And thus challenged I could not deny The sort of right he had to have me try; And yielding, I began--instinctively Proceeding by exclusion: "We agree It was not put there as a pious charm To keep the abandoned property from harm?

The owner could have been no Catholic; And yet it was no sacrilegious trick To make folks wonder; and it was not chance a.s.suredly that set those boards askance In that shape, or before or after, so Painted them to that coloring of woe.

Do you suppose, then, that it could have been Some secret sorrow or some secret sin, That tried to utter or to expiate Itself in that way: some unhappy hate Turned to remorse, or some life-rending grief That could not find in years or tears relief?

Who lived here last?"

"Ah," my friend made reply, "You know as much concerning that as I.

All I could tell is what those gravestones tell, And they have told it all to you as well.

The names, the dates, the curious epitaphs At whose quaint phrase one either sighs or laughs, Just as one's heart or head happens to be Hollow or not, are there for each to see.

But I believe they have nothing to reveal: No wrong to publish, no shame to conceal."

"And yet that Cross!" I turned at his reply, Fixing the silent symbol with my eye, Insistently. "And you consent," I said, "To leave the enigma uninterpreted?"

"Why, no," he faltered, then went on: "Suppose That some one that had known the average woes Of human nature, finding that the load Was overheavy for him on life's road, Had wished to leave some token in this Cross, Of what had been his gain and been his loss, Of what had been his suffering and of what Had also been the solace of his lot?

Whoever that unknown brother-man might be, I think he must have been like you and me, Who bear our Cross, and when we fail at length, Bow down and pray to it for greater strength."

I mused, and as I mused, I seemed to find The fancy more and still more to my mind.

"Well, let it go at that! I think, for me, I like that better than some tragedy Of clearer physiognomy, which were In being more definite the vulgarer.

For us, what, after all, would be the gain Of making the elusive meaning plain?

I really think, if I were you and yours, I would not lift the veil that now obscures The appealing fact, lest I should spoil the charm Deeding me for my own the Black Cross Farm."

"A good suggestion! I am glad," said he, "We have always practised your philosophy."

He smiled, we laughed; we sighed and turned away, And left the mystery to the summer day That made as if it understood, and could Have read the riddle to us if it would: The wide, wise sky, the clouds that on the gra.s.s Let their vague shadows dreamlike trail and pa.s.s; The conscious woods, the stony meadows growing Up to birch pastures, where we heard the lowing Of one disconsolate cow. All the warm afternoon, Lulled in a reverie by the myriad tune Of insects, and the chirp of songless birds, Forgetful of the spring-time's lyric words, Drowsed round us while we tried to find the lane That to our coming feet had been so plain, And lost ourselves among the sweetfern's growth, And thickets of young pine-trees, nothing loath, Amidst the wilding loveliness to stray, And spend, if need were, looking for the way, Whole hours; but blundered into the right course Suddenly, and came out upon our horse, Where we had left him--to our great surprise, Stamping and switching at the pestering flies, But not apparently anxious to depart, When nearly overturning at the start, We followed down that evanescent trace Which, followed up, had brought us to the place.

Then, all the wayside scenes reversing, we Dropped to the glimpses of the distant sea, Content as if we brought, returning thus, The secret of the Black Cross back with us.

XIII

THE CRITICAL BOOKSTORE

It had long been the notion of Frederick Erlcort, who held it playfully, held it seriously, according to the company he was in, that there might be a censorship of taste and conscience in literary matters strictly affiliated with the retail commerce in books. When he first began to propose it, playfully, seriously, as his listener chose, he said that he had noticed how in the great department stores where nearly everything to supply human need was sold, the shopmen and shopwomen seemed instructed by the ownership or the management to deal in absolute good faith with the customers, and not to misrepresent the quality, the make, or the material of any article in the slightest degree. A thing was not to be called silk or wool when it was partly cotton; it was not to be said that it would wash when it would not wash, or that the color would not come off when it would come off, or that the stuff was English or French when it was American.

When Erlcort once noted his interest in the fact to a floor-walker whom he happened to find at leisure, the floor-walker said, Yes, that was so; and the house did it because it was business, good business, the only good business. He was instantly enthusiastic, and he said that just in the same way, as an extension of its good faith with the public, the house had established the rule of taking back any article which a customer did not like, or did not find what she had supposed when she got it home, and refunding the money. This was the best sort of business; it held custom; the woman became a customer for life. The floor-walker laughed, and after he had told an anxious applicant, "Second aisle to the left, lady; three counters back," he concluded to Erlcort, "I say she because a man never brings a thing back when he's made a mistake; but a woman can always blame it on the house. That so?"

Erlcort laughed with him, and in going out he stopped at the book-counter. Rather it was a bookstore, and no small one, with ranks of new books covering the large tables and mounting to their level from the floor, neatly piled, and with shelves of complete editions and soberer-looking volumes stretching along the wall as high as the ceiling. "Do you happen to have a good book--a book that would read good, I mean--in your stock here?" he asked the neat blonde behind the literary barricade.

"Well, here's a book that a good many are reading," she answered, with prompt interest and a smile that told in the book's favor; it was a protectingly filial and guardedly ladylike smile.

"Yes, but is it a book worth reading--worth the money?"

"Well, I don't know as I'm a judge," the kind little blonde replied.

She added, daringly, "All I can say is, I set up till two last night to finish it."

"And you advise me to buy it?"

"Well, we're not allowed to do that, exactly. I can only tell you what I know."

"But if I take it, and it isn't what I expected, I can return it and get my money back?"

"That's something I never was asked before. Mr. Jeffers! Mr. Jeffers!"

she called to a floor-walker pa.s.sing near; and when he stopped and came up to the counter, she put the case to him.

He took the book from Erlcort's hand and examined the outside of it curiously if not critically. Then he looked from it to Erlcort, and said, "Oh, how do you do again! Well, no, sir; I don't know as we could do that. You see, you would have to read it to find out that you didn't want it, and that would be like using or wearing an article, wouldn't it? We couldn't take back a thing that had been used or worn--heigh?"

"But you might have some means of knowing whether a book is good or not?"

"Well, yes, we might. That's a point we have never had raised before.

Miss Prittiman, haven't we any means of knowing whether a book's something we can guarantee or not?"

"Well, Mr. Jeffers, there's the publisher's advertis.e.m.e.nt."

"Why, yes, so there is! And a respectable publisher wouldn't indorse a book that wasn't the genuine article, would he now, sir?"

"He mightn't," Erlcort said, as if he felt the force of the argument.

"And there are the notices in the newspapers. They ought to tell,"

Miss Prittiman added, more convincingly. "I don't know," she said, as from a sensitive conscience, "whether there have been any about this book yet, but I should think there would be."

"And in the mean time, as you won't guarantee the book so that I can bring it back and get my money if I find it worthless, I must accept the publisher's word?" Erlcort pressed further.

"I should think you could do that," the floor-walker suggested, with the appearance of being tired.

"Well, I think I will, for once," Erlcort relented. "But wait! What does the publisher say?"

"It's all printed on this slip inside," the blonde said, and she showed it as she took the book from him. "Shall I send it? Or will you--"

"No, no, thank you, I'll take it with me. Let me--"

He kept the printed slip and began to read it. The blonde wrapped the book up and laid it with a half-dollar in change on the counter before Erlcort. The floor-walker went away; Erlcort heard him saying, "No, madam; toys on the fifth floor, at the extreme rear, left," while he lost himself in the glowing promises of the publisher. It appeared that the book he had just bought was by a perfectly new author, an old lady of seventy who had never written a novel before, and might therefore be trusted for an entire freshness of thought and feeling.

The plot was of a gripping intensity; the characters were painted with large, bold strokes, and were of an unexampled virility; the story was packed with pa.s.sion from cover to cover; and the reader would be held breathless by the author's skill in working from the tragic conditions to an all-round happy conclusion.

From time to time Erlcort heard the gentle blonde saying such things as, "Oh yes; it's the best-seller, all right," and, "All I can say is I set up till two o'clock in the morning to finish it," and, "Yes, ma'am; it's by a new writer; a very old lady of seventy who is just beginning to write; well, that's what I _heard_."

On his way up-town in the Subway he clung to the wonted strap, unsupported by anything in the romance which he had bought; and yet he could not take the book back and get his money, or even exchange it for some article of neckwear or footwear. In his extremity he thought he would try giving it to the trainman just before he reached his stop.

"You want to _give_ it to me? Well, that's something that never happened to me on _this_ line before. I guess my wife will like it.

I--_1009th Street! Change for East Brooklyn and the Bronx!_" the guard shouted, and he let Erlcort out of the car, the very first of the tide that spilled itself forth at the station. He called after him, "Do as much for you some time."

The incident first amused Erlcort, and then it began to trouble him; but he appeased his remorse by toying with his old notion of a critical bookstore. His mind was still at play with it when he stopped at the bell-pull of an elderly girl of his acquaintance who had a studio ten stories above, and the habit of giving him afternoon tea in it if he called there about five o'clock. She had her ugly painting-ap.r.o.n still on, and her thumb through the hole in her palette, when she opened her door to him.

"Too soon?" he asked.

She answered as well as she could with the brush held horizontally in her mouth while she glared inhospitably at him. "Well, not much," and then she let him in, and went and lighted her spirit-lamp.