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THE MASTER OF BERYL HEIGHTS
R. GORDON addressed himself in
silence to his soup for a while,
then turned to his cousin and
asked:
“You have finished ‘Middle
march?’ ”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“No; the style is heavy and un-
LU
attractive.”
“Indeed! And what of the characters de
lineated?”
“No better.”
He smiled as he said:
“How incapable women seem to be of ap
preciating George Eliot, the solitary one of
your sex who has any intellect worth talk
ing about. You reserve all your admiration
for those of lower type with whom inflated
fancy does duty for imagination and takes
the place of servitude to art. Only genius
is willing to undergo its toilsome apprentice
ship in order to win expression—not ideas.
Now the largeness of George Eliot’s gifts is
proved, the exceptional intellect attested by
the fact that her books are not reproductions.
Her first hero and heroine are not prototypes
of all that were to follow. When she paints
a character she does it with a delicate inten
sity that is final; she does not give it back
to you in her next book recolored and masked
with black eyes instead of blue, brown hair
instead of golden. No, it is a new creation.
Nor can you analyze it by its analogy to the
last set of individualities she introduced you
to.”
But for all his sarcastic criticism of her
sex, Dr. Gordon seemed to be intent upon
making himself agreeable to his cousin, for
as he arose from the table he said:
“Wouldn’t you like to ride this afternoon?”
“Oh, I should be charmed! Aunt, dear,”
Mrs. Gordon shrank from the insinuating
softness of the tone, “will you excuse me
from the society meeting? Paul has asked
me to ride.”
“I would with pleasure, but I am afraid
your services will be needed as secretary.
Miss Harmon is still away, you know.”
“Miss Heywood,” Floyd said pleasingly,
“could I not persuade you—”
Lynne rose.
“Excuse me,” she said, first to Miss Gor
don, then to the elder lady at the head of the
table.
Dr. Gordon flashed a glance at his cousin
as Lynne disappeared, and said:
“Garnet, where is the attraction? Brev
ity?”
“Yes, it being the soul of wit.”
CHAPTER X.
The soft shadows of the summer night
were stealing into the cripple’s study as he
sat down before the organ and began to play
a solemn, wordless chant that sounded
through the twilight of the old mansion like
a cry of “Come up Higher” to the souls of
its inmates. He always devoted this hour
to worship, and already Lynne had estab
lished the habit of stealing into the room,
sometimes listening from the window-seat,
at others joining in his songs.
He missed, perhaps, the sympathy of her
presence, for more than once his eyes sought
the door, but in vain, and his music drifted
into a monotone. He concluded the pro
gram of the evening with a jubilant dox
ology, “I know that my Redeemr liveth.” As
the last exultant word left his lips his hands
fell heavily from the keys, and he laid his
handsome head, face downward, on the in
strument, and a little later low moans broke
the stillness of the room.
Oh, patient one, because believing that He
lives, somewhere; and sometime thou shalt
have an explanation of thy joyless youth, thy
By Odessa Strickland Payne, Author of the “Mission Girl”, “Esther FerralVs Experiment”, Etc,
The Golden Age for May 11,11)11.
prescribed lot so hard to bear—a reason for
thy body being dwarfed, thy life condemned
to the destiny of walking apart in the isola
tion of a profound loneliness.
The hour for tea in the Gordon household
was eight o’clock. The cripple and his moth
er were waiting at the table, when Dr. Gor
don and his cousin came in chatting from
the library, both evidently in a marvelous
good humor. John had broken and buttered
his roll before he noticed that Lynne’s chair
was unoccupied.
“Where is my ward?” he asked of his
mother. Strangely enough he semed to pre
fer to call her by the name which denoted
his possessive interest in her before his
cousin.
“I do not know, my son; I thought she was
in the library with you. Bob,” she said, turn
ing to the mulatto boy who stood at the back
of her chair, “go to Miss Heywood’s room
and tell her that tea is ready.”
He left, and quickly returned.
“Miss Lynne ain’t in her room,” he report
ed, as he resumed his position.
“Did you knock?”
“No; marm; the door were open and I seen
she were not in.”
Floyd smiled at the want of grammar, but
John looked up with a gleam of anxiety in
his eyes as he ordered:
“Go and look in the parlor and library.”
In two minutes he came back.
“She ain’t in neither room, sir.”
The cripple laid down his fork.
“Go, search the whole house, Robert.”
Dr. Paul glanced at the shadowed face at
the head of the table and said cheerily:
“Nonsense, brother.”
After ten minutes the boy came back and
said with a faint dilation of his yellow-black
eyes:
“I can’t find her, master.”
John rose calmly enough.
“Look on the terraces and down the ave
nue ; she may possibly be on the steps at the
gate.”
“I do not think you need feel alarmed, my
son; you know Lynne has a penchant for
wandering in out of the way places,” said his
mother.
“Yes, but not after dark.”
Floyd, not unwilling to increase his anx
iety, commented in regard to the servant :
“How long he stays.”
“If you will allow me to express an opin
ion,” said Dr. Gordon, passing his cup up for
a second filling of tea, “I think this ‘much
ado about nothing,’ eh, mother?”
She did not reply, for at that moment the
servant came in and announced to John,
who stood by the window looking out into the
night:
“Mars’ John, there ain’t a living thing out
of doors anywhar; I looked every place you
telled me, and everywhar else.”
Bob’s faithful report was not to be doubt
ed, except, perhaps, the latter part, and John
was already limping away to join in the
search himself, when Dr. Paul overtook him
and said:
“Brother, let me beg you not to fatigue
yourself unnecessarily. I will look the prem
ises over for your ward, and report to you
in the library in twenty minutes. You can
trust me to search carefully,” he continued,
placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder,
“and meantime I do not think you need in
dulge your fears. Bob did not find her be
cause he had nothing to see with but his
eyes. I shall take a lantern.”
“Don’t forget,” Floyd said with ill con
cealed irony and glancing at Schiller, “to look
at the foot of the statue of Minerva, she may
be offering up her evening devotions.
The arrow went home, and John turned
with a flash in his eye to his cousin, but no
retort passed his lips. Dr. Paul, if not less
conscientious, was less used to self-control,
and though he did not care for the words, he
did care that they wounded his brother.
“My dear,” he said blandly, “for which one
of the heathen goddesses have you an affin
ity? Juno? Then next time you offer up
your devotions, ask for beauty of speech, as
well as of person.” He bowed like the young
unconscious autocrat that he was, and was
gone.
Nine o’clock, and John stood gloomy and
anxious by the mantel in the library. He
had no solution to offer himself for the mys
tery of Lynne’s absence. He knew that she
had no intimate acquaintance in the neigh
borhood, and he believed she had the horror,
common to her sex, of the dark.
Mrs. Gordon, in a low rocking chair by the
window, sat with folded hands looking out
into the night. She had exhausted her stock
of comforting words, and her own heart be
gan to grow heavy with anticipations of evil
as the minutes went by and brought no tid
ings of the girl. She had gone with the
servants over the house, and had searched
even every closet and angle, but it was fruit
less labor.
“Mother, do you see Paul coming?” John
asked anxiously.
“No; but he is certainly having a thorough
search made—the torches are flashing in ev
ery direction.”
“Oh, Lynne! My child, what can have
happened to you?”
The words were not intended for his moth
er to hear, but they reached her, and there
was a suspicion of nervousness in the way
the white hands clasped one another. She
resented the anguish in his voice. Why should
this dreamy-eyed girl have taken such com
plete possession of her son’s heart? Why
couldn’t it have been possible for him to like
her cordially without the feeling developing
into such deep and absorbing love ? For with
the sensitive intuition of motherhood, she
had found out the truth suspected first on
the day of Lynne’s arrival. Time had not
made it any more palatable, though she was
too just not to acknowledge to herself the
extraordinary excellence of Lynne’s charac
ter. If she could have been willing for him
to marry anyone, she would have been her
choice without doubt, but she did not want
to give him up to any woman. He was doubly
endeared to her. He was her eldest and had
been so afflicted from his youth that he had
always been as nearly her idol as was possi
ble, she being what she was—a Christian.
There was a silken swish in the hall, and
the door knob turned noiselessly to admit the
light-haired heiress, whose blue eyes scintil
lated as she paused in the center of the room,
while she lifted one white hand aloft and ex
claimed dramatically:
“The romance of flight culminates in the
orthodox style! Here is a note to the grim
guardian explaining the cause of elopement,
and winding up with the usual postscript
prayer for forgiveness.”
(To be Continued.)
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