Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, May 8, 1897, Page 6

| | | SHELA ISIS SSI IIIT, {FOOTSTEPS OF FATE. By LOUIS COUPERUS. TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH. PART TIL CHAPTER X1UI—(Continued.) These were days of dreary gloom which they spent together; Frank, too dejected to go out of doors; Bertie, creeping about very softly under the re re of a vague dread and indefina- le dissatisfaction. He felt Frank's friendship reviving ,and, flattered by this revival, was conscious of a senti- ment of pity, almost sympathy; he tried to rouse Frank from his moodi- ess, and talked of a supper party— with ladies—on the old pattern. He made plans for going aw here andi th for a few da, He tried to per- suade Westhove to take to work, men- tioning the names of various great en- gineers who were to be feund in Lon- don. But everything fell dead against frank’s obdurate melancholy, every- thing was swallowed up in the dark cloud of his dejection, which se2med tneupable of more than one idea—one self-reproach, one grief. And the only of his life was always to have at his side; a closer intimacy to which Van Maeren himself was no less prompted ,now that he had gained his selfish ends, having no further fear of topending poeerty, and seeing always by him a consuming sorrow. Had he aot rejected the notion that he had been the cause of it all? And had ke aot, during his late e ence as an idle bacheior, become a superfine a being that he felt a craving for the vague de- hts of sympathy; nothing more than npathy; since po great and noble tove, no strong and generous friendship could breathe in the complicated re- @esses of his soul, for lack of room and fresh air in those narrow cells built up on strange fallacies, and since love and friendship must pine and die there, like @ lion in boudoir. Thus it wes that he could still feel for Frank, could lay his hands on his shoulders and try to comfort him, could Sind words of affection—new on his lips ~and unwonted phrases of consolation and cheering. Women, he would say, were so narrow-minded; they were aothing, they loved nothing, they were @ mere delusion; no man should ever make himself miserable for a woman. Where was nothing but friendship, which women could not even under- stand, and never felt for each other peru of sympathy, the noble joy of ieved what he said, sunning himself in Piatonism with catlike complacency, just as he basked in material ease nd eomfort, rejoicing in his raptures of friendship and admiring himself for fis lofty ideals. But Frank’s love for Eva had been, and was still, so absorbing, that he ere tong saw through this effete and de- crepit devotion, and thenceforward it afforded him no solace. His depression rapped him in ed himself to recall exactly every- thing that had happened; what Eva fad said, what he ad replied. And he {aid all the blame on himself, exonerat- ing Eva for her doubts; he cursed his ewn temper; his barbarous violence to @ woman—and to her! What was to be done? Parted—parted forever! It was fearful thought that he might never see fer again, that she could be nothing fenceforth in his life. Could it be no otherwise? Was all lost? Irrevocably? No, no, no; the desperate denial rose ap within him ;he would triumph dver circumstances; he would win back his fappiness. And she? How was she? Was she, too. suffering? Did she still doubt him, or had his vehemence, notwithstanding {ts brutality, made his innocence clear? But if it were so, if she no longer doubt- 1 him—and how could she?—good &. v how wretched she must be! mg over her want of trust, with asation een more terrible than fis own—for his wrath had at any rate been justifiable, and her suspicions were not. Was it so? Or was she, on the con- trary, stricken almost to death, per- faps, by his cruelty, or filled with con- tempt for his lack of power to control tis anger, which was like some raging wild beats? How she? What was fher mood? A passionate desire to know pierced his heart now and again, like:a sword-thrust; to go to her; to pray for pardon ,for restoration to the happi- fess he had thrown away, as he had Sung her from him on that sofa. She would never admit him to her presence after so great an insult. But he might write.—Of course, a letter! His heart feaped with joy. What bliss to grovel om paper in the dust at her feet ;to fumble himself in penitential prayers for mercy ,and adoring words, while asserting his dignity in the pride of his truth, and his anguish under her Goubis! She should hearken, as a Ma- donna to a sinner; he would recover his fost happiness! And he ‘ried to com- pose his letter, thrilling with the effort to find words, which still did not seem fervent or humble enough. He spent a whole day over his task, polishing his phrases as a poet does a sonnet. And when, at last, it was fin- fshed, he felt refreshed in spirit, with tion. He was convine»d that his letter ‘would remove every misunderstanding between him and Eva. Im the highest spirits he betook him- gelf to Van Macren, told his friend of the step he had taken ,and all he hoped for. He spoke eagerly; his very voice was changed, Bertie leaned back in his chair, rath- er graye and pale; but he controlled himself so far as to smile in answer to NWesthove’s smile, and he agreed in his anticipations in words in which he wainly strove to give a ring of convic- tion. “To be sure, of course, everything must come right again,” he muttered; and the perspiration stood on his fore- feead, under his chestnut curls, XIv. Sut an hour later, alone in his room @hat evening, he walked to and fro with geething agitation as set every nerve’ quivering in his slight frame, as a @torm tosses a light rowing boat. His features were distorted to a hideous expression of malignancy, with rage at his own impotence, and he strode up and down, up and down, like a beast in a cage, clenching his fists. Then it was for this that he had elaborated his tastes, had sharpened and polished all his natural gifts, and had directed all the powers of his mind like a battery charged with some myserious fluid, on the secrets of a girl’s love and life. A single letter, a few pages of tender words, and the whole work would be destroyed. For now in his wrath, he suddenly saw and prided himself on the fact; he saw that he—very cer- tainly he—had guided events to sever Frank anr Eya.~ How could he even for 2 moment have doubted it! And it was all to come to nought. Never, never. No; a thousand times, no. Awful, and infinitely far as the horizon, the perspective of life yawned before him—the dead leel of poverty, the barren desert in which he must pine and perish of hunger. And in his horror of treading that wilderness every sinew of his lax resolve seemed strained to the verge of snapping. He must take steps forthwith. An idea flashed through his brain like the zigzag. of forked lightning. Yes; that was his only course; the simplest and most obyious means, a mere stroke of illiany—as conentionality would term ft. . . No need here for any elabo- rate psychological pros and cons; they were never of any use; they got entan- gled in their own complications. Sim- ply a theatrical coup. He took his hat and crept quietly out of the house, with a sneer of contempt, of scorn for himself that he should have fallen so low. It was half-past ten. He hailed a cab, and laughed to hear the melodramatic sound of his own voice as he gave the driver Sir Archibald’s address—the voice of a stage-traitor. Then he shrank into a corner of the ve- hicle, his shoulders up to his ears, his eyes half-closed and gazing out through the dim mystery of the night. Deadly melancholy lurked at the bottom of his | soul. He got near to Sir Archibald’s house, walked a few yards to the door, and rang—and the minutes he waited in the darkness before the closed house seemed an eterrity of intolerable mis- ery ,of horror, aversion, loathing of himself. His lips were pinehed into a grimace of disgust. A man-servant opened the door with a look of surprise, which gave way to an impertinent stare when he saw that Van Maeren was alone, without West- hove. He bowed with insolent irony, and held the door wide open with exag- gerated servility, for Bertie to enter. “I must speak with you at once,” said Bertie, coolly, “at once and alone.” The man looked at him but said noth- ing. “Yon can do me a service. I need your assistance—pressingly. Can I say two words to you without being seen by anyone?” “Now?” said the servant. “Yes, now; without delay.’ ’ “Will you come in—into the servants’ hall?” “No, no. Come out and walk up and down with me. And speak low.” “I carnot leave the house yet. The old man will be going to bed in an hour or so, and then I can join you in the street.” “Then I will wait for you; oppesite, by the Park railings. You will be sure to come? I will make it worth yoyr while.” The footman laughed, a loud, beazen laugh, which ran through the hall, filling Bertie with alarm. “Then you are a gentleman, now? And pretty flush, eh?” “Yes,” said Van Maeren, hoarsely. Then you will come?’ “Yes, yes. In an hour or more; fully an hour. Wait for me. But if Iam to do anything for you, you will have to fork out, you know; and fork out hand- somely, too!” “All right, all right,” said Bertie. “But I hope you will not fail me. 1 count cn your coming, mind.” “The door was ruthlessly shut. He walked up and down for a very long time in the cold and damp. The chill pierced to his very marrow, while the twinkling gas-lamps stared at him through the gray mist like watery eyes. He waited, paced the pavement for an hour—an hour end a half—perishing of fatigue and cold, like a beggar without a shelter. Still he waited, shivering as he walked, his hands in his pockets, his eyes dull with self-contempt, star- ing out of his white face at the dark square of the door, which still re- mained shut. xv. ‘ When, after a few days of anxious expectancy, Frank still had no answer | from Eva, he wrote a second time; and | although the first bloom of his revived hopes was already dying, he started | whenever the bell rang, and would go to the letter-box in the front door; his thoughts were constantly busy with picturing the messenger who was walk- ing up the road with his happiness— cwrapped up in an envelope. And he would imagine what Eva’s answer might be; just a few lines—somewhat cool, perhaps—in her large, bold, Eng- lish hand, on the scented, ivory-laid pa- per she always used ,with her initials crossed in pink and silver in one cor- ner. How long she took to wrte that an- swer! Was she angry? Or could she not make up her mind how to word her forgiveness; was she elaborating her letter as he had elaborated his? And the days went by while he waited for that note. When he was at home he pictured the postman comitig nearer and nearer, now only four—three—two doors away; now he would ring—and he listened; but the bell did not sound, or, if it did, ft was not by reason of the letter. When he was out, he would be electrified by the thought that the let- ter must be lying at home, and he hur- ried back to White-Ros= cottage, looked in the letter box, and then in the sit- ting room. But he never found it, and the intolerable emptiness of the place where he looked for it, made him swear and stamp with rage. Twice had he written—two letters— and yet she gaye no sign! And he could think of no cause, in his ardent expect- ancy, which made him regard it as the most netvral thing that she should re- ply at once. Still he lived on this wait- ing. The reply must come; it could not be otherwise. His brain held no other thought than: It is coming—it will} come to-day. All life was void and flat, but it could be filled by just one letter. Day followed Gay, and there was no change. | “I have had no answer yet from Eya,” he said, ina subdued tone, to Bertie, as feeling himself humiliated, disgraced by her determined silence, mocked at in his illusory hopes. “Not yet?” said Bertie; and a mist of melancholy glistened in his black, vel- vety eyes. A weight, indeed, lay on his mind; he sighed deeply and fre- quently. He really was unbapp; What he had done was utterly base. But it wis all Frank’s fault. Why, now that he was parted from Eva, could he not forget kis passion; why could he not find sufficient comfort in the sweets of friendship? Hew delightful it might have been to live on together, a happy pair of friends, under the calm, blue sky of brotherhood, in the golden bliss of perfect sympathy, with no woman to disturb it. Thus he romanced, con- sciously working up his friendly, com- passionate feeling toward Frank to a sort of frenzy in the hope of comfort- ing himself a little, of forgetting his foul deed, of convincing himself that he was magnanimous; nay, that in spite of that little deception, he now, more than ever, since he was sunk in the mire, really longed for a high ideal.—It was all Frank’s fault. And yet, was Frank to blame because he could not forget Eva? No, no. That was all Fa- tality. No one was to blame for that. That was the act of Fate. “Yes, that is certain,” thought he. “But why have we brains to think with, and why do we feel pain, if we can do nothing to help ourselves? Why should this vast, useless universe e at all? “And why, why did nothingn cease to be? How peaceful, how de- lightfully peaceful that woul be!” He stood, cs it were before the sealed portals of the great Bnigma, suddenly amazed and horrified at him- self. Good God! Hew had he come to this? How was it that nowadays he was always thinking of such things? Had he ever had such notions in Amer- iea, when he was toiling «nd tramping in his daily slavery? Had he not then regardad himself as a gross material- ist, caring for nothing but plenty of good food and unbroken peace? And now, when he had long experience of such material comforts, now he felt as though his nerves had been spun finer and finer, to mere silken threads, thrill- ing and quivering under one emotion after another, vibrating like the invi: ble aerial pulsations which are irre- sistibly transmitted, with a musical murmur, along the telephone wires overhead. How had he come by all this philosophy, the blossom of his idle hours? And, in his bewilderment, he tried to recall his youth, and remember whether he had then had any books which impressed him deeply; tried to picture his parents, and whether this might be hereditary. And he—he—had handed round coffee-cups in New York! Was he not, after all, happier in those days and freer from care? Or was it only that “distance lends enchantment to the view,” the distance of so few years? XVI. When Frank, after a few days of death-in-life patience, had still received no answer, he wrote to Sir Archibald. Still the same silence. He poured out his grief to Bertie in bitter complaint, no longer humble, but full of wrath like an enraged animal, and yet half- woeful at the ill-feeling shown by Eva and her father. Was it not enough that he had three times craved forgiveness? Had Eva cared for him in fact so little, that when he groveled at her feet she could find no word even to tell him that all was at an end? “T cannot now remember all I said,” he told Bertie ,as he paced the room with Iong, unequal and determined steps. “But I must have been very hard upon her. God help me, I can never govern my speech! And I seized her, I recollect, so, by the arms. And then I came away. I was too furious. I ought not to have done it; but I can- not keep. cool, I cannot.” “Frank, I wish you would get over it,’ said Bertie, soothingly, from the depths of his armchair. “There is nothing now to be done. It is very sad that it should have happened so; but you must throw it off.” “Throw it off! Were you cver in love with a woman?” “Certainly.” “Then you must know something of it. But you could never love aryone much; it is not in your nature. You love yourself too well.” “That may be; but, at any rate, I love you, and I cannot bear to see you thus, Frank. Get over it! They seem to have taken the whole business so ill that there is nothing more to be done. I wish you would only see that, and submit to the inevitable. Try to live for something else. Can there be no other woman in the world for you? Perhaps there is another. A man does not perish so for love. You are not a girl—girls do so.” He gazed at Frank with such a mag- netic light in his eyes that. Westhove | fancied there was great truth in his words; and Bertie’s last reproof re- minded him of his -vacillation, his mis- erable weakness, which lay beneath his manly and powerful exterior like an in- secure foundation. Still he clung to his passionate longings, his vehement cray- ing for the happiness he had lost. “You cannot possibly judge of the matter,” ‘he retorted, impatiently, try- ing io escape from Van Maeren’s eye. “You never did love a woman, though you may say so. Why should not ev- erything come right again? What has happened, after all?What have I done? I fell into a violent, vulgar rage. What then? Is ‘that so unpardonable in the; person you love? But perhaps—t say, ea have addressed the letter wrong- During a few seconds there was a weight of silence in the room, an at- mosphere of lead. Then Van Maerep said—and his voice had a tender, coax- ing tone: “If you had written but once, I might | think it possible; but three letters to the same house—it is scarcely possible.” “T will go myself and call, hove. “Yes, yes, I will go myself.” “What are you saying?’ asked Bertie, dreamily. He was still under the in- fluence of that heavy, moral atmo- sphere ;he had not quite understood, not grasped the idea. “What was itl you said?” he repeated. “I shall go myself and call at the | house,” he reiterated. “At what house? Where?’ “Why, at the Rhodes’—on Eya. you daft?” But Bertie rose to his feet, and his eyes glittered in his pale face like black monds with a hundred facets. “What to do there?” he said, with a convulsive effort in his throat to keep his voice calm. “To talk to her, and set matters straight; I cannot bear it. It has gone on too long.” “You are a fool,’ ’said Van Maeren, shortly. “Why am I a fool?” “Why are you a fool? You have not a grain of self-respect. Do you really think of going there?” “Yes, of course.” “I consider it absurd,” said Bertie. “All right,” said Frank. “Pray think so. I myself can see that it is very weak of me. But, Good God! I can hold out no longer. I love her so; I wa: so happy; life was so sweet; and now now, by my own fault! I do not care what you think it. Absurd or not, I mean to go all the same.” In his distress of raind he had thrown himself into a chair, and every muscle of his features was quivering with agi- tation. “I do not know what it is that I feel; I am so unhappy, so deeply, deeply wretched. Neyer in my life had I known what it was to feel so content, in such harmonicus equilibrium of soul as when I was with Eva; at least, so it seems to me now. And now it is all at an end, and everything seems aimless. I no longer know why I live and move and eat and have my being. Why should I take all that trouble, and then | have this misery into the bargain? I might just as well be dead. You see, ; that is why I mean to call there. And! if things do not come right then, why, I shall make gn end of myself! Yes, yes, I sall make an end of myself.” Crushed by the burthen of life, he lay back in his chair, with his features set, his great limbs stretched out ‘n their useless strengti, all his power uncer- mined by the mysterious inertia which gnawed it away like a worm. Before} him stood Van Maeren drawn to his full height in the energy of despair, and his flashing eyes darting sparks of fire. He laid his tremulous hands on Westhove’s shoulders, feeling their massive breadt heavy and strong. A reaction electri- fied him with something like defiance; he scorned this man of might in his love-sickness. But, above all, oh, above all, he felt himself being dragged down to the lowest deep, and it was with the tenacity of a parasitic growth that he clung to Frank, setting his fingers into his shoulders . “Frank,” he began, almost hoarsely, “just listen to me. You are making yourself ill. You talk like a fool, and then you czy out just like a baby. You must get over it. Show a little more pluck. Do not mar your whole life by these foolish la:nentations. And what about, when it is all said and done, what about? All because a girl has ceased to love you. Do you place your highest hope of happiness in a girl? ‘They are creatures without brains or heart; superficial and vain, whipped up to a froth—mere windy nothingness. And you would kill yourself for that? Heavens above, man! It is impossible! I do not know what it is to love a wo- man, eh? But you do not know what trouble and misery ar2. You faacy that all the woes on earth haye come upon you. And it is nothing, after all, but a little discomfort, a little wounded con- ceit, perhaps—it will be no worse. Itt had made way with myself at every turn of ill-luck, I should have been dead a thousand times. But I pulled through, you see. How can you be such a cow- ard? Eva hes shown you very plaiuly that she does not want to have any- thing more to say to you; aud you would seek her once more! Suppose she were to show you the door? What then? If you do such a thing, if you go to her, you will be so mean in my eyes, so weak, so cowardly, so childish, such a fool, such a fool, that you may go to the deuce for aught I care!” He cleared his throat as if he were actually sick, and turned away with a queer, light-headed feeling in his brain. Westhove said nothing, torn in his miné between two impulses. He was no longer clear as to his purpose, quite bewildered by the false voice in his ear —in his soul. There was something fac- titious in Bertie’s speech, a false ring which Frank could not detect, though he was conscious of it, and the voice of his own desires rang false, too, with jarring, unresolved chords, which jan- gled inkarmoniously against each oth- er. He had completely lost his head, but he sat silent for some time, till at length he repeated, with sullen obsti- macy: ‘i “All right. I do not care a pin. I shall go, all the same.” But Bertie began again, with honeyed smoothness this time, seating himself ‘on the floor, as was his wont when he was out of luck, on the fur rug before the fire, resting his throbbing head against a chair. “Come, Frank, get this out of your mind. You never meant that you would really go. You are at heart too proud and too brave to think of it serjously. Pull yourself together. Have you for- gotten everything? Did not Eva tell you that she did uot believe your word, that you were false to her, that you still were friends with that other girl, and that she knew it? ‘To tell the truth, I observed from the first how smspicious she was ,and I did not think it becoming in a young lady; I did not think it quite—quite nice. * * To be sure, that evening at the Lyceum, it did look as if there was something in it. Still, when you assured her that it was at an end, it seems to me quite monstrous that she did not believe you then. You cannot possibly méan what you say when you speak of seeing her again. Of course, it makes no differ- ence to me; go, by all means, for what I care; but I should regard it as such folly, such utter folly —” ‘And still Frank sat speechless, lost, with the bewildering jangle still in his brain. “And you. will take the same view of it if you will only think it over. Think it over, Frank.” ‘ Bertie went on, flattering his manly courage, and it scurded like bells in Frank's ears; pride, pluck; pride, pluck: Are | through | little money. only the bells were cracked. And yet the jangle soothed him. Did he at this moment love Eva? Or was it all over; had she killed his love by her doubt? Pride, pluck; pride, pluck. He could not tell—alas! he could not tell. With a movement like a caress, Rertie crept nearer, laid his head on the arm ot Westhove’s chair, and clasped his hinds about his knees, looking, in the dusk and firelight, like a supple pe ther; his eyes gleamed like a panther’s, black and flame-colored. “Speak, Frank; I cannot bear to see you like this. I care for you so much, though perhaps it does net seem so to You just no and theugh I have my own way of showing it. Oh! I know very well that you sometimes think me ungrateful. But you do not know me; I am really devoted to you. L never loved my father, nor any woman, nor even myself, as I do you. I could do anything in the world for you, and that is a great deal for me to sa I say, Frank, I will not have you look so. Let us leave London; let us travel, or go to live somewhere else—in Paris or Vie na. Yes, let us go to Vienna—that long way off; or to America, to Francisco; or to Austr —whe: and you will see so many things that you you choose. The world wide, will get fresh ideas. Or let us make an expedition to the interior of Af Be should enjoy seeing such a savage coun- try, and I am-stronger than I look; I am tough. Let us wander about a great deal, and go through a great deal —great bodily fatigue. Don’t you think it must be splendid to cut your wa the impenetrable busi? Oh! let us bathe onr souls in Nature. n fresh air, and space, and health.” “Well, well,” Frank grumbled, “we will go away. We will travel. But I cannot do it comfortably; I have very I spent so much last year.” “Oh! but we will be economical; wha need have we of luxury? I, at any 1 can do without it.” “Very well”? Frank muttered again. “We will do it cheaply.” Then they were silent for a time. In the twilight, Frank, by some slight movement, touched one of Bertie’s hands. He suddenly ped it. squeezed it alm and said, in a low voi od old fellow! t to crushing, Dear, good fel- XVIL Can he have gone there? thought Van Maeren, as he sat at home the next evening, and did not know with vhat purpose Westhove had gone out. Well, he would sit up for him; there 3 notbing else to be done. Just a few dzys to arrange matters, and then they would be off, away from London. Oh, what a luckless wretch he thought him- self. All this villainy for the sake of mere material comfort, of idleness and wealth which, as he was slowly begin- ning to discover, had all become a mat- ter of indifference to him. Oh! for the Bohemian liberty of his vagabond life in the States, free, unshackeled; his pockets now full of dollars, aud again empty, absolutely empty! He felt quite homesick for it; it struck him as an enviable existence of careless independ- ence as compared with his present state of vacuous ease and servility. How greatly he was changed. Formerly he had been unfettered, indeed, by con- yentional rules, but free from any great duplicity; and now, his mind had been cultivated, but was sunk in a depth of baseness. And what for? To enable him to hold fast that which no longer had any value in his eyes. No value? then, did he not cut his way out own inet, to go away, in poverty; and write a single word to Frank amd Eva to bring them together again? It was still in his power to do tb He thought of it, but smiled at the thorght; it was impossible; and yet he could not see wherein the impossibi lay. But it was impossible, it w thing that could not be done. It was illogical, full of dark difficulties, a thing that cculd never come about for m terious reasons of Fatality, which, deed, he did not clearly discern, but ac- ecpted as unznswerable. He was musing in this vein, alone, that evening, when Annie, the house- keeper, came to tell him that someone wanted to speak with him. “Who is it?” She cid not know. So he went into the sitting room, where he found Sir Arch- ibald’s footman, with his big nose and ugly, shifty, gray eyes, like a bird twinkling in his terra-cotta face, which was varied by blue tracts of shorn whisker and beard. He was out of his livery, and dressed like a gentleman, in alight overeoat and felt hat, with a cane and gives. ‘ ‘What brings you here?” said Van Maeren, shortly, with a scowl. “I have always told you that I would not have you come to the house. You have no complaint to make of me, I suppose?” Oh, vo, he had no complaint to make, he had only come to call on an old friend—such a swell! Bertie would re- member the times they had had in New York. They had been waiters togeth- er, pals at the same hotel. Rum chance, eh, that they should run up against each other in London? It was a small world; you were always running up against someone, wherever you might go. You couldn’t keep out of anyone's way; in fact, if it was God’s will you should meet a feller, yot couldn't keep out of that feller’s way, and then you might sometimes be able to do him a good turn. .. . There had been some letters written—and he scraped his throat—inconyenient letters. Sixty quid down for two letters to the young woman, that was the bargain. Life was hard; to get a little fun now and then in London, cost a deal of money. And now there was a third letter, in the same hand—dear, dear, whose could it be, now?—addressed to the old tan. He did not want to be too hard on an old pal, but he had just come to ask him whether this letter, too, was of any value. He had it with him. “Then, give it here,” stammered Van Maeren, as pale as death, holding out his hand. Ay, but thirty sovs. was too little, a mere song. This letter was to the old man, and was worth more, and, to tell the truth, his old friend was hard up, desperately hard up. Bertie was a gen- -tleman who could throw his money about, and he had a noble heart. He would never leave an old pal in the lurch. The devil’s in it, we must help each ther in this world. Say a hun- “You are a rascal” cried Bertie. “We had agreed on thirty pounds. I have not a hundred pounds; I am not ” nivel, of course, he knew that; Bas Mr. +Westhove, no doubt, gave at friend sixpence, now and then, and Mr. Westhove was made of money. Come, come, Mr. Van Maeren must eae it over; he really should do something for an old pal, and a hundred pounds v not the whole world, after all. “I have not a hundred pounds at th moment, I assure you * said Bertie, huskily, from a parched throat, and shaking, as if in an ague fit. Well, he would come again, then, by- and-by. He would take great care of he letter. : i “Hard over the letter.[ will give you he money another time.” : But ls “old. pal” laughed cheerfully. No, no—given is given. They might trust each other. but it should be give and take—the setter for the hundred unds down. peBut I will not have you coming here again. I will not have it, I tell you. “All right. There no difficulty om that score. His swell friend might bring it himself. ‘fo-rorrow? “Yes, to-morrow, without fail. now, go; for God’s sake, go!” He “pushed his demon out of the house, promising him, to-morrow—to- morrow evening. Then he called up Annie, and vehemently asked her whether she knew the man. “Who was the fellow?" he roughly inquired, like a gambler who plays @ high trump at a critical point of the game. She, bowever, did not knew, and was surprised that Mr. Van Maeren should not have known him. “Had he been troublesome?” . “Yes, a beggar, a regular beggar.” “He was dressed quite like a gentle- man, too.” “Be more careful for the future, said Bertie, “ard let no one into the house.” And XVIL. ing until Frank He sat up that ¢ve came home. As he sa one he wept; for hours he sobbed passionately, mis- erably, till, in the siightly-built little yilla, Annie and her hesband might have heard him, till his head felt like a drum, and bursting with throbbing pain. H» fairly cried in irrepressible wretchedness, and his sobs shook his little body like a rythm of agony. Ob, how could he get out of this slough? Kill himself? How could he live on im such wretchedness? And again and again he looked about him for a weap- on; his hands clutched his throat like a vice. But he hed not the courage—at least not at that moment, for, 2s he clenched his fingers, an unendurable pain mounted to his already aching head. And he wept all the more bitter- ly at finding himself too weak to do it. It was 1 in the morning. Frank must surely come in soon. He looked in the gless, and saw a pale, purple-gray face with swollen, wet eyes, and thick blue veins on his temples pulsating visibly under the transparent skin, Frank must not see him thus. And yet, he must know—and he must ask— --- He went to his room, undressed, and got, shivering, into bed; but he did not go to sleep. He lay listening for the front door to open. At half-past two Westhove came in. Good God! If he bad gone to the Rhodes’.No, no, he at the club; he went s ght up stairs to bed. Annie and her husband locked up the house; there v a noise of bolts and locks, the clank of metal bars. Half-an-hour later Bertie rose. Now it would be dark in F room--- otherwise he would hay ple pallor. Out into the passage. “Frank.” “Hallo Come in In he went. Westhov: light but the moonlight his back to the glimmer. Frank mention the Rhodes? asked, “what was up?’ And Van Mae- ren began. There was an u'gent matter he must lay before his friend—some old debts he had remembered, which he must pay before they went awey. He was so vexed about it; it was really taking ad- vintage of Frank’s kindness. Could Frank give him the money? Tap. with Bertie. Now, would To Be Continued. A Contrast. The following curious way of dealing with drunkards is printed by ‘the Na- tional Advocate: Denmark—In Denmark the police take a drunken man to the station and place him under the care of a surgeon. When he recovers they take him home in a cab, and then present their bill to the person in whose house the victim had taken his last refresher. Turkey—In Turkey a drunk man is bastinadoed for the first, second and third offense, after which he is considered “privileged.” A privileged drunkard is led home and is furnished with an account which he must settle forthwith. United States—In the United States a man may drink himself to death, and there is no inquisition for blood; or he may forfeit his liberty and his wife and children suffer, and ratepayers pay the cost of his board in prison. The “trade” escapes, and not a scratch is made on the back of the license! James Was a Greater Man. Answers: Carlyle’s severest critic, critic of his own school, rcadman at Ecelefechan. “Been a long time in this neighborhood?” asked an English tourist. “Been here a’ ma days, sir.’” “Then you'll know the Carlyles?”” “Weel that! A ken the whole of them. There was, let me see,"’ he said, leaning on his shovel, and pondering; “there was Joci he was a kind o throughither sort o’ chap, @ Goctor, but no a bad fellow, Jook—he's deid, And there wi > a eat as Thomas," said the inquirer, “Oh, ay, of coorse, there's T: munestruck “chap. that writes in” London, ‘There's naething in T: but, mon, there's and a was an old parish Jamie, owre in the Newlands—there’ rag here's a chap Jamie takes mair swine into Eccle- market than any ither farmer i’ the Without a Blot. In a ledger of 456 pages which was found an Auburn (Me.) curiosity shop amo: bisiness books used a century. ago by a Noe Gloucester firm, there ts not a blot, though alt the pages are full of entries. The books were kept with a qu'll pen and home-made ink. pueda 6 As An Extenuating Circumstance. Cleveland Plain Dealer: “You are accussd, madam, of throwing a pail of water on the complainant. What have you to say?" i “T plead extentating verevhat they 2" “The water was carefully boiled.” ———— Elueidated. Puck: * cl Bt Fe! every one watch a newly “Single perpiec watch, them, because they ex- Pect to see some making, Deople because they expect to see a quasralee , your