6
"THE LIMIT OT THE LINE”
SHIRLEY BRYAN, stenographer for a great
Iron Corporation, is the first actor on the scene.
The story begins with a suburban train pulling
out from under the marble corridors of a grand
Terminal Station.
Barry Moore, Miss Bryan’s employer, plays
the role of “The, Man of Iron.” He is trying to
build a collossal fortune.
Gregory Ford, a Harvard athlete, a Frineeton
theologue, a multi-millionaire, is deeply interested
in the question, propounded by the Book of Job, “If
a man die, shall he live again?” because a specialist
has told him, his days are numbered.
Henry Brown, editor of the Water Oaks Ga
HERE was an amphitheater of hills
thru which the river ran in slumberous
shadow, except where the moon, which
swung like a silver bow low down to the
water line, gleamed coldly in ivory ir
ridescence, upon the rippling waves.
Farther on, to the west, the bonfire cast
the red reflection of its flames against
the gray horizon of the winter night;
T
revealing nearer, the group of commercial travelers
and the blue overalls of the negro workmen. Here
and there a pick rang, sharply, against a steel rail,
and a chorus of voices, mellow, rich, carelesss, kept
time to the refrain:
44 De Lord, he thought he’d make er man,
Dese bones gwine to rize er-gin.;
Made him out o’ dirt and a little bit o’ sand,
Dese bones gwine to rize er-gin.”
Ford and Shirley listened to the musical min
strelsy, with full appreciation of its merit, and the
weird picturesque background of the natural stage.
14 The explanation is simple enough,” Shirley said,
after a time, referring again to his question. 11 All
the ladies aboard the Suburban, injured and other
wise, went back to the city. I stayed for the mid
night mail, because I thought that the track would
be repaired by them, and, I felt safe in Dr. Bloxam’s
care. Also I wished to go home.”
Ford nodded, comprehendingly.
44 The System takes care of its victims,” he said.
44 About what time did the wreck occur?”
4 4 About 5:00 p. m., Mr. Ford. Mr. Barry Moore
let me off earlier than usual, and I caught the first
Suburban.”
“Well, that corresponds,” Ford affirmed, “with a
brief, psychological vision, that your mother had, at
that hour. ’ ’
44 Indeed? .What did the mater see?” Shirley
questioned breathlessly, her brown eyes full of
aroused interest.
4 4 Simply a coach of people, laughing and talking,
hysterically, as if they had just escaped a great dan
ger. The coach was over a bridge.”
44 The coach did not reach the bridge,” commented
Shirley. 44 Was anybody in the room?”
44 Yes. I had stepped across the hall. I often call
on your mother. She has so much optimism and
common sense, that she furnishes me with a charm
ing antidote for my black moods.”
44 She is very fine, the mater,” Shirley said, frank
ly, 44 on any line you take her. Your presence doubt
less blurred the psychic photograph. I am glad that
her good angel prevented an accurate vision of the
wreck as it happened, for it was really . . . hor
rible!” She shuddered and put her patrician hands
up to her pale, bloodless face.
44 Come, Miss Shirley,” Ford said, in a tone of
compassion and sympathy, 4 4 this will not do. The
White Steamer and Manson can get you home, long
before the track can be repaired for the midnight
mail. I phoned to Mrs. Ford before I left Water
Oaks, but I expect that Mrs. Bryan, Little Nell and
the Governess are not having a happy time, right
about now.”
“No. Mother is not at all philosophical about me.
CHAPTER X.
The Golden Age for February 25, 1909.
By Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne
SYNOPSIS
zetto, is a discovery of Ford’s. He is a lover of
poetry, psychology, economy. He is an environ
ment-fighter of the best type.
Gregory Ford and his mother rent one-half of
the old colonial Bryan home, and wealth and pov
erty are only across the hall from each other. Mrs.
Ford is a woman, “who has never had a thrill.”
•Mrs. Bryan is a breeze of sunshine for Shirley’s
sake, and she begins to draw young Ford’s confi
dence.
Then there is Little Nell, the child of wisdom.
And, on the horizon looms a girl, a cousin of the
Fords, Ethel, by name, who will play a dramatic
part as the story progresses.
I hope that she will not hear about the wreck,” ris
ing slowly.
“I hope not,” he said, decisively.
“I have lost my hat,” she went on, with a wan,
tired little smile. “And . . jacket. I ought to
care. I ought to be exercised over the fact, and be
worried over the consequences to my personal ap
pearance . . but really nothing seems to matter
—now. ’ ’
“Just why?” he asked, in a tender, interrogative
tone.
She stared at him blankly.
“Oh! the wreck!” she murmured, flinging back
the loosened glory of her bronze hair, with a nerv
ous hand, from her face, which was singularly at
tractive in spite of its deadly pallor.
“It precipitates, with emphasis, the questioning of
my sub-conscious mind about human suffering.”
She turned upon the New Yorker, walking, square
shouldered, erect, nonchalant, by her side.
“Why is it necessary? The rack, the torture, and
the stake, in some kind of form, crucifixion form, all
the time, for all of us?”
“Some of the time, for some of us,” he suggest
ed, “would be a better way to state the case. Uni
versal lessons, such as earthquakes, plagues and
floods, are comparatively rare.”
“You are flanking the question, diplomatically
and courteously, Mr. Ford. Must I add, unavoid
ably?”
“No, I’ll give you mw point of view,” he return
ed. “I do not suppose that it is unique, but still it
is mine. You will admit, perhaps, that there must
be a difference between Infinite and Finite Wis
dom?”
Shirley paused. Her expression indicated pro
found interest.
“Assuredly. Goon.”
“Therefore, unless you can find somebody wiser
than the Ruler of the universe,” he replied gravely,
“to criticise His methods, where does the logic of
the argument come in? Besides, so much of the suf
fering in the world is only the natural consequence
of sin and broken law. Now this wreck, for instance,
in which you shared, (which has brought on your
morbid mood), was caused, I understand, by the
spreading of the rails,, which fact eliminates for me,
all but the human element. There was no wrath
of providence about it: consequently the suffering
can not be charged up to anything but the neglect of
man.”
“Thank you,” Shirley said, rather humbly, as they
came up to the side of the waiting motor car.
Brown, with the instinct of a true reporter, who
had been gathering up all the news about the wreck,
now joined them. And, after shaking hands with
Shirley, congratulated her warmly upon her miracu
lous escape.
“Manson,” Ford enquired, “doesn’t mother keep
an extra wrap and cap in this concern?”
“Mrs. Ford? Yes, sir. The cap is for Miss Little
Nell, yes.” Manson reached down, unbuckled straps,
and handed out a dark cloth cap with a wide brim,
and a cape lined with blue flannel.
Ford handed the articles to Shirley, with a whim
sical smile.
“Mother’s preparation,” he explained, “for an
unscheduled blizzard. The cap has flaps, and I am
sure will be becoming.”
“Thank you,” Shirley replied. “I am not dis
posed to be critical or hyper-critical.”
Ford and Brown turned back to the bonfire, for
a few moment’s conversation with Dr. Bloxam, anent
the casualties of the wreck.
Taking advantage of their absence, Shirley deftly
arranged the bronze abundance of her hair into a
large braid, school-girl fashion. She adjusted the
wrap and cap with a distinct sense of comfort.
“The Emergency Lady,” said Ford gaily, “wins
the palm.”
“Why didn’t you call her the heroine of the
wreck?” the editor inquired, with an admiring
glance.
“Because Miss Bryan does not like an excess of
incense.”
Ford climbed into the back seat beside Shirley,
and motioned Editor Brown to Manson’s throne.
“I like that,” the editor said, with a glint of mis
chief in his eye.
“I was sure that you would be perfectly delight
ed,” Ford rejoined, “to give Manson a chance to
tell you how he went up San Juan hill . . . » with
Roosevelt! ”
“Take us home, old fellow,” he continued, “as
quickly as you can without getting up a miniature
wreck.”
“I do not feel at all afraid,” Shirley said, as the
motor car struck the center of the wagon road bridge
with unerring precision.
“Because you are under my care?” Ford querried,
lightly.
“Possibly,” she returned in a colorless tone.
44 1 f a man die shall he live again, Brown?”
Ford stood in his library with his back to the man
tel, in 'his right hand a copy of Bouguereau’s 44 He
Is Risen.”
4 4 You have the answer in your hand, Ford.”
44 This?” Gregory Ford placed the picture on the
table, and went back to his former position, to study
the symetric drawing, thru half-closed, quivering
lids.
“Bouguereau appealed to the emotional nature,”
he argued, adjusting the carnation in his buttonhole.
He knew the limitation of his audience, and he
humored the children. They can understand one or
two things, you know, Brown? Love is easy to
grasp. So, Bouguereau has gathered about the tomb
of the Prince of Love, three women who loved Him.
They are looking into the sepulcher, and are asking,
what the human race is constantly wanting to know:
44 1 f a man die shall he live again?”
He fingered the carnation a second, staring at the
picture, with luminous eyes.
4 4 The angel stands with uplifted arm, Brown, a
being from another sphere. He has a body that can
pass through the solid walls of Jerusalem. The
psychic force of this body is stronger, billions of
times stronger, than the law of gravitation. The
angel has put himself in the power of the earth
planet, without fear, because the Son of the Most
Holy One has slept in the rich man’s garden and
he is there to warn those who loved Him, those who
will first seek the door of His tomb.
4 4 How strange it would seem, Brown, if you or
I should go to the tomb of one who recently died,
one we had loved, and expect to see them alive in
the spirit, clothed with that immortal, eternal, celes
tial body? Our friends would come to us, and say,
4 Ye are dreamers, theorists, fools.’
44 We turn away from the clods that cover our
dead, with the pitiful, heart-breaking cry: ‘Lord
of Love! more light!’ And out of the gray, grim
sky of winter, or the blue, azure sky of summer,
comes no answer. God forgive us, developed and un
developed, priest and layman, poet and grave digger,
if, in the presence of death, we doubt. The stern,
unbroken silence of 2,000 years is hard to fight.
Hard for children who round out their atomic
efforts in two score and three score years.”
44 Hush! Ford,” said Henry Brown, 44 you cannot
Continued on Page 7.)