Betty's eyes shone.
"O, I hope that you will. It's wonderful to feel sure and safe about everything that you believe. If you think I'm so young, it's no use talking. But I'll remember your promise when I come to New York."
"How do you know that the Church will send you to New York?"
"Because I've asked God to make it so," she answered simply.
Dr. Cadman sighed.
"How beautiful is youth, how bright it gleams! There! I won't say the rest!"
"O, but I know it," laughed Betty. "With all it's illusions, aspirations, dreams! You know that reminds me of an old woman, with false hair, false teeth, and wrinkles, whining over her lost beauty! Why are people so sickly in poetry! Do you know what I would like that second line to be?"
"Out with it," laughed Cadman.
Betty's eyes danced with merriment.
"How beautiful is youth, how bright it gleams,Except to sour old fogies, who failed to catch sunbeams!"
"How beautiful is youth, how bright it gleams,Except to sour old fogies, who failed to catch sunbeams!"
"So, Miss Betty, I'm a sour old fogie?" asked Dr. Cadman laughing.
Betty blushed furiously.
"Oh, no, I didn't meanyou," she said quickly.
"It's well that you didn't, young lady," returned Cadman, greatly amused with this child of the hills.
"Now to change the subject, do you know anyone in New York?"
"Only one perfect lovely lady," returned Betty. "She came to Ephraim two years ago, and preached so wonderfully—everyone gave up their beer, and some their pipes. I did love her so! I've written but she's never answered. I suppose that she's moved, or that I have the wrong address."
"What's her name?"
"Mrs. Webster Catt."
"Not a pleasant name," said Cadman, "I'll keep my eye open for her, and when I locate her, I'll let you know."
"O, thank you so much!" exclaimed Betty, "Look! A storm is coming up over the mountain. Is it not wonderful?"
"Let us rest here on the rock and watch it," said Cadman. "We have time to get home after."
So together they watched the storm approach.
At first the entire mountain seemed overhung with black, ominous clouds. The great calm preceding a storm filled the atmosphere, making it heavy and foreboding.
"It's just like a heart before a great sorrow, isn't it?" she asked dreamily.
"What is?" asked Cadman vaguely.
"Why, every mountain has a heart, you know," answered Betty. "Now she feels a terrible premonition. Something is wrong. She's brooding over it."
Cadman looked up at the clouds in silence.
A lurid streak of lightning lit up the darkness. Another, and another, each more vivid than the last!
"Look! Her great sorrow strikes her! Lash upon lash! It hurts her—it is so vivid and sharp!"
"Fanciful child!" exclaimed Cadman, following the girl's gaze with interest.
"Suddenly there was a rift in the clouds,—the black masses rolled apart from each other and a soft, snowy cloud appeared.
"Now, what?" asked Cadman curiously.
"A friend has come," returned Betty quietly. "A sweet comforting friend, trying to console and help her."
The black clouds assumed a beautiful purple hue, and the white one gradually became the palest pink.
"See! she's letting in a little sunshine, and the sorrow isn't quite so black!" continued the child.
Another flash of lightning and a distant rumbling of thunder!
"Ah! she's hurt again! But see! The friend stays!"
"Can you see the rain?" asked Cadman. "It's coming down hard on the other side of the mountain!"
"Yes, in spite of her friend, she's crying her heart out. She's so unhappy!"
Then in the most brilliant hues, two long rain-bows arched their colors over the mountain, throwing a radiance through the darkness that was gloriously beautiful!
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Cadman, contemplating this western scene with delight. "What now, little one?" he asked.
"God's love," said Betty softly. "God's love, casting it's beauty over every sorrow however dark!"
Cadman looked at her in silence,—then he stood up and took her hands.
"Come Betty, let us get home now,—you'll be tired, working your brain and body on this your first day out!"
So hand in hand they walked home, not saying much,—Cadman wishing he could linger one week longer in this primitive little town, and Betty feeling vaguely sad at the thought of parting with her new found friend.
*****
Alone in her room, Betty stood gazing at herself in her mirror. She saw a tear-stained face and dejected countenance with large, sad eyes.
"Now, Betty Emmit," she said to herself, in a low sobbing voice, "Will it do you one bit of good to cry? That won't bring him back. He's gone, gone, gone! You might as well dry your tears, and brace up and try to be of some use to somebody. Just a few years and you'll go to New York—a real grown young lady, and who knows? Maybe—" here a smile flashed across her tear stained face and Betty blushed.
Then she took from her bureau a photo of her ideal friend. Dr. Cadman's eyes seemed to smile at her re-assuringly.
"Yes, stranger things have happened," she said feeling a little less unhappy. "I must pray every night that God will make it possible!"
To Betty, God was her constant ever-present friend, and her every desire went straight to the Heavenly Throne, so tonight, what she would not have breathed to her mother, was as naturally spoken of in prayer as her most ordinary desire!
And so she undressed for bed, and before seeking rest, she knelt down in the moonlight and with her usual prayers added tremulously, "Dear Father, you know how I love him. Someday let me be his wife for all eternity!" One hour later, Mrs. Emmit peeped in to discover Betty fast asleep with Dr. Cadman's picture clasped close to her breast. The moonlight made sweeter the smile on Betty's face.
"Poor Betty," murmured the mother in sympathy. "She does take such deep affections—we'll all miss him, but not like she will!" and so only half understanding the heart of her own child, she gently closed the door and left Betty to her dreams.
Society's Nothingness and Its Sacrifice.
Our scenes change to New York, six years later, "Bridge" at Mrs. Lambert's! Every lady within her circle of friends, rejoiced when the date for such an event occurred. First, because Mrs. Lambert was at all times a charming hostess. Second, and chiefly, she was as generous as she was charming. At her affairs, the prizes offered were the most expensive the society season of that special set produced.
Now, Mrs. Lambert was in her glory today. She was about to entertain a guest of importance, namely. Miss Edith Esterbrook, twenty-year-old daughter of a very wealthy and distinguished family, for whom she had many years possessed a "social longing." Through careful and tactful maneuvers the great privileged intimacy with the Esterbrooks was at last established, and today, for the first time, Mrs. Lambert could introduce Miss Edith to her willing circle. The few times that she had met the girl, she noticed her quiet reserved beauty with a sort of awe. Rumor declared that society counted her an intellectual bore and only tolerated her for her family's sake. But that mattered little to Mrs. Lambert's aspiring mind. The only daughter of the Esterbrooks could afford to be eccentric. Her individual character was the last consideration.
A half hour before the guests arrived, the hostess descended to the parlors. Hastily she scanned the tables for card-playing, and noticed with satisfaction that her new maid had intelligence enough to arrange every detail most satisfactorily. Then she walked over to the long table in the farthest room, and inspected the array of refreshments spread daintily for a buffet luncheon. Everything conceivably appropriate was there to tempt the most fastidious tastes of the "bridge players." There was absolutely nothing to criticize—the arrangement was perfect—and Mrs. Lambert trilled a gay little song in a low happy contralto, as she sailed through the large spacious rooms, to view herself in the long mirror.
Her dark, massive brown hair was thrown gracefully back in a full fluffy pompadore effect. Beneath this luxuriance, a face of sensitive delicate beauty smiled contentedly. The small, irregular features seemed perfectly in harmony, one with the other, and the dark blue eyes were kind.
The world had used Mrs. Lambert well, and with customary ease, she had used the world well; that is, that part of the world which she met daily in her own sphere. There was absolutely nothing aggressive in her nature. She would not care to search to find out how "the other half lived." Her nature was the type that smiles impartially on all and calmly sums up the philosophy of life in one trite phrase—"Live and let live." From her earliest remembrance, she was admired, petted and loved, and now after nine years of married life, her husband was still obedient to her every capricious whim.
The "outer woman" responded quickly to all this lavished happiness, but the "inner woman" possessed the restless spirit which such dormant life creates, and only was her light gay temperament preserved by a constant searching after and indulging in petty excitement.
As the mirror reflected back her graceful figure, charming even in the difficult lines of the strictly "Directoire," she noticed with a childish petulant frown, that the pale blue satin was not dark enough to enhance the color of her eyes.
"Pshaw!" she exclaimed softly. "My eyes must be changing either in color or in sight. I thought I had matched them perfectly. Perhaps it is the light."
But turn her graceful head as she would, the eyes still looked darker than the dress. She gave a little sigh and dismissed the frown. Then she turned from the mirror, and dropped into a soft nest of cushions in a cozy window seat.
As the bell announced an arrival, Mrs. Lambert slowly arose while the maid opened the door.
"May I speak with Mrs. Lambert, please?" asked a soft, gentle voice, and Mrs. Lambert caught a glimpse of Miss Esterbrook, as she entered the foyer and turned toward the reception room.
The hostess immediately came forward, graciously extending her hand in welcome.
"I'm so glad to see you have come early. It will indeed be a pleasure to visit a little while before the game starts," she said.
At a glance she took in the general pleasing effect of the tall slim figure, and graceful poise of the head, massed with an abundance of golden hair. Her face of the Madonna type, was rather too pale in its fairness, but deep violet eyes lent color and its sweet expressiveness was attractive.
"I don't know how to tell you why I have come so early," she returned in a natural, musical voice, quite exceptional in these days of high staccato and affected tremolos. "Indeed, when you planned this reception for me, I ought to have guessed you would entertain with 'Bridge.' But you didn't mention it to me, and thoughtlessly I did not ask. Afterwards, mother received cards, but she mislaid them. She did not mention the game until today. Can you forgive me when I tell you that I do not play 'Bridge?'"
"You do not play 'Bridge?'" asked Mrs. Lambert incredulously. For a moment she searched her guest's face in silent astonishment, her cheeks flushing hotly with the thought of the social defeat this afternoon would bring.
The violet eyes never wavered but smiled kindly as they noticed her hostess' evident embarrassment.
"No, I do not play, but if you will let me stay and assist you entertain, I shall feel that my sin is forgiven."
Mrs. Lambert sighed relief. "O, if you will stay," she replied smiling once more at ease, "we will all be so glad to teach you."
"I thoroughly understand the game," answered the girl gravely, "I have always enjoyed it, but I have been persuaded to give it up—a matter of conscience entirely, and two weeks ago I promised to never play again."
Mrs. Lambert's face rippled with amusement.
As her maid took the guest's wrap, Mrs. Lambert linked her arm cordially into that of Miss Esterbrook.
"Come, we have just ten minutes to ourselves. I want you to sit by me, and confidentially tell me just how wicked I am—for I adore 'Bridge!'"
Edith felt the charm of the elder woman, and she smiled brightly as they seated themselves in the cozy window seat.
"I fear I could not persuade you," she said thoughtfully, "We all look at things from different standpoints, do we not?"
"Then from what standpoint could you prove my 'Bridge' playing wrong?" Mrs. Lambert asked, dropping her playful mood, and becoming momentarily interested.
The dark eyes seemed to deepen their color, and an intensely earnest expression pervaded her countenance.
"Mrs. Lambert, is noteverythinga sin which cultivates a small conception of life? Is it not a blight on our social life, that women delight in spending all their spare afternoons in playing cards?"
"I see no harm in such a means to sociability. We must have something to bring us together," Mrs. Lambert replied quietly.
"You have spoken the truth," Edith returned gravely. "We must havesomethingto bring us together, and thatsomethinghas by common consent become a profitless game of cards. Where has that spirit of womanhood flown that prompted our mothers and grandmothers to gather together in sewing bees, or in musical cliques, or even in reading afternoons?"
Mrs. Lambert puckered her brow in mock despair.
"O, my dear girl, you find fault with us for taking life a little easier than our grandmothers, who used to work even in their playtime, while their husbands sat by and smoked. I really think that we ought to congratulate ourselves that we have learned to enjoy ourselves a little and let the men do the hustling."
Edith relaxed her thoughts and smiled slightly. "I see you are determined to be amused at me," she said pleasantly. "There may come a day when women will find a still greater way to enjoy life. I am not so sure that we are happier for your boasted advancement."
"Not happier, but less unhappy," Mrs. Lambert returned with the slightest shade in her laughing eyes.
"Ah; that is it!" the girl responded eagerly. "But won't you drop these wasteful days? Why don't you choose thehappiest, thebest?"
She had forgotten herself in her enthusiasm, and had leaned forward, placing her hand on the other's arm detainingly.
Mrs. Lambert's petulant frown gathered quickly.
"You speak as though persuading me from some fearful sin," she returned coldly.
Edith drew her hand away and a crimson flush surmounted her face.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Lambert, I speak too freely. You are offended. But I thought that you wouldn't mind."
For a moment Mrs. Lambert looked intently down at the girl's downcast face. The frown slowly vanished. Then the old sunny smile came back, and her hand impulsively sought that of Edith's.
"No, I'm not offended. You are just too new for me, that is all. New things always irritate me. I like the smooth and trodden path. But you must talk with me again some time." She laughed softly. "On top I don't like it at all, but down deep, it feels real good and refreshing. You are like a whiff of fresh air in a long closed room. I don't like the draught, but I do like the fresh air! Can you understand?"
Edith laughed a genuine girlish laugh.
"Then we must not open the window too suddenly!" she exclaimed brightly, and the two women looked frankly into each other's eyes.
The guests arriving prevented further conversation.
Edith found herself introduced to about fifty ladies, all of whom were "charmed" to meet her. She was very much accustomed to meeting strangers who were desirous of knowing the daughter of Mr. Esterbrook, but she cared little for these affairs. She enjoyed meeting individuals, but not numbers. When the room became full of chatty women, all indulging in the same light small talk, Edith became bored. She tried not to show it. Unconsciously she assumed an air of quiet reserve, which some mistook for hauteur. So, in spite of her beauty, she was not popular, and had she not borne the name of Esterbrook, society would have frozen her out. This afternoon she tried to be pleasing, but it was at best a forced attempt. The girl so animated and at home before the guests arrived, became silent and constrained when the room was filled. This irritated Mrs. Lambert considerably.
When asked by most of the ladies individually, "Why,surelyyou play Bridge?"—Edith seemed capable of only one reply, "Yes, but I have been persuaded to never play again." The ladies raised their brows and exchanged glances. Most of them had heard that Edith was eccentric, so they asked no further questions. It seemed to Mrs. Lambert that she might have given some other reply—not just to show her disapproval of the game that they all enjoyed. The momentary understanding between Edith and herself was soon almost entirely erased by impatience at the girl's frankness.
However, with the guests, the game soon became all absorbing. Of course "Bridge" players of the "Mediocre Social Set" are not for a moment considered gamblers. The prizes are simply the token of good-will from the hostess to her guests. But considering this truth, it was wonderfully interesting to note the zest and feverish excitement with which these ladies played for two long hours. After each game, five minutes' relaxation took place, in which precious moments, the ladies sauntered up to the refreshment table and renewed their energy for the next onslaught. While munching various sweet nothings, they exchanged light appropriate gossip, and learned the minor details concerning friend or foe, as only a "Bridge" could reveal. At last the final game was to be played. All became still as death, and every eye watched the play of each card with feverish excitement. For many, this last game meant the decision for a prize in their favor. O no! these ladies were not gamblers! They were there for the social gathering—the game was a mere pastime! But how interesting would be a "Bridge" partywithoutprizes? Have you ever tried it, hostess? Would you have the courage? In the same breath that you assure me, "My friends are not gamblers," I hear you say, "But a bridge without prizes would fallsoflat!"
When the guests were all departed, Mrs. Lambert dressed for dinner in a rather petulant mood. Her afternoon was decidedly a failure. The main object of the entertainment was to introduce Miss Esterbrook to her own circle, and to feel the honor of the introduction belonged to herself. After all her anticipations, her friends showed plainly their decided indifference to Edith.
Mr. Lambert's non-appearance at the dinner-hour added to her ruffled mood.
For one hour she awaited him in her boudoir. During that time, she gave herself up to thoughts now irritating, now pensive. While waiting, she lolled in a nest of cushions. She looked very alluring in her soft, cream-colored gown, and even the little frown, flitting with her thoughts, did not lessen the charm of her childish beauty.
Edith's words came persistently to her mind—"Why don't you choose the happiest, the best?" The words had a disturbing effect. They insinuated that she,—Alma Lambert—was not choosing the happiest and best.
It is strange how our lives often prepare us for a certain phrase to strike home. So the last month had prepared Alma. If she had met Edith two months sooner, scarcely would her question have been noticed. Anyway, it would have been laughed at as eccentric and prudish, and then been forgotten. But the last month had brought a disturbing element into Alma's even existence. Her husband's irritability, so unprecendented in a man of such unbounded good-nature, was a surprisingly new condition to be met with. Often he would come home, tired and haggard, and after the usual fond greeting and caress, he would begin quite unreasonably to talk of money and business depression.
When she declared she did not like to talk or hear about business affairs, he would give some biting reply that made her wince, as if struck by a lash. Before, he had always laughed at her indifference, but he suddenly changed, demanding her interest in all kinds of stupid details.
She couldn't understand this change in him. She didn't try to understand it. But she felt the unpleasantness of the atmosphere, and vague fears of a coming storm shook her habitual complacency.
To night she was more fearful than usual.
An hour after dinner-time, and her husband not home! It had happened many times lately, but never without a telephoned excuse.
"Why don't you choose the best, the happiest?"
The thought brought a little stab from conscience. Perhaps she was not sympathetic enough—perhaps she ought to show more interest in her husband's business, and that made him unlike himself.
It was a new thought that brought a doubt of herself. She was accustomed to receive affection and to give it only in return. But now circumstances determined differently.
They urged her to take the initiative. This was not easy for her to do, but she longed for the old easy way of loving and spoiling. Perhaps this vague longing and unrest prompted her to surprise her husband to-night, with an extra show of patience and affection. Doubtless he would come home in one of his unattractive moods.
A big sigh of relief accompanied her resolve, and she murmured gently,
"Will is a good old boy anyway, and has always done everything I wished." That summed up her ideal of a perfect husband. So she concluded to spoil him a little in return.
The door opened and Will Lambert entered. Alma started from her nest of cushions.
"Why, Will, how pale you are!" she said kindly, holding out both hands as he came towards her.
He took them both and put them to his lips. Then he kissed the cherry mouth, raised sweetly to his.
"Fatigue and hunger, darling," he said in a weary voice.
"Come then to dinner. I have not dined. Just waited and worried over you. Why didn't you telephone?"
"I didn't intend to be late. Have been walking the streets for an hour, thinking, thinking, thinking. Forgot the hour entirely!"
"Will! Walking the streets! What can possess you!"
"An evil spirit doubtless," he returned with a sad attempt to smile.
During the meal, his color returned and he talked considerably. But Alma noticed his tone was forced, and his dark deep-set eyes had a new haunted expression.
"Where is Harold?" he suddenly asked, looking at the empty chair where their eight year old boy usually sat.
"Harold! why Will, dear, what is making you so strange? You know he retires two hours before this."
"O yes," he replied absently. "I missed the little fellow—that is all. Never thought about the time."
Alma contemplated her husband with a sort of pity.
"He's so worn out, he really acts queer," she thought with a new consideration possessing her.
Dinner over, they retired to their cozy library where the logs burned brightly and all looked cheerful comfort.
"Come, dear," said Alma, drawing his big chair nearer to the fire, and placing a cushion for his feet.
Will looked his surprise. Never before had she attempted to wait upon him. He had always been the willing slave.
"Thank you, dear," he said tenderly, and he dropped his stalwart form into the chair with relief.
Alma reached for his paper and then drew a cigar from the stand. Both she handed to him smiling.
He took them but laid them aside.
"No, no, Alma. I want only you to-night." And he drew her down lovingly into his lap.
Could it be possible that her slight effort had brought back the old perfect order of things again? Will was his old self, lovingly tender, to-night. Weary, yes, but not the slightest irritable. He looked at her long and fixedly for a few moments and she returned his gaze with a sweet questioning smile.
"Alma, I'm fearfully worried to-night over business."
"Forget it. Will," she said lightly, placing her cool hand on his hot forehead. "You say you only wantme—then think only ofme."
"As usual, you don't want to be bothered talking about it," he said with a shade of impatience.
"No, no. Will" she answered quickly. "Iwantto talk with you to-night. You must tell me every ugly detail. Perhaps I can help you."
He held her out at arms' length, and eyed her curiously.
"Whence this change? Too bad it didn't come sooner. It is too late now," he said cynically.
Alma felt hurt. Her first attempt to be unselfish he repulsed. Her little petulant frown appeared, and the light died from her eyes.
Instantly his tone changed. Drawing her face down to his, he murmured tenderly,
"Smile, dearest. I need it. Yes, the change has come too late, but thank God it has come. You will have many chances to show your courage, dear."
She drew away from him like a frightened child.
"O, Will, whatisgoing to happen?"
"God alone knows, Alma." Then his eyes shot a sudden fire and the grasp of his hand hurt.
"Alma, whatever does happen, remember that you are mine,—mine always! Tell me, could you ever forgetthat?" he questioned almost fiercely.
Alma's sensitive form quivered, and her eyes filled. She tried to draw her hands away, but he held them firm.
"You frighten me, Will. Of course I'm always yours. What troubles you, dear?" she asked tremulously.
A great tenderness superseded his sterner mood. He folded her gently in his arms.
"You have said it, dear. I am so doubtful about everything to-night. I was almost foolish enough to think you wouldn't."
Her white arms lovingly encircled his neck and he could feel her tears wet his face.
"Dear Will, I love you—more to-night than ever. I don't know why. Something new has come to me—a sort of mother-love for my poor, tired Will."
Never had he known her in such a mood. He asked no reason for it. It soothed and quieted his misery. So he gave himself up to being loved as he never before had been privileged to do.
It was ten o'clock when the bell announced a visitor.
Will started from his chair.
"Who can it be at this hour?" Alma asked wonderingly.
"Who?" returned Will shortly, and they both listened.
Will seemed scarcely able to breathe, until the maid announced "Dr. Cadman."
"Let him come right in," said Will with evident relief.
Dr. Cadman entered, beaming with the freshness of a morning hour rather than tired with the late evening.
Alma and Will advanced to meet him and he took one hand of each simultaneously.
"Too bad to disturb such a happy picture,—firelight and lovelight. How we bachelors do envy you, lucky dogs!" he said, pressing their hands warmly.
"But, George, we love fine pictures, too, but unfortunately we cannot see ourselves," returned Alma laughingly.
"Sufficient that you see one another," returned the doctor banteringly.
"Now, Alma," he continued, as he seated himself near the fire, "I have just a few minutes to see Will on important business. A patient demands my attention shortly. Are you going to be a good little wife and allow us a few minutes' conversation?"
"Assuredly," and Alma smiled assent. "But I will vanish in the meantime, I'm sure to interrupt if I stay."
The two men laughed. As she opened the door, she wafted a kiss to each one and disappeared.
"Dear girl!" murmured Will.
"Dear girl! I should say so, Will. Then why on earth that sad, mournful face? I have the check, old boy! Knew you'd come home anxious, so didn't wait until morning," he added, drawing an envelope from his pocket and handing it to Will. "Twenty thousand dollars you had to have, didn't you? Well, I made it $5,000 over so that Alma couldn't suspect, from your drawing it too tight."
Will took the check mechanically. Speechless and dazed he stood, watching George with increasing pallor.
"Cousin, what ails you?" asked George with alarm.
"You're so good, that is all,—in fact, too good for a wretch like me! and to think that it won't help—all that money even can't save me now!"
Haggard and white he sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Sobs convulsed his form as he hid his face from view.
The doctor was momentarily astounded. Will was not the kind to play the woman, andshame? He couldn't couple the word with Will's straight-forwardness.
He laid a strong, kind hand upon the bent head.
"Will, you're overwrought. Look up. Be a man."
Will's sobs ceased, and he met Cadman's scrutiny with a sullen doggedness.
"George, you will not call me a man after to-night. I couldn't myself, even."
"Come, out with it," returned Cadman briskly "Don't beat around the bush,—and I object to your disowning your sex!"
"For God's sake, don't joke!" exclaimed Will fiercely.
"Far from it! Be quick—what awful crime have you committed?"
George possessed a pair of keen gray eyes that compelled frankness.
Will did not hesitate.
"I've lost all—every cent, George! Got desperate. Was fooled into crazy speculation. Lostall—all, I say, and I'm ruined hopelessly, beyond any help of yours."
George's face became serious, and he watched Will keenly.
"Didn't I tell you that I would get the money for you tonight? Is that all?" he asked gravely. "Will, you are hiding something," he added with firmness.
"Yes, there is more," Will replied, a crimson flush surmounting to his temples. Suddenly he looked around with a hunted expression.
"George, I'm branded athief! I'll be hounded tomorrow. Athief!—you hear me? Not a man! Alma's husband—a thief!"
George grasped his shoulder in consternation.
"You're crazy, man! Stop such names! you are exaggerating some mis-step. Tell me everything! I'll stand by you. Don't be a coward!"
The hunted expression gave way to one of misery.
"George, you're a brick, but you can't save me. When I lost my own money, I became frenzied—succeed I must or be in disgrace for debt. I don't know how I did it. I took the bank's money when sure of success—meant to put it back—speculated with it, lost all, all! I heard tonight they had discovered it. To-morrow will come the arrest. I'll be a jail-bird soon—a thief behind the bars!"
George's face became stolidly set.
"How much did you borrow?" he asked calmly.
"Fifty thousand," he answered hoarsely.
"Whew!" returned George, with a low whistle.
Both men stared into the fire with tragic silence.
"Well?" finally asked Will wearily.
George arose and slowly buttoned his coat before replying.
"I must think it over, old boy!" he said kindly, and his voice was husky through its firmness. "It's a bad case, but there must be a way out of it. I'll get here soon after daybreak. Think it over hard in the meantime. The best thing for Alma, must be your first consideration,yourselfnext."
"Alma! How canshebear it!"
"She'll bear it like a woman, I hope," returned George quickly. "You have run the gauntlet for her sake, haven't you? You've lived beyond your means, until debts have accumulated to your distraction. I have not been blind to all this. But I never dreamed ofthisclimax."
"Forhersake, yes, but that makes my sin no lighter," Will returned gloomily.
"But it makes it less black—anyway to those who care a heap for you!" George exclaimed, grasping Will's hand.
"Youcare, now that you know what I am?" asked Will, surprise overcoming other emotions.
"Now that I know what you are? I know that you are a man up against a devilish proposition, and all on account of your love for a beautiful, adorable woman. You don't think that I'd break with you for that, do you?"
A glimmer of hope shot from Will's fine, dark eyes.
"You're even better than I thought you," he returned simply, and the two men parted without further remark.
As George was about to leave, Alma met him in the foyer.
"Good-bye little girl," he said gravely, "Will doesn't seem very well to-night. Don't keep him up too late, will you?"
"No, indeed. You notice then, how ill he looks?" she asked, her anxiety lending a pathos to her beauty.
"Yes, he needs a rest and no worry of any kind. I'll step in tomorrow. Good-night," and, fearing to lengthen the conversation, he left quickly.
Alma found Will, leaning forward in his chair, and gazing into the fire with a morbid intensity. So great was his absorption, that he didn't hear her enter the room. She crossed over to him, and, leaning over his chair, gently she raised his head and laid it back against the cushions.
He started slightly. "You Alma?" he said wearily. "Our pleasant little evening is over dear. You had better retire now for I must have an hour or two alone—to puzzle out a business proposition before I can sleep."
"O, Will, you are too tired. George said that you should retire early."
As she spoke, she caressed his forehead and he closed his eyes in gratitude.
After a moment he opened them upon her fondly.
"George himself gave me the problem to solve," he said gently, "I cannot sleep now. Go to dreamland, dearest, and don't make it harder for me by disputing."
"Good-night, then, if you won't come. But don't exhaust yourself, Will."
For answer he drew her down and pressed her closely to his breast.
"Good-night, Alma,—dear little wife," he said in passionate low tones. "Whatever comes, dearest, remember I have always loved you to distraction. You believe it?"
"Yes, yes. I know it, Will. Of course you have."
His strange mood disconcerted her and she was glad to go.
Kissing him lightly, she left the room, turning at the door to say smilingly,
"Remember dear, you must not linger long."
Left alone, George's words came more forcibly to Will's tortured brain.
"The best thing for Alma must be your first consideration,yourselfnext." The best thing for Alma! The best thing for Alma! Again and again the question reiterated in his mind. He was undeniably guilty. For a time he might be free—on bail until his trial—then the prison! A long torturing shame for Alma. What alternative?
He had thought of one alternative to-night. It had come to him at first as a wild intangible thought, born of despair. But it gradually took shape and became proportionate to reason; he had walked the streets for an hour, courting its possibility.
The thought embodied a lie, and this was the hardest part for Will to submit to. By nature, he was honest. But forAlma's sake, even a lie was within his code of honor.
For one hour he debated with himself, ever bringing excuse to bear upon excuse. Finally his decision came, swift and certain. Alma must be spared the long misery of trial and imprisonment. Yes, at all costs, Alma first.
He arose quickly and went to his desk.
His hand trembled as he took the paper and placed it for writing. But he was none the less resolved for this physical weakness.
The first letter he wrote and rewrote many times.
Finally he finished it and addressed it to Alma.
The second he wrote hurriedly and without recopy. This was to George Cadman. Both letters he left on his desk.
From a small table he took two pictures—one of Alma, one of Harold—and slipping them into his pocket, he hastily made for the door. Turning suddenly, he swept the room with one comprehensive longing glance, then with a heavy sigh he disappeared.
Edith's Choice.
From childhood, Edith Esterbrook had known George Cadman. The fact that he was ten years older than herself, rather strengthened their friendship than otherwise.
As years brought her development into womanhood, Cadman was not slow to realize and appreciate her attractions. He loved Edith with a strong devotion, which her young experience did not value. During the last year several had proposed marriage to her, but for a long time, George alone was not repulsed. To him she had not yet said a decided "No." She felt sure that her friendship's love was not the right kind of love for marriage, but she dreaded to part with him, and so, with an unconsciously selfish postponement of the final word, she had kept him by her side.
But the last month had brought a change into her life. She had met one whom she thought she could be happy in marrying,—one Howard Hester, who loved her passionately at first sight, and declared his love soon after. He was immensely rich. Riches alone could not tempt Edith, but he also seemed to possess a character which could adore her without the slightest criticism. He gained her confidence quickly. To him she confided all her noble aspirations, all her plans and projects for doing charitable work. To all he acquiesced, encouraging anything that would add to her joy in life, and declaring his fortune at her feet. All he asked in return was for himself to be her first thought and love.
What an ideal life! Edith could think of nothing nobler. It was a shock to her parents when she declared her desire to marry Howard. She was entirely too young, and many other objections were given. But all were promptly overcome by the tactful Howard, and consent was finally gained.
Edith decided to personally tell George before her engagement was announced, and to this intent she asked him to call that evening.
As she waited for him in her parlor, she gave herself up to contrasting him with Howard.
"George is a dear," she thought regretfully, "I hope that he gets over his fondness for me soon. Strange that he seldom agreed with me in any opinion. Wonder why he cared for me? Always ready to correct me—so different from Howard! After marriage, I suppose I would have to submit every plan to George for approval, and abide by his decision. Howard is so willing to agree and so much more loving."
But with all her satisfied persuasion, Edith felt a strange pang with the thought that this evening would be the last alone with her life-long friend.
When he entered, she arose to meet him with her customary frankness.
"I have been waiting for you to call this past week as usual, but as you didn't come I felt at liberty to send for you."
"Always, Edith," he said pressing her hand. "At any time or place, I am at your command. No one knows that better than yourself."
The meaning of his direct gaze was only too positive, and Edith felt suddenly overcome with pity and constraint. How could she tell him of her engagement, when he did not even suspect it? She colored hotly and dropped her gaze.
"My absence this week has been unavoidable," George continued, as they both sat down opposite to one another. "You have heard of my cousin, Will Lambert, and I believe you have met his wife occasionally?"
"O, yes, only a week ago I attended an afternoon affair at her home. What a pretty, attractive woman she is!"
Walter's face became grave, and his eyes looked unutterable sadness.
"O, Edith, if you could only see her now! Poor little wreck of womanhood! She is undergoing unbearable sorrow!"
Edith's eyes shot instant interest.
"O, tell me her trouble," she exclaimed quickly, forgetting the object of her bidding him to call.
"Her husband got into pretty deep trouble, and to avoid her going through the long trial and imprisonment, he committed suicide by drowning."
"Yes," George continued, "he has left it to me to try to hush it up so that his wrong-doing wouldn't become public gossip. For a week Eve tried every sort of pleading and bribery, but all of no avail,—to-morrow's newspapers will print the whole story, with as much exaggeration as they can possibly invent. Poor little Alma will be more distracted than ever!"
"O, how cruel it all seems!" exclaimed Edith, entering into his mood of passionate pity. "How I wish I could go to her!"
George's eyes flashed understanding. "And why not? A woman needs a woman's sympathy. She has no woman relative and her mother died five years ago."
"I will go to her," said Edith with calm resolve. "I'm not really a friend, but we can always come very near to a heart that is wrecked by despair."
"You could, Edith, but not everyone," he said with warm tenderness. "I have been with her every evening since it happened,—that accounts for my absence here. She clings to me in the most childishly helpless manner. I promised to go to-night, too. I would not disappoint her even at the sacrifice of an evening with you. You realize that sacrifice, Edith? I missed you, to go to one in sorrow. When may I call again?"
His tone was so tender and expectant, that Edith stood completely abashed, trying to find words to tell him her secret which would separate them forever.
"Why, George, I want always to see you," she stammered. Her eyes drooped, not daring to meet his searching gaze, "But before you go, I ought to tell you something that may change your desire to come."
"Nothing could do that," he said fervently.
She felt his tone and it spurred her to frankness.
"George," she said gently, "I hope it will not hurt you to know that I am engaged."
Great as had been the shock of Will's death, it was slight compared to the awfulness of her revelation. Of late he had felt himself on surer grounds. He hoped to win Edith. Now by one fell stroke, when his keen fine nature was vibrating with tragic sympathy, his own hopes were dashed to the ground.
And Edith herself had struck the blow!
Pale and drawn he looked at her with acute misery depicted in every strong feature.
"Edith! it's all over then—gone forever!" he exclaimed tensely.
Edith's violet eyes suffused with ready tears.
"O, George, don't! don't! I never dreamed that you would take it so to heart! We shall always,alwaysbe the same old friends."
"Friends!" he returned bitterly. "What a mockery! But you are right—we will always be the same—youa friend, and I"—he paused and swept her with a glance of passionate admiration—"and I, your abject lover!"
"But, George," she began pleadingly.
"Let us not discuss it, Edith," he interrupted in his old dictative way, "It is a fierce fate that struck me two fearful blows at once. But don't worry about me, little one," he added gently, "I'm a man and can bear it. Now I will go to a little woman who has less strength to overcome."
As he held out his hand, his face became calm and set, and no one could have guessed the strength summoned to meet the inevitable.
"Good-bye, Edith," he said, quietly. "God bless you and give you all the happiness you deserve. If you ever need a heart to share a trouble, mine is always open to you. Good-bye, little one, Good-bye."
And Edith, more overcome than George, could only murmur, "Good-bye," and let him go.
Tired, she dropped into a chair. Vaguely she wondered why he did not even ask who her future husband was to be. Suddenly came the echo of his "Good-bye, little one, good-bye," and the pathos of it filled her with a melancholy longing.
She bowed her head in her hands, and wept.
The Glamor gone, what is left?
Since the glowing publication of Will Lambert's dishonesty and consequent suicide, Alma had completely hid herself, and would see no one but George. Repeatedly the bell announced visitors, but to all she was "not at home," and the very sound of the bell filled her with new misery.
For three days society had had the privilege of a new scandal for gossip. In her mind's eye, Alma pictured her acquaintances exchanging views and eagerly picking up new scraps of information. In her grief she imagined they came to her for curiosity only—all the friends of whom she proudly boasted before were distorted in her feverish brain and became prying gossips, filled with a mocking pity.
It had rained steadily since morning. The long gloomy day seemed never to near its close, and Alma watched the clock with impatience for she expected George in the late afternoon. George never came in the day time before, but to-night he had a serious case, so he had promised to come to take supper with Alma and so make the unbearable evening somewhat shorter.
No visitors had bothered her to-day, and it was four o'clock when the bell first rang its cheery note through the dreary house.
"George!" Alma exclaimed rising from her chair and hastily putting a letter in her bosom,—a letter she had read and reread many times in her lonesomeness—Will's last passionate word to her, Will's whole heart unbared to her to forgive and love as never before! Too late came the wonderful revelation of a woman's true being—too late came the answering glow from a heart awakened by the passionate call of love! Will was gone from her life forever, and her lips could never utter the new things that she found revealed in herself. Only his memory remained to be cherished. But she clung to this memory with redoubled fervor. Never for a moment did she doubt his goodness. Even his double crime assumed no hideous proportions to her stricken conscience. Both were forhersake, and, let the world scorn him as it would, she would always consider him a fearful sacrifice to her selfish life.
This was Alma's first hard life lesson. But she learned it well. All the good lying dormant under her superficial unreal existence, suddenly became active and volcanic. Alma was the inevitable sufferer.
The maid came to her half opened door and knocked gently.
"I will be right down," Alma said, and the surprised girl hurried away without giving the card of the visitor.
Alma descended the stairs slowly, trying hard to prepare herself to give him a less forlorn welcome.
At the parlor door she halted abruptly. Surprise and consternation overspread her face. She faced Edith Esterbrook with a mixture of defiance and hauteur.
"My maid has made a mistake," she said shortly. "I am at home to no one. You will pardon me, but I cannot receive any visitors."
Most women would have felt the keen repulse, and made a hurried exit. But Edith was not thinking of herself. She scarcely heard Alma's words. Her heart and mind were filled with the vision of grief that stood in the doorway—the pale drawn features, the sunken eyes, and the general hopeless despairing of face and form.
She advanced to Alma with two outstretched hands.
"Dear Mrs. Lambert, I have not come to you to offer my formal sympathy! Indeed no! I want to make you believe that my heart grieves with you, and longs to be a real help and comfort."
Alma looked into the sweet, pleading face. She could read only sincerity.
Mechanically she took the girl's hands.
"But I don't understand," she faltered, "why should you feel interested in me at all?"
Edith's eyes looked at her with a new light.
"I don't know why, but I am. I feel your sorrow deeply. Perhaps it is because I am so impressed with the Fatherhood of God, that when I hear of one of His children suffering, I hear His voice bidding me to go."
Alma looked at her in open wonder.
"And one so young! How can you feel this? I am much older, but I never even really believed in such a Fatherhood."
Edith led her to a settee.
"O won't you let me stay awhile with you?" she asked gently, "The day must be very long!"
Alma forgot her pride. Her mind relaxed under the strange personality of this young friend. For half an hour they talked. Indeed Alma afterward wondered why she had conversed the most. She found herself gradually confiding her innermost trials and fears—hopes she had none—and even went so far as to show Edith how she was to blame for all the disgrace, and not Will.
Finally she was in tears in Edith's arms, and Edith wept with her.
The bell rang suddenly and they drew apart.
"It is only Dr. Cadman—you know him? Don't go."
"George Cadman! no, I cannot stay. May I come again?"
"Yes, indeed. O thank you for your sweet sympathy."
Edith kissed her forehead and hurried away.
In the hallway, she met George. He took her proffered hand with no sign of emotion, and "hoped that she was well," in ordinary friendliness. Then he took from his pocket a letter.
"I was going to call upon you to give you this letter," he said gravely. "You remember me telling you of that sweet little 'Mormon' girl that I met out West? I have heard from her now and then since my return, and it hardly seems possible that now she is grown to womanhood,—just about your age. She writes that she is coming on a mission in a few weeks, and I can imagine she'll be quite a charming young lady, from what she was as a child. She'll be strange and quite lonesome at first. She says there are mission headquarters here somewhere, but she doesn't know any of these mission people. May I bring her to call on you when she comes?"
"Yes, indeed!" returned Edith kindly, "Poor child! Alone in this big city where everyone hates the 'Mormons!' I suppose that I would be prejudiced, if you had not talked to me about them."
"You and she have a great deal in common, and I think that you will be very happy to make a real friend of her."
"We'll see. Bring her to me as soon as she comes," replied Edith brightly, and with a friendly good-bye, she left him.
"He seems not to care very much," reflected Edith, as she walked home. "After all, men soon forget," she philosophised, "I didn't want him tosuffer, but I thought that he would care alittle," she mused with a childish regret, which she hastily overcame with shame at her sudden selfishness.
"Go, Preach the Gospel to all the World."
Ephraim was doing some talking. Everyone loved Betty Emmit—young and old—but some wondered if she would make a good missionary. She was so full of rollicking fun, that it was not easy to imagine her setting down to the strict, sober life of a mission. However, those who knew her well, knew her deep religious nature, which after all was the motive power of her young life and the source of her merry sunshine disposition.
A farewell party was to be given to Betty at the town hall. Posters were everywhere hung, and the admonition was given for every one to be present. The only ones excused would be "tired husbands" who should send money by their wives.
Betty stood reading one of these posters and laughed to herself.
"Whoever wrote that! The very idea! Here's for equal rights!"
From her pocket, she took her pencil and wrote underneath,
"'Tired wives' will send money by their husbands!"
"What right have you to touch those public posters?" said a voice that made her turn quickly.
She faced the young man with mock defiance.
"They'remyposters, aren't they?"
"Not a bit of it," he replied; his blue eyes laughing into her merry, brown ones. "Nothingbelongs to you now,—youbelong to everybody,Miss Missionary!"
"Indeed!" returned the girl, tossing her curls. "Perhaps, then, you'd like to take the 'public property' home for safe keeping until to-night?"
"Just why I stopped the car!" exclaimed the youth delighted. "You shouldn't be wandering around the streets tiring yourself out, for to-night everyone will want to have a 'farewell' dance with you!"
Betty jumped into the car, her companion following, and the machine raced off. Once off Main St., Stanley Todd slackened his machine. He turned to Betty tenderly.
"So girlie, you're off for two whole years? Suppose when you come back, you'll look down on Ephraim, and such as me."
Betty looked up at the bright face, bronzed by the sun and outdoor-life of the mountains. Her eyes softened, and sudden tears filled her lovely eyes.
"When Betty Emmit forgets Ephraim and her old friends," she replied soberly, "the sun will cease to shine!"
"By heck! that sounds just like you!" said the lad, and he gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. "I wish, though," he added hesitatingly, "you'd be engaged to me before you leave!"
Betty's forehead puckered thoughtfully,—then she frankly answered. "Stanley, why do you say that again? It's no sense to be engaged when one is not in love. You know that I think just heaps of you—as a real, real brother. I'll never be in love—don't really know what that means,—so you ought to be satisfied."
"I suppose that I'll have to be," he returned with a sigh. "Well, we won't cry over it," he said smiling down on her, and giving his machine a little spurt. "May I escort you to the dance, to-night?"
"Yes," she replied, smiling back at him.
"That'll be some pleasure anyway—to take you to your 'farewell,'" he said happily.
Betty's eyes flashed merriment.
"I couldn't tell you how many I have said 'yes' to, when they have made the same request."
"Then I am to be one of a bunch?" he asked disappointedly.
"I belong to everyone—you said it, didn't you?"
"You're incorrigible, Betty!" was his hopeless answer.
* * * * *
Betty's farewell was a gay little affair. Men, women and children came, everyone bringing a piece of money, from a dime to a dollar, according to his or her means.
Betty was the centre of adoring friends, all wishing her "Godspeed" on her mission, and success in spreading the restored Gospel. And at this little party, there was no long-faced preaching done. Everyone was glad and smiling, and a "farewell" to a "Mormon" missionary, meant a child-like display of goodwill and brotherly love,—such as no other church on the face of God's earth, had yet begun to realize.
The young people made merry in their innocent happy way, and the spirit of true religion reigned over all,—not the spirit of lifeless piety!
The next day Betty was busy making preparations for departure the following day, and saying her "good-byes."
There were a number of calls she felt that she must make, on the old or sick, all of whom would be unhappy not to say good-bye to her,—for Ephraimites were all like one big family, and a loving relationship was really felt among its numbers.
As Betty passed through the streets, more than one honest man came up to her, and grasping her little soft hand in his large work-calloused one, wished her good luck in a husky voice, and offered her his hard earned dollar for her mission.
O you luke-warm, respectable churches of the world! Where or when did any of you possess whole congregations of Christians filled with the simplicity and ferver of Christ's Gospel as these rugged mountaineers? Why don't you hesitate before you open your doors to money-making anti-Mormon lecturers, to satisfy the morbid cravings of some of your people to hear the fantastic and obscene wanderings of Satanic minds! If angel hosts brought glad tidings to your church doors, how small a congregation would be yours! You poor struggling minister of the world! Does it never occur to you that the prophecy is being fulfilled?
"For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts will they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears." (I Tim. 4:3.)
You know that to fill your churches, you must have preachers lay aside simple Gospel truths, and entice the masses with the political excitement of the day, or the glamor of some rare literary achievements.
Who, in a great city like New York, ever prepared to attend a church service with the firm assurance that he would hear the Gospel of Christ preached? Thanks to some few conscientious unpopular preachers, we may attend some churches with that hope, but one will always find the "good" minister preaching to as many empty pews as listeners. Is it any wonder then, that the earnest, enthusiastic, "Mormon," coming to the great cities with nothing more exciting than the simple truth,—is it any wonder he is mocked, reviled and scorned? "Bring us something new and exciting or we don't want it!" cries the big city.
But Betty in her worldly ignorance, had yet to learn—she took the money offered to her with a heart filled with enthusiasm and love for the whole world. She thanked God for it all. Every penny helped her to take God's message to a "waiting world,"—she really believed that the world was waiting for the truth,—and was happy in the thought of being called to be the messenger. And so, between tears at partings and joy over her great mission, she found her feelings rather mixed and strange, as she boarded the train for the unknown East!
Friends waved her out of sight, prayers followed her from loving hearts, yet before her lay the great experience,—the knowledge of the world!