The San Francisco call., 1904-11-27

"Good-by like this? You won't even
shake hands?'
OF course he was sorry for her, but
he was decidedly angry, too. He per-
ceived a case Of the selfishness of spir-
itual exaltation. His doggedness turn
ed to surliness.
"AIl right then, good-by." he said
sulkily.
"Yes I am"
She accepted this additional cross,
and bore 1t meekly.
THAT hurts me very much. But
must do right. Good-by."
And with that she went, firm to the
last, leaving Jeremy almost as FURIOUS
with women as in the palmiest days OF
his youth, almost as angry with her as
he had ever been with the long-legged
rectory girl.
Pursuing (though he did not know t)
paths as well trodden as those which
he had already followed, he formed
an instant determination In his mind.
She should be sorry for it! Whether
she should sorrow with a lifelong sor-
row or whether she should ultimately,
after much grief and humiliation. hnd
forgiveness, he did not decide for the
moment: both ideas had their attrac-
tion. But at any rate, she should be
sorry and that as soon as possible.
How was II to be brought about?
Jeremy conjectured that e. remote and
aIl-ascertained success IN original re-
search would not make her sorry, and
his conclusion may be allowed to pass;
nor would a continuance of shabby
clothes and an income of a hundred
year. This combination had once
seemed all-sufficient. Nay, it would
suffice now for true and whOle-hearted
love. But 1t was not enough to make
a cruel lady repent of her cruelty, nor
to convict a misguided zealot OF the
folly of her zeal. 1t was not dazzling
enough for that. In an hour Jeremy
and decided for wealth and mundane
fame-speedy wealth and speedy mum
dane fame (speed was essential, be-
cause Jeremy's feelings were in
hurry. Such laurels and fruits were
not TO be plucked in Milldean. That
very night Jeremy packed a well-worn
leather bag and a square deal box. He
was going to London, to see Grantley
and Sibylla, to make them acquainted
with the state OF the case, and to set
about becoming rich and famous as
speedily as possible. His mind DER
leaped the process and saw II already
completed-saw his return to Milldean
rich and famous-saw his renewed
meeting with Dora, the confusion OF
the rector and Mrs. Hutting, the un-
availing-or possibly at last availing-
regret and humiliation Of Dora. 1t
cannot truthfully be said that he went
to bed altogether unhappy. He had his
dream, even as Dora had hers; he had
his luxury Of prospective victory as
she had hers of unreserved and ac-
cepted penitence; and they shared the
conviction of very extraordinary and
unprecedented state of things.
So to town came Jeremy, leaving
Mrs. Mumple alone in Old Mill House.
She was not idle. She was counting
months now-not years now, but
months; and she was knitting socks,
and making flannel shirts, and hem
ming big red handkerchiefs, and pic
turing and wondering In her faithful
old heart what that morning would be
like for whose coming she had waited
SO many years. Great hopes and great
fears We're under the ample breast OF
her unshapely merino gown.
= In the Imason household the strain
grew more intense. With rare tenacity,
unimpaired confidence, and unbroken
pride, Grantley maintained his atti-
tude. He would tire out Sibylla's re-
volt; he would outstay the fit of sulks,
however long it might be. But the
strain told on him, though it did not
break him; he was more away; more
engrossed in his outside activities;
grimmer and more sardonic when he
was at home; careful TO show no feel
ing which might expose him to rebuff;
extending the scopes of this conduct
from his wife to his child. because his
wife's grievance was bound up with
the child. And Sibylla, seeing the at
titude, seeing partially only and there
fore more resenting the motives, Gre
ated out Of 1t and them a monster of
insensibility, something of an inhuman
selfishness, seemed the more horrible
and unnatural from the unchanging, if
cold courtesy which Grantley still dis
played. This image had been taking
shape ever since their battle at Mill
dean 1t had grown with the amused
he told her of the specialists
judgment, and made her see how
foolish she had been, what an unnec-
essary fuss she had caused, how dan
gerous and silly it was to let ones
emotions run away with one. It had
defined itself yet more clearly through
the months before and after the boys
birth, as Grantley developed his line
of action and adhered to 1t, secure
apparently from every assault of nat
ural tenderness. Now the portentous
shape was all complete in her imag-
ination and the monster she had erect
ed freed her from every obligation. By
her hypothesis 1t was accessible by
no appeal and sensitive to no emotion.
Why, then, labor uselessly? 1t would
indeed be to knock your head-yes, ana
your heart, too-against hinty wall
AS for trying to show or to cherish love
for it-that seemed to her prostitution
itself. And she had no tenacity to
endure such a life as Grantlev, or her
image of Grantley, made for her. In
her headlong fashion she had already
pronounced. the alternatives-death or
flight.
And there was the baby boy In his
helplessness; and there was young
Blake with his ready hot passion mask
ed by those aspirations of his, and his
fiery Indignation seconding and ap-
plauding the despair Of her own heart
For Blake knew the truth now-the
truth as Sibylla's imaginings made it;
and in view of that truth the thing his
passion urged him to became a holy
duty. His goddess must be no more
misused; her misery must not be al
lowed to endure.
Knowing his thought and what his
heart was toward her SibyIla turned
to him as a child turns simply from