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THE CELlTA. DEMOCRAT, CELINA, OHIO The Real Adventure A NOVEL. Henry KItchcll Webster (Uovt'IcM Wit, Tb Uobba-MurtU Vampuvi CHAPTER XXV Continued 17 It wns n good while before Kose got the key to his preoccupation. They hud turned Into the park at Sixty-sixth street, and were half-way over to ihe fifth avenue corner at Fifty-ninth, be fore he spoke out. "On a day like this." he said, "to haye sat there for two or three mortal hours arguing about stale Ideas when . we might have been out here, being ttllvel But It must have seemed nnt ural to you to hear me going on like that." And then with a burst, before sho could speak : "You must remomber me as the most blindly opinionated fool In the world 1" She caught her breath, then said very quietly, with a warm little lough in her voice: "Thnts not how I re member you, Roddy." She declined to help him when he tried to scramble back to- the safe shores of conventional conversation. That sort of thing had lasted long enough. And when they stopped and faced each other In the gray brick en trance to the building where Rose's apartment was, It was at the end of a mile or more of absolutely unbroken silence. And facing each other there, all that was said between them was her: "You'll come In, won't you?" and his "Yes." But the gravity with which she'd uttered the Invitation and the tense ness of his acceptance of It, the square look that passed between them, marked an end of something and the begin ning of something new. She left him (n her sitting room while she went Into her room to take off her hat and jacket and take a glance Into her mirror. When she came hack she found him. standing at her window, looking out. He didn't turn when she came In, but almost Immediately he began speaking. She went rather limp at the sound of his voice -and dropped down on an otto man In front of the fireplace, and squeezed her hnnds together between her knees. "I don't know how much you will have understood, he began ; "proh ably n good deal. What I hope you will have guessed Is that I wouldn' have come except that I'd something to tell yon something I felt you were en titled to be told. But I felt this what you won't have understood I felt that I hndn't any right to speak to you at nil, about anything vital, until I'i given you some sort of guaranty until I'd shown you that I wns a person It was possible to deal reasonably with, , . She smiled, then pressed her hnnds suddenly to her eyes. "I understood,' sho said. "Well then . . ." But he dldn at once go on. Stood there a while longer at the window, then crossed the room and brought up before her bookshelves, staring blindly at the ti tles. He hadn't looked at her even as he crossed the room. "Oh, It's a presumptuous thing to try to say," he broke out at last, "a pitiful ly unnecessary thing to say, because you roust know It without my telling you. But when you went away you said you said It was because you hadn' my friendship I You said that was the thing you wanted, and that you were going to try and earn it. And you told me that I'd never be able to see that the thing you were doing there was a fine tl:iug, worth doing, entitled to my respect. But what I've come down here to say Is Is that now, at lust I do see It." She would have spoken then if she could have commanded her voice, and us it was, the sound she made con veyed her Intention to him, for he turned upon her quickly as if to Inter rupt the unspoken words, and went on with an almost savage bitterness: "Oh, I'm under no illusions about it I hud my chance to see, when seeing w.iiilU have meant something to you helped you. When anyone but the blindest sort of fool would have seen, I didn't. Now, when the thing is put en t for the world to Bee now that you've won your flght without any help from me . . . Without any help! In spite of every hindrance that my Idiocy could put In your way! Now, after all I come and tell you that you've earned the thing you've set out to get" There wns a little silence after that She got up and took the post he had abandoned at the window. "Why did you do it, Roddy?" she asked. "I mean, why did you want to come and tell me?" "Why, 1n the first place," he said, "I wanted to get back a little of my self-respect I couldn't get that until I'd told you." This time the silence was longer, "what else did you want?" she usked. "What in the second place?' "I want to , earn your friendship. It's' the biggest thing 1 can hope . for. But Ive no Idea that , you can Jinnd It out to me ready-made. I be lieve you'd do it if you could. But you said once, yourself, that it wasn't a thing that could be given. It was a thing tliut had to be earned. , And you were right about that as you were about so many other things. Well, Tm going to try to earn it" "Is that all you want?" she asked, and then, bearing the little gasp he cave, she swung around quickly and looked at him. I was pretty dark in the room, but, his face in the dusk aecmed to have whitened. "Is friendship all you want of me, Roddy?" she asked again. She stood there waiting, a full minute, in silence. Theu she said: "You don't have to Hell me that Because I know. Oh h, my mr well I know I" , lie didn't cime to her ; Just stood there, gripping the cornel jf her book case and staring ut her silhouette, which , was about all he could see of her against the' window. At last ha said, in a strained, dry voice she' hardly have known for his: , "If you know that If I've let you see thut then I've done just about the last despicable thing there was left for me to do. I've come down here and made you feel sorry for me. So that with that divine kindliness of your: youre willing to give me every' thing." He straightened up ana came a step nearer. "Well, I won't Have It, I tell yon. I don't know how you guessed, If I'd dreamed I was betraying that to you ... I Don't I know It' burnt into me so that I'll never forget what the memory of my love must be to you? The memory of the hide ous things It's done to you? And now after all that ufter you've won your flght alone and stand where you stand now for me to come begging And take a gift like that I I tell you It Is pity. It can't be anything else. There was another minute of silence, and then he heard her make a little noise In her throat a noise thnt would have been a sob had there not been something like a lnuch In It. The next moment she said, "Come over here, Roddy," and as he hesitated, as If he hadn't understood, she ndded : "I want you to look at me. ' Over here, where there's light enough to see me by." He came, wonderlngly, very slowly, but at last with her outstretched hand she reached him and drew him around between her and the window. "Look Into my face," she commanded "Look Into my eyes ns far In as you can. Oh, my dearest" the sob of pure Joy enme again "Is it pity that you see? Don't you understand?" He did understand it with his mind, but he was a little dazed, like one who has stood too near where the light ning struck. The hope he had kept burled alive so long burled alive be cause it wouldn't die could not be brought out Into a blinding glory like this without pain exquisite, terrify ing pain. The knowledge she had acquired by her own suffering stood her In good stead now. She did not mistake, as the Rose he had married might have done, the weakness of his response for coldness Indifference. She led him over to her one big chair and made him sit down In It settled herself upon the arm of It. and contented herself with one of his hands. Pres ently he took one of hers, bent his face down over It, and brushed the back of it with his lips. The timidity of thnt caress, with all It revealed to her, was too much for her. She swallowed one sob, and an other, but the next one got awny from her and she broke out in a passionate fit of weeping. That roused him from his daze a little, and he pulled her down :n his arms held her tight comfort ed her. When she got herself in hnnd again, she got up, went away to wash her face, and, coming back In the room again, lighted a reading lamp and drew down the blinds. "Rose," he said presently, "what are we going to do?" "Shall we make It a real honeymoon, woaay mane it as complete as we can? Forget everything and let all the world be . . ." He supplied the word for her, "Rose- color?" She accepted it with a little laugh . . ."for a while?" "That's what I was fumbling for," he said, "but I. can't think very straight tonight. I've got it now, though. That cottage we had before the twins were born down on the Cape. There won't be a soul there this time of year. , We'd have the world to ourselves." "Yes," she said, "for a little while, we'd want It like that. But after a while after a day or two, could we have the babies? Could the nurse bring them on to me and then go straight back, so that I could have them, and you, all together?" He said, "You darling!" But he couldn't manage more than that At the entrance and just out of range of the elevator man, he kissed her good night" "But will you telephone to me as soon as you wake up In the morning, so that I'll know It's true?" She nodded. Then her eyes went wide and she clung to him. "Is It true, Roddy? Is It possible for a thing "You'll Come In, Won't Your to come back like that? Are we really the old Rodney and Rose, planning our honeymoon again? It wasn't quite three years ago. ' Will it be like that?" 'Not like that perhaps," he said, exactly. It will be better by all we've learned and suffered since." -. CHAPTER XXVI. Tha Beginning. There was a sense In which this pre diction of Rodney's about their honey- moon was altogether true. They had great hours hours of an emotional In tensity 1 greuter than any they had known during thnt former honeymoon, greater by all they had learned and suffered since hours that repaid all that suffering, and could not have been captured at nny smaller price, But life, of course, cannot be made up of hours like that No sane per son can even want to live In a per petual ecstasy. What makes a moun tuln peak is the fall away Into the surrounding valleys. In their valleys of commonplace, everyday existence and these oc curred even In their first days together they were stiff, shy, self-conscious with each other. And their attempt to Ignore this fact only made the self. consciousness the worse. It troubled and bewildered both of them. The arrival of the twins, In the con voy of a badly flustered and, to tell the truth, a somewhat scandalized Miss French, simplified the situation somewhat by complicating It I They absolutely enforced routine. And they gave Rose and Rodney so many occupations that the contemplation of their complicated states of mind was much abridged. But even her babies brought Rose a disappointment along with them. From the time of . the receipt of Miss French's telegram, telling them, what train she and the twins would take. Rose had been telling off the hours In mounting excitement The two ut terly adorable llfctle creatures, as the pictures of them In Rodney's pocket book showed them to be, who were miraculously, Incredibly hers, were coming to bring motherhood to her She didn't go to Boston with Rod ney to meet them ; stayed behind In the cottage, ostensibly to see to It up to the very last minute, that the fires were right (June had come In cold and rnlny) and, In general, to be ready, on the moment, to produce any thing that their rather unforeseeable needs might call for Her, real rea son was a shrinking from having her first meeting with thera In the confu sion of arrival on a station platform, under the eyes of tne world. Rodney understood this well enough, and, ar riving at the cottage, he clambered out of the wagon with them and car ried thera both straight In to Rose, leaving the nurse and the bewildering paraphernalia of travel for a second trip. Rose, in the passionate surge of gratified desire that came with the sight of them, caught thera from him, crushed them up against her breast and frightened thera half to death. So that without dissimulation, they howled and brought Miss French fly ing to the rescue. ' Rose didn't make a tragedy of It; manuged a smile at herself, though she suspected she'd cry when she got the chance, and subjected her Ideas to an Instantaneous revision. They were? persons, those two funnily indignant little mites, with their own ideas, their own preferences, and the perfectly ade quate conviction of being entitled to them. How would she herself have liked It, to have a total stranger, fif teen feet high or so, snatch her like that? She was rather apologetic all day, and got her reward, especially from the boy, who was un adventurous and rather truculent' baby, much, she fan cled, as his father must once have been, and who took to her more quick ly than the girl did. Indeed, the sec ond Rodney fell In love with her al most as promptly as his father had done before him. But little Portia wasn't very far behind. Two days suf ficed for the conquest of the pair of them. The really disquieting discovery awaited the time when the wire edge of novelty about this adventure in motherhood had worn off; when she could bathe them, dress them, feed them their very strictly regimented meals, without being spurred to the highest pitch of alertness by the fear of making a mistake forgetting some thing like the juice of a half-orange ten o'clock in the morning, the omission of which might have who knew what disastrous consequences I That attitude can't last any woman long, and Rose, with her wonderfully clever hands, her wits trained not to be told the same thing twice, her pride keeping in sharp focus the de termination that Rodney should see that she could be as good a nurse as Miss French Rose wore off that nerv ous tenseness over her new job very quickly. Within a week she had a routine established that was noiseless f rictlonless. But do you remember how aghast she was over the forty weeks John Galbralth had talked about as the probable run of "The Girl Up-Stalrs ;" her consternation over the idea of just going on doing tha same thing over and over again, "around and around, like a horse at the end of a pole?" Well, it was with something the same feeling of consternation that, having thrown herself heart and soul into the task of planning and setting in motion a routine for two year-and-a-half-old babies, she should find her self straightening up and saying: "What next?" and realizing that, so far as this Job was concerned, there was no "next" The supreme merit of her cure from now on would be barring emergencies the placid con tinuation .'of that routine. There were no heroics about motherhood save in emergency, once more. It was a fine relation. It was, per haps, the very finest in the world. But as a job, it wasn't so satisfactory. Four-fifths of it, anyway, could be done with better results, for the chil dren, by a placid, unimaginative, tol erably stupid1 person who had no stronger feeling for them than the mild, temporary affection they could excite in anyone not a monster. And the other fifth of It wasn't a Job at all. On the whole, then, leaving their miraculous hours out of the account, their honeymoon, considered as an at tempt to revisit Arcady, to seize a golden day which looked neither to ward the future, complete In itself, perfect was a failure. It was not until, pretty ruefully, they acknowledged this, tore up their artificial resolution not to look at the future, and deliberately set themselves to the contemplation of a life that would have to take Into account com plex and baffling considerations, that their honeymoon became a success. It was well along In their month that this happened. Rose had spent a maddening sort of day, a day that had been all edges, trying not to let herself feel hurt over fantastic secondary meanings which It was possible to attach to some of the things Rodney had said, trying to be cheerful and sensible, and to Ignore the patent fact that his cheerfulness was as forced and unnatural a thing os hers. The children as a rule tha best-behaved little things In the world had been refractory. So, after their supper, when they'd finally gone off to sleep, and Rose had rejoined Rodney In the sitting room, she wns In a state where It did not take much to set her off. It was not much that did; nothing more, indeed, than the fact thot she found her husbnnd brooding In front of the Are, and that the smile with whlc he greeted her was a little too quick and bright and mechanical, nnd that It soon faded out. The Rodney of her memories had never done things like that, ft you found htm sitting In a chair, you found him reading a book. When he was thinking something out he tramped back and forth, twisted his face up, made gestures. That habit couldn't have changed. It was Just that he didn't care to be natural with hert Couldn't feel at home with her I 'Before she knew It she was crying. He asked. In consternation, what the matter was. "Nothing," she said. "Absolutely nothing. Really." "Then It's Just that you're not hap py, with me, like this." He brought "This Is Where We'll Said." Begin!" She that out gravely, a word at a time, as though they hurt. "Are you happy, with me like this?" she countered. It was a question he could not an swer categorically, nnd she did not give him time for anything else. "What's the matter with us, Roddy?" she demanded. "We ought to be hap py. We meant to be." Her voice broke In a sob over that. "And here we are like this !" "It hasn't all been like this," he said. "There have been hours, a day or two, that I'd go through the whole thing for, again, If necessary." She nodded assent to that. "But the rest of the time!" she' cried. "Why can't we be comfortable together? Why . . . Roddy, why can't you be natural with me? Like your old self. Why don't you roar at me, any more? And swear when you run into things? I've never seen you formal before not with anybody. Not even with strangers. And now you're formal with me." The rueful grin with which he ac knowledged the truth of this Indict ment was more like him, and it cheered her immensely. She answered it with one of her own, dried br eyes, and asked rgain, more collectedly: "Well, can you tell me why?" "Why, It seemed. to me," he said, "that it was yon who were different And you have changed, of course, down Inside, more than I have. You've been through things in the last year and a half, found out things that I know nothing about except as I have read about them in books. So, when I remember how things used to be be tween us, how I used to be the one who knew things, and how I preached and spouted, I get to feeling that the man you remember must look to you now, like well, like a schoolboy . showing off." She stared at him incredulously. "But that's downright morbid," she said. "It's horrible that I should make you feel like that," she concluded. "It isn't you," he told her. "It's just the situutlon. I can't help feeling thnt I'm taken on approval. Oh, It's got to be like that I There are things that, with all the forgiveness in the world, you can't forget. And until you have seen that I am different, that I have made myself different. . . ." She gave a shaky laugh. "On ap proval 1" Her eyes filled again. "Rod dy, you can't mean that." She came over and sat down In his lap, and slid her arm around his neck. "This Is where we'll begin I" she said. "That I'll never whatever happens walk out on you again. Whether things go well or badly with us, we'll work it out, somehow, together." It was not until she heard the long, shuddering sigh he drew at that and felt him go limp under her, that she realized how genuine his fear had been the perfectly preposterous fear that If their new experiment didn't come up to her anticipation, she'd tell him so, and leave blm once more. This time, for good. It was a good while before they took up a rational discussion again, but at last she said: "It will take working out, though. We've been shirking that Hadn't we better t nor , -,"'.' "Well," he said when be'd got W pipe alight "It's the first question I asked you after after I got my eye open: What are we going to do?" ; "I told Alice Peroninl," aha said. "tne any before we left to come up here, that I'd coma back la a month, and that I'd stay until I'd finished all the work that we were contracted for. I felt I had to do that. You under stand, don't your , "Of course," ha said. "You rouldn? consider anything else. But th.nj what?" , , , "Then," she said after a llttl i Ience, "then. If It's what yon want m to do, Roddy, I'll come back to Chi cago for good." . ' "Give up your business, you mean he asked quickly. , She nodded. "It can't be done out there," she said. "All the big produc tions that there's any money In are made In New Tork. HI coma back and Just be your wife. I'll keep your bouse and mother the children, and maintain your status. If yon don't think I'm spoiled for that." That Inst phrase, though, was said with a smile, which he answered with one of his own. But with an Instant return to seriousness, be satdi "I've not asked that Rose. I wouldn't dream of asking It". There's a real Job there," she per sisted, "Just In being successfully the wife of a successful man. I can see that now. I never saw It when It was my Job. nardly caught a glimpse of It dldnt even see my bills; let you pay them down at the office, with all your own work thnt you had to do." It wasn't me," he said. "It was Miss Beach." She stared at that and gave a short laugh. "If I'd known that ... I" she said. Then she came back to the point. "It Is a real Job, and I think could learn to do It pretty well. And of course a wife's the only person who can do It properly." Still he shook his head. But he hadn't, as yet, any reasoned answer to make, except as before, that It wouldn't work. "What will work. then?" she asked. And this he couldn't answer. "We've Just got to go ahead," he said at last, "ond see what happens. Perhaps you can work It out so that you can do part of your work at home. We could move the nursery and give you Florence's old 'studio. And then It would do If you only came down here for your two big seasons fall and spring." "That doesn't seem fair to yon," she protested. "You deserve a real wife. Roddy; not somebody dashing In nnd dashing out." "I don't deserve anything I can't get," he said. "I'd rather have a pnrt Interest In you than to possess, lock, stock and barrel, any other woman can think of." She came back to him again and settled In his arms. "A man told me." she Raid, "John Galbralth told me thnt he couldn't be a woman's friend nnd her lover at the same time, any more than a steel spring could be made soft so that It would bend In your fingers, like copper, and still be a spring. He said that was true of him. anyway, nnd he felt sure it was true of nine men out of a dozen. Do you think it's true? Have we got to decide which we'll be?" "We can't decide," bo said with an impatient laugh. "That's Just what I've been telling you. We've got to take what we can get We've got to work out the relation between our selves that Is our relation the Rose and Rodney relation. It'll probably be a little different from any other. There'll be friendship in it and there'll be love in it Imagine our 'deciding that we wouldn't be lovers! But I guess that what Galbralth said was true to this extent : that each of those will be more or less at the expense of the other. It won't spring quite so well, and it will bend a little." After a while he said : "Here's what we've got to build on : Whatever else It may or may not be, this relation be tween us Is a permanent thing. We've lived with each other and without each other, and we know which we want If we find it has its limitations and drawbacks, we needn't worry. Just go ahead and make the best of it we can. ' There's no law that decrees we've got to be happy. When we are happy it'll be so much to the good. And when we aren't . . ;" She gave a contented little laugh and cuddled closer down against him. "You talk like Solomon in all his so lemnity," she said. "But you can't imagine that we're going to be un happy. Really?" His answer was that perhaps he couldn't Imagine It but that he knew it Just the same. "Even an ordinary marriage Isn't any too easy; a mar riage, I mean, where It's quite well un derstood which of the parties to It shall always submit to the other, and which of them is the Important one who's always to have the right of way. There's generally something perfectly unescapable that decides that ques tion. But with us there Isn't So the question who's got to give in will have to be decided on its merits every timo a difference arises." She burlesqued a look of extreme apprehension. She was deeply and utterly content with life just then. But ne wouldn't be di verted. "There's another reason," he went on. "I've a notion that the thing we're after is about the finest thing there is. If that's so, we'll have to pay for It in one way or another. But we aren't going to worry about it We'll just go ahead and see what happens." Do you remember when you said that before?" asked Rose. "You told tne that marriage was an adventure anyway, and that the only thing to do was to try it and see what hap pened." He grunted. "The real adventure's. Just begun," be said. "Anyhow," she murmured drowsily, "you can talk to me again. Just as It we weren't married." And there is Just about where they stand today at the beginning, or hardly past the beginning, of what ha spoke of as their real adventure ; they are going forward prepared to make the beet of it and see what happens. THE END. Ml Electric tanning machinery Is need ed In Spain, .. . AStrongand Unusual Story An Ingenious and Romantic Plot If You Want to Read a Good Story, Don't Miss Our New Serial ; THE ; c? nonn n In L3 LiOCJCJ By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM Family tradition and a desire for clean living in the open air cause John Strangewey, "the hillman," to dwell in the mountains of Cumberland, re mote from the life of the great modern cities. An accident brings Louise Maurel, a Lon don actress, to his gate and despite his brother's protests, born of suspicion of all women, Strangewey offers the traveler refuge. On the morrow the actress departs, leaving her benefactor in a state of mind that completely his ideals and his life, and sends him to London in search of her. It is there that Mr. Oppenheim lets loose all his boundless capacity for complication, mystery and romance. The hillman is swept into a mad maelstrom along with the woman. He follows her to London and learns to view life from a different angle. No other novelist could extricate the couple from the whirlpool into which they have been cast; but all who follow Mr. Oppen heim's solution of the problem will admit that in this story he reaches the pinnacle of his art, excelling himself in point of dramatic value, heart interest and suspense. Watch for the First Installment! The smooth romancing of E. Phillips Oppenheim is an unwaning delight for him who loves the tale for the tales sake. Pittsburgh Post.