Part 9

“Perhaps not,” she answered, “but my husband says that the success of a biography depends very largely on when it is issued. It mustn’t be too long delayed. You may not know that mother kept a copious journal all through the years, from her earliest girlhood. With the letters she saved, it will be of the greatest service to her biographer, I feel sure.”

“I am convinced of it,” I returned. Indeed, I could picture to myself the amazing confessions that must be hidden in any really intimate journal by Mrs. Longbow. I suspected that the revelation of it would shock right-minded persons; but I did not doubt that the spectacle of self-immolation finding its reward in worldly success and fame would give to thousands the thrill of true romance.

“Charles tells me,” proceeded Mrs. Bradford, “that you suggested the possibility of our collaborating--the three of us--in the biography. It is a very beautiful idea. ‘Mrs. Longbow, by Her Children!’ The great public servant as seen by those nearest and dearest to her, by those whom she brought into the world and trained to follow in her steps! Mother would have appreciated your thinking of it, Robert, I feel sure. But you must see how impracticable it would be. Margaret is in such a state, and Charles would never get anything done. He is very busy with his work, of course, as all of us are; and he is apt to weigh things very critically. I should have great trouble in getting the biography written within a reasonable time. I have thought that perhaps we ought to get Henry to do it.”

“He would no doubt do it very effectively,” I said, and rose to go.

“We must consider carefully a great many things, mustn’t we?” she remarked brightly. “And the matter is so very important! It is a great responsibility for one to be the child of such a mother. So kind of you to come, Robert! I prize your sympathy not only for itself, but because I know how greatly you admired mother. It has been a great consolation to see you.”

I left the house, glad that the interview was over and determined to see as little of the Longbows as possible, unless I could get Charles by himself. It struck me that, in donning her mother’s prophetic mantle, of which she obviously considered herself the rightful heiress, Mrs. Bradford found compensation for her responsibilities. I could not see why I should be troubled about the question of a proper tribute to Mrs. Longbow, whose personality I disliked as cordially as I disliked most of her agitations. I wondered whether other friends had suffered in the same way.

I was, indeed, not altogether pleased the following week when I received from Margaret Longbow an invitation to dine informally with her brother and herself.

“Helen and her husband are to be here Friday night,” she wrote, “and I feel the need of outside support. They seem to think me harmlessly insane, but will perhaps treat me less like a mental invalid if you are here. I’m sure you will be bored; but I hope you will come, if you can, for old friendship’s sake.” I could think of no polite excuse for not responding to this signal of distress, and accordingly found myself once more gathered to the collective bosom of the Longbows. I could only hope that they would have the decency not to appeal to me for any further advice.

The family was assembled before I arrived at the house. Margaret and Charles looked a little uneasy, I thought; but the Bradfords, as usual, were superbly aware only of their superiorities. Henry Bradford, well-fed and carefully dressed, exuded success at every pore, but only the delicate aroma of success. As an experienced editor, he had learned to be tactful, and he had made himself the plump embodiment of tact. His features composed themselves on this occasion with a becoming trace of regretful melancholy and an apparent willingness to be as cheerful as seemed proper. The only discordant note in his whole well-rounded presentation of a journalist in easy circumstances was the top of his head. Seen through a sparse thicket of hair, it was shiny, like a coat worn too long. His wife had the impressive exterior of a volcano in repose.

During the simple dinner we talked pleasantly about a variety of things that were within the province of the Longbows: municipal reform, Tolstoy, labor-unions, a plain-spoken novel by Mrs. Virgin, Turkish misgovernment, the temperance movement. We did not mention Mrs. Longbow’s name, but we felt, I am sure, that her spirit hovered over us. I, at least, had an abiding sense of her immanence. When we went back to the drawing-room together, I expected that her virtues would become the topic of general conversation, and I dreaded the hour to follow.

My fears were relieved, however, by the prompt withdrawal of Mrs. Bradford and Charles. He wished her to sign some document. Margaret and I were left for Henry Bradford to amuse, which he did to his own satisfaction. He was kind enough to be interested in my humble efforts to live honestly by my pen: he expressed himself almost in those terms. When his wife appeared in the doorway and announced briefly, “Henry dear, I want you,” I saw him waddle away without feeling myself moved to sympathy.

“Henry is insufferable, isn’t he?” said Margaret, quietly. “I don’t see how Helen can stand him except that he stands her.”

“Oh, come,” I answered, “you’re too hard on them. Besides, you wouldn’t like it if I agreed with you.”

“Really, I shouldn’t mind at all. I’ve stood by the family all my life, and I’ll stand by Charlie now; but I’ve never been deceived into believing that I cared for Helen or Henry. I wouldn’t hurt them even by saying what I think of them to anybody except you, but I prefer not to see them. That’s one reason why I’m going abroad. We sha’n’t be so intimate after I get back.”

She rose languidly from her chair and fidgeted nervously with some books on the table.

“How long do you plan to stay?” I asked, crossing the room to her side.

“You think it will take me a good while to get free of their clutches? I’m going to stay till I feel safe, that’s all. I don’t want to do anything for anybody again, and I sha’n’t come back as long as there’s a chance of my being asked.”

She spoke vindictively, with more vehemence than I had ever seen in her. She gave me the impression that the stifled flame of rebellion was breaking free at last, but only when the food for it was exhausted. In her trim and faded prettiness she was mildly tragic--futilely tragic would perhaps be the better phrase. Life and Mrs. Longbow had sapped her vitality; that was clear. They had taken much from her, and given her little in exchange. I wondered fatuously whether she had chosen well twenty years before in devoting herself to reform and her mother rather than to me.

Doubtless I hesitated longer than was conventionally polite over framing my reply, for she turned to me with a rather mocking laugh and went on:

“It’s very sad about me, isn’t it? But you needn’t pity me, Robert. You gave me a chance to get out once, you remember, and I chose to do good to all the world instead of battening on you. It was foolish of me, but it was probably a lucky thing for you.”

“I’ve never married, Margaret,” I answered, feeling somewhat grim and a little uncomfortable.

“Pure habit, I suppose,” she answered lightly, “but it ought to give you satisfaction that I’m sorry both of us haven’t. You needn’t be frightened, even though Helen has the absurd notion of throwing me at your head now. You see what I am--just dregs. Mother and Helen have never got over thinking me a young girl, and they’ve always planned for you to marry whatever was left of me after they’d finished.”

“I’ve never been very proud of my own behavior,” I put in. “I ought to have been able to make you marry me back there, but--”

“You were no match for mother.” Margaret ended the sentence for me. “Nobody ever was. But even she shouldn’t have expected to keep that old affair in cold storage for twenty years. I’m a baby to be complaining, but I can’t help it this once. Things are so terribly dead that I can safely tell you now that you ought to marry--not that I suppose you have been restrained on my account for some fifteen years! I’m merely showing you my death-certificate in the hope that you’ll avoid my unhappy end.”

“But, Margaret, what _are_ you going to do?” I cried, too disturbed by the situation not to realize that she had diagnosed it correctly.

“Oh, as I’ve said, I’m going to inter myself decently in Italy, where I shall probably write a book about my mother. I can stay away just so much longer.”

At that moment the others came in and stopped whatever reply I could have made.

“So sorry we had to leave you like this,” said Mrs. Bradford, sailing majestically into the room; “but you are such an old friend that we treat you like one of the family, you see.” She smiled in a way that made her meaning plain.

“It doesn’t matter about Bob, of course,” said Charles, who was clearly so much engrossed by his own affairs as to be impervious to anything else. “He and Margaret ought to be able to entertain each other.”

“I think we do very well, thank you,” I remarked with a flicker of amusement. “At least I do.”

Charles, quite serious and earnest, planted himself in full view of the group of us.

“Look here,” he said “--all of you. I wish to talk to you about mother’s biography.”

“Yes, indeed,” responded Mrs. Bradford, settling heavily into a chair, “we ought to consider the matter at once. It was largely on account of it that Henry and I took the time to come here to-night.” She assumed her most business-like expression.

“There’s really nothing more to consider,” went on Charles, puckering his forehead. “I simply wish to tell you that I have received an excellent offer from Singleton for a work in two volumes, and have accepted it. He will give a large sum for the book--a very large sum.”

“Charles,” said Helen Bradford, severely, “how can you speak of money in such a connection? I think that you acted very unwisely in not first consulting your family. As a matter of fact, your precipitate action is very embarrassing, isn’t it, Henry?”

“You certainly should have told us that the offer had been made,” concurred Bradford, looking aggrieved. “It does complicate things.”

“I can’t see why,” said Charles, with a sudden burst of anger. “I’m mother’s executor, as well as her only son, and I surely have the right to make my own arrangements about her biography. I thought at first that some one outside the family ought to write it, but I’ve been shown quite clearly that it is my duty to do it.”

Mrs. Bradford’s firm jaw dropped a little.

“_You_ do it!” she cried. “I’ve decided that it will be most suitable for me to write it myself. In point of fact, Henry has already made satisfactory arrangements for me with Banister. So you see--”

“I see,” said Charles, impatiently, “that you and Henry have been meddling in the most unwarrantable fashion, quite as usual. You’ll have to get out of it with Banister the best way you can, that’s all.”

Margaret’s even voice broke in on the dispute.

“It may interest you to know that I’m proposing to write a book about mother myself. The Henrysons naturally wish one to go with their edition of her writings, and they pay quite handsomely. What they want isn’t a complete biography, you know--just the recollections of a daughter. They seem to think me the one best qualified to do it. Perhaps, after all, I am.”

“It is impossible!” exclaimed Helen Bradford. “I cannot allow this thing to go on. At great personal inconvenience I have agreed to do the book; and I refuse to be placed in the undignified position into which you are trying to force me. I decided that I’d better write it myself, partly because you seemed to be jealous about having Henry do it. I have prepared to give valuable time to it. And what is my reward? You have gone ahead secretly and made arrangements on your own account not for one biography, but for two. I think it most selfish and inconsiderate of you.”

“It will injure sales,” put in Henry Bradford, knowingly.

“Of course you don’t need to go ahead with yours, Helen, if you feel like that,” said Margaret.

“I don’t see why--” began Mr. Bradford, but he was interrupted by his wife.

“I don’t see why either. There _is_ no reason. I’m not going to let you get all the honor and reward of it. What would people think of me?”

Margaret laughed.

“Only that you were too busy to write, my dear,” she remarked; “that you had left it to less important members of the family.”

“I shall write the book in spite of you,” Mrs. Bradford replied. She was furiously angry and a quite unlovely spectacle. A volcano in eruption is not necessarily beautiful. “Mother always taught me,” she continued, “never to be too busy to do my duty. I couldn’t bear to think of leaving her great personality in the hands of either of you. You are undutiful children.”

Charles Longbow’s frown had deepened, but he had regained his composure.

“I think, Helen,” he said, “that mother wouldn’t like to see us quarreling like this. She believed in peace and calm.” For a moment his natural generosity seemed to assert itself. “You are so much like her that I can’t bear to have anything come between us. I’m sorry I didn’t know you wanted to write the book.”

“You did very wrong in not consulting me,” replied Helen, with angry dignity. “I was at least mother’s eldest child, and took a considerable share in her great work. You ought to see Singleton and get him to release you from your contract.”

“Perhaps Helen ought to have her own way,” remarked Margaret, wearily. “She always has.”

“I’m certainly not going to change my arrangements now,” Charles returned, with sudden stiffness. “I shall bring out a work in suitable form, something on a scale worthy of mother. What is more, her journal and all her papers are mine to do what I please with.”

“Come, Henry!” cried Mrs. Bradford. “You may like to have insults heaped upon me, but I won’t remain to hear them.”

Magnificently, explosively, she swept from the room, followed close by her husband. For a moment the brother and sister stood looking at each other like naughty children apprehended in a fault. I was forgotten. At length Margaret sank into the chair from which her sister had risen and gave a nervous laugh.

“I hope you have enjoyed the entertainment we’ve been giving you, Robert,” she said, turning her head in my direction. “This will be the end of everything. All the same, Charlie dear, I hope you’ll let me sort mother’s papers before I go away.”

“Oh, come, Charlie,”--I plucked up my courage to play the peacemaker, for I felt that this dance on a newly made grave would disturb even Mrs. Longbow’s serene and righteous soul,--“there’s no reason why Helen shouldn’t write a book as well as you. The public will stand for it. I hope you’ll tell her so.”

Charles’s solemn face cracked with a grin.

“I sha’n’t have to,” he said. “But I’m sorry you were here-you know what I mean. I’m ashamed.”

I could not fail to see that his pride was touched to the bleeding-point, and that Margaret was utterly weary. With only a hand-shake and a word of parting I went away, glad enough, you can understand, to make my escape.

I met none of them again till I went to the docks, a month later, to say farewell to Margaret. Charles was with her, but Helen was not there. Margaret looked very old and ill, I thought. Just before the boat sailed, she managed to screen herself from her brother, and hurriedly slipped an envelop into my hand.

“Please give this to Charlie when I’m well out to sea,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to send it through the post-office.”

“How soon?” I asked under my breath, supposing her secrecy to be the whim of a nervous invalid.

“Give me three days,” she replied, glancing furtively at her brother, who was just then absorbed by the spectacle of a donkey-engine on a lower deck. “It’s about mother’s journal and her papers. Don’t you see? I looked them over,--Charlie told me to,--but I couldn’t bear to explain to him, and I haven’t had time yet to copy them. My letter tells about it.”

She turned from me quickly and took her brother’s arm, insisting that both he and I must leave the ship at once. Twenty minutes later she waved gaily to us as the cables slackened and the boat swung out into the river.

I disliked my new commission, but I had been given no opportunity to refuse it. At the time appointed I carried the letter to Charles, whom I found in the family library amid heaps of faded and disorderly manuscript. As I entered the room, he rose excitedly.

“It’s extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “Mother’s journals are gone, and so is all her intimate correspondence. Where can Margaret have put them? She went through everything.”

“Perhaps this will tell you,” I said, handing him the letter. “Margaret gave it to me just before we left the boat, and told me to keep it till to-day.”

He read the letter, frowning.

“What does the girl think!” he cried when he had ended. “It’s extremely careless of her--she has carried off all of mother’s really important papers; says she hadn’t finished arranging them, and will return them when that’s done. She must be out of her head to think of trusting such invaluable documents to any carrier in the world. And how does she suppose I’m to go on with my book in the meantime? It’s mad.”

“I don’t quite see, myself,” I responded, though in reality I was able to understand her motives: evidently she wished to spare Charles the full light of their mother’s self-revelation.

“No one could see,” he returned, his lean cheeks flushed with anger. “It’s impossible. It’s going to be a great inconvenience, even if the things don’t get lost, and it may cost me a lot of money.”

“Can’t you be working through what’s left?” I asked. “There seems to be a lot of material.”

“That’s just the trouble,” he replied. “Margaret has sorted everything, and she’s left the rubbish--papers that couldn’t be of any use for the

## book I’m engaged to write.”

I was sympathetic, and willing to give Margaret her due measure of blame. If she had been less worn and flurried, she might have found some more discreet way of protecting her brother’s happiness and her mother’s reputation. Yet I rather admired her courage. I wondered how she would manage to Bowdlerize the journal without exciting her brother’s suspicions. I awaited the outcome with curiosity and some misgivings. When I left Charles, he was writing a peremptory demand for the immediate return of the papers.

My curiosity was amply satisfied, and my misgivings were realized, when I received a letter from Margaret three weeks after she sailed. It was post-marked Gibraltar, and it ran astoundingly:

Dear Robert:

I’m too ill to write, but I must. Try, if you can, to invent some plausible excuse for me, and tell Charlie about it. I can’t possibly write to him. I tried--I really tried--to arrange the papers so that he’d get only a favorable impression from them; but I couldn’t--and I couldn’t let him find mother out. If he had, he’d have been hurt, and he’d have filled his book with reservations. He’s terribly conscientious. I couldn’t bear to have poor mother’s name injured, even if she did treat me badly. She did a lot of good in her way, and she was rather magnificent. So one night I dropped the papers overboard, journal and all. It’s a great deal better so.

I sha’n’t stop till I get to Assisi. Don’t let Charlie be angry with me. I trust you to understand.

Ever sincerely yours, ~Margaret Longbow~.

I give the letter in full because it explains why no complete biography of Mrs. Longbow has ever been published. Conscientious Charles, naturally, has been unwilling to write a two-volume life without the essential documents, and Margaret has never put her recollections into a book. Helen Bradford’s pompous work, “The Public and Private Life of My Mother,” hardly serves as a biography; it really gives more information about Mrs. Bradford than about Mrs. Longbow. To supply the public’s need of an intimate picture of the great philanthropist I have here set down my impressions of her.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE WIDENING FIELD OF THE MOVING-PICTURE

ITS COMMERCIAL, EDUCATIONAL, AND ARTISTIC VALUE

BY CHARLES B. BREWER

It has been variously estimated that there are already from fifteen thousand to thirty thousand moving-picture show-places in the United States. Greater New York alone has six hundred. Their development as an industry has been very recent. For while as early as 1864 a French patent was granted to Ducos for a battery of lenses, which, actuated in rapid succession, depicted successive stages of movement, this device could not have fulfilled the requirements of the moving-picture of to-day for the important reason, if for no other, that the dry, sensitized plate of that day could not receive impressions with sufficient rapidity. With the advent of instantaneous photography came what was probably the direct forerunner of the motion-picture in the work of Eadweard Muybridge, a photographer who, about 1878, began his camera studies of “The Horse in Motion,”[4] “Animal Locomotion,”[5] and other motion studies. His work was begun in California, on the private race-course of Governor Leland Stanford. Here he employed a battery of twenty-four cameras, spaced a foot apart, the shutters of which were sprung by the horse coming in contact with threads stretched across the track.

Mr. Edison’s kinetoscope camera, begun in 1889, was described in court[6] as “capable of producing an indefinite number of negatives on a single, sensitized, flexible film, at a speed theretofore unknown.” In his patent specification, Mr. Edison refers to this speed by saying, “I have been able to take with a single camera and tape film as many as forty-six photographs per second.”

A recently published account of what seemed a novel development served to show that other inventors were also busy on the subject nearly twenty years ago. The innovation makes use of glass plates instead of the ordinary films. The pictures are taken in rows, 162 to a plate, and the finished plate resembles a sheet of postage-stamps. Provision is made for carrying eighteen plates and for automatically shifting the plates to take the pictures in proper sequence.