A PHILOSOPHER'S CONVICTIONS.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 11103, 23 October 1901, Page 3

A PHILOSOPHER'S CONVICTIONS.

Bt James ICkapf Bebve. . "I do not agree with you at-all," said Mortimer Bloodgood. • "It v has always seemed to mc that -when a man has had his chance in life and failed: to profit by it no one should be charged with the responsibility for his future. And that is just what-it amounts to. . Put a man who has failed on his feet again, and you become his sponsor. Should he fail again, then you and not-hearo to , blame. Ifc yrfW apply to any condition .of life. Undertake to reform *a drunkard, and he looks to you continually to keep up the reformimj process. Take up a vagabond and try to make an honest man of him, and' he looks to you to. keep him honest. Take a business man who ha? not been sufficiently wise to keep himself in shape to weather storms, and give him a hand once to tide him over, and you will have to do it again, untU finally you are. carrying his load for him. Now, in the case of Alerton "I think Merton will have to be put in a class by .hinrseU,"' interrupted June Hartl ev> "The trouble with nini is that no bejran by carrying fche load of others. Hβ has been too charitable—too generous " "Yes " said Bloodgood, intexrupting the other in turn, "that is true. But I think those two words, charity and generosity, are vastly overworked. Our language would be quite as well without them. Now, in the case of Merton " . "AH right, H you promise not to generalise," laughed Hartley. "I know your stock argument so well. Treat him as an individual, and I promise to listen. Bloodgood paused a moment, to assure him that he had the attention of the others at the table, and then resumed, in a tone that he meant should be impressive: "As I was saying, in the case of Merton there is no question that the man • has had a fair chance. About one hundred thousand dollars to start with, a thoroughly good'education, and if he had not sufficient knowledge of the world it his own fault. Now', what did he do! Why he tried to be a reformer. . Started this publishing business with some crude ideas about having writers share,in the profits. Constituting himself guardian, as it were, for a set of men who never had possessed sense enough to ?ook out for their own interests. We sco the result in this morning's papers." , - "We must not blame Merton too much,' said June Hartley t himself a writer of some repute, but who was not- to be included in the other's summary, because he had an excellent faculty for taking care of number one; "he had a praiseworthy idea that Fourierism might be applied to the conducfof literary enterprises. I think it was his dream that the publishing house of Merton and Company was to prove the feasibility of the literary-com-mercial Phalanstery./ , He laughed quietly to himself at the absurdity of the dream, having as little sympathy apparently as Blocdgcod with -*nen who could : not'look out for themselves. ' "Pureiv.-, t&3 fajiyv of an idealist, ,, said Bloodgood, impatiently. '

"Perhaps," raid Mra Ellison, eftuetly, from the head of the table—"perhaps your demigod of realism is part y to : blame. Did "he not once suggest that- a magazine should be established, ths writers - for which should be paid uncording to its sales? Merton has but endeavoured to carry the- idea a step further." "Ah," replied Hartley, "there is your proof that Homer Eoda. Howells dropped his realism there for rank, iSealism." "You are. taking mc out of my depth," said Bloodgood; "but I believe it is the privilege of you literary and artistic people j to fly the mark as you will, while we Eractical men of affairs have '.no such berty. ,, "I * really beg your pardon, ,, said Mrs Ellison; " "we were discussing practical oharity. Let us return to it. I think j-ou were saying that the ; r?nn was a misnomer—that there could not be such'a thing." "Yes. I believe that," said Bioodgocd, positively. "Take your 'example where you Trill—from the tramp you passed on the stroefc t&is morning "to your bankrupt idealist publisher or your banker who has overskot his mark and finds closed doors staring him in the face—l say tJie great mistake of our social system is to consider that'these men must be* helped to their feet again." "You said, if I am not mistaken, that when a man has had his chance " B.codgood turned deferentially to the young girl upon Shis right. "Every man hfts his chance, Miss Edibu ; that is, every man who is born with the possession of his faculties. For such as are not the State provides," he add«d, with a shrug. ' '"I am sorry for Mr Merton,' , said Mrs Ellison, going back to that which had personal interest for her. "He is such a clever man. I hoped he would be here to-night; but- I suppose he dd* not feel like meeting any one." "'Yes ; but it illustrates what I have been saying. He. attempted to help some who j»uld n'ofc help themselves. The result is only what was to be expected. Now, suppose some one', helps him ; that would only pave the way to lurther failure." If, as some cne has said, the facility of the critic is in proportion to his lack of knowledge of the tiling criticised, then there should hu-ve been no party and no place in New York better fitted for .the discussion of the unfortunate humans than this. Mrs Ellison was one of those more than fortunate women whto, widowed in young womanhood, find themselves jdossessed of ample property, so invested as to yield a luxurious maintenance with the least trouble of management. With an only daughter, who speedily grew to be more of a companion than .a care, she.had been able to travel, to amuse herself with art, and finally to' return to New York with the knowledge gained' by experience, that a cesy home upon Madison Avenue and the society of the best people of tbte metropolis afforded as satisfactory an existence as she could hope for anywhere. • Some of Mrs Ellison's feminine friends were disposed to question, which was the stronger attraction in bringing desirable people, to iher house,, her marvellous little dinners or her daughter Edith. Certainly both her service and'her cook must needs be very near perfect to win respectful consideration of two such bonvivants as Mortimer Bloodgqod and June Hartley. But they were to be found there as often as anyj, and with , them often a third, tihe college Mend of both, tihe man. whose fortunes they were now discussing, the philanthopic pttb-isher, Horace Merton. Jute Hartley was too wise a youth to permit any • prefcfcy face or charming personality to have more than a passing attraction for him. As a writer he had won more than moderate success, and he had shown more than ordinary skill—for a man of letters —in-husbanding his means-. His Jife began.and ended.with the gratification of his own moderate" desires—a- game of whist at hie club, and the comfortable solitude of his own bachelor quarters. . With Bloodgood the case was different. Having achieved nearly everything else in the world that 'lie considered as worth, ihaving, he now began to think home, and- pictured one presided over: by. just such a bright and beautiful woman as Edith Ellison. • When they rose from the table, . and walked through the long drawing-room whose windows gave upon tfcte avenue, the glare poured in from the electric lights that outside turned night into day, arid tempted them to look out-upon the busy scenes., of the street. It was tue hour for the theatres' Jthat.-was made.up of such lives es theirs— was hurrying abroaji,to take, its last' qitaff of pleasure before" night settled down in/its eclipse of their selfish royiuL* A steady stream, of carriages poured.down the wide avenue, and as the night was ' warm jwitii the first breath of spring, hoods -were flown and,- open. h6 'that's"tti,e occijpants were clearly revealed. . The soft' go\?ns- of the women, their jewels, their-fair laughing faces j the contented look of the 'men, "'in precise .evening dress,; the.weHjrbred/horses, wit& ; "the glitter" of their silver' Sarness; the grooms motionless as statues,/the gay throngs upon the pavement,.made a' picture that had-in it no place for the unfortunates of the underworld.' * u,,'i .; / ." -. Yet even while they stood" wtching the lively scene and commenting'on.it withtih'e thorough enjoyment" of tlhose whose own existence is a part of such Wβ, a ragged squalid figure,- on outcast of the streets, stopped in the full glare of tihe light 'upon the pavement before them "and iield out cer hand-to passers' for almsi ," Bloodgood muttered'; a. protest at the unpleasant , ,sight; but EdifY shivered a little as a stalwart policeman, ever alert to protect the , sacred precincts of the rich from such intrusion, ordered -her gruffly to "move on." . "Oh, it is -wicked, wicked," . said Edith, under, her breath, "that some should, have so much and others nothing!" ' Bloodgood turned toward Her with, a look' of high good-humour, "Why, Miss Edith," he exclaimed, '.'that is just what the Socialists say.' You must not let your sympathies Yni away with you, as you will '<k> if you consider'" such poor creatures as individuals. , That one is but a representative' of one of the classes of Tivhom' we were speaking. . Feed .them, give them' money to-day, and to-morrow they are beggars agairi." 'He concluded with <the satislied air of a man who knows that he has said a good thing, .and said it neatly. But it was one of Bloodgood's limitations that he could not understand wiien otiisirs were not m witn his own views. . -. "Oh, they have their uses," said June Hartley. "If ail people -ware cast in the same mould, and mpved. in the same walks of life, where would your novelist go for material? I have a fancy to follow, that woman now, and make a study from life —with which to work upon your emotions in my next book." He turned to Bloodgood as he spoke; but threw a quick glance ■toward Edith as he begged Sirs Ellison to excuse him. Amid the latterY protestations against his going so early, the younger woman, gave him a smile of appreciation and comprehension. As Hartley lefi the door he turned and walked rapidly in the direction the woman had taken, aha was soon beside her. Taking some silver from his pocket he thrust it into her hand. "Bloodgood would say I am a fool to do this," he said, half to himself; "perhaps I am. Never mind," he added, hastily, as the woman began to pour' out her thanks. "I "presume it will go for drink: but it will make you forget, for a little." "May God forgive you," said .the woman, in a tone that made Hartley iook at her more closely. "I would.not take your money, but my babies are starving." !' Hartley "hesitated, half tempted to talk ' with her* further. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went on, saying to himself: "What is the use You never can tell. I Perhaps some of.<them believe their stories I they have told them so often." A little further on he felt a touch upon his arm, and looked up to see Merton beside him. The fine, scholarly face of the publisher, of whom Bloodgood had spoken I so cavalierly, was very pale, but there was a look of calm confidence in the deep eyes. "I am glad to meet, you, Hartley," he exclaimed; "I was just coming to your rooms in the hope of finding you." Hartley,/a little ashamed of the manner in which his companion's name had just been made a conversational football, tried to make anwrds to h'.s own conscience by even moie tbun his it udl couitesy now. "He began t-j say Law sorry h: \ras ta knoa of iiei*:on"a burinc&s troubles.- "1 bed Imped you mate the'thing go," i, sa'fl'cordially. "Oli, lha m3tt:r is c&t 'quit; so bad cs the papeis put it. It.is true that I have informally asked far; am extension from

our creditors. I should , have no trouble in securing it, if it was not for the unusual financial iftuatton just now. As it i«r, some of them will meet mc Jialf way; jut 1 must raiso some money for . the others. It was for that"—he plunged boldly into his subject—"that 1 was coming to see .you." "Upon my word," returned Hartley, with an hones£ ring in his voice, "I wish I could help you, Dut I can't do it. I have some matters coining due that it will stir mc to my wits , ends to meet. And I would rather ask the Devil for accommodation than Bloodgood—just now." n Ah, you bonk with him," said Merton; i "so do I. > And-it is a very, nice place to ' do business so long as you are sailing smoothly: but I cannot ask him for any accommodation." As they parted Hartley put out his hand to the other. "I am sorry. I hope you will weather the storm." "It is not so much for myself that I care —although no man likes to confess .that he has made a failure. But,, you know, there are others who have depended on mc; they will suffer." After "Hartley left them, Bloodgood found, in a curtained recess of, the long parlour, the opportunity for vrhich he had waited—a tete-a-tete with Edith Ellison. He had considered the matter carefully, and his reason assured him that a marriage with this eminently fitting young person would make a propfr rounding of his very successful career. It is true that it was somewhat. against the philosophy of his whole existence that he should weave the meshes of any other life- into his own, or take upon himself in any waythe responsibility- for another; but against this was tJjfe picture that Ms mind conjured up—his elegant mansion, adorned with every attribute of weacth and culture; in the very heart of it. the essence of it all, his library, whose shelves were adorned with the ponderous tomes of the materialist philosophers, upon whose teachings he had so wisely predicated his own course. It would not'be against their teachings, but in line with , them, that he would take this woman, young, strong, beautiful, self-reliant, as the crown for it aIL This would be not alone the survival bub the union of tlhe fittest. Perhaps hedid not approach the matter with the utmost finesse; but he had so much to offer her—in .exchange for hersei. And he was as .mudh in earnest as a selfish philosopher coisd well be. Yet, somehow, his words seemed cold. "I want you to be my Vife," he said. ■ "I have seen no other woman so admirable as yourself. I love you. I shall be very proud o£ you. I think that I cun make your life a happy one. . You shall be denied nothing. ,. What more could a young girl wish , ? But Miss Ellison answered tf No," in that positive manner 'that' so discourages argument. "I am sorry to pain you," she said ; "but I cannot marry you." "Do you care for mc?" he pleaded. "No, not in the way that you mean; You hav9 been our friend; I hope you will remain so, ' But, please, let us both.forget what you have just said." "Can. you not learn to care for mc?" !he asked, "f will be patient " "No/ r Ker voice sounded harder than it had; if I cared for you I should be afraid /to trust my happiness to one who libs "so .little sympathy with his fellowmen." » "... "Oh, I would not put it that way," he said prptestingly. "1 am sure I should foe kind to/you— s&ould take vsry good care of you. iuid because I do not burden myself with others is perhaps the better guaranty 'wiat I:: would do thi*v I am steadfast to mf principCes.. I would try and keep even / the, knowledge, of unpleasant things from your life. I ——" . * "I'do not want.that knowledge kept from me,;' declared "Misa Ellison. "I want to knoiar something of people who are poor and who suffer, and to help them a little if- I can." - • - . ' > fWlfyi titan," said the banker, hopefully, 'T should- not object to 'that, if it would J aixuse you. I do not believe in it, and personally should not want.to know.anything about such' foily; but if it "would please you —I should not be niggardly. , / Perhaps it was was as well for Blcodgood's peace of mind; that a ring at the door,' followed by Merton , s ' entrance,. prevented . Miss-: Ellison's , reply. . l?he. latter greeted the newcomer .brightly, "Wβ were talking" about charity,"' she said. "You be* , Ifete in it. - Can" you ihelp mc convince him that there is & time .aiwLa'place. for it?" /"Possibly;'Vanswered '-Mertbn.;" '.'He is like our friend Hartley, who professes th'e utmost indifference and, as I happen to know, looks carefully after the family of ah unstrocessful brother,■writer." "STcy' said Bloodgocd, rising; "I live Tip to my convictions.. I shall not consider this .conversation final, , he eaid meauh}glyi,as,ihe bowed himself out , • When he. had gone the two sat alone with, the silence of old friends between them. Merton was to speak. "You have seen the papers?" liie asked, - "Yes; and'i am so sorry." , !/ ,/'lt ,does mc. good to hear you say that," he answered, smiling at her., "Most-of my Mends have, said at was what they, expected. But. it is not quite so bad as this papers say." He eajplaaned; .to her carefully.rihe affairs ,ol \ the. comipany, \ giving her credit for a. -man's . understanding of details." "1 - care .moat because of tnoee who.have depended on me'to make thieir work successful. If it comes to the worst, of course I shall give up everything of my own and save what I can for them:" • "Oh," said the girl/impulsively, "is that required ;,- Is it necessary that you should do that?" "liot in the eyes of the law, perhaps," he ' answered; '"but to satisfy myself. 1 , it will be." - • "Oh, I am so sorry I" ■ -She put out her hand, involuntarily, and touched his. He started,, at the contact, and made as though he would shake is off at first, then he put his other upon hers and held it fast. "I suppose I ought to be brave and eelf- . "reliant, but I need a little sympathy tonight.' I i.have had a weary aay." He tried to smile ■ at - feer • as he spoke, but there .were lines in his forehead that would nob smooth out. He. stroked 'her hand gently as he talked. "J thought it would rest mc to ,come here; , but 1 ought not to make my troubles yours." 'X am glad you came/- she said. "I wish I were a' man, then, maybe I could help you." ' "X am glad you aTe a woman." ■ He stopped a little, and then went on, slowly, choosing his words: • u l am a coward to say.this now, Edith.- .1 had not vrev-t 'vi. But to-night I am not quite a bankrupt, and to-morrow I may be. So, to-night, wiiite I~ have still v iitue ngu& to I-am going'to tell-yon that I love you. Tortnorrow, if I am not a bankrupt, I shall come and ask you to be my wife. No, I do not want any answer now." he mM, £te she made as' though she would speak. "If you do not care ior me—in tliac way— I shall hug to my soul the fancy, for. one day more, that perhaps you may. And if you do, it will be time enough to know it then, or, if I then am not free to ask you, it.may prove us both." She , drew Jxer.hand gently from his. "Edithj" he cried, in quick alarm, "have I hurt you? Have I said more than I ought? Then forget it, and let us be friends again. 1 bad no right to ask— now." . But she answered nothing, and he put his hand to her in mute appeal. "I cannot afford to lose a friend, he said. "If you are free to ask—to-morrow," she said, not yet looking toward him. "May I come?" he askedJ , "Do you trust mc no more than that? ■ Do you think to-morrow, whatever it may; bring ' ■•'Editli,- is it true?" he cried; "but wait, don't tell mc. Wait until I can come to you and tell you that there can be nothing •between paltry question of money " . , ~ _ "Kow you hurt mc," she saad. "Do you think I shall care for that? Oh, if I were a man I could help you now! You know that I have money; but I suppose your pride will stand between us. - But I will-wait for you," she cried, "whether you come for mc to-morrow, oi? " "I shall not fear to-morrow now," he as she tried to speak of that again; "neither- can 1 marry you,' now, if 1 lose my own. But if you will wait for " "I will wait," she said. When Bloodgood lift the Ellisons , that j flight, he went to bis rooms and sat for a (.nog thna ifl the company of his beloved philosopher. Ha was distur!»ed more than had often been the cam in the whole ««•""-•

)f his even nnJ self-concentrated existence. Miss Kllison'a manner had been distinctly iiscouraging. This fact grew the more apparent as he thought it over. He wa» jompelltid to confess that she had seemtct to -find something wanting in him, & lacK 3f some quality which, to do Jum justice, tie had never before thought of himself as* leficient in. And the question was cow whether he could sacrifice his principles to the extent of cultivating this quality »** order to win Edith Ellison. Could he sacrifice principle to expediency T It wm his bad quarter of an, hour, yet it decided nothing; and he went to his business the next day witih the matter weighing heavily upon him. He had barely seated himself in the president's room at the bank the next morning, when Merton came in unannounced. He walked directly up to the table at which Bloodgood was seated antt placed a slip of paper before him. "Your cashier tells mc that he has orders to accept no more of my paper, , ' he said, quietly. * The banker looked up with a deprecatory smile. "You can hardly blame us, Merton. You know the reports that were S J see herej Willis is oft tins note with mc: that surely makes it safe. The banker took the note and examined it carefully. "Yes, Willis is good, he said finally; "but you knpir, SSerfam, we must look out for our stockholders closely, these times. The bank has passed a rule that all papers must have two endorsers. Merton turned a shade paler as he answered "Then it is of no use for we to make any further effort. I don t know of any other man whom I would ask to lend mc his name fqr this amount f» stood looking moodily at the paper^ which . the banker still held. "Tins would have tided mc over." he said; "but I shall have to give up now. , ' He readied out mechanically for the not*. ' Bioodgood motioned him to a chair. Merton hesitated for a moment, then dropped quietly into it. "This is a large amount," said the banker; "20,000d01s is a sum for which not many men care to put down their names. If yoii had not been a fool," he continued—-care-fully avoiding his companion's eye, and so failing to seethe dangerous pallor that came upon the face of the otter—"if you tad not been a fool, and had been practical before being philanthropic, you would not be in this strait." Merton had gotten vsk>wly to his feet. There was a nervous twitching of the long, , slender hands, as if consciously seeking for : something to grasp and twine about. I ! did not come here to. be insulted/ , «* s*"** > "I will go now;" he put out his hand fox the "Wait," said the banker. "I have a mind to try an experiment. You know mv pnn- - ciples," he looked at Merton inquiringly, and the latter nodded half-crintempliuously. I have the reputation of never doing a generous act; but, if you wish, I, will endorse this note for you. ,, "He dipped a pen m the ink ■ and waited for Merton to speak." "I hope you are not playing with mc," said the publisher, with forced calmness. 'If you do this you have your reasons. May 1 know wliat they ere?' " * , "Bound to look your gift horse in the mouth,' 5 said the banker. "Well,- 1-**s mind telling you. 1 shouiM like Miss Wilson, to know that I can giv& *i man , a lift upon occasion." . _~ "What has Miss Ellison t(h do with this? ' demanded Merton again, an suppressed wrath. , ~ "I intend to have the hapnftaess of making her Mrs Bloodgood," said the .banker. # "You lie 1" exclaimed Mertw, clutching at his chair, to keep his hands -from. Bloqdgood's smooth throat. "Ediths, Ellison is my promised wife. If you were aot forcing mc to become a bankrupt, you should have the cards to our wedding before matorweeksi ■ But as it Is, my poverty may stand} between us —for years. You may have that much satisfaction; but she will be my wife. For a moment the two confrdo.ted each other with all the beast that'is in man.leap- . ing to the surface; and clamouring to be'let free. Then Merton, turned and wwked slowly from the room. . He had reached the door when Bloodgood called hie name. w Merton, you have forgotten your note." ' The other turned and took it from the , banker's outstretched haand, but without even glancing toward him. or it. When he had reached the street he folded the paper mechanically, to place it in Ms pocket. It was . wet with ink. This led him to glance at it f and then he stopped in Irewildeirmeat, for , across its-back in that last momen£~the bank* 'ex had written fiignaturerrMortimer Bloodgood. - He entered the bank again and wen? Bfcraight to .the president's room; but B\pod : good had 4 read y g° Stopping at.the cashier's desk he handed the paper ta mm. "Can you place that to my aredifc?" "Yes, sir: And, Mr. Merton, the preaident has instructed us to afford you any accommodation you may nieed." . ■ ■ "Do you know where X. can see Mr Blood* go.oS?" 1 "He said, he .was about, leaving the city~ think he is going South* ', He.lias/been talk* \ irigof it for some time." , *Wh©n : Mertoß left Jbim,' lad gone at once to his'rooms, and instmctednia man to get matters ready for his departure. Then he penned a note to Edith JEEiaon. l When-he came out from his rooms to goto, the railway :station, a beggar met mxteat'th'e threshold. Bloodgood toase&himv a-sflvei dollar. Yet in his note to Edith,- lie held % saidr—* • ; * "I. do not w(int too much credit. 1 have done- thie -thing selfishly—to" win a little of your regard-—and that there- might I>* nothing in way of yotir happiness. But; do not think that I have abandoned wr«xarvictions.", ' - L , i