-
PE.fCY II. VAN DYKE. Publisher end Editor.
NEWPORT. - - ARKANSAS
«> X
T T
I End of the Chapter.!
* * <f>
J b
Kenyon Meredith twisted
round severul times on his re
volving chair, and, with an impatient,
movement, of the hand, said:
“Ask Miss Gerard to come in here.”
The frown left his face as a girl
mterod—a girl who was unknown to
him save by name.
“1 don’t know why it is,” she said,
without preface, “but mother can
Know no peace till she has seen you.
She knew your father, you know,”
with a queer, ironical smile. “How
bored you must be with people who
trade on that past acquaintance to
make you do things you hate!”
“Not at all!” lie hastened to assure
her, letting bis quick, appreciative
eye roam from the soft, curve of
her uplifted chin to her little pat
ent-clad toes, that were tracing pat
terns on the carpet. “Only, you see,
J no longer practice—”
“A triviality of that sort means
nothing to mother,” she averred.
And he laughed—a very attractive,
pleasant laugh—and wondered why
she roused in him interest; why he
Kept silence that he might hear her
voice; why he felt compelled to seek
Jifer trlanee, that glance that wan
dered rather haughtily over his head.
She ought not to attract him, he told
Himself, and yet she did. Her man
ner was very distant, her month
grave, and if her eyes had a lurking
smile, it was, he felt sure, an habit
mil one, born of gay good humor—
erf sweet temper.
"Mother has made up her mind to
see you,” she continued, “and 1 tie
feet that you no longer visit or re
ceive patients only makes her more
determined. Will you go to her? She
sent me, instead of writing you a
note.”
Meredith inwardly complimented
Mrs. Gerard upon her choice of a
messenger. Aloud, he merely said:
"It will give me great pleasure,”
and rose as she did, furtively mark
ing the mixture of question and in
credulity in her straight, raised eye
brows.
She thanked him gravely, indiffer
ently, was evidently quite uncon
scious of the warm pressure of his
handclasp, and, with a slight bow.
left him.
And that is how they first met.
YesterdnJ she was but a name to
_^.hini: he,'■was hardly aware of her
p existence. To-day—in ten minutes—
the world, in some inexplicable wav,
had changed for him. The dull, blue
glasses through which he was accus
tomed to look upon it were snatched
from his eyes, snatched by a soft,
tender hand, that replaced them, all
unconsciously, with those which were
rose-hued.
With a light laugh, he pushed aside
„ five papers on his desk, and fell to
pacing the room restlessly. Once he
stopped before a mirror, studying in
it his reflection. He was neither
young nor good-looking; but his face
was kind, open and full of character.
It Pore traces of some sutVerinir. too.
and the lines about his clean-shaven
mouth gave evidence of *greut deter
mination. that matched a certain ex
pression sometimes to be seen in
" his eyes.
And when he had spent more than
as hour in thought, he put on his
hat, ,nnd paid liis promised visit to
Mrs. Gerard, with promptitude which
she considered very flattering.
■“Mother is not really ill.”
There was no question in the girl's
tfvwe. She was standing before
Meredith, her eyes fixed senrehingly
on his; and they were both occupy
ing the half-yard of Mrs. Gerard’s
balconv which was not covered with
* v
flower boxes.
“No, not really,” he replied un
guardedly, watching the little soft
rings of hair as they were lifted
from her forehead by the light night
wind.
“Then why have you come here
every day for five weeks?”
It was a question he was not pre
pared to answer off hand, and so
<ook refuge in temporary silence.
“It pleases her,” he said at last,
■tihe—she—has confidence in me;
rad—it enables me to see you, too—
vometimes.”
“Sometimes?” she queried, and
« * TOtiled.one of iter rare, sweet
»«siles- full in his eyes, lie thrust
hands Into his pockets, over
valuing a desire to draw her into
ida arms. And his voice sounded
wdd when he spoke again, because
w£ the -straint he was putting on
iknself.
“Your life cannot be happy one.
*t!»nt up in this great house, n ever
bating attendance upon
“No. it is not happy; but that eau
.not he helped.”
•‘1 di/Tei with you. Ft can—it
ft
\
should. If you will let it he so—it
shall!"
“Hark! That is mother calling.
You arc very good. Good-night.”
She gave him both her hands with
the utmost frankness, smiled again
into his face, as a fearless child
might, not as a woman would, and
left him, piqued, baffled, with'half
angry eyes, frowning down upon an
innocent geranium,
“1 might he her father!” he re
fleeted, walking slowly home. “She
is more than lovely, but she :1s an
icicle. She has no idea of flic mean
ing of love; but she shall learn, and
I will teach her. She is a statue
now, but she shall come to life be
neath my influences, my touch!”
liven as he made this half-fierce
resolution some memory came to
him that drove the, color from his
face. With an impatient gesture he
turned into his own house, deter
minedly thrusting aside any dis
turbing thoughts.
“You are not unhappy now?”
As Meredith asked the question
he shipped ids sculls, bent a little
forward and tried to get the better
of the gathering gloom and the
great brim of her hat in an endeavor
to meet her eyes.
The river was thronged, there was
an incessant busy hum of voices;
now and then some pleasure-seekers,
whose only idea of enjoyment was to
make a great noise, cleft the air
with shouts and songs. But Marion
Gerard and her companion were deaf
and blind to all about them.
She did not answer—she was a
woman of so few words—only her
mouth and eyes smiled together.
And sin let him take one of her
hands and pull off the loose glove,
and rest his lips on the veins that
crossed in a blue V at, her wrist, and
then lingering on each separate fin
rwv Him* pvps ilwnlt fnndlv on his
dark, bent head, and a thrill of pas
sionate tenderness swept over her,
but she gave no sign. And when
they had landed, and he was walking
by her side between two great
hedges of syringa, he said ag'ain, half
impatiently:
“You are not. unhappy now?”
“Why ask—when you know?”
“Because I like you to tell me; be
cause I can’t read your thoughts
through the back of a straw hat;
because you say so little that every
word is valuable. You are cold as
ice—you sleep—you dream! Will
you never wake to life—to warmth—
to tenderness—for me?”
The words left his lips rather
rapidly, in unconsidered impulse,
while a wave of joyous exultation
passed over him at the mute, unex
pected, characteristic answer—two
soft, warm arms wound round his
neck, two shy, sweet lips held glad
ly, willingly, up to his.
“You are awake—at last?” he said,
hardly above his breath, and crushed
his mouth on hers in passionate
thirst.
That night, when Meredith had
gone, and Marion Gerard stood smil
ing down upon the restless river, a
woman swept her skirts with a little
decisive rustle over the trim lawn,
and laid a gentle hand on the girl’s
a rin.
“You are a mere child,” she said,
without warning, “with your old
world notions and your unfashion
able ideas of life in general, and
your mother is an idiot—always was!
That Ss why 1, for your own good,
mean to speak. I am your aunt, any
t 1 H
IM Mt , UU
“What have I clone?” the girl ques
tioned in surprise.
“Not much—yet. It’s what you
may do. I haven’t the remotest idea
how Kenyon Meredith took up the
part of ‘tame eat’ about your house,
only I may as well tell you, before
matters go any farther, that his wife
is alive. They have been separated
for 20 years, but—she lives. Marion,
1 a in telling you—”
“For my good,” the other inter
rupted, then paused, while her lips
grew white and her eyes4 wide and
troubled. “Do*’t you know people
hate being told things for their
good?” and turned away, blindly,
gropingly, with a little despairing
gesture that forbade further speech
on her aunt’s part.
“Is it true?”
The simple words left the girl’s
lips in a sort of panting whisper,
next day. as she stood on the oppo
site side of his library table, facing
Meredith.
“My dear child, I thought you were
above listening to the petty gossip
of—”
“Is it true?”
He came to her side, and held her
forcibly to him before he answered.
"Yes, but—”
“Let me go—”
“Not till you have heard me.”
So she made no further struggle
to escape his hold, but leant wearily
against his arm while lie spoke.
Ilis voice was very low and per
suasive. His explanation might have
been convincing to other cars, but
she was shutting out from hers the
insidious, pleading tones, striving
- with all her might to steel herself
against him. And when he was silent
| ..lie unlaced his fingers determinate
ly from about her wrists, and wen1
a little distance from him.
“J don’t believe you have been lis
tening—that you have heard a word,”
he declared, discontentedly, following
her.
"I have tried not. My only safe
guard lies in being deaf to every
sound of your voice. Ah!” turning
suddenly toward him, and fixing her
dry. miserable eyes on bis. “what
made you do if? Why could you not
have left me in peace-—in—”
“Not happiness,” he said, swiftly,
across her words. _
“Not? You are remembering that
1 was foolish enough to resent a lit
tle dull monotony. What is that
compared to the weariness of all the
empty years to come? Were there
no other women—women whose
hearts have passed through so many
storms that they have lost the power
of feeling keenly—upon whom you
could practice your sophistries?
Were there not—”
“If was because you were so un
like all other women 1 had ever
known that I was first attracted to
you. It was because in your half
haughty indifference you appeared
to me so alluringly unassailable that
the desire grew within me to be he
who should pierce the armor of your
chilly reserve till it lay broken and
useless at your feet. It was be
cause I knew your heart to be un
touched by passion that I longed to
stir within it thoughts of love. It
was because you were so sweet, so
true, so pure, so innocent, that—”
“For your sport you have laid
waste my whole life.”
The words, gently spoken, shamed
him as no bitter reproach could have
done.
“At first,” he admitted, the slow
color rising to and then receding
from his face, “in wanton careless
ness I played a game so familiar to
me, only on different lines. And then
it became earnest; so desperately,
painfully earnest! 1 ought to have
drawn back, but 1 could not! It is so
seldom a man resists his inclinations!
And then I forgot everything; at
least 1 shut out remembrance. For
the first time I grew ashamed of my
past, and dreamed of a future, at
your side, when I should be raised
by the influence of your pure love
to your level—ah! not”—as she
shook her head sadly—“in the world's
eyes, perhaps, because it never can
or will understand; but in yours, in
mine, away, apart from everyone!”
Tie went on vehemently, noting the
growing pallor of her cheeks.
“I deserve every reproach from
you. I—”
“Hut that is the worst of it.'’ she
interrupted, coming nearer to him
and resting her cold hands half ab
sently on his breast. “I cannot re
proach you—T don’t want to. Don’t
you see that it is an awful battle be
tween my love for you and my deter
mination to put you out of ray life
altogether? And I am so fearful lest
it should be a one-sided tight—lest
the victory should lie with the one it
should not. Can’t you understand?
I have no heart, no mind, that is not
dominated by you. There is only just
the certainty that in that future of
which you speak.* you, forgetting
that you had dragged me down,
would learn to despise me, too!
That alone goads my spirit to right
doing. . To all else T am blinded by
my love—that love which makes all
you say and do seem good in my
“I was so proud to lie no longer
myself, but. only yours; now I know
T must be forever—no one’s! And I
may live,” her voice rising to a little
unconscious wail, “50 more years!”
He pressed her face down on hrs
heart, that he might not see the
agony in her eyes.
“What. then, do you mean to do?”
he asked. “To—leave you now—at
once. Don’t.” with a light laugh that
had a sob in it. “tempt me to stay!”
There was something in her voice
which told him argument would be
useless, and with a hopeless sigh he
let his arms fall to his sides and left
her free.
There was dead silence, save for
the ticking' of the clock, which sound
ed unusually loud. He felt, rather
than saw. that she reached the door.
It opened, then closed—and still she
was not gone. She was coming to
ward him. She had not strength to
go after all. he thought, while a wild,
delirious joy, that sent the blood
rushing to his head and robbed him
of sight and hearing, took posses
sion of him.
“You have come back?” he said,
breathlessly, and held out to her
both his hands.
“Dear,” she answered, gravely,
“don’t make—another woman—suf
fer ns—”
The rest of the sentence died away
in a whisper. Through the blind
tangle of his mind, the booming in
his ears, there came the slow, de
parting rustle of her gown, the click
of the latch, the soft closing of the
door.
His face contracted painfully, and
then fell forward on his arms, flung
down in bitter, hopeless despair upon
the windowsill. Clement Scott’s Free
Lance.
DRS. B. A. & W. R. WASHBURN '
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Special attention given to diseases
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eases of Women.
-:o:
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»
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Office: Redman’s Drug Store.
Newport, ... Arkansas.
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