The Fall of the House of Johns

MR. FAIRLEIGH JOHNS was the last of his name. He was a bachelor of fifty-five, as I should have guessed, although it was impossible to get at his age with any accuracy. When we arrive at the mature age of fifty or thereabouts, we do not hanker for the celebration of more birthdays, and most of us are quite content to grow old unobtrusively, with as little noise on the journey as may be. Mr. Johns, I am afraid, was not so content as he should have been to grow old at all. He invoked the aid of art in simulating the appearance of youth, as nature was somewhat at fault in that respect. In this, he and his man James — a discreet person, who rarely spoke — were wonderfully successful. Any one who met Mr. Johns casually at the Club or on the street would have said, without hesitation, that he was not over forty-two or forty-three, or forty-five, at the most. To me, who remembered the time when he had been ten years my senior, and had been proud of the fact, it never ceased to be some marvel that he should be my junior by five; and that five a continually increasing difference as I grew unmistakably older. For I employed no art, having neither the time nor the inclination for its employment, for the purpose of simulating a youth which is no more; and, in consequence, my hair was well turned white, — prematurely, I like to think, — and was getting a little thin, although I brushed it with no care to conceal its thinness.

For the difference between us, or rather between our conditions in life, was this: I had to work, and Fairleigh Johns did not. To be sure, my work brought me in a reasonable income, and a certain modicum of happiness, as well; which I have reason to think was more than Mr. Johns’s

leisure did for him. But that is as it may be. He never complained to me that his share of happiness was overshort, and he may have found enough of it in following his daily round. For his days were much alike. Every morning he rose at nine precisely, having taken his coffee and his rolls in bed, — he, no doubt, being clad in his flowered silk dressing-gown the while. And thereafter, for two hours, he and James were busied in making him ready for the sight of men. At eleven precisely he issued from his door, which had been his father’s before him, — for Mr. Johns considered that it was a distinction to live in his father’s house, although it was getting to be rather far down-town, — he issued from his door and entered a hansom which, at that hour, was always waiting, and was driven a half dozen blocks, to the Bank. On very bright days in the spring or fall he dismissed the cab and walked, with that gait characteristic of your man of leisure, swinging his stick with studied grace, and jauntily withal, as befitted a man of his station.

Now it is not to be supposed that Mr. Johns had business at the Bank, or that his duties called him there. He was a man of leisure, as I have said; and he did but putter over his strong box and make sure that he had not been robbed overnight. Then he read from the morning paper the news that had interest for him, and in especial he noted the arrivals on the incoming steamers. At twelve precisely he laid the paper down, said his farewell to the amiable gentleman who permitted him to cumber his office, took up his stick, and, swinging it jauntily, as before, wended his leisurely way to the Club for his breakfast.

That breakfast was as much a matter of custom as any of Mr. Johns’s movements during his days. It was simple, for he had found that simple food was an aid in preserving that semblance of the youth that he seemed to covet; but his two eggs must be done just so, his toast must be just brown enough, and his little pot of tea just right, and smoking hot. To dinner, indeed, he gave his whole mind, spending the whole afternoon in sitting at the window and deciding what his next day’s dinner should be. For, although Mr. Johns usually dined at the Club, on Saturday nights he entertained one friend, or at the most two, at his house, where he could dispense an overflowing hospitality with impunity.

The afternoon, as I have said, he was accustomed to spend in sitting at the window of the Club, deciding upon his dinner for the next day, and incidentally in gazing out at the prospect. The prospect would not have allured me, as it consisted of a procession of women doing their afternoon shopping; but it seemed to suffice for Mr. Johns, for there he sat, always, until nearly five o’clock. Then he was accustomed to rise from his chair briskly, get himself well brushed, go home in a hansom to change his clothes, and in that same hansom to sally forth for a call or two, or for a dish of tea with Miss Letitia. The evening he spent at the Club, except for the little dinners that I have mentioned, and except that on Monday nights he was accustomed to go to the theatre.

In such a round of habit had Fairleigh Johns lived for many years. Indeed, he seemed likely to continue to follow it until the blowing of the last trump, growing relatively younger with every year that passed, while the rest of us, perforce, followed that law of nature which leads but to the grave. So that when I found him, one Monday evening, sitting morosely in his chair at the Club, I could but marvel and hold my peace. For what, thought I, can keep Fairleigh Johns in of a Monday night, and a pleasant one at that? Has he, perchance, lost money ? And in this I was more nearly right than I imagined, although not quite right, either. And I pondered upon the matter for a while, until, at last I must needs speak of it. So I drew near.

“Fairleigh,” said I, pretending but slight interest, “what in the world keeps you in to-night ? Have the theatres all closed, or is it a death in the family ?” — for I knew well I might safely indulge in this pleasantry.

At this his morose look fled, and there came a smile upon his face, — such a smile as we assume to veil our feelings. “No, old man,” he said. “You know I have no relatives. I did not feel like it to-night.”

Now was there anything in this reply which should so vex me ? He called me “old man,” as if to draw attention to his own youth, when I knew — A most pernicious habit, that, of addressing another as “old man,” — one to be discouraged. And that smile, which had become habitual with Fairleigh Johns! It repelled familiarity, to be sure; but it discouraged intimacy, too. I felt aggrieved. I always had somewhat of that feeling, except when his manner amused. One never seemed to get below the surface with Mr. Johns, never seemed to pass the barriers set by that smile. His voice was as sounding brass and tinkling cymbals. This thought comforted me in some measure, and I sat. me down in the chair at the other side of the window.

“See,” he said, “the lighting of that spot, there in the park. Wonderful effect! The street lights are hidden from where I sit, so that they do not mar the effect. Wonderful! Some painter should get hold of that.”

I rose to see it as he saw it, and dutifully echoed him. So that was what he sat there for. Mr. Johns pretended to some skill as a connoisseur. But I had not come to talk of lighting effects.

“How is Miss Letitia?” I asked, interrupting some empty remark of his. “Have you seen her lately?”

“A wonderful woman! A wonderful woman!” he exclaimed, warming into some enthusiasm, as he always did at the mention of her name. “A queen among women.”

“Have you seen her lately?” I repeated.

“Eh?” he said, as if startled. “Yes, I dropped in to take tea the other day. She seemed well — very well. And she looked handsomer than ever. I tell you, old fellow, she grows younger with the years. She ought to be immortal.”

There it was again,— “old fellow.” But I forgave him readily enough. As if I did not know that he dropped in there regularly twice a week! As if all of his friends did not know that he had done the same thing for the last twenty years! But I agreed with him that she ought to be immortal.

“Yes,” I said. “Her few gray hairs are very becoming, I think. There are some people who look the better for a touch of gray at the top.”

He bristled at once. “Gray hairs! ” he cried, — if Fairleigh Johns could ever be said to cry anything. “I don’t believe there is one. Gray hairs!”

I laughed. “Peace be unto you, Fairleigh Johns, and unto Miss Letitia,” said I. “Iam willing to acknowledge her the handsomest woman, of any age, that I know, and the sweetest and most reasonable. But I am willing to swear I saw a gray lock on either temple when I met her last. What, man! She owns to her forty-odd years like a man, — or like a woman. It is n’t every man will own to his years. Shall a woman of forty-five not have gray hairs ? It is her crown.”

I touched him there, I think. He knew well enough what I meant, and he winced. It was but a fair return for the “old man ” and “old fellow.”

“ Well, well,” he said; “ if you are sure you saw them. But it is strange that I should not see them, too.”

“No, it is not strange,” I answered. “You see her often, — and you see her always with the eyes of twenty years ago. Tell me, is it not so ?”

He was silent for some while. “Yes,” he said then, sighing deeply. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He fell again into a silence that lasted long. The smile was gone. I thought the better of him for that. “She was a very beautiful woman, then,” he said gently. “I always wondered why she never married. She could have had any one — any one.”

“Including Fairleigh Johns ?” I asked. It was a jarring note, and I knew it; but, for the life of me, I could not have helped it. She could have had me, for one.

The smile returned, — a deprecating smile. “Such happiness is not for me,” he answered. “What could I have offered a woman? No, no. I must be content with — content.”

And had he found it? I did not ask. He could have offered a woman as much as most of the rest of us, except, perhaps, his heart,—a trifle, and of little value. I did not answer him, and for a long while neither of us spoke. What he was thinking of is matter for conjecture; at least, he gave no hint of it. My thoughts ran riot, but never strayed far from Miss Letitia; I named over her admirers until I came to Alan Martiss. He had recovered and married years ago. What was it in connection with his name ? I had seen the headlines in my neighbor’s paper that very morning.

“Fairleigh,” I said. He started, as though his thoughts were far away. He had forgotten my presence. “What has Alan Martiss done? I saw his name in the headlines of another man’s paper this morning, but I forgot it before I had the chance to get one.”

“He has embezzled trust funds,” he answered, in his even voice. “It is curious that I was just thinking of him, too.” Ah, Fairleigh Johns, so you were doing what I was doing! It is not so strange, after all. “ He had control of an estate — the Ellicotts’, you remember — and when the trust terminated, he—well, there is nothing left.”

“Nothing left!” I cried, bewildered. “ Why, man, do you mean to say — Why, those Ellicott boys are just in college. They will have to give it up.”

“They will have to give it up,” he repeated. “But you forget. One of them is in his junior year. The other, as you say, has just entered. And they will have to give it up. For Mrs. Ellicott has nothing. It seems hard.”

“Seems hard!” I cried again. Rage burned within me at his calmness. “Seems hard! And where is Alan Martiss ? ”

“At his house,” he replied, quietly enough. Then he leaned toward me and whispered. “ At his house — dead. He shot himself this noon.”

“Good God!” said I.

“It is not in the papers — yet. It will be, in the morning.”

“Good God!” said I. And I thought of Alan Martiss, and of his wife. There were many of us who thought he had been a better man without her. “Poor fellow!”

“Poor fellow!” he echoed in scorn. “ And what of the Ellicotts ? Who has had the squandering of their money ? ” I had never known Fairleigh Johns to speak with so much feeling.

“The admirable Mrs. Martiss,” I answered; for I had recovered my mental balance, and with it my power of speech. There is nothing so upsetting as to be betrayed into the expression of feeling. “Think of his life for the last five years. Think how he must have been harassed and worried before he would touch trust funds. Think of the beginnings, — for Alan was an honest man once, — the little borrowings, that grew until there was no hope of repayment. The termination of the trust coming nearer every day” —

“He has only what he has deserved,” interrupted Fairleigh Johns. Then, speaking slowly, he enunciated this: “I would have the embezzlement of trust funds punishable by hanging.”

I laughed. “Well, Fairleigh, if you would hang the right person. In this case, for instance, if Mrs. Martiss” —

“Mrs. Martiss has nothing to do with it. Alan alone is responsible for funds entrusted to him.”

“No extenuating circumstances?” I asked. “ I guess, if we could know, we should find that Mrs. Martiss had a good deal to do with it. But if Alan alone is responsible, he is where he will answer for it, now. May the Lord be merciful unto him!”

I rose to go home, and Mr. Johns rose also. “I will walk along with you, if you don’t mind, old fellow,” he said.

We walked in silence through the streets, which were well-nigh deserted. It was not time for the theatres to be out. I was thinking of Alan Martiss and the Ellicotts. It was too late to do anything for Alan, but there was still time to allow my sympathies to have their way, so far as the Ellicotts were concerned. I would offer Jim Ellicott a place in my office. There was room there for another man. That was settled, and it lifted a weight off my mind.

“Fairleigh,” I said, “how is Curtis getting on? Have you seen him ? ” For Richard Curtis had once been an admirer of Miss Letitia, too. He had remained single, like so many others. Was it because of her ? I wondered. She would have an account to settle if it were. And had Fairleigh Johns remembered, too ?

“Yes,” he answered; “I dropped in there yesterday. I fear there is little hope for him. He grows weaker every day. The worst of it is, he seems to prefer to — er — go. But he is an old man.”

Curtis an old man! He was, perhaps, two or three years older than Mr. Johns. But he had not taken the pains that Fairleigh had to maintain his youth. And Fairleigh had a curious aversion to speaking of dying. I had no reply ready, and I left him at the corner of the street where our ways parted. I went home to write my note to Mrs. Ellicott.

In the weeks that followed Mr. Johns was more and more often to be found at the Club of a Monday evening. Had he found that advancing age killed his love for the play, or had the illusion of the stage vanished, that he found life all paint and pasteboard ? He always had averred that he preserved the illusions of youth; but now he had no reason ready save that he was not in the mood. And Fairleigh Johns was always a man ready with his reasons, even if they did not convince. But as the weeks grew into months, he resumed his habits, or seemed to; for he was not in his chair by the window on Monday nights, and on Tuesdays he could tell to a nicety all the good points of the play of the evening before, and all its bad points, too. And how should we know that he had his opinions secondhand ? The dramatic critic of his paper at the Bank was an excellent critic. But, one Monday evening, I wandered idly through the street where stood the house of Johns, and I saw a light in Fairleigh’s study. For he must needs have a study, although he used it to little purpose. And as I stood, hesitating, half inclined to go in, I saw his shadow walking aimlessly to and fro, and I went on my way. And the next day, at the Club, he was as ready as before with his account of the play. I marveled for a while, and then forgot it.

It was soon after that that Mr. Johns began to cease favoring us with his presence. First it was on Wednesday evening that his favorite chair by the window was vacant. Then on Friday, so that he was with us only on Tuesday and Thursday. We rallied him upon it, and he answered, as he had before, that he was not in the mood. He smiled as he spoke, too, so that we were forced to take his reply for truth, though none of us believed it. And I noted that his waistcoat was frayed about the bottom. It had been carefully trimmed with scissors, but the fraying was unmistakable. Poor gentleman! He had always been most particular in paying his tailor, and one would suppose that that traditionally obliging man would have made his evening clothes on credit. His other clothes were not frayed about the edges, however, but were as perfect as we had come to expect the clothes of Fairleigh Johns to be.

Richard Curtis, after a delay that must have been hard for him to bear, died peacefully one Sunday morning. I went to his funeral, where I saw Fairleigh Johns, unobtrusively important. I saw Miss Letitia, too, and could not keep my eyes off her, try as I might. She spoke to me as we went out. “Why have you not been to see me ?” she asked. “I hear of you occasionally, from Mr. Johns, but he has been able to tell me little of late. Come and see me. It is some years since yon honored my poor house. It is not right that old friends should fall into such bad habits. For we are old friends, are we not?” And she smiled sweetly upon me.

“ God knows that I am your friend, Letitia, and shall always be, I hope,” I answered. “ I will come.”

“Come, then, and soon,” she said, and passed on.

Now who but Miss Letitia could speak so frankly of my absence from her house ? For I had a purpose in it, and that purpose was no less than to ease a hurt that was not eased, nor would be while I had life. She must have known it, but she ignored it, and with her smile she made as naught the settled purpose of years. Who could resist her smile, or say nay when she said yea ? I would go, and soon.

Accordingly the very next evening there waited at Miss Letitia’s door a man most carefully arrayed, a man whose hair was well turned white and grown a little thin, a man whose heart beat high, — for an old man. Why did my heart thump so? I knew well that there was but the welcome that there always was for me. It was rather soon, perhaps, but had she not said “soon?” And a resolve once taken, — a purpose once cast aside as futile, — we have no time to lose, we old fellows.

“You see, Letitia, I have come,” I said. “A suggestion from you, and our vows are empty words. I hope it is not too soon.”

“That could not be,” she answered. She did not ask me what vows I meant, for she knew well. She had known these twenty years and more, — bless me, it was nearer twenty-five. And again and again I had resolved that I would not voluntarily come into her presence, — and she had smiled upon me and bid me come. And I had come. But she was speaking. “It is good to see you,” she said.

“Ah, Letitia,” I replied, “you have us all well broken, — us old fellows. For I must pass as an old fellow now. Why, think of it, Fairleigh Johns calls me ‘old man.’ I wonder whether Richard Curtis had not the right of it, after all.”

A look of pain had crossed her face as I began, a fleeting look that was gone as quickly as it had come; and she made a gesture with her hand, as if she would disclaim responsibility.

“If you are an old fellow,” she said, “ at least you must admit me to that class. For I am forty-five, and you are but two years older. I have not forgotten.”

“And how old is Fairleigh, then?” I asked.

“He is as old as he feels,” she answered. “And, to-day, I imagine that is not so young as he looks. But that is not a fair question.”

“I wonder” — I began, and stopped.

“Well,” said she, “go on. You wonder ” —

“I wonder,” I went on, “whether Curtis left him anything. They were once close friends.”

“Richard Curtis must have been a rich man?” she said, questioning. “I do not know. I scarcely saw him for years.” She spoke with some embarrassment. Here was one man whose purpose she could not break. Or had she tried? “I know of no reason why I should not tell you. I received from his lawyer, this morning, an envelope, containing, as he said, the name of the — beneficiary, do you call it? — of a trust. It is not to be opened for two years.”

“A most curious provision,” I said. Curtis usually had a reason for anything he did.

“ Is n’t it ? I shall do my best to keep it safe. But two years is — two years.”

“And who is the trustee?” I asked. “Did he tell you?”

“ He did not say,” she answered. “ But if I were to guess, I should say it was Mr. Johns.”

“I thought he seemed to feel some unusual importance yesterday. By the way, is there any chance of his coming here this evening ? ”

She laughed. “You have not changed, have you? I remember, twenty years ago”— Suddenly she broke off, and blushed, a burning blush that must have hurt. What did she remember, twenty years ago ? There were many things to remember. And the blush faded, leaving her with a pretty pink in her cheeks — she looked wonderfully handsome, with the color in her cheeks, and the gray lock on either temple, and a mass of dark hair like a crown. And her figure — but why catalogue her beauty? She must have been taller than Fairleigh Johns. And I knew that, for me, she was the most beautiful. But the blush faded, and she gave no other sign, but went on: “I remember, twenty years ago, you used to ask the same thing.”

It was true enough. Twenty years ago I had been absurdly jealous of Fairleigh. For he was then ten years older than I, and invested with the glory that comes of being older, with experience, and with the added glory of being rich. For so I accounted him, being a gentleman of leisure, while I, forsooth, was but a callow youth, recently fledged, with no leisure to speak of, — and no money to speak of, either. And so I envied him, and was jealous of him. I envied him no longer, but —

“You have a good memory, Letitia,” I said. “Can you remember other things as well, I wonder ? But you have not answered my question.”

“Truly, I have not,” she said; “and you are unchanged in more ways than one, for you will take none but a direct answer. Well, then, Mr. Johns will not come this evening. I have not seen him, of an evening, for— oh, for some months.”

For some months! That might make it about the same time that he had withdrawn his presence from the Club. We never saw him, now, of an evening, although I was told that he was in his customary place every afternoon.

“He comes regularly for his tea?” I asked.

Again she laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I give him tea, with great regularity, on Tuesday and Friday afternoons.” Then the laugh died quickly. “Do you know,” she said, “that I am worried about Mr. Johns. He seems,— I am afraid his income is less than it was, — and it never was any too large, I think. He has lived so long in just that way — got his expenses so nicely adjusted — that any change would mean more to him than it would to most, —to you, for instance. I wish there was some way in which I could give him something, — make it up to him out of my abundance.”

“I have thought the same thing,” I replied, “ thought it for some time. But I suppose you have not hinted your — very disinterested and commendable desire to Mr. Johns.”

She made a gesture of horror. “Oh, never, never. I could n’t. I never can. It would be fatal to his self-respect — his pride. You knew better than that, surely.”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“Is there any way,” she asked.

“I do not see any way,” I answered. “I fear Fairleigh will have the novel experience of standing on his own feet. It will do him no harm.”

She was silent, musing. “ Do you think so?” she said at last. “I am afraid it may. He is not accustomed to it.”

“Moral corns ?” said I, smiling rather grimly. “Pardon me, Letitia.”

She gave me an answering smile, but it was not grim. “Yes,— or immoral. But will you do something for me ? ” She did not wait for me to acquiesce, which I was ready enough to do, although I felt it in my bones that I was to be but a burnt offering on the altar of Fairleigh Johns. The old jealousy flamed up afresh. But I would do it, — whatever it might be,— since she asked it of me. “Go around and see him.”

“I will,” I said, “to-morrow night.”

“No, go to-night — now.”

“Letitia,” I observed, “you have not changed in these twenty years, any more than I. Now here am I, returned after long years, and very comfortable where I am. Yes, even happy. But I am no sooner come — at your bidding, though very willingly—than you send me forth again. And for what ? To call upon Mr. Johns, forsooth, whom you see regularly twice a week. Is that reasonable?”

“A penance for your long absence,” she said, and laughed a little. “But. you may come again — to-morrow evening. And thereafter, as often as you like. I will not send you out, I promise you.”

“To-morrow evening — to report,” I said, and rose. And as I turned to her I saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “ Forgive me, Letitia,” I cried. “I was at my old tricks. I will not do it again — if I can help it. But you do not know how hard it is to forget — old tricks.”

“I would not have you forget,” she said, and smiled on me. Her smile was like the sunlight, penetrating every nook and long-closed corner of my heart, and warming those cold places. I may have held her hand a bit longer than was necessary, and then I went forth to do her errand.

And so it befell that I was ringing at the door of Mr. Johns. A light showed in his study, but no one answered my ring. I rang again and yet again. And a window opened above my head, and there came a querulous and complaining voice, asking my business.

“Why, Fairleigh,” I said, “it is but to make a friendly call. But if you are occupied” —

Then the tone of the voice changed, and I could feel him smiling at me in the dark. “ My dear fellow, my dear fellow,” he said, “just wait a minute until I can get down there, and I wall open the door. Delighted to see you, I am sure.”

An uncommon long time it takes him to come down one flight of stairs, thought I, as I stood and cooled my heels without his door, and I was half of a mind to go. But I bethought me of Letitia, and waited. And presently he came, profuse in his apologies for keeping me waiting, and “dear fellow ”-ing me till it turned me sick. And he would take my coat.

“For, you see,” he said, “most unfortunately, I have let James go out. I did not expect any one, you see — but I am positively delighted to see you, old man. This is like old times.”

Then he led me to his study. Here were papers scattered in confusion, and I noted that he pounced upon a heap of them, and got them out of sight. I noted also that he was not in evening dress.

“ Have a cigar, old man ? ” He went to a closet as he spoke, and got out a box. There were the two stamps on the box, but I observed that the cigars fitted the box but ill. I declined, which seemed to please him. He was not smoking.

Then followed commonplaces in a flood, always with that smile. And I wanted to get behind it if I could, —if there were anything behind it. Was there ? Or if one rapped him with his stick would he give forth a hollow sound, like an empty copper tank ? I was almost of a mind to try it, and had gripped my stick and was about to reach forth, when he spoke.

“These papers,” he said, including them all in a graceful wave of the hand, “they are left to me by poor Curtis. I was trying to put them in order when you came. But there is no sort of hurry — oh, no hurry,” he quickly added, for he saw me rise to go.

I sat down again. “What are they, Fairleigh, — if you don’t mind saying ?” I asked.

“Oh, not at all, not at all. They seem to be almost everything — all sorts,” he answered, “ Poor Curtis left all his papers to me; and there are some that” — He broke off, as if he had come near to saying what he might be sorry for. “And he made me a trustee — a strange trust, I think — for I don’t know whom. There is an envelope — I have put it in my safe — which contains the name. It is not to be opened for two years. Strange, don’t you think ?”

“It is strange,” I said. I was near to revealing Miss Letitia’s share in it, but I asked another question first. “Is there no one else who has this name?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly; “and that’s what bothers me. There is another envelope, but who has it I do not know — and I am not to know.”

“ Very strange! ” I murmured, musing. What could Curtis have meant? “But cheer up, man. It is most likely that you are yourself the one — that you will find your own name in that envelope.”

“I hope so — I hope so,” he sighed. “ It is twenty thousand dollars that I hold in trust. If only I might know who has the other!” It was said very low, almost to himself. I had got behind the smile, at last.

“ Well, I must go,” I said. “ I have interrupted you long enough. Remember Alan Martiss, Fairleigh.”

I did but jest, of course, and thought he would be merry at it; but he was not. His face clouded, and he spoke soberly.

“There is no need to remind me. I have not forgotten. I shall not follow his example. You remember that I had an opinion of his acts, and it has not changed.”

There was none of the emphasis that was there before, and he spoke halfheartedly, I thought, to convince himself.

“Why, man,” said I, “I was joking. A poor joke, no doubt you think it. And so it is. I do not expect you to embezzle. Good-night.”

“Oh, must you go?” The smile was there again. “ Well, good-night, old fellow. Come again.”

I left him to get out again the papers I had seen him put away, and marveled a moment, and wondered what purpose Curtis could have had, and then forgot the matter. For I had certain matters of my own that were pleasanter for me to think on, — and, pleasant or not, I must needs think on them. And I went home and went to bed and slept, and as I slept I dreamed. And in my dream I saw Letitia weeping sore, and there was Fairleigh Johns in a cell with bars across, and he stretched his hands toward her. And, with his hands stretched out to her, the cell sank gradually to immeasurable depths, and vanished from my sight. And as I would have comforted Letitia, lo, she, too, faded away, and vanished from my sight. And I woke with a start, the impress of my dream strong upon me. I could not get rid of it all day. And I went to see Letitia, — to report, as I had promised,— and I thought to rid my mind of it by telling it to her.

“Oh!” she cried, with that gesture of the hands, as though she would put the matter from her. It had become a favorite trick of hers. “Oh, horrible! I am sorry you had that dream, and sorrier yet that you told it to me. I can see him now, sinking slowly to immeasurable depths, and holding out his hands to me. But could I not help him?”

“I do not know, Letitia,” I answered. “In my dream you seemed to want to, and to be sorry for something. But I know you did not.”

“But I will,” she said, “and nothing shall stop me.” She said it under her breath, seemingly forgetting my presence.

“Certainly I will not stop you,” I said. “ Do not think it.” I suppose that I spoke with some bitterness. I know that I felt it. For here was she, thinking only of Fairleigh Johns and a dream, while here was I, thinking only of her — in the flesh. At least, there was no dream about that.

Instantly she smiled — and her smile had a marvelous power to change the aspect of things.

“I know that you will not,” she said. “You will help me — growling and grumbling, as you ever did. But how foolish we are to be so affected by a dream. Let us talk of something else.”

And so we did, and we were merry and foolish and retrospective by turns. Yet the dream held us in its grip, and by the time I left I was ready to consign Fairleigh Johns to the nethermost depths. Would he never give me an evening with Letitia alone ?

So time went on, and the memory of the dream faded,—to naught with me, and apparently to as slight proportions with Letitia. It had become my habit to see her at least once a week, and Mr. Johns, at last, had given me an evening without his disturbing presence. It must have been some months before I saw him, and then I came upon him at the Club. He was in his favorite chair by the window, gazing abstractedly at the spot of light in the little park. I made some exclamation of surprise, and he looked up, smiling pleasantly.

“Ah, old fellow,” he said, “just look at that spot of light in the park. Wonderful effect! Some painter ” —

But I interrupted him. “Yes,” I said; “I know about that. It’s true enough. But where have you been all this time ?”

He paid no attention to my rudeness. “Why,” he answered, in mild surprise, “ I have been about — as usual. I think I have occupied this chair every afternoon.”

“Ah, but you know that I am never here until after five. Why have you stayed away of evenings?”

And then I noted that his evening clothes were new. There was no fraying about the edges.

“Why,” he said, as though it had just occurred to him, “perhaps I have been away a good deal, lately. But you see there were many things to be attended to. And I suppose I did not feel in the mood. I was here once or twice last week, and once the week before. I did not see you.”

He looked up, questioning. The evenings must have been those reserved for Letitia. Had she not told him ? If she had not told, certainly I would not be the one to tell. It was something to feel that I shared a secret with her.

“No?” I answered. “I do not come regularly.”

I plumped me down in the chair opposite. We spoke of many things; but I avoided with great care — and some skill — the subject of his trust. He avoided it with equal care and skill, although it was uppermost in his thoughts. Soon I saw that we were beginning to approach the subject of Letitia. I would not talk of her with Fairleigh Johns, and I rose to go.

“My dear fellow!” he said. “Going ? It is early, is n’t it?”

It was, very. And I knew that I should have a long evening, alone in my rooms. But I pleaded weariness.

He was abominably cheerful. “Well, if you must, you must,” he said. “How you men stand the eternal grind of work is beyond my comprehension. Will you do me the honor of dining with me on Saturday evening — at my house?”

So the little dinners had begun again. I assented, for I could not, at the moment, think of any reasonable excuse.

I mentioned the matter to Letitia at the first opportunity, — which was on the following evening. I was not losing any time in those days. To my surprise, it seemed to worry her.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she cried. “I am certain that his income is no more than it has been for some time. I am afraid ” —

I smiled, for I remembered his opinion of the deeds of Alan Martiss. I told Letitia.

“I think you need not be afraid,” I said. “After all, we know nothing of his income.”

But she did know, it seemed. Mr. Johns had told her, in his extremity, of the failure of some mills in which he had an interest. The mills had not recovered; at least, not sufficiently to pay a dividend, as I happened to know.

“So you see,” she said, “why I am afraid. After all, any man, if he is in want, — and to Mr. Johns any change in his habits would seem like want, — I hate to think of it.”

“Do not think of it,” I replied. “I have a sickness that will prevent my keeping my engagement with him. This is but Wednesday. There is plenty of time.”

She laughed, with little mirth. “No, no,” she said. “He would come around to see you — and ask some one else. It would be of no use. It will be better for you to go. And keep a watch on him.”

I promised to keep a watch on him. “It makes me feel like a private detective,” I said. “Shall I need a disguise? With a black wig and a false beard, I might deceive even Fairleigh Johns.”

She laughed again, and her laugh was merry enough this time. “He would not let you in. No, go as you are. You serve my purpose best as you are.”

“Ah, Letitia,” said I, “I serve your purpose passing well, do I not? And yet you would not have me now, any more than you would have me twenty years ago. Oh, do not be afraid, I am not going to ask you.” For I saw the color mounting slowly, until her neck, her cheeks, her forehead were dyed crimson.

She did not speak, and I went quickly; only she gave me her hand for a moment at parting, and that was hot, too, as though the crimson flood had swept over her like a wave. But it meant nothing,— unless it meant Fairleigh. I hated him for it.

So I went to dine with Mr. Johns on Saturday, and I kept a watch on him, although he did not know it. James was there, silent and attentive, and Fairleigh pressed upon me dainties — of his own devising — and fairly smothered me with attentions. But his talk was of nothing but his dinner; he had given it much thought, and this was an Italian dinner.

“Have more olives, old fellow. These black olives are eaten by the dozen, you know.” And he proceeded to give me the history of the olives. “This red wine, you know, is very light. You can drink it as you would water.” And he gave me the history of the light wine. And James was ever at my elbow, with more olives, or ready to fill my glass with wine. I did not wish to drink the wine as I would water, for I have never succeeded in overcoming my liking for water as a beverage; but it did not matter. And when the dinner was ended, there was a box of cigars with its two stamps, and the cigars fitted the box. Seeing this, I took one, which seemed to please Mr. Johns to a marvel; and there we sat, smoking and sipping our coffee, which was in a wonderful machine, likewise of his own devising. He explained its operation at some length, so that I knew as much about it as I had known before. And all this while he had the familiar smile on his face, the smile that always made me wonder what lay behind it. And again there came upon me the desire to rap him with my stick, that I might learn whether he would give forth the hollow sound of an empty copper tank. But I bethought me that he was well filled with dinner — and my stick was not at hand.

And at last I could take my leave, and did, none the wiser for my watching, and glad enough to go. And I went home and went to bed and slept; and as I slept I dreamed once again the dream in which Mr. Johns’s part was simple, — merely to sink slowly, holding out his hands the while, to immeasurable depths. And in my dream I thought that it were easy enough to learn the part if Letitia played the other. But I did not tell the dream to Letitia, nor could I report anything of moment.

So, for more than a year, we kept watch on Mr. Johns. I would have forgotten him with pleasure, for I was come once more to feel that absurd jealousy of twenty years ago; and absurd it was, for what possible use could Letitia have for a man whose hair was well turned white, and grown a little thin on top ? And Fairleigh was a pretty figure of a man. He was tall enough, — although less tall than Letitia,— and would do to prance about drawing-rooms. I had little inclination for that. But I did my part, to please her. Who would not ? I dined with him a half dozen times,— always with the same sense of weariness, — and I saw him each week at the Club. And I remember that on one occasion I could no longer keep in my evil temper. I was grown sore with it.

“Fairleigh,” I said, “you remember Alan Martiss ? ”

Now, there was some excuse for me, for Jim Ellicott was in my office, and he served as a reminder of Alan. Not that that was the reason, nor did I pretend to myself that it was; it was just jealousy and an evil temper. At least, I am no hypocrite. But no one could have imagined that it would have had the effect it did, — a mere mention of a name. Mr. Johns went white, — white as his immaculate shirt front. And then he went red, — a fiery red, — and again white. And then he burst forth in speech. I had not supposed that Fairleigh Johns had it in him.

“What do you mean,” he cried, “by continually reminding me of Alan Martiss? Do you think that I, too, am incapable of carrying out a trust — honorably ? Come now, yes or no.”

I did what I could to pacify him. “ My dear fellow!” I said, “you know that Jim Ellicott is in my office, and I am naturally reminded of the late Mr. Martiss. And I think this is but the second time, in more than a year, that I have mentioned his name to you. Besides, Fairleigh, you will recollect that you spoke somewhat vehemently of his conduct,—while I thought there was some excuse for him, poor fellow! I do not doubt that you are the soul of honor. You must not take it too seriously, old man. Richard Curtis — peace to his ashes! — would doubtless consider your administration of the trust quite satisfactory.”

I had called him “old man,” which comforted my soul. And he had not appeared to notice it. He changed his tone completely; even seemed to be afraid. I thought of the dream.

“You must pardon me, my dear fellow,” said he, “for my absurd burst of temper. Of course I know that you did not mean anything by your reference to Martiss. But the trust is so peculiar — so strange in its provisions — that I am sensitive about it. It wears on me — it wears on me.”

It certainly did wear on him. Now that I had it brought to my attention, I could see lines which even the skill of James was unable to conceal. I was sorry for Mr. Johns.

“It will be some months before the termination of the trust,” he resumed, looking out at the spot of light in the park, and avoiding my eyes. “I want to ask you to do something for me. It is not much to ask.” What was this, I wondered. Would it involve Letitia ? I waited. “ Dine with me the day it terminates. I will remind you.”

He looked at me then, a moment, and his eyes fell. I was relieved, and consented readily. I had been fearful that he might ask me to find out for him — and that I would not have done. And, for the first time, I began to have my doubts of Mr. Johns.

True to his promise, Fairleigh reminded me of the day, which I had forgotten. And that very afternoon I stopped in at my bookseller’s, to browse among the books. I had been there some time, and was about to go, my one treasure, spoil of the afternoon, under my arm. I held it up for the worthy bookseller to see. He nodded, — this was our custom. We understood one another well, this bookseller and I. Then an idea seemed to strike him, and he came down to me.

“ Here is something I want you to see,” he said. “It will not come out until tomorrow. But it will make a sensation — it will make a sensation, or I am mistaken.”

And he held up the book, which he had kept behind him. It was nothing much to see, only the perfection of the binder’s craft and of the printer’s. I took it in my hand, lovingly, and turned the pages, — “The Diary of a Well Known Man,” — and I read a little here and there as I turned.

“Why,” I said, “this is Richard Curtis’s diary.”

The good man was smiling broadly.

“Of course,” he replied, “it is. Any one who knew Curtis would guess at a glance. But the publishers are taking no chances. There will be interviews in the papers; and I happen to know that they are already written. The book will be much talked about — in the papers. It will be a good seller.”

A good seller! So that was what Curtis had come to. His diary — his intimate record of his daily thoughts and feelings, never intended for publication — would be a good seller. I would see more of it. I slipped my treasure into my pocket and sat me down.

“That is right,” said the good bookseller, “look it over. Perhaps I can save you time.” He pointed out passage after passage, and at last stopped and hesitated. “Now this,” — he said, “I confess, I have my doubts about this. I think that perhaps you will know the lady, or who she is. I do not know, nor whether she is alive or dead. But it will unquestionably be of interest; and I suppose Mr. Johns knows his own business best.”

“Mr. Johns!” I cried. “Mr. Johns!”

“Why, yes,” he answered. “I supposed that you knew. He got these together,— and he got a good round sum for them, too. I understood that the papers were all left to him, to use as he saw fit.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, more vexed than I cared to own. “I knew it.”

The bookseller left me, and I plunged in at once. First should come the passage that he had his doubts about. If that passed muster, the rest would pass.

He might well have his doubts. It was all about Letitia, — thinly disguised under her initial, — and there were some thirty pages of it. I was boiling hot as I read. Every friend of Curtis’s would recognize it and remember. It was all set forth,— his first meeting, the growing love for her, her refusal of him. She refused him three times, it seemed, within two years. And there he stopped, — one could see the struggle and the effort it cost him, — but he never saw her, willingly, again. And never once did he speak of her but in the most tender way. Ah, Fairleigh Johns, it is a cruel thing that you have done,— wicked, infamous! Thou Judas!

When I was somewhat calmed I called the bookseller to me. “Now, friend,” I said, “I am about to ask you to do me a great favor. Suppress this book.”

He looked blank. “That will be difficult,” he answered, “and will cost something. But it can be done, if you do not mind the expense. A few copies will have gotten out, but not many. Yes, it can be done.”

“Do it,” I said, “and I am your friend forever.”

“ Well,” he said, “ well ” — He heaved a long sigh of regret. It was hard to have to smother this promising infant as soon as it was born. “ I suppose I must see the publishers at once. But it seems a pity. It would be a good seller.”

But this worthy bookseller of mine was not all bookseller. He was man as well, and as a man he had had his doubts. And so I left him, somewhat eased of my fear. And I walked to my rooms, for I would clear the fogs from my brain, that I might think clearly and see what was to do. For I have ever found that violent exercise helps to clear thinking, whether it be chopping wood or other. And many a time, when I might do naught else but walk, have I found myself miles from home before I had my matter thought out, for I took no heed to my feet but only to my head, and tore along at a pace that made the policemen stare. So I walked; and as I walked, I bethought me that here was Richard Curtis, and he had had three refusals within two years, while I had but one, and that one twenty years and more behind me. Was I to be outdone by a dead man ? As for Fairleigh Johns, I would eat his dinner, and then be as rude as God made me.

So I went home and dressed with more than ordinary care; and in due time I was ringing at Mr. Johns’s door. James let me in, silently, and ushered me into Mr. Johns’s presence. He, poor fool, was more than usually cheerful, — cheerful to the verge of hilarity; and I had to endure his cheerfulness, as I might the best, through a dinner longer than common. But at last we were sipping our coffee and smoking, in his study, and James the Silent was no longer behind my chair.

“Well, Fairleigh,” I said, “and who is the fortunate person ? What is the name within the mysterious envelope?”

I thought that he would never speak, he was so long in doing it; and I watched the changing expressions on his face until I found them amusing. I wondered which would prevail, — which state of mind would be the last.

I should have known it. There came the smile upon his face. “I do not know,” he said at last. “I have not opened it.”

“Why, man,” I cried, “have it out, then, and let us see.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “if I must,— and I suppose I must.” He rose, reluctantly, I thought, and went to his safe.

“There!” he said, throwing upon the table the envelope, unopened. “You open it. I — I am afraid.”

He was afraid. There was no doubt of it. His voice quivered as he spoke. I took the envelope and tore it open, although I knew well enough, by this, what name it contained. Had I not Curtis’s confession in my pocket ?

“Letitia,” I said, and tossed it toward him.

He did not take it up. He groaned, instead, then forced himself to smile. “I hoped,” he murmured, “I hoped — but it does not matter.”

I watched him for some while, in pity for that which I was about to do. But what was to do must be done.

“Fairleigh,” I said, with a sprightly manner, and, as I spoke, pulling forth the book, “here is an interesting production, — full of interest for the friends of Curtis.”

He smiled in a pleased way, but deprecating, too. “ I am glad you think so,” he answered. “I tried to make it so.”

“ You succeeded,” I went on, bent upon my purpose, “admirably. Your industry is to be commended. You have made it interesting for Miss Letitia and her friends too.”

He stammered forth his surprise. “Miss Letitia — Miss Letitia ? But how — I do not see — how — What do you mean ?”

“Fairleigh Johns,” I said slowly, “do you mean to tell me that you have forgotten — that you did not know Richard Curtis’s love story before you got these together ? I do not believe it. Do you know what you have done? You have made Letitia a topic of conversation in every club in town. You have made her the subject of newspaper interviews, — already written. You may expect to hear her name cried in the street within a week. Do not say that you did not know it. What you have done is”— I hesitated for a fitting word. None other would do. “—is damnable. You have forgotten your duty to Curtis — who is dead — and to her — who is alive. Do you think she will not writhe under it?”

He tried to brazen it out. “ Really, my dear fellow,” he replied, “I fail to see that you have a duty in the matter. It lies between my publishers and myself. And,” he added, lamely enough, “the book was not to come out until to-morrow.”

“Letitia,” I repeated, “who was ready to give to you of her abundance, you have sacrificed, — for a cheap notoriety. You will find it come dear, Fairleigh.”

Again I was amused in watching the changing expressions on his face. Some while I watched him; then he covered his face with his hands, and groaned.

“Twice,” he said at last, but not looking at me, “twice, in the past two years, you have mentioned Alan Martiss’s name to me. The last time I was afraid, and made an angry reply. It was a guilty conscience that made me; for I have done as he did, — not so much,” he added hastily, as if for fear that I should think nothing was left, “not so much. Not more than a quarter of the money is gone; and you do not know how I was tempted. Why, one evening, when you came, you remember James was out. I said I had let him go. So I had, and so I did each evening, — any time that he could get employment, except the mornings. I needed him, then. And I gave up the theatre; I gave up everything that I could, even the Club, and — well, there is no use in rehearsing it.

“And then this thing occurred to me. I had thought of it before, but not seriously. And I did it. Its consequences I would not think of. The sum that I receive from the publishers is nearly large enough to make up what I have — I had hoped this would be for me — a legacy from Curtis. But now, there is nothing for me but the end that Alan Martiss chose.”

He was nearly sobbing as he made an end, and I was nigh to laughing. Such tragedy from Fairleigh Johns! But I sobered at the advice I was about to give him. Would Letitia — there was no telling what a woman would do.

“Cheer up, man,” I said, “and talk no more nonsense. You are not going to shoot yourself. Yon will go, instead, to see Miss Letitia. You will explain this matter to her. Do not spare yourself. She will understand readily, — more readily than you will relish, perhaps. And see what comes of it. For the book is to be suppressed.”

“Suppressed!” he cried. “So, then, I get no money from the publishers ? I was to receive it to-morrow.”

“You poor fool,” I cried, in my turn, “did you think any friend of hers could let it issue ? As to the check, I do not know. The publishers may be idiots enough to send it to you, but I should think not. Go now, at once.”

So he went, and I went, too, and left him at Letitia’s door. For I feared to leave him sooner, and from the dark shadows across the street — friendly shadows, from which I had more than once watched that door — I watched him until the door opened and he entered.

Ah, Fairleigh Johns, I would not stand in your shoes for the chance of happiness that is yours. And I walked about in those same shadows for half an hour and watched the door. And as I waited I could feel no pity for him, — nothing but contempt, with his last words sounding in my ears: “So, then, I get no money from my publishers ?” Even then, after his confession to me, be was more concerned about the money than about Letitia’s peace of mind. Suppose I had let him go on with his tragedy: he would have been missing the next day — after he had received the check. I knew it.

If ever time seemed long to man, that half hour seemed long to me. I lived my life over again ; but at last it was done. The door opened once more, and Fairleigh Johns emerged, the same man I had known for years, with that everlasting smile on his face. I saw it plainly in the light from the open door. It had not been there when he went in. What did it mean ? Had Letitia — I could hardly wait until Mr. Johns was out of sight.

I passed the astonished servant, and burst in upon her. She was standing by the fire, and tears were in her eyes. She looked up, startled.

“Oh,” she cried softly, “I am glad you came.”

She gave me both her hands as she spoke. I would not let them go.

“Letitia,” I said, looking deep into her eyes, “have you promised to marry Mr. Johns ?”

She looked at me with growing indignation. “ Promised to marry Mr. Johns! ” she cried. “Indeed I have not. What” —

She would have drawn her hands away, but I held them tight. “ Then marry me,” I said.

She was surprised, I know, for she began to smile, then to laugh.

“Letitia,” said I, “this is not like you, to laugh at me. I might well expect a refusal, but not to be laughed at.”

“I am not laughing at you,” she answered. “I am nervous, and have had much to make me so. And I am not refusing you. I am glad. Oh, my dear, I will, I will. If you had not asked me soon, I should have had to ask you. It would have been a judgment on me for refusing you before.”

She was weeping softly now, her head on my shoulder. And I did as I suppose I should have done twenty years and more before, and she seemed well pleased. Presently she spoke.

“Please, sir,” she said, “let me have my hand — one of them — that I may wipe my eyes. The tears run down upon your coat.”

I laughed and wiped them for her. And she laughed, too. We laughed at anything — or nothing.

“Letitia,” said I, sobering suddenly, “could I have had you” —

“At any time in the last twenty years,” she answered quickly, smiling up at me. “ I was young—or not so young, either, but I was foolish and did not know my own mind. I suppose I expected to be asked again.”

“Fool that I was!” I cried. “Twenty years of happiness — lost!”

“It should be a lesson to you,” she said. “Never take a woman’s ‘no’ — but you will not need that lesson now. Let us not regret. Think of the years that are to come.”

“Yes,” I answered, “that is my comfort. But if I had learned that lesson sooner! It did not avail poor Curtis; he seemed to have learnt it.”

She was startled, and stood in front of me, holding to the lapels of my coat. I would have had her back again.

“No,” she said, “not yet. Who told you — about Mr. Curtis ? For I am sure that I have never told a living soul. I am glad that you know, — I should have told you when I thought of it, for I think you should know all my — experiences. He asked me three times. I was sorry to refuse. Come, tell me.”

She shook me back and forth, laughing the while, though the tears stood in her eyes. And I, foolish with happiness, glad that my Letitia had so tender a heart, — I had known it always, of course, — I fenced with fate. I had not meant that she should know about the book.

“You refused him for my sake, Letitia?” I asked softly.

“For your sake,” she answered, bending toward me. “For the sake of a man who would have naught of me. Now, let me go — and tell me.”

“It was Curtis himself,” I said, “and not himself, either. For see, Letitia.”

And I drew forth the book. For she was wide-eyed, making nothing of my riddles. We sat us down by the lamp, and I explained the matter.

“And for a wedding present for my wife,” I said, “there will be a small matter of five thousand copies — ten, perhaps. What will she do with them ?”

She was leaning back, looking at me. It seemed to strike her as funny. “What a library!” she said. “I will build a house for them.” She sobered then. “Poor Mr. Johns!”

“ What of him ?” I asked. “I had forgotten him.”

“He asked me to marry him,” she answered, “an hour ago — or offered to marry me. I did not know about the book.”

“And you ?”

“Oh, I refused him, as gently as I could. I was sorry for him.”

“Did he tell you” —

“He told me everything,” she said, “or so I supposed.”

“And no doubt you excused everything — even sympathized with him. It would be like you,” said I.

She smiled faintly. “I said as little as I could,” she answered. “I thought that would be easiest for him — for everybody. Then he offered to marry me, in his courtly way, — as a reparation, I suppose,— and I refused. He seemed relieved, I thought.”

“Poor fool!” I said. “And then?”

“Oh, then! ” She shuddered as she recalled it. “He became abject. It was terrible to see him fallen so low. I did not suppose he was a coward.” She stopped, hesitated a moment. No doubt Mr. Johns had threatened self-destruction.

“You need not have been afraid, Letitia,” I said. “He would not have destroyed himself.”

“I did not know,” she answered. “I would not have him on my conscience. So then” —

She pointed to her desk. Her checkbook lay open upon it. I had not noticed it. It had been like her, too, to give him enough to make it up.

“See,” she said; and showed me the last entry. The check had been drawn for the amount of Curtis’s legacy. I stared and stared, and dropped the book.

“Letitia!” I cried.

“ Yes,” she said. “Was n’t it lucky that I had it ? He needs it more than I.”

We were both silent for some minutes, and I stared at the fire. When I looked up, she was crying softly.

“Oh,” she cried, “he had lost all his pride — all his self-respect. Why, he thanked me for it,— with his old manner that we both know so well. And he smiled as he thanked me. He is going abroad as soon as this matter is settled. We are not likely to see him again. And I tore up the envelope. I felt as though I were at his funeral — at Fairleigh Johns’s funeral. Oh, poor gentleman! ”

She was in a passion of tears. I drew her gently toward me, that she might weep her fill upon my shoulder. Alas, poor gentleman!