The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 9, 1905, Page 3

thirl Castaway,” inst onc read of the most widely the gifted Erminic books Hailic & Cast- 3 a highly im- § and centering Lord Byron, § of ¥ of authoross, Rives. “The away.” written in style life most aginative around the of English of one the dashi litcrary leaned figurcs, 1o the front as o 1 b24 one of the most popular books 3 of the cay. 8 has § idly % RRROROOSSSIS ST SOSOONNN0NS000500 wife's flight d on its rplece of nsinuations it with printed N i had beer we S ad of brigt What if the poem ¥ with the first ru of C wh t n first by his own ust the note n - ope wou It on-tongued jubliant ear 1 the past full of grief and long past \s the grizzled valet's eves rest recumbent figure he could see that e foot—the lame one—was un- ered. Through all the years of service he had never seen the ember which Gordon’s sensitiv s ncealed. He had often wond Fietcher turned awav, took a coun- rpane from a chair and with face ried, drew it over the uncovered t. Then he shaded the candie and ent out, and as he went a tear splash- ¢ down his seamed and weather- beaten cheek. . CHAPTER XVIL The Bursting of the Storm. r the great, crow-footed face of full of tragedies, a heavy fog . mal and murky, it lay odiless incubus, shutting out g sun and the sweet smells nd showers. To Gordon, in on Piccadilly Terrace, the r had seemed to refiect his He was numbed. His £ stumbling through wastes of vrotest. d w dumb 3 The Jinks of Mrs, Clermont’s forging Saha th he had nded till the following avalanche of abuse with the morning ned un- ed. He teiling one, had rou library, ho! to no they pre- onced Lane f a Drury ad pe nied her the pistols in her n her while she slept accu- 1’s mind, racing over the pages h glimpses of heterogene- ts which blended in a dim ty. He saw suddenl nnabel's passive correctnes his own name, with its ec ad stood forth blackl even ways, her spotle: pureness. The mute con- vays been there, and he d accordingly. To the world y y pillar, n, who ked back to lurid from doomed under Dead the at world cr T mnies? Might the reit- ofsthe public prints infect ances—the at 1 sat almost week- s of the clubs, the set the circle of Melbourne for he to the breath, Lamb, heir om whem he had He would untrod; nor 2 ould their dis- hatred envenom even the few oninion he cared? r had reserved its bitter- On the second day it pub- leave nc would La the stanzas entitled “Fare the ' signed by Gordon’s name. He m with a strange ation, his mind g ing for the cords he felt en- meshing him, his eyes fuily opener} now to devilish ingenuity of his But he himself stood appalled at the y effect of this attack. Innuendo thrown aside; invective took its agraph, pamphlet and cari- cature held the lines up to odium. The hypocrisy of a profligate! A cheap, in- sincere appe: ! A tasteless, vulgar parade of a poseur strumming his heartstrings. on the highway! It came to Gordon with a start that during the past forty-eight Rours he had forgotten his mail. He rang the 1 and asked for his letters. here are none. my lord.” No letters? And daily for a year his table had been deluged with tinted and perfumed billets crested and sealed with signets of great houses. No let- ters! Who has called to-da; Fletcher's honest ey ould scarcely meet his master’s._ “Mr. Hobhouse called this morning, and Mr. Dallas this afternoon.” “That is all?” “Yes, your lordship.” , Gordon went to the fireplace and stared down dazedly into the embers. He had been a santon: now he was an Ishmaelite, a mark for the thrust of every scurrilous poetaster who wielded & pen—a chartered Bluebeard—another Mirabeau whom the feudalists discov- ered to be a monster! The worid had learned with pleasure that he was a wretch. Tom Moore was in Ireland, J ian dead. Of all he knew only lied to his support—Hobhouse, sturdy, undemonstrative, likable nion of his early travels, and— two th, Gordon laughed bitterly. been London’s favorite. justice or reason, it covered him with obloquy and went by on the other side. There had followed days and nights of mental agony, of inner crying-out for reprisal—hours of fierce longing for his child, when he had sought relief in walking unfrequented streets from dark to dawn, in desultory ' composi- tion, more often in the black hottle that lay in the library drawer. Meager news had reached his sister, and a brave, true message from her was the only ooling dew that fell into his fiery A of suffering. A packet léft by a messenger roused him to a white fury. Jt was from Sir Samuel Romilly, the solicitor under his retainer. Sir amuel had reversed his allegiance. His curt note inclosed a draft of sep- aration proposed by Sir Ralph Mil- banke, and though couched in judicial phrases, voiced a threat unmistakable. Almost a round of the clock Gordon sat with this paper before him, his meals untasted. His wife at that mo- secuted his wife - "'THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALIL. ment was with Ada—his child and hers!—at her father's house in Sea- ham. She had read the attacks—knew their falseness—knew and <would not deny. Now he knew why. What she wanted was written in that document: freedom and her daughter. She would engulf him in calumny only 0 the world would justify her in her scif- righteous desertion. And lest he put it to the test, lest he refuse to be con- demned unheard and demand the ar- bitrament of an open though prejudiced tribunal, she threatened him with what further veiled accusations he could not imagine. Good God! Was there any- thing more to accuse him of? Better any appeal to publicity now than this step which shut him from Ada! Suppose he made this appeal. There was no justice in public opinion. In his case, it was already poisoned. Al- ready it dubbed him a Nero, a Caligula, a Richard Third! Add to the present outcry new and more terrible charges— the formless insihuations of Sir Ralph —and what might not 'its verdict be? It would justjfy his wife, applaud the act which robbed him of his child! And these dark’indictments, though false, would be no less an evil legacy for that daughter whom he loved with every fiber of his being. To consent to lose Ada forever—or to risk both her loss and her blight. To battle, and jeopardize piness perhaps—or ‘to eld and give tacit admission to the worst the world said of him, her father! - » Night fell. /At last he stirred and his’ square shoulders set. “To wait,” he sald—“to wait and be patient. That ig all that is left. Whatever I must do, the world shall not sce me cringe. The celebrity T have wrung from it has been in the teeth of all opinions and er life's hap- . prejudices. er now!” » He laid the document aside, rose and looked in the glass. His face was hag- gard, worn; there were listless lines under kis eyes.” He summoned Fletch- er and dressed with all his old scrupu- lousness—guch a costume as he had worn the afternoon he had waked to fame. With a thought, perhaps, of that day, he drew a carnation through his buttonhole. Then he left the house and turned his steps toward Lrury Lane, The fog was gone, the air lay warm and pleasant, and a waxing moon shamed the street lamps. He passed down St. James street and came opposite White’s Club. He had no thought of entering. Lord Petersham descended the steps as he approached, his dress exquisite, his walking stick held daintily between thumb and fore- finger like a pinch of snuff. The fog’s eyes met Gordon's in a blank stare. A group of faces showed in the bow- window and' for an instant Gordon hesftated, the old perverse'spirit tempt- ing him to enter, but he resisted it. The first act was on when he reached I will show no white feath- Drury Lane Theater, and the lobby. was empty save for the usual loungers and lackeys. The doors of the pit were open and he stood behind the rustling colors of Fops’ Alley. -He scanned the house curiously, himself unobserved, noting many familiar. face in the boxes. diis Night after night the pit had roused to the veteran actor Kean, Night after nj%ht Fops' Alley had furnished its quéta of applause for a far smaller part, played with grace and sprightli- ness—by Jane Clermont, the favorite of the greenroom.. Her first entrance formed a finish to the act now drawing Ny . “ Thls BOOK 75 YOURS, JremormA? - ~ to a close. To Gordon's overwrought senses fo-night there seemed some strange tenseness in the air. Here and there heads drew together whispering. The boxes were too quiet. As the final tableau arranged itself and Jane advanced slowly from the wings there was none of the usual signs of ‘approval. Instead a disturbed shuffie ‘made ‘itself heard. She began her lines smiling. An ugly murmur overran the pit and she faltered. Instantly a man's form leaned over the edge of a box and hissed. The watcher, staring from the shadow of the lobby, recognized him with a quick stab_of significance—it was William Lamb. The action med a concerted signal. Some one Yaughed. An un- dulate hiss swept over the house like a mest of serpents. Even some of the boxes swelled its volume. Jane shrank, - looking frightenedly about her, bewildered, her hands clutching her gown; for the pit was on its legs now, and epithets were hurled at the stage. ‘‘Crede Gordon!” came the derisive shout—a cry; taken up with groans and catcalls—and a walking stick clattered across the footlights. The manager rushed upon the stage apd the heavy curtain began to de- scend. “The baggage!” said a voice near Gordon witha coarse laugh. “It's the one they say he had in his house when his wife left him. Serves her right! Gordon's breath caught in his throat. So this had been William Lamb’s way! Not an appeal to the court of ten paces —an assasein in the dark with a blood- less weapon to slay him in the world’s esteem! He heard the din rising from the whole house as he crossed the lobby and strode down the passageway lead- ing to the greenroom. | CHAPTER XVIIIL ... Gordon Stands at. Bay. -~ Jane Clermont had reached it before him, her eyes a storm of anger. She tore the silver orpaments from -her costume, and dashéd them at the feet of the manager. “How dare they! How dare they!" she flamed. e “Don’t talk!” he snapped. “I must go_on with the play or they will be in hete in five minutes.. Don’t wait to change your dress—go! go, I tell you! Do you think I want my theater tum- bled about my ears?” He cursed as the dulled uproar came from beyond the dropped curtain. Curious eyes had turned to Gordon, faces zestful, relishing, as he paused in the doorway. The girl had not seen him. But at that moment hurried steps came down the passage—a youth dart- ed past Gordon and threw an arm about her. b “Jane!” he cried, “we were there— Mary and I—we saw it all! It is infa- mous!"” A flash of instant recollection deep- ened the vivid fire in Gordon's lock as it rested on the boyish, beardless figure, se quaint dress and roving eyes, bright and wild like a deer’s, seemed as incongruous in that circle of nt and tinsel as in the squalor of the et Prison. Shelley went on rapidly through Jane's incoherent words: *“Jane, listen! We're not poor now. ‘We came to the play to-night to tell you the news. Old Sir Bysshe, my grandfather, is dead and the entail comes to me. We sail for the conti- net at daybreak. Mary is waiting in the carriage. Come with us. Jane, and let England, go.” On the manager’s face drops of per- spiration had started. “Aye, go!" he foamed. “The quicker the better! His lordship is waiting——" He shrank back, the sneer throttled on his lips, for there was that in G don’s colorless features, his sparkling eyes, at which the man’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. “George Gordon!” exclaimed Shelley under his breath. Jane's glance had followed his and she saw the figure at the door for the first time, as Gordon spoke: “Cowards!” he said. “Cowards!™ a shriveling rage was making his speech thick. “A thousand against one! It is T they hate, and they vent their hatred of me upon a woman! Such is the chivalry of this puddle of water- worms they call London!" A sudden admiration swept the girl. “You dare them, too! You are not afraid!” - She turned on the manager passionately. “I wouldn't play for them again for all London! I despise you all, in front of the curtain and behind it. Liars—all Hars! Come, Bysshe, I will go with you.” Shelley held out his hand to Gordon with an open. friendly, “Good-by, my lord.” Gordon had been looking at him steadily—looking, but with a strange irrelevance, seeing really himself, standing in his own room at a long- ago dawn, a goblet of brandy in his band, and in his heart a determination rising anew—a wish to be like the youth whose clasp now met his own, ‘with a like serenity and purpose, a soul to which fame meant least, truth and right all! In that year of dazzle be- fore his marriage he had quenched that determination. He had worshiped the Great Beast. He had lived the world’s life and played its games and accepted [ its awards. Now he suffered its pun=- ishments Malicigus faces were peering in at the stret entrance. The pit had over- flowed iato the lobby, the lobby into the street, and the numbers swelled from the hordes of the pave whose jargon banter flew back and forth. The jeering voiced came plainly down the brick passageway. “I will see you to your ecarriage,"” said Gordon, and went out with them. They passed to the vehicle—from which Mary Shelley’s frightened face looked out—through a vociferous hu- man lane, that groaned and whistled in gusto. “There's th with ’er, too! “Which is 'im?"” “W'y, i'm with the leg.” the gibe which followed Gordom smiled mirthlessly. This blind rabble, egged on by hatred that utilized for its ends the crass dislike of the scum for the refined—what was it to him? He knew its masters! As Jane took her seat the jeers re- jade; an’ 'er lordship doubled. Across heads between him and the surging entrance of the theater he saw the sneering, heavy- lidded face of William Lamb. The sight ro d the truculent demon of stubbornn in him. With a fare of unrecking impertinence and a racing recollection of a first dinner at Mel- bourne House, when he had given Lady Caroline Lamb such a blossom from his coat, Gc n drew the carnation from his buttonhole and handed it to Jane Clermont The crowd had leoked to enter with the other: see him : now as the ve- hicle rolled away, leaving him stand- ing alone, the clamor, sharpened by his nonchalant act and by the smile which they could not anslate, rose more derisive, more boldly mixed with insult. They were overcoming that dull irborn fear of the clod for the noble. Tnere was menace in what they said, a foreshadowing of peril that might bave fallen but for a diversion. A coach, adroitly handled, whirled up to the curbstone, and a man leaped to the pavement. Gordon felt a hand touch his arm. “The carriage, my lord,” said Fletch- er. The valet, guessing better than his master, had followed him. A sense of the dog-like fidelity of the old servitor smote Gordon and softened the bitter smile on his lips. Only an instant he hesitated before he entered the car- riage, and in t instant a hand gragped at the horses’ heads, but the cogehman’s whip fell animals made an ai the vehicle, hissed an safety. 4 t drew away a young man, dark and Oriental-looking, came through the crowd, staring wonderingly at the ex- citement. He ws ne who more than once on that svot had watched Gor- don's approaching carriage with black envy and jealousy—the same who had stood with Jane Clerm: on the night and the plunging e through which hooted, rolled in Dr. Cassidy’s suspicious gaze had made him draw closer into the shadow of the doorway. At t names the crowd coupled, he started, paled and hu-ried into the stage entrance. In an instant merged, breathing hard, heard the je of the crowd di- récted at the ving carriage, and, his fingers cl ing, rushed into the street and ed after it. It turmed into Long Acre, going toward Picca- dilly. He plunged into the network of side streets opposite and hastened rap- in the direction it had taken. was not far to the house on Ple- and he outstripped the the shadow he saw it man it carried dis- From the stop, saw mount—als “Where is/ he muttered. “He took her from the theater—damn him! ‘Where has he left her?” The same bitter smile with which he had faced the clamor outside the thea- ter was on Gordon’'s white face as he entered the house. In the hail he opened a single note of invitation, read it and laughed. Rushton met him. dr. Dallas is in the library, your lordship.™ on strode into the room. Dallas saw that though he was smiling oddly, his face was deeply lined, and his eyes were glittering like those of a man with a fever. “George,” cried Dallas, “I was bound to see you! Why—you are ill!"™ “Not I, Dallas. I have been to Drury Lane to-night. All soclety was there, divorced and divorceable, intrigan and Babylenians of quz:rl&y. Lady Hol- a hippopota s in the face, liam Lamb with the very man- ner of the ursine sloth!™ There was genuine anxiety in Dallas” 1e. “Come with me to Stratford for * he besought. “Come now —to-night ot this week, old friend. I have social engagements to fill!" Gordon tossed him the note he held. “See! Lady Jersey, the loveliest tyrant that shakes the cap and bells of fashion's fools:—the despot of Almack's—the patroness-in-chief of the Dandy Ball, invites the reprobate, the scapegrace, to that sumptuous conclave! She dares the frown and risks pollution! Would you have me disappoint my only wom- an apologist in London? Shall I not reward such ypparagoned courage with the presence of its parior liom, its ball- room bard, its hot-pressed darling?” He laughed wildly, sardonically, and jerked the bell “Fletcher, a bottle of brandy.” he commanded, “and I shall not want you again to-night.” The valet set the bottle down with an anxious look at his master—a half-ap- pealing one toward Dallas. As the door closed, Gordon, sitting on the table-edge, began to sing with per- fect coolness, without a quaver in the metallic voice: ““The Devil returned to hell by two, And he stayed at home till five: He dined on 2 dowager done ragout And a peer bofled down fu an Irish stew And, quoth be, ‘T'll take a drive! I walked this morning. I'll ride to-night— In darkness my children take delight- And I'll see how my favorites thrive “Laddie!” Dallag’ cry was full of pity and entreaty. “I beg of you— stop!” He went over and touched the other’s arm. “Listen, Dallas— The Devil he lit on the London pave And be found his work done well. For it ran 3o red from the slandered dead That it blusbed like the waves of hell! Then loudly and wiidly and long laughed he: “Methinks they b here little need of me!" CHAPTER XIX. The Burning of an Effigy. Beau Brummell, pattern of the dan- dies, stood in Almack’s Assembly Rooms, bowing right and left with the languid elegance of his station. The night before, in play at the Argyle. he had lost twenty thousand pounds at macao, but what mattered that to the czar of fashion, who had introduced starch into neck-cloths and had his top-beots polished with champagne, whose very fob-design was a thing of more moment in Brookes’ Club than the fall of Bonaparte, and whose loss