The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 20, 1904, Page 4

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ™— and cynical order, but he went even further. The view which Grantley bad suggested to him, which had never crossed his mind till it was put before im by another, the dis- fllusioned vie he represented now not as Grantley’s, but as his own. He threw it out as an idea which naturally presented itself to a man of the world, giving the impression that it had been in his mind all along, while Mrs. Mumple was speaking. And now he asked Sibylla, not perhaps altogether to believe in it, but to think it possible, almost probable, and cer- tain ry diverting. Sibylla heard him through in silence, her eyes fixed on him in a regard grave at first, becoming, as he went on, al- st frightened. “Do ideas like that come into men's minds?’ she asked at the end. She did not suspect that the idea had not been her brother's own in the begin- n “I think it's a horrible idea.” 'h, you're so high-falutin’!” he laughed, glad, perhaps, to have shocked her a little. She came up to him and touched his arm imploringl - “Forget 1t,” she urged. *‘Never think sbout it again. Oh, remember how much, how terribly she loves him! Don't have such ideas.” She drew back e little “I think—I think it's almost— devilish: I mean, to imegine that, to suspect that, without any reason. Yes ~devilish!” That hit Jeremy; it was more than he wanted. Devilish? You call it devilish? Why, 1t was—" He had been about to lay the idea to its true father-mind; but d not. He loocked at his ter egain. “Well, I'm sorry,” he grumbled. “It only struck me as rather funny.” Sibylla's wrath vanished. “It's just because you know nothing ebout it that you could think such a £, poor boy,” sald she. became clearer still that Grantley must not be brought in, because the only explanation which mitigated Jeremy's offense could not help Grant- ley. Jeremy was loyal here, whatever he may have been to Mrs. Mumple. He kept Grantley out of it. But—devili What vehement language for the 5 use I CHAPTER IV. Initiation. was giving a little din- - in Buckingham Gate setiling The gather- ng that they, onably inter- t set her discourage lusions she She and Raymore as things y and af- ween them; together, and hildren—a boy without ! man with a of speech— sonable. He impassioned; much to lose f t easily lost. H had a few ; perhaps, and 1gs outside his r own friends » was little to kind, of way. They good deal and got When Fan- and Christine ings went 1 bad times there thinking ' that r be practiced by to the ex- other was ad- r instance, the the dressmaker then. appiness of the household de- argel the state of the mar- it ght interest n to hear. xt came the & rds—Richard and He was a rather small frall means, a dabbler in e, too, or would nd of exotic dicted; stables The - srantley ! ng to humbug every- ' Tom Courtland used to say, but was 100 swee a view. Their excessive amia 2 s the resuit of their frequent quarrels—or rather tiffs, since quarreling is perhaps an over- vigorous word. ‘They were always either concealing the existence of a tiff or making one up, reconciling them- selves with a good deal of display. Everybody knmew this, thanks in part to their sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued daughter, Anna, a girl of seventeen. o knew all about the tiffs and could always be got to talk about them. The last pair were the Courtlands themselves. All the set was rather afraid of Lady Harriet. She was a handsome, fair woman; she pat- ronized them rather, but was generally and agreeable when nothing ed to upset her. Tom Courtland more depressed, heavy, and dreary every day. A crisis was ex- peeted—but Lady Harriet's small-talk did not suffer. Mrs. Raymore thought ihat the less (Wrantley’s wife saw or knew of that household the better. The party was completed by Souzette , a girl pretty in a faded sort of not quite s0 young as she tried sok. andy in Mrs, Raymore’s opin- quite likely not to marry at all; nd finally by young Blake, Walter Dudley Blake, a favorite of hers and of many 'other people, known as a climber of mountains and a shooter of rare game in his energetic days; sus- pected of enjoying life somewhat to excess and with riotous revelry in his seasons of leisure; impetuous, chival- rous, impuleive, and notably good- Jooking. Mrs. Raymore had put him on Sibylla’s right—in case her husband should not prove amusing to the hon- ored guest. | On the whole, she thought, they ought to lo not frighten Sibylla much. There was one terrible example—the Courtlands; but when it comes to throwing things about, the case is admittedly abnormal. For the rest they seemed, to the stu- dent of matrimony, fair average sam- ples of a bulk of fair average merit. Perhaps there might have been an ideal union—just to counterbalance the Courtlands at the other extreme. If such were desirable, let it be hoped that the Imasons themselves wowld supply it. In regard to one point she decided, the company was really above the average—and that was the most important point. There had been rumors once about Christine Fanshaw—indeed they were still heard sometimes; but scandal had never assailed any other woman there. In these days that was something, thought Mrs. Raymore. Grantley turned from Christine Fan~ shaw to his hostess. “You're very silent. What are you thinking about?” he asked. “Sibylla’s really beautiful, and in & rather unusual way. You might pass her over once; but if you did look once you'd be sure to look a]ways.” - “Another woman's looks have kept your attention all this time?” “Your wife,” she reminded him with affectionately friendly glance. “And I was wondering what she thought of us all, what we all look like in those pondering, thoughtful, questioning eyes of hers.” “Her eyes do ask questions, don’t they?” laughed -Grantley. “Many, many, and must have an- swers, I should think. And don’t they expect good answers?” “Oh, she's not really at all alarm- ing.” ““You can make the eyes say some- thing different, I dare say?” He laughed again very contentedly. Mrs. Raymore’s admiration pleased him, since she was not very easy her- self to please. He was glad she ap- proved of Sibylla, though as a rule his own opinion was enough for him. “Well, they aren’t always question- ing. That would be fatiguing in a wife—really as bad as continually dis- cussing the Arian heresy, as old John- son says. But I daresay,” he lowered hie voice, “Lady Harriet would excite 2 query or two.” \ “You've told me nothing about Sibylla. I shall have to find it all out for myself.” “That's the only knowledge worth having; and I'm only learning myself still, you know.” “Reaily, that’s an frame of mind for a husband! high hopes of you, Grantley “Good! Because you know me un- commonly well.” She thought a moment. “No, not so very well,”™ “You're hard to know. He took that as a compliment; probably most people would, since it ms to hint at something rare and out of the common; inaccessibility has unusually Jjust I've she said. an aristocratic flavor. “Oh, 1 suppose we all have our fastnesses,” he saild with a laugh which politely waived any claim to superiority without expressly aban- doning it. “Dosen’t one give up the key of the gates by marrying?” . “My dear Kate, read your Blue- beard again!” Mre. Raymore relapsed into the si- lence that was almost habitual to her, but it passed through her mind that the conversation had soon turned from Sibylia to Grantley himself, or at least had dealt with Sibylla purely in her bearing on Grantley; it had not In- creased her knowledge of Mrs. Ima- son as an independent individual. “Well, with business what it is,” d Fanshaw in his loud voice—a voice that had a way of stopping other people’s voices—'‘we must cut it down somewhere.” “Oh, you're as rich as Croesus, Fan- shaw!” objected young Blake. “I'm losing money every day. Chris- tine and I were discussing It as we drove here.” “I llke your idea of discussion, John,” remarked Christine in her deli- cate tones, generally touched with sar- casm. I couldn’t open my lips.”* “He clgsured you, and then threw out your lbbudget?” asked Grantley. “He almost stripped my gown from my back and made an absolute clutch at my diamonds.” “I put forward the reasonable view, Fanshaw insisted rather heatedl] “What I sald was, begin with superflu- ities—"" “Are clothes superfluities?” interject- ed Christine, watching the gradual flushing of her husband's face with mischievous pleasure. “Nothing 18 superfluous that is beau- titul,” said Selford; he lisped slightly, and spoke with an affected air. “We should retrench in the grosser pleasures —eating and drinking, display, large houses—"" “Pecullar dobs?” suggested Blake, chaffing Mrs. Selford. “Oh, but they are beautiful!” cried. “Horses!” said Opristine, with sharp- pointed emphasis. *“You should really be guided by Mr. Seiford, John.” “Every husband should be guided by another husband. That's axiomatic,” said Grantley. - “I'm quite content with my own,” smiled Mrs. Selford. “Dick and I al- ways agree.” “They must be fresh from a row,” Tom Courtland whispered surlly to Mrs. Raymore. “About money matters the man's voice must in the nature of things be final,”” Fanshaw insisted. “It's obvi- ous. He knows about it; he makes i . she ‘Quite enough for him to do,” ‘Chris- tine interrupted. ‘At that point we step in—and spend it.” “Division of labor? Quite right, Mrs. Fanchaw,” laughed Blake. “And if any of you can’t manage your de- partment, I'm ready to help.” “They can manage that department right enough,” Fanshaw grumbled. “If we could manage them as well as they manage that—" He took a great gulp of champagne, and grew still red- der when he heard Christine’s scornful little chuckle. Raymore turned to Sibylla with a kind, fatherly smile. “I hope we're not frightening you, Mrs. Imason? Not too much of the seamy side?” Blake chimed in on the other hand: “I'm here to maintain Mrs. Imason’s {llusions.” “If we're talking of departments, T think that’s mine, Blake, thank you,” called Grantley with a laugh. “I'm sure I've been most consider- ate.” This was Lady Harrlet's first contribution to the talk. “I hAven't seid a word.” “And you could a tale unfold?” asked Blake. She made no answer beyond shrug- ging her fine shoulders and leaning - back in her chair as she glanced across at her husband. A moment’s silence fell on the table. It seemed that they recognized a difference between troub- les and grievances which could Be dis- cussed with more or less good-nature, or quarreled over with more or le acerbity, and those which were in an- other category. The moment the Court- lunds were in question a constraint arose. Tom Courtland himself broke the silence, but it was to talk about an important cricket match. Lady Harriet smiled at him composedly, un- conscious of the earnest study of Sibylla’s eyes, which were fixed on her and were asking (as Mrs. Raymore would have sald) many questions. ‘When the ladiles had gone, Fanshaw buttonholed Raymore and exhibited to him his financial position and its exi- gencies with ruthless elaboration and with a persistently implied accusation of Christine’s extravagance. Selford vietimized young Blake with the story of a picture which he had just picked up; he declared it was by a famous Dutch master, and watched for the ef- fect on Blake, who showed none, never having heard of the Dutch master. Tom Courtland edged up to Grantle; side; they had not met since Grantley’s wedding. “Well, you look very blooming and happy, and all that,” he said. “First-rate, old boy. How are you?” Tom lowered his voice and spoke with & cautious air, “T've done it, Gnnu?—m I wrote to you. By God, I couldn’t stand it any Jonger! I'd sooner take any risk. Oh, I shall be very careful!l I shan’'t give myself away. But I had to do it.” Grantley gave a shrug. “Oh, well, I'm sorry,” he said. “That sort of thing may turn out so awk- ward.” “It'd have to be infernally awkward to be worse than what I've gone through. At any rate I get away from l(l:ometlmel now and—and enjoy my- selfr s “Find getting away easy?” “No; but as we must have shindies, we may as well have them about that. I told Harriet she made the house In- tolerable, so I should spend my even- ings at my clubs.” “Oh! And—and who is she?” He looked round warily before he whispered: “Flora Bolton.” Grantley raised his brows and said one word: “Expensive!” Tom nodded with a mixture of rue- fulness and pride. “If you're going to the devil, you may " as well go quickly and pleasantly,” he said, drumming his fingers dn the cloth. “By heaven, if I'd thought of this when I married! I meant to go straight—you know I did?" Grantley nodded. “I broke off all that sort of thing. I could have gone straight. She driven me to it—by Jove, she has!" “Take care, old chap. They'll notice you.” “I don’t care if— Oh, all right, and thanks, Grantley. I don't want to make an exhibition of myself. And I've told nobody but you, of course.” Sibylla, never long in coming to con- clusions, had made up her mind about the women . before. the evening was ing match with Christine. She took him to task for alleged dissipation and over much gayety; he defended his character and habits with playful warmth. Sibylla sat by silent; she was still very ignorant of all the life they talked about. She knew that Christine’s charges carried innuendoes from the way Blake met them, but she did not know what the innuendoes were. But she was not neglected. If his words were for gay Christine his eves were constantly for the graver face and the more silent lips. He let her see his respectful admiration in the frank way he had; nobody could take offense at it. “I suppose you must always have somebody to be in love with—to give, oh, your whole heart and soul to, mustn't you?” Christine asked scorn- fully. D “Yes, it's a necessity of my nature.” “That's what keeps you a bachelor, I suppose?” He laughed, but, as Sibylla thought, a trifle ruefully, or at least as though he were a little puzzled by Christine’s swift thrust. “Keeps him? He's not old enough to marry yet,” she pleaded, and Blake gayly accepted the defense. Their talk was interrupted by Lady Harrlet's rising; her brougham had been announced. Grantley telegraph- ed his readiness to be off, too, and he and Sibylla, after saying good night, foliowed the Courtlands downstalirs, ore accompanying them and giving the men cigars while their wives put their cloaks on. Grantley asked for a cab, which was some lit- tle while in coming; Tom Courtland said he wanted a hansom, too, and stuck his cigar in his mouth, puffing out a full cloud of smoke. At that moment Lady Harriet came back into the hall, Sibylla following her. “Do you intend to smoke that ci- gar in the brougham as we go to my mother's party?”’ asked Lady Harriet. “I'm not aware that your mother minds smoke; but as a matter of fact I'm not going to the party at all.” “You're expected—I said you'd come.” “I'm sorry, Harrfet, but you mis- understood me.” Tom Courtland stood his ground firmly and answered civilly, though with a surly rough tone In his voice. His wife was still very quiet, yet Ray- more and Grantley exchanged appre- hensive looks; the lull before the storm is a well-worked figure of speech, but they knew it applied very well to Lady Harriet. ““You're going home, then?" “Not just now."” “Where are you going?” “To the club.” “What club?” “Is my cab there?” Grantley called to the butler. “Not yet, sir; there’ll be one di- rectly.” “What club?” demanded Lady Har- riet again. “What does it matter? I haven't made up my mind. I'm only going to have a rubber.” Then it came—what Sibylla had been told about, what the others had seen before now, They were all forgotten— host and fellow-guests, even the ser- vants, even the cabman, who heard the outburst and leaned down from his high half over. Lady Harriet was Strange-Seat, trying to see. It was like some and terrible when the known facts of the case were compared with her .in- dolent compgsure. trivial and tiresome, but a good enough little, silly soul. Suzette - Bilgh was entirely negligible; she had not, spoken save to flirt very mildly with Blake, Mrs. Ray- more elicited a liking, but a rather timid and distant one; she ‘seemed very clear-sighted and judicial. Chris- tine Fanshaw attracted her most, first by her dainty pgettiness, also by the perfection of her clothes (a thing Sibylla much admired), most by her friendly air and the piquant suffusion of sarcastic humor that she had. She seemed to treat even her own griev- ances in this semi-serious way—one of them certainly, if her husband were one. Such a manner and such a way of regarding things are often most at- tractive to the people who would find it hardest to acquire the Ilike for themselves; they seem to make the difficulties which have loomed so large look smaller—they extenuate, smooth away, and, by the artifice of not ask- ing too much, cause what is given to appedar a more liberal installment of the possible. They are not, however, gen- erally associated with any high or rigid moral ideas, and were not so as- sociated in the person of pretty Chris- tine Fanshaw, But they are entirely compatible with much worldly wisdom, and breed a tolerance of unimpeach- able breadth, if not of exalted origin. “We'll be friends, won’t we?" Chris- tine sald to Sibylla, settling hefself cozily by her. “I'm rather tired of all these women, except Kate Raymore, and she doesn’t much approve of me. But I'm going to like you. “Will you? Pm so glad.” “And I can be very useful to you. I can even improve your frocks— though this one’s very nice; and I cén tell you all about husbands. I know a great deal~—and I'm represen- tative.” She laughed gayly. “John and I are quite representative. I like John, really, you know, he’s a good man—but he’s selfish. . And John likes me, but I'm selfish. And I like teas- ing John, and he takes a positive pléagure somefimes in annoying me."” ““And that’s representative?” smiled Sibylla. ‘Oh, not by fitself, but as an ele- ment, sandwiched in with the rest— with our really liking one another and getting on all right, you know. And when we quarrel, it'’s about some- thing, not about nothing, llke the Sel- fords—though I don’t know that that is quite so representative, after all.” She paused a moment, and resumed less gayly, with a little wrinkle on her brow: ‘At least, I think John really likes me. Sometimes I'm not sure, though I know I like him; and when I'm least sure I tease him most.” “Is that a good remedy?” “Remedy? No, it's’ temper, my dear. You see, there was a time when —when I didn’t care whether he liked me or not; when I—when I—well. when I didn’t care, \as I sald. And I think he felt I didn't. And I don’'t know whether I've ever quite got back.” Ready with sympathy, Sibylla press- ed the little richly beringed hand. “Oh, it's all right. We're very lucky. Look at the Courtlands.” “The poor Courtlands seem to exist to make other people appreciate their own good luck,” said Sibylla, laugh- ing a little. “I'm sure they ought to make you appreciate yours, Grantley and ‘Walter Blake are two of the most sought-after men, and you've mar- ried one of them and made quite a conquest of the other.to-night. Oh, here come the men!” Young Blake came straight across to them and engaged in a verbal fenc- Mrs. Selford was ! physical affliction, an utter loss of self- control; it was a bare step distant from violence. It was the failure of civiliza- tion, the ecasting-off of decency. a being ab: oned to a raw fierce fury. “Club!" ishe cried, a deep flush cov- ering her face and all her neck. ‘"Pret- clubs you go to at hard on mid- rnight! I know you, I know you too well, you—you liar!" Sibylla crept behind Grantley, passing her hand@ through hils arm. Tom Courtland stood motioniess, very white, a stiff smile on his lips. “You liar!"” she said once again, and without a look at any of them swept down the steps. She moved grandily. She came to the door of her brougham, which the footman held for her. The window was drawn up. “Have you been driving with the windows shut?” es, my lady.” I told you to keep them down when it was fine. Do you want to stifle me. you fool?” She raised the fan she carried; It had stout ivory sticks and a large knob of ivory at the end. She dashed_the knob against the window with all her strength; the glass was broken and fell clattering on the pave- ment as Lady Harrliet got in. The footman shut the door, touched his hat, and joined the coachman the box. ‘With his pale face and set smile. with his miserable eyes and bowed should- ers, Tom Courtland went down the steps to his cab. Neither did he look at any of them. last Raymore turned to Sibylla. 'm so sorry it happened to-night— when you were here,” he said. “What does it mean?’ she gasped. She looked from Grantley to Ray- more and back agaln, and read the answer in their faces. They knew where Tom Courtland had gone. Grantley patted her hand gently, and said to Raymore: * “Well, who could stand a savage like that?” It was the recognition of a ruin in- evitable and past cure. CHAPTER V. The Birth of Strife. There are inner processes undergane which the subjects hardly realize them- selves, which another can explain by no record however minute or laborious. They are in detail as imperceptible, as secret, as elusive as the physical changes which pass upon the face or the hody. From day to day there Is no difference, but days make years, and years change youth to maturity, ma- turity to decay. So in matters of the soul the daily trifling sum adds up and up. A thousand tiny hopes nipped, a thousand little expectations frustrated, a thousand foclish fears proved not vo foolish. Divide them by the days and there is nothing to cry about at bed- time, nothing to pray about, if to pray you are inclined. Yet as a month passes, or two, or three, the atems seem to join and form a cloud. The sunbeams get through here and there still, but the clear, fine radiance is ob- scured. Presently the cloud thickens, deepens, hardens. It seems now a wall; stout and high; the gates are heavy and forbidding and they stand where once there was ready and eagerly wél- comed entrance and access. Think of what it is to locok for a letter some- times. It comes not on Monday—it's nothing; nor on Tuesday—it's nothing; nor on Wednesday—odd! nor on-Thurs- day—strange! nor on Friday—you can’t think! It comes not for a week—you are hurt; for a fortnight—you are in- dignant. A month passes—and maybe what you prized most in all your life is gone. You have been told the truth in_thirty broken sentences. Sibylla Imason took a reckoning—in no formal manner, nor sitting down to it, still less in any flash of inspiration or on the impulse of any startling in- cldent. As she went to and fro on her work and her pleasure, the figures gradually and insensibly set them- selves in rows, added and subtracted themselves and presented her with the quotient. It was against her will that all this happened. She would have had none of itj there was nothing to -fi mend it; it was not even unusual it would come—and what did it come to? Nothing alarming or vulgar or sensational. Grantley’s gallantry for- bade that, his good manners, his af- fectionate ways, his real love for her. It was forbidden, too, by the moments of rapture which she excited and which she shared; they were still un- touched—the fairy rides on fairy horses. But it is not the virtue of such things to mean more than they are— to be not incidents, but rather culmin- ations—not exceptions, but the very type, the highest expression of what is always there? Even the raptures she was coming to doubt while she welcomed, to mistrust while she shared. Would she come at once to .hate and to strive after them? In the end it was not the identity her soaring fancy had pictured, not the union her heart cried for, less even than the partnership which naked rea- son seemed to claim. She had not be- come his very self, as he was of her very self—nor part of him. She was to him—what? She sought a word at least an !dea, and smiled at one or two which her own bitterness offersd to her. A toy? Of course not. A diver- sion? Much more than that. But still it was something accidental, nmlthlns that he might not have had and 'o‘nl yet a have done very well without; tended, something greatly valued, cal |—yes, and even loved. A great acquisition perhaps expressed it—a very prized possession—a cherished treasure. Sometimes, after putting it as low as she could In cha- grin, she put it as high as she could—by way of testing it. Put it how she would, the ultimate result worked ,out the same. She made much less difference to Grantley Imason than she had looked to make; she was much less of and in his life, much less of the essence, more of an accretion. She was outside his innermost self—a stranger to his closest fastnesses. Was that the nature of the tle or the nature of the man? She cried out against either conclusion; for either ruined the hapes of which she lived. Among them was one mighty hope. Were not both tie and man still incomplete, even as she, the woman, was in truth yet in- complete, yet short of her great func- tion; undischarged for her high nat- uml office? Was there not that in her now which should make all things complete and perfect? While that hope —nay, that conviction—remained she refused to admit that she was discon- tent. She waited, trying meanwhile to smother the discontent. Of course there was another side, and Grantley himself put it to Mrs. Ray- more when, in her sisterly affection for him and her motherly interest in Si- bylla, she had ventured on two or three questions which, on the smallest analysis, resolved themselves into hints. “In anything like a doubtful case,” he complained humorously (for he was pot taking the questions very serious- ly), “the man never gets fair play. He's not nearly so picturesque. And if he becomes picturesque, if he goes through fits hot and cold, and ups and downs, and all sorts of convulsions, as the woman does and does so effective- ly, he doesn’t get any more sympathy, because it's not the ideal for the man— not our national ideal, anyhow. You see the dilemma he's in? If he's not emotional he's ‘not interesting; if he's emotional he’s not manly. I'm speak- ing of a doubtful case all the time. Of course you may have your impeccable Still-Waters-Run-Deep sort of man— the part poor old Tom ought to have played. But then that is a part—a stage part, very seldom real. No; in a doubtful case the man's nowhere. Take it how you will, the woman is bound to win.” “Which means that you don’t want to complain or eriticize, but if I will put impertinent questions—"" “If you put me .on my defense—" he amended, laughing. “Yes, if I put you ou your defense, you'll hint—" “Through generalities—"" “Yes, through generalities you'll hint, in your graceful way, that Sibylla, of whom you're very fond—" h, be fair! You know T am.” Is rather—exacting—fatiguing “That’s too strong. Rather, as I say, emotional. She likes living on the heights. I like going up there now and then. In fact I maintain the national ideal.” “Yes, I think you'd do that very well—quite well enough, Grantley."” “There’s a sting In the tail of your praise?” “After all, I'm a woman, too.” “We really needn’t fuss ourselves, I think. You see, she has the great saving grace—a sense of humor. If I perceive dimly that somehow some- thing hasn't been quite what it ought te have been, that I haven't—haven't pleyed up somehow--you know what I mean?" “Very well, indeed,” laughed gently. “I can put it all right by a good laugh—a bit of mock heroics, perhaps— some good chaff, followed by a good gallop—not at all a bad prescription! After a little of that, she's laughing at herself for having the emotions, and at me for not having them, and at both of us for the wholg affair.” “Well, as long it ends like that there’s not much wrong. But take care. Not everything will stand the humorous ect, you know."” “Most things, thank heaven, or where should we be?” “Tom Courtland, for instance?” ‘Oh, not any longer, I'm afraid.” “It won't do for the big things and the desperate cases; not even for other people’s—much less for your own.” “I suppose not. If you want it al- ways, you must be a looker-on; and you'll tell me huspands can’t be look- ers-on at their own marriages?” “I tell you! Facts will convince you sooner than I could, Grantlgy.” He was really very reasonable from his own point of view, both reasonable and patient. Mrs. Raymore conceded that. And he was also quite consistent in his point of view. She remembered a phrase from his letter which had de- fined what he was seeking—“a com- pletion, not a transformatiol He was pursuing that scheme still—a scheme into_which the future wife had fitted so easily and perfectly, into which the actual wife fitted with more difficulty. But he was dealing with the difficulty in a very good spirit and a very good temper. If the scheme were possible at all—given Sibylla as she was—he was quite the man to put it through successfully. But she reserved her opinion as to its possibility. The reser- vation did not imply an approval of Mrs. Raymore Sbylla or rticular inclination to champion :',. %‘muked only a grow- ing understanding of what Sibylla was, & growing doubt as to what she could be juaded or molded Into becoming. Mra, Raymore had no prejudices in her faven And at any rate he was st'll her lover, as ardently as eve: Deep in 3“ nesses of his nature were his Jove for her, and his pride in her and fn having her for his own. The two things grew side by side, their roots in- tertangled. Every glance of admiration she won, every murmur of approval she created, gave him joy and seemed to give him tribute. He eagerly gath- e in the envy of the world as food for his own exultation; he laughed in pleasure when Christine Fanshaw told him to look and see how Walter Blake adored Sibylla. “Of course he does—he's a sensible young fellow,” sald Grantley gally. “So am I, Christine, and I adore her too.” “The captive of your bow and spear!” Christine sneere “Of my personal attractions, please! Don’t say of my money bags!”™ “She’s llke a very laudatory testi- monial-” “I just wonder how John Fanshaw epdures you.” He answered her with jests, never thinking to deny what she sald. He did delight In his wife's triumphs. Was there anything unamiable in that? If close union were the thing, was not ‘that close? Her triumphs made his— what could be closer than that? At this time any criticlsm of him was genuinely unintelligible; he could make nothing of it, and reckoned it as of no account. And Sibylla herseif, as he had sald, he could always soothe. “And she's going on quite all right?” Christine continued. “Splendidlyl We've got her quietly fixed down at Milldean, with her fav- orite old woman to look after her. There she’ll stay. I run up to town two or three times a week—do my business—"" “Call on me?” “1 ventured soon as I can. “You must be very pleased?” “Of course I'm pleased,” he laughed, “very pleased indeed, Christine.” He was very much pleased, and laughed at himself, as he had laughed at others, for being a little proud too. He had wanted the dynasty car- ried on. There was every pros- pect of a start being made in that di- rection very prosperously. He would have hated to have it otherwise; there would have been a sense of incom- pleteness then. “I needn’t tell a wise woman you that there’'s some trouble such things,” he went “No doubt there 1 d Ch tine. “But you can leave most of that to Sibylla and the favorite old an,” she added a moment her eyes on Grantley’'s conte: and that touch of acidity in he tone voice, Between being pleased—even ver much pleased indeed proud over a thing the trouble there is looking on it as one of the greatest things that heaven Itself ever there is a wide gulf, if not ex opinion, yet of feeling From the first moment Siby known of it, the coming of t was the great thing, the over ing thing, in life. Nature was and nature at her highest more was not needed. Yet there was more to make the full cup brim o Her great talent, her strong: impulse, was to give—to give and all she had; and this tale impulse her husband had not He was immured In his fastr seemed to want only what she ed small tributes and minor sacrifices —they had appeared large once, no doubt, but now looked small because they fell short of the largest that were possible. The great satisfaction, tt great outlet, lay in the coming of the child. In pouring oyt her love on the head of the child she would at the same time pour it out at the feet of him whose the child w: Before such splendid lavishness he mwust at last stand disarmed, he must throw open all his secret treasure-house. His riches of love—of more than lover's love—must come forth, too, and min- gle in the same golden stream with hers, all separation being swept away. Here was the true realization, fore- shadowed by the fairy ride in the early days of their love; here was the true riding into the gold and letting the gold swallow them up. In this all dis- appointments should vanish, all nipped hopes come to bloom again. For it her heart cried impatiently, but chid itseif for its impatience. Had not Mrs. Mumple waited years in solitude and silence outside the prison gates? Could not she wait a little, too? It need hardly be said that in such a position of affairs as had been reached Mrs. Mumple was much to the fore. Her presence was Indispensable, and valued as such, but it had some disad- vantages. She shared Sibylla's views and Sibylla’s temperament; but nat- urally she did not possess the charm of youth, of beauty and of circumstance which served so well to soften or to recommend them. The sort of atmos- phere which Mrs. Mumple carried with her was one which should be diffused speringly and with great caution about a man at once so self-centered and so fastidious as Grantley Imason. ' Mrs. Mumple was lavishly affectionate; she was also persuasive, and, flnally, a trifle inclined to be tearful on entirely inadequate provocation—or, as it ap- peared to any masculine mind, on none at all, since the tendency assailed her most when everything seemed to be going on remarkably well. Her physi- cal bulk, too, was a matter which she should have considered; and yet per- haps she could hardly be expected to think of that. . Of course Jeremy Chiddingfold, nei- ther lover nor father, and with his youthful anti-femininism still held andq prized, put the case a thousand times too high, exaggerating all one side, ut- terly ignoring all the other, of what Grantley might be feeling. None the less, theére was some basis of truth in his exclamation: “If they go on like this, Grantley'll be sick to death of the whole thing be- fore it's half over!" And Jeremy had come to read his brother-in-law pretty well—to know hig self-centeredness, to kmow his fastidi- ousness, to know how easily he might be “put off” (as Jeremy phrased it) by an intrusion too frequent and impor- tunate or a sentiment extravagant in any degree or the least overstrained. Too high a pressure ml’h! well result in a reaction; it d breed the thought that the matter in hand was, lféer lll‘,deeldedly normal. . ut altogether normal #t w; destined to remain. Minded, as lt‘l.nl:g: seem, to point the situation and to far—and get back as bout