Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, December 10, 1902, Image 1
ISSUED SEMI'WEEKL^
t. h. grist & sons, pabii.her., 1 % <|amitg jfcOTpager: 4or Iht gromotion a( the golitical, Social, Sflricultural, and (Eommatial gnhjrqsts of tht gtoplt. {"^aimo^'oopr* ?vb' c4DtV8ANCBestablished
1855. YOJEIK VILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER lO, 1902. NO. 99.
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jr?to>
IREPORMI
8 By CHARLES M. SHELDON,
'TT Aatbor ofIBs Steps." "ilobsrt Hardy's Sera
;XX CupyrighL, 1901, by Charles M. Shel
TOi!iiili!iiiiU!t!!!i1!l
CHAPTER I.
i rm 1 I
C' | IIK great city rose
] about blin like a
?* mountain with a
multitude of ambiguous
canyons leading
off into uuexplored
distances,
j * The roar of its trafl?????J
tic was persistent
ami spoke in various voices the language
of bitter toll, of physical energy
ami of careless pleasure seeking. At
no time in all ids life had be seemed
to feel the burden of his responsibility
for others as at this moment He bad
come to the place where he could no
longer endure the strife between duty
and inclination, between personal ease
* 1?1~. t. ~ t-Kof
anu personal uiuusiry iu a nvuu wai
offered him little expectation of reward
as be ministered to It. Tbe struggle
wbicb bad led up to bis final precipitation
of the crisis bad been a
struggle almost empty of bitterness,
but overflowing with pain. He was
conscious as be stood on tbe steps of
bis father's bouse, about to turn his
back , on all tbe traditions of bis father's
name and business, that there
was no hatred in his soul and no resentment
in his heart. What be was
about to leuve did not find as much
place in bis mind as what he was
about to seek. He was not troubled
over any loss to himself, but he faced
with a deep seriousness worthy of the
event certain well defined questions
relative to bis future. As be finally
went down the steps and became a
part of tbe human current that flowed
down the street the city seemed to
absorb him into its turbulent mysteriousness
and to bear him along, a
part of its restlessness, a portion of
its eternal destiny.
*
Rufus Cordon looked over at his son.
"1 don't see that tbe trip has hurt
you any. You look heartier. John, than
I ever saw you before."
"it uas ueen a greui trip iur me, iatlier,"
replied John Gordon, returning
his father's look earnestly, "and 1 am
very grateful to you for it The ocean
voyage toned me up wonderfully."
"Just what you needed." The older
man spoke with a heartiness that
seemed to cause the younger to shrink
back a little in bis chair as if in anticipation
of something different. "I remember
the tirst time I went across. I
was Just about as much run down as
you were when you finished at the university.
Six months in Germany and
Switzerland made a new man of me.
But we've missed you. John?Mary
and I."
John Gordon looked out of the window
before he answered.
"You've been very kind to me. You
have always been kind to me. All that
makes it bard for me to say something
I ought to say."
The father looked sharply at the son,
and there was a moment's pause.
"Well, go on." Rufus Gordon said as
his son seemed to wait for him to
speak.
"In the first place." John Gordon began
slowly. "I must refuse your offer
of a position in the bank. I cannot by
any possibility accept it."
There was another expressive silence
between the two men. and Rufus Gor
aoi) 8nuT. IMS eyes uruiiy lujjeiuci, n unc
his face hardened gradually.
"I received your letter Just before
sailing from Liverpool, father." John
Gordon continued, "and I believe I appreciate
your plan for my future. But
It Is all impossible I am going *o disappoint
you in every particular, but
thut Is because you cannot understand"
Rufus Gordon made no movement of
any kind, not even when bis son stopped
abruptly and looked over at him
as If expecting a reply. To one who
knew him as bis son did the utter absence
of any sign of emotion In the
face of what wus in reality a tremendous
blow at his family pride Indicated
simply the hard, unyielding nature
of the man.
Of course I don't expect you to understand?I
anticipate nothing. But
you have brought me up to tell the
truth, and I am simply telling It now
as It ii.U8t be told, when I say that 1
cannot and will not accept the life
*>u n. .pped out for me In your letter.
..would be worse than a mockery for
me to attempt such a career. It would
Banmnmtminnui
<g> Q ?M?
? H ?
4 H I
ER (9)
iDays,"ftc. X&Jlr
| h >
don <y ? ? m
be death to my whole nature. It would
cut across every principle of my life,
every conviction that has ever prompted
mo to be of use in the world."
TJnfno HnwlAn flttnllv ennbn n f f a* Kin
Mvt uvu uuutij oj/vac anci uto
son bud been silent a long time.
"We've been over all this more or
less bci'ore. I hoped your trip abroad
would take some of your foolishness
out of you. It seems it busn't. Well,
what do you expect to do?"
The question was blunt. It was more
?It was brutal.
John Gordon rose and began walking
up and down. His father sat looking
at him coldly, but curiously, as If
studying some peculiar characteristic
that for the tirst time had begun to affect
him.
"Father," John Gordon finally exclaimed,
"you will never understand
my choice. I wondered all the way
home whether it was worth while to
try to expluin myself. But you have a
right to know why I refuse your offer
and why I make choice of the career 1
must follow."
Itufus Gordon gave no sign of assent,
but his son went on speaking with
growing feeling that at times rose Into
genuine passion; yet at no point did he
lose control of himself either in voice
or in manner.
"I am not Judging you, father, when
I say that a life that 13 content to expend
its greatest energies in money
making is a life thut has not only no
attractions for me. but it has a positive
repulsion. To spend the day in a competitive
strife that seeks to get more
and more, largely at the expense of
the weak and helpless; to spend night
after night in dressing up in tine clothlug
and being amused, to live only with
those select companions who are able
to dress and eat as well as we are, to
be practically Ignorant of and absolutely
ludifferent to the conditions of
thousands of human beings in this
great city, to have no ideals higher
thuu a commercial standard and no
passions beyond the physical appetites?all
this Is a growing horror to
me. We live in a beautiful house."
John Gordon glanced around the room,
which was furnished with elegance
and great good taste, with only here
and there a suggestion of a barbaric
lapse Into the vulgarity of over display.
"We have servants, carriages, yachts,
summer residences?luxuries of all descriptions.
Out of all the wealth of
our lives we give a fraction of income
to so called charity. We are all three
of us church members. We pay a large
sum nominally to church expenses.
We do not give anything of our personal
lives or persoual enthusiasm to
church or Christian work. The whole
of our family life has revolved about
ourselves?our eating, dressing, entertaining
and money making. What
have we ever done for this city where
we live? How much of service presenting
real sacrifice have we ever
given to help solve any of its real human
problems? We live from day to
day as if there were no such thing in
America as poverty or Intemperance
or injustice or inequality or greed or
child murder. The wealth that buys
things seems to be our daily god. The
prayers we say in church have no
meaning because we do not mean
them. The very charity we dispense
Is an act of proxy wnien represents no
thought, no sacrifice and no human
affection. We give because It Is customary
or as a means of silencing (God
pity us!) our waking consciences that
In spite of us sometimes remind us
that there Is a human brotherhood.
"Dny after day. with monotonous
treadmill regularity, follows one function
after another?receptions, teas,
theaters, concerts, gayetles, self, self,
self?while the city grows up In Its political
life, rotten, vile, uncared for by
the money grubbers so long as too
much blackmuil Is not levied on the
business In which we are engaged.
Practically we have said all these
years to this city, where our money
has been made: 'We cure nothing for
your real life. All that we want out of
you Is a living for ourselves, a luxurious
living. Let the preachers and the
philanthropists and the professional
reformers see to all the painful and
disagreeable details of human misery
and social wrong. We are too busy
with our mcuey making to be disturbed
by cries for Justice or righteousness.'
Father, you know this is the
sort of life you plan for me to perpetu
ate. Your ambition for me is to nave
me enter the bank, to become an expert
In finance, to marry and manage
a luxurious, proud, exclusive establishment
und train my children to follow
on in the same path, keeping the name
of the Gordons as a social and financial
word to speak in the city and In
select Circles as a synonym for distinguished
wealth and high breeding, unmixed
with any vulgar association
with common humanity. 1 say such a
career fills me with horror. I feel as If
all these years I had been living under
the condemnation of an angry God,
and I cannot and I will not any longer
live such a life. You have no right to
ask me to do It. I have no right to attempt
It."
"Is that your answer to my question?
I asked you what you were gotig
to do."
Uufus Gordon hud not moved a muscle
during his son's talk, and he spoke
now in an easy, contemptuous munner.
.John Gordon .cuiue UP to the side of
the table opposite his father and looked t
keenly across at him. Then he turned e
away and went over to one of the <
great windows and looked out on the i
fashionable avenue. When he finally t
turned around and faced his father i
again, he was astonished to see him t
rising from his chair and coming over 1
toward him. In all his knowledge of ]
his father, John Gordon had never \
known him before to exhibit so much j
feeling. Probably neither man fully t
understood the event. Afterwurd, in i
going over the scene, John Gordon f
could not avoid a feeling of suspicion ,
as to Its genuineness, but be bad never
known his father to play a part, and,
in fact, considered him quite Incapable
of It
However that may be, Rufus Gordon
now began un appeal to his son that
for the time being had considerable Influence
over him.
"John," he began, holding out his
hands, although when the son stepped
forward as if to meet him affectionately
lie dropped his arms quickly to
his sides, "you are my only son, and I?
depend on you. It has been the ambition
of my life to see you succeeding to
the place which I now occupy. I do not
understand what you have Just been
saying. It bus no meaning to me. In
that sense, what you say is very true?
we can never understand euch other.
But you would huve Independence in
the position I offer you and for which
you huve been trained. If you wanted
to experiment in these matters of social
problems, as you cull them, you would
have the money and your place In society
to help you. But if you step outside
the circle in which we belong you
will have 110 stuuding and no Influence.
But it is not clear to me yet what your
plans are, in case you Anally decide to
reject my plans for you." .
He stopped suddenly, and John Gor- ,
don. looking eagerly and with growing .
astonishment Into his father's face,
noted for the Hrst time signs of grow- :
lng age in the deep wrinkles about the ,
eyes, the bent shoulders and a slight
but noticeable shaking of oue hand as ,
the long white fingers fumbled at the
watch chain. He hud never before en
tertained the Idea that his father was
an old man. Rufus Gordon had always
been so upright of carriage, so
firm and steady on his feet, so decided
In his movements, that none of his acquaintances
had yet thought of age in
their thought of him. What he now
saw had something to do with the
manner In which John Gordon answered
bis father's question.
"My plans, father? I have none?
that is, none that you would call by
that name. Perhaps as far as I have
gone my plans are summed up In my
love for the people."
"Love for the people?" Rufus Gordon
repeated the words and took a step
toward his son. "You love the people,
then, more than your old father! For
the people you would do what you
would not do for me! And who are the
people? Masses of the envious, the desperate,
the thriftless, the Irresponsible.
Are we to blume for their condition?
You talk of social wrongs. But who
makes them possible but the people
themselves?"
John listened in astonishment In all
their conversation his father had never
before spokeu so. There was a strain
almost of mildness in his manner.
"John," he continued with a softening
of accent and manner that deepened
the sou's astonishment, "you cannot
do anything. I said I did not understand
you or your motives. I know
enough, however, to know that if you
go out Into the world to do the things
of which you dreum, you will miserably
fall, and the result will be pain
and disgrace for me, for us all. 1 love
you, John. Perhaps you have not
known this. But"?
Rufus Gordon turned and walked
back to the place where he had been
pitting by the table. When be lifted
his face again toward John Gordon, It
was the same cold, proud, hard face
with which he had listened to his son's
Indictment of his own and his father's
social selfishness.
John Gordon was so confused by this
scene and his father's manner that he
stood irresolutely silent by the window.
The whole incident seemed fantastically
unreal, it was so unlike any- j
thing his father had ever done before.
He had Just turned from the window
to speak when a voice in the next I
room began to sing: (
"The sadness that grows with the years
Is a sadness that will not depart; I
It to close to the fountain of tears. (
For It lies at the depth of the heart" j
The singer appeared at the doorway
and called out in a clear but somewhat
hard tone: (
"John will vou co with me this
evening? Mr. Pen well sends word that <
he cannot go owing to a sudden sum- j
mous out of town." ]
"What Is It. Mary?" John Gordon ]
spoke affectionately. i
"Ravoll In "The Edge of the Sword.' "
John Gordon looked grave, and his :
sister swiftly noted bis hesitation,
"Whut's the matter with you. John? | i
Since you returned from nbroad you |
act so queer. Dou't you want to go i
witb me? Itavoll is perfectly splendid |
in the part." t
"rihe play is"? John Gordon hesl i
tated to characterize it. In reality it |
was rotten in its whole ethical purpose |
and teaching. i
"Everybody goes," Mary exclaimed i
petulantly. "Of course, if you won't 1
go with me. it will spoil my evening. I
had been expecting It so." i
Rufus Gordon spoke. f
"I'll go with you, Mary, if you want
me to." ]
"Oh. will you? That's a good father.
She turned toward him, but looked over ]
her shoulder at her brother with a ges- 1
ture of rejection. 1
John Gordon looked at the two in i
silence that registered in bis mind what 1
had practically become the most pain- i
fui experience of his whole life, the i
growing knowledge of his estrange- 1
ment from nil his home loves. "But I j
have chosen," he kept saying to him- t
self. "I have chosen. I cannot go t
back now." The trifling Incident of I
:ke theater and his sister's mlsunderitandlng
of his attitude toward it was
>nly a single illustration out of a hunIred
other things that made the whole
ioclal career unbearable to him. The
lact that this particular play was dlsingulshed
by the acting of the most
uilliant actor of the age did not releve
the play itself of the condemna:ion
that rested upon It for being too
mpure and suggestive for any self rejecting
man or woman to behold its
novement on the stage. Yet the wealth
ind fashion and culture of the city applauded
the acting and praised the actor.
The press coutained columns of
commendation for the scenery, the cosumes,
the spirited presentation from
in artistic and dramatic point of view
md a mild sentence or two of rebuke
.'or the character of the play itself.
fVhat more could one ask by way of
illurement to go and see and hear
lomethlng which was a little doubtful
n its moral setting, but splendid in its
)hyslcal and intellectual sweep of power?
Mary had risen and was going back
nto the other roonr singing gayly,
"For It lies at the depth of the heart,"
vhen John Gordon spoke again.
"Father, will you wait here a few
noments? I wish to have a little talk
vith Mary. And I would like to finish
>ur conference," he hesitated, but Itu!us
Gordon unswered as he went over
:o a writing desk, "I'll be here when
rou are through." He sat down and
>egan to write, while John und Mary
vent together into the next room.
"Mary, I want to talk seriously with
rou," John Gordon begun as Aiury comnenced
to slug In a mocking tone,
"The sadness that grows with the
years"?
"No! No! Listen to me once, just
:his once, Mary, wltli seriousness. You
mow we have played together and
ightly treated the world all these
rears. But It cannot go on forever.
[ have come to a place, Mary, where
[ must choose between father and you
md the work of my life. It is no playng
matter now."
"Why, what are fou going to do?"
It was the same question his father
lad asked and it presented ugain the
iame mental difficulty to John Gorton.
If his father foiled to understand
lis son's motives, his sister was, if
inything, far less capable of knowing
vhat her brother had in mind.
"I am going?I am going to?God help
ne, I do not yet know all?but 1 cannot
ive this life any longer. What do we
to, Mary, but make playtime of life?
ind the people are beginning to wake
lp from their sleep of the ages and
itretch their limbs with more and more
jonsciousness of power. We shall be
riaythings to them. If we do not love
hem and go to wprk. That is all we
ihall be fit for?playthings?that is
ill we have ever done?play?and it is
nurder to play all the time in a world
ike ours."
"What's the matter with you. John?
iVhat makes you act so? You talk
Ike one of these socialists, these bor M
mon tlint nr?? nlwnvs mukinc BO
nuch fuss about rich people and?and
t 1 _ - 1
I ?^
r^kiM *i\t 11 *<Aat nr\miv4fh *mo fh4a ^na-n^tinf"
U/WV yvw l/V (V?rW? IIIV W?IO V l/v I??I ?y i
ill that!" Mary spoke with a touch
>f petulance as near excitement or an;er
as she generally became under
trong temptation.
"I am one, Mary," replied John Gorlon
quietly.
"What! A soclullst! You! John
jordon!" The girl spoke In genuine
istonishmeut. And with a gesture of
real fear she moved away and stood
ooking at him as if seeing something
lew and strange In him.
"You don't need to be afraid of me,
Wary," John said with a slight smile.
'I can't explain it all to you. But all
uy views bave changed within the last
'ew months. It is not possible for me
:o continue the business that father
ins built up. He has been so deeply
>et niton it that 1 know my refusal to
nake his pluns my own has angered
dm beyond forgiveness. You know
'atker well enough to know that I canlot
expect anything from him in the
,vay of encouragement In the career
r hni-ii nlnnncd."
"Why, you have uot told me at all
ivliat you plan to do!" exclaimed his
sister hopelessly.
"I am golug to work for the people!
I am going to"?
John Gordon paused as a vision of
bis future, mist like, but In rugged outline.
grew on the screen of his Imagination.
"The people!" There It was;
Ignorant, 6ome of It, but hourly rising
Into a desperute Intelligence, which,
undirected, would prove Its own and
the city's destruction. "The people,"
tolling, sweating, acting figures in the
jreat human drama that were neither
superuumcruries nor leading parts, but
so vital to the whole movement of the
tragedy that it ull was destined to
tiwecp on to Its anal net. wltli tnera as
resultant cause! "The people," vague,
but certain, full of unwritten histories
but making all history possible, and
bearing In face and attitude the weal
or woe of republics! "The people,"
driven In herds one day, leading the
masses the next, while all problems of
life surged up and down the thronging
highways, entanglements caused
by murderous greed, by inherited customs,
by the physical passions that
know no education of refinement due to
civilization! "The people," borh of the
soil, but molded by the city, some of
It to starve and riot and drink and
grow Indifferent to the very wrongs
that made It what it was, and he, John
Gordon, the son of Uufus Gordon, the
great financier, the man of "deals" and
"combines" and "operations"?and he,
John Gordon, was going to devote his
young manhood to "the people," to
the training and directing of this misdirected
giant, because (he smiled at
Its strange possibility), because he had
grown to love it, a love taught him by
personal religious experience, so reui,
so profound, that he knew It dug a gulf
as deep as space between his father
and his sister and himself. Nothing
but a similar experience on their part
could ever fill the gulf, nothing but a
similar miracle of regeneration could
ever make him understood by them.
Mary had gone over to the piano and
was humming the tune she had been
singing when she Interrupted the talk
between father and brother. After a
moment John Gordon went over and
put his hand on his sister's shoulder.
"All through?" she said, turning
about from the piano.
There were tears in John Gordon's
eyes as he looked down at her. When
he spoke. It was very gently.
"It all means, of course, that I am
going away. Do you understand that,
Mary? This will not be my home any
more. It will not be possible for me
to live here and do"?
"It's all very strange to me, John,"
said his sister. "You have every
chance in the world and you prefer to
throw it away for?for a lot of people
who don't care."
'They will care."
"What good If they do, John?" His
sister suddenly turned toward him very
much as his father had, and laid her
hand on his arm. "John, the people
will not care. What can you do?
Surely we are not to blame for all the
wrong In the city. I beard what you
said to father. It is simply absurd to
think that we are responsible for the
way things go. And it is nonsense to
think you can do anything. Think how
It will look in print! 'John Gordon, the
reformer! John Gordon, the socialist!'
"
"Don't, Mary! It will be hard enough
without your sneer."
"I did not uieuu to sneer." She
seemed honestly grieved, and he instantly
leaned over and kissed her
cheek. But even as he did so he knew
she bad turned away from him a little,
and when he raised his head she did
not look up or return his caress. He
still stood by her silently, realizing
each moment more keenly the chasm
that stretched between them owing to
his religious experience.
"Where are you going to live? You
say you cannot live here with us any
more?" his sister finally asked.
"I don't know."
"Will you live with the people?"
"It Is possible."
"It Is absurd. I don't understand."
"You cannot" He said it with a
sadness that realized the futility of
explanations.
"And of course Luella will go with
you! She Is such a lover of the people!"
"Luella!"
"You have forgotten her?"
"No!" And yet he had?at least he
had absorbed all bis thought for the
time about his home relations and had
not reckoned on facing this question
of the relation which would exist between
himself and the woman who
had promised to be his wife when he
had asked her as John Gordon, son of
Itufus Gordon. What would she say
now to John Gordon, reformer?
He sat down and put his hands over
his face, while Mary watched him curiously,
very much as the father had
done.
"Luella Is very proud. Still, she
might enjoy living in the slums and
studying problems. She is full of contradictions."
"That is true," John Gordon whispered
to himself as he lifted up his
face.
"Luella thinks a good deal of you,
John."
"That Is true, too," he whispered to
himself again.
"Still, when you think how Luella
has been brought up you can't be surprised
if she should refuse to do some
things, especially If they mean loss of
social standing. Love must be reasonable."
"And unreasonable," said John Gordon.
with a faint smile. "Love beareth
all things."
Mary Gordon stared at her brother.
"Of nnnrsp nnvthlnc is Dosslble. But
Luella"?
She smiled to herself and then stared
at her brother, and then carelessly
turned about and began to sing:
"Oh. the sadness that grows with the
years!"
John Gordon turned toward the other
room, but before he had gone out Mary
rose and came quickly up to him.
"This is not goodby, John?"
"Yes." He turned and looked at her
earnestly.
"Of course" ? ste hesitated ? "of
course the reason 1 don't show more
feeling is because I cannot believe you
are really going to leave us for good.
You will try the reforming business a
little while, and after you have learned
that you cannot do unything you will
come buck and let father work out his
plan for you, which, 1 must say, is far
more sensible thun what you propose.
So I don't intend to say goodby, John,
and I hope Luellu will be us good to
you ns 1 am."
She instantly went buck to the piano,
sat down ana Degan to sing ana pia
gayly. John Gordon looked at her f<
a moment, then went into the oth<
room and found his father still writir
there.' He went up to the desk an
waited until his father laid down h
pen.
"Well?" he said as he lifted his hea
and looked up at his son. "Yon ha\
something more to say?"
There was not a hint In the tone <
manner to suggest to John Gordon an
affection or feeling. He was not su
prised. He had not expected anythlni
But he put out his hand toward h
father almost like one who la slnkln
and sees some floating object swept o\
of reach on a receding wave.
"You understand, father, that I i
not ask anything of you. Gram
mother's share of the ^Waller estate i
due me next year. I will take care <
myself until then."
Rufus Gordon did not speak, an
John Gordon continued:
"All this?my action la and alwaj
will be strange to you, father. The r
llglous experience through which
passed while abroad makes any oth<
"Aiinw livrvncnlhle fnr me. As I said 1
you before, the life we have been lb
lng in this city seems now to be
monstrous life for civilized people 1
live. The term Christian has no meai
lng at all unless it means service, sa<
riflce, sharing In some real sense wit
the world's uceds. The clvlllzatio
which means simply getting all it ca
out of the world instead of patting a
>lt can Into It Is a civilization that cai
not be called Christian. My soul Is ui
able to rest, my life cannot go on wit
such contradictions torturing it Thi
Is the reason, father, that our ways d
vide. Would to God that we could sc
and walk together!"
The cry was wrung from him by
sharp and sudden pain that took a<
count of the fact of blood kinship. 1
was the cry of human fellowship, tb
exclamation of a personality that ha
always placed great stress on the valt
of companionship. But there was n
cry from the man who sat coldly lool
lng at him. Itufus Gordon was a fa the
lmt ii? wiim also that nersonlflcatio
of the net product of our un-Chrlstla
methods? he was crystallized selflsl
ness?none the less seltlsh because ch
Uized. all the more selfish because !
was more effective In civilized forn
Ignorant self Is not so destructive a
educated self.
"Is there anything more?" Rufr
Gordon asked the question as a bus
ness proposition to close an Interview
that was taking valuable time neede
for more important transactions.
"Nothing more except that I hop
you will?you will not bear any bar
feelings toward mc. Oh, father!" Joh
Gordon suddenly exelalmed, taking
step toward the Impassive figure. "Yc
said yoi|'loved me. Cannot you bellev
in me and the life I have chosen?"
For a :moment over the hard fac
there swept a tremor. It was gone 1
a moment and Rufus Gordon answere
slowly:
"You have chosen. When you chang
your mind, you may come and see m
about It."
"I shall never chuuge my mind."
"That is all. then?"
"Yes. except that my love for yo
and Mary Is still the same. Bone
time, when you have felt what I hav
you will believe as I do."
Rufus Gordon made no answer, an
John Gordon slowly turned to lea\
the room.
"I will urrange to have my thins
taken over to Barton's. I am going 1
stay with him until I arrange for m
permanent quarters."
He left the room and went upstair
where he busied himself with packln
the few possessions he bad brougt
home with him from abroad. Durln
It all his highly imaginative and eve
poetical nature took account of tt
prosaic and matter of fact way 1
which he was taking leave of ti
house where he was born and of tl
home In which he hud been reare<
There had been no melodramatic dli
Inheritance of him by his father, a
though be knew him well enough 1
know that'the life he bad chosen, d
rectiv contrary to his father's llfelon
wishes, practically swept him outsld
the financial thought, so far as Ruft
Gordon was concerned. The impoeslbl
lty of staying In a home, with all II
acts of disobedience to the greatest rul
of life, wus what made the removt
of John Gordon absolutely lmperativ:
That this removal wus taking plac
without the outward spoken words ?
tragedy made the real action no le?
real or painful.
When he finally came downstairs, b
found no one In the house. At first h
felt strangely oppressed. Afterward h
felt relieved. He had chosen his lif<
as he bad said, and his choice had serl
ously begun. As be laid bis hand o:
the door to open It the consclousnes
of his uncertainty regarding Laell
Marsh swept out of his thought eve:
the sense that be was actually biddln;
goodby to the home be had known to
thirty years. Would this woman h
loved as never In all his life before^
would she choose the life he ha<
chosen? She was rich, or her fathe
was. She was gifted, an aristocrat b;
blnb and training, a woman of stroni
and original personality, with man;
impulses not yet known even to Johi
Gordon. He was almost startled at th
sudden realization tnat ne was in lgut
ranee concerning her actual characte
so far as the present crisis was con
cerued. Yet he knew that accordln
to her answer now would depend tto
shaping of bis own future. They ha
become engaged while he was in hi
last year at the university. Then h
had gone abroad, and their correspont
ence had evidently deepened their n
spect and affection. He had wrltte
her of his religious experience?not 1
detail, but her answers had apparent!
satisfied him. His choices, ambltlom
longing for service, had all followed i
tumultously on the event of his rel
glous crisis that he had not venture
to say to her in letters what he ha
beguu to experience as a profound coi
y vlctlon. Every moment now, there>r
fore, he Celt with growing astonlsh;r
ment, confronted him with an unknown
,g problem, although the woman In all
d the world to him was at the heart or
Id nil that was great and possible.
He opened the door and stepped out
d The roar of the city smote his senses
re with uew meaning as be went down
the steps and entered the stream of the
X city's life. He would go at once to
y Luella Marsh. Whatever It was to be
r. for him, suspense was not bearable,
g Hitherto he had emphasized his own
[a love for her. Henceforth he must know
g to what extent she loved him, for hurt
manity had now become a part of the
creed of his life, and the woman who
l0 was to share all with him must love
j. humanity as well as?himself. The
l8 people-he was one of them now.
rt Would she love him as such, or would
she cling to the traditional selfishness
4 of her position?
Thus John Gordon, as he turned his
rg back on his father's bouse, faced bis
g. future as the human current bore him
j on. Its destiny Irrevocably woven Into
a* """
TO BB CONTINUED.
:o
j. - ?
a A STUDY OP TAILS.
? There ! Great Variety In Them and
1 They Have Widely Different Viei.
k "For a year or more I've been making
n a study of tails/' said a naturalist.
n "You would be surprised to know what
j] an absorbing, endless subject it Is.
j. "What interested me in tails? Why,
j. I had a friend who had his tall cut off."
k "Your friend was a monkey," sug^
gested the listener,
j. "By no means; he was a man and
g lives in Flordia today. I see you think
I am joking, but if you will drop into
a any hospital they will show you a skelj.
eton of the genus homo that has a
[t tall. There have been instances where
ie the tail was quite long, say six Inches,
d and outside Instead of beneath the
ie 8lc,n*
"The tall in apes is a marvelous af- '
t. fair. It is really a fifth hand. By it
r> the monkey swings itself from tree to
n tree. . ,
n "If you want to see wonderful tails
1- study the lizards. I have one that is
j. brown, but its tall, as long as the body.
It is a beautiful turquoise blue. Some of
a. these long tails are life savers,
is "Here is a lizard that when alarmed
jerks off its tail, and the disconis
nected tip will bound about like a
1- snake for from five to eight minutes,
je It is so active that it easily attracts
d the attention of an enemy while the
lizard escapes. Then comes the strangle
est part of it. Another tail grows on
d the lizard, and sometimes two when the
vertebrae have been fractured.
11 "The long, snakelike tall of the
a iguana is its weapon. The alligator
uses its tail to knock food into Its
mouth.
e "Did you ever notice the tail of a
fish? Well, there is a lot in it; it is a
:e study of a lifetime alone, a marvellous
n organ, a screw propeller.
. "One of the sharks, the swivel-tall,
a has a tail as lone as the shark itself,
and with it the animal cuts down small
je fry. But it is nothing to the tall of the
whip-ray.
"Its tail is exactly like a long, slender
bone whip running down to a fine
point. I have seen a man's foot cut to
the bone by one lash of the tall.
"Another fish has a tall that looks
>u i like the long black hair of an Indian.
'8 in others the tail goes down to a point,
e. The most beautiful tall is that of the
| Japanese carp. It is a beautiful veil
. ; which floats about like lace. Some
a fishes have one, some two and some
'8 three tails; some horizontal.
"The most wonderful of tails? The
Kaovop'a whir>h is used to make dams.
No hand could be defter than this huge
to paddle.
y "Tails, as a rule, are of use. They
are accessory limbs and are sometimes
armed with spears or javelins, as In the
81 scorpion. It has a long tail armed
iff with a sting like the point of a needle,
it "Some of the wasps have tails which
e are knives, and poisened ones at that,
" as effective in putting an enemy to
!D sleep as the syringe of a physician
le when loaded with morphine. They
n don't kill, but merely stun; then the
wasp deposits Its eggs in the animal.
Other insects have tails with which
,e they bore into wood, and I can show
I. you one that breathes through its tall.
B. J,In all probability the most beauti
ful tails are seen among the birds, as
in the peacock, the argus pheasant, the
? birds of paradise and others. The tails
i- of horses, cows and others, are fly
g brushes. The ant eater has a tail like
? a brush that makes its owner Imitate a
16 bush.
is "The tail of a dog is Its accessory
1- tongue: it speaks with it and is under^
stood. The rattlesnake has a musical
. instrument on its tail."?New York
Sun.
Cat Stories.
g
f The cat is mentioned in literature
,r more frequently than any other ani?
mal, but.the references are not always
of an affectionate nature. Buffon
'
0 says: "Tne cac is an umuuniui animal,
kept only from necessity In order
e to suppress a less domestic and more
o unpleasant one, and, though these anli,
mals are pretty creatures, especially
when they are young, they have a
treacherous and perverse disposition
n which Increases with the age and Is
a only disguised by training. They are
a Inveterate thieves; only when they are
q well brought up they become as flattering
and cunning as human rascals."
B Shakespeare also makes several unr
kind remarks about cats. "Hang off.
e thou cat, thou burr, thou vile thing!!"
cries Lysanoer in "A Midsummer
. Night's Dream."
11 Scottish cats were accused of wltchr
craft as far back as 1591. In that year
y when King James of England was
? crossing from Denmark a great temp?
est arose at sea. This was supposed
y to have been caused by a "christened
a cat" being placed In the vessel by
e witches. The following is an extract
h from an old phamphlet: "Againe It is
confessed that the said christened cat
r was the cause that the kings majesi
tie's shippe had a contrarie wind to
g the rest of the shlppes In his compal0
nle, for when the rest of the shlppes
. had a fair and good wlnde, then was
a the wlnde contrarie and altogether
la against his majestle."
ie Mahomet did not give encouragement
to those who ban the cat from
the company of honest folk. A cat, it
^ is said, once went to sleep on the sleeve
n of the prophet's robe. When the hour
n of prayer arrived Mahomet, so the
y story goes, cut away the sleeve In order
that the cat should be undisturbed.
B-1 Scotch peasants believe that a cat
jo scraping is a sign that some beast?
1-1 horse, cow, pig or dog?will be found
^ dead on the farm before long. A cat
. j washing its face portends rain next
d, day: turning its back to the fire por1
tends storms and rain.?Exchange.
A