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r THE GEORGIAN’S MAGAZINE, PAGE
Daysey Vlayme
and Her Folks
By FRANCES L. GARSIDE
THE DREAMS OF GLADYS.
IYSANDER JOHN APPLETON I
had neglected one Saturday nigbt •
recently to lay in a supply of;
magazines for Sunday reading. And
on Sunday morning it poured so he!
Has unable to go out and get any.
Hi read his paper. Then, looking)
around hungrily for something to read
he picked up a book which his wif. ;
thought the he«t book over written I'
was entitled. 'The Dream- of Gladys."
When Mrs. Appleton < .tiled him to
dinner at 1 o’clock she found him [
reading "The Dreams- of Gladys.” and I
rejoiced.
“His tast- in reading is improving.”
she reported to D.tysey Mayme. ”1
rm sure if a'l wives left their favor
ite novels lying around, their hus
band 1 would read them. and get the
inspiration Ute women find in common- |
ing wi’li their ideals in the books.
L’.-antif” John ate his dinner in;
silence, putting olive oil in his coffee;
«m<; suga on tii* cucumbers. There
ia glare in bis eyes friat would
have alarmed most people.
"He is experiencing the soul-uplift
of the book,” thought Mr-. Appleton.
"lit- has jit-‘ about reached the chap •
i, where Gladys -lips away from bet
husband to glide barefoot across the
lawn ai midnight that she may y-t
in tune wi.lt the infinite"
\fter direr 1., 'wnder John returned
to ds reading. His wife returned to
the kitchen vb ■■ she hurried through
her work tbit she mght join iter hus
band and discuss with him the time
inwardness of her favorite book.
She reach, d the parlor just as Lv
sander John had finished "The Dreams
of Glady. He gave a loud yell as
she entered the . room. Throwing the
book on the door. lie’sprang :ft her
grabbed her by tit hair, and dragged
her to” her bedroom, where ho tried to
cut her throat with a hair brush.
He had gone mad trying to get in
tune with his wife’s literary ideals!
It required five men to hold him i
all night, but toward morning lie wa ■ I
so much qui ter their vigilance was i
relaxed. Esc tiling from them, he en- .
tered the parlor.
Here his eyes fell on "The Dreams -
of Gladys" lying on the floor It was
necessary on this occasion to give him
■ morphine.
"There is no use," sobbed Mrs. Ap
pleton. collecting her favorite novels
and hiding them out of sight, “in try
ing to elevate the men!"
RATHER TOO CLEVER.
The occasion was a choice little tea
paity on the lawn, and the hostess was
beaming and busy among her guests.
"Yes.” she remarked, "mt little girl
is very clever. She can imitate almost
any one."
"She can, my dear" echoed the host,
delightedly. "Gome. Alice, show what
>ou can do. Pretend to be the house
maid”
The little girl, eagerly enough, came
forward and bowed to one of the
guests.
"Wil; you lake some more tea. mad
am?" she asked, politely. Then she
turned to another guest:
"May I move your chair, madam?
The sunlight is very strong."
At this the guests were exceedingly
interested, and asked for more.
Backing away from her father, Alice
ex laimed. in a terrified tone:
"Sir. let me go! Don’t touch me, sir!
Give you a kiss, indeed! Supposing
the missus was to hear you?”
Then the clever little darling was
wafted away suddenly.
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He doesn't have to be a handsome wretch to find that the moon need never have to shine on him alone on a seaside ’’piaz"—he’ll find himself better fed and better
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| “THE GATES OF SILENCE” * By META SIMMINS * AUTHOR OF “HUSHED UP”
TODAY’S INSTALLMENT.
A Piteous Appeal.
She broke out rapidly into the story of
these last years—of Levasseur’s desertion
of her —of his supposed death and his
-resurrection, and how then he had told
her that the ceremony which had bound
her to him. was a sham; of that awful
night of Levasseur’s death in Prince’s
Gate, and how-, with his dying breath,
the man .who so inexplicably had hated
her had robbed her of her honor.
"My dear lady, what you tell me dis
tresses me beyond words. 1 only wish
that It were in my power to help you.
but it is not. 1 can only hope that your
husband, knowing your true, sweet and
pure character, will"
‘‘Stop’—Mrs. Barrington’s voice was
hoarse and broken, her fingers tightened
on his arm—"say no more. You were
there w'hon the child died You saw. You
heard While the child lived-he was the
barrier between me and shame. and
now" —
! Her voice failed her: the man saw that
tears were running down her face un
consciously, that it was not to hide them
; that she turned aw r ay with bowed head,
and in the quiet of the big consulting
100m —shut off from the rest of the house
by baize doors, protected from the noise
of the square by double windows—he
seemed to hear an echo of a man’s voice,
hoarse with mad passion:
b "Dead—and your fate is sealed!"
"Mrs. Barrington." he burst out. im
petuously. "Heaven knows if it were pos
sible I would hejp you, only it isn’t pos
sible. Look here." He moved quickly
to his writing table and. unlocking a
drawer, took out a photograph which he
handed to Edith.
"Look at that," he said "That is a
portrail of my wife."
Edith Barrington obeyed. She took the
photograph he held toward her and scru
i tinized it. The face that loo'ked up at her
was very beautiful, she had rarely seen
, a more perfectly formed face, more ex
quisitely shaped eyes—-it seemed to her
that In her life she had never looked into
harder eyes than those which stared back
at her from the photograph.
His Defiance.
"A little over a year ago," Dr. Merton
said, "the original of that photograph be
came my w ife. You see her. you realize
that she is beautiful —in reality she Is a
hundred times more lovely. But that is
nothing. In nature she is the purest and
most innocent creature that ever
breathed. She knows nothing of the ex
istence of evil because she is incapable
of imagining it She has two gods- her
father and myself which shows the
blindness of idolatry for he is the most
empty-headed, fossil who
ever aped humanity, and I—l am what
you think me a scoundrel or was. Bu»
for her sake that is past. I am now what
she believes me and what she believes
me. Mis Barrington. I intend to remain.
I have climbed up out of the mire—by
what efforts no one will ever know—and
now that 1 am within sight of the stars,
f defy you to push me back there into
the slough There are no secrets to be
raked out of my past; no one has any
hold over me As a woman of the world.
Mrs. Barrington, do you think it likely
that I would voluntarily do anything
which might risk, however remotely, the
position to which 1 have climbed- the
love which has come miraculously, as it
seems, into mj life, which was so empty
and grim a thing.’" He laughed shortly.
"No; you may. if you choose, continue to
believe that 1 am a knave —but at least I
am not a fool."
"Then you admit it?" said Edith Bar
-1 ringtoil, slowly "At least you admit it.
J You are the man."
i "I admit nuUnn£. 1 merely place a.
hypothetical situation before you and ask
you to judge."
Edith began io laugh, but there was no
mirth in her laughter.
"At least I can set the scandal-mongers
raking among your past,’’ she said. "I" —
At that moment there came to the door
three light, fluttering taps. Mrs. Bar
rington started. The doctor glanced to
ward the door and back to her again.
“That is my'wife." he said, and for the
first time Edith saw his face soften and
something akin to fear in his eyes. Be
fore he could speak or answer the door
opened and a woman came into the room
"Oh!" On the threshold she paused
with a little exclamation. "I beg your
pardon. I am so very sorry. I Tyson
told me you were alone."
For the first time In Dr. Merton's
knowledge of her his wife seemed to
have lost her presence of mind It was
such a blow to her wifely pride to have
done this thing unpardonable in a doc
tor’s wife -trespassed upon the privacy of
a patient in the consulting room
There w f as a moment’s pause; the eyes
of the two women met across the head
of the man standing there in the center
of the room, and Mrs. Barrington saw
that the man had done but scant justice
to bis wife when he said that the beauty
of the photograph fell short of the orig
inal. Mrs Merton’s loveliness was of the
type that owes its perfection to delicacy
of coloring the Inspiration of the pass
ing mood. At that moment she looked
almost liks a frightened child, with her
delicate cheeks aflame, her eyes dark
ened with emotion. w
An Old Friend.
It was Merton w ? ho spoke first
"That was exceedingly careless of Ty
son," he said. "It might have mattered
very much, though, in point of fact, it
does not matter at all—except pleasantly.
I am glad you have come. This is my
wife. Mrs. Barrington. Squirrel Mrs.
Barrington is a very old friend of mine."
The woman on the threshold came for
ward slowly. Her eyes were on Edith’s
tear-stained cheeks, her disheveled hair
and shabby dress. Just at that moment
Robert Merton’s mind was as quick in its
intuition as that of a woman. As his
wife passed he spoke in a low voice.
"Mrs. Barrington is in sore trouble just j
now.’’ he said. "You will she I
lost her little boy.’’
Mrs Barrington, the wife of the well ■
known Anthony Barrington, the eccen
tric millionaire artist Ah. that was a
very different thing! And Bob must know
her very well, siqce he had let that pel
name. Squirrel, slip out. Mis. Merton’s
snobbish little mind worked quickly She
determined on a bold bid for Mrs Bar
rington's friendship. Her steps quick
ened. Her tone was very kind and her
hand-clasp very warm as she caught
Edith’s cold, passive hands 4n hers
"Oh, I have wanted so much to meet
you," she said. "How glad I am that
I came. But just for a moment I felt
ashamed—such a fool!—to have come
poking my nose Into Bob’s room when a
patient was with him. If it had been
any one else, how angry he would have '
been!" She gave a glance over her shoul
der. and saw that her husband had slipped
from the room.
"Only—l had something to tell him—a
secret, and it hardly seemed possible to
keep It a moment longer." She paused
and looked up into Edith Barrington s
eyes wdth a smile a smile that was full I
of the utterly unconscious selfishness of
a child. "Somehow'. I feel that you will
understand," she whispered, and her
whisper raveled away into silence.
]t seemed to Edith that she had known '
this thing that the woman w'hispered to i
her now with so innocent a confidence 1
the moment she had looked at her radiant
face when she stood in the doorway The
mubi potent Argument to insure her si-
lence w here Robert Merton was concerned
that the. mind of the devil or woman
could have devised.
The Day That Is Like a Year.
To Rimington the first weeks of his
probation in solitary’ confinement passed
like a horrible dream, in which every
day seemed the length of a year "a
year whose days *are long." The rough
tongued, kindly hearted doctor who, be
fore he came to Wormwood Scrubs, had
advised him to give his wdll a rest if
he wished to avoid trouble in prison,
had told him also that unless he was
very unlike other men—unlike any man
he had ever encountered- he would find
that the routine of the prison life would
gradually become the reality, and the
outside life the old life*—-would gradually
fade and become dim and unsubstantial
as a dream.
"If it wasn't so. our penal establish
ments would be composed of Broad
moors." he had said. "But as it is. we
are creatures of habit; and you'll get
into the habit of your prison tasks just
as the restless schoolboy’ settles down
to the routine of the city office he’s
pitchforked into, and becomes the tame
clerk content to tot up the figures of
other folks’ money." '
Sometimes the remembrance of those
words came to Rimington. filling him
with a sense of impotent rage. They
were so horribly true. Day by day. as
he felt himself caught up relentlessly
by the great wheel of the prison routines
mechanical and soulless, that crushes
, remorselessly all individuality out of a
man, he wondered what the end of the
twent.v years would find him. Even after
five weeks he was beginning to see the
inevitable deterioration In personal hab
its which prison life brings about. If
this deterioration progressed at the same
rate —
He fought against these thoughts with
all his strength, setting himself doggedly
to his daily tasks, that already after flve
weeks had reduced his* hands to a condi
tion worse than that of the average man
ual laborer. Whatever outward submis
sion he must make, at least he must re
main captain of his own soul.
The old chaplain, in parting from him.
had said:
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I
Ziti ‘'opyright, 11*12. National News zA\
'V' Association. 'Vz
"You’re a gentleman, Rimington! They
say that makes your lot far harder to
bear. It may be so —indeed. I know that
it Is so: but your birth, your education,
your religion, give you something that
will enable you to bear your punish
ment better than the habitual criminal.
It gives you a peculiar sense of cour
age."
Did it? Rimington wondered. There
had been a week in which all sense of
courage had deserted him. in which life
and death and religion ami hope had
sypped away from under his feet, and he
had felt himself falling through an
abyss of despair, in wii*cii,, as he fell,
he had wept and raved like a madman.
That, too. now that It was past, seemed
dim and unreal, part of the awful dream.
It is only today that is real in prison;
today with its endless hours, its harsh
tasks, its revolting food Rimington hail
never realized until these weeks in prison
the extraordinarily important part food
plays in the life of a man. the real influ
ence of cookers on character. Sometimes
there were days when the sun shining into
the cell, some outside sound or inward
thought, set an utterly irresponsible sense
of hope stirring in his heart, and he
would go about his tasks in the tiny
world with a lightness and a nerve that
surprised himself It seemed as though .
some instinct told him that help was j
near, that vindication was knocking at •
the very prison gates. Then he would
hold inward converse with Betty, the
loved one he must so soon see. What
laughs they would have together, ove l
this discovery of his tha’ it was the hand
that wielded the frying pan that ruled th’
world!
Then, as the hours wore on. and the
sun traveling round the prison left
cell in gloom again, ami all the ugly.
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> By Nell Brinkley
monotonous sounds of rhe prison went on
around him unchanged, the hope In his
heart would die down, leaving only the
gray ashes of despair behind it. A touch
of madness, this hope, that was all. For
in truth there was no hope; stretching
before him the illimitable vista of his
prison life, with its seven thousand-ixid
days and nights, anil never a ray of hope
in all its grayness His head would fa
on his breast, and the old stupor, that
had nothing merciful in its dull apathy,
would creep up over him again: so he
would sit till the sharp voice of the in
specting warder would call him to atten
tion and his task again that task wu
all his good will seemed powerless to »',■
his unaccustomed fingers to accomplis.
his three and a half pounds of oakum
a day.
To Be Continued in Ngxt Issue.
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Is 'chat one grateful woman calls Lyd
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This is because after suffering for si:,
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Edgar Spring Mo , July 15, 1908. •••
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ATLANTA, GA
i NEW LOCATION 1374 Peachtree road, just beyond Ansley Park
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| Dean S. C. BENIDICT, M. D., Athens, Ga.
Advice to the
Lovelorn
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
THAT DEPENDS ON THE MAN.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I am eighteen and considered
good looking and. in consequence,
have many young men acquain
tances. Many ask to call and in
most instances 1 give my consent.
I have gotten io such a stage that
I have almost every day taken up,
and now I don’t know what to do.
Now. what I want to know is this:
Am I tn any way preventing any
good chances of ever getting a real
gentleman friend?
READER.
Naturally if a young man wants this
pleasant social intercourse to develop
into a love affair, he would have a
more serious time with so many other
box s a ound you. But I am sure of
Illis: If such a ntan is on the scene and
really cares for you .he rivalry of
others will serve as a spur to him.
But do not. for your own sake, scat
ter vour friendship too promiscuously.
You a i- fortunate in having so many
I:o . loos,- from. Don’t aims that good
fori une.
LET US HOPE HE DID.
Dear Miss Faltfax:
I am nineteen ami In love
with a gentleman friend of mine.
He has never asked to call on me
regularly, bn; called three consecu
tive Sunda.'. e,cuing- when I met
him the following Sunday after
noon at ciub meeting. At this
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If lie goi the impression you did not
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care.
There would have been nothing
wrong in asking him to tall, but I am
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Rest assured, my ilea:, that, if he
I ares for you he will come back. If he
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