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C é, Gouverneur
'“Matrimony,” says Gertrude Atherton, “seems to be the only partnership where each
ems to think that individualism may run rampant and honesty is negligible. Such wo
en as Diana Manners—the charming but useless type presented by Mr. Morris in ‘The
ild Goose’ in Hearst’s Magazine—are really vivid, miasmatic weeds and should be up
oted from the gardens of civilization. A selfish, idle, extravagant, whining wife, or one |
asing excitement while technically intact is a good reason for permanent separation.” !
New York. Is Diana there?”
ething told him that Diana
t there, or she would by now
ible in the family group at
er end of the telephone,
a went to town yesterday.
you telephoned the apart
zght I'd try home first. Did
tend to come out to the coun
is afternoom, or don’t you
said she would try, But ot
you’'ll find her and bring her
ou can't very well say what
can you? But what brings
ck?”
e thing and another. Are you
11?2
y. Tam especially.”
't that fine!” he exclaimed.
that fine!”
it a moment. Tam seems to
she can speak now.” Again
ild’s shrill voice started up
ating of his heart.
nldn't believe it was you,”
id, “I was so excited.”
ish you could just see how
d father is,” said Manners.
shaking like a leaf on a tree.
e's going to come out to the
just as soon as ever he pos
can find mother and catch a
and of course the quicker
d T stop talking the quicker
nd mother, and so my own
g, good-by to you and take
re of yourself.” He stepped
the booth and gave the num-
Diana's apartment.
a's maid, Hilda, answered
nd told him that Mrs. Man
ad gone out for lunch; she,
could not say where. He
athered that when his wife
out to lunch she nearly al
came back about three. He
ounted somehow on getting
ch with Diana at once, and he
out of the _booth with an un
able feeling of depression.
ruth was that he was very
after his long journey across
ontinent; tired bodily, opti
:id mentally.
half past two when he put
his traveling bag in the tiny
ce hall of Diana’s apartment
oked at his watch. He would
» wait at least half an hour
he saw her. And if not in
able, it seemed at the least
portant period of time. He
most of it on his feet, and a
r hour (double the length of
If) as well.
were some new books on
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lhber. “Ogden,” she said, “come and meet my husband . . of all surprises!”
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1918,
the drawingroom table, and he
paused, in his caged prowlings, to
teumlne the titles: “Twinkletoes,”
“The Idiot,” “The Seven that Were
Hanged.” And when he haé looked
at the fly-leaves of these books
Manners knew that some one whom
Diana liked had given them to her,
because she had taken the trouble
to write her name in them. Would
she never come?
The first thing that he had no
ticed on entering the drawing room
was the photograph of himself in a
narrow silver-gilt frame that pre
viously Diana had always kept on
her dressing table,
“First she turns me out of her
room,” he had thought, “and now
she turns my picture out.”
But he had gone at once to see if
she had not substituted another
photograph of him which he knew
she liked better. She had not.
And he had feit childishly hurt.
He heard the hall door open, and
& moment later Diana’'s voice.
“Whose bag? Why, for heaven’s
sake. . . . Frank!"
Somehow he had already gath
ered that Diana was not alone. And
that knowledge damped the ardor
of the embrace with which he must
otherwise have greeted her.
“Why, Frank!” she said, “how
you frightened me!”
They had not really kissed. Their
cheeks had touched for a moment,
and now she had backed away
from him, and although she didn't
look in the least frightened, she
did look a little bewildered and
troubled. Then she remembered
her companion.
“Ogden,” she called, “come and
meet my husband . . of all the
surprises!”
A moment later she had intro
duced to her husband a man named
Fenn.
It is doubtful if at that moment
he made upon Manners a single dis
tinct impression of any kind. If he
seemed anything to Manners he
seemed shy, gentle, embarrassed
and very much in-the way. Ordi
narily Manners would have exert
ed himself to be amusing and po
lite. But he was really very tired,
the waiting had put his nerves on
edge, and the manner of his meet
ing with the woman whom he loved
with all his tender heart had been
very disappointing—that and the
photograph and everything took
from him his usual power of free
and easy speech. Diana came to
the rescue.
“I don't know what’s happened,”
she sald, “or why you are here.
But of course you want to go to the
country at once to see Tam, and |
suppose of course, that you want
me to go with you.”
“Of course,” he said, and turned
to Fenn. “I'm awfully sorry to be
in the way; but I am and it can’t
be helped.”
Mr. Fenn sald something about
“only going to the movies,” and re
lapsed at once into a gentle and
embarrassed silence. It was"” ob
vious that he wanted to get away
and that he did not know how
Manners helped him. He thrust
out his hand.
“I'm awfully sorry,” he said. “It’s
horrid of me, but I haven't seen my
wife and baby for months and
months. And I know you’ll under
stand. Awfully glad to have met
you."” '
Mr. Fenn turned somewhat awk
wardly toward the door. Diana
smiled briglitly at him and said:
“Sorry, Ogden, 'nother time!”
She seemed to be no more inter
ested in his departure than if he
had been the paperhanger, and she
turned to her husband still smiling.
But the smile dreoped a little at
the corners, and Manners was
shocked to observe that Diana
really looked as if she might be
thirty. His irritation and his dis
appointment faded before a feeling
of pity and compassion. His Diana
was tired, and she wasn’t looking
well, and she wasn’t happy, and he
couldn’t make her happy. He had
never seen her look so badly. Even
her color was not good.
“You've been overdoing, dear,”
he said. Usually she would have
denied the imputation or shrugged
it aside. But she didn’t this time.
She said: “Shouldn’t wonder.,” And
she added: “How you did frighten
me!”
Almost immediately she left him
to pack the little bag which served
her as a sort of.ink between what
she kept in town and what she left
in the country, and Manners, hav
ing lit a cigarette, resumed his caged
prowlings. In the telling Ameri
can of it he felt “All in,” “Sunk.”
Diana had not been pleasantly sur
prised. During his absence he had
gained no ground with her. She
had been sadder at parting than
she was glad at meeting. He
wished to ask her at once what
was the matter. But he knew
that Hilda was with her and that
he must wait. It seemed to him
that he had had to do almost more
waiting in his life than anyone he
knew. His had been enforced wait
ings. He could never during any
one of them have had the satisfac
‘ tlon of saying with Ravenswood, “I
bide my time.” He bided his times,
indeed, but only because he was
made to.
He went softly to her bedroom
door. But she had not finished
packing and Hilda was with her.
“Most finished?” he asked.
“Almost,” she said. “We'll have
to get some things at the Parlor
Market. Do you mind? You see,
We weren't either of us expected to
night.”
Manners returned to the drawing
room; but this time he had not long
to wait. He would not let Hilda
help him with the bags, and Diana
went ahead to open the doors. He
took it for granted that Diana had
ordered a taxi. What an able little
person she was, There wag noth
ing that she couldn’t get done! If
only she wouldn’t scatter her en
ergy so! How wonderful if she had
put it all into building up a home;
all her energy, all her ability, all
her charm and loveliness!
They were no sooner in the taxi
than he took her hand in his, and
he held it all the way to the Parlor
Market, and thereafter to the Penn
eylvania Station. “I'm tired and
fussed,” he explained, “and it goes
right through me and soothes me.
If you only knew how I love you!”
He felt a faint pressure from her
fingers, and she said very quietly
and gravely:
“I do know, Frank.”
In the old wonderful days she
would have looked at him with
those wonderful blue eyes of hers,
eyes that were sometimes gay and
imploring at the same moment, and
she might have answered:
“If you only knew how I love
you!”
“Diana, dear,” he said, “there’s
something on your mind, something
that’s troubling you.” )
But she saild there was nothing,
And he believed her. Having her
say definitely that there was noth
ing. was a real relief to him. She
qualified her denial.
“It's been a little hard about
money,” she said. “That Chicago
person has never sent the cheque
for his«wife's portrait.”
“Why, you poor child!” exclaimed
Manners, “I supposed, of course,
that you had -that.”
“I knew how much you had to
worry you,” said Diana.” “And so I
Just did the best I could without it.
But I never knew anything about
Mmoney before. And you can be sure
of one thing. I'm not going to be
extravagant any more.”
It was the first time that she had
eéver made a positive promise of
reform about anything. Her usual
formula was; “Why, I suppose I'll
have to try; but I don’t suppose I
can.”
Somehow that promise, though
she had phrased it in the form of a
mere statement, made him feel as
if a barrier was breaking down be
tween them. Now at last she un
derstood that his complaints about
her extravagance had not been
those of a mean and ill-natured
man, but of one who had been
sorely tried and harassed. But he
< merely squeezed her hand and said:
“Then we'll be out of debt in no
time.”
As the short journey drew toward
an end all Manners’s feelings ot
fatigue and oppression left him. It
wouldn’t be long now before he
would see Tam, and hear her voice,
and carry her upward—leaping to
his breast, and hold her as tightly
as he dared, and his long, wearl
some journey would end in at least
one meeting of lovers. He became
80 immersed in anticipation of that
happy event that he found diffi.
culty in finding topics for conver
sation. He asked random ques
tions about things and persons, and
his mind made no records of
Diana’s answers, He would ask her
many of those same questions the
next day when they went for their
walk, and she would say, “But you
asked me that yesterday!” And he
would have no recollection of hav
ing asked her,
“Who's Fenn?” he asked.
“There were a lot of them when
I was little, They went West. And
this one has only been in New York
a short while, He's very shy.'
“l thought he seemed ill-at-ease
But that was natural enough; find
ing me there was awkward.”
But Manners at this time was not
fn the least interested in Fenn.
“Everything all right at the
farm?”
“Yes. But McCoy is clamoring
for wages. His letters are really
outrageous.”
'l'-l‘: doesn’t mean to be impert)-
nent, and he's really devoted to us.
Seen a lot of Mary Hastings?”
“Not very much—somehow.”
“Pshaw! 1 love to have you see
her.”
A momentary vision of the fa
mous Mrs. Hastings arose before
his mind’'s eye. Her beauty was a
real joy to him. He had always
proclaimed that she wae the most
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“One thing is as sure as anything can be,” said Manners. “I am certainly going to dine with two
extremely beautiful women.”
beautiful woman In the world. She
Was Diana’s closest friend; she had
4 splendid influence on Diana, and
it hurt him to think that they had
not been seeing very much of each
other,
And now the hack which they had
hired turned into the short shady
driveway that led to their house.
And he spoke no more. Before the
hack had stopped he was out of it,
abandoning Diana and the luggage.
He tore open the front door, and
rushed into the hall erying: “Tam!
Tam! Tam!”
And there came a rush of little
feet and a shrill voice crying “My
Fazzer! My Fazzer!” And then
they were in each other’s arms, and
somehow it could be seen that they
were one flesh, one blood, one heart,
one soul, and that God had made
them for each other.
Neither Diana nor her mother,
who had come out of the library
where she had been trying to keep
Tam quiet, looked at them, For
there was a kind of holiness about
their rapture which it was not fit
ting for mortal eyes to behold.
And then he was sitting, and had
Tam astride of his knees facing
him, and their eyes glistened very
brightly with delight. He had de
manded that she tell him every
thing that she had been doing, but
because for her the Winter had had
but one tremendously important
event it was about that that she
told him.
“Once,” she said, “Muzzer took
me to town to spend the night.
And Mr. Fenn took us to the Hip
podrome, and there was a giant and
a dwarve, and I stayed up till the
middle of the night!”
Something of Manners's gladness
went right out of him,
“Oh, Diana,” he cried, “how could
you? I'm so disappointed.”
“Tam was s 0 crazy to go,” said
Diana. “She talked of nothing else.”
“But she can only go to the
theatre for the first time in her
life-—once,” sald Manners, “and |
did so want to be there that time.
Who,” he asked, with the least
trace of temper in his voice, “is
this Mr, Fenn who comes along and
gobbles up my privileges?”
“He's awful nice,” said Tam, *'n
he can blow wings.”
But Manners had forgotten Fenn
and the Hippodrome and his dlisap
pointment, and with an “Oh, my
darling!”" he had once more clasped
his little daughter.to his breast.
Between kissing Tam good-night
and dinnertime there was half an
hour during which Manners and his
mother-in-law sat in front of the
library fire and talked about Diana.
At night, at & little distance, Mrs,
Langham was still beautiful. Her
back was perfectly straight and her
small head was rplendidly erect
The gray hair hardly showed
against the light brown; she was
slender and always becomingly
dressed. Like Diana, she was ex
traordinarily neat. Manners had
only one fault to find with his
mother-in-law; she was almost wil
fully inclined to Indulge Tam and
to spoll her.
“Diana seems to be dead-beat.”
he saild. “I do wish she wasn't so
restiess.”
“It's the vice of her generation™
eald Mrs, Langham. “You suffer
from it yourself, Frank”
“I keep it in bounds and make it
paint pictures.”
“If Diana only had something to
do. Restlessness is a symptom of
idleness. And, like any bad habit,
the more it's Indulged in the worse
it grows.”
“She has something on her mind,”
said Manners. “Have you thought
that? Something is troubling her.
I've asked her to tell me what it is,
but she says there’'s nothing.” He
laughed, but not mirthfully. “She’ll
tell me,” he said, “when she gets
good and ready and not before.”
“You'd-hate me,” said Manners,
“if I took her back to California
with me.”
“No. But I should decline abso
lutely to be responsible for Tam in
the meanwhile. I have brought up
five children of my own, thank
you.”
“l sometimes wish,” said Man
ners, “that once in a while you had
corrected one of your children with
a rod.”
“Poor Mr. Langham and 1 told
you at the time that you were mar
rying a handful.”
A smile of great sweetness stole
over Manners's face. He rose and
stood with his back to the fire, still
smiling.
“And good Lord,” he said, “how
I still love her!”
What Happens Next?
You can follow the story of Diana and Francis Man
ners from the point where this first instalment leaves
them by turning to page 253 of Hearst’s Magazine for
October, now on the newsstands. The Wild Goose is
only one of four great serials now running in
Hearst's—Elinor Glyn, Leroy Scott, Rex Beach and
Gouveneur Morris! Besides the best collection of
short stories and win-the-war articles to be found.
Ask your newsdealer for HEARST’S to-day.
It was at this moment that Diana
appeared in the doorway. She had
had a hot bath and looked re
freshed. Whether she had color or
not made a great difference in
Diana's looks. How bright and
crisp her dark-brown hair was, and
how charmingly she carried her
head.
“l think dinner’s ready,” she sald.
“If it 18,” #aid her husband, “then
one thing is as sure as anything
can be. 1 am going to dine with
two extremely pretty women.”
ile had an arm for each of them
and he hurried them, laughing and
protesting, to the dining-room.
Diana had very little to say., She
announced, however, that she was
dead-tired and that she was going
to bed right after dinner. Manners
glanced at that bright brown head,
and wondered for the hundredth
time that day just what particular
troubling thought it contained. It
he had known his heart would have
stood still.
Diana looked calm and serene.
What would Manners have thought
if she had yielded to the impulse
which was urging her to leap to her
feet, to throw down the candle
sticks, to smash glasses and to
geream: “For God's sake, let me
go! I want to die! 1 want to die!'”
Dinner was short, but although
Manners and Mrs. Langham kept
up an energetic :‘nvarutlon, it
passed slowly, Calm and serene
though she seemed, Diana could not
altogether deceive her mother and
her husband; and she, equally
versed In their moods and habits
of mind, knew their talk and laugh
ter for the pretense they were.
“The quicker I leave these young
things together,” thought Mrs.
Langham, “to blow the clouds away
or kiss them away, the better.”
And shortly after dinner she
wished them good-night upon a plea
of letter writing, and ascended to
her room, humming gayly as she
went. But there was no gayety in
her; neither did she write any let
ters. For a long time now she had
felt she was living over a volcano.
She could only hide this feeling
from others. Alone in her own
room the corners of her handsome,
courageous mouth drooped. And it
wae an old woman who that night
lay down at twelve o’clock in her
narrow bed and slept no wink till
after four,
“And I'm going up, too,” sald
Diana, almost immediately after
the sound had come to them of Mrs.
Langham's door closing. “I sup
pose you'll be stopping in to say
good-night to me?”
She met his look bravely, and
'ven waved to him from the stalr.
He could not know that when she
lad closed the door of her room she
Iropped on her knees by the bed,
ind began to sob like a broken
-learted child,
There was still so much of the
‘hild in Diana that she cried all the
Ime she was undressing and loop
ng up her hair for the night, and
\fter she had washed her face with
wold water she crled some more,
and had to wash it again. From
ler prayers she rose, not with pla
idity and resignation in her face,
ut with resentment., Of the short
ived look of refreshedness that had
ollowed her hot bath there was no
onger any trace, There were dark
ircles under her eyes, and she
voked haggard.
Her husband came to her pres.
sutly in his pajamas an/ a long
wrapper of white toweling. He
seated himself on the edge of the
hed and 'nok both her hands in his.
He looked into her eyes for a long
ime, and it seemed to him that in
thelr blue depths he could detect
fear and animosity. The beating
of his heart became less emphatic.
“Diana, dear,” he said, “you are
tond of me, aren't you?”
“I don't think you know how fond
»f you I am,” she sald.
He leaned over her and slid his
oft arm under her shoulders, In
his right hand he still held both
hers.
“Diana, darling,” he said, “doesn’t
t make any difference that I love
you with my whole heart and soul?
“It makes a lot of difference,
Frank.”
He loosed her hands and took her
altogether into his arms. His face
dropped to hers, but she turned
hers away, sc that it was her cheek
that he kissed, and in the same in-.
stant of time he knew that she had
begun to cry.
Francis Manners had his great
moments, and the passion that
shook him turned, as at the touch
of a magician’s wand, into pity and
chivalry. He rubbed his cheek
against hers, and almost in his
natural voice he said:
“l know how tired you are, dar
ling. I'm only saying good-night.”
He lowered his arms from about
her, and rose once more to a sitting
position. Diana neither looked nor
spoke her gratitude. She never did.
In certain ways the grave itself
could be no more reluctant to dis
close its secrets than Diana. As a
matter of fact she was so grateful
to her husband that she dared not
speak about it. He smiled upon her
so sweetly that his smile had in it
something of the angelic. And her
heart, at once wayward and com
passionate, was tortured with re
morse.
Soon after he had left her she fell
into the sleep that follows mental
exhaustion. Her last thoughts
were of the many great hurts she
had done her husband. And before
sleeping she, whom he had never
suspected of making a resolution
of any kind, made many noble and
wonderful resolutions, all with his
bhappiness in view, and believed
that this time she would keep them.
In moments of dejection Manners
believed that for his wife such
words as “compassion, mercy, pity,
self.sacrifice, justice” had no mean
ing whatever, when the truth was
that they held for her so much
meaning that her repeated fallures
to be compassionate, mereciful, piti
ful, self-sacrificing and just tor.
mented her. It .was a pity that
Diana was so inarticulate. Her
husband thought that he knew her
ke a book. He did not know her
at all,
Some such moment of dejection
was upon Manners now. His chiv
alrous mood had been succeeded by
one of discouragement and self
pity, and the man whose last smile
had had in it something of the an
gelie looked now extremely human
and cross. “That was no way for
a wife to welcome a husband when
he'd bheen away for months and
months!” “Wowdn't you think
she'd want to make up to me for
all the hurts she's given me?”
“Damn all this modern restlessness,
and all this business about peopls
who ought to be one feeling that
they must live their own sacred,
selfish, separate lives in their own
way.” With such thoughts he
worked himself into a rage. The
blood got into his head and he
could not sleep, “I've loved her for
twenty years,” he thought. “I've
been faithful. I've supported her,
and worked my hands off for her,
and it means nothing to her. Noth
ing!” )
It was a pity that he could not
have known that that very love of
his, which she did actually at times
seem to hold in guch small esteem,
had more than once waved her
back from the brink of a precipice
toward which she was rushing.
(This story is continued In ths
October Issue of Hearsi's Maga
zine, now on the newsstands.)
5