battle was not yet, for as Una nodded in the general direction of the
group in passing, Marcia spoke her name.

"Ah, Una dear. You're going?"

"I must," with a glance at her wrist watch. "It's getting late."

"What a pity. I wanted to talk to you--about the Mission."

"I'd like to, but--"

"We've just been discussing a theme that I know you're really vitally
interested in."

"I?" I could see by the sudden lift of her brows that Una was now on
her guard.

"Yes. You believe in women working, in woman's independence, in the
New-Thought idea of unconventional morality, don't you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Simply that women are or should be perfectly capable of looking out
for themselves, as much so as men?"

"That depends a great deal upon the woman, I should say," replied Una,
smiling tolerantly.

"I was just about to put a hypothetical question. Do you mind
listening? A young girl, for instance, pretty, romantic, a trifle
venturesome, weary of the banalities of existence, leaves all the
tiresome cares of the city and with the wanderlust upon her goes
faring forth in search of adventure. A purely hypothetical case, but a
typical one. As she wanders through the woods, she comes upon a high
stone wall, something like this one of Jerry's, and suddenly remembers
that within this wall there lives a young man, beautiful beyond the
dreams of the gods. I have said that she is romantic, also
venturesome--"

"Her address, please," muttered Lloyd quickly.

"Do be quiet, Chan--" Marcia went on. "Venturesome, modern, moral--"

"It can't be done," muttered the brute again.

"Chan, do be serious. Curiosity overwhelms the girl. Nobody is about.
So, putting her fears behind her, she climbs the wall and enters."

The daring impertinence of this recital had stricken Jerry suddenly
dumb, but the veins at his temples were swelling with the hot blood
that had risen to his face. Una, after a moment of uncertainty, became
strangely composed.

"It is a beautiful spot. No one is in sight," Marcia went on amusedly.
"The girl ventures further, and finds the beautiful young man catching
trout. She talks to him. I think he is amused at her temerity, also
perhaps a little flattered at her marks of confidence--"

"Marcia!" It was Jerry's voice, deep, booming, and I had hardly
recognized it. But there was a note in it that caused a hush to fall
over the room. The girl looked up as though puzzled.

"You interrupt, Jerry--"

"Neither Una nor I are interested in what you're saying," he cried
hoarsely, while the rest of the company stared at him.

"_I_ am, Jerry," said Una's voice very coolly. Except for Marcia,
perhaps, she was the least ruffled person in the room. "I want very
much to hear the rest of the story," she added. "It has
possibilities."

Marcia laughed.

"Possibilities, yes. There isn't much left to tell except that the
girl spent the afternoon and the evening in the cabin with the
beautiful young man and then went over the wall the way she came. Now
what I wanted to know, Una dear, is whether you think that morality,
conventional or unconventional, can stand a test like that."

Una was silent for a moment and then her words came slowly, rather
wistfully.

"Was she a friend of yours?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, a friend."

"And did you know her for any length of time to be honorable,
upright, decent?"

"Oh, yes, quite so."

Una paused another moment and when she spoke her voice was
crystal-clear.

"Then all I would like to say is that the mind that can conceive of
evil in such a piece of innocent imprudence is unclean, beyond words!
Is that all that you wanted to know?"

Marcia leaned back in her chair holding her breath for a moment and
then broke into a peal of laughter.

"There! You see. I knew you would agree with me."

The people in the room looked from one to the other, aware of a hidden
meaning in the situation. Channing Lloyd had paused in the act of
pouring out another glass of wine and stood blinking heavily. The only
sound was a nervous titter from the Da Costa girl. Una looked around
from face to face as though seeking those of her friends and then
spoke fearlessly.

"You may not know what this hypothetical question means or its
answer?" she said with a smile. "I will tell you. I was that girl.
Jerry Benham, the man. The place was here. I am accustomed to going
where and with whom I please." She tossed her small head proudly,
"Those who can see evil where evil doesn't exist are welcome to their
opinions. As for my friends--"

Here a chorus of protest went up, from the treble of the Da Costa girl
to Laidlaw's deep bass.

"Una--you silly child--of course no one thinks--"

"As for my friends," she repeated, her voice slightly raised, "I will
choose them by this token."

I had not misjudged her. Her scorn of Marcia was ineffable, and I
think the girl at the tea-urn had a sense of being at a disadvantage,
for the idea of Una's frank admission had never entered Marcia's
pretty intriguing head. She was hoist with her own petard and covered
her confusion by a light laugh which was most unconvincing.

"Of course, Una, I didn't mean--"

But the rest of her sentence was lost in the sudden disintegration of
the party into groups, some of which followed Una to the door. Jerry
had regained his senses and strode out after her."

"I'm going with you, Una," I heard him say.

"It isn't necessary. I can find the way. Good-by, everybody. No,
thanks, Phil."

But Jerry went on with her and I broke through the sympathetic crowd
at the doorway and followed. Like Jerry, I too had been stunned, but
unlike Jerry, in the reaction I was finding a secret delight in Una's
splendid mastery of the situation. The pair were already far in
advance of me, Una hurrying sedately, Jerry, his hands deep in his
pockets, striding like a furious young god beside her, earnestly
talking. It was not until they heard the sound of my hurrying
footsteps that they stopped and turned.

"I can't let you go, Miss Habberton," I said breathlessly, "without
letting you know how contrite I am at a slip of the tongue which--"

"It doesn't matter in the least, Mr. Canby. I have nothing to regret."
And then, with her crooked little smile, "But you might have omitted
the details."

"I--I--" I stammered.

"It was I--I who told--" Jerry blurted out. "I am to blame. Why
shouldn't I tell? Was there anything to be ashamed of? For you? For
me?"

"No, Jerry. The surest proof of it is that I'm not angry with
you--with either of you. But I must be going."

"I'm going with you," said Jerry quickly.

"No."

"Let him, Miss Habberton," I put in.

"I had better go alone."

"I forbid it," said Jerry. "The machine is at the upper gate. I'll
drive you. Come."

She hesitated. Our glances met. I think she must have seen the
eagerness in my face, the friendliness, the admiration. She read too
the revolt in Jerry's eyes, the dawning of something like reason and
of his grave sense of the injustice that had been done to her. He
pleaded almost piteously--as though her acquiescence were the only
sign he could have of her forgiveness.

"Very well," she said at last, "to the station, then."

"No," said Jerry firmly, "to town. I'm going to drive you to town.
We've got to have a talk. We've got to--to clear this thing up."

She hesitated again and I think she felt the need of companionship at
that moment.

"But your guests--"

"Oh, I'll be here," I said. "They'll be going soon. Jerry can be back
in time for the party."

"I'm not going to that party," Jerry muttered savagely.

He meant it. I bade them good-by--watched them until they passed out
of sight and hearing, and then sank on a nearby rock, and hugged my
knees in quiet ecstasy.




CHAPTER XXI

JERRY ASKS QUESTIONS


Fortunately for me, neither Jack Ballard nor the expected overflow
from the Van Wyck house-party came to disturb the serenity of my
thoughts, Jack being suddenly called to Newport, the guests having
been taken in elsewhere. So I sat up alone for Jerry until late and
finally went to bed, happily conscious that my embassy, impossible as
it had seemed, had borne fruit after all. Jerry did not go to Marcia
Van Wyck's party, and his evening clothes remained where Christopher
had laid them out, on the bed in his room. I gave myself an added
pleasure in slumber that night by going in and looking at them before
I sought my own room. I cannot remember a night when I have slept more
soundly and I rose refreshed and intensely eager to hear how things
had gone with Jerry and the dear lady whom I had once so inaptly
dubbed "the minx." At the breakfast table Poole informed me that Jerry
had returned late to the Manor and was sleeping. It was good. The
glimmerings of reason that had appeared in the boy during the last few
days had been encouraging, and his open revolt against the enchantress
had made me hopeful that her dominion over him was not so complete as
it had appeared. Viewed from any angle, the conduct of the Van Wyck
girl was reprehensible, and admitted of no excuse. She had overshot
the mark and had done her target no harm. However warm her friendship
with those of her guests who were at the cabin, the comments I had
heard convinced me that Jerry and I were not alone in our
condemnation. The attack seemed to savor of a lack of finesse,
surprising in a person of her cleverness, for had her bias not been so
great she should have known that as a gentleman, Jerry must resent so
palpable and designing an insult to a guest at Horsham Manor. Her
impudence still astounded me. Did she think herself so sure of Jerry
that she chose purposely to try him? Or had the point been reached in
their amatory relations where she was quite indifferent as to what
Jerry might do?

Smoothly as my plan had worked and happily (or unhappily) as Marcia's
pique and ill-humor had fitted into it, I could not believe that
Jerry's revolt had ended matters. Even if the boy had been willing to
end them (a thing of which I was not at all sure), Marcia Van Wyck was
not the kind of girl to retire on this ungraceful climax, and Jerry's
absence from her house on so important an occasion was nothing less
than a notice to those present that he and Marcia were no longer on
terms. I had had a sense of the girl's taste for conquest, and the
more I thought of her the surer I was that Jerry's championship of Una
Habberton would revive whatever remained of the lingering sparks of
Marcia's passion.

Jerry joined me in the study later in the morning and sat for awhile
reading the newspapers. He was silent, almost morose, and at last got
up and walked about the place. I feared for a moment that he had gone
to the garage with the intention of getting into his machine, and
this I knew meant nothing less than a ride posthaste, to Briar Hills.
But he came back presently in a more cheerful mood and after luncheon
suggested fishing, a proposal that I instantly fell in with. And so I
followed him up stream, my own humor being merely to carry the net,
watch him whip the pools and pray that his luck might be good, for a
full creel meant good humor and good humor, perhaps confidences.

Fortune favored. By the time we had gotten up the gorge, Jerry was in
high spirits, for luck had crowned his skill and at least a dozen fish
lay stiffening in the basket, and when we reached the iron grille
Jerry emitted a deep sigh of satisfaction, drew out his pipe and sank
on a rock to smoke it. I lay back beside him, my hat over my eyes.
Nothing stimulates confidences so much as indifference. Jerry glanced
at me once or twice, but I made no sign and after awhile he began
talking. Whenever he paused I put in a grunt which encouraged him to
go on. That is how I happened to hear about Jerry's ride home with Una
Habberton.

It seems that when they got into the machine Una was very quiet and
answered his questions only in mono-syllables, but Jerry was patient
and all idea of Marcia's party being out of his head, he drove slowly
so that he would not reach the city until everything was clear and
friendly between them again. Her profile was very sober and demure, he
said. He wasn't quite sure for a long time whether she was going to
burst into anger, tears, or to laugh. Jerry must have looked sober too
and for awhile it couldn't have been a very cheerful ride, but at last
the boy saw Una looking at him slantwise and when he turned toward
her she burst into the merriest kind of a laugh.

"Oh, Jerry, is it home you're driving me to, or just a funeral?"

He gasped in relief at her sudden change of mood. "I was just
waiting," he said quietly. "I didn't want to intrude, Una."

"But you _do_ look _so_ like the undertaker's assistant," she smiled.
"You have no right to be glum. I have. I'm the corpse. A corpse
_might_ laugh in sheer relief when the lid was screwed down and
everything comfortable."

"Una! I don't see anything so funny--"

"My reputation! A trifling thing," she said coolly, "still, I value
it."

"_Your_ reputation! That's absurd--nothing could hurt _you_. I don't
understand."

"I can't quite see yet how it all came out," she went on thoughtfully,
"how Marcia knew that I had been inside the wall. Why, Jerry, unless
she learned it recently, since I saw you in New York--" she paused.

"No," protested Jerry uncomfortably. "It was last summer--"

"But I had no name to you then--I was merely Una--"

"And I blurted it out, Una, the only name I knew, never thinking that
you and Marcia were acquaintances."

"Oh, I see," and she smiled a little. "If my name had been plain Jane
or even Mary, my reputation would have been safe."

"What rubbish, Una! Can't a fellow and a girl have a chat without--"

"Yes, but the girl mustn't get through eight-foot walls."

"I don't see what difference that makes." She must have given him a
swift glance here. But she laughed again. "You evidently don't
realize, Jerry, that monasteries are supposed to be taboo for young
girls."

"Yes, but you didn't know about it being a monastery," he said
seriously.

"Of course, or I shouldn't have dared. But that makes no difference to
Marcia. I was there. You told her. Don't you know, Jerry, that it
isn't good form to tell _everything_ you know?"

"She guessed it," he muttered. "It's such a lot of talk about
nothing." I think Jerry was getting a little warm now. "Suppose you
_were_ in there, whose affair is it but yours and mine?"

"Everybody's," she shrugged. "Everybody's business! That ought to be
inscribed on the tombstone of every dead reputation. _Hic jacet_ Una
Habberton. Nice girl, but she _would_ visit monasteries."

But nothing was humorous to Jerry's mood just then.

"I can't have you talking like that, Una," he said in a suppressed
tone. "It's very painful to me. I can't imagine why anyone should try
to injure you. They couldn't, you know. You're above all that sort of
thing. It's too trivial--"

"Oh, is it? You'll see. All New York will have the story in
twenty-four hours. Pretty sort of a tale to get to the Mission! The
Mission! If those people heard! Imagine the embroideries! I could
never lift my head down there again."

"Let the world go hang. Have you anything to be ashamed of, Una?"

"No."

"Nor I. Very well."

The seriousness that Una attached to the affair, while it bewildered,
also inflamed him. "I wish it had been a man who had talked to you the
way Marcia did."

Una turned toward him soberly.

"What would you do to him, Jerry?"

He smiled grimly. "I think I'd kill him," he said softly.

I think Jerry's tone must have comforted her, for he said that after
that Una grew quieter.

"The world is very intolerant of idyls, Jerry."

They had reached a road which overlooked the river. Long, cool shadows
brushed their faces as they rushed on from orchard to meadow, all
redolent of sweet odors.

"Why?"

"Because they're a reproach."

"Friendship is no idyl, Una, with us. It's more like reality, isn't
it?"

"I hope so."

"Don't you believe it?"

"Yes, I think I do."

He smiled at her gayly.

"I'm sure of it. I'm always myself with you, Una. I seem to want you
to know all the things I'm thinking about. That's the surest
indication, isn't it? And I want to know what you're thinking about. I
feel as though I'd given you too many additional burdens down town,
that you may tire this summer."

"Oh, you needn't worry. I'm quite strong."

"I want you to lay out some definite work that I can do, not merely
giving money, but myself, my own strength and energy." He laughed.
"You know I'm really thinking of asking you to establish a mission for
men only, with _me_ as the first patient. It does seem to straighten
me out somehow, just being with you--keeps me from thinking crooked."

"_Do_ you think crooked, Jerry?"

"Yes, often. Things bother me. Then I'm like a child. You've no idea
of the vast abyss of my ignorance."

"But you _mustn't_ think crooked. I won't have it."

"I can't help it, sometimes. People aren't always what you expect 'em
to be. I ought to understand better by this time, but I don't."

"People aren't like books, Jerry. You're sure of books. But with
people, you can turn the same page again and again and the printing is
different every time."

"People _do_ change, don't they?"

"Yes, and the pages are rather smudgy here and there, but you'll learn
to read them some day. The office will help you, Jerry, because
business people _have_ to think straight or be repudiated. You ought
to go to the office every day and work--work whether you like it or
not. You've got too much money. It's dangerous. You're like a colt
just out in the pasture, all hocks and skittishness. Work is the only
thing for that. It may be tiresome but you've got to stick at it if it
kills you."

"I suppose you're right," he muttered.

"Jerry," she went on rapidly, and I think with a twinkle of mischief
in her eye, "all of us have streaks of other people in us. I have,
lots of 'em. Sometimes I wonder which part of me is other people and
which is me. I think you've even got more different kinds of people in
you than I have. Students, philosophers, woodsmen, prize fighters--"

"Una!"

"I must. Everything, almost everything you've been and done I like
except--"

"Oh, don't Una--"

"I've got to. You wanted to clear things up between us. That's one of
the things we've got to clear up. I don't understand the psychology of
the prize ring and I'm not sure that I'd care to understand it. I know
that you are strong in body. You should be glad of that, but not so
glad as to be vain of it. One doesn't boast of the gifts of the gods.
One merely accepts them, thankfully--"

"I was a fool--"

"Say rather, merely an animated biped, an instinct on legs. Is _that_
a thing to be proud of--for a man who knows what real ideals are?"

"Don't--"

"Did you discuss Shakespeare and the musical glasses with 'Kid'
Spatola?"

"Please!"

"Or the incorporeal nature of the soul with Battling Sagorski?"

"Una!" Her irony was biting him like acid.

"Or did Sagorski make you an accessory before the fact of his next
housebreaking expedition?"

"Una, that isn't fair. Sagorski is--"

"He's a second-story man, Jerry, with a beautiful record. Shall I give
it to you?"

"Er--no, thanks," gasped Jerry breathlessly. "I can't believe--"

"You missed nothing at the house?"

She waited for his reply.

"I'm not sure _who_ took them--"

"But you _did_ miss--?"

"Yes, spoons, forks and things--" He broke off exasperated. "Oh, Una,
it's cruel of you?"

"No, kind. Sagorski is a smudgy page, Jerry. I happened to have seen
it in the records. And there's a woman at the Mission--"

It was Una's turn to pause in sudden solemnity.

"A woman. His wife?" asked Jerry.

"No, just a woman."

"He had treated her badly?"

"Her soul," she replied slowly, "is dead. Her body doesn't matter."

She must have been thankful for the silence that followed? for the
look of bewilderment, piteous, I think, it must now have seemed to
Una, was in his face again. And before he could question further she
had turned the topic.

A little later, I think, personalities began again.

"You're always helping people, Una, always helping," he said slowly.
"Does it make you happy?"

"Yes, if I _can_ help."

"And you want to help me? I wonder if I'm worth it."

"Yes, I wouldn't bother if you weren't."

"And how do you know I'm worth it?"

"It's my business to know," she said.

Jerry sent the car spinning joyously down a fine stretch of straight
empty road. And then when he had reduced the car to a slower pace,

"You know, Una," he laughed, "you do take charge of a fellow, don't
you?"

"You need 'mothering'," she smiled.

"Or sistering. I wish I had a sister like you. Fellows ought to have
sisters, anyway. People ought to be born in pairs, male and female."

She laughed and then with sudden seriousness:

"But people ought to stand on their feet. All the 'sistering' in the
world won't help a lame man to walk."

"I'm not so awfully lame, am I?"

"No. Just limpy. But don't try to run yet, Jerry."

"Oh, I say--"

"Just keep your eyes open. You'll see." And then quietly, "You know
Phil Laidlaw, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, fine chap."

"I think it wouldn't harm you to know Phil better. He isn't brilliant,
but he's steady, sure, reliable. And he _stands on his feet_, Jerry,
on both of them."

Jerry's comment to me in telling this part of the conversation was
amusing. "Phil Laidlaw _is_ a good fellow and all that," he muttered,
"but hang it all, Roger, you can't stomach having another man's
virtues thrust down your throat!"

My own comment may be interesting.

"I don't wonder that she cares for him," I said. "A good match, I
should say."

"H--m," replied Jerry. "I can't seem to think of Una married to
anybody. She's so much occupied--"

"But she _will_ be married some day, my boy. Charity begins at home."

She had used her woman's weapons loyally, at least. I think her
comments on Laidlaw must have made Jerry silent for awhile and he told
me little of the conversation that followed. But they must have
"cleared up" all the things that stood between them. I think the
subsequent conversation must have been largely pleasant and personal,
for Jerry spoke of the wonderful weather and how Una admired the view
they had of the great river from Hoboken with the lights of the towers
of Manhattan, like the sparks of some mighty fire, hanging midway in
the air.

I was silent when he had concluded. Evidently he wanted me to say
something, for he looked at me once or twice as he was refilling his
pipe. But I was thinking deeply.

"She's a wonder," he said after awhile. "You know the committee of
ladies that's supposed to manage things down town have all gone away,
leaving the whole responsibility to Una--the plans, specifications,
business arrangements and all."

"As Marcia suggested," I replied, "they're sure that matters are in
good hands."

"Yes, she's so sane. That's it. You know when we got to town I took
dinner with the family down in Washington Square. Jolly lot of girls,
like stair-steps, from eight to eighteen, but not a bit like Una,
Roger, and the mother, placid, serene, intelligent with a dignity that
seems to go with the house and neighborhood--a dear old lady, not so
terribly old, either, and astonishingly well informed--Fine old house,
refreshing, cool, mellow with age and decent associations; none of
your Louis Quinze business there. I always wondered where Una got her
poise. Now I know."

"Had you never called there before?" I asked when he paused to light
his pipe.

"No, I always went to her office in the Mission and had her in a
different setting, a bare room, desk, filing-cases, placards on the
wall, scrupulously neat and business-like, but uncompromising, Roger,
and severe. The house makes a better frame for her somehow--"

I knew what he meant, for I had seen her in it, but of course was
silent.

"She's doing a tremendous work down town. She _is_ the Mission. The