mi mi im f ^^-J5sSSSSS5SS5SSSSS5S55SSSESSSSSSSSSS5SS5S5SSSSSSSS555SSiSS5^^ f MARY MIDTHORNE ] BY GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON. Author of “Graustark.” “Truxton King,” etc. . ^ Copyright, 1911. By Dodd, Mead A Co. JJ ' mi nn nil CHAPTER XVII—(Continued.) Payson turned in surprise. "Chet wynd?” "Didn’t he tell you that Chetwynd is out there, too, in an iron bound chest?” "Good heaven! What are you talk ing about?” cried the other, in genu ine amazement. “Never mind,” said Eric, grimly. "What else did he say about—about me?” "That you as much as accused him of being my father,” said Payson, w ith wonderful self control. "I didn’t put it Just that way. I as much as accused y»u of being his son. There is a difference.” “I ought to kill you.” “Of course, he denied you,” said Eric. “Denied me? Oh, I see. You mean he disowned me,” said Payson grimly. “I wonder at your complacency,” said the other, surveying him in no little admiration. “It is not the time for anger,” was the calm retort. "There is too much at stake. I have had many lessons in self restraint. Wall street Is a great teacher and a great leveler of personal vanities. I’ve wanted to kill a good many men since I went there, Mid thorne. May I ask what grounds you have for assuming that he is my fa ther?” “The resemblance,” said Eric bluntly. Payson was silent for a minute or two. Involuntarily his gaze sought the mirror that hung on the opposite wall. The room was half dark. k “Good God!” he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly contracting and expanding. He passed a hand over his own face, as if to see whether the movement W'ould be reflected in the looking glass. “You see?” said Eric gently, a great pity in his heart. ‘it’s—it’s incredible! He spoke of the resemblance, but I had no idea it was so marked. Why—why, I can see his eyes, his nose, his—” “See here, Jack," broke in Midthorne . impulsively, “I’m sorry for all this. I ^ can’t tell you how sorry I am. From the bottom of my heart, I hope it can , all be cleared up satisfactorily. I hope it is r.cthing more than a curious freak of nature.” Payson turned on him furiously. “My mother is an honest woman! She couldn’t have done the horrible thing you are accusing her of. Only prosti tutes descend to—” He stopped sud denly. eyes, a deep groan breaking through his bloodless lips. The other understood. "I’m sorry, Eric,” he muttered, forgetting his own emotions in contemplation of his com panion’s sudden pain. "I forgot—” Eric cut him off. his pride aflame. "I don’t want your pity, or your explana tions, or>—” Payson considerately left his side and walked to the window, peering out Into the night, giving Midthorne time to recover himself. After a few minutes Eric spoke. "How does he account for the re semblance?” he asked quietly. Pavson returned to his place on the hearth stone. " I am willing to dis cuss these things with you Midthorne. because you are Mary’s brother, and because you have a perfect right to know -who and what I am. Td do just as you are doing if I had a sister and It was you who wanted to marry her. I’d ask questions of you. just as—” "And I’d tell you to go to the devil!” "But,” went on the other calmly, "if she loved you and you loved her. and 1 knew you to be an honorable, well meaning chap—as you are. Eric—Td give her over to you in a minute.” “I daresay,” remarked Erie bluntly. Payson chose again to ignore an of fensive remark. “But I would ask questions, as I said before.” he went on. "They would relate to you and not to the people who brought you into the world. You ask me how Adam ac counts for the resemblance. Well, he doesn’t attempt to do so. He knew my i father well. They were boys and men g together. All he will say is that I am like my father, and that my father was Henry Payson. who lies out there in the Atlantic. That is all I can get out of him. I’ll confess there’s an air of mystery about it, greater than ever, now that I've looked squarely into your r looking glass. My own seems a little less brutal. But he swears on his soul, as he loves me—and I know he does— that I have nothing to fear. Curiously, however, he forbids me to question my mother.” “Aha!" ejaculated his listener. "He is right,” protested Payson. "How can I go to her with—well, with questions?” His voice shook with the sudden rush of an emotion that came over him so ewlftlv that he could not suppress It. He turned his hack quickly and clenched his hands in the violent effort to regain control of himself. “You can’t go to her.” cried Eric, casting off all reserve. “Not for all the world. Come. come. Jack, buck up! I am the last person in the world to con demn you or any other man. If you can bring yourself to accept an apology from me, I offer it to you here and now, in my own house. What is more, I withdraw my opposition so far as you and Mary are concerned.” Payson had whirled and was staring at him with incredulous eyes. "I am not fcol enough to ask you to overlook the insults I have offered,” went on Midthorne rapidly. "You will consider them worse than Insults when you learn the truth about the man who—” With a glad cry. Jack Payson stretched out his hands and grasped Eric’s shoulders. "Nonsense!" he exclaimed, his eyes aglow. “You’re hipped about some thing. Don’t you suppose I can see there’s something wrong? You’re not yourself. That's why I can and do overlook the so-called insults. I don’t hold anything against you, Eric. We can't help being friends. You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that you won’t stand In the way of our marriage. It would have been unpleas ant to defy you, but that—” “Just a moment. Payson,” Inter rupted Eric. “I must tell you that Mary has decided that she can't marry you. We’ve talked It over.” “What!” gasped the other, dismayed. His Jaw dropped. “Impossible! I don’i believe It. She loves me. Nothing could change—” Eric held up his hand, smiling rather wanly as he met the distressed look in the eyes of Mary’s lover. “But I’ll see to it that she reconsid ers, She does love you. She’s doing all this for my sake, and because I have been so selfish as to make it quite Impossible for her to do anything else k but give you up. Take off your coat, / Jack. I’d like to have you stay for ' dinner with us. But before you accept the invitation. I have something I want to say to you. I have a confession to 29 make. I'm going to give It to the world tomorrow, but you shall have It first of all." Back In the little dining room the single maid-of-all-work was laying the table. With the opening and closing of the kitchen door there came subtly into the front part of the house the fragrant aro*ia of boiling coffee. "A confession?” demanded Payson, all at sea over the riotous turn his emotions had taken. “What can you have to confess?” The door of the hall opened sud denly. Mary stood before them, look ing from one to the other with dark, questioning eyes. She had heard the last few words of Eric’s speech from behind the partly opened door, as she paused there for a final touch to her hair. A dainty, exquisite housegown of pink enveloped her slender figure. “He has no confession to make,” she protested shrilly. "Go away, Jack, please go away. I must talk with him alone.” Both men started forward, actuated by totally different impulses. "I’ll go, Mary, If you ask It of—” be gan one, with an eloquent tenderness in his voice. He felt rather than un derstood the gravity of the situation. "Wait!” remonstrated the other. "It’s only fair to Jack, Mary. I’ve asked him to stay. But it must be settled before hand, whether he is with me or against me. Please go back to your room, dear, until I’ve—” “No,” she said firmly, advancing into the room. "Jack, dear, if you love me, go!” Payson looked from one to the other, in plain distress. “If he really loves you, he'll stay and hear what I have to say. That will be the test,” said Eric. “Will you go. Jack?” she pleaded, coming up to him and putting her hands on his arms. “Certainly,” he said. Eric, in dumb wonder, watched him slip into the storm coat he had dis carded the moment before. He offered no further resistance to his departure, but seemed literally to shrink into the background, although, in plain truth, he did not move an inch from the spot on which he stood. Mary walked to the door with her lover. There he turned and put his strong hands on her shoulders. He made no vulgar display of his love; and it was a great, masterful love. His eyes alone caressed her. “I’ll come tomorrow’, Mary. What ever It is that distresses you—and Eric, too—thresh it all out tonight. It's bet ter that you should. Then, dear heart, when I come tomorrow I shall be able to help you. Ask anything of me. I am your slave. Good night. Good night, Eric.” He passed out Into the night, gently closing the door behind him. For a moment she stood where he left her, stared dumbly at the closed door. The sound of his footsteps crossing the porch came to her, then the brisk tread on the gravel walk. She put her arms against the door and laid her head upon them, burying her face. For a long time she held this rather tragic position. There was no sound in the room. Eric was watching her inertly. The maid of all work dropped a knife on the dining room floor. They did not hear it strike. At last she raised her face, looking straight aoove her, as if to heaven. After a moment, she turned to her brother. “You must change your clothes, Errie. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” she said wearily. “You’ve just got to be happy,” he cried from the very depths of his tor tured soul. “My poor, brave little Mary.” She smiled wanly. “Dear old Errie!” * * * Hours afterward, they sat before the cheery fireplace, silent, reflective, de pressed. It had been a sorry meal, that dinner of theirs. The garrulous New England servant, old for her years— which were surprisingly few as things go In old New England—gave up all ef forts to draw the master and mistress Into conversation. Never before, in all her time as “help,” had she failed so utterly to Inspire communicativeness. It certainly was unsettlng. Her name was Lizzie—a New England Lizzie, at that. An Elizabeth by any other name would have smelled a rat. No word had passed between brother and sister for the matter of an hour or more. Her hand lay clasped in his on the arm of the chair he occupied. Their thoughts were their own. She had kissed him when he announced his decision to put no obstacle in the way of John Payson’s courtship. Suddenly there came a rapping at the door, a gentle, measured tapping that rose distinct above the boisterous bedlam of the winds. A sort of terror took hold of them. The hand clasp tightened, their eyes grew wide with wonder and alarm. They waited, staring into each other’s eyes, motionless in the chairs, their hearts thumping loudly; waited for the ghostly sound to be repeated. Eric's ears, strangely enough, were strained to catch the sound of a well remem bered laugh. Again the tapping, still gentle but a little more Imperative. They turned their faces toward the door. Their eyes were glued to the prim white knob. It turned, and the door was slowly pushed ajar. A tall figure stood on the threshold, outlined against the blackness beyond. A gaunt, thin figure that waited there j for a word of welcome from within. The picture held for a minute. Then Eric sprang to his feet with a cry, more of relief than surprise. “Uncle Horace!” Involuntarily Mary glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The thought uppermost In her mind was revealed In that significant act. What was Hor ace Blagden doing abroad at this time of night? At 9:30, and such a night as this! She started forward impulsively. “What has happened. Uncle Horace?” she cried. These were the first words she had spoken to him In many weeks. “May I come In?” asked Horace, rather humbly—for him. He looked thinner, more ascetic than ever before. In the long black raincoat and the white kerchief that protected his throat from the shrill winds. His tall hat seemed to set lower on his head; his thin shoulders were higher; his eyes appeared to have shrunken farther back Into their sockets. A dripping umbrella hung suspended from his gloved hand. He seemed to have aged vastly In the few hours that had passed since Eric's conversation with JUm In the public square. The young man sprung forward and grasped his uncle's hand, suddenly aroused to a sense of. duty—and com passion. Mr. Blagden’..stepped Inside, but, responding to the habit of a life time, caught himself up In time, and turned to deposit his umbrella In the niche outside the door, which he closed gently an Instant later. "Is there anything wrong with Aunt Rena?” demanded Eric. “What brings you out on a night like this?” “I shan't remove my coat, Mary,” said Mr. Blagden, as she took his hnt and stood waiting for him to unfasten the cape of his coat. "It Is a dreadful night. I thought I should be blown away crossing the common. How warm and cosey you have made it here. ’Pon my word, I had no idea Mrs. Ver ner’s place was so attractive.” “Sit dowrn. Uncle,” said Eric, pull ing a chair up to the grate. "I—w'e are glad to see you here,” he floundered, considerably at a loss for words. “Thank you,” said Horace. "Perhaps it would be better if I removed my coat. An umbrella is of scant service on a night like this, what with the wind blowing and the rain coming from all sides.” Eric relieved him of the coat, while Mary undid the muffler. To thelt amazement, he wore, Instead of the customary frock coat, the familiar old dressing gown they had known sinco childhood. With one accord, they looked at his feet. They were encased in the ancient carpet slippers that Aunt Rena had made for him a score of years before, once a toasted brown, now a w'ater soaked black. “For heaven's sake!” cried Mary aghast. Noting their concentrated gaze, he looked down. For a moment he was silent. Then he sat down rather ab ruptly in the big chair. "Well, I—I declare!" he murmured, blinking his eyes. “I—I hadn’t noticed that I—” They did not wait for him to finish the plaintive comment on his own un happy plight. Mary gave commands, and both set about to provide warm stockings and slippers for him. He sub mitted to the changes without a pro test, and even smiled when she pro duced a huge pair of gum boots from the hall closet. “You will catch your death-cold," she said. "How could you think of coming out in those Bllppers, Uncle Horace? They—” His smile deepended. "That’s Just it, my dear,” he said. “I didn’t think of coming out In them. Dear me, I—I— But, of course. I was In a great hurry. I don’t believe I have ever ventured beyond the porch in these slippers be fore. You are very good, both of you. Very good.” They stood above him, looking down with puzzled, distressed eyes, both sud denly mute In the presence of what now shaped Itself Into a tragedy. Mr. Blagden held out his hands to the fire, shivering as with a chill. Then he allowed his gaze to sweep the warm, lamp-lit room. “You are very comfortable here, I am sure,” he said slowly, as If weighing something in his mind. “Very com fortable and happy in your own little home.” "Yes,” said they, without thinking. His shoulders seemed to settle deep er in the chair, his chin sank ever so slightly. “I—I fear, then, that my mission to night Is—er—ahem!—a rather hopeless one. If you will help me on with those boots, Eric I will go back to your aunt—” “In heaven’s name, Uncle Horace, what has happeded?” cried Eric. “What is it?" Mr. Blagden looked from one to the other before responding. There was something abjectly pathetic in his face. He #ulped, and his firm square chin trembled. “Well,—you see,—” he began, with an effort, ”—I came over tonight to ask you both to come back to—to—’’ He got no farther. His voice choked and tears started up In his eyes—eyes that had not felt the smart of tears since boy hood’s earliest pains. The Midthornes, in that moment’s utter crumbling on the part of the great man of Corinth, felt the passing of a life long spirit of antagonism and restraint. It melted and oozed away, leaving their heartB empty, and aching, and cleansed of all the things that rankled. They were young and strong, and their souls were sweet despite the bit ter seeds that this gaunt old man had planted in his years of plenty. Now he was come to his days of famine. He had sown, and he had reaped, and his bins were empty. He was poor, he had come to beg! They stood beside him. Their hands fell upon his drooping shoulders, and rested there while the strong current of human sympathy gushed from their hearts into the famished soul of this wondering old man. He looked up, strangely dazed; he oould not understand the sensation that was creeping over him. He had never felt anything Just like It before In all his life. No one had ever presumed to such gentle familiarity, such frank fearlessness. It was sensation. “Why, Mary—” he began, a great question leaping Into his wet eyes. He tried himself first, before going on, Just to see If he could smile as she was smlTlnP' Then, feeling his Ups relax, he could not trust himself to further speech for very fear of saying some thing that might destroy the sweetness of his discovery. (Continued next week.) Theory of Workmen’s Compensation. From the Review of Reviews. There are in the United States, broadly speaking, two kinds of compensation laws: One is based on the theory that compen sation is a tax laid on Industry and, there fore, to be collected and paid out by the state. The other starts with the premise that compensation is a hazard of industry against which the employer may —In many states, must,—insure, and that the duty of the state ceases when it has established a proper supervision of Insurance to guar antee payments and of settlements to pre vent imposition. Expressive of the first theory are the monopolistic state fund laws of Ohio, Washington, Oregon, Ne vada, West Virginia, and Wyoming. In each of these the state collects the prem ium (tax) and pays the loss (compensa tion). In each of the other 26 compensa tion states Insurance of compensation is either permitted or compelled, and com petition between from two to four meth ods of Insurance allowed. The striking fact, however, is that, while New York belongs in theory in the latter group, M originally adopted the settlement and pay ment practice of the tax-theory group Either it should have excluded commer cial Insurance,—as did Ohio and the five other "tax” states,—or else It should have recognized and properly supervised the familiar practice of commercial insurance. The amendment of 1216 thus accomplishes harmony In theory. In brief. It Btrlkei from the New York law provisions which never should have been Inserted in the commercial insurance compensation law adopted by New York In 1813. But, It was argued, does not this settle ment method come from the Dutch law where commercial insurance 1s permitted! 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