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THE GE OB QUAN’S MAGAZINE PAGE
“The Gates of Silence”
By Meta Stmmins, Author of “Hushed Up"
TODAY’S INSTALLMENT.
"Monstrous and savage"—that was
what Toby had called his aunt’s view.
Ttimington remembered that Toby had
been almost ludicrously upset at such a
theory. ‘‘You'll be advocating suttfeism
next, 1 suppose, Aunt Deb.”
‘Veil, It appeared that it had not been
a theory only. Mrs. Rimfngton was going
to attempt practice. How long would it
last, Rimingten asked himself, and, al
most to his surprise, found himself dread
ing the answer. This idea of one friend
ly soul near him in this place of stony
silence and solitude had taken his heart
by storm.
It kept him company through the wake
ful hours of the night, softening the hor
ror of the silence, punctuated occasionally
by the sudden anguished cry of some
conscience-burdened' sleeper, the stealthy
pad-pad of the patrolling officer —all those
ugly night sounds that had made the
hours between 8 and 5 an Inferno for hint
on his first coming to Bilmouth.
The Great Darkness.
Since that mad, hardly coherent letter
from her sister, in which Mrs. Barrington
had accused herself of being instrumental
in bringing about .Tack Rlmlngton's ar
rest, Betty had heard nothing from or of
her. Edith seemed to have disappeared
from the ken of all who knew her, and
only Betty alone cared or wondered —so
it seemed. Sir George Lumsden was oc
cupied and absorbed in his own affairs—
for the last few months lie had spent a
great deal of his time abroad; and An
thony Barrington gave no sign of caring
whether the woman he had loved so mad
ly was alive or dead.
He had left London; so much Betty
learned from the housekeeper. The beau
i ful house in Prince's Gate was shut up
and deserted —left untouched exactly as
it had been on the night he lost both child
ar d wife.
He had retired to a small house he
owned in Sussex that had long stood
empty and unlet—it was so remote and
lonely, cut off from habitation in a cleft
of the downs, five or six miles from a
railway station. He had one servant only,
N'anna. the- woman who had been his
child's nurse. Through Nanna. Betty
heard of her brother-in-law from time
to time. It was Nanna who first gave
the girl a hint of the new trouble that
was coming on Anthony Barrington, the
man whom the world had envied so short
a lime before as one on whom the gods
had showered all their good gifts -wealth
and talent, and a beautiful wife and hap
piness.
"Dear Miss Betty." the old woman
tvrote. "Isn’t it possible for you to see
the master? He's ill and worrying, and
there's worse threatening that 1 am not
at liberty to say. Only it don't seem
right he should be left utterly."
In the waiting room there was only
one other fellow prisoner called to the
bar of fear and waiting for judgment
a woman this time— young and extreme
ly good tn look upon. She glanced across
the room at Barrington when he was
shown in and something in the look of
Hie eyes that he saw so clearly in the
I'ght of the great central three-light
which bad been switched on for it was
dark in this back room of Wimpole street
in the early afternoon light that failed
so quickly—told him their own story. He
turned his back on her. rudely and
abruptly. It seemed to make things so
much worse that others
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| solitary confinement," he told himself.
1 There was somxehing about the woman
waiting with him that reminded him of
his wife. He thought of his wife for the
first time deliberately and with no pity.
Where was she now? What was she do
ing? Prospering, of that he had no
doubt. Wnaen of that kind always pros
pered.
But for the first time in all these
months a certain uncomfortable sense of
responsibility stirred in his heart. After
all. she was his wife, even if she had
sinned. It was as though contact with
his fellow-beings, contact with suffering,
with fear, had lessened something of the
hatred In his heart.
The door of the consulting room opened,
and the servant summoned the waiting
woman. As he held the door for her a
burst of childish laughter sounded in the
hall, and there was a scamper of child
ish feet, and a flying figure came dash
ing into the room. His visit was for a
moment only; a scandalized nurse fol
lowed and caught up the little boy, a
bundle of white wool surmounted by a
glowing, rosy face and golden curls, who
had so gloriously transgressed the most
stringent of the nursery laws. But the
sight of him had been enough to set
the venom of hatred at work again in
Anthony Barrington's heart. So might
his son have been but for his mother.
It was the first time he had ever de
liberately accused Edith in his heart of
being the direct cause of their child’s
death.
His face was very hard, very ugly in
its set lines when his own turn to enter
the consulting room came.
Only Himself.
No thought of Edith, no thought of the
dead child, no thought of anything but
himself and the verdict to be pronounced
over him. now when he sat in the arm
chair and submitted to the searching ex
amination, the flashing of those strange
lights that hurt his eyes so cruelly.
The doctor was very vague; long expe
rience had taught him the art of con
cealing truth In the midst of words. But
Anthony Barrington could read faces, and
he read his own fate in the grave eyes
of the man bent above him.
"The truth, please." he said. "You see,
I am a painter, and naturally my eyes
are very Important to me."
"They are to most people," the oculist
said, bluntly, a little nettled by a touch
of arrogance in Barrington's manner.
Then he felt ashamed, and gave his ver
dict. stili dressed in many words, but un
mistakable now ; and as the meaning of it
filtered home to Barrington’s brain he
turned faint and reeled.
Decay of the optic nerve. No chance—
no earthly chance—of recovery.
The words whirled in his brain.
"How long do you give me?" he asked
suddenly, looking up.
The oculist was busy with a siphon
and a glass. He turned and came, hand
ing the glass to Barrington, who took it
mechanically and with a shaking hand.
"Six months with care." he said, drop
ping his verbal veil now. "With extreme
care—temperance in all things, and utter
freedom from mental worry. I am afraid
I can promise no more than six months."
"And with intemperance and the usual
worry inseparable from a man who knows
that his life is dropping to pieces about
him?” asked Barrington.
"Three, perhaps. You see. you came tri
| rhe too late."
I The words rang in Barrington’s ears
las lie left the house. Too late —too late!
| His feet beat out an accompaniment so
I them as he stumbled®up the street, and
| the hoofs of every passing horse joined
i in the refrain.
Broken.
Back to the Chantrey, but not by train,
whose iron wheels would beat out that
awful refrain in its Iron track. Barring
ton, by this awful blow, seemed to have
recovered bls normal balance. He had
been a man half tnad with jealousy and
passion and thwarted revenge when he
entered the oculist’s consulting room.
He stumbled out of it a stricken man,
yet one more akin to the man he had
been before the night that Edmond Le
vasseur had met his death at his hands.
He had acted as he would have acted
then; he slipped into the first telephone
office and rang up the garage, ordering
a car to be sent round to his lodgings. It
was waiting for him at the door when he
reached there.
Then had followed a mad rush through
the air, a rush that held every nerve at
tension, every sense on strain, that gave
no moment for brooding as the white
roads leapt up to meet the ear, and the
trees and hedges, and here and there a
cottage atwinkle with the light of lamp
and fire, rushed by. So back to the des
olate house and the old woman who wait
ed his return, to the locked-up studio
and the work that waited for him there.
Then the thoughts that he had held at
bay behind the shield of speed had their
revenge and rused upon him, racked and
tortured him, so that in the empty room
where he paced up and down he cried
aloud out of the anguish of his heart, a
cry so strange, so hoarse and poignant,
that it brought the old woman running
from her kitchen across the hall to the
closed door, where she crouched, listening
and waiting.
But after that cry there was silence,
and the listening old woman, holding het
hand to her heart, mouthing and mumb
ling after the manner of the aged, whis
pered in her heart.
"Not silence—anything but that; it's
the quiet that hurts”—
"It’s the silence that hurts!" Silence
and the black falling curtain that would
shut him out forver from the sight of all
those things he had loved so much —the
wide stretches of the sky, the whitening
of the leaves as they trembled under the
kiss of the wind, the dance of the daffo
dils in the grass, the lovelight in a
woman’s eyes.
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i
A Midsummer Idyll.
The Love Age By Dorothy Dix
A MAN wants to know what is the
AA love age in woman, and whether
a girl of sixteen is capable of en.
tertaining a deep and unchanging af
fection.
This is a hard question to answer,
for the love age in woman depends to
a great degree on race and climatic
conditions. In the tropics, where worn,
en mature early and age early, they
also love early, but among people of a
colder clime and blood sentiment is the
flower of a late spring.
Certainly in this latitude we should
not take any fourteen-year»old Juliet
seriously, and any sensible mam...a who
caught her daughter of that age hang
ing over the banisters w’htsperlng down
sizzling love speeches to some moon
struck Romeo would turn the forward
little minx across her knee and give her
a good spanking. That wmuld be about
the sort of love philtering that she
would get, and ninety-nine times out of
a hundred it would work a complete
and lasting cure.
Os course, every girl of sixteen be
lieves herself capable of the grand pas.
sion, just as she believes herself ca
pable of singing in grand opera, or ele
vating the stage, or, as one young miss
naively told me the other day she in
tended to do. of writing a great novel
that would change the nature of and
uplift every human being that read it.
But. in reality, she is as little capable
of doing the one as the other.
Possibly she may have within her a
great voice, or a great talent, or a great
ability t* love, but it is embryonic, un
developed, a promise and not a finished
performance.
To a girl of sixteen her mind -and
heart are as unknown a territory’ to her
as Darkest Africa. She has not yet
taken the measure of her own needs or
her own potentialities. She has no idea
of what she will demand of a man.
She is utterly, totally ignorant of her
self and of life, and the curse of her
Ignorance is that she does not know
that she doesn't know’, but believes her
self to be all wise.
She plays with love as with a new
and delightful toy, not knowing that it
is a thing that older people approach
with fear and trembling. She is en
chanted with new emotions, w’ith the
gratified vanity of being flattered and
made love to, and she is so facile in
imagination that she can throw the
rosy mantle of romance that she has
woven over anything in trousers that
pays court to her.
This is why very young girls elope
with their fathers’ chauffeurs, or marry
their dry-as-dust music masters, os
commit some other folly in the name of
love, before they have found out what
love really is.
But whether the man that a girl falls
in love with when she is sixteen will
continue to fire her fancy when she is
22 o 23 is just as much an uncertainty
as whether she will continue to have a
passion for strawberry jam and chew
ing gum after she gets out of the school
room. There are some women who
never get beyond the bread-and-butter
stage »f existence, but most women do,
and there Is nothing to which those
who have developed a taste for caviar
look back with such amusement and
shuddering horror as to the man with
whom they fancied themselves in love
when, they were sixteen.
Certainly the man who marries the
girl of sixteen takes a long shot at hap
t>ine>s. for lie Ims to take chances on
her changing ideals as she grows from
childhood to womanhood, and not many
of us are lucky enough to remain ideals
with those with whom w r e daily asso
ciate.
I should say that from 25 to 30 was
the real love time of a w oman's life, the
age at which one could be most sure
that when she loved she loved for
keeps By that time she has come to
herself. Her tastes are formed, her
character settled, and she knows w’hat
qualities she’ requires in a mate.
She is still young enough to have
her dreams untarnished, and to believe
in the high gods of romance. Her en
thusiasms are still at high tide, so that
she can give without counting tne cost,
but her heart is no longer a weather
cock to be blown about by every wind
of fancy. It is the full blown rose and
not tiie bud of love that she gives a
man, and lucky is he on whom it is be
stowed.
The girl of sixteen gets over an un
fortunate love affair as easily as she
does a disappointment about going to t
ball, but the woman of 25 or 30 who
loves deeply and truly never loves
again, and if any untoward thing hap
pens to blight her affection she goes
sorrowing and widowed in soul to the
grave.
Occasionally there is a woman who at
thirty-five is capable of great and
splendid love, but for the most part the
love springs have dried up In the heart
of her who has reached this age. Love
thrives best in an atmosphere of illu
sion, and the woman of thirty-five has
seen too much of life, and too much of
the sordid endings of her friends' ro-
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mances. She has heard John, who
raved over Kitty before they were mar
ried, raving over the household bills
after they were married. She has heard
the voice once used in quoting poetry
to Sally now employed solely in knock
ing Sally’s faults and weaknesses.
It is hard to believe in the contin
uance of love as we see it exemplified in
the matrimonial experiences with our
friends, and as we grow older w r e cease
to believe that special miracles wdll be
worked in our behalf and so the wom
an of thirty-five has little of enthu
siasm and less of faith to give to any
man. and she Is apt to regard a suitor
more from the eligible than the senti
mental point of view.
After fifty a woman is past the love
age. She is capable only of friendship,
but this may be of a character so true
and loyal, so fine and disinterested, so
faithful and so satisfying, that it is
more than a substitute for love It
may lack some of the thrills of youth
and love, but it is ful! of a peace that
passes all understanding, and blessed is
the man who is fortunate enough to
get It.
CASTOR IA
For Infants and Children.
The Kind You Have Always Bought
Advice to the Lovelorn
By Beatrice Fairfax
NOT A DESIRABLE MAN TO KNOW.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I ant going with a voting man
eighteen years old. He is very at
tentive to me, but becomes very
angry and does not speak to me
for a few days if I talk to other
young men. ANXIOUS.
You are paving the wav to a world
of trouble for yourself if you continue
to give him the right to be so tyran
nical.
Give him to understand, and prompt
ly, that you have a right to have other
interests and other friends. A tyrant
in love becomes a brute of a husband.
TELL HER AS YOU TOLD ME.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
1 am nineteen and deeply in love
with a girl one year my junior. She
has told me that she loved rhe. and
more than once since I have been
going with her, which is about
eight months. 1 would like to stop
going with her till I can get proper
employment to earn a living for
both of us. but I don't know just
how to tell her. C. L.
No news is bad news for a woman if
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Chautauqua offers splendid facilities for a
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Trains from the South make good connections In same
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A Traveling Passenger Agt.
, Atlanta, Ga.
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it is preceded with the avowal of her
sweetheart's love.
Tell her of your love, and of your
financial prospects, but don’t end" your
acquaintance till you have secured em
ployment. Such course m<y ctrsve fatal
to your Interest In each other. Ask her
to have faith and WAIT. Then go to »
work with a heart all the stronger and
a will all the more determined, because
you know she is waiting for you.
IT WOULD BE THE RIGHT THING.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I am eighteen and in love with a
lady of the same age. As I am
leaving for the West to make it my
permanent home, do you think it
proper that I should ask her if she
cared enough for me to wait till I
could make a comfortable living for
her? I have a fine opportunity of
working out there. WEST.
Ask her by all means. If she loves
you, it will be welcome news. And I
am sure that if she is the right kind of
a girl she will enjoy the period of wait
ing and planning. It is the happiest
period of love’s probation.
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