The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 11, 1904, Page 4

ST | 2\ NS . =9, N - W s N ¥ ‘-, N s SN “a rare score” to send the letter to Har- Courtiand. “It'll make her properly furious,” said Miss Pattie, finishing her port with hearty enjoyment. Mrs. Bolton caught at the notion. rriet was putting her to a great deal of annoyance, and so was Tom's re- fusal tc stapd up tc Harrlet. It was meet and right that any person who was in a position to give Harriet a dig should give it. Neither of them thought of what might be entailed on the little folk who had dared to send the letter; in the end they had a very inadequate idea of the terror Harriet inspired. Mrs. Bolton laughed as she contemplated the plan. “Just stick in a word or two of your own,” Miss Pattie advised. “Something spicy?™ Mrs. Bolton at once thought of sev- eral spicy little comments which would add pol to Sophy's letter. One was so spicy, so altogether satisfying to Mre. Bolton's soul and ‘to Miss Pattie Henderson's critical taste, that it was irresistible. It—and Sophy's letter— were poeted to Harriet before lunch that day, and Mrs. Bolton's eyes were only opened et all to what she had done when she told Caylesham (who had dropped in in the afternoon) and heard him exclaim: “But, by Jove, she'll take it out of se unhappy children, you know! I , you don’t know Harriet Courtland or you'd never have done that!” His concern seemed so great that Mrs. Bolton’s heart was troubi It she did not upbraid herself, at any rate she denounced Miss Henderson. But what was to be done? Nothing could be done. By now the letter must be al- ways in Harriet Courtland's hands. Caylesham sald a few plain words about the matter, but his words could not help now. They had, however, one ef- fect—they made Mre. Bolton afraid to jet Tom know what she had done, and she persuaded Caylesham not to betray her. When Tom next came she told him that she had accidentally burned Sophy’s letter in mistake for one of her own. ‘Well, I've sent them an answer, poor little beggars—under cover to Su- zette Bligh,” said Tom. “But I'm sor- ry. 1 should have liked to keep that letter of theirs, Flora.” ® “I know. Of course you would. I'm sorry,” said Mrs. Bolton, now feeling very uncomfortable, although she had 10t lost her pleasure at the idea of giv- Harriet such a fine dig. om’s letter reached its destination irst, and Suzette read it to the httle He told them to behave well to- their mother, and to love her. He d he was obliged to be away from m now, but presently he would see them and hoped to see them very often, that they were not to forget to go ing him, because he loved them very much. :tte’s voice broke a little over the , and the children listened in an t and rather awed silence. They e divided between relief that an an- swer had come safely, and depression at what the answer was. But they un- derstood—or thought they did—that if were good they would presently be wed to see their father very often. “That's what he means, fisn't 1t?” Lucy asked Suzette. “Yes, dear, that's it,” Suzette told )t knowing what else to tell her. E better burn papa’s letter,” Sophy suggested. % ‘there was no difference of opinion about that. Vera was accorded the privilege of putting it in the fire, and of stamping carefully on the ashes aft- erward. ‘Because,” she said, justifying this precaution, “you remember the story where the man was found out just be- cause he didn’t stamp on it after he'd burnt it, Sophy!” “This was the last day on which Tom Courtland was entitied to put a defense to his wife's suit. He had made no sign. Harrlet was the flercer against him. His ruin was not enough; ghe de- sired herself to see it made visible and embodied in a trial whose every word and proceeding should aggravate his shame and satisfy her resentment. She had nursed the thought of that,. mak- ing pictures him and of the woman undergoing the ordeal and being brand- ed with guilt while all the world looked on. Now Tom refused her this delight; there would be no trial, because he would not fight. It was a fine moment for the letter to arrive. The mine was all laid, only the ich was wanting. Harriet was dressing for dinner when it came; her maid Garrett was doing her hair before the glags. As she read, Garrett saw a sudden change come over her face—one quick flush, then a tight getting of her lips. Garrett knew the signs by expe- rience. Soinething in that letter had upset her ladyship. Warily and gently Garrett handled her ladyship’s hair; if she blundered in her task now, yoe to her, for her ladyship’s temper was up- oot * “Dearest papa, 4o not make us stay here. Because we love you and we want to come and live with you™ “Please do not make us stay here.” “That was the truth of it, that was what they really thought, those little hypocrites, who came and kissed her so obediently every morning and even- ing, those meek little creatures with their “Yes, mamma dear,” “No, dear mamma,” accepting all her commands £0 docilely, returning her kisses o af- fectionate All that was a show, a sham, a device for deluding her, for kepping her quiet, whiie they laid their vile plots—none the less vile for being so idiotic—and sent their love to “dear- est papa”—to that man, to Flora Bol- ton’s lover—while they gave Flora Bol- ton the means of mocking and of tri- umphing over her. She sat very still for awhile, but Gar- rett was not reassured. Garrett knew that the worst fits of all took a little time in coming. They worked them- selves up gradually. “Is that to vour ladyship's satisfac- tion?” asked Garrett as she put the last touches to her work. “No, it ien‘t,” snarled Harriet. *No, don’t touch me again. Let it alone, you clumsy fool.” Garrett wert and took up the even- ing dress. Harriet Courtland rose and siood for 2 moment with Sophy's let- ter to Tom in her hand. “I'm_going 1o the schoolroom for «a few minutes. Wait here,” she said to Garrett, and walked out of the room siowly, taking the letter with her. An- other slip of paper she tore into shreds as she went; that wag Mrs. Bolton’s comment on the situation, as “splcy” and as vuigar as she and Miss Pattie Henderson could make it. Yet Har- riet was not now thinking of Mrs. Boi- ton. Garrett stood where she wes for a moment, then stale cautiously after her mistress. She knew the signs, and a morbid curiosity possessed her. She would have a sensational story to re- tail downstairs, if she could manage to see or hear what happened—for beyond a doubt something had put her lady- sbip in cne of her tantrums. Pity for the children struggled with Garrett's seductive anticipations of a.‘'scene.” Suzette Bligh was reading a_story aloud in the schoolroom when Harrlet marched in. She held the letter in her hand. The children could make, and had leisure to make, no conjecture how the catastrophe had come about, but in 2 flash all the little girls knew that it was upon them. The letter and their mother's face toid them: They t looking at her with terrified eyes. “So you don’t want to stay here?” she said sneeringly. *‘You want to g0 to your dearest papa? And you dare to write that! Who wrote it? Was it vou, Lucy?” “I—I didn’t write it, mamma dear,” siad Lucy. Suzette rose in distress. “Dear Lady Harrlet—" she began. ““Hold your tongue. So you wrote it, Sophy? Yes, I see now it's your writ- ing. Oh, but you were ail in it, I sup- pose? So you love your papa. Garrett had stolen to within two or three yards of the door now, and it stood half open. She could hear all and see something of what happened.’ “‘So_you love your papa?” Sophy had most courage. courage came to her now. “Yes, we do.” “And vou want to go to him?” “Yes, mamma."” “And you don’t love me? You don’t want to stay with me?” Sophy glanced for a moment at her sisters. ‘Papa’s so kind to us,” she said. ‘And I'm not kind?" asked Harriet with a sneering laugh. “‘When you're older, mv dears, you'll thank me for having been kind—really kind. It's really kind to teach you to play these tricks—these mean disgraceful Iittle tricks."” 3 All the children rose slowly and shrank back. They tried to get be- hind Suzette Bligh. Harriet laughed again when she saw the maneuver. ““You needn’t stay, Suzette,” she sald. “I know how to manage my own chil- dren.” Suzette was verv white, and was trembling all over; it seemed as if her legs would hardlv support her. “What are you going to de?” “It’s no business of yours. . They know very well. Leave me 2lone with them."” It was a terrible moment for timid Suzette. But love of the children had laid hold of her heart and gave her strength. “I can't go, Lady Harrlet,” she said in a low voice. “I can't leave you alone with them t now." ot now?"” cried Harriet fiercely. “You're—you're not calm now. You're not fit—" “You'd stand between me and my own children?” “Dear Lady Harriet, I—I can't go eway now.” For she remembered so vividly all that the children’s reminis- cences, their nods and nudges, had hinted to her; she realized all the things which they bad not told her; and she would not leave them now. Her resistance set the crown to Har- riet Courtland’s rage. After an in- stant's pause she gave a half articulate cry of anger and rushed forward.b Su- zette tried to gather the childten be- hind her and to thrust the angry wo- man away- But Harriet caught Sophy by the arm and lifted her midway in the air. Garrett came right up to the door and peeped.through. “‘So you love papa and not me?”’ Sophy turned her pale, terrified little face up to her mother’'s. The worst had happened and the truth came out. “No, we—we hate you. You're cruel to us; we hate you and we love papa.’l Harriet's grip tightened on the child's arms—Sophy’s very audhelity kept her still for a moment. But at the next she lifted her higher in the air. Suzette sprang forward with a cry, and Gar- rett dashed into the room, shrieking, “Don’t, don’t, my lady!” They were too late. The child was flung violentlv down; her head struck the iron fender; she rolled over and lay quite sti]l, bleeding from the fore- head. Suzette and Garrett caught Har- riet Courtland by the arms. A low frightened weeping came from the other two Iittle girls. ) Harriet stood for a moment in the, grasp of the two women who sought’ to restrain her and would have thrown themselves upon her had she tried to move. But restraint was no more nec- essary. Sophy had ransomed her sis- ters, and lay so quiet, bleeding from the head. In a loud voice Harriet Courtland cried, “Have I killed her? Oh, my God!"” and herself broke into a tempest of hysterical sobbing. She fell back into Garrett’s arms, shuddering, weeping, now utterly collapsed. Suzette went and knelt by Sophy. “No, she’s not dead, but it's no fault of yours,” she said. Harriet wrenched free from Garrett and flung herself on. her knees by the table, stretching her arms across it and beating her forehead on the wood. The two children looked at her, won- dering and appalled. CHAPTER XXI. An Uncompromising Expression. On the morning of her attempted flight and enforced return a leaden heaviness had clogged Sibylla's brain and limbs. Her body was quick to re- cover; her thoughts were for long drowsy and numb. She seemed to have died td an old life without find- ing a new one. Blake was to her as a dead friend; she would see and hear of him no more: she harbored no idea of meeting him again. The bonds between them were finally rent. This attitude toward him saved his character from criticism and hijs weakness from too close an examina- tion, while it left her free to brood in the security of despair on all that she had thought to find in him and on the desolation his logs had made. The instinctive love for her child, which. had asserted itself while her intellect was dormant, could not prevail against the sullen preoccupation of reawaking thoughts, or, if it could penetrate into them, came no more fresh and pure, but tainted with the sorrow and the anger which cireled round that innocent head. She was tender, but in pity, not in pride; she loved, but without joy. The shadows hung so dark about the child's cot. They still hid from her eyes the sin of her own desertion, and hindered the remorse which might best lead her back to love unalloyed. Still she arraigned not herself, but only Grantley and the inevitable. Grant- ley was the inevitable; there stood the truth of it: she bowed her head to the knowledge, but did not incline her hdart to the lesson it .had to teach. p Yet the knowledge counted; she looked on Grantley with different eyes. The revelation of himself, wrung from. him by overwhelming necessity, did its work. The resolve he had then announced, presumptuous beyond the right of mortal man, less than human in its cruelty, almost more than hu- Desperate man in its audacity of successful re- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. volt against destiny, might leave ‘him hateful still, but showed him not neg~ ligible. e could not be put on one side, discarded, eliminated from her life. He was too big for that. Against her will he attracted her at- tention and constrained her interest. The thought of what lay beneath his suave demeanor sometimes appalled, sometimes amused and always fasci- nated her now. She saw that her old conception had erred: it had been too negative in character; what he could not do or be or give had seemed the whole of the matter to her. In the light of the revelation this was wrong. The pesitive—a very consid- erable positive—must be taken Into account. . The pride she had loathed was not a barren self-conceit, nor merely a sterile self-engrossment. It had fssue in an assurance almost su- pernatural and a courage above mor- ality. Sibylla’s first relief came in the reflection that, though she might have married a monster, at least she had not given herself to a stick or a stone; she was clear as to her preferment when the choice was reduced that alterndtive. His behavior appealed to her hu- mor, too—that humor which could not save her from running away with Blake under the spell of her ideas, but would certainly have made her want to run away from him when the glamour of the jdeas had worn off. The old perfection of manner found a new ornament in his easy ignoring of the whule affair. He referred to it once only, then indirectly and because he had a réason. He suggested apolo- getically that it would be well for them to exchange remarks more freely when the servants were waiting on them at meals. “It will prevent comment on recent events,” he added, as though that were his only reason. 3 Sybilla " was deceived at first, but presently detected another and more important motive. The suggestion marked the beginning of a nmew cam- paign on which his inexhaustible per- severance engaged. He ynderstood that his wife accused him of not taking her into his confldence and of not making her a partner iIn his life. ' He was no more minded than before that she should have even plausible grounds for complaint. Starting, then, from gen- eral topics and subjects arising out of the journals of the day, he slid placidly and dexterously into frequent discus- sions of his own plans and doings, his business, his work on the County Coun- cil, his Parliamentary ambitions, his schemes for improving the property at Milldean. Sibylla acknowledged the cleverness of these tactics with a rue- ful smile’ She had cl d "to share his life; yet more of th topics hap- pened to seem to her rather tedious. But she was debarred from saying that to Grantley; his retort’ was so obvi- ous. She was often bored, but she was amused that boredom 'Should be the first result of the new method. “I hope all this interests Grantley- would inquire politely. ‘‘Of course, since it concerns you,” equal politeness obliged her to reply— and not politeness only: » She had to be interested; it had been her théory that she would be,: her grievance that she had been denied the opportunity of be- ing. Nor could she make obut whether Grantley had any inkling of her sup- pressed ldamerencoh to_ the County forth. you?” - ] e > » Christine was giving a thought to her own affairs here. “And we woy't say anything more about what you did,” Sibylla went on. “We won't discuss whether you were right, or whether I'm grateful, or any- thing of that sort.” “You ought to be.” “Or even whether I ought to be— though, of course, you'd want to think that.” Christine was disappointed. In her heart she had rather hoped to be put on her defense just enough to entitle her to use her weapon and to tell some ot the truth about Watelr Blake. Sibylla’s attitude gave her no exceuse. Though she would say nothing more about what Christine had done, Sibylla was easilyy persuaded to break the principle of silence about the main affair. Christine’s curiosity last the zest of difficult satisfaction; she had the whole history for the asking. heard it, marveling at the want of re- ticence her friend displayed, seeking how to reconcile this seeming im- modesty with the rest of her impres- sion of Sibylla. She recollected being very shy and ashamed (in the midst of her exultation) when she had let Harriet Courtland worm out the secret of her iove for Caylesham. Sibylla was not ashamed—she was candid. Sometimes she was excited, sometimes she played the judge; but she was never abashed. Christine’s wits sought hard for an explanation of this. Sud- denly it came to her as she gazed on Sibylla’s pure face and far-away eyes. “My dear, you were never in love with him!"” she cried. If she hoped to surprise, or even to win a compliment on her penetra- tion, she was utterly deceived. “Oh, no!” said Sibylla. “In the way you mean I've never been in love with anybody except Grantley.” “Then why did you? Oh, tell me about it!" Christine implored. ‘‘He appealed to my better feelings,” Sibylla sn‘iled back to her, mocking again. “I'd give the world that' we hadn’t been stopped! No, I can't say that, because—"" “Well 2 “I think Grantley would have done what he said.” Chrigtine was the last woman in the world to.rest ignorant of what Grant- ley had sald. Sibylla was again dis- appointingly ready to tell the whole thing without any pressure worth men- tioning. “And you really. believe he would have?” Christine half whispered when she had heard the story. “1f I didn't believe it with my whole heart I shouldn't be heré. I should = be—well, :somewhere—with Walter Blake.” “Thank God .you are not!” “Why do you say that? The pro- prieties, Christine?” “Oh, only partly; but don't you think lightly of. them, all the same! And the rest of the reasons don't mat- ter.” Christine got up and walked across the room and back again be- fore she came to a stand opposite Si- bylla. “I call that 2 man worth being in love with,” ghe said. “Walter 2" “Heavens, no! Oh, I know he’s your husband! still—" Sibylla broke into a gentle laugh. “It has the attraction of the horri- ble,” she ‘admjtted. “He'd have done it, you ktigw” 26 Grantley Imason. But Couneil cising 7] or, ? i o TR not tgeli: ut fosigy and ang “It’s iedieval,” said -, Ch¥istine tempered i oldness of her 1o nd you were going away They ‘really very well# r Blake! She drew-her ner, an ecially while the 'gefvai liftle ‘finger up straighty “Sibylla, were in the Tgom; there was sofietimés . you're no,womap if you ‘dom’t man- an awkw ause just after they were™ agé a inan:like that in the'end. He's left alone. .’ But on the whole (;m’(f worth ‘t,” you know." ing daily Intercourse went bettér than before Sibylla’s flight—went indeed fairly well, as it can generally be made to if people are well bred and mod- erately humorous. The great quarrel remained untouch- ed, no span bridged ‘the great chasm. Grantley might consent to talk about his County Council; that was merely a polite ¢oncession, invelving ‘no admis- sion of guilt and acknowledging no such wrong to his wife as could for a moment justify her action. When it came to deeper matters he was afflicted with a shame and helplessness which seemed to paralyze him. To gloss over the dbsence of love, or even of friend- ship, was a task at which he was apt and tactful; té gain it back was work of the heart—and here he was. as yet at a standstill. His instinct had told him to work through' the child. But if ke caressed the child in order to con- ciliate Sibylla he would do 'a mean thing, and yet not succeed in his decep- tion; he would admit a previous fault and gain no absolution by a calculated and interested confession. He could not bring, himself to it. His manner to the child was as carelessly kind as ever; and when Sibylla was there the carelessness was almost more appar- ent than the kindness. Grantley's na- ture was against him; to do violence to it was a struggle. Ever ready to be kind he disliked to show emotion. He felt it was béing false to himself, being a sham and a hypocrite. To be gushing was abhorrent to him; to pre- tend to gush surely touched a more profound depth? His efforts achieved no success; and he did not let Sibylla perceive even the efforts themselves. ¥or once his will, strong as it was, and his clear perception were both power- less before his temper and the instincts of his nature. The result was a dead- lock. Matters could not move. Such was the juncture of affairs when Christine Fanshaw came to Milldean. Perhaps_only her resolve to escape from the atmosphere of disgrace at hoeme could have brought her; for she came in some trepidation, rather sur- prised that Sibylla had welcomed her, wondering whether the welcome was of Sibylla’s own free will. Had not she betrayed Sibyllla? Was not she responsible for the frustration of the great plan?- Yet an acute curiosity mingled with and almost overpowered her apprehensions. And she was pre- pared to defend herself. The rumors about, Walter Blake would be a weapon, if shé needed one—a weapon eftective, if cruel. As regards her own treachery, shé made haste to throw herself on Sibylla’s mercy. “Of cours,e you must have known it was_through me?” she ended. “Oh, yes, I knew that, of course.” “Here's your letter—the one you sent me to hand on to Grantley. He wired me not to send it.” “Oh, I thought he’d read it,” said Sibylla thoughtfallx. She took it and put it in her pocket. Christine looked at her with a smile. “And yet you ask me to stay!" she remarked. 7 Sibylla smiled mockingly. “Since this household owes all its happiness to you, it's onlg fair that you should come and look at jt.” “That's not at all a ‘comfortable thing to say, Sibylla.” “No, it isn't, and it departs from our principle, which is to say nothing."” “"“Tha,t'n not always very comfortable either.” ‘“You mean, if I don’t let him man- age me?"" Sibylla was a little con- temptuous. “I don’t care about tyr- rany, even tempered by epigrams,’” she explained. ‘“Well, not when you only do the epigrams,” smiled Christine. “‘That’'s not true. I only ask a real partnership.” ““You must begin by contributing all you have.” 3 “I did. But Grantley—" “Paid a composition? Oh yes, my dear; men do. That's as old as By- ron anyhow.” She came suddenly to Sibylla and kissed her. “And you'd be adorable, properly deluded.” “You, shan’t put it like that, Chris- s’ I will—and I know he’loves = He can’'t love anything—not re- ally.” “I shall watch him. Oh, my dear, what a comfort to watch anybody be- sides John! Oh yes, I supposed you'd better have my story, too. You've had most of it beMre—without the name. But look away. 1've no the- ories you know—and—well, I was in love.” - She laughed a little, blushing red. But her composure returned when she had finished her confession. “And now what do we think of one another?” she asked with her usual satirical little smile, “You don't know? Oh, yes! You think me rather wicked and I think you very silly; that's about what it comes to.” “1 suppose, that is about it,”” Sibyl- la laughed reluctantly. “But I've repented, and you're only going to repent.” *‘Never!” “Yes, you are! I take no credit for having done it first. It's much easier to repent of wickedness than of non- sense. The wickedness is much pleas- anter at the time and so seems much worse afterward.” “And you're in love with John?"” “Good heavens, no!” She pulled herself up. “Well, I don't know. If I'm ‘in love now it's not what I used to mean by it. One gets to use words so differently as time goes on.” ‘I don’t think I shall ever learn tha Destiny assumed Christine's small, neat features for a moment in order to answer sternly: “But you mus It was thé worst way of dealing with Sibylla. “I won't!” she answered in overt rebellion, her cheeks flushing now as her confession had not availed ,to make it flush. Christine did not fail to perceive the comic element in the case—strong enough, at all events, to serve as a re- lief to conversation, almost piquant when Grantley conscientiously related all manner of uninteresting things in order that Sibylla might be at liberty to take an interest in them. But this aspect did not carry matters very far or afford much real consolation. Sub- stantially no progress was made. The failyre endured and seemed to Chris- tine as complete as the devastation wreught in her own life. Nay, here there was an aggravation. In her home —she almost smiled to use the word now—there was no child. Here there was the boy. Her mind flew forward to the time when he would wonderingly surmise, painfully guess, at last grow into knowledge. She . And already the mind stirred in little Frank. His intelligence grew, his af- fection blossomed as the first buds of a flower. "He was no more merely a pas- sive object of love and care. He began to know more than that he was nursed and fed, more than that his right was to'these ministrations. The idea of the reason dawned in him. He stretched forth his hand no longer for bounty only, but for the inspirer of bounty— for love. Strung to abnormal sensi- tiveness, Christine deluded herself with the fancy that already he felt the shadow over the house, that his young soul was already chilled by the clouds of anger and vainly cried for the sun- shide of sympathy. If she did not truly see, yet she forsaw truly. Seeing and foreseeing thus, she asked where was the hope. And on this, with a bound, her thoughts went back to her own sorrow and back to poor lonely old John In London, all by himself, with nobody to talk to, nobody to congratu- late him on the success of his business, nobody to open his heart to, alone with his grievance against her, alone with the thought that, notwithstanding his grievance, he had taken PFrank Cayle- sham’s money and grew prosperous again by the aid of It. ‘When Christine had been at Milldean a fortnight or so, business carried Grantley to town. The change his de- parture made was instantaneous and striking. A weight was off the house, the clouds dispersed. Sibylla was full of gayety, and in that mood she could make all about her share her mirth. Above all, her devotion to Frank was given full pein. The child was always with her and she knew no happiness save in evoking and responding to his love. She was now open and osténta- tious about it, fearing no frigid glances and no ifplied criticism of her fond folly. Christine might well have found new ground for despair, so plainly did Sibylla display to her the blighting in- fluence of Grantley’s presence. He it was who froze up love—so Sibylla de- clared with an impetuous, aggressive openness. But Christine would not de- spair. A wholesome anger rose in her heart and forbade despair. Her man- ner took on a coldness exceeding ‘Grant- ley’s indifference. She would not be a sharer in the games, a partner in the merriment, a sympathizer in the love. Sibylla was not slow to see how she stood off and drew herself away. Quick- ly she sought for reasons. Was it that Christine would not join in what seem- ed to be a league against Grantley? Or was there another reason? She had told Christine how it. was through Wal- ter Blake's horror and not through her scruples that little Frank had not been left to his fate. Did her love then seem hypocrisy? That was not true— though it might be true that remorse now had a share in i{t. The more the child grew to life, the more horrible be- came the thought that he might have died. - After a day or two of smolder- ing protest, she broke out on Chris- tine. “You think I've no right to love him,” she asked, “after what I was ready to do? Is that what you think? Oh, speak out plainly! 'I see you've got something against me.” Christine was cold and composed. Never had her delicately critical man- ner been more pronounced. “I'm sure I hope you repent,” she observed meditatively; “and I hope you thank heaven that man was what he turned out ta be.” ’ “Well, call it repentance then. I sup- poseé I've a right to repent? You can’t understand how I really feel. But if it ::Tt_emtance ‘why need you discourage “I don’t discourage repentance, and I'm glad you're beginning to see that you ought to repent. But it's not that I'm thinking of.” “What are you thinking of, then?” cried Sibylla in unrestrained impa- tience. < ‘‘You're prepared for an open quar- rel?” Her smile was rather disdainful. “No, you won’'t quarrel with me; I'm not of enough importance to you! I'm very glad I'm not, you know. Being important to you doesn’t seem to be consistent .with being an independent creature.” . Sibylla glanced at her in arrested at- tentian. “What do you mean by that?” she asked in low, quick tones. The charge was so strangely like that which she was forever formulating against (h}rantley. Now Christine leveled it at er. “You call Grantley selfish,” Christime went on. “You're just as bad yourselt— yes, worse. He is trying to be different, I believe. Oh, I admit the poor man doesn’t do it very well—he gets very little encouragement. But are you try- ing? No! You're quite content with yourself. You've done no wrong. Well, perhaps it was a little questionable to be ready to leave Frank to die! But even that would be all right if only I could understand it!” “You'd better go on now," said Sibyl- la quietly. “Yes, I will go on; I am going on. You were ready to leave the child to die sooner than go on living as you'd been living? Isn’t that how you put it? You were willing to give his life to pre- vent that? Well, are you willing to give any of your own life, any of your way of thinking, any of what you call your nature, or your temperament, or what not? Not a bit of it! You can love Frank when there's no danger of Grantley's thinking it may mean that you could forgive him! As scon as there's any danger of that, you draw back. You uge the unhappy child as a shield between Grantley and yourself, as a weapon against Grantley. Yes, you do, Sibylla. Whenever you're in- clined to relent toward Grantley, you go and sit by that child’e cot and use your love for him to fan your hatred against Grantley. Isn’t that true?” Sibylla sat silent, with attentive frightened eyes. This was a new pic- ture—was it a true one? One feature of it at least struck home with a terribly true-seeming likeness of her own mind. She used her love for her child to fan her hatred against Grantley! ‘“You complain,” Christine went on in calm relentlessness, “of what Grantley is to the child. That’s a sham most of the time. You're thinking of what he is to you. And even where it's true, don’t you do all you can to make him feel as he does? How is he to love what you make the stalking-horse of ‘vour grievances?” She turned on Sibylla scornfully, almost fiercely now. “Your husband, your sonm, the whole world, a;en’t made for your emotions to go sprawling over, Sibylla! You must have caught that idea from young Blake, I think.” She walked off to the window and stood there, looking out. No sound came from Sibylla. Preseptly Christine looked round rather nervously. She had gone a little too far, perhaps! That phrase abott emotions “sprawl- ing” was—well, decidedly uncompro- mising. She met Sibylla’s eyes. They . wore a haunted look—as though some peril walled her in and she found no way to escape. Her voice trembled faltered: “"sl?ret:at what you really think of me, Christine?” “A bruised. reed thou shalt not break.” Christine had the wisdom to remember that. Remorse must lall short of despair, self-knowledge of self-hatred, or there remains no pos- sibility of a rebound to hope and ef- fort. Christine came across to her friend with hands outstretched. “No, no, dear,” she said, “nat you —not vourself! But the mood of yours, the way you're going on. And, true or false, isn't it what you, must make Grantley think?” Sibylla moved her hands in a rest- less gesture, protesting against the picture of herself—even thus soft- ened—denying its truth, faseinated by it. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I don’t know. Christine, it's a horrible idea!” Christine fell on her knees beside her. “If only you hadn't been so absurd- ly in love with him, my dear,” she whispered. CHAPTER XXII Aspiration and Common Sense. Rumeor spoke truly. Young Walter Blake was back In town with an en- tirely new crop of aspirations matur- ing in the ready soil of his mind. The first crop had not proved fortu- nate. It had brought him into a po- sition most disagreeable and humiliat- ing to reflect upon, and into struggles for which he felt himself little - fit. He had been given time to meditate and to cool—to cool even to shuddering when he recalled that night in the Sallors’ Rest and pictured the tragedy for which he had so nearly become re- sponsible. His old desires waning, his aspirations were transfigured at the suggestion of a new attraction. He had been on the wrong tack—that was certain. Again virtue seemed to tri- umph in this admission. He no longer desired to be made good—it was (as he had conceived and attempted it) such a stormy and soul-shaking process. Now he desired to be kept good. He did not now want a guiding star which he was to follow through every peril, over threatening waves and through the trough of an angry sea. The night at the Sallors' Rest disposed of that meta- phor and that ideal. Now he wanted an anchor by whose help he might ride out the storm, or a harbor whose placid bosom should support his gently sway- ing bark. Strength, constancy and common sense supplanted imagination, ardor and self-devotion as the requi- sites his life demanded. Again Caylesham showed tact. He would not' ask the lady’s name. But when Blake next dined with him, he en- joyed the metamorphosis, and silently congratulated Grantley Imason. “So it's St. George, Hanover Square, and everything quite regular this time, is 1t?"” he asked with an indulgent hu- mor. “Well, I fancy you're best suited to that. Only take care!™ “You may be sure that the woman I marry will be—" Blake began. “Perfection? Oh, of course! That's universal. But it's not enough.” He lay back comfortably in his armehair, enjoying his cigar. ‘Not enough, my boy! I may have two horses, and you may have two horses, and each of my horses may be better than either of your horses, but when we come to driv- ing them, you may have the better palr. Two good ‘uns don’t always make a good pair.” He grew quite interested in his snbject—thanks, -perhaps, to thé figure in which_he clothed it. “They've got to match, both in their paces and their ways. They've got to go kindly together, to like the feél of one an- other; don't you know? Each of 'em may be as good as you like single, but they may. make—by Jove, yes!—the devil .of a bad pair! It's double har- ness we're talking about, Blake, my boy. Oh, you may think I know noth- ing about it, but I've seen a bit— Well, that’s not a thing to boast about; but I have seen a bit, you know."” “That’s just.what I've been think- ing,” said youn® Blake sagaciously. He referred to Caylesham’s doectrines, not his experiences. iy “'Oh, you've been thinking, have you?" smiled Caylesham. “Come a mucker then, I suppose?” “I—I miscalculated. Well, we must all learn by experience.” “Deuced lucky if we can! “There’s no other way,” Blake in- sisted. “Have I said there is?" He looked at Blake in an amused knowledge. “Golng in for the straight thing this time?”" Half In pride, haif in shame, Blake answered: “Quite right too!"” Caylesham was very approving. “Well, if. you say so—" began Blake, laughing. “Quite right for you, I méan.” There was a touch of contempt somewhere in his tone. “But don’t. forget what I've been saying. - It's double harness, my boy! Pace, my boy, and temper, and the feel—the feel! All the things a fel- low never thinks about!" “Well, you're a pretty preacher om this subjec “I've heard a lot of things you never have. Oh, well, you may have once, perhaps.” His glance was very acute, and Blake flushed under it. “You’ well out of that affair,” Caylesha went on, dropping his mask of ignor- ance. ““Oh, I don’t want to know how it happened. I expect I ¢an guess.™ “What do you mean?" Blake's voice sounded angry. “You flunked it—eh?"” It was a strong thing to say to a man in your own house. But a sudden gust of impatience had swept Caylesham away. The young man was in the end so contemptible, so incapable of strength, such a blarney over his weak- ness. “Now don't glare at me; I'm not afraid. You tackled too big a job, I fancy. -Oh, I'm not asking questions, you know.” He got up and patted Blake's shoulder. “Don’'t mind me. You're doing quite right. Hope you won't find it impossibly dull!” Blake's bad temper vanished. He be- gan to laugh. “That’s right,” said Caylesham. “I'm too old to convert, and nearly too old to fight; but ['ll be your best man, Walter.” “It'll keep me straight, Caylesham.” “Lard- bless you, so It will!" He c¢huckled in Irrepressible amuse- ment. “The other thing’s mo go!™ = “No more it is. "It needs— No, not going to be immoral any more. ‘Ge ahéad! Yau're made for deuble harness, Walter. Choose her well; you'll have to learn her paces, you khow.” “Or she mine?” Blake was a little on his dignity again. “Have another whisky and soda,™ said Caylesham, with admirable tact. His advice, meant as precautionary, proved provocative. Memory worked with it—the carking memory of a fail-