The two houses

CHAPTER ONE. The Rebellion of Thesmi

“He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his own home.” — Goethe.

“I should hate awfully to have it known that you ever visited such a place,” snapped Miss Gouled, housekeeper to her brother, and whose daughter it was whom she now harangued. “It is a rendezvous, I hear, a regular resort, where all sorts of queer ongoings are practiced, and all sorts of people are harbored — toughs for all we know. Of course no one can say, from what I hear, but that the people are respectable enough — even claim to be of some foreign high-standing or other. That is all right so far as it goes, but why people like them would want to live the way they do is more than any one with a grain of sense could tell. Helping out — and in such a way — every Tom, Dick and Harry they run across. What bee will you get in your bonnet next, I

wonder? If 1 had my way ”

“It is no rendezvous; there are no queer things practiced there ; no ‘toughs’ as you choose to put it, are harbored there ; and there is no bee in my bonnet,” precisely returned Thesmi Gouled with the quiet dignity possessed by some young people at times. She turned her back on her aunt and began tidying a slightly littered bookcase. She had not her aunt’s horror of dust and disorder, but it was second nature for her to be doing, and anything that employed her hands was a safeguard for her temper.

"‘You have scarcely a friend or an acquaintance left on account of neglecting to return calls. You

can’t be like anyone else. If I had my way

Well, all I have to say is that your father is furious over your intimacy with those creatures !” and with a pronounced click Aunt Meg closed the door. She was of uncertain years, thin-faced, high-nosed, with a great angled forehead. Dragooning others into her own narrow aisles of thought was a passion with her. And the butcher’s account, the baker’s short weight, the servant’s misdemeanors, — these were her values. She was lost in a quagmire of nonessentials, and followed the old formula of housekeeper slavishly.

“Do you not see that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva the wise, and Diana the huntress defy us; and there is that daughter of Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now do you — ” The drawling voice came from a couch in the far corner of the room, where Althoth — a nickname, survival of student days — half reclined. A distant relative of Thesmi’s mother and an old established feature of the house, he was a gentleman of classical reading ; that was his fetich.

Thesmi went over to the couch, and pulled the reader’s sleeve, at the same time pointing to the door. “She says I have a bee in my bonnet,” she said irrelevantly to the inextricable Althoth. “Do I look like it? What is the matter with me, anyhow ? Or what is the matter with this House, rather? Fm going to have my own way for once, and I intend to keep my new friends — and what is more Fm going to try and live like them, try to become like them.” This was given with a young girl’s emphasis.

“My mistress Venus desires me to send you a

little of her beauty, for ” paid out the scholar,

loath to divorce eye from page. She waived the unintentional pleasantry and burst upon him.

“Speak plain, can’t you, Althoth? Speak plain for once in your life. I might just as well be all alone in the world for all the companionship there is here for me. I idolize papa, but how much do I see of him? I am bursting to come into his heart — when he wants me. But he doesn’t! No wonder

that I If mama had only lived!” the sound of

a break-down brought the old bookworm up long enough to look at her as if it was the first time he had seen her.

“You shouldn’t fly straight in the face of conventional tradition, Thesmi,” he remonstrated in a gentle voice. He never concerned himself with any practical detail of life, but consumed vast quantities of ancient and mouldy history, and this departure from his usual reticence brought a look of interest to the girl’s face. He still wore the square student’s cap with the long tassel which he had worn at college in the ancient days; and a dressing gown of huge figured stuff enveloped his spare form. “Though you are not aware of it, you are somewhat of a dramatic personage and liable to seek the

company of queer characters at ”

“Queer characters ! There it is again ! Even

you The world would be better if there were

more queer characters from what I have seen.’^ Thesmi’s direct speech disturbed the recluse and he tenderly opened a worn copy of Virgil, saying, “Turn your attention to the Books, Thesmi, and be at peace. There you will learn to understand life as it truly is and not as reflected by convention and class. But if you will not calm your mind this way, accommodate yourself to your surroundings

and cease this strife. Listen to

“Not now, Althoth, not now. Some other time you may read to me. I love to listen, and I remember far more than you give me credit for. But the reading would not beneflt me today ; I feel wicked. And please don’t quote me as defying anybody.

Don’t you take sides against me or I shall ”

“Take sides against my Thesmi ! My happiness would be complete if your life were more congenial

and if you would consent to make a study of ”

She left the discussion of the classical, the beauty of which constantly troubled the scholar, and returned to her own little affairs. She had an instinct for essentials. She had been thrown by chance into a different world — a peaceful, individualized place of life, altogether foreign to her training, but recognized instantly as right.

“I’m not going to give up my new friends, Althoth. On the contrary. I’m determined to find out more about them. I love to be with them.”

Built squarer than otherwise, Thesmi could not be called by any courtesy beautiful. An abnormal width between the eyes, blue and deep, marked her. Outwardly shy and cold, she was a tempest of feeling. But the long-continued habit of repressing her feelings had well-nigh spoiled her. Internal turmoil of spirit saddened her young womanhood, and a peculiar sensitiveness constantly crucified her. And she hated the way custom had laid out for her. A little child was the only thing she felt free to love ; and to such she knelt in blind adoration.

The moon riding high in the heavens, unaspected to any planet save the spiritual Dragon’s Head in the Ascendant, typified her. She walked life alone.

A precious thing was Althoth’s love for the girl — the only one now to whom he turned. Unwittingly, he unearthed for her, from between book covers, hidden treasures — things of the spirit — fed her manna in the wilderness of materialism through which she was passing. And it did not detract in the least from their value that he read them alone for their classical diction and the beauty of metaphor and simile. And he could read all day, his accent never offending, choosing any page, in any book, as undiscerning of method as a bee among flowers. There were isolated lines too which he spoke, and an element of vast antiquity pervaded the most of the selections, which would probably be classed by the rabble as rubbish.

Thesmi often pondered over some of the readings ; and who knows but at this random flame her small taper was lit ? It may have been a stimulus to thought and memory; her imagination may have been awakened by the bits of hidden truth, veiled beneath symbolism and allegory.

Seattle stands out boldly enough before the waters of Puget Sound, far from the culture of the extreme East. Hills have been humbled and mountains honeycombed to allow the Iron Horse to prance at her door. Cuts and divides, hills here and there, steeples and spires, rose-covered homes and a busy, busy mart form the city. And all through the conglomeration of traffic and commerce the oldtimer’s home is pointed out — the “mossbacks”. These wooden houses are pretentious mostly in extravagance of gables and turrets. All have front porches and gardens, with an unrare rose or a rusty honeysuckle climbing over the fungus-covered roof. In one of these old homes overlooking the bay, modernized and enlarged, as became semi-pioneer days, dwelt Mark Gouled in the glowing comfort and satisfaction of life, and his daughter Thesmi in insubordination and honest contempt of much around her. Just and high-minded, it was an unbearable sense of unjust restriction, a feeling of always being at odds with something in her life, that bred this inharmony in her nature.

All the dissatisfaction in the world is little else than the soul in revolt.

Leaving Althoth to his books, Thesmi crossed over to the old-fashioned bay window and gazed out over the glistening waters of the Sound — the life, the busy life of tug and steamer, ferry, launch and oar. Then her face shone as her glance dropped to the beachcomber’s village and rested on a small house, the window of which had been taken from a vessel and the sides of the house built to fit it. The roof, also, had once covered a ship’s cabin, while canvas fastened down with battens covered the outer wall. What an old fragile thing it was that guarded the inmates from the elements! But to Thesmi, judging from her gaze, it might have been Valhalla, the great hall of Odin, where the boar Schrimnis was served up and was abundant for all who feasted there.

In shocking contrast to her own rigidly enforced conventional home life, the other rose up before her. The impression left on her mind by the communion of spirit, and by the merging of the superflous into the simplest lines of life was all of a character to contrast every usage in her own home ; and consequently she became iconoclastic in her views, which she was adaptable enough to perceive. And this same adaptability induced her to brave all opposition either of relative or friend.

Visit after visit was made to the other house, and encounter after encounter took place between her and her aunt. Her father, lending his ears, met her warm approaches with coldness and censure.

She never was in an odor of sanctity with her family, but this morning’s skirmish with her aunt had nearly proved too much for even her independent spirit.

But, necessarily, these emotional experiences were episodic. She did not live all her days torn with agitation or rebellion against a formal, ossified existence. She was a music lover, an amateur devotee of the violin. Unconsciously, growth was gained through the practise of her music, and it enabled her to round out partly the difference between her interior nature and her exterior circumstances.

Hours passed as minutes while she practiced, and when her violin activity had departed from her, she sought out Althoth the scholar.

“When you come across that queer story of Orpheus — where the gods shed tears when they hear him play — will you please make a note of it for me ? Or mark the place ; I haven’t time to look it up and I want to show it to a friend. There are other beautiful passages about music that I remember hearing you read, Althoth. Won’t you make notes of them for me? Any time will do for the others, the one about Orpheus I should like soon.”

“Nothing will give me greater pleasure, Thesmi, unless it would be seeing you read the books for yourself — the passages, marvels of beauty and style. Vision, faith, courage, noble passion, love, all are offered to you if you will but read.” Althoth dropped back to his beloved pages, a halo of serenity overspreading his face. But though he read undisputed classics nearly every hour of the day, he was not wasting his time. He received what literature had to give. In the stress of fine ideas and emotions he truly lived.

Thesmi knew the favor of the notes would be forthcoming, neatly tabulated in his exquisite copper-plate handwriting.

She left the room, his voice softly pedalling after her a favorite line. Reopening the door, she called back, “Papa has come. Dinner is about to be served.”

When Thesmi entered the dining room, her father was already seated. He greeted her mannishly, at once asking.

“Have you returned the Misses Wilburtons’ call, yet? I don’t care to have them get offended. I have business reasons for keeping in with their father.”

“She hasn’t returned any calls that I know of,” broke in Aunt Meg harshly, “Except ”

“She hasn’t again visited those people, has she?” His question was directed to his sister, but his eyes were focussed on his daughter’s clear-cut, halfdefiant face. He was punctilious with respect to his home and selfish to a degree in the keeping up of appearances.

Hasty words sprang to Thesmi’s lips, which she instantly suppressed, some second thought seeming to master her, and her face softened, as it nearly always did when she looked at her father, a look of peculiar longing that he never took time to notice, and she pleasantly answered,

“I will call on the Wilburtons, papa, if it will accommodate you any. But I really have nothing in common with the girls. You know that, don’t you?” Her voice became a trifle higher-pitched as she added, “Why should I not be allowed to choose my own company? I am old enough to take care of myself, and able enough — and you both know it.”

“I don’t know anything — nor don’t want to know,” said her father in a loud emphatic tone, “about what you have in common with them or any one else. All I know is that you are never to the fore among my friends when I want you. I might as well give over keeping up this establishment for all the showing you make. It all counts, too, in a business way, for a man to be able to show up his folks; it looks as if he didn’t give them enough to live on in style when no one knows them or invites them out.” Mark Gouled’s whole vigorous personality was concentrated on commercial success and outward appearances.

If Aunt Meg had not been so intent at that moment upon a momentous question — and all such questions were the only ones worthy of being paramount in any one's mind — as to whether the butcher had sent home the roast she had selected with such shrewishness, or had substituted another — a less juicy rib, — more unpleasantness might have been heaped upon Thesmi's brown head, but as it was she evidently felt that the girl had had sufficient for one day.

Some one has justly observed that the most prolific case of unhappiness is making our happiness compulsory.

Mark Gouled had the clear-cut lips that so many of the faces — mode-hammered — of our best business men have. He was accounted financially independent. But what a misnomer the word was when he carried a whole galleyload of pride and ambition that bent him to the earth! His whole conversation was the dry jargon of money-getting. Apparently he had not another earnest thought but what appertained to his commercial success. In his eager trafficking he was coining the best gifts of life into money. The bait, too, of riches attracts just such men — men of imaginative mind, large vision^ large brains ; they feel that there is nothing but themselves to permanently exclude them from the circle of the rich.

On rare occasions, faint echoes were borne over the hills of yesterday — echoes of dreams — of a corn-colored girl, corn-colored as to hair, hat, gown, and even the cornflower’s color, her eyes of blue, even as he, the money-getter, had first seen her; and, later, of a voice, her voice, urging him on to the culture of his voice — a rich baritone, his endowment from the gods. But she died. And even had she lived, she could not culture his soul for him. He could hire men to improve his lawn, true, but he had to do his own soul-cultivation. But the fact that he had answered ever so slightly to the oscillations of the upward arc, bespoke the man’s soul. And he was on his way; only this leaving the main tract — how much longer it would keep him from home ! This soft friction — the yesterday’s echoes — had retarded perhaps, from an inclined plane, his spiritual fall for a time, but the force of gravity, money-getting, was accelerating his speed hourly.

The class that had long been known as the “beachcombers,” a cosmopolitan settlement, in the northern part of the city, occupied the base of the cliff, and extended even beyond the water mark. The dilapidated but picturesque huts huddled under the overhanging bank, were secure enough, but those built on piles driven in the strips of sand between the high and low-tide lands, were often swept by the combing tops of great breakers. Heavy-faced Indians, red-headed Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, black-eyed Greeks and swarthy Italians fished, picked up driftwood and earned a dollar at longshore jobs. Its name gave it a dignity and a suggestion of pirating; it gained caste by the ununiformity of its homes. Becoming one with the city it yet asserted its right to be without tax or license.

Among this amphibious nondescript population, where a dozen languages and dialects were spoken, seclusion and unidentity were easily secured. It was a precious haven for some, a gehenna for others.

It was while sketching this classical scene that Thesmi had discovered her new acquaintances. No road ran along the beach, and she was picking her way gingerly between the houses, now walking on narrow boards insecurely laid from pile to pile, now on large logs, now on stones, when she lost her footing and tumbled in a heap in front of the house with the ship-cabin roof. She gave a little cry of pain, and in an instant, an incredibly short instant, it seemed to her, she was lifted and carried into the house.

CHAPTER TWO. Thesmi’s New Friends

“Woman has so long lived kneeling in the shadow that our prejudiced eyes find it difficult to seize the harmony of the first movements which one makes when rising to her feet in the light of day.”

It was a man, evidently a foreigner, who had carried Thesmi in, but immediately upon the closing of the door a woman, swarthy and of commanding presence, caught her hands and pressed them warmly, releasing them only to pat them over and over, while in a deep voice that softened the spirit, she said,

“That was a bad fall, Little One, but the shock will soon pass. Don’t be alarmed; we will care for you; you are safe here. Our small haven shelters many, but seldom do we have such a one as you to care for.”

She- was simply clad, but what distinguished her was a certain fixedness of bearing. She might have been the pole star Polaris holding the universe in poise, without variableness or shadow of turning. Her straight black hair grew low on her forehead, which was broad, square, intelligent. Her dark eyes, of a humid softness, never seemed to look into another’s, rather above them and beyond; and while in this attitude she gave out a constant low “h — mm, h — mm,” as if communing with herself, as if assigning the soul before her; or it could have been a liturgy — part of a collect. But the chief charm lay in her hands — the restfulness of them, the benediction of them. And they were not beautiful hands; the fingers were thick, and the skin rough, as some skins constitutionally are. Had she risen, and was she standing in the light of day? At all events she was out of the ordinary in some way.

Thesmi wore a look of astonishment. She lay snuggled up on a strip of a bed, which had been hastily let down from the wall when she was brought in. The room, low-ceiled and filled with odd crannies, had almost a twilight atmosphere, which, after the glare of the sun, was particularly restful; and a faint odor, of something burning — incense — pervaded the place. Everything in the room featured unusualness; perhaps the furnishings and the odd adjustments of them had something to do with it. Curious wave-planed driftwood, salvage picked up after every hard windstorm, was wrought into seats and stands. One long shelf was as pallid as the bodies of the dead picked up at sea, the grain etherealized from common texture to some unique wood; and a shingle bolt, shining like satin, set close against the wall contained a large book.

How rather wise looking home made things are, — as if so much could be told. But then the Delphic Oracle is never mentioned with garrulity.

The only other occupant of the cabin — for the man had at once disappeared after bringing Thesmi in — was another woman seen through a chink in a curtain, which divided olf an adjoining room. With face solemnized, she stood in a posture of adoration before a small altar, or something simulating such, draped with white cloth, and set close to the head of a simple bed. A taper burned low before a crucifix hung on the wall, and from it a supernatural radiance was reflected on the woman’s face, which was grave and thoughtful and no longer young. With upturned eyes and hands held up, as if her soul was uplifted on high, she seemed lost in an ecstasy, a fervor of holy feeling, as if she heard her High Mass. It was only an instant’s glimpsing and it seemed an intrusion on the silence of the eternal. It was not, apparently, a pious act, strictly speaking, a sense of religious ardor. The act seemed something instinctive, an unconscious flight of spirit, — an Elijah-like taking up into heaven. Or it could have been an old Aztec ceremony. And at any rate it was the basis of some queer legends among the villagers.

Some ancient idea of what the church was first intended for, doubtless.

What was here on this side of the threshold, what mysterious atmosphere, while outside, an ever-present atmosphere, there was nothing but squalor and glare? Whence came this greatness, this Essentiality, in the midst of such Meagreness?

Was Thesmi seized with desire, and for what? She looked as if a new vortex of life was opening up before her.

The woman seen through the curtain entered the room, but upon observing Thesmi made a movement to leave. She was stayed by the other, who motioned her forward, saying,

“This young girl fell from the planks while sketching. She is resting.” Then turning to Thesmi, she continued, “This is Ishna,” waiting courteously for the other name to complete the society formula.

“My name is Thesmi Gouled and I live in that canary-colored house on the hill, up there,” and Thesmi pointed in the direction of her home. “I have always wanted,” she continued vivaciously, “to make a water-color drawing of this queer part of town — Shantytown it is called, isn’t it?” The latter part of the speech was given rather apologetically in the presence of the Women before her. There was no answer, and she continued with that queer driven sense of having to talk that one has with some people, “I suppose every one has a craving to know intimately what others are doing. I know I have. I’m awfully curious! I had no idea, after leaving the foot of Virginia street, that there was no path. But I kept on. I hate to give in. Don’t you?” and she looked at the Women piquantly.

“And my name,” said the hostess, in her fine controlled voice, after Thesmi had got wholly through, “is Signa; so now we are acquainted.”

“Please excuse me,” begged Thesmi, made conscious of her ill-breeding in interrupting the introductions.

When animated, a look of extreme youthfulness broke over Thesmi’s face, and she always looked much younger than she really was.

Eminently practical, both women had at once become busy-handed, the one with a darning needle and the other repairing demoralized overalls. Bits of twine, wire, — and even in one place, a nail — a man’s mending, surely — held together the various rents and holes of the garment. These were displaced by neat patches and strong stitches.

Every home has its own atmosphere. Something here provoked unto love; something breathed to the saving of the soul. Thesmi looked as if she was experiencing perfect peace. Was it engendered by the personality of the Women? Or was it born of the neutrality of the unknown? Speech seemed superfluous. Such recognition does not come except to those who need it.

Was this the dance of the worlds, this gentle touch of spirit in each other — the dance of the worlds, the spectacle seen once in a thousand years by souls of transcendental excellence.

“A trinity — Three in one,” murmured the one spoken of as Ishna. “There is accord here, perfect accord. We should meet again.” A look of recognition passed between the two Women as Ishna drew the other’s attention to Thesmi’s face. With a gesture that was more expressive than any hackneyed remark, she indicated that something which pleased her greatly was found there.

While apparently normal in other respects, it was evident that Ishna required constant watchfulness on the part of Signa to prevent the involuntary act of worship — a touch of the hand, a look being sufficient to check the inclination to throw up her hands to heaven.

What were the strange unwritten laws of this household, where an expression of face, a glance of the eye, was treasured and counted with care? What was this something which the senses could not immediately understand?

And did these Women ever ask themselves what was happening outside? Surely, for was it not evident that there was something like an all-seeing eye somewhere, else how came it that such swift and timely aid came to Thesmi when needed?

“Oh, I hope we shall meet again,” Thesmi rejoined earnestly. “There are so few — so very few — whom I can really visit with or feel in sympathy with. I often feel alone, terribly alone. If mama had lived it would have been different, I know.”

Signa’s benedictive hand passed over her face and she regained her composure.

Was it because these people could drop the commonplace at will and enter into another and higher realm that their lives were so constantly being enriched, and thereby they could enrich others?

“Well,” Ishna dropped her work an instant and looked intently at the girl, — the word “well” was always given the sound of the French e — a, — “how strange that you should have been led here ! Odd contacts bring about new and wonderful growths sometimes, and rarer often than the old growths. We are always being led, are we not?”

Though Signa seemed not unaware of Ishna’s singularity, a marked deference was paid to every word she uttered, as if the highest truth was being revealed.

Ishna was fragile in the extreme, and sallow. She had a fine brow and a thoughtful, earnest manner. She never laughed. There was a certain allurement about her; sometimes it was her fine sense that charmed, sometimes her mystery. The spirit in her was constantly being let out by her belief that the common happenings of life were indicative of workings of the real law of being.

“It must be as Ishna says, Little One,” Signa smiled to Thesmi, once more checking the involuntary act of her companion to worship, “a good direction sent you here. It is significant that we meet. Higher friendships, new ties, perhaps, in the near future.”

Enigmatical as most of this was, Thesmi hastened to ask as she rose to go, “May I come again ; may I come and talk with you? Please let me. I love to be here. It is as if something I needed was found here. And there is such an odd feeling, as if I had known you before; but that can’t be. What it is I don’t know.”

Some stimulus to the remembering cells was here, perhaps.

As Thesmi stepped from the threshold, she nearly fell over a half-witted man sitting on the steps. She recalled seeing him often accompanying the fishermen in their rounds from door to door, a kind of common drudge, repaid by cast-off clothes and an occasional meal. When Signa handed him the mended bundle, the overalls made decent and comfortable, he shuffled away, his loose mouth working pleasedly as he fumbled at the clothes.

There was here some discord that clashed with the attainment of this human being. Something was out of tune; that was all.

The same man appeared as promptly as when Thesmi had fallen, and motioned her to follow him. Evidently he had stepped from an adjoining house, a double-decker, having an outside stair leading to the loft. It had a flag-pole at the door, the stars and stripes saluting a Venice landscape;