15 WHITE
fir GEORGE BARR SCUTCHEON
ILLUSTRATIONS Jr RAY "WALTERS
COPYP/CPT, JD/+.
GY DODD, /VLAD
A/fD OO/VPA/fY
SYNOPSIS.
—6—
In the New York home of James Brood,
Dawes and Riggs, his two old pensioners
■ nd comrades, await the coming of
Brood's son, Frederic, to learn the con
tents of a wireless from Brood, but Fred
eric, after reading, throws it into the
lire and leaves the room without a word.
Frederic tells Lydia Desmond, his fiancee,
that the message announces his father’s
marriage, and orders the house prepared
lor an immediate home-coming. Mrs.
Desmond, the housekeeper and Lydia’s
mother, tries to cool Frederic’s temper
at the impending changes. Brood and his
bride arrives. She wins Frederic's liking at
first meeting. Brood shows dislike and
veiled hostility to his son. Lydia and Mrs.
Brood meet in the jade room, where Lydia
works as Brood’s secretary. The room,
dominated by a great gold Buddha, is fur
nished in oriental magnificence. Mrs.
Brood, after a talk with Lydia, which
leaves the latter puzzled, is startled by
the appearance of Ranjab. Brood’s Hin
du servant. Mrs. Brood makes changes
In the household and gains her husband’s
•onsent to send Mrs. Desmond and Lydia
■way. She tries to fathom the mystery
of Brood's separation from his first wife,
■nd his dislike of his son, but fails. Mrs.
Brood fascinates Frederic. She begins to
fear Ranjab in his uncanny appearances
■nd disappearances, and Frederic, remem
bering his father’s East Indian stories and
firm belief in magic, fears unknown evil.
Banjab performs feats of magic for
Dawes and Riggs. Frederic’s father, jeal
ous, unjustly orders his son from the
dinner table as drunk. Yvonne follows
Frederic to the jade-room and influences
him to apologize to his father and the
quests for his alleged lapse. Brood tells
the story of Ranjab’s life to his guests.
**He killed a woman” who was unfaithful
•o him. Yvonne plays with Frederic’s
Infatuation for her. Her husband warns
ber that the thing must not go on.
CHAPTER IX—Continued.
"It sounds rather ominous.”
"If he waits long enough you may
discover that you love him and his go
ing would give you infinite pain. Then
Is the time for him to go.”
"Good heavens!” he cried, in aston
ishment. "What a remarkable notion
of the fitness—”
"That will be his chance to repay
you for all that you have done for him,
James,” said she, as calm as a May
morning.
“By jove. you are a puzzle to me!”
he exclaimed, and a fine moisture
same out on his forehead.
"Let the boy alone, James,” she
went on earnestly. “He is—”
"See here, Yvonne,” he broke in
■ternly, “that is a matter we can't dis
cuss. Y'ou do not understand, and I
cannot explain certain things to you. I
came here just »*w tr ask you to be
Hair to him.. e»en though I may not ap
pear to be. Y’ou are—”
“That is also a matter we cannot
discuss," said she calmly.
“But it is a thing we are going to
discuss, just the same,” said he. “Sit
down, my dear, and listen to what 1
have to say. Sit down!”
For a moment she faced him defiant
ly. He was no longer angry, and there
in lay the strength that opposed her.
She could have held her own with
him if he had maintained the angry at
titude that marked the beginning of
their interview. As it was, her eyes
fell after a brief struggle against the
dominant power in his, and she
obeyed, but not without a significant
tribute to his superiority in the shape
of an indignant shrug.
He took one of her hands in his, and
■troked it gently, even patiently. “I
will come straight to the point. Fred
eric is falling in love with you. YVait!
I do not blame him. He cannot help
himself. No more could I, for that
matter, and he has youth, which is a
spur that I have lost. I have watched
him, Yvonne. He is—to put it cold
bloodedly—losing his head. Leaving
me out of the question altogether if
you choose, do you think you are
y Viite fair to him? I am not disturbed
an your account or my own, but—well,
can’t you see what a cruel position we
are likely to find ourselves—”
“Just a moment, James,” she inter
rupted, sitting up very straight in the
chair and meeting his gaze steadfast
ly. “Will you spare me the conjectures
and come straight to the point, as you
have said."
He turned a shade paler. “Well,” he
Began deliberately, “it comes to this,
my dear: One or the other of you will
have to leave my house if this thing
goes on.”
She shot a glance of incredulity at
his set face. Her body became rigid.
“You would serve me as you served
his real mother, more than twenty
years ago?"
“The cases are not parallel,” said he,
wincing.
“You drove her out of your house,
James.”
“I have said that we cannot dis
cuss—”
“But 1 choose to discuss it,” she
said firmly. “The truth, please. You
drove her out?”
“She made her bed, Yvonne,” said
tehuskily.
“Did she leave you cheerfully, glad
fy, as I would go if I loved another, or
did she plead with you—oh, I know it
hurts! Did she plead with you to give
her a chance to explain? Did she?”
“She was on her knees to me,” he
grated, the veins standing out on his
temples.
Yvonne arose. She stood over him
tike an accusing angel.
“And to this day, James Brood—to
this very hour, you are not certain
that you did right in casting her off!”
“I tell you, I was certain—I was sure
rf—”
"Then why do you still love her?”
"Are you mad?” he gasped. "Good
God, woman, how can you ask that
question of me, knowing that I love
you with all my heart and soul?
How—”
"With all your heart, yes! But with
your soul? No! That other woman
has your soul. I have heard your soul
speak and it speaks of her—yes, to
her! Night after night, in your sleep,
James Brood, you have cried out to
‘Matilde.’ You have sobbed out your
love for her, as you have been doing
for twenty years or more. In your
sleep, your soul has been with her.
With me at your side, you have cried
to ‘Matilde!’ You have passed your
hand over my face and murmured ‘Ma
tilde!’ Not once have you uttered the
word ‘Yvonne!’ And now, you come
to me and say: ‘We will come straight
to the point!’ Well, now you may come
straight to the point. But do not for
get. in blaming me, that you love an
other woman!”
He was petrified. Not a drop of
blood remained in his face.
“It is some horrible, ghastly delu
sion. It cannot be true. Her name has
not passed my lips in twenty years. It
is not mentioned in my presence. I
have not uttered that woman's name
"Then how should I know her name?
Her own son does not know it, I firm
ly believe. No one appears to know it
except the man who says he despises
it.”
“Dreams! Dreams!” he cried scorn
fully. "Shall I be held responsible for
the unthinkable things that happen in
dreams?”
“No,” she replied significantly; “you
should not be held accountable. She
must be held accountable. You drove
out her body, James, but not her
spirit. It stands beside you every in
stant of the day and night. By day
you do not see her, by night—ah, you
tremble! Well, she is dead, they say.
If she were still alive, I myself might
tremble, and with cause.”
“Before God, I love you, Yvonne. I
implore you to think nothing of my
maunderings in my sleep. They—they
may come from a disordered brain.
God knows, there was a time when I
felt that I was mad, raving mad. These
dreams are—”
To his surprise, she laid her hand
gently on his arm.
“I pity you sometimes, James. My
heart aches for you. Y'ou are a man
—a strong, brave man, and yet you
shrink and cringe when a voice whis
Of the Three, Lydia Alone Faced the
Situation With Courage.
pers to you in the night. You sleep
with your doubts awake. I am Ma
tilde, not Yvonne, to you. I am the
flesh on which that starved love of
yours feeds; I represent the memory
of all that you have lost.”
“This is—madness!” he exclaimed,
and it was not only wonder that filled
his eyes. There was a strange fear in
them too.
“1 am quite myself, James,” she said
coolly. “Can you deny that you think
of her when you hold me in your
arms; can you—”
“Yes!” he almost shouted. "I can
and do deny!”
“Then you are lying to yourself, my
husband,” she said quietly. He fairly
gasped.
“Good God, what manner of woman
are you?” he cried hoarsely. "A sor
ceress? A—but no, it is not true!”
She smiled. “All women are sor
ceresses. They feel. Men only think.
Poor Frederic! You try to hate him,
James, but I have watched you when
you were not aware. You search his
face intently, almost in agony—for
what? For the look that was his
mother’s—for the expression you loved
in—”
He burst out violently. “No! By
heaven, you are wrong there, my sor
ceress! I am not looking for Matilde
if*, Frederic’s face.”
“For his father, then?” she inquired
slowly.
The perspiration stood out on his
brow. He made no response. His lips
were compressed.
“You have uttered her name at last,”
she said wonderingly, after a long
wait.
Brood started. “I—I—Oh, this Is
torture!"
“We must mend our ways, ijaroes. It
may please you to know that I shall
overlook your mental faithlessness to
me. You may go on loving Matilde.
She is dead. I am alive. I have the
better of her, there, ai—e? The day
will come when she is dead In every
sense of the word. In the meantime,
I am content to enjoy life. Frederic
is quite safe with me, James; safer
than he is with you. And now let us
have peace. Will you ring for tea?”
He sat down abruptly, staring at her
with heavy eyes. She waited for a mo
ment, and then crossed over to pull
the old-fashioned bell-cord.
“We will ask Lydia'and Frederic to
join us, too,” she said. “It shall be a
family party, the five of us.”
“Five?” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said, without a smile.
“Are you forgetting Matilde?”
CHAPTER X.
Of a Music-Master.
A month passed. Yvonne held the
destiny of three persons in her hand.
They were like figures on a chess
board and she moved them with the
sureness, the unerring instinct of any
skilled disciple of the philosopher’s
game. They were puppets; she
ranged them about her stage in swift
changing pictures and applauded her
own effectiveness. There were no re
hearsals. The play was going on all
the time, whether tragedy, comedy or
—chess.
Of the three, Lydia alone faced the
situation with courage. She was young,
! she was good, she was inexperienced,
but she saw what was going on be
neath the surface tvith a clarity of
vision that would have surprised an
older and more practiced person; and,
seeing, was favored with the strength
to endure pain that otherwise would
have been unsupportable. She knew
that Frederic was infatuated. She did
not try to hide the truth from herself.
The boy she loved was slipping away
from her and only chance could set his
feet back in the old path from which
he blindly strayed. Her woman’s
heart told her that it was not love he
felt for Yvonne. The strange mentor
that guides her sex out of the igno
rance of youth into an understanding
of hitherto unpresented questions re
vealed to her the nature of his feeling
for this woman. He would come back
to her in time she knew, chastened;
the same instinct that revealed his
frailties to her also defended his sense
of honor. The unthinkable could never
happen!
She judged \vonne too in a spirit of
fairness that was amazing when one
considers the lack of perspective that
must have been hers to contend with.
Lydia could not think of her as evil,
unmoral, base. This beautiful, warm
hearted, clear-eyed woman suggested
nothing of the kind to her. It pleased
her to play with the good-looking
young fellow, and she made no pre
tense of secrecy about It. Lydia was
charitable to the extent of blaming her
only for an utter lack of conscience in
allowing the perfectly obvious to hap
pen so far as he was concerned. For
her own gratification she was calmly
inviting a tragedy which was likely to
crush lim without even so much as
disturfffng her peace of mind for an in
stant, after all was said and done.
There was poison in the cup she hand
ed out to him, and knowing this be
yond dispute she allowed him to drink
while she looked on and smiled. Lydia
hated her for the pain she was storing
up for Frederic, far more than she
hated her for the anguish she, herself,
was made to endure.
Her mother saw the suffering in the
girl’s eyes, but saw also the proud
spirit that would have resented sym
pathy from one even so close as she.
Down in the heart of that quiet re
served mother smoldered a hatred for
Yvonne Brood that would have
stopped at nothing had it been in her
power to inflict punishment for the
wrong that was being done. She too
saw tragedy ahead, but her vision was
broader than Lydia’s. It included the
figure of James Brood.
Lydia worked steadily, almost dog
gedly at the task she had undertaken
to complete for the elder Brood. Every
afternoon found her seated at the table
in the study, opposite the stern-faced
man who labored with her over the
seemingly endless story of his life.
Something told her that there were
secret chapters which she was not to
write. She wrote those that were to
endure; the others were to die with
him.
He watched her as she wrote, and
his eyes were often hard. He saw the
growing haggardness in her gentle,
girlish face; the wistful, ruzaled ex
pression in her dark eyes. A note of
tenderness crept into his voice and re
mained there through all the hours
they spent together. The old-time
brusqueness disappeared from his
speech; the sharp authoritative tone
was gone. He watched her with pity
in his heart, for he knew’ it was or
dained that one day he too was to hurt
this loyal pure-hearted creature even
as the others were wounding her now.
He frequently went out of his way
to perform quaint little acts of cour
tesy and kindness that would have
surprised him only a short time be
fore. He sent theater and opera tickets
to Lydia and her mother. He placed
bouquets of flowers at the girl’s end of
the table, obviously for her alone. He
sent her home—just around the corner
—in the automobile An rainy or bliz
zardy days. But he never allowed her
an instant's rest when it came to the
work in hand, and therein lay the gen
tle shrewdness of the man. She was
better oft busy. There were times
when he studied the face of Lydia’s
mother for signs that might show how
her thoughts ran in relation to the
conditions that were confronting all of
them. But more often he searched the
features of the boy who called him
father.
Always, always there was music in
the house. Behind the closed doors
of the distant study, James Brood lis
tened in spite of himself to the per
sistent thrumming of the piano down
stairs. Always were the airs light and
seductive; the dreamy, plaintive com
positions of Strauss, Ziehrer and oth
ers of their kind and place. Frederic,
with uncanny fidelity to the prefer
ences of the mother he had never seen
but whose Influence directed him, af
fected the same general class of music
that had appealed to her moods and
temperament. Times there were, and
often, when he played the very airs
that she had loved, and then, despite
his profound antipathy, James Brood’s
thoughts leaped back a quarter of a
century and fixed themselves on love
scenes and love-times that would not
be denied.
And again there were the wild, riot
ous airs that she had played with Fev
erelli, her soft-eyed music master! Ac
cursed airs—accursed and accusing!
He gave orders that these airs were
not to be played, but failed to make
his command convincing for the rea
son that he could not bring himself to
the point of explaining why they were’
distasteful to him. When Frederic
thoughtlessly whistled or hummed
fragments of those proscribed airs, he
considered himself justified in com
manding him to stop on the pretext
that they were disturbing, but he could
not use the same excuse for checking
the song on the lips of his gay and im
pulsive wife. Sometimes he wondered
why she persisted when she knew that
he was annoyed. Her airy little apolo
gies for her forgetfulness were of no
consequence, for within the hour her
memory was almost sure to be at fault
again.
“Is there anything wrong with my
hair, Mr. Brood?” asked Lydia, with a
nervous little laugh.
They were in the study and it was
ten o’clock of a wet night in April. Of
late, he had required her to spend the
evenings with him in a strenuous ef
fort to complete the final chapters of
the journal. He had declared his in
tention to go abroad with his wife as
soon as the manuscript was completed.
Lydia's willingness to devote the extra
hours to his enterprise would have
pleased him vastly if he had not been
afflicted by the same sense of unrest
and uneasiness that made incessant
labor a boon to her as well as to him.
Her query followed a long period of
silence on his part. He had been sug
gesting alterations in her notes as she
read them to him, and there wero fre
quent lulls when she made the changes
as directed. Without looking at him,
she felt rather than knew that he was
regarding her fixedly from his position
opposite. The scrutiny was disturb
ing to her.
Brood started guiltily. “Your hair?"
he exclaimed. “Oh, I see. You women
always feel that something is wrong
with it. I was thinking of something
else, however. Forgive my stupidity.
We can't afford to waste time in think
ing, you know, and I am a pretty bad
offender. It’s nearly half-past ten.
We’ve been hard at it since, eight
o’clock. Time to knock off. I will
walk around to your apartment with
you, my dear. It looks like an all
night rain.”
He went up to the window and
pulled the curtains aside. Her eyes
followed him.
He was staring down into the court,
his fingers grasping the curtains in a
rigid grip. He did not reply. There
was a light in the windows opening
out upon Yvonne’s balcony.
“I fancy Frederic has come in from
the concert,” he said slowly. “He will
take you home, Lydia. You’d like that
better, eh?”
ne iumea lowaru ner ana sne
paused in the nervous collecting of her
papers. His eyes were as hard as steel,
his lips were set.
“Please don’t ask Frederic to—” she
began hurriedly.
“They must have left early,” he
muttered, glancing at his watch. Re
turning to the table he struck the big,
melodious gong a couple of sharp
blows. For the first time in her recol
lection, it sounded a jangling, discord
ant, note, ars of impatience. Ranjab ap
peared in the doorway. “Have Mrs.
Brood and Mr. Frederic returned, Ran
jab?"
“Yes, sahib. At ten o’clock.”
“If Mr. Frederic is in his room send
him to me.”
“He is not in his room, sahib.”
The two, master and man, looked at
each other steadily for a moment.
Something passed between them.
“Tell him that Miss Desmond is
ready to go home.”
“Yes, sahib.” The curtain fell.
“I prefer to go home alone, Mr.
Brood,” said Lydia, her eyes flashing.
“Why did you send—”
“And why not?” he demanded harsh
ly. She winced and he was at once
sorry. “Forgive me. I am tired and
—a bit nervous. And you too are tired.
You’ve been working too steadily at
this miserable job, my dear child.
Thank heaven, it will soon be over.
Pray sit down. Frederic will soon be
here.”
“I am not tired,” she protested stub
bornly. “I love the work. You don’t
know how proud I shall be when it
comes out and—and I realize that I
helped in Its making. No one has ever
been in a position to tell the story of
Thibet as you have told it, Mr. Brood.
Those chapters will make history. I—”
“Your poor father’s share in those
explorations is what really makes the
work valuable, my dear. Without his
notes and letters I should have been
feeble indeed.” He looked at hia
watch. "They were at the concert, you
know—the Hungarian orchestra. A re
cent importation. Tziganes music.
Gypsies.” His sentences as well as
his thoughts were staccato, discon
nected.
Lydia turned very cold. She dread
ed the scene that now seemed unavoid
able. Frederic would come in response
to his father’s command, and then—
Someone began to play upon the
piano downstairs. She knew and he
knew that it was Frederic who played.
For a long time they listened. The
air, no doubt, was one he had heard
during the evening, a soft sensuous
waltz that she had never heard before.
The girl’s eyes were upon Brood’s
face. It was like a graven image.
"God!” fell from his stiff lips. Sud
denly he turned upon the girl. “Do
you know what he is playing?”
“No," she said, scarcely above a
whisper.
“It was played in this house by its
composer before Frederic was born. It
was played here on the night of his
birth, as it had been played many
times before. It was written by a man
named E’everelli. Have you heard of
him?”
“Never,” she murmured, and shrank,
frightened by the deathlike pallor in
the man s face, by the strange calm in
Confronted the Serene Image of
Buddha.
his voice. The gates were being
opened at last! She saw the thing
that was to stalk forth. She would
have closed her ears against the reve
lations it carried. “Mother will be
worried if I am not at home—”
"Guido Feverelli. An Italian born in
Hungary. Budapest, that was his
hoi . but he professed to be a gypsy.
Yes, he wrote the devilish tning. He
played it a thousand times in that
room down—and now Frederic plays
it, after all these years. It is his
heritage. God, how I hate the thing!
Ran jab! Where is the fellow? He
must stop the accursed thing. He—”
“Mr Brood! Mr. Brood!” cried
Lydia, appalled. She began to edge
toward the door.
By a mighty effort. Brood regained
control of himself. He sank into a
chair, motioning for her to remain.
The music had ceased abruptly.
"He will be here in a moment,” said
Brood. “Don't go.”
Suddenly he arose and confronted ;
the serene image of the Buddha. For •
a full minute he tStood there with his
hands clasped, his lips moving as if
in prayer. No sound came from them.
The girl remained transfixed, power
less to move. Not until he turned to
ward her and spoke was the spell
broken. Then she came quickly to his
side. He had pronounced her name.
“You are about to tell me some
thing. Mr. Brood,” she cried in great
agitation. “I do not care to listen. I
feel that it is something 1 should not
know. Please let me go now. I—”
He laid his hands upon her shoul
ders, holding her off at arm's length.
“I am very fond of you, Lydia. 1 do
not want to hurt you. Sooner would I
have my tongue cut out than it should
wound you by a single word. And yat
I muat speak. You love Frederic. Is J
not that true?”
Sha returned his gaze unwavering
ly. Her face was very white.
“Yes, Mr. Brood.”
“It Is better that we should talk it
over. We have ten minutes. No doubt
he has told you that he loves you. He
is a lovable boy, he is the kind one
must love. But it is not in his power
to levs nobly. He loves lightly as—”
he hesitated, ar.d then went on harshly
—“as his father before him loved.”
Alger dulled her understanding:
she did not grasp the full meaning of
his declaration. Her honest heart rose
to the defense of Frederic.
“Mr. Brood, I do care for Frederic,”
she flamed, standing very erect before
him. “He loves me. I know he does.
You have no right to say that he loves i
lightly, ignoblv. You do not know him |
as I know him. You have never tried ;
to know him, never wanted to know j
him. You—Oh. I beg your pardon. Mr.
Brood. I—I am forgetting myself.”
“I am afraid you do not understand
yourself, Lydia,” said he levelly. “dou
are young, you are trusting. Your i«*
son will cost you a great deal, mj
dear.”
“You are mistakeu. I do understand
myself," she said gravely. “May
speak plainly, Mr. Brood?”
“Certainly. I intend to speak plain
ly to you.”
“Frederic loves me. He does no!
love Yvonne. He is fascinated, as '
also am fascinated by her, and yot
too, Mr. Brood. The spell has fallei
over all of us. Let me go on, please
You say that Frederic loves like hii
father before him. That is true. H«
loves but one woman. You love bu'
one woman, and she is dead. You wil
always love her. Frederic Is like you
He loves Yvonne as you do—oh,
know it hurts! She cast her spell ovei
you, why not over him? Is he strongei
than you? Is it strange that sh<
should attract him as she attracted
you? You glory in her beauty, bei
charm, her perfect loveliness, and ye
you love—yes love, Mr. Brood—th«
woman who was Fredeic’s mother. Dc
I make my meaning plain? Well, so if
is that Frederic loves me*. I am con
tent to wait. I know he loves me.”
Through all this. Brood stared at
her In sheer astonishment. He had nt
feeling of anger, no resentment, n<
thought of protest.
"You—you astound me, Lydia. If
this your own impression or has if
been suggested to you by—by an
other?”
“I am only agreeing with you wher
you say that he loves as his fathei
loved before him—but not lightly. Ah
not lightly, Mr. Brood.”
“You don’t know what you are say
ing,” he muttered.
“Oh, yes, I do,” she cried earnestly
“You invite my opinion; I trust yot
will accept it for what it is worth. Be
fore you utter another word againsl
Frederic, let me remind you that !
have known both of you for a long
long time. In all the years I havt
been in this house, I have never knowr
you to grant him a tender, loving
word. My heart has ached for him
There have been times when I almost
hated you. He feels your neglect
your harshness, your—your cruelty
He—”
"Cruelty!"
“It is nothing less. You do not likt
him. 1 cannot understand why you
should treat him as you do. He shrinkf
from you. Is it right, Mr. Brood, thal
a son should shrink from his father as
a dog cringes at the voice of an un
kind master? I might be able to un
derstand your attitude toward him ii
your unkindness was of recent origin
but—”
“Recent origin?” he demanded
quickly.
“If it had begun with the advent oi
Mrs. Brood,” she explained frankly
undismayed Jby his scowl. “I do not
understand all that has gone before. Is
it surprising, Mr. Brood, that youi
son finds it difficult to love you? Dt
you deserve—”
Brood stopped her with a gesture oi
his hand.
“The time has come for frankness
on my part. You set me an example
Lydia. You have the courage of youi
father. For months I have had it Id
my mind to tell you the truth about
Frederic, but my courage has always
failed me. Perhaps I use the wrong
word. It may be something very un
like cowardice that has held me back
I am going to put a direct question tc
you first of all, and I ask you to an
swer truthfully. Would you say that
Frederic is like—that is, resembles his
father?” He was leaning forward, his
manner intense.
Lydia was surprised. "What an odd
thing to say! Of course he resembles
his father. I have never seen a por
trait of his mother, but—”
“You mean that he looks like me?’
demanded Brood.
"When he is angry he is very much
like you, Mr. Brood. I have often won
dered why he is unlike you at othei
times. Now I know. He is like his
mother. She must have been lovely
gentle, patient—’’
“Wait! Suppose I were to tell you
that Frederic is not my son.”
“I should not believe you, Mr
Brood,” she replied flatly. “What is it
that you are trying to say to me?”
“Will you understand if I say to you
that—Frederic is not my son?”
Her eyes filled with horror. “How
can you say such a thing, Mr. Brood'
He is your son. How can you say—”
“His father was the man who wrote
the accursed waltz he has just been
playing! Could there be anything
more devilish than the conviction it
carries? After all these years, he—”
“Stop, Mr. Brood!”
•'I am sorry if i hurt you. Lydia. You
have asked me why I hate him. Need
I say anything more?”
"I do not believe all that you have
told me. He is your son. He is, Mr
Brood."
“I would to God I could believe
that,” he cried, in a voice of agony. “1
would to God it were true.”
“You could believe it if you chose tc
believe your own eyes, your own
heart.” She lowered her voice to a
half-whisper. “Does—does Frederic
know? Does he know that his mothei
—Oh, I can’t believe it!”
“He does not know.”
“And you did drive her out of this
house?” Brood did not answer. You
sent her away and and kept her boy.
the boy who was nothing to you'
Nothing!”
“I kept him." he said, with a queer
smile on his lips.
-All these years? He never knew
his mother?”
“He has never heard her name
spoken.”
“And she?”
“I only know that she is dead. She
never saw him after—after that day.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
DRIVEN TO THE LAST DITCH
Just One More Visitor and Mrs. Mink
ler Would Have Served Her
“Pie-Pudding.”
"That’s the third time," observed
Mrs Miilsap, who was visiting country
relatives, "that I’ve heard reference
made to ‘Mrs. Minkler’s pie-pudding,’
and it usually brings out a laugh. If
there's any joke about it. I’d like to
hear it.”
••Weil. I'll tell you the story,” said
] one of the cousins. “Mrs. Minkler told
it herself, so it won’t do any harm to
pass it on. Perhaps you’ve observed
that we speak of the pie-pudding when
wre have to divide up something Into
unusually small portions; and pos
sibly, since you are not acquainted
with Mrs. Minkler, the joke may not
strike you just as it did us. But here
it is:
“Mrs. Minkler does the cooking for
her family of four, and as she isn’t in
love with the science of cookery, It’s
very little in the way of extras the
family gets. Mrs. Minkler says she
considers ‘apple sass and molasses'
a good enough dessert for anyone..
“Well, one day, for a special treat,
she baked a pie for dinner, allowing a
quarter apiece for each member of the
family. But while she was preparing
dinner her sister-in-law looked into the
kitchen and announced that two
cousins had come over from Rushville
to spend the day.
“ ‘Shucks!’ said Mrs. Minkler. ‘Now
I’ll have to cut the pie into six pieces.’
“A half hour later, two neighbors,
Judge and Mrs. Peters called, and Mr.
Minkler asked them to stay for din
ner, to which they agreed.
“‘Mercy sakes!’ grumbled Mrs.
Minkler. ‘Now I’ll have to cut the pie
Into eight pieces.’
“Just as dinner was being dished up,
who should drop in but an old bachelor
friend of the family from the other
side of town, and he also accepted an
invitation to take dinner.
“ ‘Amanda Jane,’ declared the exas
perated Mrs. Minkler to her sister-in
law, ‘I’ll make out to cut that pesky
pie into nine pieces, but I tell you
now it won’t stand any more cutting
than that. If a single other person
comes here to dinner today, I U squas
the pie up, dish it round with Bass on
it, and call it a pudding.’ —Youths
Companion.
The Dardanelles.
The Dardanelles takes its name from
Datdanus, who was supposed to have
founded the lost city of that name near
that other and far more famous lost
j city, ancient Troy. It is from one to
five miles wide, the most romantic
part of the passage being only a mile
wide between Sestos in Europe and
Abydos in Asia, where "Leander swam
the Hellespont his Hero for to see,"
at the time of the largely mythical
war of the Greeks and Trojans so
celebrated by Homer. The feat of
Leander had for long years been pro
nounced impossible, but Lord Byron,
rhyming voluminously of all this re
gion of song, in 1810, swam the Helle
spont, club-footed as he was, from
Sestos to Abydos.
1 WAR TAX ON
CANADIAN LANDS
Untruthful Reports Circulated by
Interested Parties.
Defaming a neighbor at tbe expense
of the truth does not help those who are
guilty of the practice, and it may be
said that those spreading false re
ports about Canadian lands, in the
hope that they may secure customers
for their own, will certainly fail of
their purpose. False statements so
maliciously circulated will sooner or
later be disproved. And, as in the
case of tbe lands of Western Canada,
the fertility of which is now so well
known to people of every state in the
United States, the folly of this work
shows an exceeding short sighted
ness on the part of those guilty of the
practice.
The present war has given some of
these people the opportunity to exer
cise their art, but in doing it they are
only arousing the curiosity of those
who read the statements and a trifling
investigation will only reveal their un
truthfulness.
A very foolish statement has re
cently appeared in a number of pa
pers, reading in part as follows: —
“It is believed that as a result of the
war tax on land imposed by the Cana
dian Government a number of former
Dakota farmers who went to the Brit
ish Northwest will be compelled to re
turn to the United States. Informa
tion has been received that the tax
will amount to about $500 for each
farm of 160 acres, which in the case
of many of the former residents of tbe
two Dakotas would practically amount
to confiscation.”
To show that the public has doubt
ed, hundreds of inquiries have been
made the Government at Ottawa,
Canada, only to bring out the most em
phatic denial. A full-fledged lie of this
kind has, of course, only a short life,
and will tell In the end against those
who forge it and spread it, but, as a
Winnipeg paper points out, it is most
complimentary to the agricultural pos
sibilities of Western Canada to find
that rival farming propositions need
audacious mendacity of this descrip
tion to help them.
\\ hat is the truth : 'ine sasnatcne
wan Government has authorized a levy
of $10 per quarter section on unculti
vated lands owned by non-residents.
The Alberta Government has Imposed
a Provincial tax of 10 mills on the as
sessed value of all uncultivated lands.
There are some special applications of
these taxes, but the main provisions
are as above. Those vacant lands
held by non-residents in Western Can
ada form a grave problem. They are
making for poor communities, poor
schools and poor social and economic
conditions generally. By having them
cultivated the owners as well as the
districts in which they are located
will benefit alike. It is for this reason
that the Government has recently
asked the co-operation of the non-resi
dents. The high price of grain for
some years to come, and the general
splendid character of Western Canada
land will make the question well
worth consideration.—Advertisement
Nothing is more disgusting than a
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_ .
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