The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 18, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO instailment Anthony H ol romanc s cver held quite that was 1 ) of Mr. Maggard. It Ay 1 Iments. ¥y ceased where use Rest a had Sallors Sibylla ainst him ess Of her heart. Y where the truth id up a torch to ligh: eet. r light had made pl st the woman upstairs. e had been neec ay she trod, s turbid darknese of saw now where sh e seemed no goin to swell which overwhelmed ht her eyes look like hell, for she was and sympathy. severed all a human being solitary brute. There g them. Nobody would nobody could endure went If had = se eby 3 she was a thing of nd of fear. Even Suzette k while she rved, and she ministered. Her not trust himself in er. and she could not roc with her chil- rowest luck she was n the hearts of all, heart, she seemed a & people who were the ar 1 thing—because of se vghts had been in her e night before and all the 4 not consort with sleep with peaceful rove her to wild and weeping and chained her ir, 80 1 that showed life and left the little y external punish- at any public went deeper than tha not the body, but the ing not the verdict of 1 of herself and of na- iexorable law. They displayed ogression of evil—weakness to vice, vice turning to crime, the good—till she g horrible to those ible and incredible even And there was no g back at all. Her will had not hope in hte were on her feet r down the abyss, which en and revealed before her had persuaded her to un- 1 go to bed. She must sleep would go mad with the But where was sleep with f their sting? She had old ally—and had re- Then she would fling bed and try to think Exasperation drove in and she paced the room ir, cursing herself ot sleep, exclaim- & against their tortures, refusing the quisition to which they subjected er. Then— k to bed again for an- ther futile effort, another cry of de- pair, or she of wild impatience, rce unavailing struggle against her ormentors, new visions of what she of what her life must be. s was not a thing that she would endure; nobody could endure it and keep senity. It should be ended! Her fierce, deflant fury rose yet once more; emper which had wrought all the mity was pot tamed by it in the She turned to her drug again. knew there was no danger in bys she put the notion behind her scornfully. Why, the stuff would not even make her sleep! Could it hurt her when it could not even give leep? That was nonsense, stupid e. She would have sleep. Na- ell victim to her rage now; she beat nature down by her fury, as =he had been wont to beat down alt opposing wills. She had listened to nothing in her tempests. Now she rose again to the whirlwind of passion, denying what she knew, refusing to look at jt. Kill herself? Not she! Yet if she did, what matter? = yvthing to look for in life? Would anybody grieve for her? It would be a riddance for all of them if she died. But she wouldn’t die. No danger of that—and no such luck, either! Each dose left her more pitiably b © = T b t would vake, more gruesomely alert more hideously acute to feel 1g of those torturing thoughts. wide-a dosze Indeed! No 'dose, it C 4 serve even to dull the s of her mordant refiections. would have sleep—at all s ep! She cursed herself vile- because she could not Sleep. Thus came, as of old, now for the madness and blindness rage which forgot all st time, the thrown bac eyes turned up to above the clothes nightgown throat. Suzette n a dressing gown over her n breast to feet. She looked he: was rfully ha she lay so still, so p like some endid animal in a reaction .of ex- ion after s drew near. to him at once. ge grand exertion The two stood and looked at Harriet. At last he turned to Sugette He found her very pale, te calm. Mr. Imason,” Suzette he asked. An overdose of chloral. She often E it—and of course she likely to want a sleep- last night.” she would. Her > much upset.” met—=Suzette’'s seemed do you think?” asked Grant- a whisper., I really don’t know. She would really have been quite likely to take too much. She would bé impatient if it didn’t act quickly, you know.” Yes, yes, of course she would. Have you sent for the doctor?” “'Oh, yes, directly I found her—be- fore 1 But I've done g and--and there’s not the She stopped suddenly, and for several seconds. Then aid quietly and calmly: “There’s ast chance, Mr. Imason.” Gr knew what word she had rejected in favor of ‘“‘chanc and hy the word had seemed inappropri- He acknowledged the justice of ;1)1‘: rhax;ge with a mournful gesture of is_hands. , we can never know whether it accidental or not,” he said, as bhe turned to leave the room. “No, we can never know that,” said Suzette. How w should they know? Harriet Courtland had not known herself. As alway S0 to the end, her fury had been blind, and had destroyed her blindly. She had struck at herseif as recklessly as at her child; and here her blew had killed. Her rage had run its final course, and for the last time had its way. She slept And while she slept, waking to the life of her home was new day. CHAPTER XXIV. Picking Up the Pieces. The calamity at the Courtlands’ struck on all their acquaintance like a nip of iey wind, sending a shudder through them, making them, as it were, huddle closer about them the protecting vesture of any hope or any happiness that they had. The outrage on the child stood out horrible in the light of the mother’s death: the death of the mother found an appalling explanation in the child’s plight. ‘Whether the death were by a witting or an unwit- ting act seemed a small matter; dark- ness and blindness had fallen on the unhappy woman before the last hours, and somehow in the darkness she had passed away. There was not lacking the last high touch of tragedy; the catastrophe which shocked and awed was welcome too- It was the best thing that could have happened. Any end was better than no end. To such a point of hopelessness had matters come, in such a fashion Harriet Court- land had used her life. The men and women who had known her, her ‘kin- dred, her friends and her household, all whom nature had designed to love her, while they shuddered over the manper of her going, sighed with relief that she was gone. The decree of fate had fllled the page, and it was finished; but their minds still tingled from it as they turned to the clean sheet and prayed a kinder message. Grantley Imason, so closely brought in contact with the drama, almost an eye-witness of it, was deeply moved, stirred to fresh feelings, and quickened to a new vision. The devastation Harriet had wrought, Tom's cow- ardly deurx., the itiable plight of the children, grou; them- selves together and took on, as another of their company, the neightened and freshened impression of stale senti- “could be QG No, iz, arar ALL NIGHT —ALL %% THE, WHOLF. NIGHT GRANTLEY PROMISED. ~— - mentality and a_self-delusion trivial to vulgarily, which he had carried away from his encounter with Walter Bla To all this there seemed one through it all one thread ran. He felt this in the recesses of his mind, and his fingers groped'after the guid- ing line. That must be found, lest, treading blindly through the labyrinth, he and his too should fall Into the pit whence there was no upward way. They had been half over the brink once; a preternatural effort—so it might properly be called—had pulled them back; but they were still on the treacherous incline. Out of his somber and puzzled re- fiections there sprang—suddenly as it scemed, and in answer tc his cry for guidance—an enlightening pity—pity for his boy, lest he also ghould bear on his brow the scar of hatred, almost as plain to as the visible mark which was to. stamp little Sophy’s for evermore—and pity for Sibylla, because her empty heart had opened to 80 poor a tenant; in very hunger she had turn- ed to Blake. He no longer rejected the hope of communion with the immature infantile mind of his son; he ceased to laugh scornfully at a love dedicated to such a man as Waiter Blake., A new sympathy with his boy—even such as he had felt for Tom Courtland’s lit- tle girls—spurred him to fresh efforts to understand. Contempt for his wife’'s impulsive affections gave way to com- passion as his mind ‘dwelt not on what she had done, but on what had driven her to do it—as he threw back his thoughts from the unworthy satisfac- tion her heart had sought to the straits of starvation which had made any sat- isfaction seem so good. This was to look, in the end, at himself, and to the task of studying himself he was now thrust back. If he could not do that, and do it to a purpose, desolation and pitiableness such as he had witnessed and shuddered at stood designated as the unalterable future of his own home, Then, at last, he was impatient; his slow persevering campaign was too irksome, and success delayed seemed to spell failure. The time comes when no man can work. The darkness might fall on his task still unperformed. He became afraid and therefore impatient. He could not wait for Sibylla to come to him. He must meet her—in some- thing more than civility, in something more than a formal concession of her demands, more than an acquiescence which had been not untouched by irony and by the wish to put her in the wrong., He must forget his claims and think of his needs. His needs came home to him now; his claims could see wait. as his needs cried out there daw: in him a glow of anticipation. ‘What would it not mean if the needs tisfled? - He stayed in London for Harriet Courtland’s funeral and in the evening went down to Milldean, & sharper sdge given to-his thoughts by the sight of Tom and the two little girls (Bglyhy could not come) following Harriet's coffin to the grave. Christine Fan- shaw was in the carriage which met him at the station and was his com- panion on the homeward drive. The Courtland calamity had touched her -there was v, too, but touched her to bitter- if indeed her outward bearing could be taken as a true index of her mind. She bore herself aggressively toward fate and its lessons; an in- creased acidity of manner condemned the follies of her friends; she dropped no tears over their punishment. Still there was very likely scmething else beneath; she had not heard from John since she came down to Milldean. “How have you been getting on?" Grantley asked, as he took the reins and settled himself beside her. “We've done excelle; i went away. Of course, W about this horrible business, but— “Otherwise you've done very well?” he smiled. “Oh, yes, very!" ince 1 went away since you went away,” Christine repeated. _ “Perhaps it's not a very good thing for me to come back?” “We c¢an hardly banish your own house.” The concession was grudging. Grant- ley laughed, and the tone of his laugh brought her eyes sharply round to his face. “You seem very cheerful,” she re- marked, with an accusing air. “No, I'm not that exactly: but I've got an idea—and that brightens one up a bit, you know."” you from “Any change does that” Christine admitted waspishly. “I saw John for a minute. He looked a bit worried. Does he complain?” He hasn’t complained to me. “Oh, then it's all right, I suppose, And he says the business is all right, anyhow. How's the boy?” “As merry and jolly as he can be.” es, Sibylla, too, as merry as pos- sible.” “They both have been, you mean?” “Yes, of course I do.” “While I've been away?” “Yes, while you've been away.” Grantley laughed again. Christine looked at him in dawning wonder. She had expected nothing from this drive but a gloom deepening—or at least a constraint increasing—with every yard they came nearer to Milldean. But -new. . With some regret she recognized that her acidity, her harping on ce you went away.” had not formed the best prelude to ~questioning or much of an invitation to confidence; and it had, moreover. falled in its primary-purpose of annoy- ing_Grantley by its implied comment on his conduet. Her voice grew softer, and, with one of her coaxing little :’ldakl. she edged herself closer to his R “Any good news among 2l the bad, Grantley 7" “There's no good news yet,” said he. Granf L ? Yot tley “I'm not to talk any more. That os-%ovf ?-‘n young 'un, and—"" “It's something to have a ‘vet’ in life again,” she half whispered. * ‘Yet’ seems to imply 4 future—a change, per- haps!"” “'Do you want a change, too?” “Oh, come, you're not so dull have to ask that!” “You've told me nothing.” “And I won't. But I'll ask you question—if you'll leave it at that.” ““Well, what's the question?" “Did John send his love to me?" Grantley looked at her a moment and smiled deprecation. “It would have been tactful to invent the message.” smiled Christine. “I'm getting a bit out of heart with tact, Christine.” “Quite so, my dear man. And get out of patience with some other things. too. if you can. Your patience would try Job—and not only from jealousy, either.” Grantley’s only answer was a reflect- ive smile. “And what about Tom Courtland? she went on. “Is he with the children?” “No, he's living at the club.” “Hum! At the club officially?" “You're malicious—and you outrage as to one proper feeling. At the club really, Christine. He feels a bit lost, I fancy. I think it rather depends on some- body else now. He's a weak chap, poor old Tom.” “You're full of discoveries about people to-day. Any other news?” £ none. you see, I've heard from Janet ““Will you consider my remarks about your remarks as repeated—with more emphasis?"” “Oh, yes, I will! You're talking more as you used to before you were mar- ried.” “That’s a compliment? I expect so— coming from a woman. Christine, have you read Sibylla Janet Selford’s let- ter?” “Parts of it.” “I wish you hadn’t. I didn’t want her to kno I saw the fellow there—with Anna.” “Anna’s a very clever girl. me great credit.” “I should wait a bit to claim it, if I e you. I'm sorry you told Sibylla.” f you're going to be generous as well as patient, there’s an end of any {:hnnce of your turning human, Grant- P She does w “You're quite good company to-day.” ‘“I'm always ready to Dbe:; but cne can’t manage it without some help.” “Which you havem't round in my house?” RPL “Yes, L have—since yon wentawsy.” But sHe said it this timein a differ- ent way, with a hint, perhaps an ap- peal, in her upturned sleeve—almost like the delicate soft pat of a kitten's paw, as 3\!11!1:. as timid, and as ven- turous. irantley turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were bright and e T, “We've actually begun ant,” he said, smiling. “Yes, almost to enjoy ourselves. Wf:lndertnl! But we're not at the house vet!™ “Not quite!” he said. His face set again in firm lines, “You'd so much better not look so serious about it. That’s as bad as your old County Council!” to be plens; “Are you quite sure you understand the case?” “Meaning the woman? Oh, no! She's difficult. But 1 understand that, when one thing’s failed utterly, you don't risk much by trying another.” They came to the top of the hill which runs Gown to Milldean. Christine sighed. “Poor o!d Harriet!* She was a jolly vou know, and so handsome! »od times with Harri is at peace, Gr ley She said he. “She has paid for was and did. I hope she’ s grew dreamy; her to a gentle murmur. I wornder if te silly to faney that she’s pald of us too, Grantley thing like that ‘Poor old Harr: “I daresay that it seems s Just once again h vety touch Grantley misconc ter ents a iled In the first Bla d vengeful lif stivred to see ance of the of which ha how she ¥ fate- of ‘the a poignant taking truth 2 1sing her daintily ind the trenchant uncompro- words from whick the utterer had afterward recoiled as too coarse and crude to be a legitimate weapon of attack. The logic events was not so squeamish; it does in glosses or in paraphrase; E naked and merciless, and must be only when all other appeals and v ings have failed does its appointed w begin. It fastened with what almo seemed malicious glee on Christine’s biting word, and enforced it by a piti- less viv , an unceasing echo in Stby ts. Her emo- tions had gone awling” over every- thing. The description did not peed It w s abominably " ex- ufficient. And it did not ding or of extenuation touching, on one extr allow and spurious s the other, Harriet urtland’s e of anger. It pointed ion to the ruin of Tom’ It stripped he: of their gar , in the revul r feelin bereft of all beauty and attractiven Impelled to look back, she seemed to find the s » trail over everything— in childish days which b dingfold had once n tion that would not hay even in the beginn' leaving re- a descri assured her acquaintance with Grantley in the ready rapture of her first love, in the intoxication of the fairy ride. Changing its form. now hostile to he husband instead of with him, the same temper showed in all the events which led up to the birth of little Frank: its presence proved that her madness over Blake was no isolated incident, but rather the crown of her development and the truest interpreter of a char- acter empty of worth, strength, a- bility. Many bitter hours brought her to this recognition; but when light came, the very temper she condemned was in her still, and turned the cool- ness of recognition and analysis into an extravagant heat of scorn and seif- contempt. What was the conclusion? Was she to throw elf at Grantley's feet, proclaiming penitence, imploring par- don, declaring love? N s % would be so easy, so short , so satisfying to her roused f She put the notion from her in ings. horror; it was the suggestion of her old devil in a new disguise. Her love for Grantley had bitten too deep into her nature to be treated like that, with that levity and frivolity of easy | pulse, that violence of headstrong emo- tion, those tempests of feeling so re- mote from true sincerity of heart. The cure did not lie in pampering sick emo- tions into a plump semblance 4 healthy life. Where did it lie, if it were nossible at all? It must lie in the most difficult of all tasks—a change rot of other people or of their bear- ing and feelings toward her, but a change of herself and of her own at- titude toward others and toward the world, and in her judgment and her ruling of herself. If.things were to go differently with her, she must be dif- ferent. The arrogance of her nature must be lowered. The thoyght struc! on her almost with despair. So hard seemed the lesson, so rough the path. And it seemed a path which must be trodden alone. It was not as the easy pleasant road of emotion. beguiled by enchanting companionship, strewn with the flowers of fancy, carpeted with pleasure. This way ,was hard, bleak, and solitary. Merely to con- template it chilled her. Even that happiness with her child, which had so struck Christine and afforded matter for one of these keen thrusts at Grant- ley Imason, appeared to her in a sus- piclous guise. She could not prevent it nor forego it—nature was too strong; but she yielded to it with qualms of conscience, and its innocent delights were spollt by the voice of self-aceu- sation and distrust.’ Could it be real, genuine, true, in the woman who h.d deserted the child and been indifferent to his fate? Both penitents, both roused to self- examination, Grantley Imason and his wife seemed to have exchanged parts. Each suffered an character, yet of sought and desired sc had appeared to: dese when displayed by the own propensities and to an extreme, had threatened they erected the opposit mind into a standard, inversion, if t mood and sought to conform their conduct thereto cost of violence to themselfes It med strange, yet it was the nat effect of the fates and the n menis which they had seen wor and dis; yed before their ey such > touch withy them, img so sharply en their own destini Sibylla had net been at hem v Grantley arrived. She met Him f in the nursery, when she went to se little Frank at his tea. No mood, be it what it would, could make Gra ley a riotous romping companio child; that effort was beyon But to-day he played with h son with a new sympathy; talked him with a pleasant stirred the youth nd listened to his b a kindly quizzic to ¢ th gravity w! curious a i encourage e little fellow. « ley had never before found so muct £ ring intelligence. He forgot cuick development which even weeks bring at such a time of lif: t all the difference down to a that r by re had he ! for what he mow. found so ready so obvious. Anything he did not for himself the nurse was eager point out, and ith the ald of enthusiastic signpost Grantley covered the road to understa very readily. He and the boy out doubt, enjoying one another’s ety when Sibylla came in She stood in the doorway, wa with an aching heart for the ing, for of interest shown in old days. He gave her a chee: went on pl sistibly drawn Something was a few this dis- wer a withdrawal of even Grantley ha It st did not coume recognition Frank. 1 struggling atly waving arms f low, and no S asking for an e had gone inte the other reom 1 about the preparations for th Sibylla took Frank in her arms “I know v reans,” > sh proudly. Her eves met fixed very inte “I don't,” he 8 for a man to learn these His tone and words we were ev nocking, but the mockery which hurts. She flushed a little “You'd like to learn?” “Shall we try to teach hi teach him your ccd “T'I! watch you with him.” For a moment she looked at him ap pealingly, and then knelt on the fl and arrang the toys as Frank ha wanted them. The little fellow laugh in triumph “How did you know?” asked Grant- ley *ve not lost that knowledge—no, I haven’t,” she answered almost in a whisper. The scene was a spur to his n stirred s He had rejoice his wife before now; but the had always hung about the cot, so th he had not rejoiced nor gloried in t meother of his child. His heart was full as he sat and watched the mother and tke child. “You've got to watch him very care- fulty still; but he's getting ever sc much more—more- “Lucid?” Grantley irg. “Yes,” she laughed, “and, If po ble, more imperious still. I believe going to be like you in that.” “Oh, not like me, let's hope!” He laughed, but there was a look of pain on his face. Sibylla turned round to him and spoke in a low voiee, lest by chance the nurse should hear. You mustn’t be sure I agree alto- gether with that,” she said, and turned swiftly away to the child again. Grantley rose “Lift him up to me and let me kiss him,” he said. With grave eyes Sibylla obeyed el suggested, s But the natural man is net easily subdued, nor does he yleld his place readily. In the end Grantley w. The Oec- apt at explanations or apologie evening fell fair and still, a fine tober night, and he joined Sibyl the garden. Christine remained ins —from t, perhaps, though she was very likely chilly, too. Grantley smoked in silence, while Sibylla looked down on the little village below. “This thing has shaken me up dread- fully,” he said at last. “The Court- lands, I mean.” “Yes. I know.” - She turped and \ faced him. “And isn’t there something else that concerns you and me?"” “I kpow of nothing. And you can hardly say the Courtlands comncern exactl They do; and else, Grantley. I Selford wrote.” “That’s nothing at all to me.” “But it is something to me know it is." “T wen't talk of that. It's no He put his hand out suddenly t “Let's be friends, Sibylla.” She did not take his hand, looked at him with a friendly “We really ought to try to that, oughtn’t we? For Frank’ it for nothing else. Or do you I've no right to talk about Frank “Suppose we don't talk about at all? I'm not anxfous to. “It'll be hard: but we'll try friends for his sake—that he may hav 2 happy home.” Grantléy's heart was stirred within him. “That’s good, but is that asked in a low volce full of feel “Is it all over for ourseives” Can't we be friends for our own sakes?” “Haven't we lost—well, not the right —Iif vou don’t like that—but er there is somet know what to be the pow- “I'm an obs know that very well. “It'l be hard—for both of us; yes, we'll try.” She gave him her hand to bind the bargain: he gripved it with an intensi- ty that surprised and alarmed her. She could see his eyes through the gloom Were they asking friendship only” There was more than that in his heart and in his eves—a thing never dead in him. It had sprung to fresh vigor mow, from the lessons of, calamity, fromsthe nate you but,