William S. Hart - "Injun and Whitey to the Rescue"

Emil Lucka - "The Evolution of Love"

Thomas T Stoddart - "The Death Wake"

Lewis Theobald - "Preface to the Works of Shakespeare (1734)"

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Becky Saletan, publisher of the adult trade division, will leave next week in a sign of further unraveling at the publisher.

Houghton Mifflin Publisher Resigns
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
Mr. Friedlaender was a book-loving lawyer and financial adviser whose collection of early printed books caused a stir in bibliophilic circles when it went to auction.

Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> The Clarion




"But the paper will have to carry something about it. Too many folks saw
it happen."

"Just say that a crazy man tried to interrupt the lecture of Professor
Andrew Leon Certain, the distinguished medical savant, and was locked up
by the authorities."

"But the knifing. How is the boy?"

"Somebody's been giving you the wrong tip. There wasn't any knife,"
replied the Professor with a wink. "You may send me two hundred and
fifty copies of the paper. And, by the way, do what you can to get that
poor lunatic off easy, and I'll square the bills--with commission."

"I'll see the Justice first thing in the morning," said the editor with
enthusiasm. "Much obliged, Professor Certain. And the article will be
all right. I'll show you a proof. It mightn't be a bad notion for you to
drop in at the jail with me, and see Neal, the man that stab--that
interrupted the meeting, before he gets talking with any one else."

"So it mightn't. But what about my leaving, now?" Professor Certain
asked of the physician.

"Go ahead. I'll keep watch."

Shortly after the itinerant had gone out with the exponent of free and
untrammeled journalism, the boy awoke and looked about with fevered
anxiety for his father. The little nurse was beside him at once.

"You mustn't wiggle around," she commanded. "Do you want a drink?"

Gratefully he drank the water which she held to his lips.

"Where's my Dad?" he asked.

"He's gone out. He'll come back pretty soon. Lie down."

He sank back, fixing his eyes upon her. "Will you stay with me till he
comes?"

She nodded. "Does it hurt you much?" Her cool and tiny fingers touched
his forehead, soothingly. "You're very hot. I think you've got a little
fever."

"Don't take your hand away." His eyes closed, but presently opened
again. "I think you're very pretty," he said shyly.

"Do you? I like to have people think I'm pretty. Uncle Guardy scolds me
for it. Not really, you know, but just pretending. He says I'm vain."

"Is that your uncle, the gentleman that fixed my arm?"

"Yes. I call him Uncle Guardy because he's my guardian, too."

"I like him. He looks good. But I like you better. I like you a lot."

"Everybody does," replied the girl with dimpling complacency. "They
can't help it. It's because I'm me!"

For a moment he brooded. "Am I going to die?" he asked quite suddenly.

"Die? Of course not."

"Would you be sorry if I did?"

"Yes. If you died you couldn't like me any more. And I want everybody to
like me and think me pretty."

"I'm glad I'm not. It would be tough on Dad."

"My Uncle Guardy thinks your father is a bad man," said the fairy, not
without a spice of malice.

Up rose the patient from his pillow. "Then I hate him. He's a liar. My
Dad is the best man in the world." A brighter hue than fever burnt in
his cheeks, and his hand went to his shoulder. "I won't have his
bandages on me," he cried.

But she had thrown herself upon his arm, and pushed him back. "Oh,
don't! Please don't," she besought. "Uncle Guardy told me to keep you
perfectly quiet. And I've made you sit up--"

"What's all this commotion?" demanded Dr. Elliot brusquely, from the
door.

"You said my father was a bad man," cried the outraged patient.

"Lie back, youngster." The physician's hand was gentle, but very firm.
"I don't recall saying any such thing. Where did you get it?"

"I said you _thought_ he was a bad man," declared the midget girl. "I
know you do. You wouldn't have spoken back to him down in the square if
you hadn't."

Her uncle turned upon her a slow, cool, silent regard. "Esme, you talk
too much," he said finally. "I'm a little ashamed of you, as a nurse.
Take your place there by the bedside. And you, young man, shut your ears
and eyes and go to sleep."

Hardly had the door closed behind the autocrat of the sick-room, when
his patient turned softly.

"You're crying," he accused.

"I'm not!" The denial was the merest gasp. The long lashes quivered with
tears.

"Yes, you are. He was mean to you."

"He's _never_ mean to me." The words came in a sobbing rush. "But
he--he--stopped loving me just for that minute. And when anybody I love
stops loving me I want to die!"

The boy's brown hands crept timidly to her arm. "I like you awfully," he
said. "And I'll never stop, not even for a minute!"

"Won't you?" Again she was the child coquette. "But we're going away
to-night. Perhaps you won't see me any more."

"Oh, yes, I shall. I'll look for you until I find you."

"I'll hide," she teased.

"That won't matter, little girl." He repeated the form softly and
drowsily. "Little girl; little girl; I'd do anything in the world for
you, little girl, if ever you asked me. Only don't go away while I'm
asleep."

Back of them the door had opened quietly and Professor Certain, who,
with Dr. Elliot, had been a silent spectator of the little drama, now
closed it again, withdrawing, on the further side, with his companion.

"He'll sleep now," said the physician. "That's all he needs. Hello!
What's this?"

In a corner of the sofa was a tiny huddle, outlined vaguely as human,
under a faded shawl. Drawing aside the folds, the quack disclosed a wild
little face, framed in a mass of glowing red hair.

"That Hardscrabbler's young 'un," he said. "She was crying quietly to
herself, in the darkness outside the jail, poor little tyke. So I picked
her up, and" (with a sort of tender awkwardness) "she was glad to come
with me. Seemed to kind of take to me. Kiddies generally do."

"Do they? That's curious."

"I suppose you think so," replied the quack, without rancor.

"What are you going to do with her?"

"I'll see, later. At present I'm going to keep her here with us. She's
only seven, and her mother's dead. Are you staying here to-night?"

"Got to. Missed my connection."

"Then at least you'll let me pay your hotel bill, if you won't take my
money."

"Why, yes: I suppose so," said the other grudgingly. "I'll look at the
boy in the morning. But he'll be all right. Only, don't take up your
itinerating again for a few days."

"I'm through, I tell you. Give me a growing city to settle in and I'll
go in for the regular proprietary manufacturing game. Know anything
about Worthington?"

"Yes."

"Pretty good, live town?"

"First-class, and not too critical, I suppose, to accept your business,"
said Dr. Elliot dryly. "I'm on my way there now for a visit. Well, I
must get my little girl."

The itinerant opened the door, looked, and beckoned. The boy lay on his
pillow, the girl was curled in her chair, both fast asleep. Their hands
were lightly clasped.

Dr. Elliot lifted his ward and carried her away. The itinerant,
returning to the Hardscrabbler girl, took her out to arrange the night's
accommodation for her. So, there slept that night under one roof and at
the charge of Professor Andrew L. Certain, five human beings who, long
years after, were destined to meet and mingle their fates, intricate,
intimate strands in the pattern of human weal and woe.




CHAPTER II

OUR LEADING CITIZEN


The year of grace, 1913, commended itself to Dr. L. Andre Surtaine as an
excellent time in which to be alive, rich, and sixty years old.
Thoroughly, keenly, ebulliently alive he was. Thoroughly rich, also; and
if the truth be told, rather ebulliently conscious of his wealth. You
could see at a glance that he had paid no usurious interest to Fate on
his success; that his vigor and zest in life remained to him
undiminished. Vitality and a high satisfaction with his environment and
with himself as well placed in it, radiated from his bulky and handsome
person; but it was the vitality that impressed you first: impressed and
warmed you; perhaps warned you, too, on shrewder observation. A gleaming
personality, this. But behind the radiance one surmised fire. Occasion
given, Dr. Surtaine might well be formidable.

The world had been his oyster to open. He had cleaved it wide.
Ill-natured persons hinted, in reference to his business, that he had
used poison rather than the knife wherewith to loosen the stubborn
hinges of the bivalve. Money gives back small echo to the cries of
calumny, however. And Dr. Surtaine's Certina, that infallible and
guaranteed blood-cure, eradicator of all known human ills, "famous
across the map of the world," to use one of its advertising phrases,
under the catchword of "Professor Certain's Certina, the Sure-Cure" (for
he preserved the old name as a trade-mark), had made a vast deal of
money for its proprietor. Worthington estimated his fortune at fifteen
millions, growing at the rate of a million yearly, and was not
preposterously far afield. In a city of two hundred thousand
inhabitants, claimed (one hundred and seventy-five thousand allowed by a
niggling and suspicious census), this is all that the most needy of
millionaires needs. It was all that Dr. Surtaine needed. He enjoyed his
high satisfaction as a hard-earned increment.

Something more than satisfaction beamed from his face this blustery
March noon as he awaited the Worthington train at a small station an
hour up the line. He fidgeted like an eager boy when the whistle
sounded, and before the cars had fairly come to a stop he was up the
steps of the sleeper and inside the door. There rose to meet him a tall,
carefully dressed and pressed youth, whose exclamation was evenly
apportioned between welcome and surprise.

"Dad!"

"Boy-ee!"

To the amusement of the other passengers, the two seized each other in a
bear-hug.

"Oof!" panted the big man, releasing his son. "That's the best thing
that's happened to me this year. George" (to the porter), "get me a
seat. Get us two seats together. Aren't any? Perhaps this gentleman,"
turning to the chair back of him, "wouldn't mind moving across the aisle
until we get to Worthington."

"Certainly not. Glad to oblige," said the stranger, smiling. People
usually were "glad to oblige" Dr. Surtaine whether they knew him or not.
The man inspired good will in others.

"It's nearly a year since I've set eyes on my son," he added in a voice
which took the whole car into his friendly confidence; "and it seems
like ten. How are you feeling, Hal? You look chirp as a cricket."

"Couldn't possibly feel better, sir. Where did you get on?"

"Here at State Crossing. Thought I'd come up and meet you. The office
got on my nerves this morning. Work didn't hold me worth a cent. I kept
figuring you coming nearer and nearer until I couldn't stand it, so I
banged down my desk, told my secretary that I was going to California on
the night boat and mightn't be back till evening, hung the scrap-basket
on the stenographer's ear when she tried to hold me up to sign some
letters, jumped out of the fifth-story window, and here I am. I hope
you're as tickled to see me as I am to see you."

The young man's hand went out, fell with a swift movement, to touch his
father's, and was as swiftly withdrawn again.

"Worthington's just waiting for you," the Doctor rattled on. "You're put
up at all the clubs. People you've never heard of are laying out dinners
and dances for you. You're a distinguished stranger; that's what you
are. Welcome to our city and all that sort of thing. I'd like to have a
brass band at the station to meet you, only I thought it might jar your
quiet European tastes. Eh? At that, I had to put the boys under bonds to
keep 'em from decorating the factory for you."

"You don't seem to have lost any of your spirit, Dad," said the junior,
smiling.

"Noticed that already, have you? Well, I'm holding my own, Boyee. Up to
date, old age hasn't scratched me with his claws to any noticeable
extent--is that the way it goes?--see 'Familiar Quotations.' I'm getting
to be a regular book-worm, Hal. Shakespeare, R.L.S., Kipling, Arnold
Bennett, Hall Caine--all the high-brows. And I _get_ 'em, too. Soak 'em
right in. I love it! Tell me, who's this Balzac? An agent was in
yesterday trying to make me believe that he invented culture. What about
him? I'm pretty hot on the culture trail. Look out, or I'll overhaul
you."

"You won't have to go very far or fast. I've got only smatterings." But
the boy spoke with a subdued complacency not wholly lost upon the shrewd
father.

"Not so much that you'll think Worthington dull and provincial?"

"Oh, I dare say I shall find it a very decent little place."

But here Hal touched another pride and loyalty, quite as genuine as that
which Dr. Surtaine felt for his son.

"Little place!" he cried. "Two hundred thousand of the livest people on
God's earth. A gen-u-wine American city if there ever was one."

"Evidently it suits you, sir."

"Couldn't suit better if I'd had it made to order," chuckled the Doctor.
"And I did pretty near make it over to order. It was a dead-and-alive
town when we opened up here. Didn't care much about my business, either.
Now we're the biggest thing in town. Why Certina is the cross-mark that
shows where Worthington is on the map. The business is sim-plee
BOOMING." The word exploded in rapture. "Nothing like it ever known in
the proprietary trade. Wait till you see the shop."

"That will be soon, won't it, sir? I think I've loafed quite long
enough."

"You're only twenty-five," his father defended him. "It isn't as if
you'd been idling. Your four years abroad have been just so much
capital. Educational capital, I mean. I've got plenty of the other kind,
for both of us. You don't need to go into the business unless you want
to."

"Being an American, I suppose I've got to go to work at something."

"Not necessarily."

"You don't want me to live on you all my life, though, I suppose."

"Well, I don't want you to want me to want you to," returned the other,
laughing. "But there's no hurry."

"To tell the truth, I'm rather bored with doing nothing. And if I can be
of any use to you in the business--"

"You're ready to resume the partnership," his father concluded the
sentence for him. "That was the foundation of it all; the old days when
I did the 'spieling' and you took in the dollars. How quick your little
hands were! Can you remember it? The smelly smoke of the torches, and
the shadows chasing each other across the crowds below. And to think
what has grown out of it. God, Boyee! It's a miracle," he exulted.

"It isn't very clear in my memory. I used to get pretty sleepy, I
remember," said the son, smiling.

"Poor Boyee! Sometimes I hated the life, for you. But there was nobody
to leave you with; and you were all I had. Anyway, it's turned out well,
hasn't it?"

"That remains to be seen for me, doesn't it? I'm rather at the start of
things."

"Most youngsters would be content with an unlimited allowance, and the
world for a playground."

"One gets tired of playing. _And_ of globe-trotting."

"Good! Do you think you can make Worthington feel like home?"

"How can I tell, sir? I haven't spent two weeks altogether in the place
since I entered college eight years ago."

"Did it ever strike you that I'd carefully planned to keep you away from
here, and that our periods of companionship have all been abroad or at
summer places?"

"Yes."

"You've never spoken of it."

"No."

"Good boy! Now I'll tell you why. I wanted to be absolutely established
before I brought you back here. Not in business, alone. That came long
ago. There have been obstacles, in other ways. They're all overcome.
To-day we come pretty near to being king-pins in this town, you and I,
Hal. Do you feel like a prince entering into his realm?"

"Rather more like a freshman entering college," said the other,
laughing. "It isn't the town, it's the business that I have misgivings
about."

"Misgivings? How's that?" asked the father quickly.

"What I can do in it."

"Oh, that. My doubts are whether it's the best thing for you."

"Don't you want me to go into it, Dad?"

"Of course I want you with me, Boyee. But--well, frank and flat, I don't
know whether it's genteel enough for you."

"Genteel?" The younger Surtaine repeated the distasteful adjective with
surprise.

"Some folks make fun of it, you know. It's the advertising that makes it
a fair mark. 'Certina,' they say. 'That's where he made his money.
Patent-medicine millions.' I don't mind it. But for you it's different."

"If the money is good enough for me to spend, it's good enough for me to
earn," said Hal Surtaine a little grandiloquently.

"Humph! Well, the business is a big success, and I want you to be a big
success. But that doesn't mean that I want to combine the two. Isn't
there anything else you've ever thought of turning to?"

"I've got something of a leaning toward your profession, Dad."

"My prof--oh, you mean medicine."

"Yes."

"Nothing in it. Doctors are a lot of prejudiced pedants and hypocrites.
Not one in a thousand is more than an inch wide. What started you on
that?"

"I hardly know. It was just a notion. I think the scientific and
sociological side is what appeals to me. But my interest is only
theoretical."

"That's very well for a hobby. Not as a profession. Here we are, half an
hour late, as usual."

The sudden and violent bite of the brakes, a characteristic operation of
that mummy among railroads, the Mid-State and Great Muddy River,
commonly known as the "Mid-and-Mud," flung forward in an involuntary
plunge the incautious who had arisen to look after their things. Hal
Surtaine found himself supporting the weight of a fortuitous citizen who
had just made his way up the aisle.

"Thank you," said the stranger in a dry voice. "You're the prodigal son
of whom we've heard such glowing forecast, I presume."

"Well met, Mr. Pierce," called Dr. Surtaine's jovial voice. "Yes, that's
my son, Harrington, you're hanging to. Hal, this is Mr. Elias M. Pierce,
one of the men who run Worthington."

Releasing his burden Hal acknowledged the introduction. Elias M. Pierce,
receding a yard or so into perspective, revealed himself as a spare,
middle-aged man who looked as if he had been hewn out of a block,
square, and glued into a permanent black suit. Under his palely sardonic
eye Hal felt that he was being appraised, and in none too amiable a
spirit.

"A favorite pleasantry of your father's, Mr. Surtaine," said Pierce.
"What became of Douglas? Oh, here he is."

A clean-shaven, rather floridly dressed man came forward, was introduced
to Hal, and inquired courteously whether he was going to settle down in
Worthington.

"Probably depends on how well he likes it," cut in the dry Mr. Pierce.
"You might help him decide. I'm sure William would be glad to have you
lunch with him one day this week at the Huron Club, Mr. Surtaine."

Somewhat surprised and a little annoyed at this curiously vicarious
suggestion of hospitality, the newcomer hesitated, although Douglas
promptly supported the offer. Before he had decided what to reply, his
father eagerly broke in.

"Yes, yes. You must go, Hal," he said, apparently oblivious of the fact
that he had not been included in the invitation.

"I'll try to be there, myself," continued Pierce, in a flat tone of
condescension. "Douglas represents me, however, not only legally but in
other matters that I'm too busy to attend to."

"Mr. Pierce is president of the Huron Club," explained Dr. Surtaine.
"It's our leading social organization. You'll meet our best business men
there." And Hal had no alternative but to accept.

Here William Douglas turned to speak to Dr. Surtaine. "The Reverend
Norman Hale has been looking for you. It is some minor hitch about
that Mission matter, I believe. Just a little diplomacy wanted. He
said he'd call to see you day after to-morrow."

"Meaning more money, I suppose," said Dr. Surtaine. Then, more loudly:
"Well, the business can stand it. All right. Send him along."

With Hal close on his heels he stepped from the car. But Douglas,
having the cue from his patron, took the younger man by the arm and
drew him aside.

"Come over and meet some of our fair citizens," he said. "Nothing like
starting right."

The Pierce motor car, very large, very quietly complete and elegant,
was waiting near at hand, and in it a prematurely elderly, subdued
nondescript of a woman, and a pretty, sensitive, sensuous type of
brunette, almost too well dressed. To Mrs. Pierce and Miss Kathleen
Pierce, Hal was duly presented, and by them graciously received. As
he stood there, bareheaded, gracefully at ease, smiling up into the
interested faces of the two ladies, Dr. Surtaine, passing to his own
car to await him, looked back and was warmed with pride and gratitude
for this further honorarium to his capital stock of happiness, for he
saw already in his son the assurance of social success, and, on the
hour's reckoning, summed him up. And since we are to see much of
Harrington Surtaine, in evil chance and good, and see him at times
through the eyes of that shrewd observer and capitalizer of men, his
father, the summing-up is worth our present heed, for all that it is
to be considerably modified in the mind of its proponent, as events
develop. This, then, is Dr. Surtaine's estimate of his beloved
"Boyee," after a year of separation.

"A little bit of a prig. A little bit of a cub. Just a _little_ mite
of a snob, too, maybe. But the right, solid, clean stuff underneath.
And my son, thank God! _My_ son all through."




CHAPTER III

ESME


Hal saw her first, vivid against the lifeless gray of the cement wall,
as he turned away from the Pierce car. A little apart from the human
current she stood, still and expectant. As if to point her out as the
chosen of gods and men, the questing sun, bursting in triumph through a
cloud-rift, sent a long shaft of gold to encompass and irradiate her. To
the end, whether with aching heart or glad, Hal was to see her thus, in
flashing, recurrent visions; a slight, poised figure, all gracious
curves and tender consonances, with a cluster of the trailing arbutus,
that first-love of the springtide, clinging at her breast. The breeze
bore to him the faint, wild, appealing fragrance which is the very
breath and soul of the blossom's fairy-pink.

Half-turning, she had leaned a little, as a flower leans, to the warmth
of the sunlight, uplifting her face for its kiss. She was not beautiful
in any sense of regularity of outline or perfection of feature, so much
as lovely, with the lustrous loveliness which defiantly overrides the
lapse of line and proportion, and imperiously demands the homage of
every man born of woman. Chill analysis might have judged the mouth,
with its delicate, humorous quirk at the corners, too large; the chin
too broad, for all its adorable baby dimple; the line of the nose too
abrupt, the wider contours lacking something of classic exactitude. But
the chillest analysis must have warmed to enthusiasm at the eyes;
wide-set, level, and of a tawny hazel, with strange, wine-brown lights
in their depths, to match the brownish-golden sheen of the hair, where
the sun glinted from it. As it were a higher power of her physical
splendor, there emanated from the girl an intensity and radiance of joy
in being alive and lovely.

Involuntarily Hal Surtaine paused as he approached her. Her glance fell
upon him, not with the impersonal regard bestowed upon a casual
passer-by, but with an intent and brightening interest,--the thrill of
the chase, had he but known it,--and passed beyond him again. But in
that brief moment, the conviction was borne in upon him that sometime,
somewhere, he had looked into those eyes before. Puzzled and eager he
still stared, until, with a slight flush, she moved forward and passed
him. At the head of the stairs he saw her greet a strongly built,
grizzled man; and then became aware of his father beckoning to him from
the automobile.

"Bewitched, Hal?" said Dr. Surtaine as his son came to him.

"Was I staring very outrageously, sir?"

"Why, you certainly looked interested," returned the older man,
laughing. "But I don't think you need apologize to the young lady. She's
used to attention. Rather lives on it, I guess."

The tone jarred on Hal. "I had a queer, momentary feeling that I'd seen
her before," he said.

"Don't you recall where?"

"No," said Hal, startled. "_Do_ I know her?"

"Apparently not," taunted the other good-humoredly. "You should know.
Hers is generally considered a face not difficult to remember."

"Impossible to forget!"

"In that case it must be that you haven't seen her before. But you will
again. And, then look out, Boy-ee. Danger ahead!"

"How's that, sir?"

"You'll see for yourself when you meet her. Half of the boys in town are
crazy over her. She eats 'em alive. Can't you tell the man-killer type
when you see it?"

"Oh, that's all in the game, isn't it?" returned Hal lightly. "So long
as she plays fair. And she looks like a girl of breeding and standards."

"All of that. Esme Elliot is a lady, so far as that goes. But--well, I'm
not going to prejudice you. Here she comes now."

"Who is it with her?"

"Her uncle, Dr. Elliot. He doesn't altogether approve of us--me, I
mean."

Uncle and niece were coming directly toward them now, and Hal watched
her approach with a thrill of delight in her motion. It was a study in
harmonies. She moved like a cloud before the wind; like a ship upon the
high seas; like the swirl of swift waters above hidden depths. As the
pair passed to their car, which stood next to Dr. Surtaine's, the girl
glanced up and nodded, with a brilliant smile, to the doctor, who
returned to the salutation an extra-gallant bow.

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