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Floyd didn’t go to college—his father couldn’t spare him, but he gave him a good classical education, under the best professors. Mr. Garrison wasn’t training his son for business; he wanted him to be a man of culture. They took long walks into the country, with Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow for companions. Thoreau was revolutionary, a disjointed mind. The historical novels then in vogue were read and reread, also foreign literature. Realism, Nihilism, and all the other isms were looked into and studied as the result of “unhealthy” European conditions. Mr. Garrison moulded his son in good clay.

Sunday was the happiest day in the week for Floyd. He would slip out of the little Dutch Reform church around the corner, restless when the pastor strung out his sermon fearing he should miss Julie, who went to the Cathedral. Lately, he was fortunate to find her there without her mother.

Good Friday,—the Cathedral draped in black. The sorrow-laden music, the odor of incense gave him a sensuous feeling of emotion. Julie came down the aisle, her prayer book pressed against her heart, her eyes seeking things beyond this world. It seemed to the impressionable youth a desecration to “bring her back.”

He looked at the sad faces and bowed heads.

“It’s wonderful after so many centuries, this sense of personal loss in the people; life would be unbearable without the Easter joy, the lilies, the Resurrection.”

His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less divine out in the sunlight.

“I don’t feel that way, but Mother is ill and insists on my going; an empty pew doesn’t look well.”

Floyd was shocked. He had read in the “great” writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechanically. “The woman’s emotional nature endows her with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner of Religion in the great struggle against skepticism.”

They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an expression he had never seen in Julie’s calm face, an indefinable something, as if she had pulled down a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didn’t give him her hand as usual. She was looking expectantly at the upper windows; he followed her gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a face looking out; the light made it transparent like yellow wax. In a moment it was gone.

“Who was that?”

“My grandfather.”

“Why haven’t I seen him before?”

“He doesn’t come downstairs.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, but Mother said it was nobody’s business.”

Floyd was hurt.

“Anything that concerns you is of vital interest to me. You know that, don’t you, Julie?”

“Yes, I know it.”

She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most girls held themselves too cheaply.

“My grandfather doesn’t come down because he disapproves of the way we live. He says we have sold our souls.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“We are Jews. You needn’t come here again.” She went quickly up the steps and entered the house without looking back.

Floyd walked down the street towards his house. He was terribly excited; socially, he had never known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys of their creed were limited in numbers in the colleges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they managed to filter through everywhere. What did it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They were Catholics.

A young man came towards him, of striking appearance, with a touch of something about him not American. He put out his hand laughingly to Floyd. It was Martin.

“You’ve done with me?”

“You deserve it. Why didn’t you answer my letters?”

“Oh! I had no time; they kept my nose to the grindstone. I walked off with the prizes just to spite Aunt Priscilla. Mother is very proud of me; she calls me ‘my son’ now.” There was the old mocking glitter in his eye; he had not changed.

“Don’t be angry with me.” He took Floyd’s arm. Martin could be very winning when he wanted to. “You’ve grown into a fine, handsome fellow, with the unmistakable brand of the aristocrat; strong with the women, eh?”

“I don’t know.”

“As gone as ever on Julie?”

“More than ever.”

Then Floyd shot out a question.

“Do you know the history of the Gonzolas?”

Martin’s answer came back as quickly.

“Yes, they are baptized Jews.”

A red streak flushed Floyd’s forehead.

“Tell me about them.”

Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in Floyd’s agitation.

“The Gonzolas go back to the time when the Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thousands of them were baptized, but they still practiced their religion in secret. Romantic, isn’t it?”

“No; terrible.”

“Many of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great banking house which spread its branches all over Europe. Julie’s grandfather was a handsome, dashing fellow. He married in the family—they all do—but he had an affair with an Austrian actress which lasted for years. Their son was brought up in the religion of his mother who became pious with age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, naturally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it—and sent him to America where he took the family name. The bank he founded here was successful; he became very rich. This bastard was Julie’s father.”

“But they are Catholics, not Jews,” insisted Floyd.

“That’s the joke of it,” laughed Martin. “An ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro came with letters from his father, to an old friend, Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He boasts his ancestors provided money to help Columbus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are handsome, but most of them are old maids, because they won’t marry the Germans whom they look down upon.”

“That old man I saw today at the window?”

“Is Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzola’s father.”

“But how did you know all this?”

“I’ve heard it scores of times from Julie. The crossing of the races interests me; I’ve got my own ideas about that. I’m waiting to see how it comes out.”

“It’s shocking for people to change their religion.”

Martin laughed a bit too loud, Floyd thought.

“What’s the difference? Who believes in it anyhow; do you?”

Floyd evaded a direct answer.

“We practice many things out of respect for our parents and our social position.” He was undeniably well brought up.

“There’s one thing I like about Julie,” said Martin. “In spite of everything, she remains a true daughter of her race. I like in her the sensuousness of the Oriental; oh, I don’t mean sexness—that may also be there latent; I hope it is. I see in her the Shulamite maiden who gets up from her couch at night and goes to seek her lover.”

“What do you know about Julie? You’ve been away so long.”

“I’ve been a week in New York.”

Floyd was angry, injured. “Perhaps you’ve been writing to her all this time.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“I suppose she was very glad to see you.”

“I don’t know. I was mad to see her. I couldn’t wait; I went straight there.”

There was a look of passion in Martin’s face. Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. Martin was at his elbow.

“I’m coming in to see your father.”

At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criticisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied.

“Your house has been shut up for some time. Where is your mother?”

“In Nantucket. She loves the shores where her ancestors landed, in sailing vessels.”

“Your mother’s pride of nationality is quite natural; I also feel it.”

“You don’t parade it. My mother makes capital out of it.”

“But,” insisted Mr. Garrison, “you are an American; you were born here; you know no other home. English is your mother tongue.”

“Yes, but race is stronger than language. My people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout in me is hard to suppress.”

There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the subject.

“Are you going into your father’s business?”

“No—I’d smash it with my mad notions.” Then he flashed a bright look. “I’ve been daubing in oil; it’s the only thing that interests me. I shall go to Paris to study, if I live.”

Mr. Garrison was all animation. “That’s very good news. You will live; you’re young, strong.”

“Who knows—America is going into the wholesale slaughter business. She needs butchers.”

“You mean—”

“I think we’ll be pushed into the War.”

Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill in his voice.

“If it comes, we Americans will not be wanting in patriotism.”

Martin didn’t seem to feel the insinuation.

“Patriotism, bah! Who cares? We’ll have to go; if we don’t, they’ll shoot us.”

Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head in his hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been failing for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. McClaren couldn’t discover any organic trouble. Floyd, who watched every change of expression, saw him grow pale.

“Father—you don’t feel well.”

“Oh yes!—but I think I’ll go and rest awhile.”

He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed.

Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand in a mute blessing, then closed his eyes.

To Floyd, the next few weeks were chaotic; time, space, light, darkness lost all meaning. Martin never left him during those black days; always there in the sleepless horror of the night, to read to him, to go out and pace the streets with him, when the walls became insupportable. He would have gone under without Martin.

The funeral over, the will read by Colonel Garland, the sole executor, the few distant relatives from far and near come and gone, Floyd took up again the routine of life. Mr. Garrison had left everything to his son, whom he hoped would marry young and be happy in the old home, leaving it to his son after him. The Garrisons had always lived well, in a modest way, befitting their position. He was sure Floyd would keep up the family tradition. He left money to many philanthropic institutions and to his club where he and his father before him had spent many pleasant hours and where he hoped his boy would sit many years after him.

Colonel Garland, commenting on the will to Martin, said:

“A sane, righteous testament. He was a good man....”