Newspaper Page Text
2
S' '/■'
urSMiRSHB
For Woman’s Work.
™b
(C? TUDENT of art, I, sought ’mong cares and vanities,
What picture held the magic of soul-inspiring grace;
And found, in all the world’s great galleries,
Art’s masterpiece—a sunny, smiling face!
Albert Irving Mason.
Written for Woman’s Work. Copyrighted by the Author.
FOR BETTER 25 FOR WORSE
BY MARION MORGAN BUCKNER.
(Continued from last month.)
CHAPTER IX. (Continued )
Bethany, where the ro’ds crossed,
the children left her to go their
several ways, while she sat on the
A
church steps for a brief rest before taking
the long walk that was still ahead of her.
She had not yet recovered from the dazed
feeling that came over her at Mrs. Hicks’
reprimand and curt refusal to board
her longer. After reflection she felt
that she had acted unwisely in re
specting Viola’s confidence rather
than defend herself against unjust
accusations. But she had been so
hurt at the girl’s willingness to
sacrifice another in shifting the petty
blame from her own shoulders, and
so stunned at Mrs. Hicks’ attack,
that she knew not which way to
turn. Afterwards pride , kept
her silent. That her relatives should
listen for a moment to the news
mongers insinuations sank deep in
her heart. During the day she had
resolved to brace herself to bear the
burden of undeserved blame no lon
ger than she could arrange to go
elsewhere to earn her living. She
would shake the dust of Indian Fork
from her feet, and with it the mem
ory of the unlovely phases of life
which it had developed. All around
lay the remains of those who rested
under the grass, and in the thick
foliage of the trees birds sang, as if
rejoicing that the cares of life were
over for so many. In a few years
sha herself would be grassed over and
forgotten, so—why worry over petty
annoyances?
The harsh irregularities of the
landscape were submerged to a gen
eral softness of tone that was most
pleasing, and there hovered over the
place an ineffable peace that was in
expressibly soothing to her perturb
ed spirit. She felt a morbid itclina
tion to stay there Indefinitely. But
there was the public road stretching
before her, with ever and anon
someone passing to spoil the harmo
ny in which Nature loves to revel
when left alone. Even at that mo
ment some one was coming down
the winding road, and with Mrs.
Hicks’ stinging words still fresh in
her mind, the color rushed to Es
ther’s cheeks as she recognized the
occupant of the buggy.
“What, not another elopement to
be frustrated?” as he stopped and
laughed down at her.
“I am just resting a moment. It
is time now for me to be going,”
coldly, as she arose.
“My destination is beyond Mrs.
Hicks’; I can put you down at her
gate. Come, get in,” and, alighting,
he held out his hand to assist her.
“I do not stay there now!” He
looked surprised, but asked no ques
tion.
“I’ll take you to the ferry then.”
“It would be out of your way.
I prefer walking, thank you.”
Strange that chance should at this
moment send Edward Young and
Bud Lane driving past Bethany,
and that at the sight of her newly
discovered enemies Esther should be
impelled by a sudden fancy to defy
them! Turning to Rev. Lyle, she
said nonchalantly. ‘I believe I will
ride,” and took her seat beside him.
The buggy behind kept just out of
speaking distance for more than a
mile, and then the roads diverged
and the two men drove rapidly out
of sight. Esther at once insisted on
continuing her way afoot. Pointing
towards the hills she said: “There
lies your most direct route,” and she
disappeared among the thick under
growth.
Driving slowly through the slum
berous woods, Philip Lyle found that
his spirit was attuned to the grateful
quietude and peaceful rest of the
country. Long years in the ‘city
had dulled his senses, but his half
forgotten childhood had come back
in a magic rush with the first scent
of the spring time woods. He could
but look back upon the restless en
ergy, the incessant activity of the
old life as a mere stir in an ant
hill. How true it was that “God
made the country and man made
the town!” The fragrant breath of
the woods was wafted through air
so pure that it were a luxury to
Woman’s Work.
inhale it.
On one side the ground sloped
away to the valley where lay the
cool shadows of the pines. Beyond,
the hills arose range upon range in
the distance, and still farther away
the mountains towered in hazy,
cloud-like serenity. After some miles
the road led abruptly around the
foot of the mountain and wound into
a valley, low-lying between steep
hills that overlooked the tops of the
tallest pines.
Evidently a fire had swept the re
gion during the past winter. The
earth was blackened, the bushes
were destroyed, and many of the
trees had been sacrificed; some had
been eaten through by the fire and
had broken midway their charred
trunks, their verdant tops piled
across each other; others lay prone
upon the earth. Surveying the
scene, Philip Lyle’s gaze fell upon a
gigantic pine near the curve of the
road, a little ahead, with a whitened
strip running round the body from
top to base. Alone it stood a vic
tim to the lightning bolt. Around
the curve a woman appeared sitting
in a cart, tall and stern-faced, un
compromisingly erect, and they met
under the blasted tree.
“Ha, according to the ‘eternal fit
ness of things’ I meet your father’s
son in this valley which has been
a Dante’s Inferno, if one is inclined
to be imaginative. All around, the
woods have suffered from fire that
man permitted to destroy; here un
der a tree that fire from heaven has
smitten, I meet one who tells of the
fire of hell,” with a mirthless laugh.
He looked at her long and silent
ly. “I was just asking your niece
why it was that I had never met
you. I am glad to see an old ac-
quaintance after all these years.”
“And I am surprised that you
have the face to come here; but
doubtless you think your money has
made ample atonement for the part
your father played.” He winced.
“No, nor do I think you should
despise me for aught that my father
did! ”
“The sins of the father shall be
visited on the child, says God’s law,
and Nature’s laws are the same:
You are of his blood, and probably
have a nature not unlike his.”
“I hoped that the years would dis
till forgiveness out of your bitter
ness, Miss Redd; such prejudice is
unworthy of you. Overcome it. Why
not come to church with Esther, and
to the parsonage also? Let us be
friends.”
Jerking the reins, she started the
horse, then—stopping him—she
struggled a moment with the anger
that almost choked her.
“I have forbidden the girl ever
visiting your house again! I warn
ed her months ago that no good
would ever come of her intimacy
with your wife. Son of Lucius Lyle,
prove that you are not your father
over again by letting the girl alone,”
and, slapping the horse smartly with
the reins, she drove past him without
a word or look.
CHAPTER X.
E
to set the day,’’teased Margaret, hoping
that such was really the case. She
thought that since her sister-in-law
had got herself talked about, the
surest refutation would be an imme
diate marriage.
“No, it’s just a note from Mrs.
Lyle. Mabel is ill, and Mr. Lyle is
away from home.”
“And of course they want you to
go and stay with them! Mrs. Hicks
told me yesterday that young Mrs.
Lyle was suffering from hysterics. I
didn’t mention it before aunt Martha
as it makes her angry to hear the
name of Lyle.”
“I think I ought to go.”
“Aunt will never forgive you. I
wouldn’t go there when she’s at
home. When she’s on the farm she
needn’t know, and it wont matter
how often you visit the parsonage,
as far as I can see; but you’d better
not go this time.”
Unheeding the warning, Esther set
out at once, and was very glad that
she had done so when she found how
greatly she was needed.
Mabel was indulging an orgy in
STHER read the note and looked
thoughtfully from the window.
1 “Ed Young must be hurrying you
comparison with which her former
lapses were as trifles. She suffered
from the hallucination that Philip
had deserted her, and —evading the
watchfulness of the two women—she
took repeated doses of drugs that
were kept skillfully concealed. On
the following day, worn out with
their efforts to care for Mabel in her
frenzied state, they availed them
selves of the first opportunity to
summon Philip home. Then she
conceived a sudden and violent dis
like for Esther, and was as deter
mined to drive her away as she had
been eager to have the girl with
her.
“Philip has come back because
Esther sent for him. She has stolen
my husband’s love from me. That
is why I am compelled to take some
thing that will make me forget my
troubles. He has always been in
terested in you, Esther. He sent you
to school and I never knew it (though
we were there together four years)
till you told me lately—to taunt me
with the interest he has had in you
for such a long time. He did not
come to this horrid place for my
good, as he claims—it was because
you were here. Leave my house and
never enter it again. Go!” pointing
to the door. Esther recoiled, and
the color left her sweet face.
The elder Mrs. Lyle came forward
with uplifted hands. “Oh, Mabel,
you do not know what you are say
ing,” and turning her shocked eyes
on Esther: “Dear child, do not mind
her delirium.”
But Esther was already descend
ing the stairs and would not stop to
listen. The same insult hurled at
her again was more than she could
patiently bear.
“That I should come here for this,
at the cost of aunt Martha’s displeas
ure!” she thought bitterly, as she
passed out of the door with the de
termination never to set foot in the
parsonage again, no matter 'What
happened. For once and all, she
would wash her hands of the Lyles!
As Esther left the room Philip.
Lyle slowly arose from a table in
the one adjoining, where he had
been looking over the contents of
the medicine chest. His mother saw
that he had heard and, looking into
each other’s eyes, her mute sympa
thy answered his distress. Mabel
threw herself on a lounge and looked
moodily from the window.
“Son, go down to dinner and be
with the children,” said his mother
in tremulous tones, on hearing the
dinner bell.
He crossed the room and, standing
by Mabel, asked gently: “Shall I
send your dinner, Mabel, or would l
you rather wait till Mother goes
down?”
She shrank from the reproach he
could not banish from his face, and,
putting her arm across her eyes,
petulantly motioned him away.
All that afternoon she lay quietly
on the lounge or walked aimlessly
over the house, with a sullen pre
occupied manner—her frenzied ’mood
having reached its height and spent
itself in the outburst against Es
ther.
When Philip had put the children
to bed and persuaded his wearied
mother to retire, his heart was soft
ened and his spirit chastened by
sweet communion with them in
sharp contrast to the trial of the
morning, and he thought compas
sionately of his wife. Passing
through the quiet, dimly lighted
house he stepped softly into her
room. she lay as if asleep, but
when he leaned over the bed she
opened her eyes and laughed strange
iy.
“Are you better . dear?”
“Yes, I’ll be quite well soon. I
am enfolded in a robe of content,
soft and delicious,” and she glanced
involuntarily at a small, empty vial
°, n the table by the bedside. His
startled gaze followed hers, and with
quickened perception he grasped her
meaning. “Oh, Mabel, what have
you done?”
“Nothing worse than usual. If
cannot enjoy life I will not endure
it. He was half way to his mother’s
room before she had finished speak-
The stars had disappeared and the
blush of dawn was rosy in eastern
skies when Philip and his mother
relaxed their heroic efforts to hold
back the wilful spirit that dared en
ter unbidden to the world invisible.
JANUARY, 1%».