The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 27, 1904, Page 4

THE - SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. nient; only needs a few days' notice— and it'll be in time for what John wants. Here, take it, Christine.” He pressed the check into her hands, and with a playful show of force shut ber fingers upon it. “I know this has been a—a—' looked around the room, 'seeming seek an apt form of expression. “This has been an uncomfortable job for you, but you really mustn’t look at it like that, you know." . u give it me, I must take it. I daren’t accept the responsibility of re- fusing 1t." He was quite eager to comfort her. “You're doing quite right. You @ere perfectly square with me; now you're being perfectly square with John.” Perfectly square with John! Chris- tine’s lips curved in a smile of scorn. But—well, sometimes’ one loses the right or the to be perfectly square. “And I'm downright glad to help— downright glad you came to me.” “I only came because I couldn’t help it.” “Then I'm downright glad you could not help 1t” She had loved this unalterably good temper of his, and admired the tactful way he had of humoring women. If they wouldn’t have it in one way he had always been quite ready to offer it to them in the other, so long as they took it in the end; and this they gen- eraily did. She rose to her feet, hold- ing the check in her hand. “Your purse, perhaps?”’ he suggested, laughing. “You see, it might puzzle your young friend. And give old John my remembrances—and good luck to him. Are you golng mow?" es, Frank, I'm golng now.” ood-by, Christine. I often think f you, you know. I often remember— ah, I see, I mustn't often remember! Well, you're right, I suppose. But I'm always your friend. Don’t be in any trcuble without letting me know.” 1 chall never come to you again.” He grew a little impatient at that, but still he was quite good natured about it. “What's the use of brooding?” he asked. *“I mean, if you're running straight now, it's no good being re- morseful and that sort of thing; it just wears you out. It would make you look old, if anything could. But I don’t believe anything could, you know." She gave him her hand. Her lips trembled, but she smiled at him now. “Good-by, Frapk. If I have any hard thoughts, they won't be about you. You can always"—she hesitated a minute—"always disarm criticism, can’t you Caylesham stooped and kissed her hi lightly. ‘Don’t fret, my dear,” he' said. “You're better than most by a long way. Now take your check off to poor old John, and both of you be as jolly as you can.”” He pressed her hand cordially and led her to the door. “I'm glad we've settled things all, right. Good-by." She shook her head at him, but still she could not help smiling as she said her last good-by. With the turning of her face the smile disappeared. Caylesham’'s smile lasted longer. He stood on his hearthrug, smiling as he remembered; and an idea which forced way into his head did not drive vay the smile. He wondered whether by any chance old John had any vague sort of—well, hardly suspiclon—but me vague sort of an Inkling. He 1d not have hinted that to Chris- since evidently she did not believe nd it might have upset her. But in the end, was it not more odd d Christine if he had had no kling at all than if he had just some of an idea that he was a rea- her request might be very re potent than his own? He rlined to think that John sus- t a flirtation. The notion considerably amused at John, t not at all angry with him. It was a thing he would have done him- perhaps. Still you never can tell t you will do when you are in a tight corner. His racing experi- had presented him with a good o s which supported this con- power e felt very tired, but she was ng to give way to that; Anna was too sharp-witted. She ga as they drove home, ¥ about the subject which grieved both so much—Mrs, Selford’s 3 frocks! Matters were in n even more dire way now; Anna uld get no frocks Between pic- ires and dogs, she declared, her wardrobe stood no chance. Chris- t vas genuinely unable to compre- hend such a confusion of relative im- rtance. I detest fads” she said severely. It doesn't give me a fair chance,” v ted Anna; “because I should pay for dressing, shouldn’t I, Mrs. Fan- shaw? Christine reiterated her belief to that ffect. It was a melancholy comfort to poor Anna. g )pose 1'd been going to see Lord ham dressed like this!” ar, he's old enough to be your er hat doesn't matter. He’s so smart ood looking. I see him riding mes with Mr. Imason, and he’'s st the sort of man I admire. I know uld fall in love with him.” Christine laughed, but turned her face a little away. “lI won't help you there; our alli- ance is only on the subject of frocks.” But how well she knew what Anna meant and felt! And now she was a trifle uneasy. Had any of thLat talk filtered through leaky Selford conver- sations to Anna's eagerly listening ears? amma told me he’'d been , very wild.” Stuff! Th always say that about a man If he’s & bachelor. Sheer fem- inine spite, in my bellef, Anna!” ‘What did you go to see him about? Oh, is it a secret?” Christine wae really rather glad to hear the question. It showed that noth- ing very much of the talk had filtered. And she had her story ready. Oh, about a horse. You know we've had to sell our bays and he's got one that we thought we eould buy cheap. John was so busy that I went. But, alas, it's beyond us ,after all.” “Yes, you told me you'd sold a pair.” Anna nodded significantly. Christine emiled. She was reflecting how many crises of life demand a de- parture from veracity and what art re- sides in the choice of a lle. i{he had chosen one which, implying that Anna wae in her confidence, pleased and quieted that young woman and sent her off home without any suspicions as to the visit or its connection with the financial crisis otherwise than through the horses. She did not ask Anna in to tea be- cause John would be there, home early from the city, waiting. Now that the thing was done she was minded to make as light of it as possible. Since she had been compelled to go let John forget under what pressure and how unwillingly she had gone. Thus the faintest breath of suspicion would be less likelv to rest on her secret. She trusted her self-control; she would chaff him a little before she told him of the success of her mission. But the first sight of his face drove the idea out of her head. It might be safer for her; it would actually be not gafe for him. She was convinced of this when she saw the strain in his eyes and how his whole figure seemed in a tension of excitement. She closed the door carefully behind her. “Well,” he cried, “what news! By God, I've been able to do no work! I haven't been able to think of anything else all day. Don't—don't say you've o she said, opening her purse, “I haven't falled. Here's a check from Lord Caylesham. It's post dated, but only a dav or two. That doesn't mat- ter?” She came to him and gave him the check. He put it on the table and rest- ed his head on his arm. He seemed almost dazed; the stiffness had gone out of his body. “By Jove, he's a good sort! By Jove, he is & good sort!” he murmured. “Heawas very kind indeed. He made no difficulties. He said he was sure he could trust you and was glad to help you. And he sent his remem- brances and good luck to you, John.” She had taken off her fur coat and her hat as she was speaking, and now sank down into a chair. “By Jove, he is a good sort!” John suddenly sprang up. “It means salva- tion!” he cried. “That’s what it means —salvation! I can pay my way.. I can look people in the face. I shan't bring the business to ruin and shame. Oh, I've had my lesson—I go steady now! And if I don’t pay these good chaps every farthing, call me e scoundrel! They arc good chaps, Grantley and old Caylesham—devilish good chaps!” “Don’t go quite off your head, John, dear. Try to take it quietly.” “Ah, you take it quietly enough, don’t you, old girl?” he exclaimed, coming up to her. “But you've dome it all— yes, by heaven, you have! I know you didn’t like it; I know you hated it. You're so proud, and I like that in you, too. But it wasn’t a time for pride, and you put yours in your pocket for my sake—yes, for my sake, I know it. We've had our rows, old girl, but if ever a man had a good wife in the end, I have, and I know It.” He caught hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet, drawing her toward him at the same time. 75 “Quietly, John,” she said, “quietly. “What, don't you want to give me a o ki “I'l give you a kiss, but quietly. Poor old John!" She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Now let me go. I—I'm tired."” “Well, you shall rest,” he said good naturedly, and let her go. She sank back in her seat and watched him turn to the check again. “It's salvation!” he repeated, and paid no heed to a sudden quick gasp of breath from her throat. Even Caylesham would have allowed that he had no suspicion. But Chris- tine sat a prey to vague forebodings. She felt as though the thing were not finished yet. The dead would not bury its dead. CHAPTER X. The Flinty Wall. There was one point. about Jeremy Chiddingfold’s system of philosophy— if that name may be allowed to dignify the rather mixed assortment of facts and inferences which he had gathered from his studies: this point was that there was no appeal against facts. Na- ture was nature, feelings were feel- ings and change was development. One thing was right to-day; it became wrong to-morrow without ceasing to have been right yesterday. Let there be an end of ignorant parrot-like chat- ter about inconsistency! Is evolution inconsistency? Inconsistency with what? He put this question and kin- dred ones quite heatedly to Mrs. Mum- ple, who did not at all understand them, and to whom they savored of unorthodoxy; she had ever distrusted a scientific education. If Jeremy could have put his case in a concrete form he would have won her sympathy. But she did not know where such general principles would stop and she had he: that there were persons who im- pugned the authority of Moses. Jeremy did not care much about Mrs. Mumple’s approval, though he tried his arguments on her as a boxer tries his fists on a stuffed sack (she sug- gested the simile). He did not ex- pect to convince her and would have been rather sorry if he had. In her present mental condition she was in- valuable as a warning and a butt. But it was exasperating that Mrs. Hutting should hold antique, ludicrous and, (in his opinion) In the end debased views about social intercourse between the sexes—in fact (to descend to that con- crete which Jeremy's soul abhorred) about girle of 17 taking walks with young men of 22. Mrs. Hutting's views on this point imposed on Jeremy pro- ceedings which he felt to be unbe- coming to a philosopher. He had to echeme, to lie in wait, to plan most unlikely accidents, on occasion to pal- ter with truth, to slip behind a wagon or to hide inside a barn. A recogni- tion on Mrs. Hutting’s part of nature, of facts and of development would have relieved Jeremy from all these distaste- ful expedients. But Mrs. Hutting was an old fash- ioned woman. She obeyed her husband —ausually, however, suggesting on what points he might reasonably require obedience. She expected her daughter to obey her. And she had her views, which she had enforced in & very quiet but a very firm way. Modern tenden- cies were not In favor at the rectory; that being established as a premise, it followed that anvthing which was disapproved of at the rectory was a modern tendency; wherefore clandes- tine and spuriously accidental meet- ings between young men and young women were a modern tendency, or, anyhow, signs of one—and of a very bad one, too. No ancieut instances would have shaken Mrs. Hutting on this point; the chain of logic was too strong. Certainly Dora never tried to shake her mother’s judgment or to break the chain. For Dofg was old faghioned, too. BShe admitted that clandestine and spuriously accidental meetings were wrong. But sometimes the clandestine character or the spu- riousness of the accident could be plausibly questioned; besides, a thing may be wrong and yet not be so very, very bad. And the thing may be such fun, and so amusing that—well, one goes, and tries not to found out. On these ancient but not obsolete lines Miss Dora framed her conduct, getting thereby a spice of excitement and a fearful joy which no duly licensed encounters could have given her. But she had doubt that Mrs. Hutting was quite right. Anna Selford’s critical itude toward her parents was not the rectory way. “Suppose she’d seen us,” Dora whis- pered behind the barn, as the rectory pony chaise rolled slowly by. “We're dolng nothing wrong. I should like to walk straight out and say so0.” “If you do, I'll never speak to you again.” “I hate this—this dodging!” “Then why don’t you take your walks™ the other way? You know I come here. Why do you come if you feel like that about it? Thus Dora fleshed her malden sword. It was an added joy to make Jeremy do things which he disllked. And all this time she was snubbing him and his tentative approaches. Lovers? Cer- tainly not—or, of course, she would have told mammal! Accepted Jeremy? No—she liked to think that she was trifiing with him. In fine, she was simply behaving shamefully badly, in a rapturously delightful way; and to see a pretty girl doing that is surely a refreshing and rejuvenating sight? Well, the word pretty is perhaps a concession to Jeremy. The only girl in the place is always pretty. Dora was at any rate fresh and fair, lithe and clean-limbed, gay.and full of fun. A dreadful peril threatened, “with which Dora appalled her own fancy and Jeremy's troubled heart. At sev- enteen school is still possible—a finish- ing school. Mrs. Hutting had bran- dished this weapon, conscious in Mer own mind that the rectory finances would hardly suffice to put an edge on it. Dora did mot realize this diffi- culty. “You remember that time we were seen? Well, there was an awful row, and mamma said that if it happened once again I should go—for a year!” Jeremy felt that something must be done, and sald so. ' “What could I do?" \ That was a little more difficult for Weremy. “You must take pains to avoid me,” sald Dora, schooiing her lips to prim- ness. “You don’t want to get me sent away, do yuu'[" Certainly these spring months were" very pleasant to Miss Dora. But, alas! calamity came. It happened in Mill- dean just as it might have happened in the West End of London. The school teacher said something to the postmistress. There was nobody much else to say anything—for the wise- eyed yokels, when they met the youth and the maid, gave a shrewd kindly nod, and went on their way giving an inarticulate but appreciable chuckle. However, the &chool teach- er did say something to the post- mistress, whence the something eame to Mrs. Hutting's ears. There was another ‘“row,” no doubt even more ‘“awful” The finish- ing school was brandished cgain, but, after a private consultation on finance, put aside by the' rector 'and Mrs. Hut- ting. Another weapon was chosen. Mrs. Hutting dictated a note, the rec- tor wrote and sealed it; it was sent across to Old Mill House by the gar- dener, addressed to ‘Jeremy Chidding- . fold Esq.” In' fact, no circumstance of eeremony was omitted, and Dora watched the messenger of tyranny_ from her. bedrgom window. In the note (which began “Sir”) Jeremy wi plainly given .to understand that he: was no gentleman, and that all rela- tions between the rectory and himself were at an end. Jeremy stumped up and down the room, furiously exclaiming that he did not care whether he was a gentleman or not. He was a man. That was enough for him and ought to be enough for anybody. Mrs. Mumple was pos- itively frightened into agreeing with him on this point. But however sound the point might be, relations with the rectory were broken off! What was to be done? Jeremy determined to go to town and lay before Grantley and Si- bylla the unparalleled circumstances of the case. But first there was—well, there would be—one more stolen meet- ing. But it was not quite of the sort which might have been anticipated. Dora’s levity was gone; she played with him no more. But neither did she follow the more probable course, and, under the influence of grief and the pain of separation give the rein to her feelings, acknowledge her love and ex- change her vows for his. The old faghioned standards had their turn; evidently the rectory upbraidings had been very severe. Every disobedience, every trick, every broken promise rose up in judgment and declared the sen- tence to be just, however severe. Jere- my was at a loss how to face this. He had been so convinced that nature was with them and that nature spelt recti- tude. He was aghast at a quasi-theo- logical and entirely superstitious view that no good or happiness could come out of a friendship (Dora adhered ob- stinately to this word) initiated in such a way. He refused to recognize her wickedness or even his own. When she announced her full acceptance of the edict her determination to evince pen- .itence by absolute submission, he could only burst out: “They ven't been cruel to you?" *Cruel? 'No! They have been most— most gentle. I've come to see how wrong it was."” “Yet you're here!” He could not re- eist the retort. “For the last time—to say good by. And if you really care at all you must do as I wish.” “But I may write to you?” “No, you mustn't.” “You can't stop me thinking about you.” “I shan’'t think of vou. to be able not to. strong.” She had got this idea in her head. It was just the sort of idea that Sibylla might have got. She wanted to im- molate herself. For such views in Si- bylla Jeremy had always had denun- ciations ready. He had no denuncia- tion now—only a despairing puzzle. “I can’t accept that and I won't! Do you love me?” “I'm going to keep my promise to say nothing. I've told you what I must do and what you must. I made up my mind—and—and then I went to the Sacrament to-day."” Jeremy rub his wrinkled brow, eying this determined penitent very ruefuily,. A sudden return to recti- tude is disconcerting in an accomplice. He did not know what to do. But his bulldog persistence was roused and his square jaw set obstinately. “Well, I shall consider what to do. I believe you love me and I shan't sit down under this.” “You must,” she said. good-by.” He came toward her, but her raised hand stopped him. 1 shall pray I'm sure I can be “And now, “Good-by like this? You won't even shake hands?” “No, I can't. Good-by.” Of course he was sorry for her, but he was decidedly angry, too. He per- celved a case of the selfishness of spir- itual exaltation. His doggedness turn- ed to surliness. “All right then, good-by,” he sald sulkily. i “You're not angry with me? “Yes I am.” She accepted this additional cross, and hore it meekly. “That hurts me very much. But I must do right. Goog-by.” And with that she went, firm to the last, leaving Jeremy almost as furious with women &g in the palmiest days of his youth, almost as angry with her as he had ever been with the long-legged rectory sirL Pursuing (though he did not know jt) paths as well trodden as those which he had already followed, he formed an instant determination In his mind. She should be sorry for it! Whether she should sorrow with a life-long sor- row or whether she should ultimately, after much grief and humiliation, find forgiveness, he did not decide for the moment; both ideas had their attrac- tion. But at any rate, she should be sorry, and that as soon &s possible. How was it to be brought about? Jeremy conjectured that & remote and all-ascertained success in original re- search would not make her sorry, and his conclusion may be allowed to pass; nor would a continuance of shabby clothes and an income of a hundred a year. This combination had once seemed all-sufficlent. Nay, it would suffice now for true and whole-hearted love. But it was not enough to make a cruel lady repent of her cruelty, nor to convict a misguided zealot of the folly of her zeal. It was not dazzling enough for that. In an hour Jeremy threw his old ideal of life to the winds, and decided for wealth and mundane fame—speedy wealth and dane fame (speed was cause Jeremy's feelings were in a hurry). Such laurels and fruits were not to be plucked in Milldean. That very night Jeremy packed a well-worn leather bag and a square deal box. He was going to London, to see Grantléy and Sibylla, to make them acquainted with the state of the case, and to set about becoming rich and famous as speedily as possible. His mind o'er- leaped the process and saw it already completed—saw his return to Milldean rich and famous—saw his renewed meeting with Dora, the confusion of the rector and Mrs. Hutting, the un- availing—or possibly at last availing— regret and humillation of Dora. It cannot truthfully be sald that he went to bed altogether unhappy. He had his dream, even as Dora had hers; he had his luxury of prospective victory a she had hers of unreserved and ac cepted penitence; and they shared the conviction of a very extraordinary and unprecedented state of things. So to town came Jeremy, leaving Mrs. Mumple alone in Old Mill House. She was not idle. She was counting months now—not years now, but months; and she was knitting socks, and making flannel shirts, and hem- ming big red handkerchiefs, and pic- turing and wondering in her faithful old heart what that morning would be like for whose coming she had walted B0 many years. Great hopes and great fears were under the ample breast of her unshapely merino gown. Imason household the strain ‘e intense, With rare tenpacity; unimpaired confidence, and unbroken pride, antley maintained his’ attl- tude. e would tire out Sibylla’s re- volt; he would outstay the fit of sulks, however long it might be. But the strain told on him, though it did not break him; he was more away; more engrossed in his outside activities; grimmer and meore sardonic when he was at home; careful to show no feel- ing which might expgse him to rebuff; extending the scope® of this conduct from his wife to his child, because his wife's grievance was bound up with the child. And Sibylla, seeing’the at- titude, seelng partially only and there- fore more resenting the motives, cre- ated out of it and them a monster of insensibility, something of an inhuman selfishness, seemed the more horrible and unnatural fromr the unchanging, if cold courtesy which Grantley still dis- played. This image had been taking shape ever since their battle at Mili- dean. It had grown with the amused scorn which was on his face as he told her of the specialist's judgment, and made her see how foolish she had been, what an unnec- essary fuss she had caused, how dan- gerous and silly it was to let one's emotions run eway with one. It had defined itself yet more clearly through the months before and after the boy’s birth, as Grantley developed his line of actfon and adhered to it, secure apparently from every assault of nat- ural tenderness. Now the portentous shape was all complete in her imag- ination and the monster she had erect- ed freed her from every obligation. By her hvpothesis it was accessible by no appeal and sensitive to no emotion. ‘Why, then, labor uselessly? It would indeed be to knock your head—yes, ana your heart, too—against a flinty wall. As for trying to show or to cherish love for it—that seemed to her prostitution itself. And she had no tenacity to endure such a life as Grantley, or her image of Grantley, made for her. In her headlong fashion she had already pronounced_the alternatives—death or flight. > And there was the baby boy in his helplessness; and there was young Blake with his ready hot passion mask- ed by those aspirations of his, and his fiery indignation seconding and ap- plauding the despair of her own heart. For Blake knew the truth now—the truth as Sibylla’s imaginings made it; and in view of that truth the thing his passion urged him to became a holy duty. His goddess must be no more misused; her misery must not be al- lowed to endure. Knowing his thought and what his heart was toward her Sibylla turned to him as a child turns simply from a hard to a loving face. Here was a life wanting her life, a love asking hers. She had always belleved people when they said they loved and wanted her—why, she had believed even Grant- ley himself—and was always convineed that their love for her was all they gaid it was. It was her instinct to belleve that. She belleved all—aye, more—about young Blake than he be- lleved about himself, though he be- lieved very much just now; and she would always have people all white or all black. Grantley was all black now, and Blake was very white, white as snow, while he talked of his as- pirations and his love, and tempted her to leave all that bound her and to give her life to him. He tempted well, for he offered not pleasure, but the power of doing good and bestowing happi- ness. Her first natural love seemed to have spent itseif on Grantley; she had no passion left, save the passion of giving. It was to this he made his appeal; this would be: enough to give him all his way. Yet there was the child. That was where the struggle would be: it was there that he dis- trusted the justice of his own demand on her, there that his passion had to drown the inward voices of protest. It might have happened that Jeremy, with his fresh love and fresh ambi- tions, would have been a relief to such a position; that his appeal to sympathy and to amusement would have done something to clear the at- mosphere. So far as he himself went, indeed, he was irresistible; his frank- ness and his confidence were not to be denjed. Trusting in the order of na- ture he knew no bashfulness; trusting in himself, he had no misgivings. With- out a doubt he was right! They all agreed that the old ideal of original research on a hundred a year must be abandoned and that Jeremv must be- co‘;ne rich and famous as soon as pos- sible. “‘Though whether you ought to for- give her in the end is, I must say, & very difficult point,” remarked Grant- ley, with a would-be thoughtful smile. “In cases of penitence I myself favor forgiveness, Jeremy.” “But there is the revelation of her character,” suggested Sibylla, taking the matter more seriously, or treating its want of seriousness with more. ten- S, inclined to think the young lady's right at present,” sald Blake. “What you have to do is to give her ground for changing her views—and to give her mother ground for chang- ing hers, too.” Jeremy listened to them all with en- grossed Interest. WhateVver their at- titude, they all confirmed his view. “You once spoke of a berth in the city?” he sald to Grantley. “Not much fame there; but perhaps you may as well take things by in- stallments.” “I don't lke it, you know. my line at all.” Blake came to the rescue. The Sel- fords drew their money from large and important dyeing works, although Sel- ford himself had retired from any act- ive share in the work of the business. There was room for sclentific aptitude in dyeing works, Blake opined rather vaguely. “You could make chemistry, for instance, subserve the needs of commerce, couldn’t you?” “That really is a good suggestion,”™ said Jeremy approvingly. “Capital!” Grantley agreed. “We'll get at Seiford for you, Jeremy; and, if. necessary, we'll club together, and send to Terra del Fuego, and buy Janet Selford a new dog.” “I begin to see my way,” Jeremy an~ nounced. ‘Whereat the men laughed, while Si- bylla came round and kissed him, laughing, too. What a very short time ago, and she had been even as Jeremy, as sanguine, as confident, seeing her way as clearly, with just as little war- rant of knowledge! “Meanwhile you mustn't mope, old chap,” sald_ Grantley. “Mope? I've no time for.moping. Do you think I could see this Selford to-morrow ?* “I'll give you a letter to take to him,” laughed Grantley. “But don't ask for ten thousand a year all at once, you know."” “I know the world. When I really want a thing, I can walt for it.” But it was evident that he did not mean to walt very long. Grantley said ten thousand a year: a thousand would :elel:n riches to the Milldean rectory olk. ‘“That’s right. If you want a thing, you must be ready to wait for it,” agreed Grantley, with smiling lips and a pucker on his brow. “So long as there's any hope,” added Sibylla. These hints of underlying things went unheeded by Jeremy, but Blake marked them. They were becoming more frequent now as the tension grew and grew. “There’'s always a hope with reason- able people.” “Opinions differ so much as to what is reasonable.” “Dora’s not reasonable at present, anyhow."” Jeremy's mind had not traveled be- yond his own predicament. The contrast he pointed, the mock- ing memories he stirred, made his presence accentuate and embitter the strife, confirming Sibylla’s despair, un- dermining even Grantley’s obstinate self-confidence; while to Blake Lis ex- ample, however much one might smile at it seemed to cry, “Courage!” He who would have the prize must not shrink from the struggle. That night Sibylla sat long by her boy's cot. Little Frank slept quietly (he had been named after his god- fathep, Grantley’s friend, that Lord Caylesham who was also the Fan- shaws’ friend), while his mother fought against the love and the oblization that bound her to him—a sad fight to wage. She had some arguments not lack'ng speciousness. To what life would he grow up in such a home as theirs! Look at the life the Courtland chil- dren led! Would not anything be bet- ter than that—any scandal in the past, any loss in present and future? She called to her help, too, that occasional pang which the helpless little being gave her, he the innbcent cause and ignorant embodiment of all her perish- ed hopes. Might not that come oftener? Might it not grow and grow till it conquered all her love, and she ended by hating because she might have loved so greatly? Horrible! Yes, but had it not nearly come to pass with one whom she had loved very greatly? 1t could not be called impossible, how- aver to be loathed the idea of it might be. No, not impossible! Her husband was the child’s father. Did he love him? No, she cried—she had almost persuaded berself that his indifference screened a positive dislike. And if it were not impossible, any desperate thing would be better than the chance of it. But for Grantley she could love, she could go on loving—the child. Then why not make an end of her life with Grantley—the life that was souring her heart and turning all love to bitter- ness? Grantley would not want the child, and, not wanting it, would let her have it. She did not believe that he would burden himself with the boy for the sake of depriving her of him. She admitted with a passing smile that he had not this small spitefulness—his vices were on a larger scale. She could go to Grantley and say she must leave him. No law and no power could pre- yent her, and she believed that she could take the boy with her. ‘Why not do that? Do that, and let honor, at least, stand pure and unim- peached? The question brought her to the issue she had tried to shirk, to the truth she had sought to hide. Her love for the boy was much, but it was not It's not enough, it did not satisfy. Was it even the greatest thing? As it were with a groan, her spirit answered, No. The answer could not be denied, h ever she might stand condemned by it. Of physical passion she acquitted her- self—and now she was in no mood for easy self-acquittal; but there was the greater passion for intercourse of soul, for union, for devotion, for abandon- ment of the heart. These asked a re- sponding heart; they asked knowledge, feelings grown to full strength, a con- scious will, an intellect adult and ar- ticulate. They could be found in full only where she had thought to find them—in the love of woman and man, of fit man for fit woman, and of her for him. They could not be found in the love for her child. Christine Fanshaw had asked her if she could not be wrap- ped up in the baby. No. She could embrace it in her iove, but hers was too large for its little arms to enfold. Bhe cried for a wider fleld and what seemed a greater task. And for what was wrong, distastetul, disastrous in the conclusion? She had the old answer for this. “It's not my fault,” she said. It was not her fault that her love had found no answering love, had found no sun to bloom in, and had perished for want of warmth. Not on her head lay the blame. So far as human being can absolve human being from the commands of God or of human soclety she declared that by Grantley’s act she stood absolved. The contract in its true essence had not been broken first by her. Ah, why talk? Why argue? Thers were true things to be sald, valid ar- guments to use. On this she insisted. But in the end the imperious cry of her nature rang out over all of them and drowned their feebler voices. Coms what might and let the arguments be weak or strong, she would not for all her life, that glorious life heaven haa given her, beat her heart against the flinty wall. Sugette Bligh was staying at the Courtlands’—that Buzette who had been at Mrs. Raymore’s party, and was, according to Christine Fanshaw, a baby compared with Anna Selford, although ten years her senfor. She had neither father nor mother, and depended on her brother for a home. He had gone abroad for a time, and Lady Harrlet had taken her in, partly from kindness (for Lady Harrlet had kind impulses), partly to have some- body to grumble to when she was feel- ing too conscientious to grumble to the children. This did happen sometimes. None the less the children heard a good deal of grumbling, and in Su- gette’s opinion knew far too much about the state of the household. They were all girls, Lucy, Sophy and Vera, and ranged in age from thirteen to nine. They took to Suzette, and taught her several things about the house be- fore she had been long In it; and she relleved Lady Harriet of them to a certain extent, thereby earning grati- tude no less than by her readiness to listen to grumblings. Tom was little seen just now; he came home very late and went out very early; he never met his wife; he used just to look in on the children at schoolroom breakfast, which Suzette had elected to share with them, Lady Harriet taking the meal in her own room. It was not a Pl ant house to say in, but it was tolerably comfortable, and Suzette, net asking too much of life, was content enough to be there, could tell hersélf that she was of use, and was happy in performing an act of friendship. Of course the question was how long Lady Harrlet would stand it. The lit- tle girls knew that this was the ques- tion; they were just waiting for mamma to break out. They had not disliked their mother in the past; oc- casional fits of temper are not what children hate most. They endure them, hoping for better times, or con- trive to be out of the way when the tempest arises. Cracks with any im- plement that came handy were the order of the day when the tempest had risen; but on calm days Lady Harriet had been carelessly indulgent, and, in her way, affectionate to the girls. But now the calm days grew rare, the tem- pests more frequent and violent. Fear grew, love waned, hatred was on its way to their hearts. They had never disliked their father; though they had no great respect for him, they loved him. They regarded him with com- passionate sympathy, as the person on whom most of the cracks fell; and they quite understood why he wanted to keep out of the way. They had list- ened to their mother’s grumbling; they had listened to the talk of the serv- ants, too. Suzetts was no check on their speculations; they liked her very much, but they were not in the least in awe of her. “Will you take us for & walk this afterncon, Miss Bligh?” asked Sophy, at schoolroom breakfast on BSunday. “Because Garrett says mamma's not well to-day, and we'd better not go near her—she's going to stay in her own room till tea time.” “Of course I will, dears,” sald Suzette Bligh. “Oh, there’s nothing the matter with mamma, really,” declared Lucy—"only she’s in an awful fury. I met Garrett coming out of her room, and she looked frightened to death.” “Ah, but you don’t know why!” piped up Vera's youthful voice in accents of triumph. - “I do! I was in the hall, just behind the curtain of the archway, and I heard Peters tell the new footman. Papa was expected last night and mamma had left orders that she should be told when he came in. But he did not—"* “‘We all know that, Vera,” Sophy In- terrupted, contemptuously. “He sent word that he’d been called out of town and wouldn’t be back till Mondav.” “And the message didn’t get here till 13 o’clock. Fancy, Miss Bligh!” “Well, I'm glad you're going to take us to church, and not mamma, Miss Bligh.” “I hope she won’t send for any of us about anything!™ “I hope she won’t send for me, any- how,” sald Vera, “because I haven't done my French, and—" “Then I shouldn’t like to be you if you have to go to her,” sald Lucy, in a manner far from comforting. Lady Harriet was by way of teach- ing the children French and had not endeared the language to them. “I wonder what called papa away!™ mused Sophy. “Now, Sophy, that’s no business of " sald poor SBuzette, endeavoring to do good. “You've no business to—'" “Wall, I don't see any harm iIn it, Miss Bllg‘h,‘ Papa’s always being called away now.” “Especially when mama's—"" “I can't listen to any more, dears. Does the vicar or the curate preach in the morning, Lucy dear?" “Don’t know, Miss Bligh. I say,