The Silent Battle

an Duyn called Mammon’s Mile. The land upon which it was built was more valuable even than the sands of Pactolus; and the architect, keenly conscious of his o

since the family had been in New York Jane had noticed new lines between her brows as though her eyes, like those of a person traveling upon an unfamiliar road, were trying for a more concentrated and narrow vision; and as she turned from the mirror toward the light, it seemed to Jane that she had grown suddenly old.“Mother, dear, you mustn’t let trifles disturb you so. It will age you frightfully! You know how people are always saying that you look younger than I do. I don’t want to worry you. I’ll do whatever you like, go wherever you like, but not to-night——”“What is the matter, Jane? Has anything happened?”“Oh, no, I—I don’t feel very well. It’s nothing at all. I’ll be all right to-morrow. But you must go without me. There’s to be supper afterward, isn’t there?”“Oh, yes.” And then despairingly: “You always have your own way, in the end.”She kissed the girl coldly on the brow and turned toward the door.“You must hurry now,” said Jane. “Mr. Van Duyn will be coming soon, and dinner is early. Good night, dear. I won’t be down to-night. I think I’ll lie down for awhile.”Mrs. Loring turned one more helpless look in Jane’s direction and then went out of the room.When the door had closed, Jane Loring turned the key in the lock, then sank at full length on the couch, and seemed to be asleep; but her head, though supported by her arms, was rigid and her eyes, wide open, were staring at vacancy. In the hall outside she heard the fall of footsteps, the whisper of servants and the commotion of her mother’s descent to dinner. A hurdy-gurdy around the corner droned a popular air, a distant trolley-bell[101] clanged and an automobile, exhaust open, dashed by the house. These sounds were all familiar here, and yet she heard them all; for they helped to silence the echoes of a voice that still persisted in her ears, a low sonorous voice, whose tones rose and fell like the sighing of Kee-way-din in the pine-trees of the frozen North. Her thoughts flew to that distant spot among the trees, and she saw the shimmer of the leaves in the morning sunlight, heard the call of the birds and the whispering of the stream. It was cold up there now, so bleak and cold. By this time a white brush had painted out the glowing canvas of summer and left no sign of what was beneath. And yet somewhere hidden there, as in her heart, beneath that chill mantle was the dust of a fire—the gray cinders, the ashes of a dead faith, and Kee-way-din moaned above them.A tiny clock upon the mantle chimed the hour. Miss Loring moved stiffly, and sat suddenly upright. She got up at last and putting on a loose robe, went to her dressing table, her chin high, her eye gleaming coldly at the pale reflection there. The blood of the Gallatins! Did he think the magic of his name could make her forget the brute in him, the beast in him, that kissed and spoke of love while the thin blood of the Gallatins seethed in its poison? What had the blood of the Gallatins to do with her? Honor, virtue, truth? He had spoken of these. What right had he to use them to one who had an indelible record of his infamy? His kisses were hot on her mouth even now—kisses that desecrated, that profaned the words he uttered. Those kisses! The memory of them stifled her. She brushed her bare arm furiously across her lips as she had done a hundred times before. Lying kisses, traitorous kisses, scourging kisses, between which he had dared to speak of love! If he had not done that, she might even have forgiven him the physical contact[102] that had defamed her womanhood. And yet to-night he had spoken those same words again, repeated them with a show of warmth, that his depravity might have some palliation and excuse. He could, it seemed, be as insolent as he was brutal.Determined to think of him no more, she rang for her maid and ordered dinner. Then, book in hand, she went down stairs. Mr. Van Duyn, she was relieved to think, had departed with Mrs. Loring, and she smiled almost gaily at the thought that this evening at least was her own. As she passed into the library, she saw that a bright light was burning in her father’s study, and she peeped in at the door.It was not a large room, the smallest one, in fact, upon the lower floor, but unlike most of the other rooms, it had a distinct personality. The furniture—chairs, desks, and bookcases—was massive, almost too heavy to make for architectural accordance, and this defect was made more conspicuous by the delicacy and minuteness of the ornaments. There were two glass cases on a heavy table filled with the most exquisite ivories, most of them Japanese, an Ormolu case with a glass top enclosing snuff-boxes and miniatures. Three Tanagra figures graced one bookcase and upon another were several microscopes of different sizes. The pictures on the walls, each of them furnished with a light-reflector, were small with elaborately carved gold frames—a few of them landscapes, but most of them “genre” paintings, with many small figures.Before one discovered the owner of this room one would have decided at once that he must be smallish, slender, with stooping shoulders, gold-rimmed eye-glasses, a jeweled watch-fob and, perhaps, a squint; and the massive appearance of the present occupant would have occasioned more than a slight shock of surprise. When[103] Jane looked in, Henry K. Loring sat on the very edge of a wide arm chair, with a magnifying glass in his hand carefully examining a small oil painting which was propped up under a reading light on another chair in front of him. People who knew him only in his business capacity might have been surprised at his quiet and critical delight in this studious occupation, for down town he was best known by a brisk and summary manner, a belligerent presence and a strident voice which smacked of the open air. His bull-like neck was set deep in his wide shoulders as his keen eyes peered under their bushy eyebrows at the object in front of him. He was so absorbed that he did not hear the light patter of his daughter’s footsteps, and did not move until he heard the sound of her voice.“Well, Daddy!” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”His round head turned slowly as though on a pivot.“Hello, Jane! Feeling better?” He raised his chin and winked one eye expressively.“I thought you were going—with Mother,” said Miss Loring.“Lord, no! You know I—” and he laughed. “I had a headache, too.”The girl smiled guiltily, but she came over and sat upon the arm of the chair, and laid her hand along her father’s shoulder.“Another picture! Oh, Daddy, such extravagance! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? So that’s why you stole away from the Dorsey-Martin’s——”“It’s another Verbeckhoeven, Jane,” he chuckled delightedly. “A perfect wonder! The best he ever did, I’m sure! Come, sit down here and look at it.”Jane sank to the floor in front of the painting and[104] reached for the enlarging glass. But he held it away from her.“No, no,” he insisted. “Wait, first tell me how many things you can see with the naked eye.”“A horse, a cow, a man lying on the grass, trees, distant haystacks and a windmill,” she said slowly.“And is that all?” he laughed.“No, a saddle on the ground, a rooster on the fence—yes—and some sheep at the foot of the hill.”“Nothing more?”“No, I don’t think so—except the buckles on the harness and the birds flying near the pigeon-cote.”“Yes—yes—is that all?”“Yes, I’m sure it is.”“You’re blind as a bat, girl,” he roared delightedly. “Look through this and see!” and he handed her the glass. “Buckles on the horses! Examine it! Don’t you see the pack thread it’s sewed with? And the saddle gall on the horse’s back? And the crack in the left fore-hoof? D