THE BOOK OF HIS HEART

Headpiece The Book of His HeartTHE BOOK OF HIS HEART

Headpiece The Book of His Heart

BY ALLAN UPDEGRAFF

Author of “The Siren of the Air,” etc.

WITH A PICTURE BY HERMAN PFEIFER

ON Monday, April 11, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“She was in again to-day. Dressed quite different from the first time. Not expensive, but tasteful and excellent. Took samples of blue pongee andcrêpe de chine. I said I thought that delicate new London mist would become her better. She thanked me, and let me give her a sample of that. She showed a knowledge of silks that was most pleasing, considering the general ignorance among women on such subjects. We talked about some things not important enough to mention here.‘All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of time.’Longfellow.”

‘All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of time.’Longfellow.”

‘All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of time.’

Longfellow.”

His reason for adding this selection was not very clear; but somehow a little touch of poetry seemed suitable after an entry of that sort. There was a good deal of poetry in the book, selections copied from various magazines and volumes that had helped to brighten his prosaic existence as a silk salesman in McDavitt’s department store.

One would have had to be a good observer to guess that behind the plain, neat, black-and-white exterior of Mr. Francis there was the soul of a poet. Judged by the frost-touched blackness of his hair, he might have been thirty-eight years old. His face, tending to delicacy of feature in the forehead and nose, and rendered a little wistful by the worry-lines about his eyes, had the pallor that comes from years of living in artificial light. He invariably looked as though he had been smooth-shaven five minutes before, and he invariably was ready to give his most earnest attention to the desires of a customer. He fitted in the high-classed old establishment that employed him, and paid him well for a silk salesman. The consideration shown him he repaid by immaculateness in dress, scrupulousness in his reports, and the air of an English butler in dealing with customers.

His inner self was revealed in only two of his daily activities—in the handling of the silks that had been his familiars from boyhood, and in the keeping of a large red-morocco diary that he carried in the breast-pocket of his black frock-coat.

The silks—how he caressed their shimmering textures and colors, how he made them display all their subtle beauties and allurements! It was quite without guile on his part: the idea of urging or inveigling any one into buying would have filled him with horror. He displayed his wares to their best advantage because he loved them. Therefore he did it so wonderfully well that many a fine lady, after watching his firm, white, well-kept hands play among the folds, bought stuffs for which she had no possible use. This gained him some dislike and trouble, for McDavitt’s does not exchange dress-goods.

But Mr. Francis’s real self-revelation was reserved for the diary. Every night he made an entry. During the several hours every day when the choiceness, andtherefore sparseness, of McDavitt’s clientele left him with nothing to do, he often took out the book, opened it among the shining silks on the mahogany counter, and made a note or two in it. It was a rather large book for a diary, and the India-paper leaves gave its thousand pages the bulk of a far smaller number in ordinary diaries. The words “Personal Journal” were printed in gold across the front cover, and there was a bunch of gold forget-me-nots, tied with a gold true-lover’s knot, in the upper left-hand corner. Beneath the forget-me-nots, in small, precise roman capitals, Mr. Francis had printed his name, ROLAND FARWELL FRANCIS.

To one prying into the secrets of Mr. Francis’s life through the medium of this diary, the number of entries like the one quoted above might have seemed somewhat appalling.

The pages were full of hints of romance, or, rather, of an almost indefinite number of romances. The vague beginnings were recorded in statements like “She was in again to-day.” Later there were conjectures about “her,” bits of personal description, faint suggestions of longing, of aspiration; then commiserations of his own unworthiness, bitter self-analysis leading up to relinquishment, final fits of despondency, during which he loaded pages with the most mortuary poetry he could find. But he was an invincible idealist; soon the process started all over again. From the time when he began work, aged seventeen years, as a stock clerk in McDavitt’s silk department, he must have approximated a round hundred of these catalectic romances.

His station in life, his work, his poetic temperament, made the result inevitable. His silks attracted beauty, he adored beauty, and beauty considered him in much the same class as the glass-and-ebony display-fixtures. Like a modern Tantalus, he watched the waters of life flow by so close that they fairly enveloped him, and yet he was powerless to lift one drop for the quenching of the thirst of his soul. A cheaper man might have solaced himself with cheaper beauty, a more practical man might have sought beauty as true in less inaccessible places, a luckier man might have stumbled upon it nearer home. Mr. Francis, lacking cheapness and practicality and luck, had remained a virtuous bachelor.

On Friday, April 15, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“She has not been in again. Several times I thought I saw her some aisles away. Her face is an unusual one. It is strange I seem always to be seeing it.“I heard a few minutes ago a rumor that I was being considered for a great piece of good fortune if Mr. Baldwin’s illness continues to prevent him from resuming his duties. I do not know why I am not so very much thrilled by the prospect. I suppose I ought to be.“She must have decided that McDavitt’s is too expensive. Her dress was tasteful, but not at all luxurious. She gave me a feeling of great respect.‘Friend, let us cease to vex the Eternal Why:’Tis very good to live; better, perhaps, to die.’Reader Magazine.”

“She has not been in again. Several times I thought I saw her some aisles away. Her face is an unusual one. It is strange I seem always to be seeing it.

“I heard a few minutes ago a rumor that I was being considered for a great piece of good fortune if Mr. Baldwin’s illness continues to prevent him from resuming his duties. I do not know why I am not so very much thrilled by the prospect. I suppose I ought to be.

“She must have decided that McDavitt’s is too expensive. Her dress was tasteful, but not at all luxurious. She gave me a feeling of great respect.

‘Friend, let us cease to vex the Eternal Why:’Tis very good to live; better, perhaps, to die.’Reader Magazine.”

‘Friend, let us cease to vex the Eternal Why:

’Tis very good to live; better, perhaps, to die.’

Reader Magazine.”

On Monday, April 18, he wrote:

“To-day, on account of the continued illness of Mr. Baldwin, I was promoted to be the assistant buyer and manager of this department. Three thousand a year, nearly sixty dollars a week! Once I looked forward to thirty per w’k like millions. Now sixty is not so much. I must be getting old. It will help me to lay up a competence for my declining years. Perhaps I should send one of my nephews to college. It has been the regret of my life that I entered on an active business career immediately after graduation from high school. Doubtless I should have made an effort to work my way through Columbia. Yes, I will write to my brother and offer to send one of the boys to college.“She has not been in again. Doubtless she decided to purchase elsewhere. McDavitt’sisexpensive. Perhaps I should strive to have the margin of profit reduced. She did not dress or act like one with much money. Doubtless she was attracted to Mc’s by their reputation for handling only the best. I remember she looked worried whenever I quoted prices. Still, she wished the best. But the state of her purse made her careful, and finallymade her decide to purchase in a cheaper store. I think I can understand her. That London mist would have suited her, trimmed with a little old gold. However, of course it is foolish for me to allow myself to indulge in such reflections. I shall probably never see her again.“Mrs. Benson congratulated me warmly on my advancement. She has been very thoughtful of my comforts for the last seven years, going on eight. She mentioned how she had always tried to, and I thanked her deeply. She said she hoped I wouldn’t feel impelled to move elsewhere, and I assured her I had no such intentions. I despise a man who is puffed up by a little success. Vanity of vanities,vanitas vanitatis. Orvanitatium? I wish I remembered more of my Latin; my memory is far from what I should like it to be. Mrs. B. also said she had two tickets to The Empire Vaudeville given her by the new couple in the back parlor. They are in the theatrical profession, and are getting a try-out there this week. I could not well refuse her invitation to accompany her, although I do not care for vaudeville. She says she goes at least once every week. It brightens up her dull life. Poor soul! I guess she needs it. Hers is not a very gay life.”

“She has not been in again. Doubtless she decided to purchase elsewhere. McDavitt’sisexpensive. Perhaps I should strive to have the margin of profit reduced. She did not dress or act like one with much money. Doubtless she was attracted to Mc’s by their reputation for handling only the best. I remember she looked worried whenever I quoted prices. Still, she wished the best. But the state of her purse made her careful, and finallymade her decide to purchase in a cheaper store. I think I can understand her. That London mist would have suited her, trimmed with a little old gold. However, of course it is foolish for me to allow myself to indulge in such reflections. I shall probably never see her again.

“Mrs. Benson congratulated me warmly on my advancement. She has been very thoughtful of my comforts for the last seven years, going on eight. She mentioned how she had always tried to, and I thanked her deeply. She said she hoped I wouldn’t feel impelled to move elsewhere, and I assured her I had no such intentions. I despise a man who is puffed up by a little success. Vanity of vanities,vanitas vanitatis. Orvanitatium? I wish I remembered more of my Latin; my memory is far from what I should like it to be. Mrs. B. also said she had two tickets to The Empire Vaudeville given her by the new couple in the back parlor. They are in the theatrical profession, and are getting a try-out there this week. I could not well refuse her invitation to accompany her, although I do not care for vaudeville. She says she goes at least once every week. It brightens up her dull life. Poor soul! I guess she needs it. Hers is not a very gay life.”

Drawn by Herman Pfeifer. Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill“‘SHE WAS THREE AISLES AWAY, LOOKING OVER THAT NEW IMPORTATION OF CHINESE MANDARINS’”❏LARGER IMAGE

Drawn by Herman Pfeifer. Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill

“‘SHE WAS THREE AISLES AWAY, LOOKING OVER THAT NEW IMPORTATION OF CHINESE MANDARINS’”

❏LARGER IMAGE

During the considerable period that Mr. Francis had rented Mrs. Benson’s most expensive room, the second-floor front, his intimacy with her had consisted of one heart-to-heart talk in the week following Mr. Benson’s decease. Mr. Benson, who had been indefinitely “in the clothing business,” had caught a cold which developed into pneumonia, with fatal results. When, a few days after the funeral, Mrs. Benson wept on Mr. Francis’s shoulder, she had said that she wished never to speak to another man, never even to see one, except in the necessary course of business. She ran a boarding-house, and she would accept men as well as women for boarders; other relations with them she could not consider.

Mr. Francis had always respected her wishes. Even when she presided at the Sunday evening dinner-table, a wide, tight vision of black silk, and conversation was supposed to be more unrestricted than on week-days, Mr. Francis had been careful not to trespass on the sacred confines of her bereavement. Her conversation with the other men at the table, in which she attempted to include him, he passed off as her necessary sacrifice to the business that supported her widowhood. He was even more literal-minded than the average idealist.

On Thursday, April 21, he wrote in the book:

“I am quite sure she was in again to-day. She was three aisles away, looking over that new importation of Chinese mandarins, but she departed before I approached. She was dressed altogether different from the first two times, but I am sure it was she. I would notice her face among a thousand. I noticed those two little lines at the top of her nose between her eyebrows. And yet she is not old; one would not call her young, either; and not middle-aged, either. Before I got over wondering whether I should go over and wait on her personally, she had gone. He who hesitates is lost. The clerk said she had taken samples of all the new silks. He thought she had taken too many, and said she did not act like a buyer. I requested him to follow McDavitt’s principle to give all the samples asked for and not comment on it.“To be much of my time in the office, as my new position forces me to be, has some drawbacks. Doubtless, however, even were I back in my old place, I should never see her again. And what possible good can come if I do see her? I am little more than a servant, a lackey. But I forget that I am now an assistant buyer. Perhaps that raises me a little in the scale. But how little—not enough to make any difference to her.“From the library to-day I got a book, ‘Selections from the English Poets of the Nineteenth Century.’ It is more complete than the ‘Golden Treasury,’ and I anticipate a great deal of pleasure and profit from it. It contains Shelley’s ‘Defense of Poetry,’ which I can well afford to read again.”

“To be much of my time in the office, as my new position forces me to be, has some drawbacks. Doubtless, however, even were I back in my old place, I should never see her again. And what possible good can come if I do see her? I am little more than a servant, a lackey. But I forget that I am now an assistant buyer. Perhaps that raises me a little in the scale. But how little—not enough to make any difference to her.

“From the library to-day I got a book, ‘Selections from the English Poets of the Nineteenth Century.’ It is more complete than the ‘Golden Treasury,’ and I anticipate a great deal of pleasure and profit from it. It contains Shelley’s ‘Defense of Poetry,’ which I can well afford to read again.”

Under the entry of Friday, April 22, he copied entire Shelley’s “Indian Serenade,” beginning,

“I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night.”“Sunday, April 24.“This evening has been a most eventful one for me. I am engaged to Mrs. Benson. I am still so astonished that I do not know precisely how it occurred. I do not know how to describe my feelings. They are so mixed. Words fail me.“I escorted her to a Sunday-evening concert at the Metropolitan. I owed her something, of course, in return for The Empire Vaudeville, and when she reminded me of that, I said maybe she would like to go to the Metropolitan. The music was beautiful. Homer and Bonci sang. I have always gone alone before. Mrs. Benson wept because it was so beautiful. Then she said she was partly weeping because the boarders had begun to cast insinuations about her and me.“Words cannot express how overcome I was. She has, of course, nothing but her reputation. How bitterer than a serpent’s tooth is a slanderous tongue! I asked her who started it, but she would not tell me for fear I would attack him, which would make matters worse. I would have done so, too; at least I would have demanded a retraction. Before I knew it we were engaged.“I am not sorry. How lonely my life has been! Perhaps I have at last found happiness where I least expected it. She is a good, honest, capable woman, and she says she’s going to begin exercising to reduce her weight. I fear I am unworthy. Would that I could adore her more! Everything is not just as I imagined love to be; but I am not sorry. I should be happy in my good fortune. It is not good for man to live alone.‘Duty is an Archangel on the right-hand side of God.’Anon.”

“I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night.”

“I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night.”

“Sunday, April 24.

“This evening has been a most eventful one for me. I am engaged to Mrs. Benson. I am still so astonished that I do not know precisely how it occurred. I do not know how to describe my feelings. They are so mixed. Words fail me.

“I escorted her to a Sunday-evening concert at the Metropolitan. I owed her something, of course, in return for The Empire Vaudeville, and when she reminded me of that, I said maybe she would like to go to the Metropolitan. The music was beautiful. Homer and Bonci sang. I have always gone alone before. Mrs. Benson wept because it was so beautiful. Then she said she was partly weeping because the boarders had begun to cast insinuations about her and me.

“Words cannot express how overcome I was. She has, of course, nothing but her reputation. How bitterer than a serpent’s tooth is a slanderous tongue! I asked her who started it, but she would not tell me for fear I would attack him, which would make matters worse. I would have done so, too; at least I would have demanded a retraction. Before I knew it we were engaged.

“I am not sorry. How lonely my life has been! Perhaps I have at last found happiness where I least expected it. She is a good, honest, capable woman, and she says she’s going to begin exercising to reduce her weight. I fear I am unworthy. Would that I could adore her more! Everything is not just as I imagined love to be; but I am not sorry. I should be happy in my good fortune. It is not good for man to live alone.

‘Duty is an Archangel on the right-hand side of God.’Anon.”

‘Duty is an Archangel on the right-hand side of God.’

Anon.”

Nevertheless, it was a much chastened, even saddened, Mr. Francis who returned to work the following morning. He had lived in his dreams, his romances had been the deepest and sweetest part of his life, for so long that such a reality as his engagement to Mrs. Benson hurt him through and through.

Perhaps any reality in the matter of romance would have hurt him. He had become a confirmed dreamer, even as he had become a confirmed bachelor, and he was not fitted to cope with practical details. Even the preparations, the hundred and one rather sordid arrangements, he would have had to go through in order to marry his latest ideal would probably have saddened him a good deal. It was thrice in vain that he attempted to be practical in the matter of marriage with Mrs. Benson; he suffered by every necessary preparation that brushed the star-dust off the butterfly’s wings of his dream ideal of love—suffered agonies that gave him a feeling of weakness in the diaphragm and in the knees.

Until eleven o’clock he was busy with the morning instalment of traveling-salesmen who came to offer their wares. This duty disposed of, he strolled out into the department where he was supposed to oversee the stock and clerks. Wicked hopes that she, the lady of his dream romance, would return he suppressed so firmly that he had a continuous ache in his throat. Gone were his shimmering dreams, his vistas of poetic reverie. He threw himself desperately into the business of arranging displays, stationing clerks, verifying price-tags. He was thoroughly melancholy and businesslike and stern-faced and miserable.

His evenings at the boarding-house were even more uncomfortable than his days in the store. Mrs. Benson had lost no time in announcing her engagement, and Mr. Francis now occupied the place of honor at her right hand at meals; he had long refused this place through feelings of delicacy about trespassing on Mrs. Benson’s known reverence for her late husband, and the honor sat heavily upon him. The smiles and insinuations of the boarders, the sordid jocularity of it all, seared his soul. Idealist that he was, his sense of humor was not much developed; and remarks like, “Can’t you just see Mr. Francis walking the floor with a bundle of yell in his arms?” sent all the blood from his heart into his face, and back again, in two frantic leaps.

On one point he was trying to be firm: he would not let Mrs. Benson read in “The Book of his Heart.” She found it on the second evening of their prenuptial bliss in the front parlor, and triumphantly drew it forth. Desperately he reclaimed his property; frantically he argued that itwas sacred to him, that there were some things they wouldn’t have to share in common. No theory could have been more repugnant to Mrs. Benson, and none could have so solidified her determination to read that “Personal Journal” from cover to cover. The issues were pitched, the armies drawn up, the bugles blown; and struggle as he would, Mr. Francis realized that he was foredoomed to the woe of the vanquished. She would read the book, she would despise it, and she would burn it because of its wicked references to women other than herself. Realizing this certain outcome, Mr. Francis vacillated between the wisdom of burning the book himself and the wickedness of hiding it and telling her that he had burned it. In the meantime he kept his coat buttoned and his door locked.

On Thursday, April 28, he wrote at one o’clock in the morning:

“God have mercy on me, a miserable sinner! She was in again to-day, and I adore her still.“I could not greet Mrs. Benson as usual this evening. I could not. She insisted, but I said I had a sore throat and might infect her. She said I must have a doctor, but I was firm, I declared I would get along all right. She came up with a mustard-plaster while I was retiring. I could not let her in. It was terrible. Several of the boarders heard her; I could hear them laughing. The knowledge of my turpitude debases me like a crawling worm. I have always striven to live an upright life, so that I could look all men and women in the face. My duty is plain. Shall I be a hypocrite and deceiver? Shall I give up my self-respect, which has meant so much to me all these years? I am in a terrible dilemma.“I will rise at five o’clock and leave the house before any one is stirring to-morrow morning. But what shall I do to-morrow evening? Heaven help and guide me!“And yet my heart is not able to be sorry that she was in again to-day. I had given up expecting her, and the sight of her confounded me. The blueness of her eyes is like still waters. Her brown hair is as soft as brown silk in the skein. Her gentleness restoreth my soul. Yes, though I walked through the Valley of Death, I would love her. I am a vile man, loathsome to myself. And I am a liar. I told Mrs. Benson I was kept at the store while in truth I was walking in Central Park. Through the night under the stars. Full of the thought of her. Full of poetry no one ever yet wrote the like of. Full of wonder and hope and exceeding glory and brightness.“She is a sampler. I ought to have suspected it ever since that clerk spoke about her taking samples of all those new mandarins and she never bought anything. She had an idea to do it on a large scale. Instead of being in the employ of only one rival store, she has eight she supplies samples to. She spends all her time supplying samples to the stores that employ her. But she’s afraid her idea won’t work. She dresses as different as she can, but the department managers get to recognize her, with unfortunate results.“I went up to her as soon as I recognized her, and asked to be allowed to wait on her. I lost once by my hesitation. She seemed much disappointed because I recognized her. I said, ‘I suspect you are a sampler, but I will take the responsibility of supplying you with all the samples from McDavitt’s silk department that you desire.’ Of course I had no right to make such an offer, but I did not think of it at the time. She looked all broken up, and told me she was deeply obliged, but she thought she’d have to quit and go back in Seaton-Baum’s silk department. She said she wished she could get into McDavitt’s, if only we didn’t employ only men clerks. I said I thought McDavitt’s was behind the times in that as well as in many other things, and I had intended to take the matter up with the superintendent. This was true. I asked for her name and address, so that I might notify her if anything came of it. She gave them to me.“She said she wondered how I recognized her when she dressed differently every time, and I said I should remember her face among a million. She said that didn’t prejudice her against me as it would if most men had said it. She shook hands with me when she said good-by.“I will not put her name down here. There are some things I cannot put down even here. And yet why shouldn’t I? I have always tried to be sincere and frank here. Miss Anna Wright. Anna. But doubtless I shall never see her again. Ours is a purely business acquaintance. I fear I shall not be able to change the policy about men clerks. It is an unprogressive policy. How her face would brighten the department! And she knows silks better than most of our men clerks. She has a feeling about them that counts a great deal; she really understands them. My slight acquaintance with her has filled me with the deepest respect. There is a great deal of sincerity about her, but she looks as if her life had not been altogether happy. I do not feel bashful when I talk to her, as I do with most women. This is most strange, considering how I feel toward her. I have a sort of feeling that she trusts me. What would I not give if I were worthy! Thank Heaven, she does not know how I have treated poor Mrs. Benson!”

“God have mercy on me, a miserable sinner! She was in again to-day, and I adore her still.

“I could not greet Mrs. Benson as usual this evening. I could not. She insisted, but I said I had a sore throat and might infect her. She said I must have a doctor, but I was firm, I declared I would get along all right. She came up with a mustard-plaster while I was retiring. I could not let her in. It was terrible. Several of the boarders heard her; I could hear them laughing. The knowledge of my turpitude debases me like a crawling worm. I have always striven to live an upright life, so that I could look all men and women in the face. My duty is plain. Shall I be a hypocrite and deceiver? Shall I give up my self-respect, which has meant so much to me all these years? I am in a terrible dilemma.

“I will rise at five o’clock and leave the house before any one is stirring to-morrow morning. But what shall I do to-morrow evening? Heaven help and guide me!

“And yet my heart is not able to be sorry that she was in again to-day. I had given up expecting her, and the sight of her confounded me. The blueness of her eyes is like still waters. Her brown hair is as soft as brown silk in the skein. Her gentleness restoreth my soul. Yes, though I walked through the Valley of Death, I would love her. I am a vile man, loathsome to myself. And I am a liar. I told Mrs. Benson I was kept at the store while in truth I was walking in Central Park. Through the night under the stars. Full of the thought of her. Full of poetry no one ever yet wrote the like of. Full of wonder and hope and exceeding glory and brightness.

“She is a sampler. I ought to have suspected it ever since that clerk spoke about her taking samples of all those new mandarins and she never bought anything. She had an idea to do it on a large scale. Instead of being in the employ of only one rival store, she has eight she supplies samples to. She spends all her time supplying samples to the stores that employ her. But she’s afraid her idea won’t work. She dresses as different as she can, but the department managers get to recognize her, with unfortunate results.

“I went up to her as soon as I recognized her, and asked to be allowed to wait on her. I lost once by my hesitation. She seemed much disappointed because I recognized her. I said, ‘I suspect you are a sampler, but I will take the responsibility of supplying you with all the samples from McDavitt’s silk department that you desire.’ Of course I had no right to make such an offer, but I did not think of it at the time. She looked all broken up, and told me she was deeply obliged, but she thought she’d have to quit and go back in Seaton-Baum’s silk department. She said she wished she could get into McDavitt’s, if only we didn’t employ only men clerks. I said I thought McDavitt’s was behind the times in that as well as in many other things, and I had intended to take the matter up with the superintendent. This was true. I asked for her name and address, so that I might notify her if anything came of it. She gave them to me.

“She said she wondered how I recognized her when she dressed differently every time, and I said I should remember her face among a million. She said that didn’t prejudice her against me as it would if most men had said it. She shook hands with me when she said good-by.

“I will not put her name down here. There are some things I cannot put down even here. And yet why shouldn’t I? I have always tried to be sincere and frank here. Miss Anna Wright. Anna. But doubtless I shall never see her again. Ours is a purely business acquaintance. I fear I shall not be able to change the policy about men clerks. It is an unprogressive policy. How her face would brighten the department! And she knows silks better than most of our men clerks. She has a feeling about them that counts a great deal; she really understands them. My slight acquaintance with her has filled me with the deepest respect. There is a great deal of sincerity about her, but she looks as if her life had not been altogether happy. I do not feel bashful when I talk to her, as I do with most women. This is most strange, considering how I feel toward her. I have a sort of feeling that she trusts me. What would I not give if I were worthy! Thank Heaven, she does not know how I have treated poor Mrs. Benson!”

On Friday, April 29, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“I am inscribing these words in a furnished room that I rented shortly after the store closed this evening. I sent an expressman to Mrs. Benson’s to get my things. Try as I would, reason with my self, all was in vain. I am a coward; I could not go back to Mrs. Benson’s.“I thought I would go back and say something against Mr. Benson, thus breaking off the engagement in a respectable manner. Mrs. Benson has often said that if I ever said anything against Mr. Benson, everything between us would be at an end. I thought this would be a good way to end matters. God knows I have nothing against Mr. Benson, and I know he would have forgiven me if he had heard of it in the place wherever the dead are. But I could not do it. When within a block of the house I could not force myself to go any farther. I could not, as God is my witness. I have tried to do right, but I am such a coward I would have succumbed in the street if I had gone on.“Mrs. Benson refused to allow the expressman to get my things, although I had sent the money to pay a week’s rent in advance with him. She tried to make him give her my address, but I had warned him not to do that, and I gave him a dollar when he returned and told me how he had resisted her. I regret that she would not let him have my things. I can get a new outfit, of course, but I had become accustomed to some of the things I had. Some of them I have had since my seventeenth year. Still, I am content. I have deserved much worse than has been meted out to me.“Later. Mrs. Benson has been here. The expressman deceived me; he gave her my address, after all. I will not write down what she said while irresponsible through her emotions, and I do not remember what I said. At any rate, she is gone. I can hardly write.“Later. The landlady of this house has just been in to tell me I must move out in the morning. She doesn’t desire men like me in her house. She says she knows my kind, and I am worse than the white-slavers the papers tell about. Perhaps she is right. I have no words to express my misery at my conduct. I will rise at five o’clock in the morning and seek a new rooming-house where I am not known.”

“I thought I would go back and say something against Mr. Benson, thus breaking off the engagement in a respectable manner. Mrs. Benson has often said that if I ever said anything against Mr. Benson, everything between us would be at an end. I thought this would be a good way to end matters. God knows I have nothing against Mr. Benson, and I know he would have forgiven me if he had heard of it in the place wherever the dead are. But I could not do it. When within a block of the house I could not force myself to go any farther. I could not, as God is my witness. I have tried to do right, but I am such a coward I would have succumbed in the street if I had gone on.

“Mrs. Benson refused to allow the expressman to get my things, although I had sent the money to pay a week’s rent in advance with him. She tried to make him give her my address, but I had warned him not to do that, and I gave him a dollar when he returned and told me how he had resisted her. I regret that she would not let him have my things. I can get a new outfit, of course, but I had become accustomed to some of the things I had. Some of them I have had since my seventeenth year. Still, I am content. I have deserved much worse than has been meted out to me.

“Later. Mrs. Benson has been here. The expressman deceived me; he gave her my address, after all. I will not write down what she said while irresponsible through her emotions, and I do not remember what I said. At any rate, she is gone. I can hardly write.

“Later. The landlady of this house has just been in to tell me I must move out in the morning. She doesn’t desire men like me in her house. She says she knows my kind, and I am worse than the white-slavers the papers tell about. Perhaps she is right. I have no words to express my misery at my conduct. I will rise at five o’clock in the morning and seek a new rooming-house where I am not known.”

“Saturday, April 30.“I have another furnished room. It is not highly desirable. I rented it under an assumed name, and I will move when the present danger has had time to decrease. I tremble lest Mrs. Benson should come to seek me in the store. I spend as much of my time in the office as possible, and keep a sharp lookout when I am on the floor.‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!’I know now something of the feeling of the felon who has escaped and whom every man’s hand is raised against. But I have brought it on myself. I only hope it will not result in my final expulsion from the store. McDavitt’s is very careful about the character of their employees.“I put the matter about lady clerks in the department up to the manager this afternoon. To my surprise, he took to it rather kindly, and will refer it up to the proper authorities.“A chilly, rainy day. I am tired out, but very happy to be secluded in this room. It is pleasant to sit alone and hear the rain outside.“But I am not altogether alone. I have a memory, and a name, and I have a hope. Anna. But why is my heart lifted up? I am not worthy even to think of her.‘For be the day never so long,At last the bell ringeth to evensong.’Stephen Hawes.”

“Saturday, April 30.

“I have another furnished room. It is not highly desirable. I rented it under an assumed name, and I will move when the present danger has had time to decrease. I tremble lest Mrs. Benson should come to seek me in the store. I spend as much of my time in the office as possible, and keep a sharp lookout when I am on the floor.

‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!’

‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!’

I know now something of the feeling of the felon who has escaped and whom every man’s hand is raised against. But I have brought it on myself. I only hope it will not result in my final expulsion from the store. McDavitt’s is very careful about the character of their employees.

“I put the matter about lady clerks in the department up to the manager this afternoon. To my surprise, he took to it rather kindly, and will refer it up to the proper authorities.

“A chilly, rainy day. I am tired out, but very happy to be secluded in this room. It is pleasant to sit alone and hear the rain outside.

“But I am not altogether alone. I have a memory, and a name, and I have a hope. Anna. But why is my heart lifted up? I am not worthy even to think of her.

‘For be the day never so long,At last the bell ringeth to evensong.’Stephen Hawes.”

‘For be the day never so long,

At last the bell ringeth to evensong.’

Stephen Hawes.”

“Tuesday, May 3.“The superintendent has refused to entertain my suggestion about women clerks in the silk department. It would be against McDavitt’s policy. I have written and expressed his decision. So everything ends. I shall never see her again. I am a broken reed. One thing I can be thankful for: Mrs. Benson has not come to ask for me at the store.”

“Tuesday, May 3.

“The superintendent has refused to entertain my suggestion about women clerks in the silk department. It would be against McDavitt’s policy. I have written and expressed his decision. So everything ends. I shall never see her again. I am a broken reed. One thing I can be thankful for: Mrs. Benson has not come to ask for me at the store.”

“Wednesday, May 4.“This evening after dinner I walked over to the address. It is an apartment-house, and it is just such a place as I should think she would choose to live in. Nothing showy, but very neat and quiet and respectable. I walked in front of the house several times before returning. Something expanded in me every time I walked before the house and thought it was the place where she lives. I wonder whom she lives with? Doubtless with her mother and father and perhaps a sister or brother. I picked out a window that looked like it might be hers on the third floor. There was a soft yellow light like the light of a lamp in it.“But of course I was mistaken. Probably she was out. She must be much sought after, and doubtless goes out a great deal in the evenings. Still, I found my heart lifted up just to walk slowly by and imagine she was in the room with the yellow lamp. I came home with peace and happiness in my heart, and yet with a great yearning. I will not conceal that I had that also. How poorly that expresses my feeling! The power of verbal expression is not my forte.”

“Wednesday, May 4.

“This evening after dinner I walked over to the address. It is an apartment-house, and it is just such a place as I should think she would choose to live in. Nothing showy, but very neat and quiet and respectable. I walked in front of the house several times before returning. Something expanded in me every time I walked before the house and thought it was the place where she lives. I wonder whom she lives with? Doubtless with her mother and father and perhaps a sister or brother. I picked out a window that looked like it might be hers on the third floor. There was a soft yellow light like the light of a lamp in it.

“But of course I was mistaken. Probably she was out. She must be much sought after, and doubtless goes out a great deal in the evenings. Still, I found my heart lifted up just to walk slowly by and imagine she was in the room with the yellow lamp. I came home with peace and happiness in my heart, and yet with a great yearning. I will not conceal that I had that also. How poorly that expresses my feeling! The power of verbal expression is not my forte.”

The entry of Thursday, May 5, ended:

“She has not replied to my note telling of the superintendent’s decision; but of course no reply was necessary. Walked before her house this evening. Had not expected to, but could not resist the temptation. Have no right even to think of her. Legally, of course, I am still engaged to Mrs. Benson.”

The entries of May 6, 7, and 8 related that he had walked past “her” house. He avoided mentioning her name, as an ancient Hebrew would have avoided mentioning the name of Jehovah, or a modern Japanese the name of his emperor.

On Monday, May 9, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“I have a note from her, thanking me for my efforts in her behalf and regretting that McDavitt’s is so unprogressive. She ends: ‘I shall apply to you again when your store has got out of the rut of ages. I like McDavitt’s for its air of gentility and old-fashioned niceness.’ How she can write! I shall treasure her note. She says she would have written, thanking me, before, but my note reached her just as they were moving to another apartment. She sends me the new address unconsciously on the heading of her letter. I am glad I know she has moved. Suppose I had continued to walk before her former residence, thinking she still lived there? And yet that might have served me just as well, as long as I thought she was there.“Now I have to record a very unpleasant matter. Mr. A. I. Sugenheim, an attorney-at-law, was in the store to-day to see me, and he said Mrs. Benson had decided to start a suit for breach of promise against me for $10,000; but if I wished to avoid the disgrace of having my name and picture in all the papers, I could pay the money, and he would not start the suit. He gave me an unpleasant impression. I said I should have to consult a lawyer before I decided. I recognized Mrs. Benson had grounds for damages, but I didn’t have $10,000. He said I could pay in instalments.“I said I would consider the matter. He then said he would compromise for $5000 cash. My dealings with traveling-salesmen stood me in good stead. I said I would not think of paying a cent more than $2000. I had $1200 in the savings-bank, and I would pay the rest $100 a month.“He begged me to remember that I had committed a very grave offense. Bothfrom a legal and moral point of view I was culpable, and I had no right to pinch pennies to put myself square with the world. I was obliged to admit all this. But I did not like the way he said it; his manner did not give me a feeling of frankness and sincerity. I answered that $2000 was a great deal of money. ‘Make it $2500, for your conscience’ sake, at least,’ he said. I saw he was weakening; his nature was exactly like that of many of the salesmen I have to deal with. I turned away, saying, ‘I will make it $2100 and I cannot in conscience make it a cent more.’ He caught me by the arm and told me to believe him I would regret it to my dying day if I did not make it $2400, anyway; but I was firm. Finally he agreed to accept $2100. Unpleasant as the details were, I have a great feeling of relief. To-morrow I shall withdraw all my savings from the savings-bank and meet him at his office at 6:30P.M.After that I shall be free.“Walked past her new home this evening. It is perhaps not so nice as the other place, but eminently respectable. I debated all the way whether I would act unwarrantedly if I wrote her another note in answer to her last. How she would despise me if she knew the unfortunate details of my private life! I bow my head in shame when I think of her and of them.”

“Now I have to record a very unpleasant matter. Mr. A. I. Sugenheim, an attorney-at-law, was in the store to-day to see me, and he said Mrs. Benson had decided to start a suit for breach of promise against me for $10,000; but if I wished to avoid the disgrace of having my name and picture in all the papers, I could pay the money, and he would not start the suit. He gave me an unpleasant impression. I said I should have to consult a lawyer before I decided. I recognized Mrs. Benson had grounds for damages, but I didn’t have $10,000. He said I could pay in instalments.

“I said I would consider the matter. He then said he would compromise for $5000 cash. My dealings with traveling-salesmen stood me in good stead. I said I would not think of paying a cent more than $2000. I had $1200 in the savings-bank, and I would pay the rest $100 a month.

“He begged me to remember that I had committed a very grave offense. Bothfrom a legal and moral point of view I was culpable, and I had no right to pinch pennies to put myself square with the world. I was obliged to admit all this. But I did not like the way he said it; his manner did not give me a feeling of frankness and sincerity. I answered that $2000 was a great deal of money. ‘Make it $2500, for your conscience’ sake, at least,’ he said. I saw he was weakening; his nature was exactly like that of many of the salesmen I have to deal with. I turned away, saying, ‘I will make it $2100 and I cannot in conscience make it a cent more.’ He caught me by the arm and told me to believe him I would regret it to my dying day if I did not make it $2400, anyway; but I was firm. Finally he agreed to accept $2100. Unpleasant as the details were, I have a great feeling of relief. To-morrow I shall withdraw all my savings from the savings-bank and meet him at his office at 6:30P.M.After that I shall be free.

“Walked past her new home this evening. It is perhaps not so nice as the other place, but eminently respectable. I debated all the way whether I would act unwarrantedly if I wrote her another note in answer to her last. How she would despise me if she knew the unfortunate details of my private life! I bow my head in shame when I think of her and of them.”

“Tuesday, May 10.“Mr. Sugenheim said last night Mrs. Benson had refused to accept $2100. She had been wounded too deeply, and disgraced forever in the eyes of the boarders. I was overcome with grief at this news. But she would accept $2400. I at once agreed. I can save nearly two hundred dollars a month out of my salary by living carefully, and I feel more absolved from my turpitude than if I had paid a smaller amount. But it is a base thing to try to feel that I can acquit myself by a money payment. This will be a lesson to me never to trifle with a woman’s feelings again unless I really love her. I think I can say on my honor that I never really loved Mrs. Benson. This makes me feel at once more blameworthy and more relieved than if I had loved her. It is hard to explain just how.“Walked past her new home again this evening. I have chosen another window on the third floor, right-hand corner, as the one that belongs to her. This is foolish, but why should I not do it if it pleases me? I started to write several notes to her this evening, but tore them up. I have no excuse to inflict myself upon her.”

“Tuesday, May 10.

“Mr. Sugenheim said last night Mrs. Benson had refused to accept $2100. She had been wounded too deeply, and disgraced forever in the eyes of the boarders. I was overcome with grief at this news. But she would accept $2400. I at once agreed. I can save nearly two hundred dollars a month out of my salary by living carefully, and I feel more absolved from my turpitude than if I had paid a smaller amount. But it is a base thing to try to feel that I can acquit myself by a money payment. This will be a lesson to me never to trifle with a woman’s feelings again unless I really love her. I think I can say on my honor that I never really loved Mrs. Benson. This makes me feel at once more blameworthy and more relieved than if I had loved her. It is hard to explain just how.

“Walked past her new home again this evening. I have chosen another window on the third floor, right-hand corner, as the one that belongs to her. This is foolish, but why should I not do it if it pleases me? I started to write several notes to her this evening, but tore them up. I have no excuse to inflict myself upon her.”

The entries of the next few days dealt chiefly with his evening parades and with the struggles of his conscience as to whether he ought to write her again. By pressure of the longing in his soul he became bolder; one evening he even had the courage to go into the front hall of the apartment-house and search out her name in the long row of letter-boxes above the electric-bell buttons. The simple “Wright” printed there held him spellbound for so long that, when he recollected himself, he fled fearfully from the building, and trembled afterward at the thought of the risk he had run. But his timidity did not prevent him from continuing to haunt the vicinity of her home.

Such was his absorption in his romance, such interesting business filled his evenings, that he was never lonely, as he had often been even in the company of the other boarders at Mrs. Benson’s. Except for an occasional visit to his brother and sister-in-law in Brooklyn, he had no more human associations, and desired none. The place where he lived was a rooming-house; he took his solitary meals in restaurants, seeking out the cheapest places, so that he might save every possible cent toward discharging the financial burden his engagement and dereliction had put upon him.

But taking it all in all, he was happier than he had ever been in his life before. Never had one of his ideal romances developed so far; and never, thanks principally to the affectionate, if brief advances, of Mrs. Benson, had he had so true an idea of the meaning of love. He composed many notes to Miss Anna Wright,—I hope he will forgive me for setting forth her name in cold type,—and he knew that the time was approaching when he would send one to her.

On Friday, May 13, Mr. Francis wrote in the book:

“Five o’clock in the morning. I have met her face to face, I have spoken to her, andwalked with her! We ran into each other, almost. I was gawking up at her window,—I mean the one I call hers,—and I did not see her until she stopped and spoke to me.“What a fool I must have seemed! I could not say anything—not a word. She asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I said no. She said she was just going out for a walk over to Central Park and back to get the air. I said it was a pleasant evening for a walk, fool that I am! She said several other things; asked me about the store. Then she said good evening, and went on. I went on, too, in the direction I was going when I met her.“But there are times when a man forgets everything but one thing. I turned back before I had gone half a block. I followed her. I cannot describe how I felt. All the way up Fifth Avenue from Thirty-eighth Street I kept her in sight. I do not know how I had the courage to go up and speak to her while she was passing St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Something outside myself forced me to do it. I was not myself. She let me walk with her. She let me walk back to her door again with her.“Some time I will put down where we went, the bench beside the little lagoon with the swans where we sat, and all she said. I remember everything perfectly. But I cannot write it down now.“After I had told her good-night, I went back and did everything we had done together, and recalled everything she had said. I sat for over two hours on the bench where we had sat together. She told me a great deal about herself, and I was right: she has not had a very happy life. And she asked me about myself. I told her all she asked. I told her about the book, and she said sometime she’d like to read the extracts about her in it, and I said she could.“It is beginning to be dawn. I am glad my window faces east. The sky is pale golden. There is something about the dawn, something sacred. It is like her; I cannot describe how.“I cannot write any more. I will go out and take another walk until breakfast. Perhaps I will go over to the East River. Yes, I will go over to the East River and look at the boats. There is something magnificent about boats.”

“What a fool I must have seemed! I could not say anything—not a word. She asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I said no. She said she was just going out for a walk over to Central Park and back to get the air. I said it was a pleasant evening for a walk, fool that I am! She said several other things; asked me about the store. Then she said good evening, and went on. I went on, too, in the direction I was going when I met her.

“But there are times when a man forgets everything but one thing. I turned back before I had gone half a block. I followed her. I cannot describe how I felt. All the way up Fifth Avenue from Thirty-eighth Street I kept her in sight. I do not know how I had the courage to go up and speak to her while she was passing St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Something outside myself forced me to do it. I was not myself. She let me walk with her. She let me walk back to her door again with her.

“Some time I will put down where we went, the bench beside the little lagoon with the swans where we sat, and all she said. I remember everything perfectly. But I cannot write it down now.

“After I had told her good-night, I went back and did everything we had done together, and recalled everything she had said. I sat for over two hours on the bench where we had sat together. She told me a great deal about herself, and I was right: she has not had a very happy life. And she asked me about myself. I told her all she asked. I told her about the book, and she said sometime she’d like to read the extracts about her in it, and I said she could.

“It is beginning to be dawn. I am glad my window faces east. The sky is pale golden. There is something about the dawn, something sacred. It is like her; I cannot describe how.

“I cannot write any more. I will go out and take another walk until breakfast. Perhaps I will go over to the East River. Yes, I will go over to the East River and look at the boats. There is something magnificent about boats.”

“Sunday, May 22.“To-day we went out to Pelham Bay Park. We went early in the morning and stayed all day. We took a boat-ride over to Closson’s Point, and sat under a tree, and I let her read the book—all there was in it. She did not reproach me for the many things that I regret I ever wrote in it. At times she laughed, and at times I am sure that there were tears in her eyes. I could not well understand her at all times, even when she explained to me why it made her feel as she said it did.“Yesterday paid the first instalment of $200. $1000 more, and that unfortunate episode in my life will be closed forever.“I do not seem to take as much interest in the book as I once did. For the first time in many years I have let nearly a week go by without a record in it.“Shall I tell what happened when I left her at her door at midnight less than an hour ago? I have long made it a point to be sincere and frank in these pages, but I cannot always write down the most important things in my life, especially now. I will only write that ineffable joy surrounded me.‘O death, where is thy sting?O grave, where is thy victory?’”

“Sunday, May 22.

“To-day we went out to Pelham Bay Park. We went early in the morning and stayed all day. We took a boat-ride over to Closson’s Point, and sat under a tree, and I let her read the book—all there was in it. She did not reproach me for the many things that I regret I ever wrote in it. At times she laughed, and at times I am sure that there were tears in her eyes. I could not well understand her at all times, even when she explained to me why it made her feel as she said it did.

“Yesterday paid the first instalment of $200. $1000 more, and that unfortunate episode in my life will be closed forever.

“I do not seem to take as much interest in the book as I once did. For the first time in many years I have let nearly a week go by without a record in it.

“Shall I tell what happened when I left her at her door at midnight less than an hour ago? I have long made it a point to be sincere and frank in these pages, but I cannot always write down the most important things in my life, especially now. I will only write that ineffable joy surrounded me.

‘O death, where is thy sting?O grave, where is thy victory?’”

‘O death, where is thy sting?

O grave, where is thy victory?’”

Tailpiece The Book of His Heart

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