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SEISMIC DESIGN OF
REINFORCED AND
PRECAST CONCRETE
BUILDINGS

ROBERT E. ENGLEKIRK
Consulting Structural Engineer
and
Adjunct Professor
University of California at San Diego

JOHN WILEY & SONS, INC.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Copyright © 2003 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as
permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior
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the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978)
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addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ
07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, e-mail: [email protected].

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Englekirk, Robert E., 1936–

Seismic design of reinforced and precast concrete buildings / Robert Englekirk.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-471-08122-1
1. Earthquake resistant design. 2. Reinforced concrete construction. 3. Precast concrete
construction. 4. Buildings, Reinforced concrete—Earthquake effects. I. Title.
TA658.44 .E56 2003
693.8'52—dc21 2002008561

Printed in the United States of America.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PREFACE

“Man’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.”
—Oliver Wendell Holmes

Knowledge and imagination are essential components of the design process. Imagina-
tion without knowledge will quite often produce designs that are dangerous. Knowl-
edge absent imagination can only produce designs of limited scope. The development
and integration of these themes is the objective of this book.
My hope is to advance the reader’s ability to design by reducing existing experi-
mentally developed conclusions to design-relevant relationships and limit states. The
reduction of experimental data to a usable form is essential to the design process be-
cause an engineer, faced with a design decision, cannot confidently develop a design
approach from experiment data or basic principles as a part of each design, especially
if the basic principle is not a part of his or her working vocabulary. Behavior mod-
els must also be available to and accepted by the designer. To this end Chapters 1
and 2 review experimental evidence and selected fundamental principles in search of
appropriate design processes and limit states.
My objective in Chapters 1 and 2 is to stretch the reader’s mind, not constrain
a design to a particular approach or set of limit states, for I believe that all design
procedures must be thoroughly understood and accepted by the user if they are to
be appropriately applied. Algorithms, whether contained in a black box or reduced
to napkin form, are an essential part of the designer’s vocabulary. The algorithms
developed herein are presented in sufficient detail so as to allow the user to adapt
them to his or her predilection or interpretation of experimental evidence, and this is
because it is the engineer, not the algorithm, black box, or experimental data, who is
responsible for the building design and safety of the building’s occupants.
Engineers are generally characterized as unimaginative or pedantic in their ap-
proach to problems. This generalization is not supported by historical evidence, which
from a structural perspective includes the creation of ancient structures, medieval
cathedrals, and the modern structures of today, because none of these structures were
developed from scientifically supportable data. Even today, in our modern scien-
tifically based society that probes the universe, the scientific data used to support
xiii
xiv PREFACE

building design are more speculative than scientific. The existence of codified rela-
tionships expressed in four significant figures only tends to suppress an engineer’s
imagination by creating a scientific illusion. Imagination cannot be taught, but it can
be released and encouraged by removing suppressants, and this is the objective of
Chapters 3 and 4.
Imagination can and must be effectively used to apply basic concepts to complex
problems. It is also effectively used to extend experimental evidence. The exploita-
tion of precast concrete as a seismic resisting system clearly demonstrates how imag-
ination can be used to create better structural systems. Exploring all possible uses
of imaginative thinking is impossible so I have tried to develop several imaginative
approaches by example and where possible relate these specific examples to a gener-
alization of the design objective.
Building codes, like dictionaries, are essential tools of the trade. One writes with
the assistance of a dictionary—we do not use the dictionary to write. So it should
be with design, and it is for this reason that I do not choose to describe or explain
design using the building code as a basis. The thrust of this book is to produce
structural systems that can be shown by rational analysis and experimental evidence
to be capable of attaining performance objectives when subjected to design-level
earthquakes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Absent the dedicated efforts of Joan Schulte, who not only typed but managed the
processing of this manuscript; Dan Shubin, who converted my crude sketches to an
art form; and my cardiology team, Drs. Kahn, Natterson, and Robertson, this book
would not exist.
The concepts explored in this book are more simply applied than explained. The
assistance of my associates is gratefully acknowledged and especially that of Nagi
Abo-Shadi, Richard Chen, Robert Liu, and Michael Riddell.
My thanks also to Kimberly Tanouye for her design contribution to the cover.
A special expression of gratitude is also extended to those who have taken the time
and made the effort to translate ideas and research into the written word on the subject
of concrete and earthquake engineering—my good friends and colleagues, Bob Park,
Tom Paulay, and Nigel Priestley.
My hope is that the material contained herein will encourage the development of a
dialogue that will result in a more rational approach to the seismic design of concrete
buildings. The comments of you, the reader, will be appreciated.
I dedicate this book to my family and, in particular, to my wife, Natalie, whose
patience and understanding allowed for its development.
NOMENCLATURE

I have chosen to use both English and metric units so as not to alter the graphic
description of experimental data. The following conversions are standard:

1 m = 39.37 in.
1 kN = 0.2248 kips
1 kN-m = 0.737 ft-kips
1 MPa = 1000 kN/mm2

ADOPTED NOMENCLATURE

A Area, usually subscripted for definition purposes

Aj Effective cross-sectional area within a joint in a plane parallel to plane of
reinforcement generating shear in the joint. The joint depth is the overall
depth of the column. The effective width will depend to a certain extent on
the size of the beams framing into the joint.
Aps Area of prestressed reinforcement in tension zone
As Area of nonprestressed tension reinforcement
As Area of compression reinforcement
Ash Total cross-sectional area of transverse reinforcement (including crossties)
within spacings
Ast Total area of longitudinal reinforcement
A1 Loaded area
xv
xvi NOMENCLATURE

A2 The area of the lower base of the largest frustum of a pyramid, cone, or
tapered wedge contained wholly within the support and having for its upper
base the loaded area and having side slopes of 1 vertical to 2 horizontal
C Compressive force—subscripted when qualification is required
Cd Force imposed on the compression diagonal
D Dead loads; depth of frame
DR Drift ratio (x / hx ) or (n /H )
E Load effects of seismic forces, or related internal moments and forces;
modulus of elasticity usually subscripted to identify material
EI Flexural stiffness
F Loads attributable to strength of provided reinforcement, usually
subscripted to identify condition
Fy Yield strength of structural steel
H Overall height of frame
Icr Moment of inertia of cracked section transformed to concrete
Ie Effective moment of inertia
Ig Moment of inertia of gross concrete section about centroidal axis,
neglecting reinforcement
L Live loads, or related internal moments and forces
M Moment in member, usually subscripted to identify loading condition,
member, or stress state
M Mass subscripted when appropriate to identify (e) effective or (1)
contributing mode
Mbal Nominal moment strength at balanced conditions of strain
Mcr Cracking moment
Mel Elastic moment
Mpr Probable flexural moment strength of members, with or without axial load,
determined using the probable properties of the constitutive materials
N An integer usually applied to number of bays or number of connectors
P Axial load, usually subscripted to identify load type or strength state
Pb Nominal axial load strength at balanced conditions of strain
Po Nominal axial load strength at zero eccentricity
Ppre Prestressing load applied to a high-strength bolt
Q Stability index for a story—elastic basis (see Section 4.3.1)
Q∗ Stability index for a story—inelastic basis (see Section 4.3.1)
R̂ Spectral reduction factor
Sa Spectral acceleration—in./sec
Sag Spectral acceleration expressed as a percentage of the gravitational force g
Sd Spectral displacement
Sv Spectral velocity
 NOMENCLATURE xvii

SF Square feet
U Required strength to resist factored loads or related internal moments and
forces
V Shear force usually quantified to describe associated material or
contributing load
Vc Shear strength provided by concrete
Vch Nominal capacity of the concrete strut in a beam-column joint
VN Component of joint shear strength attributed to the axial load imposed on a
column load
Vsh Nominal strength of diagonal compression field
W Wind load
W Weight (mass) tributary to a bracing system

a Depth of equivalent rectangular stress block, acceleration, shear span

b Width of compression face of member
bw Web width
c Distance from extreme compression fiber to neutral axis
cc Clear cover from the nearest surface in tension to the surface of the flexural
tension reinforcement
d Distance from extreme compression fiber to centroid of tension
reinforcement
d Displacement (peak) of the ground
ḋ Velocity (peak) of the ground
d̈ Acceleration (peak) of the ground
d Distance from extreme compression fiber to centroid of compression
reinforcement
db Bar diameter
ds Distance from extreme compression fiber to centroid of tension conventional
reinforcement
dps Distance from extreme compression fiber to centroid of prestressed
reinforcement
dz Depth of the plate
e Eccentricity of axial load
f Friction factor; measure of stress, usually subscripted to identify condition
of interest
fc Specified compressive strength of concrete
fci Compressive strength of concrete at time of initial prestress


fci Square root of compressive strength of concrete at time of initial prestress
fcr Critical buckling stress
fct Average splitting tensile strength of aggregate concrete
xviii NOMENCLATURE

fcg Stress in the grout

fpse Effective stress in prestressed reinforcement (after allowance for all
prestress losses)
fpy Specified yield strength of prestressing tendons
fr Modulus of rupture of concrete
fs Calculated stress in reinforcement
fsc Stress in compression steel
fy Specified yield strength of reinforcement
fyh Specified yield strength in hoop reinforcing
h Overall thickness of member
hc Cross-sectional dimension of column core measured center-to-center of
confining reinforcement
hn Height of the uppermost level of a frame
hw Height of entire wall or of the segment of wall considered
hx Maximum horizontal spacing of hoop or crosstie legs on all faces of the
column; story height
k Effective length factor for compression members; system stiffness usually
subscripted to identify objective
kel Elastic stiffness
ksec Secant stiffness
kd Depth of neutral axis—elastic behavior is assumed
- Span length of beam center to center of supporting column
-c Clear span of beam from face to face of supporting column
-d Development length for a straight bar
-dh Development length for a bar with a standard hook
-w Length of entire wall or of segment of wall considered in direction of shear
force
n An integer usually applied to number of floors
r Radius of gyration of cross section of a compression member
s Spacing of transverse reinforcement
tg Thickness of grout
w Unit weight
wz Width of steel plate
yt Distance from centroidal axis of gross section, neglecting reinforcement, to
extreme fiber in tension

α Factor in bar development length evaluation. 1.3 for top bars, 1.0 for bottom
bars. See ACI, [2.6] Eq. 12.2.2
β Coating factor. See ACI, [2.6] Eq. 12.2.2
 NOMENCLATURE xix

β1 Factor that defines the relationship between the depth of the compressive
stress block and the neutral axis depth, c [2.6]
γp Postyield shearing angle
1 Participation factor
δu Member or component displacement
 An increment of force, stress, or strain
n Relative lateral deflection between the uppermost level and base of a
building
x Relative lateral deflection between the top and bottom of a story
ε Strain—usually subscripted to describe material or strain state
ζ Structural damping coefficient expressed as a percentage of critical
damping
ζ̂ Total damping coefficient expressed as a percentage of critical damping
θ Rotation
λ Lightweight aggregate concrete factor
λo Component or member overstrength factor that describes overstrength
expected in a member
µ Ductility factor usually subscripted; bond stress; friction factor
µ Displacement ductility factor
µε Strain ductility factor
µθ Rotation ductility factor
µφ Curvature ductility factor
ρ Ratio of nonprestressed tension reinforcement, As /bd
ρ Ratio of nonprestressed compression reinforcement, As /bd
ρb Reinforcement ratio producing balanced strain conditions
ρg Ratio of total reinforcement area to cross-sectional area of column
ρs Ratio of volume of spiral reinforcement to total volume of core (out-to-out
of spirals) of a spirally reinforced compression member
ρv Ratio of area of distributed reinforcement perpendicular to the plane of Acv
to gross concrete area Acv
φ Curvature, rad/in.; capacity-based reduction factor; strength reduction
factor
φe Normalized elastic displacement (i /u )
φk Stiffness reduction factor
φp Probable overstrength of the steel
ω Reinforcement index ρfy /fc
ω Reinforcement index ρ  fy /fc
ωp Reinforcement index ρp fps /fc
<o System overstrength factor
xx NOMENCLATURE

SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTS

Special subscripts will follow a notational form to the extent possible. Multiple
subscripts will be used where appropriate, and they will be developed as follows:

1. s, u, n, p, pr, y, i, max, and M will be used to describe member strength or de-

formation state:
s, service or stress limit state (unfactored)
u, ultimate or factored capacity (strength)
n, nominal capacity
p, postyield
pr, probable
i, idealized
y, yield
max, maximum permitted
min, minimum permitted
M, mechanism
2. c, b, s, f , and p will be used to describe a member category or characterize a
system behavior condition:
c, column
b, beam
s, shear component of deformation
f , flexural component of deformation
p, postyield component of deformation
3. e, i will be used to describe a location; i will also be used to identify an idealized
condition such as yield:
e, exterior beam or column
i, interior beam or column
4. L, D, E will be used to describe a load condition:
L, live load
D, dead load
E, earthquake load
5. A, B, C, L, R and 1, 2 will be used to locate an event with reference to a specific
plan grid or point:
L, left
R, right
Example:
Mcui MbCsD MuD
Interior Dead load Dead load
Ultimate or factored Unfactored Factored
Column Grid line C
Beam
 NOMENCLATURE xxi

6. Capitalized subscripts will be used to describe the stress class and its location:
B, bottom
C, compression
CB, compression bottom
CT, compression top
T, top, tension, transverse
TB, tension bottom
TT, tension top
7. Special subscripts will be used to identify the following:
a, attainable or average
d, design, as in design basis
D, degrading or diaphragm
ed, energy dissipater
g, grout
SDOF, single-degree-of-freedom system
CONTENTS

PREFACE xiii

NOMENCLATURE xv

INTRODUCTION 1

1 BASIC CONCEPTS 7
1.1 Ductility—A System Behavior Enhancer 8
1.1.1 Impact on Behavior 9
1.1.2 Impact of Strength Degradation on Response 13
1.1.3 Quantifying the Response of Structures to Ground
Motion 14
1.1.4 Strength-Based Design 22
1.1.4.1 Identifying a Design Strength Objective 22
1.1.4.2 Creating a Ductile Structure 24
1.1.5 Displacement-Based Design 26
1.1.5.1 Equal Displacement-Based Design 28
1.1.5.2 Direct Displacement-Based Design 31
1.1.6 System Ductility 33
1.1.7 Recommended Displacement-Based Design
Procedure 44
v
vi CONTENTS

1.1.8 Selecting Design Strength Objectives 49

1.1.9 Concluding Remarks 51
1.2 Confinement—A Component Behavior Enhancement 54
1.2.1 Impact of Confining Pressure on Strength 54
1.2.2 High-Strength Concrete (HSC) 59
1.2.2.1 Ductility 61
1.2.2.2 High-Strength Ties 62
1.2.2.3 Higher Axial Loads 63
1.3 Shear 64
1.3.1 Shear Strength 65
1.3.2 Shear Transfer across Concrete Discontinuities 82
1.3.3 Passively Activated Shear Transfer Mechanisms 86
Selected References 90

2 COMPONENT BEHAVIOR AND DESIGN 92

2.1 Beams 93
2.1.1 Postyield Behavior—Flexure 95
2.1.1.1 Experimentally Based Conclusions—General
Discussion 95
2.1.1.2 Predicting Postyield Deformation Limit States 107
2.1.1.3 Impact of Shear and Confinement on Behavior 112
2.1.1.4 Importance of Detailing 116
2.1.1.5 Modeling Considerations 120
2.1.2 Designing the Frame Beam 122
2.1.2.1 Beam-Column Joint Considerations 124
2.1.2.2 Reinforcing Details 126
2.1.2.3 Beam Shear Demand 129
2.1.2.4 Column Shear Demand 131
2.1.2.5 Available Ductility 133
2.1.2.6 Design Process Summary 135
2.1.2.7 Example Designs 135
 CONTENTS vii

2.1.3 Analyzing the Frame Beam 144

2.1.3.1 Analysis Process Summary 146
2.1.3.2 Example Analysis 149
2.1.3.3 Postyield Behavior 163
2.1.4 Precast Concrete Beams 166
2.1.4.1 Moment Transfer 168
2.1.4.2 Shear Transfer 172
2.1.4.3 Composite Systems 173
2.1.4.4 Post-Tensioned Assemblages 185
2.1.4.5 Bolted Assemblages 216
2.1.4.6 Experimental Confirmation 222
2.2 The Beam Column 244
2.2.1 Strength Limit States 245
2.2.1.1 Developing an Interaction Diagram 247
2.2.1.2 Design Relationships 250
2.2.2 Experimentally Based Conclusions 251
2.2.2.1 Strength 251
2.2.2.2 Strain States 255
2.2.2.3 Stiffness 263
2.2.3 Conceptual Design of the Beam Column 264
2.2.3.1 Estimating Probable Levels of Demand 264
2.2.3.2 Sizing the Beam Column 270
2.2.3.3 Story Mechanism Considerations 275
2.2.3.4 Design Process Summary 276
2.2.3.5 Example Designs 278
2.2.4 Analyzing the Beam Column 292
2.3 Beam-Column Joints 296
2.3.1 Behavior Mechanisms 296
2.3.1.1 Bond Stresses 300
2.3.1.2 Biaxially Loaded Joints 301
viii CONTENTS

2.3.1.3 Exterior Joints 301

2.3.1.4 Eccentric Beams 301

2.3.2 Experimentally Based Conclusions 302
2.3.3 Impact of High-Strength Concrete 310
2.3.4 Impact of Joint Reinforcing 312
2.3.5 Bond Deterioration within the Beam-Column Joint 314
2.3.6 Design Procedure 314
2.3.7 Design Example 321
2.3.8 Precast Concrete Beam-Column Joints—DDC
Applications 322
2.3.8.1 Experimentally Based Conclusions 322
2.3.8.2 Beam-Column Joint Design Procedures 332
2.3.9 Precast Concrete Beam-Column Joints—Hybrid
System 335
2.3.9.1 Experimentally Based Conclusions—Interior
Beam-Column Joint 335
2.3.9.2 Design Procedures—Interior Beam-Column
Joints 341
2.3.9.3 Design Procedures—Exterior Beam-Column
Joints 344
2.3.9.4 Corner Hybrid Beam-Column Joints 345
2.4 Shear Dominated Systems 348
2.4.1 Tall Thin Walls 349
2.4.1.1 Experimentally Based Conclusions 349
2.4.1.2 Design Procedures 374
2.4.1.3 Design Summary 387
2.4.1.4 Design Example 389
2.4.2 Shear Walls with Openings 402
2.4.2.1 Coupling Beams 402
2.4.2.2 Analytical Modeling of the Coupling Beam 417
2.4.2.3 Design Procedures—Coupling Beams 425
 CONTENTS ix

2.4.2.4 Coupled Shear Walls with Stacked Openings—

Design Process and Example 437
2.4.2.5 Capped and Belted Shear Walls 455
2.4.2.6 Shear Walls with Randomly Placed Openings 471
2.4.3 Precast Concrete Shear Walls 484
2.4.3.1 Experimental Efforts 485
2.4.3.2 Experimentally Inferred Conclusions—Hybrid
Precast Wall System 514
2.4.3.3 Design Procedures 514
2.4.3.4 Example Design—Ten-Story Shear Wall 519
Selected References 530

3 SYSTEM DESI 533

3.1 Shear Wall Braced Buildings 534
3.1.1 Shear Walls of Equivalent Stiffness 534
3.1.1.1 Alternative Shear Wall Design Procedures 536
3.1.1.2 Analyzing the Design Processes 561
3.1.1.3 Conceptual Design Review 564
3.1.1.4 Summarizing the Design Process 571
3.1.2 Shear Walls of Varying Lengths 576
3.1.2.1 Alternative Design Methodologies 576
3.1.2.2 Suggested Design Approach 593
3.1.3 Coupled Shear Walls—Design Confirmation 597
3.1.4 Precast Concrete Shear Walls 615
3.1.4.1 Hybrid Wall System—Equal Displacement-Based
Design (EBD, Section 3.1.1) 621
3.1.4.2 Hybrid Wall System—Direct Displacement Design
Procedure 639
3.1.4.3 Vertically Jointed Wall Panels 648
3.2 Frame Braced Buildings 662
3.2.1 Design Objectives and Methodologies 662
3.2.1.1 How to Avoid Lower Level Mechanisms 669
x CONTENTS

3.2.2 Force- or Strength-Based Design Procedures 669

3.2.3 Displacement-Based Design 680
3.2.3.1 Building Model 680
3.2.3.2 Single-Degree-of-Freedom (SDOF) Model 689
3.2.4 Precast Concrete Frame—Direct Displacement-Based
Design 691
3.2.4.1 DDC Frame 694
3.2.4.2 Hybrid Frame 700
3.2.4.3 Precast Frame Beam Designs 702
3.2.5 Irregular Frames 704
3.2.6 Frame Design Evaluation by Sequential Yield
Analysis 711
3.2.6.1 What Constitutes Good Behavior? 712
3.2.6.2 P Concerns and Modeling Assumptions 713
3.2.6.3 Behavior Review—Frame 3 (Table 3.2.1) 718
3.2.6.4 Frame 3—Consequences of Alternative
Strengths 729
3.2.6.5 Behavior Review—Irregular Frame 734
3.2.6.6 Behavior Review—Precast Frame Systems 736
3.3 Diaphragms 738
3.3.1 Design Approach 738
3.3.2 Estimating Diaphragm Response 740
3.3.3 Establishing the Strength Limit State of a Diaphragm 746
3.3.4 Precast Concrete Diaphragms 753
3.3.4.1 Composite Diaphragms 753
3.3.4.2 Pretopped Precast Concrete Diaphragms 754
3.4 Design Process Overview 757
3.4.1 System Ductility 758
3.4.2 Capacity Considerations 758
3.4.3 Recommended Design Approach 759
Selected References 762
 CONTENTS xi

4 DESIGN CONFIRMATION 763

4.1 Response of Shear Wall Braced Buildings to Ground Motion 764

4.1.1 Testing the Equal Displacement Hypothesis 768

4.1.2 Impact of Design Strength on Response 776

4.2 Frame Braced Buildings 780
4.2.1 Impact of Design Strength on Performance 780
4.2.2 Impact of Modeling Assumptions 784
4.2.3 Distribution of Postyield Deformations 794
4.2.4 Design/Behavior Reconciliation 797
4.2.5 Postyield Beam Rotations 800
4.2.6 Evaluating Column Behavior 800
4.2.7 Response of Irregular Frame 802
®
4.2.8 Response of Precast Concrete Frames—DDC 806
4.3 Behavior Imponderables 807
4.3.1 System Stability Considerations 807
4.3.2 Torsion 810
Selected References 814

INDEX 815
INTRODUCTION

“ . . . the shoe that fits one person pinches another.”

—Carl Gustav Jung

This book is primarily about design, which, as I use the term, is the creative process
that seeks the proper blend of essential ingredients—specifically function, aesthetics,
economy, and, in the context of this book, seismic behavior. There exists no single
formula for creating a good design, for the design process involves making a set of
decisions on issues for which no absolutely right answer exists. Thus the designer is
continually seeking a comfortable rationally based design solution, and two identical
solutions are not likely to be produced even successively by the same constructive
designer.
Tools are essential to the completion of almost every task. I have tried to assemble,
in as concise a form as possible, the tools necessary to the pursuit of a good design.
From the extensive library of experimental efforts, I have selected representative
works and demonstrated how both strength and deformation limit states might be
predicted. Next, I review alternative design approaches and, in the process, simplify
and adapt them to specific types of bracing systems. Finally I describe how designs
might be comprehensively reviewed.
The focus of the book is concrete and the emphasis is on precast concrete. I
have limited the scope to the satisfaction of seismic behavior objectives because the
topic is complex and, though extensively studied and codified, not necessarily well
understood by the structural design profession. The fact that seismic design can be
reduced to an understandable level that can be creatively introduced into a building
program makes it an ideal vehicle to study the design process.
Concrete as a composite material provides a medium that encourages freedom.
The design of structures constructed using composite materials is not peculiar to the
materials selected for any combination of dissimilar materials must satisfy the same
basic fundamental laws and this is because equilibrium, compatibility, and adherence
to the appropriate stress-strain relationship must always be attained. Accordingly,
the choice of concrete as a vehicle should not be viewed as a constraint on the
applicability of the material contained herein.
1
2 INTRODUCTION

Precast concrete is but one creative extension of the use of concrete. It is an

especially important extension because the prefabrication of structures can and will
be required to meet the needs of society. The use of precast concrete has traditionally
been viewed with skepticism in regions considered to have a potential for seismic
activity. This is largely the result of a lack of understanding of the basic nature
of seismic behavior and how the attributes of precast concrete can be exploited to
improve behavior. The designer of a precast concrete structure, armed with the proper
tools, can create a structure that will not only survive an earthquake, but do so with
very little, if any, damage. To accomplish this lofty objective requires only that the
designer take advantage of the jointed nature of the assemblage of precast elements.
To present the seismic design of precast concrete as a stand-alone topic would
limit the usefulness of the treatment because a consistent base is critical to both
explaining and understanding the behavior of precast concrete members and systems.
Accordingly, the basic elements of both seismic behavior and the behavior and design
of concrete must precede any treatment of precast concrete. The precast concrete
seismic systems whose design is described in some detail herein are only intended to
be examples of what can be accomplished with creative thinking. The objective then
is to inspire creative applications of a versatile product.
The design process must be free and dynamic to be effective. Accordingly, a design
must move aggressively to make the many decisions required in an orderly fashion
with a minimum amount of distraction. The process usually starts by tackling the
most difficult decision(s) first and, when necessary, looking quickly downstream in
the decision-making process to confirm that potential problems do, in fact, have a
solution.
I endeavor to place emphasis on the primary objectives of the design process and
relieve, or at least loosen wherever possible, the ever-increasing number of prescrip-
tive constraints being imposed on designs. This is especially important because the
concept development (creative) part of a design must focus on the broader objectives
and leave the details to the development of the concept. The importance of detail is
not discounted by this apparent deferral, for the completed design package must be
very clear on how the broader objectives are accomplished. It is this almost subliminal
awareness of detail that will allow the focus essential to the creation of an excellent
design.
Creative design clearly does not allow regimentation, and this makes it almost
impossible to present design as a subject. My effort toward regimentation is limited
to subdividing the presented material into four broad categories, but even this is not
adhered to strictly. Chapter 1 discusses selected basic concepts. The objective is to
provide the designer with the basic insight necessary to the effective development
of a design. A comprehensive treatment of each topic would, in most cases, take
volumes and tend to obscure the basic concepts and objectives. I have tried to identify
references for the reader who is not satisfied with the brevity of treatment contained
herein. Fortunately and unfortunately, the expanded treatment of many of the basic
concepts presented herein has reached a level of development far beyond the technical
capability of most of us. The fortunate aspect is that most of the theory is finding
its way into computer applications that, if properly applied and understood, should
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Anna complied. The tale had, indeed, been told many a time before
in Farleigh to the end of the Hollow; but though no narrator had
ever before employed such a jargon of slang as the other Miller girl
used, perhaps none had ever told it better nor more sympathetically.
The telling of it amused and interested Alice Lorraine, who was
already more drawn towards Anna Miller than she had been to any
girl she had known before, but it affected her mother more
powerfully. Henrietta Lorraine (‘Hetty’ was the little girl of the farm)
had been for years a cold, proud woman, a slave, unconsciously, to
her husband’s vast possessions. During the past six months,
following the disgrace of her husband and his commitment to prison,
her pride had become a sort of fierce arrogance, while her sense of
injury, her bitterness towards all the world had shut her within bars
hard as iron. But now as she sat quiet, the tension of months
relaxed, with the kitten in her arms, and listened to the tale the odd,
droll, charmingly pretty, appealing young girl rattled off so flippantly,
something began to melt within her. Nor was it merely the icy crust
that had protected her crushed feelings of late. As the kindly folk of
the story rose compellingly before her, called forth by the wand of
humourous sympathy of the yellow-haired fairy, and she saw not
only Reuben Cartwright and the forlorn cat, but Miss Penny and Mr.
Langley, the fat pony and the fat janitor who later was nearly to
burn the grammar school building to the ground,—as she saw all this
and more, the woman she had been for years was so moved that
she felt almost like the woman she might and should have been.
Alice got only the story Anna told. Her mother, who had been a
country child herself and whose natural sympathy was with country
folk and ways, got a broader view and a deeper vision. She felt
something genuine and fine and sincere and worth while in this bit
of village life,—something that was attainable to others. And it came
to her that possibly Alice’s life and even her own weren’t irretrievably
ruined and wrecked. In any event, terrible as had been the storm
which had overwhelmed them, in the restful atmosphere of this
place to which they had been forced to crawl for refuge, they could
at least draw long breaths of relief, and Alice might later find more
than refuge and relief.
At the end of the story, Anna rose hastily. “I must hike or Miss Penny
will be limping round to get tea,” she said. “Poor dear! She doesn’t
drive the fat pony herself now-a-days and can’t get out of the
phaeton alone for she has rheumatism; but she is as crazy about
kittens as I am and will be as pleased to hear that this mite has a
home.”
Holding out her hand a bit timidly, the girl was surprised to have
Mrs. Lorraine press it warmly.
“We are very grateful to you, Anna Miller, not only for the kitten but
for other things, for changing the current of our thoughts,” she said.
The following Sunday, Alice Lorraine appeared at church with Miss
Penny and Anna. Her suit was not new but it was more elegant than
anything worn in Farleigh. Alice was extremely pretty and had the
look of one who has, so to speak, always lain on rose leaves, and
Anna felt proud to walk up the aisle with such a distinguished-
looking girl. Miss Penny begged her to go home with them after
service but Alice wouldn’t leave her mother. She walked down to the
Hollow the next afternoon, however.
She couldn’t stay for tea, but Anna gave her a piece of cake and a
cup of chocolate. As Anna walked part way home with her, she
spoke of the cake.
“I wish I could cook,” she said. “I know nothing whatever about it,
and mother knows only what she learned before she was twelve,
and cook-books are such queer things to follow. I don’t mind eating
tinned things, but it’s hard on mother, though she never says
anything. And besides,—O Anna, you wouldn’t believe it, but I hardly
know my mother. At home after I was through with nurses and
governesses, she went her way and I mine as everyone seems to do
in the city. And now—I care for her more than I ever dreamed, but I
don’t seem to be able to show it or to take care of her.”
Anna talked it over with Miss Penny that night and on Saturday
morning Alice came over and watched Anna make bread, cake and
cookies. Miss Penny was in the kitchen the greater part of the time
and Alice took to the odd, inconsecutive, warm-hearted little lady as
warmly as others had always done, so that on a second Saturday
they were like three girls together. Alice began to frequent the house
at all hours. And Miss Penny, who was one of the best housewives in
the two villages and who had taught Rusty and Anna and through
them their mother, gave the girl the best of instruction in cooking
and all sorts of domestic matters, besides amusing and entertaining
her with other stories than the tale of Reuben and the tramp cat
which she gravely related to Alice the first time the two were alone
together.
“O Miss Penny, the days fly by as they never did before and I wake
so happy every morning that I am ashamed of myself!” Alice cried
one afternoon as she waited for Anna to come from the academy.
“Ashamed, Alice?”
The girl paled. “Yes, Miss Penny, because of my father. You know
about him?”
“Yes, dear, I know. At first I was sorry that people in the village
should know, but now I really think it best. After all, newcomers are
discussed just so much, and—of course there aren’t many
newcomers now-a-days—not that there ever were many. Anna’s
family were the last to move into Farleigh before you and your
mother. That was when Freddy was a baby—Freddy, you know isn’t
the one who looks after my pony. That’s Frank. He does very well,
but of course Reuben taught him, and Rusty’s brother—and of
course, Anna’s—couldn’t help doing well. But I felt as if I ought to
sell both the cows. It’s a pity for Seth Miller with all his work to have
to keep the milking in mind. There’s only the one cow—Mr. Mudge is
keeping the other—and Seth thinks the world of Reuben and knows
Reuben would feel terribly to have the other cow disposed of—I
don’t mean killed of course, though that is the way they speak of
killing poor cats and kittens. And that reminds me, Alice. How is
yours?”
As Alice would have replied, a peculiar knock sounded on the door.
Alice asked if she should answer it. But Miss Penny, whose face had
lighted up, said that it was Mr. Langley, and that he would let himself
in.
“He raps in a peculiar way—it’s really a bar of music. He and
Reuben’s father always used it. He—O Mr. Langley, how good you
are!”
“Good to myself, yes indeed. I am really self-indulgent when I come
in here, Miss Penny.”
“I appeal to you, Miss Lorraine,” he said as he shook hands with the
girl. “Do you consider it an act of goodness or the gratification of a
desire for refreshment to come to see Miss Penny?”
“It’s a case of receiving wholly on my part,” asserted Alice with a shy
smile for Miss Penny.
“I interrupted a conversation. Pray go on with it and allow me to
listen,” he begged.
“Dear me, Mr. Langley, I am ashamed to say that for the moment I
can’t recollect what we were discussing,” said Miss Penny in dismay.
Alice smiled, but wanly. “I was telling Miss Penny that I am really too
happy, Mr. Langley,” she said. “I am happier than I have ever been
before. As far back as I can remember, the days were always long, I
got tired of everything and was bored the greater part of the time. I
cared for nothing but my music, and I never enjoyed that as I do
going about with Anna and listening to Miss Penny and learning to
make bread and doughnuts. And—there’s poor mother at home
thinking of—my father. And I-I have to make myself think of him.”
“But my dear Miss Lorraine, you are doing this in large part for your
mother. You are sitting at the feet of Miss Penny in order to learn
how to make one of the most attractive cottages ever built into a
real home for her. And while you are broadening your life with these
new influences which seem more congenial than those you have
known before, no doubt you are enriching your mother’s life as well?
You tell her of all that takes place, I dare say?”
“Everything. And she is interested and forgets—for a little. And Anna
goes in and—mother loves Anna already.”
He turned smilingly to Miss Penny. “Anna is more like you, Miss
Penny, after all, than any other of your foster children,” he said and
then went on talking to Alice.
As he rose to take leave, he told Alice he hoped her mother might
meet Miss Penny before long. At the door, he kept her a minute.
“Don’t feel guilty when you forget your father and don’t force
yourself to think of him, Miss Lorraine,” he said earnestly. “Open
your whole heart to the new life and help your mother in her much
harder task of reconciling herself to a new future. Write your father,
and if he gets the impression he should from your letters, he will
conclude that your life isn’t going to be spoiled and—why, that will
surely make a great difference to him.”
There was a blur before the girl’s eyes so that she couldn’t see the
minister’s figure at the gate. Instead of returning to the sitting-room
she stole upstairs for a few minutes of silence in Anna’s large, pretty
chamber where she was always free to go.
Entering the room, she started at sight of a figure on the bed. As
she saw that it was Anna and that her face was buried in the pillow,
her heart grew cold. What had happened. Or hadn’t anything
happened? Was it that, all the while the girl was devoted to other
interests than her own, some secret sorrow was eating at her heart?
 CHAPTER VII
EARLY the following afternoon Anna Miller made her way to the
parsonage.
She announced the fact immediately that she couldn’t stay long to-
day. For already the clever girl had, as she put it, ‘sized up’ the lady
of the parsonage and knew better than to wait until later and then
‘spring’ the unwelcome fact upon her.
“O Anna, with all the long week, counting Sunday, and with a long
forenoon on Saturday, it seems as if you might spare me Saturday
afternoon,” protested the invalid.
“I can usually, Mrs. Langley, but you see I am going away Monday
morning early and there’s my packing and ever so many things to
attend to besides going over home, as I always do on Saturday, to
see if ma’s clothes and pa’s ties and shirts and the boys’ are in
Sunday-go-to-meeting shape,” Anna explained.
She waited for Mrs. Langley to ask where she was going or to evince
some interest in her journey. Not that she was the sort of person to
crave such attention. But the more she saw of Mrs. Langley, the
more she realized how self-centered her life had made her. In a
certain sense, it wasn’t her fault. But for the sake of Mr. Langley, his
wife must somehow be induced to think of other folk or other
concerns than herself, her dead baby, and the baby’s tombstone.
And in that the only person she really had anything to do with was
Anna it would have been encouraging to have her show some faint
interest in her comings and goings when they did not lead to the
parsonage, or the cemetery on yonder hillside.
But Mrs. Langley’s only concern was for her precious Saturday.
“But you will surely be back before the end of the week, Anna?” she
asked.
“I suppose I shall,” said Anna soberly. “But I may not be able to
come here for a fortnight. I shall have a lot of studying to do to
make up my work at school.”
“Isn’t Mr. Langley on the school committee?” demanded his wife.
Wondering at her acquaintance with even so little of current history,
Anna told her that he was chairman.
“Very well. Then he can arrange so that you needn’t make up the
time and you can come here just the same.”
“O Mrs. Langley, I don’t think he could or would do that, and
anyhow I wouldn’t have him,” Anna protested. “For after all, I’m
really crazy about school. I believe I like it all the better for knowing
the world a bit. As a matter of fact, you know, I could give Mr.
Phillips points. And I couldn’t not make up certain things. For
example, there’s the Peloponnesian War. The plague began
yesterday and,—O dear, like as not when I get back I shall find the
whole bunch stark dead. And then there are those poor Helvetians
all packed up and ready to hike with their babies and cattle and pups
and duds and all,—and those blooming Roman soldiers ready to
drive ’em straight back. I’ve simply got to see what happened to
them. They had pluck—and yet, I can’t for the life of me understand
how they had the heart to burn down their houses and their fields of
grain. I dare say it showed their faith in God, but they might have
wanted to show their grandchildren years afterwards where they had
lived.”
“I don’t remember ever hearing about them. Are they in the Bible,
Anna?” Mrs. Langley asked, and before Anna could answer, bade her
tell their tale.
Surprised and delighted, the girl complied. Not at all a scholar, Anna
Miller nevertheless gleaned all sorts of riches from text books that
are desert wastes to the majority of young folk. And now, relating
the history of the Helvetians so far as she had followed it, in the
graphic account Julius Caesar gives of the unhappy impulse towards
migration of these people pent up in an inland island, she made it as
interesting as a fairy tale to a child. Mrs. Langley listened spell-
bound. And though Anna was disappointed to have her hark back to
her usual subject, even the momentary interest in something foreign
to it counted for something.
“It must have been hardest of all for them to leave their graveyards
behind them,” she murmured, “for mothers to leave their babies’
graves.”
“And widows their husbands’,” Anna added. “And yet, Mrs. Langley,
there’s worse than that. Now my friend that I am going back to the
city to see lost her husband in the summer and now she’s sick
herself, and there’s her baby. If she should—well, it must be no end
harder for one to think of dying and leaving one’s baby alone in the
world than to move away from somewhere and leave the grave of a
baby whose soul is all safe.”
“Your friend must be older than you, Anna,” Mrs. Langley observed
irrelevantly.
“Two years, but we were the best of friends. She was at the ribbons
with me at Mason and Martin’s and Joe was at the soda fountain. He
was the nicest boy—and the thinnest! My goodness! Matches would
seem as big as the pillars of the Squire Bennet place at Wenham
compared with his legs. He and Bessy were married and went to
housekeeping in two rooms and were happy as kings. Joe was sick
after a while and Bessy came back to work beside me. Then the
baby came and Joe went back to work before he was able. He
looked so bum they wouldn’t have him at the soda fountain but put
him in the stock-room where his poor phiz, that looked for all the
world like an interrogation point, wouldn’t queer the whole concern.
It must have been awfully hard for him there, but he stuck it out
until last August when he died. And now poor Bessy thinks she’s
dying and wants to see me.”
“I hate to have you go,” said the invalid with some warmth, and
even thought to ask who was going with her.
“O, I’m going by my lone. I’m good for it. But I think I will put up my
hair so as to look more responsible.”
“O Anna, don’t do that. I wouldn’t have you do that for the world!”
cried Mrs. Langley. “I like it just as it is. You see it is just the colour
my baby’s would have been and I was in hopes hers would be curly,
too. I should never have braided hers, though.”
Anna forgot that she ought to be on her way home and pulled her
braid over her shoulder and looked at it admiringly.
“I wish you would undo it and let me see it all spread out,” Mrs.
Langley said almost eagerly. And Anna was more than ready to
gratify her curiosity.
Untying the bow at the end of the long, heavy, wavy plait, she
loosed the strands and spread out the silky yellow mass until it
enveloped her like a golden mantle. Mrs. Langley leaned towards
her, gazing on the splendour in fascination, reaching out presently to
stroke it with her lean witch’s fingers. And whenever Anna made a
move to gather it in she uttered a cry of protest. And the vain girl
yielded and forgot everything except to wish that there were a
mirror in the room.
But when the clock struck five, she started, quite aghast. Seizing her
hat and jacket, she said an hasty farewell and fled, the cloud of her
hair all about her.
As she went, people rushed to their windows to see the girl’s
wonderful hair, gazing spell-bound until she was out of sight.
Afterwards, when they got their breath, some said the other Miller
girl had assurance to flaunt her single charm thus boldly. But no one
so took the matter to heart as the Reverend Russell Langley, who
met her as he returned from a call at the Hollow.
Anna hadn’t time even to pause, and Mr. Langley thought she was
ashamed to do so. He took it for granted that the girl had set out
from home with this almost immodest splendour of yellow tresses all
about her simply to display it, and he felt bewildered and ashamed
and grieved. He shook his head sadly. He had known that Anna was
vain—everyone knew it. But her vanity had always seemed innocent
and harmless, a part of her droll charm. The girl had seemed too
unselfish, too eagerly active in behalf of others, to have leisure or
desire for deliberate advertising of her own beauty. She was, he had
to acknowledge now, quite different from Rusty. He began to
understand why people referred to her as the other Miller girl.
Reaching home, he found, after much searching, a sermon on
humility he had preached fifteen years before. Putting aside the
sermon he had ready for the morrow, he began to revise this.
Revision turned out to mean re-writing practically the whole
discourse, and it was midnight before he rose from his desk. The
new sermon was less severe and dogmatic than the one of the man
of thirty which it replaced, but its tone was wholesome and effective.
And though the preached hoped that Anna Miller would not realise
that her vanity had been the occasion of it, he trusted that she
would nevertheless take the precepts to heart.
As it was, Anna listened gravely, as she almost invariably did, to
every word of the sermon. But she did not forget to flop her yellow
braid over her shoulder and as the choir rose to sing, and her sweet,
true voice rang out, the girl was not unaware that she was
conspicuous for that as well as for her personal appearance.
But she had forgotten all that when she went in to see Mrs. Lorraine
that afternoon to thank her for allowing Alice to make it possible for
her to go to her friend. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Lorraine had been
shocked when Alice came home Friday evening and told her of the
offer she had made to take Anna’s place at Miss Penny’s while she
was away. She declared that Alice should not do it. The bitterness
which had seemed to disappear had come back, and Alice had been
greatly disturbed. Mrs. Lorraine had finally yielded grudgingly, but
she felt hurt and injured and there had been a perceptible coolness
between mother and daughter since. They had never been close
together, but of late they had been nearer to one another than ever
before. The more Alice associated with Anna and Miss Penny, the
more yearningly her heart went out towards her mother, and this
coldness that was almost estrangement hurt her keenly.
She was grateful that Anna did not feel any want of cordiality in her
mother. Mrs. Lorraine received her thanks quietly and when Anna
explained the situation listened intently and questioned her
sympathetically. And she asked, almost impulsively, if Anna wasn’t
tired out.
“It’s just that I seem pulled so many ways at once, Mrs. Lorraine,”
Anna said. “Really, I ought not to be at Miss Penny’s. With Rusty at
college, I ought to be at home. Ma and pa need a daughter there
the worst way. I get over all I can, but they’re so glad to see me and
so sorry to have me go just across the street that it breaks my heart.
But someone has to be with Miss Penny. She was goodness itself to
Rusty and to the whole family, and I love her as if she were my
favorite aunt of all and just love to be with her. And now there’s Mrs.
Langley. She’s queer. Dick’s hatband had nothing on her when it
comes to being odd. And yet I take to her and would enjoy sort of
mothering her if it didn’t take me away from Miss Penny and my own
family. And then again, there’s Mr. Langley.”
On a sudden, tears filled the girl’s eyes. But she smiled through
them.
“It’s rum to be so popular, isn’t it Alice?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you
think I was Brother Atlas or Father Time? The fact is, I’m only the
other Miller girl trying to pretend I’m Charley-on-the-spot.”
Mrs. Lorraine bent and kissed her. “You are a dear, absurd, unselfish
child!” she cried warmly. “And if ever there’s anything Alice or I can
do to help you out in any way, you must come straight to us. Mustn’t
she, Alice?”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Alice with shining eyes, and coming to her
mother kissed her shyly.
Both girls would have thought that Mrs. Lorraine had unbent as far
as possible. But she was to go yet further. On the afternoon of the
first day Alice spent with her, Miss Penny had Frank Miller drive her
over to Farleigh with the fat pony. She returned with Mrs. Lorraine,
whom she had persuaded to visit her as long as Alice stayed. Mrs.
Lorraine was as much surprised as her daughter, but somehow,
there was no resisting Miss Penny.
She expected to spend the greater part of her time in her chamber,
but she did no such thing though she was left free. The housework
was inconsiderable. Alice, who took to it strangely, loved to help Miss
Penny, who wasn’t willing to relinquish the whole. But Mrs. Lorraine
found herself wishing to be near the centre of things in the kitchen
or living-room and drifted thither before the first forenoon was over.
It seemed to her that the very thing her sore heart and worn nerves
had craved was to bask in the homely warmth of this simple, cosy
household. For the first day she sat in an arm chair with Silvertoes,
who had been included in the invitation, in her lap. But on the
second, she felt, after another wonderful night, so much alive that
she wished to be active. She said to Miss Penny that she should like
to learn to cook—to complete an education in domestic matters
begun in her childhood and interrupted by the receipt of a large
inheritance which drove her family off the farm. Wherefore, at Miss
Penny’s suggestion, Alice was sent off nutting, and the two women
had a long, happy morning together.
An inborn taste for the domestic and a really good foundation made
Mrs. Lorraine a still readier pupil than her daughter had been. Miss
Penny’s surprise at her skill drew forth a longer account of Mrs.
Lorraine’s early life. Miss Penny spoke of her own girlhood and other
forgotten details came back to her guest. And when Alice returned at
noon of the second day, she could scarcely credit what she saw and
felt. Her mother and Miss Penny appeared to be warm friends.
Anna had already taught Alice to love the out-of-doors, and though it
was less pleasant alone, she took advantage of her opportunity and
remained out all that she could, believing that her mother and Miss
Penny’s friendship would progress the more rapidly in her absence.
Mr. Langley called one day, and Mrs. Lorraine saw him and liked him.
She told her daughter what he had said of Richard Cartwright, the
man who had built their cottage, and expressed apprehension that
he might find a bare-looking place when he should call. Whereupon
it came to Alice that she might do something to make it look more
attractive before they returned to it.
She went over next day. As she sauntered towards Farleigh, she
thought of the man who had died before he had attained his heart’s
desire. She did not think of him as Reuben’s father except to wish
that everyone wouldn’t dwell so constantly upon the son as never to
drop any hint to gratify her hungry, rather mournful curiosity
concerning the father.
He and Mr. Langley had been intimate friends, so that Mr. Langley
would be able to tell one all about him. Alice was pleased to reflect
that since her mother had met and liked Mr. Langley there was no
bar against her becoming more friendly with him. She wondered
how long she must wait before she should feel free to question him
concerning Richard Cartwright. The girl sighed as it came to her that
he, too, would most likely insist upon talking about Reuben instead.
She would probably hear the famous tale of the cat in the primeval
pine tree again and other less familiar incidents connected with the
model youth; but surely after he had exhausted the list—and she
would be patience itself—he would be ready to speak of the older
and more interesting Cartwright.
The outline of the cottage was charmingly picturesque. As Alice
turned into the lane to-day it struck her afresh and more strongly
than ever. As a matter of fact, it was the first time she had
approached it when her heart had not been burdened with the sense
of her mother’s unhappiness. Relieved of that burden, dimly aware,
indeed, of her mother’s very pleasant preoccupation and quite
forgetting her father, who had always been a stranger to her, Alice
saw with new eyes and sped on with a light step and a sense of
well-being that she had never known before.
The little porch with settees built in invited the comer to pause to
contemplate the outlook. Alice had never before had leisure to heed
or even to feel the invitation, but to-day she accepted gratefully.
Throwing herself down, she gazed happily out through a break in
the wall of foliage bordering the lane to the distant hills. But very
shortly, content changed to vague melancholy which became
poignant. The lilac and blue of those lovely folded hills convinced her
that Dick Cartwright had had even that in mind when he planned
this cottage and this porch. And he must have sat here where she
was sitting now on many a day at sunset and in the early dusk and
under the evening stars thinking of the organ, which must have
seemed to come nearer and nearer, and dreaming out melodies to
play thereon.
The girl clasped her hands. How terribly sad his fate had been! He
had lost everything and died and been forgotten. Perhaps if he had
had the organ to comfort him, he wouldn’t have felt the death of his
wife so desperately, and wouldn’t have taken to drink and met his
death. If only someone had given it to him! There were so many
people in the world to whom the cost of a pipe organ would have
meant little or nothing. Why, once her own father could have given
away any number of them easier than she and her mother could
dispense coppers to-day. She could have done it herself.
Well, there was nothing to do now except to make some atonement
for the cruel fate that had come upon Richard Cartwright. It wasn’t
her fault, but it might have been, and the least she could do would
be to make whatever amends might be possible now. Being the
daughter of a convict, she would of course never marry, and she
would devote her life to the memory of this genius who had died
betimes. She would fulfil her duty to her mother but all her leisure
thought and time and money (she would earn some in a manner to
be determined later) would go towards reviving his memory and
keeping it green. She would build the organ just as he had planned
and then—why not turn the cottage into a sort of museum—the
Richard Cartwright Memorial? Or perhaps better than a museum, it
might be a kind of musical centre where famous organists would
give concerts in his memory to the people of the countryside who
hadn’t appreciated him in life and where poor young men might
come to practise and improvise.
Immensely cheered, Alice took the keys from the pocket of her
jacket to enter the cottage and see if the whole lower floor could be
made into one apartment. But in her eagerness, she put the wrong
key in the lock. The second key, marked Shop opened a small
separate building hidden in the shrubbery in the rear. There was a
shop at Miss Penny’s too, and she had said every house had had one
in her girlhood, and this one, which did not match the cottage,
evidently belonged to an earlier dwelling. It occurred suddenly to
Alice that she might find something there belonging to Dick
Cartwright, some memorials to be put behind glass in a cabinet near
the organ.
The sun had dropped below the horizon, but the girl felt she could
make an hurried survey before dusk—indeed, she must. She ran
quickly through the thicket to the door of the shop and succeeded in
turning the key in the rusty lock. She stole softly in, awe rather than
dread hushing her steps.
The first view was disappointing. The place was piled full of old
boxes and crates and stacks of yellowed newspapers. But in the
corner she caught glimpses of odd chairs and stands and bits of
furniture which might prove of interest if one could ever get at them.
A narrow stairway with ladder-like ascent told her what a more
observant person would have implied from the window in the gable
above the door—that there was a second storey.
Catching her skirts in her hand, Alice climbed up. Her spirits rose the
moment her head cleared the railing above. She stepped directly
into a little chamber which had not been converted into a store room
or dumping ground and stood still to gaze about. It must have been
left as it was when Dick Cartwright went away.
There was a long carpenter’s bench with an iron contrivance
fastened at the end on one long side, and a smaller table opposite
containing rusty tins with a swinging shelf above holding buckets
that had once contained paint. A stand and a rocking chair stood
near the window at the further end and a dark bench or couch was
drawn into the shadow of the rafters. A secretary with drawers
below the writing shelf and shelves above with glass doors stood
near the other window which looked towards the house. A chair
stood before it—how many years had it stood there?—and careless
of dust, Alice seated herself in it.
The glass doors were open. A few old, mildewed books stood on the
shelves. They might form a nucleus of the memorial library, but Alice
Lorraine sighed. For the nonce she had forgotten that Dick
Cartwright was dead. Half mechanically she pulled out one of the
little drawers below. A pile of letters met her view. The uppermost
bore a superscription. Either dusk or faded ink made it very faint,
but the girl read it—Mr. Richard Cartwright, Farleigh. They seemed to
her the saddest words she had ever read.
Forgetting everything else, the girl sat by the desk while the
shadows in the corners increased, encroaching more and more upon
her island of twilight. Then on a sudden, strange, nameless terror
seized upon her. She felt as she had once or twice felt in the night
upon awaking without apparent cause from sound sleep. Her hair
seemed to rise from her head and cold drops stood out on her brow
and lips.
There was someone else in the room! For some seconds the girl sat
motionless, fearing to stir, to draw breath. Then she turned her head
ever so slightly and cautiously to see how near she was to the stair.
Two steps would bring her thither. She gazed as in fascination upon
the space for some moments, then slowly, breathlessly turned her
head in the opposite direction.
Nothing met her gaze and she grew bolder—or at least less fearful.
Turning about in the chair, though noiselessly, she surveyed the
room. There was nothing to be seen. She peered in every direction.
The corners were dark but not suspiciously so. It seemed as if there
were something odd about the look of the couch, but she could
reach the stairway, rush down and be out of the door before anyone
or anything could reach her thence. She rose softly to her feet.
For a little she stood still. Then she tiptoed quietly towards the dark
bench or couch beneath the rafters, peering before her all the while.
Suddenly she paused.
Her horror-stricken eyes made out the outlines of a dark figure on
the couch, an human being, a man who looked to her frightened
gaze of giant size. His eyes were closed. He was asleep—or dead?
Alice Lorraine stood still trying to think. If the man were asleep, he
was a drunken tramp and she must flee. If he were dead—O, so
much more must she fly! Not for the world would she be alone with
a dead man, a corpse. She must——
On a sudden the figure moved. The man’s eyes opened wide.
 CHAPTER VIII
BEFORE the man on the old couch realized the actuality of the
situation and sprang to his feet, his bewildered, incredulous eyes
took in perforce the vision of a tall, graceful young girl with dark
bands of hair wound about her small head and dark brows and eyes
conspicuous in the dusk because of the pallor of her face. But pale
as she was, and weak and faint and confused, Alice Lorraine’s fear
took flight almost immediately. The first movement of the unknown
man startled only to reassure her. He sprang to his feet, but only to
shrink back into the corner as if to allow her to fly if she would.
He waited a moment for that before he spoke. In the inconsiderable
interval, Alice, shaken as she was, saw the man so clearly that she
could have given a fairly accurate description of him if she had never
seen him thereafter. She saw that he was tall, thin and gaunt, but
that his face, worn as it was, was almost the face of a boy. That
must have been because of his eyes, which were deep set and wide
apart, not large nor dark of colour but at once shy, kind and
appealing. As he started to speak, it came to the girl that he was the
very image of the man upon whom her thoughts had been dwelling
from the moment of her leaving the Hollow, except that he was
thinner, more worn, older (save for his eyes) and much more
shabby. But gaunt as the man was, he was no ghost.
“I beg your pardon. I must have frightened you,” he murmured in a
gentle, deprecatory voice which would have been exactly the right
sort of voice for the dead musician and which would of itself have
reassured Alice had the dusk been so deep as to veil the kindliness
of his countenance.
“I was—startled,” the girl gasped. “I didn’t know—I never dreamed
——”
“Of course you didn’t. It was unpardonable in me,” he declared. “But
I believed the house yonder was unoccupied. There was no one
there all yesterday and no light at night. I could see that there had
been someone living there, but I supposed whoever it was had gone
—vamoused as we say in the West. I wouldn’t however,—at least I
hope I wouldn’t have tried to enter that in any case. But I know this
old shop as a boy and I couldn’t resist making an attempt to get in
here. Then—I got to thinking of old times and—I have walked many
miles during the last week—I threw myself down on the old lounge
and fell asleep.”
He raised his eyes almost ingenuously to her, for the moment a shy
boy.
“I hate to think what a sad shock it must have been to you coming
upon me so,” he said contritely. “You look ready to drop. Won’t you
sit down? The chair over yonder by the stair railing is all right for I
dusted it with my pocket handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” the girl faltered, “but——”
He understood. “Naturally you would like to get out of here right
away? May I help you down? The stairway is steep and narrow and
it is dark below. But perhaps you would rather go alone?”
The girl’s heart throbbed strangely.
“I should like to get out into the air,” she said. “I can get down all
right, but——”
“May I come after and—explain myself?” he asked. “I want you to
understand and to feel safe from further shocks of the sort.”
She murmured a confused affirmative and started to feel her way
down.
“Do you mind my shining a light?” he asked. “I have an electric
flash-light in my pocket, but please don’t think me a professional
burglar for all that.”
Alice tried to laugh, though she was still shaken. He lighted her
down and out, took her key, locked the door and handed it back to
her.
“You live in the house?” he asked.
Alice explained that she lived there with her mother but that they
were visiting in the part of the village called South Hollow. She knew
that she shouldn’t be saying this to a stranger whom she had found
in the upper storey of the shop; but for herself she felt that there
are strangers and strangers.
“I know the Hollow,” he said. “I lived about here as a boy. Are you
going back now?”
Alice replies that she ought to be, but that she felt as if she must sit
down for a little first and would go up to the porch. He accompanied
her thither and asked if he might wait. And when she gave the
desired permission, he suggested that she get herself a wrap from
the house. As she complied with the suggestion, the girl seemed to
feel her mother’s horror. He unlocked the door for her and waited on
the walk below. When she came out and dropped down upon one
settee, he seated himself opposite.
“I want to apologise for my thoughtlessness which might have had
serious consequences,” he said quietly. “And I give you my word that
I will not come near the place again so that you needn’t feel nervous
about coming in at any time. And—neither need your mother. I
suppose you will tell her?”
“No, I don’t think I will,” said the girl slowly. “It would frighten her
unnecessarily and what’s the use?”
“None if you feel so,” he said. “I confess that I shall be very glad if
you do not, though I wouldn’t stand in the way of your doing so if
you feel it right. As a matter of fact, I don’t want anyone to know I
am about here—or that anyone is about who is not here ordinarily.”
“I won’t mention it,” she said.
“You are very good,” he returned simply.
For a little there was silence between them. Then he spoke.
“I really want to stay about for a little,” he began deprecatingly. “I
have only just come, and—perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I promise to
keep away from here? I have been away a long time. All sorts of
things have happened to me in the interval and also, I dare say, to
the people in Farleigh I used to know. I am living and working in the
Middle West. I saved up money to take a vacation and come East
and look around. I don’t want people to see me but I want to try to
see some of those I used to think a lot of. You will believe me, won’t
you, when I say that I have no other purpose in mind?”
“Of course I will,” the girl cried warmly.
“Thank you. It might well look queer to you for me to be skulking
about, but I simply cannot let anyone know anything about me, and
yet I long above all things to find out about old friends—who is alive
and—and all that. I thought it would be simple, for it is a very long
time and I have changed so that I felt I was safe. But I came upon a
drummer in New York who had known me only slightly and he
recognised me. That took away my nerve. I couldn’t bluff now. So
there’s nothing to do but to spy around nights. I can only see who’s
here and who——”
“If you don’t see them you won’t think they’re dead?” protested the
girl.
“The ones I care for would be dead if they weren’t here,” he said
quietly.
He said this so exactly as Dick Cartwright would have said it, that it
came to Alice Lorraine that it was not unlikely that he was a relative
of the dead man. He looked enough like him—or like the image in
Alice’s mind which people who had known him had furnished
material for—to be his brother. He wasn’t old enough to be his father
nor young enough to be his son. Suppose it was really Dick
Cartwright that the stranger had gone through so much to come and
look up? How terribly sad to find him dead! But if that should be the
case, it would, perhaps, be the kindest thing to tell him at once. As
she felt for words to introduce the subject, it came to the girl that he
would feel somewhat comforted to hear of her idea of a memorial.
“I wonder,” she began almost eagerly, then started again quietly.
“The man that built this house—the shop was built years earlier, they
tell me—he was—I wonder if he was here in your day? His name
was Richard Cartwright.”
“O yes, I knew Cartwright,” he returned not at all enthusiastically.
“You may not have heard—that he is dead?” she said softly.
“I understood he was. He came to a bad end, I believe?”
“A sad end,” she amended with a trace of indignation. “He was killed
in a railway accident.”
“But he was himself a wreck long before that, I believe,” he
remarked. “However, you, being a stranger, would not have heard I
suppose. If you hadn’t come to live in his house, you would never
have heard of him at all and then only because it is a crazy-built
house.”
“It’s a charming house,” the girl declared.
“It is attractive to look at,” he agreed, peering through the dusk.
“But—he is pretty well forgotten by this time, I dare say?”
“Well, if he is, it isn’t fair! It isn’t fair at all!” she cried.
He had nothing to say.
“Mr. Langley, the minister, whom everybody looks up to, thought
ever so much of Mr. Cartwright. I don’t believe he has forgotten
him,” she asserted.
“Mr. Langley! You know Mr. Langley!” he exclaimed. “O tell me of
him, please.”
“I have only seen him to speak to him once. But he is—O very
impressive—I mean you take to him and feel he’s wonderful just as
those who have always known him do.”
“How does he look? But I shall see him. I must. I’ll see him to-night.
Does—but I ought not to let you stay here longer. It’s dark already.
My name is John Converse. May I ask to whom I am indebted for
this kindness?”
“I am Alice Lorraine,” she said, rising reluctantly.
He asked if he might walk to the Hollow with her. The girl hesitated,
wondering if it were safe for him.
“I am sorry I am so shabby, Miss Lorraine,” he said. “I have decent
clothes over at Marsden Bridge where I am staying—I didn’t dare
risk Wenham—but I am less likely to be recognized in these.”
They set out at once. But they had gone only a few rods beyond the
lane when the sound of light footsteps came clearly to them in the
absolute stillness of the damp autumn evening.
“That’s Mr. Langley,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to leave you. He’s the
one person I dare not meet even in black night.”
“O wait!” begged Alice in agonised whisper, panic stricken at the
thought that she would never see him again. But at that moment a
dark figure appeared in sight. Alice pressed the keys into the
stranger’s hand. “To-morrow at four. I’ll come to the shop,” she
whispered. John Converse disappeared into the bushes by the
roadside.
It was barely a minute before Mr. Langley had stopped and was
calling her by name.
“Why Miss Lorraine, is it indeed you?” he cried, surprised to see the
girl out alone after dark. He bade her come back as far as the
Smiths’ with him that he might get their horse and drive her back to
Miss Penny’s, giving her no opportunity to refuse.
They were hardly in the carriage when Alice turned to the minister.
“Mr. Langley, I heard lately of a man returning to his birthplace after
years of absence longing to find out all about the friends of his
boyhood and to see them if he could do it secretly. How would you
account for such a thing?”
Though Mr. Langley was quite accustomed to being bombarded with
odd questions, sometimes hypothetical, sometimes otherwise, he
hesitated now. He could not say to this girl whose father was in
prison that the obvious solution of her problem was that the man
had committed a crime and was a fugitive from justice or was
ashamed of his record. But before the pause became awkward an
happy suggestion came to his mind.
“Well, it might be another case of Enoch Arden,” he said. “This man
might have been missing for so long that he had been taken for
dead. That used to be very common in sea-faring places and among
sea-faring people. His wife or sweet-heart may have married
another. Or I can imagine a man being unwilling to make himself
known when relatives have come into possession of his more
material property.”
Alice’s heart leaped. She remembered Enoch Arden only vaguely, but
enough to feel a thrill at her heart at the thought of re-reading it in
her bed that night. There was a copy of Tennyson’s complete poems
in the book-case of the room she occupied—which was Reuben’s old
room.
The Smiths’ horse was a fine, strong creature which did not get
sufficient exercise, but he didn’t fancy starting out just at supper
time any more than Miss Penny’s fat pony, and he showed his
reluctance plainly. It came to Alice that this was her chance to find
out more of Richard Cartwright. She had said she would seize her
first opportunity. Besides, Mr. Converse had spoken slightingly of
him. It wouldn’t be bad to have Mr. Langley’s own word as to his
respect and admiration for the dead genius.
“O Mr. Langley, I have—well living in the cottage where he lived I
suppose it is natural for me to wonder about Mr. Cartwright,” she
observed. “But—no one seems to have anything to say about him.
Of course, he can’t be forgotten?”
“His son has rather overshadowed Cartwright’s memory,” Mr. Langley
remarked quietly.
“One certainly hears enough of him,” the girl remarked.
“O Miss Lorraine, I hope you and your mother aren’t getting the
impression that Reuben is anything of a prig,” he protested, “for he
isn’t. He is—well, he is four-square, that boy is, Miss Lorraine, and I
am happy to think that you will see him and judge for yourself in the
Christmas holidays.”
“I shall be pleased, I’m sure,” she murmured conventionally. “But I
can’t help being more interested in the father,—being so musical and
wanting a pipe organ in his house and dying before it ever came to
him. You knew him well, Mr. Langley?”
“Yes, I knew—and loved the man well,” he said sadly. “He was a
charming fellow, the best of companions and friends.”
“And he played—well?”
“To me he seemed almost a genius,” he replied, and Alice heard
herself repeating it triumphantly to John Converse.
“And yet—people have forgotten him already!” she exclaimed. “One
would think—O Mr. Langley, has there ever been any idea of a
memorial for him here in Farleigh?”
“O no, nothing of the kind,” he said in some surprise.
“But don’t you think there should be?” she cried.
“In his case, I think it is better as it is,” he said.
Alice’s heart sank. O dear, how terribly strict Mr. Langley was!
“You mean because he drank?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” he said slowly. “I believe his taking to drink
as he did shows weakness, but I cannot judge Dick Cartwright too
severely for that. His artistic temperament made him different. Grief
was truly more terrible to him and temptation stronger than to less
gifted mortals. And when he went away and deserted his little son
he was hardly a responsible person.”
Alice was silent until lights twinkling in the Hollow reminded her that
she had only a few minutes. “But surely, Mr. Langley, you wouldn’t
have him forgotten?” she asked.
Mr. Langley realised that Alice Lorraine was a girl of some force. She
was apparently intent upon obtaining justice to Dick Cartwright’s
memory—which must not be.
“It’s this way, Miss Lorraine,—for I am going to tell you something in
strict confidence. It is for the best that Richard Cartwright be
forgotten save in the minds of a few friends. He died in a railway
wreck, it is true, but he was not an innocent victim. I myself thought
him to have been at first. I wrote to a friend in Chicago hoping he
might secure details which might be of comfort to Cartwright’s
friends and later to Reuben. But I regretted my action. My friend
learned that Cartwright had turned ruffian and desperado. He was a
member of a gang that killed the mail clerk and the engineer and
thus wrecked the train.”
He sighed. He didn’t say that if Cartwright had not been killed he
would to-day be serving life sentence in prison with others of the
gang who had escaped. But he felt compelled to add: “I dislike to
believe it and do not, but one of the men said that Cartwright fired
the shot that killed the mail clerk. So I do not wish any attempt to
revive the remembrance of Reuben’s father.”
“Of course not,” cried Alice. “I understand, and—thank you, Mr.
Langley. I am sorry to have awakened sad memories for you.”
The house was in darkness but Alice did not mind that. Relieved at
the absence of Miss Penny and her mother she rushed upstairs and
removing her wraps threw herself on the bed, her thoughts a wild
chaos. She did not know how long she had been there when she
heard her name called from below.
Going down, she found Anna’s brother Frank who had lighted the
lamp.
“I guess you were scared about your mother and Miss Penny,” the
boy said sympathetically, gazing at her white face. “They thought
you’d be, but they clean forgot. They’re over to our house. Anna’s
come home and—something terrible’s happened to her!”
 CHAPTER IX
ON the afternoon following Alice Lorraine’s strange adventure, Mr.
Langley sat at his study window gazing out over the pickets of the
paling towards the bushes and scrub trees which marked the line of
the river, but which, being mainly oaks, still hid the stream itself
from view. He was ready for Sunday even to the point of having
tidied his desk so that it looked unfamiliar. He was conscious—
vaguely conscious—of working better and more easily of late—with
more spirit. It might be that it was only a sort of rebound after the
period of depression into which he had fallen when someone had
reminded him of the fact that Ella May, whom he had always thought
of as a little girl, would now have been a woman grown, older than
her mother had been at her birth, and he had lost the child-
companion of his thoughts and wanderings. Even so, something
must have happened from without himself to pull him out of that
slough. That something was, of course, connected with his wife’s
new interest in life—at least in so much of life as was represented by
the other Miller girl.
It was probably recollection of Anna that made him think at first
glance that the figure coming along the avenue at a distance beyond
the lane was Anna, but, looking again, he saw that it was someone
else—one of the grammar school children, he fancied, though he
couldn’t seem to place her. He didn’t try long, for as his eyes dwelt
upon that particular spot, something disconcerting came suddenly to
him. Last evening as he had walked slowly homewards just before
full darkness, he had looked up at this point to see approaching him
the figures of a man and woman or youth and maiden whom one
glance showed to be intensely interested in one another or in a
common subject and who seemed to be strangers to him. Then he
had utterly forgotten them. For he had been arrested by a loud
chattering in a tree at the roadside and had gone to see why a
squirrel should be awake at that time of day. Then, walking on, he
had met Alice Lorraine. She was alone, but—the minister shook his
head. It seemed now to him that the figure of the girl he had seen
walking with the strange man was Alice Lorraine.
And yet—it couldn’t be. The man and woman weren’t figments of his
imagination, he was sure of that. They must, however, have turned
back at that point for some reason. And quite likely he had stood
looking for and calling to the squirrel longer than he had realised
and Alice had come along meantime.
The click of his gate recalled his thoughts sharply. On a sudden the
man sat erect and stared—almost glared at the strange yet familiar
figure he saw coming slowly up the flagged walk. For an instant he
could not believe it—could not credit the evidence of his eyes. Then
he recollected the preceding Saturday and—O, that sermon of
Sunday! And he groaned within his heart. Had that child been so
affected as to sacrifice her vanity thus? It was worse than absurd. It
was cruel, monstrous!
He went to the door to let her in.
“Anna, take off your hat,” he bade her, his voice stern through
repressed feeling.
Obeying silently, Anna Miller stood before him with downcast eyes.
She looked like a boy,—a handsome lad of perhaps a dozen years.
Her long yellow hair had been shorn. Parted at one side, the thick,
short unruly locks curled about her peaked face and pipe-stem neck,
emphasizing the childish delicacy of her features, the long curling
eyelashes and the sweet curve of her mouth. Later Mr. Langley
realised this, and the fact that though Anna looked younger, she had
somehow quite lost whatever it was in expression or countenance
that likened her to a doll. He, who had never acknowledged that
likeness while it existed, became aware of it after it had been
displaced by something else. But at the moment the loss seemed
irreparable and entire; the hard ugly fact seemed quite without
extenuation.
With an effort the girl raised her eyes and smiled.
“I wonder if Mrs. Langley wants to see me?” she asked.
“She always wants to see you, Anna,” he returned half absently,
frowning unconsciously. But as she made a move to go in, he
arrested her.
“Why have you done this foolish thing, tell me, child!” he demanded
reproachfully.
“Because—well—” Anna choked—“Honestly, Mr. Langley, I can’t tell
you now,” she faltered. “Ma cried and Miss Penny and even Mrs.
Lorraine, and Pa took to the wood-pile. It’s only—a sort of a joke.”
“A poor sort of joke, it seems to me,” he remarked and betook
himself to his study.
Mrs. Langley cried, too. But whereas one would have deprecated
Anna’s mother’s tears and Miss Penny’s, it was probably good for
Mrs. Langley to forget herself for the moment and be really moved
by something beyond her immediate narrow horizon. It was,
perhaps, fortunate for her that after all those arid, selfish years she
had tears of sympathy to weep.
Anna found her looking better. Since the girl had begun to visit her,
Mrs. Langley had slept at night and suffered less and less pain
during the day. This afternoon she wore an old-fashioned lace fichu
over her ugly Mother Hubbard gown which so relieved the sharpness
of her face and the yellow tone of her skin, that Anna had no
hesitation in kissing her when she saw that it was expected of her.
But as she stood before her, suddenly Mrs. Langley raised both
hands and cried out.
“Anna Miller! Your lovely hair!” she exclaimed incredulously, “you’ve
had it all cut off!” And covering her face with her hands she began to
weep.
Anna, who had had a hard week and a difficult home-coming, was
startled and distressed. She stood quite still with tightly clasped