as september waned, fulton heard disquieting news touching redfield. it was whispered in business circles that the broker had, the previous year, sold stock in a local industrial venture that had already come to grief. redfield’s friends were saying that he had been misled by the enthusiasm of the men who had promoted the company, but this was not accepted at face value by some of his business rivals. fortunately the amount was not large—a mitigating circumstance for which he was not responsible; he would have sold more, it was said, if investors had proved less wary. the story was well calculated to injure if it didn’t at once destroy redfield’s chances of success as a dealer in securities.

fulton was a good deal disturbed by these reports, which it became his duty to sift for the “chronicle.” fulton liked redfield; redfield was a likable person, a good fellow. the effect[170] upon his future of this misfortune, attributable to his new-born zeal for money-making, was not to be passed lightly. there was nothing for the papers to print, as the complaining purchasers had been made whole and were anxious to avoid publicity. fulton had watched matters carefully with a view to protecting redfield if it became necessary, and he was confident that the sanguine promoters were the real culprits, though it was pretty clear that any scruples the broker might have had had gone down before the promise of a generous commission.

when quite satisfied that redfield was safe so far as prosecution was concerned, fulton spoke of redfield’s difficulties to the poet on an evening when he called ostensibly to report the completion of his romance. the poet listened attentively, but the reporter accepted his mild expressions of regret as indicating indifference to redfield’s fate. the young man’s remark that if it hadn’t been for the poet he would[171] have shared redfield’s collapse elicited no comment. the poet, imaginably preoccupied with less disagreeable speculations, turned at once to fulton’s manuscript. after the final draft had been discussed and publishers had been considered, the young man left in the cheerful mood he always carried away from his talks with the poet.

but the poet spent a restless evening. he listlessly turned over many books without finding any to arrest his interest. he was troubled, deeply troubled, by what fulton had told him of redfield. and he was wandering whether there might not be some way of turning his old friend’s humiliation to good account. a man of redfield’s character and training would feel disgrace keenly; and coming at a time when he believed himself well launched toward success, the shock to his pride would be all the greater.

nothing in the poet’s creed was more brightly rubricated than his oft-repeated declarations[172] that the unfortunate, the erring, the humbled, are entitled to mercy and kindness. the redfields’ plight had roused him to a defense of his theory of life; but fulton’s story had added a new integer that greatly increased the difficulty of solving this problem. seemingly fate was using these old friends to provide illustrations for many of the dicta that were the foundation of his teachings. inspiration did not visit the quiet street that night. the poet pondered old poems rather than new ones. “life is a game the soul can play,” he found in sill; but the chessmen, he reflected, are sometimes bafflingly obstinate and unreasonable.

“to-morrow is all-children’s day,” remarked the poet a few days later when, seemingly by chance, he met fulton in the street; and when the young man asked for light the poet went on to explain. “when marjorie was born her father and i set apart her birthday to[173] be all-children’s day—a crystallization of all children’s birthdays, from the beginning of time, and we meant to celebrate it to the end of our days. it just occurs to me that you and i might make it an excuse for calling on mrs. redfield and marian and marjorie to-morrow afternoon, the same being sunday. very likely you have another engagement—” he ended, with provoking implications that caused fulton, who was already pledged to visit marjorie and inferentially marian and mrs. redfield on this very sunday afternoon, to stammer in the most incriminating fashion.

“then if you haven’t anything better to do we can call together,” said the poet.

it would have been clear to less observant eyes than the poet’s that the reporter was on excellent terms with the household, and even if the elders had tried to mask the cordiality of their welcome, marjorie’s delight in fulton was too manifest for concealment. she transparently[174] disclosed the existence of much unfinished business between herself and the young man that pointed irrefutably to many previous and recent interviews.

“inside is no good for houses,” marjorie was saying, as the poet accommodated himself to the friendly atmosphere; “nobody builds houses inside of houses.”

this suggestion of the open was promptly supported by fulton; and in the most natural manner imaginable marian was pressed into service to assist in transferring building-materials to the few square yards of lawn at the side of the house. september was putting forth all her pomp and the air was of summer warmth. marjorie’s merry treble floated in with the laughter of marian and fulton. they were engaged with utmost seriousness in endeavoring to reproduce with blocks the elaborate château of sand, sticks, and stones that had been their rallying-point on the shores of waupegan.

[175]the poet, left alone with mrs. redfield, noted the presence in the tiny parlor of some of the lares and penates that had furnished forth the suburban bungalow and that had survived the transfer to the flat and the subsequent disaster. they seemed curiously wistful in these new surroundings. as though aware that this was in his mind, mrs. redfield began speaking of matters as far removed from her own affairs as possible. the poet understood, and, when the topics she suggested gave opportunity, played upon them whimsically. the trio in the yard were evidently having the best of times; and their happiness stirred various undercurrents of thought in the poet’s mind. he was not quite sure of his ground. it was one thing to urge charity, mercy, and tolerance in cloistral security; to put one’s self forward as the protagonist of any of these virtues was quite another.

the poet rose, picked up a magazine from[176] the center table, scanned the table of contents, and then said, very quietly,—

“miles is in trouble.”

he watched her keenly for the effect of this, and then proceeded quickly:—

“it’s fortunate that the jar came so soon; a few years later and it mightn’t have been possible for him to recover; but i think there’s hope for him.”

“what miles does or what he becomes is of no interest to me,” she answered sharply. “he didn’t feel that there was any disgrace to him in casting marjorie and me aside; his pride’s not likely to suffer from anything else that may happen to him.”

“he’s down and out; there’s no possibility of his going on with the brokerage business; he’s got to make a new start. it’s to be said for him that he has made good the losses of the people who charged him with unfair dealing. i’m disposed to think he was carried away[177] by his enthusiasm; he was trying to get on too fast.”

in spite of her flash of anger at the mention of her husband’s name, it was clear that her curiosity had been aroused. nor was the poet dismayed by a light in her dark eyes which he interpreted as expressing a sense of triumph and vindication.

“i suppose he’s satisfied now,” she said.

“i fancy his state of mind isn’t enviable,” the poet replied evenly. “life, when you come to think of it, is a good deal like writing a sonnet. you start off bravely with your rhyme words scrawled at the top of the page. four lines may come easily enough; but the words you have counted on to carry you through lead into all manner of complications. you are betrayed into saying the reverse of the thing you started out to say. you begin with spring and after you’ve got the birds to singing, the powers of mischief turn the seasons upside[178] down, and before you know it the autumn leaves are falling; it’s extremely discouraging! if we could only stick to the text—”

his gesture transferred the illustration from the field of literary composition to the ampler domain of life.

she smiled at his feigned helplessness to pursue his argument further.

“but when the rhyme words won’t carry sense, and you have to throw the whole thing overboard—” she ventured.

“no, oh, no! that’s the joy of rhyming—its endless fascination! the discreet and economical poet never throws away even a single line; there’s always a chance that it may be of use.” he was feeling his way back to his illustration of life from the embarrassments of sonneteering, and smiled as his whimsical fancy caught at a clue. “if you don’t forget the text,—if you’re quite sure you have an idea,—or an ideal!—then it’s profitable to[179] keep fussing away at it. if a bad line offend you, pluck it out; or maybe a line gets into the wrong place and has to be moved around until it fits. it’s all a good deal like the work marjorie’s doing outside—fitting blocks together that have to go in a certain way or the whole structure will tumble. it’s the height of cowardice to give up and persuade yourself that you’ve exhausted the subject in a quatrain. the good craftsman will follow the pattern—perfect his work, make it express the best in himself!”

and this referred to the estrangement of miles redfield and his wife or not; just as one might please to take it.

“miles has gone away, i suppose,” she remarked listlessly.

this made the situation quite concrete again, and any expression of interest, no matter how indifferent, would have caused the poet’s heart to bound; but his face did not betray him.

“oh, he will be back shortly, i understand.[180] i rather think he will show himself a man and pull his sonnet together again! there’s a fine courage in miles; unless i’ve mistaken him, he won’t sit down and cry, even if he has made a pretty bad blunder. a man hardly ever loses all his friends; there’s always somebody around who will hand a tract in at the jail door!”

“you don’t mean,” she exclaimed, “that miles has come to that!”

“bless me, no!” the poet cried, with another heart throb. “the worst is over now; i’m quite satisfied of that!” he answered with an ease that conveyed nothing of the pains he had taken, by ways devious and concealed, to assure himself that miles had made complete restitution.

“a man of cheaper metal might have taken chances with the law; i’m confident that miles was less the culprit than the victim. he sold something that wasn’t good, on the strength of statements he wasn’t responsible for. i believe[181] that to be honestly true, and i got it through men who have no interest in him, who might be expected to chortle over his misfortune.”

“in business matters,” she replied, with an emphasis that was eloquent of reservations as to other fields, “miles was always perfectly honorable. i don’t believe anybody would question that.”

it hadn’t entered into the poet’s most sanguine speculations that she would defend miles, or speak even remotely in praise of him. wisdom dictated an immediate change of topic. he walked to the open window and established communication with the builders outside, who had reproduced the waupegan château with added splendors and were anxious to have it admired.