The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 4, 1904, Page 2

I S is 1 instalj- $ | 8 R of hony Hoy ¥ | 1 of don society $§ D 10058," is one o4 oy of the y¢ b4 S Call on No- ¥ cstablished $3 of publish the Dest writers, The Czll desircs to annos the n during oz knowledge y you can't thyow herself into the were so eagerly ready for way or the other anyhow st be ended, or surely it would make he: s an end if she stayed That e va all Just be £0 long as it en- uld find rest on a flinty ed. Who cx ween that monstrous made of her husband, which. Blake presented himself—far more alluring, hit less false.. But for the of either she had no eyes. promise to-day,” he mise I know you will had become quiet mow. There n air of grave purppse about him, ex itement and ardor had done with her; this succeeding manner (for he had lost all between what he felt and made himself seem to feel), ce, and was well calculated his victory. I will send you my answer night,” she said. It means all that I am—everything the world to me. Remember that.” And he urged her no more, leaving with her these simple sincere-sounding words to plead for him. That was what the answer meant to »od, or tion to complete to- n to Grant- If this as at din- y were alc to e had schemed to-night she could not speak to him, could say nothing at all, though h d satiri- Things but why lose or your manners, k. You might st your hus- erse on toples tleman at the He emed part without y y difficulty to yet never to commit proposition for peace. ears, thought Sibylla, suavely discussing the topics of the day, while life went by, and love and joy and all fair things withered from the face of the earth. The servants disappeared and Grant- ley’s talk became less for public pur- poses. “I wonder how old John got on with Harriet Courtland!” he said in an amused way. ;He was uncommonly plucky to face Ner. But, upon my word, the best thing from some- points of view would be for him to fail. At least it would be the best if old Tom wasn't such a fool. But as soon as Tom sees a chance of getting rid of one woman he saddles himself with another.” Could he have got rid of Lady Har- riet?” “They might have arranged a separ- ation. As it is there’ll be an open row, I'm afraid.” “Still if it puts an end to what's in- tolerable—?™" she suggested, as she watched bim drinking his coffee and smoking his cigarette with his deli- cate satisfaction in all things that were good. “A wvery unpleasant way out,” d, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Would vou have endured what Mr. Courtland couldn’t?” He smiled across at her; the sar- castic note was strong in his volce as he asked: “Do you think me an impatient man? Do you think I've ne power of endur- ing what I don’t like, Sibylla?"” She flushed a little under his look. “It's true,” he went on, “that I en- dure vulgarity worst of all; and Har- of hout : and open himself to any All through the he would go on war, he rict Courtland's tantrums are very vulgar, as all tantrums are.” “Only tantrums? Aren’'t all emo- THE SAN 4 L rmana 7 srars x20z7yor IF YOU DON’'T GO ;77 FRANCISCO tionx all feelings, rather vuigar, Grant. ley?” g He thought a smile answer enough or that. It ‘was no good arguing nst absurd insinuations, or trying ow them up. Let them alone; in time they would die of their own ab- surdity. " “Grantley, would you rather I went away? Don't you find life unendur- able like this?” “I don’t find it pleasant,” he smiled; “but I would certainly rather you did not go away. But if you want a change for a few weeks I'll endeavor to resign myself.” “I mean, go away altogether.” No, no, I'm sure you don’t mean anything so—— Forgive me, Sibylla, but now and then your suggestions are hard to describe with perfect courtesy.” She looked at him in a wondering way, but made no answer; and he, too, was silent for a minute. “I think it would be a good thing,” he went on, “if you and Frank betook yourselves to Milldean for a few weeks, I'm so busy that I can see very. little and country air is good ‘“Very well, we'll go in a day or two. You'll stay here? “Yes, I must. I'll try to get down now and then, and bring some cheer- ful people with me. Blake will come sometimes, 1 daresay. Jeremy won't till he’s rich and famous, I'm afraid.” In spite of herself it flashtd across her that he was making her path very easy. And she wondered at the way' he spoke of Blake, at his utter absence of suspicion. Her consclence moved a little at this. ‘“Yes, I'm sure you'll be better at Milldean,” he went on; “and—and try to think things over while you're there.” 4 It was his old attitude. He had nothing to think over—that task was all for her. The old resentment over- came her momentary shame at deceiv- ing him. “‘Are they so pleasant that I want to think them over?" “I think you know what I mean; ana in this connection I don’t appreciate repartee for its own sake,” said Grant- ley wearily, but with a polite smile. A sudden impulse came upon her. She leaned across toward him and sald: “Grantley, have you seen Frank to- day?” “No, I haven't to-day. “I generally go and sit by him for a little while at this time when I'm free. Did you know that?” “I gathered it,” said Grantley. “You've never come with me, offered to." “I'm not encouraged to volunteer things in my relations with you, Si- bylla,” ““'Will you come with me now?* she asked. She herself could not tell under what impulse she spoke—whether it were in hope that at the last he might change, or in the hope of convincing herself that he would never change. She watched him very intently, as though much hung on the answer that he Bave. Grantley seemed.to weigh his an- swer, too, looking at hi wife with searching eyes. There was a patch of red on his cheeks. Evidently what she had said stirred him, and his c ure was maintained only by an effort. At last he spoke: “I'm sorry not to do anything you «ask or wish, but as matters are I will not come and see ¥Frank with you.” “Why not?” she asked in a quick half-whisepr, His eyes were very somber as he answered her. “‘When you remember that you're my Wwife, I'll remember that you are the mother of my son. Till then you are an honored and welcome guest in this house or in any house of mine.” Their eyes met. Both were deflant, nelther showed a’sign of yielding. SI- bylla drew in her breath In a long in- halation. “Very well, I understand,” she said. He rose from his chair nor SUNDAY CALL. - 7/ WD %@)’ “You're going upstairs now?" he suggested, as though about to open the door. “I'm going, but I'm not going up- stairs to-night,” she answered as she rose, “I shall go and write a letter or two instead.” He bowed politely as she passed out f the room. Then he sat down at the ‘able again and rested his head on both his hands. It took long—it took a very long while. She was hard to subdue. Hard it was, too, to subdue himself— to be always courteous, never more than permissibly ironical, to wait for his victory. Yet not a doubt crossed his mind that he was on the right track, that he must succeed in the end, that plain reason and good sense must win the day. But the fight was very long. His face looked haggard In the light as he sat alone by the table and told himself to persevere. And Sibylla, confirmed in her de- spair, bitterly resentful of the terms he had proposed, seeing the hopeless- ness of her life, fearing to look on the face of her child lest the pain should rend her too pitilessly, sat down and Wwrote her answer to Walter Blake. The answer was the promise he had asked. The images had done. their work— hers of him and his of her—and young Blake's fancy plcture of himself. CHAPTER XIII. The Dead and Its Dead. “Well, have you managed to amuse Yourself to-day?” asked Caylesham, throwing, himself heavily on a sofa by Tom Courtland and yawning widely. He had dropped In at Mrs. Bolton’s after dinner. Tom had spent the day there and had not managed to amuse himself very much, as the surly eSrount with which he answered Cayle- sham’s question sufficiently testified. He had eaten too much lunch, played cards too long and too high, with too many “drinks” interspersed between the hands; then had eaten a large din- ner, accompanied by rather too much champagne; then had played cards again till both his pocket and his tem- per were the worse. There had been nothing startling, nothing lurid about his gay; it had just been unprofitable. boring, unwholesome. And he did not care about Mrs. Bolton's friends—not about Miss Pattie Henderson, nor about the two quiet young men who had made up the card party. His face was a trifle flushed and his tooth- brushy hair had even more than usual of its suggestion of comical distress. “Been a bit dull, has it?” Caylesham went on sympathetically. *“Well, it often is. Oh, I like our friend Ta Bolton, you know, so long as she doesn’t get a fit of nerves and tell you how different she might e been People should never do that. At times she’s o good sort and j ready to ruin herself as anybody e —nothing of the good old traditional harpy about her. Still, perhaps works out about the same.” It certainly worked out about the same, as anybody knew better than Tom Courtland. He 1s thinking now that he had paid a not very lively day. son he had won from w derson, and he was would pay “Must spend yo he rt jerked out forlornly. ‘A necessity of 1 agreed, “‘and it doesn much difference, after io it. I rather agree with llow who said that the only distinction he could see between—well, between one sort of house and the other sort—was that in the lattgr you could be more cer- tain of findIng whi 1d soda on the sideboard in the And mor I'm hanged if at failing one. Whisky general.” The card party at the other end of the room was an ted and even a little noisy. Mrs. Bolton was pro to ty laughter. Miss F son had trating voice an lly gave a little shriek of deligh :n she won. The two young men were rather excited. Caylesham regarded the scene with humorous contempt. Tom Courtland sat in moody silence, doing nothing. He had even could smake no more. moked till he He had not a Miss Pattle threw and came across to like looking t trace of cock .\1:‘ down by C “We hardly ever see you now, told him. “Are you all right?” “All right, but getting old, Pattie. I'm engaged in digging my own grave.” “Oh, nonsense, you're quite fit still. have you heard about me?"” Lots of things.” “No, don’t be I v. I mean, that I'm going to be “No, are you, by Jove? Who's the happy man?” “Georgie Parmenter. Do you know him? He's awfu “I know his May I proffer advice? Get that arrangement put down in writing. Then at the worst it'll be worth something to you Miss Pattie was at all offended. She laughed merrily “They always said you were pretty wide-awake, and I believe it!” she ob- served. “He'll have ten thousand a year when his father dies.” “In the circumstances you mention he won't have a farthing a year till that event happens, I'm afraid, Pattie. A man of strong prejudices, old Sir Geargie.” “Well, I'm enough to—" “That's all righ case with interest. and rose to his feet. “Tom’s pretty dull, isn’t he?” asked iss Pattle with a comical pout. Yes, Tom's pretty dull, certainly. “I'm sleep: said Tom Courtland. “So am L I shall go home,” and Caylesham walked off to bid the lady of the house good-night. The lady of the house came into the hall and helped him on with his coat. It appeared that she wanted to have a word with him—first about the wisdom of backing one of his horses, and sec- ondly about Tom Courtland. Cayle- shag told her on mo account,to back the horse, since it wouldn't win, and waited to hear what she had to say about Tom. - “I'm distressed about him} Frank,” she said. “You know I do like Tom, and I never saw a man so down in the mouth.” Her face was rather cbarse in feature and ruddy in tint, but kindly and good-natured; her concern for Tom was evidently quite genuine. “What a devil that wife of his must be!” sure I've got Iletters I shalls watch the He yawned again M “‘She has her faults. Perhaps we have ours. Be charitable, Flora. ““Oh, you can be as sarcastic as you like. Heaven knows I don’t mind that! But I'm worried to death about him, and about what she’ll do. And then there's the money, too. I belleve he's hard up. It's very tiresome all round. Oh, I don’t care much what people say of me, but I don’t want to go through the court again, if I ean help it.” “Which of the two courts do you refer to?” he asked, as he buttoned his coat. ““Bankruptcy or— “Bither of them, Frank, you old fool!” she laughed. “Send him baek to his wife. You'll have to soon, anyhow—when the money’s_gone, you know. Do it now— before those.two men come and stand opposite to see who goes In and out of the house.” “But the poor chap's so miserable, Frank; and I like him, you see.” “Ah, I can’t help you against honest and kindly emotions. They're not part of the game, you know.™ “No, they aren’t; but they come in. That's the worst of it,” sighed Mrs. Bolton. ‘“Well, good-night, Frank. We shall get through somehow, I sup- pose.” “That's ¥he only gospel left to this age, Flora. Good-night.” He had not been able to help poor Mrs. Bolton much; he had not expected to be able to. That things could not be helped and must be endured was, as he had hinted, about the ‘one cer- tain dogma of his creed. The thing then was to endure them as easily as possible, to feel them as little as one could either for one's self or for other people. There was Flora Bolton's mistake, and a mistake espe- clally fatal for 2 woman in her posi- tion. She would probably have . been much happier if she had’' not been just as ready to ruin herself as she was to ruin anybody else—if she had, in fact, been the old traditional harpy through and through. In-truth it was not the least use dis- tressing himself about Tom Courtland. Still he was rather worried about the affair, because Tom, again, was not thoroughly suited to the part he was now playing. Plenty of men were, and they demanded no pity. But poor old Tom was not. He could not spend his money without thinking about i he could not do things without consider- ing thelr bearings and their conse- quences; he could not forget to-mor- row. He had none of the qualifications. His tendencies were just as little suited to the game as were Flora Bol- ton’s honest and kindly emotions. Tom was pre-eminently fitted to distribute she bacen at the family breakfast and to take the children for their Sunday walk, to work away at his politics in a solid, undistinguished way, and to have a little margin in hand when he came to make up the annual budget of his household. But Lady Harriet had > from him should for he: was dy would pursued his home- He had a s seemed the old ¢ did not know hc He would hate to h: she would not seem to be I He found f wishing he had knowr of the thing at the would have been a fearful sh by now he would ha it. 8 ing would have bee or, s had been done, would have become a ent h familiar fact to which they wou adjusted th 5 S be told of late to do was so old, a fresh! And she had been such a good wif —yes, on the whole. Their bickering: had been only bickeriggs, and he had often been as much to blame as she. On the whole she had been such a loyal friend and such a comforting companion. He had liked even her acid little speeches—on the whole. He had always thought her not ver: demonstrative perhaps, but very true —true as steel. Cold perhaps—he had ented it sometimes— e. He had never had s to that in all his mar- ‘When he got home he went straight to his study and sat down at his writ- ing table. It was 1 o'clock, and Chris- tine would have gone to bed-—he was glad of that. He made an effort to collect his mind, because the Imme- diate question was not of what Chris- tine had done, not of the blow to him, not whether he wanted to see Chris- tine or even could bear to see her, not of the change all his life and all his ideas had undergone. There was pienty of time to think of all that later on. He must think now of the other thing—of how he stood and of what he was going to do. He took out his keys and unlocked the dispa box that stood on the table. After pausing to take a drink of whisky and water he opened the upper drawer and drew forth Cayles- ham's check for £15,000. It had been post dated to the Monday—it was al- ready Monday now. In nine hours it was to have been credited to his ac- count at the bank, ready to answer his to discharge his commit- are his creditors, to i the clouds which had obscured a fame of his firm. Caylesham’s heck and Grantley's were to have been salvation. Grant- ley's alone was no use. And Cayles- ham’s—he held it in his fingers and looked at it with a poring scrutiny. Twice he reached for an envelope, d to send it back—to send it th the truth or with a took hold of either . hough to tear it acros: But a paralysis fell How should he send back, how should destroy, that all-potent little slip of paper? It meant credit, honor, com- fort, peace—perhaps even life. His imagination pictured two scenes—go- ing to the city, to his office, next day with tha L without his thoughts w ketch was e a gra details. icture mea ascent from t of all his trou the other a fall into a gulf of calamit unfathomable. His hands refu destroy or to send back the che. But if he kept it, used it, ow vation to it—what would. that The question bewildered him. He not make out what that would mean as regarded either himself or Cayl ham or Christin. east of all what would mean as regarded Christine. He was dully conscious that the act would be in some sort donation going what attitude and what duct on him? How dition: his how far affect his Above all to Christin would come of s relations ¢ very well what troying the check or of sending it back. He could not rea- son out what he would stand’ commit- ted to If he kept and used it. Ah, this horrible question could not have arisen, either, if he had known of the thing at the time. It was fearful told of it mow. t's a terrible situation for a man