The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 4, 1904, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. —terrible!” he said 1 across his mind not to taca h shed no import ; she would take the 1 would the ake into his told you e growled alone, I ired discon- ce and all no use ss the room, ands, her the floor be- 3 I tried d go- ted. help He motioned her hand; her appeal did ach him at all. For might not have h a long sigh she turned dily to the 3 it she turned at him. He was back in the dispatch ard trembling hands. up to her room and the dying embers of k the check! He k now; it would be to keep it knowing nd he sent it back ed then would be on ustn’t send back! nce in a panic, ready lore him to _keep to commit the base- it. No, she could not ere never to speak r last word ought to send it back. 2 Between of calam- mind oscil- the night with himself; ed up to off his coat ppers, and on his bed, come and had at it was too He was trying to de- f. There was a copclusion would not own which had 2ted into his mind, d against it and de- tied led t send back nor destroy Still his hands had refused He could not face the it, could not endure the and the ruin which the loss would mean. But neither would ie fact and what it meant— he was to become a party to the saction, to recognize, to condone and to pardon. He had no right to keep his anger, his indignation, the re- pulsion which made him drive Chris- tine from his presence, if he were her accomplice. check what ri kept and used the to moral in- jusy anger, Ision at the shame et he would not give He hugged them in vats, to insoluble basic compounds, to mordants and their applications, to sin- double muriate of tin. on the article without bothering abcut the Dictionary or the but then Eva did no thought him fact Jeremy was in love with dyeing, and rapidly reconsidered Beautiful—the even divorced from of nature and s recommenda- tion, he read Ruskin and William Mor- thought still better of so moody and melancholy as to excite an interest of a distinctly sentimental It is to be feared that, most lovers, Jeremy was not above a bit of posing now and then. having a very full and happy life, and, without noticing the fact, began grad- ually to be more patient about the riches and the fame. None the less, affairs were in train. Selford’s working partners were dis- posed to be complaisant about Jeremy and the dyeing works ing to oblige Selford, and found them- impressed by But business is They could give him a pit- tance forever, no doubt. I don't want don’t want to be indebted to anybod “But it’s a pity to let the chance from a feeling of that sort,” “Besides there's nobody in our family who ever had such spare,” sald Jeremy, descending to the He sighed too, and acknowl- edged the first check to his ardent hopes, the first disillusionment, in the “I must wait.” says that he must wait, he has begun to know something of the world. lesson that often he must wait In vain remains behind. “But I shall find out some wa, on (the second lesson I've got a fortnight to give They’'ll keep it open for up these things. Manual at all: lot of money to ul as such, When a man On Alec Turne they were will- young man himself. He soon made himself at home both and at the Raymores’, dropping in ficely and casually, with an engaging confidence that everybody would be glad to see him and pleased to allow him to deposit his long angu- lar body in an armchair and talk about Armageddon. He If he wanted thing—an opening—other considerations came to the front. Good openings are not lightly given away. In fine, Jeremy could come and try his hand at a nominal salary. proved his aptitude, they would be will- ing to have him for a junior partner; but in that case he must put five thou- sand pounds sum was not a large one to ask, they said; and with all their good opinion of Jeremy and all their desire to oblige they could not, themselves, families, put the figure any lower, It was rather a shock to Jeremy, this first practical illustration of the per- vading truth that in order to get money must have some first. give all he had in the world, and not my answer i me till then. 2 Eva came in, with her large learning early charming girl's wonder at the strength and cleverness of the young men she llked. few minutes Jeremy was confident and gay, telling her how he had the pros- pect of a partnership in quite a little a junior partnership, of course, and a minor share. ought to be worth four or five hundred anyhow—yes, And what it might come to—in vigor- ous hands, tellect, new energy—well, nobody could Mr. Thrale’s casks and vats were not really—as a potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice— comparable to Jeremy's vats and mor- ver, intereste h in pictures, but cer- n : had country about dogs and their diseases, and so ford’s respect. keen mind an interest- ighted to tease the of Eva Raymor a young man— and the Ray- of theirs; and in justice to start with. be made good his shabby breezy jollit e like a gust_ looked open eved at the pleasure she ad won and at the ruin it had made. Eva was wonder- dants and muriates. impressed and childish banter: “I hope you'll know us still, you're as rich as that!” Jeremy liked that. sort of feeling which his wealth was destined to Meanwhile, pending the absence and obduracy of Dora, it was not unpleas- reflected in Eva's won- Mrs. Raymore ith a fixed determina- tioz to lose no time in telling Grant- ley Imason that for a matter of five thousand pounds the life—of a life or two—was to be had. The figure was often that, of course; meant joy or woe—far less. Charley in Buenos Ayres, over youth- ful folly and a trifle of a hundred and But Grantley was rich—and she did not know that he had recently lent work the next g, though he had though not a word It was just the « Dary raiv I ve no SYPLEATEY WISH YOT, BUL— BUr A7 WoREIED L realize five thousand pounds. to tea at the Raymores’ that evening with his spirits dashed. He had con- sulted Alec Turner, man had only whistled, implying there- by that Jeremy might whistle for the The journalistic tempera- ment was not, Jeremy felt, naturally 50 he laid the question would find its would have h or without its price. bank that day his salvatio: ant to see it dering eyes. and looked on w For His Love Jeremy Chiddingfold had established himself in London greatly to his sat- He had hired a bedroom in Ebury street, an attic, and had made friends with one Alec Turner, a jour- nalist, who lodged in the same house. Alec Turner took him of! ropolitan Radical Club, and had pro- pcsed him for membership. could eat at happiness of 4 less than that often wind, and seemed to blow the dust out Mrs. Raymore, above all, He went straight to her heart; she was for ever comparing and contrasting him with her own boy 80 far away—and only just the inevit- able little to his disadvantage. Jeremy, in his turn, though unconsciously, loved the atmosphere of the Raymores’ house —the abiding sense of trouble, hard to bear but bravely borne, and the close- ness of heart, it had brought. Selfords’ amflsed him; but being at the Raymores’ did more than that. And what of his broken heart? Anna Selford had heard the story and asked !flm »nce in her mocking way. “You seem so Chiddingfold!™ said she. Jeremy explained with dignity. His heart was not broken: been wounded. Not only did he con- sider it his, and any man'’s, duty to be cheerful, but as a fact he found no dif- ficulty in being cheerful, occupied as he was with the work of life, and sus- tained by a firm purpose and an un- shaken resoive. “Only I don't care to talk about it,” he added, by which he meant, really, that he did not care to talk abor persons of a satirical turn. Mrs. more could get him to talk about it very freely, while to Eva be would sometimes (usually for short times) be That was not at all Jeremy’s idea. en to the Met- of the place. welcomed him. but young i b In requita) for services rendered at the Metropolite¢h Radical, Jeremy had introduced his friend the Selfords. v (assuming heaven) and earth (which, anyhow, was full of matter for argument) Alec Turner to Alec had come up to town from the staff “of a provincial journal, and found very few open to him in London, so that he was He had a native, untrained, liking for art, and talk about pictures to Selford, while Jeremy talked about dogs to Mrs. Sel- ford; and both the young men sparred whose shrewd hits kept money too. And at Ebury sympathetic; before Mrs. Raymore. was the opening of the She was full of maternal love, dammed up by distance and ab- She was tender and affectionate toward Eva, daughter was pale and weak beside her feeling for her only son; and now a portion of the flow meant for far-off Charley was diverted to Jeremy. loved and could have wept over his brave simplicity, hip sincere question as to how he could speedily make five He was not a fool; he knew he could not break the bank at Monte Carlo, or write a play or a novel, or get the desired sum thereby If he did: but he bhad the great folly which clings to men older than he was —the belief that blind impartial for- tune may show special divine favor. ate Raymore smiléd and sighed. “Have you no friends who would guarantee it—who would advance it* You could pay Interest, and pay off the gradually,” she suggested. reach of the but equally well in tcuch with the Sei- sluice-gates. Buckingham Being at the ss on the Underground Rail- way from Victoria earried him to Liv- erpool street, whence he proceeded to works near Romford For the dyeing works project Jeremy had been with Anna, them well on went about his avocations in a red tie, a turned down coliar and lively mus- tard-colored Etlothes. assumed reluctantly when he was sent to report the speeches of prosperous Philistine persons at public dinners. He hated prosperous Philistine sons, especially if their prosperity (and consequent Philistinity) came from art or letters, and delighted in composing paragraphs which should give them a He was, however, not really nd would not have hurt persons seriously, even he was anxious to declare that neither he nor anybody else could, in fact, hurt them seriously, owipg to the gtupidity of the public— the dyeing was taking shape. down to Romford several times to look around and see A dress suit he the processes He had digegted the article it had merely opaedia Brit- on dyeing of the Ency thousand pounds. , and had possessed himself of Dictionary of of Dyeing.’ His talk both at the Metropolitan Radical Club and at the houses he frequented was full of the learning and the terminology dyeing—things you dyed, things you dyed the things with, and the things you did it in, s0 forth. He fascinated Eva Ray- more by referring airily (and at this stage somewhat warm vats, ill-natured, the prosperou! if he could have; miscellaneously) - ~ which was incalculable. He was a de- cided assistance to Jeremy in enliven- ing the Selford household and in keep- Ing Anna's wits busy and bright. “I suppose nothing would induce you to be successful?” she said to him with malicious simplicity. “Success for me means something quite different,” Alec explained. “It lies in influencing the trend of public opinion.” “But the public’s hopelessly stu It seems to me rather foolish to spend your time trying to influence hopeless- ly stupid people.” Jeremy chuckled. He did not see how Alec was going to get out of that. “I spoke of the bulk. There is a small intelligent minority en whom one can rely.” “If you can rely on them already, why do they want influencing?” ob- Jected Anna. “On whom one can rely for a hearing and for intelligent appreciation, Miss Selford.” “Then the fewer people who care what you say, the more successful you really are?” “That's hardly the way I should put it ‘No, I don’t suppose you would,” in- terrupted Anna. “But it comes to that, doesn’t it, Jeremy?"” “‘Of course it does,” agreed Jeremy. “The fact is, writing about things ls all rot. Go and do somethihg—some- thing practical.” Dyeing was something practical. “Oh, yet, go Into business, of course, and get rich by cheating! Trading's only another name for cheati “Well, you're right ther sald Anna. “Right?” cried Jeremy, “Well, then, why isn't it when he” (he pointe Alec) “charges a ha'penny for beastly opinion about som “Oh, it's not for me to say! must ask Mr. Turner that.” In fact the discussions were of a mos spirited order, since everybody was al- ways quite wrong, and each in turn could be rapidly and ignominiously re futed, the other two uniting in a wa but transient alliance to that end. This young and breezy society was good for Selford, and for his wife too. It gave them sometHing to think about, and did not leave each so much time to consider the unreasonableness of th other. Tiffs became less frequent, t false sentimentalism of their reconcilia- tions was less in demand: and as they watched Anna’s deftness and bright- ness, they began to ask whether had been as proud of her as they ought to be. “‘She’s got brains, that girl of ours,™ sald Selford, nodding his head com- placently, “And a taking manner, don’t you think, Dick?” “Those boys find her attractive, or it looks like it, anyhow!"” “Of course she's not exactly pretty, but I do think she’s rat distingushed somehow.” “Your daughter would be sure to be that, my dear Janet,” he remarked gal- lantly. “No, I r !y think she’s mo you,” insist: { Janet amiably. make an effort” (Mrs. Selford v of that praise) “and take her out into society more. I don’t think we're quite giving her her chance.” “Ah, you've be to think of match-making!” he cried in playful re- proof. But it pleased him highly to think that he had, after all, an attractiv daughter. He took much more notic of her than he had been used to take, and Mrs. Selford eyed her with critical affection. Decidedly the increage of human interest, as opposed to artisti and canine, was a good influence in the Selford household. Anna soon saw how her position had improved. She was not demonstrative about it, but she appreclated it. She was also sharp enough to use it. The next time an invitation to a party came, she refused to go unless she might have a frock of her own choos- ing. “I won't go if I'm to look a guy said. There was a battle over that, a battle between her and Mrs. Selford, and a tiff between father and mother to boot. For Selford was with Anna now. They won the day, and Anna with a check in her pocket, went off to consult Chris- tine Fanshaw, nursing in her heart that joy which only the prospect of being dressed really Just as yow'd like to be dressed seems’able to excite. “Merely a malicious desire to cut the other girls,” comment Alec | “I really don’t think you ought talk about dress,” retorted An ing the mustard suit. But when Anna appeared in the frock which Christine had sedulou and lovingly planned, she carried all before her. She was most undoubtedly dis- tinguished. “Well, 1 suppose you've come to an age when that charming simplicity which used to suit you so well must give way to something more stylish,” even Mrs. Selford admitted, capitulating and marching out—but with the honors of war. Grantley Imason was rich; yet fifteeg thousand pounds is a solid sum of money. To put that sum at John Fan- shaw's disposal had not caused him once,"” You she “serious incohvenience, but it had en- talled @ little contriving. To anothef five thousand in Jere vice would involve more and the return of the money rested, of necessity, in a distant and contingent future. Nevertheless, when Kate Ray- more uggeted that the happiness of a life should be secured, he found the proposition attractive. He was a man lavish of money and appreciative of all the various pleas- ures of giving it away—both those of a more and those of a less self-regard- oyed both the delight d the sense of his own generosity and his own power. He would like Jeremy to be indebted to him for the happiness of his life—of? course that was an exaggerated way of putting it, but it was a telling ex- aggeration. He also liked Jeremy very much for his own sake. And it would be altogether a handsome thing to do— under present circumstances a pecu- liarly handsome thing. For Sibylla had left him and gone down to Milldean, ac- companied by the boy, without a word of friendship or a hint of reconcilia- tion; and Jeremy's welfare was very dear to his sister. To help Jeremy, and thereby prepare for her the pleasure of seeing Jeremy prosper, to do this secretly, to have it as a private merit and a hidden claim on her, was an idea which appealed strongly to Grantley. In his imaginings she was to discover what he had done in the future, but not till after their reconciliation. Would it not have an effect then? One effect it was to have was, in plain words, to make Sibylla feel ashamed; but Grant- ley did not put it so simply or so nak- edly as that—that would have been to recognize the action as almost pure revenge. He blinked that side of it, and gave prominence to the other sides. But that side was there among the rest; and he would suffer wrong at her hands with the more endurance the greater were the obligations she was ‘under to him. His love for her and his quarrel with»ger joined hands to urge him. Commanding Kate Ray- more to respect his desire for secrecy, he undertook to consider the matter. But his mind was really made.up; and since the thing was to be done, it should be done liberally and splendid- ly. He had lent his money to Fan- shaw, as Caylesham had surmised, with a very satisfactory prospect of re- payment; to Jeremy he was ready to lend it on no security, careless about re- payment, because he loved Sibylla and because he hadl so grievous a quarrel against her. It was all a part of his hroad and consistept plan of conquer: Ing her by his u changing love, in being just what h to her ng patience, un- n persistence had always been ng, however sore a trial he onableness and her vaga him to. This generosit would be a fine r attitude, a fine strategy on which he had ccess of his ultimate t Si la. 'l tell Sibylla and in own : sald to Kate y--—rer taymore. had an i and nodded s picturing a t when Grant- sity. Of the 1 she had no idea, f the case was ence quietly, say- approaching the h Seiford, ught of Jeremy, se that the sum nion, confessed real state of it her own ¢ & Grantley went to v ing nothing to working pa to come by or making, s, the best e object of rtiations took those days something of sthing of its cour- ng its effect on the crowd, the mpetition. Cour- gh to rise by? enough to rise by walk about the streets, a papers, the talk at the 1 taught him ait and work and none y to lay sand pounds. to glimmer -eonfl- age. London was his receptive stress, the push and A and riches. t be confessed, nself up lest his falter. He con- but with it to Jere: at he was, after 1 neither by allotted to him what larger the stipulated cap- mediatgly—it M d for an ‘extensic work to Lon- side and J y and himseif e other was before him. A look told him that Jeremy take it, you know,” emy blurted out. “You can't escape the obligations Si- bylla has brought on you by marrying * smiled Grantley. s been at you—told PPy unless—" o Sibylla knows nothing abo d, what's more, she isn’t to know till I choose to tell her— till I choose, not you—that's part of the bargain, Jeremy.” sat down. Anxious to avoid -over of the matter, y got up and lit a cigarette. have you done it?” asked ugged his shoulders. “Of course it's the thing in the world for me; but—but I wanted to do it for myself, you know.” Grantley still smiled on him, with a touch of mock- ery now. “Yes, well, I know I * He looked at Grantley In a “Wha k it worse,” been doing ind of way. I you ys kind and—and knew Planking down five thousand, and not knowing when you'll get it back, if ever you do? If you like that for its ake, it's rather a rare taste.” don't jaw any more,” sald antley with friendly tmpatience. “I was just going to sign the deed when you came in. I should have donme it by now, but I must have & witness, and I t want to ring Thompson up from We'll ring him up now.” )t an said Jeremy. I don’t think that because a man mar- ries a woman he’s bound to provide for her famii or to like them, either.” w in worldly wisdom.” Yes, 1 fancy I do. I know a bit more about myself, too. I might have worked ten years and not got this money."” “Oh, thank my forefathers! I've not worked ten years, or ten minutes-either, for you.” His back had been to Jeremy. He turned round now as he said slu\vg “You may consider it as a thank offering for my happiness with Sibylla.” nd why isn’t she to know? “I like it better that way for the present. I'm entitled to make that con< dition.” Jeremy went back to his defense of himself against himself. “A week ago I—I'd have*backed my- self to make it somehow. But—well one soon learns how devilish hard it i& to, get what one wants. What a cond ceited young idiot you must hawi thought me when we used to talk dowsh at Milldean!™ “You were always an excellent com- panion. Let’s ring for Thompson and execute the deed.” Jeremy could not refuse and could not yet consent. Grantley stood smok- ing airily and looking at him with a whimsical smile. Then the door opened and the butler came in, unsum- moned. “Ah, the Fates decide!"™ exclaimed Grantley with a laugh. “Where's a pen, Jerem: “For you, sir,” said Thompson, hold- ing out a salver with a letter on it. “Oh!" Grantley laid down his pen, took the letter, and sat down at the writing-table. “Wait a minute; T want you to witness something for me,” he said to the butler. Thompson stood in serene immobility. His thoughts were far Away, engrossed in a discussion he had been having with the groom as to the “form™ of that same horse of Caylesham's about which Mrs. Bolton had wanted to know. Jeremy sat making up his mind to endure heing helped and poignantly remorseful about the view he had tagken of Grantley. The view was earnestly disclaimed now; the help