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6
"THE LADY FRO Al A LAR AAI A”
Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne, Authors of "Psyche", "Limit of the Line", "Mission Girl", Pte.
HE SUN was sinking behind the hills at
“Solitude,” and the young people who
composed the small informal house
party were grouped on the lawn in front
of the picturesque old red brick house.
There was a Turkish rug of subdued
colors spread out under an overshadow
ing water oak, while great tubs of pink
hydrangeas flanked the table in the cen-
T
ter, which held a silver dish of fruit as well as a
number of new books and magazines. Only nobody
was reading.
Schiller, June and Rose were taking the out-of
doors leisurely, in rocking chairs, while the young
men occupied camp stools, in pleasant proximity to
the white-gowned, bareheaded group of girls.
“I have been trying vainly,” Carrol Hall affirmed,
“to think of Kant's Categorical Imperative all day.
I don’t know why, I am sure,” he added, with a daz
zling gleam in his eyes, “except that any sort of
imperative is unthinkable in the sylvan seduction of
this environment.”
Von Bulow twisted a button on his gray coat, with
a whimsical smile.
“I’ll wager,” he hazarded, with a fascinating drawl,
“that Miss Wilkins would be equal to your mental
emergency, if she felt inclined.”
“No, I Kan’t tell anybody,” Schiller answered, with
a negative movement of her rare blond head, “what
they should think, know or do. It is too lovely out
here for imperative meditation, and too late in the
day.”
Von Bulow caught the veiled meaning, and, remov
ing his Panama hat, swung it aloft in the air.
“Score!” he said, very gently, to the girl whose
idealistic point of view, in the two conversations he
had had with her since her advent at “Solitude,” had
somehow charmed him unusually, very much to his
own surprise, because Von Bulow had seen so many
types and styles of girls that it was difficult to in
spire him with any definite degree of interest.
Carrol Hall knew that he was impressed with his
young guest, and while he realized that he had no
right to resent the attitude’of the master‘of “Soli
tude,” still he could not help having a distinct feel
ing of irritation whenever he witnessed any decided
indication of his preference. He turned to Rose
now, who sat watching the sunset with that sort of
appreciation which is louder than rhapsodies, the
appreciation of silence.
“I can’t imagine,” Carrol Hall observed, as he
pulled down the green sleeve of his flannel coat, with
a contracted brow, “what made you cut out city life
Miss Rose. It is all very charming out here, of
course; it couldn’t well be lovelier, I’ll admit; but
all the same there seems to be a degree of mystery
about your devotion to ‘Solitude.’ Von Bulow is bril
liant and entertaining enough when it happens to
suit his royal highness, but alas! as all his friends
know, he is addicted to adverse moods. Yes, I am
coming to the point,” he added, with a smile of dis
tinct charm. “What do you do with yourself, Miss
Rose, when Von Bulow pulls on a glum attack and
refuses to discuss international questions at the
breakfast table, or other things of more vital im
port, with you?”
“How do I balance Von Bulow’s silent periods?”
Rose queried, with indulgent tolerance of Carrol’s
harrangue, because he was such an old friend.
“Why, I paint, read or sew, or, as a last resort, talk
to the housekeeper. I hope that you do not suppose
that I am limited to Von Bulow’s society entirely at
‘Solitude’? My life is full of resources.”
“No,” Carrol answered, with a dazzling display of
white teeth, “it was just a crude masculine experi
ment on the teasing line. But you haven’t told me,”
he added, in a more thoughtful tone, “why you left
us. I heard a young man say, at the club, the other
night that the city was like the Desert of Sahara —
without a rose —since you went away.”
“No, did you, really?” she asked, with naive em
phasis on the negative. “It is nice to know that you
have friends who appreciate you. But listen, Car
rol,” she added, as she leaned nearer toward him, “I
CHAPTER XXL
The Golden Age for June 9, 1710.
won't tell you why I came to ‘Solitude,’ but I'll do
better; I will show you the thing that charmed me
into these wilds, and still keeps me here, against my
volition, a prisoner.”
“Don’t let her do it,” June implored, lifting her
white hand protestingly, “for, if you do,, you will
never come back to see Von Bulow again any more,
never.”
“Be that as it may, Miss Churchill,” Carrol replied,
“I can’t resist the temptation to solve the mystery
which hangs about the Rose of ‘Solitude’.”
The young lady in question got up and salaamed
gracefully, while her elder sister indulged in a laugh
as Carrol Hall arose and sauntered to the other side
of the water oak; for he thought that Von Bulow
had been monopolizing the guest of honor quite long
enough.
“Miss Wilkins,” he interrupted, in his rich bari
tone voice, “I hate to break up a manifestly delight
ful tete-a-tete; “but you, perhaps, recall that you
promised to show me the Pine Cathedral this after
noon.”
“Did I?” Schiller inquired, in a far-away voice,
lifting an abstracted gaze to his, still under the do
minion, as he could perceive, of one of Von Bulow’s
marvelous relations. For Von Bulow had away of
telling occult occurrences as if he had been an eye
witness.
Carrol put one hand in the pocket of his panta
loons, complacently, while he made a gesture with
the other as dramatic as a platform lecturer when he
reaches a thrilling climax.
“Confess, Miss Wilkins,” he adjured, “that mine
host has been regaling you with the latest edition of
the Ghost of ‘Solitude’. She is a lovely creature,
who poses, with half-spread wings, when the nights
are dark, on the pinnacle of the Wind Temple; and
sometimes, when the wind blows hard enough, she
condescends to moan melodiously. But when Von
Bulow gets in a blue funk about finances and comes
out to promenade for relief, she floats down and
whispers tenderly in his ear . ... ”
“Cut it out!” Von Bulow commanded, as he
jumped up and grasped the tall blond by his shoul
ders and shook him gently. “Have you forgotten
that Miss Wilkins is still something of an invalid,
and she might get nervous and suspect a half-truth
in all that rot tonight?”
“No, I am not likely to forget,” Carrol Hall said,
gloomily, “now or ever, the cause abominable that
placed her on the invalid list.”
“Come on, June,” Von Bulow suggested, lightly,
becoming aware that he had touched, inadvertently,
a deeper note in his friend than he had intended;
“let’s chaperone our guests to your church on the
hill before the sunlight fails, or they will miss the
effect evolved from shine and shadow on the darkly
columned aisles and towering roof and nave.”
Rose went back to the house to attend to some
household details, and the others, with the host and
his sister in advance, proceeded, leisurely, down the
broad, white graveled walk, to the big, double iron
gates.
When they had reached the high upland, about a
half-mile down the road, Carrol Hall took Schiller’s
arm to stay her steps up the slippery incline, which
was carpeted with the long, brown needles of the
pine.
“You are still far from strong,” he observed, solic
itously, as he noted how quickly she breathed in the
ascent.
“No, I am regaining my strength,” Schiller
affirmed, “rather rapidly. In fact, I am obliged to,”
she added, with a brave smile, “because I am going
back to work next week.”
“You are not going to do anything of the kind,”
Carrol Hall declared, decisively. “The Board of Mill
Directors met last night, Moran told me yesterday,
and voted you an increase in salary and an addi
tional vacation of two weeks.”
“At the President’s dictation?” the girl inquired,
with a thrill in her voice, as she stopped and, lean
ing against the trunk of a sapling, lifted gray eyes
Os challenge to the face of her handsome escort.
"You forget,” he returned, quietly, “that I am an
idler. I did not even know the board had met until
Moran informed me.”
“Still, I am sure,” Schiller replied, as, having re
covered her equanimity, they walked on, sedately,
“that my thanks, if I should accept the additional
vacation, are due —only to you.”
“No, I assure you,” Carrol hastened to explain, as
he took her arm again, quietly, “that Moran and
Mason are both good friends of yours. They rang
me up dozens of times while you were at the Sana
torium, to ask how the Lady from Alabama was get
ting on. But that isn’t the point, Miss Wilkins.
Frankly, I don’t see how you can wisely antagonize
the present Board of Mill Directors, who, in a spirit
of friendliness, have offered you an additional vaca
tion. And besides,” he continued, in an amused
tone, “you got well expressly, you will remember, to
see to it that I gave the Settlement Home that
library and gymnasium. Why not submit gracefully
to the inevitable, and use a part of your leisure time
to help me select the necessary books for the
library?”
“Oh, I’ll be glad to do it,” Schiller declared, ra
diantly, convinced, perhaps, by the young man’s logi
cal argument, “because, you know, it will give me an
intimate chance to discover your literary inclinations
and tastes.”
“They are not in the least original,” Carrol ob
served, with a grimace. “In fact, the game, from
that point of v.'ew, is not worth the candle.”
“I’ll risk it,” Schiller said, in a gay tone, as they
reached a natural level terrace in the climb towards
the hill-crest, where a number of giant trees, in
majestic rows, broken here and there, picturesquely,
by gray boulders, proclaimed “The Pine Cathedral.”
Carrol Hall threw down on the ground a gray,
scarlet-lined cloak, which he had picked up from
the back of Schiller’s chair when they started, being
mindful of Von Bulow’s hint that she was still an
invalid.
“Sit down,” he commanded, as he himself appro
priated a rock for a seat and clasped his hands, in a
thoughtful way, around his knees.
“Von Bulow and June,” he commented, grimly, as
Schiller obeyed him, “make the best of chaperones,
because they know how to efface themselves.”
Schiller caught a glimpse of Mr. Churchill’s gray
figure, standing by the side of his sister, in the gold
en sunset glow, under a majestic oak, which over
shadowed the high rock pulpit of “The Pine
Cathedral.”
“Now, if I should tell you, Miss Wilkins,” Carrol
Hall said, after a long pause, “that I never expect to
allow you to work again in the cotton mills —what
would you think?”
And, With the question, he fixed his blue eyes, in a
gaze of lingering admiration, on the girl, dressed so
simply in white, who leaned, rather wearily, against
the brown trunk of the slender pine behind her.
“I would think, Mr. Hall,” Schiller answered,
“that you were rather cruel in using your power as
President of the mill company against me.”
“It seems rather superfluous,” he said, quietly, “to
fence in that elaborate way about the matter, when
you must know that the reason is the reverse of
cruelty.”
“And yet I can’t interpret it,” Schiller said, as she
stared at the sunset she did not see, “differently.”
‘ That is because the key to the enigma is not in
your hands. But come! Von Bulow is calling us.
Only you must promise me not to lose any sleep
over my arrogant assertion, for I would give you
Moran’s position as general manager of the cotton
mills before I would injure your prospects. That
is—if you do not like the place I’ve assigned you in
my future plan for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” Schiller said, as she rose to go
on, consciously relieved, but full of a shy wonder as
to what the mill prince might mean.
He was so distinguished looking, so full of charm,
in conversation and manner, though he talked, gen
erally, in a matter of fact way, that she did not find it
hard to trust him, although the incident of the dis
carded flowery, still held, perhaps, a significant nichp,
(Continued on Pnge 14.)
