Atlanta Georgian. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, 1912-08-09
The Gates of Silence
By Meta StmmtnS, Author Of Hustled Up"

solitary confinement" he told himself
There was son+ehing about the woman
waiting with him that reminded him Of
his wife. He thought of his wife for the
first time deliberately and with no pity.
Where was she now? What was she do
ing? Preserving of that he had no
doubt. Wo.nen OF that kind always pros
pered.
But for the first time in all these
months certain uncomfortable sense of
responsibility stirred in his heart, After
all she was his wife, even If she had
sinned. 1t was as though contact with
his fellow beings, contact with suffering,
with fear, had lessened something of the
hatred in his heart
The door of the consulting room opened,
and the. servant summoned the waiting
woman. As he held the door for her
burst of childish laughter sounded in the
hall, and there was scamper of child
ish feet, and a flying figure came dash
ing into the room. His visit was for a
moment only: a scandalized nurse fol-
lowed and caught up the little boy, a
bundle Of white wool surmounted by a
glowing, rosy face and golden curIs, who
had so gloriousy transgressed the most
stringent of the nursery laws. But the
sight of him had been enough to set
the venom of hatred at work again in
Anthony Barrington's heart SO might
his son have been but for his mother.
1t was the first time he had ever de
liberately accused Edith in his heart of
being the direct cause of their childs
death.
His face was very hard, very ugly in
its set lines when his own turn to enter
the consulting room came
Only Himself.
No thought Of Edith no thought of the
dead child, no thought of anything but
himself and the verdict to be pronounced
over him, now when he sat in the arm
chair and submitted to the searching ex-
animation, the flashing of those strange
lights that hurt his eyes so cruelty.
The doctor was very vague: long expe-
rience had taught him the art of con
cealing truth in the midst of words. But
Anthony Darlington could read faces and
he read his own fate in the grave eyes
of the man bent above him.
The truth, please he said. you see,
am painter. and naturally my eyes
are very important to me"
They are TO most people the oculist
said, bluntly a little nettled by touch
of arrogance in Barringtons manner.
Then he felt ashamed. and gave his YER
mistakable now: and as the meaning of it
filtered home to Barrngton's brain he
turned faint and reeled.
Decay of the optic nerve. No chance
no earthly chance-of recovery.
The words whrled in his brain.
How long do YOU give me-" he asked
suddenly, looking up.
The oculist was busy with a siphon
and a glass He turned and came. hand
ing the glass to Darlington, who took It
mechanically and with a shaking hand.
six months-with care" he said drop
ping his verbal veil now. with extreme
are-temperance in all things. and utter
freedom from mental worry l am afraid
[ can promise no more than six months
and with intemperance and the usual
worry inseparabIe from a man who knows
that his life is dropping to pieces about
him?" asked harrington.
Three, perhaps. You see, You came to
me too late"
The words rang in Barrington's ears
las he left the house, Too late--toO late.
His feet beat out an accompaniment to
them as he stumbled up the street. and
the hoofs of every passing horse Joined
in the refrain.