Madeline’s face and she devoted herself to the tiller ropes.

“P.S. Please come,” Ellery went on with a laugh. “R.S.V.P.”

“Aren’t you ‘flouting old ends’?” she smiled.

“I hoped I was flouting new beginnings,” he answered soberly, and he rowed languidly in a silence which Madeline rushed to fill.

“I’ve been thinking ever since last night about Dick,” she said. “He is so different from the buoyant creature of last summer. And it is only a year.”

“Well, perhaps this is a phase.” He rested on his oars and looked at her. “Dick is healthy, and joy is his normal state. He ought to be able to recover from his malady.”

“Sometimes I think it is permanent.”

“I am almost afraid, too. But you see you can not get any bargains in the department store of this world. You have to pay full price for everything. If you want self-indulgence, you have to pay your health; if you want health, you have to pay self-control. You never pay less than the value of what you get, and you are often horribly over-charged for a very inferior article. Now Dick wanted Lena Quincy. He bought a little gratification, and paid—”

“What?”

“Everything he had,” answered Norris abruptly. “Do you think I have not watched his courage and ideals wither as if they had been frosted? He is numb. ‘Heavy as frost,’ Wordsworth said, and that’s the weightiest figure he could find. It did not take her a month to begin to change him. In three months she has him well started. Isn’t it a pity that the worse one of the two should have the controlling force? But Dick’s very volatility that we love has laid him open to this thing.”

“I’m glad,” said Madeline slowly, “that he has his political interest.”

“Yes, he’s going into it with a kind of fury.”

“Won’t that give him a big outlet?”

“He may get a lot of satisfaction and do a really creditable thing.”

“Your tone does not sound very hopeful.”

“A single interest in life may accomplish more for the world, but I don’t believe it is very satisfactory for one’s self.”

Madeline looked at him inquiringly.

“God gives us of His own creative power,” he said reverently, and there came into his very practical face that dreamy look which she had seen there once or twice before. “He supplies us with the raw materials of the universe, gold and beauty and food and desire—and love—and He bids us out of these things to build a man. We can’t build a successful man if we use only one ingredient. We get a complete man only when we use them all.”

Madeline stared off across the waters, and Ellery watched her over shipped oars. At last he said, “But are you going to think only of Dick, and Dick, and Dick for ever?”

She turned on him a face flushed but utterly frank.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said. “But you are mistaken, quite mistaken.” And she met his eyes squarely in spite of her heightened color. “At this very moment I was thinking more of you than of him,” she added.

“And what of me?”

“I was thinking how I misread you at first. I thought you a kind of grub.”

“And now?”

“That you are dogged and persistent; and that therefore you stick to your ideals better than he.”

“Do you know how comparatively easy that is, even for a plodder, when his ideals are set up before him in visible form, so that he can not forget them by day or by night? I wonder if you can realize what it means to have a face like yours looking up from every dirty strip of galley-proof, and a voice like yours sounding under the rumble of the big presses. It’s something of a possession for an every-day man.” A soft glow that might have been a trick of the spring sun spread over Madeline’s face. There is no thought more intoxicating to a girl than to feel that she stands to a man for his ideals. A long sweet silence fell between them, while she mused on this thing, and he watched her in tense anxiety.

“Madeline!” he cried, suddenly leaning forward and catching her hands. “I must tell you! You must know, and I must know!”

With the grasp of his fingers, the first physical touch of love, an electric pang seemed to leap through the girl’s body; and in the flash were shown to her new heights and depths in herself, and a thousand dim things in the future. She felt, in the man, the revelation of that mystery by which the body’s passion slips into passion of the soul—that soul-love, which by its very nature can never know lassitude nor revulsion. And what was actual in him, grew radiant with possibility in herself.

She looked up to meet his eager face and his eyes like lamps. “No, no!” she cried. “Don’t tell me.”

“But do you know without telling?”

“I must think.”

“But surely you must have read it long ago.”

“I only glanced at it. I never looked it in the face.”

“Don’t examine it too closely now, or I’m afraid you will find it a poor thing,” he said whimsically. “Take it on impulse, Madeline.”

But she waved him away with her hand, turning her face to one side, and leaned back in her cushions, while Ellery waited, hardly breathing. There was a deep hush on the opal waters under the April morning sky, and no sound but the far-off note of a wood-thrush.

“Madeline!” he cried at last. “Be merciful, and speak to me.”

She gathered her self-possession and turned to face him with smiles and dimples, and one swift look full in the face.

“Mr. Norris,” she said airily, and then laughed as his face fell at the title, “we are in the middle of a big sheet of water, and I do not want you to upset the boat; we are visible from many miles of shore, and the world and his wife are driving and motoring on this most beautiful of days; but over on our right there is a lovely little beach, and a clump of willows that have forced the season a bit. Perhaps, if we went there, I might listen to what you have to say.”

“Oh, Madeline, my Madeline,” he said, “I can never tell you because the words are not made that will hold it, and it will take a lifetime to tell it all. But, if you are willing, we will make a beginning over there by the dipping willows.” He shot a stormy glance at her as he caught the oars, and she met it bravely. “Please don’t trail your fingers in the water,” he said. “You are delaying the progress of the boat.”

“Heaven forbid delay!” she cried in mock horror, and showered him with the drops from her lifted hand.

The keel grated, and Ellery sprang ashore and held out his arms to help her.

“Madeline,” he said, sternly holding her at arm’s length, “this spot is so evidently created for a lovers’ bower, that I suspect you of having had your eye on it for a long time. How did you come to direct me here?”

“Instinct,” she laughed. “That wonderful instinct of woman.”

“Shall we stay here for ever and let the world wag?”

“And live on locusts and wild honey?” she asked.

“Yes, if you will be my wild honey. I’m going to begin to devour you right away.” And he caught her at last.

“Who gave you permission?” she whispered with cheek close to his.

“Who? Haven’t you heard the universe shouting aloud? The sky, and the sun and the lake and the woods. They’ve been crying ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!’ for the last ten minutes. You’ll never contradict them, sweetheart?”

“Never,” said she.

For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and she read in his that mastery without tyranny which for some inexplicable reason sets a woman’s heart beating with unimagined bliss.

Ten minutes later, or so it seemed, Madeline pulled his watch from his pocket and started in dismay.

“Ellery,” she cried, “do you know that we have been sitting here for four hours? What will Mrs. Lenox and all the others think?”

“Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth, if their imaginations can soar to that height.”

“We must hurry back.”

“Don’t you think it is a little brutal to invite a man to leave Heaven and go back to earth?”

“Perhaps we need a dose of the world. Medicine is good for one.”

“Not unless he is ill; and I was never well till now.”

“Come, Ellery, we really must go,” she said with severity.

“Well, there’s lunch,” he meditated. “I confess that I can view the prospect of luncheon with something like equanimity. There are certain advantages about the world, Madeline.”

It was long after the driving party had returned when Miss Elton and Mr. Norris strolled up the path from the boat-house, quite indifferent to the fact of their lateness. Dick on the piazza watched their coming and needed no handwriting on the wall. The girl glowed and Ellery reflected her light.

“It would be a perfect woman who should unite her spirit with Lena’s soul-delighting body,” Percival said to himself. “And Ellery chooses the spirit, and I, God help me, love and choose the body. But I can not bear to meet them.”

He was turning to slip away when he met his wife face to face, and stopped half in curiosity to see what she would notice and hear what she would say. Lena, too, gazed at the oblivious advancing pair.

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Mrs. Percival. “I should think she’d feel pretty cheap.”

“Why?” asked Dick, startled.

“Coming down to a nobody like that!” Lena retorted in scorn. “But I think she has been going off in her looks lately, and I dare say she knows it, and is glad to get even him.”

The billiard room was empty, and Dick went in and shut the door.

Most of the “real people” as Mrs. Appleton called them, in improvement on their Maker’s classification, were leaving town either for the lake or for some more distant breathing place, but she was tied at home, first because Mrs. Percival the elder, whom Dick refused to desert, preferred the wide quiet of her rooms, and second because Dick himself grew daily more absorbed in his political labors.

Lena went to say good-by for the summer to Mrs. Appleton and was bidden to come up stairs to a disordered little room where that matron superintended a flushed maid busy with packing.

“I am really quite played out with all this turmoil,” Mrs. Appleton sighed. “Truly, dear Mrs. Percival, I think you are to be congratulated on staying at home. The game is not worth the candle.”

“I think, if Madame is tired, I could finish alone.” Marie lifted a face that manifested hope from the bottom of a trunk, but Madame shook her head. It was one of her principles to see to everything herself and so gain the proud consciousness of utter exhaustion in doing her duty.

Lena glanced enviously about the heaped up gowns and lacy lingerie. It made her own stock seem mean.

“Perhaps it will amuse you to look these over while I am busy,” Mrs. Appleton went on good-humoredly, pushing a leather-bound case across the table toward Lena’s arm. Mrs. Percival lifted out one little tray after another with growing sullenness. The profusion of jewels gave her no pleasure. She slammed the trays back in place.

“Did Mr. Appleton give you all of these?” she demanded.

“Yes. Isn’t he generous? But he says that my type of beauty is one that can stand lavish decoration.”

“He’s certainly more free than Dick,” Lena said with bald envy, reviewing her own small store that a few short months ago had seemed to her like the wealth of Ormus and of Ind.

“My dear,” Mrs. Appleton exclaimed with a self-conscious laugh, “you can hardly expect Dick Percival to rival Humphrey.”

Mrs. Percival felt bitterly her friend’s loftiness of position. It was of course impossible for a woman to feel superior to what she owns and Mrs. Appleton owned more and always would own more than Lena Percival. “Do you know, my love,” Mrs. Appleton pursued, “I think your husband is making a great mistake in going in for petty politics. With his pull, and his fair amount of capital to start with, he ought to be able to make a fortune. He’s just throwing his life away.”

“Don’t you suppose I know it?” Lena cried tearfully. “I’ve told him so a hundred times. He’s just crazy over these nasty little things. He’s willing to sacrifice anything to get the place of ward alderman away from some miserable Swede. Think of me tied in town all summer!”

“I wouldn’t stand it,” Mrs. Appleton answered absently, her eyes on Marie, stuffing tissue paper in a sleeve. “A woman has such influence on her husband. Take matters in your own hands, my dear.”

Lena, rebellious at heart, found her only diversion in occasional week-ends at other people’s country houses, or in long flights by evening in Dick’s motor. Her husband was self-absorbed and often silent, another person, as she frequently and querulously rubbed into him, from the ardent creature of a few months before.

Sometimes he made attempts to open to her his subjects of thought, but Lena never attempted to understand things that did not interest her, and now that she was safely married, it was too much trouble to make much pretense at it; so she was often alone, and frequently bored.

Even Mr. Early was away most of the time, and the great blank eyes of closed windows blinked down at her from his closed house beyond the dividing hedge that flanked the garden. His place stood on a corner, and on the two sides that fronted the streets, Sebastian had hidden the wonders of his terraces and trimmed trees by high walls, but toward the Percivals he had been less exclusive. Most of the houses in St. Etienne, like their own, had no property dividing line, but lawn melted into lawn with a park-like openness that hinted at communistic kindliness. This had its disadvantages in lack of privacy, and hence it was that in spite of quite an extensive demesne, Lena found in her own garden no spot absolutely hidden from curious eyes of passers, except in one thicket of trees and shrubbery over near the Early boundary. Here there was seclusion, and here, therefore, young Mrs. Percival had her hammock and her group of chairs and tables; and here she spent long indolent afternoons in sleepy reading and sleepier dreaming, which was only less agreeable than the social triumphs of which she dreamed. And yet she often found herself weary of nothing, and wished she had some one exactly to her taste to keep her company and talk to her about little things in that “fool’s paradise of laziness” where, it is said, Satan is entertainer in chief. Once in a while, on his brief home-stays, Mr. Early illuminated her retreat with his presence.

Toward the middle of the summer, certain business interests called Dick to North Dakota, and then life was duller than ever.

Therefore it was a not wholly unwelcome diversion when, late on an August afternoon, she saw the thick laurels of the hedge near her part a little and the form of Ram Juna stand in the cleft, snowy white from turban to slippers save for the gleaming ruby and the polished bronze face. He looked like the day itself, glowing, sultry, indolent.

“Pardon me, dear lady,” he said, “that through the bush I spied you. I was solitary. You are solitary. The heat suits not with the severer thought. The weak body refuses to yield to the commands of mind. I fail to write; and perhaps you fail to read.”

“I guess your thinking is harder work than my reading. Won’t you come over and sit down?” said Lena cordially.

“Then you, like me, would welcome companionship?”

“Yes. Isn’t this a nice shady place?” Lena answered. “The maid is just bringing me some iced drinks, and I dare say they’ll taste good to you if you have been trying to write that wonderful book of yours in all this blaze.”

The Hindu pushed the hedge still farther asunder and swept with a sigh of content over to a cushioned reclining chair.

“If one’s heart were set on the things that fade, what greater satisfaction? Shadow, deep shadow from the heat, cool drafts, the voice of a fair woman.”

“You must not count me among the things that fade, though,” laughed Lena, as she handed him a tall glass of clinking fragrance. “I shan’t like you a bit if you do.”

“Everything fades, the rose, the lady, even thought, which is after all but a grub on the tree of truth. All, all fade.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” objected Lena. “You make me feel quite creepy.”

“Ah,” said Ram Juna, “you love the things of to-day. To me the thought that all is transitory is bliss. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” said Lena, “I’m sure I like roses and jewels and iced minty stuff to drink. And Ram Juna, I wish you would tell me the really-truly history of your ruby. I’ve heard so many stories about it.” He put up his hand, detached the great jewel from its place and laid it in her small outstretched palm.

“That is a mark of my confiding,” he said. “There are few to whom I would give to handle my treasure. It may truly be called a stone of blood. Such angry storms of greed and passion, such murders of father by son and husband by wife link their story to it. And now it rests at last on the head of a man of peace. For how long? For how long?” Lena looked at it with the eyes of fascination as it lay in her open hand.

“It charms you like a serpent?” asked her companion, leaning forward with indolent amusement. “You are true woman. You love the glitter. Would you like to see others?”

“Have you others?” cried Lena. “Oh—oh, I should like to see them!” He rose, made her a salaam of grace, parted the hedge once more and disappeared only to return bringing in his hands a curious box of carven ivory, which he set on the table between them and proceeded to unlock with a key of quaint device.

Lena gave a cry of rapture and astonishment as the lid fell back. Ram Juna laid his hand on her arm.

“Silence!” he commanded, “would it be well that the flippant public who pass near at hand on the pavement should know that there are such treasures in this thicket?”

“I did not know that there was so much splendor in the world,” whispered Lena in admiration.

“Rubies—all rubies! They were the stones beloved of my ancestors. This dangled once on the neck of a maha-ranee, more beautiful than itself, only, unfortunately, she lost her neck, murdered by a rival queen.”

He twisted the string of gems about her arm, bare to the elbow, and Lena gasped with pleasure.

“Let me add this bracelet—a serpent. See of curious carved gold the scales, and the eyes again two wicked rubies to beguile men’s souls. Yet it becomes the arm, does it not? Look, at your pleasure, at the rest of the box.”

He pushed the case toward her and Lena began to finger its profuse contents with occasional sighs of envious delight and glances at her white flesh enhanced by its ornaments. Ram Juna sat in silence.

“How do you dare to carry such things around with you?” she asked.

“Not much longer,” he answered with a shrug. “To me they are delusions inappropriate. I see that is your thought. Is it not so? What have I to do with necklaces and rings of princesses? I had forgotten that I had them, until a chance thought recalled it. I had long since meant to sell them and give the money to the great cause for which I labor. That is my treasure, is it not? I shall never take them back to India. I must hasten to get rid of them, for I purpose to return there at once.”

“Why, are you going away?”

“To-morrow I leave this city. My work here is done. It is the last of work. Hereafter I shall find some solitary spot and end my life in meditations. And the rubies—I might give them away; but perhaps the trifle I should receive for them would help the Brothers in their service. I shall not expect or wish their value.”

“Oh, I wish I might buy some of them!”

“Why not? No lady could wear them with greater dignity. Young, beautiful, beloved, and clothed with jewels. It is the frame for the picture, Madame.”

“Oh!” said Lena.

“To you, whom I reverence, they should cost but a trifle.”

“How much?” gasped Lena.

“The necklace, now,” said Ram Juna, and he leaned over and twisted it about her arm as he seemed to hesitate, “I would give you that for five thousand dollars—and you can see that it is worth—ah, I know not how many times that sum. I do not understand these things.”

“But my husband is away, and I have not any thing like that sum. Besides, I could not buy it without asking him, you know. Oh, I should like it!”

“Bah, it is a trifle to a lady in your position. You could in many ways raise so paltry an amount. I can not, unfortunately, give you time to deliberate.” He was speaking very rapidly with many gestures, quite unlike his usual calm. “I tell you I return to India without delay. If you would wish those beautiful things you must hasten—to-day. Any person, I think, would lend you such money. Mr. Early—ah, yes—Mr. Early.”

“Mr. Early is away, isn’t he?”

Lena was growing confused. She turned the glittering string around and around on her arm, and her heart was big with foolish longing. The necklace seemed the only thing in life worth while. Ram Juna’s quick movements and urgent words quite took away her powers of reasoning.

“Mr. Early? Yes. He returned this morning. Shall I tell you a great secret, Madame? A man loves the one for whom he does a favor. Would it not be wise to let Mr. Early do this thing for you? I know he will lend you without question. It will hereafter bind him to you. See. I make the arrangements with him myself. Ladies know nothing of business, and I not much. But I talk with him, he understands, and I make all smooth. Will you? Shall I? Yes or no? Do not lose such a treasure by hesitancy. Your husband shall thank you when he comes again. Yes? See the sunlight comes through the trees and makes the rubies like itself.”

“Oh, if Mr. Early would,” said Lena. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. And if Mr. Percival thinks I can’t afford it, the rubies are worth more than I paid for them anyway.”

“You are reasonable. Hold it. I trust you while I go to see Mr. Early, and return. The necklace is yours, beautiful lady.”

Ram Juna was awakened from his usual serenity and full of tiger-like restlessness. Again he plunged through the hedge, and Lena saw the white turban flying toward the house. Even Mr. Early looked around startled as his usually torpid guest burst into the little den.

“Hello!” he said. “What’s up?”

“Early, I bring you opportunity, the greatest of gifts. The favor I shall confer, is it less than the favor I have received from you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sebastian.

“Once you say that you will give much to get the young Percival in your power.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“It is done.”

A look of real interest began to illuminate Mr. Early’s face. “Well?” he said sharply.

“I have rubies—rubies to lure the heart of a woman from her bosom. Madame, the young wife would give her soul—if she but had one. That is too hard. Let her give her note.” The Swami laughed gently. “You would lend her five thousand dollars, my friend, to buy rubies from me. That is an empty show. She gives you the note. I give her the necklace that she must have. That is all. There is no need to give me money. I return your hospitality thus.”

“Well, suppose I did all this. Dick Percival could easily discharge his wife’s debt.”

“Not so fast. Not so fast. The young wife is a fool as well as a knave. To the note she shall sign her husband’s name. That I will bring to pass. But you know nothing of this. Of course not. You suppose that the signature is genuine. You are unaware that Percival is out of town. And I—if I am guilty—I am with my guilty knowledge in the hut in the mountains of India. Do you not think that while you hold that note young Percival will gladly serve you in any fashion that you may choose, rather than that so foolish a piece of wife’s knavery should come abroad?”

“Gee whizz!” exclaimed Mr. Early, gazing at the simple seeker after truth, whose face shone with a radiant smile. “Gee whizz! Ram Juna, but you are a business man! But she won’t sign her husband’s name.”

Ram Juna’s smile expanded cheerfully.

“Let that remain to me. You have but to play your part,” he said.

Mr. Early thought hard for a moment.

“There is need to haste,” said the Swami gently. “She is now in the garden where access is easy. Make the note. I will take it to her to sign. Hasten, my friend.”

Mr. Early drew toward him pen and ink.

“It’s a little flyer, and there may be something in it,” he said. “I don’t see that I get into trouble any way. But see here, Swami, you deserve something for your work. I’m not going to see you lose that five thousand. When you bring me this I O U with Dick Percival’s signature, I’ll give you my check for the amount. Understand?”

“Be that as you will,” said the Hindu, and he caught the piece of paper and fled toward the thicket where Lena still played with her toy.

“Have I not told you?” he began suavely. “The necklace, less fair than its owner, is yours. But one moment. Will you first do me a favor?”

He lifted the great white turban from his hot forehead and set it on the table before her.

“A simple bit of the skill of my country,” he said. “Will you look fixedly into the great ruby that remains mine? And, as you look, will you yield your mind to me, and let me show you a vision? So—even deeper let your eyes penetrate to the heart of the jewel. Deeper and yet deeper.”

He made a swift motion or two before her, and her eyes grew fixed.

“What do you see?”

“Myself,” she answered.

“Naturally. What else could you ever see? But you are different. You are a thousand times more beautiful. The world lies at your feet. It is a world of adulation. Do you see this?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Now look away. We must not longer see the beautiful picture. You remember we have business. Mr. Early, your friend, and my friend, will lend you money. But how are you to repay him? You have nothing of your own. It must be your husband who secures you. In the front of the book which you are reading it is written ‘Richard Percival’. You will copy this with your utmost care, here on this paper. Ah, for you it is not hard to do this thing. For some it would be hard to persuade them. You make but a poor copy. That is of indifference. I will return this to Mr. Early. You will await me here.”

The August afternoon was closing, and the shadows grew strong here where vines knit the trees into close brotherhood. Lena lay back in her chair and clutched her treasure in a kind of stupor, until, in an incredibly short time Ram Juna again appeared, tucking a scrap of yellow paper into some inner pouch as he came. The Buddha smile still played about his lips. He seated himself on the ground and stared unblinkingly at the girl, and she gazed almost as fixedly back, except that once in a while her eyes wandered to the big red stone which still hung in the turban on the table. Ten minutes—fifteen minutes—they sat in silence, as though the Swami enjoyed the experience, then the bronze man rose and moved slowly toward her.

“Awake!” he whispered. “You must never forget that you wrote your husband’s name when you had not the right. Ah, in India, our knaves are not also fools.”

There was a sudden sharp noise and a cry in the garden behind the hedge; and the Swami leaped into attention with the swift motionlessness of a wild animal. Lena roused herself heavily and blinked about. There was no Swami to be seen. His turban lay on the table, but he himself had disappeared in a twinkling. She heard a rush of feet and voices raised in excitement and then a sharp command. Even while she listened, confused, a blue-coated starred man appeared at the opening in the hedge and over his shoulder she saw Mr. Early’s face, startled out of its decorum into bewildered anxiety.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said the officer. “Have you seen anything of that nigger preacher?”

“The Swami?” asked Lena.

The man nodded.

“He was here a moment ago—at least I think he was. I—I’m not sure. And he seems to have gone away. I don’t know where he is.” She looked vaguely around.

“Left this in his hurry, I guess,” said the man, taking possession of the turban. “He must be hiding somewhere near. With your permission, I will search the house, miss,” and he moved off without waiting for the said permission.

“Mrs. Percival,” said Mr. Early.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Percival,” the man threw back with an added air of respect. “It is an unpleasant duty, ma’am, but you’ll not object, I know.” He beckoned sharply to two or three others who stood behind Mr. Early, and turned toward the open door.

“What does all this mean, Mr. Early?” Lena gasped.

He tumbled as if exhausted into the same easy chair that Ram Juna had occupied a few moments before.

“I am completely staggered,” he exclaimed. “The police seem to think they have reason to suspect my guest of being implicated with a gang of counterfeiters. In fact they say that it is his extraordinary cunning of hand that produced the bills that have been appearing everywhere. And—great heavens!—he used my house as—as—as a fence! My house! Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Percival, but I am horribly upset. They’ve found dies and all kinds of queer things in the little room that he kept sacred to his meditations. But of course I can’t be suspected of knowing. Why, all my servants can bear testimony to the fact that I know nothing about that room.”

“Of course, Mr. Early, no one would think of accusing you.”

“Still, my house, you know—and my friend. It’s horrible!” In fact Mr. Early was shivering as though he had the ague. “It would drive me mad if any one should think—why, Mrs. Percival, think of the scandal of having him with me for months. Of course, if they catch him, I’ll make him clear me at once. But, take it how you will, it is awful. The least I can expect is to be laughed at over the whole civilized world for being his dupe. I’ve always prided myself on my clean skirts. You think I’m raving, Mrs. Percival. I am nearly mad.” Mr. Early suddenly leaped up with horror newly reborn in his eyes. “And I had just given him a large check. That is bound to look bad. There is no knowing how it may be misconstrued. Great heavens, what am I to do?”

Lena flushed.

“I’m afraid that check was for me,” she said. “Mr. Early, I want to thank you—for—for being so generous to me; and when Dick comes back from North Dakota, he will repay you at once.”

Mr. Early caught himself up and remembered that he had a part to play in the present drama.

“When Dick comes back,” he said in a stupefied way, “what do you mean by ‘when Dick comes back’? Isn’t he here now? Why, he must be. It isn’t an hour since he signed—”

“Didn’t you know he was away?” asked Lena timidly, her heart sinking, for Mr. Early’s tone was sharp.

“I certainly thought he signed a note made out to me. Was it another piece of the Swami’s clever forgery?”

“He—I—” cried poor Lena in confusion. “Oh, Mr. Early, do you call it forgery?—my own husband’s name? Oh, I—oh, Mr. Early, what are you thinking?” At this moment she was the picture of confused innocence.

Mr. Early looked at her and gave a long-drawn breath of astonishment.

“I understand,” he said at last, while Lena hung her head. “You wrote Dick’s name for him, and he knows nothing about it. Well, let it go at that. It is a matter of no consequence. And, my dear Mrs. Percival, I would suggest that this matter be kept a secret between you and me. We’ll never mention the debt again. I’m sure you will accept the rubies as a little gift from one of the most humble of your admirers.” He bent forward and kissed her finger-tips in his most gallant manner.

“Oh, Mr. Early, you are so good!” Lena’s voice expressed manifest relief. The memory came back to her of what Ram Juna had said about the bond created by favor. It flashed into her mind, “He thinks it is sweet and innocent and womanly in me to do such a thing in ignorance. Dick would think so, too. How should I know?”

“But suppose Dick shouldn’t like to have me take them from you, such a magnificent gift?”

“I would suggest,” Mr. Early’s manner was regaining some of its self-possession, “that you speak of the necklace—is that it in your hand? a really wonderful thing, with curious settings, carved by hand—as I was saying, I would suggest that you speak of it as a gift from the Swami, who, as is well known, was much impressed by your charms. A present from such a creature, who hardly comes into the category of ordinary men, would create no such remark as might a gift from me. Do you not see? We will let the truth remain a little secret between us two. I have an idea that we shall not be likely to see Ram Juna again. I fancy he is a fellow of greater cunning than any of us dreamed; and if he has a little start of the detectives, I doubt if they have so much as a glimpse of his heels; though, to be sure, he is rather a marked figure, and difficult to disguise. Now don’t forget. The Swami, with oriental profuseness, gave you the rubies.”

“You are a dear,” gushed Lena. “Oh, I do hope he is gone!” After all, it was a relief that Dick should not know.

“One favor I must ask, my dear Mrs. Percival,” Mr. Early went on hesitatingly. “If, by any chance, Dick should ever come to know of this, will you assure him that I supposed his signature to be genuine? I wouldn’t have him suspect that I—that I was a party—or at least that I knew that you wrote it for him. For really, little woman, it wasn’t strictly honest, you know.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t,” Lena confessed with charming blushes. “But I didn’t think. I don’t know much about such things, you know.”

“Of course you don’t. No nice woman does,” said Mr. Early comfortingly. “And now let us forget it.”

“Here come the officers,” said Lena.

“It ain’t no use,” said the captain disgustedly. “He’s given us the slip, somehow. And we’d watched the house and made sure we’d nab him.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mr. Early.

“Take his kit, and set guards and send telegraph descriptions of him in all directions. ’Taint likely he can get clean away. He’ll be a marked man wherever he goes.”

“If there is anything I can do to help you,” said Mr. Early grandiloquently, “you can command me, though you may imagine that it is very offensive to me to be mixed up in this kind of affair.”

“Well, rather,” said the officer dryly. Then, seeing the flush rising on Mr. Early’s face, he went on with the patronage of the majesty of the law: “You needn’t fear that you’ll suffer any personal inconvenience. We’ve had you under surveillance for a long time—ever since we began to suspect your nigger friend; and we know you are all right.” But the assurance seemed to add to Mr. Early’s discomfiture. “Looks as if it was going to blow up a storm. A dark night would be a good thing for him and a nuisance to us. But we’ll catch him sure.”

They were gone, and Lena lingered a moment, fastening her dearly-bought bauble around her neck and gathering her books, while a maid came scudding from the house to bundle rugs and cushions away in face of the thunder-heads looming in the southwest. A sudden sibilant sound brought Lena to attention.

“Mrs. Percival!” she heard. “Look up.”

Among the branches over her head the leaves were drawn so closely together that only a few faint glimmers of white showed, and the brilliant eyes that glared down at her were the most conspicuous things she saw.

“Listen and reply not,” he said. “You will bring a dark and large great-coat, and other dark garments that you can find, and leave them here with swiftness and secrecy. I command you. If you do not obey, I will make it the worse for you.”

He snarled suddenly, and Lena jumped back as though a tiger had sprung at her throat.

The face disappeared among the leaves, and Lena sped toward the house, hastened by a crash of thunder and a few great drops, that seemed to her frightened imagination like the servants of the savage creature that she had left in the tree-tops. She slipped out again, in spite of wind and rain, obedient to his command, and as she dropped her bundle at the foot of the tree trunk, she whispered,

“I hope, oh, I hope that you will get away!” But she heard no reply. The storm came down and the night fell, seamed with lightning.

Lena quietly ate her dinner, and listened to the well-bred calm voice of her mother-in-law as she wondered what Dick was doing, and when he would be at home again. But Lena wondered what Ram Juna was doing, and whether she should ever see him again.