of whom there were half a dozen, showed many attentions to Tracy,
particularly that boarding house pet Hattie, the landlady’s daughter.
She said to him, very sweetly,
“I think you’re ever so nice.”
And when he said, “I’m glad you think’ so, Miss Hattie,” she said, still
more sweetly,
“Don’t call me Miss Hattie-call me Puss.”
Ah, here was promotion! He had struck the summit. There were no higher
heights to climb in that boarding house. His popularity was complete.
In the presence of people, Tracy showed a tranquil outside, but his heart
was being eaten out of him by distress and despair.
In a little while he should be out of money, and then what should he do?
He wished, now, that he had borrowed a little more liberally from that
stranger’s store. He found it impossible to sleep. A single torturing,
terrifying thought went racking round and round in his head, wearing a
groove in his brain: What should he do–What was to become of him? And
along with it began to intrude a something presently which was very like
a wish that he had not joined the great and noble ranks of martyrdom, but
had stayed at home and been content to be merely an earl and nothing
better, with nothing more to do in this world of a useful sort than an
earl finds to do. But he smothered that part of his thought as well as
he could; he made every effort to drive it away, and with fair keep it
from intruding a little success, but he couldn’t now and then, and when
it intruded it came suddenly and nipped him like a bite, a sting, a burn.
He recognized that thought by the peculiar sharpness of its pang. The
others were painful enough, but that one cut to the quick when it calm.
Night after night he lay tossing to the music of the hideous snoring of
the honest bread-winners until two and three o’clock in the morning,
then got up and took refuge on the roof, where he sometimes got a nap and
sometimes failed entirely. His appetite was leaving him and the zest of
life was going along with it. Finally, owe day, being near the imminent
verge of total discouragement, he said to himself–and took occasion to
blush privately when he said it, “If my father knew what my American name
is,–he–well, my duty to my father rather requires that I furnish him my
name. I have no right to make his days and nights unhappy, I can do
enough unhappiness for the family all by myself. Really he ought to know
what my American name is.” He thought over it a while and framed a
cablegram in his mind to this effect:
“My American name is Howard Tracy.”
That wouldn’t be suggesting anything. His father could understand that
as he chose, and doubtless he would understand it as it was meant, as a
dutiful and affectionate desire on the part of a son to make his old
father happy for a moment. Continuing his train of thought, Tracy said
to himself, “Ah, but if he should cable me to come home! I–I–couldn’t
do that–I mustn’t do that. I’ve started out on a mission, and I mustn’t
turn my back on it in cowardice. No, no, I couldn’t go home, at–at–
least I shouldn’t want to go home.” After a reflective pause: “Well,
maybe–perhaps–it would be my duty to go in the circumstances; he’s very
old and he does need me by him to stay his footsteps down the long hill
that inclines westward toward the sunset of his life. Well, I’ll think
about that. Yes, of course it wouldn’t be right to stay here. If I–
well, perhaps I could just drop him a line and put it off a little while
and satisfy him in that way. It would be–well, it would mar everything
to have him require me to come instantly.” Another reflective pause–
then: “And yet if he should do that I don’t know but–oh, dear me–home!
how good it sounds! and a body is excusable for wanting to see his home
again, now and then, anyway.”