Two hours later Bruce was striding angrily up and down the West parlour, telling Katherine all about it.

She refrained from saying, “I told you so,” by either word or look. She was too wise for such a petty triumph. Besides, there was something in that afternoon’s Express, which Bruce had handed her that interested her far more than his wrathful recital of Blind Charlie’s treachery; and although she was apparently giving Bruce her entire attention, and was in fact mechanically taking in his words, her mind was excitedly playing around this second piece of news.

For Doctor Sherman, so said the Express, had that day suddenly left Westville. He had been failing in health for many weeks and was on the verge of a complete breakdown, the Express sympathetically explained, and at last had yielded to the importunities of his worried congregation that he take a long vacation. He had gone to the pine woods of the North, and to insure the unbroken rest he so imperatively required, to prevent the possibility of appealing letters of inconsiderate parishioners or other cares from following him into his isolation, he had, at his doctor’s command, left no address behind.

Katherine instantly knew that this vacation was a flight. The situation in Westville had grown daily more intense, and Doctor Sherman had seemed to her to be under an ever-increasing strain. Blake, she was certain, had ordered the young clergyman to leave, fearing, if he remained, that his nerve might break and he might confess his true relation to her father’s case. She realized that now, when Doctor Sherman was apparently weakening, was the psychological time to besiege him with accusation and appeal; and while Bruce was rehearsing his scene with Blind Charlie she was rapidly considering means for seeking out Doctor Sherman and coming face to face with him.

Her mind was brought back from its swift search by Bruce swinging a chair up before her and sitting down.

“But, Katherine—I’ll show Peck!” he cried, fiercely, exultantly. “He doesn’t know what a fight he’s got ahead of him. This frees me entirely from him and his machine, and I’m going to beat him so bad that I’ll drive him clear out of politics.”

She nodded. That was exactly what she was secretly striving to help him do.

He became more composed, and for a hesitant, silent moment he peered thoughtfully into her eyes.

“But, Katherine—this affair with Peck this afternoon shows me I am up against a mighty stiff proposition,” he said, speaking with the slowness of one who is shaping his statements with extreme care. “I have got to fight a lot harder than I thought I would have to three hours ago, when I thought I had Peck with me. To beat him, and beat Blake, I have got to have every possible weapon. Consequently, circumstances force me to speak of a matter that I wish I did not have to talk about.” He reached forward and took her hand. “But, remember, dear,” he besought her tenderly, “that I don’t want to hurt you. Remember that.”

She felt a sudden tightening about the heart.

“Yes—what is it?” she asked quietly.

“Remember, dear, that I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated. “It’s about your father’s case. You see how certain victory would be if we only had the evidence to prove what we know?”

“I see.”

“I don’t mean to say one single unkind word about your not having made—having made—more encouraging progress.” He pressed her hand; his tone was gentle and persuasive. “I’ll confess I have secretly felt some impatience, but I have not pressed the matter because—well, you see that in this critical situation, with election so near, I’m forced to speak about it now.”

“What would you like?” she said with an effort.

“You see we cannot afford any more delays, any more risks. We have got to have the quickest possible action. We have got to use every measure that may get results. Now, dear, you would not object, would you, if at this critical juncture, when every hour is so valuable, we were to put the whole matter in the hands of my Indianapolis lawyer friend I spoke to you about?”

The gaze she held upon his continued steady, but she was pulsing wildly within and she had to swallow several times before she could speak.

“You—you think he can do better than I can?”

“I do not want to say a single word that will reflect on you, dear. But we must admit the facts. You have had the case for over four months, and we have no real evidence as yet.”

“And you think he can get it?”

“He’s very shrewd, very experienced. He’ll follow up every clue with detectives. If any man can succeed in the short time that remains, he can.”

“Then you—you think I can’t succeed?”

“Come, dear, let’s be reasonable!”

“But I think I can.”

“But, Katherine!” he expostulated.

She felt what was coming.

“I’m sure I can—if you will only trust me a little longer!” she said desperately.

He dropped her hand.

“You mean that, though I ask you to give it up, you want to continue the case?”

She grew dizzy, his figure swam before her.

“I—I think I do.”

“Why—why——” He broke off. “I can’t tell you how surprised I am!” he exclaimed. “I have said nothing of late because I was certain that, if I gave nature a little time in which to work, there would be no need to argue the matter with you. I was certain that, now that love had entered your life, your deeper woman’s instincts would assert themselves and you would naturally desire to withdraw from the case. In fact, I was certain that your wish to practise law, your ambition for a career outside the home, would sink into insignificance—and that you would have no desire other than to become a true woman of the home, where I want my wife to be, where she belongs. Oh, come now, Katherine,” he added with a rush of his dominating confidence, taking her hand again, “you know that’s just what you’re going to do!”

She sat throbbing, choking. She realized that the long-feared battle was now inevitably at hand. For the moment she did not know whether she was going to yield or fight. Her love of him, her desire to please him, her fear of what might be the consequence if she crossed him, all impelled her toward surrender; her deep-seated, long-clung-to principles impelled her to make a stand for the life of her dreams. She was a tumult of counter instincts and emotions. But excited as she was, she found herself looking on at herself in a curious detachment, palpitantly wondering which was going to win—the primitive woman in her, the product of thousands of generations of training to fit man’s desire, or this other woman she contained, shaped by but a few brief years, who had come ardently to believe that she had the right to be what she wanted to be, no matter what the man required.

“Oh, come now, dear,” Bruce assured her confidently, yet half chidingly, “you know you are going to give it all up and be just my wife!”

She gazed at his rugged, resolute face, smiling at her now with that peculiar forgiving tenderness that an older person bestows upon a child that is about to yield its childish whim.

“There now, it’s all settled,” he said, smoothing her hand. “And we’ll say no more about it.”

And then words forced their way up out of her turbulent indecision.

“I’m afraid it isn’t settled.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“No?”

“No. I want to be your wife, Arnold. But—but I can’t give up the other.”

“What! You’re in earnest?” he cried.

“I am—with all my heart!”

He sank back and stared at her. If further answer were needed, her pale, set face gave it to him. His quick anger began to rise, but he forced it down.

“That puts an entirely new face on the matter,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “The question, instead of merely concerning the next few weeks, concerns our whole lives.”

She tried to summon all her strength, all her faculties, for the shock of battle.

“Just so,” she answered

“Then we must go over the matter very fully,” he said. His command over himself grew more easy. He believed that what he had to do was to be patient, and talk her out of her absurdity. “You must understand, of course,” he went on, smiling at her tenderly, “that I want to support my wife, and that I am able to support my wife. I want to protect her—shield her—have her lean upon me. I want her to be the goddess of my home. The goddess of my home, Katherine! That’s what I want. You understand, dear, don’t you?”

She saw that he confidently expected her to yield to his ideal and accept it, and she now knew that she could never yield. She paused a space before she spoke, in a sort of terror of what might be the consequence of the next few moments.

“I understand you,” she said, duplicating his tone of reason. “But what shall I do in the home? I dislike housework.”

“There’s no need of your doing it,” he promptly returned. “I can afford servants.”

“Then what shall I do in the home?” she repeated.

“Take things easy. Enjoy yourself.”

“But I don’t want to enjoy myself. I want to do things. I want to work.”

“Come, come, be reasonable,” he said, with his tolerant smile. “You know that’s quite out of the question.”

“Since you are going to pay servants,” she persisted, “why should I idle about the house? Why should not I, an able-bodied person, be out helping in the world’s work somehow—and also helping you to earn a living?”

“Help me earn a living!” He flushed, but his resentment subsided. “When I asked you to marry me I implied in that question that I was able and willing to support you. Really, Katherine, it’s quite absurd for you to talk about it. There is no financial necessity whatever for you to work.”

“You mean, then, that I should not work because, in you, I have enough to live upon?”

“Of course!”

“Do you know any man, any real man I mean,” she returned quickly, “who stops work in the vigour of his prime merely because he has enough money to live upon? Would you give up your work to-morrow if some one were willing to support you?”

“Now, don’t be ridiculous, Katherine! That’s quite a different question. I’m a man, you know.”

“And work is a necessity for you?”

“Why, of course.”

“And you would not be happy without it?” she eagerly pursued.

“Certainly not.”

“And you are right there! But what you don’t seem to understand is, that I have the same need, the same love, for work that you have. If you could only recognize, Arnold, that I have the same feelings in this matter that you have, then you would understand me. I demand for myself the right that all men possess as a matter of course—the right to work!”

“If you must work,” he cried, a little exasperated, “why, of course, you can help in the housework.”

“But I also demand the right to choose my work. Why should I do work which I do not like, for which I have no aptitude, and which I should do poorly, and give up work which interests me, for which I have been trained, and for which I believe I have an aptitude?”

“But don’t you realize, in doing it, if you are successful, you are taking the bread out of a man’s mouth?” he retorted.

“Then every man who has a living income, and yet works, is also taking the bread out of a man’s mouth. But does a real man stop work because of that? Besides, if you use that argument, then in doing my own housework I’d be taking the bread out of a woman’s mouth.”

“Why—why——” he stammered. His face began to redden. “We shouldn’t belittle our love with this kind of talk. It’s all so material, so sordid.”

“It’s not sordid to me!” she cried, stretching out a hand to him. “Don’t be angry, Arnold. Try to understand me—please do, please do. Work is a necessity of life to you. It is also a necessity of life to me. I’m fighting with you for the right to work. I’m fighting with you for my life!”

“Then you place work, your career, above our happiness together?” he demanded angrily.

“Not at all,” she went on rapidly, pleadingly. “But I see no reason why there should not be both. Our happiness should be all the greater because of my work. I’ve studied myself, Arnold, and I know what I need. To be thoroughly happy, I need work; useful work, work that interests me. I tell you we’ll be happier, and our happiness will last longer, if only you let me work. I know! I know!”

“Dream stuff! You’re following a mere will-o’-the-wisp!”

“That’s what women have been following in the past,” she returned breathlessly. “Look among your married friends. How many ideally happy couples can you count? Very, very few. And why are there so few? One reason is, because the man finds, after the novelty is worn off, that his wife is uninteresting, has nothing to talk about; and so his love cools to a good-natured, passive tolerance of her. Most married men, when alone with their wives, sit in stupid silence. But see how the husband livens up if a man joins them! This man has been out in the interesting world. The wife has been cooped up at home. The man has something to talk about. The wife has not. Well, I am going to be out in the interesting world, doing something. I am going to have something to talk to my husband about. I am going to be interesting to him, as interesting to him as any man. And I am going to try to hold his love, Arnold, the love of his heart, the love of his head, to the very end!”

He was exasperated by her persistence, but he still held himself in check.

“That sounds very plausible to you. But there is one thing in your argument you forget.”

“And that?”

“We are grown-up people, you and I. I guess we can talk straight out.”

“Yes. Go on!”

He gazed at her very steadily for a moment.

“There are such things as children, you know.”

She returned his steady look.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Every normal woman wants children. And I should want them too.”

“There—that settles it,” he said with triumph. “You can’t combine children and a profession.”

“But I can!” she cried. “And I should give the children the very best possible care, too! Of course there are successive periods in which the mother would have to give her whole attention to the children. But if she lives till she is sixty-five the sum total of her forty or forty-five married years that she has to give up wholly to her children amounts to but a few years. There remains all the balance of her life that she could give to other work. Do you realize how tremendously the world is changing, and how women’s work is changing with it?”

“Oh, let’s don’t mix in statistics, and history, and economics with our love!”

“But we’ve got to if our love is to last!” she cried. “We’re living in a time when things are changing. We’ve got to consider the changes. And the greatest changes are, and are going to be, in woman’s work. Up in our attic are my great-grandmother’s wool carders, her spinning wheel, her loom, all sorts of things; she spun, wove, made all the clothing, did everything. These things are now done by professional experts; that sort of work has been taken away from woman. Now all that’s left for the woman to do in the home is to cook, clean, and care for children. Life is still changing. We are still developing. Some time these things too will be done, and better done, by professional experts—though just how, or just when, I can’t even guess. Once there was a strong sentiment against the child being taken from the mother and being sent to school. Now most intelligent parents are glad to put their children in charge of trained kindergartners at four or five. And in the future some new institution, some new variety of trained specialist, may develop that will take charge of the child for a part of the day at an even earlier age. That’s the way the world is moving!”

“Thanks for your lecture on the Rise, Progress and Future of Civilization,” he said ironically, trying to suppress himself. “But interesting as it was, it has nothing whatever to do with the case. We’re not talking about civilization, and the universe, and evolution, and the fourth dimension, and who’s got the button. We’re talking about you and me. About you and me, and our love.”

“Yes, Arnold, about you and me and our love,” she cried eagerly. “I spoke of these things only because they concern you and me and our love so very, very much.”

“Of all things for two lovers to talk about!” he exclaimed with mounting exasperation.

“They are the things of all things! For our love, our life, hangs upon them!”

“Well, anyhow, you haven’t got these new institutions, these new experts,” he retorted, brushing the whole matter aside. “You’re living to-day, not in the millennium!”

“I know, I know. In the meantime, life for us women is in a stage of transition. Until these better forms develop we are going to have a hard time. It will be difficult for me to manage, I know. But I’m certain I can manage it.”

He stood up. His face was very red, and he swallowed once or twice before the words seemed able to come out.

“I’m surprised, Katherine—surprised!—that you should be so persistent in this nonsense. What you say is all against nature. It won’t work.”

“Perhaps not. But at least you’ll let me try! That’s all I ask of you—that you let me try!”

“It would be weak in me, wrong in me, to yield.”

“Then you’re not willing to give me a chance?”

He shook his head.

She rose and moved before him.

“But, Arnold, do you realize what you are doing?” she cried with desperate passion. “Do you realize what it is I’m asking you for? Work, interesting work—that’s what I need to make me happy, to make you happy! Without it, I shall be miserable, and you will be miserable in having a miserable wife about you—and all our years together will be years of misery. So you see what a lot I’m fighting for: work, development, happiness!—the happiness of all our married years!”

“That’s only a delusion. For your sake, and my sake, I’ve got to stand firm.”

“Then you will not let me?”

“I will not.”

She stared palely at his square, adamantine face.

“Arnold!” she breathed. “Arnold!—do you know what you’re trying to do?”

“I am trying to save you from yourself!”

“You’re trying to break my will across yours,” she cried a little wildly. “You’re trying to crush me into the iron mould of your idea of a woman. You’re trying to kill me—yes, to kill me.”

“I am trying to save you!” he repeated, his temper breaking its frail leash. “Your ideas are all wrong—absurd—insane!”

“Please don’t be angry, Arnold!” she pleaded.

“How can I help it, when you won’t listen to reason! When you are so perversely obstinate!”

“I’m not obstinate,” she cried breathlessly, holding one of his hands tightly in both her own. “I’m just trying to cling as hard as I can to life—to our happiness. Please give me a chance, Arnold! Please, please!”

“Confound such obstinate wrong-headedness!” he exploded. “No, I tell you! No! And that settles it!”

She shrank back.

“Oh!” she cried. Her breast began to rise and fall tumultuously, and her cheeks slowly to redden. “Oh!” she cried again. Then her words leaped hotly out: “Oh, you bigot!”

“If to stand by what I know is right, and to save you from making a fool of yourself, is to be a bigot—then I’m a bigot all right, and I thank the God that made me one!”

“And you think you are going to save me from myself?” she demanded.

He stepped nearer, and towering over her, he took hold of her shoulders in a powerful grasp and looked down upon her dominantly.

“I know I am! I am going to make you exactly what I want you to be!”

Her eyes flamed back up into his.

“Because you are the stronger?”

“Because I am the stronger—and because I am right,” he returned grimly.

“I admit that you are the superior brute,” she said with fierce passion. “But you will never break me to your wishes!”

“And I tell you I will!”

“And I tell you you will not!”

There was a strange and new fire in her eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean this,” she returned, and the hands that gripped her shoulders felt her tremble through all her body. “I should not expect you to marry a woman who was so unreasonable as to demand that you, for her sake, should give up your loved career. And, for my part, I shall never marry a man so unreasonable as to make the same demand of me.”

He fell back a pace.

“You mean——”

“Was I not plain enough? I mean that you will never have the chance to crush me into your iron mould, for I will never marry you.”

“What!” And then: “So I’m fired, am I?” he grated out.

“Yes, for you’re as narrow and as conventional as the rest of men,” she rushed on hotly. “You never say a word so long as a woman’s work is unpleasant! It’s all right for her to scrub, and wash dishes, and wear her life away in factories. But as soon as she wants to do any work that is pleasant and interesting and that will gain her recognition, you cry out that she’s unwomanly, unsexed, that she’s flying in the face of God! Oh, you are perfectly willing that woman, on the one hand, should be a drudge, or on the other the pampered pet of your one-woman harem. But I shall be neither, I tell you. Never! Never! Never!”

They stared at one another, trembling with passion.

“And you,” he said with all the fierce irony of his soul, “and you, I suppose, will now go ahead and clear your father, expose Blake, and perform all those other wonders you’ve talked so big about!”

“That’s just what I am going to do!” she cried defiantly.

“And that’s just what you are not!” he blazed back. “I may have admired the woman in you—but, for those things, you have not the smallest atom of ability. Your father’s trial, your failure to get evidence—hasn’t that shown you? You are going to be a failure—a fizzle—a fiasco! Did you hear that? A pitiable, miserable, humiliated fiasco! And time will prove it!”

“We’ll see what time will prove!” And she swept furiously past him out of the room.