The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 24, 1905, Page 4

L would have Storri in tue library in en- gagingly familiar fashion. Senator Hanwa~ went always to his study after dinner, to receive visitors through the veranda door, and prune and train the vine of ms Presidential hopes with confal new plans, into which he and th sisitors—who were folk of ir home States—unreservedly wh) was not dornes- ¢ so much as an would give an excuse nd go abroad into the v, Lor- more or less town. This left Mes. Hanway-Ha othy and Storri to themselves; and the to it that the noble lover was granted chance to press his sult. That is to sey, Mrs Hauway-Har- ley gave Storri a chance so far as lay in er accommoi ng power; fer she de- veloped an inexhaustible roll of reasons for leaving the room, and in her kind maternal ally saw sagacity never 1ailed to stay away at east five minutes nd a world and all love may; be made in five minutes, when both part.es set thelr hearts aud to the dulcet enterprise. torrl was ardent, and Mrs. Hanway- Harley was discreet, and both displayed talents for intrigue and execution that. n otner days, in other fields, might well ave saved & state. And yet there wa > blushing progress to the love-makin; Dorotu, s behavior was unaccountable. The first evening she sat in marble si- len like an ima_e. The 'mext, she would not come down to dinner, saying she was sick and could not eat. The in- valid put in a most successtul evening in her ro hinkiag <f Richard, and 5cig- ing on miscellaneous dishes which her sable waid abstracted from below. She would have been ill the third time, but mother set her face like flint against excuse. M Harley de- thut Dorothy's desertion was di graceful at a moment when she, h mother, ded her help to entertain their visitor. With that, Dorothy’s in- dispo vielded, and she so far re- covered as to play her part at table with able spirit, eating quite as much clared as her mother, who was no one to dine like a bird. But Dorothy took her re- venge; she talked of nothing but Rich- ard, and the conversations on politi which he and “Uncle Pat” indulged in during those eleven-o'clock calls. Storri glowered; more, he became aware Richard aily comrade of Doro- hy M herself was struck by some shadow of the truth; but she got no more than what Seotchmen call k,” and she gave the matter Later she clothed t with more importance. Mrs Hanway-Harley, moved to reprove Doroth: th of her experiences. “Child,” said she, when Storri was gone, you should never try to entertain one gentleman by telling him about another; t only makes him furious.” ‘'t, mamma,” said Dorothy, her round vou failed to notice it Hanway-Harley. “A nore upon your guard.” replied Dorothy de- was too sly to say against what she should guard On the next Storri evening, Dorothy returned to the old ruse. She set a lamp r chamber window, the effect of the g that Bess came across from , as the clock scored eight and and joined the Harley part It was nothing out of common for Be: to do this; she and Dorothy had been friends since days w their hair in frocks to their knees. Bess came not only that evening, but every Storri evenin and whether or no she were a welcome at least she was a pertinacious visitor, for she stayed unrelentingly until Storri, los- ing courage, went his way. Storri bit his angry lip over Bess, for he now began to read the argument of her advent. It was Dorothy’s defense from out the only er against him, and in its kind an insuit. Mrs, Hanway-Harley also became more and more instructed in this love-match so near her heart, and those difficulties which the capricious coldness of Dorothy arranged for its discouragement. The placidity of Mrs. Hanway-Harley wi becoming ruffied; the hour was drawir on apace when she would make clear her position. She would issue those com- mands which were to fix the attitude of Dorothy toward the sighing Storri and his love v called Bess her guardian ange: The G. A. accepted the position and its duties with that admirable composure which you have already observed was among her characteristics. The fair Bess was one of those whom their friends, without intending ., describe as mild to say, Bess had peculiarities which were in part na tive and in part the work of an environ- She was an only child, and that doctor’s child, and ment. was bad; she was a that was worse. Not that her father had been so recklessly demse as to try his drugs on her; he knew too much for that, But your doctor's children oft get an unussal bringing up, and the chances in favor of the extraordinary in that behalf are doubled where there is only one child, Mother Marklin had been an invalid from the babyhood of Bess. Father Marklin, in those intervals, when his gham was not racing from one lan- dyspeptic, dance-tired, ~dinner- weary, rout-exhausted woman to an- other at ten dollars a drooping head, look- ed after Bess in that spirit of argus-eyed solicitude with which a government looks after its crown jewels. Bess was herded, not to say hived, and her childish days were days of captivity. She was prisoner to her father's loving apprehensions, he being afraid to have her out of sight. Then came her father's death, and the Marklin household devolved upen Bess’ hands when the hands were new and small and weak; and the load served to emphasize Bess in divers ways. When not walting upon the invalild Mother Mark- lin, Bess broke into her father's book- shelves and read the owlish authors such as Bacon and Dr. Johnson, with side- flights into Montaigne, Voltaire, Amiel and others of hectic kidney. She discov- d, moreover, a sympathy with those women of strong minds who have a quar- rel with Providence for that they were not made men. Bess believed in the equal- ity of the sexes, without pausing to ask in what they were unequal, and stood stoutly for the rights of woman, know- ing not wherein she was wronged or in what manner and to what extent she had been given the worst of life’s bar- gain. Bess was not a blue-stocking, as Richard would have had it, and made no literary pretenses; but she suffered from opinions concerning topics such as hus- band and wife, that so far had had noth- ing better than theory to rest upon. All the same, her friends were deeply satis- fied with Bess; which helped that young lady to a sense of satisfaction with her- self and with them, As head of the Marklins, Bess was made to decide things for herself. At that, she decjded in faver of nothing ter- rifying. She drank tea between three and six each afternoop; she kept a cat named Ajax; and she resolved to marry Mr. Fopling. The latter young gentleman Bess called to her side when she pleased, dismissed when he wearfed her, and in all respects controlled his conclusions, his conversa- tions, and his whereabouts, as heaven meant she should. Bess preferred that Mr. Fopling call during the afternoon; she required the morning for her house- hold duties, aad,.when not screening Dorothy from Storri, saved the evening for her books. Ajax was a grave and formal cat, and. in his way, a personage. He was decors ous to a degree, unbended in no confi- dences with strangers, and hated Mr. Fopling. whom he regarded as either a gracelcss profligate or a domestic animal of unsettled species who, though no merit and by rank favoritism, had been granted a place in the household superior to his own. At sight of Mr. Fopling, Ajax would bottle-brush his tail, arch his back, and explede into that ejaculation peculiar to cats. Mr. Fopling feared Ajax, holding him to be rabid and not knowing when he would do those rending deeds of tooth and claw upon him, of which the ejaculation, the arched back, and the bottle-brush were signs and portents. it was the afternoon of the day follow- ing one of those Harley dinners whereat Storrl had been the sole and honored guest, and Bess was sipping her tea, Her two favorites, Ajax and Mr. Fopling, were sitting in their respective chairs, regarding each other with their usual sus- picion and distrust. Mr. Fopling, by. command of Bess and so far as he might controi himself, was paying no attention to Ajax. Ajax, for his part, was survey- ing Mr. Fopling with a sour stare, as though he found much ih that young gentleman’s appearance to criticize. At intervals he made growling comments upon Mr. Fopling. Unless vou and Ajax can agree," ob- served Bess soberly, ‘“‘one or the other might better go into the library.” Mr. Fopiing made no demur; he was glad to go. When he was out of the room, Ajax came and rubbed about his mistress as though claiming credit for ousting Mr. , ¢f whom he was certain Bess badly as did he. sitting where she commanded a prospect of the street. Who should come swinging up the way but Richard. It was the habit of that rising journalist to make one or two daily excursions past the Harley house. Richard was none of your moon-mad ones who would strum a midnight lute beneath a fair maid's win- dow. Still, he liked to walk by the Har- ley housc: the temporary nearness of Dorothy did his soul good. Besides, he now and then caught a glimpse of her through the window, Richard was on the Marklin side of the street, and as he was for going by— back to Bess and eves on the Harley house—Bess rapped on the pane and beckoned him. Richard lifteq his hat and obeyed di- rectly. He had already met Bess several times when Dorothy and he,. with a pur- pose to spin out their eleven-o'clock in- terview, had seized on Bess as a method. They could not remain:staring at one an- other in Senator Hanway's study; even that preoccupied publicist would have been struck by the strangeness of such a maneuver e best, because the only, thing was to make a pretext of Bess and transfer their love-glances to her This was the earliest time, how- that Richard had been asked to Bess alone. and he confessed to a ng of curiosity, as he climbed the s, concerning the purpose of the sum- some time before had had that threatened talk with Richard concerning marriage and husbands. “Wedlock!" deciared Bess, on that edi- fying cceasion, while Richard grinned and Dorothy rebuked him with a frown, “wed- lock results always in the owner and the owned—a slave and a despot. That is by the wife's decree. The husband is slave and she despot, or he the despot and she the slave, as best matches with her strength or weakness. Some’women de slavery; they would be unhappy without a t to obey.” “And ) you of those?” Richard. half mocking Bess. No; I prefer the role of despot. It is ;ne reason why 1 shall marry Mr. Fop- ing.” And yet Mr. Fopling might turn out a perfect Caligula.” said Rlchard, with a vast pretense of warning. Mr. Fop- ling was not there to hear himself ill- used ‘Mr. Fopling.” obs. of lofty asked ved Bess, in tones conviction, “has no ambitions, 1o energies,.no thoughts; and he has money. In brief, he is beset by nene of those causes that excite and drive men into politics or literature or trade. ie will have nothing to consider in his iife but me.” But,” said Richard,, “Mr. Fopling in the end a veritable pling has often struck who shall say that he will not some day erupt?” 55 was not to be frightened. “Mr. Fopling will do and say and think as I direct; and we shall be very, very happy.” tichard gave Dorothy a comical look of simulated dismay; and shook his head as though counseling against such heresies. “Of cou " Bess continued, “what I propose for Mr. Fopling would not do ou. Were you and 1 to marry Dorothy started—"it would result in civil war. TI've no doubt that you will \ wife worthy your tyrannical will find her happiness in our feet, while her lave will u its treliis to climb and clam- ght turn out ber on.” The conversation was not so foolishly seriou it sounds, and for the most part Bess and Richard were indulging in just no more than so much verbal sparring. Dorothy took no side; those questions of marriages and wives and husbands would ever find her tongue- tied if Richard were around. “Will vou have some tea?’ asked Bess, when Richard, in response to the rapped window, made his way into her presence, Richard would not have tea. vou may smoke” said Bess. “That proves me your friend, doesn't it’ as Richard started a grateful cloud. “Now. to repay my friendship, I want to ask a cuestion and a favor.' “You ail!” cried Richard magnilo- quently. Bess and he were on amiable terms, and be was secretly assured that the blonde pythoness approved him. “What am I to answer? What am I to do? Has the cherished Fopling gone astr: Say but the word, and I ghall hale him to your feet.” g2\ “Mr. Fopling is in the library,” re- plied Bess. “He and Ajax cowld not get along without, quarreling, and I separated them. The question and the favor refer to Dorothy.” Richard colored. “What is the question?” said he, his voice turning deep and soft. “Do you love her?’ This staggered Richard. Bess came to his aid. “T know you do,” said she; “I'll answer the query for yo . The real question I wanted to ask ls, Have vou told her? And that I'll answer: You have not.” “What does this lead to?” broke in Richard. A half-score of daunting sur- mises had come up to shake him.. “Don’t you think you might better tell her?” continued Bess, not heeding the question. “She knows, ing a breath. returned Richard, draw- “Dorothy knows. I've THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. seen. the knowledge in her eyes. she loves me!” “I've no doubt you've sgeen marvelous things in one another’s eyes,” retorted Bess in a matter-of-fact way; “but I say again; \.ouldn’t It be wise to tell And rankly, yes,” replied Richard, driv- en desperate. “I have been on the threshold of it, but somehow I couldn’t lay hands on just the words. Dorothy knows I love her!” he repeated as though to himself. “It would be only a formality “There is the very point.” observed Bess. “It Is the formality that has be- come important. Do you think I would break in upon your dreams, 2lse? A formality is a fence. . If you owned A bed of flowers, would you build a fence about it? Then fence in your Dorothy with a formal offer of your love.” “1 shall not rest until I've done so!’ d Richard, catching fire, “And then you will have done the wise and safe and just and loving thing! Who taught vou to ignore formalities? They are one's evidence of title. Build your fence. It will be llke saying to Storri: So far shalt thou come and no farther.” Bess looked curiously at Richard. She had mentioned Storri in a mood of mis- chief, as one spurs a gamesome horse to stir its mettle. Richard’'s brow was a thundercloud. “Why do you name Storri with Doro- thy?—a serpent and a dove!” he said, in tones very slow and full “Dorothy will teil you,” replied Bess. “She will turn marvelously loguacious, once she finds herself behind her fence.” “How shall I go to her?” exclaimed Richard. *“My heart will be sick until I've told her.” “You will not have long to wait.”” said Bess laughingly. “She should have been here ten minutes ago. I can't see what detains her.” Richard looked bewildered and a little shocked. ‘Surely,” he began, “Dorothy didn't—"" “No, no; you are not the vietim of a plot, Sir Suspicious One!” cried Bess. “It is a wonder that you are not, for your dullness surpasses belief. Do you imagine Dorothy doesn’t see you every time you walk this strect; that she hasn’t seen you to-day? that she didn’t see you come in? that ‘she won't invent some pretext for running over? Oh, foolish, foolish bride- groom! You may guess how foolish by peeping from the window, for here your Dorothy comes.” At this, the benignant Bess, having questioned, advised, admonished, and, in a measure, berated Richard, gave him her hand as if she would give him courage; and Richard, with the praiseworthy pur- pose of getting all the courage he could, lifted it to his lips. That was the blast- ing tableau at the moment Dorothy stood in the door. “Oh!" cried Dorothy. Then her brow crimsoned, and her eyes began to shine like angry stars. CHAPTER IX. How Storri Made a Love. Offer of His At the brow of red and thos: angry - eves like stars, Bess smiled superior, in beaming toleration and affection. Bess could afford these henevolences, being now engaged in that most de- lightful of all Christian tasks to a woman, viz., superintending the love- romance of another woman. She swept sweetly down on Dorothy; and even Richard, albeit full to blindness of his own g_r{nt passion, could not help but see that sh€ was as graceful as a god- dess.” | Ty " 5% Bess Backd a hdfd on eachjof Doro- thy's shoulders, a kissed, her brow where the angry red, already in doubt as to the propriety of its presence, ©was trying to steal away unnoticed. “What have I done?' said Bess, as though repeating a query put by Doro- thy. “Now I no more than found a wanderer, who loves you almost as dearly’'as you love him, and who would not See the way to go straight to you with his offer of a heart. He was for traveling miles and miles around, no one knows how many, by all kinds of hesitating roads. 1 stopped him and pointed cross-lotspto you. That is my whole offense; and when you airived, the wanderer, in a spirit of gratitude 1 entirely commend, was very properly mumbling over my hands.” Bess drew Dorothy into the room. “There!” cried she, “I have done my utmost best for both. I shall now look after Mr. Fopling. Poor child, he has already been neglected too long!" Bess, departing, left behind her two young people wondrously embarrassed. Richard had been plunged into a most craven condition; while Dorothy, head drooping like a flower gone to sleep, the flush creeping from ler brow to her cheek, began to cry gently. Two large, round, woeful tears came slowly into the corners of her eves, paused a mo- ment as though to survey the world, and then ran timidly down, one on each side of her nose. At this piteous sight, Richard became a hero. Being an extremist in all things, Richard, roused, caught Doro- thy to his bosom—the first embrace since that blessed boot-heel evening in the Waldorf! He folded her in those Pict arms in most radical fashion, and kissed her—they were like unto glimpses of heaven, those kisses!— kissed her eyes, and her hair, and at last her lips, measuring one kiss from another with words of rapturous en- dearment, of which ‘*‘heart’'s love” and “darling” were the most prudently cool. Richard refused to free Dorothy from out his arms, not that she struggled bitterly, and continued for full ten min- utes in the utmost bliss and incoher- ency. At these unexpected pictures of Para- dise before the Fall, Ajax, séle specta- tor, felt profound dismay. He hottle- brushed and arched and exploded; and then, the wretched exhibition continu- ing. fled. At last Richaru listened to Dorothy, and released her to an armchair; he took another, fastened his eyes upon her like visual leeches, and drank her in. “Who so blooming, who so lovely, who so glorious as Dorotliy?" thought Richard, on whom her beauty grew with ever-increasing witchery, like a deep, clear night of stars. And yet, the dough-like Fopling, at that moment in the library with Bess, would have fought Richard to the death on a simple issue that Bess was Daoro- thy's beauteous superior; which, so far from proving that love is Blind, shows it to have the eyes of Argus. Richard and Dorothy said a thousand loving things, and meant them: they made a thousand loving compacts, and kept them all. Suddenly Richard burst forth as thcugh a momentous and usual cere- mony had been overlooked. “Oh, ho!” cried he, “you haven't asked how I am to support a wife.” “And do you suppose 1 have been thinking of that?” returned Dorothy. beginning to bridle. “For that matter, 1 know you are poor.” “And kow did you dig that up?” “Dig!" This with the utmost resent- ment, as .though repelling a slander. “Why, you told mamma and me your- self. It was the day she was rude and asked if Mr. Gwynn would make you his heir.” “Surely,” said Richard, grinning cheerfully, as if a-puzzle had been made plain, “so I did.” “Sweetheart, I loved you from that moment!” cried Dorothy; and with a half-sob to be company for the caress, she drifted about Richard's neck. “Now .1 should call poverty worth while!” said Richard, manfully kissing Dorothy all over again, since she had come withir his clutch. Then, replac- ing her in her chair, the more readily because he reflected that he might easily repossess himself of her, he con- tinued “And the prospect of being a poor man's wife does not alarm you, dar- ling?” “Oh, Richard!” Then, looking him squarely in the eyes “No, dear, it does not alarm me.” Dorothy spoke truth. The prospect of being a poer man's wife alarms no woman—before marriage. Richard was in a whirl when he left the Marklin door. Bess fairly drove him forth, or he might not have depart- ed at all. The first shadows of night were falling, but the whole world seemed bright as noonday. He was stricken of vague surprise to observe a man running by him, torch in hand, lighting the street lamps. Controlling his astonishment, Richard greeted the man as though they were old friends. They were not old friends, and the ef- fect of Richard's greeting was to lead the man of lamps to think him drunk. “Got his load early!” quoth the one of lamps. He tippled himself, and was versed in cup proprieties, which forbade drunkenness prior to 10 o'clock. Richard continued down the street. It was as if he were translated, and had quitted earth to walk the clouds. And to think that hot two hours before he had come swinging along this iden- tical thoroughfare, never dreaming of the heaven of those loving arms into which he was walking! Blessed be Bess! He should never forget that sor- ceress, who to his weakness added her strength, and to his ignorance her wis- dom. It was such an extraordinary thing, now that Richard had time to think of it, that Dorothy should love him! And more amazing that she should press her cheek to his and tell him of it! Ob, he could still feel that round, warm, velvet cheek against his own! [t wassuch a joy to remember, too, that it was merely the beginning of an eternity of those soft endearments! it remade the world; and all things, even those most week-a-day and common- place, came upon him in colors so new and strange and rich and sweet— touched as they were with this trans- forming light of Dorothy’s love! Rich- ard plowed through the winter evening in a most ridiculous frame of mind, midway between transports and imbe- cility. “You will see me to-morrow?” plead- ed Dorothy, as he came away. + Whereat Richard averred doughtily that he should. Neither ‘of the two having the prac- tical wit to settle hour or place, Bess, who the moment before had returned to them from Mr. Fopling with intelli- gence coolly unimpaired, said: “Four o'clock, then; and, if I.may make a suggestion, you might better meet here.” X It was among the miracles how the high beatitude consequent wupon that wonderful event of Dorothy's love put Richard in a vaguely belligerent mood. It was an amiable ferocity at that, and showed in nothing more dire than just an eye. of overt challenge to all the world. Also, he dilated and swelled in sheer masculine pride of himself, and no longer walked the streets, but stalked. Naturalists will not be sur- prised by these revelations, having ob- served kindred phenomena in the males among other species of animals. In this lofty spirit, and by a fashion of instinct, Richard headed for the club. At the club, by the best of fortune, as he would have said in his then temper, he located Storri; and thereupon he bent .upon said patrician such un iron stare of confident insolence that the object of it was appreciably worried, turning white, then red, then white, and in the finish leaving the room, unable to sustain himself in the face of so much triumph and truculence. In the midst of this splendor of the soul, and just as Richard had begun to feel a catholic pity for all mankind to think not one beyond himself was loved by Dorothy, a message was thrust be- tween his fingers. It ran thus: R. Storms, Washington, D. C.—What's the matter? Where is your letter to- njight? Daily Tory. It was like a cupful of cold water, souse! in Richard’'s face; it brought him back to carth. In his successful bright estate of love he had forgotten about that letter. There was no help Richard got pen and blank, and Daily Tory, New York City—Mr. Storms Is ill; no letter to-night. L. GWYNN. ‘When this was thirty minutes on its way, Richard had a further lucld inter- val. With the power of prophecy upon him, he dispatched the following: Daily Tory, New. York City—Mr. Storms will be ill a week. L. GWYNN. It gave Richard a pang to put aside those engaging letters, even for a week. Under the circumstances, how- ever, and with a promise to see Doro- thy the next day at 4, and a purpose to see her every day at 4 if she per- mitted him, he deemed it prudent to send the second message. Besides, should his reason return before the week's end, he could recaver from that iitness and take up the letters again. Being something sobered now, Rich- ard lighted a cigar and strolled off through a fall of spow that had set in, thinking on Dorothy. Arriving at his home, he sat an hour in rose-colored reveries. He dived at last into the bronze casket, and brought out the lit- tle boot-heel which was the beginning of all First Causes. “If I could but find the cheating bungler,” thought Richard, “who sHghted that little shoe in making, I'd pile fortune upon him for the balance of his life. And to think I owe my Dorothy to the cobbling scoundrel!” At 3 o'clock, with the soft fingers of the snow drumnfln!' drowsily against the pane, Richard 3 sleep and dreamed of angels, blue-eyed replicas 61 Richard, still in a glofifie up betimes. Mr. Picl . who came to fawn upon him, the same being his dog- gish custem of a morning, found Richard tolerant but abstracted. Hurt by a lack of notice, Mr. Pickwick retired. and Mat- zai brought in ast. Richard could not avolé a f . of distrustful con- ‘tempt for himself when he discovered that he ate like a hod-carrier. It seemed treason to Dorothy to harbor so rude an appetite. % ?v"v'm.. Richard had laid aside those trance, was Daily Tory letters for a week, he would still call on Senator Hanway at eleven. He considered what an exquisite thrill would go over him as he sat gazing on Dorothy—that new and beautiful posses- sion of his heart, Rather to Richard's dismay, Daorothy was not with them that morning in Sen- ator Hanway's study. Had her love of politics gone cooling? Senator Hanway was there, however, and uppermost in his mind was something that would again quire countenance of the Anaconda irline. At was the subtile policy of Senator Hanway, in his move toward a Presiden- cy, to seem to be standing still. His at- titude was feminine; the nomination must abduct him: he must be dragged to the altar and wedded into the White House by force. In short, Senator Hanway was for giving the country a noble exhibi- tion of the office .seeking the man. This attitude of holding delicately aloof did not prevent him in the privacy of his study—out of which no secrets escaped— from unbuckling confidentially with ones who, like Richard, were close about his coupsel board. It was not that he re- quired that young journalist's advice; but he needed his help, and so gave him his confidence because he couldn't avoid it. Richard wore the honors of these con- fidences easily. Scores of times Senator Hanway had gone into the detail of his arrangements to trap delegates, where- fore it bred no surprise in him when, upon this morning, that statesman took up the question of an Anaconda influence, and the extent to which it might be ex- * ercised. Senator Hanway showed Rich- ard a list of fourteen States, all subject to the Anaconda’s system of roads. “In my opinion,” said Senator Han- way, “the Anaconda could select the na- tional delegations in these States. There is no doubt that the fourteen, acting to- gether—for the list includes three of the largest States in the country—would de- cide the nomination. The query is, would Mr. Gwynn be so amiably disposed as to move in the affair? I may say that T should not prove insensible to so great a favor.” “Mr. Gwynn,” returned Richard, “has repeatedly instructed me that you were to regard the Anaconda as yours. and the Daily Tory as vours, for everything that either or both of them can ad in your interest. It will not be necessary to see him unless you prefer an interview.” Senator Hanway never preferred an in- terview with anybody, where that for- mality was not demanded by the situa- tion. He held to the doctrine that no one, not a fool, would talk beyond what was necessary to carry his projects to sue- cess. His present word to Richard, how- ever, did not include this belief. - He put it in this fashion: “I do not feel at liberty,” said he, “to disturb Mr. Gwynn with what are no more than just my personal concer He has much mere weighty matters o his own to consider; and he ought not to be loaded down with those of other men. Besides, in this instance, his magnificent generosity has anticipated me. He tells vou that I am to have the assistance of the Anaconda.” “In what form and to what extent you choose,” returned Richard. “He even said that, should you be set to head your party’s ticet the campaign might count upon the Anaconda for a contribution of no less than a half million.” Senator Hanway’s pale face flushed, not with gratitude, but exultation. “I cannot tell you," said he, “which af- fects me most; Mr. Gwynn's immense kindness or his even greater condescen- sion.” Then getting to things practical, Sena- tor Hanway asked Richard if the presi- dent and general attorney of the Ana- conda might not again be brought to Washington. ““They shall come,” fidently, “You have only date."” “Any time between the second and tenth of January,” suggested Senator Hanway. And that was settled. Richard, not so much because of an interest—if truth were told his thoughts went running away to Dorothy, and must be continually yanked back by the ear to topics common and earthly—but for the sake of something to say, asked Senator Hanway about the committee of three selected to investigate Northern Consoli- dated. You know, the business came up be- cause of my letters in the Daily Tory,” observed Richard, by way of excuse for his curfosity. The investigation was progressing slow- Iy. It was secret; no part of the evi- dence could be given out. It would not join with senatorial propriety to let any- thing be known for publication. “In a semi-judiclal inquiry of this sort,” explained Senator Hanway, in tones of patronizing dignity, “‘one of your discern- ment wil! recognize the Impropriety, as well as the absolute injustice, of foreshadowing In any degree the finding of the committee. For vourself, however, I don’t mind saying that the cvidence, so far, is all in favor of Northern Consolidated. The company will emerge with a clean bill of health— clean as a whistle! The committee’s l'!ml- ing,” concluded Senator Hanway musing- 1y, “will be like a new coat of paint to the road. It should help it immensely— help the stock: for these charges have hung over Northern Conslilidated values like a shadow. “And when should the committee re- port?” queried Richard. “Those things come along very leisure- Iy; the report ought to be public, I should think, about the middle of February. We may give it to the road for a valentine and Senator Hanway smiled in congratu- lation of himself for something light and fuffy, something to mark in him a pli- ancy of sentiment. Senator Hanway—such is the weakness of the really great—had his vanity as well as Richard, and would have been pleased had folk thought him of a fancy that, on oceasion, could break away from those more sodden commodities of politics and Jaw-building. Caesar and Napoleon were both unhappy until they had written books, and Alexander cared more for Aristotle’s good opinion than for con- quest. C Just when E _uard, who had been ex- pecting with every moment his Dorothy to come rustling in, was beginning to despair, Dorothy’s black maid appeared. and, under pretense of asking Senator Hanway on behalf of his devoted niece whether or no said niece might count on his escort to the White House reception New Year's day, craftily slipped Richard a note. “Why, she knows she may!™ Senator Hanway was somewhat aston- ished at Dorothy’s forethoughtfulness; the more since the reception was a week and more away. “Miss Dory wants tq have Miss Bess, from ’cross d' street, go 'long,” vouch- safed the maid. “‘Oh, that's it!" said Senator Hanway, who mistook this for an explanation. Richard was on nettles to get at Dor- othy’s note. Anxiety sharpened his facul- e d he took from his pocket a clip- ping. being indeed a Daily Tory editorial wherem was set forth what should be a proper tariff policy, and gravely besought Senator Hanway for his views thereon. ‘While that statesman was donning replied Richard con- to fix the glasses and running over the excerpt, Richard made furtive shift to read his note from Dorothy. It said: Dear: I am with Bess. Something awful has happened. Don’t wait a moment. but come. D. Senator Hanway was not a little amazed when, just as he found himself midstream in those tariff studies to which Richard had invited him, that volatile in- dividual arose in the utmost excitement and saild that he must go. “The truth is,” said Richard. blunder- ing about for the explanation which the questioning eye of Senator Hanway ap- peareéd to ask, “I forgot a matter of Mr. Gwynn's."” Senator Hanway waived his satisfled hand in a manner that meant “Say no Senator Hanway did not doubt more!" that the business was important. Any business of Mr. Gwynn's must be im- portant. The sheer fact that it was Mr. Gwynn's business made it important. It bordered dangerously upon the criminal that Richard should have neglected it. The state of affairs described accounted most satisfactorily for Richard's breath- less haste. Senator Hanway. when he recallpd the assurance of Mr. Harley, made with bated breath but jhe evening before, that Mr. Gwynn's Income was over twelve hundred thousand dollars a month, sympathized with Richard's zeal. Under similar circumstances Senator Hanway's excitement would have mount- ed as high. It is such a privilege to serve the very rich! Richard found Dorothy in that apart- ment which was but yesterday the thea- ter of his great happiness. She was alone; for Bess must play the house- wife, and was at that moment addressing a slattern maid upon the sin of dust in some far-off, lofty corridor of the prem- ises. Richard swept Dorothy with a gray glance like a flashlight. Her fate was trcubled, but full of fortitude, and she was very white about the mouth. At sight of Richard, however, Dorothy's fortitude gave way, and went whirling downstream in a tempest of tears and bs. With her poor hands outstretched if for protection, she felt her way blindly into the shelter of those arm: and Richard drew her close and closer, holding her to his heart as though she were a child. He asked no question, sald no word, sure only as granite that, whatever the trouble, it should not take her from him. These rock-founded na- tures, self-reliant, world-defying, made all of love and iron, are a mighty com- fort to weak ores; and so thought Dero- thy as she lay crying In Richard’s em- brace. And now, since you have seen Dorothy safe across the harbor-bar of her griefs, and she lies landlocked in the sure haven of the Pict arms, you might cross the way for a space, and iearn what abode at the foot of all this disturbance of true loyers. It was while Richard was closeted with Senator Hanway that the storm broke. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, after reflection, had declded to speak to her daughter upon the subject of Storri and that noble Russian’s suit. To this end, Mrs. Hanway- Harley called Dorothy into a little parlor which opened off her bedchamber. It was that particular apartment . where Mrs. Hanway-Harley took her naps, and after- ward donned war paint and feathers wherewith to burst upon society. Dorothy came reluctantly, haunted with a forebodé of impending griefs. The room was a fashion of torture chamber to Dorothy. Mrs. Hanway-Harley had summoned her to this room for admeni- tion and reproach and punishment since ever she was ten years of age. Where- fore, there was little in her mother's call to engage Dorothy pleasantly; and she hung back, and answered slowly, with soles of lead. When Dorothy at last came in Mrs. Hanway-Harley lost no time in skirmish-. ing, but at once opened the main battle. “My child,” said she, with a look that she meant should be ineffably affection- ate, and which was net, “Count Storri has been talking of you.” “Yes?" queried Dorothy. with sinking heart, but making a gallant effort at childish innocence. Mrs. Hanway-Harley lost patience. She observed and resented the childish inno- cence, rebuking it smartly “‘Rub that baby look out of ¥ instantly! You are not a child™ Dorothy stiffened like a grenadier. She remembered Richard: her mother was right; she was not a child, she was a woman, and so the world should find her. Dorothy's eyes began to gleam danger- ously, and if Mrs. Hanway-Harley had owned any gift to read faces, she might have hesitated at this pinch. What would you have done?” said Der- othy, and her tones were as brittle and as devoid of sentimental softness as Mrs. Hanway-Harley’s. “Marriage.” Marriage with Storri?” Dorothy,” said Mrs. Hanway-Harley with a sigh, softly returning to the lines she had originally laid out, “Count Storri, in the most delicate way, like the gentle- man and pobleman he is, has asked for your hand.” Mrs. Hanway-Harley had read some- thing like this in a magazine, and now recled it off with tender majesty. When she spoke of Storri she had quite the empress air. For my hand!” said Dorothy, begin- ning to pant. Mrs. Hanway-Harley looked up: there was a hardness in Dorothy's tone that was not only new but unpleasant. Down deep in her nature Dorothy hid those stubborn traits that distinguished her re- ligious ancestor of the gate-post and the water-pan. . “For your hand,” repeated Mrs. Han- way-Harley uneasily. N Dorothy making uo return, Mrs. Han- way-Harley, after walting a moment, gave herself to a recount of these glowing advantages promised by such a mar- riage. Was a nobleman, wealthy, young, handsome, on terms of com- radeship with his Czar, to be refused? Half the women in Washington were wild for such an offer. It would place the Harleys on a footing by them- selves. “But I don't love him!" urged Dor- othy, as though that had to do with the question. At this foolishly unfortunate obje tion Mrs. Hanway-Harley was ren- dered speechless. Then, as notice of Dorothy’'s white, cold obstinacy began to dawn upon her, she went suddenly into lamentations. io think her child, her only child, should deal her such a blow! Mrs. Hanway-Harley called her- self the most ill-treated of parents. She saild her best and dearest feelings had been trampled upon. In a shower of tears and a cataract of complaint she bemoaned her dark, ungrateful destiny. At this Dorothy's tears be- gan to flow and the interview became hysterical. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was the earlier r face, to recover her balance. Drying her eyes, she said: “Digobedient child!"—this was also from the magazine—“since you will not listen to the voice of love. since you will not listen to the voice of rea- son, you shall listen to the voice of command.” (Continued Next Sunday.)