Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

HOW THE EAST END WAS REDEEMED (Continued from last week. She put both hands over her eyes for a long mo ment, and when she took them down at last, she looked humble and contrite as a little child. “I think that I can get ready to ride,” she said, the hint of tears in her voice, “in five minutes. Can you wait so long?” “Certainly,” he replied, touched by the strug gle he had witnessed, “but you must wrap up well. February is a treacherous month, you know, not adapted to delicate constitutions.” After she had left him, alone in the flower scent ed silence, Dr. Falkenham walked up and down the floor with folded arms. “I hope that speech I made her,” he said at last, with a sigh, “about my indifference to her, except as a part of the uni verse, will not be interpreted to my detriment later on. She might wake up and I should have to dis cover, whether willingly or not, all the splendid virtues of a woman nobly planned.” Mrs. Cobb came down attired for her ride in costly black, but Dr. Falkenham was glad to ob serve that she wore no veil, and that her mourn ing was of that beautiful sort which it did not make other people miserable to look upon. He was surprised to discover that she was rather a fine looking woman in full dress, and a certain idealistic charm in her face—which had come from her surrender, perhaps—gave him a thrill of real pleasure, as he lifted her into his handsome car riage, drawn up before the Wightman residence. The horse Dr. Falkenham drove was a powerful bay, spirited, and a trifle dangerous. For the first few minutes his attention was wholly absorbed in keeping the animal well in hand. As the bay quiet ed down, Dr. Falkenham turned to his companion with a smile. “Do you remember what Thomas Nelson Page says about a thoroughbred horse?” “No.” “He asserts that they go with their heads up un til they drop. A fact that is also true of thorough bred persons.” “Thank you,” and there was a flash of resent ment in Mrs. Cobb’s fine eyes. “Your personalities are charmingly veiled.” Dr. Falkenham laughed, but his expression was frank as a brother’s, as he said deliberately, “I would give anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to make you angry—angry to the finger tips. A regular Vesuvius flame would do you untold good.” “Perhaps,” she answered, a trifle amused. “It is suggested to me, from your remarks, however, that you should read ‘Shiloh,’ ” she went on in the sweet, meditative tone for which he had al ready learned to listen. “Since you aspire to be a Reformer, nothing could be more helpful to you.” . They were driving down the finest residence street of the city. There were houses of colonial archi tecture, palaces in Italian marble, Queen Anne houses, old and massive structures of brown stone and red brick, modernized and made beautiful; all that wealth and taste could do combined, seemed to challenge the glance from behind the green lawns and shrubberies of the broad boulevard. Groups of children with their nurses were on the sidewalk, beautiful women in handsome turnouts dashed gaily by, while here and there a market wagon, or a son and daughter of toil, added shade to the pic ture, over which streamed the glory of the after noon sun. “Tell me about the book,” Dr. Falkenham urged softly. “Hildred says that when you talk in color, you could charm a Seraph.” “You must not believe everything Hildred says about me,” she protested. “She loves me and I think if I ever had the gift of word-painting, I have lost it. But I would like to tell you about ‘Shiloh.’ I really think it might help you in your profession.” “I am listening,” he replied in a tone of interest. “Mrs. Browning says, ‘lt takes the ideal to move By ODESSA STRICKLAND PAYNE, Author of “Psyche,” ‘Tittle Cal,” Etc. The Golden Age for November 15, 1906. the actual an inch,’ and you know there is much actual in my work.” “It has been years since I read the book,” she replied, “but I believe I can still recall the outline of the story. It is really the well written history of a young woman who conquered herself and re deemed a village world in the process. She was disappointed in love, and in consequence she left her native city, New York, and went off to the village to recover her health and learn how to be a normal human being again.” “What sort of a girl was she?” “Gifted and lovely. But she confesses to have had two selves, a bona-self and a mala-self, and her description of the conflict between these two metaphysical forces is what constitutes the great charm of the book.” “What did she do? I mean, after conquering herself, how did she go to work?” “What entirely masculine questions! I have al ready told you that she reformed a village, of course this much to be desired result was achieved by listening to the higher voices, as embodied in the bona-self. She helped one girl to become a musician, another to develop into a first class writer, in fact, she lifted up every life she touched, until the whole town was radiated by her person ality.” “What else?” “Nothing, except that she had a fine voice, which she also used for the good of her people, until, her own character being perfected, her lover reappeared and the curtain was rung down on her life work.” Dr. Falkenham pulled his horse to his haunches, and then he let him go like the wind, fully a half mile, before he answered, with apparent uncon sciousness of the interruption. “A voice? That makes me think. Hildred says you used to sing. I do not know of a more beau tiful way to serve. I have three or four patients now, whom only a song would help so much. I may be superstitious, but I assure you, I would be afraid to hold a gift like you have in abeyance and un used. ’ ’ Mrs. Cobb did not answer, and they had driven back into the roar and rush of the business part of the city, before Dr. Falkenham uttered another word. He drew rein before a tall six storied mar ble building, in which his office was situated; and after he had alighted, placed the lines in her hands. “Bismarck will stand,” Dr. Falkenham said abruptly, as he turned to go up the steps, “and you need not waste any nerve force in fear.” Mrs. Cobb watched the crowd on the sidewalk, within the flare and glare of the revolving electric lights on the next corner, and counted the street cars byway of a mental diversion; but all the same she was glad when Dr. Falkenham came swiftly down the steps. He had exchanged his light overcoat for a large fur cape and coat, and she was obliged to acknowledge that he looked unus ually handsome, as he laid a bunch of violets in her lap. She did not wish to accept them, but she loved violets, as England’s Laureate loved them, and these, following upon the conflict which had preceded the ride, were like the breath of Heaven to her sensitive soul. It was only a mile to the Wightman home, but Guendolin Cobb fought the battle of her life, while she was being whirled along. Dr. Falkenham did not address a word to her, but as he lifted her carefully to the sidewalk, before his nephew’s gate, he gave her a long, searching glance. Guen replied to it, without evasion, and the idealistic charm transfigured her face for the second time that afternoon, as she said softly. “If you should happen to want me to sing for your patients, you have only to let me know, any time.” He took off his hat and bowed with the grace of a man who had conquered in a good cause. “Thank you,” he said, simply, and then he drove away into the engulfing shadows of the night. CHAPTER 111. For two days after the drive, Mrs. Cobb kept her room, and Harold and Hildred held their breath metaphorically, over what would be the final result. One evening, however, as they all lingered by the fire in the dining room, Morris and his uncle quietly discussing current events, they heard the soft notes of the piano issuing from the sitting room. There was a tender prelude, and then a voice began to sing, “Consider the Lilies.” The small audience was cultured, and accustomed to hearing the finest priraa donnas, in their migrations through a great city. When the song was finish ed, Morris took his hand down from his eyes. “It is Easter Sunday,” he exclaimed softly, “and I am in church. I see the palms and lilies in front of the altar, while down from the organ lift floats a voice of such enthralling harmony that I dream the owner belongs to the choir in visible. ’ ’ Harold had walked to the window, and is stand ing there, apparently studying the twilight view, although he is deeply moved. Hildred, in her white albatross dress, her blue eyes shining with excite ment, sits erect, on the opposite side of the hearth from her liege lord. “Wait!” she commands with a swift imperious gesture. There is a soft rush of instrumental mel ody from the next room, and the magnificent voice takes up its silver burden again, in “Only Tired.” Harold feels that the anguish of years is concentrat ed in the appeal—“ Gently, Lord, Oh, gently lead us!” which suddenly soars to triumph in the line, “Till the last great change appears.” At the last verse, Hildred kneels down by her husband’s side and hides her face against his shoulder, while the climax of the song is being repeated, in high thrilling tones, “Neither doubting, nor forsaken, Only tired, Only tired.” After a long pause, Harold, with a white but self controlled face, turns quietly from the win dow, and leaves the room. Hildred and her hus band exchange glances. “While ho is helping our Undine to find her soul,” Hildred says in a tender meditative tone, “he might wake up his own, to his sorrow.” “Hardly,” her husband replies. “He is such a grand fellow, so utterly without affectation, and yet so magnetic, that I do not think it would be easy for even Guendolin Cobb to ignore him.” “Not easy, but all the same she will do it.” Hildred’s husband-shook his head, unconvinced, and then they went into rhe next room. Mrs. Cobb was sitting by the fire, with a book in her lap. But her face was no longer expression less, the plaster paris mask was off for the mo ment, and Hildred was consciously sorry that her uncle was not there to see the transformation. Mrs. Cobb was not a woman who did anything by halves, as her utter abandonment to her grief proved. And now that she had made up her mind to live, for some of the higher reasons of being, she did not propose any half way measures to her self. She began to help Hildred, in many beautiful ways, to do the small things that bless, and bright en, about her cousin’s home. And nearly every evening, she played the piano and sang, to the en thusiastic delight of the family. But of course she did not conquer herself without conflict; some times she did not leave her room until noon, and sometimes she evaded the family circle after tea, and then her friends understood and were sorry. One morning, however, Guen came down to find the “spirit of light and sweetness,” a prisoner on the Roman couch. It was a frequent occurrence, in the Wightman house, but Hildred was always so charming that her friends often forgot that she was a sufferer. The sight touched Guen, but after lowering the shade and arranging the silk eider down covering a little better over the slender figure, she took a low seat, just where she could look into the spirituelle face—and waited. (Continued on page 11.) 7