The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 15, 1903, Page 5

'THE SUNDAY iCALL, ham 2 bitter blow to the feminine owls—b: unacknowledged. The most irritat out it was that the s ged su gloomily. 1 as they would, ity was gradoally wsation in the ritten largely upon its skill of malevolénce and arity cannot keep it iroin the start. Al Ame'n Amberg Mrs. Dombey. she y suggestiveness of the journalistic vail. They could miserable story all. It was soon an told ta.e. Even the evator, the woman »ws. the youths w ew weary of it r viewpoints sad resorts fafled netum there Im that k was And the femi- They bickered, with this demoralizing \ 1o be endless. An- <t ¥ in the helplessness of their ow they saw beiore them the sad Vista he unrutfied and the uneventful Not f them would be “Jured to her ruin.” They were horribly certain of H , stable than Ax ucy. Happy Munson tasia Hippy, and Rita was step fully avenged the stalr— CHAPTER XXIV wl at some sad. comes the drear Wheels that have unexpected sensation of revoived in top suddeniy, t owl i= confront- Lulled by a for money flows that beset the are almost un- Newspaper Row ext It is with Lett rk and th ght 1 ¢ would But the notion It seemed to her lived 1 Rosina might ittered everything. 2 problem aws and w th about them ver ce them to the irre- m. They cannot Ro et ie's apartm keenest joy signs 4 a constant visitor and Sailie saw with surreptitious between porter—had ex- v ‘ment in & law fu 4 mes for Sallie, b i f plans that r il airedom. But n t worried. Sal < would ha illlonairess, tchers, and prosa it that must be air- 303 with. « these trifles w 3 = stood on a \ v the mean- time . 1t 3 time” that is the i ire is gen- er owis. It . = aspect. If e successfully was solved judge by Strangers, as r reasonable beings. in impulse to evoke ovington. And =0 she t that she did so he was more serious ling very rude- she laoked at him re- ume, for the first time, was sorely op- ment that the to be dug up’ all over again mac her tremble Until events took place —those at thur Stuyvesant had vaguel 1ad resolved to &ive n her ménd to any single aspe of rama. When she #aw Charlie Covington before her the hor- rid rama began to move vividly. But the € man_knew her too well: hi fine, ser nature was too keenly a tuned to n brusquerie of the mere in eat at the room table, ““that you will something to do, Sallie. And it ¥ ccurred to me that I c jrovide it. Could you write stories—wild, woolly love affairs, full of th nven- tional se that shopgirls and fac- ry ha 2dore? You know the kind o7 thing 1 mean—stories that always end happily, with lo marriage bells— stories in which the heroine is perpetual- ly beautiful, and the hero invariably a eix-footer, with lithe. clean-cut limb: blue eves and curly hair? And, of course, e villain. Do think you could do this For a moment she could not speak, for she was unable to lure hepself to a con- sideration of his practical suggestion. She was contemplating the events that had passed _and marveling at his unselfish- ness. For he knew that there was much be should hear—that he had a right to hear—and yet he did not ask. This was surely friendship in the very essence of ite aitruism. What had she done to de- serve such a wealth of disinterested devo- tion? Her eyes grew dim, and * * * ghe averted her face. She could not look at him. He wak so pale; he seemed so ill, @nd vet he could think of her welfare, end only of that. All that had passed * ** had paesed. She appreciated Charlie Covington at last. “I think,” he continued, noting her wtrange silence, “that if you tried you could write these stories. It would be such & very good thing, and I could get you steady and uninterrupted employ- ment. It is fatiguing, but it pays well, 1d once you have got into the groove— well, Bailie, there are many worse things than putting slushy stories together. Of fourse—of course, there will be no glory r Her eyes shone. She could not quite succeed ‘in thinking of herself; her ad- miration for this most disinterested friendship was the chief sensation she knew. Byt he was waiting and she must speak. “I do not want glory,” she said, rather unstead “I—1 should Jike to make a living. What vou offer, Charlie, is noble. Jt §s the very thing that I should have chosen. After a little practice, 1 have no doubt but that I shall be able to de- velop into a family storywriter. At any ""'r: oo Cee}:l_v Kral;!ul to you for the opportunity. was just beginning to wonder what I should do. Leflie l‘here with me—I must introduce you, Charlie— end I am anxious to keep up this little place; rnaturally, I should so hate to give it up.” E They were silent. Her eyes were riveted upon his white face, with its care- streaks. He was a young old man; years of jonely bachelorhood stared at him rude- . Fate should have dealt differently with him, she reflected. This warm, kindly, scrupulous nature, so responsive Most Thrilling B tc all the higher, nobler instincts, should have been delicately cherished. Poor Charlie! He lived in his dinner coat at nis club. And this was anom- @lous. He was designed for a home and the comfortable pleasures of domesticity. It gricved her to think of all this. And he bad asked her to be his wife! It was surely a great honor, in spite of Its ar- cent impossibility. The silence grew oppressive, and she rmade up her mind therc and then to speak on the one topic that she dreaded. She owed Charlie Covington just that much. His friendship was unfailing—and cven if he had spolied it all by shearing away (he platonics, her deep sense of ob- Veation to him cried out for satisfac- tion, “Were ¥ lv. and she felt that d 10 say more. The divining rod of his de- votion to her would guess her meanin; " hé replied, and bhe lapsed But he feit interrogation p he realized that she was wi he knew that she even de 4 surprised?” she asked qu there was no ne into silence. . the air; irg to talk; sired the ventilation of the sickly subject, nd he succumbed Since vou wish it,” he continued, sponding to her swift telepathy—the me 1z aititude that he feit. although physical expression of it had taken place since you wish it, [ will tell you, Sai- that | guessed all. After 1 left-vou t evening when- when I was foolish cnough to euppose that you could care tor me sufficiently to become my wife the thing was suddenly revealed to mi Don't you believe in intuition? I do h was flashed upon ey call it putiing two and two r—as though it were all a vulgar tion of arithmetic. 1 don’t think [ °d or subtructed anything. 1 simply 1calized for the first time—you don't 1 my saying it—th vou loved Jack ( ere She what d t, f banal femininity 1y case the tru After gl eiw W She nodded in proud )t bring herself to cxpres of gonventional She should hav id “Oh. omething equally catory con he did flinch not it m depr that possibil- nd 1 was a feilow * tfied in adoring * the frequent vour rides uptown f every- nt devo- had not fore, L3 any wom him. 1t ommunication “ * his eager ¢ u a % «mpionship *&he cried suddenly, that he loves me. e it is He heéld v his hand in warning, but ke sm 1 at her impul “‘I think 1 know you both.” he I—love u both. Your heart, dear old girl, has been revealed to me. Ma 1so ui stand his? He does not know * * ¢ e has no idea of h sentiments toward yiu. You were—a jolly good fe fur as he was concerned, eh, Sallic Jack! id say “Oh, don't!” But And then she it was not a b Al expression of conven- ti 1 fem ; it was wrung from her in the exquisite torture that he inificted As she listened to him her breath came quickly, His apparent clairvoyinee amaz. he po- 1 heard this hate the horror went sition in w you had placed yourself, rything was made clear. First of all, emembered the night of the reception * * when Ivy Hampton was seen in communion with Arthur Stuyvesant. At the time 1 thought this extremely odd, tut T forgot it. For it might have been just a trivial incident. ‘It was susceptible 1o plausible explanation. And, next® + ¢ there was that unprecedented demand of vours for a cruel assignment. This was all neatly dovetailed in my mind—though 1 cannot call it putting two and two to- sether—and I understood. You had been there to warn them. and had been cxught in the act. I am right?” le had spoken very deliberate words rang out clearly and astounding! To Sallie it was marvel ous. It was as though he had read her nind. She looked at him in awe, as though he had been in communication with discarnate intelligence. ou are right,” she said, “and it was poor little Mrs. Stuyvesant who gave me the opportunity to warn them. I had told her all, Charlle,” anxious to “confess” seemed her at that For confessed 10 a stranger what nterested friend had been obliged “ if Mrs. Stuyvesant knew every- thing?” he asked, suddeply puzzied, ‘if you had told her the truth, then—even if Detective Jackson had declared to her that he had discovered you in Stuyve- £ant’s room—she would have understood? Why did you go to such very extremes of martyrdom? Was it not needle: “1 could do nothing else,” she answered, submitting to his catechism. ““The divorce case was really discarded. It had not oc- curred to me to imagine that Mr. Green would think * * * what he thought. He regarded me as guilty * * * the slow and his she added, what 1o moment to be an act of disloyalty. had soe affair was noised through the office. 1 was in a disastrous position. If 1 had d Mr. Childers the truth, he would ve had to explain it all to Mr. Green and the office. 1 know he would have done it, and would have branded his own flesh and blood. But that is not what 1 want- ed, Charlie. 1 had gone so far, and I had no intention of receding. The truth will be known—Arthur Stuyvesant has sworn it, and on this occasion I believe him. All that I care for, therefore, is ¢ * * that 1 averted scandal, and that Jack Chil- ders will never marry Ivy.” She unlocked a desk and took from it r she had received from the ac- From it she read the words that tor. had consoled her when, with her whole soul. she had prayed for assistance. “Of cour: vou will feel it your duty,” she read, “'to break the engagement between Ivy and Mr. Childers. That will be even harder for you than the cifficult task you have already undertaken and carried through. And so 1 write these lines to ya Miss Sydenham. to tell you that the engagement will be broken. and that you can leave the matter to us. I swear to you ,solemnly, by all that I ever® held holy (and there have been a few things, Miss Sydenham: there are still one or two) that Ivy and sir. Childers will never be married. Rest auite assured of that. You can leave Mr. Childers in tranquillity for the present. You need not be the bearer of news that you would loathe to impart. Only be satisfied. and convinced at you bave nothing further to do. You can zlso believe that we actu- ated solely by our own interests.” It did her good to re-read these lines. _,]\_g:un she feit thelr promising import. ey refreshed her and revived her spir- Charlie Covington saw through the transparency of her elaborate frivolity. He knew there was no flaw in the work that she had done. She could not have acted differently with any consistency. Even though tective Svivester Jack- son’s mission had been robbed of all sig- nificance by Mrs. Stuyvesant herself, the position could not have been explained 1o the office without complete ventilation of the entire uncanny skeleton. Its bones would have creaked; its joints would have talked; its ossi- iication would have been utter reve- lation. He looked at the girl whom he would so gladly have crished to his heart * * * and he resolved to stand by her and to *“'see her through.” “Jack Childers has gone to San Fran- cisco,” he said suddenly, “and he will Le away for a couple of months."” “Then I won't regret Newspaper Row,"” the declared, with a gleam in her eyes; “at least. not until he returns. I can't imagine the office without him.” “Perhaps,” Mr. Covington remarked, e cannot imagine the office without you. 1 would not tell him so for the world. because he would not believe me. But'—with a smile—"it is possible. 1'm a fool very often, Sallie, and I've rarely been known to see through brick walls. But—well, you know—I'm so—so fond .of you both that I feel as though I were guddenly possessed of new faculties. Don’t you think that in certain situations of life unrecognized powers are born with- in us “Dear old friend,” she cried gratefully, and = o' 'she wished she could Kiss him. She always had an exasperating de- sire—a most absurd and unconventional longing—to kiss her cherished friends. She had experienced it In the case of jittie Robinson. It was very horrid, of course, because kisses are looked upon by the world-as Incongruous in platonic posi- Lio; But are they? * * * Perhaps we ehall never know, because nobody would Gare to admit Salile Sydenham’s apparert abnormality. She held herself back with an éffort the instant she realized that her impulse intended to lead bher toward Charlie Covingtan's ruby lips. And he would be so shocked * * % for he was at heart most conventional. Perhaps it was just as well—for Charlie Covington's sake—tbat she refrained. She vaguely felt that she was “not_like other girls"—and &lso not by Rosa Nouchette Carey. 8till, she would have liked ta kis€ him and call him a “dear.”” Had it not been for the memory of ihe night when he had re- vealed himself she would have yvielded to her desire. Fortunately she recalled that lickless attitude of his * * * in time. And yet she was so acutely grateful to. Tam! ~The sweet possibility at which he hinted meant so much to her, and she was tempted to Dbeiieve in those new- horn facuities to which he had alluded. m. %% S gshe He would not_have spc had spoken * * * unless he was sin- cerely convinced. And if it were true! Yet in her seltishnegs she could not think of 'the puin that he must feel, or realize the Mithomless depths of a devotion that i willingly to another. But e was unable to seriously es- avowed affection of arlie He had told her that he loved d a wide im- statement. She felt that iy beautiful nor Cowvington. ber, but she had not attact portance to th Le was neither dangero: alarmingly -alluring. “Once.” he said—he could not resist it— u were not inclined to call old friends oy, ar.’ You thought otherwise. Do you 1emember, Sallie?” “Yes, he replied, in quick self-re- proach, *1 remember; and [ deserve to be flayed for what I-said. Charlie. You are an old friend—and a dear old friend —ard | thank you from the botiom of my beart, and I wish—oh, how [ wish!—I mul“l prove to you how much [ appreci- ate it all.” He had not meant to forth this painful cbuilition of gra nor was Le conscious of the pathos of the losing game that he was playing so carefully. He felt sorry that he had reminded her t one fractious od that. at the vad pained him so deeply. He rose off, Sallie,” he said, “and 1 shall tell Eglinton that you will undertake the work. If you can send in about ten thou- nd wor week from to-day he will icrwird you a check at once. In the mcantime, J am quite sure that if you reed it, he will advance the momey. “Or vou will,” murmured. = “It is not necessary. Charlie. 1 can wait a week 1 won't pretend to you, old friend I'm rubbing it in with the ‘old nicel —you se: friend'—that 1 have a nest-cgg in the shape of a bank book, but 1 can worry along very well for a weck. And if I find T can’t, I'll let you know. There row! T will. honestly.” And please don’t g0 yel. Stay and see Lettie. She has gone to a dramatic morning at the Wal- dorf. 1 thought it would do her good to get a little drama—also a whiff of morning.” e took his hat. He had no fervid de- sire to meet Lettie, just at present, “Isn't it lovely?” “she cried jovously. “Lettie is getting quite fond of little Roh- i and he "ms to be very much smitten. O, come true! Charlie, 1 wish it would Lattie is perfectly useless for anything—but getting married. She is not very strong! And I'm developing .into ch a matchmaker! I'm always popping t the room and leaving them alone. And at night | pretend that I am dying te hear Tennyson read aloud.. Between ourselves — quite between ourselv Charlie—I loathe poetry. I never can s where it comes in. But Robinsan reads it charmingiy, and Lettie is most en- thusiastic, If 1 read it to her she would be cep in two min But he rolls cut Tennyson insinuatingly and keeps her awake. It is most amusing, and I enjoy it all immensely. Of course. it is like my inck to be cup off from theater tickets. * ¢ ¢ But there are other things. At present I'm trying to make him believe that wife. dainti And 11 em. Lettie {s a splendid cook and house- Rosina making all sorts of from the Delmonico cook book. 1 tell him that Lettie made She had forgotten ad his hat it that it did as in no hurry “In reality,” herself, and though hisz hand, ready to go her good to talk. H he went on, “Lettie can't cnok an egg. As for bhoiling potatoes— she_simply hasn't an idea on the subject. Isn® b. nge? And yet she clamors (o uppose it rather horrid to s sister that she clamors tor But she does, (harlie. Nothing really appeals to a man so much ©= housewifedom, does it? So I force make beds and dust thin; and screamingly funny. She wept vesterday because the quilt wouldn't stay tucked down. S| cent and unne n't you is he asked. she replied with a sigh. ‘“‘But nging. 1 can see a good many mistakes that 1 have made. I'll tell you something, Charlie. Swear you won't laugh. If you laugh. I'm done for, and I sball hate you. See, I've left off my— my war paint She held up her face, clear, white and thin, for his inspection. He had noticed 4 difference, but his masculine perception had not been able to explain it. He looked embarrassed, in spite of himself— as< he had done =o often in the old days when Sallie insisted upon saying things that were usually left unsaid. He felt that he should have been Iimmensely 1. but, oddily enough. he experi no sense of satisfaction. He had scustomed to a particular kind nd could not be overwhelmingly radiant the alteration. But he said baltingly that he was glad, because it = the correct thing to say. Wait till you read my love stories,” she sald mischievously. “Only wait, and [ think they will exceed your fondest ex- réctations PSHut Chis_voice was mistrustful—*you don’t intend to do anything dreadful, Sallie? No problems, please, and no—no improper situations—and—and no decol- lete language.” “My poor old reputatio she cried, and she felt saddened. “‘Can I mever shed 1t? Though I discard war paint. must I still forever be doomed to the style that made me? Yes, it made me, Charlie, and you must admit it. But don’t be afrald. It is all over. I shan't disgrace you and I mean to succeed in the new line that you have offered to me. I think—I seriously think I shall be Sa- rah in future. Nobody could ever accuse a Sarah of frivolit But when he had gone she locked her- self 1. her room and cried steadily for two hours. Everything was so horribly vacant, and she missed Owidom terribly. Later in the day she rode down to City Hall Park and stood there, and looked at everything * * * that she had abandoned. Her only consolation lay in the fact that if the nest no longer shel- te her, it at any rate—temporarily— debarred from enciosing Jack Chil- CHAPTER XXV. The task of manufacturing ‘“romance” for kitchen minds was at first extremely discouraging, and it was some time before Sallie Sydenham managed to win the ap- proval of Mr. Iglinton. She could not quite realize the strength of the conven- tions that assign the high-falutin’ “style” to the low-salutin’' infeilect. Her first story was returned, because she had in- sisted upon alluding to “legs” instead of to “limbs,” and was improper enough to speak of ‘‘going to bed” instead of ‘‘re- tiring.”” Furthermore, she had not real- ized the fact that in the uterature of fastidious servant-girls heroines were never permitted to “‘undress” ¢ ¢ o they merely “disrobed.” “I might also remark,” wrote Mr. Eg- linton, “‘that you are foo realistic when you picture your heroine eating. If you could arrange to make her toy with a few hothouse grapes it would be prefera- ble. You must remember that you are writing for cooks, and that to entertain them you must steer as far away from sordid reality as you can. Thus, when you daringly describe a meal, you are re- calling their life to them. They are anx- ious to forget it.” Sallle began to loathe these heroines— all cast® in one mold. She saw them, with their atrociously small waists, their bouneing hips, and their violet eyes, and they irritated her. Mr. Eglinton begged to model her “creations” upon those “The Duchess,” Rosa Nouchette Carey and—of course—the eternal, the infernal author of “Dora Thorne.” So she made her heroines governesses. because tradi- tion demanded it. They were always singularly beautiful, but she was not al- lowed, by her cast-iron rules, to clothe them nattily. They wore simple alpaca gowns, and—for evening decoration—a solitary red rose was placed in their hair or a ribbon around their neck. And yet they always scintillated! In a crowded room, with titled beauties all aglow with Tiffany diamonds and Paquin gowns, the simple alpaca and the red rose went straight to the hero's heart. Once or twice Sallie rebelled—but ft pseless. It -was impossible for her to believe that human beings could be interested in these ladies. ven when they wept they never suffered from red nu*i. itke ordinary women. They were rescued by the hero from boats that cap- sized, but they emerged from the vasly depths looking more exquisite than ever. Under circumstances that would render a Venus hideous, these stereotyped hero- ifies never budged from their Gibraltar- like lovelines: They passed sleepless nights—it was their tavorite occupation— but they appeared at the breakfast table next morning, tired, vet still maddeningly beautiful. ‘they 8réw thin upon unre- quited love. but their figure remained svelte and lost not a curve. But it was their immaculate goodness that tried Sallle most acutely. She longed-—oh, how she longed!—to make them go wrong * * & gceasionaliy * & = just fora treat * % * for little outing, as it were. Mr. Eglinton s adamant. ‘They might totter on the brink, they might frivol on the verge as long as possible, but * * ¢ she must pull them back. They must never lus the sympathy of their strange, conv. tion-hungry public. It was jn vain that Suilie implored a privilege or two. Might she substitute a typewriter for a gov- erne: Could the heroine die at the end? Oh, Rlease * * *° peage! The editor bro t her back by a vicious tug to an appreciation of a situation that never varied. It appailed her at first and she feit that she should never suc. ceed. And the herves! They veere fully as de- testable as the girls they loved. They never ave anything to do for a living. v passed their lives gazing into vivlet s, and flouting the Gi veres and krmyntrudes in the Tiffany diamoras and the Paquin frocks. dest aspirations never w e grl in the a paca the blood-red at night. Their ent beyond sown—especially red -rose nestled in her They were always six- footers—nothing else would do. Fiv foot-eleven would ve been reckless novelty. She llowed to intimate that they had “lived” before they met the heroine, but was not permitted to y how, when or where. the pages of the Mr. Eglinton had Salie pored over Family Herald, which recommended to her, nd’ marveled at the eternai, i mencss. | ADd She acquired cortuln pres ribed expressions that amused her immensely. She found t the herofnes could be “mutinous” anu “‘riantes;” that they might pout and make “‘moues,” and she found that whenever they ran awa from (he “ladies” who employed them was etiquette for them to “go out into the night.”" Even if a broad noonday had just claimed attention, they “w. out into the night” It was all>so gor- geou It occurred to Miss Sydenham that fem- inine story-tellers were very much like the little girl who had a littie curl. When thev were good, they v good, and when were horrid. the gulf that ‘Dora Thorne' leap across hess' ba She was unable to bridge separated “the author of from Marie Corelli, or to the chasm dividing “The from h_Grand. sally, °r,"she acquired the 2 of artistically cutting out the “tailor-made” romances, It was a shock to her when she received a letter from Mr. Eglinton congratulating her upon her work. Her stories were far better, he wrote, than those of her predecessor. Sa.- e wondered what this predecessor could possibly have done. And very soon it all came quite easily to her. She was able to talk to the grocer or the butcher in the very midst of an eloquent outbreak on the part of her heroine. She succeeded in plying the hero with a choice series of gusty adjectives;while Rosina brushed her hair. She could watch potatoes cooking while she described the appearance of the heroine Lady Tomnoddy s dance. and once she made a pie while the hero was proposing on his knees! She left him there, to ascertaln that tne oven was not “too quick.” She called her girls Gladys, Hyacinth or Jacqueline—the manusecript would have been returned by special mes- senger if she had dared to venture a Jane, Mary or Susan. Her men ranged from Reginald to Archibald—John, Jack ~and Jim being viciously vetoed. Sallle could r bear to read her stories when they appeared in type. It was then that they seemed most naked and un- ashamed. Her only interest lay in the re- muneration s a bad sign—and that was sufficiently jarze and satisfactory. She kept the wolf —far away from her dour, and she realized that she had found a trade that paid. For it was a trade, with a vengeance. Her returns were, in fact, more ample than thos she had speared in Newspaper Row * * * but how she gissed Owidom! She was deeply grateful ®or the livelihood that Charlie Covington had opened for her; but how dull, how empty, how uninspiring it was, compared with the incessant excitement. the exuberant doubts, the effervescent in- tercourse, and that ' strange, delightful feeling of being “in it,” always insepara- ble from journalism. She had lived * * * now she meérely vegetated. This constant communion with heroines who never had a freckle or a mole—or even a dear little secluded, unpretentious wart—warped her mind. She feit nar- rowed by the eternal assoclation with men who never put their feet on the table and who talked noetyy at breakfast time over a boiled egg! It was demoralizing. And she knew in her heart of hearts that this special brand of kitchen literature was In reality more subtly immoral and more inwardly sensual than the most vio- lent eruptions of authors credited wilth “calling a spade a spade.” These cooks’ novels were degrading in all that they im- plied to those who were foolish enough to think about them. However, it was safe to fiifer that nobody thought about them. The childless matrons in Sallie’s house. now that she lived a life of seeming re. srectabmty, with a sister, evinced an in- clination to call upon her. Sallfe nipped it in the bud, much to Rosina’s chagrin, and after submitting to one rigid catechism that caused her to experience the agonies of cross-examination, she closed the door to the solicitous ladies. They put her on the defensive and she had nothing that ‘she could defend—as far as thev were concerned. -_She sought the society of poor little Mrs. Stuyvesant, impelled by the sense of ob- ligation that she felt. She lavished can- dies and toys upon the actor’s child, and made an effort to cheer the lonely life of the discarded wife. And it was from Mrs. Stuyvesant that she learned the fateful, portentous news for which she had waited S0 eagerly, Arthur Stuyvesant was as good as his word. He tolved the intri- cate problem in his own way—which was apparently the only way, in spite of the s‘p\‘ere blow that it dealt to the proprie- ties. Sallie was aghast at the news—which was confirmed later by Charlie Covington. Arthur Stuyevsant had gone to London and had taken Ivy Hampton with him. He had shaken the dust of America from his feet forever, and bad resolved to try a country where private scandals were not ventilated, and where the actor, when he had finished acting, passed unnoticed in the crowd. His departure was noted in all the papers, but Miss Hampton's name was unmentioned. He intimated, in an interview, that they were waiting for him in London. And Sallie knew that his unishment had come, and that it would dire. One London engagement would end him, and then * ¢"¢ an abortive, fatiguing, uneventful. fruitless round of the provinces. Men like Arthur Stuyve- =ant, as she knew, could not live without the notoriety of the American stage. The{ might profess to despise it—when it tool on unpleasant twists and relentiess curves —but it was the breath of their life. They might look upon the silent glory” of Eu- mYe s a rellef—but the relief would be only too temporary. No Tantalus would be tried as sorely as Arthur Stuyvesant, reared in the vif, chatty atmosphere of New York, and condemned forever to the shadows and the innocuous muteness of London. Exceptional merit only could save him, and he had none of it. Cer- tainly—most certainly—Arthur Stuyvesant would not “live happily ever afterward.” For the sake of his wife, whom she grew to love, Sallie tried to feel vindictive and relentless. But she could not quite sue- ceed. He had solved a hopeless problem * * » and Ivy Hampton had quietly dis- appeared. Sallie knew that Jack Childers had never loved her. Better this stealthy departure than the incessant thread of a hlgao‘;u scandal—a veritable Damoclesian sword. She tho\lfht pitifully of poor old Mrs. Hampton, looking insolently through the gold lorgnettes and seeing nothing. She plctured the lonely woman confronted with_this domestic disaster, and she won- dered * * * wondered * * * what Jack Childers would do. The girl with the st ver-gold hair and the Priscilla-like de- meanor had gone, never to return, and Sallie foresaw the end—probably the con- ventional, dismal end of unbridled woman —hope gone, love vanished. ties severed— solitude and despair. There were other ibilities; but lie could not guess at hem., She was unsophisticated in her sophistication. Her world was, after all, extremely limited. She lay, wakeful and alert. through what are inaptly called ‘“the silent watches of the night.”” The frony of the phrase! “Silent watches—when the pulses are doing double duty, when the sensations of the corporeal husk ma; e deadened, but the grlrllull faculties t a wild tattoo! “Silent watches’'—when the sub-conscious self emerges and gruwla, and visions blaze before the un- immed eyes of the awakened spirit! A fierce desire to see Jack Childers pos- sessed her. This horrible thing that had happened would sorely afflict him. The blow to his family pride, all merely per- sonal sentiments being eliminated. would be severe, and perhaps irreparable. If she could but see him! If he would only come to her! She reckoned out the time —what o'clock it was in San Francisco, and she imagined that he had, perhaps, just retired for the night. (As a family Story paper contributor, she did not dare think of him as “going to bed.”) Then she rose .and prayed—as she had once praved before—and poured out ‘her soul in_longing. She could feel the power of her strenuous will ooz- ing from her brain. It went forth in gusts. and she believed that he would know that she was there . . . trving to reach him. When she had finished praying, she silently concen- trated her mental energies, those infinite potencies of which men still know little and care le 3 And through the ether strange electric waves were flashed, from the mind of the sender to the mind of the recelver, without the agency of the recognized organs of sense. She sat there, scarcely conscicus, her head bent, her eyes closed, her attitude limp and sagged, while her will sought the mind of Jack Childers far away in, San Francisco, at the other side of the vast American continent, and tricd_subtly to impress it. And of what happened . . . in the vears to come . . Jack Childers never spoke. Like mest men, he dreaded the sneers of a material world that. with easy vehemence, applauds the marvels of Marconi and buys stock in “wireless —only to dub the far greater wonders of the human brain unscientific, visiorary, and “superstitious.” The intolerant spirit that burned *‘witches' in the middle ages lives to-day, and of what occurred to Jack Childers that night in San Francis- co he did not dare to tell. The explana- tion wounld have been so readily vouch- <afed. 1t was a pipe-dream! It was hallu- cination! It was . . . anything that could be amiably dismissed as unsub- stantjal. % For in his room at the hotel in the Cali- fornfa city, as he lay in his bed, and be- foré he had slept, he saw Sallie on her knees—plainly, clearly, and unmistak- ably. Her head was bent, her eyes closed. her attitude limp and sagged; but if ever he had felt certain of anything in his life: it was of the fact that at that mo- ment she was calling. What she desired, why she longed for him—these were problems that he could not answer. But there—in the darkness of his room—he saw her, luminous and radiant, and he knew that she needed him. It was so real, so veridical, that he jumped from his bed and approached the spot that the vision had occupied. It faded as he came up to it. 4 Jack Childers was a most matter-of- fact person. and he “never took any stock™ (his favorite expression) in the fantastic or the psychical. The workings of a too exuberant imagination he in- varfably ascribed to a disordered dige tion. He had often sald that Swedenbors lived before the days of little liver pills. He had uttered ribald, smoking-room Jjokes on the subject of Joan of Are. And now . . he was obliged to believe the apparent evidence of his own apparent senses. This was no dream: this was no hallucination: this was unreliable imagin- ing. He could not sleep, but tossed and thought, and repose would not come un- til _he ' had definitely and irrevocably made up his mind to legve San Francis- co by the first train for New York. He had not been thinking of Eallie Sydenham before going to bed. While she had begn in his thoughts frequently —far too frequently—since his arrival in California, he had pondered that night over other and less agreeable subjects. He had been involved in newspaper work, which had threatened to chaln him there for 'at least another month. The swift rush of her mind reached his. Space counted for nothing. The spiritual realm her longing propelled itself, until it har- bored in that room of the distant hotel. Even to himself, the next morning, Jack Childers scoffed at the strange, re- sistless fact. But he sked his port- manteau, arranged his valises, paid his hote! bill, and, consigning his journalis- tic duties to futurity, started on the homeward journey. Reared in material- ism, he could not bring himself to credit that to which science gives the cold shoulder, because it is not labeled Kdi- son or Tesla. He gave himself un un- thinkingly, unquestfonably to the potent impulse that he disdained to explain. He realized his consuming desire to reach New York and Sallle Sydenham. He would go stsaight to her house, because she wanted him. And as the day pro- gressed. and ghe midnight teiepathic ax- perience was further distanced, he simply knew that he craved for Sallie, and was going to New York to gratify that crav- ing. He realized then, as he had real- ized before, that Owldom had been very dull and opaque ‘without her, and he con- fided to himself in a burst of self-confi- dence what he had never dared to admit before—that he had left New York to live down the void that her absence had caused. He forgot the vision in the lit- tle Toom of the hotel. or if he remem- bered it—well, the lobster salad of which he had partaken at supper had been ex- pressly forbidden him by Mrs. Hamp- ton’s own pet doctor. But he reached New York, and he reached Sallle. Those were, after all, the main points. The potency of the force that had taken possession of him in San Francis- co remained with him until he reached Sallie’s house, to which he went directly upon arrival. Tt was therec when he rang her bell; it was buoyant when Rosina admitted him to the tiny parlor, at an unseemly hour of the morning. Then . . .and then only. it left him. And he marveled at himself. A hesitant sense of helplessness seized him. Why had he rushed to Sallie, when such a proceeding was eminently incorrect, if not improper? Duty surely indicated a path that led to Ivy Hampton. Decéncy—pure, un- sequestered decency—should have taken him to Mrs. Hampton and Central Park West. Yet here he was, for no conceiv- able reason, in the midst of Sallie Sy- denham's goods and _chattels. What should he say to her? How explain him- self? What would she think? What could she think? Rosina, fruitily mysterious, repaired to Sallie’s_room, awoke her, and presented Jack Childers' card—after havinig care- fully studied it en route with unsatisfac- tory results. And Rosina was even more astonished when she saw the sudden ra- diance in Sallie's eyes. Her amaze reached its climax when Miss Sydenham hopped out of bed, and, throwing her arms around Rosina, almost smn"!ed her in an embrace as she murmured, “I'm so glad. I'm so glad.” It was an unseemly hour, most as- suredly—the hour at which none but the heroines of Sallie's Sarah Jane romances could possibly appear at their best. The morning limitations of even the lovellest woman are but too surely defined. Sallle was not one of the lovellest women, by any means; and she was fully aware that, at her morning kipper, she was not dangerously attractive. Her heroines would, of course, at this young age of the day, have been found in the garden, plucking roses, and tripping, in Parisian bottines, over the dewy grass and lawn. They would have owned falr, bloom- flecked cheeks and an adorable negligee. Guinevere, while at her breakfast was cooking, invariably guoted Shelley and Keats when Archibald found her gather- ing” blossoms In the sweet old garden by the river. Alas! Sallie looked through her window, and saw & ‘“back yard.” There were ‘‘pulley-lines’™ and vistas of unconcegled lingerie. It was not poetic. She felt Inclined to repine. She did not throw open her wardrobe and select a delicate crepe de chine morn- ing-gown, as Ermyntrude had done in her last story. Rosina helped her to hang on & ‘rainy day” skirt, and to fasten a simple cachemire blouse . . . and she was ready. It should have been different, but . . . it wasn't. And she sorely needed a cup of tea and just one plece of st In the absence of rose-leaves and dew-drops. Jack Childers, when .h.ll ljomedbdhh:_ oddly embarrassed, unusually subdued— thought that she looked paler and thin- ner; the frankness of her expression was lacking; the jolly Tood fellowship of her demeanor was no longer evidential. He was utterly at a loss what to say, for his sense of surprise at finding himself there was constantly Increasing. “I—I am not quite sure why I came, Ballle,” he sald. “It is an unwarranted intrusion on my part. I-I seem to have imagined”"—with an easy laugh—"that— that you wanted me.” She, too, “was momentarily unable to plerce the thick confusion of her mood. But her woman’s instinct came to her rescue, and she tried to put him at ease, and to lurk in the shadow of the confi- dence that she exuded. “1 did,” she said simply: “and . . 1 do. But we will have breakfast. You have just returned from San Francisco . . . you must be fagged. I am so glad that you came here firsi He had not told her that this s the case. But he manifested no surprise. for it all seemed quite natural. They went into the dinnng-room and sat down to breakfast alone. Leitie was still asieep, for the morning was still ridiculous.y young. It seemed like the middle of the night “I had no right to come here,” he said presently. “It was a detestable thing to do. I should have gone home s to my aunt . to Ivy. Tnere is no excuse for it . . . I cannot quiie understand it. You would be justified in ordering me out. But vou are charming and hospitable, and instead of reproaches. I get . . . bacon and exgs=." He tried to talk lightly: to reassure the flippant spirit of mere comradeship that had been the raison d'etre of most of their intercofirse. Sallie understood everything. She realized why he was there. He had respondcd to her sum- mons. Her gratitude was immense. A splendid sense of security, in the certainty of having tested a truth more beautiful. more rational, more convincing than old “religlous” forms over which the world has fought, lulled her into happiuess. For the rest of her life she would believe . . because she knew. Faith was pretty, but certainty was more substan- tial. Her ethereality had spoken across a corntinent to his. Her message had carried. Why should their material en- tities feel embarrassment? \ I feel that I am an awful cad.” he went on, as she was silent, “and you, above ali others, will despise me. I have a sconfession to make. I'm engaged to Ivy—1 know—but—but 1 can’t help it ‘When you left the office, Sallie, I had no idea—not the faintest suspicion of an idea—how the land lay. I had always thougit of you as such a jolly good fel- low—you remember? But when you had gone . . . it is dishonorable of me to talk like this . . . I knew the truth. And I went to San Francisco, just to try and forget you. Now—now.' he exclaimed, “turn meé out, if you like, and I"1l go. 1 deserve it. I'm a beast. Sallle sat very still. with a raging sense of revolutionary joy in her bosom. Life had never seemed so beautiful to her as it did at that moment. The gayety of heart that she had known so little of late returned to her. Her good sense of humor came back with a slap-bang. She sat there. looking like an early morning fright, and he was saying these exquisite things to her, with a rasher of bacbn and a demoralized egg in front of him. S felt slightly hysterical. Her moods met, and eddied “Say something. Sallie,”” he went on In low tones. “For heaven's sake, tell me that you loathe me. I never really loved Ivy. You know that. It was a peaceful. unruffied sort of cousinly affection, and I thought it would do nicely. Since then . . . I have been San Francisco. Help me out, dear old girl. I can never marry her now . . . and what shall I do? Isn't it hopeless? Isn't it hateful? I have always prided myself upon doing the cor- rect thing . . . correctly.” And then she spoke, tenderly, and with needless care to conceal the tumult of v that raged within her. You will never marry Ivy,” she sai Your—your cousin—has—has gone. Sha ever worthy of you. She decelved yo She told him all, and tried—hopeless task though she felt it to be—to soften the shock that she dealt to his family pride. But what bliss to realize that family pride was the only thing she had to cope with! If he had loved Ivy, then the heart- lessness of her duty would have appalled her. Jack Childers was aghast. He staggered beneath the ircredible revela- tion. The ground seemed to recede be- neath his feet. Anything else he could have believed . . . and credulity would have been easy . In his chivalry he scorned. to dwell for an instant upon ail that this release would mean to him. He saw only the blow to his own kith and kin— the tarnish and the blemish. Sallie hovered about him, femininely solicitous—almost maternal: Her love for him was spiritualized as she tended him in this moment of his tribulation. He hurled question after question at her, and she gave him the entire unvarnished truth. She concealed. nothing, for, not being a conventional heroine, she saw no good and sufficlent reason why she should disgulse from him any detafl of the work she had done. Moreover. it would have been impossi- ble. He was hungry to hear all, clamor- ous for every corner of the history. The assignment for which she had craved— her moods grown serious—the clouded brilliancy of her work—and the last epi- sode of all. when, with reputation be- smirched. she had suffered for him and for the girl to whom he was betrothed— everything was explained. He tortured himself. For the first time in his life the edged teeth of remorse sank into his consclence.- He turned to her with a look in his eyes that she had never seen there be- fore . . . that she had never imagined possible in the case of easy-going, worldly wise Jack Childers. She had stirred him to_his depths. . Suddenly he caught her in his arms and held her there, strained, while the full force of her splendid devotion was utterly realized. Neither spoke. It was the one supreme moment of their lives. It was Sallie who recalled him to earth, pushing aside the “reluctant malden- hood” that should have claimed her at such a moment. “I am afrald.” she said, with a proud smile, “that T always loved you, Jack. Yes—from the very first—I loved you. It used to hurt me—so much when you called me a jolly good-fellow, and when You seemed to look upon me as just a wheel in the machinery of Newspaper Row. I did not acknowledge the truth to myself—at least, I tried not to do so.” He released his hold upon her, some- what unwillingly, as though he were half afraid that she would run away. And Sallie smiled happily, for it seemed to her that men were never afraid of los- ing a woman until the woman was afraid of being lost! “You have had a hard time of it, lit- tle girl,” he said, remorsefully. “No,” she declared, “I have had good friends. If it had not been for dear old Charlie Covington—" *I used to think,” he interrupted, “that Charlie was in love with you. She was silent for a moment. Loyalty forbade her to tell even Jack of that one troubled episode in her intercourse with their mutual friend. It should be locked forever in her own breast. And she knew that none would rejoice so unselfishly in the radiancy of the future that was - ing lx] to her as this self-same llu':mc “It was through Charlie,” she went on later, “that I have tided the storm. It ‘was he, Mr. Jack Childers, who gava me the means to indulge in those little lux- uries”—pointing to the bacon and eggs— “that I notice you have left.” ‘“You appealed to him for help?’ he cried savagely. “And you would not ask me? She was delighted at the humanity of his viclous utterances, and she sald primly: “He was a friend, an old friend, and.you . . . were not. Besides, n from Charlie, I could only accept the means of helping myself. T've been writ- ing beautiful love stories, Jack, and mak- ing lats of money. I'm quite independent now. I need no assistanc For two sensible people—journalists, too, if you please—owls, by jove!—this man and this woman fell into a pool of foolish, driveling dialogue, the parallel of which would be only too easy to imagine. But a sober pen need not chronicle it. It would be quite unnecessary. Jack Chil- ders unbent so confpletely that News- paper Row would have had a fit if it could haye been present. And lie, a girl who should have known much better, ‘with her fine sense of humor that could so_readily “guy’” all that sort of thing, behaved in & manner that can simply be describted as utterly trivial-and com- pletely Brooklyn! Wh rows of asterisks—columns of “stars’—exclamatory, interjectional notes ad 1ib. could alone battle with the thorough puerility of what followed. It is, perhaps, rather cruel not to present Sallle Einglon o1 Jack in this ever-pleasant ootsy-wootsydom. Still, Miss posed throughout this story as a trifle unusual, and Mr. Childers was-an editor and a laoor-employing pes son. Why, just before they say farewell, should they be be.ttled. Ly an effort to exhibit them as merely the most ordinary. human, and unbudging team of every- aay lovers? It shall not be dome. It would be too easy. Let us resist the temptaticn. She was in his arms s AE S and he . . . was, teiing her what every reader can guess! but what every lover bound to empha Love in its most suas.ve form took them and held taem and nothing else mattered. ell me about the office, Jack." she E , a few days later, when Lettie, and Lttle ‘Robinson, and even Rosina had all &rown accustomed (o basking in the rays of her happiness: “I'm simply dying to know the latest news of dear old News- paper Reow.'" He laughed, for he understood her sen- tim x is net much to tell.”” he de- ireen has gone. He has bought a Mttle newspaper in Pennsylvania, and has ‘retired to tne wilds to write interest- ing paragraphs about the loss of Wi Jones' cow, and to Krow expansive over the new coat of paint that Farmer Higgins has applied to his barn. It is simple, but not whdly exeiting.” “And the journalist-esses?’ she queried ravenously: “You mean the térrible Sallie Syden=~ ham?"—maliciously “No,” she answered Sallie has removed to the idle ranks of the non-supporting, or she has every in- tention of doing so when she is asked—'" softly. ““Terribl “By Jove he cried suddenly byt have taken it all for granted. Fool! [diot! Sallle, of courSe you will—oh, you couldn’t refuse—hang my short-sightedness—" “Go on,” she said demurely. “Tell me about the journalist-esses, and don't worry about terrible Sallife. She Is per- fecuy satisfled—' “But you will marry me, Sallie?” he asked anxi as s.upid. as illogical. as utterly ground as any man could possib fish up from the most peliucid situation ““Sinc u t—" she replied frivol- ously Yes nk you. And even It you den’'t insist, you dear, silly, old lovely thing—yes—also thank you. Now, g0 on with t Journalis But there was further columns of “stars,” exclamatory. inter- jectional notes. Enough of them were, in fact, needed to cause a famine ‘n the best regulated printing establishmert in ed of asterisks, town. Why consume valuable space? “Amell mberg Hutchinson,” he said presently, “seems to have grown sudden- Iy old and fractlous. She has just started a mew department called ‘How to Re- main Young.' She might have added. ‘By One Who Doesn't Kno but she has no se of humor. She is rather a useless encumbrance, but we must keep her. [ am glad that she retired from the world of freckles and hair-restorers “And Anastasta Atwgod?” h, Anastasia he replied. with a laugh. “has bad a sore affliction. Harry has run away—for good this time—and nobody knows where. He wrote her a letter, In which he said sweet, devotional things. He worshiped her, but preferred to worship at a distance. He sold out his interest in the siot machines—and ske- daddisd. Anatas is now grinding out poetry in grim despair, and varying it with pretty prose articles on domestic topics. Her latest was called ‘How to Keep Husbands at Home.' She spoke very feelingly—as one no longer owning a husband.” “Poor tHing," magnanimity, b terated happine: said pra Sallie, with new of her sheer und: “And Happy Hip Gone!” cried Jack, lugubricusly. “Gone. Mrs. Hapgood has retired to the bourne of matrimony, impelled thither —that sounds nice—by the elevator boy Really, rather a catch for her, Sallle. He was a Yery nice boy, and quite well-to-do. He told her—at least, the office says —that while he had been engaged in the elevatorial pursuit of uplifting her body. she had uplifted his soul. Quite neat. eh? We all clubbed together and gave them a silver tea-set, with angels fiying all over it. It was a good idea, don't you think, to wean his thoughts from hydraulic pressure to the simple fluttering of angels’ wings Of the others, there is little to say Eva HIiggins wrote a charming interview the other day with Prince Hen- ry of Prussia. She made him remark ‘ach!" and ‘Du Liebe' all the time, and he gave himself away splendidly. T ex- pect the Kaiser will be very mmueh up: about it. Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, I mustn't forget a choice item concern~ ing Reta Elsenstein. It will appeal to you ‘ell it!"" she cried, for she still loathed Rita. With all her newly found beati- tude she was still unable to think chari- tably of the woman who had smeared her reputation in Owldom. ““We have discharged Rita,™ “A strange thing happened. = Vanderbilt dismissed his cook, and immediately revelations ceased. It appears that this high-bred young woman, who christian- names Fifth avenue through its length and breadth, obtained all her news in Vanderbilt's kitchen. It was there she sat night and day. The chef was sweet on her. He induced the servants to chat- ter, to retail in the kitchen all the gossip that they heard at table, before Miss Eisenstein, who made use of it on paper. It was in this way that Rita filled her column. Vanderbilt discovered the trick, was furious, discharged the chef, shot the fair Rita from the basement door, warned his friends—came down to the office, and there was the mischief to pay. We should have kept Miss Eisen- stein—for, after all, what she did was in our imaginary interests, but with the de- parture of cook, her sole source of news was cut off. She was hopeless. She had placed all her eggs in one basket. Not an_acquaintance in society did she own. The basket toppled. Bang! Poor Rita was done for.” Sallie was obliged to laugh, as she re- membered the airs and graces of the y who wore Divisfon street hats. She tried to feel sorry, but could not succeed. After all, Miss Eisenstein deserved her fate. and while punishment is not in- varfably deglt out in this world, still, occasionally, this happens . . . and applauded. “What else can I tell you?’ he con- tinued. “Lamp-Post Lucy is still to the good, quite as charming as ever, and still administering balm to the wounded hearts of the East Side. Mamie Munson has lost her mother—that useful mother—but is not drowned. She has secured an aunt to chaperone her, to tender her beautiful . advice on needful occasions.” “Dear old Newspaper Row!” sald Sal- he said. lie, with an inaudible sigh. is good to_hear of it, even now, Jack. “Aunt Hampton is broken-hearted,”™ he declared, reverting to a mors serious subject. “l have never seen a woman more utterly crushed. All her rldc seems to have crumbled. ~You will see her, Sallle? . . . Yes, I hope you will. You need not be afrald of her. I have told her everything, and she is grateful to you, poor soul! Lut she believes that Ivy will return some day. Aunt owns a in Florida, and she is going there to u't& juse—because she thinks that comes back she will pre- fer to be as far away from her old haunts as possible. “Let her believe it, Jack,” said Sallle. softly. ‘““Who knows? More impossible things have happened. But Ivy—your cousin—is safe. Mrs. smrveu.nt will do nothing further. She will take no steps in the direction of publicity. It is all settled. It is all—beautiful she added rapturcusly. “Except the one fact,” he murmured sadly. “that there are still a few people —in the ofice—who think that you—that you—" She put her hands on his lips. “Who think that I'm not a perfect lady,” she exclaimed gayly, finishing his sentence. “But 1 am Jack. I know I am, and vou —well, you think you know it. ‘Who cares for the rest”” “Sallfe,” he said (there was nearly, but not quite, a further drain upon the aster- isks), “I read the other day that one of the old Jewish rabbls said, ‘descend a step In choosing thy wife; ascend a step. in choosing thy friend." These words were written in the days when women were deemed inferior. To-day it is all changed. I need not Bother about the selectlon of my friends, but I know—oh, how surely I know!—that I am ascending a whole staircase, winding my way up to a pinnacle, in choosing . . . In choos- in ‘Your wife?” she asked gladly, revel- ing in the sweet flattery of his words. “My wife,” he answered quietly, savor- ing the ineffable poetry of the exquisits lon. THE END. L ook of the Age Complete in Three Editions