The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1904, Page 2

ment double Neat begins wels of famous I'he Brethre stor uthor's work story and gangway as a good- Il and and apprehe; struggled for Kate and his s fault vivid in ight, vivid in s something them to re- er-seas, the be between breathed no of love. But assurance of i nad been the yes as she kissed evoked by one wh and Yought. He had to pay most farthing of his debt rose supreme, deeper and tenderer for the grief behind it, for the struggle by which it was won, because it came as a victory after a -heavy fig To Kate it seemed as though he had suffered for their sakes as well as for his own sin, since in sorrow over endured, the utter- t the joy him and his banishment their hearts had come closer together, and love rgigned stronger in their home. A nge remorse struck her and mingled her compassion and her gladness e held her son at arm’s length looked again in his eyes. It was to keep track of these things; to good and the evil worked, stand how no man was unto himself alone, and not to accuse of in- justice the way by which one paid for all, while all sorrowed for one. As they turned away to the carriage Eva touched Jeremy on the arm. He turned to find her smiling, but her lips trembied. If 1 drive back with them, I shall cry, and then I shall look a fright,” she whispered. *‘Besides they'd rather have him to themselves just now. Wil you walk back with me?” 11 right,” said Jeremy curtly. His feelings too had been touched, so0 that his manner was cool and mat- ter-of-fact almost to aggressiveness. He preferred to make nothing at all of walking back with Eva, though the way was long, and the winter sun ehone over the sea and the downs, the wind was fresh and crisp, and youthful blood went tingling through the veins. “It's cold driving, anyhow,” he added, &s an afterthought. , though, or It was in his s chance, if he and to forca 'S mo- But him, erent co- H and it would nds with r his own . And till « ake, to do this to- 1 very he had commanded love to Dora Hutting on )Wns not 80 very long ago. to you to-day because heart to-dav. - You're it's round about us, w in him a | noticed befo pylla’s ardent a emed to speak —our day. And beginning or t question. Wha this is the da y shail be the You know the the answer, Eva? He let go of her hands, and drew back two or three paces. He left her free; if she came to him, it must be of her own motion. “How very peremptory you are!"” she protested. Her cheeks were red now, and the look of sorrow had gone out of her eyes. Her breath came quick, and when she looked at the sea the waves seemed to dance to the liveliest music. At a and land she looked, at the sky and at the w su her glance touched everywhere save where Jeremy stood. The answer!” demanded Jeremy. ent more she waited. Then seeking his face. She n and stood with her by her side. Then d te his face the large, had known and er is ‘Yes,’ Jeremy,” she Il my life and with all my this was the right day! day was right!” she whis- pered, as she sought his arms, A couple of hours later he burst into Grantley Imason's room, declaring that he was the hanpiest man on earth. This condition of his, besides being by no means rare in young men, was not unexpected, and congratulations met the obvious needs of the occasion. Si- bylla, who w: there, was not even very emotional over the matter: the remembrance of Dora Hutting inclined her mind toward the humorous aspect— so hard is.it to appreciate the change- ful processes of other hearts. But Jer- emy himself was excited enough for everybody, and his excitement carried him into forgetfulness of a solemn pledge which he had once given. He wrung Grantley’s hand with a vigor at once embarrassing and painful. erying: “1 owe it all to you! I should never have dared it except for the partner- ship that's coming, and that was your doing. Without your money—' “Damn you, Jerem: said Grantley in a-quiet whisper, rescuing his hand and compassionately caressing it with its uninjured brother. The imprecation seemed to be equally distributed between _Jeremy's two causes of offense, but Jeremy allocated it to one only. “Oh, good Lord!” he said, with a guilty glance at Sibylla. ““What money?” asked Sibylla. She had been sitting by the fire, but rose now, and leant her shoulder against the mantelpiece. Jeremy looked from her to Grantley, “I'm most awfully sorry. I forgot. I'm a bit beside myself, you know.” Grantley shrugged his shoulders rather crossly. “I won't say another word about it.” “Oh, yes, you will, Jeremy.” ob- served Sibylla with a dangerous look. “You'll tell me all about it this mo- ment, please.” W AN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL & “Shall again expect the mischief’s done. now: lost your memory you're going Jeremy turned to Grant- Marrying does make people lose their “w * Sibvlla coldly. Grantley’s brows lifted a little as he.plumped down in a chair with a resigned air. “Tell me what you jmean, Jerem “Well, I had to put money into the busine: if T was ever to be more than a clerk—if T was ever to get a partner- ship, you know.” “And Grantley gave you the money?’ “I'm- going to pay it back when— rse, Jeremy dear. How Grantley lit a cigarette, and came as near looking uncomfortable as the in- grained composure of his manner al- lowed. Five thousand,” said Wasn't it splendid of him? see, I could afford—-"" ve thousand to Jeremy!" said Si- bylla. She turned on ‘Grantley. *‘And how much to John Fanshaw ““You women are all traitors. Chris- tine had no business to say a word. It was pure business; he pays me back regularly. .And Jeremy's going to pay me back, too. Come, I haven't done any harm to either of them.” “No, not to them,” she said. she added to Jeremy: “Go and tell Christine. She’ll be delighted to hear about you and Eva.” “By Jove, 1 wil sorry, Grantley.” ‘“You ought to be. No, you may do anything except shake my hand again.” “I can't help being so dashed jolly, you know ‘With that apology he darted out of the room, forgetting his broken vpledge, intent only on finding other ears to hear his wonderful news. very satisfactory, - isn’t it? asked Grantley. “I think they’ll get on very well you know. He's young, of course, and. 3 1 “Please don’t make talk, Grantley. ‘When did you glve him that money?" “I don’t remember.” “There are bank-books and so on, aren’t there?” “How businesslike you're getting!" “Tell me when, please!” Grantley rose and stood opposite to her, even as they had stood in the inn—at the Sajlors’ Rest at Fairhaven. “I don’t remember the date.” He paused, seemed to think, and then went on: “Yes, I'll tell you, because then you'll' understand. He came to me the morning of the day you—you went over to Fairhaven.” While he was there, Christine’s Jetter came. And I gave him the monéy because I wanted to put you in the wrong as much as I could. Oh, I liked Jeremy, and was willing to help him—just as I was ready.te help old John. But Jeremy,. So you And I say, I'm really Yovxztow 197 QuESIIQLY. | Wirars 7007 ANSWERS, - vaz?” that wasn’t my great reason. My great reason,was to get a bigger grievance against you——for the way you had treated me a to treat me, you kno “If it had been that, you'd have told me—you'd have told me that night in “the inn. You must have known what it would have been to me to hear it then; but you never told me."” *I wouldn’t part with the pleasure of having it against you—or nursing it against you secretly. 1 want you to understand the truth. Are you very angr Sibylla appeared to be angry; there was a dash of red on her cheek: d were going ,'Yes, I'm angry,” she said; “and I've a right to be angry. You're good to John Fanshaw; you're good to Jeremy. Have you been good to me “It was done in malice against you and in a petty mailice, I think now, though 1 didn't think that then “Doing it was no malice to me. You did it in love of me!" Her words were a challenge (o him to deny; and, looking at her, he could not deny. He had never denied his love for her, and he would not now. ‘“The wrong you did me was not in doing it, but in not telling me; yes, not telling me about that, nor about what you did for John Fanshaw. either.” “I couldn’t risk seeming to try to make a claim, especlally when- % “Especially when making a claim on me might have saved me? Is that what you mean? When it might have made all the difference to me and Frank? When it might have turned me back from my madness? All was to go to ruin sooner than that you should risk seeming to make a claim!" ” He attempted no answer, but stood very %till, listening and ready to listen. Her voice lost something of its hard- ness and became more appealing as she went on. ‘“They’'re allowed to know your good side, the kind things you do, how you stand by your friends, how you help people, how you lavish gifts on my brother for my sake. You don’t hide it from them. They know you can love, ard love to give happi- ness. There are only two people who mayn't know—the two people in all the world who ought to know, whose happiness and whose trust in them- selves and in ons another lie in know- ing. They must be hoodwinked and kept in the dark. They're to know nothing of you. For them you find the bad motive, the mean interpreta- tion, the selfish point of view. And you're so ingenious in finding it ‘or them! Grantley, to those two people you've done a great wrong.” He was silent a moment. Then he asked: t ] “To you and the little boy, you me'tfil?" & “No; e's too oung. Any- how I didn't mZm" yl him; wasn't thinking of him. You know that sometimes 1 don't think of him—that sometimes, in love or in hatred, I can think of nothing in the world but you, but you and me. And it's ‘to me and to yourself that you've done the wrong, “To you—and mysel ‘“Yes, ves! Oh, what's the use of doing fine things .if you bury them from me, if you distort them to your- self, if you won't let either me* or yourgelf think them genercus and good? Why must you trick me and yourself, of &ll the world? Oughtn't we to know—oughtn't we of every- body in the world to know? What's the good of kindness if you dress 1t up as selfishness? What's the good of love if you call it malice?” I've spoken the truth as I believed 0, I say no, Grantley! You've spoken it as you would have me be- lieve it, as you try to make yourself believe it. But it's not the truth She came one step nearer to him. * used to pray that you should change,” she said imploringly. “I don’t pray that now. It's impossible. And I don't think I want it. Don’t change; but, oh, be yourself! Be yourself to me and to yourself! You haven't been to either of uws. Open your heart to both of us; let us both know you as you are. o Don’t be ashamed either be- fore me or before yourself. I know I'm difficult! Heavens, aren't you—- even the real you—difficult, too? But if you won't be honest in the end, then God help us! But if you'll be yourself to me and to yourself, then, my dear, I think it would be enough.” He came to her and took her hand. “No man ever loved woman more than I love you,” he said. “Then.try, then try, then try!” she whispered, and her eyes met his. There .seemed in them a far-off gleam of the light which once had blazed from them on the fairy ride. CHAPTER XXVIIL Samples of the Bulk. “You do think they'll be happy?” Mrs. Selford asked a little apprehen- sively. Her manner craved reassur- ance. “Why put that question to me—to me of all people? Is it on the prin- ciple of knowing the worst? If even a cynic like me thinks they'll be happy, the prospect will be very prom- ising—is that it?” “Goodness knows I don’t expect the ideal. I've never had it myseif. Oh, I don’t see why I need pretend with .y¥ou, and I shouldn't deceive you if I did. I've never had the ideal myself and T don’t expect it for Anna. We've seen too much in our sat to expect the jdeal. And sometimes I can’t quite make Anna out” Mrs. Selford was evidently uneasy. - “She gets on better with her father than with me now, and —— I thing I get on better with Walter than richard does.” “Young Walter has a way him,” smiled Caylesham. 3 “I hope we shan’t get into opposite camps and quarrel. - Richard and I have been such good friends lately. And then, of course * She hesi- tated a little. “Of course there may be a slight awkwardness here and th 0 Caylesham understood the covert al- lusion; the marriage might make mat- ters difficult with the Imasons. “The young folks will probably make their own friends. Our old set’'s rather broken up one way and the with other, isn’t it? Not .that I was ever a full member of it.” “We've always been glad to see you,” she murmured absently. “On the whole I feel equal to en- couraging you to a certain extent,” he said, standing before the fire. “Anna will be angry pretty often, but I don’t think she will be, or n be, unhappy. She doesn’'t take things to heart too readily, does she?” No, she doei\ t. The. assent ardly sounded like praise of her daughter. “Well, that's a good thing. And she’s got lots of pluck and a will of her own.” “Oh, yes, she’s got that!” “From time to time he’ll think himself in love with somebody. You're prepared for that, of cours But it's only his way. .She’ll have to in- dulge him a little—let the string out a little here and there; but she’ll al- ways have him under control. Brains do count, and she’s got them all. And she won't. expect romance all the time.” “You said you were going to be encouragin am being encouraging,” Cayle- sham insisted. y“Oh, I shouldn’t think it so bad if we were talking about myself. Eut ‘when it's a question of one’s child—" “One is always unreasonable? Pre- cisely. The nature of the business isn't going to change in the next generation. But I maintain that I'm encouraging—for Anna, anyhow. I rather fancy Master Blake will miss his liberty more than he thinks. But that'll be just what he need So from a moral int of view I'm ep- couraging there, too.” “Of course you don’t understand the feeling of responsibility, the fear that if ghe's the—the least bit hard, it may be because of her bringing up.” “Don’t be remorseful, Mrs. Seiford. It's the most unprofitable of emotions.” He had preached the same doctrine to Christine. “When it's too late to go back?” “And that's always.” .He looked down at her with a cheerf smile. “That's for your private ear. Don't tell the children. great on remorse.’ I’ Selford laughed rather . rue- ‘Walter Blake's quite fully “I suppose it'll turn out as well as most things. Do you know any thoroughly happy couples?” = “Very h: to say. One isp't be- But I'm inclined to isies aren’t for perma- hind the scenes. think I do. Oh, ec this' world. you knew—not nent ecstasies. You might as well have permanent Hysterics! And, as you're aware, there are no marriages in heaver o perhans there’s no heaven in marriage either. That would seem to be plausible reasoning, wouldn't it? But they'll be all right; they'll learn one another’s paces. “I can’t help wishing she sgemed more in Jove.” “Perhaps she will be when he flirts with somebody else. Don't frown. I'm not a pessimist. If I don't always look for happiness by the ordinary roads, I often discern it along quite unexpected routes.” “It's pleasant to see people start by being, in love.” “How eternally sentimental we are! es, it is. But capacities differ. I she doesn’t know she's deficient he certainly won't imagine that her mother has given her away. I suppose 1 deserve tnat, but I had to talkk to somebody. And really it's best to choose a man; sometimes it stops there then.” . “Why not your husband? No? Ah, he has too many opportunities of re- minding you of the indiscretion! You were quite right to talk to'me. We shall lock on at what happens with all the greater interest because we've discugsed it. And, as I've 'sald, I'm decidedly hopeful.” “We might have developed her affec- tions when she was a child. I'm sure we might.” “Oh, I shall go! clergyman!” Mrs. Selford shook her head sadly, even while she smiled. She could not be beguiled from her idea, nor from the remorse that it brought. The pic- ture, the dogs, and sentimental squab- bling with her husband had figured too largely in the household; she connected with this fact the disposition which she found in Anna. “B-ing a bit hard isn't a bad thing for vour happiness,” Caylesham added as a last consolation. Anna herself came in. No conscious- ness of deficiency seemed to afflict her; she felt no need of a development of her affections or of being more in love with Walter Blake. On the contrary, she exhibited to Caylesham's shrewd eyes a remarkable picture of efficiency and of contentment. She had known what she wanted, she had ‘discerned what means to use in order to get it, and she had achleved it. A perfect self- confidence assured her that she would be successful in dealing with it; her serene alr, her trim figure and decisive movements gave the impressian that here at léast’ was a mortal who if she did not deserve success could command it. Caylesham looked on her with ad- miration—rather that than liking—as he acknowledged her very considerable qualities. The thing which was want- ing was what in a picture he would have called ‘“‘atmosphere.” But here again her luck came in, or, rather, her clear vision; it was not fair to call it luck. The man she had pitched upon —that was fair, and Caylesham de- clined to withdraw the expression—at the time when she pitched upon him, was in a panic about “atmosphere.” He had found too much of it elsewhere and was uneasy about it in himself. He was not asking for softness, for ten- derness, for ready accessibility to emo- tion or to waves of feeling. Her clever. ness had turned to account even the drawback which made Caylesham, in the midst of his commendation, con- scious that he would not choose to be her husband — or, perhaps, her son either. “You'll make a splendid head of the family,” he told her cheerfully. “You'll keep them all In most excellent order.” She chese to consider that he had ex- ercised a_ bad influence over Walter Blake, and treated him distantly. Cay- You send for a lesham suppc of her implied ck “You're not fond of exce Anna's disa ed; it increasec life which lay before r Blake would want to ¢ order sor he w in that pr extent £ by his re: in his b Bri I buc that mor: world when awaited Walt had not a ter Blake ac enthusjasm? was not bulk of went away it, in t palled at it. It s but perhaps his i inhuman; manity had gone a trifle far in the op- posite direction. And, after all, could not Walter Blake supply the other element? There was lenty of softness about nim, and the of 1 g were by no means ing in frequency or volur sidering this question, Cay fessed himself rather at a would have to wailt and lock on. But would he hear or see much? Anna had evidently put him under a ban, believed that her edicts would obtain obedience in the future. So far as he could see now, he had a vision of wavyes stilled to rest, of the gle: frost forming upon them, of an bound sea. Now he felt it in his he to be sorry for young Blake. Not cause there was any injustic ¥ prec He was al they e 1 wisdom he ¢ greeting. in the turm go to a reduce the ¢ the worri of compara little left stabli fa Ha t's m besides 1 v dowry—were accepted by Tom cheerfully, the children wi glee; they hted to be t that there pore ‘men ser vants and fewer 1 would have to lea as possible 1 of “this hich t he shadow Harriet's door at ni gh Si pered in de to Cayle Tom him med more sprightly; and he of his lit His gr lines on hi and the e on Sophy’s brow spoke of which had been; but the sorrow given place to peace—and it might that some day peace would turn to j For there was much youth there, a where youth is, joy must come, if only it be given a fair chance. ‘“We're rather in narrow circum- stances, of course,” Tom explained when Suzette and the children were out of earshot. “That's because I made such an ass of myself. “Well, don’t be hard on Flora. was a good friend to you.” “I'm not blaming her; it's myself, Frank. I ought to have remembered the children. But we can rub along, and perhaps I shall get a berth so day.” Caylesham did not think that pros- pect a very probable one, but he dis- sembled and told Tom that his old po- litical friends ought certainly to do something for him: it never came to an absolute did 1t? had he ¢ row, ,"" sighed Tom, with a relapse into despondency. W you won't starve,” Cayle- sham said with a laugh. “I reckon you must have about a thousand a year?” “It's not much; but—well, I tell you what, Frank, Suzette Bligh's pretty nearly as good as another five hundred, and I only pay her seventy pounds a year. You wouldn’t believe what a manager that little woman jis. She makes everything go twice as far as it did, and has the house so neat, too. Upon my soul, I don't notice any dif- ference, except that I've dropped my champagne.” “Well, with champagne what it most- ly is nowadays, that's no great loss, my boy, and I'm glad you've struck it rich with Miss Bligh." “We should be lost without her. I don’t know what the children would do, or what I should do with them, but for her. One good thing poor Harrlet did, anyhow, was to bring her here.” Yes; but if Harrlet had known how it was to fall out, had foreseem how Suzette was to reign in her stead, and with what joy the change of govern» ment would be greeted! Caylesham imagined, with a conseious faintness of fancy, the tempest which would have ariseri, and how short a shrift would have been meted out to Suzette and all her adherents. He really hoped that poor Harriet, who haa suffered enough for her faults, was not In any position in which she could be aware of what had happened; it would be to her (un- less some great transformation had been wrought) too hard and unendura- ble a punishment. “The children are changed ecreatures, Frank,” Tom went on. “We don't try to repress them, you kmow. That would be hypocrisy, wouldn't it, under the circumstances? The best thing is for them to forg Suzette says so, and T quite agree. Suzette, it seemed, could achieve epitaph of stinging quality—qu without meaning it, of cours sham agreed that the best girls could do was to ferget mother. “So we let them make a row, a an thing their they're to go out of mourning very soon. That's what Suzette advis. A mereiful Providence must spare peor Harriet th he was to be for- gotten—almost by a violent process of obliteration: and this bv Suzette’s de- cree—an all-powerful decree of gentle inconspicuous Suzette’s.