The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 7, 1901, Page 6

He =ank of America By John ,:o.mr Fraser, Walter as t the drawin w with the warm her head woman e was a deeper touch lor in her cheek than She was agitated, the quickly between the bright lips, and the rise and fall of the diaph ous lace resting on her bosom excitement Her brother twisted round on the couch, where he had been yawning through a novel. “What's up?” he repeated “Mr.—Mr. Sparling has just propos me, and 1 have toid | “You've rejected him!™ She nodded her breath was red t can neve Walter crossed the Arawing-room. a buriy, ruddy cheeked Saxon, and stared in the face of his lovely =ister. “The: he s2id, “you're an awful ass.” “I knew you would say that,” replied the woman “Any girl would jump at a man like Eparling “Well, I haven't.” and she commenced to pick the jeaves from a b roses and place them in a The room was partly d out the rays of the sun. But through the French windows that opened upon the lawn, where the buzz of bees could be heard among the flowers that skirted the paths, there came long beams of light that fell about Theresa Fairbank as though they sought to gior her loveliness. Waiter pitched his novel away, and looked curiously at the girl as she bent over the bowl of roses “You know Dick Sparling is a particu- lar friend of mine” he said with the h of anger n his volce. * said the girl. on earth did you encourage *h of blown ar. kened to keep “I never encouraged him.” “Fudge! Nobody with half an eve could have mistaken what Sparling was after; you, least of all, with your talks together about Browning and ethics, and your searching together for rare British weeds —as though Sparling cared a rap for those things.” “Then 1 misunderstood Mr. Sparling.” *“Not you; no girl gould. Do you mean to say you didn’t know all along Dick was down into the nearest chair violently in love with you?” “I didn’t.” “And you've refused him.” , for I don’t love him. I don’ men, and Mr. Sparling is a litt That's because you yourself are so silence for some moments. spoke again .00k be an idiot. Sparling’s chap. Besides, he's just s as well off as we are. :ly place; he's got a nic: vou would have everything a woman can desire, and yo'd search a mighty long time before you'd get so in- dulgent a husband.” “You're his friend, Walter,” said The- resa, suggestively, looking up for the first ti I am, and when I saw what was hap- pening 1 was glad. Now do be sensible. If 1 were asked to pick you a husband I would pick you Dick Sparling.” “But not asked. And when you're there's any picking to be done, I'll do It 3 all T can say is you're a heart- You've flirted with Dick abom- rling from his—his infatudtion, and then cover we will all be friends again. You make a mistake if you think Dick t sort of man. I'm sorry for him, and I'm ashamed of you.” Then he went out and left the girl in the room alone. As soon as she heard Walter whistle for his dog, which indicated he was off for a walk, Theresa threw aside her bon- net and, leaning back in the big yielding chair, laughed merrily. No man could ever look upon her with- out being captivated. The soft, warm- tinted skin, telling of constant life in the country: the full, inviting lips; the soft and yet often kindling eves, the mass of black hair, her ingenuousness, her con- ant winning smile, her tall graceful car- g¢, Lad set aglow the heart of many a man. Yet she was an arrant flirt. Not that she exchanged sweet sighs with would- be lovers, but she delighted in her powers of fascination. To have a host of admir- ers, to feel that her wish was their law, to see the love in their eyes which she was careful should never have an oppor- tunity of being spoken, and yet caring not one jot for any of them, such was the desire of Theresa Fairbank, the sister of the young Squire of Maitland Hall, Her great conquest ‘had been Richard Sparling of Thirwell, the life-long friend of her brother. Sparling was rich, about the same age as Waiter, a kind-hearted, who knew, sincere country gentleman though nothing had been said, that for him to marry Theresa would bring joy into the heart of his chum. And so he had loved and Ther had coquetted, and then suddenly, this afternoon, matters 1d been brought to a climax. She had neve: loved him. Indeed she cared a good deal less for him than many another man she knew in the south coun- try. She was amused at his amiable fol- lowing of her into the mysteries of Browning, which she didn’t understand. His docile obedience, his unhidden admir- ation, pleased her. Had she been other than a light-hearted, frivolous girl® she would have seen the personal advantages of becoming the mistress of Thirwell. But these had no weight with her. She ad her triumph in the knowledge that she had brought the richest man in the shire to a protestation. Thoughtless and merry, it never entered her mind that her amu ment might be the cause of pain. rbank was for some days openly an- noyed at the conduct of his sister. Tak- ing a personal interest in his estates, he had a mixture of scorn and mirth for Theresa's affectations of culture. He knew her to be just what she was, pretty and vain; not heartless or insincere, but, with the unthinking buoyancy of young womanhood, taking the world to be her playground. Thirwell was but some four miles from Maitland Hall. Indeed the two estates joined. It was impossible therefore that long time could pass before Theresa met her rejected lover. Within a_week, as she and- Walter were taking horse exercise down Thirwe!l road, they encountered Sparling. The man was flurried and frightened; the woman bowed to him coldly and re- mained sedate. Squire Fairbank attempted to chat gaily for a few minutes. But all the time he was filled with hot anger. He understood his friend’s discomfort and was irritated at the sudden haughtiness of Theresa. When Dick Sparling had ridden on he turnea almost savagely. “Couldn’t you see Dick's discomfort?” he asked. “If his meetihg me is so troublesome he should take a tour abroad. I never asked him for his love, and I suppose 1 can de- cline the homor of its acceptance if I like.” She leaned forward in the saddle and gently patted the neck of her roan mare. aidenly i uffected THE SUNDAY CALL k T ‘Do give over talking in that stilted way. Dick’s far too sensible to run away, and—and look here, Theresa, you'll live to rue the day that you refused him.” “Pray don't try coerclon.” “I won't. It's not for me to force you to marry a man whom you don't love, but it is for me to remohstrate against your putting my dearest friend into a position almest ridiculous.”” The horses broke into a canter. ‘“‘And—and I'm going to have Dick at the hall as much as be- fore—if he'll come.” “If he'll come,” repeated the girl. “Oh I—I daresay his affection will—will smolder away pretty quick—quick enough, when he sees how worth—worthless is the person on whom he bestowed—stowed it.” Theresa tossed her head ard deigned no notice. And it was as young Squire Falrbank foretold. The friendship of the two men was not interrupted by the coquetry of the sister. At first Sparling hesltuted running the risks of meeting her. But as Sparling’s love wanred, for he saw it bhad been but a flitting fancy nurtured by s esteem for the girl's brother, so Ther- chilliness softened, and ere the n winds shook free the russet hed, though there were no more ertations on Browning, no ng for the higher culture, no searching of meadow sides for rare weeds. “Dick,” sald the squire one n'ght as the two men were sitting in the little apart- ment over the stables that served the joint purpose of study and gunroom “I'm awfully glad things are as they used to be.” Sparling gave his friend a questioning ~lance. “I mean,” added Walter, “you've got over that little knock about my sister. The other laughed awkwardly. “You see,”” said Walker, “it was a beastly shame and I told her so to her face. You'd have been a déal too good for her, old chap, though she is my sis- ter.” “Well, anyway,” said Sparling, leaning forward toward the fire, with his elbows on his knees, “it's all over now. It's best as it is. She did the wise thing. If I had truly loved her I would probably be Joving her now. But I don’t and that is why I'm able to come here. I esteem her and that is about all.” There was a silence for a couple of min- u.es. “And I'm glad of it, old man sald ‘Walter, reaching forward for another cigar, “for my mind is now at rest. What are you doing to-morrow? Why not let us have some shooting together?” “‘Oh, but my guns are not in condition.” “Well, you can use one of the guns here. Come over to breakfast and then we can get out early.” In the morning, at breakfast table, The- resa was radlant. The natural estrange- ment that bad sprung up after her rejec- tion of Richard Sparling had fled. She chattered gaily and the two men laughed. She was in a soft white mornirg gown that set off her sweet beauty. She wished them both good sport during the day, gave an eye to their accouterments, and, stand- ing at the hall door, waved them a merry adieu. “Thessy's jovial this morning,” said Walter, as they walked down the aveuue with guns across their shoulders. ‘“Yes,” muttered Dick, and he offered hi friend a cigarette. 3 Theresa watched the men out of sight. Then, humming an air, she went to the drawing-room and played some .of her favorite Chopin. She was free 1earted this bright, keen-aired autumn day. Everything In the world was so pleasant that she sang for joy of heart. Neither her brother nor his friend would be back for some hours. She had all the morning to herself, to play her music, to spend an hour In the conservatory among the flowers, to look into the kitchen and see the husekeeper. She rose from the piano and, going to the window, looked out upon the glowing scene of autumn. The plantation, away over by the home farm, was a mass of gorgeous tints and burnished goid, but In a few weeks there would be nothing but a dark array of bare trees. She thought of this with a sigh, for she loved the sum- mer and the autumn, the songs of the birds and the breath of the flowers, Many minvtes she stood musing, and then suddenly she saw her brother run- ning breathlessly and excitedly up tke drive. His cap was off; he had no gun with him. She hastened into the hall. “Mercy!"” she exclaimed, “what is 1t?" Walter was pale with excitement. “Dick,” he gasped, “has been—been shot,”” Theresa uttered a scream, and held to the table for support. “He's not—not dead, but it's—it’s ¢+ wful. That gun of mine I lent him, It—it explod- ed. We—we've carried him to the—to the farm. Gray has ridden off for a doctor, and I want handkerchiefs and lint and—oh my poor pal, Dick!” He sank down into the nearest chair, and, covering his face with nis hands, sobbed bitterly. For Theresa Unable to speak, unable to declde what to do, Theresa stood with blanched, plain- tive countenance. “Can—can 1,” she said with tearful voice, *“can I go to him?” “No, no,” said the man, “the sight is awful. His poor hands, his poor face--oh, my dear Dick! That gun couldn’t have been properly cleaned. The thing jammed, and at the first shot it burst. Now get me those things and I'm off back. No, no, I tell you, you mustn't come! You weuld be no good; they wouldn't let you into the room.” “*Oh, but, Walter, T could tell how—how dreadfully sorry I am.” “Yau could tell him nothing; congcious.” She did not plead further. Some of the men.servants went back with Walter to the farm. She watched them go with aching heart; she sent her maid over to find out some news, but the answer she brought was that the poor gentleman was dying. Theresa knelt by the couch and wept. She dldn’t know why she wept. Peorhaps it was only the pity in her heart. She had never cared for Richard Sparling, but for him to die like this—it wus terrible. All day she wandered disconsolately. Every servant who came back from the farm she questioned. She wanted to run over herself, but her brother had farbid- den it. She hated the sun because it was shining so brightly, she thought the birds were cruel for chirruping in the trees. Towards dusk her brother came home, his face lined with pain as though he had suddenly grown old. &= he's un- “Walter, Walter,” she beseeched, “Is he <olng to dle?” 3 “No,” he sald sadly, “the doctors don’t , aink he'll die, but it will be worse than Jeath, far worse. His face Is all tormn and —and, Theesy, he'll never see any more. “Blind!"” Her brother nodded. He forced back a sob, and the girl came to him and nestled close to his side. He did not quite appre- ciate her presence, but he stroked her wet checks with his hand. At last he raised his head and looked at her, “Thessy,” he said, “Dick will be no good now. He'll be a cripple, his face will be seared and scarred, he’ll have to CPH“'Il through life a blind man. Now, now, don’t You take it so hardly. Think, you might have been his—his wife! Then it would have been terrible. But you've been saved that agony, Thessy. How much worse it would be were you married to him! It would have killed him with sorrow. I didn’t think so at the time, but it's well you didn’t marry him. Now, now, don't cry, the doctors say there is practically no fear of him dying, only that he'll—he'll be be—" “Always blind,” sald Theresa, her dis- tress shaking her with its intensity. The next day she went over to the farm. But neither the nurses nor the medical men would permit her to see the patient. Others went with stealthy step in and out of the room, but she was prohibited. ‘Walter marveled at the great pity there was in the heart of his sister. He was racked with pain, thinking of the sad fate of his friend. Day by day he saw his sister grow paler and more wan She ceased to be the frolicsome, venturous girl, ever rippling with merri- ment, and became a demure, anxious woman. She rarely spoke about the blind man, but her brother could see the disaster had left its mark. And so the weeks slowly dragged along and Richard Sparling was taken from the farm to his own house at Thirwell. Slow- ly he gained strength, but there was no hope he would ever see again. That vas beyond hope. “Thessy,” sald Walter one afternoon, face was pale and stern, but there was no sign, save that the thin lips occasionally quivered. She followed Dick and her brother from the church. “Where—where is Miss Fairbank?” the man asked with a tremor in his voica. ~Here,” sald Theresa, placing her hand on his arm. “Ah, yes, forgive me. But we'll all three go up to the Hall and have lunch. Yes, yes, Walt, I can walk; really I'm auits strong enough to walk if—if Miss Fairbank will give me her arm as well.” They sauntered up the village street to the gaunt Elizabethan manslon, in which the Sparlings had long lived. Dick was merry; the others had hearts too full ta say much. ““What a helpless old cripple I am, am I not,” sald Dick apologetically when his foot hit against a stone. “But it's not so bad as you might—might—" He stopped, Tor he instinctively felt the man and the woman by his side were pained. They walked across the lawn, with ite cold, damp grass, and slowly climbed the old stone steps. Once in the drawing room Dick Sparling sank back with e , thank you.”™ wer, but she vanted to say had learned that love is akin to pity. “poor Dick is bearing it wondertully well. This merning he was quite cheery and actually laughed. And on Sunday there is to be a service of thanksgiving in the little village church that his life was not lost. Whll you go?" She muttered a soft and on the Sunday they drove to Thirwell. She had often been in the quaint, stunt-towered church before, but she felt a swelling at her bosom and her breath came quick as she walked to the Sparling pew alone, for ‘Walter had gone to meet his friend. She knew all the villagers were looking at her, but she cared not for their looks. She was afraid, however, they would hear the beating of her heart. There was a slight commotion at the church door. Everybody turned to look and there was whispering. She kept her eyes on the ground. She was aware of her brother opening the pew door, aware of a trembling, weak figure being led into a seat by her side. She cared not turn her head to look, but she put out her hand and took that of the stricken man. She tried to say something, but words would not come. The man's hand was shaking. All through the service she was like one dazed. She found herself In a reverie thinking of a time when she used to search the ditches by the meadows for rare weeds. But during the special prayer prayer of the old vicar she pulied down her veil. The tears were running too fast. It was then that she turned to Jook through the mist at Dick Sparling, It wasn't like the face she had once known. It was horrible, and the closed <ycs were hid behind dim glasses, The something about his misfortune, but i@ l.ntvknnw how to. Walter Fairbank went off to look at the horses, The girl stood before the blind man. Hes was smiling qaletly. The tears flooded her eyes and a great yearning took possession of her. “Are you—you there, Miss Fairbank?* Dick asked. “Yes.” “Where?” “Here.” She went to him and rested her hand upon his shoulder. “I'm—I'm awfully sorry, She hesitated for a moment. awfully sorry,” she said. He took her hand and found 1t cold. “Ah,” she sald quietly, “everybody has been so good to you. I've been very wick- ed to you. I—I'm afraid you must think me a callous and—and heartless woman for—for—" The blind man raised his head. But he could not see the tears in the eyes, the agony the face. “What is it?"” he asked. She came close to him. “You—you re- fmember what I told you In the bowery at Maitland Hal!l in—in the summer.” “Don’t, Miss Fairbank the man cried tress, she took no heed. citement had seized her. true now, Dick: it's not true now. She sank beside him and he put out his hands, and toudhed the tears on the woman’'s cheeks. “Dick,” — don’t you unc I—I—oh, but don't you understand?’ She touched the scar- red cheeks with her lips. Dick did understand, and so did Walter when he came back to the room. For Theresa had learned that love is akin to pity, and joy is often to be found in sadness. Mr.—Mr.—" “Dick, I'm A _sudden ex- “Well, it's not “don’