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"THE LADY FROM ALA'S AW A"
By Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne, Authors of "Psyche”, "Limit of the Line”, "Mission Girl”, Pte.
NE OF THE AESTHETIC reservations
at Hayden Park was called the Magno
lia walk, because these great trees, with
their down-drooping limbs and dark
green glittering foliage, overshadowed
the wide gravelled avenue. The big
white nowers with their chalices of over
powering fragrance were in fulll bloom
now, and they shone, conspicuously
O
through the leaves overhead, in the gloom of the
murky atmosphere, as June Churchill sauntered
slowly down the sequestered walk.
She had on a dark turban and raincoat and she
carried a closed silver-handled umbrella in one hand.
June was fond of the out-of-doors on such days;
for she had discovered that to walk in a rain was
a good way to take the tension off of tense nerves,
especially when they happened to be accessory to
a bitter heartache.
She had thought that her decision in regard to
Professor Cam Blake was final and unalterable, but
all the same she still had psychological battles over
the matter. No creed of ethics, however, perfect its
proof intellectually, can be easily maintained, when
the heart utters a stubborn, constant protest against
it.
That June should discover her human limitations
was, perhaps, natural but that she should remain,
in spite of the fact still more determined to sacri
fice herself was almost supernatural. At least it
proved the exalted character of her faith and the
heroic quality of the courage, by which she was
enabled to cling on to her convictions of righteous
ness and duty.
June grew tired, at last, of punching holes in
the sand with the point of her umbrella, to accen
tuate her thoughts and she had just transferred that
article with a graceful swing to her shoulder, when
a richly modulated masculine voice greeted her, with
the commonplace words:
“Good afternoon, Miss Churchill.”
She was so shocked for the moment that she
could only incline ner head as a reply, and she
turned enchantingly pale when Professor Blake took
her hand in a firm, cordial clasp.
“Well, w T hat have you been doing with yourself?”
he questioned as he caught the swing of her step,
and walked on, gravely by her side. “Enjoying hu
manity in the aggregate?”
“Not much,” June replied as she slipped her um
brella gently down from her shoulder. “In fact,
I have been away on a visit to ‘Solitude.’ I felt the
need come upon me suddenly, for a short vacation,
and as a consequence I took one out there among
the pines and peaches.”
“I hope that you enjoyed it,” he observed, quiet
ly. “Carrol Hall had the good fortune to be an
invited guest at the same time, did he not?”
“Yes,” June answered simply. “You know that he
and Von Bulow were college chums, and they have
remained great friends, ever since.”
"As well as rivals, at present,” he observed, with
a slight smile. “If rumors, Miss Churchill, at the
club, mean anything.”
“Well, I should hardly classify them that way,”
June demurred, with a radiant glance from out her
dark blue eyes, “although, of course, I am aware
of the fact that my -brother admires Miss Wilkins,
greatly.”
"And the Society Lion does not?”
“Yes, I think that Mr. Hall does, seriously,” June
admitted, with charming frankness, “but, all the
same, he is deeply vexed with Schiller, just at
present.”
For she had noted the coldness of the parting in
cident, which had so entirely escaped Von Bulow’s
observation.
“Then, he is a lover, sure enough, and justly
entitled to admission to that Purgatory, which Cupid
reserves for the faithful?”
“Explain!” June demanded, impulsively, only to
bitterly regret it a moment later.
"Why, vexation, indignation and despair,” he an
swered, “come as a logical and unavoidable se-
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Golden Age for June 30, 1910.
quence, to any man, I think, who has been fool
enough to allow his personal happiness to be at the
mercy of the whims and attitudes of a mere girl.”
“Professor Blake!” June cried out, with a thrill of
reproach in her voice, “I am shocked and astonish
ed. I did not know, before, that you could be so
ungenerous and unkind.”
“Suppose, I should accuse you,” he replied, as
they both paused, simultaneously, and faced each
other, in restrained excitement, on the alabaster-like
walk, “I should accuse you of being responsible for
the outbreak; what have you got to say, in justifi
cation of yourself?”
“In what way?” June queried, but she became
instantly aware of the fact that her tone was too
self-conscious, to be wholly innocent.
Professor Blake turned his handsome head away,
with an expressive gesture, and then they resumed
their walk in silence. Once he stopped and picked
up a magnolia blossom, which the wind had blown
down, and after looking at it a moment, tossed the
white bloom savagely from the path; and June
Churchill realized that it was a primal man, she
had to deal with now, and not the elegant professor
in the Boys’ High School.
She had never seen him aroused to such an
extreme extent before, and the strong face above the
square, blue-clad shoulders, was pale, almost to
ghastliness, while the mouth was set in a tense,
straight line.
“If you require me,” he said, at last, seeing that
his companion was not going to break the silence,
“to put the truth in plain English, I became an
other man, when you rejected my love, and my
mala self has had the whip in hand ever since.
You know that it is hard for a man of my temper
ament, to keep sweet anyway, and now that all my
Castles in Spain have fallen into dust, I recall
grimly, sometimes, the sentence which the hero of
Lazarre uttered against himself —because of its bit
ter appropriateness —
“ ‘I am a savage still; scratch me and see.’
“For I confess that I am not only ungenerous to
others, at times, but often unkind. Even my boys
at school, to whom I have always tried to give a
square deal, felt the force of my temper on several
occasions before the term closed. When I last visit
ed you, in your own home, I felt a great hope
which I carried away with me,” and as he continued
a note of tenderness crept into his voice, “the
hope that your love would lift me above the shoals
of despair—forever. But when you leave my let
ters unanswered, and have previous engagements
invariably, when I wish to call, you exhaust my
patience. What does that humanity, you prefer to
happiness, care about your personal ministries?
How does your money happen to belong to them?
More than that of others, who reserve the right
to listen to their hearts, in the usual sane way, and
enjoy life on a normal basis?”
Miss Churchill did not attempt any reply to her
lover’s questions, because, perhaps, she felt un
equal to the task of meeting the issues involved
in their ethical conflict.
The shadows in the park were lengthening. And
while Professor Blake might not have been espe
cially eloquent in his long appeal, still the effect of
his strong personality on the girl was not lost. June
knew, in her practical way, that the interview ought
to end, and that they were both due at their respec
tive homes, though she did not dare to state the
fact.
“Didn’t you tell me once,” she enquired, as they
neared the iron gates nearest the Churchill residence,
“that you had had a full two years course in a law
school?”
“Yes, but why?”
“Nothing, except that I often need legal advice in
my work, and I do not always find it convenient to
go down town after it. I thought it just possible!
that you would not mind enlightening me on minor
points sometimes, if I telephoned you.”
Professor Blake construed this admission into re
pentence for her numerous engagements of late, and
replied accordingly.
“Why, I should be delighted, of course, to give you
any assistance in my power. But, do you know, my
first thought was that you were going to ask me to
write your will?”
“Not yet,” June said, with an enchanting smile,
“though I may be nearing my translation, I am not
certainly conscious of it,”
“Speaking of wills,” the professor said, “do you
know that I have a strange fancy that I should like
nothing better than to inspect your grandfather’s
will?”
“Why?”
“Outside of the fact that it must be a remark
able document, it is just possible, that I should
not interpret it like your father. Perhaps, I might
discover a loophole of escape in the iron-clad docu
ment —you know.”
“I have never read it myself,” June answered with
a look of weariness, “but I know father has turned it
over to Von Bulow. If I suggested it, in the right
sort of way, my brother, doubtless, would mail you
a copy.”
Professor Blake leaned forward suddenly, and took
both of her hands, as they stood on the stone of the
terraced steps, before the house.
“Send it to me,” he importuned, “I’ll be glad to try
to unravel it —as an experiment, in righteousness!
To be sure, I will.”
*••«***
"I have a beautiful painting to show you, Burwood.
Will you not motor with me this morning? ‘What’s
so rare as a day in June’ —for lovers?”
Rose Churchill’s black motor car, built on trim,
smart racing lines, was drawn up before the cot
tage at Hampton Place. She smiled upon him sweet
ly, and moved a brass lever on her steering wheel
suggestively. Her dark eyes were tender with a
great happiness, and her fair, smooth brow radiated
a new light.
The black motor car gave a short chug-chug of
sympathy.
She touched the silver handle of a brake lightly,
and smiled once more, a smile, magnetic, warm and
winsome. He could not resist its naive appeal.
“I will motor with you, Rose,” he mused, “to the
ends of the June earth. I know that this sweet
madness will end, perhaps, with the summer, but,
God help me! I do love you —I do!”
"That is the reason, Burwood, it will never end.
You love me, and, I know that you do. I know —
because you think that there is no chance of win
ning me. But you are wrong! I have talked the
matter over with father. I tried to tell him . . .
how. . . . how I was fighting the grave of the
Unloved. Wasn’t that what you called it?”
She waved her handkerchief gaily to his mother
er, standing on the steps of the little cottage, a
cluster of red geraniums in her hands.
“I am kidnapping him this morning,” she called
out joyously. Then she touched a small brass lever
and the motor shot out into a flood of gold and
yellow satin-like sunshine.
“Yes; the grave of the Unloved,” he answered,
taking up the thread of their conversation. “It is
a queer term, Isn’t it? But what did your father
say?”
She threw on the wind whistle to avoid an an
swer, and laughed deliciously. The quick throb of
the motor was in her blood and the steering wheel
under her yellow gauntlet, was a Wheel of Fate,
whose slightest turn would bring visions—visions—
visions—to a man, who had been crystallized in
the great game of life.
“Was there ever a sky so blue as this one; or
clouds so feathery white?” she asked, irrelevantly.
“No,” he said, positively. “This is the bonniest
day God ever sent to earth. But what did Mr.
Churchill say?”
She shifted the little brass spools on her steer
ing wheel, the mirth in her dark eyes alluring.
The scarlet line of her lips woke him to new life.
(Continued on Page 14.)
