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"THE LIMIT OT THE LINE”
SHIRLEY BRYAN, stenographer for a great
Iron Corporation, is the first action on the scene.
The story begins with a suburban train pulling
out from under the marble corridors of a grand
Terminal Station.
Barry Moore, Miss Bryan’s employer, plays
the role of “The Man of Iron.” He is trying to
build a collossal fortune.
Gregory Ford, a Harvard athlete, a Princeton
theologue, a multi-millionaire, is deeply interested
in the question, propounded by the Book of Job,
“If a man die, shall he live again?” because a
specialist has told him, his days are numbered.
Henry Brown, editor of the Water Oaks Ga
zette, is a discovery of Ford’s. He is a lover of
poetry, psychology, economy. He is an environ
ment-fighter of the best type.
HE gladness of the springtime, pulsing
with perfume, and vibrant with sun
shine, lingered through the afternoon
hours, as the party, grouped behind the
colonial columns of the front veranda
of the Bryan home, stood enjoying it
all. Mrs. Ford, in a house dress of tan
voile, retreated, presently, to the shel
ter of the great hall door, with a half
T
open book in her hand, and listened, with an amused
expression of interest on her well-bred face, to the
gay repartee of Gregory and Ethel Ford.
Gregory Ford, in a gray flnanel suit, stood with
his back against one of the fluted columns, while
his pretty opponent was picturesquely posed on the
opposite side of the steps. 'She *wore a collarless
blue linen house dress, with a single ornament, a fine
linked golden chain. Little Nell had assumed a po
sition of neutral deference to both parties. She
stood a conspicuous figure, in her white apron, and
long black stockings, repressing a childish tendency
to poise on one foot. Mrs. Bryan, her dress pro
tected by a gingham apron, was pruning a rose vine,
snipping in and out of the trellis work, with a smile
now and then at Etßel’s meneuvers to upset Ford’s
dignity.
“Mrs. Bryan,” Ford said, unexpectedly, “I have
heard that to whistle while you worked, eliminated
the element of drudgery. Why don’t you try it?”
“Oh, take a seat on the steps, Gregg,” comment
ed Miss Ford, “polite ladies never whistle.”
“I’d rather surrender the shears to you, Mr.
Ford,” the lady answered, with a merry gleam in
her eyes, “and let you test the experiment.”
“Like other suggestive philosophers,” Ford ob
served, “I object to personal illustrations.”
“Sister Shirley says,” Little Nell confessed, bal
ancing herself at last on one foot, “that the Mater
’casionally makes a bright remark.”
Mrs. Bryan looked up in some astonishment. Miss
Ford turned away her head, to hide a charming
smile. Mrs. Ford elevated her novel, with a sudden
motion, “for a lady who had never had a thrill.”
“I have found out the secret,” Miss Ford said,
after a time, as she faced her cousin again, “where
in lies the power of your Goddess of Wisdom, Gregg.
It isn’t what she says, but how she says it, which
makes her impressive. Her drawl and emphasis
are both alike irresistible. The way she elongated
that ’casionally was worth a duke’s ransom.”
“Which Duke’s, Ethel?” ’
“The Great Duke’s,” she said with a laugh.
Gregory mused a moment. Mrs. Ford quoted with
dramatic intonation:
“Bury the Great Duke,
With an empire’s lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke.”
“No,” suggested Ford gently, “let’s don’t, Gov
erness, once is enough.”
“I think that you are horrid, son.”
Impolite young man!” exclaimed Miss Ford.
CHAPTER XIV.
Vy Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne
SYNOPSIS
Gregory Ford and his mother rent one-half
of the old colonial Bryan home, and wealth and
poverty are only across the hall from each other.
Mrs. Ford is a woman, “who has never had a
thrill.” Mrs. Bryan is a breeze of sunshine for
Shirley’s sake, and she begins to draw young
Ford’s confidence.
Then there is Little Nell, the child of wis
dom. And, on the horizon looms a girl, a
cousin of the Fords, Ethel, by name, who will
play a dramatic part as the story progresses.
There is a wreck of the Suburban train, of
which Mrs. Bryan has a physic vision. Her daugh
ter, Shirley, who is aboard, escapes unhurt, but
she measures up to her part as a heroine, by her
loving sympathy to those less fortunate.
She drew Little Nell to her side with a white, mag
netic hand.
1 ‘They have it in for you, Mr. Ford,” Mrs. Bryan
was moved to say; “better try the shears awhile.”
“I feel rather tired,” Ford complained, with an
appeal in his voice that escaped them.
“I think that you are one of the Lotus Eaters,
Gregg,” Miss Ford suggested.
“Yes,” said Ford wearily. “You are always put
ting a label on people, Ethel. I do not admire it of
you. I haven’t sufficient curiosity to enquire, but
I have sometimes wondered how you had me ticket
ed, in your mental museum.”
“As the impertinent young man,” Ethel replied
with a mocking salaam.
“I feel like the Maryland regiment at the battle
of Guilford Court House,” Ford said, breaking off
a spray of pink hyacinths from a pot at his feet.
“How was that, Mr. Ford?” Mrs. Bryan paced
back to him and offered a, pin of peace.
“Unsupported,” Ford complained.
“Really,” Ford said, turning to his cousin. “You
are very good to classify me so kindly.”
“No, I am horrid,” said Ethel Ford, with sudden
passion. “I believe you are positively ill, Gregg,
and . . . and we’ve been badgering you.”
“What?” said Shirley Bryan from the steps.
“What? It’s against the rules of the house to
tease a sick man.”
“I think that I had best go to my den,” Ford de
clared. “That’s a bum sunset.” He stared at the
long crimson streak above the blue river hills. “It
takes clouds to make a sunset that’s a go.”
Manson swung around the corner of the porch.
“Glad to see you, Manson,” said Ford, with lan
guid interest. “I need your arm, Manson. I don’t
think that I could get to my den alone.”
Murat, aroused from a nap on the leopard rug,
sprang up with a bark of delight. The young man
patted his head with an affectionate hand.
“Thank you, Manson. I feel a trifle better,”
turning to the chauffeur. “You had best telegraph
for Dr. Rogers, however. He is at the Metropolitan
Hotel.”
Manson made double quick time for the motor
shed.
“The feminine mentality, mon ami,” Ford said,
addressing the dog, in a philosophical tone, as he
sank down in a leathern chair, before the den fire,
“is wonderfully and fearfully made . . . and
your master has to confess that he is not in harmony
with it today. Now, Miss Shirley is different, she
has a broader perspective than the average woman,
and is, in consequence, more companionable than the
majority of her sex. But you, Murat,” he went cn
whimsically, “are better even than she is—sime
times. ” He took one of the brown paws up and
shook it gently. “For you see, old chap, you can
not reply at all, and that is what I desire in my pres
ent mood . . . silence. Ah, me! but Ethel is
like an April day, all rebellion and contrition, shad
ow and sunshine.”
He walked to the window and gazed out moodily.
“The inward conflict,” he continued, “is great
enough all the time, without any outward clash of
The Golden Age for March 25, 1909.
steel. I feel the force of the Psalmist’s words now*
and I wish from my heart Ghat I could fly away
and be at rest.’ A man without his rifle on the fir
ing line is at a loss. I fancy that I envy the man
who earns his living by the sweat of his brow. I
am not allowed to descend to the battle ground,
where others win the sinews of character; from out
the fierceness of the combat. I imagine that the
‘system’ gives them little time to earn anything,
however. lam listening for a Clock of Destiny to
strike, the last time for me. By Jove! What is
it?”
“Gregg, dear, if you are going to die, I wish to
die also.”
“I don’t think it would be good form, Ethel.”
“I do,” suppressing a sob. •
“Can’t I come in? I’m horribly cut up about
your illness, Gregg.”
“Bah! It’s capital discipline.”
Ford heard her go into his mother’s room.
“Action, fame, love, Murat,” coming back to his
Morris chair, “the upward lights whose burning in
spiration fires others to achievement, and victory,
do not exist for me. In a sense, since money is al
most omnipotent in its power, I suppose that I
might command many things worth while, as it were,
for a day. But the short duration of the time allot
ted me, sems to paralyze my energies. Mentally, I
am simply aghast at the tragedy of my problem; for,
except the thousnds that I send away every month
to charitable institutions, I am not consciously do
ing anything, except existing. What a fate for a
young man,” he added, in a voice of passion, “for
a young man who started out to do his part, to re
form the world.”
How long he stood there, Gregory Ford never
knew, but he groped his way back to the table at
last, and rang a silver call bell.
A very humble young lady answered it. Her
black satin gown trailed across the Persian rugs
softly.
“My eyes are a little red with weeping,” she
informed him. “While you can hear me, Monsieur
Gregg*, I am going to tell you —that I —that I —Why
don’t you help me a bit?”
“Why?” Ford pitched backward into his Morris
chair.
Murat rose with a wolf howl. Ethel Ford felt
all her nerves close their magic gates with a shock.
******
By nine o’clock the light of the March stars
glimmered with a will-o’-the-wisp radiance through
the scudding gray stratas of drifting clouds;
while the wind shrieked and moaned about the
mansion on Hill Street, as if in sentient sympa
thy with the young* man who lay battling for his
life, in one of the up-stairs rooms. The perfection
of good taste was attractively evidenced in the
appointments of the apartment. From the Persian
rug to the two pictures by Whistler on the wall,
there was nothing left to be desired. But the
hammered brass bed, the merino blankets, the eider
down coverings, did not change the fact of the
young millionaire’s suffering one iota. In spite
of his wealth, his personal gifts and graces, he had
to struggle for his breath, like any other mortal.
Mrs. Bryan was proving herself an indispensable
ally, in the crisis which had fallen so suddenly on
her Northern friends. She and Ethel Ford had been
trying vainly lor over an hour to establish telephone
communications with Dr. Regers, Mr. Ford’s per
sonal physician. Manson’s telegram had not been
answered. The grim hours wore away, but they
brought no relief to the tension which was every
moment growing more alarming. For, as if to make
the chaotic conditions worse, Dr. Bloxam was also
out of Water Oaks for the night. Mrs. Bryan went
down to the sitting room, where Shirley and Little
Nell lounged before the open fire, distrait and quiet.
She explained the situation to Shirley in a few
concise words. The optimist of the household was
in the grip of circumstances that she was powerless
to control.
“It geems as if everything,” she said, “has con'
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