Yet the matter was small in itself.  An Irishman named Doyle owned the site Anthony coveted.  After years of struggle his small grocery had begun to put him on his feet, and now the new development of the neighborhood added to his prosperity.  He was a dried-up, sentimental little man, with two loves, his wife’s memory and his wife’s garden, which he still tended religiously between customers; and one ambition, his son.  With the change from common to park, and the improvement in the neighborhood, he began to flourish, and he, too, like Anthony, dreamed a dream.  He would make his son a gentleman, and he would get a shop assistant and a horse and wagon.  Poverty was still his lot, but there were good times coming.  He saved carefully, and sent Jim Doyle away to college.

He would not sell to Anthony.  When he said he could not sell his wife’s garden, Anthony’s agents reported him either mad or deeply scheming.  They kept after him, offering much more than the land was worth.  Doyle began by being pugnacious, but in the end he took to brooding.

“He’ll get me yet,” he would mutter, standing among the white phlox of his little back garden.  “He’ll get me.  He never quits.”

Anthony Cardew waited a year.  Then he had the frame building condemned as unsafe, and Doyle gave in.  Anthony built his house.  He put a brick stable where the garden had been, and the night watchman for the property complained that a little man, with wild eyes, often spent half the night standing across the street, quite still, staring over.  If Anthony gave Doyle a thought, it was that progress and growth had their inevitable victims.  But on the first night of Anthony’s occupancy of his new house Doyle shot himself beside the stable, where a few stalks of white phlox had survived the building operations.

It never reached the newspapers, nor did a stable-boy’s story of hearing the dying man curse Anthony and all his works.  But nevertheless the story of the Doyle curse on Anthony Cardew spread.  Anthony heard it, and forgot it.  But two days later he was dragged from his carriage by young Jim Doyle, returned for the older Doyle’s funeral, and beaten insensible with the stick of his own carriage whip.

Young Doyle did not run away.  He stood by, a defiant figure full of hatred, watching Anthony on the cobbles, as though he wanted to see him revive and suffer.

“I didn’t do it to revenge my father,” he said at the trial.  “He was nothing to me—­ I did it to show old Cardew that he couldn’t get away with it.  I’d do it again, too.”

Any sentiment in his favor died at that, and he was given five years in the penitentiary.  He was a demoralizing influence there, already a socialist with anarchical tendencies, and with the gift of influencing men.  A fluent, sneering youth, who lashed the guards to fury with his unctuous, diabolical tongue.

The penitentiary had not been moved then.  It stood in the park, a grim gray thing of stone.  Elinor Cardew, a lonely girl always, used to stand in a window of the new house and watch the walls.  Inside there were men who were shut away from all that greenery around them.  Men who could look up at the sky, or down at the ground, but never out and across, as she could.