Nebraska Newspapers

    15 WHITE
fjr GEORGE DARR SCUTCHEON
nLLUSTFATIONS ir-FAY WALTERS
copyp/cpt. /D/+.
OY DODO, PfDAD
SYNOPSIS.
-11
In the New York home of James Brood,
his son, Frederic, tells Lydia Desmond,
bis fiancee, of a message announcing his
father's marriage. Brood and his bride
arrive. She wins Frederic’s liking at first
meeting. Brood shows dislike and veiled
hostility to his son. Lydia and Mrs. Brood
met in the jade-room, where Lydia works
us Brood’s secretary. Mrs. Brood makes
changes in the household and gains her
husband’s consent to send Mrs. Desmond
and Lydia away. She fascinates Frederic.
She begins to fear Ranjab, Brood’s Hin
du servant, in his uncanny appearances
and disappearances, and Frederic, re
knembering his father’s East Indian sto
ries and firm belief in magic, fears un
known evil. Brood tells the story of Ran
3 ib's life to his guests. "He killed a wom
an. who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne
|ilavs with Brood. Frederic and Lydia as
■with figures on a chess board. Brood,
triad ly jealous, tells Lydia that Frederic
Is not his son. aud that he has brought
him up to kill his happiness at the proper
lime with this knowledge. Lydia goes to
beg Brood not to tell Frederic of bid un
happy parentage, but is turned from her
purpose. Frederic, at dinner with Dawes
and Riggs, is seized with an impulse of
filial duty, and under a queer impression
that he is influenced by Ranjab’s will,
bunts up his father, who gives him the
cut direct. Brood tells Frederic the story
cf his dead wife and the music master.
CHAPTER XVI—Continued.
i “It was made in Vienna,” interrupted
(Frederick, not without a strange thrill
•of satisfaction in his soul, “and before
S-ou were married. I'd say. On the
iback of it is written: 'To my own
fcweetheart'—in Hungarian, Yvonne
teays. There! Look at her. She was
hike that when you married her. God,
thow adorable she must have been. 'To
bny own sweetheart!' Ho ho!”
A hoarse cry of rage and pain bust
'from Brood's lips. The world went red
before his eyes.
" To my own sweetheart!’ ” he cried
out. He sprang forward and struck
the photograph from Frederic's hand, j
It fell to the floor at his feet. Before
the young man could recover from his j
surprise. Brood’s foot was upon the |
bit of cardboard. “Don't raise your i
hand to me! Don't you dare to strike j
me! Now I shall tell you who that
sweetheart was!"
Half an hour later James Brood de- j
scended the stairs alone. He went
straight to the library where he knew i
that he could find Yvonne. Ranjab,
etanding in the hall, peered into his
;white, drawn face as he passed, and
•started forward as if to speak to him.
But Brood did not see him. He did |
not lift his gaze from the floor. The
Hindu went swiftly up the stairs, a
deep dread in his soul.
The shades were down. Brood
stopped Inside the door and looked
dully about the library. He was on
■the point of retiring when Yvonne
'spoke to him out of the shadowy cor
ner beyond the fireplace.
“Close the door,” she said huskily
Then she emerged slowly, almost like
la specter, from the dark background
(formed by the huge mahogany book
leases that lined the walls, from floor
'to ceiling. “You were a long time
lup there," she went on.
“Why is it so dark in here, Yvonne?"
jbe asked lifelessly.
“So that it would not be possible for
me to see the shame in your eyes,
James.”
He leaned heavily against the long
table. She came up and stood across
the table from him, and he felt that
Iher eyes were searching his very soul.
“I have hurt him beyond all chance
for recovery,” he said hoarsely.
“Oh, you coward!” she cried, lean
ing over the table, her eyes blazing
“I can understand it in you. You have
ino soul of your own. . What have you
done to your son, James Brood?”
He drew back as if from the impact
(of a blow. "Coward? If I have crushed
his soul, it was done in time, Yvonne,
to deprive you of the glory of doing it.”
i “What did he say to you about me?”
“You have had your fears for noth
ing. He did not put you in jeopardy,”
he said scornfully.
“I know He is not a coward," she
said calmly.
i “In your heart you are reviling me.
[You judge me as one guilty soul
judges another. Suppose that I were
[to confess to you that I left him up
[there with all the hope, all the life
[blasted out of his eyes—with a wound
in his heart that will never stop bleed
ing—that I left him because I was
isorry for what 1 had done and could
!not stand by and look upon the wreck
had created. Suppose—”
“I am still thinking of you as a cow
ard. What is it to me that you are
sorry now? What have you done to
that wretched, unhappy boy?”
“He will tell you soon enough. Then
;yon will despise me even more than I
,despise myself. God! He — he
(looked at me with his mother's eyes
iwhen I kept on striking blows at his
very soul. Her eyes—eyes that were
always pleading with me! But, curse
(them—always scoffing at me! For a
moment I faltered. There was a wave
of love—yes, love, not pity, for him—
as I saw him go down before the
words I hurled at him. It was as if I
had hurt the only thing in all the
world that I love. Then it passed. He
was not meant for me to love. He-was
born for me to despise. He was born
to torture me as I have tortured him.”
“You poor fool!” she cried, her eyes
(glittering.
“Sometimes I have doubted my own
|reason,” he went on as if he had not
heard her scathing remark. “Some
times I have felt a queer gripping of
the heart when I was harshest toward
him. Sometimes his eyes—her eyes—
have melted the steel that was driven
into my heart long ago. his voice and
the touch of his hand gently have
checked my bitterest thoughts. Are
you listening?”
“Yes.”
“You ask what I have done to him.
It is 'nothing in comparison to what
he would have done to me. It isn't
necessary to explain. You know the
thing he has had in his heart to do. I
have known it from the beginning. It
is the treacherous heart of his mother
that propels that boy's blood along its
craven way. She was an evil thing—
as evil as God ever put life into.”
“Go on.”
“I loved her as no woman ever was
loved before—or since. I thought she
loved me—God, I believe she did. He—
Frederic had her portrait up there to
flash in my face. She was beautiful—
she was as lovely as— But no more!
I was not the man. She loved another.
Her lover was that boy’s father.”
Dead silence reigned in the room,
save for the heavy breathing of the
man. Yvonne was as still as death
itself. Her hands were clenched
against her breast.
''That was years ago,” resumed the
man, hoarsely.
"Yjcu—you told him this?” she cried,
aghast.
“He said she must have loathed me
as no man was ever loathed before.
Then I told him."
“You told him because you knew she
ijid not loathe you! And you loved
Matilde—God pity your poor soul! For
no more than I have done you drove
her out of your house. You accuse me
in vour heart when you vent your rage
on that poor boy. Oh, I know! You
suspect me! And you suspected the
other one. Before God, I swear to
you that you have more cause to sus
pect me than Matilde. She was not
untrue to you. She could not have
loved anyone else but you. I know—
God help me, 1 know! Don’t come
near me! Not now! I tell you that
Frederic is your son. I tell you that
Matilde loved no one but you. You
drove her out. You drove Frederic
out. And you will drive me out.”
She stood over him like an accusing
angel, her arms extended. He shrank
back, glaring.
“Why do you say these things to
me? You cannot know—you have no
right to say—”
“I am sorry for you, James Brood,”
she murmured, suddenly relaxing. Her
body swayed against the table, and
then she sank limply into the chair
•_
He Sprang Forward and Struck the
Photograph From Frederic a Hand.
alongside. "You will never forget that
you struck a man who was asleep,
absolutely asleep. That's why I am
sorry for you.”
"Asleep!” he murmured, putting his
hand to his eyes. “Yes, yes—he was
asleep! Yvonne, I—I have never been
so near to loving him as I am now.
I—I—”
"I am going up to him. Don’t try
to stop me. But first let me ask you
a question. What did Frederic say
when you told him his mother was—
was what you claim?”
Brood lowered his head. "He said
that I was a cowardly liar.”
“And it waa then that you began
to feel that you loved him. Ah, I see
You are a great, strong man—a won
derful man In spite of all this. You
have a heart—a heart that still needs
breaking before you can ever hope to
be happy.”
He gasped. "As if my heart hasn’t
already been broken," he groaned.
"Your head has been hurt, that’s all.
There is a vast difference. Are you
going out?”
He looked at her in dull amazement.
Slowly he began to pull himself to
gether.
"Yes. I think you should go to him.
1—I gave him an hour to—to—”
“To get out?”
“Yes. He must go, you see. See
him, if you will. 1 shall not oppose
you. Find out what he—expects to
do.”
She passed swiftly by him as he
started toward the door. In the hall,
which was bright with the sunlight
from the upper windows, she turned
to face him. To his astonishment, her
cheeks were aglow and her eyes bright
with eagerness. She seemed almost
radiant.
"Yes; it needs breaking, James,” she
said, and went up the stairs, leaving
him standing there dumfounded: Near
the top she began to hum a blithe
tune. It came down to him distinctly—
the weird little air that had haunted
him for years—Feverelli’s!
CHAPTER XVII.
Foul Weather.
To Brood’s surprise, she came half
way down the steps again, and, lean
ing over the railing, spoke to him with
a voice full of irony.
"Will you be good enough to call off
your spy, James?”
"What do you mean ?” He had start
ed to put on his light overcoat.
"I think you know,” she said, briefly.
“Do you consider me so mean, so
infamous as—” he began hotly.
“Nevertheless, I feel happier when
I know he is out of the house. Call
off your dog, James.”
He smothered an execration and
then called out harshly to Jones. “Ask
Ranjab to attend me here, Jones. He
is to go out with me,” he said to the
butler a moment later. Yvonne was
still leaning over the banister, a
scornful smile on her lips.
“I shall wait until you are gone. I
intend to see Frederic alone,” he said,
with marked emphasis on the final
word.
“As you like,” said he, coldly.
She crossed the upper hall and dis
appeared from view down the corridor
leading to her own room. Her lips
were set with decision; a wild, reck
less light filled her eyes, and the smile
of scorn had given way to one of ex
altation. Her breath came fast and
tremulously through quivering nos
trils as she closed her door and hur
ried across to the little vine-covered
balcony.
1 he time has come—the time has
come, thank God.” she was saying to
herself, over and over again.
She turned her attention to the win
dow across the court and two floors
above her—the heavily curtained win
dow in Brood's ‘‘retreat.” There was
no sign of life there, so she hurried to
the front of the house to wait for the
departure of James Brood and his man.
The two were going dow-n the front
steps. At the bottom Brood spoke to
Ranjab and the latter, as imperturb
able as a rock, bowed low and moved
off in an opposite direction to that
taken by his master. She watched
until both were out of sight. Then she
rapidly mounted the stairs to the top
floor.
Frederic was lying on the couch
near the jade-room door. She was
able to distinguish his long, dark fig
ure after peering intently about the
shadowy interior in what seemed at
first to be a vain search for him. She
shrank back, her eyes fixed in horror
upon the prostrate shadow. Suddenly
he stirred and then half raised himself
on one elbow to stare at the figure
in the doorway.
“Is it you?” he whispered, hoarsely,
and dropped back with a great sigh on
bis lips.
Her heart leaped. The blood rushed
back to her face. Quickly closing the
door, she advanced into the room, her
tread as swift and as soft as a cat's.
“He has gone out. We are quite
alone,” she said, stopping to lean
against the table, suddenly faint with
excitement.
He laughed, a bitter, mirthless,
snarling laugh.
“Get up Frederic. Be a man! 1
know what has happened. Get up!
I want to talk it over with you. We
must plan. We must decide now—at
once—before he returns.” The words
broke from her lips with sharp, stac
catolike emphasis.
He came to a sitting posture slowly,
all the while staring at her with a dull
wonder in his heavy eyes.
“Pull yourself together,” she cried,
hurriedly. "We cannot talk here. I
am afraid in this room. It has ears,
I know. That awful Hindu is always
here, even though he may seem to be
elsewhere. We will go down to my
boudoir.”
He slowly shook his head and then
allowed his chin to sink dejectedly into
his hands. With his elbows on his
knees he watched her movements in a
state of increasing interest and bewil
derment. She turned abruptly to the
Buddha, whose placid, smirking coun
tenance seemed to be alive to the situ
ation in all of its aspects. Standing
close, her hands behind her back, her
figure very erect and theatric, she pro
ceeded to address the image in a voice
full of mockery.
“Well, my chatterbox friend, I have
pierced his armor, haven’t I? He will
creep up here and ask you, his won
derful god, to tell him what to do
about it, ai—e? His wits are tangled.
He doubts his senses. And when he
comes to you, my friend, and whines
his secret doubts into your excellent
and trustworthy ear, do me the kind
ness to keep the secret I shall now
whisper to you, for I trust you, too,
you amiable fraud.” Standing on tip
toe, she put her lips to the idol's ear
and whispered. Frederic, across the
room, roused from his lethargy by the
strange words and still stranger ac
tion, rose to his feet and took several
steps toward her. “There! Now you
know everything. You know more
than James Brood knows, for you
know what his charming wife is about
to do next.” She drew back and
regarded the image through half- <
closed, smoldering eyes. “But he will
know before long—before long."
“■What are you doing, Yvonne?” de
manded Frederic, unsteadily.
She whirled about and came toward
him, her hands still clasped behind her
back. •
“Come with me,” she said. Ignoring
his question.
“He—he thinks I am in love with
you,” said he, shaking his head.
“And are you not in love with me?”
He was startled. “Good Lord,
Yvonne!”
She came quite close to him. He
could feel the warmth that traveled
from her body across the short space
that separated them. The intoxicat
ing perfume filled his nostrils; he
drew a deep breath, his eyes closing
slowly as his senses prepared to suc
cumb to the delicious spell that came
over him. When he opened them an
instant later, she was still facing him,
&ne watched until Both were Out
of Sight.
as straight and fearless as a soldier,
and the light of victory was in her
dark, compelling eyes.
"Well," she said, deliberately, “I am
ready to go away with you.”
He fell back stunned beyond the
power of speech. His brain was filled
with a thousand clattering noises.
“He has turned you out," she went
on rapidly. “He disowns you. Very
well; the time has come for me to
exact payment from him for that and
for all that has gone before. I shall
go away with you. I—”
"Impossible!” he cried, finding his
tongue and drawing still farther away
from her.
“Are you not in love with me?” she
whispered softly.
He put his hands to his eyes to shut
out the alluring vision.
“For God’s sake, Yvonne—leave me.
Let me go my way. Let me—”
“He cursed your mother! He curses
you! He damns you—as he damned
her. You can pay him up for every
thing. You owe nothing to him. He
has killed every—”
Frederic straightened up suddenly,
and with a loud cry of exultation
raised his clenched hands above his
head.
“By heaven, I will break him! I
will make him pay! Do you know
what he has done to me? Listen to
this: he boasts of having reared me
to manhood, as one might bring up a
prize beast, that he might make me
pay for the wrong that my poor
mother did a quarter of a century
ago. All these years he has had in
mind this thing that he has done to
day. All my life has been spent in
preparation for the sacrifice that came
an hour ago. I have suffered all these
years in ignorance of—’’
“Not so loud!” she whispered,
alarmed by the vehemence of his re
awakened tury.
"Oh, I’m not afraid!” he cried, sav
agely. “Can you imagine anything
more diabolical than the scheme he
has had in mind all these years? To
pay out my mother—whom he loved
and still loves—yes, by heaven, he still
loves her!—he works to this beastly
end. He made her suffer the agonies
of the damned up to the day of her
death by refusing her the right to
have the child that he swears is no
child of his. Oh, you don’t know the
story—you don’t know the kind of
man you have for a husband—you
don’t—"
"Yes, yes, I do know,” she cried, vio
lently, beating her breast with clinched
hands. "I do know! I know that he
still loves the poor girl who went out
of this house with his curses ringing
in her ears a score of years ago, and
who died still hearing them. And I
had almost come to the point of pity
ing him—I was failing—I was weaken
ing. He is a wonderful man. I—I
was losing myself. But that is all
over. Three months ago I could have
left him without a pang—yesterday I
was afraid that it would never be pos
sible. Today he makes it easy for me.
He has hurt you beyond all reason, not
because he hates you but because he
loved your mother.”
“But you do love him,” cried Fred
eric. in stark wonder. “You don’t care
the snap of your finger for me. What
is all this you are saying, Yvonne?
You must be mad. Think! Think
what you are saying.”
“I have thought—I am always think
ing. I know my own mind well enough.
It is settled; I am going away and I
am going with you.”
“I cannot listen to you, Yvonne,"
cried Frederic, aghast. His heart was
pounding so fiercely that the blood
I surged to his head in great waves, al
most stunning him with its velocity
“We go tomorrow,” she cried out,
in an ecstasy of triumph. She was
convinced that he would go! "La
Provence!”
"Good God in heaven!” he gasped,
dropping suddenly into a chair and
burying his face in his shaking hands
“What will this mean to Lydia—what
will she do—what will become of her?”
A quiver of pain crossed the wom
an's face, her eyelids fell as if to shut
cut. something that shamed her in
spite of all her vainglorious protesta
tions. Then the spirit of exaltation re
sumed its sway.
“You cannot marry Lydia now,” she
said, affecting a sharpness of tone that
caused him to shrink involuntarily. “It
is your duty to write her a letter to
night, explaining all that has hap
pened today. She would sacrifice her
self for you today, but there is—to
morrow! A thousand tomorrows, Fred
eric. Don’t forget them, my dear.
They would be ugly after all, and she
is too good, too fine to be dragged
into—"
“You are right!” he exclaimed, leap
ing to his feet. “It would be the vilest
act that a man could perpetrate.
Why—why it would be proof of what
he says of me—it would stamp me
forever the bastard he—No, no, I could
never lift my head again if I were to
do this utterly vile thing to Lydia. He
said to me here—not an hour ago—
that he expected me to go ahead and
blight that loyal girl’s life, that 1
would consider it a noble means of
self-justification! What do you think
of that? He— But wait! What is
this that we are proposing to do?
Give me time to think! Why—why,
1 can’t take you away from him,
Yvonne! God in heaven, wThat am 1
thinking of? Have I no sense of
honor? Am I—”
“You are not his son,” she said,
significantly.
“But that is no reason why I should
stoop to a foul trick like this. Do—
do you know what you are suggest
ing?” He drew back from her with a
look of disgust in his eyes. “No! I'm
not that vile! I—"
r reuenc, you must, lei me—
“I don’t want to hear anything
more, Yvonne. What manner of wom
an are you? He is your husband, he
loves you, he trusts you—oh, yes. he
does! And you would leave him like
this? You would—”
“Hush! Not so loud!” she cried, In
great agitation.
“And let me tell you something
more. Although I can never marry
Lydia, by heaven, I shall love her to
the end of my life. Ji will not betray
that love. To the end of time she shall
know that my love for her is real and
true and—”
"Wait! Give me time to think,” she
pleaded. He shook his head reso
lutely. "Do not judge me too harshly.
Hear what I have to say before you
condemn me. I am not the vile crea
ture you think, Frederic. Wait! Let
me think!”
He stared at her for a moment in
deep perplexity, and then slowly drew
near. “I do not believe you mean to
do wrong—I do not believe it of you.
You have been carried away by some
horrible—”
“Listen to me,” she broke in, fierce
ly. “1 would have sacrificed you—ay.
sacrificed you, poor boy—for the joy
it would give me to see James Brood
grovel in misery for the rest of his
life. Oh!” She uttered a groan of
despair and self-loathing so deep and
full of pain that his heart was chilled.
“Good Lord. Yvonne!” he gasped,
dumfounded
"Do not come near me.” she cried
out, covering her face with her hands.
For a full minute she stood before him,
straight and rigid as a statue, a tragic
figure he was never to forget. Sud
denly she lowered her hands. To his
surprise, a smile was on her lips. "You
would never have gone away with me.
I know it now. All these months I
have been counting on you for this
very hour—this culminating hour—and
now I realize how little hope I have
really had, even from the beginning
You are honorable. There have been
times when my influence over you was
such that you resisted only because
you were loyal to yourself—not to
Lydia, not to my husband—but to
yourself. I came to this house with
but one purpose in mind. I came here
to take you away from the man who
has always stood as your father. I
would not have become your mistress
—pah! how loathsome it sounds! But
I would have enticed you away, be
lieving myself to be justified. I would
have struck James Brood that blow.
He would have gone to his grave be
lieving himself to have been paid in
full by the son of the woman he had
degraded, by the boy he had reared
for the slaughter, by the blood—”
“In God's name, Yvonne, what is
this you are saying? What have you
against my—against him?”
“What! 1 shall come to that. 1
did not stop to consider all that I
should have to overcome. First, there
was your soul, your honor,, your in
tegrity to consider. I could see noth
ing else but triumph over James
Brood. To gain my end it was neces
sary that I should be his wife. I be
came his wife—I deliberately took that
step in order to make complete my
triumph over him. I became the wife
of the man I hated with all my soul,
Frederic. So you can see how far I
was willing to go to—ah, it was a hard
thing to do! But I did not shrink. I
went into it without faltering, without
a single thought of the cost to myself.
He was to pay for all that, too, in the
end. Look into my eyes, Frederic. I
want to ask you a question. Will you
go away with me? Will you take me?”
He returned her look steadily. “No! ”
“That is all I want to hear you say.
It means the end. I have done all
that could be done and I have failed.
Thank God, I have failed!” She came
swiftly to him and. • before he wat
aware of her intention, clutched his
hand and pressed it to her lips He
was shocked to find that a sudden
gush of tears was wetting his hand.
"Oh. Yvonne!” he cried miserably
She was sobbing convulsively He
looked down upon her dark, bowed
head and again felt the mastering de
sire to crush her slender, beautiful
body in his arms. The spell of her
was upon him again, but now he real
ized that the appeal was to his spirit
and not to his flesh—as it had been all
along, he was beginning to suspect.
“Don’t pity me,” she choked out
“This will pass, as everything else
has passed. I am proud of you now,
Frederic. You are splendid. Not many
men could have resisted in this hour
of despair. You have been cast off,
despised, degraded, humiliated. You
were offered the means to retaliate.
You—”
“And I was tempted!” he cried bit
terly. "For the moment I was—”
“And now what is to become of
me?” she wailed.
His heart went cold. "You—you
will leave him? You will go back to
Paris? Good Lord, Yvonne, it will be
a blow to him. He has had one fear
ful slash in the back. This will break
him.”
“At least, I may have that consola
tion," she cried, straightening up in
an effort to revive her waning pur
pose. “Yes, 1 shall go. I cannot stay
here now. I—” She paused and shud
dered.
“What, in heaven's name, have you
against my—against him? What does
it all mean? How you must have hated
him to—”
Hated him? Oh, how feeble the word
is! Hate! There should be a word
that strikes more terror to the soul
than that one. But wait! You shall
know everything. You shall have the
story from the beginning. There is
much to tell and there will be consola
tion—ay, triumph for you in the story
I shall tell. First, let me say this to
you: When I came here I did not know
that there wa, a Lydia Desmond I
would have hurt that poor girl, but it
would not have been a lasting pain.
In my plans, after I came to know her,
there grew a beautiful alternative
through whicf she should know great
happiness. Oh, 1 have planned well
and carefully, but I was ruthless. I
would have crushed her with him rath
er than to have failed. But it is all a
dream that has passed and ! am awake
It was the most cruel but the most
magnificent dream—ah, but I dare not
think of it. As I stand here before
you now, Frederic, I am shorn of all
my power. I could not strike him as 1
might have done a month ago. Even
as 1 was cursing him but a moment
ago I realized that I could not have
gone on with the game. Even as I
begged you to take your revenge, 1
knew that it was not myself who
urged, but the thing that was having
its death struggle within me."
“Go on. Tell me. Why do you
stop?”
She was glancing fearfully toward
the Hindu’s door. "There is one man
in this house who knows. He reads
my every thought. He does not know
all, but he knows me. He has known
from the beginning that I was not to
be trusted. That man is never out of
my thoughts. I fear him, Frederic—I
fear him as I fear death, if he had not
been here I—I believe I should have
“Ah, It Was a Hard Thing to Do!"
dared anything. I could have taken
you away with me. months ago. Rut
he worked his spell and I was afraid
I faltered. He knew that I was afraid,
for he spoke to me one day of the
beautiful serpents in his land that
were cowards in spite of the death
they could deal with one flash of their
fangs. You were intoxicated I am a
thing of beauty. 1 can charm as
the—’*
“God knows that is true." he said
hoarsely.
“But enough of that! I was stricken
with my own poison. Go to the door.
See if he is there. I fear—"
“No one is near,” said he, after strid
ing swiftly to both doors, listening at
one and peering out through the other
• You will have to go away, Frederic.
I shall have to go. But we shall not
go together. In my room I have kept
hidden the sum of ten thousand dol
lars, waiting for the day to come when
I should use it to complete the game
I have played. I knew that you would
have no money of your own. I was
prepared even for that. Look again!
See if anyone is there? 1 feel—I feel
that someone is near us. Look, I say."
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
jCOMERCIAL IDEA IN FICTION
America Possibly Too Much Under
' the Influence of the "Best
Seller” Tyranny.
The dogma persistently put forward
ln America under innumerable guises
the thinker and the literary art
Ster to the t..te.-Idea. a,d
..nttments moral and emotional, ol
vjE'SS ialortty. "”der 01 ,b"
^ ignored or ostracized, was noted
'^V^CQueville three generations
ago, but this dogma, bred in the
American bone seems to have been re
enforced by the latter-day tyranny of
the commercial ideal.' The commercial
man who says, "Read this book be
cause it is the best seller," is seeking
to hypnotize the individual’s judg
ment and taste. If there be a notice
able dearth of originality of feeling
and outlook In latter-day American
Action, It must be because the Indi
vidual is subjected from the start to
the insistent pressure of social ideals
of conformity which paralyze or crush
out the finer, rarer, more sensitive I
individual talents. I do not say that
English writers are not vexed in a
minor degree by Mrs. Grundy’s at
tempts to boycott or crush novels that
offend the taste of “the villa public,”
but I believe that onr social atmos
phere favors the writer of true indi
viduality.—Atlantic.
Poor Monday.
Monday, er-m-m-ur-r-h! Wash day—
suds and steam—picked-up dinner for
the men folk, and at night a “thank
goodness-it’s-over” feeling. That ought
to be about enough for Monday. But
the worst about anything is never told
until a scientific commission or a so
ciologist tells it. Monday has never
been a really popular day. It’s much
worse than that, however. According
to the Ohio Industrial Commission,
which has been making a study of
Monday, it is the most unlucky day of
the week. More accidents happen on
that day than on any other, and fewer
people work than on any other day
except Sunday. And to be scientifical
ly accurate and specific, most of the
forenoon accidents happen at ten
o'clock and the afternoon accidents
group around three o’clock. Now you
know the worst about Monday, until
another investigation.
We publish these findings for what
they may be worth, without malice and
in fairness to poor old Friday.—Delin
eator.
Cause* of Spasms.
Although the muscles which affect
the action of the jaws are especially j
under the control of the brain, the
chattering of the teeth is really a
spasm caused by chill or fear, and all
spasms act independently of the will.
The muscles which operate the Jaw
act in a series of involuntary little
contraction! which pull the jaw up
and permit it to fall of its own weight
This action is quick, and the chatter
ing occurs from frequent repetition.
Cold has a similar effect on the jaw
muscles to that which some poisons
have in causing spasmodic action in
other parts of the body.
•
EXPENSE OF BUILDING ROADS
Over $200,000,000 Spent on Highways
Up to January 1, 1915—31.0C0
Miles Constructed.
More than $200,000,000 of state ap
propriations have been expended to
January 1, 1915, and an approximate
total of 31,000 miles of surface high
way constructed under state supervi
sion since the inauguration of the pol
icy known as "state aid, ’’ according to
the Good Roads Year Hook for 1915.
issued by the American Highway as
sociation from its Washington office.
Only seven states, Florida, Georgia.
Indiana, Mississippi, South Carolina,
Tennessee and Texas, have no form
of state highway department what
ever, although Georgia grants aid to
the counties for road improvement by
lending the services of the entire male
state convict force.
Legislatures are devoting much at
tention to road legislation and unques
tionably several new highway depart
Convicts Building a Good Road.
ments will result. North Carolina w ill
probably establish an independent
highway department in lieu of the
work now' done by the state geological
survey relating to highways.
New Jersey in 1891 was the pioneer
state in providing state aid for public
highways. Massachusetts and Con
necticut adopted the policy shortly aft
er, but only during the last ten years
has the state-aid policy been in ef
fect on a considerable scale. About
5,000 miles of state highways were
completed in 1913 and about 6,000
miles in 1914, so that the last two
years have been responsible for more
than one-third of the entire state
highway mileage. The state highways
in America now exceed by 6,000 miles
the national road system of France.
To have state highway departments
placed under non-partisan, efficient
control; skilled supervision required
in all construction work; a proper
classification of highway to insure in
telligent distribution of improve
ments; an adequate provision for
maintenance of highways from the
day of their completion—these are
among the objects for which the
American Highway association is wag
ing a vigorous campaign.
PRACTICAL GOOD ROADS TEXT
Probably Three-Fourths of Difficulties
Experienced in Season Could
Be Eliminated.
How much better to drag the roads
,n early spring than to let the roads
themselves become a “drag” next sum
mer, when heavy teams loaded with
produce must be hauled to market
Probably three-fourths of the dirt
road difficulties experienced during
the season could be eliminated by a
little industry right now.
The pleasure later on of hauling
over roads free from ruts and gigan
tic mud puddles after the summer
shower, will make up for any extra
work this spring.
Here is a practical good roads text
that will be carried out by many pro
gressive communities this year.
Making Hard Roadbed.
To make a hard roadbed the soil
must contain a fair amount of mois
ture. The control of the moisture re
quires that the roadbed be higher In
the middle and smooth so that water
cannot stand on it but will run off.
If water can stand on the road, ruts
will result, and when these are ground
down, dust forms and finally a loose
roadbed results.
The Road Drag.
The road drag is the simplest and
least expensive contrivance yet de
vised for maintaining earth roads.
Roadbed Above Water.
Where there is standing water the
roadbed should be kept at least a foot
above the water surface and 18 inches
is'better. The nature of the soil and
the length of time that the water
stands along the road will to a degree
determine how high the roadbed must
be above the water.
Keeping Roadbed Crowned.
Keeping the roadbed well crowned
and smooth will hold the moisture in
it so that it will pack hard.
Excellent Combination.
Dairying and stock growing form an
excellent combination and one that
will improve the fertility of the farm.
Dairy farming and the growing of po
tatoes or market crops make another
good combination.
Improving the Soil.
Special attention should be given to
improving the quality of the soil.
Heavy applications of barnyard ma
nure will increase the humus content.
: 1 they will add some quickly avail
Pe,7„ food.