The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 20, 1904, Page 2

is the first installment Hope's Iatest ble Harness.” > needs no in- aders. His " “Rupert of “Dolly Dialogues” foremost place lish movelists of the & Vor his clean-cut, dialogue and for his s nined dramatic ons he is, perbaps, un- y any living writer. All d natural gifts, richly d matured by a long displayed o »st in this novel. LR B LGOS 0550 o ol 555 NSV cd ¢ his sple amplific ¢ their very f £ cxperi ? The blem deals with the ? ever social problem of one 1§ to a marriage ap- R parently I ng to realize the # ideals of the other, and the dan- % gerous cxpedient of consolation beinz sought. It is a in which pride plays especially in the rcic; B M B N B e I BB b b b G b GG IS0 o GGG G S G SSRGS TGS S L S G SO S S S S LGS RGO G S % present novel in Grandey lma- $ wpouble Harncss” has been ¥ appearing serinlly in Munsey's 2 Ma Curing the sununer. ¥ 1 win in The Sunday $% call in tonr installments, or in % tiie space in which one install- :s ment vould appear in a monthly ¥ mag When put on sale ¥ the - of this novel will be £ $150. It is wiven here for 20 ;E cents. § P BB PP R e S AU 27 ) pyright by MeClure, Phillips & Co.) CHAPTER L Some Views of the Institution. The houw large, plain, white h no architectural preten- a high swell of the oked across the valiey in village lay, and thence il hich Milld rolling stretches of close turf, pect ended in the gleam the silver gray mist that sea. It was a fine, open, waves ay over the The air was fresh, with a t in it, and made the heat en re than endurable—ev hing. Tom Court- if from the gr ght, gave utteranc g8 declared to nation: rass d sitting up str what his surroun be a very matural excl What a bore to leave this and go back to town “Stay a bit longer, old chap,” urged host, Grantiey Imason, who lay full back on the turf, with a E r his eyes and nose, and a pipe, iong gone out, between his my wife!” Courtland went icing the invitation aint sigh Grantley Imason his hat on his he: E pe. He glanced at ok of satirical amuse- encouraging company for a ust got engaged,” he re- It’s the devil of a business—sort of ome of those fellows would e a book about. Buf it's not worth a book. A page of strong and indis- iinete swearing—that's what it's worth, Grantley wr d again as he searched >co pouch. The sigh seemed oubtfully between a to hover faint eympathy and a resigned boredom. And no end to {—none in sight! I don’t know whether it's legal cruelty to throw library books and so on &t your husband’'s head—" “Depends on whether you ever hit him, I should think; and they’'d prob: bly conclude a woman never would.” “But what an ass I should look if I went o court with that sort of story! “Yes, you weuld look an ass,” Grant- ley agreed. “Doesn’t she give you— well, any other chance, you know?" “Not she! My dear fellow, she's most aggressively the other way.” ‘Then why don't you give her a chance " “What, you mean—2" “Am 1 so very cryptic?” murmured ntiey, as he lit his pipe. I'm a Member of Parliament.” “Yes, 1 forgot. That's a bit awk- ward.” ‘Besides, there are the children. I don’t want my children to think their father a scoundrel.” He paused and added grimly: “And I don't want them to be left to their mother’s bringing up, either.” ‘Then we seem to have exhausted the resources of the law.” “The children complicate it so. Wait ttll you have some of your own, Grantley.” “Look here—steady!” Grantley ex- postulated. “Don’t be in such a hurry to give me domestic incumbrances. The bloom’s still on my romance, old chap. Talking of children to a man who's only been engaged a week!” His man- ner resumed its air of languid sympa- thy as he went on: *“You needn't see much of her, Tom, need you?” “Oh, needn’t 17" grumbled Courtland. He was a rather short, sturdily buiit man, with a high color and stiff black hair which stood up on his head. His face was not wanting in character, but & lock of plaintive worry beset it. “You try living in the same house with a woman—with a woman like that, I for explanation,” laughed Grantley. “I must go and wire when I shall be batk, or Harriet'll blow the roof off over that. You come, too; 2 stroil'll do you good.” Grantley Imason agreed; and the two, leaving the garden by a little side gate, took their way along the steep road which led down to the village, and rose again on the other side of it, to join the main highway across the downs a mile and & half gway. The lane was narrow, steep and full of turns; the no- tice “Dangerous to Cyclists” gave werning of its character. At the foot of it stood the Old Mill House, backing on to a little lt.l:‘m. Parther o: :»‘o, the church and parsonage; ODppoO- site to them was the postoffice, which was also a general shop and also had rooms to let to visitors. The village inn next to the postoffice, and a dogen or so of laborers’ cottages exhausted the shelter of the little valley, though the parish embraced several bomesteads scattered about in dips of the downs, end a row of smgll new red villas at the (S the junctjon with the main road. Hap- pily the last, owing to the lay of the ground, were out of sight from Grant- ley Imason’s windows, no less than from the village itself. “And that's the home of the fairy princess?”’ asked Courtland as they passed Old Myl House, a rambling, rather broken-down old place, covered creepers. es; she and her brother moved there when the old rector died. You may have heard of him—the Chidding- fold who was an authority on Milton, No? Well, he was, anyhow. Rather learned all round, I fancy—fellow of John's. But he took this living and settled down for life; and when he died the children were turned out of the rectory and took Old Mill House. They've got an old woman—well, she's not very old—with the uneuphonious name of Mumple living with them. She’s been a sort of nurse-housekeeper~ companion: a mixed kind of position— breakfast and midday dinner with the family, but didn’t join his reverence’s evening meal. You know the sort of thing. She's monstrously fat, but Si- bylla loves her. And the new rector moved a fortnight ago, and everybody hates him. And the temporary curate, who was here because the new rector was at Bournemouth for his health, and who lodged over the postoffice, has just gone, and everybody's dashed glad to see the last of him. And that's all the news of the town. And, behold, Tom, I'm the squire of it, and every man, woman, or child in it is, by un- broken tradition and custom, entitled to have as much port wine out of my cel- lar as his, her, or its state of health may happen to require.” 3 He threw off this chatter in a gay, self-contented fashion, and Tom Court- land looked at him with affectionate envy. The world had been very good to him, and he, jn return, was always amiable to it. He had been born heir and only child of his father; had inher- ited the largest share in a solid, old- fashioned banking-house; was now a director of the great joint stock under- taking in which the family business had consented to merge Itself on hand- some terms; had just as much work to do as he liked, and possessed, and al- ways had enjoyed, more money than he needed. He was 33 now, and had been a socfal favorite even before he left school. If it was difficult to say what positive gain his existence had been to society, there was no doubt that his extinction would at any time have been considered a distinct loss. “A country squire with a rosy- cheeked country girl for wife! That’s a funny ending for you, Grantley.” “'She’'s not resy-cheeked—and it's not an ending—and there’s "the postoffice. Go in and be as civil as you can to Lady Herriet.” A smile of pity, unmistakably mingled with contempt, followed Court- land into the shop. The tantrums of other men’s wives are generally re- ceived with much the same mixture of 8| and disdain as the witti- ciems of other parents’ children. Both are seen large, very large indeed, by THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY sufferers and admirers respectively. The obligation of being as civil as he could to his wife caused Courtland to take three or four minutes in fram- ing his telegram, and when he came out he found Grantley seated on the bench that stood by the inn and conversing with a young man who wore a very old coat and rough tweed knicker- bockers. Grantley introduced him as Jeremy Chiddingfold, and Courtland knew that he was Sibylla's brother- Sibylla herself he had not yet, seen. Jeremy had a shock of sandy hajr, a wide brow and a wide mout! were rather protuberant turned up, giving promi nostrils. No family likeness, I hope?” Court- land found himself thinking; for though Jeremy was a vigorous, if not a handsome, masculine type, the lines were far from being those of feminine beauty. “And he’s enormously surprised and evidently ‘rather shocked ‘to hear I'm going to marry his sister—oh, we can talk away, Jeremy; Tom Courtland doesn’t matter. He knows all the bad there is about me and wants to know all the good there is about Sibylla.” One additional auditor by no means embarrassed Jeremy; perhaps not a hundred would have. “Though, of course, somebody must have married her, you know,"” Grantley went on, smiling and stretching himself luxuriously like a sleek indolent cat. “I hate marriage altogether!” de- clared Jeremy. Courtland turned to him with a quick jerk of his head. L “The deuce you do!” he said, laugh- ing. “It's early in life to have come to that conclusion, Mr. Chiddingfold.” “Yes, yes, Jeremy, quite so; but—"’ Grantley began. “It’s an invention of priests,” Jeremy insisted heatedly. 5 Courtland, scarred with fifteen years’ experfence of the institution thus roundly attacked, was immensely di- verted, though his own feelings gave a rather bitter twist to his rth. Grantley 'argued, or rather pleaded, with a deceptive gravity: A “But If you fall in love with a girl?” “Heaven forbid!"’ 2 253 “Well, but the world must be peo- pled, Jeremy." x B “‘Marriage isn’t necessary to that, is e s “Oho!” whistled Courtl: “We may concede the" point—in theory,” said Grantley; “inpractice it's more difficult.” ¢ ¥ “Because people won't think clearly and bravely!” cried Jeremy, with a thump on the bench. ‘“Because they're hidebound, and, as I say, the priests heaven-and-hell them till they don't know where they are.” * ““Heaven-and-hell them! Good phrase, Jeremy! You ak feelingly. Your father, perhaps—? Oh, excuse me, I'm one of the family now.” 3 “My father? Not a bit. Old Mumples now, if you like. However that’s got nothing to do with it. I'm on the lines of pure reason. And what is pure reason?” [ NeveEr PINE. PIAN. TETL US PTORE -ABOUL worzaAsr., 7+ The elder men looked at one another, smiled and shook their heads. ““We don’t know; it's no use pretend- ing we do. You tell us, Jeremy,” said Grantley. “It's just nature—nature—nature! Get back to that, and you're on solid ground. Why, apart from anything else, how can you expect marriage, 23 we have it, to succeed when women are what they are? And haven't they always been the same? Of course they have. Read history, read fiction (though it isn’t worth reading), read science, and look at the world round about you.” He waved his arm extensively, tak- ing in much more than the valley in which most of his short life had been spent, If I'd thought as you do at yoqur age,” said, Courtland, “I should have kept out of a lot of trouble.” “And I should have kept out of a lot of scrapes,” added Grantley. “Of course you would!” snapped Jeremy. That point needed no elaboration. “But surely there are exceptions among women, Jeremy?” Grantley pursued appealingly. ‘“Consider my poesition!" “What is man?" demanded Jeremy. “Well, let me recommend you to read Haeckel!” “Never mind man. Tell us more about woman,” urged Grantley. “Oh, lord, I suppose you're thinking of-Sibylla?” “I own it,” murmured Grantley. “¥ou know her so well, you see.” Descending from the heights of scientific generalization and from the search after that definition of man for which he had been in the end obliged to refer his listeners to another au- thority, Jeremy lost at the same time his gravity, and vehemence. He sur- prised Courtland by showing himself owner of a humorous and atiractive smile. “You'd rather define man, perhaps, than Sibylla?” suggested Grantley. “‘Sibylla’s all right, if you know to manage her.” “Just what old Lady Trede used to say to me about Harriet,” Courtland whispered to Grantley. “But it needs a bit of knowing. She’s got the deuce of a temper—old Mum-~ ples knows that, Well, Mumples has got a temper, They used to have awful rows—a too. o still now and then. used to fly out at Mumples, CALL. then Mumples sat on Sibylla, and then, when it was all over, they'd generally have a new and independent row about which had been right and which wrong in the old row.” ‘‘Not content with a quiet conscious- gen of rectitude, as a man would e *“Consciousness of rectitude? Lord, it wasn't that! That would have been all right. It was just the other way reund. They both knew they had tempers, and Mumples is infernally re- liglous and Sibylla’s generous to the peint of idiocy in my opinion. So after a row, when Sibylla had cheeked Mumples and told her to go to the devil (so to speak), and Mumples had sent her to bed or thumped her, or something, you know- 5 “Let us not go too deep into family tragedies, Jeremy.” “Why, when it had all settled down, and the governor and I could hear ourselves talking quietly again: g “About marriage and that sort of question?” “They began to have conscience. Each would have it borne in on her that she was wrong. Sibylla generally started it. She’'d go weeping to Mum- ples, taking all her own 'things and any of mine that were lying about handy, and laying them at Mumples’ feet, and saying she was the wickedest girl alive, and why hadn't Mumples pitched into her a lot more, and that she really loved Mumples better than anything on earth. Then Mumples would weigh in and call Sibylla the sSweetest and meekest lamb on earth, and say that she loved Sibylla more than anything on earth, and that she— Mumples—was the worst tempered and ellest and unjustest woman alive, not fit to be near such an angel as Sibylla. Then Sibylla used to say that was rot, and Mumples said it wasn't. And Si- bylla declared Mumples only said it to wound her, and Mumples got hurt be- cause Sibylla wouldn't forgive her, when Sibylla, of course, wanted Mum- ples to forgive her. And after half an hour of that sort of thing it was as likely as not that they'd have quar- reled worse than ever, and the whole rew would begin over again.” . Grantley lay back and laughed. “A bit rough on you.to give your things -Mumples?”’ suggested Courtland. “Just like Sibylla—just like any woman, I expect,” opined Jeremy, but with a more resigned and better tem- pered alr. His reminiscences had evi- dently amused himself as well as his listeners. “Wouldn’t it have been better to have & preceptress of more equable temper?” asked Grantley. “Oh, there’s nothing really wrong with Mumples; we're both awfully fond of her. Besides she’s had such beastly hard luck. Hasn't Sibylla told you about that, Imason?” “No, nothing.” “Her husband was sent to quod, you know—got twenty years. “Twenty years! By Jingo!” “Yes. He tried to murder a man—a man who had swindled him. Mumples says he did it all in a passion; but it seems to have been a cold sort of pas- i because he walted twelve hours for him before he knifed him. And at the trial he couldn’t even prove . the swindling, so he got it pretty hot.” 1 alive. He's to get out In about three years. Mumples is walting for him. “Poor old woman! Does she go and him?” She used to. She hasn’t for years now. I believe he won't have her—I don’'t know why. The governor was High Sheriff's chaplain at the tima, s0 he got to know Mumples and took Her on. She's been with us ever since and she can stay as long as she likes.” “What things one comes across!™ sighed Tom Courtland. Grantley had looked grave for & mrlnnenl. but he. smiled again as he said: “After all, though, you've not told me how to manage Sibylla. I'm not Mumples—I can’t thump her. 1 should be better than Mumples in one way, thoug If I did, I should be dead sure to stick to it that I was right.” “You'd stick to it even if you dldn't think so,” observed Courtland. For a moment the remark seemed to vex Grantley, and to sober him. He spent a few seconds evidently reflect- ing on it. * “Well, I hope not,” he said at last. “But at any rate I should think so generall “Then you could mostly make her think so. But if it wasn’t true you might feel a brute.” So I might, Jeremy.” nd it mightn't be permanently safe. She sees things uncommonly sharp sometimes. Well, I must be off.” “Going back to Haeckel?” Jeremy nodded gravely. He was not susceptible to ridicule on the sub- Ject of his theories. The two watched him stride away foward Old Mill House with decisive, vigorous steps. “Rum product for a country par- sonage, Grantley.” “Oh, he’s not a product; he's only an embryo. But I think he' prom- ising one and he's richly amusing.” “Yes, and 1 wonder how you're going to manage Miss Sibyll Grantley laughed easily. “My poor old chap, you can't be expected to take a cheerful view. Poor old Tom! Ged bless you, old chap! Let's go home to te As they walked by the parsonage a bicycle came whizzing - tbhrough the open garden gate. It was propelled by a girl of fifteen or thereabouts—a slim, long-legged child, almost gaunt in her immaturity and lamentably grown out of her frock. She cried shrill greeting to Grantley and went off down the street, displaying her skill to whoso- ever would look by riding with her arms akimbo. “Another local celebrity,” said Grant- ley. “Dora Hutting, the new parson’s daughter. That she should have come to live In the village is a gross personal affront to Jeremy Chiddingfold. He's especially Incensed by her lengthy stretch of black stockings, always, as he maintains, with a hole in them.” Courtland laughed inattentively. “I hope Harriet'll get that wire in good time,” he said. No remark came into Grantley's mind, unless it were to tell his friend that he was a fool to stand what he did from the woman. But what was * the use of that?" Tom Courtland knew his own business best. Grantley shrug- ged his shoulders, but held his peace. CHAPTEM IL The Fairy Ride. Courtland went off early next morn- tion—no railway line ran nearer Mill- dean—and Grantley Imason spent the morning lounging about his house. ents could be planning what improv made and what embellishme pro- vided against the col g of Sibylla. He enjoyed this pottering both for its own sake and because it was connected with the thought of the girl he loved. For he was in love—as much in love it seemed to him, as a man could w be. “And I ought to know,” he said, with a smile of reminiscence, his mind going back to earlier affalrs of the or less serious, which had an lacking In his career. e -m without remorse, though one or two might reasonably evoked that emotion, and wi regret th. lay in confessing ad shared the follies common to age and his position. - But he found great sati jon in the thought that S 2 ad nothing to do rsons concerned. of them; she was same set with any She had known in ne - r surroundings had fferent from theirs. life something en- d tirely : and unconne: with the past. Herein lay & great des £ the charm of s latest, this final r it was to be final—for his for his homor’s sake, and it seemed time for such srdered view of life and hich his intellect in- was something t in the cb ed him to suit his @ ption, to find the ect harmony, to act on s with such a full ssent of his feeling: nded himsel th that to k of o an old fallac accident remained. He re vorite shrt was to fal the se The thing been so entirely unplanmed. He had meant to buy ‘a place in the north; was only when the one he wanted had = been apped up by somebody that the agents suc- ceeded ading ¥ to co and look at the house at Milldean. happened to take his fancy and he bought it happened to be town out of k 1S da of y to Monday had died ase Old Miil fall vac opportunely. other house available in the village. So chances went o till chance cul- minated in that meeting of his with Sibylla—net their first encounter, but the one‘he alw called his meeting with her in his own >ughts—that wonderful evening when all the sky was red. and the earth, teo, looked almost red, and e air was so still. been with her in his she, forgetful of him, es to the heavens d. Presently, and . unconsciousiy, she her hand and n a tight grip, silently demanding his sympathy and feelings she could At that moment her beauty seemed to be born for him and he had determined to make it his. He smiled now, saying that he had been as impulsive as the merest boy, thanking fortune that he could re- joice in the impulse Instead of eon- demning {t—an end which a priort would have seemed much the more probable. In nine cases out of ten It would have been foolish and disas- trous to be carried away in an instant like that. In his case it had, at any rate, not proved disastrous. From that moment he had never turned back from his purpose, and he had nothing but satisfaction in its now imminent accomplishment. “Absolutely the right thing! I couldn’t have done better for myself. He stood alone in the middle of the room and said these words aloud. They exhauysted the subject, and Grantley sat down at his writing- table to answer Mrs. Raymore's let- ter of congratulation. He had never been in love with Mrs. Raymore, who was his senior by ten years; but she was an old and Intimate friend— —perhaps his most intimate friend. Bhe had been more or less In his confidence while he was woolng Sibylla, and a telegram apprising her of his success had called forth the letter to which he now owed a re- sponse. “If 1 had been a poor man. he wrote in the course of his reply, “I wouldn't have married—Ileast of all a rich wife. Even as a well-to-do man I wouldn’'t have married a rich wite. You have to marry too much besides the woman! And I didn't want a society woman, nor anybedy from any of the sets I've knocked about with. But I did want to marry. I want a wife, and I want the dynasty con- tinued. It's come direct from father to son for five or six generations, and I dudn't want to stand on_record 'as the man who stopped it. I'm entirely contented, no less with the project than with the lady. It will complets my life. That's what I want—a com- pletion, not a transformation. She'll do just this for me. If I had taken a child and tratned her, I couldn’t have got more exactly what I want; and I'm sure you'll think s0 to when you come to know her. Incidentally I ac- quire a delightful ~ brother-in-law. He'll always be a capital fellow, but, alas, he won't long be the jewel he is now; just at that stage between boy and man—hobbledehoy, as you women used to make me so furious by ealling me—breathing fury against all institutions, especially those common- ly supposed to be of divine origin; learned in ten thousand books; know- ing naught of all that falls under the categories of men, women and things; best of ail, blindlv wrath at himself becaise he has become, or is becom- ing a2 man and can't help it and can’t help feeling it! How he hates women and despises them! You see, he has begun to be afraid! I haven't told him that he's begun to be afraid; it will be rich to watch him as he achieves the discovery on his own ac- count. You'll enjoy him very much. Grantley ended his er with a warm tribute to Mrs Raymere's friendship, urances of all it had been to him and a promise that mar- riage should, so far as his feelings went, in no way lessen, impair or al- ter the affection between them. “He's very nice about me,” said Mrs. Raymore when she had finished reading, “and he says a good deal