The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1904, Page 3

tty bad. Harriet, king abc and, I can't bear and not Ut myself,” said rubbing his bristly t of it's over now. w, Frank, and at were always fond of going to get along first-rate,” r 3 nd min to you. e that Frank. You tuck to me aropping ir I should I? as the minor 11 her—well, Good-by, so cheerful.” 3 say still stand- g a hand round the , and pur~ own mind g ¥ €orry that take it. Indeed, John's unusually acute kim. Nor could in the tact with steered the course ceuld not avoid John he must more accom- d wish to be con- hypoc ite d so W that ed into such sit- been obliged to lie had not come explicit wolNds. € experience and patiently as he walk- urred to him that > was in its own nature and risky a thing as he had cided it was hardly fair for to step tn and compli- more He bhad to get at any mind resembling penitence by 3 of his own; the ordinary ap- proaches were overgrown and impa; from peglect. But in view John's distress and of the pain ich had come on Christine, and on a tion of the unpleasant. perfec- of art which he himseif had been elled (and able) to exhibit, he achieved the impression that he had better have left such things alone— well, at any rate where honest old duffers like John Fanshaw were in- wvoived in the case. Having got so far, hg might not un- meturally heve considéred whether he should remodel his way of life. But he was not the man to suffer a sud- den conversion under the stress of emo- tion or of a particular impression. His unsparing clearness of vision and hon- esty of intellect forbade tha®. 1 shall get better when I'm too old for anything eise,” he told himself with a rather bitter smile. “I suppose I it to_thank God that the time's not far cff now.” It was not much of an effort in the way of that unprofitable emotion agai.st which he had warned Christine Fanshaw and Janet Selford; but it was enough to make him take a rather dif- ferent view, if not of himself, at least of old John Fanshaw. He decided that he had been too hard on John: and at the back of his mind was a notion that he had been rather hara on Christine, too. In this case it seemed to him that getting off too che.ply. John istine were paying all the biil ast a disproportionate amount upshot of i s expressed in exclamation: want the vld John I wish tc me wou r for a little is probabie, did not lead ion, that he, and from a bulk e in antity. Where vrefer that the people d shouid turn out to njury somebody. CHAPTER XXVIIIL To Life and Light Again. th -a th Milldea ve of Dora Hutting's g in itself quite enough 1 unwonted s d about t Kate not could excite mpathetic. between Into this diplomatic accom- s tactful und possible d be laughed oblivion the underlying < couwld not but her's ss. For ave been faithful if and Dora ccuid mnot fact of her having her own feelir ordinary rapidity d been abie to n professedly so Christine warned : that—except antley toid Jeremy 1 girls were e. So pea was ob- very cordial peace, satirical remarks which the entitled to miake privately ng on the face of the for- ngs nei h at the and looked down on Old Mill Twenty-four hours before Mrs. d started on -her journ and Jeremy had escorte The fat old weman ensive and tremulous; iooks and the fit n: full of question- which she t to smile ed o tude des- waiting, how- d of all satis- _pleasure, con- & the pain and r death. Yet nature a pa- she crave gave, a had thought of “herself because, un- had allowed had been ready, d twiste: for w na( *"- not fication gainst it drd n d it Th ood _had st she saw t it would there now hope? » protest » back, to retrace the steps so confiden taken, to real- ize that she, too, had been wreng. was the lesson? It one form or another the Courtland had been strong encugh to thwart the evil fate; from Raymores, where trust, bruised, had redeemed a boy's good; even from Chr waited in secret hope; above the quarter whence she had for it—frem Grantley him- om no effort was too great, never lost confidence, who had in- lacked understanding, but had s lacked courage; who now, with opened and at her bidding, was avoring the hardest thing a man can do—was tr¥ing to change himself, to look et himself with another’s eyes, to remodel himself by a new standard. to count as faults what he had cher- ished as virtues, to put in the fore- most place, not the qualities which had been his pets, his favorites, his ideals, but those which another asked from him, and which he must do him- self a viclence to display. Had she no corresponding effort to make? She could not deny the accusation. with her also to try. John Fanshaw found it sorely diffi- cult, grossly against his prejudices, and even in conflict with principles which he held sacred, to belittle his grievance or tc let it go. Sibylla was very fond of her grievances, too. She was asked to look at them with new eyes, to think of them no more as outrages, as stones of stumbling and rocks of offense. She was asked to consider her grievances as opportunities. That was the plain truth about it, and it invoived so much recantation, such a turning upside down of old notions, such a fall for pride. It was very hard to swallow. Yet unless it were swallowed, where was hope? And if it were swallowed, what did it It lay But it was hard. mean? An experiment—only another difficult experiment. For people are not changed readily, and cannot be changed altogeth Difficuities would remain—would remain always; the vain ideal which had once guverned all her acts and thoughts would never be real- ized. She must not be under auy de- lusion as to that. She turned to find Grm!ley beside her, and he gave her a telegram ad- dressed to her. She opened it with a word of thanks, “From John Fanshaw!” she exclaim- ed eagerly. “He's coming down here to-night!” “Well, you told him to wire when- ever he fourd M could get down, didn’t you?" es, of course. But—but what does it mean?” He smiled at her. “I'm not suyrprised. Christine had a letter from him this morning. I saw the handwriting. I'm taking a very sympathetic interest in Christine, so I lock at the handwriting on her let- ters. And she’s been in a state of sup- pressed excitement all the morning. I've noticed that—with a sympathetic interest. Sibylla.” “I think I ought to go and see her.” Not just yet, please! Oh, yes, I hope il be a good day for her! And it'll be a great day for your poor cld Mum- ples, won’t it? T hope Mr. Mumple will behave nicely. Oh, so do I, Sibylla. I'm taking a very sympathetic inter- est in the Mumples also, Sibylla. Like- with my whole heart!” wise in Dc nd her young man, and Jeremy and his young woman. Oh, and he Raymores and Charl Anybody e Sibylla lcoked at him reprovingly, but a smile would tremble about the corners of her mouth. “You see, I've been thinking. over what you said the other da; Grantley went on with placid gravity, “and I've made up my mind to come and tell you whenever 1 do a decent thing or have an honest emction. I shan’t like say- ing it at 211, but you'll like hearing it awfully.” “Some people would be serious about . considering—well, considering every- a remarked, turning her smile—and you've an adorable smile; and they wouldn't see the flash in your eyes—and you've such wonderful eyes, Sibylla. He delivered these slatemems with a happy simplicity. “You're not imposing on me,” she said. *“I know you mean it Her voice trembled just a little. “And per- haps that's the best way to tell me.” “On the other hand, I shall become a persistent and accomplished hypocrite. You'll never know how I grind the faces of thd poor at the bank, nor my inmost thoughts when Frank drops haif his food on my best waistcoat.” “You're outrageous. Please Grantley.” “AH right. T'll talk about something els “I think I'd better find Christine. No, wait a minute. If you're gomg to do all these fine things what nave you plan- for me? othing. You're just to go on be- ing what you can’t help being—the most adorable woman In England.” “I don’t know what you mean tc do, but what you are doing is—"" stop, “Making love to you,” interposed Grantley. , “Yes, and in the most unblushing $av” m doing the love making and you are doing the—" “Stop!” she commanded, with a hasty merry glance of protest. “You ought to be used to it. I've been doing it for & month now,” he complained. Sibylla made lit a cigarette. she was grave “Don’t make no answer and Grantley ‘When she spoke again and her voice was low. love to me. I'm afraid tv love you. You know what I did be- fore because I Joved you. I should do it again, I'm afraid I haven't learnt the lesson.” ‘Are you refusing the only way there is of learning it? How have I learnt all the fine lessons that I've been tell- ing you? 2 “I've not Ie'xrn( lhe lesson. ask too much.’ “If I give all T ha.\e it'll seem to you. You'll know it's all noWw it’ll seem enough. All there is is enough —even for you, isn't it?"” “You didn’t give me all there was be- fore.” *I had a theony,” said Grantley. ‘“I'm not guing to have any more thecries.” She turned to him suddenly. “Oh, you mustn’'t ask—you mustn’'t stand there asking! That's wrong, that is unworthy of you. I mustn't let you do that.” “That was the theory,” Grantley said with a smile. “That was just my the- ory. I'm always soing to ask for what I want ncw. It's really the best way.” “We're friends, Grantley?” she said imploringly. “Is that all there is? Would it seem to you enough?” “And we've Frank. You do love him I still She made no answer again. He stood with his eyes fixed on her for ,some moments. Then he took the telegram gently from her hand and went into the house with it to seek Christine Fan- shaw. He left Sibylla in_a turmoil of feel- ing. That she loved him was nothing new; she had always loved him and she had rever loved any other man in that fashion. The fairy ride had never been rivaled nor repeatéd and she had never lost her love for him, even when she hated him as her great enemy. It had always been there, whether its pres- ence had been prized or loathed, wel- comed or feared; whether it had seem- ed the ore thing life held cr the one thing to escape from if life were to be worthy. Blake had not displaced it; he had been a refuge from it. Her case Wwas™not as Christine Fanshaw's\any more than her temper was the temper of her friend. And now he came weo- ing again and she weos sore beset. So memory helped him, so the unforget- able communion of by gone love en- forced his suit. Her heart was all for yielding—how should it not be to the one man whese sway it had ever own- ed? He was to her mind an incompar- able wooer—incomparable in his buoy- ant courage, in the humor that masked his passion, in the passion which used humor with such a conscious art, feign- ing to conceal without concealing, pre- tending to reveal without impairing the secrecy of those impenetrable sweet re- cesses of the heart, concerning which conjecture beats knowledge and the im- agination would not be trammeled by a disclosure too unreserved. But she feared, and, fearing, struggled. They were friends. Friends could make, terms, bargains, treaties, arrangements. Friendship did not bar independence, absolute and unfringed. Was that the way with love—with the love of wo- man for man, of wife for husband? No, old nature came in there with her un- changing decisive word, against which no bargain and no terms, no theory 78 A convrcr AND IV HEARL A 7N DER, 7771?02’[71‘ For. YouU 2o Zovcz ’; and no views, no claims or pretensions, no folly and no wisdom, either, could brevail. All said and done, all conces- sions made, all promises pledged, all demands guaranteed, they all went for- little. The woman was left to depend on the trust she had, nheipless if the trust failed her ard the confidence was misplaced. If she were wrong about herself or about the man, there was no help for it. The love of the woman was, after all, and -in spite of all, sur- render. Timgs might change, and thoughts, and theories; this might be right which had been wrong, and that heid wrong which had been accounted right. The accidents varied, the es- sence remained. The love of the woman was surrender, because old nature weculd have it so. If she gave such love—or acknowledged it, for in truth it was =iven — she aban@oned all the claims, the grievances, the wrongs, all that had been the basis of what she had done. She took Grantley on faith again, she put herself into his hands, again she made the great.venture with all its possibilities. She had seemed wrong once. Wculd she seem wrong again? There was a change in him; that she believed. Was there a change, too, in her? Unless there were she did not dare to venture. Had all that she had suffered, all that she had seen others suffer, brought nothing to her? Yes, there was something. When you loved you must unaerstand, and, knowing the truth, love that or ‘leave. You must not make an image and love that, then mak€ another image and hate that. You must love or leave the true » . thing. And to do that there is needed E her surrender of your point of view, your own ideas ¢f what you are and how you ought to be treated. To get great things you must barter great things in retur There are seldom cheap bargains to be had in costly gocds. Had not Grantley learnt that? Could not she? It took generosity to learn it. Was she less generous than cy? The question hit her like a 1f Grantley had done as she had, would she still have loved? would she have come again to seek and te woo? Ah, but the case was not truly paralle!! Grantley sought leave to reign again—to reign by her will, but still to reign. That was not what was asked of her. Was it not? Eagerly stretching out after truth, seeking the bedrock of deep truth, her mind spurred by its need, soared above these distinctions, and saw, as in a vision, the union of these transient opposites. Was not to reign well to serve weil, was not faithfully to obey the order of the universe to be a king of life? If that vision would abide with her, if that harmony could be sustained, then all would be well. The doubts and fears would die, and the surrender be a great conquest. ‘When she had tried before she had no such idea as this. Much had been spent, much given, in attaining to the distant sight of it. But if it were true? 1f Grantley, ever courageous, ever un- daunted, had won his way to it and now came, in a suppllant’s guise, to show her and to give her the treasures of a queen? ‘While she still mused the little boy came toddling over the lawn to her side, holding up a toy for her interest and She caught him up and held him in her arms. FHad he noth- ing to say to it all? Had he nothing to say? Why, his eyes were like the eyes of Grantley! The clock of the old church struck five and on the sound a cab appeared over the crest of the opposite hill. Sib- ylla, with Frank in her arms, watched its descent to Milldean, and then went into the house to put on her hat. In view of the ancient love between her and Mumples it was ner privilege to be the first to greet the returned wan- derer. For all her sympathy Kate Ray- more was a friend of too recent stand- ing—shg had not witnessed the years of waiting. Jeremy’'s affection was true enough, but Mumples feared the di- rectness of his tongue and the exub- erence of his spirits. Highly conscicus of the honor done to her, somewhat alarmed at the threatened appeal to her ever too ready emotion, Sibylla went down the hill. A pale, frail old student, with the hands ¢f a laboring man—that was her first impression of Mumples’ husband. He had the air of remoteness from the world and of having done with the storms of life which come to men who have lived many years in a library; his face was lined, but his eyes calm and placid. Only those incongruous hands with their marks of toil hinted at the true story. He spoke in a low admiration. voice, as though it might be an offense to speak loud; his tones were refined and his manner respectful and rather formal. It was evidently unsafe to make any parade of sympathy with Mumples—she was near breaking- point; but the exchange of a glance, on which Sibylla ventured, showed that her agitation was of jJoy and satisfac- tion. Evidently the meeting had dis- appointed the worst of her fears and confirmed the dearest of her hopes. “1 have to thank you, Madame,” the old man said, “for the great kindness you and ycur family have shown to my wife during my absence.” “We owe her far more than s owes us. I don’t know what we should have done without her.” “The Knowledge that she friends did much to enable me to en- dure my absence,” he went on. “She's locking well, is she not, Madame? She appears to me less changed than I had thought possible.” Sibylla could not resist another quick glance at Mumples “And I have had good ny more about Mumple, with oulder. “You knew _best. What was the Madame: is to b t was selfish of you've no idea w in such circum 3 been unfortunately a man of quick tem trust myself in all 3 e myself if T was “Hndrd of the ou orld—of was losing—how th s went by— of my wife and the home and the life It was because ldn’'t see her $ of that,” At it nces as 1 1 got besi But it w is, Madame. 1 1,u2'h- I And I never thought what it W mean er when 1 did what br n.ufll t nace. W 1, I've paid for it s life. They've taken vears before you, rs. Mumple. -hind me,” he said nirds of my it now I can’t It seems long, but very t space in my life, Madame.” “Ah, but you've dear wife now—a your friends.” How dull and cold her words seemed! Yet, what else was there to say in face of the tragedy? “I'm deeply grateful to her and to ven; but I—I have nothing left. It seems to me that the years have taken ng.” . Mumple put her hand down orn hand and caressed it. ou'll be better by and by, said. our home and your nd we shall ali be * he persisted that,” Siby e life will come back to you in the sunshine and the country We shan’t let you feel like that. it's full of Me here. There's a wedding to-morrow, Mr. Mumple! And another engagced couple—my brother and Miss Raymore! And you'll like my husband ard I'll bring my baby boy 10 see you." h a pretty little dear!” exclaimed llun‘ple\, ‘You muist take an interest in us,” smiled Sibyll n then you'll be pleased when w voa't he, Mum- Beca your wife i Mumples sudd cnl_\‘ turned away and murmuring something about get- i aped from the room. The his eyes on Sibylla’s face in a long inquiring gaze. “You say that to mje, Madame? I don't deserve tc have that said me. You're a beautiful young lady and very kind, I knew, and good, I'm sure. Your husband is lucky, and so is your son. But I've been a convi for seventeen years, ard it's only by a chance thag I'm not a murderer. I'm not fit to come near You or yours—no, not near your little boy Sibylla came to and took his work wo hand. saw .that she kiss it and held it back > said, his lips 3 little ‘and his calm eyes very “I'm not fit for you to touch.” T'll tell you something,” said Sibylia. “You call me kind and good—you say my husband and my boy are lucky, and you tell me youre not fit for me to touch—for me to touch! I tried to runm away from my husband, and I was o leave my little boy to his sad A great wonder came into the old man’s eyes; he asked no question, but he ceased . to resist her persuading grasp. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I thought my heart was dead, as you think yours is. But light and life have eome back into mine, and you mustn’'t shut yours against them. You must try_to be happy, if it's oniy for dear old Mumples’ sake. She’s thought of nothing but making you happy all these years.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “And love us too. For my husband's and my boy's sake keep the secret I've told you, but remember it when you feel despairing. It wasn't easy for me to speak of it, but I thought it would give you hope; and it will prevent you feeling the sort of thing you have felt about me, and I hope about any of us.” He turned his eyes to hers. “You're telling me the truth, T know, Madame,” he said slowly. “It's a very strange world. I'll try not to despair. “No, no, don’t despair; above all, don’t despair,” whispered Sib: “I have a remnant of my da. have the love of my wife. Geod has left me something out of the wreck that I've made.” Sibylla stooped and kissed him on the brow. He caught her hands and look- ed again in her eyes fur a long time. “It is true? And your eyes are like theseyes of an angel!” He relaxed his hold on bbr and sank back in his chair with a sigh. “I'm tiring you,” said Sibylla. “T'll g0 now, and Jeave you alone with Mum.- ples. T'll call her back here. No, I can't stay to tea—you've made me think of too much. But I'll come to- morrow and bring my little boy.” If what you say is true you must pray for yourself sometimes? Pray for me, too, Madame. “Yes, I'll pray for ycu the prayer I love best: *Those things which for our unworthiness we dare not and for our bifndness we cannot ask —' I will pray for those, for you and,for me. And because you're an ¢ld man and have suffered, you uhn" give me your bless- befor kne receive his trembling benediction, rose with a glad smile on She w Mumples standing ¢ on the threshold 6f the 1 kissed her hand to her. is done and the new is be- she said the 0iG man as she pre sed his hand in farewell She walked siowly up the hill in t! peaceful dusk. Lights ourned in the church; the village cheir was laborious- ly practicing an ambitious effort for the next day. There were lights in the windows over the postoffice; one was open to the mild evening air and Jere- my's vcice in a love ballad competed enviously with the choir's more pious strains, till it was drowned in a merry protest of youthful shouts. When she reached home there was a light in the nursery and the nurse was singing softly to the little boy. Her agitation was past, her emotion was gentle now, and her face peacefully radiant. Her grievances seemed small beside the old man's suffering, her woes nothing be- side his punishment, her return to life and light so much easier than his. He had but a remnant of life left—the rest had been demanded of him in ransom for his deed and the ransom had been exacted to the uttermost farthing. He was poer, though not destitute; but she was rich. Her life lay still before her with all its meaning and its possi- bilities—its work and its struggles, its successes and its failurez, the winning of more victorfes, the effort and the resolve not to lose what had been so hardly won. she looked for- ward to it, assessing and measuring her strength strength and weakness and the weakness of those with whom her life wa t. She had no more of the bi nd reckless confl- dence of he ; her eyes were did not forbid to the joy that whispered that the ,ml that the joy must e W =hnmed the her soul reachi all, joy w inna £ her mind, exultant that now t take it, that now it could no delusion 1 wherein lay the was in her fin- rough some- ot all bezuil tracts, uplands. Such zcognized it n ©ary, g uld not be utterly or belated. CHAPTER XXIX. Oven Eyes. ed to Christine a the first floor tence all day vaiting John Ske had taken much wh he should be ut rather the in- h ted f in her on ion of moment than a token e weapon of bec appearance was neglected by rely m- apparel. A ir never. to , but = wholly did the on it now w not The meost that any cha ng could do would be tu extort a passing admira- tion, which in its furn might secure a transient forgiveness; but a reaction of feeling would surely wait on it. She did not want to be forgiven in that way. In truth she y wanted for- giveness at all; at any rate she would the p ss. She had been put in the corner, as she said. The position was not pleasant; but be- ng called cut again with the admoni- tions able to the moment was scarcely a more agreeable situation. By parting her him, first #n spirie, n in daily life, John had hardened r heart toward him. He had made dwell more and more not on her but c¢n his right to inflict a pen- and more she had remem- d Cay ham had said, and had asked if he who benefited by the act—of his own will benefited by the hand which was of it. doubts, strugs plea agai while she them had grown faint with absence John h to be dealt with by reason reason saw only what he had the eye could no longer trace the s w and the strug- which had gone with his deed. Her mind was on Caylesham too. She had just read a lettet from Anna Sel- ford. It was fu of Anna and her frocks (Much advice was needed—when was Mrs. Fanshaw coming back to town?). It had ood de y of Blake and his handsome presents; and it touched ¢ acrimonious Caylesham with a rather He had been to see te them and had made himself very agreeab ally Anna did not see that there was anything o criticise, nor, above all, that Lord Cay':sham had any call to set up as a critic if there vere. Christine smiieé over the pass- age, picturing so well the secret irony and the intangible banter which Cayle- sham would mingle with his congrat- ulations and infu into his praises. Anna would not shrink nor retreat, but she would be angry and rather helpless before the sting of these siender darts. Memories stamped on her very soul stocd out in sallent letters and the face of Caylesham seemed to hang in the air before her eyes. To remember lov- ing is not to lovembut it may make all other love seem a second rate thing. She loved Caylesham no longer, but she was without power to love any one as she had loved him. Others had his vices,* others his virtues, such as they were. The blend in him had been for her the thing her soul asked. Time cculd not wither the remembrance, al- though it had killed the feeling itself. Neot John's displeasure was the great- est price she had paid;: not John's for- giveness could undo or blot out the past. John's friendship and eomrade- ship were the best things the world had te offer her now—and she wanted them; byt she wanted them not as the best, but because there was nothing bet- ter. She had not thought of biame for Caylesham, nor of bitterness against him. Here her fairness of mind came in—her true judgment of herself. All along she had known what he was and what he gave, as well as what she was and gave. He had given all he had ever professed to give. (She was not thinking of words or phrases, but of the essence of the attachmeat, well known to both.) If it had not been all she sought, still she had accepted it as enough—as enough to make her hap- Py, enough return for all she had to offer. She would nct repudiate the bar- gain now. Frank had been straight and fair with her, and she would cast no stone at him. Only it was just very unlucky that matters should fall out in the way they had, and that she Concluded on Page 7.