The circle banner. [volume] (Circle, Mont.) 1914-1939, 1917-10-12

thoughts, and for moment lost con-
troll of himself.
"Were you thinking about that WON
am" he asked sternly.
"What woman?~
"The woman whom we sheltered
here, the woman whose shameless pic
ture is on the cover of that book"
John swung round on his heel.
"Stop that, Stephen he said men,
acingly.
..Why should II" the older man re-
torted. "Take up that paper, If you
want to read a sketch of the life of
Louise Maurel. See the play she made
her name in-La Gioconda'p
"What about it?"
Stephen held the paper out to his
brother. John read a few lines and
| dashed 1t into a corner of the room.
"There's this much about it, john"
Stephen continued. "The woman played
that part night after night-played 1t
to the life, mind you. She made her
reputation in it. That's the woman
we unknowingly let sleep beneath this
roof! The barn is the place for her
and her sort %
Johns clenched fists were held firm
ly to his sides. His eyes were blazing.
'That's enough, Stephen ~ he cried.
"No, it's not enough ~ was the fierce
reply" 'The truths been burning in my
heart long enough. It's better out.
You want to find her guest at Rayn-
ham castle, do you?-Raynham castle,
where never a decent woman crosses
the threshold! If she goes there, she
goes Well?"
An anger that was almost paralyz-
ing, a sense of the utter impotence Of
words, drove John in silence from the
room. He left the house by the back
door, passed quickly through the or
chard, where the tangled moonlight lay
| upon the ground in strange, fantastic
shadows; across the narrow strip Of
field, field now of golden stubble; up
the hill which looked down upon the
farm buildings and the churchyard.
He sat grimly down upon great
bowlder, filled with Il hateful sense of
unwreaked passion, yet with a sheer
thankfulness in his heart that he had
escaped the miasma of evil thoughts
which Stephens words seemed to have
created. The fancy seized him to face
these half-veiled suggestions of his
brother, so far as they concerned
himself and his life during the last
few months.
Stephen was right. This woman who
had dropped from the clouds for those
few brief hours had played strange
havoc with Johns thoughts and his
whole outlook upon life. The coming |
of harvest, the care of his people, his |
sports, his cricket, the early days upon |
the grouse moors, had all suddenly |
lost their interest for him. Life had |
become a task. The echo of her half
mocking, half-challenging words was
always in his ears.
He sat with his head resting upon
his hands, looking steadfastly across
the valley below. Almost at his feet
lay the little church with its grave
yard, the long line of stacks and barns,
the laborers' cottages, the bailiff's
house, the whole little colony around
which his life seemed conferred. The
summer moonlight lay upon the ground
almost like snow. He could see the
sheaves of wheat standing up in the
most distant of the cornfields. Beyond
was the dark gorge toward which he
had looked so many nights at this
hour.
Across the viaduct there came a
blaze of streaming light, serpentlike
trail, a family heard whistle-the Scot
fish express ON its way southwark
toward London. His eyes followed it
out of sight. He found himself think
ing of the passengers who would wake
the next morning in London. He felt
himself suddenly acutely conscious of
his isolation. Was there not something
almost monastic in the seclusion which
had become a passion with Stephen,
and which had its grip, too, upon him
a waste Of life, a burying of talents?
He rose to his feet. The half-formed
purpose of weeks held him now, def
mite and secure. He knew that this pill
grimage of his to the hilltop, his rapt s
Of the little panorama {
which had become SO dear to him, was 6
IN a sense valedictory.
After all, two more months passed {
before the end came, and 1t came then
without moments warning. 1t was a
/ little past midday when John drove $
slowly through the streets of Market /
Ketton In his high dogcart, exchanging r