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Show if ,1? l A Today and ' By of All Days X i GEORGE AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN I S " Copyright by The Century Company mous from old Captain Wayne reached hint. With equal horror of putting up at hotels or relatives' houses, the captain upon his arrival In town had gone straight to his club and forthwith become be-come the sensation of the club's windows. win-dows. Old members felt young when they caught sight of him, as though they had come suddenly on a vanished landmark restored. Passing gamins gazed on his short-cropped hair, staring star-ing eyes, flaring collar, black string tie and flowing broadcloth and remarked. re-marked. "Gee, look at de old spoit In de winder!" Alan heard the remark as he entered the club and smiled. "How do you do, sir?" "Huh!" grunted the captain. "Sit down." He ordered a drink for his guest and another for himself. He glared at the waiter. He glared at a callow youth who had come up and was looking wTith speculative eye at a neighboring chair. The waiter retired almost precipitously. The youth followed. fol-lowed. "In my time," remarked the captain, "a club was for privacy. Now it's a haven for bellboys and a playground for whippersnappers." "They've made me a member, sir." "Have, eh!" growled the captalQ, and glared at his nephew. Alan took inspection coolly, a faint smile on his thin face. The captain turned away his bulging eyes, crossed and uncrossed un-crossed his legs, and finally spoke. "I was just going to say when you interrupted," inter-rupted," he began, "that engineering Is a dirty job. Not, however," he continued, con-tinued, after a pause, "dirtier than most. It's a profession but not a career." ca-reer." "Oh, I don't know," said Alan. They've got a few in the army, and they seem to be doing pretty well." "Huh, the army!" said the captain. He subsided, and made a new start. "What's your appointment?" (TO BE CONTINUED.) Red Hill was hemmed in by the breathing silences of scattered woods, open fields and the far reaches of misty space, as though it were in biding bid-ing from the railroads, mills and highways high-ways of an age of hurry- Upon its long, level crest it bore but three cen-ters cen-ters of life and a symbol Maple house, the Firs and Elm house, half hidden from the road by their distinctive distinc-tive trees but as alive as the warm yes of a veiled woman; and the church. The church was but a symbol a mere shell. Within, it presented the appearance of a lumber room in disuse, dis-use, a playground for rats and a ha-Ten ha-Ten for dust. But without all was as it had ever been, for the old church was still beloved. Its fresh, white walls and green shutters and the aspiring aspir-ing steeple, towering into the blue, denied neglect and robbed abandonment abandon-ment of its sting. In the shadow of its walls lay an old graveyard whose overgrown soil had long been undisturbed. Along the single road which cut the crest of the hill from north to south were ruins of houses that once had sheltered the scattered congregation. But the ruins were hard to And, for they, too, were overgrown by juniper, clematis and a crowding thicket of mountain ash. On these evidences of death and encroachment en-croachment the old church seemed to turn its back as If by right of its fresh walls and unbroken steeple It were still linked to life. Through its small-paned small-paned windows It seemed to gaze contentedly con-tentedly across the road at three -houses, widely separated, that half faced it in a diminishing perspective. The three houses looked toward the sunrise; the church toward its decline. de-cline. On a day in early spring Alan Wayne was summoned to Red Hill. Snow still hung in the crevices of East Mountain. Moun-tain. On the hill the ashes, after the total eclipse of winter, were meekly donning pale green. The elms of Elm house, too, were but faintly outlined in verdure. Farther down the road the maples stretched out bare, black limbs. Only the firs, in a phalanx, scoffed ai the general spring cleaning and looked old and sullen in consequence. The colts, driven oy Alan Wayne flashed over the brim of Red Hill on tc the level top. Coachman Joe's jaw was hanging In awe and so had hung since Mr. Alan had taken the reins For the first time in their five years of equal life the colts had felt the cut of a whip, not in anger but as a reproof for breaking. Coachman Jot had braced himself for the bolt, his hands itching to snatch the reins. Bui there had been no bolting, only a sud den settling down to business. For the first time in their lives ths colts were being pushed, steadily evenly, almost but never quite tr. the breaking point. Twice in the lonj drive Joe gathered up his jaw and r turned bis head, preparing spoket tribute to a master hand. But then was no speaking to Mr. Alan's face. A that moment Joe was a part of th( seat to Mr. Alan, and. being a coach man of long stauding in the family, h knew it. "Couldn't of got here quicker If he'e let 'em bolt," said he, in subsequen description to the stable hand and thi cook. He snatched up a pail of watei and poured It steadily on the ground "Jest like that. He knew what wai In the colts the minute he laid haudi on 'em, and when he pulls 'em up a the barn door there wasn't a drop lef in their buckets, was there, Arthur?' "Nary a drop," said Arthur, stabli iiand. "And his face," continued the coach man. "Most times Mr. Alan has ni eyes to speak of, but today aud tha time Miss Nance struck him with thi liatpln 'member, cook? his eye; spread like a fire and eat up his face This is a black day for the Hill. Some thin's going to happen. You marl me." In truth Mr. Alan Wayne had beei summoned In no equivocal terms and for all his haste. It was with nervou step he npproached the house. Maple house sheltered a mlxet brood. J. Y. Wayne, seconded by JIra J. Y., was the head of the family Their daughter, Nance Sterling, an her babies represented the direct line but the orphans, Alan Wayne am Clematis McAIpln, were on an equa footing as children of the house. Alai was the only child of J. Y.'s deai brother. Clematis was also of Wayn blood, but so intricately removed tha lier exact relation to the rest of th tribe was never figured out twice t the same conclusion. Old Captali Wayne, retired from the regular array was an uncle in a different degree t every generation of Wayne. He wa the only man on Red Hill who darei call for a whisky and soda when h wanted it. When Alan reached the house Mrs. ; J. Y. was in her garden across the road, surveying winter's ruin, and i Nance with her children had borne , the captain off to the farm to see that oft-repeated wonder and always wel- come forerunner of plenty, the quite new calf. Clematis McAIpln, shy and long limbed, just at the awkward age when woman misses being either boy or girl, had disappeared. Where, nobody knew. She might be bird's-nesting in the ' swamp or crying over the "Idylls of the King" in the barn loft. Certainly she was not in the house. J. Y. Wayne : had seen to that. Stern and rugged of face, he sat in the library alone and waited for Alan. He heard a distant 1 screen door open and slam. Steps 1 echoed through the lonely house, ! Alan came and stood before him. Alan was a man. Without being tall he looked tall. His shoulders were not ' broad till you noticed the slimness of 1 his hips. His neck looked too thin 1 till you saw the strong set of his small 1 head. In a word; he had the perfect ' proportion that looks frail aud is strong. As he stood before his uncle ; his eyes grew dull. They were slightly bloodshot in the corners and with their dullness the clear-cut lines of his ! face seemed to take on a perceptible blur. J. Y. began to speak. He spoke for 1 a long quarter of an hour aud then ' summed up all he had said in a few words. "I've been no uncle to you, ! Alan; I've been a father. I've tried to win you, but you were not to be 1 won. I've tried to hold you, but It 3 i Lfa 3 t "I've Tried to Win You." takes more than a Wayne to hold a Wayne. You have taken the bit with a vengeance. You have left such a wreckage behind youthat we can trace your life back to the cradle by " your failures, all the greater for your many successes. You're the first Wayne that ever missed his college degree. I never asked what they ex- pelled you for, and I don't want to t know. It must have been bad, bad, for the .old school is lenient, and proud of men that staud as high as you stood I in your classes and on the field, g Money I wont' talk of money, for you thought it was your ownT j For the first time Alan spoke. "What , do you mean, sir?" With the words ,' his slight form straightened, his eyes j blazed, there was a slight quivering (i of the thin nostrils and his features 3 came out clear and strong. 1 J. Y. dropped his eyes. "I may have a been wrong, Alan," he said slowly, i "but I've been your banker without e telling you. Your father didn't leave t much. It saw you through junior year." e Alan placed his hands on the desk o between them and leaned forward, n "How much have I spent since then '. In the last three years?" o J. Y. kept his eyes down. "You s know, more or less, Alan. We won't d talk about that I was trying to hold e you. But today I give it up. I've got one more thing to tell you, though, and there are mighty few people that know it. The Hill's battles have never entered the field of gossip. Seven years before you were born my father fa-ther your grandfather turned me out. It was from this room. He said I had started the name of Wayne on the road to shame and that I could go with it. He gave me five hundred dollars. dol-lars. I took it and went. I sank low with the name, but in the end 1 brought It back, and today It stands high on both sides of the water. I'm not a happy man, as you know, for all that. You see, though I brought the name back in the end, I never saw your grandfather again aud he never knew. "Here are Jve hundred dollars. It's the last money you'll ever have from me, but whatever you do, whatever happens, remember this: Red Hill does not belong to a Lansing nor to a Wayne nor to an Elton. It Is the eternal eter-nal mother of us all. Broken or mended, mend-ed, Lansings and Waynes have come back to Ute Hill through generations. City of refuge or harbor of peace, it's all one to the Hill. Remember that." He laid the crisp notes on the desk. Alan half turned toward the door but stepped back again. His eyes and face were dull once more. He picked up the bills and slowly counted them. "I shall return the money, sir," he said and walked out. He went to the stables and ordered the pony and cart for the afternoon train. As he came out he saw Nance, the children and the captain coming slowly up Long lane from the farm. He dodged back into the barn through the orchard and across the lawn. Mrs. J. Y. stood in the garden directing the relaying of flower beds. Alan made a circuit. As he stepped into the road swift steps came toward him. He wheeled and faced Clem coming at full run. He turned his back on her and started away. The swift steps stopped so suddenly that he looked around. Clem was standing stock still, one awkward, lanky leg half crooked as though it were still running. Her skirts were absurdly short. Her little fists, brown and scratched, pressed her sides. Her dark hair hung in a tangled tan-gled mat over a thin, pointed face. Her eyes were large and shadowy. Two tears had started from them and were crawling down soiled cheeks. She was quivering all over like a woman struck. Alan swung around and strode up to her. He put one arm about her thin form and drew her to him. "Don't cry, Clem," he said, "don't cry. I didn't mean to hurt you." For one moment she clung to -him and buried her face against his coat. Then she looked up and smiled through wet eyes. "Alan. I'm so glad you've come!" Alan caught her hand, and together they walked down the road to the old church. The great door was locked. Alan loosened the fastening of a shutter, shut-ter, sprang in through the window and drew Clem after him. They climbed to the belfry. From the belfry one saw the whole world with Red Hill as Its center. Alan was disappointed. The hill was still half naked almost bleak. Maple house and Elm house shone brazenly white through budding trees. They looked as If they had crawled closer to the road during the winter. The Firs, with Its black border bor-der of last year's foliage, looked funereal. fune-real. Alan turned from the scene, but Clem's little hand drew him back. Clematis McAIpln bad happened between be-tween generations. Alan, Nance, Gerry Lansing and their friends had been too old for her and Nance's children were too young. There were Elton children of about her age. but for years they had been abroad. Consequently Clem had grown to fifteen In a sort of loneliness lone-liness not uncommon with single children chil-dren who can just remember the good times the half-generation before them used to have by reason of their numbers. num-bers. This loneliness had given her in certain ways a precocious development develop-ment while It left her subdued and shy even when among her familiars. But she was shy without fear and ber shyness shy-ness itself had a flowerlike sweetness that made a bold appeal. "Isn't It wonderful, Alan?" she said. "Yesterday It was cold and it rained and the Hill was black, black, like the Firs. Today all the trees are fuzzy with green and it's warm. Yesterday was so lonely and today you are here." Alan looked down at the child with glowing eyes. "And, do you know, this summer Gerry Lansing and Mrs. Gerry Lansing Lan-sing are coming. I've never seen her since that day they were married. Do you think it's all right for me to call her Mrs. Gerry like everybody does?" Alan considered the point gravely. "Yes, I think that's the best thing yon could call her." "Perhaps when I'm really grown up I can call her Alix. I think Alix Is such a pretty name, don't you?" Clem flashed a took at Alan and he nodded; then, with an impulsive movement move-ment she drew close to him In the half-wheedling way of woman about to ask a favor. "Alan, they let me ride old Dubbs when he isn't plowing. The old donkey she's so fat now she can hardly carry the babies. Some day when you're not in a great hurry will you let me ride with you?" Alan turned away briskly and started start-ed down the ladder. "Some day, perhaps, per-haps, Clem," he muttered. "Not this summer. Come on." When they had left the church he drew out his watch and started. "Run along and play, Clem." He left her and hurried to the barn. , Joe was waiting. "Have we time for the long road, Joe?" asked Alan, as he climbed luto the cart. "Oh, yes, sir; especially if you drive, Mr. Alan." "I don't" want to drive. Let him go and jump in." The coachman gave the pony his head, climbed in and took the reins. The cart swung out and down the lane. "Alan! Alan!" Alan: recognized Clem's voice and turned.- She was racing across a cor- "Clem," He Said, "You Mustn't." ner of the pasture. Her short skirts flounced madly above her ungainly legs. She tried to take the low stone wall in her stride. Her foot caught in a vine and she pitched headlong into the weeds and grass at the roadside. road-side. Alan leaped from the cart and picked her up, quivering, sobbing and breathless. "Alan," she gasped, "you're not going away?" Alan half shook her as he drew her thin body close to him. "Clem," he said, "you mustn't. Do you hear? You mustn't. Do you think I want to go away?" Clem stifled her sobs and looked up at bim with a sudden gravity in her elflsh face. She threw her bare arms around his neck. "Good-by, Alan." He stooped and kissed her. To the surprise of his friends Alan Wayne gave up debauch and found himself employment by the time the spring that saw his dismissal from Maple house had ripened into summer. sum-mer. He was full of preparation for his departure for Africa when a sum- Have you ever built bridges in South Africa and dreamed of Home? Have you ever dug ditches in South America and had your little world turned upside down by the sight of a face from Home? Have you ever been in exile and Known that the Blue Peter would never fly for you that the deep -throated siren of the homeward sailing steamer was only mocKing the longing in your soul for Home? |