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THE MASTER OT ‘BE'R YZ HEIGHTS
By Odessa Strickland Payne, Author of the "Mission Girl,” "Esther Eerrall's Experiment/' "The Limit of the Line/'
"The Lady from Alabama/' Etc.
CHAPTER I.
SYCHE!
No answer.
The voice which rang up stairs
and down through the sunset-quiet
of the great house was one of rare
volume and sweetness; hearing it
for the first time, you could but
have expected some kind of a pecu-
P
— liar revelation from the possessor,
and you would not have been disappointed.
John Schiller Gordon was almost a phenome
non. He had the head of an intellectual giant,
the figure of a hopeless cripple. But still he
was undeniably handsome as he stood leaning
upon his gold mounted ebony crutches, in the
soft radiance illuminating the massive door
way at Beryl Heights—his stately home by in
heritance—looking across the vast extent of
well kept grounds, spread out before in cres
cent terraces, shaded here and there with the
silver greyness of fir trees and lit up at long
intervals with the chaste glory of statuary.
The house occupied a commanding position on
the brow of a hill, so elevated that in winter
the white shine of the colossal columns on
guard in front could be seen from the village
two miles away. It was the noble possession
of a noble race, for never had one owned it
who had not held to the death the flower of a
blameless life. The present heir, though he
appeared not unlike some grand masterpiece,
half finished and half forgot, was a Gordon
of the Gordons. And while he gave himself
no ultra airs, either on account of his position
or deformity, there was something about him
which forbade undue familiarity; a certain high
bred dignity that had an understratum of un
mistakable manliness. Limping to the top of
the granite steps he called again upon the in
visible owner of the Greek name, but through
the sunny heaviness of the June silence no
voice answered. Awhile, and he turned to a
door on the right of the hall, but his hand
lingered upon the knob after he had opened it,
as he paused in obedience to an artistic in
stinct.
In one of the windows where the thick green
leaves of a century plant made a luxurious
background for her bright head, a young girl
sat immoble, with her elbows resting upon a
book in her lap, while her chin was supported
upon her interlaced fingers. She was both
thoughtful and imaginative, as was shown by
the ideal swell of the brow above the brown
ness of the brilliant eyes, with an emotional
nature t-o correspond, as was evidenced in the
sensitive chiseling of the mouth.
The cripple, half unwillingly, broke at last
the charm that held her
“Psyche, did you not hear me call your
“Yes,” she said under her breath, apparently
but half conscious of his presence.
“And yet you did not answer?"
*‘Oh, Schiller,” she pleaded, turning her face
toward him as he slowly advanced into the
room and lifting a dreamy, lustrous glance to
meet his own of mild reproof. “Forgive me.
meant to all the time, but how could 1? If 1
had, I never should have finished it. any more
than you could paint a picture with brushes on
which the color had dried yesterday."
“And what am 1 to understand from an idea
so vaguely embodied? It, is an impersonal
pronoun, and will apply with equal force to an
infinitesimal atom or a world. And so I hope
you perceive, Carissima, how imperatively nec
essary it is for you to come down out of cloud
land and explain to me."
“I was thinking of the time." she answered
after a pause, and there was something of the
dreamer’s awe still in her tone, “when this
century plant shall bloom, and I had a vision
The Golden Age for February 23, 1911.
(don't laugh at me) of those who will see it." 4
“Ah, little one," he returned gently, laying
a white emaciated hand on her head, “do you
hope to live until the bud, which this scroll
like sheaf guards, shall break into a matchless
centennial flower?”
“No, no," she murmured with serious sweet
ness, “if I could, if I did, I should feel hurt
and awed; I think it would be almost like hav
ing a flower thrown to one out of eternity.
But still it is a little hard, is it not, that for
all the thoughts in my brain, and the warm
beat of my heart, which prove me to be of
higher capacity, as you would say, Schiller,
that this unconscious thing, green, silent and
feelingless, has more real life in it than 1, be
cause it will endure longer.”
“Real, endure longer?”
The color came into the sensitive face of the
child; it was evident she had not missed the
veiled rebuke in his words but she did not
reply.
After awhile she looked up with a smile of
musing inquiry.
“Why do you so often call me ‘Psyche’?"
“Because I think the name more appropriate
than the one by which you are more frequent
ly designated, and whoever gave it to you must
have had exquisite intuition of what your na
ture was to be. Psyche, you know, is one word
in the original for soul and butterfly and though
the winter came first to you and folded your
wings,” he went on with a lightness that was
still tender, “you must not forget there is a
summer coming all the same for my butterfly."
The wide mouth of his young listener quiv
ered ever so slightly, ami though it did not
escape him, he continued in apparent unmind
fulness:
“I have noticed that you never tell any one
that Psyche is your name, and I believe I am
the only one who calls you by it. Have you
any reason for disliking it?"
“No,’ only my father gave it to me and I
could not bear to have people in general use it.
And even when 1 hear it from your lips, which
do not desecrate it, it makes me think, Schiller,
that butterflies do not fly in the dark."
In the pause that followed, while he hesi
tated for a reply, a step rang outside on the
stone tiles, and as they both turned toward the
door, a superb looking man, grave but young,
halted on the threshold with uncovered head.
The cripple grew white to the lips, then a
low, glad erv broke from him, a cry of thrilling
welcome.
“Paul."
In silent breathless astonishment the young
girl saw the stranger meet the cripple and clasp
his arms about him. while the grand head went
down on one of the deformed shoulders, Then
she turned and noiselessly slid from the win
dow seat to the floor outside. Perhaps her in
stincts were too fine to permit her to stay.
There might have been that in her which mer
ited the nobler half of her unique name, though
some bitter thinkers deny it to her sex—a
soul.
CHAPTER 11.
The summer breakfast room at Beryl
Heights was long, many windowed and
otherwise attractive. Bright,landscapes flash
ed out here and there among the frescoed
arches of the side walls, while at the farthest
end opposite the door a Bonheur group of cattle
heads showed with picturesque effect above an
antique sideboard that had held the silver of
three generations of Gordons.
This morning two gentlemen were in the
room ; one lingered at the table, the other was
cleaning his gun in one of the windows, whist
ling while he worked. A liver-colored pointer
dog stood by him, with his forefeet resting on
the sill, his eager eyes betraying that he un
derstood in a dog's own way the enjoyment
which might be expected to follow the comple
tion of his master’s task. I he voting man wore
a dark green hunting suit, heavily embroidered
with gold thread around the \ andvke collar
and square cuffs. In the grace of his move
ments, as well as in the type of his face, his
nationality found easy betrayal, for there was
about him, young though he was, the distin
guished dignity which belongs to men of his
race; a certain knightly bearing that tells of
Southern blood ami training.
“Come, John, confess. Haven’t you been
smiling over my awkwardness, to the serious
detriment of your breakfast ? But, sir, whether
you believe it or not, I am really a splendid
shot, as enthusiastic a devotee as Diana ever
had, save in one particular. I despise to clean
a gun.”
1 hat makes you none the less a good hunts
man, I suppose," the cripple replied, trifling
with his spoon. “But it is a theory of mine
that a man ought to love every department of
his work, from first to last, otherwise there is
always danger of failure in it.”
Garnet raised his gun and took aim at a
pigeon which was balancing its rainbow body
on the limb of an apple tree in the back-yard,
saying as he did so, mischievously:
“All roads lead at last to Rome, but I pre
fer the broad Appian way to these metaphysi
cal turnpikes, mon comrade. Now, John, in
other words, you meant to tell me that I have
a graceless, indolent sort of way of doing
things generally, which I had better not en
courage in myself; is it not so ?”
“If you have—understand I make no asser
tion but simply admit your own hypothesis—
and are true enough to acknowledge it, there is
more hope for you than if yon deemed your
self faultless, since in the struggle to conquer
these enervating proclivities you will of neces
sity develop into a higher type of manhood.”
“That depends upon whether I make the
effort,” he answered.
The cripple looked thoughtful, but he did
not speak ; and as they both sat there silent in
the soft brightness that filled the room, the con
trast which they presented personally was very
great, though the former did not lose so much
by this close comparison with his handsome
cousin as might have been expected. The head,
held so steadily erect above the drooping shoul
ders, was magnificent, large and beautifully
proportioned, with a forehead calm as day, eyes
blue and restful, and a mouth whose expression
of strength and sweetness was most easily in
terpreted. Altogether, the face was one of
refined nobility and spiritual peace, and more
than once his imaginative pupil had looked at
him and thought of a passage in that Book of
books, which seemed to her not inapplicable
“There was a man sent from God, whose name
was John."
Garnet, after a little time of silence, and most
vigorous polishing of his fowling piece, looked
up with an inquisitive air and observed :
“Who was the solemn eyed child I encount
ered in the hall the last time I was here? She
had on mourning, and a hat that looked like a
reversed shallop, besides being burdened with
enough books to stock a small library. 1 had
the audacity to inquire, in French, if she was
going off to read and die, and she answered,
‘Certainly,’ in such a musical voice that I won
der I have not asked before for enlightenment
about her. I should I suppose, but the joy of
seeing you all after such a long absence put
it altogether out of my mind. 1 hope my de
scription is sufficient to identify her?”
“Yes; it was Lynne Heywood.”
(To be Continued)
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