She
Ragged Edge
by
Harold MacGrath
But the aunt seized her in her
arms and rocked with her. “A
miserly old woman. Well, I’ve
had to be. All my life I’ve had
to fight human wolves to hold
what I have. So I’ve grown
hard—outside. What’s all this
about, anyhowt You. Far away
there was the one woman for
this boy of mine—some human
being who would understand the
dear fool better than all the rest
of the world. But God did not
put you next door. lie decided
that, Hoddy should pay a colos
sal price for the Dawn Pearl—
shame, loneliness, torment, for
only through these agencies
would he learn your worth. The
fibre of his soul had to be tested,
queerly, to make him worthy of
you. Through fire and water,
through penury and pestilence,
your hand will always l>e on his
shoulder. McClinfock wrote me
about you; but all I needed was
the sight, of your face as it was
a moment gone.”
Gently she thrust Ruth aside.
Ruth’s eyes were wet, but she
saw light everywhere: the room
was filled with celestial aura.
\i. The aunt rushed over to her
Jtiei&ew, knelt and wrapped him
iin her arms. “My little Iloddy!
You used to love me; and I have
always loved you. The thought
of you, wondering from pillar
to post, believing yourself hunt
ed—it tore my old heart to
pieces! For I knew yon. You
would suffer the torments of
the damned for what you had
done. So I set out to find you,
oven if it cost ten times sixteen
thousand. My poor Iloddy! I
had to talk harshly, or break
down and have hysterics. I’ve
come to take you back home.
Don’t you understandf Hack
among your own again, a«^mily
a few of us the wiser. ll^^Bou
suffered!”
“Dear God! . . . e^kf
hour since!”
“The Spurlock conscience.
That is why Wall Street broke
your father; he was honest.”
“Ah, my father! The way you
treated him. . . . !”
“Good money after had. You
haven’t heard my side of it, llod
dy. To shore up a business that
never had any foundation, he
wanted me to lend him a hundred
^thousand; and for his sake as
•well as for mine I had to refuse.
He wasn’t satisfied with an as
sured income from the paper
mills your grandfather left us.
He wanted to become a million
aire. So I had to buy out his in
terest, and it pinched me dread
fully to do it. In the end he
broke his own heart along witli
your mother’8. I even offered
him back the half interest he had
nold to me. You sent back my
Christmas checks.”
“1 had to. I couldn’t accept
anything from you.”
“You might have added
* then’,” said Miss Spurlock, dri
ly
“I’m an ungrateful dog!”
“You wTill be if you don’t in- (
stantly kiss me the way you used
to. Hut your face! What hap
pened here just before I came!”
“Perhaps God wasn’t quite
eure that I could hold what I
bad, and wanted to try me out.”
“And you whipped the beastt
I passed him.”
At any rate, i won, tor ne
went away. But, Auntie, how
ever in this world did you find
this island!”
She told him. “The eliief^>f
the detective agency informed
me that it would be best not to
let Mr. O’Higgins know the
truth; he wouldn’t be reckless
with the funds, then. For a time
I didn’t know we’d ever find
you. Then came the cable that
you were in Canton, ill, but not
dangerously so. Mr. O’lliggins
was to keep track of you until
I believed you had had enough
punishment. Then he was to
arrest you and bring you home
to me. When I learned you were
married, I changed my plans. I
did not know what God had in
mind then. Mr. O’Higgins and I
lauded at Copeley’s yesterday ;
and Mr. McClintock sent lus
vacht over for us this morning.
Hoddy, what made you do it!
Whatever made you do it!”
“God knows 1 Something said
to me: Take it 1 Take it! And
. . . I took it. After I took
the bills it was too late to turn
back. I drew out what I had
saved and boarded the first ship
out. Wait!”
lie released himself from his
aunt’s embrace, ran to the trunk
and fetched the old coat. With
the aid of a penknife he ripped
the shoulder seams and drew out
the ten one-thousand dollar
bills. Gravely he placed them
in his aunt’s hand.
“You didn’t spend it?”
“I never intended to spend it
—any more than I really intend
ed to steal it. That’s the sort of
fool your nephew is!”
“Not even a good time!” said
the aunt, whimsically, as she
stuffed the bills into her reticule.
“Not a single whooper-upter I
Nothing but torment and re
morse . . . and Ruth! Child
ren, put your arms around me.
In a While—to-morrow—all these
tender, beautiful emotions will
pass away, and I’ll become what
| was yesterday, a cynical, miser
ly old spinster. I'll be wanting
my sixteen thousand.”
bix, he corrected.
“Why, so it is,” she said, in
mock astonishment. “Think of
me forgetting ten thousand so
quickly!” *
“Go to, you old fraud! You’ll
never fool me again. God bless
you, Auntie! I’ll go into the mills
and make pulp with my bare
hands, if you want me to. Home!
•—which 1 never hoped to see
again. Jfo dream and to labour:
to you, my labour; to Ruth, my
dreams. And if sometimes I
grow heady—and it’s in the
blood—remind me of this day
when you took me out of hell—
a thief.”
“Nothing can change that,
Dawn Pearl. Auntie has taken
the nails out of my palms, but the
sears will always be there.”
.There fell upon the three the
silence of perfect understanding;
and in this silence each saw a
vision. To Ruth came that of
the great world, her lawful lover
at her side; and there would be
glorious books into each of which
he would unconsciously put a
little of her soul along with bis
own, needing her always. The
spinster saw herself growing
warm again in the morning sun
shine of youth—a flaring ember
before the hearth grew cold.
Spurlock’s vision was oddly of
the past. He saw Enschede,
making the empty sea, alone,
forever alone.
“Children,” said the aunt,
first to awake, “be young fools
as long as God will permit you.
And don’t worry about the six
thousand, Iloddv. I’ll call it my
wedding gift. There’s nothing
so sad in this world as an old
fool, she added.
The three of them laughed
joyously.
And Hollo, who had been wait
ing for some encouraging sound,
presented himself at the door
way. He was caked with dried
muck. He was a bad dog; ho
knew it perfectly; but where
there was laughter, there was
hope. With his tongue lolling
and his flea-bitten stump wag
ging apologetically, he glanced
from face to face to see if there
was any forgiveness visible
There was.
THE END
U. S. Used Billion Quarts
Of Canned Milk in Year
Chicago—Consumption of a case
of evaporated milk by practically
every family In the United States—
nearly ten quarts of milk for each
man. woman and child—was the con
sumption record of this Industry last
year, according to figures given out
by the statisticians of the Evaporated
Milk association.
“Twenty million cases, or 1,000,000,
000 quarts of milk, seem a tremendous
total," said the head of the associa
tion’s home economies department,
“yet considered against tne annual
consumption of milk in this country,
it shows that selling milk from which
the water has been evaporated is an
industry still In itfc infancy."
DUMMY IN BOOTH
Manchester, England.—A purse
snatcher, running from police through
a crowded street at night, dodged
into a hotel lobby and was lost. Later
police saw a figure la a telephone
booth In the lobby and approached
the booth cautiously with drawn
guns. In the booth they found the
wa\ figure of a clothing store dum
my that the clever robber had placed
j there as a decoy.
BREEME HOUSE
j By Katherine Newlin Burt I
CHAPTER NO. I
ENTER LORD' TREMONT
The great liner lay at its pier
in the north river at New York,
half an hour before sailing-time.
On deck two girls stood at the
rail near the gangway, watching
the arrivals. One of them held
herself with the stiff grace pe
culiar to the American woman
who has had the advantage of
cosmopolitan training. Claire
Wilton was amusing herself mak
ing mental observations on her
fellow-passengers as they came
aboard.
The other showed no interest
in the oncoming crowd. Her
gaze was focussed anxiously upon
each man as he arrived, and was
quickly removed with a look of
disappointment.
“Do you notice how they all
drop their masks while they’re
crossing the gangway, Jane?”
asked Claire Wilton. ”1 could
stand rfTid watch them for hours,
telling myself stories about them
as they come on. On the way
over it’s such fun seeing how
nearly I’ve hit them off.”
She looked down at her com
panion, who stood beside her
with the shy grace of the
sheltered type of English girl.
Claire smiled at her pre-occupa
tion.
“He’s not come, yet, Jane?
There’s plenty of time; don’t
worry,” she laughed. “He’ll
make it.”
“I suppose he will; but you
don’t know Alec—he’s got such
a happ-go-lucvky way of never
noticing the time, and leaving
everything till the last minute.”
The smiling criticism or her
brother did not altogether oust
the anxiety from Lady Jane’s
eyes.
“You stay and watch your
specimens, and make up your
stories about them; I think I’ll
go to the cab'in and rest. It’s such
a whirl, Claire,” she said apolo
getically. “I feel as though I
were still on the edge of your
American maelstrom, standing
here.”
“Very well, dear, do—and I’ll
see if I can identify Lord Tre
mont from the family likeness;
I’ll come down as soon as we’ve
started. But I’m sure you need
n’t worry. There aren’t two Lord
Tremonts, and you know they
said when I phoned for you to
the hotel this morning that he
had arrived last night from
Canada. ”
And with a nod of encourage
ment to Lady Jane, she resumed
aer scrutiny of the arrivals.
The close friendship between
“laire Wilton and Lady Jane
Fremont had developed at the
French Convent boarding school
they had both attended. The
American girl’s natural self-de
pendence had drawn to her, mag
netically, the shy, reserved little
daughter of the English Earl of
Breeme, for whom the convent
school veas the first experience
of contact with a world other
than the familiar one of Breeme
House. Aristocrat though the
child was, it had been apparent
to Claire with her limitless purse
that her little room-mate was
pitifully poor, which only tended
to increase in Jane that ait" of
detachment which one less gifted
svith insight into character might"
easily have mistaken for snobbish
superiority.
Following this happy school
friendship their intimacy had
iontinued unbroken.
It had required clever ma
noeuvering on the part of Claire
to arrange the recently accom
plished visit of Lady Jane to
America.
Claire’s mother had died at her
daughter’s birth and after the
death of her millionaire father
a year ago, Claire had gone to
Europe under the chaperoaage
of an Aunt, and had induced
Lady Jane to be her guest on a
tour through Spain. Then, on
the plea of her Aunt’s sudden
recall to America, and her own
wish to see something of Eng
land, Claire had persuaded Jane
to show her the beauties of the
English counties and Scotland.
They wound up with a few weeks
at Breeme House, to the delight
of Lady Jane’s father, the Earl
of Breeme, whose hobby Avas the
study of the American Indian,
and to whose semi-invalid exis
tence Claire’s vivacity was a
boon.
To Claire Wilton’s svmpathe
tie nature tu"»Breeme household
was extraordinarily appealing.
The earl's wife, the second Lady
Breeme, devoted her whole time
to her husband’s care. The two
younger children, of school-room
j age, were in the hands of a
governess. One and all, includ
ing old Robins, the general facto
tum who had been bred upon the
place, seemed to make it their
chief object in life to shield the
earl; and to lift from him the
weight of wmrry. Theirs was the
familiar story of a land-poor
aristocracy, under the costly
strain of a great and ancient in
heritance.
But it was apparent to Claire
that there was a point in which
the troubles of Breeme focussed
more immediately. Despite the
affectionate way in which the
Earl spoke of his eldest son, Alec
Tremont, and the hero-worship
devoted to him by the small step
brother and sister, it was evident
from the very reticence of Lady
Breeme and of Jane that Lord
Tremont, with all his imputation
for a charming and winning per
sonality, caused them keen
anxiety.
It was with a sense of special
interest, therefore, that Claire
Wilton watched the faces and
bearing of the younger men who
came aboard the steamer. She
was looking forward with no
small curiosity to meeting Jane’s
brother.
And when, just ns the gang
way was to be pulled back, Claire
finally saw the unhurried ap
proach of Lord Tremont, it was
not alone the likeness to the pho
tographs she had seen, nor the
general family resemblance,
which assisted in her quick iden
tification of him. There was in
his lean face, in the bearing of
his tall figure, in the very way
he wore his clothes, just that
combination of contradictions
she had expected to find.
His face was not handsome,
though it had the stamp of race
which made it distinguished. In
the rather narrow colorless eyes
there was coolness, without se
curity; in the mouth, purposeful
ness without decision of charac
ter; in the movements, graceful
balance rather than vigor or
strength. No one but would
have said at once that Lord Tre
mont was a charming fellow,
though perhaps he might seem—
well—a little unapproachable
just at first.
Lord Tremont on entering his
stateroom looked with annoyance
upon the signs of occupancy by
a cabin-companion. He had left
his booking til the last moment,
and there was no sep&rate cabin
available. Hopefully he specu
lated that the other fellow might
be all right, after all, and at once
set to work to unpack his bag
gage, whistling gaily.
For the heir to the earldom of
Breeme was as happy as a king
who has just thrown from his
shoulders a heavy care that had
long oppressed him. Alec Tre
mont’s trip to Canada had been
a great success. Several years
ago his father had made a small
investment in land there, and to
meet the demand of Lord Tre
mont’s creditors it had been de
cided that the young man
should himself go over and at
tend to the sale of it. The pro
ceeds were far in excess of what
had been expected. For the first
time in several years Alec would
be able to wipe out his debts, and
start with a clean slate.
(TO BE CONTINUED^) '
Dog Wears Red Light to
Avoid Getting Run Over
Cedar Grove.—A visiting autoist,
passing through hero the other night,
rubbed his eyes as he saw a dancing
red light in the street ahead of his
ca'r, made some remarks about post
war liquor and stopped to investi
gate.
Closer inspection revealed a small
dog, surmounted by a red electric
light and with a dry-cell battery
fastened about his mid-section.
A local woman explained that her
pet wouldn’t stay off the streets at
night, so she rigged up the signal
light to keep him from getting run
over by an automobile. *
Also a Counter Irritant.
From the Houston Post.
A feminine newspaper writer says
no two people can live together in
matrimony without friction and
without getting on each other's
nerves. But people must marry, and,
some of them must live together,
friction or no friction, nerves or no
nerves. It aeems to us that under
such circumstances children are not
only a great help, but necessary.
Some New Books 'Reviewed
BY ELEANOR HUBBARD GARCT
BY F. A. C.
The Forsytes Again
Last night I sat down to write a
review of Galsworthy’s new book
THE WHITE MONKEY and with
pencil In hand, weakly said to my
self, ‘‘R< ally to do justice to this
story of Michael, Fleur and Soames,
{ should glance at the earlier story
of them all In The Forsyte Saga.”
Once again, I found the Forsyte Saga
Completely absorbing. Long, detail
ed and Involved as it is, It succeeds
In creating an atmosphere so vital,
that to all Intents and purposes I
am the eery heart of all Forsytes,
'nstead cf a dispassionate critic.
This newest tale of them all, goes
a step l 'yond most fiction of tho
post- wa; period and shows the flap
per, mar: led. Michael poined to the
arratic F’.eur, Soames, mellowed by
age the fit upping” Sir Lawrence
Mont are three splendidly portrayed
men. If I feel that something of the
force and somber beauty of THE
MAN OF PROPERTY is missing,
Galsworthy would reply, no doubt,
‘But, dear lady. It Isn’t that kind of
a bock.” Different from all the
other stoi les of the Forsytes, it ends
tn. And -they-all-11 veil-happily-ever
after.
Cosmo Mamllton says that Gals
worthy Is first, last and always a
gentleman, with all that means in
advantag ? and limitation. Some
place or ( ther I read an enthusiastic
review of his work, which called his
Forsyte Saga one of the finest
novels in the English language.
Knowing Lord Jim, The Return of
the Native, and The Egoist, I can’t
quite agree. Galsworthy has a fine
"style” in writing, a nice finish which
surely neither Conrad or Hardy have.
Their genius burns clear through any
possible superticial trimming.
(Meridlth, you see, I don’t even at
tempt to classify). So, as the work of
a great writer, if not the very great
est, I reccmmend The White Monkey.
A spirited Story
It Is thus that The MacMillan
company classifies MATILDA GOV
ERNESS OF THE ENGLISH, by
Sophia Cleugh. The wrapper on the
book goe < on to say, ‘‘A pretty
mystery is ravelled out in the course
Of this gay romance of Matilda and
the Marquis of Lassington and it
all takes i cce among scenes of high
life in the London and Paris of early
Victorian days. Matilda’s career
never lacks for excitement from the
time she leaves Miss Nixon’s board
ing school to the day when the titled
husband she has married as proxy
for an unwilling fiancee succeeds in
winning her heart.”
Heaven knows, if the above de
scription sounds attractive to you
perhaps you will be able to follow
the very artificial silk thread of
this ‘‘spirited story” through all its
conclutlons. For myself when I
read the publisher’s statement that
“The tale reminds one not a little
of Fanny Bruney’s ‘Evelina,’” all I
can say is, ‘‘May a good Providence
guard me from Miss Burney's handi
work!”
Four Short Stories of Old New York
Mrs. Wharton’3 stories of New
York of the ‘40’s, ‘50’s, ’60’s and ’70’s,
are, to my mind, ahead of anything
she has ever done except that stark
little masterpiece ETHAN FROME.
Though her long novels are excel
lent, for she Is a most skillful wlrter,
her supreme metier Is surely the
short story. In this field she stands
alone—If one can risk vague general
ities such as that. She pares down
non-esen;ial evaluates so surely, that
her story THE OLD MAID compasses
in brief the entire life of two women.
We feel that we know Delia and
Charlotte through and through. With
exquisite taste she avoids sentiment
ality but all the more moving is the
poignant beauty of the close of her ;
story of a true love In ‘‘New Years
Day."
If you are looking for a ‘‘gift book”
for Christmas, nothing could be
better than Mrs. W’harton’s four
stories (D. Appleton—Publisher).
Each is most attractively bound in a
separate volume, all enclosed in a
single box. Just the mere look at
the outside is attractive, and when
you consider the excellence of the in
side the only fault of the whole is
that probably once you get your
hands on it you’ll be unable to part
with it.
Elaine at the Gates
BY C. H. P.
Little Elaine peered through the
lofty 'iron gates of her great-aunt's
estate, -‘‘at the golden sunlight, the
greenly translucent shadows. It
seemed to her as if sne was standing
just outside the Gates of Happiness,
could she have guessed her situation
at that moment queerly symbolized a
large part of her future life.”
The Reverend Mark Awdrey, “who
had made the dull little church of
All Saints a place of vivid color” one
feels as the distrubing factor in her
pleasant, tranquil life. Dominating,
forceful, with “an Iatrisic common
ness of fibre’’ Elaine cannot under
stand the peculiar type of silliness
which lie inspires in most women,
Including gentle old Mrs. ^asueiou.
To Elaine he la repulsive, yet she
must admit him genuine, “certainly
not a. mountebank or imposter.”
About these two the story centers.
The third point of the triangle, la
Elaine's lover, Arnold Thorne. Him,
we scarcely perceive, except as th®
being upon whom Elaine centers her
noble and tender love.
For a moment the gates stand ajar
for Elaine, but close again, when
Arnold feels that he la In honor bound
to marry the vulgar Pearl. The scene
For almost 150 years the family of the
Rav. Frederick Seely Porter, pastor of
the Trinity Baptist church of Oklahoma
City, has not been without a minister
of the ilaptist denomination. On both
his mother's and his lather's side were
pioneer ministers who went Into Canada
from the United States in 1777 and there
laid the foundation of a family of
preachers and Bible teacners. Mr. Por
ter reached his present charge front
New Brunswick. Canada, last Febru
ary. Formerly he was secretary of the
British and Foreign Bible Society In
Newfoundland and the Maritime pro
vinces. After eight years spent In
preparing himself for the ministry he
received a commission as captain in the
Canadian overseas forces and spent 39
months as chaplain at the front. He
was promoted to major soon altar ha
creased.
in which Elaine, not understanding,
tries to dissuade him is poignant.
Made hideous, piteous and humble,
“through her grief—to his eyes and
to the eyes of the reader, she was
beautiful and essentially grarid.”
Elaine through a fluke loses her in
heritance and becomes governess in
a middle-class English family. Here
the Reverend Mark reappears, boldly
and firmly bears her to London, where
she, after feebly remonstrating, be
come his platonic wife. Thi3 i*
hardly convincing. One feels thav
E'aine could put up a much better
fight than she does. However, she
and Mark, set to work building a new
church in the slums of London. Mark
becomes a force, but almost loses his
grip when he finds himself desperate
ly in love with his wife. The Inevit
able, somewhat melodramatic strug
gle ensues. Mark, Elaine and
Arnold emerge purified by life.
Since Air. Maxwell has given us a
well-written and absorbing romance,
I think we may forgive him if Elaine
?e. ms a rather too greatly persecuted
heroine.
Gossip About
Books and Authors
A recent heroine in fiction for
comfort turns to Conrad. “Any Con
rad would do—None had ever failed
her2" With that sentiment we heart
ily concur, though not a harried soul,
we find Conrad always completely
satisfying. So we read with intense
interest Lady Morrell’s impressions
of Conrad. She says, ‘‘He was sur
prising as his books are surprising.
He was rather mysterious. But above
all he was distinguished. To see
him for the first time was almost a
shock. He was so vivid, so remark
able, so different from other men.
It is sometimes said of all of us
that we are living in exile, that we
have here no continuing city, but
looking forward—it may be back
ward—to some ovner country. Of
Conrad, with his foreign air and
foreign accent, this old Biblical meta
phor seemed peculiarly true.
He was essentially a man of exile.
But he was a supreme artist also.
And he still enjoyed with an artist’s
eye, “the waters of Babylon.’’
In January E. P. Duttons announce
that they will pifbli^h Samuel Gomp
ers’ autobiography, “Seventy Years
of Life and Labor.” Because of the
recent death of this pioneer labor
leader it is fortunate that he had al
ready written his own story. One
phase of his work which the book
bi.'ngs out is the connection of the
A. jT1. of L. under his leadership, with
the Mexican revolution of a few years
ago that started this long mis-gov
trned country on the path of social
justice. Mr. Gompers’ interest in the
conditions of Mexican labor began
almost forty years ago when he talk
ed with some Mexicans wno were
fellow-laborers with him in a cigar
making shop on the East Side of New
York City.
The Current Magazines J
Our husband tossed the December
SCRIBNER’S MAGAZINE over to us
with the Injunction, “Read that. It’s
as interesting book talk as I’ve ever
read,” and what he Indicated was
William Lyon Phelps department "As
I Like It." We have great respect for
our husband's opinion and the editor
passes on to us the information that
Mr. Phelps’ monthly lists, published
in his department, are used in more
than 750 libraries and 100 schools. So
that’s that, but for ourselves we
could dispense for life, as far as real
criticism of books goes, with hts bub
bling enthusiasms. He has a pleasant
style, informal and chatty, and brings
to the reader’s notice quantities of
books- We can’t help but believe that
In his heart of hearts he recognizes
good workmanship. However, he
chooses’instead to be suave and de
lightful. He succeeds in that aim.
A charming article by Robert Wat
son Winston we are filing away for
future reference. It tells how to be
happy, though retired. It is entitled
“A Freshman Again at Sixty.”
Edith Wharton is starting a series
of articles on THE WRITING OP
FICTION. We consider that anything
said by her on this subject is author
itative (see review above). However,
she can actually write fiction so much
better than almost anybody else, that
we begrudge the time she must have
devoted to her scholarly treatise.
- t
The moj. comforting article in the
December issue of THE HOUSE
B'CAUTIFUL is ‘'The Shack” by Julio
C. Walcott. I call it comforting be
cause after reading of The Manor
House of Sutton Courtenay, and the
I>alatial apartment of Mr. Major, it is
a solace to the humble writer to read
of something that in simplified form,
she might recognize. Most of thw
articles in this and similar publica
tions are so far removed from the
simple life of most of us, that they
are interesting only as fairy tales.
Elsa Rchmann reviews some recent
books on gardening. The one with
the most alluring title, I thought, was
A SMALL HOUSE AND A LARUE
GARDEN, by Richardson Wright,
No Chicken.
From the Boston Transcript
Wife (with sudden thought)—Dear,
how would you like to have mother for
lunch?
Hub—No. thanks. My digestion isn’t
what it used to be.
Directed.
From the Chicago News.
An angler asked a feilow sportsman
If lie could tell him of a really good
fishing ground.
"Yes,” he replied, pointing to a path
marked "Private.” “Go along there
until you come to a field marked "No
Road.’ Cross- it. and on the other -<ido
you will find a cross where there is a
board which says. ‘Trespassers wilt u&
prosecuted.’ In the middle of that you
will find a pond marked ‘No fishing
allowed.' That’s the spot.”
The largest dog at the London l eneh
show was a St. Bernard, weighing 1S7
pounds, and the smallest was a pa
pilion that tipped the scales at tws and
one-half pounds.
