The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1890-12-14


| Eyremonde in the course OF the day, and,
though she would tell him very little. her
| admissions and even her reticence. confirmed
| him in his belief.
| Vivien and his host did not meet till din
| merit time. The novelist was in his room all
| day, busy packing and arranging his papers.
| He travelled without valet and refused all
| offers of assistance from st. Walters house.
| hold. Consumed with rage and agitation,
| he felt that he could not trust himself in the
| society Of another mans servant. His irri-
taton might break out at any moment and
| wreak itself on some rustic wretch who had
only offended by mere stupidity.
| Yes, he had wooed his friends wife-he
| had found his opportunity in the afternoon
| solitude OF the pleasaunce, screened from
| the windows of the chateau by ten-foot
/ hedges of cypress and yew. as secure from
| observation as in forest labyrinth. He had
| brought to bear all those arts and faScina-
| tons which he had always found irresisti-
| BILE with duchesseS in his novels and oc-
| casionally triumphant with middIe-class
matrons in actual life. and his reward had
| been the scorn of scorn-such scorn as a
| pure-minded woman who loves her husband
must needs feel at the folly Of any man who
| dares to suppose that he can superSede that
| husband in her affections.
The dining-table was not so gay as it had
been on many another evening. Vivien
| talked as much as usual, but there was an
| angry light in his eyes and a keener
4
| Gated latent irritation.
| Maxine. who had been Historically viva
! cious on the evening before his journey to
| Paris, was now grave and silently watch
| full. he and Tolpache had talked together
| Tor half an hour before dinner, walking up
! and down the terrace on the edge OF the
moat in the wintry darkness. and Tolpache,
like his host, was silent and aux aquets.
| The dinner was long. and the carriage
| was announced while the men were still
| lingering over coffee and cigarettes. Nine.
| st. Waller and her friends had retired to
| the music-roOm, whence came the sound of
| lghtest opera-bouffe melodies. played by
Nine. Evremonde, who was pasSiOnately
| fond of the music that lives for Partisan
| season, to be as completely forgotten after
| ward as the butterflies of last summer.
Vivien began his adieux with a cordial
| round Of Misunderstanding, taking the men at
| random as they happened to be standing.
| His host was almost the last to whom he
! came, with sinister smile and outStretched
| hand.
Maxine looked straight and stern In front
| of him and did not take the hand.
''You know the old saying. monsieur,
| Speed the parting guest ?" he said grimly
II have the utmost pleasure in speeding
| your departure, which l believe was has
| tened by the particular request of my wife. -
| A culver of surprise shook Viven for a
| moment: but in the next he collected him.
self, and accepted the situation with all its
| consequences.
| IL am leaving hurriedly, l admit" he
| said; but although am in some haste to
| leave this part Of the world. l can spare you
| an hour Tomorrow morning in the wood on
the other side Of the railway. l shall spend
| tonight at the Inn in your village, and shall
| be at your service at whatever hour may
| suit your convenience and that of your
friends
"Tolpache, you were prepared for this.
Loisin. know l can rely on you?" said
| low fnr iro IN lie fxrn st,ff o.,
| friends. For my own part have only one
| desire to express. Let our meeting be at
| sunset tomorrow; weapons as you please.
That delay will give me time to arrange my
| affairs"
| He turned on his heel and went to the
mushroom, leaving Vivien to choose his
| own seconds and settle details.
| He felt, in his choice of the sunset hour,
that he was obeying an old friends sum-
mons. and accepting his fate.
dream; Maxine and his wife were alone
together for the greater part Of their time,
| Lucie having excused herself from an ex.
cursion to village race-course in order to
| be her husbands companion. No cloud
| upon his brow forewarned her of approach
| ing doom. He waited that day to be cloud
| less-that day which he told himself would
| be his last of love and of life. He parted
| with her at $3.50 o'clock, straining her to his
breast. with one long passionate kiss. as he
| babe her go0d-by.
| There was despair In that embrace, and
| for the first time since his return she was
| startled from her happy security.
why 'good-by? she asked. How pale
you are. Maxine! Is there anything
| wrong?"
| wrong? No, dearest. am only going
| a. far as the village to settle some farming
business with my bailiff."
You will be back to dinner?"
| II hope So"
| When the sun dipped at the bottom oil
that wooded hollow, where Maxine had
seen 1t sink three days before, the augury
| OF the earnest face and the pointing hand
| had been fulfilled.
COPYRIGHT, 1890 by the Authors' Alliance; all right,
reserved.
The novelette, for next Sunday will be
can Optimist," by Jeanette L. Glider.