Audubon Republican. [volume] (Audubon, Iowa) 1894-1925, 1913-01-02

| arms ABOUT the other Woman'S neck.
But the touch and the mother-smiIe
never came. She knew, she under
stood; she wasn't wanted, she hadn't
been wanted in the beginning; to her
mother she was as the young of ami
mails, interesting only up to that time
when they could stand alone. That
the mother never made and held
feminine friendships was in nowise
astonishing. Beauty and charm, such
as she possessed, served Immediately
to stimulate envy in other women's
hearts. And that men Of all stations
In life fiocked about her, why, it is
the eternal tribute demanded of beau
ty. Here and there the men were not
all the daughter might have wished.
Often they burnt sweet flattery at her
shrine, tentatively; but as she coolly
| stamped out these incipient fires,
they at length came to regard her as
one regards the beauty of a frosted
| window, as a thing to admire and
praise in passing. One ache always
abided; the bitter knowledge that had
| she met in kind smile for smile and
jest for jest, she might have been her
mothers boon companion. But deep
back in some hidden chamber of her
| heart lay secret dread of such
| step, dread which, whenever she
| strove to analyze it, ran from under
her investigating touch, as little balls
of quicksilver run from under the
| pressure of a thumb.
She was never without the comforts
of life, well-fed, well-dressed, we'll
housed, and often her mother flung
| her some jeweled trinket which (again
that sense of menace) she put away,
| but never wore. The bright periods
| were when they left her in the little
villa near Mentone, with no one but
her old and faithful nurse. There,
with her horse, her books and her
flowers, she was at peace. Week into
week and month into month she was
let be. Never letter came, save
| from some former schoolmate who
was coming over and wanted letters
of introduction to dukes and duchess
es. If she smiled over these letters
it was with melancholy; for the dukes
and duchesses, who fell within her
singular orbit, were not the sort to
whom one gave letters of introduction.
Where her mother went she never
had the least idea. She might be in
any Of the great ports of the world,
anywhere between New York and
Port Said. The major generally dis
| appeared at the same time. Then,
perhaps, she'd come back from a
pleasant tram-ride over to Nice and
find them both at the villa, maid and
luggage. Mayhap night or two. and
off they'd go again; never word
about their former journey, uncom-
municative, rather quiet These abb
sences, together with the undemon-
stratiye temperatures, used to hurt
Fortune dreadfully. 1t gave her a
clear proof of where she stood, exactly
nowhere. The hurt had lessened with
the years, and now she didn't care
much. Like as not, they would drag
her out of Eden for month or two.
for what true reason she never could
quite fathom, unless it was that at
times her mother liked to have the
daughter near her as a foil
At rare intervals she saw steel-eyed,
| grim-mouthed men wandering up and
| down before the gates of the Villa
Fanny, but they never rang the bell,
nor spoke to her when she passed
them on the street. If she talked of
these men. her mother and the major
would exchange amused glances, moth
ing more.
If, rightly or wrongly, she hated her
mother, she despised her uncle, who
was ever bringing to the villa men OF
money, but of coarse fiber, ostensibly
with the view of marrying her off.
But Fortune had her dreams, and she
was quite content to wait
There was one man more persistent
than the others. Her mother called
him Horace, which the major mel
lowed into Hoddy. He was tall, blond,
good-looking, a devil-may-care, edu-
| Gated, witty amusing; and in evening
dress he appeared to be what 1t was
quite evident he had once been, a
| gentleman At first she thought 1t
strange that he should make her, In
stead of her mother, his confidante.
| AS to what vocation he pursued, she
did not know, for he kept sedulous
guard over his tongue; but his past.
up to that fork in the road where man.
hood says good-by to youth. was hers.
And in this direction, clever and artful
as the mother was, she sought In vain
| to wrest this past from her daughters
| lips. To the mother, 1t was really nee
essary for her to know who this man
really was, had been, knowing thor
| oughly as she did what he was now.
Persistent he undeniably was, but
never coarse nor rude. Since that
| time he had come back from the
casino at Monte Carlo. much the worse
for wine, she feared him. yet, in spite
of this fear, she had for him vague
| liking, a hazy admiration. Whatever
| his faults might be, she stood witness
to his great physical strength and
courage He was the only man, among
all those who appeared at the Villa
Fanny and immediately vanished who