The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 27, 1904, Page 3

THE SA N FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. abrupt decis most of?" and That sort be in my risen to 1 her move- Are you worlds, my dear! say it's—it's all in the past I beginning to doubt if thing as the past: and it makes everything so hought it was all done h long ago and now it st ali—all over my life, as And I—I'm afraid again. n It means so s, She looked up la with a plaintiveness colored “So if I've been t down to what I hap- imper wered guessed you've t even Harrlet How did she definition than his wife's uted to her an abnmormally prolonged and obstinate fit of People who have been in the wrong are geperally suiky; that went a long way toward accounting for it. Add thereto Sibylla's extreme expectations of a world and of an institution b of which deal ostly with compromises and arrange- ments short of the ideal, and the case seemed to him clear enough and not altogether unnatural, however vexa- tious it might He flew to no trag- or final conciusion. He did not despair; but neither did he struggie. He made no advances; his pride was too -vounded and his reason too af- fronted for that. On the other hand he offered no provocation. The irré- proachability of his manner continued; the inaccessibility of his feelings in- creased. He devoted his mind to his work, public and commercial; and he waited for Sibylla to come to her senses. Given his theory of the case, he deserved credit for much courtesy, much patience and entire consistency of purpose. And he, unlike Sibylla, from them. Both m_forbade. Finally, wledged great discom- he would them, and danger in Chris- nce might be—i zing. the by making better (which o already), but pleasurable. tractive and mo were made t be good, alone could make him ed to intimate friends nor g a disagreeable element the idea of danger d ne Fanshaw's lla’s fauylts, levity was —danger of a break-up of h been after a I youth, wanted life. He might be wicked with- peril at all for the But he wanted to wanted Sibylla to idea had occur- y in their ac- too, had a faculty He image of hich would turn more It attractive and would be eager ly convinced that Sibylla which it is held—which things, again, depend on the character and temper of the believer. Sibylla’s character and temper made the proposition extraordi- nerily conv Her circumstances, as she conceived them, equally provocative in the same direction. What was wrong with her? In the that she was not wanted, or not nted enough, that she had more to give than had been asked of her, and had no outlet (as Christine had put it) sufficient to relieve the press of her emotions. It was almost inevitable that s e should respond to Blake’s ap- peal. He was an outlet. He was some- body who wanted her very much, whom she could help, with*whom she could expand, to whom she could give what she had to give in such abundant measure. Thus far the first stage. The next was not reached. There was plenty of time yet. Sibylla loved the child. et up his idol, but he had ared that he was the only tee who how properly to honor and t« He sat watc d with her a bache babies; but most of the time h ed. But he watched sympathetically; Sibylla did not fear to before The baby was very any that a man b: & Dleasure tentment—of wonder. strange " from ohysical ¢ Yo som-rEves ! rs 4. Iz z 2 WHAT YOU 2zzar; I sax/ od. He did not at ail think out at the process was to be nor whither might lead. He had never planned . nor iooked where things led to. they led to something alarm- did not consider the question much. How she was to reform him he seemed to leave to Sibylla, but his demand that she should do it grew e and more explicit. N\ This was to attack Sibylla-on her weak spot, to alm an arrow true at the joint in her harness. For (ome is tempted to say, unfortunately) she knew the only way in which peeple could be reformed and made good, and caused to feel that wisdom and virtue were not only better (which of course they felt already), but also more pleas- urable- than folly and sin. -(People who want to be reformed _are some- times, it must be admitted, a little exr &) That could be done only by sympathy and understanding. And if they are therough, sympathy and un- derstanding compose, or depend on, or issue in love—in the best kind of love, where friend gives himself unreserved- ly to friend, entering into every feel- ing, and being privy to every thought. This close aupd intimate connection must be established before one mind can, lever-like, raise another, and the process of reformation be begun. So much is old ground, often trodden and with no pretense of novelty about it. But much of the power of a proposi- tion may depend not on'its soundness, but on the ardor with which it is seized upon, and the conviction with an appreclation in the mock of amusement, oL of fun, of delight assaults and the queer noises which his mother directed at him. Sometimes he made nice, queer, gur- gling noises himseif, full of luxurious content, lile a cat’s purring, and laden with a surprise, as though all this were very new. She had infinite pa- tience in seeking these signs of ap- jroval; half a dozen attempts would miscarry before she succeeded in_tick- ling the infant groping senses. When she hit the mark, she had infinite de- light. She would give a ery of joy and turn round to Blake for approval and applause; it was a very difficult thing, bat she had kept confidence in her instinet, and she had won the day! Spurred to fresh effort, she returned to her loved work. A gurgle from the li‘tle parted lips, a movement of the wide-open little eyes—eyes of that marvelous transient blue—marked a new triumph. “Isn’'t he wonderful?” she called to Blake over her shoulder. “Oh, yes, rather!” he laughed, and added, after a short moment: “And so_are you. Sibylla was not looking for compli- ments. She laughed gaily and went back to her work. “But can't he talk, Mrs. Imason?” “How silly you are! But he's just wonderful for his age as he is.” “Oh, they all are!” He was so obviously feigning scorn that Sibylla only shook her head at him in merry glee. Was not this the real, the great thing? Blake’'s mind, disengaging from the past memories of what t_md once been its delights, and turning now in distaste from them, declared that it was. Nature had the secret of the keenest pleasure—it was to be found along nature’s way. Ther pleasure was true to a,purpose, achiev- ing a great end, concentrated on that, not dissipated in passing and unfruit- ful joys. Blake was sure that he was right now, sure that he wanted to be reformed, more sure than ever that wisdom and virtue were more pleasur- as being better) than able (as wel their oppos! A man of ready sen- stbi and quick feeling, he was open ggestion and alive to the what he saw. It seemed to gs it evoked in him seemed almost holy, too. “Moth- erhood!” he said to himself, not know- ing, at least not acknowledging, that his true meaning was this woman as mother, motherhood incarnate in her. Yet that it was. If his aspiratior were awake, his blood, too, was stirred. But the moment for that to come to light was not yet. The good see 11 unalloyed, his high-soaring aspi- guiltles -knowl- rations were edge. Sibylla played with the child till she could play no more—till she feared to tire him, she would have sald—im truth till the tenderness which had found a its mask in the sport would conceal face no more. and in a spasm of she caught the little creature to her, pressing her face to his. “Poor little darling!” Blake heard her say in a whisper full of pity as well as of love. Whence came the pity? er’s patural fear that her may not avail against all the world? Most likely it was only that. But the pity was poignant, and he wondered vaguely. They were thus, she and the child locked together, the young man dimly picturing the truth as he watched, when Grantley Imason came in. A start ran through Sibylia; she caught a last kiss from the little face, and then laid her baby down. Swiftly she turned round to her husband. Blake had risen, watching still—nay, more eagerly. For all he could 4 s eyes sought her face and rested thefe, try- ing to trace what feeling found ex- pression as she turned to her husband from her child. “Glad to see you, Blake. got tle little chap there!” He chucked the child under its chin, as he went by, gently and affectionate- ly, and came with outstretched hand to his friend—for he liked sunny, im- petuous, young Blake, though he thought very lightly of him. As they shook hands Blake's eyes traveled past him and dwelt again on Sibylla. She stood by her child and her regard was on her husband. Then, for a moment, she met Blake's inquiring gaze. The slightest smile came to her lips, just a touch of color in her cheeks. “Yes, but’ it's time for him to go upstairs,” she said. Grantley had passed on to the table and was pouring himself out a cup of tea. Sibylla walked across the room and rang the bell for the baby’s nurse. Blake took up his hat. 2 The moth- sheltering Ah, you've The spell was been and why did not knos gled with hi looked at Gran covert bostility. CHAPTER IX. A Successful Mission. Efforts were scandal and publi lived up t doubt, he was yond it; and, precautions which would use were the sense of hop mind. From effrontery rried, and M was a nephew ased himself it hard now. And more had, Blake, no aspirations. of morals, and a far as it went; b co Directly Christine cam ticed how pretty and daint she looked; at least she pleased h still. He greeted her with great diality and with and made her si the fire. She was a little pale, did not observe that: what he noted— and noted with a touch of om —was that she met his eye: s possible. “I really couldn’t think to what I owed this pleasure——" he began. ut she interrupted him. “You couldn’t peo: iy have guessed. I've got to tell you that." “It's not these?” He held up the letters in their en- velope. ‘““What are they?” all I've got, “Notes of mine? fire! It wasn't that.” “I suppose we may as well put them in the fire,” he agreed. As the fire burned up the letters, Christine looked at the fire and saic “John has sent me here.” “John sent you here?” He was surprised. and again per- haps a trifle amused. “You don't suppose I should have come of my own accord? I hate com- ng.” put them in the We're always But supp to come—well, 'Oh, don’t say that! friends, always friends. you insist on ‘hating’ why have you come?” She looked at him now. s 5 four days, b bankers about see my