“Basil, Basil! I was always willing to live more simply than you. You know I was!”
“I know you always said so, my dear. But how many bell-ratchets and speaking-tubes would you be willing to have at the street door below? I remember that when we were looking for a flat you rejected every building that had a bell-ratchet or a speaking-tube, and would have nothing to do with any that had more than an electric button; you wanted a hall-boy, with electric buttons all over him. I don’t blame you. I find such things quite as necessary as you do.”
“And do you mean to say, Basil,” she asked, abandoning this unprofitable branch of the inquiry, “that you are really uneasy about your place? that you are afraid Mr. Dryfoos may give up being an Angel, and Mr. Fulkerson may play you false?”
“Play me false? Oh, it wouldn’t be playing me false. It would be merely looking out for himself, if the new Angel had editorial tastes and wanted my place. It’s what anyone would do.”
“You wouldn’t do it, Basil!”
“Wouldn’t I? Well, if anyone offered me more salary than Every Other Week pays—say, twice as much—what do you think my duty to my suffering family would be? It’s give and take in the business world, Isabel; especially take. But as to being uneasy, I’m not, in the least. I’ve the spirit of a lion, when it comes to such a chance as that. When I see how readily the sensibilities of the passing stranger can be worked in New York, I think of taking up the role of that desperate man on Third Avenue who went along looking for garbage in the gutter to eat. I think I could pick up at least twenty or thirty cents a day by that little game, and maintain my family in the affluence it’s been accustomed to.”
“Basil!” cried his wife. “You don’t mean to say that man was an impostor! And I’ve gone about, ever since, feeling that one such case in a million, the bare possibility of it, was enough to justify all that Lindau said about the rich and the poor!”
March laughed teasingly. “Oh, I don’t say he was an impostor. Perhaps he really was hungry; but, if he wasn’t, what do you think of a civilization that makes the opportunity of such a fraud? that gives us all such a bad conscience for the need which is that we weaken to the need that isn’t? Suppose that poor fellow wasn’t personally founded on fact: nevertheless, he represented the truth; he was the ideal of the suffering which would be less effective if realistically treated. That man is a great comfort to me. He probably rioted for days on that quarter I gave him; made a dinner very likely, or a champagne supper; and if Every Other Week wants to get rid of me, I intend to work that racket. You can hang round the corner with Bella, and Tom can come up to me in tears, at stated intervals, and ask me if I’ve found anything yet. To be sure, we might be arrested and sent up somewhere. But even in that extreme case we should be provided for. Oh no, I’m not afraid of losing my place! I’ve merely a sort of psychological curiosity to know how men like Dryfoos and Fulkerson will work out the problem before them.”
IX
It was a curiosity which Fulkerson himself shared, at least concerning Dryfoos. “I don’t know what the old man’s going to do,” he said to March the day after the Marches had talked their future over. “Said anything to you yet?”
“No, not a word.”
“You’re anxious, I suppose, same as I am. Fact is,” said Fulkerson, blushing a little, “I can’t ask to have a day named till I know where I am in connection with the old man. I can’t tell whether I’ve got to look out for something else or somebody else. Of course, it’s full soon yet.”
“Yes,” March said, “much sooner than it seems to us. We’re so anxious about the future that we don’t remember how very recent the past is.”
“That’s something so. The old man’s hardly had time yet to pull himself together. Well, I’m glad you feel that way about it, March. I guess it’s more of a blow to him than we realize. He was a good deal bound up in Coonrod, though he didn’t always use him very well. Well, I reckon it’s apt to happen so oftentimes; curious how cruel love can be. Heigh? We’re an awful mixture, March!”
“Yes, that’s the marvel and the curse, as Browning says.”
“Why, that poor boy himself,” pursued Fulkerson, “had streaks of the mule in him that could give odds to Beaton, and he must have tried the old man by the way he would give in to his will and hold out against his judgment. I don’t believe he ever budged a hairsbreadth from his original position about wanting to be a preacher and not wanting to be a businessman. Well, of course! I don’t think business is all in all; but it must have made the old man mad to find that without saying anything, or doing anything to show it, and after seeming to come over to his ground, and really coming, practically, Coonrod was just exactly where he first planted himself, every time.”
“Yes, people that have convictions are difficult. Fortunately, they’re rare.”
“Do you think so? It seems to me that everybody’s got convictions. Beaton himself, who hasn’t a principle to throw at a dog, has got convictions the size of a barn. They ain’t always the same ones, I know, but they’re always to the same effect, as far as Beaton’s being Number One is concerned. The old man’s got convictions—or did have, unless this thing lately has shaken him all up—and he believes that money will
