The San Francisco call., 1905-04-02
CHAPTER XIV.
What Came of the Treacle-Moon.

Gordon read the lines in the diary
he held. by the fading daylight he
sat in the primrose garden or his town
house on Piccadillv Terrace. beside
wicker teatable. The day was at itS
amber hour. The curtains or the open
windows behind him waved lazfly IN
the breeze and the fragrance OF haW-
thorn clung like a caresS across the
twilight What he read had been the
last entry in the book.
He smiled grirnly, remembering the
night he had written 1t. 1t was at Sea-
ham, the home OF his wife's gtrlhood.
the final day Of their stay-the end OF
that savorless month or sameness and
stagnation. Of eating fruit and saun-
tering. playing dull games at cards.
yawning, reading old Annual Registers
and daily papers, listening to the
monologue that his elderly father-in-
law called conversation, and watching
the month in which he had eaten
of the bitter fruit Of the Tree of Knowl-
edge. To-day he recalled the trenchant
features Of that visit distinctly; the
prim, austere figure of Lady Noel, his
wife's mother, presiding at the table;
Sir Ralph opposite, mumbling for the
third time, over a little huddle Of de-
canters which could neither interrupt
nor fall asleep, the speech he had made
at a recent taxmeeting; his own wife
with eyes that so seldom warmed to
his, but grew keener each day to
glance cold disapproval; and Mrs.
Clermont. Lady Noefs companion and
confidante. blackgowned. bloodless.
with noiseless gliding step and observ-
ant gaze-Jane Clermont's aunt, as he
had incidentally learned.
The treacle-moon is overt" And
that satiric comment had been penned
almost a year agoi
Gordon moved his shoulders with a
quick gesture, as though dismissing an
unpleasant reflection. and took from
his pocket a little black phial He
dark liquid into a glass and poured 1t
full of water. He drank the dull,
cloudy mixture at a. draft.
How strange that mind should need
this!v he said to himself. My brain is
full Of images-rare, beautiful dream
like-but they are meaningless, inco-
herent, unattached. A few drops Of
this elixir and they coalesce, crystal
lize, transform themselves-and have
a poem. / have only to write ii down.
I wrote Lara in three evenings while
] was undressing from the opera 1t
shan't master me as it has De Quincy
either. Why, all my life I have de-
MED myself even meat. My soul shall
not be the slave Of any appetite!"
He smiled whimsically as he set
down the glass: What nonsense it is
to talk of SOUL he muttered, when
cloud makes it melancholy and wine
makes it madl"
He paused, listening intently. A low
sound an infants cry, had caught his
ear His eyes grew darker violet. His
look changed.
Ada! Adal" he said in a whisper.
In his voice was a singular vibrant
accent-intense, eager. yet the words
had the quality of sacrament and a
conservation.
He rose, thrust the diary into his
pocket and went into the house, ascend
ing the stair to a small room at the end
of the hall. The door was ajar and a
dim light showed within. He listened,
then pushed the door wider and enter
ed. A white nursery bed stood in one
corner, and Gordon noiselessly placed
chair beside it and sat down, his ell
bow on his knee and his chin in his
hand, looking at the little face against
the pillow, the tiny fist lying on the
coyerlid.
Gazing. his deeply carved lips nodded
softly, sense of the overwhelming
miracle of life possessed him. This
small fabric was woven OF his own
flesh. He saw his own curving mouth,
his full chin, his brow. Some day those
hands would cling to his. those lips
would frame the word father" What
of life's pitfalls, of it's tragedies, await
ed this new being he had brought into
the world?
He sighed. and as il In answer. the
baby sighed. too. The sound smote
him strangely. Was there some occult
sympathy between them? Her birth
right was not only of flesh. but OF
spirit. Had she also share in his iso-
lated heart. his wayward impulses, his
passionate pride?
At length he took out the diary and
opening it on his knee. began to write
lines whose feeling swelled from some
great wave of tenderness:
Adal my one sweet daughter, il a name
Dearer and purer were. it should be thine
Whateer OF earth divide US 1 shall claim
Not tears but tenderness to answer mine:
A loved regret which would not resign.
There are but two things in my destiny
A world to roam through. and home with
thee.
1 can reduce all feelings but this one:
And that 1 would motor at length I see
Such scenes those wherein my life begun.
Had I but sooner learned the crown to shun,
I had been better than I now be;
The passions which have torn me would have
died.
, had not suffered. and thou hadst not sighed.
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood: trees, and flowers and
brooks
Which do remember me OF where dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
Come as of yore upon me and can melt
My heart with recognition Of their looks:
TIL even at moments have thought to see
Some living thing to love-but none Ike thee.
With false ambition what had I to do?
Little with love and least of all with fame
And yet they came unsought. and with me
And made me all which they can make
name
Yet this was not the end I did pursue:
Surely once beheld nobIer aim
Yet II thou help me lind it-even so
Shall / be glad that have purchased woe,
The door of the room adjoining
opened and figure dressed in white
appeared. He rose and passed
through
You wished me. Annabel p"
ssI do not wish Ada disturbed. As
you know, am starting with her to
Seaham tomorrow. and she needs the
rest
ST was very quiet" he said, almost
apologetically. and a little wearily.
Her critical eye had wandered to
the book and pencil in his hand. The