The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 8, 1903, Page 4

idol shall come dowa , a_trifie breathless, but not She seemed to be repeat- Sallie’'s ears it all as the crack of said. Her with tois an, and her sion Her her ey her mi-- he recal - web. It was but the ed her. So Stuyvesan ged tc loved akne ing to g them : wi ning a woma i to look utt riy to oust t the wor 8 meant th Sy o4 emphatical'y, rible ven- ifiable, Mis. now. Hav will be th her co'd r,” she said; erested one, appur- be_thinking cf m devold of ed what ed before she e »uld have rock of ely, “I the first dertaken. I am ed the other. “I rs. Stuyvesant,” she e _honor, a short t T was a woman, or that I had comn a repre- to see you to- for no other rea- »w the woman le.” . and waited the fervor of this ted 1o see Mrs. Stuy- frenzy demand the 1. She anticipated the acute feminine emotion— dilated nostrils, rapid s wife betrayed no such banal ations. and into Sallie’s mind was he fact t! t the case was des ¥ ds no longer. I saw from the t that you were not a niere news gath- was rather a pitie lon’t you think, Miss Sy- t the same time, you : Jur_newspaper You are do- ie, stung by a truth 1ggested Jtself to her be- s 1 can say to you ds you u were once a woman > that you were. Do has cost me nothing come to you, and to talk as I have Yes, I decelved you, and I am lacking to my newspaper. But there which you would ur . or would have understood at Mrs. Stuyvesant, I am appcal- e woman who once loved that suffered for him. There are visit. I know the girl thvolved with Mr. Stuyvesant, and f the er is exposed to the pub- oh, I daren’t think of it! 1d be too dreadful reasons fo who is expression softened. and elowly, it seemed, ¢ her manner lost a trfle ’erhaps the knowledge e in her misery had is. But it was » bifurcation of her from that one grim- zhfare with which she she repeated. *“I for she will suffer. just as inevitably, 1 were to fall dead. Any woman unfortunate enough to love Arthur S nt must suffer sooner or later, whatever happens.” m of light seemed to {llumine the Sallie, twisted in her chair, her hands grasping her humped knees, saw the change in Mrs. Stuyvesant's expres- sion. wish I knew you better,” she sald, “so that I might appeal to you with more success. This girl * ¢ ¢ ¢ that I know ® ® & * i3 not what you might imagine her to be. Bhe is literally one of those matinee girls of whom you have spoken. Yes, I believe that she must be innately badcruel, relentle: indifferent. She must be something even worse,” she add- ed viclously, hugging her knes, until her chin almost rested upon them, “for she has sacrificed a good, honestloyal man— a gentleman in every sense of the word. £he has wrecked his life—as your hus- band has wrecked yours. She has brought reputable names into infamy. He trusted v had grown up togeth- y~ were “almost brother " % and be 8 ® & % Mrs. Stuyvesant assert- “you are in love with mething to do n probably d You know the girl! am sorry for t} And she would suffer 1f, at this moment “I understand ed complacent); him! Sallis dropped her knees, and stared in bewllderment at the woman. Had she been & mystic, dabbling in the latency of mind, a clairvoyant seeing blurred shad- ows luminously, this remark could not have sounded more wonderful. Then she flushed furiously, for it was the first time that she had heard this truth humanly expressed. It was the first time, except in self-acknowledgment, that she had been confronted with it. It sounded strange and marvelously presumptuous. And it sounded fantastic and adorable. Coming, as it did, from the lips of a woman utterly unknown to her, she could not stifie a sense of the supernormal, It was the sort of statement that would have paralyzed her with wonder, had it issued from the brain of Mrs. Piper in a trance. “You know!" she exclaimed in such awe, that the faded little wife of the actor smiled in all human indulgenre. Yes, it is true, although I have never sald it before. It is not necessary to talk about it, because it is outside the question, and it is just a personal matier that nobody will ever know It as) Mrs. hecause ¢ is engag the grl’ ‘And you are afraid that ‘he will d s- cover her deceit * * * you would It him marry her. if mothing were fourd out Sallle writhed at this cross-examination. She. felt that she was on the rack. The tables were turning upon her, and. th> woman she had set out to investigate was investigating her! 1t was quite unneccs sary. She at all afraid to suffy foreta upan to Stuyvesant, 1t0 ¢ =, % a would be ‘calle later on. But it did not seem the matter under discuss on Mrs. Stuyvesant should be enough to pity her, and. for her sake relinguish her schemes. Of course he hoped for something of the sort, but she oped for it with less bleeding from her [ n personal laceration, “I do not know what I should do." Ve replied to the last question. “No, I do not believe I could let him marry her.” Then.” =ald the other, not unkinaly but with a practi flavor that mads Sallie’s blood run cold, “be sat'sfied, and do not worry. Let things their course. She will be dis h2 will know if, and 1f _he will then hate her. * * turn. * * * And to put you at rest, Miss Sydenham, I tell you that 1 have set the machinery in motion that nothing can stop it * * divire vour ind_quite You have done that?” Saille cricd ve- hemently, rising, and standing before the little faded woman. “You have done that? That is what I feared, and that is why [ came. And I thought that by telling you the truth, as 1 have done, 1 might pos- sibly—just possibly—arouse your sym- pathy. I had no right to think it, but there was just the chance. And you be- lleve that if he turned from her * * ¢ that I ® * * no you cannot think it. If t were the case I could not say that T loved him. 1 would give my life If all this could be undone, and he might mar- ry her, and”—with a smile—"live happ y ever afterward. That is impossible, but 1 to spare him as much as 1 can and soften the blow. And you must surely understand that when I d> that, 1 shall give up even his friendsh p —for it will be a cold, cruel, but neces- sary thing to do.” ¥or the first time Mrs. Stuyvesant show- ed signs of genuine emotion. Her armor caved in,-and she saw that she was con- fronted by real human anguish * * ¢ the veritable anguish that she herself had mpled o thoroughly. She put her hands Sallie’s shoulders and looked tenderly 0 her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she said, “and T d» quite understand it all. You love him in true, unselfish way, as I once loved Arthur—when 1 gave up everything his sake. 1 am desperately sorry seems hard that this terrible muc my life should involve others 1d help you I would gladly do It will—you * cried Sallie, ing her hand, and crushing it. “T cannot.” was the answer. “It is out of my hands. The man you saw leavi g my apartment to-night was a private detective, whom I have employed. He will saint’ me, in due course. with th of the girl, and the address of the ndezvous.” “I can tell you both,” Ballie sald im- pulsively, “if 'you will only recail him You can do that. You will do it, I am sure. Mrs. Stuyvesant sat down and passed a hand wearily over her forehead. Sallie noticed the wedding-ring on the third finger of the left hand. It was one of those very wide rings that men give to their wives, as though determined that the golden fetter shall not be overlooked, The woman seemed to be horribly op- pressed. Sallie stood and walted like an agonized creature pausing for the fate: verdict. The photographs in the room seemed to leer at her * * ¢ especally the glaring Roman picture of the actor in his toga. The wife arose at last, and taking Sal- lie's hand, led her to a door, She opencd it softly, 'and there, In a dimly lighted room, iay a small boy, with fair hair fast asleep. The face was flushed and rested on a chubby arm. They stood and listened to the regular breathing. That is his son, Miss Sydenham,” she said; and the ice had entered into her voice agal You would have thought that for his boy’'s sake he would have spared us all this. A woman—well, a man tires of a woman, especlally of a woman who is foolish enough to love him too devotedly. But the boy! I cannot let this baby suffer, as he must do, with a profligate father ever before him, and these horrible scandals always cropping up. If I died, the boy would go te him, and to his women and his apartments. I must be free * * * to go away with the boy, and begin life agaln somewhere. Yes, I am truly and desperately sorry for.you; but the boy * * *° “But the boy will be smirched in it all." Enl;!e’a voice fell. She was beside her- elf. “It will not matter now,” sald Mrs. Stuyvesant. “He is t00 young to under- stand. Later on, he would know * and later on, it would be bound to h But this * * * this much, Miss ham, 1 will do, for your sake. 1 sh not ask you the girl’s name_nor the ad- dress of the meeting place. I could do so * * * and you would tell me. If the de- tective should discover nothing * * * if his work should prove to be fruitless * * * as it might do, you know; if they were warned * * * if they knew that discovery was imminent * * ¢ She stopped, and looked at Sallie. The boy moved in his sleep, and the coverlet revealed one small, lithe foot. The mother went In and rearranged the bed, standing over him for a moment in contemplation. Then she rejoined Sallle and closed the door softly. “The two women were silent for a long time, but to one of them the woof of the tragedy seemed less dense. “Thank you,” said Ballie tremulously— “thank you. You are a good woman, and you have suffered—how you must have 2uffered! It is perhaps seifiah of me. Even unselfishness, I suppose, can be selfish.” But her heart was lighter as she ran down the stalrs, certain that the dreadful scandal could be averted. She had been deeply touched by this Interview; but her senge of relief was so great that she was unable to dwell upon the facts to which she had listened. Arthur Stuyvesant must, of course, be warned in such a way that his detection would be difficult. If she only had the courage to go to him and confront him! Bhe lacked it. Her sense of repulsion was 8o overwhelming that though her reason pointed out to her the advisability of a personal interview, :he was absolutely unable to undertake t. As soon as she reached her home she Tote to ““Mr. Compton,” at his address. ““When you get this,” ran her letter, “vou can look upon it as a warn'ng. Detectives are watching you, to discover where you meet your mistress’” (she hated the word, but she wrote it, and even underlined it). *Listen to advice, and do not visit your apartment again. If you do, your name will be dragged into publicity, and there will be a horrible scandal. You will be ruined.” She did not sign it. Although anonymous letters never appealed to her, she knew that in a case like this her mission could not fail to make itself understood. She read the note over, and was satisfied that she had made it'quite strong enough. Then she added this: ““There is 0ne news. paper in this city that is awaiting a story with great impatience,” That would sure. ly clinch it. Perhaps he would recall her words to him on the night of the owl's geception. Memory played strange pranks, nd her written words might awaken re- ponses from latent sources in the store- house of his mind. At any rate, nobod could resist such a letter, coming, as ft would do, right into the very thick of the flagrant delit. Sallle was satisfled. She took the letter herself and posted it. She looked into the want tak- THE SUNDAY CALL. letter-box to see that i had not wedg d itself into the metal * * * that it h.d ched a position where it would not go ray. Then she went back, in b tier spirits than she had known for muny days. And the heart of Rosina was 1e- joiced as she noticed Salli 1 ghtn:s mood, and some of her old-tima viv Tt w ved letter nex: da velop : puzzied her, and like Mr. Pickwick, sue came to the conclusion that the clew lay inside, She ovened It, read it. crumpl=d it up contemptuous: nd threw it aw. “It might appeal to him.” she sad 1 herself. “It does not impress me at all.” Hampton who r Mr. Compt CHAPTER XV Sallie’s serious moods began to refl themselves in her work. Uncopsc o | her light. bantering, satirical, 'rock ess “style” became more reflective and su.- dued, and she “saw"” realities when shy dealing with mimic facts. The pr b- of the theater se med to cnme.h mseives in her own recent experi-ne s of metropolitan life. She feit that she was growing “dignificd,’ and that the many people who had affected to desplse her frivolity and the scatter-brain aual ty of her criticism, would undoubediy lo_k h relief upon her conversion. hey did nothing of the sort, and Sal- lie's experience was merely one that fa is to any one that dare to be original. The men who had pretended to despis: frivolity now sighed at her “heav - ness” This moral timent was most worthy, but they didn't like it. They skimmed through ther articles to gloat over persifiage at which they had firmer- ly rebelled, and were ardently d.sappo.nt- ed when they failed to discover it. The feminine owis were the first to no- - tice the cloud, .no bigger than a man's hand, that darkened Mf'ss Sydenhim's contributions. But instead of rejoicing (o find a quality that they professed to ad mire, and celebrating allie’s access dignity by some =l ght ebullit! n of praize, they were more obstingteiy (pp.sed to her than ever. Mr Hutchinson opined that it was ridiculous to lavish a large salary upon perfunctory writing that an office bov could Kll]’\ply Lamp:Post Lucy declated that Ballie’s peciality” was on the wane, and that this new “exper:ment’” was positively laughable; the pale poetess sniffed at it as a pose, and int'mated that Sallie’s assumption of womanhood was preposterous; Happy Hippy confessed that Miss Sydenham’'s change of spirit was perhaps meritorious, but certalnly tardy. Eva Higgins and Mamie Munson erted that this apparent respectability vus forced upon Sallle by the strict in- structions of “the powers that be.” These owls we all highly aggrieved at the giri's frreproachable criticisms, which de- prived them of gossip, and cut off a pro- lific source of inflammatory cackle. 1f Sallle had cared, she would have known that there was nothing more fatal to success than the dire conventionality that agrees with the conviction—or lack of conviction—of the many. But she did not care, nor was she quite conscious of the ‘slight haze' of solemnity that veiled her humor. She only knew that the night- ly task of dashing off a column, in a sort of fevered bewilderment and abnormal ex- itation, was just at present almost su- erhumanly onerous * * * It weighed her down, and she abandoned the effort to “'get into the mood.” BSallle had never realized before how blessedly free from worry she had been. She felt just now, t ‘no mere ' pecuniary remuneration 1d repay her for this terrible struggle vitality ® ¢ ¢ this awful effort to continue ¢ ¢ ¢ Arthur Stuyvesant’s first appearance in a new ‘‘soclety play,” that had been writ- ten for him by a well-known London pluywright, was “the event” of the s son. It occurred a few nights after Sal- lle's interview with Mrs. Stuyvesant, and she hailed it gladly. It had been largely advertised as dealing with “life” (when- ever the stage talks of “life.” it means the wrong eide, or the shady and not cozy corners), and it occurred to Sallle that she might be able to hurt him, to make him writhe, to get beneath the hide that he wore for skin, and to hold him for condemnation, For in Stuyyesa: casé the actor meant simply the man. was lacking in genius—even in talent— even in picturesque mediocrity. If she could but prick the bubble, with its pris- matic tints, and give to the public * * * just a few spots of soapy spray. She was surprised and pained when, at the door of the theater, she found her erstwhile devoted escort, Charlie Coving- ton, patiently awalting her. He had not appeared at one or two of the last ““open- ings” that she had criticized. She had not seen him since he had * * * since the night of the Welsh rabbit, and ‘the woman in the red blouse, and that very foolish speech of his. She had supposed that this would ba the end of their in- tercourse and the {dea had irritated her. The wrong man is seldor: pathetic to a woman, except in novels and plays, when the woman claims his father and mother, to become his sister. Charlie Covington, at any rate, looked bland and smiling, in all the glory of evening dress and a white chrysan- themum. He did not suggest to her, in the least, the rejected lover, and she felt a sense of relief in the certainty that he would not begin again. *I felt that I could not miss this play,” he said elaborately, “so I thought I might claim the extra ticket. You are alone?’ ‘Alone and unfettered,” she repiled lightly. “My list of escorts is still limit- ed to yourself, Charlle. When you fail me, I shall have to advertise, ‘Critic wants escort for first nights. One with- out decided views preferable, Her words were easy, but he could see that it cost her an effort to utter them. He thought that she looked very {il, al- though she was hectically rouged and as slouchily dressed as usual. They went into the theater, and he noticed her fatigue, and a defection that she seemed unable to overcome. And she was think- ing how this man might have helped her if she had dared to confide in him. That idea, however, was beyond the faintest consideration. 'She was afrald of herself. If an absolute stranger could discern, from a few desultory remarks, that the man for whom she was doing a horrid thing, was the man whom she was insane enough to love, Charlie Covington would very soon know that fact, and it would be too humiliatingl * * * Besides, an unconscious sense of chivalry forbade her to discuss Jack Childers and Ivy Hamp- ton in such tortuous relations, even with 50 loyal a friend as poor old Charlie. But in his diffident and well-meaning way, he stirred the thick and opaque mass of nauseous gruel that was simmering, al- ways simmering (and soon it must boil uproariously) before her eyes. “I've been watching the paper for that story, Sallle,” he said. “I wax wonder- ing if you we: aving it for Stuyvesant's opening—as a sort of boomerang. But it hasn't appeared. When are you going to give it to a palpitating public?” She was reading her programme care- fully. Arthur Stuyvesant headed the list of dramatis personae as ‘Lord Algernon Chetwynd,” “with no apologies to the Family Herald. “There will be no story,” she sald slowly. “It was—it was all a mistake. “Ah!” he exclalmed. *“Well, I'm glad of it. I'm not a city editor,_ and I can feel pleasure at the thought that even an actor {sn’t black as he's painted, I} suppose old Green felt very cut up?” On the rack again! V'lan! Biff. “I have not told him yet,” she said. “I—I have not had time. Probably”—with a laugh— “he's forgotten all about it.” “No, he hasn't, Salll arlie Coving- ton declared quietly. ‘‘Don’t youcba‘l::\.'; it. You are new to reportorial work, and, £ I were you, I should tell him at once. 1t is best to do so, because he will think that you are shirking. It is a reporter's duty to ® * * report. Get it off your mind, Sallle, and let this be the last as- signment you ever get mixed up in. It pmblhl&wlll be, because city editors have a sort superstitious belief that if a re- gor(er fails to get a story—even if there e e to get—it is his own particular ault.” She knew that he had her own welf; in mind, and could not avold a un.u.:: to® sldlicuue, even tnough he were trotung out this gaunt specier when she would have been glad to forget it. He was quite right. She had been procrastinating in the belief that there was always time to tell Mr. Green * * * that she had noth- ing to tedd him. He had been ominous sflent * * * yes, it was ominous * * but she had carefully avoided him. iad even written her copy in teleg: cffices, und sent it by special messenger, rath than meet Mr. Green. Those wheels of journ m! It never occurred to her that they would whiz, as they ha. always whizzed—whether she were there to give them a twirl with one white im- puiksant finger, or wheiher she were in the antipodes “Yes, Charlie," will_tell him. i you digcove: 1y groundless?" Absolutely — absolutely she cried, lying tenaciously, rehearsal for her talk with Mr. Gree “Stuyvesant and his wife do not agree very well’—she thought she would try how this sounded, and all the time she e; deavored to regard Chariie as the city editor—"she is jealous of him, as he cer- tainly is rather gay. But the rendezvous, and the velled lady, and the divorce are ail fiction._ The oniy truth seems to be that Mrs. Stuyvesant did at oné time en- gage a detective. That is all * * * the only little bit of fire in all this smoke. “Good!"” exclaimed Charlie; and she w delighted. She had toid her mendaciou story, and it had been ple: ed by Mr. Covington. She fore confidently expecig that It would be received just as satisfactorily by M .n. 1t gave her courage, and she grew chatty, and lively, and glad that Charlie had nict her. For the knowledge that she would haye to ‘“‘report” before she was definitely relieved from her seif-im- posed duty had undoubtedly daunted her. Now--now she told herself, there was ro need to hurry. She would ‘wait untii Mr. Green sent for her, and if he were an * s+ she would jaugh, and say out- things, and be jolly, and amusing, and * * oh, she knew the office. S: had never et failed to carry the day. And at first. of course, she would appear dreadrully disconcerted at the loss of the anticipated story, as all good report did at the evaporation of a ten-dollar a signment. She shuddered as she saw Stuyvesant appear, smug, smiling, and bowing to the “ovation” for which he deliberateiy wait- ed, and for which the ushers worked so laWpriously. Lord Algernon Cheiwynd was to her the most repulsive object she could lpok upon * * * this reptile that Etood Between a brave fair, chivalrous man and the girl he had selected to ma ry. * * * The circumstances of the play were not utterly dissimilar to thos the real drama. Lord Algernon loved the ingenue, but he was “tied” to a wife whose beauty had been marred by small- pox, who was a hopeless wreck, a spec- tacle so abhorrent that one could not look at her without repugnance. He was, at first, true to her * * * for the sake of pity, and of auld lang syne. And the au- dience was asked to sympathize with his struggle; to admire the loyalty that was gradually undermined by love “‘pure and soulful.”” The problem to solve wa whether he was justified in his subse- quent liaison with innocence. And of course the audience solved it, for the iplaywright was a _good one, In'an exube- ant affirmative. He was justified. The cunning playwright said lovely things to further his own purposes and used the word ‘“soul” freely whenever he meant It was very deft. It was the sort ‘hology that tells nowadays—when its recipients are hysterical women. There was a time when Sallie would have laughed heartily at a piay of this caliber. She had seen many such, and had defeated their object by piercing them with ridicule. The *“problem’ play once pricked by wholesome humor coi- lapses like a child's toy balloon. Its size is merely a matter of careful inflation: It is not solid, with hearty substance; it is gas_ready to escape into the elements at 4 moment’s notice. She could have routed Lord Algernon abjectly, and have forever rulned his chances with a gullible and non-thinking public, if she had let herself Joose in the old wa¥ that had won renown “for her,’ She could have disabled him, and forced his poison back into his own veins, if she had played her usual felicitous trick of seeming to out-ribald ribaldry and to out-shriek the shrieking. This ai- ways appeared to Charlle Covington, and to others who thought on the surface only, to be a very violent remedy; but it was infallible. She had laid two Pinero plays as stark corpses amid the wreckage of a previous theatrical season, for they had dealt sympathetically with “prob- lems” that the world had taken centuries to solve, and had solved irrevocably, and forever. But on this occasion Sallie’s humor was temporarily extinct. . She took the play seriously, and it nauseated her. She was horribly in earnest about it, and pink spots appeared through her rouge as the final curtain fell and the suave, smirking actor was vociférously acclaimed, stand- ing beside the white muslin ingenue who, it was understood, would become his, and live happily ever afterward, as soon as the poor “legitimate” had 'shuffied off. And—convenient lady!—she bad every in- tention of shuffiing off speedily! * * * “Another chance for you, fallie,” said Charlie Covington, smiling rather gravely as he accompanied her to the telegraph office, where she was to do her writing, for she was absolutely determined not to risk an encounter with Mr. Green until she had screwed up her courage to the sticking point. “The play was written for you to guy.” ““No,’ she cried furiously taken. 1 see nothing to ri simply disgusting. It naus forget that I am a woman She forgot the time, not so very long ago, when at the cliose of a performance certainly no less revolting than this, he had reminded her of the fact, as they stood by the owl's nest, with the electric, moonlit City Haill Park behind them. He did not forget it. It came upon him with strange force and significance. Much had happened since then, perhaps he stood beside her now 'in a vastly different light. But he remembered. “‘After ail.” he had sald, “you are a woman.” And her words, in reply came back to him as clearly as though she now spoke them: “Don’t be silly, Charlie. You mean well, but you really are a dreadful Philistine. Thanks for remembering that I am a woman. 1 thought you had forgotten it long ago. However, 1 can't help it. you know—I really can’t. Tt is not'my fault. 1 had nothing to say in the matter.” ‘What had happened to her? What had caused this shifting of the view-point? He felt a sense of alarm—though he woufd not admit {t—as he heard her last re- mark, “You forget that I am a woman,"” It was so unlike Sallie—so pathetically unlike her. Weird inconsistency! There she was, apparently pulled up. resistless, at his own aspect of aifairs, uttering the very words with which he had plied her on that long-ago night. And now he was alarmed, and uneasy and completely dis- concerted. “I will do up this she said obediently, “I that it was all ab- —~ absplutely,” as a sort of rage lay,” she said vic- jously, as he prepared to leave her to her tas! “This man * * * this actor * % he is not acting. He is playing from his own warped, distorted nature. It people admire this scrt of perversion on the stage, why should it be o dread- ful in real life? Why should we think his real story so horfible * * #* She interrupted herself. She was giving herself away. She was an inexperienced ifat, and there is nothing more desperate- ly uncomfortable. Charlie Covington glanced at her with a queer expression ih his eyes. If there were any real rea- son for suspicion, this was surely the cue for its appearance. Sallle was lampooning Stuyvesant as though, In her reportorial trip, she had proved him guilty. She had declared that she had done nothing of the sort. Still, she could have no pos- sible motive for attempting to shield him. “His real story!” he exclaimed, mysti- fied. “Why, you said there was no real story * * * that there was nothing in 2 She made a violent effort to be plausible and consistent. ‘““His real story is hor- rible,” she said in dreary tones, “to Mr. Green, and to others’ who suspect it, be- cause, you see, 1 haven't toid them yel that this time he has been * ¢ ¢ ma- ligned. But the man disgusis me. T feel 2. 1 know * * * (hat he was not acting to-night * * * Sallle wrote a heavy dissertation on morality that was quife unlike her usval airy work. She was bitter, vindictive eager * * * and she did not know that bitterness. vindictivencss, and eagerness stamp a dramatic critic as hopeiessly banal. She excorjated Arthur Stuyvesant, and throughout her article she made it clear that she was hurlihg her ire at th man, and not at the actor. Her “stor was ' lcgical and impressive; but those who read it felt that their sympathies were wafted toward rather than away from the man who was so vigorousiy at- tacked. Others might successfuily in- dulge in this style of critical d:-molition, but not Sallie, who had made her mark in another and a more “‘popular’’ direc: tion. She wrote for Stuyvesant * she wrote for Ivy * ¢ * she wrote for her own innate satisfaction * * ¢ but she did not write for the public. She d.d the thing that has wrecked many a crit'c, and appealed to the few rather than to the many. Her article would be a scourge to a feeble score who knew the man, and despised him, but to five hundred thou- sand readers it would make no appeal other than that of weariness and ponder- ous cruelty. ack Childers read the proof in dismay. n he read it again in more dismay on earth can have happened to 1ie?” he msked of little M ss Poplets, liked the girl hecause she was popu- lar with her lord and master. “Read this. It might have been writ‘en by old Billy Summer. Tt is amazing." Little Mies Poplets read the proof, and even to her mind. which was but a reflec- tion of Jack Chiiders’, Miss Sydenham's work seemed odd, and d'rely purposeful “I must talk to the girl.” said Jack, a he took the proof from Miss Poslets and stared at it frowningly. It m'ght Fe old Parkhurst—if he had Sallle’s flow of lan- guage at his command. T had no idea she could write like this. She has been get- ing rather serious of late. Perhaps some of the foo's in the office have been talk- ing to her and she has got it into her head that she fsn't womanly. Confound them! It would be a great loss to the paper if Miss Sydenham changed her tactics, Pos- itively she has never seemed duller than during the last week. But this caps it all. Why, such a play, a few months ago. would have been hailed by her as the very thing for which she waits. Ali she has done to-night is to attack Stuyvesant in a manner that is almost libelous; to preach morality, as though she were Anastasia Atwood, and to label herself as a prig. 1 feel quite upset about it * * < really 1 do, Miss Poplets,” “‘Perhaps she has the blues,” opined the little typewriter girl. “She's been working on this silly case of Stuyvesant and his wife,” declared Mr. Childers, savagely, “and that's what's dore jt.” A critic—especially a girl like Miss Sydenham-—must left to her own particu'ar affairs, and not tacked to a re- portorial joh. Green is an old fool. and I shall tell Tm so. I don’t know what he was thinking of. 1 * * ® interposed little Miss Poplets, meekly, for she s too fond of Jack to allow him to glance in the wrong direc- tion, ‘‘you will remember, Mr. Childe that Mr. Green came in here. and asked for your permission to assign Miss Syd- enham to the case. He said that he couldn't do it on his own resnonsibility. And you * * * you gave him the per- mission ¢ * & Jack Childers grunted and looked un- comfortable. Little Miss Poplets wi right, He distinctly remembered having told Mr. Green to humor Sallle, and to give her this reportorial job, if she partic- ularly desired it. He was anxious to please her. He had made a mistake, and henceforth Sallle Sydenham should be kept to dramatic criticlsm. The paper could not afford to run the risk of losing her humor, her brightness, her pungency Charlie Covington read the article next morning in abject bewllderment. Had It not been for Sallie's s'gnature at its close nothing on earth could ever have induced him to belleve that she had written it. It was impressive, good from a literary point of view, interesting (for to Charlie Covington nearly all tna- wzs neavy was interesting), but it was cruel. biting, and dangerous. ' He sat and wondered, in his chalr at the window of his club.’ Some- thing was happening to Sallie, and he had no idea what it was. He could not be in- sane enough to imagine that the little episode in which he had fizured with her could have affected her. He knew that a girl suddenly confronted with the wom- an-thoughts that hover arounq a *‘pro- posal” s sometimes strangely altered. Poor Charlle! He hated to admit it, but he bound to confess that his “‘af- air” with Sallfe could not possibly have esulted in anything very forceful. She had probably forgotten all about it an hour afterward. “Of course it would be better,” he =aid to himself, “if she really did get more serious, and really wrote from the wom- an’s point of view. Rut this article is not the woman's point of view. It is the devil's.” All Sallie’s readers marveled. Her friends were aghast, her enemles foresaw her downfall, But she read her own arti- cle and thought it the best thing she had ever written, for the two people to whom it was addressed. would writhe and squirm, at its damning insinuations * ¢ ¢ CHAPTER XVL Sallle awoke with a start. She had an uncomfortable feeling that somebody was standing by her bedside looking at her. The room was still dark, although it was 11 o'clock. Even in the radiance of the sun the “all-light rooms"” of Sal- lie’s small apartment were usually all dark. But it was a gloomy, foggy day; she could hear the r splashing through that apology for a window known in New York as an air-shaft, and her bedroom was blacker than usuai. At first, as she opened her eyes sleepily, pushing aside a fantastic dream, from which she was glad enough to escape, She thought that it was Rosina come to tell ner that breakfast was ready. “Sallie!” ecried a young voice that was not Rosina's. “Wake up, Lazybones. I've been most patient, but I simply can't wait any longer. Sallle rubbed her eyes, but could scarcely believe what they told her. Be- fore her stood Lettie Sydenham, her sis- ter. of whose departure from Chicago she knew nothing. She was not dream- ing, although the fantastic imaginings of the night had been less amazing than this. She hopped out of bed, and threw her arms around the girl, overjdyed, as- tonished, but quite certain now that there was no deception. “What does it mean. Lettle?” she ex- claimed. trailing away in her nightgown and surveying the apparition from the four points of the compass. “You never wrote ma. I—I had no idea that you contemplated coming to New York. How did you get here? Why? When . . .” Lettie Sydenham was- amused. ‘She was taller and thinner than her sister, and she looked rather poor in her com- monplace Chicago outfit. But to Sallle she was an angel of light, the ome do- mestic tie that influenced her life. the stimulus for most that she did. Lettie was surveying the room, with no very ardent appreciation in her eyes. She had already dubbed it a “poky hole.” Some- how or other she had expected to see her famous sister, of whom _Chicago spoke. and whose name fgured frequent- 1y in the journals of that city, in a cost- 1y “suite,” with flunkeys and maids and all the appurtenances of that Bohe- manism which the rising generation ha: fitted up with “modern Improvements. The sinister gloom of her sister's sur- roundings dampened her enthusiasm. But her affection for Sallie was deep and abiding. and her voice grew fresh in its gladness. “Dress, ard I'll tell you all,” she sald. “I'll leave you while you adorn yourself. I have already introduced myself to your cook.” “My maid, flease.” retorted Sallle, demurely. “How dare you call her a cook? Rosina is my colored maid—very swell and stylish.” oLSSLuL Lettie's “touched rew on ner ciotaes, i ulness of the trials that had interrupted. She “t her cheeks with the invariable car- mine, aranged her hair in a style that was a compromise between Psyche and Twenty-third street, with a leaning toward the thoroughfare. and rushed iu to fhe parlor. where Rosina had pre pured breakfast. The hand-maiden wus delighted at the arrival, as the loneli- ness of Miss Sydenham's Hfe forever unrelieved, had begun to impress her as a little less than grewsome. “Now let me look at you. old lad she said. turning Lettie toward the wir dow and scanning her with critical eyes. She was rather: soberly impressed with what she saw. Her sister looked i, and she had grown alarmingly thin. Her com- plexion had an unheaithy tint, and there Wwas a list.essness in héer manner that even the temporary excitement of the meeting could not successfully dissipate. Sallle sat down and waited, busying herself with ouring out the coffee ia order to collect Berseit: Weil, my ou've gu to you in Sae 1 ald Lettie, guiet! an see. ('ve ew York because it is no my remaining in Chicago. Valerie tel me that my voice has gone. My chest is not strong—oh, there is nothing to be at all alarmed about—but as a posaibie ] phenomenon my chances are nil thought I'd surprise you, and I think have done it. Hencefort I'm going live with you, and be your love. In the- genuine joy that this announce ment gave her, Sallle forgot the simister menace of ill health. Hesides, a . menace was not particularly awe ing, and it counted for iittie b prospect of constant association with th cherished girl, who would give to her dreary six rooms something of the unr membered aspect of home. “It is quite too lovely,” exclaimed S lle, joyously. tels too good to be true Of course, I'm dreadfully sorry about your voice, dear, because 1 know you hoped much from'it. But we'll have such joliy good times together, and—and I was just “begining to be desperate all by myself. I'm so awfully lonely, Lettie— almost lke a hermit.” Lettle Sydenham looked extremely sur- prised, for she had contemplated some- thing very different. She had expected to pass through crowds in order to reach Hallie. She had imagined eager actresses ambitious actors, cringing managers, and luminous playwrights, all surrounding Salife. as she sat in state, in a sump - apartment, dealing out fav: This was indeed a revelation. Her disappointment was unmistakable. She had taken her sister unawares, to find her {h a dismal little “flat,” badly lighted, sparsely fur- nished, with a solitary attendant, and no- body—positively nobody—waiting to se her. “I thought,” she said—and she not conceal her depression, “I th you had such a livery time of it. S lie. I even imagined 1 should hav make an appointment with you thought you would have to disar a breakfast, or a luncheon, and t you never told me, Sallie they think that you are post and—and never live alone.” The note of disillusion in voice was undeniable, but it did noy Sallle. She could not believe the girl would have been glad to her living in a tumult that w rendered their comradeship le ous. “You must feel like Pauline in * Lady of Lyons,’" she said lightly not very elaborately situated, old and I may as well tell you that generally hard up. I'm hard up And as for !nf:h!(i' functions, and that sort of lmn,. g0 nowhere, and see nobody. When [I'm not working, I si ply burrow. But now you've come sha’'n't do it any more. I shall have something to live for.” Lettle grew even more ppressed. “You have been sending me such a ot of money, too.” she said rather ruefully. “But, of course, I sha'n’t sing any more, and I don’t want to be idle. I thought if I came on here that—although it would not be necessary—I should like to do newspaper work. Perhaps [ could make a hit as you have done. And I sup- pose that a word from you would be enough to get me a position on the pa- per. “No," said Sallle quickly, “that is quite impossible, Lettie. 1 don't say that 1 couldn't get you on the paper. But I do say I sha'n’t.” One in a family is enough, and I should hate to think of you going through what we all go through. I'm not talking of my own position, which is a pleasant one, but I simply couldn't let you undertake the horrid work that most newspaper women do. You see, I know it all, and have gone through the mill, Any- thing—rather than journalism, Lettie. But it will not be necessary for you to do anything. I make quite enough money, and, my dear, you don’'t know how utter- ly charmed I am to. think that you've come to me—and In the nick of time, too, just as I was beginning to loathe it all.” The younger Miss Sydenham did not appear to share her sister's sentiments. Certain roseate visions had haunted her, in connection with journalism, and her arrival in New York had been joyously anticipated. She had abangoned her vo- cal aspirations without a trémor, and had looked forward jubllantly to metropolitan possibilities, “I should like to meet people, Saille,” she sald dejectedly. “You must meet charming men in newspaper offices, and-— between sisters there need be no restraint —if I met somebody I liked, I should be €0 glad. I have a horror of being an old mald, and want to get married. Doesn't it sound cold-blooded? But it fs true. I don’t want to be dependent on you. Even it you were rich, it would not be fair. Don’t you know people “Oh, my poor girl,"” sald Sallle sympa- thetically, “you really are quite mistaken. The men in newspaper offices are simply machines—at least most of them are. They are nearly all married. They marry at a most ungodly age, because they have nothing else to do. They te themselves down before they realize that they are alive, and journallsm is glad because it keeps them at {t. Thelr wives live like widows, and their homes would not ap- peal to You at all. I know so many of these people, and . . ." 1 might like them,¥ cried Lottle, re- belliously, “even if you don't. Besides the freedom of assoclation must be very fascinating. After all, they are educated men, and—and—I should just like a year or 80 in a newspaper office. Anyway, though you talk as you do, I bet you ha a good time, Sallle. I can't see you sta; nating guite as much as you would I me to believe. Have you never had a chance to marry?” Sallie flushed to the roots of her hair. She hated this conversation and began to feel indignant with Lettie for hlv’n‘ begun it. Surely these were tabooed sub- jects, and It was not quite “nice” for & girl to say, without provocation and with nobedy in mind, that she wished to mar- ry. She thought of plays and novels in which the heroine generally fainted at the mere idea of matrimony. And yet here was a girl who calmly asked to be cast among men, in the far-fetched hope that she might “meet her fate.” *“Yes, the other day somebod; lf]m'm]my hand and heart,” she replled ightly. “And you replled?” Lettie Sydenham's voice was shrill with surprise. She looked at this apartment, to the pettiness of which she could not accustom herself, and it was hard for her to realize that Sallie had been apparently unwilling to sive it up. “I refused,”” replied Salils. Then she went on, rather warmly. “‘See here, Lettle, T don’t lke this kind It is most unpleasant. th clamored of dialogue at all. I don't say that I haven't declared at various times, that if I could find a man foolish enough to pay rent I would slad- & let him do it. 1 certainly despise earnirg my own living. I think it s something that woman ought not to do. But I wouldn't marry a man [ didn't care for—in that way—just for the sake of marrying hkim. I refused.” “I am interested,” cried Lettie, jump- ing up. ‘“You've been concealing th'ngs from me. I luppcsegou refused one be- cause vou were fond of another. Own up, Sallle. Ah, I knew I was right ™ (Concluded Next Week.)