The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1904, Page 7

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. | - Nelson 'W., Rhode Isl- Russell A., Michigan. Fr sk, Delaware. . Widam B., Jowa. Levi, Washington. ustus O., Georgla. ph W., Texas. Heisler, Delaware. Thomas R., California. William B., Tennessee. $—Bard 10—Bate, 11—Berry, James H., Arkansas. 12—Beveridge, Albert J., Indiana. 15—Blackburn, Joseph O. S., Ken. tucky DOUBLE ~ HARNESS. Continued from Page 8. d be the sort of person she was— nner, because she could get—a bad pen 4 not feel remorse had been committed, nor givegess for it. It had always—now as a threatening danger, ometimes. Ev at vas at once the cause and her greatest sol- ys between the end of lesham and the discov- made by John, ther happiness— good terms h her when things went well he admired her—yes, her as something pre- nt. Then she pride in her and d to preserve Now, in resent- she sought togdeny mood would “John enance of her denial that. rd the sound of fore the gate of the nd listened. The ng up, king glass over turned and faced ere a little parted; Expectation min- er bearing. A re there was & cleared her the door did not e. He stood jous depreca- he thought and he was habit was k after his own ce and criticism. forlornness, n he sat with Caylesham's and the air of being too. ut his manner gave hint of anger. Christine’s heart 1t to him in a quick impuilse of ut she crushed the feel- and would give no outward he waited in stillness and It was for him to speak. for sed k out ad mm g lenc 14—Burnham, Henry E., New Hamp- shire, 15—Burrows, Julius C., Michigan. 16—Burton, Joseph R., Kansas. 17—Carmack, Edward W., Tennessee. 18—Clapp, Moses E.. Minnesota. 19—Clark, William Montana. 2 Jlark, Clarence D., Wyoming. 21—Clarke, James P., Arkansas. 22—Clay, Alexander S., Georgia. 23—Cockrell, Francis M., Missouri. 24—Culberson, Charles A., Texas. 25-——Cullom, Shelby M., Illinois. 26—Dantel, John £ —Depew, Chaunce, ] to set the n £ more th uture life te of their interview, . 0 i e I should find you in this and here I.am.” ed her head coolly, but other welcome. Hé came steps toward her, holding i ont of him in an and with that ashamed e still on his lips. t ge? on without my old girl,” I he said. In a flash of her quick Intuition she his mind. The one sentence re- ed anything which his manner had doubtful, He was doing what he thought wrong, and doing it because he could not help it. He was abandoning a great and just grievance, and there- by seemed to be sacrificing the claims of morality, condoning what deserved no forgiveness, impairing his own self- respect. His position, with all its ob- vious weakness, had not become un- tenable in theory, and his reason, hard- bound in preconceptions, was not con- vinced. He came under the stress of feeling, because his life had become in- tolerable, because, as he said in one of his phrases of rough affection, he could not get on without his old girl The need he had of her conquered the grievance that he had against her, and brought him back to her. He came with no reproaches, no parade of for- giveness, with neither references to the past nor terms for the future. It was a triumph for Christine, and of the kind she prized and understood best—a woman’'s triumph. It had not been expected; it was none too well de- served. A color came on her cheeks, and she breathed rather quickly as she realized the completeness of it. For a moment she was minded to use it to the full, and, since she was no longer the criminal, to play the tyrant in her turn. But the very perfection of the victory forbade. It inspired in her a feeling which reproaches would have been powerless to raise—a great pity for him, a new and more genuine con- demnation of herself. Had she been so much as that to him, and yet had used him so ill? - “I'ye been lonely, too, John,” she said. “Come and kiss me, my dear.” He came to her diffidently, and hard- 1y touched her cheek when he kissed her. “That doesn’t feel a bit like you, John,” she saild with a nervous laugh, as she made him sit by her on the sofa. “Now tell me all about every- thing! I know that's what you want to d That was what he wanted to do— ‘to take her back into the life which was 50 empty and incomplete without Td ———— 28—Dietrich, Charles H., Nebraska. 28—Dillingham, William P., Vermont. 30—Dolliver, Jonathan P., Towa. 31—Dryden, John F., New Jersey. 32—Dubois, Fred T., Idaho. Ikins, Stephen B., West Virginia. banks, Charles W., Indiana. Joseph B., Ohio. Washington. 37—Y¥oster, Murphy Louisiana. 38—Fulton, Charles W., Oregon. 39—Gallinger, Jacob H., New Hamp- shire, 40—Gamble, Robert J., South Dakota. 41—Gibson, Paris, Montana. |> k’/ 42—Gorman, Arthur P., Maryland. 43—Hale, Eugene, Maine. 44— Charles, Ohio. 45—Hansborough, Henry C., North Dakota. William P. Frye, president pro tem. 46—Haw'ey, Joseph R., Connecticut. 47—Heyburn, Weldon B., Idaho. 48—Crane, W. Murray, Massachusetts. 49—Hopkins, Albert J., Ilinois. 50—IKean, John, New Jersey. 51—Kearn, Thomas, Utah. sz—l(l‘uredge, Alfred B., South Da- Lota. 53—Latimer, Asbury C., South Caro- liza. 54—Lodge, Henry Cabot, Massachu- setts. 55—Long, Chester 1., Kansas. 56—McComas, Louis E., Maryland. 57—McCreary, James B., Kentucky. 58—M(£‘Cunlber. Porter J., North Da- -ota. 59—McEnery, Samuel D., Loulsiana. 60—McLarin, Anselm J., Mississippl. 61—Maliory, Stephen R., Florida. 62—Martin, Thomas S., Virginia. 63—Millard, Joseph H., Nebraska. 64—Mitchell, John H., Oregon. A BT e e R 65—Money, Hernando D., Mississippl. 66—Morgan, John T., Alabama. 67—Nelson, Knute, Minnesota. 68—Newlands, Francis G., Nevada. 69—Overman, Lee S., North Carolina. 70—Patterson, Thomas M., Colorado. 71—Penrose, Boies, Pennsylvania. 72—Perkins, George C., California. 73—Pettus, Edmund W., Alabama. 74—Platt, Orville H., Connecticut. 75—Platt, Thomas C., New York. 76—Proctor, Redfield, Vermont. 77—Quarles, Joseph V., Wisconsin. 78—Knox, Philander C., Pennsylvania. 79—Scott, Nathan B., West Virginia. 80—Simmons, Furnifold NicL., North Caroliza. 81—Smoot, Reed, Utah. 3—Stew 84—Stone, M., Colorado. njamin R., South ¢ ren, Francis E., Wyoming. 89—Wetmore, George P., Rhode and. 90—Daniel M. arms. Tsl- Ransdell, sergeant at O S e S e G DGR SO0, T PPN U VU T O rv oy R G N P P T e I S e D P D e G S T R o P L SO DT 0GSOSGR0oe s, G N N I I N 0000 00000 00000000000 000005 000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000009 her—to have her again to share his interests and to be a partner in his fortun t for the moment he could not do as she bade him. He was much moved, and was very unready at ex- pressing emotion. He sat in slience, ng her hand. It was she ay it, John. You'll know , and I shall know that about too. But don't let’s say it She broke into a smile again. “I should argue, you know—I always ar- gue! And then—— But if we say nothing about it, perhaps we—well, perhaps we can nearly forget it, and take up the old life where we broke it off. And it wasn’t a bad old life, after all, was it, in gpite of the way we both grumbled ?” “My dear old girl!"” he murmured. “I1 suppose you must be as vulgar as you like to-day!” sald Christine, with a dainty life of her brow and an af- fected resignation. Then suddenly she turned and kissed him, saying gravely: o grateful, John, and don’t—don’t e’s anything wrong in being “I only know I've got to have you back with me,” he said. “That's all I know about it anyhow.” “I think it's enough, then,” she whis- pered softly. Presently the gates of John's mouth were loosed, and he began {to tell all his news. It was mainly about his business—how it had flourished, how he had built up his credit again, of the successes he had won; that as soon as he had pald off his debts—a mo- ment of embarrassment befell him here —they would be as well off as ever they had been; horses could be bought again, the diamonds could reappear, there would be no need to stint Chris- tine of any of the things that she loved. All that he had longed for sym- pathetic ears to hear in the last months came bubbling out now. And Christine was ready to listen. As he talked and she heard, the old life seemed to revive, the old interests of every day come back, exercised anew their uniting power. and brought with them the old friendship and comrade- ship. Christine had said that they could “nearly forget.” The words had her courage in them; they had her caution, too. To forget what had come upon them and between them was im- possible—in Christine’s obstinate heart even at this moment hardly desired; but it was possible nearly to forget— at most times 8o nearly to forget as to relegate the thing to some distant chamber of the heart and not let it count in the commerce and communion of the life which they had lived to- gether and which bound them to one another with all {ts ties. That was the best thing which could be looked to be forgotten in thought. They were pick- ing up and piecing together the frag- ments. The ruin here had not been as utter as it had at poor Tom Court- land’'s where the same process was being undertaken; but there had been a crash, and, though the pieces might be joined there would be marks to show the fracture. Yet even the mem- ory that refused to die brought its good with it. After the ruin came the love which had in the end sought res- toration; if the one could not be for- gotten, the other would always claim an accompanying remembrance. From this remembrance there' might well emerge the worries and the Iriction of common life which in the old days had 80 often disturbed their peace and in- terrupted their friendship. Before dinner Christine found an op- portunity to visit Sybilla in her room. Her own brief excitement and agitation had passed off; Si- bylla seemed the more eager of the two about the event of the day. Chris- tine related it. Her comments on it and on what it meant ran -ery much in the foregoing vein, but were mollified by her usual veneer of irony, for which her friend made easy arlowance. Si- bylla had been prepared for an ecstasy of sympathetic congratulation; but it was evident that, though congratula- tion might be welcomed, ecstasy would be out of place. Nelther Christine's conclusions from the past nor her an- ticip. tions of the future invited it. “How reasonable you are, Christine!” sighed Sibylla. “And how immoral!” she added with a smile. “You're not really very sorry about -it all, you know. You're just very glad the trou- ble is over. And you don’t expect a bit more than it's quite likely you'll get! Do you know, you're very useful to me?”’ y reasonableness or my immorall- ty? “One’'s an example and the other's a warning,” laughed Sibylla. “I don’t think I'm immoral. I've had an awful lesson and I intend to profit by it. There’ll be nothing more of that sort, you know.” 8 ‘Why not?” Sibylla asked, curious toprobe her friend’s mind. “I don't know. No temptation—be- ing soryy for John—being afraid—being, between ourselves, thirty-five. It all sounds rather mixed, but it results in a good resolution. And as for the fu- ture—" Bhe frowned just a little. “Oh, it'll be all right, and a great deal better than I've been thinking lately.” “1 must get more like you—not quite like you, but more like you. I must— 1 _must!” Sibylla declared vehemently. “Has being thirty-five a great deal to do with it? Because then I can wait and hope.” “I should think it had a good deal to do with it,” admitted Christine dispas- sionately. “Oh, well, I needn’t srun mys If down too much. Really John has a good deal to say to it.” ° “I've Frank, too.” “Yes, you have; and you're in love with your husband, my dear.” “That doesn’t always make it easier.” “At any rate it keeps up one’s- in- terest in the whole affair,” smiled Christine. “You're happy, anyhow?” “Happy? Yes, reasonably happy— and I suppose immorally, too. At any rate I'm settled, and that's a comfort in its way."” “I don't know that I care so much about being settled. Perhaps I shall at thirty-five!” The idea of years making any differ- ence to her moods or her needs seemed rather a new one to Sibylla. Evidently she wi holding it in her mind and turning it over in her thoughts. The idea was with her still as she sat rather silent at the dinner table that evening. They had a little party, for all the Raymores joined them, and young Mallam was there also, their guest for the night. Christine was very gy and satirical. John watched her with ready admiration, but less ready understanding. The young men were rather noisy, toasting-to-morrow’s wed- ding to the confusion of the brifegroom and the equal confusion of Eva Ray- more, to ‘whose not distant destiny both Jeremy's words and Jeremy’s eyes made reference by no means covert. Kate Raymore and her husband looked on with the subdued and tempered happiness which was the outcome of their great sorrow, their triumph over it, and the impending depart- ure of their son, to complete the working out of his atonement. They talked of the Selfords with some irony, of poor Harriet Courtland, of Tom and his children with a sympathetic hopefulness and a touch of amuse- ment at the importance their dear old Suzette Bligh was assuming and was, it seemed, to assume in the household. Sibylla’s own thoughts widened the survey, embracing in it the couple down at Old Mill House—the faithful patient woman whose love made even the ridiculous touching—the broken old man who had given the best of his life in expiation for a brief mad- ness, and now crept home to end his days, asking nothing but peace, hop- ing at best not to be despised or shunned. Above in his cot lay her little son, at the other end of the scale, at the beginning of all things; and opopsite to her was Grantley himself, unbroken but not unchanged; obedient to lessons, but never put to heart by them; doing violence to what he had held most truly and most pre- clously himself in order to the search and discovery of something more true and precidus still. The idea of tl ever passing years and of feel fortunes appropriate to each s life helped her, but was not e There wers differences of minds, of tempers and of views; one of them implied a fitting in, haps a paring away here or an ad tion there—a harmonizing; things must be it the sy m was to work. Reluctantly and gradually her ardent mind, by nature ever either buoyant in the heaven of assured hope or cast down to the depths of despair, bowed to the middle conclu- sion and consented to look through the eyes of wisdom and experience. Happy he who can so look and yet look without bitterness. who can see calamity without despalr, and accept partial success without peevishness. There were the hopeless cases. These must be explained of left unexplained, by what creed or philosophy you chose to hold. There were—surely there were!—the few perfect ones, where there was not even danger, nor the need for effort or for guard. Of such she had deemed hers one. It had needed much to open her eyes— much sérrow and wrong in her own life—much sorrow, wrong and calam- ity in the lives which passed within her view. But her eyes were open now. Yet she took courage—she took courage from Grantley, whose crest ‘was not lowered, though his heart was changed. So spoke reason, and to it Sibylla bowed. The array of cases, the mar- shaling of instances, all that the peo- ple and the lives about her had rep- resented and typified—their moral was not to be denied. But reason is not the sole governor, nor even the only teacher. It might open her cyes; it might even moderate the arrogance of her demands; it could not changs the temper of her heart. She was not even chilled, far less embittered. She went forth to meet life and love as ardently as ever. The change was that she knew more what these things were which she started forth to wel- come and perceived better to what she must attune herself. She would hope and enjoy still. But she asked no more a privilege over her fellows he could hope as a mortal without im- munity from evil and enjoy as one to whom there is allottedq a portion of sorrow—and not of her own only, nor perhaps of her making, nor of her-« fault, since heér own act and by na- ture’s will her being was bound up with the being of others, and her happiness or misery, success or fail- ure, lay in the common fortune a the common weal. For any mortal perfect independence is a vain thing fondly { —most vain and fond when it nanded together withh all for approach to it was andoned. 1S As John Fan- d his great grievance, old Mumple had t and paid the As Grant- t, so she hers. that night in the made merry with and jokes within, echoing down to t! old house where the long-parted hu band and wife sat at last hand In hand, She bowed her head, and put her hands s, saying: “At the first sign from you it was easy to forgive. How could I not for- give you? But it's hard to ask to be forgiven, Grantley.” he answered gravely. come and gone. What are en thee and me™ d made her point, and for v she wisely held her peace, work to another who bring it to an excellent , tempered by s and yet triumphan and looking ward to new days, new births, n victories. “The old time is done,” sald Grant- “There’s a new dawn. And, Sibyl. he nrise is golden still.” “My r true lover, we'll ride on the downs to-morrow,” said . “Into the gold?” he asked, in loving banter. answered bravely, ound the way now?” “It mav be hard to keep it.*” “We shall be together—ydu and L And mere than you and me. And—and —well, I intend to be unreaonable again just for this evening! I'll ex- pect & and demand every- thing, m everything again, just ght—just for to-might, Gran She ed in a merry laugh, as she stood opposite him with dancing eyes. “You're alwavs thorough. I was afraid you were going to be a bit too thorough with those delusions. Need we m quite so clean a sweep of them? “As if I ever should!” Sibylla sighed. “Perhaps we've been doing ome or two of them a little injustice? he sug- et them stay a little bit and 7 can clear their characters,” “There might be one great sald she. truth hidden‘among them. ] rather fancy there is,” sald Grant- le¥ Ima n. “and we'll have the fellow out of his & > se.