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"THE LADY FROM ALABAMA”
"By Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne, Authors of "Psyche”, "Limit of the Line", "Mission Girl”, 'Etc,
CHAPTER XXV.
HEN Schiller returned to the Settle
ment Home she felt that mysterious
sense of inward change, which gener
ally follows tragical experiences. Her
intellectual horizon had been broad
ened, and there had been added a few
stars to her personal firmament since
she went away. She had suffered much,
but ip the lovely atmosphere of the
—. 7.-
00
homes that she had visited, she had had time to
readjust herself to the new conditions of her life,
and to grow normal again.
Her little room, at the Home, looked rather dimin
utive, in comparison with the spacious chamber al
lotted her at “Solitude.” And the view from her
window of a belgian block sidewalk, with a vacant
lot across the street, in which a few apple trees were
growing in a vagrant setting of grass, did not com
pare very favorably with the extensive, well-kept
grounds of “Solitude;” or the green amphitheater
of hills, which seemed to wander up and down, there,
at just the right artistic angle for beauty; with now
and then entrancing vistas which looked like lanes
of light leading into the blue June heavens.
Schiller found it very hard to put on the harness
of the work-a-day world again, when her vacation
time had ended. She was consciously stronger in
spirit, but alas! the auto-accident and the fever
which followed seemed to have weakened the forces
of her physical life, in away which it was diffi
cult to combat.
After her return to office-work, the long lines of
figures on the great red-ledger sheets seemed to ap
parently dance a hornpipe, sometimes, and then blur
into pages of blackness. The only thing that she
could do, in such moments, was to close her eyes,
and fight quietly but persistently for mental bal
ance. She had reasons sufficient to inspire her
courage. She had no money to rest on, and, her
friends had already entertained her long enough.
And, it was in just these moments of depression, that
Schiller reached the de profundis of a working girl’s
life.
The problem involved, in having to perform the
task allotted, from an inadequate physical basis,
grew to be appalling. And, often at night she could
not sleep, for the torture of the thought, that she
might mix her figures, on the morrow, or faint dead
away at her task.
Carrol Hall sometimes came into the office, and
carried on low-toned conversations with the head
booker. But all the notice he took of her was to bow,
slightly and coldly, when she could force herself to
turn around, which, from complex motives, she fre
quently failed to do.
After one of these interviews, which was evidently
prolonged and important, Mr. Mason, standing at
his high desk, with a serious look on his big, blonde
face, and a reflective shadow in his blue eyes, rested
his elbow on the open page of the ledger, and stood,
gazing out of the window, for a long time.
“Miss Wilkins,” he said, finally, to his young as
sistant, who turned graciously, at the sound of his
voice, “I feel like I want to go out and ring the fire
alarm. If it isn’t time to celebrate Carrol Hall’s
emancipation, it’s getting warm, as the children say,
when they play hide and seek. He had a big row
with the Directors last week about some plan he
wished to carry out, and he has been looking over
Moran’s books today. And he is going to make a
clean sweep of the Mill business, by going through
my department, too, and all the other departments.
We have plainly got to undergo the President’s scru
tiny and overhauling, or throw up our jobs. He is
thoroughly educated, you know, that is the one
broad, basic fundamental he’s got to stand on. He’s
solid on books and athletics, because he has paid
the price. And now that he seems roused, to find
out how his ship of Fortune is sailing, he will do
the thing up brown, I expect, with what he calls the
scientific method.”
“I suppose,” Schiller observed, with a faint flush
of excitement on her pale cheeks, “that you would
be greatly pleased, Mr. Mason, if the impossible
The Golden Age for July 9, 1910.
should happen, and Mr. Hall was transformed into
a strenuous business man?”
“I should indeed!” the old book-keeper answered,
in an earnest tone, as he turned back to his ac
counts, “for I love that boy, like a son.”
Schiller made no further comment, but she was
very glad to remember, as she left the office—which
was still as grim and unattractive, in its appoint
ments as possible—that it was Saturday, and that
she had, in consequence, a half-holiday.
When she reached her room, which looked very
much like the one she had left at Hampton Place,
except that a high Japanese screen hid the iron bed
from general observation, and her wonderful picture
of “The First Easter Morn” hung between the two
old-fashioned windows, instead of over the mantel.
She found two surprises waiting, silently, for her
leisurely inspection, on the square walnut table, in
the center of the room.* One was a letter from her
cousin Burwood Morris, asking forgiveness, for the
cruel wrong he had perpetrated against her, while
he was in a state of intoxication —so long ago. The
other surprise was a long, quaint, rustic basket of
flowers, with Von Bulow Curchill’s card attached to
the twisted reed handle.
Schiller noted, with pleasure, that the rich flow
ers were arranged in damp moss, so as to preserve
their color and fragrance, as long as possible.
“Everybody seems to have forgotten me,” sighed
the lonely girl, “except Von Bulow Churchill.”
And then, as she thought of that night in the con
servatory, she blushed, warmly, as she walked over
to the mirror, on the little oak wood dressing case,
and looked at her pale face, disapprovingly.
“Oh! if I could only go away,” she murmured,
“just for a time —out of it all. The pendulum swing,
from associations in the 400 to the Cotton Mill’s
office, wouldn’t affect me, in the least, if I wasn’t
so exercised about other things. I wish I knew what
to do with Schiller Wilkins,” she finished with a
smile that hinted of tears, “and her admirers?”
She puzzled a moment, her straight brows drawn
in a frown.
“They make love to me one day, and treat me
the next, like a red-headed step-child. Von Bulow
Churchill, however, is a gentleman, and, certainly,
he is consistent. His attitude does not change, with
the winds, and the girl who is destined to become
the Mistress of “Solitude” will have a very grand
and lovely old home, as well as a man of exceptional
culture and charm, for a husband.”
And then Schiller pinned a Paul Neyron rose,
against her left shoulder, and went down, in her
simple muslin dress, to the dining room, with the
carriage and manner of a girl entranced by a new
point of view.
She was so glad that somebody in the world cared
enough about her, to send her a flower, for remem
brance.
For it was lonely, lonely, and hard, too, to work
all day at an uncongenial task, after the aesthetic
rounds of enjoyment, that had been her portion.
But, she resolved, heroically, not to yield to dis
couragement.
And, to make the best fight possible, on the slen
der margin which remained to her.
It was difficult; but not impossible. Nothing worth
while was ever achieved, by a totally submissive at
titude.
As a consequence of this resolve, at the dinner
table that day, Schiller electrified Miss Lowell and
Miss Dillard, by her spontaniety and gayety. Her
mood was limpid as a mountain brook, and equally
as sparkling and refreshing.
The dear ladies took in her charming chatter, with
evident and unaffected delight.
“You know,” Schiller affirmed, with a smile, as
she deftly dissected a chicken wing on her plate,
“that Mrs. Howell makes a custom of telling jokes
at the table. She thinks it is a first aid, in the
cause of good humor and digestion. One of the
most mirth-provoking, I heard, during my stay at
“Overlook' was about an old Negro Methodist Ex
horter.
“One Sunday, in a pulpit effort, it seems, he shout-
ed, “Come up, and jine de army of de Lord.” ‘Tse
done jined,” a member of the congregation replied.
“Whar’d you jine?” asked the Exhorter. “In de Bap
tist church,” the man made answer. “Why, chile,”
said the exhorter, “yer aint in de army at all, yer
is in the navy.”
After the laugh at the table had subsided, Schil
ler took another bead off the “Overlook” Rosary,
which was equally as well received. But, it was
when the desert was brought on, that she tore a
leaf out of the real Book of Life, for the entertain
ment and help of her friends, on a different line.
“While I was out at ‘Solitude,’ ” she said, with her
spoon poised above her sherbet glass, “I had the
good fortune to meet a character. His name is
Isaac Maynard, but he is known as, “The Shepherd
of Solitude.” He is an all-day, interesting study.
When Mr. Churchill gets grouchy, or Miss Rose,
they make it a point to go up to his cabin on the
hills. He used to be a man of independent means;
but he lost his family, in the last yellow fever
scourge at Pensacola, and afterwards got knocked
down and out, in a financial way.
“That sounds like a tragic preamble,” Schiller
continued, as she shook the ice in her glass, “but
he isn’t a bit tragic, although I realize that he is
phenomenal. In fact, the Shepherd of Solitude is
that rarest of all combinations, in this terribly com
plex age—a contented man.
“He says, that the secret of happiness is In the
firm possession of a cheerful mind. And the way
to achieve that sort of desirable mental attitude, is
to love your work, and to eliminate from yourself
all the voracious voices and appetites, on the wrong
side of the line. And he promises that if you do,
you will enter into the Peace that the world can not
give.
“But the living room of his cabin,” the girl went
on, enthusiastically, enjoying her recital, while she
outlined a figure with her silver work, on the table
cloth, “is quite as individual as he is. It has that
sort of rigid simplicity about it, you know, which is
so restful, in a discouraged mood. There is a motto,
in black and white, over the rough stone mantel,
which furnishes the key, perhaps, to the beautiful
simplicity and peacefulness of his life.
“He endured as seeing Him, who is Invisible.”
“Then, there is a white oak rocking chair, which
stands within friendly reach of a crude, plank case,
full of books of a classical and religious nature.
But there were homely touches about the room
which appealed to me, also; strings of red pepper
hanging on either side of the great fire-place, and a
big wooden pipe, with a long stem, that was usually
kept in a glass bowl, on a quaint, square, white-oak
table. /
“This man proves, conclusively,” the young nar
rator continued with emphasis, “that a man can be
larger than his environment, and grander than his
circumstances. You never think about his being
poor and unfortunate, when you are with him. For,
he has conquered his Fate, in that he not only
preaches cheerfulness, but lives it. He is serene
as autumn sunshine, after frost, and, as beneficial,”
with the shadow of a smile, “in his small world.
Oh! that we of the restless, turbulent city, could
be as contented as —The Shepherd of Solitude!”
“Selah!” Miss Dillard said, with dewy eyes, as
Schiller closed.
“I came to the table, Miss Lowell, with a sense of
great weariness. But, the Lady from Alabama un
derstands mind-ministry, and I think,” she affirmed,
with a glance around the table, “that we are all due
her a rising vote of thanks.”
The teachers and boarders, in the Settlement
Home, got to their feet, around the long dining
table, and, with some degree of merriment used the
table napkins for a Chautauqua salute.
And Schiller, since there was nothing else to do,
laughed and blushed good humoredly over the inci
dent.
When everybody had left the room except Miss
Lowell and the kindergarten teacher and Schiller,
the former observed, quietly:
(Continued on Page 14.)
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