The San Francisco call., 1905-05-07

The man who sat by the table wore
the same kindly, scholarly face that
Gordon had known of old. though
his soft white hair was sparer at the
temples. To make this journey he had
spent the last of q check he had once
received for $500. His faith in Gordon
had never wavered. Now, as he looked
at the figure standing opposite, clad
in white waistcoat and tartan hussar
braided Jacket of the Gordon plaid,
young and 1.-THE, though with brown
locks grayed, and with eyes brilliantly
haunting and full of purpose they
had never before possessed, his own
gaze rnisted with hope and wistful-
ness. He had had an especial object
in this long journey to Italy.
''Hobhouse is still with his resi-
ment," he proceeded. He'll be in
Parliament before long. We dined to-
gether just month ago tonight at
Whites Club. Lord Petersham is the
leader of the dandies now. Brummell
left England for debt
In that hours conversation Gordon
had seen faded pictures fearfully dis
tinct He seemed to be standing again
in his old lodgings in st. James street
"a red carnation in his buttonhole-
facing Beau Brummell and Sheridan.
He remembered how he had once let
the old wit down in his cooked hat
at Brookes'-as he had long ago been.
let down into MS grave. he sInlleu
painfully while he said with slowness:
Three great men ruined in one
year: Bonaparte, Brummell and /. A
king, a cad and a castaway. His
eyes were fxed on the empty fireplace.
as he spoke, but what they saw was
very far away.
How is Murray" he asked pres
emily.
left. He had just published the first
Gordon WINGED. weir" he asked.
He put only the printers name on
the title page. The day it appeared
he went to the country and shut him.
self up. He had not even dared open
his letters
II can't blame him. - Gordon's
voice was metallic" Moore wrote me
the Attorney General would probably
Il carried him the reviews" con-
tinued Dallas.
Il can guess their verdict
The other shook his head with an
eager smile that frightened his whole
countenance. "A few condemned. of
course. Many hedged. But the Edin-
burgh Review
Jeffrey. What did he say?'
The answer came with vibrant
emphasis: That every word was
touched With lnmOrtaHty.
Gordon turned, surprised into won
der His ancient detractoE whose
early blow had struck from the flint
in his soul that youthful flash. his
dynamic Satire. The literary Nero
whose nod had killed Keats Was the
old sneer become praise-now? Inn
mortality-not damned to everlasting
fan.e?" A glow of color came to his
face.
The older man got up hastily and
laid his hand affectionately On the
others shoulder. 1t seemed the mo-
ment to- say what was on his mind.
His voice shook:
George, come back to England Do
not exile yourself longer. 1t 10 ready
to forget its madness and to regret.
Public feeling has changed! When
Lady Caroline Lamb published Glen
arvon,' her novel that made you out
d man-rnonster. it did not sell an
edition She appeared at Lady Jer-
sev,s masquerade as Don Juan in the
Costume OF Mephistopheles; and the
cr0WdTeven hissed. London waiting
for you, George! All itgave you once
shall he yours again. You have only
to come back!"s
1T was put at last, the purport of
his journey.
Gordon felt his muscles grow rigid.
had told-gossip of society and the
clubs-was become apparent Could
the tide have turned, then? Could II
be that the time had come when his
presence could reverse the popular yer
dict, cover old infamy and ouench In
renewed reputation the poisoned enmity
that had poured desolation on his path?
The fawning populace that had made
of his domestic life only a shredded
remnant, bounded him to the wilds
and entombed him in black infamy-
did 1t think now to re-esta blish the dis
honored idol on it's PEDESTAL?
For an instant the undiked memory
of all he had undergone swept over him
in sitting wave. The months of self
control faded. The new man that had
been born In the forest of La Mira fell
away. The old rage rose to clutch at
his throat-the fiery. ruthless defiance
that had lashed his enemies in AL
mack's Assembly Rooms. 1t drove the
color from his face and lent flame to
his eyes as he answered hoarsely:
No! Never-neyer againl 1t is over
forever. When / wrote then. it was not
for the worlds pleasure or pride. I
wrote from the fullness of my mind.
from passion, from impulse. And since
I would not fatter their opinions. they
drove me out-the shilling scribblers
and scoundrels of priests, who do more
got their catechisms. and who. If the
Christ they profess to worship reap
peared, would again cruelty himl Since
then have fed the lamp burning in
my brain with tears from my eyes and
with blood from my heart. 1t shall
burn on without them to the end!''
His old tutors hand had dropped
from his shoulder. Dallas was crest
fallen and disconnected. He turned
away to the window and looked out
sadly over the Arno. where ship 5
launch f1oated by with band instru-
ments playing.
For Gordon the rage passed as quick
ly as it had come The stubborn demon
that had gnashed at It's letters fell
back. A feeling of shame suddenly
possessed him.
"Scoundrels Of priests" He thought
Of Padre Somalian with a swift sense
of contrition that his most reckless
phraseology had never reused in the old
days.
Standing there, regaining his tenn
perate control. sound familiar, yet
long unheard, noated in from out of
doors. It was strain belonging to the
past that had come 50 sharply home
to him--the sound of the music on
the launch in the river playing God
Gave fhe King