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ESTHER TERR ALL’S EXPERIMENT
HL —(Concluded.)
ATURDAY afternoon Mrs. Ferrall might
have been found in the family sitting
room before a burning fire of hickory
logs, in one of the old leather chairs,
with a dainty piece of sewing in her lap.
Esther came in suddenly from the
outside world, with a great cluster of
chrysanthemums in her hands. She
wore a crimson silk blouse, which
S
matched the delicate color of her cheeks. After
a moment Esther looked up from the vase in which
she was arranging her flowers, for the center of the
mahogany table by which she stood, with a mis
chievous look in her dark gray eyes.
“Has Lane ever discovered,” she asked in a
clear tone, “that I was once a shop girl, behind a
glove counter?”
Airs. Ferrall smiled.
“No; he was so absorbed in that interest mat
ter that he forgot to question me very closely. He
thought that you were making rather a prolonged
visit, and that you met Mrs. Carrington at the home
of one of your friends. He lead her letter to me,
and while he dislikes to have you go, he is obliged
to acknowledge that it is an unusual opportunity.
Mrs. Carrington stated that it would be a privilege
to her to be allowed to take you for the time being
as an adopted daughter. She was very diplomatic
And then, of course, the fact that she was an old
friend of mine, and Dan Hallam’s great aunt, has
some weight with him.” ’
Esther laid her flowers down in a colorful heap
on the table and gasped: “Dan Hallam’s great
aunt! And a friend of yours! Why, mater, I never
heard of it.”
“Perhaps not; but Margaret knew whose daugh
ter you were all the time. She and I were at col
lege together, and when you and your brother were
quite small she .spent the summer here at Ferrall
Hall, and two years ago I was her guest for several
days in the city, during the time that you stayed
so long with your Uncle Charley in Montgomery. ’ ’
“Oh, how small the world is!” Esther exclaimed,
as she placed a crimson chrysanthemum in the cen
ter of her bouquet. “And my fairy god mother,
whom I thought that I had discovered all by myself,
turns out to be within the family circle of friends.”
She did not know whether she was glad or sorry
to discover that Mrs. Carrington was related to
Dan Hallam.
Just then an old negro woman wearing a dark
blue cotton dress, with a red handkerchief bound
turban-fashion about her head, walked quietly into
the room.
“Howdah, ole Miss,” she said, dropping a quaint
curtsy. “Miss Ess, I sho am glad to see you. But
dey tells me my little gal am gwine ’cross der great
w’aters. I jes’ shut my cabin door and cum up here
ter fine out es its de trufe. Now, honey, what yer
leave yer maw fer? Who gwine ter make music in
dis big house, when you gawn?”
Esther laughed.
“Lane can sing a little bass to Sunday school
songs, Aunt Liza.”
“Huh,” the old negro said, tapping the stick she
carried on the floor; “Marse Lane am a mighty
fine young man —mighty fine —but whos cumin’ to
see old Liza, when de rumatiz gits in her bones, an’
cheer her up? Law, honey chile, I sho am gwine
ter miss yer, mighty bad.”
She shook her head dolefully, but Esther, know
ing that her affection was really genuine, felt
touched. She went over to the mantel, and taking
down her purse, which happened to be lying there
behind a picture, extracted a dollar bill, and wrap
ping it around the stem of one of the large chrys
anthemums, said kindly:
“I am glad that you will miss me, and here is
a flower to remember me by, as you colored peo
ple say, ‘until I come home again.’ ”
“Sich pretty ways, Miss Ess,” the old woman
"By MRS. ODESSA S. PA YNE: Author of "Psyche,” "The Sacrifice, ” "Holo East End Was Redeemed. ”
the Golden Age for January 23, 1908.
answered as she took the favor; “such pretty ways.
But I don’ see no water in de coffee grounds, chile,
no water; jes land and trees and de cyars gwine
on ter de big town. I ’fraid some nice young gem
man take you away from we ’alls. I sho am
afraid. ’ ’
After the old negress had gone, Esther watched
her mother sewing for a while, then she went over
to her chair and kissed her tenderly.
“Mater, do you want me to go to Europe?”
“No; not when I think of myself,” Mrs. Ferrall
answered slowly. “But Margaret has planned to
give you a year of travel and pleasure, and if you
desire to go, dearest, it is all right.”
But her mother’s tears fell on the exquisite hand
kerchief she was embroidering for her a while later,
when she heard her singing from what Lane called
“the Duchess platform,” the first landing on the
great stairway:
“When the flowers bloom in spring time,
Molly, bye and bye;
We’ll go roaming in the gloaming,
Neath the summer sky,
Molly, bye and bye.”
Lane entered the room and threw his driving
gloves on the centertable. And as the sweet voice
trailed down through the afternoon silence, he stood
like one spellbound, until the last silvery vibration
had died away.
“It will be hard,” he said with a sigh, “to live
without the Duchess, will it not, mater?”
“Not impossible, perhaps, Lane,” his mother re
plied philosophically, “if we mix the hope of re
turn with all our work and waiting.”
But Lane had glimpsed the sign of tears in the
dark brown eyes, and, like a wise son, changed the
subject.
Dan Hallam was a university graduate, as well
as a cheerful, well-balanced young man, devoted to
his business and his friends. He differed from the
modern pagan of his century, in that he had ideals.
The “materialities” did not content him, and some
times he suffered with righteous indignation at the
emphasis laid upon externals by the men of his
class. He felt a very real sympathy for the fellow
who was down upon his luck. And he could talk
to a man whose coat was shabby, and whose linen
was not immaculate, without assuming, or feeling,
any degree of patronage.
The death of a young brother whom he idolized
had opened his eyes to the deeper things in life,
and he meant to be something better than a well
groomed animal, engaged in a desperate struggle
for dollars, that must perish in the using. In
other words, he was not ashamed of having a heart,
and while he kept his emotions well in hand, he
took care to express his sympathy, practically, for
those who suffered, among his acquaintances.
The pagan selfishness of some of the men
with whom his business brought him in contact,
filled him with profound disgust. Dan Hallam
was not in any sense of the word a sentimentalist,
but for some time he had been coming home early
in the evening, so as not to miss any message Fate
might send him by ’phone (in vain). He had fallen
into the habit of sitting in his library, and a close
observer might have noticed that he kept a crystal
bowl of rare flowers beneath the receiver of his
desk ’phone. It was his tribute to the beautiful
voice, the voice whose indescribable charm lingered
through the hours of his waking consciousness, like
some rare and subtle perfume. He wondered often
if he would ever hear it again.
He knew something of telepathy. Quite uncon
sciously, as he sat alone in his library one evening,
he sent along the fine spin wire of the thought
world this mental message:
“If you are in trouble, call me. Let me hear
the sound of your lovely voice, just one more time.
Call me.”
Five minutes later the ’phone rang, and Central
informed Mr. Hallam that he was wanted on the
long-distance ’phone from Richmond, Virginia. Mr.
Hallam frowned:
“Stocks and bonds,” he muttered; “what a des
cent!”
But before his fine mood had been entirely dissi
pated, the girlish “Hello!” for which he felt like
he had waited a half century, greeted his ears.
“Is that Mr. Hallam?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recognize my voice?”
“I do. I would know it anywhere on earth, I
think; or, among the choir invisible.”
“Then, if I ever meet you, I need not hope to
veil my identity ? ’ ’
“No; among ten thousand voices, I would know
yours, easily.”
“Thanks; but you will never have the chance.
I am going abroad soon, and this is—good-bye.”
“For how long?”
“Always. At least for an indefinite period.
But before I go I want to thank you for talking to
me so kindly. I enjoyed it.”
His rich masculine voice returned:
“So did I, infinitely more than you. But you
must take back that ‘always.’ It is not right to
treat a friend that way. For I would give anything
on earth to discover the owner of what I call the
wonderful voice.”
“Do you remember telling me” —and the sweet
girlish voice vibrated with feeling—“that life is
a circle, and that the joy of hope which evades us
today, would come tomorrow, unbidden?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, when I first began to talk to you, I was
a poor little shop girl, and when you made your
prophecy, I had lost my place. Now, the wheel of
fortune has turned again toward the light, and I
shall have every opportunity that study and travel
can give me. Thank you, and —good-bye.”
‘ ‘ Listen! ’ ’ —and the imperious voice of the young
man rang with restrained feeling over the miles
of wires—“it is not good-bye. I’ll find you if it
take me ten years, if I have to devote my life to it.
Be merciful! Give me your address and let me write
to you.”
“Impossible.”
“Give me at least, in exchange for the prophecy
which has come true, a glimpse of hope.”
“I live in your native state. You and my brother
are friends. Good-night.”
“Mizpah,” Dan returned, as softly as a prayer.
‘ ‘ Good-night. ’ ’
One afternoon some weeks later Lane Ferrall
went into the sitting room at Ferrall Hall and sat
down with an abstracted air before the glowing
wood fire. Mrs. Ferrall laid the book she had been
reading aside, and looked up with a smile.
“What is it, Lane?” she asked, pleasantly. “You
look annoyed.”
“I am, and I am not,” he answered reflectively.
“The whole thing is too ridiculous for anger. Dixie
cast a shoe this morning, as I was returning from
the lower plantation, and I stopped at Mam Liza’s
cabin to get a hammer and see if I could fix it,
she went so lame. And, of course, the dear old
crone began to talk about Esther right away. She
sees no water before her little girl, she says, the
fortune cup reveals nothing, but land and trees, and
cars, and a long black box.”
‘ ‘ Lane, for mercy’s sake, hush! ’ ’ Mrs. Ferrall ex
claimed. “You know that her crude prophecies
have come true, more than once, in the family his
tory. ’ ’
“Oh, mother, forgive me,” he returned penitent
ly,“ but I had no idea that you would attach any
importance to Mam Liza’s vagaries. We are both
overwrought because it has been so long since the
Duchess wrote to us. She said in her last letter
that Mrs. Carrington had changed her plans, and
talked of going to California awhile before setting
sail for Europe. So, I expect that they have simply
decamped to the Pacifie Slope, and the letters home
(Continued on Page Seven.)
