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MISS CRANE’S CHANCE • " y ■
CHAPTER XIV.
S'S' CRANE was glad to get back
from the city, and she felt that
night, When they all returned from
the opera, by a late train, and
were whirled in the tonneau up to
to the mansion, under whose great
white pillars the moonlight softly
streamed, that there was no place
r— | !'
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ax;, —J like home. Few, indeed, she knew
could boast of such a dwelling, as grand, as
artistic externally, and rich within with the
accumulations of a cultured taste, and the rare
trophies from European travels. But that was
not what made the house dear to the heart of
Caroline Crane, it was because it was Powhat
tan Gray’s gift to her, the place where he had
lived and died, and every red brick in it, from
foundation to roof, proclaimed his love to her.
And now as she crossed the threshold, while
Nell lingered with Wayland Hamilton on the
steps, she felt that her journey to the city, with
all it had involved of personal sacrifice, in or
der to pass the money on intelligently to others,
had been gloriously worth the effort. For she
remembered the enthusiastic gratitude of the
gifted Editor, and the low-voiced thanks of
many others, as she climbed the stairway.
Once inside the private sitting room, she turn
ed the electrics on in the white globes, and
removing her hat, sat down in a low rocking
chair, and looked up thoughtfully at the por
trait hung over the mantel.
As she sat there in her grey street suit, with
her hands crossed loosely in her lap, she looked
both intellectual and commanding, for her face,
beneath its crown of white hair, had become
softly illumined as the moments slipped away.
“It is going, Powhattan,” she said at last, in
a voice that was low and indescribably sweet,
“the money you gave me, going by the thou
sands, to alleviate pain and suffering, anxiety
and care. Going, too, to inspire and uplift hu
manity, to help with sermon and song and
story, in the paper that preaches to ten thou
sand subscribers every week, and shall preach
to many more. I’ll use nearly all the annual
income, dear, for others,” she continued with
a soft sigh, “every year, until my time comes
to join you. Then, I’ll fix the half-million so
that it will go on doing good, I hope, forever.
I miss you more than I have any words to tell
you, but I feel that I am pleasing you in being
mindful of the woes of others, and I am sure
that was why you trusted me, so uncondition
ally. I shall never be happy Powhattan with
out you, because, after all, I have nothing real
ly to make me happy, in a human sense, but
the consciousness of your great love.”
She got up, after a time, and crossed the floor
to her desk. The desire to see again Powhat
tan Gray’s last letter, had come to her, and she
took it out of a secret drawer and read it over
slowly. Then put it back. But, in pushing
in the drawer, there seemed to be some obstruc
tion in the way, and she pulled it out entirely.
Then some blind instinct made her put her hand
in the cavity, and when her fingers touched a
button on the back side, she pulled it hard, feel
ing that perhaps there might be a mystery,
which it would be well to solve. It proved
to be only another secret drawer, which it was
rather difficult to get out. But, when she
had at last dislocated it, and dragged it to the
light, she saw at a glance that it contained
nothing but a Russian leather-bound book about
the size of a scratch pad. Powhattan Gray’s
name was on the back, and on opening it, she
discovered it was a diary. It began without
any sort of a preamble, except the date—June
20, 19“ It has been said that the unex
pected always happens, and I can verify the
truth of the assertion, for the unexpected has
happened to me. After years of indifference
to that portion of humanity Which novelists
designate as the fair sex, I have seen a woman
today, who strangely interests me. She is
The Golden Age for January 30, 1913,
about five years my junior and, therefore, no
longer young. But her voice, which I heard
in the pauses of our journey cityward, for 1
sat just behind,her on the car, would enthrall
an angel. She is intellectual in a marked de
gree, but distractingly feminine all the same.
Her face I do not know how to describe, be
cause it varies with the charm and change of
many emotions, when she talks. Her com
plexion is fair, however, and her eyes a violet
blue, with hair as brown as the inside of a
chestnut burr, except that there is a touch of
silver on the temples, while her mouth is wide
and sensitively carved like a girl’s. I did not
intend, of course, to hear the conversation
which occurred in front of me. But some
thing went wrong with the electric current, and
the cars stood still as a consequence, a long
time on the track. The lady was talking to
the Presbyterian minister of the town, on
metaphysical lines; and it was quite evident
that her culture was broader than his in some
respects, that she had, besides, a more unique
point of view. One of her remarks reiterates
itself, in my inner consciousness, persistently.
‘lf I could only feel,’ she said, ‘that God was
really my Father, and that His infinite love
was at my command through faith, it would
be unspeakable folly for me to be either afraid,
or sad, or to worry. Ido not realize it all the
time, and as a consequence I suffer —I am ob
liged to you know, because that is psychologi
cal law.’
“I spoke to the minister just before we got
to town, and he, not only acknowledged my
presence cordially, but introduced me to the
lady. If I dared, I should cultivate her ac
quaintance, as ardently as a young man in his
prime, but I do not dare, for reasons best
known to myself, which I may, or may not,
disclose in this narrative of my inner life.”
This was all the entry there was under the
first date, and Miss Crane, glancing through
the book, saw that it was only half-filled, and
that the last lines were written on the day he
went away, to come back no more, forever.
She put her head down on the desk plane, and
cried with that kind of bitter anguish for
which the heart recognizes there is no balm, on
earth. After a time, she picked up the let
ter and put in the book, and then placed
both in the secret drawer, closed and locked the
desk. She would have liked to read the book
all through at once, but she realized she could
not bear any more tonight. From the first
entry, of course, she had recognized who the
lady was, and she knew intuitively that she was
to have the romance which neither he or she
had ever acknowledged in words, laid bare to
her gaze from the masculine point of view.
While she felt curious as a girl, in a sense, to
read it, still she had suddenly become conscious
of being very tired, and she wanted somehow,
to be at her best when she should open the
book again, to look into the depths of her dead
lover’s heart. She went over to the couch and
lay down, not wishing to retire, until Nell came
upstairs. But, as she adjusted a cushion un
der her head, she glanced once more at the
portrait of the handsome man over the mantel,
and said, with an intonation that was sadder
than any tears, ‘ ‘ Oh, Powhattan, if you had only
told me everything before you went away.”
* * * * * *
Meantime, Wayland Hamilton and Nell were
seated on the steps in the moonlight, and wheth
er it was the witchery of the hour, or their
consciousness of a growing congeniality, or
not, they had suddenly ceased to talk. Nell
looked very lovely with her white opera cloak
thrown back from the heliothrope silk-lace-en
shrouded bodice of her evening gown. She
wore a necklace of sapphires, which glinted
like an intermittent blue flame around her
white neck, in the moonlight, as she leaned her
head against the base of one of the great pil
lars. Mr. Hamilton’s long tan overcoat ob-
scured his costume, but there was an undeni
able air of distinction about him, as he rested
very much at ease against the balustrade of
the steps.
“You haven’t explained to me yet, Miss
Crane,” he said at last, in a curious tone,
“what you meant by your allusion to K'ing
Cophetua, this afternoon.”
“Perhaps I meant,” Nell replied, as she
toyed with the white sjlk tassel on her cloak,
“that if I were a beggar maid, that I should
like to find a man as royal and unselfish in ev
ery way.”
“You really mean,” he said, with the intui
tion which his legal training supplied, “that
you would not like to be married for your
aunt’s fortune?”
“I mean that exactly,” Nell answered. “I
know that it sounds like insane idealism, but
since you will have to write Aunt Caro’s will,
I suppose there is no harm in telling you that
I do not expect to be mentioned in it.”
“Have you discussed the matter with your
Aunt?”
“No, but she never denied me a legitimate
wish in her life,” Nell said quietly, “and I am
perfectly sure that I can influence her to do as
I wish—to see the matter in the same light
that I do.”
“You may not think so, Miss Crane, but you
have a battle royal before you,” he returned,
rather gravely. “For a blind man could see
that you are the idol of your aunt’s heart.”
“Well, if I am,” Nell answered, “she will
have a fine opportunity to prove it, by pro
tecting my future, from the appalling possibil
ity which threatens it.”
“She may differ with you in judgment,” he
returned. “In fact, she might be pardoned
for thinking it a poor evidence of love to dis
inherit you/’
“But, if I desire it,” Nell insisted, “above
all earthly things, in order to prove”—and
then she hesitated, and blushed adorably.
Wayland Hamilton’s fine eyes scintillated.
“Finish,” he commanded. “Put your
thought in plain English, and see how it sounds
before the judgment bar of your intellect. For
I have heard that you had two years’ experi
ence in the business world, and, consequently,
you can not be ignorant of the value of money.”
“You think me very silly, Mr. Hamilton,”
Nell said, with a troubled shadow in her eyes.
“No, but I do think you unwise,” he admit
ted. “It seems to me it would be infinitely
preferable to allow your aunt to give you
enough out of her fortune to at least insure
your future against cruel deprivation and
want. ’ ’
“And how much would you consider a suf
ficient amount for that purpose?”
“Not less,” he answered, after a moment’s
hesitation, “than twenty-five thousand dol
lars.”
“Oh, but that would seem,” Nell objected,
“quite a fortune to some people.”
“Not to a man, who had sufficient ability to
win you, he said in a quiet, convincing tone,
“do you think so?”
“No, I suppose not,” she admitted reluctant
ly, as she slowly spread the carved sticks of
her ivory fan on her lap.
“And now, since the question of your aunt’s
fortune, is out of the way, I wonder what that
active mentality of yours will expend itself on
next?”
“lam sure I don’t know,” Nell said, thought
fully, “but fate, it seems, is always throwing
some kind of high hurdle across my path, for
me to leap. I suppose these things furqish
us with the necessary, life incentives, but some
times I wish they did not come so frequently,
all the same.”
(Continued on Page 14.)
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