The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 20, 1904, Page 5

N THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. r were getting Into know at all how bad it is?” SSS Gapyias doubtedly! I—I can't say it isn't se- 1 should be doing wrong—" e word, is it fatal, or likely to Grantley was nearly at the end of his forced patience. He had looked for a man—he had, it seemed. found an- other old woman; =o he angrily thought within self as old Gardiner stumbied over his words and worried his whiskers. “If I were to explain the case in de- " “Presently, doctor, presently. Just e result—the position of . ent, Mr. Imason. there to Mrs. Imason—I think at. But the injury creates n of things which might. and dgment would. prove, danger- s time went on. I speak in of her present condition.” Could that be obviated?” nervo ss increased. sration directed to remove It would be a perhaps a dangerous, operati “Is that the onl “In my judgme: ent 3 serious, e only way con- n Mrs. Mumple inter- “onsistent with the birth of the Mr. Imason. m danger? e from danger to my an say practically so good a subject r W minute. dn’t objéct to my J n?" he asked. us on old Gardiner’s ome it,” he said. *“The such a case is so great man and I'll wire Gardiner hesi- named a man him Gardiner at nt ANNOUNCEMENT. f encouraging California and Western writers, for short stories equal to that paid by the the purpose of bringing young and unknown the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- prize of $5o will be paid each week for the best s no section of America more fertile in ma- at hand than offers ern writer. rule, be given 1g stones Each story wi written copy is the $co $s0 E you ca ty e prolific in pens gifted té give spirit to the California and the West. for the best story submitted each week by a West- Stories of Western life 2nd Western characters will. as a the preference, but all new writers, will receive careful consideration. be judged strictly upon its literary merit. easiest to read and will receive the first consider- or. but do not hesitate to send a story in hand- ot afford to have it typewritten. dollars in cash for a story of not less than 2500 words and Therefore the Sun- strong stories, and _ especially Type- not more than 3500 words is approximately $17 per thousand words, or 1.7 cents per word. The highest price paid by the leading magazines for the work of any but the very best writers is rarely more than two cents a word, more often one cent and a half, and generally one cent. With the majority of magazines the writer, after his story is ac- cepted, is compelled to wait until the publication of his story before he is paid, a period of seldom less than six months. and usually from months to a year. pai The stories accepted in this contest will be for immediately upon publication, and will be published on the first Sunday following the judeing of the week’s manuscripts. .obsuna: fter outward calm. gainst the fond, foolish old held to be at Mumple. time to upstairs was an -going country practition- n one of th villas at plied a not very lucra among the farmhouse: B His knowledge was neither profound nor recént; he had not kept up his reading, and his practical oppertunities had been very few. He seemed. when he came, a good deal upset and de- cidedly mnervous, as U gh he were faced with a sudden responsibility by no means to his liking. He kent wip- ing his brow with a threadbare red silk handkerchief and pulling his straggling gray whiskers while he talked. In a d Grantley had decided that no ence could be placed in him. Still t be able to tell what was the jickly and plainly, please, Dr. Gardiner,” he requested, noting with patience that Mrs. Mumple had come ck apd stood there listening: but she would cry and think him a mon- ster if he sent her away. She’s conscious now,” the doctor re- “but she’s very prostrate—suf- £ : from severe shock. I think vou shouldn’t see her for a little while.” “What's the injury, Dr. Gardiner?” “The shock is severe.” it kill her?” no' The shock kill her? Oh. She has a splepdid comstitu- K1l her? Oh, no, no!” nd is that all?” “No, not quite all, Mr. Imason. There is—er—in fact a local injury, a fracture, due to the force of the impact on the ground.” “Is that serious? Pray be quiet, Mrs. Mumple. You really must restrain ¥eur feelings.” “Serious? Oh, undoubtedly, un- “Very well, and I'll see my wife as you think it desirable.” He paused a moment and then went on: “If I understand the case right, I haven't a moment’s hesitation in my mind. But I should like to ask you one question—am I right in supposing that your practice is to prefer the her’s life to the child’s?” That’s the British medical practice, Mr. Imason, where the alternative is as you put it. But there are, of course, degrees of danger and these would in- fluence—" ‘You've told me the danger might be serious. That's encugh. Dr. Gardiner, pending the arrival of your colleague the only thing—the only thing—you have to think of is my wife. Those are my definite wishes, please. You'll remain here, of course? Thank you. ‘We'll have another talk later. I want to speak to Jeremy now.” He turned toward the window, mean- ing to join Jeremy in the garden and report him. Mrs. Mumple came for- ward, waving her hands helplessly and weeping profusely. “Oh, Mr. Imason, imagine the poor, poor little child!” she stammered. *“T can’'t bear to think of it.” Grantiey's impatience broke out In tness. her I don’t care that for he said, snapping his fin- gers as he went out. CHAPTER VL Not Peace, but a Sword. No doubt the bodily shock, the lacera- tion of her nerves and the condition she was In had something to do with the way Sibylla looked at the matter and with the attitude which she took up. These accidental circumstances gave added force to what was the natural outcome of her disposition. A further current of feeling, sweeping her in the same direction, lay in the blame which she eagerly fastened on herself. Her willfulness and heedlessness cried out to her for an atonement; she was eager to make an appeasing sac- rifice and caught at the op- portunity, embracing readily the worst view of the case, drawing from that view an unhesitating conclu- sion as to what her duty was. Thus de- duced, the duty became a feverish de- sire; her only fear was that she might be balked of its realization. She had risked her child’s life; let her risk her life for her child. That idea was by itself and by Its innate propriety enough to inspire her mind and to de- cide her will. It was but to accumulate reasons beyond need when she remind- ed herself that even before the accident all her weal had hung on the chiid, every chance which remained of over- coming certain failure, of achieving still the splendid success of which she bad dreamed in her life and marriage. The specialist was to arrive the next S B \’ o = morning; she was reluctant to wait even for that. Old Gardiner was for her an all-wise, all-sufficient oracle of the facts, because he had declared them to be such as fitted into the demands of her heart and of her mood. Left to herself she would have constrained hig fears, overborne his doubts and forced him to her wi he would have stam- mered all in vain about what was the British medical practice. As it was, open-eyed, refusing to seek sleep, strung up by excitement, all through the evening she battled against her husband for her way. If she had no hesitation in one view, Grantley never wavered from the other. The plain unreasonableness of not awaiting the specialist’s verdict was not hard to enforce. Sibylla, professing to yield, yet still assumed what the verdict would be, and pressed for a promise. At first he evaded her ur- gency by every device of soothing counsels, of entreaties that she would rest, of affectionatg reproofs. She would not allow evasion. Then when his refusal came it came tenderly, in- spired by his love for her, based on an appeal to that. It was on this that she had relied. He was puzzled that it failed of the full effect he had looked for; and bevond the puzzle gradualiy a sense Of bitter hurt and soreness grew up in his mind. He did not know of the secret comnnection in her thoughts be- tween the child and an ideal perfecting of the love between her and him; she was at once too self-engrossed to allow for his ignorance and too persuaded that her hopes must be secret if they Were to remain hopes at all. He saw only that when he persuaded, cajoled, flattered and caressed as a lover he failed. His power seemed gone. Her appeal to him was in another character, and that very fact seemed to put him on a lower plane. He had not doubted for a moment what came first to him— it was her life, her well-being, his love of her. As she persisted in her battle = L= foolishness, which he-had been wont to divide very distinctly from her, and to consider himself free to deal with faithfully. “At best it'll be a most awful disap- pointment to her.” , . “Yes, it must be that—and to me, too,” sald Grantley. “She was just living in and for the thing, you know.” Grantley m::: no answer this time; a shade of annéyance passed over his face. “She never could give herself to more than one thing at a time—with her that one thing was always the whole hog, and there was nothing else. That’s just how it’s been now.” Jeremy’s words showed true sym- pathy, and, moreover, a new absence of shame in expressing it; but Grant- ley did not accord them much appar- ent welcome. They came too near to confirming his suspicions; they har- monized too well with the soreness which remained from his impotent en- treaties and unpersuasive caresses. Again without answering, he got up and lit his cigar. “Oh, by the way,” Jeremy went on, “while you were with Sibylla that girl from the rectory came up—you know, Dora Hutting—to ask after Sibylla and say th2y were all awfully sorry and anxious, and all that, you know."” “Very kind of them. I hope vou told her so, and said what you could?” Yes, that's all right. The girl seems awfully fond of Sibylla, Grantley. By Jove, when we got talking about her, she—she began to ery!” 3 Grantley turned round, smiling at the unaccustomed note of pathos struck by Jeremy's tone. “Rather decent of her, asked Jeremy. “Very nice. Did vou console her?” “Oh, I didn’t see what the devil I could say. Besides I didn't feel very comfortable—it was rather awkward.” ~I believe the girl's afraid of me— wasn't it?” : ©9000000600000000030000009000000090000000080 $50 Ea2ch Week for the Best———— SHORT $50 % STORY —— _Submitted to SUNDAY CALL the feeling grew that she made an in- adequate return and showed an appre- ciation short of what was his due. Gradually his manner hardened, his decision was expressed more firmly; he stiffened into a direct antagonism and interposed his will and his authority to effect what his love and his en- treaties had failed to win. He never lacked courtesy; he could not, under such circumstances as these, desire to fail in gentleness. But it was his will against hers now, and what his will was he conyeyed clearly. A tralned| nurse had arrived from Fairhaven; but Sibylla vehemently pre- ferred the présence of Mrs. Mumple, and it was Mrs. Mumple whom Grant- ley left with her when he came down to his study about midnight. He had not dined, and a cold supper was laid out oz the table. Jeremy was there, trying to read, eying the supper rav- enously, yet ashamed of being hungry. He fell on the beef with avidity when Grantley observed that anyhow starv- ing themselves could serve no useful purpose. Grantley was worried, but not anxious; he had confidence in the specialist, and even in Gardiner's view there was no danger if the right course were followed. To the disappointment which - that course involved he had schooled himself, accepting it almost gladly as by so far the lesser evil. “If you were to talk to Sibylla now,” he said, “I think you'd be reminded of those old days you once told me about. Fate has thumped her pretty severely for anything she did, but she’s mortally anxious to be thumped more, and very angry with me because I won't allow it. Upon my word I belleve she'd be disappointed if Tarlton told us that the thing wasn't so bad after all, and that everything would go right without anything being done.” “I daresay she would; but there’s no chance of that?” “Well, I'm afraid not. One must be- lieve one’s medical man, I suppose, even if he's old Gardiner—and he seems quite sure of it.” Grantley drank and sighed. “It's uncommonly perverse, when everything was so prosperous before.” The day had left its traces on Jeremy. Though he had not told Grantley so, yet when he saw Sibylla thrown he had made no doubt she was killed—and she was the one person in the world whom he deeply loved. That fear was off him now, but the memory of it soft- ened him toward her—even toward her 55 ©390000000000005000000 00000000000000000000009 she always seems to come here when I'm away. Is she a pleasant girl, Jer- T “Oh, she—she seemed all right; and I—I liked the way she felt about Si- byla.” “So do I, and I thank her for it. Is she getting at all prettier?” “Well, I shouldn’t call her bad look- ing, don’t you know.” “She used to be a bit spotty,” yawn- ed Grantley. “I don’t think she’s spotty now.” “Well, thank heaven for that any- how!” said Grantley piausly. “I hate spots above anything, Jeremy.” \ “She hasn’t got any, I tell you” said Jeremy, distinctly annoyed. Grantley smiled sleepily, threw him- self on to his favorite couch, laid down his ciggr and closed his eyes. After the strain he was weary and soon his regular breathing showed that he slept. Jeremy had got his pipe alight and sat smoking, from time to time regarding his brother-in-law’s hand- some features with an inquiring gaze. There was a new stir of feeling in Jeremy. A boy of strong intellectual bent, he had ripened slowly on the emotional side, and there had been nothing in the circumstances or chances of his life to quicken the process thus naturally very gradual. To-day something had come. He had been violently snatched from his quiet and his isolation, confronted with a crisis that commanded feeling, probed to the heart of his being by love and fear. Under this call from life nascent feelings grew tasbirth and suppressed impulses struggled for liberty and for power. He was not now resisting them nor turning from them. He was watching, waiting, puzzling about them, hiding them still from others, but no longer denying them to him- self. He was wondering and astir. The manhood which had come upon him was a strange thing; the' life that called him seemed now full of new and strange things. Through his fear and love for Sibylla he was entering on new realms of experience and of feeling. He sat smoking hard and marveling that Grantley slept. Connected with this upheaval of mental conceptions which had hither- to maintained an aspect so boldly fun- damental 'and claimed to be the veri- table rock of thought whereon Jere- my built his church, was the curious circumstance that he suddenly found himself rather sensitive about Grant- ley’s careless criticism of Miss Dora Hutting’s appeavance. He had not de- nied the fact alleged about it, thgugh he had the continuance of it. But he resented its mention even as he ques- tioned the propriety of Grantley's sleeping. The reference in with his appreciation of Dora’s brim- < ol == ming eyes and over brimming sympa- thies. That he could not truthfully have denied the fact increased his an- noyance. It seemed mean to remem- ber the spots- that had been on the face to which those brimming eyes be- longed—as mean as it would have been in himself to recall the bygone grievances and the old—the suddenly old grown—squabbles which he had had with the long legged rectory girl. That old- epithet, too! A sudden sense of profanity shot across him as it came into his mind; he stood incom- prehensibly accused of irreverence in his own eves. Yet the spots had existed and Si- bylla had been wrong—had been wrong and was now, it appeared, unreason- able. Moreover, beyond question, Mumples was idiotic. Reason was alarmed-in him since it was threaten- ed. He told himself that Grantley was very sensible to sleep. But himself. he could not think of sleep and his ears were hungry for every sound .from the floor above. ‘The stairs creaked—there was a sniff. Mrs. Mumple was at the door. Jeremy made an instinctive gesture for silence because Grantley slept. He Mrs. Mumple as she turned her eyes on the peacefully reposing form. The eyes turned sharp to him and Mrs. Mumple raised her fat hands just a little and Tet them fall softly. i “He's asleep?” she whispered. “You set he is. Best thing for him to do, too.” His answering whisper not sleeping,” said “and she's asking for s Mrs. Mumple, him again.” “Then we'd better v spoke irritably as he ro Grantley's shoulder. tired out, don’t you se Mrs. Mumple made no answer. raised and dropped her hands again Grantley awoke lightly and easily, almost unconscious that he had slept. ‘What were we talking about? Oh, Dora Hutting! Why, I belleve e him up.” He and touched He must be She slept nearly an hour,” said Jeremy, going back to his chair. Grantley’s eyes feil on Mrs. Mumple; a slight air of impatience marked his manrer as he asked: “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Mumple?” She's asking for you again, Mr. Imason.” Gardiner said be kept quiet “The doctor’s lying down. she should But = not rest without seeing you; that. Only it's a—a little unfortunate that you should have happened on me, because J—I can't understand being like that. To me seems somebow rather cruel. So, ving you're like that, I can't believe you when you tell me that you think of nothing but your love for me. I daresay you think it's true—I know you wouldn't sa&y it if you didn’t think it true: and in ‘a way it's true. But the real, real truth is—" She paused, and for the first time turned her eyes on him. “The real truth is not that you love me to0 much to do what I ask.” “What else can it be? he cried desperately, utterly puzzled and upset by her accusation. “What else can it be? else?” Her volce grew rather more vehement. “I can answer that. What have I been doing these five mwnths but learning. the answer to that? I'll tell you. It's not that you love me so much, it's that you don’t care about the child. The words brought a suspirion Into his mind. o “That old fool Mrs. Mumple has been talking to you? She's been repeating something I said? Well, I expressed it carelessly, awkwar . but ~ “What does it matter what Mumples ted? I knew it all before.” ome old idiot!” he grumbled it AN, yes, what fiercely. To him there was no reason in it all. The accusation angered him flercely and amazed him even more: he saw no shadow of justice in all down to Sibylla’s exa, of talking and thinking scious of no shortcomings; the accusa- tion infuriated the = for its entire failure to convince. “When two women put their heads together and begin to talk nonsen: there’'s no end to it; bring a baby, born. into the case, and the I of any Iimit to the nonsense is gone.” He did not tell her that (though it expressed what he felt) in a gener orm; he fell back on the circumstances of the minute. Sibyl you're not fit My r Si to we do. Onmly I “Yes, you shall ave she said. “But since it's like that. I think that, whatever happens now, I—I won't have any more children, Grantley.” startled out of the coid com- posure which he had achieved in his previous speech. She repeated her words in a low tired RULES. 1 No story will be considered that is less than 2500 nor more than 3500 words in length. The length of the story must be marked in plain figures. I In the selection of stories names will not count. The anknown writer will have the same standing as the“popular author. will be published one each week As one of the obiects of the Sunday Call is to develop a new corps of Western writers no stories under nonfs de plume will be considered. If a story earns publication it will be well worth the writer’s name. v Stories not accepted will be returned at once. Those selected v This fiction contest will be continued indefinitely. Vi An author may submit as many manuscripts as he desires, but no one writer will be permitted to win more than three prizes during the contest. Always inclose return postage. vit No manuscripts will be returned unless accompanied by return postage. wvint Write on one side of paper only; put name and address legibly on last page, and address to the SUNDAY EDITOR OF THE CALL. SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. fretting so.” “Have you been letting her talk about it and excite herself? Have you been talki g to her yourself?” “How can we help talking about it?" Mrs. Mumple moaned. “It's infernmally silly—infernally!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “Well, I must go to her, I suppose.” He turned to Jeremy. “It'll be better if you'll keep Mrs. Mumple with you. We'll get the nurse to go to Sibylia.” ‘I can’t leave her as she said Mrs. Mumple, threatening a fresh out- burst of tears. Grantley walked out of muttering savagely. The ritation, largety induce by Mrs. Mumple's lachrymosely reproachful glances and faithful doglike persist- ency, robbed him of the tenderness by which alone he might possibly have won his wife’s willing obedience and perhaps convineed her reason through her love. He used his affection now not in appeal, but as an argumentative point. He found in her a hard opposi- tion: she seemed to lcok at him with a sort of dislike. a mingling of fear and wonder. Thus sh. listened in sil- ence to his cold” marshaling of the evidences of his love and his deliberate enforcement of the claims it gave him. Seeing that he made no impression, he gréw more impatient and more im- perious, ending with a plain intimation that he would discuss the question no further. “You'il make me the murderess of my child,” she said. : The gross irrational exaggeration drove him to worse bitterness. “I've no intention of running the smallest risk of being party to the murder of my wife,” he retorted. Lying among her pillcws, very pale and weary, she pronounced the accusa- tion which had so long brooded in her mind. “It's not because you love me so fuch; you do love me in a way—I please you, youre proud of me, you like me to be there, you like to make love to me, you like taking all I hdve to give you, and God knows I liked to give it—but you haven't given the same thing back to me, Grantley. T don't know whether you've got it to is,"” the rcom, train of ir- give to anybody, but at any rate you haven't given it to me. I haven't be- come part of you, as I was ready to become—as I've already become of my little unborn child. Your life wouldn't bet made really different if I went away. In the end you've been apart from me. I thought the coming of the child must make all that different: but it hasn’t. You've been about the child just as you've been about me.” “Oh, where on earth do you get such notions?” he exclaimed. “Just the same as about me. You wanted me, and you wanted a child too. But you wanted both with—well. with the least disturbance of your old self and your oid thoughts: with the least trouble—it almost comes to that really. I.don’t know how to put it, except like that. You enjoyed the pleasant parts very much, but you take as little as you can of the troublesome ones. I suppose a lot of people are—are like ., but firmly and coolly. think I won't have children, you know.” “Do you know what you are sayinz?” “Oh, surely, yes!” she answered. wit a faint smile. Grantley walked up and down the room twice, and then came and stood by her bed, fixing his eyes on her face in a long somber contemplation. The faint smile persisted on her lips as she looked up at him. But he turned away without speaking, with a weary shrug of his shoulders. = “I'll send the nurse to you,” he said as he went toward the door. “‘Seand Mumples, please, Grantley.” Mrs. Mumpies had done all the harm she could. “All right,” he replled. “Try sleep. Good-night.” He shut the door behind him before her answer came. On the stairs he met Mrs. Mumple. The fat woman shrank out of his pgth but he bade her good-night not un- kindly, though absently; she needed no bidding to send her to Sibylla's room found Jeremy still in the study, still wide awake. “Oh, g0 home to bed, old fellow!™ he exclaim: ritably, but affectiomately too. “What good can you do sitting up here all night?” “Yes, I suppose I may as well go—it's half-past two. I'll go out by the gar- den.” He opened the window which led on to the lawn. The fresh night air came in. “That's good!” sniffed Jeremy. Grantley stepped into the with him and lit a cigarette. “But is it all right, Grantley? bylla reasonable now ?” “All right? Reasonable?” Grantley's fmnermost thoughts had been far away “1 mean, will she agree to what you wish—what we wish?” “Yes, it's all right. She’s reasonable now. His face was still just in the light of the lamp which stood on a table in the window. Jeremy saw the paleness of his cheeks®and the hard set of his eyes. There was no sign of relief in him or of anxiety assuaged. “Well, thank heaven for that much anyhow!” Jeremy sighed. “Yes, for that much anyhow,” Grant- ley agreed, pressing his arm in friendly way. “And now, old boy, good-night.” Jeremy left him there in the rarden smoking his cigarette, standing mo- tionless. His face was in the dark now, but Jeremy knew the same look was in his eves still. It was hard for the young man, even with the new impulses and the new sympathies that were alive and astir within him, to fol- low, or even conjecture, what had been happening that night. Yet as he went down the hill it was plain even to him, plain enough to raise a sharp pang in him, that somehow the little child, un- born or whether it shouid yet be born, had brought not umion but estrange- ment to the houss: not peace but a sword. - Ve any more to garden Is Si- (Continued Next Sunday.)