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'THE LIMIT OE THE LINE”
*By Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne
CHAPTER XXXII.
HIRLEY sat on the side porch, at home,
apparently dreaming, in the soft sum
mer twilight, but, in reality, she was
simply longing for the return of the
mater, her smiling presence, her loving
sympathy. She had missed her, pro
foundly, while the summer days slipped
off like golden beads from the calender’s
thread. She felt deeply grateful to be
S
delivered from any other further mental anguish
about Little Nell's condition; still, that did not
bring them back to the great silent rooms of the
old mansion, and however beautiful the fiction theo
retically, Shirley did not feel it to be altogether
home, without her own.
Kind as the Fords undoubtedly were, she missed
Little Nell’s quaint wisdom, and affectionate ways,
and the mental support of her mother’s bright and
buoyant companionship. The optimistic charm
which Gregory Ford admired so much in Mrs.
Bryan, the ability to discover the silver lining in
the clouds, on the darkest day, the delightful per
sonal atmosphere ■which she always managed to
create about her, had all been like the very breath
of life itself to her daughter. And just how hard
it had been, to sustain herself and keep that per
fect poise of self-possession, that was one of her
most valuable personal assets, without the price
less things of the spirit, to which she had all her
life been accustomed, nobody could have easily in
terpreted. She felt sometimes, that if she could
only hear her mother say, “Breeze,” once more, that
she would be willing to sit at her feet, indefinitely,
and let the world go by.
She appreciated Gregory Ford’s invitation to go
with the party on his private yacht to Europe, and
thus anticipate by several weeks her reunion with
her family. But she had several pronounced objec
tions to the plan, which she did not disclose to
Barry Moore, and which could not have come under
the head of “Finance,” except that all things ma
terial, more or less, are related to it. For one
thing, some of the millionaire contingent would be
aboard, and she would have no millionaire reminis
cences to exchange, neither the delights or dissi
pations of that class were hers, by right of heri
tage or property. And, besides, she did not think
that she would find it an unalloyed pleasure to be
the guest of any young man, on land or water, for
an indefinite period. Os course, she was not in
sensible to the brighter side of the trip, and she had
not made her final decision concerning it, but all
the same she held the mental reservations stated,
stubbornly, against it.
She ran the risk of feeling like the little brown
sparrow among the gorgeous birds of Paradise, and
while she knew perfectly well that she could sus
tain herself, with a degree of charm and dignity
anywhere, still she was far from anxiously covet
ing the ordeal. But there was a deeper note to her
meditations, tonight, which vibrated sad and sweet,
now and then, through her consciousness, half
against her will. What did Barry Moore mean to
imply by his attitude in the matter?
He was evidently ready to make his word effect
ive, about removing from her path all financial
barriers. She could go, if she desired, and have
a good time, without any thought of monetary
consequences. For he had declared that he wished
her to make her choices for life, untrammeled by
Mammon.
Shirley, thinking it all over, remembered, with an
added heart-beat, ’the Greek text he had quoted, and
which seemed to furnish a kind of climax to his
declaration that he would help her to go. Was the
look which had accompanied the words accidental,
or did he mean her to understand that in furnish
ing the armory of her happiness, he, also, was lay
ing down his life for a friend? It was a problem
that she felt unprepared to solve, and, knowing
from experience that a reflective mood can easily
degenerate into one of morbidness, she got up and
walked back into the sitting room, after awhile, and
switched on the electric lights. She looked, with
The Golden Age for August 5, 1909.
approval, at the tall girl dressed in Nile green mus
lin, lace-elaborated, with her high coronal of bronze
hair, which the mantel mirror revealed.
Then, she took her writing desk from an old
carved cabinet, in one corner, and sat down to write
to her absent loved ones. Her task was just devel
oping into an enjoyable performance, when Ford
announced himself, from the threshold of the half
open door.
“Miss Shirley,” he said, with gracious nonchal
ance, “I have crosed the Rubicon, with the hope
of finding you, at leisure. Ethel has sent word
by her maid that she intends to go to a ball, at
the country club, and, mother is looking over the
last Delineator. I am so glad,” he affirmed, as he
walked over to the mantel, “that there is one wom
an of this household, who is not utterly frivolous,
in her point of view.”
Shirley laid down her pen, with an amused
glance, and, as her visitor appropriated a chair,
replied naively.
“Thanks, Mr. Ford, for the implied compliment.
But, I must forewarn you, that I am not in a re
sponsive mood, and, that you will have to talk for
both of us.’
The girl noted that the young millionaire’s black
evening suit was decidedly becoming to his blonde
type, that the buttons in his white vest were seed
less pearls, and that the color of his tie corre
sponded with the heliotrope in his coat lapel.
“Well,” he answered, after a time of reflective si
lence, “I had hoped for better results. But, since I
came in, to win or lose it all, perhaps, I may not
find the feat required, impossible.”
Shirley closed her writing desk, clasped her
hands on the carved back, and looked into the
shimmering blue eyes of the young man, on the
other side of the table, expectantly.
“It is an art of Mr. Ford’s personality,” she ob
served, quietly, “to indulge in enigmatic mono
logues.”
“You will admit, however,” he returned with a
smile of comprehension, “that I know how to dis
card metaphor, imd plainly, and to the poiint,
when I happen to wish to d<? so?”
“Assuredly.”
“But first,” he said, with a deft touch of the
green stem of his bouttonaire, “you must allow me
the delight of an artistic preamble. I don’t mind
the facts at the top of the mountains of life, any
more than I mind a pile of rocks on the crest of
the Pyranees. But, I do like to ascend the peaks,
my own way, by flowery, and meandering paths. I
object, decidedly, to a stiff and arid climb, when I
might get there by a more delectable route.”
“I acknowledge, myself,” Shirley answered, with
a smile, “reproved, artistically reproved. And, I
hereby grant Mr. Ford permission to talk, in his
own way, either enigmatically, or plainly, as the
occasion should seem to him to require.”
“Thank you, Miss Shirley,” he replied. “Your
letters inspired me, with the hope of your compre
hension, or, in other words, perhaps, I should say,
our congeniality. But, did it ever occur to you, Miss
Shirley,” he went on, after a moment’s pause,
though he was not looking at her, but at the pic
ture of “The Fisherman” over the mangel, “that
for a bright girl, that you are very obtuse, on some
lines? You have never once speculated, I’ll wager,
about how I happened to rent half of your mother’s
old colonial home. It wasn’t what the world would
call a millionaire-proceeding, and yet the incon
gruity of it, I surmise, has never struck you?”
“But that is where you are mistaken,” Shirley
said, “men of power like to do unusual things,
something out of the beaten track. And. I sup
posed that the old-time charm of the place, might
have appealed to you, besides. What deeper analy
sis of motive could you expect?”
“There is some truth in your assertion,” he ad
mitted. “But I came, primarily, into this lovely old
home—to study you!”
“Me! What for?” Shirley exclaimed impulsively.
“I am neither a problem nor a mystery.”
“No. You are simply a sweet, old-fashioned
Southern girl, with enough modern equipment and
power, to make you into a very fascinating young
woman.”
“I am very much surprised, Mr. Ford,” Shirley
returned, after a prolonged silence, “for, I had sup
posed that my record, in your book of friendship,
was rather a colorless one, than otherwise.”
“Why? There have been times when I almost
believed myself in love with you.”
“But you recovered your sanity, I hope, in time
to ascertain that you were not?”
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Miss Shirley,” he said,
quietly, “to jump to conclusions. I admire you
more than any young woman on my circle, and, to
prove it, I ask you to consider the possibility of
becoming my wife—will you?”
“Mr. Ford, I am afraid that this is Hamlet with
the part of Hamlet left out. I have heard your
story from your cousin, and I can not believe that
you are trying to do anything more than to kill the
fag-end of a long July evening with a little nonsense.
You do not love me, and I think that marriage with
out love is an unpardonable desecration.”
“But listen! I simply wish you to consent to a
conditional engagement. I have heard of marriages
beginning without love, and turning out beautifully
in the end.”
“I never did, Mr. Ford.”
“Suppose we try the safer experiment, with the
hope that we will discover our perfect affinity later.
I need some intelligent woman’s help and sympathy
about the execution of my plans for my model city.
It is a big undertaking, and I should like to divide
the burden, with somebody, who has an enthusiasm
for humanity, as the theologians say, like yourself,
for example. And, also,” he finished, with an irradi
ating smile, “I know that you would like to call me
Gregg, and this is your last chance.”
“But I don’t,” Shirley affirmed.
Ford held up his hand, turning on ail the subtle
power of which he had such an unsual share, for
the moment, into his voice and glance.
“I beg you not to decide against my wishes to
night. I know that it is more than probable that
you are not consciously in love with me, either. But
this will only make the game more interesting. We
may call it the ‘mutual experiment’—if you please —
and leave it to the future to decide, as it will and
must, our fate.”
He drew a diamond ring from his vest pocket, one
of Tiffany’s latest designs, which flamed like a
wreath of light, under the soft glow of the electrics,
and, taking Shirley’s passive hand in his, he slipped
it on the engagement finger, and with the blue hyp
notism of his eyes fixed on her white face, exclaimed,
in a bantering, magnetic voice:
“Now! call me Gregg!”
“Mr. Ford,” she replied, after a long pause, “I
don’t think that ‘mutual experiments’ require a ring.
This is one of the loveliest I ever saw, and I admire
your taste, but I can not wear it until I am fully con
vinced of your sincerity.”
(To be Continued.)
BAPY’S PORTRAIT.
A smooth and shiny head,
With tlifts of golden spray,
A He? of mingled white and red,
With cheeks where dimples play.
Bright eyes that open wide,
The nose—a little pug.
A mouth where kisses hide,
And twenty pounds to hug.
» s*
DO YOU KNOW HIM?
Ah, he sighs and sobs and sorrows,
And when trials tlee his road,
Ever pessimistic borrows
Troubles from another’s load.
—E. P. M.
The question of the day is the healing of
the body and what Religion has to do with it.
Order Dr. Broughton’s “Religion and Health/’
Price 25 cents from the Tabernacle book stall,
care of Baptist Tabernacle, Atlanta, Ga.
