PFACE" 
 
 
 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PS 3329.W9W2 
 
 The wars of peace a novel '>y.,,A;,,,f;,,,H,?,8, 
 
 3 1924 022 229 367 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022229367 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
THE 
 WARS OF PEACE 
 
 BY 
 
 A. F. WILSON 
 
 Illustrated by H. C. Ireland 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1903 
 

 Copyright, 1903. 
 by little, brown, and company. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published May, 1903 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " ' If the " Missionary Monopoly " decides to 
 
 squeeze, it can squeeze hard ' " . . . Frontispiece 
 
 " ' May I speak to you for a moment ? ' " . . . Page 14 
 
 " He woke with a start, and turned, hardly able 
 
 to believe his eyes " . . " 121 
 
 " A light, uncertain step sounded on the stair, and 
 
 Mrs. Harding stood in the doorway " ... " 177 
 
 " There was something undaunted about her 
 
 rigid face" " 346 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " It was first-class, old man, and I wanted to 
 tell you so ! " Marcus Oakley said with his 
 peculiarly winning smile, stretching out his hand 
 as he spoke. " I thought I'd find you up here." 
 
 " I'm glad you liked it," Reid answered care- 
 lessly. " I'm heartily thankful it's over." 
 
 His eyes wandered idly from his friend's face 
 to the low, red walls decorated with play-bills 
 and trophies; the dark beams, glistening in the 
 lamplight; the leather couches, piled with cush- 
 ions. The warmth of the fire was pleasant in 
 the cool of the May evening, his cigar was fra- 
 grant, and he was in the mood for quiet, confiden- 
 tial talk. Into such a frame of mind Oakley 
 always fitted with a facile habit of harmony with 
 his surroundings. 
 
 " I wonder sometimes if the honor — whatever 
 you get out of a thing of that sort — pays for 
 the bother? " Oakley said thoughtfully. 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " There's precious little honor, when you come 
 to that," Reid answered. " The newspapers 
 have proved again and again that it is the foot- 
 ball player who rises to the Senate and the vale- 
 dictorian who stays behind the counter all his 
 days." 
 
 " Well, your Founder's Day oration can't be 
 laid up against you. 'Twas plain common sense. 
 You and I don't agree about that, anyway. I 
 don't expect to have my college record trouble 
 me." 
 
 " That's just what I have been saying — the 
 Thanksgiving game will take the curse off the 
 Summa Cum. But there's no hope for me." 
 
 " Ahd you pull a splendid stroke, too," Oakley 
 answered regretfully. 
 
 " Being sworn at up and down the river every 
 afternoon doesn't appeal to me, somehow. When 
 you have to do a thing it gets to be work and not 
 play." 
 
 " Well, every man to his taste. I can sym- 
 pathize with most after a fashion — but some I 
 can't tmderstand," he added after a little pause, 
 as his eyes wandered to a near-by group. 
 
 " They've been hitting quite a pace this year, 
 haven't they? It's a pity," Reid answered, tak- 
 ing in the significance of the look. A pause fol- 
 lowed, invaded by the clatter of mugs and bois- 
 
 2 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 parades his badness and if he gets taken at his 
 word he needn't complain," Oakley acquiesced 
 easily. 
 
 " I suppose you know his people ? " Reid in- 
 quired. "What are they like ? " 
 
 " His father is a big manufacturer. He owns 
 three mills in Underbill and an interest in nobody 
 knows how many more all over the country. 
 They have lots of money." 
 
 " Are there any other children ? " Reid asked. 
 
 " A daughter, a mighty nice little girl. But 
 the father is great stuff; a thorough business 
 man, keen as ever was but straight as a string, 
 religious and all that, and a good deal of a scholar 
 and musician. The mother is exquisite, the 
 porcelain sort. She must have been a beauty 
 once, and is still, for that matter." 
 
 " It wouldn't strike me Teddy belonged tO' a 
 family like that," Reid commented keenly. He 
 was interested in matters of heredity. 
 
 " He doesn't, exactly. That may be one rea- 
 son he has gone a little wrong — . Confound it, 
 is it half-past eight? I'm due to preside at the 
 athletic meeting this minute." 
 
 Oakley hurried away and Reid sat watching 
 the group with half-shut, speculative eyes. He 
 was not naturally tolerant and prided himself a 
 little upon his ideals, a little more upon the fact 
 
 4 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 that he was not ashamed to live up to them. He 
 did not thank the Lord that he was not as other 
 men — he was not in the habit of acknowledging 
 indebtedness to any such source; he only lifted 
 up a little paean to Francis Reid for his deliver- 
 ance. 
 
 Suddenly a rollicking voice struck up a song. 
 Reid knew it well, for he had often heard the 
 same group of Stamp and Seal men roaring its 
 chorus. It irritated him with its half-veiled in- 
 sinuations. He rose, annoyed that his quiet had 
 been disturbed ; but, as he stood indecisive, mock- 
 ing words interrupted the singer. 
 
 " Man ! man ! you forget you are shocking lit- 
 tle Theodora's sensibilities. Theodora doesn't 
 think that's a pretty song, — she's blushing now. 
 Can't you mind your manners when ladies are 
 around? " 
 
 Harding rose angrily, colliding with Reid as he 
 did so, and started for the door. He was evi- 
 dently perturbed, but made no objection when 
 Reid slipped a friendly hand under his arm. The 
 latter heard his companion muttering, 
 
 " D — n it all ! They're a set of beastly 
 Micks. What was there to laugh at in that, I 
 should like to know? I've half a mind to cut 
 the whole gang." 
 
 Dusk had settled. The arc lights faded and 
 5 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 glowed again as they swung in the cool Spring 
 breeze; the boughs of the maples, glad with fresh 
 youiig leaves, stood out distinctly against the 
 darkening sky. The chill of the street was re- 
 freshing, and with a common impulse the two 
 young men turned southward. 
 
 Reid was pleased with this sudden confirmation 
 of his character analysis. But he hesitated to 
 speak. He knew the average young man's dis- 
 like for the discussion of serious things. He 
 realized that advice would come but awkwardly 
 from him, Harding's senior by no more than two 
 years. Nevertheless he felt himself a man in ex- 
 perience and character beside this wilful, un- 
 formed boy. He felt that he must run the risk 
 of seeming to preach, the chance of alienating 
 confidence, rather than ignore this tacit appeal. 
 So after a little thoughtful pause he said care- 
 lessly, 
 
 "Why don't you shake them? They're not 
 your sort." 
 
 " I guess you're wrong there, Reid," his com- 
 panion answered a trifle wistfully. " They're the 
 sort I've always been with." 
 
 " Yes, but you're not satisfied with it ; you 
 don't really like it." 
 
 " I like it well enough. It's all I'm fit for, any- 
 way." 
 
 6 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " It's not nonsense. What's a fellow going to 
 do? I can't make Founder's Day speeches, or 
 edit magazines. I don't know enough. I can't 
 do any thing in athletics. I'm not big enough." 
 
 " All that is no reason why you shouldn't be 
 decent and herd with decent folks," said Reid 
 with calculating bluntness. The other's mood of 
 abasement seemed to him unwholesome. " You're 
 a popular fellow. Anybody I know would be 
 glad to see more of you if you didn't always have 
 that set hanging around. People like you. They 
 can't help it, if you do act like a fool." The tone 
 robbed the epithet of any sting. 
 
 " They may like me, some of them," Harding 
 answered thoughtfully, " but they don't respect 
 me. 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that. The rig you've 
 been running doesn't count for much, if you only 
 stop it in time. It's a thing lots of fellows fall 
 into and come out of again, with no harm done. 
 It's your own feeling for yourself it counts with 
 most." 
 
 There was a long silence. The two wheeled 
 as they came to the river side and turned home- 
 ward again. At last Reid said, 
 
 " A man who is coming in for a share in a big 
 7 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 business, and all the responsibility that goes with 
 it, needs to be all he can make himself." 
 
 " I know it. My chance ought to go to a bet- 
 ter man. Now you could make use of it. You 
 know how the thing ought to be done." 
 
 " Nonsense, I'm only a theorist. You've got 
 the stuff in you all right. Give yourself a fair 
 show. Suppose 'twas some other chap you were 
 responsible for — a younger brother you were 
 guardian of, or something of that sort. You'd 
 try to keep him out of company that wasn't good 
 for him; and then if he did get up against it 
 hard, someway or other, you wouldn't tell him 
 'twas all he was good for, and there was no show 
 -for him. You'd start him fresh and brace him 
 up. Why don't you do the square thing by your- 
 self?" 
 
 " By Jove, that's so! " said Harding thought- 
 fully, and then was silent. Reid hesitated to 
 break the pause. He preferred to say too little 
 than too much ; and did not guess how keen a de- 
 sire for advice and sympathy lay beneath the half- 
 shy, half-defiant manner. He did not realize that 
 Harding, man-of-the-world as he counted him- 
 self, was on the verge of petulant, boyish tears. 
 
 When they parted Theodore went directly to 
 his room, and flinging himself on his couch, 
 stared about him with gloomy eyes. The bar- 
 
 8 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 baric jumble of gay cushions and hangings and 
 gaudy posters offended him vaguely. He was at 
 odds with his whole world. Reid's oration of 
 the night before, with its outlining of the rela- 
 tions which should exist between the employer 
 and his workmen, had come with exaggerated 
 force tO' one unthinking member of his audience, 
 and had hastened the awakening which had been 
 going on all the year. Harding told himself bit- 
 terly that he was a failure and had been one too 
 long to hope for anything better. He was sensi- 
 tive to subtle atmospheres, and knew that his re- 
 served father counted his son as a small factor in 
 all plans for the future. This hopeless sense of 
 his own limitations had acted as a strong impetus 
 toward the wild company which had welcomed 
 him so gladly. 
 
 He did not, however, consider extenuating cir- 
 cumstances tonight. He thought shrinkingly of 
 four wasted college years — of boisterous mid- 
 night suppers, of hazy returns to his room, of 
 dim, disordered mornings. Some things, he 
 thought humbly, he had not to reproach himself 
 with — things which certain of his comrades 
 treated lightly. There was an inherent purity, 
 amid all his faults, that had stood him in good 
 stead. But in his humility the vices far outnum- 
 bered the virtues, and showed black indeed to his 
 
 9 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 gloomy view. His sense of humor told him th; 
 May of his senior year was over-late to begin ser 
 ous study. Nevertheless, he seated himse 
 doggedly at his desk with firm-set, boyish lip 
 and with an unworn volume of " Mill " befoi 
 him. 
 
 lO 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Four years later, on a night in May, Francis 
 Reid left the train at the cit)' of Underhill. The 
 country through which he had travelled was 
 flushed with pink and white and tender green. 
 The air, even in the outskirts of the town, 
 was heavy with the scent of lilac and apple- 
 blossom. But a depression, alien to the bright- 
 ness of the May landscape, had weighed all day 
 upon his spirit. Representative of the Boston 
 " Observer " though he was, his was only a 
 chance assignment which would probably end 
 with the termination of the big strike. He had 
 only this casual employment to show at the end 
 of four years ; he was shabby, and poor and hun- 
 gry also, he admitted, smiling bitterly. Sharpest 
 of all came the thought that he must meet Theo- 
 dore Harding in Underhill. 
 
 He had not followed Harding's fortunes since 
 graduation ; and had hardly thought of him until 
 
 II 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the beginning of the strike had brought Under- 
 bill and the Hardings to the notice of the whole 
 country. Theodore's opinions were quoted re- 
 spectfully, his influence among the men comment- 
 ed on, and Reid realized with surprise that his 
 classmate had become a person of importance. 
 
 For himself, he realized that no such thing 
 could be said. He had learned stern lessons : that 
 a man, brilliant and well-educated, is not neces- 
 sarily successful; that theories and ideals are not 
 made of stuff to stand the wear of life; that the 
 loss of things so immaterial, painful though it 
 may be, does not hinder the physical process of 
 living; that the baffled desire for the elemental 
 and necessary leaves little room for other long- 
 ings. Some casual happening will often put an 
 end to the lethargy of disappointment. So the 
 knowledge that he must, in all probability, meet 
 Theodore Harding, and give an account of four 
 unprofitable years, stung Reid to a fresh sense of 
 failure. His instinct for news revived, however, 
 and he forgot his depression when once he alight- 
 ed at the station. The little square, flanked by 
 tall office buildings, seemed packed with people. 
 Reid knew that a train-load of non-union work- 
 men was expected that night, and easily guessed 
 the meaning of the assemblage. He saw, too, 
 that the temper of the crowd was growing more 
 
 12 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and more unsafe as the listeners crowded about 
 a baggage-dray on the station platform. From 
 this extemporized height a man was addressing 
 the crowd. The rosy light of the after-glow 
 tinged the pallid, dark face with a fictitious color. 
 The deep tones of the voice rang out over the 
 restless people who winced under the cutting 
 words. 
 
 There was nothing new in the speech, — the 
 same things were said that night from a hundred 
 places in the land. The trite catch-words, the 
 arraignment of capital, the deification of labor, — 
 all took a new force, however, from the passion 
 of the man's splendid voice. Reid listened im- 
 patiently. He wanted to counsel order and pa- 
 tience, and the dignity that would command re- 
 spect the world over. He made a movement 
 toward the truck where the speaker stood, then he 
 stopped. Of what use for him to speak? He 
 was absolutely unknown, and without influence. 
 He could only listen helplessly to the sinister note 
 that gradually crept into the murmur of voices. 
 
 The scene appealed to him keenly, — the crowd 
 growing more picturesque, less distinct, as the 
 twilight deepened, the lithe figure, the quaint an- 
 gles of the station roof, the lights and shades. 
 All the accessories seemed as if arranged by a 
 clever stage-manager to heighten the dramatic 
 
 13 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 efifect. The curious, electric tension generated by 
 a crowd, filled the air and crept into Reid's own 
 veins. He felt growing in his mind a good story 
 for the " Observer." He lost nothing of what 
 happened, but all the time he was half-conscious- 
 ly putting it into telling phrases. Suddenly there 
 came a movement in the crowd. A man, tall, 
 erect, and with snowy hair, stood upon the plat- 
 form. He lifted a hand which gleamed white in 
 the dusk. Something in the dignity of the fig- 
 ure, in the air of conscious power, quelled for a 
 moment the growing restlessness about him. The 
 effect was only transitory, however. The cul- 
 tured voice, with its refined accent, failed to dom- 
 inate the crowd. The well-chosen words seemed 
 flat and pointless. The speaker faltered and 
 paused as, cold and sibilant, a hiss cut the air. 
 
 Time was passing swiftly and the train, laden 
 with non-union men, was steadily drawing nearer. 
 Reid felt that the temper of the mob was growing 
 more and more dangerous. He was wondering 
 if he had any message powerful enough, any 
 words graphic enough, to offset his obscurity, 
 when his arm was softly touched. 
 
 " May I speak to you for a moment ? " a low 
 voice said in his ear. 
 
 Reid turned with a nervous start and recog- 
 nized the man who had just spoken so fruitlessly. 
 
 14 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 The striking face was unmistakable. The head 
 was held high, but the voice quivered with sup- 
 pressed feeling and nervous anxiety. The young 
 man followed his elder out of earshot of the 
 crowd, yielding as if to lawful authority. 
 
 " Will you help me stop this business ? It is 
 coming to murder if we don't do something. 
 The only thing I can think of is tO' stop the train 
 at Wilmot — but I can't get at the telegraph 
 ofifice. I've just been trying. The^ve got 
 guards set over the telephones at the offices. They 
 seem to be regularly organized and bound to pre- 
 vent us from getting the men in here; but any- 
 body who can make the run in good time can get 
 up to my house and telephone from there. Will 
 you try it? If my son is there tell him to come 
 down at once." 
 
 "Yes, where is it?" 
 
 " Albion Harding's — at the left on the top of 
 the West hill." It seemed that there was a note 
 of surprise in the speaker's voice. 
 
 Reid handed Mr. Harding his light bag, and 
 buttoned up his coat. He was a little dazed by 
 the orders showered upon him, but he had no 
 thought of disobeying. He walked rapidly off 
 through the square until he was hidden by a line 
 of tall office buildings, then he broke into a swift, 
 steady run. He followed, without hesitation, 
 
 15 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the direction which Mr. Harding's finger had 
 pointed out, and after moments which seemed 
 endless he turned in at the gate. . He padded 
 noiselessly across the lawn just as the single, mel- 
 low clock stroke rose from the valley. 
 
 A light burning in the hall cast a band of gold 
 through the open door, but otherwise the house 
 was dark, with the exception of a glimmering 
 window on the third floor. Reid paused a mo- 
 ment irresolute, then ran up the broad veranda 
 steps. His hand was already on the door when a 
 rough voice from behind him cried, 
 
 " What do you want? Stop or I'll fire! " 
 On a sudden impulse of self-preservation, Reid 
 sprang inside and closed the door. The massive 
 lock clicked behind him. What was the mean- 
 ing of this guarded, deserted house, this challeng- 
 ing sentry ? A glimmering of the truth began to 
 come to him, but there was no time for thought. 
 Where was the telephone? where was Theodore 
 Harding? Reid paused, then with a sudden re- 
 solve he darted upstairs, shouting at the top of 
 his voice, 
 
 " Harding ! Harding ! Teddy Harding ! " 
 The familiar name wakened long dormant 
 chords of memory; and almost involuntarily 
 Reid's lips opened in the old society cry, 
 
 i6 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ■ "'Rah! 'Rah! Stamp! 
 'Rah! 'Rah! Seal 
 True and leal! 
 Harvard ! " 
 The sounds echoed strangely through the de- 
 serted house and, from far above, came something 
 stronger than an echo, 
 
 " True and leal ! 
 Harvard." 
 A moment more and the tv/o men were clasp- 
 ing hands. 
 
 There was no time for greetings. Reid gasped 
 with the first breath which came to him, 
 
 " Where's the telephone ? Your father sent me 
 to stop the train at Wilmot. The strikers are 
 lying for the scabs at the station." 
 
 "Thunder!" groaned Theodore. "Down in 
 the library. That's what they locked me in up 
 here for. The men listen to me sometimes." 
 
 They were running downstairs side by side to 
 the dark library. Reid was conscious that the 
 blows, which had been crashing on the outer door 
 during his brief rush upstairs had ceased. A 
 sharp click and the room was flooded with light, 
 another instant and Harding stood at the tele- 
 phone, with the receiver in his hand. 
 
 " Hulloa ! " he said sharply. His words were 
 drowned for Reid by the shatter of glass some- 
 17 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 where at the rear of the house. He swung the 
 library door to and locked it. The voice at the 
 telephone was saying, 
 
 "Is that Wilmot Station? What? — Yes, 
 Harding ! Stop the 8 145 — 8 :40, I mean, 8 140 ! 
 The strikers are lying for the scabs at the sta- 
 tion!" 
 
 — The thump of running feet sounded past the 
 library door and up the oaken stairs. 
 
 " What ? The strikers are lying for the scabs ! 
 What ? Can't stop it ? Then send it past — for 
 Heaven's sake, send it past! " 
 
 Harding flung down the receiver. Heavy 
 blows were sounding on the library door. In a 
 flash he raised the window and swung himself 
 over the sill, Reid following. 
 
 " We were in time," Harding said, for as they 
 circled' the house over the soft lawn, and emerged 
 into the drive, they heard the distant shriek of the 
 8 140 as it left Wilmot. 
 
 Once out in the street again, the two men set- 
 tled down to' a steady run. At last they came out 
 into the upper side of the square, where they could 
 overlook the scene plainly. 
 
 There was utter silence in the big crowd, — a 
 silence which jarred more upon the nerves than 
 the loudest noise. All eyes were fixed on the 
 
 18 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 track. All ears were alert to catch the whistle of 
 the oncoming train. 
 
 Suddenly without warning, with heat and fever 
 of haste, it was upon them, forcing them to fall 
 back upon each other by its onrush. Almost be- 
 fore they had grasped the meaning of the thing it 
 had passed on into the darkness, leaving behind 
 it a trail of golden sparks and a long mocking 
 sigh. 
 
 19 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Suddenly a woman's voice flared out sharply 
 into the darkness. 
 
 " Albion Harding done it. I see him sendin' 
 somebody somewhere." 
 
 The crowd was quickly busy piecing matters 
 together. The murmur of comment rose into a 
 growl that made Reid shiver with excitement and 
 apprehension. Above the confused sound rose 
 isolated voices^ 
 
 " Come on, men ! To Harding's ! To Hard- 
 ing's!" 
 
 The cry ran from one to another, and the dark 
 mass began to break up into little groups and 
 stream to the northward. Reid missed his com- 
 panion from his side, and saw that the slen- 
 der figure stood in the street directly in the path 
 of the mob. The high-pitched voice rang out in 
 short, stern sentences. The speech was broken 
 and disconnected, hardly a speech at all, but it 
 
 20 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 evidetitly went home; for when Harding paused 
 with a disheartened break in his words someone 
 in the crowd called cheerfully, 
 
 "What's the matter with Teddy?" and the 
 dusky mass droned in good-humored response, 
 "He's all right!" 
 
 Perhaps the discouragement of Harding's tones 
 had touched the audience, for in some sudden 
 change of mood all the anger of a moment before 
 had vanished and they began to disperse rapidly. 
 
 Reid suddenly realized how tired he was. He 
 dropped down upon the nearest curbstone and let 
 group after group pass him. He was wondering 
 as to the source of Theodore's power over men; 
 and the answer came as he asked the question : 
 
 " It ain't anjrthing Teddy says — he can't fling 
 
 words round the way the old man can, but just see 
 
 the difference! Nobody cared what Albion 
 
 Harding said, but they all listened the minute 
 
 ' Teddy piped up." 
 
 " Oh, he's all right. He knows he ain't any 
 better'n anybody else." 
 
 " An' that ain't all. He knows about us, an' 
 cares about us." 
 
 Here and there Reid caught details phrased in 
 the polyglot English of the mill town; hints of 
 fruit for a sick child, a loan in time of trouble, 
 
 21 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 a simple, wordless sympathy that counted beyond 
 telling with these rough men and women. 
 
 How could it be? the listener questioned. 
 Teddy Harding of college days had hardly a 
 thought beyond his own pleasure, and now he 
 held the hearts of a city of people in 'his hand. 
 There was evidently much behind the blundering, 
 boyish phrases. Reid remembered the ready 
 friendliness, the open purse, the kindly tolerance 
 of all sorts of mistakes and sins, which had made 
 for Theodore Harding so many friends in college. 
 He remembered that the men who had been loud- 
 est in their disapproval of him had been fond of 
 him. He, himself had sought him out, after their 
 free talk together, and had felt the same sweet, 
 human element in a character otherwise rather 
 slight. There Ccime to him now, for the first 
 time, a realization of the power of an uncritical 
 love of humanity. 
 
 As he pondered half-dreamily, in the midst of 
 his weariness, some further conversation reached 
 his ears. 
 
 " What's the reason the boy is so popular ? He 
 doesn't begin to do as much for them as his father 
 does," a hoarse voice asked from just behind 
 him. 
 
 The answer came in tones that haunted Reid 
 with their familiarity. 
 
 22 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Say yourself ! Mr. Harding tries to help his 
 men just as far as libraries and reading rooms 
 will do it, and I think he honestly wants to make 
 friends with them ; only he doesn't know how." 
 
 " He never can get over the fact that he is 
 Albion Harding," the other replied cynically. " I 
 always feel that he's looking down on me, and 
 I'm not so deuced thin-skinned, either." 
 
 " I know what you mean, Mr. Burnham. He 
 doesn't so much give you the impression that he 
 feels above you, as that he's trying not to." 
 
 " Hair-splitting, but not bad, Oakley! " 
 
 " It's true, and Teddy doesn't have any idea 
 that he is better than anybody else." 
 
 " He's a good little chap, and he's got lots more 
 business in him than his father gives him credit 
 for." 
 
 As the two men moved away, Reid realized 
 that it was his old friend Oakley who had been 
 speaking, and that he was evidently a regular in- 
 habitant of Underbill. Reid was glad that there 
 was little chance of a meeting, and even relieved 
 that Harding had disappeared. In his weariness 
 and disheartenment, he dreaded the inevitable 
 questions and comparisons of experience. He 
 could now slip away quietly, telegraph a line re- 
 garding the night's happenings to the " Ob- 
 server," and then seek some cheap lodging-house. 
 23 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 He was crossing the square to the telegraph 
 office, when he heard a quick, light step behind 
 him, and felt a hand on his arm. 
 
 " Where are you going, old man ? " was Hard- 
 ing's brisk greeting. 
 
 " I -^as bound for the telegraph office, to send a 
 message to the ' Observer.' " 
 
 The other waited until the message was sent, 
 then he said heartily : " Well, how are you, 
 Frank ? We haven't had a chance for any of the 
 compliments of the season. You don't know how 
 good it seems to see you." 
 
 " Same here ! " Reid answered with sincerity. 
 
 " You're coming home with me ? Nonsense ! 
 of course you are fit. Father and I are alone.. 
 My mother and sister are away. I've been hunt- 
 ing all over for my father. Can't find him, but 
 we won't wait any longer." 
 
 " He sent me up to your house." 
 
 " Yes, lots of people have seen him, he's all 
 right. You'll come, won't you? " 
 
 The hospitality of Harding's voice was difficult 
 to withstand, and Reid felt his resolution waning. 
 Almost involuntarily he answered : 
 
 " Yes, since you are so good. It does seem 
 good to see a Stamp and Seal man again." 
 
 " Doesn't it ? You don't know how funny it 
 felt to hear that old yell again. Up there, shut 
 24 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 up, and mad, — and then all of a sudden to hear 
 you yelling. I tell you it went all over me like a 
 flash. I felt like blubbering.'' 
 
 " How did you happen to be locked up there, 
 anyway ? " 
 
 " More than I know. Only I was up a big 
 part of last night trying to straighten things out; 
 and I was horribly sleepy, and went upstairs to 
 my den for a nap. I slept over, and I'd just 
 waked and found I was locked in, when I heard 
 you shouting." 
 
 " Nobody back yet," he said a few minutes 
 later, as they came within sight of the unlighted 
 house. " We miss mother's supervision. I 
 hoped the cook would be back. It's her night 
 out and we were going to dine down town; but I 
 didn't, you see. Come in here and I'll forage." 
 
 Reid followed his host into the library, and 
 waited in a tired content for his return. He 
 must have dozed, for he was roused suddenly by 
 Theodore's entrance with a hastily collected 
 luncheon. 
 
 " Now come along, Reid, tell me something 
 about yourself," he said as they fell to eating 
 hungrily. 
 
 " There isn't much to tell," said Reid, stiffening 
 at the reminder of things which he had forgotten 
 for a moment. 
 
 25 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Oh, but what have you been doing these four 
 years? Something worth while, I'll be bound. 
 You were on the ' Labor Gazette ' the last I knew. 
 But you spoke of the ' Observer ' tonight." 
 
 " I left the ' Labor Gazette ' two years ago. I 
 couldn't stand the ground it took at the time of 
 the Milldam Iron Strike." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Of course I didn't get another editorial posi- 
 tion. I was reporter on the New York ' Orbit,' 
 but I fell out with the editor. He said I was too 
 high-toned for the business, and I guess I was, 
 as he ran it," and Reid smiled grimly. " That's 
 all there is to me. Now tell me about yourself." 
 
 " There isn't anything to tell. There honestly 
 isn't. I've just been here, busy learning the busi- 
 ness from the start, trying to help the governor 
 out. I haven't made a great success of it." 
 
 " Oh, I heard about the things you've been do- 
 ing." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Little chance bits of gossip to the effect that 
 you are the guardian angel of half of Underbill." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " and Theodore flushed guiltily. 
 " I haven't done anything." 
 
 " Then you've been imposing on them shame- 
 fully. They seemed to think you had." 
 
 " Have some more coffee, Reid. Don't you 
 26 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 find it good ? I pride myself on my coffee mak- 
 ing, I learned it camping." Then he paused, with 
 the coffee-pot raised, " I beg your pardon, perhaps 
 you would rather have some wine? I never 
 thought." 
 
 " No, thank you," Reid answered, perhaps with 
 a question in his eyes, for Theodore said quietly : 
 
 " I've given it up myself. I thought it was 
 just as well." 
 
 " Do you know, Teddy," Reid said frankly, 
 " I'm proud of you." 
 
 " Well, anything I've amounted to so far you've 
 had a hand in." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Harding seldom spoke of such things as affect- 
 ed him most deeply ; but the evening's happenings 
 had moved him to confidence, and he went on with 
 a rush : 
 
 " Do you remember your Founder's Day ora- 
 tion? 'Twas four years ago tonight." 
 
 " Yes, I was thinking this afternoon of all the 
 fine theories I had then and how little they have 
 stood by me." 
 
 " Some of them have stood by me pretty 
 well," said Harding gravely. " Some of the 
 things you said that night', and to me afterwards, 
 stuck. They set me thinking. I must have been 
 an awful little cad in college. I wonder you put 
 27 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 up with me at all. I've wanted to write and tell 
 you how you helped me ; but somehow I never got 
 to it." 
 
 " You exaggerate my part in it, Teddy. But 
 if I've helped you at all I'm glad. It helps take 
 the edge off the general failure I've made of 
 things." 
 
 Reid, looking at Theodore's face, thought how 
 much it had changed for the better. The pointed, 
 brown beard hid the suggestion of weakness about 
 the chin, the dark eyes were at once keen and kind. 
 There was the same high-bred, alert, eager con- 
 tour of the whole face that had made someone 
 compare him to a blooded fox-terrier. Even the 
 lines of his slender figure, so perfect in proportion 
 that he hardly seemed undersized, bore out the 
 comparison. The face had aged unduly and the 
 light showed premature threads of gray in the 
 dark hair; but the boyish laugh and the sponta- 
 neous manner and speech were unchanged. 
 
 " Yes, Teddy," Reid reiterated after a thought- 
 ful pause, " I'm proud of you." 
 
 28 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Theodore and Reid sat talking in the library 
 until Mr. Harding returned. Late as it was when 
 he arrived his day's work was not over, for he 
 brought Roger Burnham with him. These two 
 men presented strongly contrasted types, thotigh 
 neither was perhaps more thoroughly American 
 than the other. In heavy figure, congested face, 
 full lips and dogged chin, Burnham, man-of-the- 
 world in all that the phrase may imply of dubious 
 experience, was the antithesis of Harding. Yet 
 both bore in subtle ways the marks of power. 
 
 Before Burnham lay a type-written list which 
 he checked off in heavy black dots with a blunt 
 pencil. At length he looked up with a grim smile. 
 
 " There are just four firms in the whole d — d 
 pool that haven't made friends of the Mammon 
 of Unrighteousness to our certain knowledge. 
 They may have to, for all we know. I'm sick 
 of it." 
 
 29 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I admit that our experiment has not been a 
 success. But what is to be done? " Mr. Harding 
 often asked questions whose answers he knew. 
 
 " You know what is to be done — incorporate." 
 
 " But has the time come for that yet ? There 
 is sure to be decided objection in many quarters." 
 
 " How do you know ? " Burnham asked keenly. 
 
 " Mr. Ordway, for one, would never consent to 
 such a thing for a moment." 
 
 " Well, Ordway is only one. He's got a small 
 factory, and a low-grade output. He don't count 
 for much. Make sure of the others, and we can 
 get along without him, if he can without us." 
 
 " That is very true," replied Mr. Harding. 
 " We want him, however. It would be very un- 
 pleasant to have an independent firm here in Un- 
 derbill with which we should come into collision 
 all the time." 
 
 " Oh well, if you can get him over it's all the 
 better, of course," replied Burnham tolerantly. 
 " But you're too thin-skinned. It's the man's 
 own lookout. Let him do as he pleases." 
 
 " There is really no reason why he should see 
 matters in that light." 
 
 " He's got some sentimental objections about 
 giving up his independence," Burnhan? replied 
 with fine scorn. " Now I can't afford to consider 
 sentiment." 
 
 30 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Mr. Ordway evidently can," Mr. Harding 
 answered languidly. 
 
 " I asked him something about that the other 
 day," Burnham volunteered, " and I gathered that 
 he thought he was making money. He wasn't 
 very definite, but I judged you or I wouldn't look 
 at it in that light. He came up from the ranks, 
 you know." 
 
 " Did he? That's interesting." 
 
 " Yes, it seems he grew up here in Underhill, 
 and worked in your father's mill. Then he went 
 West somewhere, got hold of some money, came 
 back here and bought the Davis mill — that be- 
 longed to your father once, didn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, I sold it off when I first took the man- 
 agement of the business, and bought my Number 
 Four." 
 
 " A good move too. Even then it couldn't 
 have been up to Number Four." 
 
 " No', it was small and was in poor shape then. 
 It can't be in any better condition now," Mr. 
 Harding added reflectively. 
 
 " Well, Ordway never guesses it isn't the finest 
 thing in the state. You ought to hear him talk 
 about it. Proud as a man with his first kid — or 
 horse. Yes, he holds he's making money." 
 
 " He has been in favor of giving way, in a 
 measure at least, to the strikers throughout." 
 
 31 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " He and that boy of yours have done a good 
 deal toward making the matter 'drag on, by the 
 stand they've taken." Burnham's tone was a, 
 little acrid. 
 
 " You can't wonder at Mr. Ordway's stand if 
 he is a self-made man. His sympathies would 
 naturally be with that class. But there is no such 
 excuse for my son's conduct." A note of genuine 
 dejection crept into the elder Harding's voice. 
 
 " Young blood ! You have to stand a good 
 deal from puppies in the hope they will grow up 
 into self-respecting dogs some day," rejoined 
 Burnham tolerantly. 
 
 Mr. Harding hardly relished having his son 
 alluded to as a puppy. But the intention was evi- 
 dently kindly and the point of view reassuring, so 
 he changed the subject amicably. 
 
 " I really do not see how the smaller firms man- 
 age to keep alive in the midst of such competi- 
 tion." 
 
 " They don't ! " laughed Burnham shortly. 
 " Labor — spelled with a capital, curse it ! — is 
 getting so it asks more every day. Everybody 
 is booming along, producing at full speed and 
 putting the price down. A man has to have new 
 and more expensive machinery all the time or else 
 get hopelessly left. You've no idea what it 
 
 32 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 means, Harding, to a man without money behind 
 him." 
 
 " The only solution is the one we are arriving 
 at — mutual protection. With an association of 
 all the manufacturers in the state or the country, 
 an iron-bound agreement which shall regulate the 
 price of raw material, and the output as well as 
 the sales of the product, there's a chance for the 
 small manufacturer." 
 
 " There's more chance for us all. I don't call 
 myself a small manufacturer, though I suppose I 
 am beside the amount of business you do, — but 
 by G — ! I'm hard up. I'm just working along, 
 inch by inch, keeping my head above water. I've 
 got to sell some of my horses if things keep on 
 
 this way. And a set of fools in Congress 
 
 all the time tinkering tariff bills, till you never 
 know where you stand." 
 
 " There is a great deal of truth in what you say. 
 There is every reason in favor of incorporation. 
 The difficulty will be to get those interested to see 
 matters in that light. I never expected the pool 
 would be a success, and my worst forebodings 
 have been verified. It is too amorphous a form 
 of union." A certain melancholy pleasure, as of 
 the prophet verified, pervaded Mr. Harding's 
 words. 
 
 " That's right, men have got to be tied down 
 
 33 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 to a thing so they can't get out of it. Otherwise 
 — well, look at us — just as good as busted." 
 
 " We surely haven't succeeded in restricting 
 buying or selling prices or in regulating the out- 
 put, as we planned." 
 
 "That's right! Why, let me tell you what 
 Ryerson's bookkeeper told me. Ryerson has 
 been delivering pretty nearly a third more than 
 his contracts called for! The transaction stood 
 all right on the books, but he has managed in this 
 way to undersell the regular price all winter." 
 
 Mr. Harding knit his brows as Burnham spoke, 
 and then went on slowly : 
 
 " The pool has all the bad features of the regu- 
 larly incorporated trust and none of the good ones. 
 We have conspired to put down wages and buy- 
 ing prices, and put up selling prices. But there 
 is no chance for the ultimate cheapening of the 
 cost of production by a common management. It 
 has no advantage as a fixed institution, but it is 
 a good preparatory school for the trust, and I 
 think the course must be about completed." 
 
 Burnham looked at his companion keenly. 
 
 " Did you think so far ahead as that, Hard- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I thought it altogether possible that our 
 friends might learn the advantages of union even 
 34 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 if they did not find this method successful," Mr. 
 Harding answered calmly. 
 
 " Oh, you're a foxy one. When are you going 
 to broach the new scheme? " 
 
 " We must not hurry the matter unduly, but 
 it is time to agitate it gently. I have been think- 
 ing of giving a dinner where we can talk it over 
 a little." 
 
 " I'm with you there, of course," and Burn- 
 ham's eyes twinkled. " I'm with you all through. 
 There's money in the scheme, and I must confess 
 money means a good deal to me just now." 
 
 " There's money in it and a great economic gain 
 also. If unprosperous firms can be made flourish- 
 ing and the price to consumers decreased at the 
 same time, there is a double gain, such as seldom 
 occurs." Mr. Harding broke off abruptly, 
 knowing that Burnham would sympathize but 
 little with what was to him the most alluring 
 feature of the whole scheme. In a moment's 
 time he continued briskly : 
 
 " If we say then a dinner a week from tonight. 
 I will see that the invitations are sent out tomor- 
 row." 
 
 After Burnham had gone, Mr. Harding re- 
 sumed his seat by the window with a return of 
 his customary self-approval. He had been dis- 
 couraged earlier in the evening, as' he received 
 35 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 one more proof that all his efforts had not been 
 able to reach the hearts of his men. The affec- 
 tion which his son had gained apparently with- 
 out exertion, his own painstaking care had not 
 been able to secure. He had not been satisfied 
 to control the lives and fortunes of his men; he 
 wished to hold their hearts as well. Yet, disap- 
 pointed in this, he contented himself with the 
 knowledge that he had been master. 
 
 He knew triumph in the midst of defeat. The 
 last conflict to be feared, he told himself with 
 sanguine confidence, was over. Daylight would 
 put a different face on the matter. He had little 
 fear that the non-union workers would be at- 
 tacked under the dictates of sunshine and cooler 
 reason. The long strike was practically at an 
 end. The men would gradually drift back when 
 they saw that the mills could be run without 
 them. The delay must be made up, extra hands 
 would be needed, and there would be room for 
 all. The scab labor would gradually float off 
 in the fashion of such a shifting population, leav- 
 ing Underbill in its normal condition again. The 
 strike was almost over, and the employer was 
 once more a victor. Moreover, there hovered 
 in his mind gigantic, roseate visions of a future 
 which he should control. It was with triumphant 
 
 36 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tread and bearing that he at last took his way 
 upstairs. 
 
 In a pause of the conversation next morning 
 Mr. Harding said : 
 
 " By the way, Theodore, can you write some 
 notes for me after breakfast ? " 
 
 " How soon do you want them ? I have a 
 date with Rubinovitch at nine." 
 
 " Never mind, then. I wanted them to get 
 into the morning's mail. But I can do them 
 myself." Mr. Harding spoke resignedly. 
 
 " If I could be of any assistance, Mr. Hard- 
 ing," Reid said eagerly, " I shall have an idle 
 hour after breakfast." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Reid. It would be a great 
 favor. They are only dinner invitations." 
 
 When later Reid handed Mr. Harding the pile 
 of notes, written in his neat upright hand, the 
 latter looked at them critically. 
 
 " It has been my dream to have a private sec- 
 retary who wrote a hand like that," he said half- 
 jestingly. ^ 
 
 Reid smiled and lingered with one of the let- 
 ters in his hand. 
 
 " Do you know anything about William P. 
 
 Ordway?" he said. "I knew a man of that 
 
 name once in St. Louis. It can hardly be the 
 
 same one, I suppose. He was foreman in a mill." 
 
 27 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Possibly, Mr. Ordway came up from the 
 ranks, I believe. He is a short, stout man with 
 red hair," Mr. Harding answered. 
 
 " That answers his description well enough. 
 I must make sure. They were very kind to me 
 then." 
 
 '38 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 During the week which Reid spent with Theo- 
 dore Harding he saw more of the father than of 
 the son. Theodore was closeted all day long 
 with one working man or another, and seemed to 
 be the moving spirit in all measures leading to a 
 settlement of the strike. Meanwhile Mr. Hard- 
 ing and Reid spent idle hours on the veranda, 
 growing more and more intimate as their knowl- 
 edge of each other's tastes deepened. 
 
 Theodore seldom joined in these long conver- 
 sations; he sat silent when present, stroking his 
 puppy's ears, or reading his favorite sporting 
 magazine in the library. Sometimes he would 
 retreat to the hammock in the pines and there 
 pick his banjo deftly, with the ruddy setter-pup 
 as sole listener. He seemed wholly unconscious 
 of the growing affection between his father and 
 his friend. 
 
 Reid's admiration for Mr. Harding made him 
 39 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 loth to decline when the latter offered him a posi- 
 tion as his secretary. Journalism was still his 
 chosen field of labor, though it had shown him 
 little kindness; but this offer promised work not 
 uncongenial, abundant leisure, and an income 
 ample for one. He balanced the question ac- 
 cording to his custom, but had arrived at a 
 fixed decision one evening a week later when he 
 went down to the Ordway's to supper. 
 
 He had not seen Mrs. Ordway nor her daugh- 
 ter before, but he found the older woman sitting 
 alone on her tiny, vine-covered porch to greet 
 him. Presently a tall, erect girl came up the 
 path, holding a light paddle in her brown hand. 
 Her mass of reddish hair was uncovered and her 
 regular features and square, decided chin were 
 burned by the warm sun of the river. 
 
 " There comes Faithy," said Mrs. Ordway. 
 " She's changed, ain't she, since you see her 
 last? Why, she must have been a little girl 
 then — 'bout fourteen or so. She's most twenty- 
 one now — twenty-one the fifteenth of June." 
 
 Reid had already risen. 
 
 " Is this really you, Faith? " he said. " I can 
 hardly believe it is the little girl I used to 
 know." 
 
 Faith gave him her hand and looked at him 
 with the same deep-blue eyes which he remem- 
 40 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 bered so well. The eyes, the hair straight and 
 fine as thistle-down, the resolute chin, were those 
 of the Faith he had known as a little girl. Other- 
 wise she was strangely altered. He stood 
 speechless, with some constraint before the fa- 
 miliar searching gaze. Neither spoke for a mo- 
 ment. Mrs. Ordway broke the awkward silence. 
 
 " Why don't you speak to Mr. Reid, Faithy? 
 You ain't polite." 
 
 Faith laughed with a wholesome, cordial note 
 that broke the pause pleasantly. 
 
 " I don't know what to^ say, mother. Mr. 
 Reid and I have got to start over again. We've 
 both grown up." 
 
 " One of us has, at any rate," Reid added. 
 " I believe I was expecting to find you fifteen or 
 sixteen. And I suppose I can't call her Faith 
 any more, — can I, Mrs. Ordway ? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! Of course you can. 'Twould 
 sound silly enough to hear you callin' her Miss 
 Ordway," and Mrs. Ordway beamed with good 
 fellowship. 
 
 " Then I shall have to, if your mother says I 
 may. I'm too old a dog tO' learn new tricks." 
 
 " Well now ! Mr. Reid, I know how old you 
 are. You're only twenty-nine. You was twen- 
 ty-two when you boarded with us an' taught in 
 the high-school, wasn't you ? " 
 41 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Yes, it was between my Freshman and 
 Sophomore years at college. I was out two 
 years." 
 
 " What have you been doing since you grad- 
 uated, Mr. Reid ? " Faith asked. 
 
 " I have been on different newspapers ever 
 since. I came here for the Boston ' Observer.' " 
 
 " And do you like journalism ? " queried Faith. 
 The talk flowed a trifle stiffly at first. 
 
 " Yes, it's the only thing I would care to think 
 of for steady work — as a profession, I mean. 
 But a reporter's life is a hard one and the pay is 
 not over good. I'm thinking of giving it up for 
 awhile and going into business. Then when I 
 get a tiny sum ahead — " 
 
 " It seems a pity. That was what you always 
 meant to do. You used to say you were going 
 to be editor of one of the big magazines," said 
 Faith thoughtfully. 
 
 " My ambitions don't soar as high as that 
 nowadays. The world takes a good deal of that 
 out of one." Reid spoke a trifle sadly. 
 
 " Yes, more's the pity. The worst of growing 
 old is that one loses one's ambition." Faith's 
 tones were brisk, with nothing of disappointment 
 about them. 
 
 " You can't know much about that personal- 
 ly," Reid smiled indulgently. 
 42 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Oh, but I do. I've lost all the ambitions I 
 had. I wanted to be a nurse. I should have 
 made a good one — perfectly well and strong, 
 and with the knack; but father and mother 
 couldn't spare me, and now I don't care." She 
 smiled lovingly at her mother as she spoke. 
 
 " Nursing must be hard and very disagreeable. 
 You wouldn't want to if you knew more about 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, yes; I should. I was in a hospital three 
 months. They thought I wouldn't like it, and 
 so they let me go on probation. But I didn't get 
 a bit tired of it; it was fascinating. But this 
 is better." 
 
 Faith sat on the upper step of the veranda, 
 turning the paddle lightly in her strong, brown 
 hands. Reid looked down at the smoothly part- 
 ed hair and the well-set head, as he leaned against 
 the pillar beside her. He was getting his mind 
 adjusted to the change in his pet and playmate. 
 She had been a dumpy, awkward little girl, 
 who bore her cross of red hair with a 
 stoical defiance. Her obvious devotion had 
 pleased and flattered Reid, and he made 
 much of her, as he would otherwise hardly have 
 done to the somewhat unattractive child. He 
 had grown very fond of her, with a certain reflect- 
 ed affection born of her love for him. He re- 
 43 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 membered the look in her eyes when he had bid- 
 den her good-bye — a look older than the child's 
 real age by many years. He wondered, and was 
 ashamed of the thought, if he had still the power 
 to call up such an expression. 
 
 Mrs. Ordway's next remark chimed in strange- 
 ly with his thought. 
 
 " We all used to think a sight of you, Mr. 
 Rdd, an' we do now, for that matter. But I 
 guess there didn't either of us older folks think 
 so much of you as Faithy did. She's always 
 kept wondering where you was and why you 
 didn't write." 
 
 Reid was troubled at the thought that he had 
 been unmindful of these generous friends, and 
 answered penitently: 
 
 " It was very ungrateful of me to seem to for- 
 get your kindness in that way. Believe me, it 
 was only in the seeming; I would have written 
 if I had thought you cared particularly. But 
 there wasn't anything of importance to write 
 about, and I put it off from week to week." 
 
 " Yes, I kep' tellin' father an' Faithy 'twas 
 that way. I'm. a poor hand to write myself an' 
 I know how it is." 
 
 A half hour later Mrs. Ordway beamed from 
 behind the coffee-pot over the generously 
 spread table. It was an admirable supper, from 
 44 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 - her standpoint or any other, and she naturally 
 contrasted the days of plenty with the days of 
 dearth. Something of this came to her lips. 
 
 " This ain't much like the times, Mr. Reid, 
 when you used to board with us and we had to 
 do most an)rway to make things come together." 
 
 " I didn't see much of that side of the matter, 
 Mrs. Ordway. There always seemed to be 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, you never knew how much your board 
 money meant to us. But we've pulled through 
 that now. I tell father he'll be building a man- 
 sion up on the hill pretty soon, like Mr. Hard- 
 ing's. I expect that's pretty fine, now, isn't it? " 
 
 " It is certainly a beautiful house, but after 
 all comfortable rather than fine," Reid answered 
 absently. 
 
 " I never thought I should feel at home in 
 such a big house, an' 'twould seem kind of lone- 
 some up on the hill," Mrs. Ordway went on 
 comfortably. " I've lived right down amongst 
 folks ever sence I was married, and I don't s'pose 
 I'd ever feel satisfied not to see something goin' 
 on. I guess this house suits me well enough. 
 It's big enough for us, an' I do' know's I want 
 to move, even if we do all git rich from bein' 
 mixed up with the big bugs." 
 
 " You better not count too much on that, 
 
 45 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 mother," said Mr. Ordway, breaking his habit- 
 ual silence. "It's full as likely to work the other 
 way. I don't take much stock in these new-fan- 
 gled schemes for makin' money." 
 
 " I judge nevertheless that things are pretty 
 hard for the producer, just now ? " Reid queried. 
 
 " I ain't complaining. It don't look as if I 
 was havin' hard times, does it ? " and he looked 
 complacently about him. 
 
 " No, it certainly doesn't ; but Mr. Harding 
 spoke as if many of the manufacturers felt differ- 
 ently." 
 
 " Mr. Harding ! " grunted Ordway, " I don't 
 take much stock in your Mr. Harding." 
 
 " Why not, Mr. Ordway ? " asked Reid puz- 
 zled. So far as he had seen Mr. Harding seem- 
 ed to inspire profound respect if not love. 
 
 " Oh, he's too slick, his hands are too white. 
 He talks too much." 
 
 " It isn't exactly fair, is it, father, to be down 
 on him for those things ? " asked Faith quietly. 
 
 " Of course 'taint, Faithy. But it's one of 
 those things you can't help. I don't like him 
 an' I don't trust him." 
 
 " I was real proud of father being invited up 
 there to dinner, but I don't think it pleased him a 
 mite," Mrs. Ordway interpolated. " Now I 
 
 46 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 think Mr. Harding is as well-appearing a man 
 as you need ask to see anywheres." 
 
 "Appears too well; just what I said," came 
 Mr. Ordway's laconic comment. 
 
 " Then you don't favor the agreement, pool, 
 whatever you call it?" said Reid, turning the 
 talk upon less personal matters. 
 
 " I did last night, — at any rate I didn't say 
 anything against it. I suppose I was so stuffed 
 with wine and good things that I felt good. At 
 any rate I lost my sense." 
 
 " Did they have wine, father ? " queried Mrs. 
 Ordway in awe-struck tones. To her mind spir- 
 ituous liquors were things to be used only in case 
 of dire illness and then with fear and trembling. 
 
 " Yes, all sorts. An' we all drank it, an' got 
 so meller and sociable that we agreed to anything 
 Albion Harding said." 
 
 " P'raps that's what he done it for," said Mrs. 
 Ordway with cunning. 
 
 " P'raps 'twas," her husband answered drily. 
 
 " Just what do you object to in the scheme, 
 Mr. Ordway ? " Reid asked persistently, return- 
 ing to the attack. This blunt, unschooled view- 
 point interested the artistic side of his nature. 
 
 Mr. Ordway was in no way reticent in regard 
 to his opinion. He had cast off his customary 
 taciturnity. It seemed that he had been brood- 
 47 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ing over the events of the evening' before 
 throughout the day, so that it was a relief to him 
 to speak. He went on judicially: 
 
 " Wal, I'll tell you what, I ain't never approved 
 of the pool. I'm too old-fashioned, I guess, — 
 at any rate, the old-fashioned ways of doing 
 things are good enough for me. We ain't be'n 
 runnin' things on the square for the last two 
 years. I see it an' I made up my mind I'd quit. 
 But when it comes to all this talk they's be'n late- 
 ly, it's too much for me. It's bein' bossed that 
 goes against me as much as anythin'." 
 
 " But I don't see that you are being bossed. 
 Isn't it the vote of the majority that decides the 
 question?" Reid persisted. 
 
 " It looks so from outside, but I tell you Al- 
 bion Harding's the majority. He owns three 
 mills outright, and nobody knows how many 
 more so far's the greater part of the interest is 
 concerned. At any rate, some of those men 
 don't dare say their souls are their own when he 
 speaks." 
 
 " The authority might be in worse hands, at 
 any rate. Mr. Harding is keen and level-head- 
 ed, and more than that he means well ; and I have 
 no doubt is perfectly sincere in thinking that the 
 manufacturer needs protection." Reid thorough- 
 ly believed with Mr. Harding, and was glad that 
 
 48 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 he could support his future employer with per- 
 fect sincerity. 
 
 " All that may be," Ordway rejoined stub- 
 bornly. " It don't do a mite of good to argue 
 with me. I know a scheme to gouge fortunes 
 out of poor, plain people as far as I can see it. 
 I've been a poor man myself all my life and I've 
 seen how 'tis. The more a man has the more 
 he wants, and the harder he's goin' to work to 
 get it." 
 
 " I don't think you're just to Mr. Harding, 
 father," Mrs. Ordway put in pacifically. " I'm 
 sure he's a good man. Look how generous he 
 is. He's treasurer of the missionary society, 
 busy as he is, an' don't take a cent of pay; an' 
 he gives money everywhere. Everybody that's 
 hard-up or wants money for anything special 
 goes to him. An' if you'd only go to prayer- 
 meetin' Friday nights you'd hear what beautiful 
 things he says. He's better than the minister 
 any day." 
 
 " It's easy enough to say beautiful things, — 
 at least it is for him. 'Twouldn't be for me. 
 And as for the missions, he's got plenty of 
 money, — what does that amount to ? Oh, yes, 
 he talks fair enough, but he don't keep me from 
 seein' that this is a scheme for takin' money away 
 49 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 from the poor people an' givin' it to the rich. 
 It's always the way." 
 
 He paused and a silence followed which was 
 broken by Mr. Ordway himself. 
 
 " There's one thing about it," he said reluc- 
 tantly. " There's goin' to be more chance for 
 savin' in a stronger organization than there's b'en 
 in the pool. There's goin' to be more of a show 
 for the gains bein' fair ones." 
 
 " Then you think a stronger organization 
 would be less objectionable after all?" Reid 
 asked a little eagerly. 
 
 " I s'pose 'twould, but I ain't in favor of it, 
 by any means. I want to go my own way jest 
 as I always did, an' I never wanted to do any- 
 thing else. Why I went an' agreed to anything 
 of the sort I don't know. Yes, I do know, too, 
 d — n it! I was a silly fool! I was flattered 
 at settin' there in Albion Hardingfs big dinin' 
 room, an' drinkin' his wine, — me that had eat 
 my dinner out of a tin pail in his father's mill 
 for years. He turned my head with his ' Mr. 
 Ordway' this an' his 'Mr. Ordway' that." 
 
 "Father, I'm ashamed of you!" Mrs. Ord- 
 way interrupted as soon as she could make her- 
 self heard through this outburst. " Do you know 
 what you said? " 
 
 " I didn't mean to, Matty," Mr. Ordway re- 
 50 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 plied apologetically. " But I do git so riled 
 when I think what I've done. Mebbe if I'd held 
 out, some of the rest might have. If somebody 
 had only made them see the other side ! I don't 
 s'pose I could have made plain how I felt about 
 it, but I should feel better if I had tried." 
 
 " Of course I haven't thought over the matter 
 as you have, but I have a feeling that you are 
 looking on the dark side altogether too much, 
 Mr. Ordway," Reid put in in reassuring tones. 
 
 " The worst of it is I don't have a mite of con- 
 fidence in Mr. Harding. Mebbe he did mean 
 some of the things he said when he said 'em; 
 but I tell you he's all taken up seein' what he 
 can do. It's more for the sake of havin' some- 
 thin' to run an' manage, than anythin' else. I've 
 known him in a sort of way ever sense he come 
 home from foreign parts an' took the business 
 after his father died; an' I know it's the breath 
 of his life to manage things. He's kep' pretty 
 straight an' clean for a. man mixed up in so many 
 things; I ain't never heard a word said against 
 his private life. But you can't always tell, — 
 sometimes it's the men like that that goes to 
 smash the hardest. All I have to say is that Al- 
 bion Harding ain't the kind of man I'd like to 
 trust my happiness and my fortunes to. Too 
 much power ain't good for some men. I've 
 51 
 
T^HE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 thought sometimes that if Caesar and Napoleon 
 and the fellers we read about in the history 
 hadn't had any power they'd have been better 
 men, — if they'd just stayed at home, and plowed 
 an' things." 
 
 William Ordway rose abruptly from the table 
 and left the room, only to pace the piazza rest- 
 lessly. Reid knew that some unusual excite- 
 ment possessed the plain man. He was a rare 
 speaker, and then only in monosyllables and in 
 reply to questions. This evening, however, he 
 had discoursed at length and with a certain rude 
 eloquence and effectiveness which surprised at 
 least one of his auditors. He had evidently been 
 brooding over the matter all day, and could no 
 longer restrain himself in the presence of a sym- 
 pathetic audience. 
 
 As his steps echoed sharply on the veranda, 
 Mrs. Ordway undertook to apologize. 
 
 " I'm sure Mr. Harding's a fine man, Mr. 
 Reid, an' I don't want you should think father 
 meant half what he said. It wasn't very polite 
 of him to speak so about a friend of yours any- 
 way; but he's all wrought up over it ever since 
 last night. He didn't sleep hardly a wink. 
 'Twas between twelve and one when he got 
 home, an' then he turned and twisted till most 
 mornin'. He said he guessed 'twas the coffee, — 
 
 52 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 'twas awful strong and black an' there wasn't 
 any milk to put in it. I s'pose the girl forgot it, 
 Mrs. Harding not bein' there, an' she havin' 
 everjrthing to tend to herself; but father said 
 Mr. Harding didn't say a word, an' drank it 
 down as if 'twas the way he wanted it. I 
 thought 'twas real considerate of him not to 
 make a fuss about it an' hurt her feelin's. But 
 anyway, it kep' father awake an' helped git 
 him all wrought up." 
 
 " The factory means a great deal to father," 
 Faith added at the end of her mother's mono- 
 logue. " He always worked there until we went 
 away from here. He was there when Mr. Hard- 
 ing's father owned it. His life has gone into it 
 as much as if he had always owned it himself." 
 
 " Yes, that was the first thing he done when 
 he come into that money. He wrote back here 
 to Underbill to see if he could buy the factory," 
 Mrs. Ordway added. 
 
 " Then you had a sudden stroke of luck, Mrs. 
 Ordway?" 
 
 " Bless you, yes ! We never could have scraped 
 together so much. You see father had a 
 brother, a sort of rovin' critter, an' he died an' 
 left him this piece of kind of waste land. It 
 didn't appear to be wuth much then; but they 
 discovered oil on it, an' he sold it for a good 
 S3 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 price. It don't seem so much now as it did then, 
 I guess, an' 'twouldn't be much for some folks — 
 but we're satisfied." 
 
 " It was the dearest thing — the way father 
 took it " — said Faith with a touch of strong 
 feeUng in her voice. " After we had moved 
 here he used to go down to the mill every night 
 to see if it was all right, just as if it had been 
 alive. And when he came back he always said, 
 ' Yes, 'twas the only thing that kept my spirits 
 up all through that time, — saying to myself, 
 " I'll be master here some day." ' It's nice to 
 see a man get what he wants most once in a 
 while." 
 
 Just then Mr. Ordway entered the dining- 
 room, where the three still lingered about the 
 table. 
 
 " See here, Reid," he said, concisely, " I've 
 said a lot of things to you that you can tell Mr. 
 Harding or not just as you please. They're no 
 more than I should be willing to say to him. I 
 expect I shall, some time. There's another 
 thing that I expect to tell him before long; and 
 that is that I shan't stay in his pool, combine, 
 or whatever he calls it, another week. But I 
 ain't come to it yet. I want tO' think about it 
 a little more. It ain't all the moral side of it, I 
 don't pretend, though I've always been on the 
 
 54 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE; 
 
 square, an' it's gittin' most too late to change; 
 but I can't stand bein' dictated to, an' I won't, 
 by Albion Harding or anybody else." 
 
 55 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 As the summer passed, Mr. Harding, deep in 
 business of a scope far wider than any one knew, 
 grew to depend on Reid at every turn. He often 
 contrasted Theodore's straggHng boyish hand, 
 his unreliable spelling, his faulty rhetoric, with 
 Reid's delicate precision; and compared his son's 
 blunt statements with Reid's tactful diplomacy. 
 The contrast could not fail to be hurtful tO' Theo- 
 dore, even though his faults in the clerical line 
 were more than counterbalanced by his pains- 
 taking attention to trivial details, and his in- 
 fluence with the men. Theodore had insisted 
 on learning the business from the start. He had 
 worked faithfully in the mills for months, gain- 
 ing a perfect knowledge of the processes, but in a 
 subtle way he had still further lowered his status 
 with his father, who never relished the sight of 
 his son in overalls and jumper. It argued, in 
 Mr. Harding's mind, some lack of breeding that 
 56 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 his son should meet on terms of equahty with 
 his own workmen. 
 
 In Raid, however, Mr. Harding found a most 
 congenial companion. He grew to value the 
 young man's opinions, especially on theoretical 
 matters, and discussed such topics freely with 
 him. So one morning as they sat at work Mr. 
 Harding said abruptly: 
 
 " What do you think about this pooling busi- 
 ness, Mr. Reid? You have studied political 
 economy, and so must have struck this phase of 
 the matter in college. There weren't such 
 things as pools to consider in my day." 
 
 Reid was a little surprised at this open admis- 
 sion of a limitation, but answered after a slight 
 pause : 
 
 " Frankly, Mr. Harding, I don't believe in 
 pools. They have all the bad features of the 
 regular combine and none of the good ones." 
 
 " Such as the saving by combined manage- 
 ment, etc. ? " Mr. Harding queried, though he 
 knew well enough Reid's meaning. 
 
 " Yes, just that. Then they are underhanded 
 in their very essence and so are absolutely unre- 
 strained." 
 
 " In point of fact they are illegal, I suppose," 
 Mr. Harding continued, thoughtfully. 
 
 Theodore, who had entered quietly at the be- 
 57 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ginning of the conversation, half-swung in his 
 chair and spoke impulsively: 
 
 " Why don't you drop the business altogether, 
 father? They're more harm than good ^com- 
 bines of any sort." 
 
 " You cannot dismiss them carelessly like that, 
 Theodore. You are ignoring the whole trend 
 of modern business. They demand attention." 
 Mr. Harding's tone was a little ruffled. 
 
 " I suppose I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to 
 me there's nothing like good, brisk competition 
 for working things out," Theodore answered. 
 ' Competition is the soul of trade,' you know." 
 
 " That is so old a proverb it may have well 
 become obsolete. I should amend it to read 
 ' Combination is the soul of trade,' " Mr. Harding 
 answered with dignity. 
 
 " Then trade hasn't much of a soul," Theo- 
 dore retorted. 
 
 Reid laughed. 
 
 " There's a great fad nowadays for talking of 
 corporate greed, but there's just as much real 
 avarice outside the corporations as in them, Ted- 
 dy; you get a little more lime-light on it in the 
 mass, that's all." 
 
 " Competition has some charges against it, 
 Theodore," Mr. Harding continued earnestly. 
 " Prices fluctuate and upset the stock market 
 S8 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 just the same under a competitive regime, 
 and the small producer now and then gets 
 wrecked without the aid of the combine. In 
 fact, the trust does away in a measure with these 
 things." 
 
 " Yes, by steadying prices away up above nor- 
 mal, and wrecking the small producer itself." 
 
 " You would have hard work to prove these 
 assertions, Teddy," said Reid. " They are 
 every-day talk, I know, but the proof lies all the 
 other way. I can prove to you with figures, 
 this minute, that the Standard Oil Company has 
 steadily lowered the selling price of oil for the 
 last fifteen years." 
 
 " You can- prove that prices have fallen, but 
 you can't prove that they have fallen as much 
 as they would have done without combination, 
 and can you prove that the quality of the oil 
 hasn't grown poorer ? " Theodore retorted, 
 warmly. 
 
 " The first doesn't admit of proof, of course. 
 They meet the second charge satisfactorily by 
 saying that they haven't learned yet how to re- 
 fine the Ohio oil." 
 
 " Shucks ! " said Theodore, inelegantly. 
 
 " Mind, Mr. Reid and I are not trying to con- 
 tend that the charges brought against the trust 
 have not almost all some foundation in fact." 
 59 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Mr. Harding spoke earnestly and with great 
 emphasis. His project had come to be very dear 
 to him. " The point I make is that they are not 
 necessary features of combination. Private 
 firms, too, have debased the product, ruined com- 
 petitors, lowered wages. All I claim is that the 
 essential features of trusts are all for the legiti- 
 mate furtherance of trade." 
 
 " Then all I've got to say is that our union — 
 whatever you call it — isn't a trust," Theodore 
 retorted. 
 
 " It never claimed to be. Mr. Reid and I 
 were saying that it has the evil features of the 
 trust and none of the good ones." 
 
 " Then I move we drop it, father," Theodore 
 reiterated, eagerly. " I've been wanting to say 
 this for a long time, and have been afraid it 
 would annoy you. But I can't stand this busi- 
 ness. It's killing my self-respect." 
 
 " You look at the matter from too emotional 
 a standpoint, Theodore," his father answered. 
 His son's feeling, the energy of his criticism, both 
 annoyed Mr. Harding; the fact that such a dis- 
 play of emotion was rare only emphasized the 
 implied criticism. 
 
 Theodore flushed hotly as he answered his 
 father's charge. 
 
 60 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I don't think you are quite fair to me, father. 
 It is a serious matter to me," he repHed. 
 
 " I don't think I fail to recognize its impor- 
 tance, but I regard it from a dififerent point of 
 view. I maintain that we must find some sub- 
 stitute for the pool. Your suggestion that we 
 give up the matter does not face the difficulty." 
 
 " I don't see any difficulty. We were getting 
 on well enough as we were. We had all the 
 money we needed." 
 
 " I'm not thinking of our interests in this mat- 
 ter. We are all right. But the other manufac- 
 turers — Mr. Burnham says — " 
 
 " Don't believe anything that Roger Burnham 
 says. He is absolutely unreliable," Theodore 
 said, emphatically. 
 
 " I must judge of that for myself." 
 
 " But do you know, father, what people in 
 general think of Roger Burnham? He is abso- 
 lutely unscrupulous in his business methods, and 
 a confirmed gambler," the younger man per- 
 sisted. 
 
 " Do you know these things ? " Mr. Harding 
 queried sharply. 
 
 " Of course not by experience." Theodore's 
 tones showed that he recognized the weakness 
 of his self-justification. " But everybody says 
 so." 
 
 6i 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Such testimony isn't to be relied on in the 
 least," Mr. Harding replied serenely. " I find 
 Mr. Burnham a man of keen business judgment 
 and considerable insight. Further than that I do 
 not care to go. I have no intention of making 
 him my familiar friend." 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry to have his name mixed up 
 with yours in any enterprise, that's all," Theo- 
 dore reiterated. 
 
 " I fancy mine will stand the strain," and Mr. 
 Harding smiled in genuine amusement. " The 
 man is a good agent if well controlled. But in 
 regard to this question of dropping the pool, we 
 may as well talk it out once for all, my son. 
 Do you not think the plan which we discussed 
 ineffectually last spring, for changing our infor- 
 mal agreement into an incorporated combination, 
 solves the difficulty ? " 
 
 " I don't see that it makes it much better," 
 Theodore retorted doggedly. " It's just here, 
 father. Trusts might do all these good things 
 that you have mentioned, but they don't." 
 
 " Will you be so good as to state clearly, Theo- 
 dore, your objection to combines ? " Mr. Harding 
 said with the air of propounding a puzzle. 
 
 " I think the amount of power they have is 
 dangerous. There's the matter in a nutshell," 
 Theodore answered promptly. " There aren't 
 
 62 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 many men who can stand the chance it gives for 
 the increase of money and power. Look into 
 the history of almost any trust. You'll find it 
 full of disgraceful things. I'll leave it to you, 
 Reid, if it isn't so." 
 
 " I suppose there is something in what you 
 say," Reid answered slowly. " But, as your 
 father says, these things are not an essential part 
 of the combine; a trust could be conducted suc- 
 cessfully without them. Its prosperity wouldn't 
 be so rapid or so dazzling, but it Would be even 
 more sure in the end — that is, the trust in the 
 abstract, in the ideal." 
 
 " There isn't any such thing — and if there 
 is it isn't worth considering. We have to think 
 of the practical workings," Theodore answered 
 a trifle crossly. 
 
 " It is my opinion that it is a worthy mission 
 for some man to prove that" the ideal trust is pos- 
 sible." Mr. Harding's cool eyes kindled as he 
 pictured himself in the role. '* I believe that a 
 combine can be incorporated at not a cent above 
 its real valuation, and can effect savings without 
 debasing the product or cutting down the price 
 it pays for raw material. With the great capi- 
 tal at its command it is going to be able to util- 
 ize its by-products effectively, and take every ad- 
 vantage of the state of the market. Moreover 
 63 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 it can save tremendously in running expenses 
 with one head man for four of the old regime. 
 It can buy up rivals instead of being obliged to 
 ruin them. It may even be able to reduce its 
 selling price and share its prosperity with the 
 public. And the man who proves that this is pos- 
 sible will do more for modern economic theory 
 than any maker of books," he ended trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 " I shall feel better about it when I see it 
 done," said Theodore shortly. " I'm going 
 down to Number Three." 
 
 Mr. Harding turned to Reid as the footsteps 
 died away on the stairs. 
 
 " Theodore is very likely to be governed by 
 his feelings, and has little regard for abstract 
 reasoning. His temperament is very like his 
 mother's. He has a good head for business, 
 however, and will do well in a small way. I 
 hope to fulfill my purpose in my lifetime, and if 
 I can leave everything compact and manageable 
 for him I shall feel that I have not lived in vain," 
 he said formally. 
 
 " You can hardly feel that, under any circum- 
 stances, you are so well developed on many sides. 
 The man who is primarily a business man seldom 
 gets more than a superficial culture from art and 
 
 64 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 literature." Reid was at no pains to conceal his 
 admiration from its object. 
 
 " It may be true. My father was a business 
 man and my grandfather a clergyman. Possi- 
 bly I may have a little of both about me. Then, 
 too, I did not spend in drudgery the years in 
 which a man forms his tastes. My training was 
 primarily on the literary and artistic side." Mr. 
 Harding liked to talk about himself to a really 
 sympathetic listener. 
 
 "Where did you study?" Reid questioned. 
 
 " I was a Harvard man, like my son. Then 
 I was tw6 years in a German university, then 
 music at Leipsic. As Thackeray said, ' I lacked 
 only talent and application to be at the height of 
 my profession.' No, I am not fair to myself 
 there. I really did work hard at my music. I 
 might have made something of it if I had not 
 been called home." 
 
 " Business must have been a great change for 
 you after a life of study." From his knowledge 
 of the man Reid could guess something of what 
 the sacrifice must have been. 
 
 " It was. I rebelled bitterly at first ; Hut I 
 was in a way forced into it, and I found that 
 business was undoubtedly my metier. Some- 
 times I feel famished, even after all these years, 
 65 
 
iTHE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 for the old things. But it is something to have 
 had my boyish Ufa." 
 
 " It must be everything," Reid replied sympa- 
 thetically. 
 
 Mr. Harding could speak freely to the young 
 man of an alien name. He could enter into 
 Reid's difficulties far better than into the strug- 
 gles of his own son. He had long since given 
 up the effort to find kinship with his child. He 
 had fed his own young mind with the classics, 
 and saw with disgust that his son preferred boys' 
 books of adventure. He himself had early 
 grown to love the organ, "while Theodore had 
 thrown aside the violin after years of unwilling 
 practice and had taken up the banjo with en- 
 thusiasm. True, all the things in which the son 
 had failed to come up to Mr. Harding's ideals 
 formed but slight defects in a character honor- 
 able, pure, unselfish, which had even laid aside 
 with unexpected resolution all traces of boyish 
 wildness. Mr. Harding, however, wished to be 
 Providence in his family, and here he had been 
 powerless. 
 
 As he climbed the hill to luncheon through the 
 August noon, two figures on horseback slowly 
 preceded him. He realized with an unpleasant 
 start that he had seen his daughter and Marcus 
 Oakley together often of late. Althea was, to be 
 
 66 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 sure, but a little girl just out of school; suspi- 
 cions seemed ungrounded, but Mr. Harding's 
 business caution was aroused. 
 
 Althea came down into the library a few min- 
 utes later, flushed and charming. She crossed 
 the room and perched on the arm of her father's 
 chair. 
 
 " Oh, when will luncheon be ready ? Aren't 
 you almost starved ? " she sighed as she touched 
 his silvery hair with one finger. 
 
 " You must have found it very warm riding, 
 little girl," he said absent-mindedly. 
 
 " Yes, we went out toward Riplay. Mr. 
 Oakley had business there." 
 
 " He isn't troubled that way often, is he ? " 
 Mr. Harding queried. 
 
 " In what way? " Althea asked quickly. 
 
 " With business. It must be very hard for a 
 young man without means — this building up a 
 practice. And I believe he has debts to bother 
 him." The tones were cool and deliberate. 
 
 " I'm sure he didn't make them being extrava- 
 gant. He spends hardly anything," said Althea, 
 coming to her friend's defence. 
 
 " No, necessary college debts, I think. It is 
 
 unfortunate for a young man to be obliged to 
 
 spend the best years of his life in paying off such 
 
 liabilities. It hampers him in every way. Oak- 
 
 67 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ley is fortunate, however, in not being entangled 
 in any love affair." 
 
 " Yes," said Althea, in a low voice. 
 
 " A young man who is hampered with debts 
 and marries," Mr. Harding went on in a gen- 
 eral and philosophical tone, " is most unwise and 
 usually most unhappy. Of course, if he choses 
 a yoilng woman accustomed to poverty and of a 
 frugal disposition — " 
 
 " Like John Gilpin's wife, ' of a frugal 
 mind,' " amended Althea. " There's the lunch- 
 eon bell," as a single silverjr" note struck in the 
 hall. "Where's Teddy?" 
 
 " I don't know. I haven't seen him since half- 
 past ten or thereabouts." 
 
 " He is going to umpire a game of ball be- 
 tween the boys of Number One and Number Two 
 this afternoon. I pity them all — it's so hot." 
 
 " Theodore's tastes surely are incomprehensi- 
 ble. He will stand there in the sun with his 
 hands on his knees and his legs astride all the 
 afternoon and shout himself hoarse, and call it 
 enjoyment," Mr. Harding responded in vexed 
 tones. 
 
 " He didn't want to, today," said Althea loy- 
 ally, " but the boys were going to be so disap- 
 pointed." 
 
 68 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Unrest abode beneath leisurely beauty and 
 genial hospitality in the big house on the hill 
 that summer. Albion Harding chafed over the 
 slow maturing of his plans and his son's incipi- 
 ent revolt, and Theodore was restless beneath the 
 indifference of the woman he loved, and sensitive 
 to his father's unspoken criticism. Althea found 
 life endurable only as it brought her nearer to 
 Marcus Oakley, although her passionate, unbal- 
 anced nature found in meeting nothing but pain. 
 Mrs. Harding, alone, lived out her placid, beau- 
 tiful life, untroubled by economic theories and 
 haunting, unsatisfied affection. 
 
 She had been a happy woman since the time 
 when, a girl of twenty, she had married Albion 
 Harding. Her satisfaction with her lot was 
 complete, and she went but unwillingly from 
 home. Nothing that she saw elsewhere was so 
 lovely to her as the blue river winding down 
 69 ' 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 from the blue hills southward through its mead- 
 ows. She loved her wide, airy house and the 
 daily routine of its care, the entertainment of 
 guests, and the whole round of her ordered life. 
 No sorrow had ever touched her closely; one 
 shadow of trouble only had visited her — the 
 lack of concord between her husband and her 
 son. Though not brilliant herself, she had the 
 faculty of making others appear so. She never 
 made mistakes in planning house-parties or seat- 
 ing her guests ; she had a genius for breaking up 
 unpleasant tete-a-tetes and leavening a whole 
 company with good feeling. 
 
 Her peaceful atmosphere was an unfailing sol- 
 ace and refuge to more than one worried man or 
 tired woman. She was not the least of the at- 
 tractions which brought Reid and Oakley up the 
 hill on summer nights. So on a breathless even- 
 ing in August the two young men left the lodg- 
 ing in the valley which they shared, sure of some 
 amelioration of their mood on the West Hill. 
 The sun had already set and the gathering twi- 
 light was full of the tireless noise of insects; the 
 air was heavy and lifeless. In the west dark, 
 banks of clouds lay piled, pierced now and then 
 by flashes of lightning. 
 
 A heavy silence seemed to reign on the ver- 
 anda. Hammocks and lounging chairs were 
 
 7° 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 grouped within speaking distance, but no one 
 seemed to care for speech. Margaret Favor sat 
 listless and quiet in the light from the hall lamp, 
 with her slender hands folded in her lap. Her 
 father's cigar tip gleamed a little remote. Theo- 
 dore's white figure lay stretched in the hammock 
 with the pup, a dark ball, beside him, and the 
 white dresses of Mrs. Harding and Althea were 
 visible near by. The new-comers were conscious 
 of a mingling of relaxation and tension in the 
 air, of restlessness and repose. It was a night 
 when things of importance might happen. 
 
 General Favor broke the long silence which 
 Mrs. Harding had been too wise to attempt to 
 stem with small talk. 
 
 " I hear your pool isn't turning out a great 
 success, Harding?" 
 
 " Indeed ! one can hear almost an3^hing if one 
 attends to it industriously," Mr. Harding replied 
 coldly. 
 
 General Favor laughed with unruffled good 
 humor. 
 
 " Scored, Harding! But really, I'm interested. 
 We're all interested. I heard you were talking 
 of incorporating, and I suppose if you do you'll 
 let your friends in on the ground floor in the 
 matter of stock. I shall put in every penny I can 
 raise. I suppose you'll pay big dividends." 
 
 71 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I cannot say," Mr. Harding responded rath- 
 er severely. " Our aim is primarily the protec- 
 tion of the smaller manufacturers." 
 
 " Of course, the philanthropy of the trust has 
 become proverbial," said Margaret slowly and 
 stingingly. 
 
 Mr. Harding bit his lip. He dreaded for 
 some unexplained reason to have his motives 
 closely analyzed. Margaret's cynicism troubled 
 him vaguely and irritated him still more. But 
 he chose to ignore her challenge to battle, rightly 
 judging that his silence would annoy her more 
 than scathing words. 
 
 " Then you agree with me about trusts ? " 
 Theodore asked a trifle wistfully. 
 
 " Oh, that can't be," Margaret smiled. " We 
 never did agree about anything. We mustn't. 
 If you favor trusts I shall oppose them and the 
 other way — just for the sake of old times." 
 
 " I wish you'd let up on joking and talk 
 sense," Theodore said bluntly. 
 
 " Impossible, — how can you ask it? " 
 
 " Honestly, what do you think about them ? " 
 He pressed the point eagerly, regardless of the 
 fact that there were other auditors. 
 
 " I think the trust is the one safeguard of the 
 country," she responded promptly. 
 
 " You are letting your girlish enthusiasm run 
 72 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 away with you, Miss Margaret," said Mr. Hard- 
 ing dryly. " But the cause is fortunate with so 
 fair a champion." 
 
 " Besides, if it weren't for the pleasant little 
 ways of the creature, life would lose a great deal 
 of its interest. For instance, what would the 
 newspapers do? I was reading an interesting 
 thing the other day about a corporation which 
 carted away by night a rival factory," the girl 
 continued sweetly. 
 
 " Nonsense, Margaret, you didn't believe that, 
 I hope," said General Favor with paternal direct- 
 ness. " You can't believe anything you read on 
 that subject. The newspapers that aren't in the 
 pay of the corporations abuse them to gain the 
 public ear." 
 
 " That's a bad showing for the papers. General 
 Favor," said Reid, stung by the statement. 
 " It's one that you would find it hard to prove." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, my boy. I forgot 
 that we had a newspaper man among us." 
 
 " Your statement is absurd on the face of it, 
 father," Margaret added. " Don't you know 
 that there isn't a trust in the country that would 
 buy up a newspaper ? Mr. Harding and I know 
 it, don't we, Mr. Harding?" 
 
 There was no response. Mr. Harding's se- 
 73 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 rene silence at once rebuked the girl's imper- 
 tinence and concealed his annoyance. 
 
 General Favor rose with a ponderous sigh. 
 
 " I'm going home," he said with the freedom 
 permitted to life-long neighbors. " It can't be 
 any hotter there than it is here, and, at least, you 
 don't have tO' talk. You folks aren't any of you 
 my build. Lean people don't know what hot 
 weather is. Are you coming, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I don't think I'll ever come. It will be far 
 easier to stay here," said Margaret languidly. 
 Theodore turned uneasily in the hammock and 
 the dog whined. 
 
 As General Favor's heavy tread echoed down 
 the gravel walk, Mr. Harding rose and silently 
 vanished. A sudden longing had come over him 
 for his big music room with its arched ceiling, 
 carved dark wood, windows open to north and 
 south and east, and rows of shining organ keys. 
 
 Althea rose as her father disappeared ; the cas- 
 ual, general conversation had no interest for her. 
 She had felt at times that she must cry out as 
 she listened to Margaret's slow, honey-sweet 
 voice. Though it could bring her only pain 
 and unsatisfied craving, she longed to be alone 
 with Oakley. She had something of importance 
 to tell him. 
 
 " Let's go down to the summer house," she 
 74 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 said abruptly. " The moon must be just about 
 rising, and, as General Favor says, it can't be 
 any hotter there." 
 
 Margaret rose and Reid followed her exam- 
 ple. Then, seeing that Theodore had moved 
 also, he sank into his seat again. He honestly 
 meant not to interfere in a matter which seemed 
 serious to his friend. 
 
 " Shall we go down with these young people, 
 Mrs. Harding, or shall we stay here?" he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 " I don't think I care to go, Mr. Reid, but 
 don't let that keep you." 
 
 " Shall we stay here and talk ? Go on, senti- 
 mental young creatures, and look at the moon," 
 and Reid waved the four a light farewell. 
 
 They passed around the east wing where Mr. 
 Harding's music already swelled out into the hot 
 darkness. Now and then a sullen, distant peal 
 of thunder echoed the lower notes of the organ. 
 The black clouds were slowly rising higher and 
 higher, and were pierced more and more fre- 
 quently by lightning flashes. It had hardly 
 rained for a month and in the dewless night the 
 grass was dry and warm to the feet. On the 
 crest of the hill was a little, honeysuckle-covered 
 arbor, a relic of the days of the clergyman grand- 
 father. There he had been accustomed, so tra- 
 75 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 dition said, to compose his stern sermons, his 
 mild old face beaming as he consigned the wicked 
 to eternal fire, in a deftly turned phrase. Here 
 his matter-of-fact descendant seated himself with 
 the cynical, modern lady of his love. 
 
 Althea and Oakley, however, walked on in si- 
 lence to a rustic seat, half-buried in the branches 
 of a giant fir. From a distance came the throb 
 of the organ and the irregular detonations of 
 the thunder. For a time they hardly spoke. 
 The full moon rising showed Althea's dark eyes 
 and her thin, dusky arms through the sheer mus- 
 lin of her gown. Oakley, gazing fixedly over 
 the pale lights of the valley, was striving for self- 
 control. 
 
 " Mother and I are going abroad in Septem- 
 ber. They have decided." Althea broke the si- 
 lence in a hard voice. 
 
 " I thought you were going to spend the win- 
 ter in New York, and be a great social success." 
 Oakley tried to speak lightly, but his voice be- 
 trayed him. 
 
 " They changed their mind," said Althea 
 quietly. 
 
 " You will stay some time when you once get 
 across, I suppose," said Oakley, talking against 
 time. " I always thought nothing less than two 
 years would satisfy me." 
 
 76 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Nothing at all would satisfy riie. I don't 
 want to go." 
 
 " You have only to say so, then, of course. 
 They are doing it to please you," the young man 
 blundered. 
 
 " They're not. They're doing it to get me 
 away from you. They know I love you, Mar- 
 cus; don't you care for me a bit? If you don't 
 I shall die!" 
 
 The words came slowly at first and then with 
 a rush, breaking down Oakleys wall of reserve. 
 In a moment he held the slight form clasped in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Althea, you know I do," he murmured. 
 
 There was a long pause. Althea was sobbing, 
 but in a not altogether heart-broken way. She 
 was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "If you loved me why didn't you tell me? 
 You treated me just as you did every one else. 
 I am so miserable." 
 
 "I tried hard to. Don't you see why?" he 
 said softly. " It was the only thing for me to 
 do. I can't ask you to be my wife. I have 
 nothing at all, and you are so young. You are 
 nothing but a child." 
 
 " Oh, Marcus, I'm not. I've felt so old the 
 last week. And mother was married when she 
 77 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 was twenty, and I'm eighteen now. It needn't 
 be for a long time yet. We can wait years," 
 she pleaded like a wilful child. 
 
 " But it isn't fair to you, dear. You are 
 young and may see someone you care more for. 
 I'm not willing to bind you. I don't think it 
 would be the happiest thing for you. Long en- 
 gagements aren't often happy." 
 
 " Well, we needn't be engaged so very long. 
 I could learn to keep house. I can work," Al- 
 thea protested. 
 
 " You work ! " Oakley laughed softly. 
 " That's just what I don't want to see you doing. 
 When I can offer you comfort and something 
 like the ease which you have enjoyed at home, 
 I shall ask you to share it, but not until then. I 
 love you with all ray heart and always shall." 
 
 " Father would help us, I know he would." 
 
 " Althea, do you think I would let him ? " 
 
 " But you said you wanted to do what would 
 make me happiest." Althea's dusky little face 
 was instinct with passionate surprise. She had 
 seen for herself a clear solution of the whole mat- 
 ter, and had expected that it would appeal at once 
 to her lover. 
 
 " Do you think that I could purchase even 
 your happiness with my self-respect ? " 
 
 The girl was abashed before Oakley's sudden 
 78 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 indignation. She looked down over the valley 
 with the red moon already mounting over its 
 lights. 
 
 " Your father will think it very wrong to have 
 spoken to you, Althea," Oakley said at length, 
 drawing her still closer. 
 
 " I suppose he will. He thinks a great deal 
 of money and position." 
 
 "And I have neither," Oakley said. "And 
 yet I have presumed to love his daughter." 
 
 " I shall tell him exactly how it was," said 
 Althea from the safe shelter of her lover's arm. 
 " I shall tell him that I made you say it, that 
 it wasn't your fault." 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind, you brave 
 child," and he covered the thin cheek with kisses. 
 " Confess, now, that it would frighten you half 
 to death." 
 
 " Of course it would. I'm not exactly afraid 
 of iather, but it's not far from it. He never 
 shows that he is angry, and he is always perfectly 
 polite, no matter how you have displeased him; 
 but his standards are so high — or something — 
 oh, he will think what I said to you was dreadful. 
 Marcus, do you? " she shuddered nervously and 
 clung closer to Oakley as she questioned him. 
 
 " No, dearest, you only gave me a chance to 
 say something I have wanted to for so long, but 
 79 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 didn't for your sake. Does it seem very hard- 
 hearted, when I knew you cared, not to — " 
 
 " Did you know I cared? " she asked sharply. 
 Oakley was angry with himself for his want of 
 tact. 
 
 " I was afraid so. It seemed to me your eyes 
 told it to me sometimes. I didn't see why you 
 should love such a poor sort of a fellow — and 
 such a coward. But I was a coward for you, 
 dear. I was afraid of making you wretched." 
 
 " I want you to understand all about it, dear," 
 he said again after a pause. " I shall be a poor 
 sort of lover. I can't give you beautiful pres- 
 ents and a handsome engagement ring, and take 
 you to the theater and parties as a. rich man 
 could. You will be ashamed of your shabby 
 lover, dearest." 
 
 " Never," she said softly. " I love him just 
 as he is better than I could any other way." 
 
 " I think I ought to speak to your father to- 
 night, don't you, Althea?" Oakley said at last. 
 " It is his right to know at once." 
 
 " I ought to." 
 
 " Nonsense, you can speak to him later. And 
 mind you don't make any of those dreadful reve- 
 lations you threatened," Oakley laughed. 
 
 " We must go up now. It must be getting 
 late. I haven't heard the organ for some time." 
 80 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Althea was suddenly startled by a sense of the 
 lateness of the hour. 
 
 " All right. I must hunt your father up," 
 Oakley rejoined with forced cheerfulness. 
 
 " And you won't tell him what I said to you? " 
 Althea quavered, with a little thrill as of tears 
 in her voice. All her courage had vanished be- 
 fore the imminence of the confession. " Nor 
 even hint at it. I don't know what he would 
 think." 
 
 They walked slowly up to the house, noting the 
 highly piled masses of black clouds and guess- 
 ing the nearness of the rain. 
 
 They separated at the veranda and Oakley, 
 with beating heart, sought the library. 
 
 An hour later Reid and Oakley sat together in 
 their common room, watching the murmurous 
 downpour of the rain. After a long silence the 
 former said: 
 
 " I've been thinking about you, Oak. Don't 
 get mad at me for saying it, but you've got to 
 look out." 
 
 " It's too late for your advjce to do any good. 
 I've done it already." 
 
 "Looked out! What! That child?" 
 
 " I know it. She isn't anything but a child, 
 and that's what I like best about her, I think." 
 8i 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 "Well, what luck? There's no need of ask- 
 ing, I suppose." 
 
 "Accepted by daughter and declined without 
 thanks by father. Just about what you would 
 expect." 
 
 " See here, Frank," Oakley added, breaking 
 the pause that followed Reid's somewhat falter- 
 ing congratulations, " I should like to have one 
 person know just how it all happened. I know 
 I seem like a cad in this whole business, but it 
 really wasn't so bad as it seems." Then, very 
 tenderly and delicately, he told the story of the 
 night. If it had to be told at all it could not 
 have been done better. Reid, however, listened 
 with a sense of guilt. At the close of the nar- 
 rative he said : 
 
 " And how was it left, if you don't mind tell- 
 ing?" 
 
 " She is going abroad for three years, and we 
 are not to be engaged, nor to write. Then if 
 we're both so minded we can be engaged until 
 such a time as he graciously thinks us ready to 
 marry." 
 
 "That sounds- like Mr. Harding," Reid 
 laughed. " And you agreed ? " 
 
 "What else was there to do?" said Oakley 
 wearily. " I wish I had fifty thousand dollars ; 
 that isn't much to ask for. But it wouldn't have 
 82 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 been bad fun, if it hadn't been a serious matter 
 to me, to see the way Mr. Harding took hold of 
 it. He was fazed for about three minutes and 
 mad for about six more, and then he settled 
 down to it just as if it had been a strike or a big 
 business deal of , some sort, and he struck out 
 his campaign all in a minute, like the general 
 he is. By the way, Reid, did you know he is at 
 work on some sort of a book on Dante and his 
 times ? You should have heard him talk about it. 
 I had fairly to break in with my small personal 
 matters." 
 
 83 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Theodore Harding was filled with dismay as 
 he saw his friend gradually supplanting him. 
 He had grown through a child's friendship and 
 a boy's love to consider Margaret Favor his 
 property. He had laid claim to her more than 
 once, only to meet with deft evasions; but that 
 summer had fixed his determination to have a 
 definite answer. He waited long for his oppor- 
 tunity, however, as Margaret was wary, and not 
 inclined to give him a chance for private speech. 
 His heart was therefore filled with triumph one 
 August afternoon, as he drove out into the coun- 
 try with the girl by his side. He spoke but 
 little save to the horse, who worked his sensitive 
 ears uneasily. The big fellow, trained to the 
 saddle, chafed at the unusual trappings and the 
 whir of light buggy wheels behind him. His 
 glossy flanks were wet and he started nervously. 
 
 Once Margaret said, with a touch of petulance 
 in her tone : 
 
 84 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I don't see what you are doing this for. It 
 will spoil him for the saddle." 
 
 " There's no danger of that ; he will always 
 be a saddle horse first; but you see he doesn't 
 get enough exercise, and I need a driving horse," 
 Theodore explained. 
 
 " Economy ? " said Margaret, laughing a little 
 ircmically. 
 
 They stabled the horse at the end of their 
 drive and wound their way, alone with pasture 
 and sky, into the pine wood, where big patches 
 of golden light glowed on the smooth brown 
 floor. The strident trill of insects seemed to be 
 shut outside with the glare of sunshine. The 
 only sound was the sighing of the wind among 
 the pines and a ripple of water, growing momen- 
 tarily louder as they proceeded. 
 
 " Isn't it beautiful ? " Margaret said, in a voice 
 full of the soft sincerity which marked her best 
 mood. Theodore quickly recognized his oppor- 
 tunity, but fell suddenly tongue-tied, and could 
 only answer: 
 
 " 'Tis nice. It's a nice brook — hear it ! 
 Good trout-fishing in the pools above." 
 
 " I really believe, Theodore Harding, that all 
 you care about out of doors is killing some- 
 thing." The girl spoke lightly, but there was 
 an undercurrent of protest in her tones. 
 
 85 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Come now, Margaret, be fair," he an- 
 swered. " Don't you ever do me a bit of jus- 
 tice?" 
 
 " Well, isn't that the way of it? " 
 
 " No, it isn't the killing at all. It's the sport. 
 Someway, too, I like being out of doors better — 
 just the air and the smell and the looks of every- 
 thing — if I have a rod or a gun in my hands. 
 I can't go out just for the exercise, the way some 
 fellows do, — ^at any rate, I don't care so much 
 about it." 
 
 " I can't understand how any one can be will- 
 ing to kill wild creatures," said Margaret, in 
 somewhat, superior tones. 
 
 " Well, for all I'm such a butcher, I wouldn't 
 be so unkind to anyone as you are to me, for a 
 good deal," Theodore replied, turning the tables 
 most unexpectedly. 
 
 " Oh, just look ! " cried the girl, glad to 
 change the subject. They had come to the spot 
 where the brook made its way through the pines. 
 The trees stood back a little from the stream, 
 leaving a bank where hardy grass peeped up 
 through the sprinkling of brown needles. The 
 sunlight poured into the little opening and light- 
 ed -^up the water into clearest amber. The stream 
 was broad and shallow, pouring over the stones 
 of its bed with abundant laughter. Down to the 
 86 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 golden eddies crowded spikes of the cardinal 
 flower, a glowing company, shining in the sun- 
 light with the lambency of rubies. Over the nar- 
 row opening above, the sky stretched, an azure 
 awning, flecked with one white, sunlit cloud, and 
 down below, perched on a spray of alder which 
 overhung the stream, was a blue-bird, child at 
 once of earth and sky. 
 
 " I was reading an explanation of the fact — 
 it was assumed as a fact — " Margaret began 
 hastily. She knew what was coming and 
 dreaded it. 
 
 " See here, Margaret, I've stood all the quib- 
 bling I can," Theodore said with a touch of the 
 masterful in his tone altogether foreign to it. 
 Then, seeing her flush, he added remorsefully, 
 " I didn't mean to be a brute. You must for- 
 give me, and recollect that I've stood being put 
 off a good many times without saying much 
 about it. Do you remember that I asked you 
 something five years ago last December? I 
 don't blame you for putting me off then. I was 
 going the pace and wasn't fit for you. I'm not 
 now, when it comes to that; but I've picked up 
 a bit since then — and anyway, Margaret, you 
 ought to know by this time whether you care for 
 me or not." Theodore's dark cheeks were 
 flushed, his whole face quivered with the in- 
 87 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tensity of his feeling. Margaret was moved to 
 pity, but not to decision. She spoke regret- 
 fully: 
 
 " I don't know, and that's all I can say. I 
 do care for you, of course, how can I help it? 
 But that way? We ought to love each other 
 very, very much, Teddy, if we think of mar- 
 riage, — more than people who have more tastes 
 in common. We have that difference to get 
 over all the time." 
 
 Theodore noticed the use of the old childish 
 diminutive with an access of courage. In the 
 days when she had used it habitually this matter 
 had been settled in the afifirmative. He spoke 
 more hopefully: 
 
 " Well, let's talk it over. You say our tastes 
 aren't alike. Just what do you mean? " 
 
 " Why, it is plain enough, I think. We don't 
 care for the same things in literature or amuse- 
 ments or an)d;hing." 
 
 " Well, lots of people are married who don't, 
 and they get on well enough." 
 
 " And is that all you aim at — getting on well 
 enough ? " 
 
 Something very rapturous had in truth been in 
 Theodore's mind when he spoke the prosaic 
 words, but he could not express it. He an- 
 swered soberly: 
 
 88 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I wish I ever could suit you with what I 
 say, Margaret. I'll say they are perfectly happy, 
 if you prefer, only I don't believe in it. If you 
 are waiting to find somebody you can be per- 
 fectly happy with you'll have to wait a good 
 while." 
 
 " That's exactly the person I intend to wait 
 for," Margaret replied with dignity. 
 
 " And that is what is keeping us apart ! " said 
 Theodore in desperation. " Margaret, dear, 
 why should we expect to be perfectly happy? 
 There will be troubles just the same, and days 
 when one feels cross, and headaches, and all 
 those things. This is the way I think of it — 
 that I'll be happier with you than any one else." 
 
 " At any rate if you were the right person I 
 ought to think I should be perfectly happy with 
 you. I don't even feel sure that I should be 
 happier with you than with any one else. If only 
 we had more tastes in common," Margaret hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " I would try to like Browning and Ibsen and 
 Wagner and all those fellows you are so fond 
 of. Perhaps I could. And I would try so hard 
 to make you happy. I'm not at all the brilliant 
 sort of fellow you ought to marry, I know, but 
 I would do the best I could. I know the things 
 89 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you like and how to please you better than any 
 other man does — and I would try harder." 
 
 " It seems selfish for me to be talking all the 
 time of what would make me happy; but you 
 know one of us couldn't be happy if the other 
 wasn't," Margaret said gently. 
 
 " And you can't give me any answer then ? 
 You don't know how unsettling it is to me to 
 go on this way." 
 
 " If I give you a definite answer now it must 
 be no, Teddy. I don't want to say that." 
 
 " All right, don't say anything then. I can 
 stand it a while longer. Only if you do decide, 
 you might put an end to my suspense one way 
 or the other without making me go all through 
 this again. It gets monotonous." 
 
 He covered his real feeling with a mask of 
 lightness which somehow jarred upon the wom- 
 an at his side. She did not answer him, and in 
 silence they turned and passed out through the 
 dense shadows of the pines into the pasture. The 
 shade from the wood reached long and dark 
 ahead of them. Along the crest of the hill the 
 cows went tinkling home, their bells sounding 
 back softly through the evening air, — the one 
 music which seemed to belong to the ferny pas- 
 tures, the low sun and the August haze. Theo- 
 dore looked longingly at Margaret as they 
 90 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 climbed the uncertain way together. From his 
 position a little behind he could gaze unreproved 
 at her flushed cheeks, her blue-grey eyes, her 
 rippling bronze hair. She made a brilliant pic- 
 ture against the rusty background of the hill, 
 with the sheaf of crimson flowers glowing 
 against her creamy waist. She looked like some 
 delicate garden blossom, strayed by chance into 
 the wilds, yet not of them-. 
 
 Theodore felt an almost unconquerable desire 
 to capture his companion by force in some primi- 
 tive fashion, and put an end to her useless ques- 
 tionings. They seemed, indeed, useless to him. 
 To his mind it was an understood thing that a 
 woman should have tastes and pleasures that a 
 man did not share. Why should she feel it a 
 more vital matter that he did not share her en- 
 thusiasm for Wagner than that laces and silks 
 appealed but dimly to him ? Why was it more to 
 be deplored that he did not understand literary 
 technique, than that she did not understand the 
 philosophy of business relations? It was all a 
 hopeless, hurting problem. 
 
 Two days later Margaret Favor and Francis 
 Reid discussed the same question. They were 
 drifting slowly down the river in the sunset. 
 East, west and south glowed with a uniform, 
 clear gold, curdled here and there into orange 
 91 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 flecks. In the north were piled great dark 
 banks of clouds, touched on the edges with saf- 
 fron, and lighted from coldness by the glow 
 of the whole sky. Suddenly the color faded 
 as if a great light had gone out. The clouds, 
 robbed of their splendor seemed slaty and cold. 
 Margaret shivered and drew her heavy blue cape 
 more closely about her. Into the silence Reid 
 quoted : 
 
 " For note when evening shuts, 
 A certain moment cuts 
 The deed off, calls the glory from the grey." 
 
 Margaret joined him and chanted softly to the 
 end. 
 
 " What does it make you think of? " she asked 
 after a pause. 
 
 " The sunset ? Of how life looked to me once 
 and how it looks now, I think. It was all golden, 
 but the gold faded and left the grey. It was 
 like the sunset, too, in that it was no phenome- 
 non, but just caused by the time o' day," he 
 added with a little laugh. 
 
 Reid looked most ideally sad, as he gazed on 
 the distant, sombre horizon. His high, ilack 
 jersey somehow gave his face an ascetic look, the 
 expression of the idealist, the devotee ; but in his 
 eyes was the pain of disillusion. The combina- 
 tion pleased Margaret, aud she answered, 
 
 92 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I was thinking that same thing myself." 
 Reid had a lurking sense that the thought was 
 after all an obvious one; but the mutual compre- 
 hension pleased him. It was an admirable op- 
 portunity for sentiment, and he quoted softly 
 once more, 
 
 " So one in thought and heart I trow 
 That thou mightst press the strings and I might draw 
 the bow." 
 
 There was a tiny spark of something like 
 amusement in the girl's eyes as their glances 
 met. She was strangely elusive, mingling a 
 mocking hardness with her sentimental moods. 
 The suspicion that she was laughing at him piqued 
 Reid. He continued more boldly than usual : 
 
 " There speaks the final word on the subject 
 of the perfect marriage." 
 
 His companion answered soberly enough now, 
 
 " Do you suppose it was really that to them? " 
 
 " Why not? In spite of illness and povert)^ 
 those two were perfectly happy. I never doubt 
 it." 
 
 " Theodore says there is no such thing as per- 
 fect happiness," Margaret ventured. 
 
 " The prosaic fellow ! His imagination 
 doesn't rise that high." 
 
 " Isn't he matter of fact? If I had asked him 
 what the sunset made him think of he would have 
 93 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 said briefly, ' Cold tomorrow ! ' — and buttoned 
 up his coat in preparation." 
 
 Raid laughed at her wicked little imitation, 
 and then replied seriously, 
 
 " Well, he gains something. If he doesn't 
 have the ecstasies he doesn't have the reactions. 
 He probably gets more enjoyment in the long 
 run. Which kind would you rather have ? " 
 
 " I've always thought," said Margaret Favor 
 slowly, " that if I could be perfectly happy for 
 one week — and know it, I would rather have 
 that than years of getting on ' well enough.' " 
 She was thinking of Theodore's unlucky phrase. 
 Reid could not know this, but he answered part 
 of her thought. 
 
 " Yes, I believe in perfect happiness in mar- 
 riage. Of course there are everyday troubles, 
 but don't you know that on a day when you are 
 keyed right to the world nothing troubles you 
 much. The things that annoyed you before have 
 lost their power to irritate. That is what the 
 perfect marriage should do for one — put him in 
 harmony with the universe." 
 
 " Do you think, Mr. Reid, that such harmony 
 
 can come without likeness of tastes — that love 
 
 alone is enough ? " Margaret was ^ a strange 
 
 mingling of the sentimental girl and the woman 
 
 94 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 of the world, and was speaking now from the 
 former mood. 
 
 " Perfect oneness can hardly come without es- 
 sential harmony of tastes," said Reid judicially. 
 " But it is something, after all, that cannot be 
 analyzed." 
 
 " Any more than why one should love one per- 
 son and dislike another," Margaret added. 
 
 " These things are too subtle for us. We blun- 
 der into them without knowing how or why. 
 The main thing is not to accept any compromises 
 at the hands of fate." He paused a moment and 
 then added daringly. 
 
 " I have all the zeal of a new convert. I have 
 always been more or less sceptical on the subject 
 of affinities, and the perfect marriage, and all 
 that. But lately I have come to believe that it is 
 possible for a man to find a woman who is at 
 once his complement and his supplement — some- 
 times it seems that the glory is coming back to 
 the grey." 
 
 The girl met his significant gaze fully and 
 answered with a short laugh, 
 
 " And I." 
 
 The charm of it all was that it might mean 
 
 something or nothing, as they chose. An3rthing 
 
 more outspoken, like Theodore's direct appeal, 
 
 would have failed to kindle Margaret's imagina- 
 
 95 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tion, or would have antagonized her. It was all 
 plain common-sense, with the possibility, a sober 
 drab at best, of getting on well enough. It had 
 merely forced her toward a disagreeable decision. 
 This, however, was a little intoxicating and in 
 spite of its piquant excitement pledged nothing. 
 Both knew that any serious talk of love between 
 them was out of the question, and perhaps this 
 very sense of the forbidden lent charm to the tri- 
 fling. In the mind of the man, however, there 
 was an uneasy sense of disloyalty to his friend. 
 Francis Reid was one of those men — not al- 
 ways loved over-much by their mates — who find 
 in an attractive woman insistent and usually 
 overpowering temptations to Platonic friendship. 
 The idle, half-sentimental triflings do little harm 
 an5rwhere, but sometimes, as in this case, they 
 cast a more prosaic wooer into disfavor. Reid 
 was a good fellow in the main, and a true friend 
 to Theodore Harding, as the final issue always 
 showed, and if he had thought that his friend 
 stood a remote chance of winning Margaret, and 
 with her, happiness, he would have avoided her 
 society. As it was he drifted, smiling a trifle 
 cynically over an attraction the power of which 
 he owned. 
 
 96 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The case of Oakley and Althea grew no bright- 
 er as the autumn days shortened. The date ap- 
 proached on which Mrs. Harding and Althea 
 were to sail for Europe, and, as time passed, 
 Oakley began to realize the force of his feeling 
 for the young girl. He appreciated, too, more 
 keenly her dependence on him. His sense of 
 honor had compelled him to forbid her the child- 
 ish, pathetic notes and clandestine meetings on 
 which she relied to sustain her spirits. He had 
 been forced to be almost harsh with her, hard as 
 he found it. He was, himself, absolutely de- 
 pendent on outside support in time of trouble, and 
 in this emergency relied on Theodore's unfailing 
 sympathy. The latter forgot his own unrest in 
 his friend's trouble and tried in every possible 
 way consistent with his somewhat rigid ideas of 
 propriety to console the disconsolate lovers. It 
 was with the hope of modifying Oakley's gloom 
 that he said in a casual way one morning, 
 97 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " See here, Oak ! Have you got time to taike 
 Victor out for a little exercise? He is spoiling 
 for ten or twenty miles of road, and I don't like 
 to have Tom ride him. He works the mischief 
 with him some way or other." 
 
 " Are you sure you don't want him yourself? " 
 Oakley asked apathetically. 
 
 " I can't get off. Shall be busy all day. It 
 will be a real favor to me." 
 
 " I must go out to Cutler some day this week," 
 Oakley replied. " Old Mrs. Mowbray wants to 
 make a new will." 
 
 Theodore smiled appreciatively. 
 
 " Cutler will be just the thing for Victor. You 
 want to look out for him a bit. He's feeling fine. 
 Tom says he is ugly, but he isn't. The boy's 
 afraid of him, that's all. What time shall I have 
 him brought down ? " 
 
 " Oh, two o'clock. But I can come up after 
 him." 
 
 " I'll spare you the temptation. I'll telephone 
 Tom tO' bring him down." 
 
 Oakley was familiar with Theodore Harding's 
 powerful black horse and knew how to curb the 
 creature's caprices almost as well as the owner. 
 As he swung into the saddle that afternoon and 
 felt the big beast beneath him quiver to be off, 
 the exhilaration of riding took possession of him. 
 98 
 
TH^ WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Victor was chafing to be in motion and took his 
 smooth rapid gait along the road into the coun- 
 try. A bracing September breeze was blowing, 
 tossing about the green boughs of the maples 
 and revealing here and there a crimson leaf. The 
 air, sharp with the tang of dying leaves, was a 
 keen elixir of life; and gradually a part of the 
 man's troubled personality was merged in the 
 splendid gladness of the beast he rode. All but 
 the greater troubles drop away from a good rider 
 with a good horse beneath him. Oakley began 
 to reflect that things might have been worse, and 
 found the bright features of his position not few. 
 By the time he reached Cutler he was in a frame 
 of mind to listen patiently to his mother's old 
 friend, soothe her doubts, and add another codi- 
 cil to the lengthening document that formed her 
 chief interest in life. 
 
 Althea Harding found some comfort for her 
 forlorn state in the stables; -and had been there 
 when Tom, the groom, was saddling Victor. In 
 answer to her questions she had learned that 
 " Lawyer Oakley " was going to have the horse 
 to ride out to Cutler. Althea's mind was made up 
 in an instant. Fate had relented a little and had 
 placed a meagre kindness in her path. As soon 
 99 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 as Tom was gone she saddled her little white 
 mare and started in pursuit. 
 
 She pressed the horse at a brisk canter through 
 the village and out into the country. She had 
 always been cautioned against riding alone on re- 
 mote roads, and had counted somewhat rashly on 
 overtaking Oakley before she had left the thickly 
 settled districts behind her. His pace had been 
 swifter than she supposed and his start longer, 
 however, and her pursuit was useless. Houses 
 became less and less frequent and stretches of 
 woodland longer. Vixen began to> shirk. She 
 had swift little mouse-colored legs, but had also 
 strong ideas as to routes and distances. The girl, 
 almost at the point of tears, plied the whip vigor- 
 ously, but could only produce a gentle, ineffectu- 
 al canter. She was still more than four miles 
 from Cutler, and she realized with sudden fright 
 that there were two roads thither. Oakley might 
 return by a different way, and miss her al- 
 together. Suddenly, by some inadvertence her 
 whip became entangled in her riding skirt and 
 was jerked from her hand. 
 
 She stopped the too willing Vixen in dismay, 
 knowing that without brisk incentive the horse 
 would go no further. She slid lightly to the 
 ground and stooped to pick up the whip, grasp- 
 ing the bridle tightly. Vixen, however, seizing 
 
 I GO 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the opportunity, freed herself with a dexterous 
 toss of her head, and began cropping the wayside 
 grass at a discreet distance. 
 
 With an angry exclamation Althea picked up 
 the whip and followed the little mare. Vixen 
 waited with lowered head, all meekness and sub- 
 mission, until she judged the hand too near. 
 Then with a deftly calculated toss of the head 
 she eluded Althea' s grasp and edged away. 
 
 Thereon followed tiresome diplomatic tactics 
 up and down the dusty road. Vixen seeming all 
 deference, Althea angry and dismayed. Back 
 and forth the wicked mare coquetted with her 
 mistress, declining the choicest bait of grass and 
 clover, but bent on obtaining for herself a satis- 
 factory meal. Finally the girl sat down discour- 
 aged, upon a wayside stone, and left the horse to 
 graze at a discreet distance. 
 
 Althea wiped her heated face disconsolately. 
 She did not know the road well. She could not 
 tell how far distant was the nearest house'; her 
 only hope lay in Marcus. If he came back that 
 way he could catch the beast, — but if he should 
 not ? At the thought her courage gave way and 
 she wept freely into her dust-begrimed handker- 
 chief. 
 
 Suddenly as her grief and alarm were gather- 
 ing force, the welcome rhythm of cantering hoofs 
 
 lOI 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 came to her ears, and the powerful pair, horse 
 and rider, swept around the corner. 
 
 Oakley had dismounted in a moment, and was 
 drying her tears with his arm about her. Mat- 
 ters were right, past questioning, by a sudden 
 change. Even the obdurate Vixen, tired of free- 
 dom and recognizing a master, allowed herself to 
 be caught without objection. Cheered by the 
 presence of her customary companion, she even 
 settled to her work bravely. 
 
 As soon as they were well under way, the be- 
 wildered Oakley asked for an explanation. 
 
 " How in the world do you happen to be out 
 here alone, dear?" 
 
 " Don't you wish you knew ? " she queried 
 saucily, radiant with happiness. " Marcus, tell 
 me honestly, — is my face dirty ? I chased up 
 and down the road so long in the dust that I feel 
 horribly grubby." 
 
 " No, your face isn't dirty. It's clean enough 
 to kiss. I only wish I could." Oakley reined in 
 his horse toward her to be deftly eluded. 
 
 " You don't know how pretty you look, Al- 
 thea," Oakley sighed from his enforced distance. 
 " You ought always to be on horseback." 
 
 It was not wholly lover's prejudice that spoke 
 there. Althea's flushed cheeks, her rings of curl- 
 ing hair, her happy eyes, made her face very 
 
 I02 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 winsome, and her dainty figure swayed lightly 
 with the motion of the horse. She colored still 
 more as she felt her lover's admiring gaze fixed 
 full upon her. But Oakley did not waste time in 
 admiration when there was a mystery to be 
 solved. 
 
 " How do you happen to be here ? It's not 
 fair of you not to tell me. Did you ever read a 
 story of a knight rescuing a distressed maiden 
 where she didn't tell him her adventures ? " Oak- 
 ley jested. 
 
 " I shall have to make them up, then. The 
 truth is too humiliating. I followed you." 
 
 " Is that the truth or the made-up one ? " he 
 queried lightly. 
 
 " The truth. Isn't it humiliating enough ? " 
 
 " It is rather rough to be following such a poor 
 afifair as I am, I will admit." 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 "But how did you know I was coming out 
 here? Did Teddy tell you? " 
 
 "Teddy! Teddy's a perfect clam. I was 
 down in the stable when Tom was harnessing, 
 and he told me." 
 
 " Althea, how do you feel about this sort of 
 thing, anyway ? " Oakley questioned gravely af- 
 ter a little pause. " Do you think it is square — 
 honorable ? " 
 
 103 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " To tell the truth I haven't thought much 
 about it. I only know that I shall die if I don't 
 see you sometimes. I shall die, Marcus, I'm not 
 joking, really die, I mean, if they take me off to 
 Europe, thousands of miles away frpm you, 
 where I can't see you for years. Please don't 
 scold me. Don't you know that this is the last 
 ride we shall have together — perhaps the last 
 talk we shall have together ? We sail four weeks 
 from today, you know." 
 
 Nevertheless, after a moment, Althea set her 
 face brightly forward, determined to make the 
 most of those few last minutes. The two rode 
 side by side, chatting of foolish, personal things, 
 fraught to them with the deepest significance. 
 There was little enough of brightness in the cate- 
 gory. The one ray of light in the attitude of 
 their whole world toward their love was that 
 thrown by Theodore's blunt sympathy; and on 
 this they dwelt, letting the more discouraging as- 
 pects of the case drop out of sight. It was a 
 pathetic postponement of the inevitable, a smiling 
 pretence at mirth that was almost sadder than 
 tears. 
 
 They rode on through the lengthening shad- 
 ows of the golden afternoon. Suddenly they 
 came to a long, wooded ascent, dark with hem- 
 lock. Only two miles remained to be traversed 
 104 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 before the outskirts of Underbill should be reach- 
 ed and the stolen moment should be over. As 
 they entered the belt of shade and slackened their 
 pace for the long climb, Oakley was saying, 
 
 " So all there is to do is to be patient, little 
 girl." 
 
 The empty pretence was over of a sudden for 
 Althea. She reached out one gloved hand to him 
 with a gesture half-appealing, half-impatient. 
 
 " Patient ! I hate being patient. When I want 
 things I want them now." 
 
 " Yes, dear, but if you can't have them ? " 
 
 " I always have had them until this. And I'm 
 not sure that we can't have this — if you really 
 want it, Marcus. I don't believe you want to be 
 engaged and have me stay at home from Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 " Now, Althea ! " said Marcus, bringing the 
 willing Victor to a halt, " We've got to have this 
 thing settled once for all. I love~-you and I al- 
 ways shall. I never loved a woman before and I 
 never shall again. You are the one who will 
 have to change if either of us does. You are 
 young, younger than your real age in some 
 things. You are not old enough to know your 
 own mind in a matter of this sort. I agree with 
 your father that you shouldn't enter into a long 
 engagement." 
 
 lOS 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " This needn't be a very long one unless you 
 say so," she answered shyly. " Father has 
 money enough for us all. He might offer to help 
 us out a little, I think." Althea had brooded on 
 this matter until it seemed a very palpable griev- 
 ance. 
 
 " He is too much of a gentleman to offer me 
 money," said Oakley hotly. " You know I 
 couldn't live on your father, Althea." 
 
 "Well, I didn't mean exactly that," Althea 
 explained. " But you could have a chance in 
 the business. Think of the help you could be to 
 father, with all the law you know. You could 
 make money faster there. Don't you see? And 
 then father will be more in favor of you. Don't 
 you think he will ? " 
 
 The daring of her suggestion stunned Oakley. 
 In his vain canvassing of ways and means, the 
 possibility of giving up his profession had never 
 occurred to him. Finally he voiced his thought 
 in astonishment. 
 
 " Do you mean, Althea, that you want me to 
 give up my profession, that I've worked for and 
 denied myself for all these years ? " 
 
 " It isn't a question of what I want, but of 
 what you want. If you care for me as much as 
 you say you do you will be glad to make some 
 sacrifice for the sake of making me happy." 
 1 06 
 
THE WARS OF. PEACE 
 
 Oakley suspected, for one moment of vision, a 
 littleness of nature in Althea at which he had 
 never guessed before. He was hurt and angry 
 and amazed. 
 
 " If you cared for me as much as you say you 
 do, you would never suggest such a sacrifice," he 
 said bitterly. 
 
 " I don't see that it is such a sacrifice. Instead 
 of struggling along for years to make a bare liv- 
 ing, you are sure of that at the start and plenty 
 of money in the future. Then we could be en- 
 gaged, and I needn't go away — don't you see ? 
 You would have all the things you are working 
 for, without waiting." 
 
 " If you think the money in my profession is 
 all the thing I chose it for, it is no use for me to 
 try to explain. But when you talk about my 
 unwillingness to make sacrifices you are unfair." 
 
 " Aren't you proving it now, I should like to 
 know ? " Althea reiterated. She was waging her 
 first battle with her lover. In the formality of 
 their intercourse up to the time of their engage- 
 ment, and in their subsequent separation, there 
 had been little chance for differences of opinion. 
 The girl did not know what she could effect 
 against Oakley's firm tenderness. But on this 
 matter her heart was set. She was a person of 
 one idea, of one emotion, not well-balanced, per- 
 107 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 haps, but steadfast in her determination to gain 
 the end she had in view. She had thought out 
 her plan through sleepless nights; and she felt 
 sure that it was feasible and the one solution of 
 the tangle. She was sure that she asked but lit- 
 tle: simply to be spared the long voyage, the 
 absence. It all depended on Oakley's acquies- 
 cence, and she saw that failing her. 
 
 " I'm not proving my unwillingness to make 
 sacrifices for you," Oakley's voice broke in upon 
 her thoughts, — " I hope I'm proving that I'm a 
 man, that's all. Can't you understand me, dear? 
 You can't, or you wouldn't ask me even to think 
 of such a thing. Don't you see, I should be dis- 
 honored in the sight of the whole world, myself 
 most of all, if I did such a thing? Do' you think 
 your father would respect me any more for it? 
 That would be the last thing for me to do if I 
 wished to gain his liking. Your father likes ' 
 men who can do things, not men who hang on 
 other people." 
 
 " But you might consider me ! Don't you 
 care anything for my happiness ? " Althea reiter- 
 ated a little sharply. 
 
 " You know I do, Althea. More than for 
 
 anything else in the world, even perhaps than 
 
 my profession. I can't make it clear to you, can 
 
 I, how I feel about that? But any~way, dearest, 
 
 1 08 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 it wouldn't be for your happiness if I gave up 
 my profession. I should make a poor business 
 man. My heart wouldn't be in the work. Your 
 father would have to drag me along for your 
 sake. But in the law, Althea, I can doi some- 
 thing, some day, that you will be proud of." 
 
 " I would rather be happy with you than proud 
 about you," Althea murmured pitifully. 
 
 " But don't you see it isn't a question of what 
 either you or I would rather, dear little girl? 
 It's a question of what has got to be. I chose 
 my profession years ago, before I even knew you, 
 and it's too late to change. You will have to 
 love my profession along with me, and perhaps 
 you will come to think it the best part of me. 
 Don't suppose the thought of having you right 
 within sight and speech doesn't tempt me." 
 
 He stopped abruptly. Althea's face was set 
 hard ahead. Her lips were tightly closed. They 
 were riding through the valley now and any dis- 
 play of feeling was out of the question. So they 
 crossed the bridge and climbed the hill in silence. 
 They cantered down the drive without another 
 word, and when they reached the stable Althea 
 slid from her horse before Oakley could help 
 her. She turned without speaking and ran 
 swiftly through the stable and into the house. 
 He could not see that she was weeping bitterly. 
 109 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Mr. Harding relented at none of Althea's 
 pleadings nor Oakley's arguments. He had de- 
 cided that his daughter must go abroad and he 
 saw no reason for changing his mind. He ac- 
 companied his wife and Althea on the first stage 
 of their journey, though he had an injured sense 
 that they were but poor company. Mrs. Hard- 
 ing was, in fact, already grieving for her hus- 
 band, her son, and her home. Althea yielded 
 the outward forms of obedience but was inward- 
 ly » defiant. Her heavy eyes bore the marks of 
 long weeping, her dark cheeks were pale, all her 
 elusive claim to beauty had vanished. 
 
 Her father noted these things anxiously. His 
 mind, nevertheless, continually wandered from 
 the perplexing problem which his daughter had 
 furnished him to others yet unsolved. For fif- 
 teen years he had been working toward the con- 
 solidation of certain business interests involving 
 no 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 a national control of his industry. Here he had 
 bought a factory entire, there he had merely 
 gained a controlling interest, in another place 
 he had converted to his far-reaching views some 
 man of mark. As yet, however, even in the cir- 
 cle of his own business, his power was unrecog- 
 nized. He had waited through all the changes 
 which came to the business of the country. He 
 had been sanguine when others were discour- 
 aged, cautious when others were most hopeful. 
 He had seen a score or more of combinations in 
 the trade rise and flourish and fall apart, and 
 still he had judged the time not ripe, willing that 
 others should experiment in his place. There 
 had been something almost superhuman in his 
 patience, in his absolute certainty of unlimited 
 time for his work. And now the years of pa- 
 tient waiting were at last to be rewarded. 
 
 The leading representatives of the trade were 
 already assembled in New York to discuss terms 
 of union. These men were aiming at a combina- 
 tion of combines. Many somewhat amorphous 
 organizations, as well as several firmly incorpo- 
 rated bodies, would be included if the plans suc- 
 ceeded. There was nothing new in their scheme, 
 in fact the path had been marked out for them by 
 more than one big organization. 
 
 Mr. Harding had now, however, little doubt 
 III 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 of success. He knew, past doubting, that the 
 time had come for which he had waited so brave- 
 ly. His corner of the industrial world was ready 
 for the big combination. It needed, more than 
 ever before, the force of the upright example 
 which he was determined to set for it. He did 
 not doubt, and yet, as the ultimate struggle which 
 was to test his years of waiting drew near, he 
 trembled. He had staked so much upon it. 
 
 The weary round of shopping went on for the 
 languid and indifferent travellers. Meanwhile 
 Mr. Harding was closeted in endless conferences. 
 The wrangles, the agreements, the stipulations, 
 with which the common-place hotel room echoed 
 were never divulged outside. But nightly Mr. 
 Harding emerged from the conclave pale and 
 irritable, tried beyond endurance by the strain of 
 bending almost to the breaking point; and 
 nightly he told himself that he was a little nearer 
 the end he sought. He felt uneasily that here 
 and there he was giving way where perfect in- 
 tegrity would have stood firm. To his con- 
 science, he justified himself by the thought of 
 what his aim really was. When he took his way 
 back to Underbill he felt that in the main he had 
 kept his honor unspotted in a trying crisis. 
 
 Nevertheless he prepared to meet his col- 
 leagues of the Underbill pool with nervousness. 
 
 112 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 No one would have guessed, however, that his 
 mind was not at rest as he entered the library 
 that rainy October afternoon. Even in the midst 
 of his anxiety, he noted with approval the cheer- 
 ful contrast which the deep red of the walls, the 
 glow of the bindings, and the crackling of the 
 wood fire, made with the wind and rain and the 
 downward flutter of pale leaves. He joined in 
 the conversation with seeming unconcern, letting 
 it drift as it would. Mr. Ordway was the last 
 to arrive, and as they waited for his coming his 
 colleagues discussed him. 
 
 " He's as stubborn as a mule and mistakes his 
 obstinacy for conscience," said Burnham with a 
 short laugh. 
 
 " I think Mr. Ordway confounds private and 
 business morality," Mr. Harding said. 
 
 " You are making dangerous distinctions," 
 said Albert Evans, a thin, nervous man who 
 spent most of his time untangling the chain of his 
 eye-glasses. 
 
 " I think only necessary ones," Mr. Harding 
 replied serenely. " For example, I might kill a 
 man in battle, but I should certainly hesitate to 
 shoot one down in cold blood. If you stop to 
 think of it, business is a highly diversified kind 
 of war, and some things are justified by that very 
 fact." 
 
 "3 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " You've hit it, Harding ! " Burnham said en- 
 thusiastically. " Business isn't business unless 
 it's a case of every one for himself and the devil 
 take the hindmost." 
 
 " It's a harsh way to put it, but I'm afraid that 
 it is only too near the truth. And we have com- 
 petition to blame for the most of it." 
 
 Mr. Harding listened restlessly. He was too 
 tired and worn for the struggle whidh he felt im- 
 pending. Yet with his customary eagerness for 
 action and joy in conflict he longed tO' attack the 
 foe. So, as soon as he had skilfully brought the 
 conversation around to the point, he told his com- 
 panions briefly of the meeting in New York and 
 the opportunity which was in their hands. He 
 managed tactfully to make it seem right that he 
 should have left them in ignorance of the project- 
 ed deal until it was almost an accomplished fact. 
 He painted the enterprise in glowing colors. 
 
 There was the momentary tribute of absolute 
 silence, then an indrawn breath. But hardly 
 heeding these signs of interest and excitement 
 Mr. Harding plunged into a rapid, terse and sys- 
 tematic exposition of facts and figures. He even 
 touched lightly on the moral force that a combine 
 rightly administered might become. His hear- 
 ers listened in perfect silence. The magnitude 
 of the plan checked all comment for the moment. 
 114 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 They were busy following the skilful manipula- 
 tion of facts and figures. Burnham was the first 
 to break the stillness. 
 
 " It's got to be done," he said heartily. " Any- 
 thing that we can do to make it a go we will do. 
 It's the time now to lay aside any little personal 
 feelings ; we must all pull together." 
 
 The faces of most of those present were free 
 from doubt, full of elation. But Mr. Harding 
 could see that Ordway, Evans and Theodore 
 were unmoved. Evans' lips were already open 
 to speak. 
 
 " As near as I can make out a man loses his 
 initiative entirely. His business exists only as a 
 form, a name." 
 
 " He is represented by the board of directors 
 which he helps elect," a voice retorted. 
 
 " We do not speak of an American citizen as 
 lacking liberty even though he has delegated his 
 individual authority as ruler to a representative," 
 Mr. Harding added suavely. 
 
 " This isn't a time to go by analogies. The 
 truth of it is, a man gives up his chance to or- 
 ganize, to direct personally, when he becomes 
 part of a big combination." 
 
 " But he gains in proportion. Think of not 
 being affected by a bad year or by individual 
 IIS 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 losses only in so far as they afifect the sum total 
 of gains." 
 
 " But you are not affected by the gains of your 
 business excq)t in the same remote way. Half 
 the sport is gone." 
 
 " Sentiment ! Sentiment ! " said Burnham 
 hastily. " Money is what we go into business 
 for, if I know anything about it." 
 
 " Have you any idea what the capitalization of 
 the company would be?" Evans inquired in the 
 pause that followed. 
 
 " I have not the exact figures for the different 
 companies " — Mr. Harding hesitated. 
 
 " Never mind them, they wouldn't bear much 
 proportion to the real capital behind the com- 
 pany," sneered Evans. 
 
 Mr. Harding met the issue fairly. 
 
 " Why do you assume from the outset that the 
 corporation will be over-capitalized? for I sup- 
 pose that is what you mean," he rejoined. " The 
 resources which this projected corporation can 
 muster in time of need are practically unlimited. 
 There would be little point in issuing and paying 
 dividends on stock in excess of the actual capi- 
 talization when the projectors could, control di- 
 rectly and indirectly far more than they need." 
 
 Mr. Harding's tones were rq)roachful. It ap- 
 pealed to him as a personal grievance that these 
 ii6 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 men should oppose his carefully thought out 
 scheme. He felt that he had a right to complain 
 of their slowness to kindle with the great idea. 
 He forgot for a moment that he had not done 
 this for them alone, that he could not have helped 
 doing it if he had tried, that the conception to- 
 ward which he had been working had become 
 second nature with him. Every objection to his 
 plan seemed like a personal affront. So he looked 
 up sharply, almost angrily, when Ordway's rough 
 voice broke the silence. 
 
 " It don't make much difference what I think," 
 he said quietly, " an' I wa'n't never one that 
 could speak in meetin'. I don't expect to make 
 anybody think as I do, but I've watched the way 
 the things are run the country over, an' I've seen 
 time and agin that they put down the price of 
 raw material an' drove firms that wa'n't inside 
 out of the business, an' put up sellin' prices, an' 
 I don't recollect seein' any of 'em puttin' up 
 wages. All I've got to say is I may be all off, 
 but I don't want nothin' to do with 'em " ; and he 
 fell suddenly silent, shaking his head gloomily. 
 
 Evans spoke almost as soon as Ordwa/s voice 
 died away. His thin, nervous face was flushed. 
 
 " I must say that I agree entirely with Mr. 
 Ordway. If the corporation could be capitalized 
 at the mere value of its assets, if it could pay a 
 117 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 fair price for raw material and sell the product 
 at a fair market rate, it would be another matter 
 altogether." 
 
 " What would be the use of combining, then? " 
 questioned Burnham coolly. " There ain't goin' 
 to be saving enough from the cooperation to 
 make it worth while." Mr. Harding coquetted 
 with motives and named them euphemistically; 
 Burnham delighted in laying bare unsparingly 
 the basest springs, of action. 
 
 " Well, then the question is," retorted Evans 
 eagerly, " do any of us want to go in for a thing 
 of that sort ? We say that the state of business 
 drives us to it. Wouldn't it be better to retrench, 
 to go slowly and carefully, waiting for better 
 times ? And another point is — ." He stam- 
 mered, his habitual hesitation returning suddenly. 
 
 Albion Harding was guilty at this point of a 
 strange breach of manners, but the look of un- 
 certainty and indecision on several faces decided 
 him. He , caught the critical moment and said 
 sharply, while Evans was vainly searching for 
 the broken thread of his thought : 
 
 "Of course you all realize that our decision 
 
 will make no difference in the formation of the 
 
 combine. The only difference will be that in one 
 
 case our little pool will be inside, on the best of 
 
 ii8 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 terms, in the other it will be outside, fighting 
 comparatively alone a force of millions." 
 
 The general had vanquished the opposing 
 force by simply knowing the critical moment and 
 seizing it. One of his adversaries, at least, rec- 
 ognized the defeat. Evans rose abruptly. 
 
 " I may as well go," he said, with a volume 
 of quiet rage and scorn in his voice. " I shall 
 certainly be put of place in the high pure air of 
 the Missionary Monopoly. Its altruistic atmos-^ 
 phere is too rare for me." 
 
 He stood with his hand upon the door, looking 
 expectantly at Mr. Ordway. 
 
 " No, I ain't goin'," the latter cinswered the 
 unspoken question. " I'm goin' to stay and vote 
 against it. It will do me a heap of good if it 
 don't amount to anything." 
 
 Evans turned petulantly and opened the door 
 with a look to Theodore for support ; but the lat- 
 ter sat with downcast eyes. In the pause Burn- 
 ham said significantly: 
 
 " I suppose you realize, Evans, that if the 
 ' Missionary Monopoly ' decides to squeeze it can 
 squeeze hard." 
 
 119 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 The same evening which saw Mr. Harding 
 "trying tO' forget his loneHness in the first taste of 
 triumph saw Oakley in a far different mood. 
 Althea had gone, for years it might be, and had 
 left him in anger. She had not been able to see 
 that he could not honorably give up his profes- 
 sion for the chance of speedy advancement in 
 business. She had been unable to realize that 
 Oakley's fears on her account were not misgiv- 
 ings on his own. They had parted in anger and 
 the years to come held unlimited possibilities for 
 sorrow. Amid all his forebodings he never 
 doubted Althea's love for him, but those last 
 words of hers — " I shall die, Marcus, really die, 
 I mean — ," echoed gloomily in his ears. 
 
 All day he had tried vainly to read ; but all day 
 
 a passionate, pleading face, with big black eyes 
 
 softened by tears, and dusky cheeks with faint, 
 
 soft hollows, fairer than roundness, had grown 
 
 120 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 out of the blurred page before him. The inces- 
 sant dash of rain and moan of wind had worn 
 upon his nerves, and he paced the room uneasily, 
 his whole splendid strength chafing over his 
 weakness. At length he sank drearily into his 
 chair, rested his head upon his arms and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 He slept for a long time. The rain fell less 
 violently, the wind rose higher and higher, the 
 stars began to peep out fitfully only to be 
 quenched again. The sounds of the street died 
 away. At length the eleven o'clock train came 
 shrieking in and passed out again, and still Oak- 
 ley slept on. Suddenly a door opened softly. 
 He woke with a start, and turned, hardly able to 
 believe his eyes, — Althea stood before him. 
 
 The lamp was burning low, but he could note 
 the glistening tendrils of hair about her face, the 
 dainty trimness of her travelling suit. There 
 was a look half of fear, half of pleading in her 
 eyes. It seemed, to him that her face was even 
 thinner than when he had seen her last. All 
 these things came to him like a flash as he gazed 
 at her intently, assuring himself that she was not 
 a dream. She added to this doubt by her silence, 
 but at length she spoke one little trembling word : 
 
 "Marcus!" 
 
 " Althea, is it you ? I thought I was dream- 
 
 121 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ing; but you are flesh and blood. You are, 
 dearest. I can't be dreaming this and this. No, 
 your hair and face are all wet from the storm, — 
 that can't be a dream. ^ What are you crying 
 about, Althea? There's nothing to cry about, 
 now we are together again." Oakley had lost 
 sight of everything but the present. 
 
 " Then you are not angry with me, dear ? How 
 good you are," Althea quavered. 
 
 " Angry ? Why should I be ? I thought you 
 were angry with me." 
 
 " You had a perfect right to be. I was a 
 horrid little beast the last time I saw you." 
 
 " I won't listen to such talk. Tell me where 
 you came from? Did you come down on a 
 moonbeam ? " A strange lightness of heart pos- 
 sessed him. 
 
 " No, I came by train from New York," Al- 
 thea answered practically. 
 
 " And your mother ? I thought you sailed 
 today," he questioned. 
 
 " I left her in New York," said Althea simply. 
 " I just couldn't stand it. I'm not a child to be 
 made to do things this way. I'm willing not to 
 be engaged to you. I can stand it if I don't 
 speak to you, but I've got to see you now and 
 then, just a glance. I must hear your name now 
 and then or I shall die. I'm not just talking, 
 
 122 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Marcus. Just feel my arm, if you don't believe 
 it. I can't sleep and I can't eat. It's killing me, 
 dear." 
 
 " Poor little, thin arm ! " said Oakley, kissing 
 the rough cloth of her sleeve. " You are right, 
 Althea. It isn't fair. You are a woman after 
 all — even if you are a child. They ought not 
 to try to dictate to you like this. Of course we 
 must do as your father says," he added weakly, 
 " within reason. But I don't think this comes 
 under that head." 
 
 They were sitting side by side on the leather 
 couch, talking, half with broken words, half with 
 silence. Oakley was yet in a dream world, in the 
 state of half-doubting acceptance of joy to which 
 he had wakened. He hardly dared to grasp his 
 new happiness closely lest it should elude him. 
 Althea spoke on in little broken phrases. 
 
 " You see I didn't mean to come here so, but 
 I looked up when I was opposite the office and 
 saw your shadow on the shade. You poor, dear 
 boy, you looked so tired and forlorn with your 
 head on your arm! I couldn't help it. I just 
 turned and walked in. Mother will think it very 
 dreadful, won't she? " 
 
 " I suppose it isn't a very conventional thing 
 to do. Still it's not so very late. You mustn't 
 123 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 stop. But wouldn't I like to keep you for al- 
 ways ! " 
 
 " I call half-past eleven pretty late, and I am 
 afraid father will," said Althea soberly. 
 
 " Why, it's not half-past eleven ! What train 
 did you come in on, anyway ? " Oakley cried in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " The eleven o'clock train. It must be half- 
 past now." 
 
 Oakley whistled softly and miserably through 
 closed teeth. 
 
 " Good Lord ! I didn't think it was more than 
 nine. I might have known. It must have been 
 that when I fell asleep. It's to be hoped nobody 
 saw you come in here, little girl." 
 
 " I met ^someone in the hall just as I had my 
 hand on the knob. I should have turned and 
 run then, if I had dared," Althea faltered. " But 
 I just dodged in. Perhaps he didn't recognize 
 me." 
 
 Oakley was silent. He knew that all the 
 chances were against Althea Harding's having 
 entered his room unrecognized. The daughter 
 of the wealthy mill-owner was not an obscure 
 person in a little city like Underbill. Oakley 
 knew, moreover, that the tongues of their native 
 town had already coupled their names together 
 in friendly comment. He felt instinctively that 
 124 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 her presence in the Archer building would be 
 town talk in a week, and that the remarks this 
 time could not be friendly. In a flash he pictured 
 Mr. Harding's white-hot anger when the rumor 
 should come to his ears. Oakley realized in an 
 instant whither events were hurrying them. He 
 did not stop to question whether it would not be 
 better to run the chance of Althea's recognition 
 than to link her life to his poverty. If he had 
 stopped to think the result would probably have 
 been the same; but in this emergency he cast rea- 
 son aside. A fierce, passionate sense of the 
 necessity of sight and touch of her filled his mind, 
 and he was swept off his feet by the rush of emo- 
 tion. The temptation had come to him in the 
 guise of a necessity and he knew that instead of 
 being sorry or afraid he was glad. 
 
 Something in the silence, short though it was, 
 alarmed the girl. The clasp of her lover's arm 
 had a certain electric quality. Her breath came 
 quickly and she feared she knew not what. She 
 began to justify herself brokenly. 
 
 " I know I ought not to have come, but some- 
 how I couldn't help it, when I saw you alone and 
 lonely. Perhaps he didn't know who I was, but 
 I'm afraid father will hear about it. What will 
 he ever say ? I must go, Marcus, but I'm afraid, 
 — so afraid ! " 
 
 125 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 She tried to disengage herself from his arm 
 but he would not free her. 
 
 " There is another way, Althea," he said very 
 gently. "Don't you know what I mean? 
 Marry me tonight, dear. Then nobody can say 
 anything about it. Nobody can separate us any 
 more then. Your father cannot claim control 
 over my wife." 
 
 He was looking down at her with glowing 
 e^es, but she did not meet his gaze. His face, 
 lowered to hers, touched only her damp hair. 
 
 " Tonight? " was all she said. " Oh, I can't, 
 I can't!" 
 
 " Do you want to go all through this again ? 
 I can't stand it, that's all there ife about it. Step 
 and think, Althea, if your father is likely to give 
 up the thing that he has set his heart on because 
 you have disobeyed him. Is he? " 
 
 " No, he isn't. It's all well enough to say he 
 can't make me go without using force, but he 
 can, and I know it." A sob stopped her speech. 
 
 " But don't you see that he can't if you are my 
 wife? Think what it will mean not to be sepa- 
 rated again." The sides of the argument were 
 reversed and Oakley was pleading with all the 
 eloquence at his command for that which he had 
 opposed but a few days ago. 
 
 " Yes, but remember all the things you have 
 126 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 said. I'm not thinking about myself now. I 
 don't care about anything as much as being with 
 you. But I shall be a drag on you. I'm not the 
 sort of girl you ought to marry." 
 
 " You are the only one I shall ever marry. I 
 don't want to force you, Althea, for I realize how 
 little I have to offer you, but you understand all 
 that. I'm afraid you don't understand, dearest, 
 — the unkind things that will be said about us 
 if you were recognized. I'm not thinking of 
 myself — I can stand it. But it means a great 
 deal to a woman. I want you to see both sides." 
 
 A burning flush rose to her hair. 
 
 "Don't, Marcus!" she cried, shrinking from 
 him. " Oh, I don't know what made me do it ! 
 I seemed to be drawn here." 
 
 " You were drawn here," Oakley said tender- 
 ly. " Fate was too strong for us. We have 
 proved that we can't live apart, now we will try 
 life together." 
 
 " It isn't fair, Marcus, for you to suffer be- 
 cause of my rashness. It's all my fault, and I 
 should always have myself to blame if we were 
 not happy." 
 
 " How can we help being happy? I'm not 
 afraid. But we must decide at once. Every, 
 moment we delay makes it harder to go home." 
 
 They contended lovingly for a few moments 
 I 127 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 more, Oakley vanquishing the girl's weakening 
 arguments one after the other. At length he 
 wrested from her a doubtful consent and hurried 
 away to engage a carriage for their midnight ride 
 into the neighboring state. Althea sat in the 
 straight-backed ofifice-chair with her hands tight- 
 ly clasped in her lap. She had the feeling of one 
 entrapped in some snare, and in this crucial mo- 
 ment she saw, with a lightning flash of insight, 
 her own imperfections, Oakle/s weakness, and 
 the sacrifices that would be necessary for both. 
 There was no escape ! And yet — Suppose she 
 went away now, anywhere, out of his life, away 
 from the possibility of bringing any trouble upon 
 him? That was the only solution of the prob- 
 lem. She did not consider that her flight would 
 only confirm the gossip that she might have 
 aroused, she did not ask herself definitely what 
 would become of her. In the background of her 
 thought was the consciousness that Theodore 
 was both loyal and silent. With this sole re- 
 liance she reached the greatest height of unself- 
 ishness of which she was capable. Without one 
 calculating thought for herself she laid aside her 
 future for her lover's. 
 
 The lamp had gone out and she was forced to 
 grope blindly for her bag and umbrella. She 
 stumbled, crying bitterly, to the door and passed 
 128 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 down the echoing, midnight stairs. For a mo- 
 ment she stood uncertain as to her course, — up- 
 street or down were much the same to her. As 
 she hesitated, the soft whirr of wheels struck 
 upon her ears, and a light buggy drew up before 
 the building. 
 
 " All ready and waiting? " said Oakley softly, 
 and in a moment the girl was seated beside him 
 and they were off. 
 
 The clouds were torn and ragged, riding high 
 and swift. Streaming along, they left little 
 openings, here for a, winking star, there for the 
 high October moon. The road ahead gleamed 
 pale gold as the waning moon shone out, then 
 darkened into a dull unison with the bordering 
 shadows. A cold wind blew in fitful gusts out 
 of the north and rained pallid maple leaves upon 
 the street. There was no sound save the rush of 
 wind in the tree-tops and the light beat of the 
 horse's hoofs. On either side were the sleeping 
 people of the sleeping city. It almost seemed 
 that these two of all the world were awake, and 
 troubled, and yet alive in every nerve with a fear- 
 ful happiness. 
 
 As they reached the summit of East Hill Al- 
 
 thea turned and looked back. The river gleamed 
 
 cold between the crowding factories ; beyond, on 
 
 the top of the opposite hill, lay her father's house, 
 
 129 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 rambling, dusky and indistinct, save for the 
 glowing windows of the eastern wing. The girl 
 knew that her father was pouring out weariness 
 or trouble on his organ ; and she knew, moreover, 
 with a sudden clarity of insight, what this thing 
 would mean to his love for her, to his high pride 
 in the family name. She had seen before only 
 that he was imperious, arbitrary; now she real- 
 ized that he had been willing to deny himself 
 much for her good. 
 
 With a throb of unavailing remorse she leaned 
 her head against Oakley's shoulder. It was all 
 a pathetic, impenetrable tangle, in which nothing 
 in the world seemed sure. She almost doubted 
 her own identity. An hour before she had been 
 Althea Harding, in open rebellion, desperately 
 unhappy, but still unchanged. Now she was ap- 
 proaching, almost without preparation, the most 
 solemn moment of her life, reluctant, afraid, 
 ashamed, with a woman's fears and regrets. 
 Oakley, even, seemed strange and alien, and she 
 gained no comfort from his presence. So with 
 the beat of rapid hoofs in their ears, the moon 
 now darkened, now gleaming overhead, and the 
 strange carpet of fallen leaves under foot, they 
 sped on over the country road. 
 
 130 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 If Marcus Oakley and his bride had wished 
 to make a sensation they would have been dis- 
 appointed. Underbill talked, to be sure, but in 
 a baffled fashion utterly puzzled by Mr. Hard- 
 ing's attitude. It could not know of the storm 
 of anger which had burst on Reid's unprotected 
 head when, in accordance with Oakley's mid- 
 night command, he had broken the news to Mr. 
 Harding. It could not know of all the dull fore- 
 boding and deep disgust that the whole matter 
 caused the calm man who moved about so serene- 
 ly among them. 
 
 A keen dread of publicity, a shrinking from 
 the vulgar melodrama of any open rupture with 
 his daughter, a genuine and deep love for his 
 child, and a sense of his own responsibility for 
 this final step, had together prompted his course 
 of toleration. He had thought the puzzle out 
 courageously, not sparing himself, and had de- 
 131 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 termined to bear this trouble as philosophically 
 as possible. 
 
 The situation had in his eyes, however, one 
 mitigating feature — separation from his wife 
 would be no longer necessary. He had fancied 
 sensitively that she was eager for the trip, or, at 
 least, resigned to its necessity, and therefore he 
 had concealed and sought to ignore his own 
 dread of her absence. The first cloud of their 
 married life had thus hung over the last three 
 weeks before the parting — a cloud, which Mrs. 
 Harding had dissipated with a word. In the 
 midst of her grief over her daughter's rash act 
 she had said, with her shy, girlish smile suddenly 
 dawning : 
 
 " It seemed to me sometimes that I could never 
 bear to be gone so long from you. I was almost 
 as homesick as Althea, and I might have run 
 away if she had not." 
 
 " Why, I thought you wanted to go abroad. 
 You never let me guess. Why didn't you tell 
 me, Evelyn, that you felt like that ? " he had re- 
 torted in surprise. 
 
 " I was under orders from my commander-in- 
 chief," she answered softly. " It wasn't my 
 place to question." 
 
 As he kissed his wife, Mt. Harding realized 
 as never before the rarity of their love. A cer- 
 132 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tain, serene content filled his mind in the midst of 
 his disappointment and foreboding regarding Al- 
 thea's future. 
 
 This feeling of relief and renewed joy in each 
 other's society helped along a somewhat irksome 
 winter. The little family missed Althea sorely. 
 There was a certain awkwardness in their newly 
 adjusted relations with her. The hands stretched 
 so resolutely across the gulf met but strangely. 
 The relations between Theodore and his father 
 were also strained. On the first of December 
 Mr. Harding had returned complacently from 
 New York, and at the same date the papers all 
 over the country had blossomed into head-lines 
 which told of the projected formation of a great 
 combine, and hinted that the presidency would 
 not fall outside of Underbill. This news had 
 served to widen the breach between father and 
 son. Theodore had not allowed himself to com- 
 ment on this action, but his unspoken criticism 
 galled Mr. Harding no less than frankness would 
 have done. He knew that his son disapproved, 
 that the painful explanation was only postponed ; 
 and he awaited it with mingled dread and im- 
 patience. 
 
 The father sat alone in his office one afternoon 
 in late December. A little fire glowed in the 
 grate and lighted up his snowy hair and keen, 
 133 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 thoughtful face. Even this soft, uncertain light 
 brought out tense lines about the firm mouth. 
 Mr. Harding was apparently thinking deeply, 
 though his whole attitude was relaxed and rest- 
 ful, except for one slender forefinger which beat 
 thoughtfully upon the arm of his chair. By and 
 by he seemed to wake from his reverie with a 
 start as the outer door of the ofHce closed sharply, 
 and quick, eager steps crossed the room. He 
 looked up as his son entered, feeling somehow 
 that the silence of their estrangement was at an 
 end. 
 
 During the whole autumn Theodore had 
 drawn into himself in dismay and disapproval, 
 fighting out the question of right and expediency. 
 He had ridden far out into the bleak country that 
 afternoon, and there had come to his decision. 
 In a hard-fought battle he had come off victor. 
 On one side was his whole soul's passionate pro- 
 test against his father's scheming, — a protest not 
 perhaps grounded on a logical thinking out of 
 the whole question, but none the less vehement 
 on that account. To balance it, was his eager 
 craving for his father's approval and sympathy, 
 his dread of wounding his mother's love for them 
 both, his knowledge that he was casting aside 
 his chance of winning Margaret Favor. This 
 last, the most purely selfish of the motives, he 
 134 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 found hardest to combat. He knew Margaret's 
 ambition, and knew that Theodore Harding, ob- 
 scure and at odds with his father, with no foot- 
 hold in the business world, would have little 
 chance with her. Nevertheless, he argued with 
 quaint, mathematical philosophy that one's 
 chances could not well be less than nothing. So 
 his prejudice against the trust, balanced against 
 his father, his mother and his sweetheart, had 
 outweighed them all. He had come back from 
 his ride warmed and exhilarated, with that fleet- 
 ing uplift of spirits that comes from a quickened 
 circulation and a hard-won decision, and had 
 hastened to Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Are you busy, father ? " he asked as soon as 
 he entered the room. " If you aren't I'd like half 
 an hour with you." 
 
 " I am at your service until dinner time." 
 
 " Then suppose we talk over our affairs. I 
 want to see if we can come to an agreement — 
 about some other arrangements — I mean for 
 myself." 
 
 Mr. Harding grasped the significance of his 
 son's broken words. 
 
 " You mean that you wish to withdraw your 
 money from the business ? " 
 
 " I don't want to do it, but I don't see any 
 other way," Theodore replied reluctantly. 
 
 135 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " You are making mountains out of mole-hills, 
 Theodore. You are letting the most quixotic of 
 scruples stand in your way," his father answered 
 a trifle shortly. 
 
 " I don't see it in that way, father. There's 
 nothing quixotic at all about my stand. At any 
 rate I have good backing." 
 
 " The backing of theorists — the practical men 
 are all for combination. I wish, Theodore, that 
 you would let me judge for you in this matter. 
 I have looked into it far more thoroughly than 
 you have. You are at the mercy of one side." 
 
 " I am old enough to judge these things for 
 myself. You don't realize that I am a man of 
 twenty-eight, do you? I can't be dictated to in 
 anything so important as this." 
 
 Theodore had chosen an unfortunate word. 
 His father answered coldly : 
 
 " I am not aware that I am in the habit of try- 
 ing to dictate to you in any matters, important 
 or otherwise, Theodore. I only wished you to 
 be sure you had decided before you made so vital 
 a change as this. Do you realize that if you 
 sever your connection with me, and so with the 
 combine, all your apprenticeship of years will go 
 for nothing — that you will be without business 
 prospects ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It's not likely that your cor- 
 136 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 poration will control the entire trade. I ahall 
 have some money to invest and a good deal of 
 experience." 
 
 " It is not impossible that the American may 
 control the entire field. It is worth your con- 
 sideration." Mr. Harding's tones were cold. 
 
 " Then I suppose I can make my way some- 
 where else. Other people, older and of no more 
 ability, have done so before now." 
 
 " I wish you would listen to me, Theodore," 
 Mr. Harding reiterated patiently. " You are 
 about to make a grave mistake, — and all for a 
 fancy. You will find, if you will only wait, that 
 the American is conducted as honestly as any 
 business firm can be. I acknowledge that trusts 
 have done more or less to gain their unenviable 
 reputation. But their mistakes can be avoided. 
 There is nothing inherent in their character to 
 make these false steps necessary. I — we intend 
 that our measures and our profits shall both be 
 legitimate." 
 
 " I heard today that you were over-capitalized 
 at the start." 
 
 Mr. Harding hesitated. He would not lie di- 
 rectly, but he would give a false impression. 
 
 " Even if that were true — I don't see that it 
 is a criminal charge." 
 
 " No, but you have often claimed that over- 
 137 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 capitalization is one of the causes of the disgrace- 
 ful affairs trusts are always getting into." 
 
 Mr. Harding retorted on another line of argu- 
 ment. 
 
 " There's no good in going over this ground 
 again and again," he said wearily. " It is plain 
 we can never agree. My word to you that this 
 corporation will be run honorably, or not at all, 
 seems to count for nothing." 
 
 " Forgive me, father, but you overestimate 
 your strength. It isn't in one man to hold a 
 great body like that," Theodore's tone was re- 
 spectful, but the mere fact that he ventured to 
 express himself thus was sufficient to incur Mr. 
 Harding's displeasure. He was determined to 
 be patient, however, and continued pacifically: 
 
 " But I have backing. I'm not alone. And 
 if I overestimate my power, as you so consider- 
 ately point out, ybu overestimate the power of the 
 combine. You make a great, awful abstraction 
 out of it, a sort of juggernaut, and then if you 
 don't precisely worship, you venerate. I heart- 
 ily pity you if you let your superstitious fears 
 influence you to give up your business prospects. 
 But I have said all that I can, and if you still 
 persist you must go your way ; but you are ruin- 
 ing yourself." 
 
 138 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I can't help it, it has got to be, then," Theo- 
 dore rejoined doggedly. 
 
 " Have you consulted Miss Favor in regard to , 
 this move ? " Mr. Harding asked. He saw an- 
 other cherished plan in jeopardy. Margaret was 
 his choice for a daughter-in-law. 
 
 " No, I haven't," Theodore replied brusquely. 
 " She has given me no right to ask her opinion 
 on any matter connected with myself." 
 
 " You realize, I suppose, that your prospects 
 must, of course, affect the way in which she re- 
 gards you. She is eminently sane and clear- 
 headed." 
 
 Theodore nodded without speaking. His lips 
 were firmly set, his clear eyes were sombre. This 
 resolution had already cost him much, and he 
 thought he realized its full gravity. He could 
 not now be moved. Mr. Harding knew his son 
 well enough to see that his' stand was firmly 
 taken, that argument and entreaty would be alike 
 useless, so he said gently : 
 
 " I don't wish to dictate to you or try to in- 
 fluence you unduly in a matter of conscience, 
 Theodore. You have doubtless considered the 
 question well, and, let me assure you, I appreciate 
 your sincerity if I cannot your method of reason- 
 ing. There is, however, hardly time to go into 
 business details before dinner." 
 139 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Albion Harding looked at his thin gold watch 
 thoughtfully. The little time-piece had been his 
 mother's and he still wound it patiently with a 
 key each night, when most other men would have 
 laid it aside for one more modern and convenient. 
 As he studied its face, he thought that this sud- 
 den demand on Theodore's part came at an em- 
 barrassing time, when his large fortune was so 
 closely tied up in the affairs of the American. 
 He did not, however, let this trouble him. He 
 knew that his credit was practically unlimited. 
 He went on speaking after a moment's silence. 
 
 " I don't need to say again, do I, how much I 
 regret this? I shall miss you everywhere in the 
 practical details of the business. I have thought 
 sometimes that you might fancy that Mr. Reid 
 had taken your place with me. I think you have 
 realized, however, that he only took a side of the 
 business distasteful to you, and left your time 
 free for the details in which you excel. I shall 
 hardly know how to get along without you, and 
 I know that I shall find it impossible to fill your 
 place. But I want you to understand that, hard 
 as I find it to appreciate your standpoint, I do 
 not blame you." Mr. Harding prided himself 
 on his breadth of view, his ability to enter into 
 the feelings of all men. 
 
 The two sat in silence in the fire-lit room. 
 140 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Theodore was touched by his father's kindness. 
 He could not speak. At last Mr. Harding broke 
 the stillness once more. 
 
 " I hope any new schemes of yours won't call 
 you away from Underbill, Theodore. Your 
 mother and I cannot get along without you, espe- 
 cially since we have lost Althea. We must keep 
 one of our children with us." 
 
 " I'm sure I hope I shan't have to go away, 
 father," Theodore replied heartily. " You have 
 been very good to me about this business and I 
 shall always appreciate it." 
 
 Truth to tell, the two men were nearer at that 
 moment than they had been for many a day. 
 Theodore was deeply touched by his father's for- 
 bearance, and by the delayed acknowledgment of 
 what he had labored so hard to accomplish with 
 so little apparent result. The thought that he 
 had really succeeded in being of vital use to his 
 father made the parting yet harder. He felt 
 aimless and adrift and lonely at the prospect of 
 relinquishing the business to which he had been 
 reared. But even in this depression, the new 
 comradeship with his father comforted him. If 
 this step of his had brought them closer together 
 it seemed that nothing could efifectually separate 
 them. 
 
 141 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Theodore Harding- led an aimless and un- 
 happy life that winter. He had not been used to 
 idleness of late and time hung heavy on his 
 hands. Moreover, he had been suddenly de- 
 prived of the object of his life. He had truly 
 dignified his calling and longed to be about it 
 again, and he envied the men who went to the 
 familiar work unhindered. He sometimes even 
 coveted the chance of those who, with only a 
 nominal freedom, performed the old tasks under 
 the thrall of the " Missionary Monopoly." 
 
 This altruistic body was effecting some sweep- 
 ing changes in the commercial map of the coun- 
 try. Its inception had been marked by a rapid 
 absorption of firms and loosely organized groups. 
 Then came a pause; the American was growing 
 wary. Firms which had declined the first offer 
 of the big corporation in the hope of a better 
 waited in vain. Here and there, all over the 
 142 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 country, factory chimneys grew cold, and staring 
 windows were draped with cobwebs. With the 
 closing of the mills went distress to skilled work- 
 men and common operatives, and the clamor of 
 the anti-trust press. But labor adjusted itself, 
 as it always does, and other factories, better 
 equipped, increased their production. The foster 
 fathers of the American were in pursuit of the 
 greatest good of the greatest number, and this 
 they seemed in a fair way to attain. 
 
 Meanwhile there was an opposition to the 
 American, unorganized, to be sure, but none the 
 less decided. Ordway and Evans represented it 
 fairly in Underhill. The former Theodore came 
 to know well and to pity deeply in the course of 
 the winter. The man was aging with forebod- 
 ing, prophet as he was along the one line of 
 thought with which he was familiar. He had no 
 doubt that the monopoly would eventually absorb 
 his business, and business was his life. His fac- 
 tory had a real personality to him and his hand 
 had touched its every bolt and eccentric and 
 band. He could not bear to lose what he had 
 waited for with all the idealization which lay 
 beneath the rough exterior. Something of this 
 he had tried to tell Theodore in slow, laconic sen- 
 tences, with tongue-tied spaces of silence. The 
 younger man, differently bred as he was, had 
 143 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 understood. He, too, knew the charm of ma- 
 chinery, the hold of a business perfectly acquired. 
 He was suffering from that lassitude of an aim- 
 less life which his companion dreaded. 
 
 Theodore offered much comfort in his hopeful 
 fashion. He cited his father's rose-colored fore- 
 castings of the righteous course of the combine; 
 he told Ordway that one obscure factory such as 
 his was not worth the enmity of the big monop- 
 oly. He proved that a control of two-thirds of 
 the country's output would suffice for the pur- 
 poses of the American, and that, this once gained, 
 it would trouble its rivals no further. He proved 
 these things so conclusively that he fairly con- 
 vinced himself. 
 
 In fact, he brought himself to a frame of mind 
 that sadly minimized the force and made light 
 of the purposes of the American. 
 
 One day he met Mr. Evans in the street and 
 remarked that he was not looking well. 
 
 " That's a fact. I'm off for the south of 
 France for the spring, then to Norway and Swe- 
 den. I'm going to get out of sight and sound of 
 business, if I can." 
 
 " And what becomes of your factory ? " 
 
 " I have had an offer from the American. It 
 galls, though. I say, Harding, you can have it 
 144 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 for what the American offers if you'll go in and 
 fight the trust." 
 
 Theodore's face brightened and then grew 
 wistful. The ownership of such a business was 
 the height of his ambition. 
 
 " I mustn't think of it," he said resolutely. 
 
 " Come down and talk it over, anyway. That 
 won't do any harm," Evans persisted. 
 
 " Or any good either. You can see where it 
 would put me with my father." Theodore's tones 
 were wistful. 
 
 " There's no telling. Your father would nat- 
 urally treat his son better than he would a mere 
 stranger. If you mind your business he will 
 probably let you alone. He doesn't control the 
 whole field — the American doesn't, that is. 
 And if it came to a fight, one organization led by 
 the father and another led by the son would be a 
 drawing card." 
 
 " It wouldn't attract anybody with much com- 
 mon sense — all the money and brains on one 
 side," Theodore smiled. 
 
 " There's such a thing as having too much 
 money and brains — of falling tO' pieces of your 
 own weight." 
 
 They had entered Evans' factory by this time 
 and were wandering through the basement. 
 Even the throbbing of the powerful engines was 
 145 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 a pleasant sound to Theodore, and the smell of 
 heat and dust and oil as sweet to him as that of 
 flowers. The faces of the women wore frequent 
 smiles for the visitor, while here and there 
 a man nodded. Harding watched the familiar 
 processes with a critical eye, and examined a de- 
 tail of machinery now and then. At length he 
 said longingly: 
 
 " It's a beauty." 
 
 " You should have it for what the American 
 offered," and Evans named a price at which 
 Harding caught his breath. 
 
 " You see I'm not on the make in this busi- 
 ness. It's combine price or nothing. Nobody 
 is going to pay me for the chance to fight the 
 combine," Evans said ruefully. " But I should 
 like to see you have it, Harding. I should like 
 to know the work was going on even if I am 
 shelved," and the quick, nervous voice trembled. 
 
 " Well, I'll think it over, Evans. I want to 
 talk to my father and to Mr. Ordway," Harding 
 said thoughtfully. 
 
 " You can count on Ordway to back up any- 
 thing you want to do, if you should have to 
 fight." 
 
 Theodore saddled his horse and rode far out 
 into the country that afternoon. The beat of 
 hoofs on the snowy roads accompanied his 
 146 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 thoughts. His keen business instincts, his love 
 for a good bargain, prompted the venture; his 
 weariness of the hfe of idleness which he 
 had led during the winter also urged him 
 to the step. On the other hand, he knew 
 that his father would have a right to be 
 both hurt and angry, and he knew that the 
 opposition of the American counted for 
 much. The outcome, however, was inevitable 
 with his sanguine temper. He told himself that 
 his father could well afford to let his son alone, 
 and that he would stand in no real danger from 
 that quarter. His mind was almost made up 
 when he rode back home and, stabling his horse, 
 went to consult Mr. Ordway. 
 
 He found Miss Ordway writing at her father's 
 desk when he entered the office. Theodore 
 noted, even in his preoccupation, a likeness in 
 contour of face and in a certain high common- 
 sense of expression between Faith Ordway and 
 her father. As he talked to the latter he knew 
 that the girl was listening eagerly. There was 
 a questioning silence after Theodore had told of 
 Evans' offer. 
 
 "You ain't goin' to do it?" Mr. Ordway in- 
 quired at length. 
 
 " I don't know. I wondered what you would 
 think. It's a wonderful bargain." 
 147 
 
THE WARS QF PEACE 
 
 " It may not be such a bargain before you get 
 done with it." 
 
 " But, see here, Mr. Ordway, why is it such a 
 risk ? " Theodore was primed with optimistic ar- 
 guments from his controversy with himself. 
 " Of course I reaHze that the American can do 
 anything it wants to, — but it isn't going to want 
 to. I intend to mind my own business and keep 
 out of its way. I'm nothing but a fly anyway, 
 in comparison. My insignificance protects me." 
 
 " That's all very well for talk, but wait and 
 see," Mr. Ordway commented grimly. 
 
 " Well, take your own case. You're all right. 
 They haven't meddled with you." 
 
 " Wait an' see." 
 
 " Well, use your common sense. Why should 
 a great body like that go out of its way to crush 
 me ? We've got into a habit of being afraid of 
 a corporation that, after all, is made up of men 
 very much like anybody else. My father isn't 
 likely to go out of his way to harm his own son." 
 Theodore's tones were eager. He was very anx- 
 ious to convert his friend to his own way of 
 thinking. 
 
 " 'Tis a little different with you, I admit. But 
 I wouldn't go to relyin' too much on that. 
 Your father ain't where he can do exactly as 
 he pleases." 
 
 148 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Of course he is only one, but he does have 
 a good deal of power. And the rest of the di- 
 rectors wouldn't be likely to do a thing like that 
 over his veto." 
 
 Mr. Ordway shook his head gloornily. "My 
 advisin' of you ain't goin' to do any good, I 
 know, but I wish't you'd keep out of it." 
 
 " Well, suppose I do keep out of it," Theodore 
 answered a trifle sharply. " Where am I ? This 
 is the only thing I know anything about, or care 
 anything about. One thing is certain — I'm not 
 going to spend another winter like this." 
 
 " There's plenty of openings for a young man 
 with capital," Mr. Ordway said persuasively. 
 
 " But not such openings as this, with all the 
 risk. You see," he went on, repeating the old 
 familiar arguments — " It isn't as if it was any 
 object to the American to control the entire mar- 
 ket. If it has control of three-fourths or even 
 two-thirds, it can set buying and selling prices 
 and wages to a greater or less degree. Of course 
 it can't manage the output so well. We've got 
 to make up our minds tq be ruled by it more or 
 less; but that isn't so much dififerent from the 
 laws of trade that govern us anjnvay." 
 
 " Seems to me I've heard the other side from 
 you, full as glib. You're gittin' to be quite a 
 lawyer." 
 
 149 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 The kindly smile robbed the words of their 
 sting. Theodore smiled shamefacedly. 
 
 " I suppose so ; but there is something in what 
 I have just been saying. I'm not going back on 
 anything I've believed about the trust. But I 
 have more confidence in my father's management 
 and principles than in those of most financiers. 
 He wouldn't wilfully injure me, and if they 
 should go out of their way to harm me when I'm 
 quietly attending to my business it would be wil- 
 ful injury." 
 
 Mr. Ordway answered this involved argument 
 somewhat skeptically. 
 
 " It all talks out well enough. How it's goin' 
 to work is another matter. And suppose, 
 through some such ' mistake,' we'll call it, you 
 do git up against the American? You ought to 
 take all the chances into account." 
 
 Harding hesitated. 
 
 " I should fight, I suppose." 
 
 Faith had been scrawling idly on a blotter 
 which lay before her. 
 
 "How will it place you with your father?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " He may be very angry and he may not. I 
 can't tell. I'm not planning to do anything that 
 really affects him." Theodore went on eagerly, 
 trying to justify himself. 
 ISO 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " But it's setting yourself up against him," 
 Faith persisted. 
 
 " It is if he chooses to take it that way. That's 
 not the way I mean it, however. I'm only carry- 
 ing out my own plans." 
 
 Theodore sighed. It was all very perplexing. 
 Mr. Ordway was saying only the things which he 
 had been telling himself. Yet the existence of 
 any serious danger in this experiment seemed the 
 more preposterous as he argued. He did not 
 waver even under this discouragement. Mr. 
 Ordway saw determination beneath his request for 
 advice. So he said : 
 
 " I ain't goin' to say nothin' more about it, 
 because I can see plain enough your mind's made 
 up. Maybe 'twill be all right, but it's risky busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " I'm ready to take the risk," said the young 
 man bravely. 
 
 He broached the subject to his father that 
 evening as they sat in the library after dinner. 
 He opened the matter without preparation, and 
 briefly announced his intention. Had he asked 
 for advice as in his conversation with William 
 Ordway, even for advice which he immediately 
 refuted and disregarded, the impression would 
 have been happier. As it was, the abrupt and 
 awkward announcement had an effect of sullen 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 defiance, widely foreign to Theodore's real feel- 
 ings. In his relations with his father the son 
 lacked that frank spontaneity which character- 
 ized his manner toward others. 
 
 Albion Harding eyed his son in silence after 
 his announcement. He had a priceless ability 
 to see in advance the weak spots in his own plans 
 and the possible point of attack. This move, 
 however, he had never anticipated. He had con- 
 sidered all business friction with his son comfort- 
 ably over. Now his rapid thought foresaw all 
 manner of rankling gossip, all sorts of complica- 
 tions. He knew better than any one else how 
 strong the feeling of opposition was toward the 
 American. He knew that Theodore might be 
 of great help to the opposition forces in any 
 struggle. He knew better than any one else just 
 how the affairs of the American really stood. 
 Into his astonished silence his son threw a word 
 of apology. 
 
 " I've stood it as long as I can with nothing 
 to do." 
 
 " Yes, I warned you." 
 
 " I knew it myself. But it was the only thing 
 to do. I honestly couldn't stay on in the Amer- 
 ican feeling as I did about that sort of thing." 
 
 " I have never felt conscientious scruples about 
 remaining in the American, and I have always 
 152 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 considered my sense of right and wrong fairly 
 well developed," Mr. Harding remarked coldly. 
 
 Theodore disregarded his father's thrust. 
 
 " I'm sorry to seem to go against you in this 
 way, father. I wanted at least to tell you of it 
 before I took any steps." 
 
 " I am thankful for even such traces of filial 
 consideration. But I receive them so seldom 
 that they come as a surprise," the father replied 
 in resigned tones. 
 
 " It seems to me there is some consideration 
 due from father to son as well as from son to 
 father," Theodore said quietly. " I come here 
 to tell you of a matter which has caused me a 
 good deal of thought and trouble and you speak . 
 to me like that," — he lyas angry with himself 
 that his voice quivered. 
 
 " I said no more than the truth." 
 
 " True or not, things are hard on me. Here 
 I am with only one thing in the world that I can 
 do and you blame me for doing that." 
 
 " I'm not blaming you. You have a perfect 
 right to conduct your affairs as you please. I did 
 not understand that you asked my advice." 
 
 " No, because I think I have decided. I'm not 
 setting myself against you. I don't intend to 
 run counter to the trust in any way, but only 
 to go quietly about my own business." Theo- 
 
 153 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 dore's sense of humor realized the, absurdity of 
 his tiny business extending philanthropic patron- 
 age to the American, but it was too late to take 
 back the words. 
 
 '' Your magnanimity touches me. I only hope 
 that the American will always be able to keep on 
 as high a plane," Mr. Harding retorted in mock- 
 ing tones. 
 
 " You've no right to make fun of me, father," 
 said Theodore hotly. " I'm in ,, a hard place, 
 and you're the one that's to blame. You've no 
 right to tie up business so that a man can't live 
 the life he has been trained to. To my mind 
 there isn't much liberty in a country where a 
 man can't carry on his business without running 
 it just as one man or a set of men say. I'm 
 sorry I've got to do this thing, but I don't see any 
 other way. At any rate I'm going to try it." 
 
 154 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 All things considered, Mr. Harding was 
 placed in a trying position, of which an irritating 
 feature was the necessity of justifying his son's 
 conduct to Roger Burnham. The latter did not 
 spare Mr. Harding's feelings, nor pay him the 
 deference which he expected from his associates. 
 He sometimes wondered why he bore the cynical 
 comments of his subordinate ; but he found Burn- 
 ham very useful and felt that he might need him 
 still more in the future. So he met his criti- 
 cisms of Theodore's conduct with more patience 
 than he might otherwise have shown. 
 
 One morning not long after Theodore's decla- 
 ration of independence, Burnham entered Mr. 
 Harding's office and opened the conversation 
 bluntly. 
 
 " See here, Harding, what's this I hear ? Your 
 son is really going to start an opposition to the 
 ' Missionary Monopoly ' ? So that young ban- 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tam of yours has taken the bit in his teeth and 
 run amuck ? " 
 
 " Your metaphor is slightly faulty," said Mr. 
 Harding with a forced smile. 
 
 " And your family discipline — my case is 
 better than yours, I guess. Better a bad meta- 
 phor than a bad son," grumbled Burnham. 
 
 " There is no truth in the rumor that he has 
 started an opposition to the American. He has 
 merely bought out Mr. Evans. He does not 
 mean to be unfilial. He regrets the step very 
 much. He conscientiously — " 
 
 " Oh, bother his conscience ! — but if it isn't 
 his conscience, what is it? He can't expect to 
 make money. It's a clear case of ruin. I'm not 
 much of a believer in the ' still, small voice ' and 
 stuff of that sort, but it's either pure deviltry — 
 or what you would call conscience, or — look 
 here ! Ordway has got a daughter. Red-headed, 
 heavy-built, but a good stepper, carries her head 
 well up, well-groomed sort of girl. Must be the 
 boy is after her." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mr. Harding hastily. " You 
 are altogether astray. My son has some quix- 
 otic notions about what his means and knowl- 
 edge of the business require of him ; overstrained 
 and unhealthy, to be sure, but decidedly vital to 
 156 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 him. I cannot really blame him, if it has be- 
 come a question of right and wrong to him." 
 
 " Yes, but you know too much to have such 
 convictions. A man with his conscience under 
 his control is all right, but when it gets the 
 upper hands of him he's no good any more — not 
 in business. In some millennium sort of place 
 he might get along." 
 
 Albion Harding shut his lips tightly. Argu- 
 ment was useless, and such topics were best 
 avoided. Burnham went on. 
 
 " But the point is, what's to be done ? " 
 
 " Nothing at present. I have little belief in 
 my son's ability as an organizer should he at 
 any time decide to enter the ranks of an opposi- 
 tion," Mr. Harding answered with some as- 
 surance. 
 
 " He's got a good deal to back him and help 
 him out. All of the trade that isn't in the deal 
 is swearing mad. They'll swarm together, given 
 somebody to say the word." 
 
 " It puts me in a bad position," Mr. Harding 
 said in weary tones. " If he receives any differ- 
 ent treatment from the other competing mill- 
 owners the stockholders have a right to complain. 
 And if I serve him with the same treatment the 
 public will be on my heels for my unfatherly atti- 
 tude." 
 
 157 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE. 
 
 "Of course he must be treated exactly the 
 same as the others and you must take the conse- 
 quences. There's no use; one can't pose as a 
 philanthropist and a financier at the same time. 
 You're doing the financier act just at present, 
 Harding, and you'd better stick to it and throw 
 up the other. The roles conflict." 
 
 " I never tried to do anything but employ the 
 principles of common honesty and decency in 
 business life. All I contended was that a 
 monopoly could be conducted on the basis of 
 those principles, and, so conducted, would be a 
 valuable object-lesson to the country. From 
 that all this ill-timed ridicule has sprung." Mr. 
 Harding spoke in tones of the deepest injury. 
 
 " That's all right, Harding, be an object-les- 
 son if you want to. Every one to his taste. 
 That's not what I'm in the business for, how- 
 ever." Burnham dismissed Mr. Harding's self- 
 justification with good-natured contempt. Then 
 he continued: 
 
 " Did you see that open letter of Jaffray's in 
 the 'Criterion' this morning?" 
 
 " Yes, and I didn't like the tone of it." 
 
 " Neither did I. Jaffray is going to make 
 trouble for us next winter in the legislature if 
 he happens to get in." 
 
 " He must not get in. We must back a good 
 158 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 man in his place. With our backing he would 
 have a fighting chance at the nomination." 
 Mr. Harding had thought out this point clearly. 
 
 " A man we could rely on would stand us 
 pretty well. There are a lot of things we shall 
 want. An ' investigation ! ' Nonsense, what is 
 there to investigate?" Burnham inquired indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Jaffray is always wanting an investigation 
 of something or other, so that doesn't count par- 
 ticularly. As you say, his investigation would 
 not amount to anything. But it would create 
 a wrong impression. No amount of investi- 
 gating would disclose anything out of the way; 
 but the public generally would think it was only 
 because we had covered it up successfully." 
 
 "Who would you put up against Jaffray?" 
 Burnham inquired in a tone into which deference 
 would now and then creep in spite of him. 
 
 " I've been thinking of Oakley for the place," 
 Mr. Harding's tone was tentative. 
 
 " Pretty good ! He's young, bright, there is 
 nothing against him. He's all right on the sub- 
 ject of the trust?" 
 
 " Yes, of course. Then, too, he hasn't much 
 money," Mr. Harding went on, " and has prac- 
 tically worked his way up. That will be a 
 drawing card in some quarters. I have had him 
 159 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 in my mind for some time as a good representa- 
 tive for the American, either here or in the na- 
 tional legislature." 
 
 " You've got a long head. We'll strike for 
 political power if there seems to be any need of 
 it. I'll attend to the ward politics. The/ re not 
 quite in your line, nor in mine either, but I know 
 the right men. ' Missionary Monopoly ' money 
 shall flow like water in the good cause," and he 
 grinned cynically. 
 
 " The money will of course be used in wholly 
 legitimate ways," said Mr. Harding firmly. 
 
 " Sure ! That was what I meant. Wholly le- 
 gitimate ways." 
 
 Mr. Harding was not blessed with a keen 
 sense of humor ; but he more than half suspected 
 that Burnham was laughing at him. He did not 
 waste time in considering this possibility, how- 
 ever. The conversation had suggested a ques- 
 tion which he wished to ask his secretary. He 
 called the latter in from the outer room as soon 
 as Burnham had gone. 
 
 Late that afternoon Althea Oakley herself 
 opened the door in answer to Reid's ring. She 
 was pale and her eyes were faintly red-rimmed; 
 but she was daintily dressed and forced back her 
 usual gaiety at sight of the guest. 
 1 60 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 As the three sat chatting in the pretty little 
 parlor, some unwonted air of magnificence 
 caught Reid's quick eye. His gaze finally rested 
 on a large, softly-glowing rug which nearly cov- 
 ered the floor. In a pause of the conversation he 
 said lightly: 
 
 " So we've been bringing New York back to 
 Underbill with us. What a beautiful rug, Mrs. 
 Oakley!" 
 
 Althea looked at her husband with appealing 
 eyes, and he answered for her. 
 
 " Yes, isn't it a beauty ? It makes us look 
 quite sumptuCus. Althea picked it up at a won- 
 derful bargain." 
 
 In spite of the cordiality of Oakley's tone, 
 Reid saw that there was something wrong with 
 this topic of conversation, and left it abruptly 
 by giving Mr. Harding's message. 
 
 The little family dinner, perfect in its simple 
 appointments and dainty fare, passed off pleas- 
 antly, in spite of Althea's subdued manner. It 
 was all charming to Reid, but he knew, unwill- 
 ingly enough, of the anxiety beneath the pleas- 
 ant exterior, and felt no envy. He was think- 
 ing that his liberty and prosperity were better, 
 when there came a knock at the door and Theo- 
 dore was ushered in. 
 
 Reid and Theodore met but seldom of late. 
 i6r 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 The genial friendliness of their intercourse was 
 a thing of the past. Theodore did not forget 
 all that he thought he had owed to Reid, but he 
 felt that Reid was gratifying an idle whim at 
 his expense. He could not help feeling hurt and 
 angry that Reid should so lightly brush away his 
 friend's happiness. So he greeted him with 
 some constraint, the smile fading from his face 
 as he noticed the presence of the guest. 
 
 " Have something to eat, old man ? " 
 
 " No, thanks. Oak. I came up to tell you a 
 piece of news." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " It doesn't amount to much at present, of 
 course, but I heard Roger Burnham asking 
 George Everett what he thought of you for the 
 state legislature this winter. Of course it may 
 turn out only talk." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " Oakley laughed, but there was 
 a quiver of excitement in his voice. This would 
 be the first step in a political career. 
 
 " Well, I'm not so sure. There's lots of kick- 
 ing, you know yourself, over Jaffray's last term. 
 He's not so sure of re-nomination as he thinks 
 he is. I've heard any number of men say he 
 ought not to get it again. I don't know that 
 you would stand a bad chance." 
 
 " Perhaps that's what Mr. Harding wants to 
 162 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 see you about. He and Burnham were closeted 
 together a. long while this morning," said Reid. 
 
 " Should you accept the nomination, Oak ? " 
 Theodore inquired. 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. Haven't thought of 
 such a thing before. Of course it would inter- 
 fere with my practice." Oakley tried to speak 
 unconcernedly. 
 
 " You could keep your regular clients and 
 come back and forth more or less, so that people 
 wouldn't forget you. Besides, it isn't for long." 
 
 " I don't know that I could afford to do it," 
 Oakley objected. 
 
 " Why, of course you can, Marcus," Althea 
 said excitedly. " They pay you — oh dear, I 
 don't know how much, but it's a good deal, and 
 you get lots of things free, passes on the rail- 
 roads, and all sorts of things. Then you can 
 come back whenever you want to and attend to 
 the clients, just as Mr. Reid said. You'll make 
 a great name for yourself and maybe they'll 
 send you to the Senate. I should enjoy Wash- 
 ington so much, I know." 
 
 " Dear me, hear the child ! " Oakley laughed 
 delightedly. " She has got me in the United 
 States Senate already. Time and space and 
 ways and means are nothing to her soaring am- 
 bition." 
 
 163 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " It's my belief the governor and Burnham 
 hatched up this scheme to get somebody friendly 
 to the combine in the place of Jaffray," Theo- 
 dore said quietly. He did not lack a certain 
 acumen. 
 
 " Well, it would be hard lines if I wasn't 
 friendly to the combine. I've profited pretty 
 well by the little business commissions it has 
 thrown in my way. It's a good client," said 
 Oakley complacently. 
 
 " Oh, yes, if that's all you think of," said 
 Theodore. 
 
 " Teddy, there's danger that you'll get to be a 
 crank," Oakley answered. " It's the tendency of 
 the times — monopoly, I mean. Professor Hark- 
 ness used to say so, and he knows more about 
 it than I do. I'm glad I studied political econ- 
 omy," he added laughing. 
 
 " Yes, it must be convenient to get a lot of 
 ready made opinions all pigeon-holed for use," 
 said Theodore drily. 
 
 " You didn't waste any time doing that, did 
 you, Teddy?" Althea retorted, quick to resent 
 any criticism of her husband. 
 
 " No, sister, I come to all of these subjects 
 perfectly unbiased," he replied good-naturedly. 
 " But say, Oakley, you'll be a change from Jaf- 
 fray, with all his rampant ideas." 
 164 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " After all, Jafifray doesn't go as far as his 
 teacher. Rubinovitch says let the trust go on, 
 and when it gets unbearable the people will rise 
 in wrath and down it. He makes it one of the 
 factors in the millennium he's looking for," Reid 
 spoke idly and with little interest in what he was 
 saying. 
 
 " Rubinovitch is a great speaker," Theodore 
 said, with the honest, ungrudging admiration 
 which he always accorded to brilliancy. 
 
 " Yes, he knows how to catch his audience ; so 
 far, at least, he's a great speaker," Reid com- 
 mented with less enthusiasm. " It's a pity 
 that he isn't better balanced. There's something 
 unsteady, not quite straight, about him. I'm not 
 sure whether it is drugs, liquor, or something of 
 that sort, or the insanity of genius. He got his 
 audience with him ' that night of the strike in 
 great style, though." 
 
 " I don't know about the insanity of genius. 
 He strikes me as level-headed enough. A man 
 isn't necessarily insane because, he doesn't think 
 as you do," Theodore retorted. 
 
 " Of course not. Don't get so fierce. You 
 know him and I don't. It was only something 
 about his manner that struck me so. I've never 
 seen him except at his meetings." 
 165 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 After the departure of his guests Oakley sat 
 alone fighting an elation which his experience of 
 late told him was ungrounded. Such good-for- 
 tune, if good-fortune it were, was not for him. 
 His anxieties had increased throughout the win- 
 ter, and an anxious wrinkle had already grown 
 persistent between Althea's brows. Three months 
 had sufficed to show them that there was leakage 
 somewhere, though neither was skilful enough 
 to detect its whereabouts. Althea, accustomed 
 all her life to dainties, did not recognize the fact 
 that many people never tasted grouse or dreamed 
 of buying strawberries in February. The little 
 house which her father had given her and had 
 furnished so simply and quietly, seemed to her 
 taste to be continually calling for some new ex- 
 penditure. The young wife always had some 
 good reason for each additional outlay; she was 
 always deeply repentant when Oakley pointed 
 out her extravagance, and erred innocently again 
 whenever the occasion offered. 
 
 Oakley was thinking gloomily of these things 
 when a small hand slid into his and Althea 
 nestled down beside him. 
 
 " You were awfully good to say what you did, 
 dear; I didn't deserve it," she whispered. 
 
 " What do you mean? " he queried. 
 
 " Why, you know, silly, to say that it made 
 i66 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 us look ' sumptuous,' and that I got a good bar- 
 gain, and to act as if you were pleased." 
 
 " However much of a Blue Beard I may be, I 
 want to make people think I'm not a monster." 
 Oakley tried to speak lightly. 
 
 " You're not a Blue Beard. You've no right 
 to talk that way. It was all my fault." 
 
 " Althea, confess. Don't yoti think I'm 
 stingy ? " Oakley had long had this question in 
 his mind, and now was determined to find out 
 just how Althea felt. 
 
 " You don't mean to be, dear. But you have 
 always had to save and be so careful that I sup- 
 pose you have got the habit. I don't blame you," 
 she added magnanimously. 
 
 " Dear, I haven't treated you fairly. I haven't 
 wanted to worry you, but I should have told 
 you more definitely. When I say we can't "afford 
 these things I mean it. When I've paid for the 
 rug — don't feel badly, it's all right — we shall 
 have only about ten dollars until some more 
 comes in — and I don't quite know where it's 
 coming from. Of course there will be clients, — 
 there always are," he added reassuringly to her 
 frightened look. " But, you see, when I say 
 we haven't much, I don't mean relatively to a 
 million, but absolutely, really not much." 
 
 " Oh, I'll never do it again, really. I didn't 
 167 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 understand," she faltered in tears. " I didn't 
 understand! If I had I would never have done 
 it. But we needed the rug so much, and it was 
 such a good bargain! Why, Ethel has one 
 which she paid two hundred and fifty dollars for 
 that isn't a bit prettier than this." 
 
 " You don't know how it hurts me not to be 
 able to give you the things which your friends 
 have. And I don't know, and never can know, 
 half the things which you want and need," Oak- 
 ley said contritely. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind so much. Only it seems 
 hard when you are young and want things most, 
 not to have them." 
 
 " Yes, of course it does, but we have each 
 other, dear, and we knew how it would be. You 
 knew that you must do without the things which 
 you had been used to, but I'm afraid you didn't 
 realize just what it would be like." 
 
 Then Oakley saw from his wife's face that he 
 had made the almost fatal mistake of alluding 
 to the circumstances of their marriage. The 
 subject was never definitely mentioned between 
 them, but Oakley guessed that the thought that 
 she had forced herself upon him rankled in Al- 
 thea's mind. He guessed that her determination 
 to show herself at all social functions, and the 
 dignity and reserve with which she carried her- 
 i68 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 self since her marriage, rose from the wish to 
 prove that she had not compromised herself with 
 the world. She faced society fearlessly, more, it 
 sometimes seemed, for his sake than for her own, 
 unwilling that the people whom she had known 
 all her life should think that she had forfeited 
 any of the things worth having in marrying him. 
 She merged her personality in his own recklessly, 
 passionately, and in return she exacted a rigid, 
 unswerving devotion. In marrying Althea, 
 Oakley had cut himself off from all the world 
 besides. He felt a longing sometimes for the 
 old, familiar, manly intercourse with Reid and 
 Theodore; he felt sometimes, with a pang for 
 which he hated himself, that he had inevitably 
 dwarfed and hampered his career by this prema- 
 ture marriage. And he knew in his heart of 
 hearts that they were spending their quick-ripen- 
 ing love too lavishly. 
 
 169 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 With the coming of the summer months Mr. 
 Harding and Theodore were left alone in the 
 house on the hill. For days at a time they met 
 only at constrained meals and gradually these 
 perfunctory glimpses of each other grew less fre- 
 quent. Mr. Harding often dined in bitter lone- 
 liness, deserted, as he felt, by his son and daugh- 
 ter alike. He missed the healing balm of his 
 wife's presence, and the recurring struggles to 
 harmonize imperative measures with only less 
 imperative ideals told upon him more in her ab- 
 sence. As the summer heat continued unbroken, 
 and overtaxed nerves grew terse, a breach be- 
 tween father and son became inevitable. 
 
 The two men sat at dinner one night after a 
 dry, hot July day, Mr. Harding in the punctilious 
 evening garb which no heat or weariness ever 
 made him omit, Theodore in spotless white linen. 
 One of the minor counts which the father held 
 170 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 against his son was that, in spite of a nicety — 
 which would have been called daintiness in a 
 woman — he lacked devotion to times and sea- 
 sons. He noted tonight, with silent disapproba- 
 tion, his son's infringement of the unwritten law 
 of the house. He said nothing, however, and 
 the conversation went on in a labored fashion. 
 At last there came some trivial difference of opin- 
 ion, a cutting comment from Mr. Harding, an 
 unfilial retort from Theodore. Then the father's 
 voice said, in the measured tones of his anger: 
 
 " If it were not for your mother, Theodore, I 
 could almost feel it advisable for you to seek a 
 home elsewhere." 
 
 " The point is past where any consideration 
 for my mother can count. It is no use and no 
 kindness to her for us to try to get along to- 
 gether. I shall ask you for shelter only tonight," 
 Theodore retorted quickly. 
 
 Anger lent to the undersized figure and the 
 hot words an unusual dignity. The father felt 
 a thrill of something like admiration, but it did 
 not lessen his certainty that he was right, that 
 even before this last revolt he had borne more 
 than son should put upon father. So he an- 
 swered in careful tones. 
 
 " You have of course perfect freedom of 
 choice. I hope, however, you will remember that 
 171 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 I have borne much before I uttered this first word 
 of reproach." 
 
 Theodore did not answer, but left the room 
 with close-shut lips, conscious that tonight the 
 final word had been said. His quick fulminat- 
 ing anger, usually drowned in repentance before 
 his father's slower wrath had kindled, had once 
 more betrayed him. Yet cooler thought told 
 him that this after all was the solution of the 
 problem. He might live on friendly terms with 
 his father if they were not held to the friction of 
 daily intercourse. He could not believe in any 
 separation more serious than had already existed 
 between them, even while he packed his posses- 
 sions and prepared to move them to a big unused 
 room in the storehouse adjoining his mill. 
 
 He found pleasure in arranging his room, and 
 in his new freedom from restraint, yet he was 
 far from happy. He was not living the life for 
 which he was fitted, which his nature demanded. 
 AflFectionate, domestic, he should have married 
 early ; he should have had children already about 
 him. He should have gone the daily rounds of 
 a business which he honored, free from perplex- 
 ing conflict for a doubtful principle. Instead he 
 was caught up into a fierce struggle, lonely in 
 spite of his many friends, with no real company 
 save that of his dog, flouted by the lady of his 
 172 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 love, and, he sometimes thought, betrayed by his 
 friend. 
 
 He sat one night in his dusky room, with the 
 wind blowing strong from the river and a bar 
 of moonlight lying across the floor, and thought 
 of some of these things. He picked softly at his 
 banjo, and as he played he gained something of 
 the same peace from his tinkling music that his 
 father did from the solemn chords of the organ. 
 
 As he sat there, half-dreaming, he heard the 
 big door at the foot of the stairs open, and Mrs. 
 Ordway's voice exclaim: 
 
 " Goodness, father, look at them stairs ! An' 
 I ain't a mite of doubt Mr. Harding goes up over 
 'em full tilt a dozen times a day." 
 
 " Wal, he ain't so hefty as you be, mother," 
 Mr. Ordway answered. 
 
 " You mustn't hurry, mother. I'm really 
 afraid to have you get so out of breath," Faith 
 exhorted. 
 
 " I should feel real tried if we should climb up 
 here and find he was out," Mrs. Ordway's 
 breathless voice continued. 
 
 " He is at home, Mrs. Ordway, and glad of 
 company," Theodore's voice rang out cheer- 
 fully. " I'm just striking a light." 
 
 " You mustn't live up so many flights if you 
 173 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 want fat old women to come to see you Mr. 
 Harding," Mrs. Ordway said, laughing. 
 
 " You're not a fat old woman, Mrs. Ordway. 
 Is she, Mr. Ordway? I wonder you can stand 
 there and hear her misrepresent herself so." 
 
 " I've seen her slimmer and I've seen her 
 younger," Mr. Ordway answered, " but she suits 
 me well enough as she is." 
 
 " Sho, father ! " said Mrs. Ordway in flattered 
 tones. Then, changing the subject, " Ain't this 
 a pretty room, Faithy? I say, you're fixed up 
 comfortable enough, Mr. Harding." 
 
 The long, high room was in truth attractive. 
 The windows were as yet uncurtained, but they 
 were cushioned with crimson. The walls were 
 hung thick with pictures of animals or woodland 
 scenes, engravings from Landseer and Rosa Bon- 
 heur, and paintings with lesser names attached. 
 Lounging chairs were scattered here and there, 
 and golf clubs, tennis rackets and an arsenal of 
 weapons filled the corners. The banjo stood be- 
 side Theodore's chair and a current magazine 
 lay open on the table. The room spoke every- 
 where of a simple, wholesome, out-of-door na- 
 ture. Something of this Faith saw, and said as 
 she turned to Theodore : 
 
 " It is very pleasant, and somehow it seems to 
 174 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 fit you. I always like it when the room and the 
 person go together." 
 
 The four sat down and chatted idly. Mr. 
 Ordway, as usual, left most of the conversation 
 to the others, and stared upon the floor with 
 knitted brows. Theodore knew that something 
 was troubling him, and shortly the matter came 
 out. 
 
 " I've got an interestin' paper that maybe 
 you'd like to see. You've kep' up with the busi- 
 ness so fur." He drew a letter from his pocket 
 and unfolded it with blunt, clumsy fingers. 
 Theodore took it and read it slowly, handing it 
 back at length with a grim smile. 
 
 " Pointed at least. What are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 Ordway shoved forward his chin in an ag- 
 gressive way of his own. 
 
 "What do you suppose?" he said doggedly. 
 " Do you think I'm goin' to give up what I've 
 worked for all my life at the word of a concern 
 like this?" 
 
 The words and the face were defiant, but the 
 voice shook. Theodore knew that the outer 
 resolution covered a hidden despair. But he ig- 
 nored the ill-concealed emotion. 
 
 " So they've written you before? " 
 
 " Yes, and I didn't answer it. It warn't busi- 
 175 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ness-like, I suppose, but I couldn't seem to bring 
 myself to it. There wasn't nothin' to say. I 
 ain't goin' to sell to 'em, at that price or any 
 other. I suppose the letter means that they will 
 cut selling prices in my line." 
 
 " Yes, can you stand it? " 
 
 " I can for awhile. I ain't makin' much now, 
 but I could clear considerable less an' still keep 
 my head above water." There was a ring of de- 
 termination- in the rough voice. 
 
 " You haven't so much outgo as a man like 
 Burnham, for instance." 
 
 " I was tellin' Faithy comin' along that I was 
 glad to have 'em come out this way. I've got 
 fidgety waitin' and wonderin' what they'll do. 
 Now the fight's on it seems good. I feel just 
 like it. There ain't much use in it, I s'pose; 
 but there, who knows ? Sometimes big concerns 
 go all to smash in a minute. I mean to fix things 
 so't mother will be all right; an' Faith can look 
 after herself any time. Then I'm goin' to sail 
 in. It's a rascally business, that's what it is, and 
 there ain't any reason that I can see why it should 
 rule the country. There's one man, if he ain't 
 a rich one an' not of much account, who ain't 
 goin' to be trod on." 
 
 A thoughtful silence followed Ordwa/s 
 176 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 speech. Then he said, making a visible effort at 
 cheerfulness : 
 
 " Wal, there's nothin' to do but keep a stiff 
 upper lip." 
 
 Harding looked at the scarred and workwom 
 face before him — a face which bore everywhere 
 the traces of wearing toil. Anger flared up in 
 his heart that his father, reared to the easy things 
 of life, should embitter this late and hard-won 
 prosperity. He felt, however, that Mr. Ordway 
 wished to change the subject, and turning to 
 Faith, said lightly: 
 
 " You like dogs, I know. Miss Ordway. Here 
 are some splendid pictures of prize-winners in 
 this magazine." 
 
 The two heads, the auburn and the black, were 
 bent over the paper when a light, uncertain step 
 sounded on the stair and Mrs. Harding stood, 
 slender and girlish and undecided in the door- 
 way. 
 
 Theodore rose from his desk with a startled 
 "Mother!" Mr. and Mrs. Ordway half-rose 
 and looked at each other in embarrassment. 
 Faith alone, after a glance over her shoulder, 
 went on turning the leaves of the magazine. 
 
 Harding regained his poise in an instant's time 
 and went through the necessary introductions 
 easily enough. His first thought had been of 
 177 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 some calamity, his next that the fact that he had 
 left home could now no longer be concealed from 
 his mother. There was no chance for explana- 
 tion, however, while the Ordways stayed. This 
 they did but a few minutes longer. Mrs. Hard- 
 ing's manner, though not lacking in courtesy or 
 even in cordiality, did not invite a longer call. 
 
 When at last the outer door closed behind 
 them, Mrs. Harding leaned forward in her chair 
 and grasped her son's wrist tightly. 
 
 " Tell me, Theodore," she said tensely, hardly 
 above a whisper, " Is it that girl ? " 
 
 Theodore gazed at her, with his mouth slightly 
 open in surprise and bewilderment. 
 
 " Is what — what girl ? " he stammered finally, 
 with no slightest glimmer of her meaning. 
 
 " Oh, I know. I might have known all along 
 that it was something more than principle and 
 conviction that made you do it," she said chok- 
 ingly. 
 
 Theodore at last caught some inkling of her 
 meaning. 
 
 " Oh, you mean have I got at odds with father 
 on Miss Ordway's account ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't mean that you had quarreled 
 with your father about her; but I thought you 
 might have taken up with her father's side on 
 her account," Mrs. Harding faltered. 
 178 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Nonsense, mother ! " Theodore laughed in a 
 relieved tone. " I hardly know Miss Ordway, 
 honestly. Besides, she is Reid's, along with 
 others, if he chooses to take her. I thought you 
 knew who I cared about." 
 
 " But I couldn't help thinking of something of 
 the kind when I saw you there together as I 
 came up the stairs. Oh, Theodore, I could bear 
 anything but that ! " 
 
 " I don't see why you feel that way, mother," 
 Theodore answered stoutly. " She is one of the 
 finest girls I ever met. She is just as much of a 
 lady as Althea." 
 
 " I don't see how she can be, with that awful 
 father and mother." 
 
 " They're good, kind people, and they are more 
 my sort than the people up on the Hill. They 
 were always a cut above me. I've found my 
 level at last," replied Theodore. 
 
 " I feel some way as if this awful break be- 
 tween you and your father were all my fault. 
 If I had stayed at horrie it might never have come 
 about." Mrs. Harding was very near to tears 
 as she reproached herself. 
 
 " You mustn't say that, mother. Father and 
 I are really no further apart than we have been 
 most of the time for ever so long. We are fac- 
 179 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ing matters fairly, that's all. There was no use 
 trying to keep on that way." 
 
 " How am I going to bear it, Theodore, to 
 have you away? It was hard when you were at 
 college and I knew it was only for a little while ; 
 but this! — " Tears had come in earnest now. 
 
 " Don't, mother," said Theodore, kneeling be- 
 side her chair and putting an arm about her. 
 " I shall come up and have tea with you every 
 afternoon and have an hour's talk with you ; and 
 you will come and see me whenever you are down 
 town. And my father and I can meet pleas- 
 antly now and then. It's a great deal better than 
 the old way, believe me. If I had married I 
 couldn't have stayed at home with you." 
 
 " But that would have been different. It 
 would have been natural. Then I shouldn't have 
 had to, think of you alone here. You weren't 
 meant to live alone, Theodore." Theodore gave 
 no sign that he felt the truth of this remark 
 keenly. His voice was steady and cheerful as 
 he said : 
 
 " Oh, I get along nicely. I have Dave. Don't 
 you worry about me, mother. Must you go? " 
 he added, as Mrs. Harding picked up her light 
 wrap. 
 
 " Yes ; I told Harvey to be here at ten. I've 
 hardly seen you, dear boy. I wanted to persuade 
 1 80 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you to give up this wild scheme. Much as I ad- 
 mire you for standing by your principles I can't 
 help seeing that you are doing yourself a great 
 harm. Come back with me to Old Point Harbor 
 Wednesday and think things over. Margaret 
 has been very gentle and thoughtful lately. Per- 
 haps — " and she paused suggestively. 
 
 " No', mother, there's no use. Margaret 
 doesn't like anything I do. I should make some 
 mistake. I can never suit her." 
 
 " She is unsettled and unhappy, Teddy, and 
 doesn't know her own mind. Be patient." 
 
 " I'm tired of being patient. If there was any 
 hope for me, — but there isn't. When is she go- 
 ing to know her own mind ? She's twenty- four, 
 and has had this subject before her for six or 
 eight years." 
 
 Mrs. Harding saw that he was in no mood for 
 comfort. So she took her leave after appoint- 
 ing a meeting for the next day. Then Theodore 
 went back to his chair and clashed his banjo 
 strings until Dave growled in his sleep and shook 
 his silken ears. Finally a string broke with a 
 twang, and Theodore laid down the instrument 
 just as he heard still another step on the stairs. 
 
 His visitors had been of an unexpected sort 
 this evening and this last was no less so. Fran- 
 cis Reid had not been in the habit of intruding 
 i8i 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 his company on his friend of late, so Harding 
 greeted him with no Httle surprise. 
 
 Reid sank into a comfortable chair and gazed 
 about him lazily. 
 
 " I'm tired as a dog," he said in his slow tones, 
 " but somehow I can't sleep. I saw your light 
 as I was wandering about and thought I would 
 come up. Cosy here, aren't you ? " 
 
 " I like it. I've been having a regular recep- 
 tion here tonight. Mr. and Mrs. Ordway and 
 Miss Ordway, my mother, and now you." 
 
 " Then your mother is in town ? " 
 
 " Yes, she came up for a few days. She is 
 never really content away from Underbill. But 
 she is going back Wednesday." 
 
 " Why, then — " began Reid, and paused. 
 
 " You and my father are going down for a 
 fortnight, aren't you? " Theodore asked, with as 
 much ease as he could muster. 
 
 " Yes, I was thinking that we would probably 
 go down when Mrs. Harding does. Why don't 
 you come too, Teddy ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm too busy. Besides, there isn't much 
 sense in my going. In fact, I think I would 
 rather stay here." 
 
 " You ought to take some sort of a vacation." 
 
 " I shall take mine later. A hunting trip in 
 the fall suits me better than loafing around sum- 
 182 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 mer resorts," Theodore answered a little 
 brusquely. 
 
 " That would be pretty good fun. Deer ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it's great." 
 
 " Let me know when you are going arid per- 
 haps I'll join you, if you care for a companion." 
 
 " Miss Favor is at the shore with your mother 
 and sister, isn't she ? " Reid queried, after a 
 pause. Then he felt anger and scorn of himself 
 that he had asked a question whose answer he 
 knew so well. Theodore responded somewhat 
 coldly. Their intercourse was continually com- 
 ing upon just such embarrassing moments. In 
 truth, he felt but little eagerness for the proffered 
 company on his trip into the woods. 
 
 183 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 That autumn brought so much trouble and per- 
 plexity to Theodore Harding that he needed his 
 hunting trip long before it came. September 
 and October were anxious months to the whole 
 family, darkened as they were by Althea's serious 
 illness. She hovered on the borderland of life 
 for weeks, and only came back hesitatingly at 
 last. During this common anxiety Mr. Harding 
 and his son met as friends. Their thoughts were 
 so preoccupied that both were unmindful when 
 together of the fact that the big national organ- 
 ization was still pressing its insignificant rival, 
 William Ordway, closely, and that Theodore was 
 increasingly active in the afifairs of the opposi- 
 tion. 
 
 Theodore was in fact gradually outgrowing 
 
 his hope of the spring, that he might, be allowed 
 
 to exist peacefully alongside the American. His 
 
 affairs were prosperous enough, but he had come 
 
 184 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 to feel that this good fortune was permitted by 
 the American rather than wrested from it. He 
 had a growing sense that the combine might not 
 always be so complacent. 
 
 The American did not lack certain encourage- 
 ments through the autumn months. It had 
 passed through the first and most trying year of 
 its history without failure. It had gained a local 
 victory in electing its representative to the state 
 legislature. In spite of the apathy which anxiety 
 lent Oakley, and even Mr. Harding, the latter 
 fact had somehow come to pass. Burnham 
 could have told how with a reasonable amount of 
 detail; his superior, however, did not question 
 him. There was a large sum for campaign ex- 
 penses, to which the American contributed, un- 
 protestingly, its quota. Roger Burnham was 
 gaining power as the months passed. Wholly 
 unrecognized in the administration of the big 
 monopoly, he was yet its president's most trusted 
 agent. Reid alone knew of the interviews 
 which the two men held daily; he alone guessed 
 a tithe of the commissions which Burnham per- 
 formed. What Reid knew of his chiefs rela- 
 tions to the subordinate he disapproved, — he 
 was in fact beginning to see Mr. Harding more 
 clearly, stripped of the glamor which had at first 
 surrounded him. 
 
 i8s 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 This brought him nearer toward sympathy 
 with Theodore. In fact, they set out upon their 
 hunting trip with a frank enjoyment of each oth- 
 er's society which they had not felt for months. 
 As Underhill and Margaret Favor and the 
 American slipped further and further behind 
 them, their reserve was dissipated in the light- 
 hearted joy of their outing. 
 
 The weather was almost summer-like. The 
 grey boughs of the leafless trees had a glint of 
 green like that of April. The waters of the 
 woodland lakes glimmered pearl-like and tran- 
 quil as on summer mornings. There was the 
 odor of pine smoke in the air and a pale blue haze 
 hung over the distant hills. As they slowly 
 penetrated farther into the woods, the stations 
 grew more primitive, the character of the coun- 
 try more unvarying in its monotony of hemlock, 
 until at length they reached the homely good 
 cheer of the big inn which formed the terminus 
 of the railroad. 
 
 They aimed, however, for a camp twenty miles 
 farther in the woods, and were dismayed to find 
 that no guide was available for their tramp. The 
 landlord advised them to wait at the hostelry, but 
 this they were loth to do. Theodore had been 
 over the route before, and thought he might be 
 able to find the way with the help of a compass. 
 1 86 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Reid minimized the difficulties, as the man un- 
 familiar with the big woods is likely to do. At 
 length, when they found that the camp was 
 amply stocked with provisions and that no pack- 
 ing would be necessary, they decided to push on 
 at once. So at noon they were seated in a dry 
 hollow under a pine, far upon their journey. 
 The needles of countless seasons made a springy 
 cushion, and they rested after their luncheon, 
 watching the green boughs wave back and forth 
 against the sky. 
 
 " We must have made three miles an hour — 
 we've found it pretty easy walking so far. We 
 can rest an hour and have four hours to do the 
 other eleven miles in. Then we'll get there be- 
 fore dark," Reid estimated. 
 
 " Yes, and won't it be great, getting there ! 
 It's a fine place, Frank. There's a big fireplace 
 in the main room and a stove in the little cook- 
 room. We'll have a roaring fire in the fire- 
 place, and stretch ourselves in the bunks, and just 
 doze. There's nothing like it. You don't want 
 to talk or read or do anything but look at the 
 fire and go to sleep and wake up and look at the 
 fire and go to sleep again. I believe this com- 
 pass needle is screwed too tight," he broke off 
 abruptly, as he turned the little toy about in his 
 fingers. " See how slowly it moves ! " He pried 
 187 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 out the glass, and turned the tiny screw with his 
 knife blade. 
 
 Just at that moment Reid, who lay stretched 
 at full length by Theodore's elbow, turned over. 
 Theodore's " Look out ! " came a moment too 
 late. Reid hit his friend's arm and the delicate 
 machine was upset. 
 
 The two men looked at each other for a 
 speechless moment. What chance was there of 
 finding the tiny bit of magnetic iron among the 
 thousands of brown pine needles ! 
 
 "Oh, thunder!" groaned Theodore. "Why 
 didn't I know enough to let the thing alone? " 
 
 Reid indulged in no reproaches. " I didn't 
 know I was so near," was all he said. " Don't 
 stir. It must have fallen right here." 
 
 Reid hunted breathlessly, then the other took 
 his turn, then both together searched, sifting the 
 leaves deeper and wider in their hopeless quest. 
 Finally they paused as by common consent and 
 looked at each other. 
 
 " It's no use, Teddy," said Reid gently. " It's 
 gone. We've got to make the best of it without 
 it. The sun is shining, at any rate." 
 
 " Yes, and it's two o'clock. We must go on, 
 if we don't go back." 
 
 " Oh, we'd better keep on. We can strike 
 north well enough by the sun." 
 i88 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 So the two faced toward the unknown forest 
 and pushed on briskly. 
 
 When the sun, all too soon, sank red behind 
 the evergreens, darkness fell rapidly over two 
 weary men, plodding through what seemed to be 
 a hemlock swamp. The autumn had been very 
 dry, and there was no water to turn them aside, 
 no bog to entrap them. But they sank above 
 their ankles here and there in the dry, white 
 spagnum, tripped upon roots and skirted deep 
 holes where, it was evident, water habitually lin- 
 gered. 
 
 " This looks as if it might be near Beaver 
 Pond. If it is, all we have to do is to skirt the 
 west shore until we come to the camp. Remem- 
 ber how it looked on the map ? " said Theodore 
 cheerfully, adding, " We've certainly been 
 twenty miles." 
 
 " Forty, at least," Reid answered in tones 
 which he tried to make light. Harding eyed 
 him sharply. 
 
 " Look here, Frank ! I'm afraid you're done 
 up. You look pretty white. This sort of thing 
 is different from any tramping you're used to. 
 I was stupid not to realize that you're not hard- 
 ened to it as I am. We ought to have rested 
 more." 
 
 189 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Reid's face was drawn and haggard, but he 
 answered bravely : 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right. We haven't got time to 
 rest if we're going to make camp tonight." 
 
 They plodded along in silence for some fif- 
 teen minutes more. Then the ground gradu- 
 ally began to ascend. Theodore stopped. 
 
 " I guess we'd better camp here," he said in 
 decisive tones. " There's no use in going it 
 blind. When it comes morning we can climb a 
 tree and get a look about us." 
 
 Reid had sunk wearily to the ground. 
 
 " Shall we build a fire? " he said. 
 
 " Better not, I guess," Theodore answered. 
 " We might have all the woods ablaze, it's so 
 dry. If we had anything to cook we'd venture 
 on a little one ; but it's warm, and I guess we can 
 stand it. I wish we hadn't eaten all the lunch- 
 eon. But we can have a smoke and a drop of 
 whiskey." 
 
 " Water would go better, wouldn't it? " 
 
 " That's a fact, but the whiskey will be warm- 
 ing." 
 
 They slept that night in a sheltered hollow 
 with pine needles heaped high above them and 
 awoke to a sunless sky and a wind roaring among 
 the treetops. Theodore climbed a tree, hoping 
 to discover the lake. One low ridge rose beyond 
 190 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 another, any one of which might conceal the lit- 
 tle pond. Everywhere was the same dark, 
 monotony of hemlock, scowling and unfriendly 
 beneath the lowering sky. 
 
 They said little as they took up the way 
 again. Their parched lips moved with difficulty, 
 and it seemed a waste of strength to form the 
 words. At length they came to a spring, half- 
 choked with debris. The water was brackish, 
 but sweeter to them than any draught they, had 
 ever tasted. Theodore had shot two squirrels, 
 and now cheered by the water he roasted them 
 with the skill of the practiced camper, while Reid 
 watched the fire closely, beating out creeping 
 tongues of flame lest the whole forest should puff 
 up in one gigantic bonfire. 
 
 For a little while after their meal the two men 
 pressed on with renewed courage. The food 
 and drink had fairly made them over. Soon, 
 however, Reid began to lag, and when Theodore 
 looked back at him showed a face white and 
 contorted as if with pain. 
 
 " What's the matter, old man ? " Theodore 
 said, shocked at the change in his friend's ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 Reid tried to smile, but only succeeded in 
 twisting his face in a ghastly fashion. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing. I probably had too much 
 J91 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 dinner," he gasped grimly, game to the last. 
 " Keep on. I'll be all right in a few minutes." 
 
 " Sit down and rest. You'll feel better. That 
 wasn't the right kind of thing for you to eat 
 when you were half-starved. I should have 
 given you malted milk." Theodore tried to jest, 
 but his heart was very heavy. He felt somehow, 
 he hardly knew why, that Reid was very ill. 
 
 The latter seated himself, without protest, on 
 the ground, with his back to a tree. Harding 
 sat down beside him and eyed him furtively. 
 Soon the dull, lustreless eyes closed and Reid's 
 chin fell upon his breast. Harding kept his mel- 
 ancholy watch unheeded. Overhead slatey 
 clouds, tinged on their swelling folds with a pe- 
 culiar yellowish hue, drifted rapidly. At inter- 
 vals a crow's harsh note floated down from above. 
 As far as he could see dark stems of hemlock and 
 spruce closed in on either side. Even the floor 
 of the forest was dark with some bushy ground- 
 hemlock which somehow added to the sense of 
 a stern luxuriance of vegetation hemming them 
 in. 
 
 Harding was at length fairly facing the con- 
 viction that they were hopelessly lost. He knew 
 that unless they had wandered far from their 
 course they ■ should have reached the foot of 
 Beaver Pond long before. Once past this land- 
 192 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 mark there was little to guide them. Moreover, 
 they could not travel far until Reid should be 
 better. As Harding studied the flushed face and 
 deeply hollowed cheeks he felt that this could 
 not be soon. 
 
 For lack of anything better to do he stooped 
 to adjust the strap of his legging. Something 
 fell from it with a metallic clink upon the rock 
 beneath him. Theodore picked it up and gazed 
 at it in speechless wonder. It was the compass 
 needle! Through all their wanderings the bit 
 of metal had stuck there. Now when it was lit- 
 tle better than useless it came to light. He fixed 
 it once more upon its pin with a heart full of 
 bitterness. There was something cruelly sport- 
 ive about this freak of fate, which gave them 
 back their guide just when they were so hope- 
 lessly lost that it could tell them nothing. They 
 might be skirting the east shore of Beaver Pond, 
 or the west ; they might have been wandering all 
 day in circles. If they could have found the 
 compass needle last night, before they had so 
 hopelessly lost their sense of direction, they 
 would have been safe. Now, however, only de- 
 spair seemed left for them. 
 
 His bitter thoughts were broken in upon by a 
 rustle as Reid, still sleeping, toppled over to one 
 side and gently sank upon the ground. The 
 193 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 shock of the fall roused the sick man in some 
 measure and he opened his eyes slowly. Dull 
 and uncomprehending at first, they brightened 
 a little, as Theodore said cheerfully : 
 
 " Well, Frank, old man, how do you feel ? 
 Rested? I've got some good news for you. 
 I've found the compass needle. It had fallen 
 into a strap of my legging and had stuck there 
 all this time. Perhaps the buckle attracted the 
 iron, or the other way about. Now we can go 
 on. That's right. I'll help you up. Now put 
 your arm over my shoulder. That's it. Now 
 we'll get along finely." 
 
 Reid did not think clearly enough to have any 
 of Theodore's doubts in regard to the efficacy of 
 the compass needle. He had just enough 
 strength left to obey orders. He leaned heavily 
 on his friend's shoulder and stumbled along pain- 
 fully, with compressed lips and eyes that hardly 
 seemed to see the dreary woodland ahead. Theo- 
 dore with his arm about his companion, and the 
 two rifles slung over his shoulder, pressed on 
 almost blindly. One route was much the same 
 as another. He hardly knew why he was trav- 
 elling at all. A single thought, however, pos- 
 sessed him. If they could but reach water be- 
 fore they had to stop their chances would be 
 doubled. Not only could they satisfy their 
 194 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 thirst; but they would stand a better chance of 
 shooting game which would seek water at a 
 great distance through the parched forest. 
 
 Theodore knew, moreover, that the streams of 
 that region flowed toward the south. If they 
 could but find running water they would have a 
 sure, if desultory guide. Beside a stream they 
 could rest until they gained strength to follow its 
 windings back to civilization. So Theodore 
 pushed on over the uneven surface of the wood. 
 Often the space between the trees was only wide 
 enough for one, and he guided the drooping fig- 
 ure through, bruising himself recklessly in his 
 haste. Sometimes the sick man stumbled and 
 fell to his knees, and Harding had to drag him 
 to his feet. Reid was, at any time, a heavier 
 man than his companion and now bore down 
 with a cruel, lifeless weight. The rifles dragged 
 and their straps cut sharply. They were all the 
 time swinging wild and catching on the crowd- 
 ing tree-stems. The perspiration stood on Theo- 
 dore's forehead and dripped down over his face 
 in spite of the chill of the day. And still he 
 pressed on, for miles it seemed to him, faint with 
 hunger, spent with travel and sleeplessness, with 
 knees that trembled and feet that seemed to be- 
 long to someone else, and to stumble on inde- 
 pendently of any volition of his own; with breath 
 
 195 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 that grew shorter and heart that hammered 
 louder. But still his ears were strained eagerly, 
 anxiously. 
 
 To his impatience the wood seemed full of 
 voices, — the roar of the smoke-laden wind in the 
 tree-tops, the creak of branches, the scream 
 of distant jay or crow, the chatter of a squirrel, 
 the crash of their own clumsy footfalls; but 
 among them all Theodore listened for one sound, 
 the trickle of running water. 
 
 At last there seemed to come to his ears a 
 sound different from the others. A score of 
 times he had thought he had heard it before, and 
 as many times had only felt his heart sink with 
 hopeless disappointment; but this was something 
 different. It persisted even after the two men 
 paused. Reid sank to his knees with the first 
 opportunity, but Harding could not stop even 
 for his friend to rest. He ran on by himself 
 breathlessly until the sounds became unmistak- 
 able. It was the trickling of a stream, a little 
 accented plash, as if the water fell from a height. 
 Theodore stood for a second, until he was sure 
 that his ears had not deceived him. Then he 
 said softly, "Thank God!" 
 
 With commands and entreaties he once more 
 roused his friend, and almost carried him through 
 the dense woods that crowded the bank of the 
 196 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 stream to the little opening which edged it. 
 There a rare maple had cast its scarlet leaves into 
 a hollow at its foot, and in this sheltered nook 
 Theodore heaped a bed and laid his friend. Then 
 he doled out water to his companion in meagre 
 sips, and drank sparingly himself. He bathed 
 the sick man's fevered hands and face and made 
 him as comfortable as possible — all the time 
 feeling a glow of hope about his heart. For the 
 ooze of the stream side was printed thick with 
 the tracks of deer. 
 
 197 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Harding tried in vain to sleep. His own 
 weariness, Reid's starts and moans, the unabated 
 roaring of the wind, all conspired against him. 
 Finally he sat up and drew forth his cigar case, 
 fingering the precious contents eagerly. He 
 reached for a match, then paused irresolute. 
 This was their sole store, for the full box had 
 been jerked unnoted from the pocket of his hunt- 
 ing coat in the day's wanderings. Who knew 
 what their need might be? Still he hesitated. 
 He was cold and hungry and lonely ; it seemed to 
 him that he had never met such temptation be- 
 fore. He rolled the fragrant cylinder between 
 his fingers, smelled of it, held it against his lips. 
 He realized with a rush of self-contempt that his 
 eyes were wet. He closed the case resolutely; 
 he must husband their every resource. 
 
 He had at length fallen into a light doze, when 
 a voice woke him. Clear and distinct, it said : 
 198 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Call her once before you go, 
 Call once yet, 
 In a voice that she will know: 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
 
 Coming out of the rushing blackness, with no 
 association of famiharity to the hearer's ears, the 
 words had a personal appeal which they would 
 have lacked under ordinary circumstances. 
 
 " Call her once before you go, 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
 
 The voice repeated, dying away monotonously. 
 Then the tones changed as the voice murmured 
 softly, liltingly: 
 
 " Ah, they bend nearer — 
 Sweet lips, this way." 
 
 That vivid, irregular face, the pink, mocking 
 lips stood for a moment out of the darkness ; and 
 Theodore felt a throb of fierce jealousy as the 
 possible meaning of the words flashed over him. 
 But he crushed down the feeling, angry at him- 
 self. It was no time for such thoughts. The 
 gloomy prophecy of the words was to be verified ; 
 they were facing death together, and any rival-- 
 ries were paltry and of the past. 
 
 The past seemed strangely sweet as he sat there 
 in the loud-voiced darkness, with the melan- 
 choly music of the verse ringing in his ears. 
 His instinctive belief in a future and better life 
 did not neutralize the pleasures of the present 
 199 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 one. He kept his lonely watch with a dull ache 
 in his heart for the least of the homely things 
 which had seemed trivial before. 
 
 At length the brightening of the sky told him 
 that day was at hand. Stiff with cold he loaded 
 his rifle and took his way to the spot which he 
 had marked the night before. He had hardly 
 placed himself cautiously in position when a big 
 buck stood before him. He fired and brought it 
 down in its tracks. He hastily cut out a little 
 meat and hurried with it to the camp, only to 
 find the hollow beneath the maple deserted. Reid 
 had risen in his delirium and wandered off into 
 the forest. 
 
 Flinging down the meat, Harding ran out 
 into the wood in widening circles, calling his 
 friend's name. The trees alone echoed back his 
 anxious cries. How could Reid, weak as he 
 seemed, have wandered so far? Why did not 
 some kindly instinct prompt him to answer? 
 This, of all the misfortunes of the expedition, 
 thoroughly unnerved Theodore. Dreadful visions 
 of the sick man, dying of hunger and thirst in 
 the midst of plenty, rushed through his mind; 
 he almost accused himself as a murderer, and 
 found himself half sobbing as he gasped the lost 
 man's name. 
 
 At length the alien sound of a human voice 
 200 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 guided him to the spot where Reid walked 
 wearily and aimlessly. 
 
 " Speaking of hell," he murmured, " Dante 
 didn't know anything about hell. It's trees, 
 dark-stemmed hemlock trees, crowding up 
 around you till you can't think or anything. I 
 know because I've been there. And if the com- 
 pass needle is lost, how are you going to get on? 
 To be sure the points of the compass are all on 
 the stand, but sometimes they point one way and 
 sometimes they point the other, and how can you 
 tell any more which way to go, I should like to 
 know?" 
 
 When Harding tried to lead his friend back to 
 the camp the latter grappled with him fiercely. 
 " Let me alone ! If it hadn't been for your infer- 
 nal meddling the points of the compass would 
 have pointed all one way. At least I think they 
 would have. Who are you, anyway? I 
 thought you were Theodore Harding." 
 
 Reid gradually grew quieter under the in- 
 fluence of Harding's soothing words, and con- 
 sented to be led back into camp. There he sank 
 down submissively in his leafy bed and soon fell 
 into a sleep quieter than that of the night. But 
 much to Theodore's dismay, the sick man re- 
 fused the food which he hurriedly prepared. 
 
 As Harding ate his own meal he pondered. 
 
 20I 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Reid must have food to help him fight the fever. 
 The trout flies twisted in- his hat band suggested 
 another expedient, but he dared not leave Reid 
 alone. At length he hardened his heart and fas- 
 tened him firmly to the maple by the straps which 
 had slung the rifles, unmindful of his querulous 
 imprecations. 
 
 Two days passed, leaden, interminable, day 
 and night alike- resolving themselves into the per- 
 formance of the necessary duties and a fascinated 
 watching of Reid's flushed face. The sick man 
 murmured by the hour the minor, doubting verse 
 which denied or questioned all the things which 
 Theodore believed. It seemed to the tortured 
 man sometimes that the mocking words might be 
 true! 'If there were a God, where was he?' 
 He tried to pray in a fragmentary fashion, but 
 through his prayers stole the innuendo of the 
 skeptic voice. He was sadly puzzled also what 
 to do for his friend. Even the limited appliances 
 at his command offered a chance for a blunder. 
 Should he give the patient a little of the precious 
 whiskey? Should he urge the distasteful food 
 upon him? He struggled on, however, choking 
 back the thought which sometimes came to him 
 that it were wisest for both of them if he made 
 a swift push for aid. 
 
 The wind continued to blow strongly, bring- 
 202 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ing with it heavy volumes of smoke. Harding 
 knew that it might have come from a great dis- 
 tance, that it might be no harbinger of evil. But 
 at length a leaf, burned to a gray skeleton of ribs, 
 fell into his outstretched hand. Brands and 
 ashes soon came floating through the air, strewed 
 the pool, and danced in the eddies of the little 
 fall. Theodore's anxiety was confirmed. He 
 felt sure that unless the wind changed they would 
 be directly in the path of a~ forest fire. 
 
 At half-past ten o'clock on the morning of the 
 third day at the brookside, it was almost dark. 
 Big brands were borne glowing through the air 
 to fall hissing in the stream. It was sultry with 
 the heat of midsummer and breath was almost 
 impossible. Harding shivered, in spite of the 
 warmth, at the thought of being overpowered in 
 the rush of the flames before he could carry out 
 the scheme which he had in reserve. Action of 
 any kind was better than waiting, and he climbed 
 to the top of a giant hemlock to reconnoitre. A 
 great wind roared in the tree-tops and swayed 
 his uncertain perch dizzily. Clinging tightly, 
 Theodore looked off to the southward, across 
 miles of dark forest. Over it hung a heavy sky 
 of a peculiar yellowish hue. Far to the south, 
 forming in ever-advancing horizon-line, rolled a 
 203 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 cloud of dingy smoke and a jagged, scarlet fort- 
 alice of flame. 
 
 One, glance told him that there was no time to 
 lose. He scrambled recklessly downward, tear- 
 ing his hands and his already tattered clothing. 
 As he reached the ground, he saw little shy wood- 
 creatures come rushing into the clearing in their 
 flight from the fire. He seized Reid, light now 
 and fever-wasted, and dragged him to the edge 
 of the stream. There he waited while the roar 
 of the flames came nearer and the heat grew 
 more intense. 
 
 The little pool was four or five feet deep 
 and perhaps ten feet across. No trees grew close 
 to the bank. Harding did not doubt that the im- 
 petus of the fire would carry it across the stream ; 
 but he hoped that by crouching low and covering 
 their heads while the fiery blast passed over, they 
 might escape. At any rate it was their only 
 chance. 
 
 The heat grew unbearable. Half supporting, 
 half dragging Reid, Harding waded into the pool 
 and crouched there, holding his rebellious but 
 weak friend down beside him. The water was 
 deadly chill after the heat of the air. The cold 
 penetrated to the bone. The teeth of the two 
 men chattered even while they gasped for breath. 
 204 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 As the heat grew fiercer they sank lower in the 
 water. 
 
 Beside them, in the borders of the stream, 
 crouched frightened wild things. A rabbit work- 
 ed its quivering ears and a fox edged closer as if 
 for protection, its splendid brush floating out on 
 the water. Harding saw all these things without 
 surprise. It seemed but natural that all feuds 
 should be buried before the common enemy. His 
 whole mind was concentrated on their safety. 
 He was having no more trouble with Reid. He 
 hung, a heavy weight on his companion's arm, 
 and seemed to have fainted. Theodore thought 
 with a pang that the shock would probably kill 
 the sick man. 
 
 At last the final moment came. Theodore's 
 smoke-blinded, smarting eyes could see the tree- 
 stems stand out black against the solid wall of 
 flame which advanced upon them. The shrivel- 
 ling, scorching wind took away his breath, and 
 the heat stung his cheek. He grasped Reid and 
 together the two men sank beneath the surface of 
 the pool while the flames roared over them. 
 
 Harding rose for an instant, bearing his 
 friend with him, for a breath of the furnace-like 
 air, then sank again. The water seemed warm 
 now, and he had ceased to shiver. When again 
 he came to the surface the heat was endurable 
 205 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and he paused to glance off where the flames 
 went roaring on their course. After a few mo- 
 ments he waded to a water-soaked log that 6X7 
 tended some distance into the pool and seated 
 himself there, holding Reid in his arms. He 
 realized that it would be a long time before the 
 ground would be cool enough to be bearable, so 
 he prepared himself for his dreary vigil. 
 
 Dusk had grown into dark, a darkness lighted 
 weirdly by the still blazing tops of the big hem- 
 locks. The fire had flashed past without burn- 
 ing deeply, and the trunks of the trees stood 
 scorched, bare of foliage and smaller branches. 
 Now and then one would stream up once more 
 in brilliant fire works to the stars, faintly shin- 
 ing through the haze of smoke. Harding watch- 
 ed the uncanny scene dumbly, with gasping 
 breath and smarting eyes. He had not given 
 up. He was still pluck to the bone, but he was 
 obliged to confess that the outlook was not 
 hopeful. Reid leaned against his shoulder in 
 an exhaustion which seemed to Theodore more 
 ominous than the former delirium. He could 
 hardly be sure that any breath parted the sick 
 man's lips. He felt certain at times that his 
 friend had died there in his arms. Little by lit- 
 tle all thought of the future, all solicitude for 
 his companion, was driven from Harding's mind 
 ao6 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 by his own discomfort and the horror of his posi- 
 tion. The numbness of his arms, the intoler- 
 able smarting of his eyes and throat, his gasp- 
 ing, choked breathing, alone absorbed his at- 
 tention. Three times he propped the unconscious 
 Reid against the log and waded ashore to see 
 if the ground, had become bearable. The third 
 time he went back for his friend, and in a mo- 
 ment was stretched beside him on the hot ground 
 utterly spent. 
 
 As he turned restlessly over, steaming in his 
 damp clothes, Harding felt a hand on his, a 
 hand cool and moist. A voice said close to his 
 ear, 
 
 "What is it, Teddy? What's the matter? I 
 can't seem to make it out. I've been sick, 
 haven't I?" 
 
 " You've been a little ofif your feed along 
 back," responded Theodore hoarsely. " I've been 
 trying a reversed Turkish bath on you. It seems 
 to have done you good." 
 
 Theodore's careless, matter-of-fact words sat- 
 isfied Reid for a few minutes. He studied the 
 problem for a time and then said weakly. 
 
 " You're jollying me. What makes the 
 ground so hot ? How did we get here ?" 
 
 " Your head isn't hot any more, and that's 
 the important thing at present," the other an- 
 207 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 swered, ignoring the question. " How do you 
 feel, anyway?" 
 
 " " My head doesn't ache now, but I feel faint," 
 Reid answered weakly. 
 
 " Are you sure you aren't hungry? " Theodore 
 asked after a little pause. He sprang up and 
 hurried to the tree where he had placed the ven- 
 ison. The meat was charred black in the burned 
 fork of the tree; but as Harding eagerly cut 
 in with his hunting knife he found that it was 
 still fresh and juicy within. He cut out a piece, 
 and over a fire which he kindled with difficulty 
 from the charred brands, he cooked the meat a 
 little, and pressed out its juice for his friend. 
 Too weary to prepare any more for himself he 
 ate the tasteless fibres remaining and flung him- 
 self once more upon the ground. 
 
 His tired limbs had never touched a bed that 
 seemed more pleasant, but he could not sleep. 
 Reid, too, was wide awake, and as he seemed 
 stronger after his light meal, Theodore grad- 
 ually explained the situation. He spoke simply, 
 not magnifying his own part in the matter; but 
 Reid made allowance for his friend's modesty 
 and realized that he owed his life to that un- 
 faltering courage. 
 
 " The worst of it was," the simple narrative 
 ended, " that I couldn't do anything, and wasn't 
 208 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 sure that the things I could do weren't the worst 
 possible ones. I thought taking you into the 
 water there would finish you, and it looks as if 
 it helped you." 
 
 The late November dawn disclosed a gloomy 
 scene to the swollen, inflamed eyes of the two 
 wanderers. As far as they could see stretched 
 the forest, bleak and bare. Here and there 
 some old tree-trunk or stump smoked briskly, 
 telling of hidden fires within ready to burst 
 forth at any time. The ground and the trees 
 everywhere sent up languid coils of smoke that 
 changed from faint blue to pink in the light of 
 the rising sun. The brook was covered thick 
 with a scum of ashes and charred brands, and 
 the white belly of a fish shone out amid the 
 dark wreckage. All the little friendliness of the 
 place, was gone. The kindly maple was but a 
 black skeleton, with a mass of greyish ashes at 
 its foot where the flame-colored and golden 
 leaves had been. But, in spite of the dreariness, 
 Theodore was not without hope. The imminent 
 danger was past ; Reid was unmistakably better ; 
 they still had some food and the brook would 
 guide them from the wilderness when they could 
 move. 
 
 Strange as it seemed, the immersion in the 
 icy waters of the brook and the prolonged steam 
 209 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 bath on the hot ground had marked the turning 
 point of Reid's illness. He showed no more 
 signs of delirium, his fever was gone and his 
 appetite had returned. He ate all that Theodore 
 gave him and complained with mock bitterness at 
 its meagre amount. But Harding had other rea- 
 sons aside from his friend's health to urge him 
 to restrict the meals. So much of the flesh had 
 been spoiled by the fire that comparatively lit- 
 tle remained. The trout, never eager, now struck 
 but rarely at the gaudy flies. Theodore, him- 
 self, lived almost entirely on the dry and unnutri- 
 tious fibres which remained from Reid's meat 
 juice and broth, but still the supply was rapidly 
 decreasing. Moreover, the outlook for game was 
 most discouraging in this freshly burned terri- 
 tory. 
 
 Three cigars were left uninjured in the cigar 
 case and these Theodore brought out one even- 
 ing, and handed one silently to Reid. The lat- 
 ter took it, surprised, and rolled it tenderly be- 
 tween his fingers before lighting it. A sudden 
 " thought struck him. 
 
 " Have you saved that all this time, old man? 
 Why didn't you smoke them to cheer you up? It 
 must have been pretty blue." 
 
 " ' All this time,' " quoted Theodore laughing. 
 " It hasn't been years. But I did get mighty 
 
 2IO 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 blue sometimes. And the worst of it all was 
 you kept saying such things. You came near 
 breaking me all up, time and again." 
 
 "Why, what did I say?" Reid asked quickly 
 in natural apprehension. 
 
 " Oh, poetry, most of it. Some of it wasn't 
 so bad, but a good deal of it was the most dole- 
 ful stuff. There was a lot about a fellow named 
 'Thyrsis,' or something of that sort, and a tree. 
 And you kept saying over a lot of stuff about 
 the sea of faith, and a melancholy roar. I don't 
 know why, but it took the starch all out of me. 
 I guess 'twas your tone more than anything 
 else." 
 
 " Matthew Arnold? " and Reid laughed weak- 
 ly. " No, I don't suppose he would be a great 
 prop in an emergency. There's nobody like him, 
 though." 
 
 " I should hope not," said Theodore unblush- 
 ingly. There was a long pause as the two men 
 smoked on in silence. 
 
 " It seems almost cozy here, now," said Reid 
 at length. " I'm getting quite attached to the 
 place; I shall hate to leave," and he laughed 
 ironically. 
 
 " Speaking of leaving," Theodore said, " we've 
 got to be thinking of it. We've got meat enough 
 to last two days with economy, and one fish, and 
 
 211 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 about three-quarters of a gill of whiskey. Do 
 you feel as if you could start tomorrow ? " 
 
 " I could start, but I don't know how far I 
 could get. Teddy, old man, you'd better go on 
 by yourself. Then you can press ahead as fast 
 as possible, without having to drag me, and 
 send somebody back after me. See ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to do it. We're going to stick 
 together. It's safer, and it's far more cheerful. 
 The only thing that bothers me is the chance that 
 trying to move is going to hurt you. But I'm 
 afraid there is no other way." 
 
 " How do you plan to strike ? " 
 
 " I think our best chance is to follow the 
 stream. We're sure of good water, and that 
 counts for a good deal, dry as the woods are. 
 It gives us our best chance for game, too. And 
 didn't you notice on French's map that all the 
 streams run south ? " 
 
 " If you would only start without me, Teddy," 
 Reid protested. 
 
 " I shan't, and that's all there is about it." 
 
 Reid reached over and laid his hand on Theo- 
 dore's knee. 
 
 " Do you know you're a brick, Teddy ? " he 
 said fervently. " Most fellows would have 
 struck off for help instead of sticking by." 
 
 "Noijsense!" said Theodore abashed. 
 
 212 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " It isn't nonsense ; you saved my life, and I'm 
 going to have a chance to say so. It's a matter 
 of some consequence to me if it isn't to the world 
 at large." 
 
 " Don't be a fool," said Harding bluntly. 
 " You had the hardest part of it, anyway. I 
 didn't do anything. There wasn't anything that 
 I could do." 
 
 " I know all about that. I've been tended like 
 a baby, haven't known anything of the care and 
 anxiety. I have had the best, — the most there 
 was — to eat. I know something about it. I 
 tell you, Teddy, I haven't deserved to be treated 
 so." 
 
 Harding writhed uncomfortably under Reid's 
 thanks and his allusion to the differences that 
 had overshadowed their friendship of late. It 
 seemed to the simpler, less analytic mind that 
 any shadow of misunderstanding had been swept 
 away as effectually as the fire had licked up the 
 dry maple leaves. He would rather the matter 
 should vanish forever in the rush of the flames. 
 But Reid was launched now on his subject and 
 was not to be stopped. The dusk of the night, 
 the faint plash of the stream, and the aroma of 
 the cigars all unsealed the wall of reserve between 
 the two. 
 
 " It made me feel mean to lie there and have 
 213 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you do all those things for me, while I had been 
 standing in your way for a year back: She ought 
 to have seen that you were a better fellow than 
 I, and I suppose she did. Only there seemed to 
 be a sort of fascination between us. She wouldn't 
 marry me, Teddy, and I couldn't her, if I wanted 
 to. This is all I've wanted to say about it. I've 
 seemed like a sneak and I've been one, more or 
 less. But I guess I haven't been as big a one as 
 I've seemed. At any rate I made up my mind 
 sometime ago that I wouldn't stand in your 
 light, if I could help it. You're one of the few 
 fellows in this world who deserve to get what 
 they want." 
 
 " Oh, shut up, Frank ! " Harding groaned, 
 pained alike at his companion's praise and at 
 the necessity of canvassing the subject at all. 
 " Don't let's talk about it any more. It's her 
 place to choose — and the one that gets left has 
 got to stand it the best he can, that's all. It's 
 a pity if we can't be friends in spite of it." 
 
 But Reid had begun to arraign himself and 
 took a gloomy pleasure in making out a strong 
 case. 
 
 " If it had been like that, — yes. But I knew 
 
 all the time that I couldn't marry her. It would 
 
 take an independent fortune to do that. I was 
 
 only experimenting and so was she, and I ought 
 
 214 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 to be kicked for it. I did try not to, but she fasci- 
 nated me." 
 
 " I won't listen to another word, Frank. We're 
 good friends now whatever happens," and Hard- 
 ing flung his arm over the other's shoulder. 
 
 Just as dusk was falling, two days later, a 
 party of searchers from French's stumbled upon 
 the two men they were hunting for. Dishevel- 
 ed, red-eyed, torn, grimed deep from the burnt 
 wood, and so weak that they could hardly stand, 
 they were stumbling along half-consciously. Still 
 the stronger of the two supported the weaker 
 and carried the two rifles, even then shining with 
 care, slung over his shoulder. Amid congratu- 
 lations, rejoicings and explanations the two men 
 were borne back to the warmth and rest and 
 plenty of the hostelry. 
 
 215 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The treasurer of the American had come on 
 from New York to talk with Mr. Harding, and 
 was seated with his host by the big open window 
 of the library. The air floated in warm and just 
 tinctured with smoke as of forest fires. The No- 
 vember night was very quiet save for the crick- 
 et's tireless chirp and the sighing of the wind in 
 the pines. Burkhardt's thin, dry face was fur- 
 rowed with thoughtful wrinkles; his eyes nar- 
 rowed as he spoke, 
 
 " We've got to formulate some plan to lay 
 before the directors next Monday." The an- 
 nual meeting of the American was at hand. 
 
 " Are you sure we can't weather it all right 
 on the present basis? " Mr. Harding asked, with- 
 out much hope of an affirmative answer. 
 
 " I don't see how. I've done all I can, even 
 to counting pennies. But what does five hundred 
 or even five thousand dollars amount to with a 
 
 I2l6 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 concern like this," Burkhardt answered a trifle 
 impatiently. 
 
 " One thing is sure," Mr. Harding said with 
 decision. " We must not pass our dividend if it 
 can be avoided. We can't have public confidence 
 disturbed and a slump in American shares." He 
 had thought out the problem through wakeful 
 hours and knew the shoals and dangers along 
 the course too well. 
 
 " Oh, we can declare the dividend, and then 
 — there are certain retrenchments which we can 
 make. We can scale down wages and cut the 
 price we pay for raw material." 
 
 " Any rise in selling prices is out of the ques- 
 tion, now ? " Mr. Harding commented gravely. 
 
 "Yes;' if the opposition goes to underselling 
 'US it will get as much of our market as it can 
 supply — and by the way, Harding, 'how much 
 do you think there is in the opposition?" 
 
 " Not nearly as much as the newspapers make 
 out," Mr. Harding answered eagerly. " There's 
 no organization; only some little correspondence 
 among the independent firms and agreement as 
 to certain details." 
 
 " Somebody said that the Harding mentioned 
 in connection with it so often was your son." 
 Burkhardt's tone was casual but his glance was 
 217 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 keen. He felt that many important questions 
 hinged upon this point. 
 
 " Theodore Harding is my son, but he is in 
 no sense the head of the opposition," Mr. Hard- 
 ing answered quietly. " I doubt if it has a head. 
 The sensational newspapers have seized on the 
 matter and made a great deal more of it than 
 the case warrants." 
 
 " But your son is really running a mill outside 
 the combine?" the treasurer asked quickly. 
 
 " Yes." Mr. Harding's tone was coldly non- 
 committal. 
 
 Burkhardt puckered his thin, dry lips and 
 looked at his companion. Mr. Harding's whole 
 face showed the pain and humiliation beneath 
 the would-be indifference. His companion only 
 said quietly, 
 
 " Of course that complicates matters." 
 
 " It should not." Mr. Harding spoke more 
 freely before this man's reticence. " I am not in 
 a position where I can in conscience let family 
 ties stand in my way. It is our duty to do the 
 best we can for the interests intrusted to us. I 
 warned my son when he entered into this busi- 
 ness what he must expect if he stood in the path 
 of progress. If he suffers I shall suffer, too, but 
 I shall know how to make it up to him in the fu- 
 ture." 
 
 2i8 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Spoken like a Spartan," said Burkhardt with 
 a relieved sigh. He felt instinctively that praise 
 was sweet to Mr. Harding and was ready with 
 his offering. " It's a great relief to me that you 
 see things in this light. It is a case of the 
 greatest good of the greatest number. If the 
 boy is headstrong, a lesson will do him good. At 
 any rate we cannot treat lightly the responsibil- 
 ity which we have undertaken." 
 
 It was gratifying to Mr. Harding's self-love 
 to have his resolution justified on lofty grounds. 
 He turned back to the discussion of business with 
 new courage. 
 
 " I am sorry that a cut in wages is inevitable 
 but I see no alternative," he said more cheer- 
 fully. It eased his mind a little that the sugges- 
 tion had come from his colleague, though he him- 
 self had long feared its imminence. He had a 
 genuine regret that this experiment should bear 
 hard at its outset on those least fitted for such 
 a burden. He knew in a theoretical, bookish way 
 that the life of the workingman was hard. He 
 disliked to impose additional burdens, and he 
 disliked to stand before the public as an oppress- 
 or of the poor. He recognized both motives; 
 luckily he did not balance one against the other 
 to test their respective weight. 
 219 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " How big a cut will it have to be? " he asked 
 reluctantly. 
 
 " A big one. I've been figuring on twenty per 
 cent." Burkhardt's tone was business-like, with 
 no trace of sentiment. 
 
 " Wages are uniformly high at present," said 
 Mr. Harding, as if trying to brace himself for 
 the measure. " Here in Underbill, you know, 
 they beat us on the cut we tried for some eight- 
 een months ago." 
 
 " What bothers i me is the chance that they'll 
 strike," Burkhardt continued. 
 
 " They won't strike," Mr. Harding respond- 
 ed confidently. " We are too strong, or they 
 think we are, which amounts to the same thing." 
 
 " It's a time for desperate measures, anyway. 
 We can't halt at a chance." 
 
 " Of course it will only be a temporary scale 
 down," Mr. Harding went on, reassuring him- 
 self. " The combine cannot fail to put up wages 
 in the end." 
 
 " That has been the unfailing tendency, of 
 course. The workmen see enough to know that 
 for themselves, or ought to." Burkhardt was 
 soothing his superior as he might a nervous 
 horse. 
 
 " There's no help for it, I suppose ! " and Mr. 
 220 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Harding sighed deeply. " But no one can know 
 how unwilHng I am to have it done." 
 
 " I can guess, Mr. Harding," Burkhardt's del- 
 icate sympathy answered. " Of course you stand 
 in a relation almost patriarchal to your work- 
 men. Any suffering — or apprehension, I hope 
 it will really amount to nothing more — of course 
 touches you closely and personally." 
 
 " I could never consent to it if I did not know 
 that it was the best thing for them, in the end. 
 The collapse of the combine would bring fright- 
 ful suffering. One has to judge of these things 
 sometimes — even at the risk of misapprehen- 
 sion." 
 
 " The children of Israel murmured against 
 Moses, you know," Burkhardt added quietly. " I 
 can understand how hard it must be, though of 
 course only partially. One who has had to do 
 with money all one's life cannot really know what 
 it means to have men depending on him, loving 
 him. Wall Street isn't much of a place for the 
 affections. Still I can understand." 
 
 Burkhardt's tact had struck the right chord. 
 Mr. Harding liked to think of himself as a 
 prophet-pioneer. Rankling words of Evans' 
 along the same lines did not now come up to 
 irritate him. He felt himself greatly soothed. 
 He could not suppress a slight smile of gratifi- 
 
 221 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 cation at the allusion as he modestly changed 
 the subject. 
 
 " And what else do you suggest in the line 
 of economy? " he asked. 
 
 " Everything we can manage. Every little 
 does help, of course, though I said just now it 
 didn't. The money leaks away terribly. There's 
 Badger's last bill, for instance." 
 
 He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. 
 
 " There's a chance for economy here," said 
 Mr. Harding, scrutinizing the paper. " This is 
 outrageous." 
 
 " It is pretty bad, but he has stood by us in 
 some tight places — and we are paying for his 
 reputation and all that." 
 
 " Some less expensive lawyer, with help in a 
 tight place, might serve our purpose as well," 
 Mr. Harding said tentatively. This point also 
 he had considered. 
 
 " Can you suggest anybody ? Someone who 
 has sense enough to know when he is in a tight 
 place?" 
 
 Mr. Harding hesitated. 
 
 " There is a young lawyer here in Underbill 
 whom I have had my eye on for some time. He 
 is my son-in-law, in fact. I have hesitated to 
 suggest his name on that account. I don't wish 
 to seem to be making the most of the advantages 
 
 222 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 which my position gives me in that way. But 
 Oakley is so eminently sane in his views, and 
 so entirely open to reason. He will be ready 
 to do what he is told to without trying to mold 
 things to his own views. He has given this 
 branch of the law special attention, and is ex- 
 ceptionally clever. He is elected to the state 
 legislature, however." 
 
 " That needn't hinder, need it ? " 
 
 Just then the light footfall of a horse, trotting 
 rapidly, came scurrying around the corner of 
 the house toward the stable. A few minutes 
 later a maid announced Mr. Burnham. 
 
 " He is my confidential agent in a great many 
 matters where I don't wish to appear personally. 
 He is not a man whom I should choose as a 
 friend, but he is most useful. He may be able 
 to help us out somewhat as to ways and means, 
 though of course he is not altogether in my con- 
 fidence." Mr. Harding wished to classify Burn- 
 ham before his guest should meet him. 
 
 " I've been telling Mr. Burkhardt something 
 about Oakley," said Albion Harding after the 
 necessary presentations were over. " Perhaps 
 you can confirm what I have said as to his abil- 
 ity." 
 
 " He's a smart fellow, smart as a trap. I've 
 often wondered why you didn't let him in for 
 223 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 some of the good things the American is giving 
 away. I sometimes think it would be cheaper to 
 keep the laws than to pay a lawyer so much to 
 help you break them safely." 
 
 Burkhardt flashed a swift, amused glance at 
 Mr. Harding and noted the latter's black brows 
 and twitching lips. The president of the com- 
 bine answered a trifle sharply, 
 
 " I prefer to stick more closely to the truth and 
 say that we pay a lawyer to help us keep the 
 laws." Mr. Harding made the assertion so de- 
 cidedly that there could be no doubt as to his be- 
 lief in the truth of his statement. " Unfortu- 
 nately, however, the other, view seems to be the 
 popular one," he continued. " The populace 
 does not seem to realize that plain business men 
 cannot be expected to look after and understand 
 all the details of law — that they must have ex- 
 pert opinion. They apply their entirely un- 
 grounded theory as to the general rascality of 
 lawyers and imagine that we seek their help only 
 in underhanded dealings." 
 
 " Badger has undoubtedly saved us from some 
 bad slips," Mr. Burkhardt said pacifically. 
 
 " Yes, he has undoubtedly shown the American 
 just how near the wind it can sail," Burnham re- 
 torted with a short, dry laugh. " You won't get 
 anybody else who will give you such a feeling 
 224 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 of safety. I suppose you are talking over what 
 to do with this opposition," he went on with 
 an embarrassing directness. " It's going to work 
 the dickens with the American," he finished, de- 
 termined to fix the responsibiUty. Mr. Harding 
 said nothing and Burkhardt rejoined easily. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think the opposition is going to 
 count for much. We have everything in our 
 favor, — money, a competent management, and 
 the general business trend of the day. These 
 things are hard to put down." 
 
 " There's one thing you haven't got, and that's 
 public opinion," said Burnham bluntly. " The 
 people are all with the opposition and against the 
 combine." 
 
 " Suppose they are ! How much does that 
 amount to?" Burkhardt commented. "K they 
 can get a trust-made article cheaper than they 
 can get an opposition one they will buy it every 
 time. It's all right for them to take out their 
 disapproval in talk. It doesn't hurt us particu- 
 larly, that I can see. As long as they buy our 
 product they can talk as much as they like, as 
 far as I am concerned." 
 
 " I must confess that I don't feel that way," 
 Mr. Harding confessed. " The criticisms and 
 accusations are undeniably hard for me to bear. 
 225 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 I am perhaps foolishly susceptible to public cen- 
 sure." 
 
 " I believe you there, Harding," said Burn- 
 ham dryly. Then turning to Burkhardt, as if 
 he found in him a congenial spirit, he continued, 
 " They're making a good deal of talk over that 
 Rutledge business, aren't they?" Burnham's 
 own affairs had not been running smoothly of 
 late and he took a malicious delight in irritating 
 someone else. 
 
 "Rutledge? Rutledge?" Mr. Harding que- 
 ried. His memory for names was not of the 
 best. " I do not recall it for the time being." 
 
 " Rutledge? Oh, his was a common enough 
 case," Burkhardt answered hastily, before Burn- 
 ham could reply. " He declined a good offer for 
 his business and behaved in a foolish manner 
 generally. A mortgage was foreclosed on him 
 and some notes fell due. He gave up and com- 
 mitted suicide. But I can't see the justice of 
 blaming the American. Hadn't you heard?" 
 
 " Of course, of course. I hadn't heard of the 
 suicide, however. How very shocking ! " Mr. 
 Harding's face was in fact a little white. 
 
 " It was shocking. But why the American 
 should be held responsible is more than I can 
 see. It was the man's own fault." 
 
 At length Burnham withdrew. He had eased 
 226 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 his mind of a certain amount of irritation and 
 had planted another thorn in the garden of Mr. 
 Harding's self-complacency. He could not re- 
 gard his evening as altogether ill-spent. When 
 he was at last gone, Burkhardt turned to Mr. 
 Harding, 
 
 " What makes you put up with him ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding was silent for a moment. He 
 had no joy in the analysis of his motives nowa- 
 days; but at last the answer came in his quiet, 
 reserved tones, 
 
 " Because I need him, I suppose. Perhaps be- 
 cause I cannot get on without him." 
 
 " Of course you know best. But I should hate 
 to have a satyr like that always at my elbow, 
 sneering at everything I did." 
 
 " He is irritating, but he relieves me of de- 
 tails in an admirable way. He is not openly con- 
 nected with the American, and so can move with 
 less circumspection. But he has everything in- 
 vested there, so it is for his interest to do faith- 
 ful work and not to talk." 
 
 " I can see that it is convenient to have an 
 agent with those qualifications, but it is a pity 
 that he can't be a gentleman at the same time." 
 
 " He has qualities that make up for that," 
 Mr. Harding went on apologetically. " He is 
 quick at catching the general scheme of what you 
 227 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 want done and at devising means. Moreover, 
 he is willing to do a certain amount on his own 
 initiative and willing to bear the blame if it 
 will benefit the combine. It has been of incal- 
 culable value on several occasions for me to be 
 able to deny any knowledge of certain matters. 
 You can't expect everything in one man." 
 
 After he had shown his guest to his room, 
 Mr. Harding went downstairs once more and 
 paced up and down the veranda. He hated the 
 thought of the cut in wages. It could not fail 
 to create disaffection in the ranks of the combine, 
 and it would make the course of the opposition 
 shine more brightly by contrast. Theodore's 
 popularity would grow apace while his father 
 fell steadily in the popular esteem. 
 
 He knew that it would be impossible for the 
 American to justify itself. The public at large 
 would not readily believe that the big combine, 
 incorporated but a year before with such eclat, 
 was already in financial straits. It would be 
 equally incredulous if informed that the cut in 
 wages and the price of raw material were but 
 temporary measures. Moreover, it was impos- 
 sible to give such explanations, calculated as they 
 were to unsettle the market. 
 
 A trust had been placed in his hands; should 
 they not prove worthy of it? It would mean his 
 228 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 personal ruin if the American should fail, but 
 that consideration counted for little with him. 
 It would mean the ruin of so many others. It 
 would mean that the plan and aim of his life had 
 failed. His wife's ample fortune would remain, 
 their beautiful home, his rose garden, his mon- 
 ograph on Dante, his organ, but he knew that 
 these quiet employments would fail to satisfy 
 him then. The humiliation and pain of failure 
 were already his for a bitter moment. 
 
 229 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Francis Reid came back from the woods with 
 his mind made up to withdraw gradually from 
 his friendship with Margaret Favor. He had 
 lost all taste for the sentimental trifling which, 
 after all, had stood in his friend's light. That 
 whole experience in the woods, with its forced 
 recognition of the verities of life, had shaken 
 his dreamy, faithless melancholy. Harding's 
 simple, matter-of-fact courage, his ungrudging 
 loyalty to one who had been in a degree his ri- 
 val had roused the other to see himself in a new 
 light. With the renewed strength that came to 
 him after his illness, came also a strengthened 
 belief in his old ideals, a resolution to take life 
 more honestly and simply, to try to lay aside 
 speculation for action. 
 
 Some talk which he had with Faith Ordway 
 helped confirm him in this decision. They were 
 skating on the river in the early twilight of 
 230 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 December. The west glowed red, reflecting it- 
 self in a delicate pink on the glassy surface of 
 the frozen stream. The soft grey of elms and 
 maples traced itself across the sunset, holding 
 entangled, one pale horn of the crescent moon. 
 Faith, flushed with the exercise, was really hand- 
 some, and had been unusually attractive that aft- 
 ernoon in her thorny freshness of speech. She 
 had laughed at Reid's choicest sentiment and 
 railed alike at his alternating gloom and opti- 
 mism. She was nevertheless continually lapsing 
 into moments of wholesome bitter-sweetness. At 
 length, after some half-mocking rejoinder of 
 hers, Reid said plaintively, 
 
 " Do you know, Faith, you haven't given me 
 a decent word for a desperately long time?" 
 
 " You probably haven't deserved it, then. I'm 
 a very just person." 
 
 Reid changed the subject abruptly. 
 
 " I never saw you look so handsome. Faith." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not handsome ! " she said carelessly. 
 " Only sometimes a little good-looking. I wish 
 I did always look as well as I do sometimes — 
 like Miss Favor. She is the -despair of my life^ — 
 she is so exquisitely dainty. No wonder Mr. 
 Harding is in love with her." 
 
 "Poor old Teddy, — I'm afraid he hasn't 
 231 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 much show. They have so Uttle in common. 
 That isn't a goodi outlook for a happy marriage." 
 
 " No, I suppose it isn't," said Faith, with a 
 touch of reticence in her voice. This discussion 
 of general principles did not seem to interest her, 
 and- she spoke of the particular once more. 
 
 " I have always wondered why she didn't care 
 for him. When anyone is so nice and faithful 
 he ought to be rewarded," she went on a little 
 wistfully. 
 
 " Teddy is all of that, but he isn't deep. I 
 don't know that it is for his happiness any more 
 than for hers. And I'm not sure that I want to 
 see him ' rewarded,' as you say," Reid spoke with 
 much of his old flippancy. 
 
 " For personal reasons ? " she asked, looking 
 at him keenly. 
 
 " Perhaps," his tone was light but expressed 
 some hidden puzzle. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, don't you know ? " she 
 retorted sharply. " I would be ashamed to own 
 it." 
 
 " There you go jumping on me again. Faith. 
 No, I don't know. It's only in novels that a 
 man can always tell just whom he loves most 
 and when he began to do it. You're too exact- 
 ing. I never was in love. Tell me just how 
 anyone ought to feel." 
 
 232 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " How should I know ? " she parried. 
 
 " You spoke with such certainty." 
 
 " Did I ? Well, I like to see a man know his 
 own mind. Mr. Harding doesn't seem to have 
 any doubt about whom he loves." Reid thought 
 the lightriess sounded a little forced. 
 
 " Oh, well, Teddy and I are quite different. 
 Things are always coming up to puzzle me and 
 set me back. You're not fair. You get on some 
 new gown or other that turns my head and takes 
 my breath away and then begin to ask leading 
 questions." 
 
 " You made me ask it," she flashed back at 
 him. 
 
 " Did I ? Do you know you are jolly good 
 fun when you are angry, Faith ? I believe I think 
 you are more interesting than Miss Favor, after 
 all." 
 
 Reid was quizzing the girl, flirting with her 
 mildly. He had a sense of having gone too far 
 in his last remark, but it was with a decided 
 shock that he heard her next words. 
 
 " Do you know, sometimes I don't like you at 
 all?" 
 
 " What do you mean, Faith," he stammered. 
 " I thought we were old friends and good ones." 
 
 " I don't know quite what I do mean. Only 
 233 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you've disappointed me so." There was a quiver 
 of genuine feeling in her voice. 
 
 She paused a moment as if waiting for an 
 answer, and Reid said, 
 
 " Oh go on, let me hear it all." 
 
 " I don't know that there is any more. You 
 said Theodore Harding wasn't deep, and you 
 never said a word about how simple and kind 
 and good in every way he is. No, Mr. Albion 
 Harding is the kind of person you prefer. He 
 has brains enough, I admit, but he hasn't a single 
 thought for anybody but himself." Faith's blue 
 eyes were flashing with a wholesome intolerance. 
 
 " All that you say about me is probably true, 
 Faith," Reid said stiffly. "But at least 
 do me justice. Be fair. You said that 
 Teddy was faithful and nice, or some- 
 thing of that kind, and I said he was all that, 
 but he wasn't deep. Faith, you're way off, if 
 you think I don't appreciate Teddy. I'm under 
 such obligations to him as I'm not likely to be 
 to anyone else in the course of my life." 
 
 Something in the solemnity of his tone sur- 
 prised her. 
 
 "Why, what do you mean?" she asked ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " Hasn't he told you about it ? But of course 
 he wouldn't. He didn't want me to tell anyone, 
 234 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 so you mustn't. He saved my life up in the woods. 
 We got lost, you see, and I was sick and out 
 of my head, and he stood by me, like the little 
 brick he is." 
 
 Then he told the whole story, as they glided on 
 together in the twilight, his voice breaking once 
 or twice, and ended, " Now don't accuse me 
 again of not valuing Teddy. He's the best fel- 
 low, way through, that I know. He has his 
 faults, I suppose. He's peppery when he's roused, 
 and he gets roused more than occasionally, but 
 he's true blue. He's worth so much more than 
 I am that I've no right to set myself to estimat- 
 ing him anyway." 
 
 " You mustn't talk that way about yourself, 
 Frank," Faith said gently. The little story had 
 made her like both its hero and its teller better 
 than before. 
 
 "And so I've disappointed you?" Reid con- 
 tinued. " It hurts me to think so. Your good 
 opinion is very dear — very essential to me." 
 
 " I suppose I had no right to say what I did," 
 Faith responded with late compunction. 
 
 " You had every right that years of friendship 
 can give — and I admit your charges. I know 
 I'm not living out my life as I planned it. Theo- 
 ries are always modified by conditions, I know; 
 235 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 but I'm afraid I haven't kept up to my ideals as 
 I might have done." 
 
 " That's just what I mean," Faith interposed a 
 trifle apologetically. 
 
 " It isn't a pleasant thing," Reid went on re- 
 flectively, " to have your tastes and ideals change 
 in that way and be fully conscious of it. That 
 comes of being introspective. If one isn't, there 
 isn't half the pain about an inevitable thing like 
 that." 
 
 " Why is it inevitable ? " Faith queried. 
 
 " How can it be anything else while life is what 
 it is? You start out, not knowing the world, 
 expecting to be always true to yourself, and al- 
 ways to find others so. You think you can stem 
 the current and stand for an ideal life whether 
 any one else does or not. Then you find you 
 can't. You find the world isn't what you thought 
 it was, that you yourself aren't what you thought, 
 and everything goes to pieces. You lose your 
 incentive when you lose your belief in yourself. 
 And then you get so you don't care, except now 
 and then. That's a little tragedy, and the higher 
 your hopes and aspirations were, the more of a 
 tragedy it is." 
 
 " The tragedy lies in saying it is inevitable. 
 One of the things that I remember best about 
 236 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the old days is that you were always believing in 
 people." 
 
 " But I'm not altogether to blame, Faith. I've 
 seen a good deal of the seamy side of life in the 
 last five or six years. Newspaper work and busi- 
 ness don't foster a belief in the best side of hu- 
 man nature." 
 
 " Nor seeing too much of Mr. Harding," said 
 Faith, bluntly. " If he was just a common 
 money maker there wouldn't be any danger for 
 you ; but he's everything, — scholar and musi- 
 cian, and philanthropist and religionist, and so 
 many things that you can't see the other thing 
 that he is." 
 
 " I shan't ask you what that other thing is. 
 I know by the way your eyes flash that it isn't 
 anything complimentary. You know you and I 
 can never agree about Mr. Harding." 
 
 " I wish you would leave him and go back to 
 journalism," said the girl abruptly. " He isn't 
 good for you." 
 
 Reid looked at her a little surprised, so well 
 did her suggestion harmonize with his desires. 
 
 " I've been thinking of doing that very thing. 
 Faith. Not for the reason you give exactly, but 
 for some others. You see I hate to be mixed 
 up in this business against Teddy and your fa- 
 ther. It looks as if I were taking sides against 
 237 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 them. Teddy realizes that I'm not, but your 
 father has a grudge against me. You can see 
 that yourself." 
 
 " It isn't so much that you are Mr. Harding's 
 secretary as that you believe in him so entirely," 
 Faith explained eagerly. 
 
 " I don't suppose I should give up a chance 
 like this if I meant to make business my life- 
 work. But I don't. I see more than ever that 
 I don't want to settle down to it. I'm getting 
 restless and discontented." He hesitated a mo- 
 ment. " And there's another thing. Faith, — 
 this is in confidence. I don't like the way the 
 American is being run in some ways. You know 
 more or less about it. Everybody does, and I 
 will say this. I know that Mr. Harding isn't 
 personally responsible for most of the things 
 that have been laid to him lately. The only trou- 
 ble is that he can't hold the thing. Circum- 
 stances are pushing him along a way where he 
 doesn't want to go. But I don't know that I 
 want to go too, on a good many accounts." 
 
 " Have you any opening in mind ? " 
 
 " I heard the other day that McLeod is going 
 to leave the ' Criterion.' That berth would just 
 suit me." 
 
 "Do you know Mr. Barker? He owns it, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 238 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Yes, I know him. I've done more or less 
 work for the paper ever since I came here. I 
 could do more with the paper than McLeod ever 
 has," Reid added, with the assurance that always 
 came to him in his chosen field. " In journalism 
 I might be able to make you proud of me some 
 day — once more." He laughed dryly. Faith's 
 criticism had hurt him more than he cared to 
 let her see. 
 
 " I'm sure you could, Frank ! That's just the 
 trouble. You could so easily be all you ought 
 to be." 
 
 " And meanwhile can't we swear a new friend- 
 ship on a new basis without any illusions? The 
 old days are very pleasant to remember,' Faith. 
 I never had so true a friend. But I can look 
 ahead and see even better ones, founded on a 
 truer knowledge and understanding of each other. 
 Can't you, dear? " 
 
 Reid's tones were tender as if with something 
 more than friendship, but they failed to move 
 the girl to any feeling of response. Reid's true 
 friend she would, always be, with a friendship 
 such as few women are capable of; but as she 
 had come to know Theodore better, and had 
 learned to admire his simple manliness, her child- 
 ish, uncritical admiration for Reid had waned. 
 Theodore brought her into touch with vital expe- 
 239 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 riences and sought her cooperation in practical 
 matters in a way which delighted her. 
 
 Underhill was already suffering in premonition 
 from the cut in wages. Twilight lasted longer 
 and lamplighting came late in the thriftier 
 homes; meat grew less frequent in the dinner- 
 pails which journeyed each morning to the mill. 
 Mothers turned and patched again little garments 
 already condemned as past repair. At the best 
 of times there had been no great surplus for 
 pleasure or for hoarding among the common 
 operatives. Now with a big decrease in wages 
 privation stared them in the face. 
 
 This state of things prevailed throughout the 
 country wherever the American held sway. The 
 anti-trust mills, however, were running full time 
 and paying full wages. Their selling price stood 
 unchanged ; they were said to be purchasing their 
 raw material at the old rates, and they turned 
 out weekly an even product. 
 
 Public sympathy now, of course, went with 
 the firms outside the combine. Theodore in par- 
 ticular had gained in favor from his father's un- 
 popularity. Ordway was not as popular among 
 the workingmen of Underhill as was his younger 
 companion, for he lacked Harding's simple 
 friendliness and cordiality. He illustrated, how- 
 ever, the fact that a workman could rise to be a 
 240 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 mill-owner, and so increased the self-respect of 
 the onlookers ; and he was esteemed and honored 
 in the city which had seen his toiling years. His 
 justice, his unfailing kindness, his unassuming 
 recognition of his past, all won him a quiet re- 
 spect and affection, no less sincere than it was de- 
 void of the enthusiasm which Theodore aroused. 
 The names of the two men, so unlike in train- 
 ing and character, came to be coupled together 
 continually, and they had in fact grown very 
 close together. The young man had come to 
 take a place almost like that of a son with the 
 older one. With Faith, too, he grew more 
 friendly. The two had united in a plan for open- 
 ing a cheap but wholesome eating house, and 
 Theodore was daily surprised and delighted with 
 Faith's executive ability. Mrs. Ordway's little 
 kitchen answered at first for the baking and brew- 
 ing and boiling which went on industriously ; but 
 the neat room on River Street attracted more and 
 more people to its hospitality. Children came, 
 with pennies clutched tightly in dirty little palms, 
 and held out their pitchers to be filled with soup. 
 The brown loaves of graham bread and shining 
 sheets of buns gradually superseded the products 
 of the bakery near by, in many homes. Soon the 
 little restaurant moved into another building, 
 where a basement kitchen with big range and 
 24,1 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 boilers offered better facilities for the increasing 
 work. Faith gradually added the cheaper meats 
 to her bill of fare, and her baked beans and brown 
 bread became famous. 
 
 One stormy night in early March, Theodore 
 accepted her invitation to sup with her. The 
 room was cozy, with its windows full of gera- 
 niums, and its little fire. Perhaps, too, the gra- 
 cious, womanly hostess lent it a little of its charm. 
 They had talked for a time in the eager, inter- 
 ested way into which they always fell, when 
 Faith said, 
 
 " Other people are beginning to come. What 
 shall I do?" 
 
 " I don't see how we can have them. What 
 sort are they ? I don't mind giving them a cheap, 
 good lunch. Some of them need it as much as 
 the mill hands, no doubt; but you see it will 
 crowd out the ones we started it for." 
 
 " Unless we enlarge the business. The room 
 next this is for rent. We could have a door cut 
 through and we could have two sets of lunches 
 and prices. We could issue tickets to the mill 
 people, and others would have to pay higher 
 rates. Of course we can't furnish lunches at 
 cost to all Underbill." Faith planned rapidly 
 and eagerly. 
 
 " The point is you are working altogether too 
 242 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 hard already. You scarcely have a chance for 
 anything you want to do." 
 
 " This is just what I want to do. I was al- 
 ways wild to do something. You know I wanted 
 to study nursing. No, don't worry about me. 
 I'm perfectly happy." 
 
 "I'm glad of that; and if you are there's no 
 need, on that score, for you to open another res- 
 taurant. But anyway, you are not going to tire 
 yourself all out." 
 
 " All . right," said Faith meekly. It was not 
 altogether unpleasant to have the man opposite 
 assume the right to dictate her actions. " Only," 
 she added, trying to smile lightly, but scarcely 
 succeeding, " only, when the American swallows 
 us all up together I shall open my restaurant as 
 a money-making concern." 
 
 " When that time comes we will talk it over. 
 But meanwhile I shan't countenance anything of 
 the sort. Do you know, I sometimes think, you 
 are the finest girl I ever knew," continued Hard- 
 ing in blunt compliment. 
 
 " You forget Miss Favor," she said, smiling 
 mockingly. 
 
 " Oh no, I don't," the young man answered 
 in literal fashion. " I've remembered her more 
 than usual lately." Then, seeing her puzzled 
 look, he added, 
 
 243 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Why, haven't you heard ? " 
 
 "No, — what?" 
 
 " She is engaged to Senator Blickenstrom. 
 You know she is in Washington this winter. 
 That's why I said I had been thinking about her 
 more than usual. It set me to thinking, you 
 know; and I've about decided that I don't care 
 if she is. Funny thing, isn't it?" and Theodore 
 laughed a little. 
 
 " But isn't it very sudden ? " 
 
 " Oh, she has known him for a long time, but 
 I never guessed, at anything of that kind between 
 them. I don't think there was until this winter." 
 
 " Mr. Rubinovitch was in here yesterday," 
 said Faith abruptly, breaking a pause that had 
 suddenly fallen. • " What * is the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 " Somebody was saying the other day that he 
 drinks ; but I don't really think it is so. I haven't 
 seen. him lately. He never comes around any 
 more. A year ago he always used to be dropping 
 in at the mill." 
 
 " He is very clever, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes, he's a genius ; but I'm coming to think 
 he isn't well-balanced. He has all sorts of wild 
 notions about socialism and communism, and 
 things of that sort. He has explained them all 
 to me time and again, but I couldn't seem to 
 244 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 make much sense of them. At any rate I don't 
 remember them now." 
 
 I They lingered long over their homely supper, 
 mindful of the coming and going about them as 
 in a pleasant dream. From the midst of their 
 conversation Faith was directing the business of 
 the room, giving commands now and then to the 
 woman who was waiting on the tables. Inside 
 the fire crackled and the lamps burned cheer- 
 fully; without the storm howled, rattling the 
 sleet sharply against the window-panes. 
 
 At length Harding rose reluctantly to go. 
 
 " I'll be in at eight — it was eight you said, 
 wasn't it? to take you home. It's snowing and 
 blowing like everything," was his farewell. 
 
 245 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Albion Harding was a man by whom anniver- 
 saries were scrupulously remembered. His 
 thoughts were full of the happy past rather than 
 the anxious future, as he walked up the hill to 
 dinner one January night. He had dismissed the 
 carriage which his wife had sent for him an hour 
 earlier, and had lingered long over puzzling col- 
 umns of figures. Now, at length, the yearly 
 statement of the missionary society of his relig- 
 ious denomination was complete, and he was free 
 to think. 
 
 He was glad to leave the present for the past. 
 That date marked the beginning of the happiest 
 days of his life. Thirty years ago that night he 
 had been married, twenty-nine years ago his son 
 had been born. He thought of his return from 
 the continent, disappointed and disheartened, 
 leaving, as he thought, all the best of life behind 
 him to take up dutifully his dying father's be- 
 246 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 quest. He had found there, in the city of his 
 birth, an occupation more absorbing than music, 
 and a love which would have glorified even 
 drudgery. 
 
 That love had not faded as the years went on. 
 Mr. Harding had never for a moment been dis- 
 loyal to his wife. She had been even dearer to 
 him than his children. The sturdy, black-eyed 
 boy, the tiny girl trilling about the house with 
 her little bird-like voice, had been her gifts to 
 him. The love which they exacted had only in- 
 creased that which he had given her. 
 
 As the children had grown older and had as- 
 serted their individuality, the harmony between 
 husband and wife had been accentuated. Mrs. 
 Harding was not lacking in strength of a certain 
 sort, but it was entirely under her husband's 
 guidance. He was, himself, in a union different 
 from the usual one of husband and wife. This 
 very passivity of hers had kept up the illusion 
 of their honeymoon. All a woman's duties she 
 had fulfilled to perfection, even that of keeping 
 her youth and beauty. She had given her hus- 
 band a clear, steadfast devotion which accepted 
 his word as law and did no independent thinking. 
 A wife with a strong will and opinions of her 
 own would have jarred on Mr. Harding's mas- 
 247 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 terful spirit, while one who submitted for the 
 sake of peace would have irritated him no less. 
 
 As he climbed the veranda steps he saw his 
 wife seated in a low chair by the fire. Some- 
 thing in the listlessness of the figure told him 
 that she was lonely. He realized anew, with a 
 remorseful pang, how empty the great house 
 must seem to her with both children gone. His 
 words of greeting spoke his thought. 
 
 " Have you been alone all day, dear ? " 
 
 " No, Theodore was up to lunch, and I spent 
 the afternoon with Althea. She looked a little 
 better, I thought, but she tires so easily." 
 
 " The roses came all right," he said, glancing 
 at the big bunch of American Beauties that 
 drooped from their transparent glass over the 
 dusk of the library table. 
 
 " Yes," she answered softly. " I have not 
 missed them on this day for twenty-nine years. 
 What lovely ones ! We have had none so fine of 
 our own." 
 
 "It doesn't seem thirty years, does it?" he 
 queried. " Thirty years is a long time. It 
 would almost seem that we must be getting old ; 
 but you do not look five years older than the girl 
 I married." 
 
 " Are you a flatterer, or growing very blind ? " 
 she smiled. " My hair is getting quite grey, and 
 248 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you don't half know how hard I've been fighting 
 wrinkles for the last fifteen years." 
 
 " A winning fight, then," he answered play- 
 fully, as he stroked her smooth cheek. 
 
 " I have done my best." 
 
 " In everything, and your best has been per- 
 fection. I wish I could say as much. I'm 
 afraid, Evelyn, I have not been what I should 
 to you, especially of late. I have been so wor- 
 ried, so absorbed and busy, and away so much of 
 the time. I have not realized as I should have 
 done, how lonely it must have been for you. I 
 was thinking, as I came up the hill, that I have 
 estranged you from the things you care for most. 
 Has it been my fault, I wonder, that my son and 
 daughter have both been rebellious? I some- 
 times think that I may have erred in some way 
 with Theodore and with Althea." 
 
 He paused to hear his wife's eager protest, but 
 she was silent and he went on more slowly. 
 
 " But I have made many advances to Theo- 
 dore. I bore a great deal." 
 
 He paused again for comment. Mrs. Hard- 
 ing said, with obvious effort, her delicate face 
 flushing : 
 
 "You have borne a great deal, Albion; but 
 you must remember that Theodore is young and 
 impetuous." 
 
 249 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Impetuous, I grant, but he is a man — twen- 
 ty-nine today." Mr. Harding's tone was not 
 over-tolerant. 
 
 " He is really younger than that. He has been 
 trying, I admit. But he has not the self-control 
 which you have — he will never have it. Can't 
 you make up with him, Albion ? " 
 
 " What can I do ? He has deliberately em- 
 barked on this project. If I could not dissuade 
 him at the start, what can I do now? I cannot 
 withdraw from my position, he will not from his. 
 How could I, Evelyn? There are millions of 
 dollars besides my own embarked in it." 
 
 " Are you sure that you cannot withdraw, Al- 
 bion? I don't know about it, of course," she 
 added eagerly, as she saw the frown coming be- 
 tween his brows. " I realize that it is too com- 
 plicated for me. But if you could let it go! 
 Someone could take your place, and we could 
 go back to the old happy times." 
 
 " But we cannot, Evelyn," he answered de- 
 cidedly. " It would only bore you to listen to 
 the reasons; but I will tell you, in the deepest 
 confidence, that the American is in difficulties, 
 pressing financial difficulties. I don't wish to 
 arrogate too much to myself, but I have taken the 
 initiative in it throughout. It would be a dan- 
 gerous experiment to change leaders just now. 
 250 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Besides, we could not go back to the old happy 
 days. Althea is ours no longer, and Theodore 
 — can you expect that things can ever be quite 
 the same between us ? The boy has defied me — 
 has shown plainly his willingness to do me posi- 
 tive harm." 
 
 " He is only doing what he thinks is right. 
 He has told me how he feels. Of course he 
 should realize that you have far greater experi- 
 ence, and are better fitted to decide. But he 
 doesn't mean to be undutiful, I am sure of that." 
 Mrs. Harding performed the somewhat difficult 
 feat of remaining loyal to both parties in the 
 struggle. 
 
 " Then he is behaving very strangely. I am 
 willing to meet him half-way in any reconcilia- 
 tion. If he will give up his plans all shall be as 
 it was before. But the advances must come from 
 him." 
 
 " Albion, do more than that, for my sake ! 
 Remember, I have given everything to you and 
 our children. I haven't been like some women, 
 only half a wife, half a mother. I didn't have 
 their temptations, I never cared for the other 
 things. My home was always my greatest inter- 
 est. But sometimes I think I have been rewarded 
 in this way, Albion — that we are more one than 
 most married people. I think I. have never asked 
 251 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 you for anything in all my life before, which you 
 have refused me." She was putting her whole 
 heart into the appeal. 
 
 " And I do not refuse you this, Evelyn. I will 
 do what I can in honor. But there is a limit to 
 what one's own dignity allows one to concede. 
 It isn't altogether a question of preference. I 
 might prefer a reconciliation on any terms, and 
 yet not feel justified in bringing it about at a 
 compromise. But I will go to him, and will do 
 all I can to make him see the right." 
 
 " Are you sure it is the right, Albion ? " Mrs. 
 Harding asked with questioning eyes. She was 
 not used to doubting her husband's judgment, 
 but this was involuntary. " Sometimes it looks 
 the other way to me. These things are very con- 
 fused, but if it should be all wrong ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding did not answer. He was tired. 
 He told himself that he could not explain it clear- 
 ly enough for her. He might fail to make her 
 see that he was seeking the good of others, and 
 only incidentally his own gain, — through con- 
 tumely and malignity, a martyr to his industrial 
 ideals. He was very weary of self-justification, 
 of the endless cudgelling of his brain for ex- 
 cuses. He only added a word of warning that 
 he might not raise her hopes of a reconciliation 
 too high. 
 
 252 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I must caution you, Evelyn, not to expect 
 too much. Such' an attempt is well-nigh useless. 
 I am only making it to prove to you that I am 
 not indifferent to your wishes. I hope for noth- 
 ing from it. The matter has gone too far to ad- 
 mit of any such simple settlement." 
 
 Albion Harding awoke that night after a brief, 
 unrefreshing sleep. The moonlight filled his 
 room. Through the open door he could hear his 
 wife stir uneasily, and then knew by her soft, 
 regular breathing, that she slept soundly once 
 more. In the utter stillness of the house he 
 alone was restless, harassed, wakeful. He had 
 never known until lately these midnight panics 
 where the perspiration stood cold upon his fore- 
 head at the thought of the future. The consola- 
 tions which he could bring to his aid were of 
 little use to him after all. Failure, even if it en- 
 tailed no actual deprivation to himself and his, 
 was a humiliation which he could not bear to 
 think of. He turned fiercely to preventive meas- 
 ures. He would not fail. The time was past 
 when the American could give quarter ; and now, 
 providentially, the ruin of a rival seemed much 
 more a matter of course than it had done a year 
 ago. The president of the big corporation had 
 all an adept's impatience of a bungler to help 
 
 253 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 him harden his heart. He was so sure that he 
 could, through his subordinates, manage these 
 manufactories better than their owners, that it 
 had come to seem well-nigh legitimate to take 
 them by force. Then, he argued with himself 
 fiercely, they had been given every opportunity 
 to come in on generous terms — many of them, 
 at least. He grew more relentless as he pon- 
 dered on their ingratitude. 
 
 His anger was most active against the oppo- 
 nents whom he met daily on the streets. Ord- 
 way he dismissed with a scornful smile; he had 
 heard but yesterday that the conservative man 
 had been borrowing heavily, and knew that only 
 desperate straits would drive him to that meas- 
 ure. But Theodore — he held his breath as if 
 the thought even might disturb his wife in the 
 next room. How should he be dealt with? 
 Burnham and Burkhardt, who represented two 
 widely different standpoints, were agreed on this 
 matter. Adversity would not harm his son. 
 Even in thought Mr. Harding did not say to him- 
 self what must be done, in case his embassy of 
 reconciliation should fail. 
 
 He awoke unrefreshed, with grey face and 
 sunken eyes, and after a weary pretence at break- 
 fast took his way down to his son's mill, deter- 
 254 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 mined to have the useless interview over as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 All looked prosperity at the factory. Big 
 drays were unloading before a side building, the 
 even thunder of machinery came through the 
 windows open to the mild winter air. Mr. 
 Harding entered the main door and walked slow- 
 ly down the central passage between the machin- 
 ery. The faded women had on their faces a lit- 
 tle more of hope than usual, so he thought. 
 There were hints of attempts at improvement 
 here and there. Factory life had lost a little of 
 its sordid aspect. 
 
 He climbed the stairs to his son's room, fol- 
 lowing a curt word of direction. He rapped 
 and was confronted by a startled face. Theo- 
 dore's first thought was that only some ill tidings 
 of his mother could have brought his father there. 
 Where Mrs. Harding was concerned, when she 
 was present, the two men met in a fashion more 
 friendly than of old, the elder dissembling his 
 outraged feelings, Theodore friendly in truth. 
 Elsewhere, however, Mr. Harding usually vouch- 
 safed his son nothing more than a polite greeting. 
 Theodore's first word was therefore a question. 
 
 "Mother? Is she well?" 
 
 " Yes, your mother is well, Theodore, don't be 
 alarmed. I come from her — an ambassador 
 
 255 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 from a high power," and he smiled at his own 
 conceit. " Your mother thinks that if we do our 
 best we may come to some ground of settlement 
 of our difficulties. I must confess that I am not 
 so sanguine — ." He paused. There seemed 
 nothing to say which had not been said already. 
 
 " Mother doesn't understand," said Theodore 
 gravely.. 
 
 " No, and I only promised because I could not 
 bear to deny her. But if you could give up your 
 schemes, Theodore?" 
 
 " It is just as hopeless as for me to ask you to 
 give up yours," Theodore answered quietly. " I 
 know I am not important, like you. I'm not a 
 man of a thousand, one who can't be replaced. 
 But what would you think of me — what could I 
 think of myself — if I gave it up now ? " 
 
 " And no offer that I can make will influence 
 you? You shall have your own price for your 
 factory, — within reason, I mean. Can I show 
 my desire to be on good terms with you, my son, ' 
 in any better way than this?" Mr. Harding's 
 voice was very earnest. 
 
 " Father, I don't doubt that you want to be on 
 good terms with me if you can. But don't you 
 see that matters have gone too far for us to be 
 anything but enemies in business? I hope we 
 need not carry it outside." 
 256 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I hope not. But, Theodore, do you realize 
 what it is all coming to — what it must end in ? " 
 Mr. Harding questioned. 
 
 " I suppose I know what you mean, — that I 
 shall be ruined, unless you are willing to let us 
 live on. Mind, I don't ask for any different 
 treatment than you give the rest; but you have 
 almost unlimited power. We don't harm you. 
 You don't need to dread our competition. You 
 say you can produce cheaper than we can. You 
 can control the market, anyway. It's a simple 
 proposition enough in one way. Just let us 
 alone." 
 
 The young man's whole heart went into his 
 plea. All the months of repression and silent 
 struggle found vent at last in these few words. 
 He waited, with eagerly parted lips, for his fa- 
 ther's response. 
 
 But Mr. Harding was silent. He could not 
 tell his son that the question was not so simple as 
 it appeared. He could not explain that the big 
 American did dread competition. He could 
 not offer the justification for his action which 
 was ready on his lips. Circumstances were 
 strangely against this Moses of the industrial 
 world. The fates, with grimly smiling lips, were 
 playing strange tricks with him. 
 257 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 He sighed, and as he gazed at his son's eager, 
 passionate face the glow died out of it. 
 
 " But of course you will do as you see fit. I 
 have nO' right to suggest," the younger man 
 added apologetically. 
 
 " I cannot do as you suggest, Theodore. The 
 integrity of the American depends on a clear field. 
 That is the very essence of the conception. I 
 have the interests of my constituents to consider. 
 And I must warn you if you persist — I cannot 
 discriminate. You will do well, if you can bring 
 yourself to it, to get rid of your business as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 Mr. Harding's tone was full of meaning. 
 Theodore looked his father full in the face and 
 answered quietly: 
 
 " I think I know what you mean, father ! " 
 
 The keen eyes sank under the look in the 
 milder ones opposite. Albion Harding had 
 many deeds of the combine on his conscience. 
 Under the accusing gaze these rose up one by 
 one to confront him, and were ready with their 
 accusation. His hands clasped and unclasped 
 nervously. 
 
 " I sometimes think I have blundered some- 
 where," he said slowly. " There must have been 
 some mistakes. But it is cruel that for a blunder 
 such punishment should come. I cannot even 
 258 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 explain myself to you. I cannot give my reasons. 
 Only believe I have them, imperative ones. It 
 is a hard problem for me as well as for you. I 
 believe, — I believe I have done right. I have 
 taken every step for the best, as I saw it. And 
 if ever the time comes when you find it hard to 
 believe this — when everything seems against 
 me — remember, Boy, I have tried to do right." 
 The old familiar name of the days of his child- 
 ish companionship with his father touched Theo- 
 dore beyond measure. The eyes so like in color, 
 so different in expression, met for a moment soft- 
 ened by tears, and Theodore stretched out his 
 hand half-shyly to his father's. 
 
 259 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Theodore ran blithely downstairs one March 
 morning with his dog at his heels. The two 
 were bound for breakfast and their healthy ap- 
 petites hurried them. The keenness of the early 
 air brought a delightful tingle to the face, and 
 yet a promise that the noon would be warm. 
 Between the near-by buildings the hills across 
 the river showed softly brown, with here and 
 there a laggard snow-bank flecking their sides. 
 Theodore fancied that the snowdrops and crocus 
 would be already starring the lawn up at 
 home. The maple twigs showed swollen, knob- 
 by buds. The gossiping sparrows in the 
 branches, constant winter citizens though they 
 were, still seemed harbingers of spring. 
 
 Spring thoughts come to one on a morning like 
 this. Theodore was wondering how long it 
 would be before he could tempt the trout in dis- 
 tant pools. Dave bounded along, reconnoitering 
 260 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 every dark alley and by-way for cats, and jubi- 
 lantly driving up flocks of sparrows and pigeons. 
 The man's step rang out sharply in the deserted 
 streets, the dog's sharp bark startled the echoes 
 from the opposite buildings. The day was new, 
 the year all promise. 
 
 Suddenly a chance word overheard on the 
 street took all the brightness out of the day for 
 Theodore. William Ordway had failed. 
 
 The news came to the young man as a great 
 shock. He had been in New York for a week 
 and had only reached home late the night before. 
 This would account for the fact that he had 
 heard no rumor that this was impending; but he 
 realized remorsefully that Mr. Ordway had vol- 
 untarily spoken little of his affairs of late, and 
 that he, himself, had not questioned. Had he 
 known, he might have helped his friend to tide 
 over the crisis, or he might at least have offered 
 sympathy. He told himself gloomily that he 
 had shown too little understanding of the strange, 
 silent man's forebodings. 
 
 The cruelty of it all came over him as he gazed 
 out of the window with his breakfast unfinished. 
 This man had no interests outside the business 
 where he had labored so ungrudgingly. Now 
 these had been taken from him. And for what ? 
 Not in the inevitable business struggle for life, 
 261 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 not even to insure the existence of the American, 
 not in the greed for money — somehow that 
 would have seemed more legitimate than this; 
 but in a cruel caprice. The man who prided 
 himself on his dexterity with the organ was now 
 finding the same delight in playing on men and 
 states. 
 
 In an anger which admitted no thought of 
 mitigating features, Harding took his way to the 
 Ordways' little house. Mrs. Ordway was dust- 
 ing the sunny, crowded living room, lifting the 
 belongings, wiping them and putting them down 
 as methodically as if there were no such things as 
 trouble and failure in the world. But now and 
 then a slow and unwilling tear found its way 
 down her furrowed face. Her eyes were red 
 and her whole face looked haggard and drawn. 
 All Harding could say, as he took her plump 
 hand in his, was : 
 
 " I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ordway ! I feel as if it 
 were partly my fault. I'm sure I could have 
 helped him in some way if I had only known." 
 
 " I asked him why he didn't go to you, but I 
 couldn't git much out of him. He ain't one 
 that talks much to women folks," Mrs. Ordway 
 answered. 
 
 " I feel as if I ought to have known. I was 
 a fool to need telling. I thought all along that 
 262 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 he was too gloomy, and lately he hasn't said any- 
 thing. If I had only been at home when it hap- 
 pened, I might have been able to do something," 
 Theodore went on self-reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, there ain't any use cryin' over spilt 
 milk. What's done is done." There was 
 silence in the room. The woman looked out of 
 the window with dreary, red-rimmed eyes. 
 
 " I do' know what in the world we're goin' 
 to do, Mr. Harding," she contimted after a pause. 
 " I ain't dast to ask him anything. He come 
 in an' told Faithy and me last night an' then went 
 right upstairs to bed, an' he seemed to be sleepin' 
 all night. He didn't seem to want to talk, an' 
 I ain't said anything. Do you suppose we owe 
 much?" 
 
 " Of course I can't say, Mrs. Ordway," Theo- 
 dore replied as cheerfully as he could. " You 
 may not owe anything. Mr. Ordway may have 
 property he cannot realize on at present. It 
 sometimes happens that way, and he is a cautious 
 man. He would hardly borrow heavily, or any- 
 thing of that sort." 
 
 " I wonder if we'll have to sell the house. It's 
 the first house we ever owned, an' all the things 
 in it are so pretty. I do' know how I could bear 
 to give it up. An' father is so proud of every- 
 thing, too — an' here's the settin' room carpet. 
 263 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 I'm sure it wouldn't fit any other room, all cut 
 up into jogs the way it is. I'm sure I do' know 
 what we shall do about it." Mrs. Ordway wiped 
 away the tears which flowed more freely now. 
 The problem of the sitting-room carpet gave a 
 concreteness to her affliction which made it more 
 easy to realize and deplore. 
 
 Theodore sat listening to the lament. He 
 knew with his sympathetic insight that neither 
 Faith nor her father could talk over a trouble; 
 and realized how hard the forced repression must 
 be for Mrs. Ordway. All she needed was the 
 look of pity in his eyes to draw her on to further 
 speech. 
 
 " There's the stained glass window in the hall ! 
 I don't s'pose it made any difference, do you? 
 Father didn't really seem to want it, nor the 
 hardwood floor in the dinin' room, an' I kind of 
 insisted. If I'd mistrusted I wouldn't have said 
 anything about 'em, of course; but he ought to 
 have explained. Well, all is, we'll have to go 
 away an' leave 'em. I ain't blaming anybody, 
 an' I don't want to make it any harder than 'tis 
 for father, but it just seems as if I must talk to 
 someone, an' Faithy ain't one of the talkin' 
 kind." 
 
 She finished rapidly as the sound of steps was 
 heard in the hall, and Mr. Ordway came heavily 
 264 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 into the room. He took Theodore's hand in a 
 Hfeless grasp and tried to smile in answer to the 
 stammered words of sympathy. He made but 
 sorry pretence, however, and sank wearily into a 
 chair by the window. 
 
 " Mother, if you have any influence at all 
 over this self-willed man, you will make him eat 
 some more breakfast. All I could get him to 
 take was a cup of coffee." Faith's tones were 
 cheerful but her eyes were apprehensive. 
 
 " My head aches so I can't eat," Mr. Ordway 
 answered. 
 
 " I feel angry with you, Mr. Ordway," Theo- 
 dore said. " You should have told me how 
 things were going." 
 
 " What good would that have done ? You've 
 got all you can tend to yourself. I'm sorry I 
 couldn't stand by you better. I done my best, 
 at any rate. I've given Albion Harding con- 
 siderable trouble, an' he ain't done with it yet." 
 There was still a ring of determination in the 
 tired voice. 
 
 " You'll get your matters straightened out in 
 a few weeks and then we'll sail in and smash the 
 American," Harding answered with cheerful ex- 
 aggeration. 
 
 " You can't rely much on me," Mr. Ordway 
 answered wearily. " I guess, mother, I'll step 
 265 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 upstairs an' lay down. My head aches consider- 
 able." 
 
 " I do' know's Ellen's made the bed," Mrs. 
 Ordway said helplessly. Her practical hold on 
 everyday affairs seemed suddenly to have desert- 
 ed her. 
 
 " I'll go and see to everything," said Faith 
 cheerily. " Come on, father, a good long sleep 
 is just what you need." 
 
 That day was the first of many long and anx- 
 ious ones in Mr. Ordway's little house. Its mas- 
 ter lay unconscious in a lingering fever. The 
 tidings grew less hopeful as time passed. The 
 sick man seemed wholly without strength or wish 
 to rally, and made no fight for life. The two 
 women waged the losing battle with no help from 
 their patient, and grew daily more worn. Theo- 
 dore never saw Mrs. Ordway. Faith sometimes 
 answered his inquiries, with a white face that 
 tried hard to be hopeful. It worried the young 
 man to see them wearing themselves out for lack 
 of the aid which they needed, and at last he spoke 
 wbat was in his mind. 
 
 " You ought to have a trained nurse. Faith." 
 
 " I'm a trained nurse myself," she replied, try- 
 ing to smile. 
 
 " That's all right. But you and your mother 
 are getting all worn out, Faith. I'm not going 
 266 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 to let you get sick." He had tacitly assumed 
 of late the right to care for the girl's welfare. 
 
 " Thank you for caring. But we must do as 
 father would have wished. We don't know that 
 we have anything at all. It would be dififerent if 
 it altered his • chances. Then, of course, we 
 should feel that extra expenses were justifiable. 
 But we both know about nursing, and Dr. Rice 
 says .we are doing everything." 
 
 "At least have some woman not so expensive 
 as a trained nurse, who will help you out and 
 give you a chance to rest. I needn't tell you, 
 Faith, that anything that I can do with money 
 or any way to spare you — I owe you on my 
 own account and my father's." The voice un- 
 consciously dropped at the words : " Your fa- 
 ther's money has been distributed in the divi- 
 dends of the American. That's why you have 
 no money," 
 
 "Don't, Theodore!" Faith said with tears in 
 her eyes. " You didn't get any of the dividends, 
 you're not responsible. If we really come to 
 need help — ." Her voice faltered. She could 
 neither argue with him nor thank him ; her tired 
 brain refused the necessary words. 
 
 At last, one afternoon, Mrs. Ordway fainted 
 at her husband's bedside, and Faith, with a double 
 anxiety, sent few Harding. He searched Under- 
 267 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 hill through for a nurse, but in vain. Its little 
 staff was all employed. When he returned, dis- 
 heartened and unsuccessful, the maid opened the 
 door for him with swollen eyes. 
 
 " Miss Faith's up -with him. Poor man, the 
 doctor told me there wa'n't no hope for him, — 
 and him such a kind soul," and she burst into 
 noisy weeping. 
 
 " Hush, Ellen, while there's life there's hope," 
 Theodore said soothingly. "Do you suppose I 
 could see Miss Faith a moment upstairs ? " 
 
 He told Faith of his unsuccessful search and 
 his hope that a nurse would come in the morning, 
 and asked leave to share her watch. He was 
 prepared for opposition but none came. Faith 
 was so weary, so anxious about her mother, so 
 numb with the great dread that hung over her, 
 that she did not protest. Then, too, though 
 there had been no spoken word of love between 
 them, there was now the dependence of an un- 
 spoken affection. 
 
 Save for his care of Reid in the wilderness 
 Harding had had no experience with illness. 
 But he was deft and skilful. Soon he was tak- 
 ing charge of the medicine, nourishment and ice- 
 packs, leaving Faith to attend to her mother, or 
 snatch if possible some rest. She was at hand 
 on a couch in the corner of the sick room, ready 
 268 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 to come to his assistance. Once he dropped a 
 gay blanket softly over her, thinking she slept, 
 only to see her eyes open and the faintest flutter 
 of a smile pass over her quivering lips. 
 
 For the first hours of the night Mr. Ordway 
 drowsed heavily, and no sound disturbed the 
 quiet of the room, save the occasional movements 
 of the nurse, or the soft purr of the fire on the 
 hearth. But by and by the patient began to talk, 
 brokenly at first, then more coherently as he 
 gained an illusive strength. 
 
 The talk was all of business, with the cares and 
 triumphs of early and later years strangely min- 
 gled in his delirium. Sometimes he was the day- 
 laborer going to the morning's work in the 
 factory, dinner-pail in hand; sometimes the mill- 
 owner, fighting a losing battle against forces too 
 strong for him; sometimes he was cheering his 
 wife in times of adversity, sometimes talking to 
 his workmen, or bitterly arraigning Albion 
 Harding and corporate greed. Theodore sat 
 watching the shadows of the night lamp and the 
 wayward flickering of the firelight, and listened 
 uneasily, half-guiltily to this reserved man's reve- 
 lation of himself. 
 
 " Yes, Mattie," the monotonous voice rambled 
 on, " some day we'll hev' a home of our own. I 
 wish't we could have it now, before you're all 
 269 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 wore out workin' an' waitin' for it. I tell you, 
 Faithy ain't goin' to want for things the way 
 you hev' done. She's a good girl and a pretty 
 one, an' she deserves better'n we can do for her. 
 But there, so did you, an' you ain't got it yet. 
 But you shall hev' it, never you fear — . Don't 
 you put any meat in the dinner-pail today. I 
 had it yesterday an' you need it mor'n I do any 
 way, now. I tell you the baby ain't comin' into 
 a very rich home, but it'll have enough some 
 day — . Yes, I tell you, I'm goin' to own the mill 
 some day. They's lots of men begun at the bot- 
 tom an' worked up to more than that An' now 
 the old man's dead an' Albion Harding's comin' 
 back from foreign parts. I wonder what kind 
 of a manufacturer he'll make — . You can talk 
 about Albion Harding all you want to, mother. 
 It ain't always the man that speaks the most in 
 prayer meetin' or gives the most money to col- 
 leges that's the best man. An' he's driven that 
 woman — what was her name? Well, never 
 mind what he did — you all know, everybody 
 knows. He's a thief an' a murderer — just the 
 same as — . You can talk about the combine an' 
 all those things, but I tell you it's Albion Hard- 
 ing an' nothin' else." 
 
 The husky, broken voice went on with its 
 charges, and the name of Albion Harding was 
 270 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 uttered over and over again, in tones of accusa- 
 tion and warning and fear. 
 
 " Yes, if Albion Harding ruins me — an' I 
 don't see what's to hinder, — I shan't stay by to 
 see it done. They'd be better off without me — 
 mother an' Faith. I couldn't do anything for 
 'em. I'm too old to start fresh. They'd git on 
 better if I was out of the way. My revolver's all 
 loaded an' I wouldn't wait. An 'then, Albion 
 Harding can know he's a murderer." 
 
 The voice rose higher and huskier in its ac- 
 cusation, and Theodore covered his face with his 
 hands. It seemed that he could not stand longer 
 the sound of those upbraiding tones with their 
 note of terror, the sight of that flushed, distorted 
 face. Suddenly Faith was kneeling by his side 
 with her hand on his. 
 
 " Don't listen, Theodore, don't listen ! " she 
 said with a tender break in her voice. " He 
 doesn't know what he is saying." Even her love 
 and pity could not constrain her to say that it was 
 untrue. 
 
 " It's all true," said Theodore shortly. 
 
 " You're not to blame ! " she whispered. " You 
 have been true and honorable throughout. You 
 have tried to undo the harm he has done. You've 
 done all you can." 
 
 He did not answer. He hardly knew or cared 
 271 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 for her words of comfort in the bitterness of his 
 abasement. He let her hand unclasp from his, 
 unnoticed in the depth of his sad thoughts. But 
 he heard every word that the hoarse voice mur- 
 mured in strange confirmation of the girl's 
 words. 
 
 " No, if there ever was a gentleman, he's one. 
 He's always done the honorable thing by me, an' 
 if Faithy does care — do you really think she 
 does, mother? — He'll make her a fine hus- 
 band. His father's doin's ain't anything against 
 him, if Faithy cares — " 
 
 Harding heard no more. He raised the girl's 
 face and looked into the eyes that met his stead- 
 ily, in spite of the wave of color that flooded the 
 weary face. 
 
 " Is it true. Faith? Do you care? " 
 
 He saw that the quivering lips formed a half- 
 articulate " Yes," and raised her face till their 
 lips met. 
 
 It was a strange and unexpected betrothal, 
 with the harsh voice of delirium in their ears, 
 with the dread of the worst hovering over them. 
 They clung together for a moment, and then Faith 
 rose calmly and sought her mother. 
 
 With a swift thought, even in the midst of his 
 new happiness, Harding opened the drawer in the 
 little table at the.head of the bed. There lay an 
 272 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 old revolver rusty and uncared for, but freshly- 
 loaded with cartridges which glinted bright and 
 new in the firelight. He emptied the chambers 
 and put the cartridges in his pocket, hoping that 
 he had disarmed any suspicions which the words 
 of the sick man might have aroused. 
 
 " No, I can feel very little hope," Dr. Rice said 
 gravely, when he came at midnight. " He has 
 been under a great strain which has sapped his 
 vitality. There has been nothing in the disease 
 itself to warrant such an ending, but he seems 
 to have no wish to live." 
 
 " There is not much left for him to live for," 
 said Harding sadly. " He was bound up in his 
 business. It's the easiest way out for him." 
 
 The next afternoon when Harding called to 
 inquire, the red-eyed maid told him that Mr. Ord- 
 way was dead. 
 
 273 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Theodore knew that his engagement to Faith 
 Ordway could only give his mother pain. He 
 climbed the hill next day, dreading to tell her, 
 yet eager to get the interview over. He was 
 unmindful for the first time in his life of the 
 plash of water and the spring music of birds. 
 He tried to break the news gently, but the best 
 that he could achieve was the blunt statement of 
 the fact. 
 
 " Theodore, what have you been doing ! " his 
 mother asked sharply, a frown gathering on her 
 smooth forehead. 
 
 " I have told you, mother. Aren't you going 
 to congratulate me ? " 
 
 "Why should I?" she said bitterly. 
 
 " Why should you ever congratulate a man ? " 
 was Theodore's quick response. 
 
 " But, Theodore, I thought you cared for Mar- 
 garet ? " There was a note of personal griev- 
 ance in Mrs. Harding's voice. 
 274 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I thought I did, too, but that's all over now. 
 Margaret is engaged to another man." 
 
 " But if you cared for her ? " 
 
 " I never did as much as I thought. I know 
 now. And it was broken off finally before she 
 went to Washington. She knew best all the 
 time," Theodore responded cheerfully. 
 
 " And you are ready -to settle back into her 
 class in life? You can't introduce her to the 
 people you have always known," Mrs. Harding 
 persisted. 
 
 " Why not ? She has just as good manners 
 and just as good an education as any of them. 
 She may not know a few little wrinkles that come 
 from practice, but you and Althea can put her 
 on to them. About settling back to her class — 
 I don't know what you mean. Her father is a 
 manufacturer — was a manufacturer, and so is 
 mine." 
 
 Mrs. Harding flushed and answered with dig- 
 nity : " He was a common workman in your 
 father's, in your grandfather's mill, wasn't he? 
 Didn't you tell me that? He certainly talked 
 like it. He called me * marm.' " 
 
 " Well, he is out of your way — and father's, 
 
 poor man. As for his being a common workman 
 
 in my father's mill — I've been one myself. I've 
 
 done everything from the commonest, dirtiest 
 
 275 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 work up. We're pretty even on that score, I 
 should say." 
 
 " It was different for you, you didn't have 
 to. You could stop whenever you wished." 
 
 " Yes, it was different. There's no particular 
 hardship in a thing like that when you know it's 
 only for a year or two. It is settling down to it 
 for life that takes the grit. Mother, shall I tell 
 Faith that you will call on her soon ? " he added 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Of course, Theodore ; if you are determined 
 to marry the girl I must be polite to her. But 
 why are you going to do it? With so many 
 pretty girls of your own set who would be glad 
 to marry you ? " 
 
 Theodore laughed wholesomely, not only at 
 his mother's despairing tone, but at her partial 
 estimate of himself. 
 
 " Just mention some of them, mother. They 
 have never seemed anxious to. And about this 
 matter of class, — Faith is a good deal more the 
 sort of girl I want, and need, than these girls up 
 here on the hill. Don't you know, mother, I 
 never quite belonged with the rest of you? I'm 
 more at home with the mill people and plain folks 
 like the Ordways. They take to me more than 
 the other kind, too. Margaret never thought I 
 was good enough for her." 
 276 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Margaret was a foolish girl," said Mrs. 
 Harding sharply. Margaret had not yet been 
 forgiven. 
 
 " At any rate, mother, Faith and I are en- 
 gaged." The subject of Margaret had no more 
 interest for Theodore. " Can't you love her at 
 first because I do ? Later you will do it for her- 
 self. You don't know how wise and sensible she 
 is. Let me tell you about the workman's restau- 
 rant down in River Street. Faith has run that." 
 
 " You told me about it," Mrs. Harding replied 
 coldly. " But I should hardly have thought her 
 mother would have let her do it. It was no 
 place for a young girl among all those rough 
 men." 
 
 " But, mother, she isn't a young girl." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it. She should 
 not have gone down there unchaperoned," Mrs. 
 Harding replied severely. 
 
 " Her mother was often there," said the young 
 man in discouraged tones, " and there were two 
 women who worked there, and the men were al- 
 ways kind and respectful." 
 
 " It only shows, Theodore, how standards dif- 
 fer. She has been trained in a wholly different 
 walk of life from yours." 
 
 Theodore made no response. He was too 
 tired and discouraged for speech. 
 277 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Ought I to call on her before the funeral ? " 
 Mrs. Harding interrupted his thoughts. 
 
 " Oh, mother, I don't know the etiquette of 
 the business. If you could go feeling like a 
 mother to her, I should ask you to go now. But 
 as it is, you would better wait until it is all over. 
 Poor Faith ! " and he sighed deeply. 
 
 Just then a step sounded outside and Mr. 
 Harding entered the room. The smile faded 
 from his face at sight of Theodore ; his own con- 
 science did not acquit him of some instrumental- 
 ity in Ordway's ruin. He felt that his own skil- 
 ful justification of himself would not appeal to 
 his son. Burnham had interpreted freely certain 
 liberties given him, and had precipitated the busi- 
 ness trouble which the pressure of the American 
 had rendered inevitable. Mr. Harding feared 
 that his son would tell him of this. Theodore, 
 on the other hand, was no more anxious for an 
 interview than was his father, for he knew that 
 he could not trust himself. He was moving to- 
 ward the door after a quiet greeting when Mrs. 
 Harding stopped him. 
 
 " You mustn't go, Theodore ; your father will 
 wish to hear your news." 
 
 There was an uncomfortable pause in which 
 one waited for the other to speak. Finally Theo- 
 dore said abruptly: 
 
 278 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Mother means my engagement to Miss Ord- 
 way." 
 
 Again there was silence. The clock chimed 
 out five silvery strokes, the fire snapped, a blue- 
 bird outside trilled persistently. Mrs. Harding 
 saw from the faces of the two men that she had 
 made a mistake. She had relied too implicitly 
 on the statement which Mr. Harding had made 
 after his last interview with his son, — that they 
 were friends in everything outside of business. 
 She hastened to interpose. 
 
 " Theodore tells me that Miss Ordway is a 
 very charming girl," she faltered. 
 
 " Theodore has certainly had opportunities for 
 knowing," Mr. Harding responded coldly. 
 
 " A man usually has before he asks a woman 
 to marry him," Theodore answered. 
 
 " And you really mean that you have let the 
 matter come to this, Theodore ? " Mr. Harding 
 queried. 
 
 " I don't know what ydu mean, sir." 
 
 " I would hardly have thought Mrs. Ordway 
 capable of so much finesse," Mr. Harding said 
 deliberately. 
 
 " If you mean that she has brought this about 
 you were never more mistaken in your life. She 
 would have every reason to refuse her consent. 
 279 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 You can perhaps guess what I mean," Theodore 
 replied hotly. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't see what objection Mrs. 
 Ordway could possibly have, Teddy. I'm sure 
 any mother might be glad to have you for a son," 
 Mrs. Harding ventured pacifically. She trem- 
 bled before the storm she had unwittingly raised. 
 
 Mr. Harding stood silent in terror of the ac- 
 cusation which he saw upon his son's lips. One 
 person in the world still believed in him implicit- 
 ly. It was something to go home quivering 
 from the real thrusts and fancied slights of the 
 day, to an atmosphere of unfailing love and trust. 
 He felt that he could not relinquish the one balm 
 which could restore the untroubled self-esteem 
 of former years. He said hastily : 
 
 " We need not go into the matter of Mrs. Ord- 
 way's feelings, Theodore. They are after all 
 immaterial. There are objections enough on our 
 side without going farther. I suppose your 
 mother has made plain to you how extraordinary 
 this match is. Do you care nothing for what 
 people of your own walk in life will say of it? " 
 
 " I'm not afraid that anything that I can do — 
 
 even more disgraceful things than this — can do 
 
 much harm to the family name. It has too many 
 
 epithets of a certain sort tacked to it now to make 
 
 280 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 r 
 
 it a thing to be proud of. I should think you 
 might realize that." 
 
 Theodore's face was white even to the lips, his 
 eyes blazing. He stood for a moment looking 
 full at his father, then, without a word, he left 
 the room. 
 
 The two faces haunted Mrs. Harding even 
 until the next day. Her long social experience 
 stood her in good stead; and although righteous 
 anger and convicted guilt were not common in her 
 experience she recognized something of their 
 value. Then there had been Theodore's harsh 
 taunt as to the esteem of the family name. Why 
 had Mr. Harding not refuted it ? It seemed that, 
 in whatever lay between them, Theodore was in 
 the right and his father wrong. Evelyn Hard- 
 ing felt a strange, dull oppression of spirits, which 
 the musical jangling of the bluebird and robin 
 and sparrow among the swollen buds, and the joy 
 of the spring sunlight could not dispel. At 
 length she made a definite effort to shake off her 
 depression, ordered her carriage and started to 
 take Althea for a drive. 
 
 She found alleviation of her mood in her 
 
 daughter's chatter. Althea was full of Oakley's 
 
 projected trip to Washington and the fact that 
 
 she was to accompany him. She was full, too, 
 
 281 < 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 of Theodore's engagement, and Mrs. Harding 
 roused herself to decided warmth in Faith's favor 
 by championing her cause against Althea. Mrs. 
 Harding sometimes recognized the fact that Oak- 
 ley's rapidly growing reputation was strongly 
 influencing his wife. Money had been more plen- 
 tiful in the little home since Oakley's connection 
 with the American. His reputation for brilliancy 
 and clearness of thought had grown throughout 
 the term of the state legislature. Prosperity, it 
 seemed, had come to stay. Althea had grown 
 assured, daring, meddling a little in politics, echo- 
 ing her husband with an original air that made 
 people pronounce her clever. With returning 
 health, too, she was fast approaching a brilliant, 
 dainty beauty. Mrs. Harding could prophesy 
 for her daughter a social future. And yet she 
 left her at her door with a sigh of relief. The 
 younger woman's assurance of success jarred up- 
 on her. 
 
 As she stopped at a little bookstore on her way 
 home, the bold lettering on a magazine cover 
 caught her eye. " Albion Harding, A Character 
 Study." It was one of the lighter periodicals 
 which she did not see at home, and she resolved 
 to surprise Mr. Harding with it. She could 
 fancy his laugh, half-amused, half-satirical. 
 
 The frontispiece was a copy of Sargent's cele- 
 282 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 brated portrait of Mr. Harding. She looked 
 at it critically as she stood waiting. It had al- 
 ways seemed to her the perfection of portraiture. 
 The poise of the head, with its characteristic up- 
 ward thrust of the clean-cut chin; the sweep of 
 the mustache; the silvery light on the hair; the 
 slender, vigoi-ous hand resting carelessly on the 
 chair-arm; each tiniest detail expressed to the 
 full the man's dominant personality. Suddenly 
 there flashed in its place the haggard face, lined 
 and shadowed, with shrinking, guilty eyes. The 
 contrast with this look of tireless, untried youth 
 shocked her. 
 
 " I am morbid. How I fancy things ! " she 
 had whispered, and left the store with the maga- 
 zine. 
 
 When she reached home the open fire in the 
 library invited her. The sky had clouded and a 
 cold wind had chilled her in spite of her furs. 
 After her lonely meal she settled herself cozily 
 for the perusal of the article. 
 
 It opened in a light personal vein, with de- 
 tails both true and complimentary to its subject. 
 Suddenly, with no transition, its tone changed. 
 Mrs. Harding read on breathlessly. She had 
 never known more of the American than her hus- 
 band had told her. Now its dealings were 
 detailed with clearness and spirit, with cold cita- 
 283 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 tions of time and place. Moreover, this ruthless- 
 ness, double-dealing, theft and murder were laid 
 by implication at its president's door. She hur- 
 ried through each paragraph, going back now 
 and then to read more slowly. The day clouded 
 still more and the room grew dusky. Still she 
 sat there with the magazine open at the Sargent 
 portrait. She was seeing things clearly. Such 
 journalistic comment as this would justify 
 Theodore's taunt of the day before. She knew 
 now why the daily papers came no longer to the 
 house. She knew the meaning of the haggard 
 face that so often smiled at her across the break- 
 fast table. Could it be true ? — one least word of 
 it, of the man whom she had known so well and 
 known so stainless? So absorbed was she that 
 she did not heed her husband's step in the hall 
 or on the library floor, until he stood by her side. 
 
 She looked up at him with wide, startled eyes 
 and closed the magazine sharply. He took it 
 from her clinging hands without a word and 
 glanced at it. Her eyes fell; she could not see 
 his face for tears, but stared instead at the blurred 
 fire. She heard his breath caught sharply, his 
 short, angry laugh, and then the magazine alight- 
 ed in the flames before her, scattering the brands 
 out upon the hearth. 
 
 Mrs. Harding sat silent and rigid, watching 
 284 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the leaves curl as the flame took them. The 
 keen, militant face of the Sargent portrait caught 
 her eye for a moment. " Albion Harding, Mon- 
 opolist," stared out from a page heading; and 
 then the mass flared up for a moment and black- 
 ened. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Mr. Harding spoke abruptly. His tone was 
 harsh and at variance with his usual courtesy. 
 His wife's eyes met his for the first time in fear. 
 
 "What have you to say about it?" he said 
 more gently, as he noticed her involuntary 
 shrinking. 
 
 " Oh, tell me it isn't true, dear ! " she said with 
 her voice breaking. " Of course it isn't true." 
 
 " I have tried, Evelyn, God knows how I have 
 tried." He was kneeling now with his arm 
 about her. " I have tried. From the start I 
 meant that this big association should stand for 
 truth, and honor, and uprightness in the business 
 world. Mr. Evans called it the ' Missionary 
 Monopoly ' because I was so strenuous that it 
 should stand as an example to all the world." 
 The name which had once stirred Mr. Harding's 
 anger had now come to have a subtle comfort of 
 its own as testifying to his good intentions. , 
 
 He paused, as if waiting for her additional jus- 
 tification, but she was silent. 
 285 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I may have made blunders. I know I have. 
 Circumstances have been too strong to combat 
 virith unfaiUng success. Some difficulties arose 
 that no one could foresee." He spoke with such 
 bitterness that she knew he meant Theodore's op- 
 position. " But I am not beaten yet. I can see 
 my way clearer to the end than I have yet done. 
 And the end once gained, all the things that I 
 have dreamed of will be possible." 
 
 There was silence once more. Mrs. Hard- 
 ing's throat quivered convulsively but she could 
 not speak. An overpowering dread fell over the 
 man's heart. Was he adjudged guilty at this 
 tribunal also? He felt suddenly how little life 
 would be worth to him if he could not read love 
 and trust in his wife's eyes. All the unspoken 
 shame and regret and remorse of the past months 
 found expression in the choked cry : 
 
 " Evelyn, don't you believe me ? " 
 
 " Of course I believe you," she said softly, 
 clasping her hand over his. " It is all a wretched 
 mistake. But it must be so hard for you. Why 
 didn't you tell me and let me help you bear it." 
 
 " I wanted to spare you trouble, dear. I 
 hoped you need never know. But I am glad to 
 share the load." 
 
 All seemed clear between them. Albion Hard- 
 ing rejoiced that one soul, at least, believed in 
 
 his integrity. 
 
 286 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 The troubles of the American increased as the 
 sweet days of the northern spring lengthened. 
 Oakley and General Favor were fighting desper- 
 ately in Washington for a favorable decision to 
 the tariff struggle; but meanwhile the industry 
 was paralyzed throughout the country. Burk- 
 hardt was keeping up American shares on Wall 
 Street by fair means and foul; he was even, by 
 unprecedented juggling, creating a little show of 
 activity there. Everyone knew, however, that 
 it was a false prosperity. To be sure, the opposi- 
 tion was likewise depressed, and could, in fact, 
 hardly be designated by so concrete a name. 
 Had the American wished to buy it would have 
 found treating with its rivals an easy matter. 
 Theodore alone had been more vigorous in his 
 measures of late, growing strenuous as he came 
 to suspect that Burnham had brought about Ord- 
 way's failure in the interest of the American. 
 287 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Anger gave his usually conservative nature a 
 strange rashness. 
 
 Mr. Harding alone seemed untroubled. In 
 reality he was resolutely shutting his eyes to the 
 dreaded possibilities of the future. He did each 
 day all that was in his power of thought and ac- 
 tion for the great corporation, then he dismissed 
 the matter from his mind. He spent long hours 
 with his wife, his books, his organ; he grew to 
 have a curious fondness for seeing his name in 
 print with allusions to his great power. 
 
 He sat at his desk one May morning with a 
 daily paper before him. His eyes were fixed on 
 a cartoon of himself seated at his desk, pressing 
 a row of little buttons. These were connected 
 by wire with the Senate chamber of the United 
 States, where puppets sprang up and down at his 
 will. The likeness was excellent, the im- 
 plication of such power flattering. The deep, 
 underlying scorn of the drawing, the shame to 
 the nation and himself that there should be the 
 slightest ground for such a suggestion, escaped 
 him. 
 
 He threw the paper beneath the desk as he 
 
 heard a familiar footstep without, and forced a 
 
 smile of greeting. He was, in truth, weary of 
 
 Burnham's interminable discussion of forebod- 
 
 288 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ing-s. The latter was full of a new grievance as 
 he entered. 
 
 " Do you know what that boy of yours has 
 been doing now?" he said in tones of mingled 
 anger and triumph. " You know that mill of 
 Lambert's in North Lee, — the one that the 
 American bought and sold a man named Grant 
 for a tannery ? Well, your son has bought it and 
 is fitting it out." 
 
 " Yes, I had heard. It seems a rash move in 
 the present state of things," Mr. Harding an- 
 swered calmly. 
 
 " What are you going to do about it ? " Burn- 
 ham's tones were curt. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 " See here, Harding ! We've beat about the 
 bush long enough. What are you going to do 
 about the boy? " 
 
 Mr. Harding flushed. " If the tariff is ar- 
 ranged to suit us we need not fear his opposi- 
 tion," he answered. 
 
 " Well, and if it isn't? The one thing that I 
 can see to save the American from an absolute 
 slump will be to have Theodore out of the way. 
 That will practically kill the opposition. I know 
 it's hard on you. I don't wonder you try not 
 to see that it has got to be done." Burnham was 
 280 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 forced to sympathy by the look on his compan- 
 ion's face. 
 
 " He is young and hopeful, just starting out in 
 life. Financial troubles will be hard for him to 
 bear," the father said. 
 
 " Oh, he'll bear them all the easier if he's young 
 and hopeful, and he surely doesn't deserve much 
 consideration, supposing you had any right to 
 discriminate." 
 
 The moment which Albion Harding had 
 dreaded for so long had come and found him un- 
 prepared. It seemed almost impossible, even in 
 the midst of the anger and grief which he felt at 
 the thought of his son, to do this thing. But 
 Burnham pressed the matter. 
 
 " You can make it all up to him later, but it's 
 got to be done." 
 
 " I have no assurance that he will let me make 
 it up to him." 
 
 " You have stood a good deal," Burnham 
 urged with some subtlety. " A good many men 
 would have put him in his place to start with. 
 He is spoiled ; hard times will be good for him." 
 
 Mr. Harding was silent. Burnham's words 
 
 had brought back to his mind all the injuries and 
 
 disappointments he had suffered at his son's 
 
 hands from early years up to the present. Last 
 
 290 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and most cruel of all, the son was forcing upon 
 his conscience one more guilty stain. 
 
 " You can't expect me to devise means for the 
 ruin of my own son," he said peevishly. " I 
 leave it all to you. Only mind this ; no personal 
 harm must come to him — and — don't use dis- 
 honorable means. Do you mind going now? 
 I don't care to discuss it any more." 
 
 Burnham puckered his lips as he went down- 
 stairs. " Quite a proposition ! Honorable 
 means ! " he said, and laughed shortly. 
 
 Burnham, however, was in no mood for laugh- 
 ter. He was a man who preferred to look life 
 straight in the face, who found no pleasure in a 
 fool's paradise. All that made life worth living 
 money gave him ; unlike Mr. Harding, he had no 
 inexpensive pleasures. If, with the wreck of the 
 American, should come his own financial ruin, 
 and with it a cessation of the pleasures of the 
 race-course, the gaming table, the palate, he 
 knew that he would not scruple to end existence. 
 This possibility did not seem far distant, as he 
 regarded the situation with eyes just clear 
 enough to see the dangers but not the grounds 
 for hope. Meanwhile he had every incentive to 
 struggle and no scruples to hinder him. 
 
 He had, however, the qualms of Albion Hard- 
 ing's conscience to consider. He knew clearly 
 291 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 enough that the president of the American was 
 wilHng to sacrifice time, convenience, ease, money 
 to the great cause, but was yet eager to keep in- 
 tact his good opinion of himself. He compre- 
 hended, in a measure, that Mr. Harding was 
 willing to give up much of honest self-knowledge 
 to keep this inner approbation unsullied; and 
 realized that it would be for his own advantage 
 to observe strictly his chief's hint as to his un- 
 willingness to assist at his own son's downfall. 
 
 He did not know what to do with this partial 
 liberty at his disposal as regarded means. He 
 saw plainly that radical measures were neces- 
 sary, but he was unwilling to incriminate himself 
 in any way. He knew that Mr. Harding did 
 not like him, and foresaw shrewdly that if the 
 agent should become involved in anything crim- 
 inal the principal would not come to his assist- 
 ance. Mr. Harding's caution as to honorable 
 means he dismissed without further thought. 
 
 He was walking the streets of the valley late 
 one May evening, restless after a harassing 
 evening, when a sudden shower sent him into the 
 doorway of the Labor League Hall for shelter. 
 
 He slipped casually into a vacant seat, and in 
 a moment was absorbed by the words which he 
 heard. Max Rubinovitch, the Russian Jew and 
 labor leader, was speaking. 
 292 
 
THE WARS -OF PEACE 
 
 " Yes, men, Albion Harding would smile if 
 he heard me say that he and men like him are 
 paving- the way for State Socialism. But I tell 
 you it's true. The trust, in all its blackness, is an 
 angel of light. When the trust has grown 
 stronger, and has taxed the people a little more, 
 it will find that its day is over. Let it grow like 
 some magnificent, deadly Upas tree, until the 
 plain people of the country shall rise and say 
 there shall be no more rich and poor, no more 
 classes and masses; that each man shall give to 
 the perfect state the best of his labor and ability, 
 and exact from it shelter and food, comfort and 
 simple pleasures, and protection in age and sick- 
 ness." 
 
 Burnham heard no more. Something in the 
 words had suggested a plan to him, wild and 
 chimerical, yet more of a clue to his perplexing 
 problem than any he had yet found. He gazed 
 at the speaker keenly. He had been familiar 
 with the face for several years. Their times 
 of coming and going had fallen together, as the 
 ways of men will do, in a city large or small. 
 He noted a marked deterioration in the man's 
 appearance. His brilliant coloring had faded to 
 an unhealthy greyness, his dress was untidy. 
 Here and there the rich flow of words faltered 
 for a moment. The voice had grown harsh and 
 
 293 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 husky in certain notes. Burnham, gazing fixed- 
 ly, thought the man had been drinking. If this 
 surmise were true, it simplified as well as com- 
 plicated the plan which had suddenly flashed over 
 him. 
 
 He waited until the meeting was over and then 
 linked his arm familiarly through Rubinovitch's, 
 and spoke carelessly. 
 
 " See here, Mr. Rubinovitch, all this business 
 you have been talking about big combines inter- 
 ests me immensely." 
 
 "Does it?" Rubinovitch inquired apathetical- 
 ly. The stimulus of his eager audience gone, he 
 had grown listless. 
 
 " You really mean to say that you think the 
 success of trusts would finally secure your reign 
 of socialism, or whatever you call it ? " 
 
 " Surely," said Rubinovitch with more anima- 
 tion. " The people are hard to rouse, but the 
 rule of shameless greed will excite them at last." 
 
 " And you think things look that way even 
 now ? " 
 
 " I don't see how any one can doubt it. Look 
 at the power trusts are getting everywhere. They 
 almost have power of life and death over their 
 men. They will use any means to crush opposi- 
 tion. They control more than half the state 
 legislatures, and they are going to control the 
 294 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 national one. They grind the poor all the time and 
 heap up money and give it away, and you never 
 find an institution, however holy its pretences 
 may be, however it may pose before the world, 
 that won't take their money, stained by blood and 
 the sweat of unpaid toil though it is. I say the 
 money better stay where it belongs in the first 
 place, than be heaped up by foul means and given 
 away in charity. It isn't charity that the work- 
 men want, but the independence which is their 
 due." 
 
 Rubinovitch was talking wildly in his platform 
 tones, and with a platform exaggeration. Burn- 
 ham, sensible of the absurdity of the situation, 
 guided his excited companion back to the more 
 practical aspect of the subject by a skilful ques- 
 tion. " Then you think people who oppose the 
 combine are really hindering progress ? " 
 
 " The less opposition they meet the sooner 
 they'll drive the people to action," Rubinovitch 
 said decidedly. 
 
 " And measures against the opponents of the 
 trust would bring about the end you are after 
 sooner than measures against the trusts them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it follows," Rubinovitch said 
 thoughtfully. " One can't help sympathizing 
 with the fight against monopolies, but practi- 
 295 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 cally I suppose their opponents are only delaying 
 the time when the people will rise and sweep 
 the monopoly, along with the government it con- 
 trols, off the face of the earth." 
 
 The two men separated, and Rubinovitch went 
 home to his poor room, sparely furnished save 
 for the many books which he had collected 
 through years of study. He sat awhile by his 
 window in deep and bitter thought. He was a 
 disappointed man, alien alike to his own race 
 and that in which he had sought adoption. He 
 knew that he had never made the place for him- 
 self which his talents merited. Ill-health and 
 pain had robbed him of his splendid physique, 
 and the insidious habit which had come of suf- 
 fering had worked havoc with his keen, self- 
 schooled brain. Max Rubinovitch realized bit- 
 terly that he was a failure. He had, however, 
 his consolations. He knew that he swayed his 
 audiences as never before, and something like in- 
 toxication seized him as he exerted this power 
 to the utmost. Sometimes in his clearer mo- 
 ments he knew that much of his speech was wild 
 and florid, without ordered thought; even then, 
 however, he recognized its power, a power that 
 clearer thinking lacked. The one idea reiterated, 
 had acquired a force in the simple minds he dom- 
 inated which nothing could neutralize. 
 296 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 He had another alleviation in his dreary lot. 
 Books had begun to fail him of late; but in their 
 place had come something even more satisfying. 
 A certain small white powder could fill the room 
 with glowing Utopias. He measured out a 
 portion of this on the evening of his conversa- 
 tion with Burnham, and soon the ideal state, 
 rose-colored and confused, but perfectly real and 
 vivid, took shape before his half-closed eyes. He 
 dreamed of a time when a man should be a man 
 and nothing more, and each traveller through 
 life could walk erect and unaided. 
 
 Only a few days later Burnham, driving rap- 
 idly, overtook Rubinovitch and asked him to 
 ride. They sat for a while in silence, then Burn- 
 ham said abruptly: 
 
 " I've been thinking about that theory of 
 yours ! " He tried to smile, but his heavy form 
 was almost trembling with excitement. These 
 few minutes might mean so much. 
 
 " What theory ? " queried Rubinovitch ab- 
 stractedly. 
 
 " Why, your indirect way of getting rid of 
 trusts by destroying all opposition and letting 
 them ruin themselves. It's quite a scheme. You 
 see I'm a little interested in one combine myself, 
 and I confess I should like to see the opposition 
 to it wiped out. The trust would last out my 
 2^7 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 time even then, I guess, and after that — " "he 
 laughed grimly. " But the curious thing about 
 all you theorists is that you never seem to think 
 of putting your ideas into practice." 
 
 " When the time is ripe you will find us 
 ready," Rubinovitch said musingly. " One false, 
 precipitate step might delay the end we seek by 
 a hundred years." 
 
 " And striking while the iron is hot hasten it 
 as much. But there, — theories, theories." 
 
 " Not all theories, either. You'll see us put- 
 ting them into practice when the time is ripe." 
 Rubinovitch spoke defiantly. 
 
 " You'd better be careful. I shall expect that 
 you'll be blowing up Theodore Harding's mill 
 next thing, so that the American shall have a 
 clear road to ruin." 
 
 Burnham laughed as if the idea was prepos- 
 terous, but Rubinovitch did not seem to see the 
 humor of the remark. 
 
 " You think that would destroy the opposi- 
 tion ? " he questioned keenly. 
 
 " Can't say for certain, of course ; but all the 
 rest of them seem to be on their last legs." 
 
 " He might rebuild," Rubinovitch suggested. 
 
 " Hasn't got the money, I'm pretty sure, and 
 he's not a chap to do much borrowing. It would 
 come pretty hard on him, though." 
 298 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Something in the tone jarfed on Rubinovitch. 
 
 " Any harder, tell me, than life does every day 
 on two-thirds of the human race?" 
 
 " He hasn't been used to it, you see." 
 
 " Then he has had so much more good fortune 
 than the rest of us. Not but I like him. He's 
 the one man in this city or this country either 
 that I care a d — n for. But there's no reason he 
 should have everything and I nothing. There 
 are men just as good as he, who have worked 
 harder every day of their lives, and have died in 
 the poorhouse at last." 
 
 " Do you suppose this revolution of yours will 
 come without violence ? " Burnham asked cas- 
 ually. 
 
 " You can hardly expect the final upheaval to 
 come without bloodshed." Rubinovitch spoke 
 calmly. 
 
 " But if you could blow up Theodore Hard- 
 ing's mill when he wasn't in it you'd prefer to do 
 it, then ? " Burnham laughed as if the putting of 
 Rubinovitch's vague theories into concrete terms 
 were a huge joke. 
 
 " Of course," Rubinovitch said abstractedly. 
 He had drifted once more into the dream world 
 which bordered his life. 
 
 That night the young man sat by his window 
 299 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 until late. He watched the passers-by as their 
 number gradually lessened, and saw the glimmer- 
 ing windows darken one by one. He saw lamps 
 whiten in the early radiance of the East. His 
 head was full of dreams. He saw himself as the 
 agent in the great Millennium for which he 
 hoped. The shibboleth of his creed, " From each 
 according to his ability; to each according to his 
 need," was something more than an epigram to 
 Max Rubinovitch. It was the outline of a pos- 
 sible and even probable state of society. He ad- 
 mitted, as he pondered, that his comrades in the 
 cause had lacked practicality. It was time, as 
 this plain business man had intimated, that theo- 
 ries should be given over for practice. 
 
 One decisive step, if no more, was possible. 
 Theodore Harding once out of the way, the 
 American, on^ of the largest of the big monopo- 
 lies, could prosper unhindered. It could amass 
 unlimited wealth, and with this wealth buy every- 
 thing it craved, even up to the power of govern- 
 ment, — everything but the acquiescence of the 
 people. 
 
 That at last would come to an end. Then the 
 plain men of the country would spring into re- 
 volt, peacefully at the polls, or in blood on the 
 battle-field, and the people, at last triumphant, 
 would destroy the trust-subsidized government, 
 300 
 
.THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and set up a Utopian republic of actual equality. 
 There would be no high places in this ideal com- 
 monwealth, save in the memories of its citizens, 
 but there the name of Max Rubinovitch would be 
 loved — as that of the one who had struck the 
 first blow. 
 
 The thought came back to him again and 
 again, night after night. What if this were the 
 decisive moment and he let it slip? He steeled 
 his heart against pity. Harding's suffering 
 would be no more than that of all the world save 
 the chosen few. In his high, drug-inspired mood, 
 he found no qualms of conscience to hinder him. 
 His mind had been hardened for years to the sac- 
 rifice of life, if it were necessary, for the triumph 
 of a principle. He had gazed too often in fancy 
 upon bloody battle-fields, stained for the cause 
 of the people, to shrink from the mere destruc- 
 tion of property. The mill was not Harding's, 
 in point of fact; it belonged to the operatives, 
 who through long years of ill-paid labor had 
 earned it for him. It should go to them, at 
 last, if not for years, then none the less surely. 
 
 Sometimes, in the long nights in which he 
 thought of these things, the question of time 
 would trouble him. His life would have gone 
 out in nothingness, he would be but a part of in- 
 animate creation once more when the new regime 
 301 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 should set men free. But at other moments, 
 when his hopes glowed highest, it seemed to him 
 that a few years might see the impossible made 
 possible, the bondman at liberty. 
 
 302 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Theodore was puzzling over business that 
 spring with more than usual concentration. By 
 Mr. Ordway's will he had been named executor, 
 and in this way had fallen heir to much 
 of trouble and perplexity. It was indeed dreary 
 work, trying to save some little remnant from the 
 general wreckage, a labor made even harder by 
 the feeling that his own father had wrought the 
 ruin. 
 
 It seemed as if William Ordway had gone mad 
 in the last six months of his life. He had been 
 for sixty years plodding and prudent, wasting 
 nothing, borrowing nothing even in times of ex- 
 tremity. Then all at once, with almost certain 
 failure staring him in the face, he had borrowed 
 right and left, apparently regardless of what 
 would happen to his wife and daughter when all 
 was over. It was an instance of the insanity 
 which seems to lie latent in the sanest minds, 
 303 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ready to break forth when circumstances con- 
 spire aright. 
 
 When matters were finally settled the house 
 remained only slightly encumbered. Faith had 
 fulfilled her jesting prophecy and opened the lit- 
 tle restaurant on a business basis, with an abil- 
 ity that bade fair to make it a financial success. 
 Theodore had wished to take their burdens upon 
 himself, and had urged a speedy marriage. 
 Faith, however, had demurred, anxious to prove 
 her competence to support herself, and Theodore 
 had not then felt inclined to plead or coerce. He 
 grew impatient, however, as the spring passed, 
 and he could see no reason for delaying their 
 marriage. Days spent apart had grown to seem 
 days wasted to him. A feeling new to him, of 
 fear and foreboding at his own happiness, came 
 sometimes to vex his lonely moments. He could 
 not analyse his late sense of foreboding, but 
 sometimes the thought of the many hazards of 
 living, and the uncertainty of the future terrified 
 him. 
 
 One day in May, as they drove among the hills 
 to the north of Underbill, he made up his mind 
 to speak decisively. He had determined that he 
 would not be put off. 
 
 "I want to talk something over with you, 
 Faith. I don't mean to be unreasonable or to 
 
 304 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 hurry you, dear; but I want to know when you 
 will marry me." 
 
 " Oh, Theodore, don't ; not for a long time." 
 There was something like fear in her voice. 
 
 "Why not, Faith? You owe me a reason," 
 he urged gently. 
 
 " Only think how short a time we have been 
 engaged, — not two months," she protested. 
 
 " What does that have to do with it, dear 
 girl? We have known each other a long time. 
 We are neither of us likely to change." 
 
 " And there's mother." 
 
 Theodore was very patient. "You won't 
 have to leave her. We can live together. You 
 can go on with the restaurant, if you insist, — 
 you may have to support your bankirupt husband 
 that way, some day. I don't know that I ought 
 to urge it, just on that account." He turned 
 suddenly sober. " I may be a poor man. Faith ; 
 there is always that to consider. But I've got 
 my two hands — and my knowledge of the busi- 
 ness. Lots of people start with no more." 
 
 " That doesn't count with me," said Faith de- 
 cidedly. " It would be strange if we couldn't 
 manage. There's always the restaurant, you 
 know," and she tried to laugh. 
 
 " Then you will? " he questioned eagerly. 
 305 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Some time, of course. But I don't want to 
 now." 
 
 " And I do. I don't want to be selfish, and if 
 any of your reasons were good ones I think I 
 could be convinced. If you have any feeling 
 about giving up your liberty — or anything of 
 that sort, don't think of it again. You shall 
 have the same freedom." 
 
 " It isn't that. We've neither of us any lib- 
 erty worth speaking of, even now. We gave 
 that up when we began to love each other." 
 
 " By Jove, that's so ! " said Theodore delight- 
 edly. " I never thought of it in that way be- 
 fore. But what is your reason, then ? " 
 
 " I suppose it's because this is so beautiful and 
 satisfactory that I'm afraid to spoil it by trying 
 for anything better. It's because I'm afraid," 
 she murmured, half-shamefacedly. 
 
 " Faith, I'm sorry to insist, but just talk sense 
 a little. Do you think we are ever going to 
 know whether we'll be happy or not until we 
 try? It doesn't do any good to put it off. If 
 anything should happen to either of us," his 
 voice broke. 
 
 " I know it, dearest. Sometimes I can't 
 sleep for thinking of the American and that aw- 
 ful Mr. Burnham. If they should harm you in 
 306 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 any way I could never forgive myself for refus- 
 ing — " 
 
 Harding laughed in genuine amusement. 
 
 " The president of the American is my father, 
 and however much we may disapprove of his 
 methods I don't think we need fear that he will 
 use violence toward his son. But as you say, 
 you would feel badly — " he was taking advan- 
 tage, half-jestingly, of her fears. 
 
 " And you are making fun of me. It isn't 
 anything to joke about." 
 
 " All right, I won't. I never felt less like 
 joking in my life." 
 
 There was a little pause, then Harding con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " I don't want to play the baby, Faith, but 
 you've no idea how lonely I have been. I always 
 was a fellow who liked to settle down at home' 
 after my day's work was done. It's almost a 
 year now since I had a home at all, and there 
 wasn't much comfort in it for a long while be- 
 fore that. I'm getting tired of living the way 
 I do. A dog isn't much of a family, after all," 
 and he laid a caressing hand on the head of Dave 
 who sat on the bottom of the buggy. 
 
 They were bound for the little hunting lodge 
 in the woods where Theodore had spent many 
 happy hours, and they drove on in almost utter 
 307 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 silence until they reached their destination. But 
 when Theodore opened the door of the little house 
 Faith uttered a cry of delight. 
 
 She went about the long room and they dis- 
 cussed some improvements upon which Theodore 
 wished her approval. She admired all the con- 
 trivances for comfort willingly, but all the time 
 she was deep in thought, deciding almost with- 
 out reflection an important question. Theo- 
 dore's argurnents had not convinced her, but his 
 appeal to her sympathy had. 
 
 She had made up her mind as they moved out 
 side by side upon the little porch and gazed up 
 the lake. The clouds floated rose-colored above 
 the dark pines. The wind had sunk and the lake 
 reflected rose and green. Bird-notes jangled 
 musically in the Sabbath air. Suddenly from 
 afar sounded the note of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Theodore drew his sweetheart to his side. 
 
 " Do you like it, Faith ? " he said gently. 
 
 " It is beautiful ! " she answered softly. 
 " Shall we come here then ? " 
 
 There was a little pause, then he caught her 
 meaning. 
 
 " When ? " was all he said. 
 
 "Will it be too long till the last of June?" 
 she answered. 
 
 308 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 As the June days drew toward their longest, 
 Underhill talked of Theodore Harding's ap- 
 proaching marriage, of his father's anger and his 
 mother's grief; and speculated on the outcome of 
 the business struggle between Theodore and his 
 father. No one guessed, however, least of all 
 Theodore himself, that the American was in des- 
 perate straits ; had such a rumor gone abroad the 
 interest would have been more intense. Theodore, 
 with his characteristic belief in the goodness of 
 human nature, never suspected for an instant that 
 his rivals meditated any harm to him. 
 
 There was little left of the Theodore Harding 
 of college days in this man — little and yet much. 
 There was the same joyous, spontaneous kindness 
 and friendliness toward all the world, man and 
 brute; there was the same lack of any depth of 
 thought ; the man, like the boy, took his opinions 
 ready-made ; but in place of the crude, half-under- 
 stood dissatisfaction were a strength and poise of 
 which the boy had hardly given promise. 
 
 Harding had a fully formed aim in life, justi- 
 fied by six years of endeavor, to live cleanly and 
 honestly, making the best of himself. He had 
 settled to his work with the conviction that it was 
 the one for which he was fitted, with the certainty 
 that his calling was a high and honorable one. He 
 had dignified even commonplace labor by 
 309 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the way in which he regarded it. With 
 the wild young lads of the mills Theodore had 
 been particularly successful. He had known all 
 the temptations that come to the restless nature, 
 the unfilled mind. His past experience had made 
 him tolerant of wrongdoing in others. The boys' 
 clubs which he had organized had grown beyond 
 the bounds of his own mill, as most of his enter- 
 prises did, and had taken in many lads from all 
 Underbill. One day Theodore had said, half- 
 bashfully, in answer to some comment on the 
 growth in order among the rough youths: 
 
 " Do you know, Frank, you are responsible for 
 that, partly. When I see a fellow going the 
 pace, I tell him what you said to me once." 
 
 " What was that? " Reid queried. 
 
 " Why, you said if I had a young brother for 
 whom I was responsible, I would do the best for 
 him I could, not get him into scrapes; and when 
 he was in them I would help him out, and not 
 call him down too hard, — that I would try to 
 make just as much of a fellow of him as I could. 
 That made me think more about it than I ever 
 did before, and somehow or other it strikes every 
 fellow I've ever said it to the same way. Of 
 course it doesn't always last, but it always makes 
 'em think." 
 
 " You've got hold of them in some way or 
 310 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 other, Teddy. There's no doubt about it 
 You're the most popular man in Underbill." 
 
 " Oh, shut up, Frank. You're a flatterer. I 
 shall begin telling you some truths about the 
 ' Criterion,' if you don't look out. Evans wrote 
 me the other day that you would make it the most 
 influential paper in the state if you kept on as you 
 had begun." 
 
 It was only a week from his wedding day and 
 Harding had made all his preparations for a fly- 
 ing trip to New York. Faith and he were to 
 spend their honeymoon at the camp on Clear 
 Pond, and Theodore wished to be as free from 
 business cares as possible. So he was getting 
 through a great amount of work beforehand. 
 They must, of course, make frequent trips back 
 and forth — Theodore to take charge of the mill. 
 Faith to see to the management of the restaurant 
 which had not yet been given up. But they were 
 sure of long drives in the morning and afternoon, 
 of sunsets and moonrises over the lake. 
 
 As he dressed for his trip that afternoon Hard- 
 ing whistled like some gleeful blackbird, com- 
 panioned as he was by the thought that on his 
 next business trip to New York his wife should 
 go with him. 
 
 He ran downstairs with his bag in his hand 
 ^ 3" 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and the dog at his heels and met Max Rubino- 
 vitch lounging beside the door. Something in 
 the listless droop of the man's shoulders and his 
 sunken eyes roused Harding's pity. He stopped 
 now on a friendly impulse. 
 
 " Hulloa, Rubinovitch ! " he said, " Were you 
 coming up to see me ? " 
 
 The other looked at him dully. 
 
 " No," he answered. 
 
 " It's just as well, for I'm going to catch the 
 train for New York. But say, — why don't you 
 come around sometime? You've given it up al- 
 together." 
 
 " What difference does it make ? " Rubino- 
 vitch asked sullenly. 
 
 " Not any, may be, to you, but it does to me. 
 We used to have some splendid talks. I never 
 saw a man I could disagree with better." Theo- 
 dore's tones were friendly. 
 
 " We never did agree very well," said Rubino- 
 vitch slowly, his face brightening a little under 
 Harding's cordiality. " I don't agree with you 
 over the stand you are taking about the trust. 
 You are all wrong." 
 
 " Perhaps I am," said Harding good-natured- 
 ly. " I should like to have your ideas about it. 
 Come around the first of the week, when I get 
 home from New York, and we'll talk it over. It 
 312 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 may be your last chance to call on me in my bach- 
 elor den. Good bye." 
 
 Harding moved hurriedly down the street, 
 fearful lest he had squandered precious time. He 
 had meant to take a roundabout route in order to 
 leave the dog at Mrs. Ordway's, but on looking 
 at his watch he decided to send him back from the 
 station. His haste, however, was useless, for, as 
 he entered the station square, the train drew 
 steadily out. 
 
 Harding turned on his heel in disgust. There 
 was no other train until morning. There was 
 nothing to do but to go back to the mill, and 
 while away the time as best he might. Faith 
 was out of town and would not return until the 
 next day, so she could offer no resources. He 
 took a sudden resolve at sight of a small boy. 
 
 " Hi ! Jimmy," he called. " Going anywhere 
 in particular ? " 
 
 " Goin' up to me grandmother's on the 'lec- 
 trics. What you want ? " 
 
 " I'll give you a quarter if you'll take this bag 
 up to the mill and set it inside the side door. 
 See?" 
 
 " Yes, boss," and the youngster pocketed the 
 coin joyfully. 
 
 " Here's the key. Leave it with Mr. Casey in 
 the mill. I've got another." 
 313 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Then Harding struck out at an easy pace on 
 the Baxter Road, with the dog making wide cir- 
 cuits on either side. 
 
 The fading day was cool and the roads were 
 hard with the rain of the night before. The air 
 was resonant with bird-songs; the shadows 
 stretched long before him as he went toward the 
 East. He looked back with pride from the top 
 of a hill upon his chimneys smoking busily 
 among the rest, and wondered what the future 
 had in store for all his business plans. Then he 
 turned and swung out into the country. Nothing 
 could cloud his content for long. 
 
 He ate his supper at the little " Cross Road's 
 Inn " far out, and lingered long over the simple 
 meal. Then he trudged back, tired and happy, 
 stumbled upstairs in the darkness, leaving Dave 
 to seek his usual resting place of warm nights 
 down by the stream side, and flung himself sleep- 
 ily on the couch without undressing. 
 
 314 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 " Only a day or two more and the end is sure." 
 
 Oakley and Mr. Harding were seated in the 
 
 library talking over the results of the mission to 
 
 Washington. The latter leaned back with a sigh 
 
 of relief. 
 
 " It has been a long, hard fight." 
 " That's a fact. But they have delayed and 
 compromised and squabbled until we are sure of 
 getting what we wanted," Oakley replied a little 
 contemptuously. "We've got what we wanted 
 and we've paid the price," he added almost reluc- 
 tantly. His air had a strange mingling of shame 
 and triumph ; he had changed in some subtle way 
 and there were new lines in his good humored 
 face. Mr. Harding interrupted hastily. 
 
 " Much hard work has certainly been done." 
 " And more than hard work has gone into it," 
 Oakley commented irritably. " You have called 
 for no statement of our expenditures." 
 
 31S 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I did not require any. I felt that I could 
 safely trust the matter to you." 
 
 " But I prefer to give one," said Oakley reck- 
 lessly, pouring out another glass of wine. 
 " Here's a list of — " 
 
 " You are very rash to carry any such docu- 
 ment about with you," Mr. Harding interposed 
 hastily. 
 
 " It would tell nothing to anyone else. It is 
 merely a list of names. Aren't you going to look 
 at it?" 
 
 " I prefer not to see it," the president of the 
 American said slowly. " Nothing is to be gained 
 by it, that I can see." 
 
 Oakley looked at his father-in-law with a slow- 
 kindling spark of anger in his eyes. The pecul- 
 iar moral cowardice of the man, the willingness 
 that the deed should be done, if only in some way 
 he might shirk the personal responsibility, 
 dawned on the young man for the first time. 
 
 " General Favor said once, * Harding thinks he 
 can make the government of the United States 
 engineer his personal schemes and yet -keep his 
 hands clean. He'll find out his mistake before 
 he get's done with it,' " Oakley said abruptly. 
 
 " I don't know what that has to do with this 
 matter. The fewer people who know of this the 
 better," Mr. Harding persisted. 
 316 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " That doesn't shift your personal responsibil- 
 ity." . ^ 
 
 " I never thought it did. I can bear the onus 
 of responsibiHty for this necessary measure," Mr. 
 Harding responded severely. 
 
 "How necessary?" Oakley asked in incredu- 
 lous tones. 
 
 " If that measure had been put through the 
 American would have gone into a receiver's 
 hands inside of six months." 
 
 "You don't mean it?" said Oakley, truly 
 shocked by this sudden news. 
 
 " Would I be likely to jest about it? Of course 
 this is in the strictest confidence, but I wanted 
 )'ou to know that I am hard pressed. Perhaps 
 you will be less ready to criticise now you know 
 how matters actually stand." 
 
 " I admit that you are in a hard place, but I 
 don't know that that fact saves my self-respect." 
 The tone was not tolerant. 
 
 " I don't know that it does. I can only point 
 out to you that no one compelled you to engage in 
 this business in any way. The blame seems to 
 me wholly your own. You knew what you would 
 have to do if you went to Washington." 
 
 Oakley said nothing. His eyes were cold, his 
 kindly face was grim. He felt that he had lost 
 his honor in this cause and had little sympathy 
 317 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 for the equivocations of the man who had urged 
 him to his shame. He had yielded good-na- 
 turedly to Mr. Harding's wishes and the increas- 
 ing pressure of financial difficulties, and had 
 helped spend the money of the American freely. 
 He dreaded the storm of censure which would 
 arise when the Barnes bill should actually come 
 to a vote. He foresaw that his name, humble in- 
 strument though he was, would be unfailingly 
 associated with it. 
 
 " And so Theodore is going to be married next 
 week ? " said Oakley after a long and awkward 
 pause. He poured himself still another glass of 
 wine and his hand trembled, letting a drop fall on 
 the polished table. His three months in Wash- 
 ington had told on him in more ways than one. 
 " And I suppose he thinks he is going to be per- 
 fectly happy," he added bitterly. 
 
 Mr. Harding gave his companion a searching 
 look. Of course Oakley and Althea were not 
 happy. How could they be, with Althea's ex- 
 travagance and impatience of control, and Oak- 
 ley's continual worry and dissatisfaction. 
 
 So many unpleasant thoughts crowded upon 
 Mr. Harding that he sought the music room in- 
 stead of his chamber. A puff of cool air, laden 
 with the scent of pines, met him as he opened the 
 door. The room as usual rested him at his very 
 318 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 entrance. It was but dimly lighted. One an- 
 tique lamp in a dull gold bracket beside the organ 
 shed a yellow light on the gleaming keys. The 
 room was otherwise in twilight. The high 
 arched windows were open wide, and low in their 
 framing twinkled the many lights of the valley. 
 
 Albion Harding sank restlessly to the seat be- 
 fore the organ and brought forth thunderous 
 chords ; his pent-up unrest sought relief in a tu- 
 mult of discordant notes. They were no more 
 discordant than his life, he told himself with cruel 
 frankness, — his life with its contrast between 
 profession and practice. He had read in a 
 marked paper that morning a cruel arraignment 
 of himself and his methods, which specified step 
 by step the means by which the American had 
 been able to gain its ends. Some of the accusa- 
 tions stung him with their truth, some with their 
 falsity; but at the end came a few bitter words 
 that had rung in his ears all day : 
 
 " Does he think, we wonder, that ignorance of 
 the means by which his ends are gained frees his 
 poor, equivocating soul from its burden of 
 crime ? " 
 
 The bitto* words filled his thoughts as he 
 wrenched desultory chord and cadence from the 
 organ. It mattered not that the journal was a 
 scurrilous and abusive sheet ; the years met him in 
 
 319 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 arraignment. Ordway's worn face as he had 
 seen it last, Oakley's reckless, bitter laugh, the 
 early threads of grey in his son's hair, his wife's 
 furtive, searching look when she thought him ab- 
 sorbed, — all these confronted him. He had done 
 these things. 
 
 And what was he? In common opinion little 
 better than a murderer, a thief, a corrupter of the 
 government of his native land. How had this 
 come about? He thought of the young man, 
 known to the roistering students of a German 
 university as "Lady Harding." He had been true 
 and honorable. When had the change begun? 
 He had thought himself just and merciful all 
 these years. He did not see, even in this moment 
 of self revelation, that he had compromised with 
 his conscience here and there for years ; that the 
 need for ruthless cunning, for remorseless pur- 
 suance of his end at any cost, had never before 
 arisen to try him. 
 
 He had gradually glided from clashing, dis- 
 connected chords into fragmentary strains. The 
 eternal, restless striving for good and falling 
 back into evil cried out under his touch. Life's 
 fruitless aspiration, its underlying despair, sobbed 
 from the big instrument. And still the self-com- 
 muning went on. 
 
 Should not the motive count? He had not 
 .■^20 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 done it for himself — self was at least secondary. 
 He had labored for an idea, for a theory, for the 
 hope of renovating the industrial world by the 
 example he should set. Was it selfishness, as 
 selfishness is usually counted, to wish to be the 
 leader of a good cause? He had hoped to leave 
 a name to his son and his son's sons which should 
 stand for honor and probity, and a tense struggle 
 against heavy odds, for the success of a theory. 
 He admitted frankly that he had not been true to 
 his ideals. He had been obliged to compromise, 
 to give in a point here and there for the further- 
 ance of his great aim. But was he not, on the 
 other hand, more true to that ideal by giving in 
 to pressure if this yielding aloine made realization 
 possible ? Was it not, after all, nobler for him to 
 have given up a point here and there of his highly 
 prized self-esteem ? Had he not made the great- 
 est sacrifice possible when he had laid upon his 
 conscience a blemish ? 
 
 The music was doing its accustomed work 
 with him. Half unconsciously the player drew 
 forth strains more assured, less vibrant with loss 
 and shame, pulsing with a great energy, a great 
 victory. The cause was what he should think 
 of; the end was to be desired, of that he was sure. 
 Combination was a tendency, a force, no more to 
 be thwarted or gainsaid than the tides or the cir- 
 321 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 cuit of the earth. What a work then was his 
 who should pilot it aright! 
 
 And its course must be one of uprightness, he 
 thought with tightened lips, as the organ notes 
 swelled forth in a triumphal march. The worst 
 was already over; victorious in the tariff fight, 
 the path was clear ahead. There need be no 
 measures taken against Theodore. He thanked 
 Heaven that that deed had been averted in time. 
 There had been other blots and blemishes in the 
 past, he told himself sadly, though not so many 
 nor so wanton as popular opinion hinted. He 
 wondered if he could ever clear the name of the 
 company from the stain that rested upon it, if he 
 could ever stand again before men clear from the 
 shadow of blame? He realized that the world 
 could never know that the American had been 
 forced to desperate measures for its bare exist- 
 ence. But the memory of men is short ; he would 
 have a fortune to give away and he vowed that he 
 would not spare it in the service of mankind. 
 The money should, at least, have no spot upon its 
 spending. He thought, with a glow at his heart, 
 of a little, struggling college of his own religious 
 tenets of which he had read but lately. He re- 
 membered the recital of the work they were doing 
 against almost overwhelming odds, and his heart 
 swelled with gratitude for the assured prosperity 
 322 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 which would enable him to double or treble their 
 efficiency. That would be a fitting thank-offer- 
 ing for his escape from financial ruin. He could 
 profifer this aid before commencement. He could 
 almost see the newspaper head-lines which should 
 announce his gift, could almost fancy the cheers 
 of the students, the smiles of professors. He re- 
 membered such scenes from his own college days. 
 He felt that he, must do this thing at once and 
 hear words of praise associated with his name. 
 
 This plan soothed him until his mood became 
 singularly softened. He felt at peace with all the 
 world. He could even admit the errors of his 
 past, the sincerity of his detractors. The music 
 was drawing a merciful veil over the doubtful 
 passages in his life. It seemed to him that his 
 path was emerging, at last, from the valleys of 
 perplexity, and a dreary compulsion, upon the 
 hill tops of peace. 
 
 His hands glided into a soft adagio of Bee- 
 thoven's which had always reminded him of a 
 dim pine wood. The melody swelled and sank 
 again like wind in the tree-tops, broken now and 
 then by the soft falling ripple of a bird's cadence. 
 Then silence would come for a second, after a 
 lingering chord, followed by the rush of the 
 wind-like melody once more. The abiding peace 
 of the pine woods fell upon Albion Harding's 
 323 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 spirit. His easily moved, emotional nature an- 
 swered to the music, the music responded to the 
 emotion. Life was so simple after all. To do 
 right was the only thing — and to do right 
 should be his care ; there was no need to do wrong 
 any more, and the lost peace would yet come 
 back. 
 
 One of those floods of emotion which seem to 
 stand for so much in the soul's battle, and may 
 after all mean so little in practical results, had 
 hold of the man. The old peace had come back ; 
 that for the moment seemed all to him. He for- 
 got the ruin that the big monopoly had left in its 
 wake, the harm to all the lives which had touched 
 his; or, if he remembered these things, it was 
 only to see them all repaired as magically as the 
 lost good had come back to him. His life should 
 be one long service of reparation for the wrong 
 he had inadvertently done, — inadvertently, he 
 said now. 
 
 Upon the swells and diminuendos of the music 
 were floating vague snatches of verse, the verse 
 which expresses the musician's keen ache of hap- 
 piness as no other has ever done. They rose and 
 fell with the music, little more than glowing 
 words. As the last soft notes throbbed away 
 into silence, Albion Harding murmured in a voice 
 that trembled, 
 
 324 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " for my resting place is found, , 
 
 . The C Major of this Hfe, and now I will 
 
 try to sleep." 
 
 Quick tears, drawn forth by a genuine desire 
 for better things, as well as by his appreciation 
 of the poetic beauty of the scene, rushed into his 
 eyes. He leaned his head forward upon his arms. 
 He was very tired and at peace. Life was plain 
 before him once more, a life of reparation, with- 
 out the giving up of his aim. God was good to 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly a tremendous detonation shook the 
 house, rattling the windows like castanets, and 
 went rolling down the valley, gaining a new vol- 
 ume from each succeeding hill and at last dying 
 away slowly into a dreadful silence of horror and 
 amaze. 
 
 Albion Harding sat for a moment half- 
 stunned. Then he was at the window, steadying 
 himself by the casing with one hand, and 
 straining his eyes out over the valley. All was 
 darkness save for the occasional glow of a street 
 light. Then, after a breathless pause, the thing 
 which he feared to see, came to pass. At the 
 place where his eyes were fastened, a slender, 
 yellow tongue of flame rose into the darkness just 
 where he had seen his son's chimneys smoke 
 morning after morning. 
 
 325 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Two thoughts came to him as he hurried to his 
 wife's room — to reassure her and to see for him- 
 self. He found her at a south window gazing 
 out over the valley. 
 
 " It's Theodore's mill," she said calmly. " He 
 is killed ! " Her lips were stiff and white. 
 
 Her husband put his arm about her. " Per- 
 haps it isn't that at all. And you told me he was 
 going to New York, didn't you, Evelyn ? " he 
 said, striving for calmness. 
 
 " He said so today — yesterday." There was 
 a gleam of hope in her eyes. " Go quick and 
 see!'' 
 
 The sound of shouts came faintly up from the 
 streets below, as Oakley and Mr. Harding ran 
 down the hill. The doleful whine of the fire- 
 alarm was answered by the brisk clanging of 
 bells. White faces appeared at half-lit windows, 
 along the way. Men raced along the street, slip- 
 ping on their coats as they ran. 
 
 The dread that clutched Mr. Harding's heart 
 forbade speech and merged into physical pain. 
 He had known this feeling of deathly illness more 
 than once of late. His heart beat convulsively, 
 and then seemed to stand still. He sank on the 
 curb beside the way. 
 
 " Go on, Marcus ! " he gasped, " I can't just 
 now." And Oakley with one careless glance ran 
 326 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 on. In a moment the stabbing pain lessened and 
 left Mr. Harding strangely weak. He was say- 
 ing helplessly to himself, " He wouldn't do it un- 
 less he was away, — unless he knew Theodore 
 was away." 
 
 He sat weakly in the shadow, watching the 
 men of Underbill run past. At length he gained 
 sufficient strength to go on and followed the hur- 
 rying procession wearily. 
 
 As he turned the sharp corner the scene of de- 
 struction met his eyes. The mill had stood apart 
 from other buildings on the bank oi the river. 
 The explosion seemed to have driven the wreck- 
 age into two piles, one of which was flaming up 
 grandly. Upon the other which had not yet 
 caught fire, the engines were playing jets of 
 water which took rainbow colors in the light of 
 the flames. The river stretched a broad band of 
 flame-color. Beyond in the firelight, the win- 
 dows in the long tenements showed shivered into 
 fragments. Here and there, too, an adjacent 
 wall was crushed by the force of the explosion. 
 The crowd, distinct in the firelight, pressed as 
 close to the ruins as the cordon of police would 
 permit. 
 
 " Where's Theodore ? " the father's breathless 
 voice questioned indiscriminately into the crowd. 
 327 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 "Has any one seen anything of my son? He 
 slept in the mill." 
 
 The crowd was not over-tolerant of the ques- 
 tion ; it knew to a man that Theodore slept in the 
 mill. It had its own bitter anxiety. A grim 
 rumor was already whispered about from mouth 
 to mouth — a rumor founded on nothing more 
 than popular sympathy for the young man, dis- 
 trust of the older one, and a dislike for the order 
 of things which he represented. 
 
 " What in do you suppose we know about 
 
 it ? " a rough voice answered. " You are a pretty 
 one to be askin' where your own son is ! You're 
 the one that's got something to gain by having 
 him out of the way." . 
 
 Mr. Harding winced at these words as if he 
 had been struck. Anxiety regarding his son had 
 for the moment obliterated the thought of his 
 own position. 
 
 He pressed forward to the outskirts of the 
 crowd. 
 
 "For God's sake, do something!" he cried in 
 a choking voice. 
 
 " We're doing all we can, sir," a fireman an- 
 swered respectfully". " We can't get any nearer 
 until the fire's out. Besides, if he's under 
 there — " 
 
 Mr. Harding noticed with strange minuteness 
 328 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 that the fresh leaves of the elms and maples 
 showed pink in the light of the flames. 
 
 He went back and forth amid the crowd ques- 
 tioning breathlessly everywhere, but he got no 
 trace. Dave, the setter, was running about with 
 drooping plumy tail, and nose to the ground. 
 Now and then he snuffed at some friendly hand 
 extended to him, and whined piteously; but he 
 would not stay his terror-stricken circuit. 
 
 Suddenly a hoarse voice, broken with emotion, 
 shouted aloud into the silence, " He's all right. 
 He went to New York this afternoon. Three 
 cheers, men, and a tiger ! " 
 
 The cheers rolled lustily up into the June night 
 with an electric quality of love and relief in their 
 rough burden. 
 
 "What's the matter with Teddy?" queried a 
 voice lightly, and the chorus droned back in long 
 response, 
 
 "He's all right!" 
 
 But the glossy dog still ran about uneasily 
 through the crowd, trembling and whining. He 
 could not understand the good news. Only the 
 sight of his master would satisfy him. 
 
 329 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 The crowd still lingered and Mr. Harding 
 stayed with it. Some morbid fascination held 
 him near the scene of his son's ruin. It seemed 
 easier to send a messenger to his wife with word 
 of Theodore's safety, than to meet at once her 
 questions and speculations. So he stood with his 
 arm through the low-growing branch of a young 
 maple, still feeling weak and shaken. 
 
 As the crowd slowly dispersed, it discussed 
 probable causes for the accident. Mr. Harding 
 caught a word here and there, and heard more 
 than once the name of the American. He wanted 
 to proclaim aloud tO' these people that he was in- 
 nocent. But no one spoke to him. One and all, 
 seeing him, averted their eyes quickly. They 
 knew that accident seemed hardly probable, 
 here. A bursting boiler, they had argued, could 
 not have created such havoc as this even had it 
 been likely to occur; it was well-known that no 
 
 330 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 quantity of chemicals was ever kept in the mill. 
 Moreover, the night-watchman had been borne 
 away to the hospital declaring that all was as it 
 should be. The fact was evident, also, that the 
 American was the only gainer by the disaster. 
 
 Albion Harding, standing alone, saw Reid ap- 
 proaching and beckoned to him. He had never 
 failed to find Reid sympathetic. The latter ap- 
 proached slowly with the dog at his heels. The 
 troubled creature seemed to find comfort in Reid's 
 presence. 
 
 Mr. Harding held out his slender hand, and 
 snapped his fingers. He did not like dogs. 
 
 " Good fellow ! Come here ! " he said con- 
 descendingly. But Dave, completely unnerved, 
 forgot his manners for a moment and showed his 
 teeth in an ugly snarl. 
 
 " I'd take him home with me, but you see he 
 won't come," Mr. Harding said helplessly. " You 
 will have to take him with you." But the dog 
 was off like a flash again, with his nose to the 
 ground, yelping softly now and then with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " What were Theodore's plans? " Mr. Hard- 
 ing asked in a voice which he tried hard to con- 
 trol. There was something painfully pathetic to 
 him in the dumb beast's grief over his master's 
 misfortune. 
 
 331 
 
THE WARS OF, PEACE 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. He told me a day 
 or two ago that he was going to New York yes- 
 terday afternoon. Several people saw him on his 
 way to the station — so there's no doubt ,he has 
 gone." 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't thinking of that, only he ought 
 to be notified." 
 
 " Murray — his foreman — and I telegraphed 
 
 him at the . He always goes there, you 
 
 know. That's all there is to do. Poor Teddy ! " 
 
 " I hope he will let me help him. Surely there 
 is no reason why he should refuse my aid and 
 sympathy at a time like this ? " Mr. Harding 
 spoke in a questioning tone and with a wistful 
 note in his voice. 
 
 " No reason but — Mr. Harding, if you don't 
 know what people are saying you ought to. They 
 say that the American is the only gainer by 
 Teddy's misfortune." Reid spoke abruptly. 
 
 " I shall not say that I think the accusation — 
 the implication, unworthy of an answer," said 
 Mr. Harding slowly. " Such an arraignment as 
 that must be answered. Thank God, I can af- 
 firm upon my honor as a gentleman that I know 
 nothing of this lamentable business." 
 
 The self-vindication failed in some indefinable 
 way of the simple dignity at which it aimed. 
 Reid remained unconvinced. He spoke coldly. 
 332 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 The haggard face, old and ill in the flickering 
 fire-light, did not rouse his pity. 
 
 " Could it not have been done without your 
 knowledge ? " he asked slowly. He knew too 
 much of Mr. Harding's methods of shirking de- 
 tail and shifting responsibility to feel sure that 
 this personal disclaimer freed the American. 
 
 " I see you disbelieve my statement that I had 
 nothing to do with the matter; I can hardly con- 
 vince you against your will. But it is a grievous 
 disappointment to me to have you take a stand 
 with my detractors." Mr. Harding's tones were 
 full of an injured dignity. 
 
 " You mistake me, Mr. Harding. I trust your 
 word implicitly, but I still maintain that it is pos- 
 sible for this to have happened through the agen- 
 cy of the American without your knowledge." 
 
 Reid would have said a few words in self- 
 justification, but at this moment he saw Burnham 
 approaching, and moved away. He cared little 
 after all whether Mr. Harding understood him 
 or not. He circled off through the crowd in 
 search of the dog. 
 
 Mr. Harding and his agent met rather con- 
 strainedly. Burnham was fighting back his joy 
 into a semblance of decent pity and concern. 
 The matter had gone off better than he had dared 
 hope. He had hardly slept, it seemed to him for 
 333 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 weeks, for wondering what his hints to Rtibino- 
 vitch would accomplish. He had trembled for 
 fear that the man's disordered brain should mis- 
 lead him, and Theodore should suffer. He had 
 faced the fact that the theorist might get no far- 
 ther than theories; now all had happened just as 
 he had planned in his most hopeful moments. 
 The head of the opposition was crushed without 
 personal danger to Theodore Harding. He him- 
 self was not implicated in the slightest degree. 
 Even if Rubinovitch should . by any unlucky 
 chance be detected in the deed, no shadow of 
 blame could be laid on him or the American. 
 So he met Mr. Harding Vvith a heart inwardly 
 leaping with exultation. 
 
 " This will be a bad matter for your son, 
 Harding; but after all I suppose a little adver- 
 sity won't hurt him in the end, and it's an ill wind 
 that blows nobody good." 
 
 " I disagree with you there. It's a very un- 
 fortunate thing for us, in my opinion, that this 
 should have happened. Oakley is back from 
 Washington and he assures me that matters there 
 are perfectly safe. My son's competition would 
 hardly have counted at all under those circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me ? " Burnham queried 
 sharply. 
 
 334 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I did not know myself until tonight — last 
 night." 
 
 "Well, matters are so much ^easier for the 
 American, anyway," said Burnham complacently. 
 
 " And the whole country will say that it did 
 this," Mr. Harding retorted. 
 
 " D — n the whole country ! They can't prove 
 anything." 
 
 " Of course not, but the suspicion is galling. 
 I wish we had Reid and the ' Criterion ' with 
 us. He used to be heartily in favor of trusts, but 
 he has changed. The support of our home pa- 
 pers seems to me very important. Fletcher is 
 with us on principle, but Reid — " 
 
 " I'm inclined to think a pretty lump of Amer- 
 icans account for Fletcher's stand better than 
 principle, but you know best. I imagine Reid 
 could be secured in the same way; and, by the 
 way, you advanced him money when he bought 
 out McLeod, didn't you?" 
 
 " Yes," Mr. Harding answered slowly. 
 
 " Then it's easy enough. Of course he'll help 
 us out," Burnham commented in satisfied tones. 
 
 " Will you see him, then ? " Albion Harding 
 asked. 
 
 " No, I will not," flamed Burnham. " I'm sick 
 of doing all your dirty work and having you tell 
 me it ain't necessary after it's all done. I don't 
 
 335 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 care a d — n about Reid and his little two-penny 
 paper. If you do you can see him, that's all." 
 
 It piqued Burnham that his labor in this mat- 
 ter had been called unnecessary. He had, more- 
 over, been proud of his part in the business. He 
 had taken a leaf from Mr. Harding's book and 
 made another man his tool, for once rivalling his 
 master in subtlety. He was childishly elated over 
 his skill, and could not bear that Mr. Harding, 
 whose superiority he had always felt with irrita- 
 tion, should be ignorant of his strategy. 
 
 Mr. Harding disregarded the outburst. 
 
 " Reid represents the best feeling in this part 
 of the state. That is surely worth taking into 
 account," he said. " But never mind ; he will 
 have to take his course. It would do no good 
 to try to influence him." 
 
 Burnham was not to be placated, however. 
 
 " You can do just as you see fit about that ; 
 but there's one thing sure; I'm goin' to give my 
 report. I ain't goin' to have to bear all the re- 
 sponsibility for this business. I've been workin' 
 as your agent." 
 
 " What business do you mean ? You express- 
 ly stated that the American wasn't responsible for 
 this disaster." Mr. Harding questioned coldly. 
 
 " You're mistaken there. I said nothing could 
 be proved against it, that's true enough; but 
 336 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 I'll tell you one thing, Albion Harding, you can't 
 shift all the blame. You have done the thing 
 just as much as I have done it, and I have done 
 it just as much as the man who put the dynamite 
 in the mill basement." 
 
 Albion Harding put up his hand with a quick 
 gesture. 
 
 " For God's sake, man, don't shout so ! I 
 don't want to hear your surmises ! " 
 
 Burnham lowered his voice, but spoke on in- 
 flexibly. Neither man had seen Francis Reid ap- 
 proaching ; neither saw him turn away in a dazed 
 fashion. 
 
 Sick at heart the young man threaded his way 
 through the dispersing crowd. The man upon 
 whose probity he would have staked so much 
 a year ago, was a villain and a coward at heart. 
 Reid had not heard any of the details, he could 
 fill those in easily enough from what he knew 
 of the dealings of the American. He knew that 
 Albion Harding had done this deed against his 
 own son. 
 
 As he was wearily struggling with this hor- 
 ror, he saw the dog nosing the ground nervously 
 before him. The big fellow looked up at his 
 master's friend with eyes that seemed at once 
 to ask and tell something. There was eager- 
 ness and anxiety in every line of the sleek figure. 
 337 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Now and then a tremor would pass over his body 
 and he would crouch with hunted eyes. Reid 
 tried to call and even to drag him away from 
 the scene of the accident, but the eager, welcom- 
 ing light faded from the creature's face, and the 
 whine changed to an angry snarl. 
 
 Daylight was already beginning to scatter the 
 darkness. Through the gap left by the ruined 
 mill Reid could see a light beginning to glow 
 faintly in the East. Birds stirred with muffled 
 chirps. He looked back upon the scene of the 
 wreck of boyish, ambitious hopes. Two heaps 
 of debris, side by" side, one still glowing faintly, 
 the other piled high and jagged, alone were left 
 of the prosperous life of the day before. The 
 crowd had melted away, a dusky figure stood 
 motionless, guarding the ruin. Between the fire 
 and the growing daylight, ran the anxious dog. 
 The whole scene was strange, unreal, to Reid, 
 with all that it implied of cruel power over sim- 
 ple right, as lurid as some cheap melodrama. 
 
 Reid turned and walked heavily down the 
 street with his soul in arms against the cruelty 
 of the world. It seemed to him that he could 
 never believe again in any power stronger than 
 mere brute force. He felt suddenly old and tired 
 of life. His feet echoed loudly on the pavements, 
 338 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 and he shuddered as he heard behind him the 
 dog's long-drawn, desperate howl. 
 
 The watchman dozed on the steps of a near-by- 
 house as the sun came up into a crimson sky, 
 touched the ruins for a moment, and then disap- 
 peared into a cloud. A few drops of rain 
 fell. The lifS of the city awoke, little by little. 
 Country people with market teams came and 
 gazed on the ruins, spoke together in low voices 
 and drove away. Another day of commonplace 
 labor dawned for every other business man in 
 Underbill save Theodore Harding. And still 
 the dog kept guard; in the crash and glare of 
 light his world had been swallowed up. He was 
 searching with moist nose and eager whines for 
 the print of the feet which he had followed faith- 
 fully all his days. Perhaps he was revolving in 
 his sensitive mind what might be his own re- 
 sponsibility. What had been the meaning of the 
 dark figure clambering in through the basement 
 window ? What the mission of the heavy drag- 
 ging feet which he had followed suspiciously 
 down the street ? Perhaps he thought, as did no 
 one else, that his master was not so far but that 
 a mournful, long-drawn call might reach him. 
 
 339 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Reid was at the station to meet Faith on her 
 return next morning. He had hoped that he 
 might be the first to tell her of the accident, that 
 he might be able to spare her garbled accounts 
 and speculations as to causes ; but everyone' had 
 been talking of it on the train, and Reid knew, 
 at his first glimpse of her white face and com- 
 pressed lips, that she had heard. Her first words 
 were, 
 
 " You've telegraphed to Theodore ? Have you 
 got any answer ? " 
 
 " Not yet," he answered, trying to make his 
 tones matter-of-fact. He felt as he spoke that 
 his lips smiled stiffly. He had been oppressed 
 with a dread that had not amounted to definite 
 foreboding until he had learned a moment before 
 that none of the station employees had seen Hard- 
 ing board the train the afternoon before. 
 
 " He always uses a trip-book, so he wouldn't 
 340 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 buy a ticket anyway. We might not have seen 
 him. I tell you, Godkin will be down in half 
 an hour. He can tell you whether Harding went 
 up with him or not," the station master had said. 
 
 " It seems so strange you haven't heard," 
 Faith had continued. " He would surely answer, 
 wouldn't he?" 
 
 " I told him to, but he might not realize that 
 we would be anxious." 
 
 " You directed to the ? " 
 
 " Yes. Oh, he's all right, Faith. ^ He told Mrs. 
 Harding at noon that he was going on the four- 
 thirty, and any number of people saw him on the 
 way to the station with his bag. It's only be- 
 cause we are shaken up any way that we worry." 
 
 " He might have been detained somewhere by 
 the way." 
 
 " Lots of things might have happened. He 
 might have gone to some other hotel. There! 
 it's a pretty dismal sight, isn't it ? " 
 ■ "Oh, isn't it dreadful!" said Faith, breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 The scene was even more dreary than it had 
 been the night before. As they approached si- 
 lently a dog's long, doleful howl pierced the air. 
 
 " Perhaps you can get Dave away. I was one 
 of the first people to get here, and he was racing 
 341 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 about then and has been ever since. He's all 
 broken up; I can't do anything with him." 
 
 " He is looking for Theodore," Faith said, as 
 the dog resumed his apathetic search. " But, 
 Frank, you said he was here — when you got 
 here ! " She grasped his arm. Her face was 
 colorless to her lips and her eyes wide. " Oh, 
 Frank, he didn't go then, — Theodore didn't go ! 
 I know he didn't — he always left Dave with us, 
 — and mother shut him in the shed." 
 
 In a moment she had dropped Reid's arm, and 
 was hurrying over the strewn timbers and heaped 
 up brick-work with the dog beside her. He 
 seemed to recognize her nearness to his master, 
 to feel that now this tangle would be set straight. 
 Once when she fell upon the debris, hurting her- 
 self cruelly, the dog waited whining beside her. 
 As if a common instinct of love were leading 
 them they directed their steps to the spot where 
 the timbers were heaped highest, hardly 
 touched by the flames. Reid, who after his mo- 
 ment of bewilderment, had followed her, heard 
 her calling, " TheSdore ! Theodore ! " unmind- 
 ful of the little crowd that had gathered about 
 the scene of last night's disaster. Finally the 
 girl knelt upon the pile, spent and unable to go 
 further. The dog crouched by her side, thrust- 
 ing his nose into her face. 
 342 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 "Theodore!" she called brokenly, "Theo- 
 dore ! Are you there ? " She fondled the dog 
 unwittingly as she spoke. " Dear, can't you tell 
 me? Answer me! " 
 
 The choked, pleading voice compelled an an- 
 swer. As Reid came up and threw himself by 
 her side, they caught the faint, gasping words, 
 
 "Yes, Faith, I'm all right! But — have — 
 them — hurry." 
 
 For one instant Faith lay with her cheek to 
 the rough bricks. 
 
 Reid had already risen to his feet and was 
 shouting, 
 
 " For God's sake, get men ! Harding's in 
 there ! " and was himself tearing ineffectually at 
 the timbers. 
 
 Then Faith rose to her feet and began her al- 
 most hopeless struggle for her lover's life — a 
 struggle that lasted for months. 
 
 " Get doctors ! " she called in firm tones. "And 
 blankets and a stretcher. Somebody go for Mrs. 
 Harding! And somebody go to Mrs. Ordway's 
 and tell her to get a room ready ! " 
 
 Then she knelt a moment to call, 
 
 " Only wait a moment, Theodore, dear, we'll 
 get you out ! " 
 
 The faint voice tried to answer, " It's all 
 •-- — -" then trailed off into silence. Faith and 
 343 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Reid tore desperately at bricks and beams, aided 
 by the few onlookers who had not scattered on 
 the girl's imperious behests. But they kept at 
 their work only for a moment. From all the 
 near-by streets and alleys came the men from 
 Theodore's mill. At leisure that day, they had 
 been the first to hear the summons for aid. Boys 
 and old men, strong men and women came run- 
 ning from every direction out of the white, cold 
 fog that had settled down on the town and river. 
 The faces were grey and worn with care, con- 
 vulsed with grief, cold and set with wrath. Some 
 of the men were even weeping, the tears run- 
 ning unheeded over their cheeks as they streamed 
 out across the ruins. 
 
 Faith stood quietly aside. She knew that she 
 was of no use there, and yet inactivity was un- 
 bearable and she feared that she might lose some 
 last word. She stood with her hands clenched, 
 biting her lips until they bled, and saying over 
 and over to herself, " Why are they so slow ! 
 Oh, -w^hy are they so slow ! " 
 
 She could not have told whether it was minutes 
 or hours before Mr. Harding's black horses came 
 galloping out of the fog, drawing the swaying 
 carriage. In it sat Mrs. Harding alone. Faith 
 ran forward and had her hand on the door be- 
 fore the carriage had stopped. 
 344 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Is he alive ? " gasped Mrs. Harding. 
 
 " Yes, yes," Faith answered. " He said, ' I'm 
 all right, but have them hurry.' " 
 
 "Then he isn't hurt?" 
 
 " Oh, he must be, but perhaps it isn't very 
 bad." 
 
 More and more people came hurrying in from 
 the by streets. Reid saw from his position, a lit- 
 tle to one side where he could direct the changing 
 shifts, that the employees of Mr. Harding's mill 
 were there in a body. Their anxious foreman 
 followed them. 
 
 " Say, but I couldn't make 'em stay. The 
 minute the word got around in the mill they 
 struck work and they're hot as pepper against the 
 old man." 
 
 Reid had the rescue work well under his con- 
 trol. He had divided the men into five-minute 
 shifts, and these changed silently and swiftly at 
 his call. The men worked like tigers, regardless 
 of themselves in their eagerness to help, each re- 
 membering some kind or thoughtful deed of 
 Theodore's. Around stood a ring of women, 
 slatternly and dishevelled in their limp calicoes, 
 but with hearts warm and tender for the man 
 who had so often stood their friend. Gradually 
 the hill people came too, and stood with the val- 
 ley folk and talked with them and the young 
 
 345 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 business men worked shoulder to shoulder with 
 the factory hands in the changing shifts. Here 
 and there, the pitying, anxious eyes of the crowd 
 were turned from the men working with clenched 
 teeth and laboring breath to the carriage where 
 the girl with the crumpled and stained white 
 waist, with the broad band of black from the 
 charred timbers emphasizing the pallor of her 
 face, was supporting the shrinking, daintily-clad 
 woman. 
 
 Faith's very lips were pale, her eyes were wide 
 with fright; yet there was something undaunted 
 about her rigid face. She had somehow grasped 
 life directly and surely as the other woman had 
 not, in more than twice her years. It had wound- 
 ed the girl, perhaps, as sorely as it had the wom- 
 an, and yet she faced it unconquered. 
 
 The relays were changing when she leaped 
 from the carriage and picked her way swiftly 
 through the wreckage. 
 
 "Theodore! Theodore!" she called. "Can 
 you hear me, dear ? Only a few minutes more ! 
 They are almost down to you." 
 
 Her ear alone caught the faint answer, but she 
 hurried back with it to the almost fainting moth- 
 er, who was murmuring mechanically, 
 
 "Where can Mr. Harding be? Why don't 
 346 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 they send again for Mr. Harding? He would 
 know what to do, I'm sure." 
 
 Faith's face grew hard and she did not an- 
 swer. 
 
 Shift gave place to shift. Minutes passed like 
 hours. A slow, dreary rain began to fall. Reid 
 realized suddenly that he still had Faith's coat, 
 which he had mechanically laid down, picked 
 up and carried since he took it from her at the 
 station. He ran to the side of the carriage and 
 threw it over her unprotected shoulders. 
 
 " How much longer ? " she questioned. 
 
 " Only a few minutes, now. Faith," he an- 
 swered. , 
 
 " Has he spoken again ? " 
 
 " No, I think he is unconscious. I hope so. 
 It is much easier for him." 
 
 He was glad that Faith made no movement to 
 speak to Theodore again. He had leaned over 
 himself, but a moment before, and the sight of 
 the cruel beam that was crushing the life out of 
 the slender figure beneath turned him sick and 
 faint. The face was ghastly white, the bluish, 
 blood-flecked lips were drawn back slightly away 
 from the clenched teeth. The eyes showed vio- 
 let-black through the closed lids. No breath 
 seemed to .stir the soft beard, Reid had no 
 347 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 doubt that the gentlest, truest man on earth, as 
 he found himself calling his friend, was dead. 
 
 Tender hands at length released the ends of the 
 timber which had pinned down the helpless fig- 
 ure. The heavy beam had been more kind than 
 cruel, after all, for it had undoubtedly supported 
 a weight that would have crushed out Theodore's 
 life at once. Two men of his own mill, with 
 whom he had worked shoulder to shoulder in his 
 'prentice days, leaned over with tears running 
 down their cheeks and lifted him. 
 
 As Faith chafed the limp hand. Dr. Rice rose 
 from beside the litter and looked across the kneel- 
 ing girl with pitiful eyes which told Reid of his 
 utter lack of hope. 
 
 " We'd better take him home at once," he said 
 huskily. 
 
 " He is coming to our house," said Faith, hur- 
 riedly. " It is nearer, and mother has a room 
 ready for him." 
 
 " His own home is the place for him. It is 
 quieter on the hill," Mrs. Harding protested. 
 
 " Home ? How much has it been home to him 
 lately? How much can it be after this ? Would 
 he want to go there ? " Faith flamed out passion- 
 ately. She felt that she could never have him 
 go there to his father's house, that she could 
 never go with him. 
 
 348 
 
THE WARS OP PEACE 
 
 Dr. Rice settled the question. 
 
 " The nearer place is the better. Take him 
 to Mrs. Ordway's," he said autocratically. 
 
 Four of Theodore's most trusted mill-hands 
 carefully raised the litter. Then they set off down 
 the street in silence, the doctor walking watch- 
 fully beside with his hand on the fluttering pulse. 
 Mrs. Harding's carriage followed slowly. Once 
 Faith looked back and saw with a shudder that 
 some of the workmen had fallen in behind. 
 
 As the procession passed Falmouth Street, Mr. 
 Harding came to the corner. His step was 
 lighter than it had been for weeks, his brow less 
 furrowed. He stood there, gazing at the strange 
 procession which barred his way. Any hint of 
 the long suspense of the town had somehow 
 failed to reach him, as it occasionally does the 
 person most concerned. The meaning of this 
 quiet, grief-stricken concourse puzzled him. 
 Then in a flash he recognized his horses, his wife, 
 and Faith. The girl's eyes, dark and frightened, 
 rested upon him in a gaze, warning, accusing, 
 horror-stricken, — the gaze of his own conscience. 
 Then they were averted while a sudden contrac- 
 tion passed over the stern young face. 
 
 Then Mr. Harding knew that he was not sur- 
 prised, that this was the thing which he had 
 dreaded in the midst of his relief. He had been 
 349 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 waiting for this, with a catch in his breath at the 
 thought. Now, of a sudden, mental anguish 
 merged itself into physical. The stab of the 
 realization of the worst, pierced him with the old 
 sickening pang. It had never lasted so long be- 
 fore. He thought, with a throb of something 
 like relief, that the last time had come. He 
 leaned heavily against the wall. The world 
 might be more lenient in its judgment of the dead 
 than the living. Then the anguish passed. A 
 reprieve had been given him — the murderer. 
 
 Albion Harding sat alone all that afternoon in 
 his office. It rained without, a warm June rain 
 that came in heavy showers and sent foot-farers 
 into convenient doorways. He watched the shin- 
 ing drops stream down over the pane. The 
 weakness which always followed one of the at- 
 tacks of pain held him benumbed. The exertion 
 which had carried him to Mrs. Ordway's, at the 
 rear of the procession, had almost exhausted him. 
 The air of hushed excitement there had well- 
 nigh overcome him, and he had come back to a 
 spot where he could be still. In his weakness, 
 the years of misunderstanding and disappoint- 
 ment had slipped away somehow, and he was 
 thinking of his son as a little boy — sturdy, 
 black-eyed, tuneful, with his childish grasp of 
 business and his friendliness with the men. Al- 
 350 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 bion Harding had always loved his son, and his 
 heart ached with pain and fear. 
 
 At length night followed the interminable 
 afternoon, and the harassed man, unmindful of 
 the fact that he had not eaten since morning, 
 paced up and down in front of Mrs. Ordway's 
 house. A carriage drew up silently before the 
 door, and he saw the great New York surgeon, 
 whose moments were golden, mount the steps 
 rapidly. Dr. Rice met him at the door, and the 
 watcher across the street could see them talking 
 earnestly in the hall. Figures passed and re- 
 passed on the lighted curtain of the corner room 
 above the street. The faint, nauseating odor of" 
 chloroform floated out. Mr. Harding was af- 
 fected by sickness and suffering more deeply than 
 most men, and he turned faint. 
 
 As he leaned in silence against the little maple 
 before the door a dog sniffed at his hand and 
 then jumped back with a muffled snarl. A step 
 sounded upon the veranda and a voice called soft- 
 ly, "Dave! Dave!" The dog left , Mr. Hard- 
 ing's side and ran up the steps with a low whine. 
 
 " Oh, Dave, I can't bear it ! " a voice said 
 brokenly, and there was a long silence. 
 
 Mr. Harding was moving miserably away 
 when Dr. Rice came hurrying downstairs. The 
 listener heard Faith rise to meet him. 
 351 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I've got to go away for a few minutes, Miss 
 Faith. He is quiet now. Everything has gone 
 well so far. If he pulls through till morning 
 he'll have a fighting chance. Get some sleep if 
 you can, poor little girl; he will need you more 
 later." 
 
 Mr. Harding stepped forward into the light 
 to speak to the doctor. But the latter gazed at 
 him coldly and unrecognizingly, raised his hat 
 and passed on without speaking. Mr. Harding 
 stood with lips still parted as if for speech, gaz- 
 ing at the receding figure. At length he compre- 
 hended the meaning of the cold stare and knew 
 that he had lost another friend. 
 
 Brooke Street was very quiet, but when he 
 came out into Main Street and Borden Square 
 he found that all Underhill valley seemed to be 
 abroad. The street was alive with rough fig- 
 ures, moving restlessly up and down. The lamps 
 flashed in pools left from the showers of the aft- 
 ernoon. The air came up fresh and damp, mist- 
 laden from the river. It bore also an unusual ex- 
 citement, and Mr. Harding felt with keen self- 
 consciousness that he was its centre. The stern, 
 heavy faces stared at him almost malignly, he 
 thought. He bowed once or twice but received 
 no response to his impersonal salutations. So 
 he dropped his eyes and moved nervously toward 
 352 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the bridge. He did not fear personal violence, 
 but instead the words that hurt more than blows, 
 — the open accusation of what he knew all were 
 thinking. Sharp physical pain would have been 
 a relief to the dull ache of body and mind that 
 was slowly numbing him. But the words that he 
 dreaded ! — He hastened his steps. 
 
 Suddenly someone jostled him sharply. He 
 was tired and spent with his illness of the morn- 
 ing, and the stress of emotion. He staggered 
 and put out his hand uncertainly. It touched a 
 bony shoulder. 
 
 " Take your hand off me, Albion Harding ! " 
 a sharp voice cried. " Poor as I be I'm above 
 bein' touched by the like of you." 
 
 The words sounded far in the damp, evening 
 air, as the speaker meant they should, out 
 over the heads of the strolling people. Sudden- 
 ly a hiss cut the air sharply. One by one added 
 to its volume. 
 
 The crowd closed up angrily on Mr. Harding, 
 who, white and defiant, stood with lifted head, 
 gazing into the lowering faces around him. 
 There was danger in the air, the danger which is 
 interpreted by utter, bodeful silence. 
 
 But just then the crowd parted and Francis 
 Reid stood by Mr. Harding's side. He grasped 
 the elder man by the arm. 
 353 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Will you have the goodness to make way 
 for us to pass ? " he said coldly. 
 
 The crowd gave way a little ; its mind was not 
 firmly set on any violence. A few minutes more 
 might have seen it convinced that its place was 
 to forestall the courts; but Reid had appeared 
 just in time. 
 
 " This i's very absurd," Reid went on contempt- 
 uously. " I think there is no one here who knows 
 Theodore Harding who thinks that rudeness to 
 his father would please him. Will you please 
 make way for us ? " 
 
 The mob, holding all the undeveloped germs 
 of trouble, gave way to his cold courtesy and 
 let the two men pass through. 
 
 Mr. Harding leaned heavily on his compan- 
 ion's arm as they walked up the street. " I'm 
 not feeling at all well tonight," he said apologet- 
 ically. " The strain of the day and last night 
 has been rather too much for me." 
 
 Reid was silent. Old feelings of loyalty and 
 affection were struggling with scorn. The knowl- 
 edge which had come to him through the words 
 overheard the night before had sickened him of 
 Mr. Harding's good qualities even more than of 
 his bad ones. He did not know how this man's 
 seiisitive nature, eager for praise and applause, 
 used all his life to esteem, was shrinking from 
 354 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 the aversion which he saw on every face about 
 him. Had he known he could not have helped 
 pitying the baffled, defeated soul, which knew 
 better than any other the depth of its own degra- 
 dation. The man seemed to himself very deso- 
 late and abased and old. 
 
 " Do you mind walking up the hill with me, 
 my boy ? " said Mr. Harding, wistfully. 
 
 " Certainly not," Reid answered, and they 
 crossed the bridge and climbed the hill in si- 
 lence. 
 
 355 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Even in his weariness Mr. Harding could not 
 sleep, dozing only to wake at once, startled and 
 unrefreshed. But he passed through his outer 
 office next morning every inch of him soldierly. 
 The need for action had strengthened him. He 
 could even meet Burnham with a calm face. 
 
 The latter sat at the desk of the private office, 
 scrawling at random on the blotter. An unlight- 
 ed cigar was between his teeth, his face was grey 
 and heavily lined, his pale eyes had a furtive, 
 frightened look which belied the firmness of his 
 jaw. 
 
 " How's the boy ? " Burnham questioned in a 
 tone which showed how much he dreaded the 
 reply. 
 
 " Alive, and with a chance," Mr. Harding an- 
 swered briefly. His lips were dry and he swal- 
 lowed with difficulty. A hot, unreasoning anger 
 filled his veins. 
 
 356 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Lord ! what a turn it gave me ! " Burnham 
 said with the tone of one who contemplates a 
 danger past. As he spoke he lit his cigar. 
 
 " There's no particular cause for self-congrat- 
 ulation yet," Mr. Harding sneered. " If he lives 
 at all he can hardly escape being a cripple." 
 
 " I'm devilish sorry for my part in it, Hard- 
 ing," Burnham said awkwardly, " and I'm sorry 
 for the boy. I always liked him, even when I 
 was maddest with him." 
 
 Albion Harding was silent. Each word goad- 
 ed him almost beyond endurance. He knew sud- 
 denly the mood which makes murder possible. 
 He could have slain the man, who, by his mis- 
 management, had killed his only son and branded 
 him a murderer. 
 
 " You have bungled infernally," he said in 
 the repressed, tones of his anger. " It was a most 
 fiendishly conceived plan to make that half- 
 crazed Jew not only your tool but to make him 
 do it on his own responsibility. Imprisonment 
 for life would be a light punishment for such 
 a crime." 
 
 " But it can't be fixed on me, you see," said 
 Burnham, flushing an unwholesome purple in his 
 anger. " If everything was known what would 
 it amount to — that in a discussion I suggested 
 an application of some of the man's theories, sim- 
 357 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ply by way of illustration; that he brooded over 
 it and finally did this thing. You can't throw re- 
 sponsibility back like that. If you do, go one 
 step farther and where are you ? It will be pretty 
 talk for Underbill, and for missionary meetings, 
 that Brother Harding killed his son to get his 
 competition out of the way of the American. 
 There's as much proof against you as against 
 me. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, you err. I have your 
 own confession that you have played upon this 
 poor man's superstitions and dreams to make him 
 .do this thing." Mr. Harding could never name 
 the deed. 
 
 " And there's my word that you told me to 
 take any measures I saw fit in dealing with your 
 son." 
 
 " Which statement I shall absolutely deny," 
 said Mr. Harding coolly. " I restricted your ac- 
 tion very definitely and you chose to disregard 
 my restrictions." 
 
 " You can deny anything you want to. You 
 talk as if you had only to say a thing for every- 
 body to believe it. I don't know as there would 
 be so much to choose as you think between your 
 word and mine. The public in general thinks 
 full as much of a man who admits he's bad, as 
 it does of one who's always swelling around in 
 358 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 prayer-meeting, and all that sort of thing. I tell 
 you, your missionary business and all that 
 sort of thing don't count near as much as you 
 think. It don't pull the wool over anybody's 
 eyes. And as for the money you give, — there's 
 been a d — n sight too much dirty money scatter- 
 ed round the country, in the last ten years, for 
 that to make much impression on folks' minds." 
 
 Roger Burnham's face was deeply red, the 
 big veins in his neck were swollen, his small eyes 
 glared. He was angry through and through, 
 but he was enjoying himself. He had said his 
 say, and he made no attempt at resistance when 
 Mr. Harding touched a bell and said coldly to 
 the clerk who presented himself, 
 
 " Mr. Phillips, will you kindly show Mr. Burn- 
 ham to the door." 
 
 Burnham turned in the outer office and said 
 deliberately, 
 
 " You better think twice, Harding. You'll 
 find it hard to get along without someone to do 
 your dirty work for you." Then he stumped 
 through the long room, at the heels of the smil- 
 ing clerk. 
 
 Mr. Harding rose to his feet as soon as his 
 
 guest had left. He had something to do. It 
 
 was not the thing which impulse prompted. He 
 
 would gladly have called aloud to the whole 
 
 359 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 world -^ " I have sinned, as few other men be- 
 fore me have done. Do with me as you will. I 
 have sinned, but God knows I have suffered. 
 Pity me ! " If he could explain all his long strug- 
 gle against the hateful pressure of necessity, it 
 seemed to him that some hand must be extend- 
 ed to him in sympathy. But all the instincts of 
 a life of self-control were against any such step. 
 It had become a habit with him to face fate un- 
 swervingly. So instead of anything more sensa- 
 tional he left his office determined to persuade 
 Reid to aid him. 
 
 He did not know even when he faced Reid be- 
 fore the editorial desk on what grounds he meant 
 to ask the favor. The young man's face did not 
 look inviting; his straight brows were drawn to- 
 gether in a frown and he seemed troubled. But 
 his companion was in no mood to study faces 
 carefully. He had no heart for his usual di- 
 plomacy. The nervous eagerness for action 
 which possessed him brooked no delay. 
 
 " Mr. Reid, I have come to ask you what stand 
 the ' Criterion ' intends to take in the late unfor- 
 tunate occurrence. It may be that this is a strange 
 question for me to ask, but I am in a desperately 
 hard place. There is no use in trying to blink 
 the fact that people seem to think I had something 
 to gain by the accident to my son — and that 
 360 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 therefore I must have had a hand in it. I hardly 
 see why they are so ready to beheve the worst 
 of me." 
 
 Reid felt little pity for Mr. Harding's evident 
 suffering. He answered coldly, 
 
 " The public accuses you of many things, Mr. 
 Harding, for which you are not directly respon- 
 sible. That makes it all the easier for it to sus- 
 pect you of this. You must admit that appear- 
 ances are against you." 
 
 " How could I have helped that ? One man 
 cannot attend to all the details of a business like 
 this." 
 
 " The head of a business is responsible for the 
 general spirit which pervades it. That is where 
 the responsibility lies," Reid answered firmly. 
 
 Mr. Harding's pale face grew paler. The 
 bright light of the June morning showed many 
 weary lines and the cringing of fear in the dark 
 eyes. 
 
 " But this is beside the matter," he continued 
 hastily. " Can you answer the question which 
 I asked at the outset of our conversation? You 
 cannot guess what a comfort the backing of the 
 ' Criterion ' would be to me. The ' Criterion ' 
 has grown to have a great influence in the state. 
 Public opinion will take its cue largely from it." 
 361 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " I have not decided what I shall do," Reid 
 said slowly. 
 
 " Mr. Barker — ? " Mr. Harding suggested. 
 
 " I have entire control while Mr. Barker is 
 away. I don't even know where he is." 
 
 " Then if I should swear to you that I had 
 nothing to do with the matter, that the American 
 did not, with any knowledge of mine! I knew 
 no more of it than you did." 
 
 Reid pondered on the force of the past tense 
 of the verb, knew, in silence. 
 
 " Now if you believe that I was not connected 
 in any way with this awful deed won't you say 
 so? " Mr. Harding continued persuasively. 
 
 Reid was unmoved. "I will gladly publish 
 any statement with your name attached. More 
 than that I cannot promise." 
 
 " But, Mr. Reid, don't you see that it would 
 be utterly useless for me to do that? While if 
 you should say the same thing — people know 
 you have been connected with the American and 
 must know a great deal of the way it is managed. 
 If you could say that such a thing was not con- 
 sistent with the management of the American, 
 nor with my character — I think I cannot tell you 
 what it would mean to me." The eager voice 
 faltered. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Mr. Harding, but I cannot under- 
 362 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 take your defence. What I have seen of the 
 American doesn't altogether reassure me as to 
 its part in this matter. I want to say again that 
 I do not disbeUeve your statement that you had 
 no direct part in it ; but I know only too well the 
 spirit that has sometimes actuated the conduct 
 of your corporation." 
 
 Reid paused abruptly. The interview was in- 
 tensely painful to him. He felt the older man's 
 shame with a personal shrinking. There was a 
 long silence while Mr. Harding sat biting his 
 white lips and gazing out into the sunshine. 
 
 " I have not been unmindful of past or pres- 
 ent favors, Mr. Harding," Reid continued. " I 
 have kept silent too long because I respected you 
 so much. But I cannot do so any longer. I feel 
 like a criminal. My championship could have 
 made no difference, but I wish I could look back 
 and remember that I had stood by Teddy." 
 Reid's clear voice broke. " But I am not going 
 to hesitate any longer. I shall come out to- 
 morrow against the American. I don't know yet 
 what I shall say; I shall try to avoid personali- 
 ties as far as possible, you may be sure of that, 
 and of course I shall always remember that any- 
 thing which I may have learned while I was in 
 your office is not at my disposal." 
 
 Reid finished firmly.* It was always a relief 
 363 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 when he at length reached a decision. More- 
 over, he now felt absolutely sure of his own wis- 
 dom. The theory of the combine remained un- 
 changed — but this one of the number had sin- 
 ned shamefully. If he could find proof of its 
 connection with this last enormity Reid meant to 
 do so. 
 
 Mr. Harding gazed at the younger man coldly. 
 A fire in his eyes had dried up the tears. He had 
 one last card to play. He had been reluctant 
 to use it ; he realized that if driven to this thing he 
 should have parted with another portion of his 
 self-respect. But if his terms should be accepted 
 the case would be less humiliating, somehow, than 
 if they were refused. The possibility had been 
 continually before him and he had preferred to 
 humiliate himself to beg a favor rather than to 
 grasp this last resort ; but at length he spoke. 
 
 " I suppose you recognize the fact that I have 
 some claim upon your consideration ? " 
 
 " Have I not said that already ? I realize that 
 I am under obligations to you, Mr. Harding, that 
 a discharge of my pecuniary debt will never re- 
 lease. As for the money you were so good as to 
 lend me, I told you when you offered the loan 
 that it would take me some time to discharge 
 it." A sudden and horrible thought flashed over 
 him. Mr. Harding might have a writ of attach- 
 364 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ment served and suspend the publication of the 
 paper. Barker was in the wilds of Canada, out 
 of reach of mail or telegraph. Reid lifted his 
 head proudly. 
 
 " We need not talk of your indebtedness, Mr. 
 Reid," said Albion Harding suavely. His tone 
 was benevolent, but the uncompromising light 
 from the big window showed that his eyes had 
 narrowed and grown crafty. " No, your little 
 indebtedness is a slight matter. In fact I shall 
 be glad to give you a receipt for it at any time 
 you wish. You have it in your power to benefit 
 me far more than that paltry sum can ever re- 
 pay." 
 
 Reid looked at his companion in amazement. 
 At first he did not comprehend the meaning of 
 the words he had just heard. Then suddenly he 
 understood. He rose with his thin lips drawn 
 back over his perfect teeth. 
 
 " We need not discuss this matter further, Mr. 
 Harding. We can hardly come to an agree- 
 ment," he said coldly. He walked toward the 
 door and Mr. Harding, propelled by an unknown 
 force, followed him as meekly as repulsed suitor 
 had ever left his office in times past. At the 
 door Reid said, 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well that you should know 
 that I overheard something which Roger Burn- 
 365 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ham said to you on the night of the accident." 
 He repeated the words coldly and accurately. 
 " Good-day." 
 
 Reid went back to his desk seething with an- 
 ger. The bribe seemed to him then entirely a 
 personal insult; not, as it was, the last resort 
 of desperation. But even in the midst of his tu- 
 mult of feeling he decided that if possible he 
 must secure the money to pay his debt to Mr. 
 Harding ; so he went out into the June air shim- 
 mering with heat and full of the scent of roses. 
 
 It seemed to give Doctor Rice a keen pleasure 
 to help Reid against Mr. Harding. He had 
 changed from friend to foe with the thorough- 
 ness which characterized everything he did. 
 
 " Never you fear, young man," he said vigor- 
 ously when he had listened to Reid's story. " I'll 
 see that the money is in your hands by night. I 
 haven't that much where I can get at it on the 
 spur of the moment, but I can get it for you. 
 I'm only too glad — the scoundrel ! " 
 
 In the street in front of Mrs. Ordway's house, 
 Reid met Max Rubinovitch. 
 
 "How is he?" the latter said breathlessly, 
 without waiting for any salutation. 
 
 " No change, I guess," Reid answered gloom- 
 ily. " Not much hope ! " 
 
 " I didn't think he was in the mill. How did 
 366 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 he happen to be? He went away," said Rubino- 
 vitch, wildly. 
 
 " He missed the train, I think ; but where he 
 was, or what he was doing all that time, God 
 knows." 
 
 " I thought he was away," Rubinovitch reiter- 
 ated. " He was about the only friend I had in 
 the world." 
 
 Reid turned languidly, not greatly interested 
 in Rubinovitch' s regrets. The narcotic influence 
 of the noon was in his veins. For forty-eight 
 hours he had hardly slept. Pictures, floating con- 
 tinuously before his eyes, had kept him awake. 
 One vision after another had drifted past him : a 
 girl's white accusing face; an anxious glossy 
 dog, a man's narrowed, cringing eyes, a crowd 
 with white faces in the light of flames, men la- 
 boring with parted lips and distorted faces over 
 heaps of ruins. But while the others passed one 
 returned again and again — a face ghastly white, 
 with matted hair, bluish lips drawn away from 
 clenched teeth, and crimson flecks on the brown 
 beard. Now weariness prevailed and he sought 
 his room and fell asleep. 
 
 How long his slumber lasted he did not know. 
 
 Suddenly he awakened with a start. One thought 
 
 stood forth clearly — Rubinovitch did it ! The 
 
 mind had worked while the body slept, and had 
 
 367 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 solved the vexing problem. He saw in a flash 
 how reasonable the matter was. Rubinovitch's 
 own words, " I didn't think he was in the mill. 
 He went away," had been spoken in the tone of 
 one trying to justify himself. He remembered 
 the incoherent argument of a contribution which 
 the Jew had submitted to the "Criterion" not 
 long before — an argument which censured the 
 opponents of the trust for standing in the way 
 of progress. He remembered Burnham's asser- 
 tion of the night before, and the fact that he had 
 seen the two together several times that spring. 
 More convincing than all was the regret of Ru- 
 binovitch's whole appearance. 
 
 Reid thought the matter was plain and clear; 
 but as he considered it longer he saw that he had 
 no proof ; at best he had established a probability. 
 But although he had nothing definite to offer he 
 had his own certainty. Burning words filled his 
 mind, sentences formed which must be written. 
 His pen was winged and barbed. Out of the 
 white heat of his anger and grief, he wrote that 
 biting arraignment of the methods of the trust, 
 called " An Accusation," which was copied 
 throughout the country, in weeks that followed, 
 and made his name. 
 
 368 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 The sun was just rising. Bird-songs rippled 
 and tinkled from the maples. Great gushes of 
 soft air lifted the muslin curtains of the cham- 
 ber and let them fall again. Up from the garden 
 came the scent of dew-drenched roses, almost 
 drowning the odor of drugs in the sick room. 
 
 Faith Ordway was watching by her lover's 
 side while the nurse slept. She had been sitting 
 on the edge of the bed with her hand in his when 
 he had fallen asleep. Gradually the cramped po- 
 sition grew unbearable. Softly she sank to her 
 knees, and just as the first low sunbeam fell on 
 the drawn blind she closed her aching eyes. 
 
 She was not sleeping, however; every nerve 
 was too tense. The bird-songs clashed painfully 
 on her ears, the perfume of the roses made her 
 faint. All the sweet things of nature seemed 
 only a mockery of life's bitterness. This was 
 her wedding morning, rising as such a happy 
 369 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 day should with sunshine. She thought, as she 
 crouched there with her hand in that hot clasp, of 
 the day as she had planned it, with its whiteness 
 of wedding garments, its greeting friends. And 
 then, the cheerful bustle over, the drive through 
 the late June afternoon out to Clear Pond, and 
 the golden sunset through the pine-stems. She 
 knew that this could never be. She knew that 
 every hour he clung to life increased Theodore's 
 chances; she had seen that daily Dr. Rice's face 
 lost a little of its anxiety. But she also knew, 
 with keen intuition, that such a clinging to life 
 might in the end be harder for Theodore's rest- 
 less, active temperament than death. 
 
 The birds sang on more jubilantly without; 
 the narrow strip of sunlight crept along the floor. 
 Faith was thinking numbly of the blight which 
 had come over both their lives, when a voice 
 said huskily, 
 
 " Faith." 
 
 She lifted her head startled. Theodore had 
 not known her before, though he had never failed 
 to be quieted by her presence. Now there was 
 recognition in the tired, heavy-lidded eyes. 
 
 "What is it, Theodore?" Faith asked gently. 
 
 "Wasn't it today?" he whispered, with long 
 pauses between the words. 
 370 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Faith hesitated a moment but something told 
 her what he meant. 
 
 " Yes, dear," she said. 
 
 "I — thought — so," he replied with a glim- 
 mer of fun in his eyes. "A — fellow doesn't — 
 usually forget — his wedding day." 
 
 Faith laid her cheek on his hand, already grow- 
 ing thin and white. She could not speak, she 
 was struggling vainly, for the first time, for self- 
 control. What all the horror and tragedy and the 
 grief of others had failed to do, this touch of the 
 old familiar lightness had done. 
 
 " Don't," said the man as he felt her form 
 shaken with sobs. 
 
 There was a long silence. Faith stroked his 
 hand softly as she slowly regained her self-con- 
 trol. 
 
 " Could we — be — married — just — the 
 same? " the halting voice went on. "It — won't 
 make — much — difference — to you," there 
 was a long pause, " and — it will — to me." 
 
 Faith knew what he meant. She foresaw that 
 he would be less willing to tie her tO' him if he 
 thought the future of his invalidism would be 
 long. So she did not enlighten him just then. 
 She simply said, 
 
 " I would be glad, dear, if Dr. Rice thinks 
 you are strong enough. I will speak to him about 
 371 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 it. Don't say another word," and she stooped 
 and kissed him. 
 
 " Frank — will see — to everything," he gasp- 
 ed more faintly. 
 
 " Yes, yes, now be quiet." 
 
 When the nurse relieved her. Faith stole out 
 to her hammock on the veranda. She wished to 
 think quietly, and she wanted to intercept Dr. 
 Rice and warn him of Theodore's desire. 
 
 After the doctor -had gone upstairs on his 
 early morning visit. Faith sat there with the 
 leafy shadows weaving over her weary face and 
 bright hair. She was trying to justify herself. 
 She felt that Theodore was acting in ignorance 
 of the possibility, hourly growing stronger. She 
 felt that she was deceiving him from her stand- 
 point of broader knowledge. But she knew that 
 for a long time, if he recovered, he would need 
 close and devoted care, and she feared that he 
 would not let her bind herself to his wrecked life 
 if he knew all. She knew that he needed the 
 care which she could give him only as his wife, 
 and she knew, moreover, that she was satisfying 
 her own desire. 
 
 " Yes," said Dr. Rice as he came out upon the 
 veranda again. " He is certainly stronger. You 
 must do it all just as quietly as possible. Be mat- 
 ter-of-fact, and don't let there be any excitement. 
 Z7^ 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 And don't say anything more about it until the 
 time comes." 
 
 " And you think it is the right thing to do ? " 
 Faith queried. The two had been firm friends 
 ever since Mr. Ordway's sickness and death. 
 " You see he doesn't understand. He thinks he 
 isn't going to Hve. It seems as if I were taking 
 an advantage of him in some way." 
 
 " He may not live, remember that. Don't hope 
 for too much. But you know best about the oth- 
 er. You know what you are undertaking — may 
 be undertaking." 
 
 " And do you suppose I care for that — am 
 afraid of that? " the girl flashed out. 
 
 " No, I didn't, to tell the truth. I know you 
 too well by this time." Dr. Rice laid his hand 
 gently on the girl's arm. " I'm not sure that I 
 don't think Harding is to be envied, no matter 
 what comes. Run in and get your breakfast, 
 child." 
 
 When Faith entered the dining room she saw 
 Mrs. Harding and her mother seated there. Mrs. 
 Harding, daintily gowned as usual, but worn and 
 anxious, had just driven down from the hill for 
 the first news of the morning. Faith languidly 
 took the breakfast which her mother served, and 
 tried to think of some way in which to tell the 
 two women. At last she said simply, 
 373 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 " Theodore wants to be married today just as 
 we had planned." 
 
 " My dear, you would never dare," Mrs. 
 Harding interposed quickly. " It might prove 
 fatal." Matters stood much as before between 
 Faith and Mrs. Harding. The latter had grown 
 to admire and respect the courageous and self- 
 contained girl ; but as she saw the younger wom- 
 an given privileges and responsibilities in the 
 sick room which were denied her, a fierce jeal- 
 ousy sprang up. She felt bitterly that, with 
 Faith once Theodore's wife, there would indeed 
 be no place for her. She had hoped that this ac- 
 cident might defer the marriage. So she was 
 still unconvinced when Faith said wearily, 
 
 " Dr. Rice says it's not too dangerous an ex- 
 periment. I have talked with him. He says that 
 it must be done very quietly and with no excite- 
 ment." 
 
 " But there will necessarily be excitement," 
 Mrs. Harding persisted earnestly. " I'm sure 
 Mr. Harding would not think it wise." 
 
 Faith's face burned with a sudden, angry rush 
 of color and she opened her lips hastily. She 
 opened her lips, but she closed them again with- 
 out speech. Mrs. Harding continued quietly. 
 
 " I can realize, my dear, that aside from every 
 thing else, the rnere postponement of your wed- 
 374 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ding day is painful to you. But you wouldn't 
 wish to endanger Theodore's life." 
 
 " Of course not; but don't you see, Mrs. Hard- 
 ing, it is better not to deny him if he wishes it? 
 Dr. Rice says so." 
 
 Faith was breaking her egg automatically. Her 
 whole body ached from fatigue and lack of sleep. 
 Her tired nerves cried out fiercely against what 
 the soft voice wa^ saying, but her brain refused 
 to furnish her with reasons. She hardly knew 
 what she said. She noticed that her mother was 
 watching her anxiously, and even that loving 
 gaze irritated her. She wished to be alone in 
 the quiet of the screened sick room. 
 
 " I don't wish to seem intrusive, my dear," 
 Mrs. Harding replied. " But you must remem- 
 ber that he is my son, that his welfare is as dear 
 to me as it is to you. Let me consult Mr. Hard- 
 ing. I'm sure he would advise — " 
 
 The last allusion was too much for Faith's self- 
 restraint. She could stand it no longer, and 
 leaving her breakfast almost untasted she turned 
 and left the room. 
 
 There was a moment's astonished silence. Mrs. 
 Harding saw in this nothing more than an un- 
 expected touch of anger at being thwarted. She 
 bit her lip and looked at Mrs. Ordway reproach- 
 fully. The latter was all on fire for her daugh- 
 375 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ter and spoke sharply, forgetting the deference 
 which she habitually paid to Mrs. Harding's 
 grace and elegance. 
 
 " There, she's gone ofif and ain't ate hardly a 
 mite of breakfast, an' she needs everything she 
 can take to keep her up." 
 
 Mrs. Harding opened her blue eyes in astonish- 
 ment at Mrs. Ordway. She had never liked the 
 blunt, plain woman. She had never seen the 
 worth beneath the garrulous, ungrammatical 
 speech. In Mrs. Ordway lay one of Evelyn 
 Harding's strongest objections to Faith. Now 
 she spoke, courteously, to be sure, but a little in- 
 differently. 
 
 " I'm sure I'm very sorry if I said anything 
 to offend her. I didn't know she took offence 
 so easily." 
 
 "I do' know's she's any quicker to take offence 
 than the average. I should think you could see 
 she's all wore out. She ain't slep' more'n an 
 hour at a stretch, I guess, for a week; an' ain't 
 eaten anything but what she's forced down; an' 
 then havin' you bring him up that way — " 
 
 Mrs. Harding was genuinely astonished. She 
 had received no hint of popular speculation in 
 regard to the accident. Her suspicions of the 
 spring, though hardly laid at rest by Mr. Hard- 
 ing's assertions, had Iain dormant. They could 
 376 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 •never have mounted to include such a crime as 
 this. Mr. Harding's anxiety and grief had been 
 perfectly explicable on other grounds. She had 
 no inkling of Mrs. Ordway's meaning, but some- 
 thing in the tone of the remark startled her. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked. 
 
 In a calmer moment Mrs. Ordway would not 
 have inflicted this wound. But the slight to her 
 child, the imputation of ill-temper at this time, 
 of all others, touched the mother to the quick. 
 Moreover, she loved Theodore^, and her heart 
 was as yet unhealed for her own grief. The 
 same agency had wrought cruel harm in both 
 cases. To her practical mind Albion Harding, 
 the nominal head of the American, became di- 
 rectly responsible for the death of her husband 
 and the accident to the man who would have been 
 her son. She believed him nothing better than 
 a murderer, and her heart was full of anger 
 against him. So she answered : 
 
 " I sh'd think y'd know what I mean. I mean 
 that he's been mixed up in this matter too much 
 already. That's what everybody's saying." 
 
 " What is everybody saying? " Mrs. Harding 
 
 demanded, the faint flush fading from her face. 
 
 She did not yet grasp Mrs. Ordway's meaning. 
 
 The woman's manner, however, and the hint of 
 
 377 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 some aspersion against her husband, frightened 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Ordway hesitated. It was no easy thing 
 to tell a woman that her husband was reputed 
 the murderer of his son. Even her anger and 
 grief paused at it for a moment ; but Mrs. Hard- 
 ing gave her no chance for hesitation. 
 
 " What are they saying? " she repeated. Her 
 voice did not grow louder, but its soft notes grew 
 hard. " You shall tell me ! You must, now you 
 have said so much." Her manner compelled 
 Mrs. Ordway. 
 
 "They're sayin' that if it hadn't been for the 
 American, Theodore Harding wouldn't be a lay- 
 in' there," she said fiercely. The mere phrasing 
 of her hitherto unspoken thought increased her 
 anger. She went on with the rest of her accusa- 
 tion with a rush. 
 
 " An' they say, an' I know, that if it hadn't 
 been for Albion Harding and the American, my 
 husband would 'a' been liyin' yet. Not but I 
 am better off than you are, this minute, for I 
 can look back an' think that he never knowin'ly 
 wronged a man in his life, — an' now you can see 
 why Faithy wouldn't be likely to ask Mr. Hard- 
 ing about anything." 
 
 " Does she believe that? " Mrs. Harding asked 
 378 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 faintly. She sat white and still, shocked into 
 numbness by the awful accusation. 
 
 " She hasn't said so," said Mrs. Ordway slow- 
 ly. " But I guess she does. Why shouldn't 
 she? Who else has got anything to gain by it? 
 How did it happen, any^vay ? It was blowed up, 
 plain enough." 
 
 Mrs. Harding had no specific defence of her 
 husband to offer. She had not thought the mat- 
 ter out for herself, nor tried to find definite rea- 
 sons for the accident. She had a dim theory 
 that machinery, and boilers, and all the equip- 
 ment of a factory were dangerous and subject 
 to explosion or other fatal misadventure. She 
 had not considered the necessity of accounting 
 for the accident by any outside agency. Now 
 she could only reiterate haughtily, with an em- 
 phasis which covered her inward distress — . 
 
 " It is perfectly absurd. I supposed Mr. 
 Harding was better known in Underbill." 
 
 Something in the cold contempt of her tone 
 quenched Mrs. Ordway's kindling pity, and 
 moved her to further speech. 
 
 "Underbill is gittin' to know Mr. Harding; 
 there ain't a mite of doubt about it. An' the 
 more it comes to know, the readier it gits to be- 
 lieve things. Mind you, I don't say he done it 
 himself; but he knows who done it, an' he ain't 
 379 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 any object in followin' of it up. You can ask 
 him an' see. I used to be pretty sharp with fa- 
 ther sometimes because he didn't take much stock 
 in Mr. Harding. I wish't I had back some of 
 the things I've said to him about it. I used to 
 think because he spoke a good deal in prayer- 
 meetin' an' give to missions he was better than 
 father. But I know now which was the good 
 man. Father said you couldn't tell what a man 
 would do when he got so much power in his 
 hands, an' I guess you can't. 'Tany rate, Mr. 
 Harding's surprised us all. But, there, what's 
 the use talkin' ? You won't believe the things 
 I'm a sayin' of, an' 'taint fittin' you should. I'm 
 most sorry I said anythin' about it," she added, 
 relenting as she saw Mrs. Harding's ashen face. 
 " It don't do no good to say hard things — ." 
 Her voice trailed off into silence as she went to 
 find Faith, and coax her back to her unfinished 
 breakfast. 
 
 Mrs. Harding rose and left the room. The 
 carriage was waiting without and she drove to 
 her husband's office. She crossed the outer 
 room swiftly, trailing her lavender muslin heed- 
 lessly over the floor, and entered the private office 
 without knocking. 
 
 Albion Harding turned at her entrance. Nat- 
 380 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 urally enough he misinterpreted her frightened 
 face. 
 
 "Theodore?" and he rose to his feet with a 
 pecuhar whiteness about his mouth. His whole 
 face was full of fear. Mrs. Harding eyed him 
 keenly. It might be the fear that any father feels 
 for his son's welfare. 
 
 " No ! No ! " she said. " Theodore is 
 stronger this morning. Really better, they 
 think." 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 " Tell me, Albion, how did it happen? " 
 
 " The accident ? — I have heard many theories 
 advanced but none of them seem really satisfac- 
 tory." He was temporizing, but he knew that 
 she had heard what all Underbill was saying. 
 
 '' They say you did it? " the words were out. 
 Mrs. Harding paused, shocked, now the sus- 
 picion was actually spoken. She feared her hus- 
 band's outburst of anger; but he did not retort. 
 Instead, that look came into his face — the look 
 which she had seen before Theodore's accusa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Then you have heard that? " he said slowly. 
 
 " Tell me, Albion, you did not do it? " 
 
 " I did not do it, Evelyn," he said solemnly. 
 He meant to brave it out for her sake, although 
 he was weary of pretences for his own. He had 
 381 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 no doubt that she would believe him implicitly, 
 and that it would save her much pain. Then came 
 a sudden revulsion of feeling. There had never 
 been an)^hing but truth between them. He could 
 not bear to see her face lighten at his falsehood. 
 There had been a time when he could have firmly 
 deceived her for her own sake; but now he had 
 not the heart. His one desire was for confes- 
 sion. He caught his breath. 
 
 "I did not do it," he reiterated. "But I 
 would to God, Evelyn, that I did not feel a weight 
 of responsibility for it. Wait, and I will tell you 
 everything, and you shall judge. I did not mean 
 any harm to the boy. Nobody meant any harm 
 to him. But we were desperate. If matters 
 had gone against us in Congress, Theodore's 
 power with the opposition would have meant our 
 ruin — and that meant so much. So many in- 
 terests ! so many people with only a little money 
 to lose their all, and it meant the failure of a 
 principle. Oh, I can't make you understand it, 
 Evelyn — but it was a matter of life and death. 
 And so I — told Mr. Burnham if he could by 
 any honorable means put a stop — to Theodore's 
 activity, — to do it. It hurt me, even that ! And 
 this ! This is what he did. I can't tell you how 
 — he is not legally responsible for anything — 
 but he has spoiled our boy's life ! Don't you be- 
 382 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 lieve what I have said? Before God, Evelyn, 
 that is all the part I had in it ! " 
 
 " All the part ! " she said slowly, with stiff 
 lips. Then she turned and left the room. 
 
 In the long, anxious days that followed, she 
 sat at his table, and cared for his welfare. But 
 she never gave him a sight into her feelings to- 
 ward him. Whether she believed in his state- 
 ment or in the worst that the press said of him, 
 he did not knew ; and he began to wonder if he 
 had ever really understood her. 
 
 383" 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ' Albion Harding drove up the hill one crisp 
 morning in October, glad to reach home once 
 more from New York. His eagerness was 
 chilled when he found his wife absent, and could 
 get no news of her whereabouts from the serv- 
 ants. She had departed as soon as breakfast 
 was over without leaving any word. He could 
 guess, however, where she was. The echoing 
 house, spacious but barren of love, seemed to him 
 symbolic of the emptiness of his .life. He drove 
 back to his office, glad to bury himself in his 
 heaped-up correspondence. 
 
 At last he leaned back in his revolving chair 
 with a sigh of relief. But one letter remained, 
 and that bore the seal of the missionary body 
 of which he was treasurer. He knew what this 
 was likely to contain, and his lips curved in a 
 satisfied smile as he opened it leisurely. A slip 
 of pinkish paper fluttered to the floor unheeded 
 as he read : 
 
 384 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 "Dear Brother Harding: — It becomes my 
 painful duty to inform you that there is a grow- 
 ing feeling among the Trustees of our organiza- 
 tion that your resignation would be for the in- 
 terest of the body. They appreciate to a man the 
 almost invaluable nature of the services you have 
 rendered, and the difficulty they will have in se- 
 curing, even for money, the care and attention 
 you have so generously given for love. They 
 realize the fatuity of expecting to duplicate your 
 business ability and experience. Nevertheless, 
 the unfortunate rumors which have been recently 
 circulated, and the criticism which has during 
 the last three months assailed you, have brought 
 them to the reluctant conclusion that the name of 
 the society should be severed from your own. 
 Personally, let me assure you of my entire sym- 
 pathy with you, and of my belief that you will 
 be enabled successfully to refute the charges. 
 
 " I am also instructed to say that the Trustees 
 have decided most regretfully that, under the ex- 
 isting circumstances, they must return the check 
 for five thousand dollars which you so gener- 
 ously contributed on the 6th inst. to the running 
 expenses of the body. 
 
 " Most fraternally yours, 
 
 " Abram K. Flynt, 
 
 " Secretary." 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Mr. Harding rose suddenly to his feet, and 
 paced up and down the floor. Of all the blows 
 which public opinion had dealt him, this was the 
 hardest. The missionary organization had been 
 his child; he had nourished it out of his abun- 
 dance, and now, like his children by blood, it 
 had turned against him. He knew how deep 
 must be the feeling of those godly men, its Trus- 
 tees, to make them refuse his money and his aid, 
 and hopelessly alienate him. The pang became 
 sharper as he realized that they were virtually 
 denying him his reparation. He had said to 
 himself that the wrongs the American had done 
 should be made good, and now! The newspa- 
 pers, a very scourge to this sensitive man, would 
 have a choice bit of news. 
 
 He sank info his chair wearily, too much 
 shocked and grieved for thought, and gazed out 
 across the square. As he looked idly, with his 
 heart full of bitterness, a carriage drew up at the 
 station and two people alighted, his wife, and a 
 man, young apparently, but painfully weak. He 
 had not seen his son since the accident and 
 was shocked at the change in the alert figure. He 
 saw Faith and Reid come walking briskly down 
 the street and join the others with the dog circling 
 about them. He saw a chair brought out into 
 the warm autumn sunlight, where Theodore seat- 
 386 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ed himself languidly, while the bustle of de- 
 parture went on. 
 
 The noon whistle of the mills sounded and 
 gradually a little crowd gathered about the chair. 
 Theodore's men and his old companions in his 
 father's mills had assembled to say good-by — a 
 last farewell, many of them thought it. The 
 group was a sad one. More than one woman 
 wiped her eyes as she walked slowly away. But 
 the centre of it fought the prevailing grief brave- 
 ly. Mr. Harding saw the thin face thrown back 
 more than once in laughter, in the familiar fash- 
 ion. 
 
 The twelve-twenty express for the south drew 
 in and the business of departure went rapidly 
 on. The glossy dog was taken to a rear car. 
 The invalid was helped aboard the train. Mr. 
 Harding watched breathlessly. Deep in his 
 heart he had feared that when Theodore went 
 south Mrs. Harding would go with him. He 
 knew that without his wife his life would be ut- 
 terly empty, but he had not spoken. And now 
 the worst seemed coming true. He held his 
 breath as the slender black-clad figure entered the 
 car. She might merely have gone aboard to see 
 Theodore comfortably located; but the bell rang 
 and the long train moved slowly out. 
 387 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 Albion Harding laid his grey head on his 
 arms. 
 
 How long he remained there he did not know. 
 It was an hour far more bitter than that of death 
 could be. He looked back over his past life and 
 said to himself that it was all false, all a failure. 
 What did it count that he had succeeded ? What 
 did it count that almost unlimited power was his ? 
 The American was surely established. With a 
 deep indrawn breath he began to count the cost, 
 bitterly and without disguises. Theodore, bid- 
 ding farewell, perhaps forever, to his birthplace, 
 beaten, broken, disheartened; Ordway resting in 
 his bankrupt's grave; Oakley stooping rapidly 
 from the high standard which he had set himself, 
 tarnished in popular opinion by crooked dealing, 
 growing reckless and cynical; these things, he 
 told himself bluntly, were his doing. He had 
 brought upon Ordway and Theodore their disas- 
 ter, he had spurred Oakley to the work that had 
 been his undoing. 
 
 Then his thoughts went out to the deeds of the 
 American all over the country, and he told him- 
 self that these also were his. Smokeless chim- 
 neys, discouraged workmen, disheartened em- 
 ployers, complaining farmers. More than once 
 he had testified before courts, with his hand on 
 the Bible and the glow of truth in his heart, that 
 388 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 he knew nothing of this or that; but sometimes, 
 in the many-voiced silence of the night, or in a 
 moment Hke this, he saw himself more truly. 
 
 For what of himself? He, who had counted 
 the ruin of others, could not measure his own. 
 What was he? He did not know. He knew 
 only that he was reckoned implacable, unyield- 
 ing, bound to succeed at any cost, without feeling 
 for his family, his workmen, — a thief and a 
 murderer. He was denied even the privilege of 
 spending himself for others — a dry sob rose in 
 his throat at the thought. In spite of his success 
 he was a failure, he was old and ill, and alone. 
 He had succeeded, but he, and not he alone, had 
 paid the price. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened softly, there was a 
 step on the floor and Evelyn Harding sank down 
 by her husband's side. 
 
 " Albion, what is it ? " she said in startled 
 tones. "Are you ill? Tell me." 
 
 " No, I'm not ill," he said mechanically. 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 " I thought you had gone with Theodore," he 
 said automatically. " You got on board the 
 train and I saw it move off." 
 
 " Yes, it started while I was still on board, but 
 they stopped for me. I couldn't go. I tried 
 
 389 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 hard to make up my mind to it," she added rap- 
 idly. 
 
 " I knew you were thinking of it. You would 
 better have gone, Evelyn. I'm not fit for you to 
 touch," he added melodramatically, as she laid 
 her head against his arm. 
 
 "Albion, don't!" 
 
 " It is true, — do you know what I am ? " 
 
 She only shrank closer to him. She did not 
 protest as he had hoped. 
 
 " It doesn't make any difference what you are. 
 We have lived as husband and wife for thirty 
 years. I can't leave you now any more than I 
 can leave myself, and I couldn't bear it away 
 from you, thinking of you all alone here and ill. 
 He didn't need me; he has Faith, but you have 
 only me." 
 
 " God is too good to me," he said softly, put- 
 ting his arms about her. " I have not deserved 
 that it should be as it was before between us." 
 
 " Don't," she said, and she shrank a little from 
 him. - " How can it be as it was before, when 
 I'm thinking of him every moment of the day — 
 my poor little boy ! " 
 
 The train for the south was speeding over 
 levels gleaming crimson beneath the setting sun. 
 The red light streamed into the car-window and 
 390 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 lent a little color to Theodore's face, very hag- 
 gard and weary against its cushions. 
 
 " I'm a poor stick," he Said smiling ruefully. 
 " I'm more tired than if I had been trampir.g all 
 day. Do you know. Faith, I've been wondering 
 if I should ever go partridge shooting again." 
 
 " I don't see why not," Faith answered brave- 
 ly, and her lips looked as if she unaided might 
 wrest the boon from fate. " You are gaining all 
 the time, Teddy." 
 
 "That's right. They didn't think I'd ever 
 turn out as well as this, did they? Say, Faith," 
 he added after a moment's pause, his voice falling 
 as he spoke, " did you see father? " 
 
 " No, where ? " said Faith quickly. 
 
 " Up at his office window. He was looking 
 down at us. He looked sick. I say. Faith, it's 
 hard lines on him." 
 
 " What ? " said Faith curtly. Her tone was 
 not compassionate. 
 
 " Oh, everything," Theodore answered vague- 
 ly. " Do you know, I'd give a good- deal to 
 know how it happened." 
 
 " Frank knows," Faith said quickly. " He 
 won't tell, though. He says he can't prove any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Well, I guess it's one of the things the less 
 you know about the better," Theodore said wear- 
 391 
 
THE WARS OF PEACE 
 
 ily. "' There's just one thing about it," he added 
 after a little pause, smiling in the old radiant 
 fashion. " Most people would think I was pret- 
 ty well done for, and I don't deny I am up 
 against it. But after all. Faith, I've got you — 
 and that's everything — and I haven't lost my 
 grip." 
 
 392 
 
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