The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 9, 1905, Page 4

regent’s favor had not d Jew, and merian but- n a dagger-scratch made on to control hi , more trenchant and ady Caroline's tone: r an idol dethroned! sconce anc which blazed itself hoarse. had been throw 4 $20 b, Sy o vaw, Bracx Ove ! © SRELMED THE WOMAN, GO BEFOFE face pale yet bril- about George Gordon, center of any the tension, § His gharply chisel- features seemed to thriil , and his eyes sparkled till ome of these s deaf to Brummell's s h came from Gardon's lips, con- subterraneous could afterward re- part—hot like lava, writh- , falling among them like lash of whip-cords: s and Pharisees, hypocrites! I eard hyenas and jackals in the angling figure Theirs is sweet of England’s I have hated your mediocrity and conventions, scandal-mongers, 1 I.stand alone ‘on ny hearth with you gather your pomp and rab- nt of society to bait me!” as a stir at the door. and John Hob- line raised her hand, and recited, in & to the further- and divined stantly the cruel farce that had been Her indignation leaped, but he caught her arm. he said,-“it is too late.” Ing sentences went on: e you dealt those whose names wili be England when r mixed with Guy Fawkes paid hie debt to ¢ , unmarked Ly the enroox applavded he envipus dandies despair cuffs and the curl of his hair. our forgotten clay has spoken this doggerel Let them be elaborate gestures toward the absurd gently born and greatly minded as manikin, her eyes gleaming at the ap- plause that greeted each stanza, shealhing the dagger at her girdle, she with a’ look of languishing that made hew laughter. Who, "tis‘sald, when a fair Mald of Athens he they may—as gentle as Sheridan, whom a year ago you toasted, He grew old and you covered him with the ignominy of a. profligate, aban- *dorled himi to friendiess poverty and left him to die like a yretched beggar, - while bajliffs squabbled oyer his corpse!’ What mattered to him the crocodile tears when you laid him yes- terday in’ Westminster Abbey? What cared he for your four noble pall- bearers—a Duke, a pair of Earls and a Lorg Bishop of London? Did -it lighten bis last misery that you fol- Jowed him there—two royal high- nessas, marquises, viscounts,r a Lord Mayor and a regiment of right honor- ables? Scribes and Pharisees, hypo- crites! “So you dealt with Shelley—the vouth whagse spngs you would not hear! You hounded him, expelled him from his university, robbed him of his father and his peace, and drove him like 4 moral lener from among you! You write no pamphlets in verse—nor read them if a canon frowns! You sit in your pews on Sunday and thank Fate that you are not as Percy Bysshe Shelley, the outcast! God! He sits so ° near that heaven your priest prate of that he hears the seraphs sing! “And do you think now to break me on your paliry wheel? 'You made me, without my search, a species of pagod. In the caprice of your pleas- ure vou throw down the idol from its pedestal. But it is not shattered; I have neither loved nor feared you! rceforth I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. Attribute to me every phase of your 2o D ZES LY vileness! Charge me witn profligacy and madness! Make of my career only a washed fragment in the harts- horn of your dislike! Drive your red- hot plowshares, Wit they shall not be for me! May my bones never rest in an English grave, nor my body feed its worms!” The livid sentences fell quivering, 1vy with virile emphasis, like the nce of some sacred augur, in- the furies in the midnight of Rome. . Hardly a breath of movement had come from those who heard. They seemed struck with stupor at the spec- tacle of this flery drama of feeling. Lady Caroline was still standing, the center of the group of imp pages, and above her hovered a siate-colored cloud, the smoke from the efligy crumbling into shapeless ashes. Her gaze was on the speaker; her teeth clenched; . the mockery of her face merged into something apprehensive and terror-smitten, In the same strained silence, look- ing. neither to right nor left, Gordon passed to the entrance, Hobhouse met him half way and turned with him to Lady Jersey. Gordon bent and kissed her hand, and as he went slowly.down the stair Ledy Jersey’'s eyes filled with tears, The spell was broken by a cry from the stage and Lady Heathcote's scream. Lady Caroline had . swayed and fallen. The blade of the dagger which she still ‘held had slipped against her breast as she fell, and blood fol- lowed the slight cut. The crowd surged forward in excitement and relaxation, while waves of lively orchestral music rolled over the -confusion, through which the crumpled figure ‘was carried to a 'dressing-room. Only those near by saw the dagger cut, but almost before Gordon” had emerged into the night a strange ru- mor ‘'was running through 'the assem- bly. It grew in volume through the after-quadrille and reached the street. “Caroline Lamb has tried to herself,” the whisper said. CHAPTER XX. Fletcher was watching anxiously for his.master’s return that night. When he entered there were new lines in his face—the stigmata of some abrupt and fearful mental recofl. “Order the coach to be got ready at once,” Gordon directed, “‘and pack my portmanteau.” He went heavily into 8azing at the bookshelves with eves Presently, with the same nerveless movements, he unlotked & drawer and took therefrom several small articles; a lock of Ada's hair— a little copy of “Romeo and Juliet” given him years before by his sister— and the black hottle. inté his great cpat pocket. Amid the litter of papers on his desk a document met his eye; it was the draft of separation submitted by Sir Samuel Romilly. fiitted vaguely his struggle as he had sat with that paper before him. The struggle was ended; listless and duil He thrust these Through his justice was im- 1t remained only to sign this, the death-warrant of his fatherhood. He wrote his name without a tremor, franked it for the post and laid it in plain ‘view, as Fletcher entered to an- nounce the carriage. The deep lines were deeper on Gor- don’s face as he went to the pave. ment; he moved like a sleep-walker, mechanically the mandate of sume hidden. alert purpose independently An inner voice rather than his own scemed to give the direction—a di- rectifn that made the coachman stare, made Pletcher with a look of dismay seize coat and hat and elimb hurriedly to the box beside him. this—he saw nothing, knew nothing, save the rush of the coach through the gloom. When the worn night was breaking into purple fringes of dawn, Gordon stood on the deck of a packet out- bound for Ostend, looking back over wine-dark water where the dis- solving fog, hung like a fume of silver- gray against the white Dover built a glittering city of towers and ‘heams the capricious vapors seemed the ghosts of dead ideals shrouding a harbor of hate, Hig vouth, his dreams, his triumphs, his bitterness, his rebellion, his grief, all blended, lay there smarting, irre- Before him stretched wander- ings and regrets and broken longings. “Your coffee, my lord!"—a familiar spoke. Fletcher him, tray in hand, trepidation and re- solve struggling in his countenance. Gordon took the coffee mechanically. “How did you come here?” “With the coach, my lord.” “Where are you going?" ‘The valet’s hand shook, and he swal- lowed hard. lordship knows best,” he said huskily. Gordon gazed a moment out across the misty channel. When he set down face had a brought to the other’s eves a sudden gladness and utter devotion. “Thank . you, Fletcher,” gently, and turned his gaze away. Presently, as the light quickened, he drew paper from his pocket, put the THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL e —————————————————— e ————— e copy of “Romeo and Juliet” beneath it for support, and with the book resting on the rail, began to write. What he ‘wrote—strange that chance should have furnished for his table now a story of such deathless love!—was a lett®r to Annabel: “A few flnal words—not many. An- swer I do not expect, nor does it im- port. But you will at least hear me. I leave in England but one being whom you have left me to vart with—my sister. Wherever I may go—and I may Bo-far—you and I can never meet in this . world. Let. this fac{ content or atone, and if accident occurs to me, be kind to her; or if she is then also noth- ing, to her children. For never has she acted or spoken toward you but as your friend. You once promised me this much. Do not deem the promise canceléd—for it was not a vow. ““Whatever I may have felt, I assure yoy that at this moment I bear you no resentment. If you have injured me, this forgiveness is something; if I have injured you, it is something more still. Remember that our feelings will have one rallying point so long as our child lives. Teach Ada not to hate me. I do not ask for justfication to her— this is probably beyond the power of either of us to give—but let her.not grow un believing I am a deserving outcast from my kind, or lying dead in some forgotten grave. For the one would sadden her young mind no less than the other- Let her one day read what I have written, and so judge me. And recollect that though now it may be an advantage to you, vet it may some time come to be a sofrow to her to have the waters or the earth between her and her father. “Whether the offense that has part- ed us has been solely on my side or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased now to refleet upon any but two things—that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet again.” Gordon Swims for a Life. From Londen to Ostend and through Flanders a swart shadow trailed George Gorden slowly but unerringly. It was the man whose dark, reckless face had once turned with jealous passion to Jane Clermont as they had watched a carriage approaching Drury lane; he who, on a later night, had pursued the same vehicle, then a mark for jeers, to Piccadilly terrace. The question he had uttered as he raw CGordon glight alone had rung in his brain.through his after-search: “Where has he léft her?” The London newspapers had not been long in chronicling Gordon's arrival in Ostend, and-thither he fol- lowed, making certain that in finding one he should find the other. The chase at first was not difficult. Evil report, carried with malicious as- siduity by spying tourists and globe- trotting gossip-mongers, had soon overtaken his guarry and Gordon's progress became marked by calumnious tales which hovered like obscene gea- birds over the wake of a vessel. - Gor- don had gone from Brussels in a huge coach, copigd from one of Napoleon's taken at Jemappe, and pyrchased from o traveling Wallachian nobleman. The vehicle was a neteworthy object . and early formed the basis of Iying reports. A paragraph in the Journal de Bel- que met the pursuer’s eye on his rst arrival in Ostend. It stated with detail that a Flemish coachmaker had delivered to the milor Anglois a coach of the value of 2800 francs; that on going for payment he found his lordship had absconded with the carriage; that the defrauded seller had petitioned the Tribunal de Pre- miere Instance for proper representa- tion to other districts, that the fugi- tive might be apprehended and the stolen property seized. With this clip- ping in his pocket the man who track- ed Gordon followed up the Rhine to the confines of Switzerland. Here he lost a month, for the emblazoned wagon de luxe had turned at Basle, and, skirting Neufchatel, had taken Its course to Lake Geneva. Gordon had traveled wholly at ran- dom and paused there only because the shimmering blue waters, the black mountain ridges with their epaulets ,”' cloud, and, In the distance, the cold, secular phantom of Mont Bianc, brought to his jaded senses the first hint of relief. In the Villa Diodati, high above the lake, the English mi- lord with the lame foot, the white face and sparkling eyes stayed his course, to the wonder of the country folk who speculated endlessly upon the strange choice which preferred .the gloomy villa to the spires and slate roof of the gay city so near. And here, to his surprise. Gordon found ensconced, \in a. cottage on the high bank, Shelley and his young wife, with the black-eyed, creole-tinted girl whom the Drury Lane audience had hissed. 4 So. had chance conspired to color circumstance for the rage of tireless hatred that was following. The blows that had succeeded the flight of Annabel with his child had left Gordon stunned. The flaming re- coil of his feeling, in that flerce de- nunciation at Almack’s, had burned up in him the very capacity for further suffering, and for a time the quiet of Diodati, set in its grove above the water like a bird’s nest among leaves, was a healing anodyne. From his balcony Mont Blanc and its snowy aiguilles were screened, but the sun sank roseate behind the Jura, and it lifted again over vin rded hills which echoed the songs of vine- dressers and the mellow bells of saun- tering herds. Below, boats swept idly in the sun, or the long lances of the rain° marched and marshaled across the level lake to the meeting and sun- dering of the clouds. There came a time too soon, when ¢he dulled nerves awoke, when the whole man cried out. In the sharpest of these moods Gordon found respite at the adjacent cottage, where Shelley, whose bright eyes seemed to drink light from the' pages of Plato or Cal- deron, read aloud, or Jane Clermont, piquant and daring as of old, sang for them some songs of Tom Moore’s. Or in the long days the two men walked and sailed, under a sky of garter-blue, feeling the lapping of the waves, liv- ing between the two wondrous worlds of water and ether, till for a time Gor- don laid the troubled specters of his thought in semi-forgetfulne: One day they drove along the mar- gin of the lake to Chillon and spent a night beneath the frowning chateaun walls that had entombed Bonnivard. On the afternoon of their re- turn, sitting alone on the bal- cony with the gloom of those dungeons still upon him, gazing far across the lake, across the moun- tains, toward that home from which he had been driven, Gordon, for the first time since he had left England, found relief in composition. He wrote of Chillon's prisoner, but the agony in the lines was a personal one: I made a footing In the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For 1 had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape; No child—no sire—no kin had I, No partner in my misery: But I was curious to ascend To my barred windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eve. - He wrote in the dimming luster of a perfect day. Below him rippled the long lake churning an inarticulate mel- ody, and a tiny island with trees upon it rested the eye. As he gazed, beyond the dazzling beryl foliage, set in the sunset, a spot riveted his look. A moment before the white sail of a boat had glanced there! nmow a confused flat blur lay on the water. Gordon thrust his commonplace- book into his pocket and leaned for- ward, shading his eyes from the glow. ‘The blot resolved itself into a capsized hull and two black figures struggling in the water, one with difficulty sup- porting the other. The next moment he was dashing down the bank, hallooing for Fletcher, peeling off coat and waistcoat as he went. “There's a boat swamped,” he shout- ed, as the valet came through the gar- den. ‘““Where is the skiff?” “Miss Clermont has it, my lord.” Gordon plunged in, while Fletcher ran to summon the Shelleys. They came hurrying along the vineyard lane with frightened Yaces, Mary to watch from the high bank, and Shelley, who could no more swim than Fletcher, to stride up. and down, his long hair streaming in the wind. The excitement brought a picturesque dozen of goitred vinedressers from the hillside, who locked on with exclamations. All were gazing fixedly on the lake, or they might have seen two men enter the grounds from the upper road. Ot these one was a Swiss with a severe, thin face* and ascetic brow, the syndic of Cologny, the nearest town—a bigot functionary heartily disliked by the country people. The other was a Ge- nevan attorney. From the road they had not-seen the catastrophe, and the overturned boat, the struggling figures, and the swimmer forging to the rescue came to their view all at once. Gordon was swimming as he had never done save once—when he had swum the Hellespont years before, and in midchannel a strange, great ple- baid fish had glided near him. The Jawyer saw him. reach and grasp the helpless man and, supporting him, bring him to shore. He sniffed with satisfaction. ."Only one man in the canton can swim like that,” he said, “and that's the one you came to see. No won- der the peasants call him ‘the English fisht’ " The young man whem Gordon had aided wore a blonde curling beard, contrasting strongly with his old- er companion’s darker shaven cheeks and bushy black Greek eye- brows. The unseen spectators on the terrace saw him drink fronr hig rescuer's pecket-flask—saw him rise and grasp the other’s hand and knew that he was thanking him. As they watched, a servant ran to the coachhouse, and the syndic observed: ““He's sending them into town by car- riage. . They're going indoors now. ‘We'll go down presently.” “Take my advice,” urged the attor- ney above the terrace, “and let the Englishman alone. Haven't we court busines¢ enough in Switzerland, that we must work for Flanders? What have we to do with the complaints of Brussels coachmakers? And how do you know it's true, anyway?” 'The syndic’s 1ips snapped together. “I know my business,” he bridled. “He is a worshiper c¢f Satan and a scoffer at religion.” : “And you'd burn him with green wood if you could, as Calvin did Serve- tus in the town yonder, eh?” “He has committed every orime in his own country,” went on the other an- grily. ‘“He has formed a conspiracy to overthrow by rhyme all morals and government. My brother wrote me from Copet that one of Madame de Stael’s guests fainted at seeing him ride pas if she had seen the devil. They say in Geneva that he has co rupted every grisette on the Rue Basse! Do you think he is toe good to be a thief? Murderer or absconder or here- tic, it is all one to me. Cologny wants none such on her s t us go down,” he added, rising; will be dark soon.” The counselor shrugged his shoulders and followed the other over the sioping terrace. CHAPT XX The Face on the Ivory. When Gordon descended the came upon a striking group at t entrance. ley, with his w fronted the severe-faced » Who stood stolidly - with the comfertably ph ) avoeat. A look of indignatic ¢ he e villa, be- as on his brow, and Mary's fac was pert ed. “Here he is," said the functionary in his neighborhood patols, and with satisfaction. “You hdve business with me?” asked Gordon. “I bave. I require you to accompany me at once to Cologny a matter touching the peace of this canton.” “And this matter is what? “You speak French,” returned the syndic tartly; “doubtless you read it as well”—and handed him a clipping from the Journal de Belgique. Gordon scanned the fragment of paper, first with surprise, then with a slow and bitter smile. He had not seen the story, but it differed little from scores of calumnies that had filled the columns of less credulous news- papers in London before his departure. It was a breath fresh from the ‘old sulphur bed of hatred, brought sharply to him here in his solitude. “1 see,” he said; “this states that a certain English milord had turned highwayman and deprived an homest Fleming of a wagon? How does it af- fect me?” “Do you deny that you have the wagon?" demanded the syndic curtly. “The wagon? I have a wagom, Yyes. One bought for me by my servant.” “In Brussels?” “As it happens, in Brussels.” The paleness of Gordon's face was ac- centuated now, and his eyes held édfes of dangerous flame. “And because I am an English milord, and bring a wagon from Brussels, you assume that Iam a robber?” “You were driven from your ‘own country,” menaced the other. “Deo you think we hear nothing, we Swiss? This canton Kn you well enough! Stop those horses!” he snarled, for the great coach, ready for its trip to the town. was rolling down the driveway. The syndic sprang to the horses’ heads, At the same instant the two stran- gers who had been in the . overturned boat, now with clothing partfally dried, came from the house. “There!” The syndic pointed to the i Do you deny this is scribed in that newspa- per, and that you absconded with it from Brussels?” The older of the two strangers turnéd quick eyes on Gordon, them on the wagon. Before Gordon could reply he spoke in nervous French “I beg pardon. 1 was the owner of that conveyance, and the one who sold e “Maybe,” said the functionary, “but you did not sell it to this persen, I have reason to believe.” “No, yonder is the purchaser. Fe pointed to a prosaic figure at the steps. “His valet!” Shelley thrust in explos- ively. “L told you so,” grunted the man of law, and started with the’surprise of recognition, as the syndie, ruffling with anger, turned on the stransers with sarcasm ‘Friends of the English milord, no doubt! The counselor laid a hasty hand on his sleeve: “Stop!” he said. “I think I have had the honor of meeting these gentlemen in Geneva. Allow me to present you, monsieur, to Prince Mavrocordato, Minister of Foreign Affalrs of Walla- chia, and”"—he turned to the latter's younger companion — “his geeretary, Count Pietro Gamba of Ravenna.” The sour-faced official drew . back. These were names whose owners had been pudlic guests of the canton. This Englisb.nan, evil acd outcast as he might Be. he had no legal hold upen. He could scarcely frame a grudging aypology, for the resentment of - seif- righteousness that was on his tongue, and stalked off up the terrace in sullen chagrin, not consgled by the chuckles of the attorney beSide him. Gordon saw them go, his hands trembling. He replied mechanically to thé grateful farewells of the two stran- gers as they entered the coach, and watched it roll swiftly down the dark- ening shore road, a quivering blur be- fore his eyes. A flerce struggle was within him, the peace which the. tran- quil poise of Shelley’s creed had lent him, warring against a clamant rage. Not only in England was he maligned. Here, on the edge of this mountain barrier, defamation had followed him. The pair rid- ing in his own carriage knew who he was; the older had spoken his name and title. And they had net elected to stay beyond necessity. Yet for their momentary presence, indeed, he should be grateful. But for this trick of co- incidence he should now be haled be- fore a bunging Genevan tribunal, his name and person a mark for the spar- ring of pettifogging Swiss officials! These thoughts were clashing threugh his mind as he turned and walked slowly down to the bank where Shel- ley’s Swiss servant had moored the stranger’s rescued beat, bailed out and with sail stretched to dry. The sunset, as he stood, flamed redly across the lake, its ray glinting from the rim of & bright object whose broken chain bad caught beneath the boat’s gunwale. He leaned and drew it out. It was an oval miniature dackéd with silver—the portrait of a young girl, a face frail and delicately hued, with fine line of chin and slender neck, wii¥ wistful eyes the deep color of the Adri. atle, hair a gush of tawny gold, skin like warm Arum lilies, and a stringof pearls about her neck. Evidently it had belonged to one of the two men with whom the craft had capsized. It was 100 late now tu overtake the coach; he would send it after them that evening. He turned the miniature over. On the back was engraved a name: “Ter- esa Gamba.” Gamba? It had been one of the names spoken by the attorney, that of the young count for whose rescue he had swum so hard. He logked again at the lvory. His wife? No, no; inmocence of life; igner- ance of its passions and parades' were there. - His sister? Yes. The fair hair and blue eyes were allke. And now Qe caught a subtle resemblance of feature, She was dear to this brother, no doubt —dear as was his own half-sister te him, well nigh the only being left in England who belleved in him and loved him. He looked up at & hail from the lake. A boat was approaching, bearing a single feminie rower. As he _shé. looked over her shoulder to wave something white at the porch. “It is Jane. She-has bBeen fo the post,” cried Sheiley from the terrace, and hastened down the bank, Gerdon thrust the Ivory into ‘his pocket as the skiff darted l‘l 1o the N landing.