The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 7, 1901, Page 8

good has ' been 1 s0o muen ast frec. to speak ill of scelles, whom I kn vou ever saw hir brute, and it was have to suffer for his well you our path is be able to shape ews was received c comment. do; teris me as I and all feel toward you le woman, you have got a big corner in the , and none of ths won't stay in rstand that Las- a year, and e decency to leave »me home, of course would have come < you, but s ters now stand in South Africa I et leave. You see, any moment, and be worked anyhow. two or three year over now. You are youn, all the best part of your I o to you, 1o dear eves that used to be > amazed with all th: me we will hink, dear. ears since you ed to take your and cut with hateful shackles I was v but 1 am glad now and kept. going un: see u refy h ou then.” How cene, @ her when the ct which he azzled eves. E ght, faithful, €ooc end and r! Oh, how could sne give Willy Brandon one thought, one ) hand, ready her to take weave into a golden, perfect rom It was impossible! It prepost . Well, months had gone by. Death ad been merciful when it set her free from the greatest brute that ever blastcd a woman’'s life. Her first imstinct been to sell up everything that she pos- sessed in New York ¢ to go straight back to her own cou But no, fate ame in and prevented any such end to the story. ; ; It happened three vears before this that she had fled from her native country out of the reach of her husband’s iron whe had fallen upon very evil days, and unless she had happened, as she did, to meet with Willy Brand: e would robably have starved in the ts of New York. By sheer accident, into contact with a e had been brou; at millionaire. Nobody who knew v affectionately all sorts and conditi: of peo- world, would have known the chiv- parts of the 1 surprised had the; alrous way in which he had taken up the se of the unfortunate girl who had from her brutal husband. He had ven her no c uniess we call his by that name in the of the word. a widow for seven months t instinct on hearing the news of her husband’s death, and the fact that he shown some sense of his shortcomi y leaving the will which he had m at the time of their marriage unrevoked, had been to return with grate- ful words and a full acknowledgment of her enormous obligation, the money which Viliy Brandon had advanced to set- her up in the business by which she had been making her living. Then she had received from her brother-in-law, who had been the trustee under Major Kesteven's wil. an intimation that no money could be or would be advanced until his brother's af- fairs were completely wound up. ““That will certainly not be for some months to come.” he wrote to her. Then added: “I am sorry if this inconveniences you. but as you say you have had no money from my brother since you parted, and you write from an exceedingly good address in New York, I conciude that you are not in need, actual need. of funds. You need not be afraid but that 1 shall fulfill my trust to the utmost farthing, but it would complicate matters were 1 to send you at the present juncture; it would, really be advancing it out of my own pocket, which, remembering my own ponsibilities, I am not able or willing after this Mary Kesteven felt that she would rather die than ask the smallest favor of her husband’'s brother. She did not explain the exact. state of affairs in her subsequent letters to Jocelyn Musgrave, because she was a very proud woman, and even of Jocelyn she would not like to seem to be asking a favor, and he might feel himself bound to offer to lend her the money for the purpose of repaying Willy Brandon. So she simply said in reply to his letter that she would not be able to wind up her affairs in New York for some few months. “You forget, dear old boy,” she said, “that I am not a mere fine lady now- ada; I am a woman of business, a woman of affairs; 1 must see matters through here before I can venture to come home and take up my happy, iree life E: n I wish you could have come out here to see me: it would have made you understand better exactly how I am placed. As it is, as soon as I am able I shall leave America and go home.” Well, nearly seven months had gone by. She had not yet received one penny from Sir George Kesteven; she had not yet saved nearly enough to' repay the money which Willy Brandon had poured out lav- ishiy and freely at her feet. It was un- fortunate for her, most unfortunate, for two men entirely misunderstood the cause of her lingering in New York; one, 'Wil- liam Brandon, millionaire, and the other Jocelyn Musgrave, tke lover who had once asked her to brave the wholesworld and end her troubles by casting in her lot with his. She heard from the one and she'saw the other continually. FROM WILLY BRANDON PITTANCE Sne was not although her t to an end don's mann there was s grave's lette v happy at this time, e of penance had come There was something in Bran- which made her mething in Jocel, pitate every time that she thought abou? him. It w nothing tangible, any more than there was anything tangible in Bran- don’s manner. and over agai fectionate and made her so uncas She read his letters over were long, af was there that , that made her heact so restless and ofttimes like a piece of molten le: hin her breast? She could not define it, and yet—and yet it was She worked harder than ever, and a: though it brought her in money—th money*which would make her complet: free—her work was not such as to inter- est her or carry her out of herself. The:c. is nothing very exhilarating in polishing fingernails of a goddess; and most of ry Kesteven's clients were far from bc ing goddesses. There nothing satisfy - ing even in the most exquisitely scented soap; while the powders and richest per- fumes, and hair washes, which were her stock in trade, were no more than a means to an end. They did not interest ber in the very least. So all the time that she was working to pay off that-debt of honor which ex- isted -~ between her and Willy Brandon, Mary Kesteven's thoughts were alway on the sameerrand—were always think- ir, nd cogitating, wondering and weary - ing for Jocelyn Musgrave. Then came the letter from Willy Bran- don asking her to give up this daily tol for a mere pittance: asking her, now that she was a free woman and a decent in- terval had elapsed since the death of her husband, to look upon him in a dif- ferent light to what she had done hith- erto, asking her to become his wife and share his millions. Of course, it was out of the question. She would have to tell him. The letter said that he was coming at 9 o’clock that evening for an answer. Well, she must receive him; she must be very kind, very-- Oh, what was the good of going over what she must be? She must break it to him as gently as she coula; that thers was no hope; that she was not quite the free woman he had thought her. And then she would not probably see him .again until that little nest-egg, to which she added something ever~ day, had grown large enough to pay back, in mere coin but never in gratitude and blessed obligation, all that she owed him. L It was 9 o’clock in the evening. Mary Kesteven was waiting in her sitting- room for the coming of her friend—her iciend and benefactor. The little clock on the ®onsole had scarcely struck the hour when Brandon arrived. He came into the room with swifz and eager footsteps; a talf, slight, dari- eyed man, with that curlous look of over- breeding which is the heritage of most true-born Americans. There was no aoubt about Brandon’s pedigree and the stock of which he had come. His an- cestor was one of the forty-nine surviy- ors of the Mayflower, and had come of a sturdy Kentish stock. Generations of life in the most go-ahead country in tha world had done away with all the sturdy- stockiness of the original Brandons, and had left in their place in his person the typical well-born American ‘of to-day. He came swiftly across the room, hold ing out both hands. “Well,” he said, almost breathlessly, “what is my answer?" Her eyes fell before his. THEN CAME THE LETTER. ASKING HER TO GIVE UP THIS DAILY TOIL FOR A MERE THE SUNDAY .CALL. “I know,” he said. “I know everything you are going to say.” “I am so sorry. ‘“Sorry, are u? Well, that is some: thing. What is it? You are free now. Don't you like me? “Oh, yes, y You #ow I have every reason. every cause to do more than like you.” “But?” There was a long pause. “There is somebodv else?’ he asked at last. “Yes, there is somebody else.” ““Where is he? Why dc you stay here? ‘Why doesn’t he come? He is in England, of course?” “Yes.” She bent her head, looked at the tips of her fingers, then away at a stard of plants on the other side of the room. “He cannot come. It is impossible. He is in the service.” “And free?” “Yes.” *Then why do you stav? Why did you mislead me by staying? Mrs. Kesteven, I have waited six months since I knew that your husband had left you what money he had. 1 waited that you might have a chance of going away, if you wanted to 80, without paining you by having to re- fuse me.” “You do not quite understand,” she said. “You have been so good to me. You have lent me money, you kept me going, you saved me from starvaticn, I didn’t want to go away until I had repaid you, Mr. Brandon.” “Repaid? Faugh! It's horrible to talk of money, a few pounds between a woman and a man who are friends—a woman and a man. Oh, Mrs. Kesteven, I was able to do you a little service; you havo thanked me, you have paid me over and over again.” - “No, I have never thanked you, never! And as for the money, that you promised me I should repay vou.” “Yes, when you had made it. I said it to satisfy you. I said jt to make you take it, that was all.” es, but you said it and vou must keep to it. I haven't mzde enough vet, and that’s why I am staying.” “But your husband’s meney? “No. The English law is very strange— or it seems so sometimes to those who do not quite understand it. My brother-in- law, Sir George Kesteven, is not obliged to pay me anything from my husband's estate until affairs are wound up, and T believe every executor is given a year in HAVE SENT THIS?"SHE which to wind up things. So he wrote to me, knowing that 1 am not starv on thi: : he even went so far as to that I wrote from a goocd address, and he does not feel inclined to put himself per- Sonally out of the way in order to mest my wishes. I did not tell him just why I wanted some of the mcney. It is mine and must be mire before many months are gone by. I only said that I wanted some money. He says that if he w to give it to me he wou'd only be giving it to me out of his own pocket and at his own inconvenience. Ard so I felt tha: I must remain here either until I have made enough for my purpose or until the timas comes when mine can be kept no longer from me.” “‘Otherwise you would have been gone before this?” *Yes." “I see. Well, I promised that you should pay the money back, and, of course, I cannot go back from my word. I wish, taking hold of her hard and looking at her with a wistful smile. “T wish that y would let me write it off as a bad de It would be the best wav of thanking me that you could think of.” “No, I couldn’t. It would weigh on my conscience all my life. Why should you? ‘What was I to you?” ““Well, you were a great deal to me. You were a woman that I admired—I doa’t mean the woman I loved, apart from that entirely another feeling altogether—you were a woman that I admired, a woman with courage and pluek, real grit. You do not understand, perhaps what a pleasure, what an honor it is for a man like me, who has never known the waut of money, to be able to help such a woman as you are. I need not tell you that I am disappointed. I won’t bore you with my sensations. God bless vou! You are a good woman. I hope the other fellow will value you as I would have dcne.” He bent down and kissed her hands, then without another word strode out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. For a long time Mary Kesteven sat still and motionless just where he had left her. She drew her breath in long gasps. She had been face to face with love, with pure love, true love, love in which pas- sion took a secondary place. She felt as if she had missed something, as if some great good had gone clean out of her life. Even Jocelyn-had never made her feel quite as this man did. Ah, well, it was no use thinking, it was no use worrving or fretting. Her friend was gone—yes, gone. But she had a lover left. her thoughts leaped straight away to Jocelyn Musgrave, and she smiled the happy and tender smile of a woman who has given her heart in exchange for an- other. The days went quickly by. It is won- derful how hard work, continuous work, makes the hours fly, and before Mary Kesteven had realized that nearly a fort- night had gone by since Brandon had re- ceived his answer, the time of remem- brance—Eastertide—was upon her. She awoke on Easter day with a feeling that, after all, life was good, that never again would she know just what it was to feel an Ishmaelite. Yes, life was very good; and with this Easter all her trou- bles would drift into the past, where troubles may find a merciful end in oblivion. Presently the woman who waited upon her brought her her morning cup of choe- And then olate. “There is a parcel for you, Mrs. Kesteven,” she said, with the curious familiarity which obtains on the other side of the Atlantic. “A parcel? Oh! “I guess it is a present,” sald the woman. “Perhaps. I will tell you later on if it is.” She did not open the package until she was left alone. The opening of the first wrapper disclosed a square wooden box. Within the wooden box was a mass of cotton, wool, then a leather case inclosed in a bag of gray moleskin. Within the case was an emu's egz, exquisitely mount- ed in silver to form a box. “Now, who could have sent thig?" cried. She was flushed with pleasure at the beautiful gift. She rested herself on her clbow the better to examine it. Not a word! Why, what was this? At the bottom of the gray bag was a card, a card bearing the name of ‘William Brandon. “This,” he had written on it, “is the Time of Remembrance; before all, the time of new beginnings and of peace. I send you this Easter offering in token of my undying respect, admiration and af- fection for you. I beg of you do not wound me by refusing its contents.— Yours, W. B.” She hastily raised the upper half of tk> €gg, which, swinging back upon a silver hinge, disclosed several pieces of paper. She eagerly snatched them from their receptacie. They were her own L O. U.'s to Wililam Brandon. For a moment she lay there staring at she them in bewilderea amazement amazement, at the depth and profound purity of this man's love. So he had sent her back those pleces of paper; he had set her free from all obl tion to him that she might lese no time in going ck to her own count re man she loved. This was love ; true, pure, unselfish, angelic love. She fell back among her pillows, her eyes full of tears, her mouth quivering. “I have been on the wrong track,” she said to herself. “Not even Jocelyn loves like this. What can I do? I can't use them, I can’'t accept them. Oh, I were only free, I mean heart free, that I might pay this man as he would like to be paid. But, there, #t's no thinking about that. Jocelyn is waiting for me at home, wondering why I remain out here. Shall I take advantage of this last act of generosity and go? What am 1to do? What ought I to do?"* She lay there for a long time, thinking, wondering, cogitating, but arriving at no satisfactory conclusion. And then the maid came bringing her several: letters which had just come by the post. There was one from Sir George Kesteven, mak- ing a technical Inquiry for the purpose of probate. There was one from her married happily but poorly in the f: north of England, and there was one fro Jocelyn Musgrave. “1 feel,” he said, “that you have some special reason for remaining so long in w York after all necessity to do so has been done away with. Dear little woman, at first when Lascelles Kesteven was taki = away I fancied that we should go straight back onto the old terms aga that all impediment to our marriage was removed. I did not like to put this very plainly, because I have always been in the habit of preserving a certain amount of the conventionalities and the decencies of life, but your continued at has toid me, even better than th guage of your 1 tters, t! superseded. Well, dear 1| o makes my way more easy all along bound in honor to you now that more t months have g y you to leaving K I feel, therefore, t with me when I tell you to be married next w unde lers to go to S a week of my mar rather hurriedly | get th Zaster day aster Tuesday a mile an dear littie wom a line just to on the morni your devoted fian f from bar Sg¢ that had come to had been full 7f tears wh put the le not full of tes < > to the of Jocelyn Musgrave's nation. On, no, no! In the few m s occupled in reading his letter th, ales had fallen from her ey hat had ever been love 1 not now arments of Lu even's widow. She realize er né nor she had eve been ve one with anoth her thoughts be Her mind, her heart, and brimming over with William Brandon. were filled e words which s| tomed to hear Sunday after her old country home in Engia ringing through her brain and go to my father. * * more worthy to be calied thy son.” Yes. she would arise. She would go ai- rect to /iliam Brandon: she would say to him: “I am not fit to touch the latches nmrfl your shoe, but if you want me take e had