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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 19, 1925)
BREEME HOUSE [~ 1 By Katherine Newlin Burt i ! “We're going to put a likeness to the test,” she called back. “Mr. Tremont you know, swears that I am the reincarnation of Lady Jane. We’re going to make Robins referee.” She smiled and went out, all her subdued and silvery charm visibly brightened. “Is this Janet” Alec asked himself, with his eyebrows lifted. Robins held the light high, hovering, his head on one side, his small eyes snapping with in terest, behind Rufus Tremont and Lady Jane as they stood be fore the Van Dyke picture. June, having shut out with a finger frame the disguising costum and old-time dressing of the hair, turned with a startled look to her companion. “I’ve seen myself look just exactly so,” she said. Mr. Tremont triumphed. '“That’s how you looked under the tree down yonder. Don’t laugh at me now, will you, for Jbclicving in ghosts?” 1 '“What would you have done If Lady Jane had begun syste matically to haunt you?” “I’d have been hugely flatter ed. And I’d have given her credit for some astuteness. She wouldn’t have frightened me off, though,” he added grimly. “Off?” repeated Jane. “You needn’t hold the light any long er, Robins. You see the likeness, don’t you?” “Oh, yes, miss. Certainly, miss. Haven’t I always seen it? There’s mortal few things I haven’t seen as to that picture, if I do say so. Now, there’s one little thing, sir, that I doubt you’ll have noticed. It’s maybe in my own eyes— which aren’t so good as they used to be-— but .1 you’ll stand back, sir, a step or so—” Mr. Tremont stepped back, Robins bobing like a small, withered troll-man at his elbow —a very dignified, self-respect ing troll, but with upward-turn ed shadows dancing along his person from the light in his hand, certainly a gnome-like fimirn “Now, sir. With your head on one side, I ask you, do you ob serve any tiling On this side of the petticoat, sir?" “Why, certainly," said the American, “I’ve known about that. Van Dyke bad a dog painted in there, and it’s been painted out. But something—* dampness or time—has weakened the coating. You can just see the outline.” Robins was gaping up side ways at the tall gentleman. “My word, sir! You have eyes, haven’t you?" Tremont smiled his grave, in scrutable smile. Jans put her head to this side and tha£, and gave up the problem. “Now, sir, what do you think of the picture?" asked Robins In a coaxing tone. The Van Dyke was the pride of his life. “I’ve seen finer pictures ’‘Tremont. answered deliberate ly, “hut none I’d like better to possess. Robins gasped. “Oh. .sir, you may well say so. Why, folks that come hero go half wild. 1 can remember one lad especially—a matter of fif teen years ago it was, too, sir. A pair of tourists came to the Hall -—a father and son they were— and it seemed like we’d never get the hoy away. His father told him the story, which I should have told you, sir, of our banished earl,and after the rest of the tourist party had left, hack comes the lad, his cap off, and runs over to the picture, sir. vnnatural like it did seem for a boy of fourteen or fifteen: hut he was a fine, unusual little chap, very handsome, sir self-willed a bit, maybe, hut spirit enough.,for anything. He stands there look ing up at the lady very solemn, his eyes shining, till I came up. ‘Well, what do you think of bert’ says I. I was as much taken with the bpy, you may know, as he was with the pic ture. He flung up bis chin at me. 'Old man,' says he, ‘she’s the eplendidest picture in the world, and the sweetest lady. ‘Some day,’ says he, and his face was set hard, ‘some day I mean to own her myself,’ says that boy! ‘Some day she’s going to be mine!’ 'r Jane laughed, au<* k'oked uo : certainly at Trernont. There was something curious in his recep- 1 tion of the story'—a look of in ner enjoyment, as though he had found, a particular flavor in the anecdote. lie left Jane’s side and strolled up and down the long room. His slow, beautiful movements fascinated Jane, also his incomprehensible air of ex citement. His eyes, when they met hers, were full of eagerness. They were extraordinary eyes, and held a clear, far-seeing look that gave a sense of sky and space. And they held,, too, all the youth that elsewhere had been taken from Iris face by hardship. Under them Jane somehow felt that she was seen for the first time. The iner Jane—unknown, mysterious, timid even under the observation of her everyday self stirred and stretched out her hands. * Jane moved to one of the moon flooded windows. She felt strangely at h-'r ease and curious ly comfortable, with all the com fort of her solitude, only less cold. Trernont stopped presently be side her. “It’s a curious fact,” confess ed Trernont, “I’ve always had a grudging, hurt spot in me some where because of this place. It’s mine, you know. At least, it might have been mine. I’ve loved places; land, sage-brush, moun tains, forests; but I’ve never loved any house but this.” “Isn’t this the first time you’ve seen it!” she asked, not having heard the previous con versation iu which he had spok en of a former visit. Again he hesitated before the admission. “No. I was here before—when I was a boy.” Jt was you. That hoy was you! You’ve come back to keep your word, to take our Lady Jane.” He stood slack, composed, 1 quietly returning her look. “You’ve guessed it.” “But,” she laughed, it’s quite impossible. “There are some things of which that can be truly said—a very few.” Jane’s long neck looked long er than usual. She had an al most deer-like air of startled pride. “Really, Mr. Tremont, you had better give up the idea. You don’t know how my father—* how we all—No. It’s so perfect ly impossible. I’m sorry you spoke of it.” “I’m not,” said h<j, with un disturbed composure; “I’m glad you know. I felt rather like a traitor hitherto. Yon won’t turn me out for coveting the treasure, will you—quietT” “No. IIow absurd! But”— with a sidelong glance—“but please let me forget it; and don’t tell papa. It would be such a— shock to him, that anyone should even think of it.” “I’m not anyone; there’s the difference. Please listen to me. Can you spare me fifteen min utes more! I’d like to tell you about it all. Please. You ought to listen ; it is—in an odd way— your story too. At least—” He paused, staring down at the rug, thinking deeply, then looked at her with something stormy and withheld in his deep, far-seeing eyes. ‘But you ought to listen,” he finished rather lamely. She was frowning slightly, and her cheeks were flushed. ‘‘I’d rather not. Not now. I’m not rude; it’s only—I don’t like your coming here with the intcn tion of taking somethVng from us. I wish you’d give it up at once. I liked it better when you were simply our guest.” Ilis face was obstinate and sombre. ‘‘Will.you promise, pl*ase; not to mention this to papa? It would disappoint him. lie lias taken a fancy to you. I think it would insult him.” Here he colored, but with no change of expression. And he ran a glance as keen as a rapier towards Alee, where he sat at ease in a big chair, laughing at Claire’s vivid word-pictures, •lane saw Rufus Tremont’s look. The pink in her cheeks deepened suddenly to scarlet. She con trolled an accession of angry panic and walked rapidly back to the others. N Tremont followed more slowly. Ilis jaw was the jaw of a fighter whose blood h up. “Isn’t that the limitT” be asked himself. “They would have the future Earl of Breeme sell himself and his title rather than right themselves by the sale of a picture.” His glance wandered again to where Lord Alec sat. - CHAPTER X THE DOLLAR PRINCESS Lord Trernont usually brought his father’s mail to him in the morning and spent an hour or so reading aloud and chatting to him—or, rather, being chatted to by him. Alec, coming in at the wonted hour, passed bis stepmother on her way out, and found the in valid sitting by the window, gowned and comfortable in his wheeled chair, with an extraor dinarily animated and happy face. “Ah ! Alec boy, good-morning What a good morning it is, eh? I saw you out with Clawe on the lawn. She’s a sunrise-lady, if ever there was one. ‘Pon my word, I felt ready to get into your hoots—eh? Well, well, busi ness first, if you say so.” Alec’s grave, unresponsive face had spoken for him. “I understand you’ve settled things in Canada and with that troublesome money lender, Unterbcrg, in London, so that chapter’s closed.” (Alec breathed a prayer of heartfelt thanks to Lady Breeme's solicit ous anticipation of his own in tended report.) “We’ll get through the mail, eh?” Lord Breeme began carelessly tearing open the envelopes, while Alee sorted out the letters, keep ing the business ones for his own attention, and reading aloud the others. “I hear,” wr>fe BreemeV sis ter. “that yo i ha/} a charming American heiress within your gates. Now, that's exciting. Give Alec my love and best wishes.” Here Lord Breeme put his hand on his son’s arm. Alec was standing by him—and pulled him. about, looking up with glowing pride and affection into his face. “Your mother his been tatt ling,” said he, “and,” he added hastily, for Alec’s mouth had stiffened, “nothing has made me happier than what she’s hinted. Happy! I’m exultant. Confound this chair!” Alec Avalked aAvav to the Avin cIoav and back again. He tingled Avith resentment and alarm. Lady Breeme had evidently taken a good deal for granted; or did she mean, by this move, to put a net over his head? “What—” he stammered out, “Avhat did mother tell you?” Lord Breeme patted the arms of his chair. He seemed much more of a happy boy than his narrow-eyed, long-jaAved son. jawed son. vh, mat a certain young man in whom I feel a certain in terest, and about whom—let me tell you—I’ve felt rather more than a certain anxiety, has as much latent intelligence as I always gave him credit for. It’s coming to the surface—what?” “I don’t,” said Alec in a low tone of constraint, “quite know what you mean.” “Claire,” said the earl. “I can’t tell you how I feel towards Claire. She’s the very fire we need on our old hearth. I’m not a worldling—not enough of one, I fear—and I wouldn’t—-not to save the Van Dyke” (this was a household word), “see you mar ried to a million if the million didn’t go with one of the sweet est girls—one of the finest wo men—alive.” “Good Lord, father!” burst out Alec in a tone of little less than repressed fury. “What, did mother tell you—that I was go ing to marry Miss Wilton?” Lord Breeme actually shrunk in his chair; the light faded from his blue, kind eyes; the corners of his mouth fell into the sad de pressions of old age. “Then you’re not,” said he flatly; “she was mistaken.” .Alec twisted an envelope. He had just glanced at his father's face. “Just what did she say?” “Oh, botheration!” Peevishly Lord Breeme snatched up a newspaper. “If there’s nothing in it I shan’t go over it with you. I might have known.” “Why might you have known?” cut in Alec with a hurt q\iiekness. “You’ve disappointed me be fore.” This from his gentle and in dulgent father! The earl’s face was behind the paper. Suddenly Alec’s hand was stretched out | towards the pile of letters lying still unopened on the desk. His troubled eyes had caught sight of one, directed to his father, which sent his heart into his mouth. It was from Unterberg— a dunn, doubtless; what if the earl had read it, and Alec’s situa tion had been expos<M! Tremont slipped the letter out of the heap and into his pocket, unnoticed by his father. He stood there, white and miserable, feeling his own heartbeats, seeing Aline’s eyes with their coldness. The earl made another quick move ment, crushing the newspaper down on his knee. “I’m an optimistic old idiot,” said he, trying to apologize for his reproof; “the least spark and I’m a bonfire. What your mother said, my dear boy, was, after all, only just this: ‘I think that Alec is going to please you very much.’ And-then she looked out of the window and pointed to you and Claire on the lawn. That’s all. If she’s mistaken—he held out his hand—“why, it’s not your fault.” “She’s not, said Alec putting awkwardly a cold hand into his father’s warm one, altogether mistaken, you know.” Then, as the kind fingers gripped, “I’m thinking of it pretty hard,” he added gruffly. The earl, wistful, eager, and afraid to press the matter, re turned to his mail. Alec read to him, conscious all the while of tender and excited eyes upon him. “What makes you think,” he asked suddenly, with one of his cynical grins, “that she would have me, anyway t” The earl was delighted at his reversion to the topic. “Ah, Alec, her attentions to me, for one thing, and the look in her eyes as they fly over the house—your home.” “You think she’d marry me for my father and my furni ture!” Alec leaned his head on his hand. “I dare say:” “No, sir; for yourself. But,” Lord Bream twinkled, “She’ll be glad that you’re the owner of that Van Dyke, eh! Well, well, we won’t joke about it. She’s a dear girl. She will—she would do us credit, Alec. That’s some thing one must think of, isn’t it!” “Oh, I suppose so.” Alec sat staring absently at his boots. “What’s the trouble, my boy! Can’t make you out. She hasn’t already refused you!” Alec shook his head. (TO BP: CONTINUED) Further Annals of the Elite A friend of mine from Tennessee used to speak in highest Southern scorn of regular "hill-billy,’* sy nonymous with but much more de rogatory than “rube.” The milieu of Mrs. Wharton’s latest novel, A MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE—French maids, breakfast trays bedecked daily with bunches of English voilets, Fifth avenue mansions—all these make the humble reader feel like a genu ine hill-billy. Not that Mrs. Whar ton writes in any sycophantic spirit. One feels that to her Fifth avenue mansions and limousines, are but as bungalows and street cars to the rest of us. Even the sophisticated morals of her characters place them in a world apart—though this book does not depict bland immorality quite so matter-of-factly as did her earlier novel GLIMPSES OF THE MOON. It is a damning admission of provin cialism, but after all the only meas uring stick that one has to measure artistic fidelity is in the terms of one’s own experience, and the people that I know, pull pretty straight in the matrimonial harness. I wonder, therefore, if a story dealing with so limited a problem as the matrimon ial tangles of the “four hundred” can ever be very significant. But with all exceptions admitted —how Mrs. Wharton can write! She has the old-fashioned habit -of con structing a genuine plot, and that plot absorbing. While reading the story, the mother’s problem is made as fateful as a Greek tragedy. Chris Fenno, the man about town, and the world weary Lilia are made very living flesh and blood. The fluent ease of her writing is a joy. She is a craftsman in complete control of her tools. With not a concession to “happy ending” but a sense of' rightness that purges the pitiful mother of all cheapness, the close is the best part of the book. After all, surely it is Mrs. Whar ton's privilege to decide WHAT she • will write about and if she chooses to confine her attention to a selected group, our only question should be whether she does that successfully. She does It superlatively well, so please, all readers, consider para graph one cancelled. Eating 16 apples a day has kept W. D. Macown, of Toronto, Canada, off the sick list for 26 years, he says. Ma cowh. who Is employed by the Domin ion as a tester of apptes grown In ex perimental orchards, says that he ate an average of 16 apples dally In his duties as tester, and that they certainly did keep the doctor away. An Up-to-Date Proposal. From tho Florida Ttmes-Unlon. "Darling, will you make me the hap piest of 'men In three letters meaning eternal bliss?" "lty answer la two letters Meaning eternal freedom." A HOME WITHOUT CHILDREN Lacks the Greatest Joys of Life Mary Wives are Childless Because of 111 Health. Read How Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound Helped Mrs. Benedict i jfm ■«a MRS. MARY R. BENEDICT • 13 PAYSCN STREET, KEWANEE, ILLINOIS Kewanee, Illinois. — “When I was married about a year and a half I took Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound because of ill health. I did rot have any children. I now have two healthy little girls and I am sure I would not have had them had it not been for your medicine. Last spring and summer I got all run down, irregular, and I had awful headaches, and my back and side hurt me bo that I could stay up only a short time. My limbs would get so tired and ache till I could cry. I start-id to take the Vegetable Com pounJ again and used the Sanative Wash, and it was not long till I was relieved. Now I do all my own work and help others. I sure praise Lydia E. Pinkham’s medicines to any one I meet that is suffering from similar troubles. I think if mothers with girls would give it to them when they come to womanhood it would make them stronger. People who have known me all my life are aston ished to see me now as 1 was always sickly when in my 'teens until* I started taking the Vegetable Com pound.”—Mrs. Mary R. Benedict, 313 Payson Street, Kewanee, ILL Has a Beautiful Baby Girl Now Bridpcrt, Vermont. —“In the first place I wanted a baby, but none seemed to come to me. I just love children and my husband is away all day, so I was not happy at all. A doctor told me I could not have a baby until I went to a hospital. But my sisters said, 'Take Lydia E. Pink ham’s Vegetable Compound and you will be O.K.’ I was nervous, had organic weakness, with backache, sideache, headache and no strength. I had been in bed nearly a week when I began taking the Vegetable Com pound. It was all that ever helped me and I iust wish you could see my beautiful baby girl. I am fine now, and so is she. I am still taking the medicine as it keeps me well. • You may be sure I am recommending the Vegetable Compound and always will.”—Mrs. A. W. 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