The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 11, 1904, Page 2

727,\ Yy to oblivion ved quickly ranged on Ly some subtle b iced Grantley with an tor Mr. Imason., Leave t her to bed 1 ght the boots and felt the king th low exclamations She was in her element, ebody she loved. She nd knelt do ps & ve her to you now ne walked out t door beh The d« § a few inches, i ¥ ar- s %dark and cujet in there. came near the child saw him out his little arms .to e wh seemed to com- n saty. Grantley g whimsically ittle beggar * he mur- nk from ket and 1 wonds thought »? Oh, T suppose to old ples. Why but in a ‘He Grantley ded; a cup which stood nder. He stooped finger into it and f a warm, thick, hope it won't kill him!"” he gently drew the tenacious little fin- of the fingers in crying and in en was sound asleep. 1 into a position that d be comfortable, and he chair, nursing him on an hour Mrs. Mumple came in d them both sound asleep in the fire. She darted to them, hook Grantley by the shoulder. ned his e with a start. gracious, you might have him it of it! Look how he’s hold- He showed a litle hand ed tightly round his forefinger. He could hang like that, I believe Ha " muttered Mrs. Mum- Give him to me, Mr. to go, apparently, uite triumphant ple was merely bled all the time till ghe fingers unlaced and his cot again. “It's a t fall into the fire,” she with a lively and ag- fulness for escape from sively remote. But she y ashamed of not having At last she spoke of warm and comfortable and poor lamb!” she said. all were,” said Grant- r the door. disturb her, Mr. Iamson?" round to her, smiling. he said. - Mrs. Mumple moved her fat shoulders pless shrug. She had made out about the matter; she was that Sibylla had somehow x racefully ~ill-used and that Frank might very well have fallen into the fire. Of these two thifgs she was uralterably convinced. But she spoke of one of them only; the other was de- clared in her hostile eyes. st his will—perhaps against his 8 ks mise—Grantley was drawn to his JUCES. wite's bedside. He trod very softly. € the The only light In the room came from OPY- " the bright fickering flames of the fire. and 10 They lit up her face and her throat e where he had torn her nightgown apart. g up, for 1 He felt the white neck very lightly iself from his pon- wish his hand. It was warm—healthily - "w*r:;zfll‘ t feverish. She had taken no he had storms without. She slept deeply now she would awake all weil on the mor- She would be herself again on He thanked heaven for > then recollected what it meant. Herself was not the woman who murmured antley!” and dreamed of the gold and the fairy ride. Herself was the woman who could not live with him, who had forsaken the child, who had gone to Walter Blake. To that self she would awake to-mor- row. Then was it not better that she should never awake? Ought he not to be praying heaven for that—praying that the death which had passed by him and his son should, in its mercy, taken her now? Aye, that was the easiest way—and from his heart and soul Grantley de- spised the conclusion. His face set as it had when he faced her in the dingy n and tore her from her lover's ready His courage rose unbroken from ruins of his pride. He would fight for her and for himself. But how? There mu: be a way. y she raised herself in the bed. In an instant he had drawn back behind the curtains. She neither saw him nor heard. For a moment she sup- d herself on her hand, with the flinging back her hair over her 8. Then, with one of her splen- easy movements, she was out and had darted quickly across to the door. Grantley watched her, holding his breath, in a strange terror lest she who had f should discover him, fearful that in Grantley gathe ) such a case her delusion might still & arms and began to keep its hold on her—fearful too of airs. Then Mrs. Mum- the outrage his presence would seem if turned on him eyes fu it had left her. She opened the door and stood listening for fully a e said of minutes; it seemed to him f. I'll that the time would never end. Then nt home to- him- sion might hild was moment old You're back, Mr. Imason?” She did vila and held up her hand. ark to poor litt ank!” she & all the eveni He misses sorely condemr sconscious, T think, g for hers to her room and vou must she carefully set the door halfway her to bed. She's very cold, too. ajar, and turned to come back to her u must make her warm, Mrs. Mum- She walked slowly now, and e.” d toward the fire, stretching out he old woman followed him into the 1ands toward it for 2 moment as out a word. He laid Si- came opposite to it. The flames bylla on the bed. For an instant she illuminated her face again, and he saw opened her eyes and smiled tenderly on her lips a smile of perfect happi- All was well; there was no ery- ing in the house; the child slept. That was all she thought of, all she cared about; her brain was dormant, but her instinct could not sleep. Now that it with a buoyant spring he ‘bed and cuddled the wag satisfied, she leaped on t clothes about her happily. In a few seconds Grantley stole si- lently from the room. He went down- stairs, and he ate and drank: he had nothing for twelve His blood stirred as warmth thanked heaven that he lived, and the boy lived, that she lived and was with His head was high and his He looked on what he had been, and understood; yet he Guided by the smile on her lips, he had found the He had been right to bring her or she could not have smiled like that—in all the plenitude of love for the little child, a love that waked Wwhile reason slept, but would not let her cleep till it was satisfied. wag in her who had forsaken the child, So her love for him was in her who had left him to go to Walter Blake. If that were true, then there must be courage unbroken. Somehow, he knew not how, salva- tion should come through the child. His mind leaped on to & vision of bonds of lowe joined anew by the link of t little hands, e CHAPTER XVIII Roseate Hues. The Raymores were holding up their heads again—such good reports came from Buenos Ayres. Charley's department had written a letter to Raymore, speaking highly of the lad’s good conduct and ability, and promising him early promotion. Ray- more showed it to Kate, and she read 1t with tears in her eyes. “You see he's going to give him a at Christmas, and spend a month with us,” said Ray- more, pointing out a passage in the “Come on a visit, looked up with a question glance. Raymore understood the question. “Yes, my dear,” he said gently. “He'll pay us a visit—many visits, I hope— but his career must lie over there, grounds, I think.” her hand, adding, about that.” “I'll try,” said Kate. She knew that was the penalty which Over here the past would never be utterly buried. Charley would never be quite safe from it. He must buy safety and a fresh start at the price of banishment. faced the bitter conclusion. “We must make the most of the vis- “And, yes, I will be He came and took “We must be brave must be pald. His mother its,” ehe sighed. “We must give him a splendid time while he's with us,” said Raymore, and kissed her. “You've been fine about it,” he whispered: “keep it up.” The penalty was high, or seemed so to a mother, but the banishment was not all evil. The boy's absence united them as his presence had never done. At home he had been an anxiety often, and sometimes a cause of distress, to them. All that was gone now. He was a bond of union, and nothing else. And his own love for them came out. ‘When he was with them, a lad’s shame- facedness, no less than the friction of everyday life, had half hidden it. His heart spoke out now from across the 2eas; he wrote of home with longing; it seemed to grow semething holy to him. He recounted artlessly the words of praise and the marks of confidence he had won; he was pleading that they made him worthy to pay his Christmas visit home. Whenever his letters came, Raymore and Kate had a good talk together over them; the boy's open heart opened their hearts also to one another—yes, and to Eva too. They paid more attention to Eva, and were quicker to understand her growth, to see how she reached forward to woman- hood, and to be ready to meet her on this new ground. She responded read- ily, with the idea that she must do all she could to lighten the sorrow and to make Charley’s absence less felt. In easy-going times people are apt to be reserved. The trouble and the worry broke up the crust which had formed over their hearts. All of them—even the boy so far away—were nearer to- gether. This softened mood, and the gentler atmosphere which reigned in the Ray- mores’ household, had its effect on Jeremy Chiddingfold’s fortunes. 1t caused both Kate and Raymore to look on at his proceedings with indulgence. They were constantly asking them- selves whether they had not been too strict with Charley, and whether the calamity might not have been pre- vented if they had encouraged him to confide in them more, and to bring his difficulties to them., They were nervously anxious to make no such mistake in regard to Eva. They were even in a hurry to recognize that Eva must consider herself—and therefore be considered—a young woman. A pretty young woman, to boot! And what did pretty young women like— SAN FRANCISCO' SUNDAY CALL. —DO0UDIC. 25 0 /1R1°22C7° Ly ANTHONY FHODF. and attract? Eva was not repressed; she was encouraged along the natural p}th. And it was difficult to encourage Eva without encouraging Jeremy tpo— that at least was Kate Raymore's opin- lon, notwithstanding that she had been made the repository of the great secret about Dora Hutting. “A boy and &irl affair!” she called it once to Ray- \moo{te' and made no further reference Kate was undoubtedly in a senti- mental mood; the small number and the' distant advent of the hundreds a year from the dyeing works did not trouble her. Half unconsciously, in the sheer joy of giving Eva pleasure, in the delight of seeing her girl spread her wings, she threw the young folk together, and marked their mutual at- traction with furthering benevolence. “We've been happy, after all,” she said to Raymore, “and I should like to see\Eva happily settled too.” “No hurry!” he muttered. “She’ child still.” el bt “Oh, my dear!" said Kate, with a smile of “superior knowledge: fathers were always ljke that. Eva exulted in the encouragement and the liberty, trying her wings, es- saying her power with timid tentative flights. Yet she remained very young; her innocence and guilelessn. did not leave her. She did not seek to shine, she did not try to flirt. She had not Anna Selford’s self-confidence, nor her ambition, Still she was a young Woman, and since Jeremy was very often at hand, and seemed to be a suitabld subject, she tried her wings on him. Then Kate Raymore would nod secretly and significantly at her husband. She also observed that Eva was beginning to show a good deal of character. This might be true in a sense, since all qualities go to charac- ter, but it was hardly true in the usual sense. Christine Fanshaw used always to say that Eva was as good as gold— and there she would leave the tople, without further elaboration. Well, that was the sort of girl Jeremy liked. He saw in himself now a man of considerable experience. Had he not grown up side by side with Sibyiia, her whims and her tantrums? Had he not watched the development of Anna Sel- ford’s distinction, and listened to her sharp tongue? Had he not cause to re- member Dora Hutting's alternate co- quettishness and scruples, the one sure- 1y rather forward (Jeremy had been revising his recollections), the other al- most inhuman? Reviewing this wide fleld of femine varietv Jeremy felt competent to form a valid judgmen and he decided that gentleness, ttust- fulness and fidelity were what a man wanted. He said as much to Alec Tur- ner, who told him, with unmeasured gcorn, that his ideas were out of date and sadly retrograde. “You want a slave,” said Alec with- eringly. “I want a helpmeet,” objected Jer- emy. Not you! A helpmeet means an equal—an intellectual equal,” Alec in- sisted hotly. He was hot on a subject which did not seem necessarily to de- mand warmth because he too had de- cided what he wanted. He had fallen into a passion which can be d ribed only as unscrupulous. He wanted to marry clever, distinguished, brilliant Anna Selford—to marry her at a reg- istry office and take her to live on two pounds a week (or thereabouts) In two rooms up two pairs of stairs Iin Batter- sea. Living there, congorting with the people who were doing the real think- ing of the age, remote from the ha‘nod bourgeoise, she would really be able to influence opinion and to find a scope for her remarkable gifts and abilities. He sketched this menage in an abstract fashion, not mentioning the lady’s name, and was much annoyed when Jeremy opined that he “wouldn’t find a girl in London to do it.” *‘Oh, as for you, I know you are go- ing to become a damned plutocrat, Alec said, with a scornful reference to the dyeing works. “Rot!" remarked Je by no means so anno cused of becoming a damned plutocrat as he would have been a year lier, before he had determined to seek speedy riches and fame in order to -132'_ zle Dora Hutting, not encountered the Raymore. Whatever e we may now omit nans) may or may not do i my and service of the comr hey can at fine presents, furnish beautiful houses (and fabrics superbly dyed) for their chosen wives. There are, mitigations of their and may easily ing works were nent, but the experience of life the frent too. He was working —and had his heart in his play esides. For his age it was a healthy, and a healthily typical, existence. The play part was rich in complications not unpleasurable. The applause of large, admiring brown eyes is not a neglig matter in a young man's life. There was enough of the old Jeremy surv e the fact that he was fall- seem enough to support an ory on _the But, 1, he had he es for Dora Hutting—to on the other nd ric le her anyhow-—whether to sati or to tantalize her had always been a moot point. In imagination Jeremy ariably emerged from the pr wealth -and fame either alterably faithful or indelibly vnistic—Dora being the one eter- nal woman, though she might proved unworthy. It had never oc- curred to him that he should label the tame and riches to another address. To be jilted may appear ludicrous to the rest of the world, but the ardent mind of the sufferer contrives to re- gard it as tragic. A rapid transference of affection tends to impair the dignity of the whole matter. Still, large brown admiring eyes will count—especially if one meets them every day. Jeremy was profoundly puzzled about himself, and did not suppose that just this sort of thing had ever occurred before. Then a deep sense of gullt stole over him. Was he trifiing with Eva? He hoped not. But of course there is no denying that the !dea of trifling with girls has its own attractions at a cer- tain age. At any rate to_ feel that you might—and could—is not altogether an unpleasing ‘'sensation. However Jere- y's moral sense was very strong—the stronger (as he was in the habit of assuring Alec Turner) for being based on pure reason and the latest results of sociology. Whenever Eva had been particularly sweet and admiring, he felt that he ought not to go to Buckingham Gate again until he had put his rela- tions with Dora Hutting on an ascer- tained basis. He would knit his brow then, and decline to be enticed from his personal problems by Alec’'s invi- tations to general discussion. At this stage of his life he grew decidedly more careful about his dress, not aim- ing at smartness, but at a rich and gober effect. And all the while he started for Romford at 8 in the morn- ing. He was leading a very flne ex- istence. “These are very roseate hues, Kate,” Christine Fanshaw observed with dell- cate criticlsm as she sipped her tea. Kate had been talking about Eva and hinting benevolently about Jeremy. “Oh, the great trouble’s always be- hind. No, it's not so bad now, thank heaven! But if only he could come back for good! I'm sure we want roseate hues!” “] daresay we do,” said Christine, drawing nearer the fire. It was au- tumn now, and she was always a chilly little body. “Look at those wretched Courtlands. And I don’t believe that marriage has been alto- gether suc sful.” She paused a moment, and there had a questioning inflection in her voice; but Christine made no comment. For myself I can't complain—" And you won't get anything out of me, Kate.” “But we do want the young people to —to give us the ideal back again.” “I suppose the old people have al- waye thought the young people were going to do that. And they never do. They grow into old people—and then the men drink, or the women run away, or something.” “No, no,” Kate Raymore protested. “I won’t believe it, Christine. There's always hope with them, anyhow. They're beginning with the best, any- how!"” “And when they find it isn't the best?"” “You're—you're positively sacrilegi- ous!” “And you're disgracefully senti- mental.” \ She finished het tea and sat back, re- garding her neat boots. “Walter Blake's back in tow: went on. “He's been yachting, hasn’t he?” “Yes, for nearly two months. I met him at the Selfords’.” A moment's pause followed. “There was some talk—" began Kate Raymore tentatively. “It was nonsens There’s some talk about. everybody. Kate laughed. “Oh, come, speak for yourself, Christine."” “The Imasons are down in the coun- try"t ‘}‘A d Walter Blake's-in town? Ah, wel Kate sighed thankfully. “In town—and at the Selfords’.” She spoke with evident significance. Kate raised her brows. “Well, it can’'t be Janet Selford, can it?” smiled Christine. “I.think he’s a dangerous man.” “Yes—he's so silly.” “You do mean—Anna?” “I've said all T mean, Kate. Anna has come on very much of late. I've dressed ner, you know.” “‘Oh, that you can do! “That’s why I'm such a happy wom- " she 4 \Y) an. Teach Eva to dress ba 1 suppos Christine, dic “Not the tine 2 “It's no secret Wa “Are there any Christine. “It’ A t anything by making a secret can always a little thinking of the pieasure ¢ given. It's r vour duty neighbor to b know Harrie talked about C tiand’s begun he begun? How John tried to ecome of those un- other. It nature qothers, I can't aresay it's n ly W condt no chil- nea been very You're ernoon frien: denly sw Jeremy He h rushe it out. She looked im- she was thinking was a very mice boy. e letter, Jeremy. Show me the place,” said Kate Raymore. Jeremy did as she bade him, and stood waiting with eager eyes. Chris- tine made no preparations for going: she thought that with a little tact she might con to stay and hear the news. SRe was not mistaken. “Dora Hutting engaged!” sald Kate, with a long b th. Jeremy nodded portentously. “Good gracious me!” murmured Kate. To a curate—a chap who's & curate,” said Jeremy His tone was full of meaning. 'Wasn't she ays High Chureh?* asked Chris pathetically. “Why, you never knew her, Mrs. are High n't it, Jeremy ™ asked M et him at her aunt's, 1 a says." Jeremy fore the fire with knitted bre he repeated th at her aunt's,” “Why & “Oh K about it, Christine.” I'm try t Mr. Chid- dingfold ¥ e." Just a girl “It's nothing I used to knov haw.” “Ah, th ne used to know, Mr. Chiddi he laughed rather nsoled herself? pur- I say, Mrs. Fan- be serious with d all about it But to think—! Well, re, am I not?"” said Christine reassur- e ve impertinent. my d we'll dis don’t you find Eva? v, I think ? Then I—In Oh, is ! ht as well, mightn’t He spoke lis 1 al most reluctantly. And he did leave the room by a straight path, but drjft- ed out it with an accidental ai fingering a book or two and a nick nack cr two on his devious way. Chris- tine’s eyes followed his erratic course with keen amusement. “You wicked wo she said to Kate as the door closed. “You migh have given him one afternoon to dedi- cate to the Miss Dora— g s daughter down » was a fligh » Christine.” “Oh, dear me, 1 pe not, said Christine gravely. “What an escape for the poor dear boy!" “Yau.shan't put me out of temper, beamed Kate Ravmore. “I should think not, when your machinations a triumphing!™ “He's too nice a boy to be thrown And I don’t think he was quite happy about it.’ “I don’t suppose he deserved to be.”