The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 27, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. - DOUBLE— —HARNEMA/ YBILLA, Mr. pecting much of married life 1o her thickly fences come Hope's heroinc, _——— an idealist, enters matrimony ex- and her husband, Grantley. understand her. | e | It dawns upon her that Grant- ley is too unimaginative and sclf-satisfied to. When their child comes his lack of appreciation comes to seem to her a crime. The breach between them widens. en enters Walter Blake, whom she thinks can give her what and can, or will not She trembles on the brink of doing ble thing, but the tragedies in the lives of her married which she is a witness. serve to restrain her and even- wally avert the tragedy pe has given a real pleture of London society, with all ! ntortzining brilliancy of ““The Dolly Dialogues.” | F e ST I PR et el was a ns pretty, ut her and rather too s dressed s; she w was no good at al ymore who went rom the woman 1 row about the had taken some from B a solicitor's of- arranged for him to Buenos Ayres—did in fact. She's quite i, mamma Says, nd brave, too. How vour son turn out like 19, and Mrs. Ray- iped him.” says the woman was very good looking eithe: ot you know, Anna! You're you? And she’s a baby ma always tells me things wear her and papa talking When I'm washing the forget I'm there, especially squabbling at all. And I ears open y mamma tells me. t talk to somebody, I was little she used gs and then forget it for knowing them.” ke without rancour; rather of quiet amusement, as had given much study to eculiarities and found on in them. Raymore! Well, thére's where, isn't there, An- vered and drew yet a il “How are things ght be much worse than that.” se it might. It's only just and I suppose I shall have it for a jong while. You to get mar- 0 men ever our house—they can’t stand it. s I'm not pretty.” come and meet men here; and nd not being pretty; I could k quite smart. That's n for smartness, vy believe it pays Get Janet—get your u an allowance and ds together over it.” kind of you, Mrs. Oh, I like dressing people; and I nk girls ght to have their But in those things she makes you wear—oh, my dear Anna!” I know. I'll ask her. hesitated, then rose and came Christine. Suddenly she hing, my dear,” said Chris- used but annoyed; she was r eady to help Anna, but did not care in the least for being kissed by her. Anna sat down agein, end a long I think. Oh, I ave hated to be an old maid; would have avoided so yv. Look at these poor They've always got on 8o too, up to now!” e laid down her screen and pulled ner dress to let the warmth get to r ankles. Anna looked at her ace lit up by the glow. “l1 wish I was like you, Mrs. Fan- istine did not refuse the compli- she only denied the value of the P sion which won it for her. “Much good it's done me, my deer!” she sighed “But people who've not got looks never will believe how little they are. Oh, I don’t mean to rude, Anna! I believe in you, you n do something with you. She stopped, frowning a end looking vaguely unhappy. “Well,” she resumed, “if it turns out that I can't take you under my wing, we must get hold of Sibylla. She's always ready to do things for people— and they' got lots of money, any- Anna’s curiosity was turned in the direction of Sibylla. “What as the truth about Mrs. Imason, Mre. Fanshaw?” “I made sure you'd know that, too!" smiled Christine. “And if you don't, 1 suppose I oughtn’t to tell you.” 1 know she—she had an accident.” “Oh, well, everybody knows. Yes, she had, and they thought it was worse than it was. The country doc- tor down at Milldean made a mistake —took too serious a view, you know. And—and there was a lot of bother. But the London man sald it would be all right; and so it turned out. The baby came all right, and it's a splen- did boy.” “It all ended all right, then?” Christine locked a little doubtful. “The boy's all right, and Sibylla’s quite weil,” she answered. ‘But mamma said Mrs. Raymore hintég——" “Well, Sibylla wouldn’t believe the London man, you see. She thought that he—that be'd been persuaded to needn't d to have the operation have, and that they Well, really, Anna, I tails. It's quite med- . I think.” over now, right, Mrs. " said Christine, shy positive fact. “But fusses about nothing do much harm as fusses about g big. It's the way one looks , I ought to know that, living in our house,” remarked Anna Selford. “You do give your parents away so!” Christine complained, with a smile in which pity was mingled. The pity, however, was not for the betrayed, but for the traitor. Anna’s remature knowingness and the sug- gestion of hardness it carried with it were the result of a reaction against the atmosphere of her home, against the half real gush and the spasmodic emotionality of the family circle. In this revolt truth asserted itself, but sweetness suffered and freshness lost its bloom. Christine was sorry when that sort of thing happened to young girls. But there it was. Anna was not the ingenue and it was no good treat- ing her as if she were. “I'm really half glad you don't live in this house. I'm sure John and 1 couldn’t bear the scrutiny—not just now, anyvhow.” She answered Anna's going on: “Oh, We've no money don't repeat that! And John's full of business worries. It's positively so bad that I have td try to be amiable about it!” “I'm so sorry, and I really won't talk about it, Mrs. Fanshaw.” “Now, don’t, my dear—not till we're in the bankruptey court. Then every- body’ll know. And I daresay we shall have some money again; at least bank- rupts seem to have plenty, generally.” “Then why don't ‘you?” “Anna! John would cut his throat first. Oh, I really believe he woyld! You've no idea what a man like him thinks of his busiess and of his firm's credit. It's like—well, it's like what we women ought to think (again Christine avoided asserting the actual fact) about our reputations, you know. So you may imagine the state of things. The best pair is being sold et Tattersall's this very day. That's why I'm indoors—cabs are so cold, and the other pair will have to go out at night.” Shiveringly she mestled to the fire again. “I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Fanshaw It'll all come right, won't it?” “It generally does; but I don’t know.” And John savs I've always been so extravagant—and I suppose I have. Well, I thought it was just that John was stingy. He had a splendid busi- ness, you know.” She paused and smiled at Anna. “So now you know all of everybody's troubles,” she ended Christine was not in the habit of glving praise beyond measure or with- out reservation either to herself or to other people, and she had done uo more than justice to her present ef- fort to be amiable. Money was the old cause of quarrel between her hus- nd and herself; the alterngtion of fat 2nd lean years had kept it always alive and intermittently active. But hitherto while the fat seasons had meant af- fluence, the lean had never failen short of plenty or solvency. It had been a question of more or less lavish expen- diture, that was all. Christine was afiaid there was more now. Her hus- band was worried as he had never been before: he had dropped hints of speculations gone wrong and of heavy commitments; and Christine, a con- stant glancer at city articles and an occasional dabbler in stocks, had read that there was a crisis in the market in which he mainly dealt. Things were black: she knew It almost as well as he. Roth showed courage and the seri- ousness of the matter forbale mere bickering. Nor was either invulner- able enough to open the battle. Her extravagance exposed her to attack; he was conscious of hazardous specu- lations which had wantonly under- mined the standing, and now threat- ened the credit, of a firm once strong and of excellent repute. Each needed at once to give and to receive charity. Thus from the impending trouble they had become better friends, and their underlying comradeship had more openly asserted itself. This amount of good there was in it, Christine thought to herself; and John, in his blunt fash- ion, had actually said as much to her. “We're in the same boat, and we must both pull at our oars, old girl,"” he said, and Christine was glad he should say it, although she hated being called “old girl.” John had a tendency toward plebelan endearments, she thought. So the best pair went to Tattersall's, and some of the diamonds to a corre- sponding establishment In the jewelry line; and various other things were done or attempted with the view of letting free a few thousand pounds and of diminishing expenditure In the future. But John Fanshaw’s brow grew no clearer. About these sacrifices there hung the air of doing what was right and proper—what, given the wcrst happening, would commend itself to the feelings of the creditors and the Officlal Receiver—rather than of achieving anything of real service. Christine guessed that the speculations must have beeg@ on a very large scale and the commitments very heavy. Could it be that ruin—real ruin—was in front of them? She could hardly real- ize that—either its coming or what life would be after it had come. And In her heart—here, too, she had sald no more than truth—she did doubt whether John would stay in the world to see. Well, what could she do? She had three hundred a year of her own, tled up and (since they had no chil- dren) could find crusts for herself and John—if John were there. These were the thoughts which had kept intrud- ipg intq her mind as she talked to Anna Selford and shivered now and then over the blazing fire. Yet she could face them better than John, thanks to a touch of fatalism in her nature. She would think of no violent step to avold what she feared. Hating it, she would sit/shivering by the fire, and wait for it all the same. She knew this of herself, and therefore ‘was even more sorry for John than on her own account. This state of mind made the amiability easier. It also awoke her conscience from a long sleep with regard to the way in which she had treated John in the past. Against this, however, she struggled not only fiercely, but with a conviction of jus- tice. Here conscience was overdoing its part, and passing from scrupulous- ness to morbidity. The thing in ques- tion, the thing conscience vas worrying about, belonged to the far past; it had been finished off and written off, en- Joyed and deplored, brooded over and violently banished from thought, ever so long ago. Hardly anybody knew about it; it was utterly over. None the less, the obstinate irrational digs which® conscience—awake again—gave ‘her about it increased as John's face grew gloomier. Late in the afternoon John Fanshaw came to his wife's room for a cup of tea. “The pair wént for only two hundred and forty-five,” he said; “I1 gave four hundred for them six months ago. Ah, ‘well, a forced sale, you know!" “It doesn’t make much difference, does it?” she asked. “No,” he said, absently stirring his tea. “Not much, Christine.” She sat very quiet by the fire, watch- ing him; her screen was In her hand again. “It's no use, we must face it,” he broke out suddenly. “Everything's gone against me again this week. I had a moral certainty; but—well, that isn't a certainty. And—" He took a great gulp of tea. . A faint spot of color came on Chris- tine’s cheek. ‘What does it mean?” she asked. “I'vé be°n to see Grantley Imason to- day. He behaved uncommonly well. The bank can’t do anything more for me, but as a private friend—" “Had you to ask him for money, John?” ““Well, friends often lend one another money, don’t they? I don’t see any- thing awful in that. I daren’t o to the money lenders—I'm afraid they'd sell the sceret.” “I dare say there’s nothiny wrong in it. I don't know about such things. Go on.” “He met me very straight; and I met him straight, too. I told Lim the whole position. I said, ‘The business is a good one, but I've got into a hole. Once I get out of that the business is there. On steady lines (I wish to heaven I'd kept on them!) it's worth from eight to ten thousand a year. I'll pay you back three thousand a year, and five per cent on all capital still owing.' I think he liked the way I put it, Christine. He asked if he could take my word for it, and I said he could, and he sald that on the faith of that he'd let me have fifteen thousand. I call that handsomle.” “Grantley always likes to do the handsome thing.” She looked at him before she put her question. “And— and is that enough?” He was ashamed, it was easy to see that—ashamed to show her how deep he was in the bog, how reckless he had been. He finished his tea, and pottered about, cdtting and lighting a cigar, before he answered. “I suppose it's not eflough?” said Christine, [ “It's no use unless I get some more. I don’t know where else to turn.t:?td I must raise thirty thousand in a - night—by next settling day—or it's all up. I shall be hammered, Christine.” “If we sold up absolytely every- thing—?" “For God's sake, no! That would ruin our credit; and then it wouldn't be thirty thousand we should want, but —oh, I don't know! Perhaps a hun- dred! We've sold enough already; there's nothing more we can do on the quiet. He sat down opposite to her, and stared gloomily ‘at the fire. Christine rather wondered that he did not turn to abuse of himself for having got into bog, but she suppcsed that the ulative temper, which acknowl- edges qnly bad luck and never bad Judgment, saved him from that. He looked at her covertly once or twice; she saw, but pretended not to, and waited to hear what was in his mind: something, clearly, was there. ° @ . WerEmAr 165 25V 4AcssmD, IHILE SIEYTIA CAME EOURD AND KISEED B2 ZATGING 2700, “No, I don’t know where to turn— and I shall be hammered. After thirty years! And my father forty years be- fore me! I never thought of its com- ing to this.”” After a long pause he added: “I want another fifteen thou- sand, and I don’t know where to turn.” He smoked hard for a minute, then flung ‘his cigar peevishly into the fire. “I+do wish I could help you, John!"” she sighed. “I'm afraid you cap't, Again he hesitated. “Unless—" broke off again. Christine had some difficulty in keep- ing her nerves under control. When he spoke again it was abruptly, as though with a wrench: “I say, do you ever see Caylesham now 2" . A very slight,.almost imperceptible, start ran over her. “Lord Caylesham? Oh, I meet him about sometimes. He's at the Ray- mores’ now and then—and at other places, of course.” “He never comes he?” - “Very seldom; to a party now and then.” She answered without appar- ent embarrassment, but her eyes were very sharply on the watch; she was on guard against the next blow. “He.was a good chap, and very fond of us. Lord, we had some fine old times with Caylesham!". He rose now and stood with his back to the fire. “He must be devilish rich since he came into the property.” He loked at her inquiringly. said nothing. “He's a good .chap, too. I don’t think he’d let a friend go to the wall. ‘What do vou think? He was as much your friend as mine, you know.” “Yow'd ask him, John? Oh, I should not do that!” “Why not? He’s got plenty.” “We see so little of him now; and it's such a lot to ask.” “It's not such a lot to him; and it's only accidental that we haven't met lately.” He looked at her angrily. “You don't realize what the devil of a mess we're in. We've no choice, I tell you, but to get it from somewhere and SVEy. BEL ook ihie rabeen berk S e’ll get his money back again, Clu‘nfin." oid lady.” He here now, does She Her screen was before her face now, 86 that he saw no more than her brow. “I want you to go and ask him, Christine. That’s what you can do for me. You said you wanted to help. Well, go and ask Caylesham to lend me the money.” “I can't do that, John.” “Why not? Why can’t you?" “I should hate your asking him, and I simply couldn’t ask him myself.” “Why do you hate my asking him? You said nothing against my asking Grantley and we haven’t known him any better.” She had no answer to that ready. The thrust was awkward. “Anyhow I couldn’t ask him—I really couldn’t. Don’t press me to do that. If you must ask him, do it yourseif. ‘Why should I do it?” ““Why, because he’s more give it to you.” “But that's—that’s so unfair. To send a woman because it's harder to refuse her! Oh, that isn't fair, John!™ “Fair! Good heavens, can't you un- derstand how we're situated? It’s Tuin if we don't get it—and I'm damned if T'll live to see it! There!” She saw his passion: his words con- firmed her secret fear. She saw, too, how in the strese of danger he woula not stand on scruples or be balked by questions of taste or of social pro- priety. He saw possible salvation, and jumped at any path to it; and-the re- sponsibility of refusing to tread the path he put on her, with all it might mean. “1f I went and he said ‘No’ you could not go afterward. But you can go-first, and you must go.” Christine raised her head and shook likely to it. “I can't go,” she said. “Why not”? You're infernally odd about it! Why cdn’t you go? Is'it any- thing about Caylesham in particular?” “No, -no, nothing—nothing like that; but I—I hate to go.” “You must do it for me. I don't understand why you hate it so much as all that.” He was regarding her with an air at once angry and inquisitive. She dared hide her face no longer. She had to look at him calmly and steadily ~with distress. perhaps, but at al costs without ’ “My and all by God, ¥ you like he exclaimed n You shall go! No, ean that— I don’t want But for heaven's sake ared about his passing touch ¢ vanished; but it had moved her anc worked with the fear that was.on h “If you a spe re it me,” he urged impatiently; “a special reason against asking Caylesham; ebody we 50 have no as & Lord Caylesham,” steadily. “Then you'll go?" A last struggle kept her silent a mo- Then e answered in a low i I'n go.” s s a brave little woman!" he cried d ily, and bent down as If he would ; but she had slipped her screen up nearly to her eyes again, and seemed so unconscious of his pur- pose that he abandoned it, - His spirits rose in a moment, as his sanguine mind, catching hold of the bare chance, twisted it into & good chance—almost into a certainty. “Gad, 1 belisve he'll give it youl You'll put it in such a fetching way. Oh, his money's safe enough, of course! But—well, you'll make him see that better than I could. He liked you so much, you know. By Jove, I'm sure he'll do it for you, you know hristine’s pain-stricken eyes alone wers visible above the screen. Under- neath it her lips were bent in am in- voluntary smile of most mocking bit- cience had not been at purpose. At her hus- g she must go and ask money. She bowed to CHAPTER VIIL Ideals and Aspirations. A sudden rigidity seemed to affect Mrs. Raymors from the waist upward. Her back grew stiff, her head rose very straight from the neck, her eyes looked fixedly in front of her, her | were tight s These symptoms w! due to th that she saw T Cou ng company with a certainly not La to the gossip friends, Kate ymore guess who - she was; the woman’'s gorgeous attire, her flamboyant er, the air good-natured which carried w the gues ing with her in there, and to many his known by sight and conduct betrayed increasing reckless- ness. There was nothing to do but to pass him by without notice; he hims would wish nothing expect nothing else. more was SOIry else and. .m0 Still Mrs, R to have to do it; Tom had been kind and h taining that position in a railway ¢ pany’s office in Buenos .Ayres wh had covered the disastrous retrea her well-beloved son. This lamentable affair had be hushed up so far as the outer wo was conce d; but their friends knew the truth. In the first terrible days, when there had been Imminent risk of a criminal prosecution, Raymore had rather lost his head and had ® round to Grantley Imason, to Tom Courtland, to John Fanshaw, making lament and imploring advice. So they all knew—they and their wives; and the poor bov's sister Eva had been told, perforce. There the public shame stopped, but the private shame was very bitter to the Raymores. Raymore was driven to accfise himself of all kinds of faults in his bringing up of the boy—of having been too indulgent here or too strict there—most of all, of having been so engrossed in busi- ness as not to see enough of the boy or to keep proper watch on his dis- position and companions, and the way he spent his time. Kate Raymore, who even now could not get it out of her head that her boy was a paragon, was possessed by a more primitive feeling. To her the thing was a nemesis. She had been too content, too sure all was well with their household, too upiifted in her kindly but rather scornful judg- ment of the difficulties and follles which the Courtland family and the Fanshaw family and other families of her acquaintance had brought befors her eyes. She had fallen too much Into the pose of the judge, the eritig, and the censor. Well, she had trouble enough of her own now; and that, to say nothing of Tom's kindness about Buenos Ayres, made her sorrier to have to cut him in the park. She was & religious woman, of & type dered old fashioned. L h she instinctively ac- knowledged she accepted as a just and direct chastisement of heaven. Her husband was impatient with this view, but he had more Sympathy with the merciful allev on- of her sorrow which heaven had sent. In the hour of her affliction her son's heart, which had wandered from her in the way- wardness of his heady youth, had come back to her. Thev could share holy memories of hours spent before Charley went, after forgiveness had been of- fered and received, and they were all ¢ close together. With these reir hearts they could en- dure and b a c dent hope look forward to their son’s future. M while they who remained were nearer in heart, too. Eva, who had been clined to flightiness, .was fright and sobered into a greater tende and a more willing obedience: and E gar Raymore himself, when had pulled himself together, haved so well and had been help to his old relations of mellow friend: on a more intimate and aff. characte: It was Sibvlla Imason whom Mrs. Raymore chose to pour out these fe ings to. Who could better share them than the young wife still in the first pride and glory of her motherhood? ‘Children bring vou together - and keep vou together, whether in trouble or in joy. That's one reason why rybody ought to have children, ate Raymore said with a rather trem- ulous smile. “‘If there are none, there's such a danger of the whole thing get- ting old and cold, and—and worn out, you know." Sibylla was in wonderful health now, such 2 fe in the trial that their and at the best of her looks. Her man- ner, too had grown more composed and less impulsive, although she kept her old graciousness To Kate Ray- more she seemed fair and good to gaze on. She | wed with a thought- ful gravitv and the wonted hint of question or seeking in her eyes. ‘There was a hint of pain in them also, .