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The TWILIGHT <yf OPPORTUNITY
PART TWO.
IV.
In a remote village among the moorlands of Scot
land, Sanderson and his wife found a cottage of
very ancient build, which they leased for the sum
mer. Their meals were to be furnished from the
neighboring inn. All communication with the out
side world was to cease entirely.
Sanderson had come to Scotland as a last resort.
It was the country of his ancestors; and he felt
that there, if anywhere, the spirit of inspiration
which had eluded him in Venice, in Paris, in the
quietest suburb of London, might be coaxed into
service.
One morning he took a light lunch with him and
started out on one of his rambles. As Esther watched
him disappear over the low hilLcrest in front of
the house, something in his manner warned her that
lie was going out to face the crisis; that if this time
he came back empty-handed, he need never search
again.
The hours dragged along, one leaden link following
another until the chain became almost black. The
summer twilight lingered late on the downs and in
the red southwest; but at last it faded into a purp
lish gray. The clock on the rough mantel struck ten.
She lit the lamp and waited.
At half past he appeared, shuffling slowly over
the crest of the hill. His cap was drawn over his
eyes, his head bent forward. She caught one distinct
silhouette of him before he plunged into the gloom
of the descent; a few minutes later, he was at the
door.
She knew, even before she saw his face, ■what
he had to tell her. She went forward and put her
anrs about his neck.
He received her caresses with passive thankful
ness, but returned them mechanically. He sank into
a chair and passed his hands over his eyes with a
queer smile.
“Were you worried about me?” he inquired, in
a voice that strove to be commonplace.
“Not much, dear. Just a little. It was so late,
and you had been gone twelve hours. . . . Sit right
here, now, and rest yourself while I get you a little
supper. I kept it on the oil-stove for you.”
“I don’t want anything,” he remarked; but she
went ahead as if he had not spoken.
He sat there in silence, his arm hanging lax at
his side. Every now and then the middle finger would
twitch conclusively. 'She poured his coffee and sat
the buttered toast in order on the little table.
“Esther,” he said at length, “suppose we sail
for home next week.”
She did not answer.
“Because,” he pursued, “there’s no use in staying
here any longer—that is, on my account. I give up.
It’s gone.”
“Gone—what?” she asked; though it was plain
thnt she knew.
“The—the Message,” he replied, dully. “I can’t
remember it. I waited so long. . . .You see, it’s this
way, Esther. I buried my talent, and He who gave
it to me has taken it away.”
He sat with his head sunk forward. The food lay
untasted before him. She passed her cool fingers gent
ly through his hair, smoothing it back from his
forehead. It was the old, sweet touch—more tender,
more thrilling with sympathy, than ever before. It
soothed him, body and mind and soul, like a benign
galvanism.
When she spoke—Sanderson never could tell how
long the silence lasted—it was as if another Self
were voicing his own thoughts.
“Let’s make the best of what we have left, dear,”
she said. “We are not old, yet. You have half your
life—more than half of it, perhaps—before you.
Your great world-Message may be gone, as you say;
but don’t you believe that there are little messages
little heart-messages for people all around you—
that you can give without putting pen to paper?
Isn’t there a cheerless life somewhere that you
could brighten? Isn’t there somebody who needs a
again.
The Golden Age for March 29, 1906.
B y William Hurd Hillyer
kind word now and then? Every day, isn’t there
somebody? . . . Don’t let’s think any more about
what we can’t do, but let’s think of what we can do
—you and I; because I can help you with that kind
of a message. Come, now; let the old schemes go;
and let’s begin all over again. Won’t you, Richard?”
He made no answer in words. He drew her close
to him until her cheek touched his own. Like hers,
it was wet with tears.
V.
When people heard that Richard Sanderson had
bought back the business that he had sold but the
year before, they wagged their heads and remarked,
“I thought as much. I knew he could not stay
out of the game.” And when they saw how his
manner had sobered and how gray he was about
the temples, they surmised that he had found the
business a much poorer one than when he left it.
They were mistaken. The business was as pros
perous as ever, the causes of the change in the
millionaire’s face lay far deeper than gross profits.
Conway could have told them that
Sanderson called Conway into the office about
a month after the former’s return, and kept him
a full minute without speaking. He stood in his
usual mute attitude, did Conway, not a muscle
moving.
“Mr. Conway,” began Sanderson.
The foreman started. For only once before had
he been thus addressed by his employer—who al
ways omitted the prefix—and that was on the oc
casion of the only reprimand that he had ever
received in that office.
“Mr. Conway, how would you like a vacation?”
The question was an awkward one. Possibly
if iSanderson had taken time to think he would
not have made it thus direct. During the nine
years of his service in Sanderson & Company’s fac
tory, Conway had never, in the true sense of the
word, boasted such a thing as a vacation. Sander
son’s question was the result of momentary impulse,
guiltless of any posible sarcasm. He had sum
moned Conway on a matter of business, and what
he had meant to say, up to the instant that the
foreman came, was something quite different. It
was in that instant, as the tired, toil-worn face
appeared in the doorway, the honest eyes a trifle
more feverish than usual, that Sanderson remem
bered the promise he had made to Esther there in
'Scotland, on the evening when he had given up all
hope of finding his lost Message. “Some cheerless
life that you can brighten!” Her words shot
through him with a new meaning. He had indeed
made a few perfunctory efforts to fulfill them, but
those beginnings had been soon overwhelmed by
the huge absorbing tide of business. And here it
was, at his very door, within his own factory—here
it had been for nine years and every working day
in the year; the story of hope deferred, of ambi
tions crumbled, of long and faithful toil with only
a bare living for the loved ones. Sanderson had
long ago advanced the foreman’s pay to a respect
able figure—that is, in the estimation of himself
and his fellow-employers—and took it for granted
that on SIOO per month Conway could support his
family in comfort and lay aside a goodly amount
for old age. The millionaire had never troubled
to inquire why it was—even this much he had
learned by accident—that when it came Conway’s
turn to avail himself of the annual seven days’
“vacation” allowed to all regular employees, he
never left town at all, but usually did some special
drafting work in an engineeer’s office.
“A vacation?” echoed the astonished foreman,
“Why, I’ve already had mine this year, sir.”
“I don’t mean that,” retutrned the other man,
with a deprecating gesture. “I mean a regular out
ing—a month or so.”
Conway’s pale cheeks flushed just a little as he
answered:
“I should certainly like one, Mr, Sanderson, if—
if it could be arranged.”
moving.
(IN TWO PUKTS)
“No trouble about that. Barton can take your
place while you are gone; the dull season will be
on in a few days. As for the money part of it,
you can leave that to me. I will give you trans
portation to any point within five hundred miles,
and you can draw on me up to three hundred dol
lars for your other expenses.”
“I hardly know how to thank you, sir,— ” began
the foreman, with quiet dignity.
“No thanks are required,” cut in his employer.
“You have done some good work for the company,
that’s all.” . . Let me know tomorrow where you
want a ticket to—or tickets, rather, —I believe
that you would like to have Mrs. Conway ”
“Yes, sir,” assented the foreman, with a dubious
ness that Sanderson did not understand. “I would
be glad if Mrs. Conway could go with me. I think
it would do her good.” He twisted a button on his
shirt-front. “But it’s just this way. You see, our
little Amy . . . The boys could stay with their
grandfather, but Amy . . . I’m afraid her
mother couldn’t leave her. How would it do,” he
added hastily, “for us to stay only three weeks,
and take her along, too?”
“Is Amy your little girl ? Has she been sick?”
“Yes, sir, she’s been worse, here lately. She
has never been well, you know.”
Sanderson did not know, but he kept this fact
to himself.
“'She never did walk much,” continued the other
man, “and last winter she got worse. We have
to lift her into her chair. I got a rolling chair for
her last fall, and Tom rolls her out on the porch,—
and on the sidewalk, too, when the weather is fine.
But I have to help him with that. We’ve had so
much rain recently, though, that she hasn’t been
out at all for two months. Doctor says that’s why
she’s worse. He’s afraid now that she’ll never . .”
During this recital, Sanderson’s lips had been
drawing closer and closer together, as with a kind
of an inverted avarice. He now pursed them into
a whistling attitude, and drew a piece of paper from
a pigeonhole in his desk. He scribbled a few words
with his fountain pen and handed the paper to
Conway.
“Take that to Dr. Sachard,” he said, quietly.
“You know where to find him—in the Globe Trust
Building. Tell him to do what he can for your
little girl. Tell him to spare no expense—charge
it to my account. Get out of this factory as soon
as the whistle blows, and take her wherever he
advises. Draw on me up to a thousand dollars. If
you need more, let me know.”
“You are certainly kind, Mr. Sanderson,” said
the foreman, his voice curiously choked. “I don’t
know how I can ever repay ”
\on can repay it without any trouble—every
dollar of it. I expect to advance your salary 50
per cent when you get back, and you can pay me
25 per cent of the increase until you square your
account.”
He wheeled around to his desk, thus signifying
that the interview was closed.
“Thank you, sir,” said the foreman, slowly. Deep
down in his eyes burned a wonderful new fire, un
quenched by the tears that overflowed them as he
turned to the door.
Two weeks later, Conway returned. He entered
the office very quietly, and stood with colorless face
before his employer.
“Back already?” inquired Sanderson, looking
up in surprise. “Your little girl is not worse?” °
“She is dead,” answered the foreman. “She
hadn t been there but a few days. The doctor said
if she could only have gone last year . . . But
she enjoyed the trees and flowers. She told me to
thank you, sir.”
He stopped, unable to say more. He stared ahead
of him with dry, suffering eyes while listening to
his employer’s futile words of condolence.
M hen he was gone Richard Sanderson sat think
ing—bitterly thinking—of the wasted daylight,