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Show - Olivet STORY FROM THE START The Idol of the quaint little Frenen-Canadlnn village of Peribonka Per-ibonka is the Crippled Lady, heroine of an epic destined to live long In the village annals. How the romance of Molly Brant, sister of the great Indian In-dian chief, Joseph Brant, and Sir William Johnson, in pre-Revolutlonary pre-Revolutlonary days, comes down to today with the birth of a son, Paul, to Molly Kirke, wife of a powerful New York financier, finan-cier, and her death when Paul is thirteen years old. Molly Kirke was a descendant of Molly Mol-ly Brant, and her boy has many of the Indian characteristics. CHAPTER II Continued 2 "Fifty million dollars In and About that hole before it is finished. Denvent," he said. "My father's money. That is why I am here. A score of engineers are on this job, and every one of them is better fitted fit-ted to till my place than 1. .They have done the work, not 1. Respectfully Re-spectfully they submit suggestions when they know they should be commands. Yet they are slaves to my whims and desires as long as they remain on this work. 1 am the strutting figurehead of a financial finan-cial monarchy. I hate that pit down there. I hate the millions going into it. I take no pride in what seems to thrill you all. If I tilled ray proper place I would be among the men digging and messing myself with clay, earning my six dollars a day. But I'm here instead. I do not have to succeed simply because I cannot fail. My father's millions attend to that. The millions cannot can-not lose. They are all-powerful next to the Lord Jehovah. They get you and hold you, and you cannot break away. My father has never got away from them for a day's play in his life. And they've got me. I hate them, but that doesn't help. No matter where 1 go they follow me, haunt me, tie me hand and foot, grimace at me, and mock me. Sometimes I have had a terrible ter-rible thought, I would like to see those millions shrivel up and die. I would like to feel the necessities of life with my naked hands. I would like to feel the joy of knowing know-ing that 1 had to work or go hungry. What a thrill that must give one !" He turned toward Derwent again, trying to stem the tide of his emotions emo-tions with a smile. "Pardon me. It's a gloomy day and I feel like raving. But I did love that glorious river before we cut it into ribbons. If my father would head his millions the other way and save such things instead of destroying them, I'd be quite happy. As it Is, I suppose I must carry on until the d d thing is finished." fin-ished." "You owe yourself an apology," Derwert remonstrated, pocketing his pipe. "The engineers and your father's money are making the job a success, of course. But do you ever think of morale? That's a big i thing, a mighty big thing. And it Is what you have kept alive in the camps up and down the river for the last three years. You're too serious. You don't laugh enough, you don't Join much of our parties and excitements, but people like you. That is what pulls Ihe trick. Even the old heads, the engineers who worked in Egypt and I'anama, love to be with you. There Isn't a jealous man in the workings. To have made that condition possible Is an achievement which makes you the most valuable human asset in the organization. "It is good of you to say that," acknowledged Paul. "Funny why I should feel so strongly out of humor hu-mor today. I think ('aria's mother is getting on my nerves. Have you seen her recently?" "This morning." "And you still insist there Is no hope?" "Positively. 1 had Doctor Thied-mere Thied-mere come up from Quebec, as you requested. He gives her even less time than 1. Doctor Uollins agrees Willi him. It can't be more than three or four months, I think. Mrs. Ilaldan knows she is going to die and talks to us very calmly about It. She Isn t afraid. The thought of it doesn't seem to cast a shadow over her motherly sweetness. sweet-ness. She is keeping herself that way for Carta's sake. If it were not for Carta the tiling wouldn't be such a tragedy." "I know It's Carta," said Paul. "Sudden sickness 1 death, like my own mother's isn't so terrible. But seeing It coming, wailing for it. counting the days and weeks must be horrible. Carta is losing everything every-thing she has when her mother goes. I'm wondering what she will do." "Go on working among the children. chil-dren. She told my wife that yesterday. yes-terday. When the company's school closes here she will find another. 1 cannot understand her quite. She is lovelier than Hebe, and so lovable that half the men I know worship her. Yet she favors one no more than another. She is twentv-live. I.ucy-I'.elle says. They like each other and have had their confidences. Lucy-Belle says there Is a love ulTair in ('aria's life, a broken one, which makes it impossible impos-sible for Carta to love any other man or marry. Carta told her that." Paul looked out of the window again, with Ills hack to Derwent. "What a rotter I am to blow up as 1 did a few minutes ago," he exclaimed. "But I was thinking of Carta and the obstinacy of life Mine has been one way, Carta's another. an-other. I was born rich; she came over an Immigrant baby. 1 did nothing noth-ing but grow up; she fought with the pertinacity of her race for an education after her father died, got it, and has been fighting for her own and her mother's existence ever since. I'm u man. She's a woman. I stand here and sympathize sympa-thize with myself and curse my luck for being what I am while she bears up like a soldier under her burdens. I saw her this morning. morn-ing. It was wet, soggy, gloomy, but she smiled. The sadness of all the world Is back of that smile, but it doesn't spoil Its sweetness or its cheer. She makes me feel how small I am and how inconsequential inconsequen-tial all this work is down in the pit. I would give all this down here if it were mine to give could I save her mother for her 1" ' Derwent put on his raincoat. "We all feel that way about It. And we're helpless. Lucy-Belle wants you to come over to supper. Will you?" "Thanks. Tell Lucy-Belle she is an angel to think of me so often. I'll come." CHAPTER III PAUL sat at his desk after Derwent Der-went had gone. From his chair he could look through another window win-dow to a clean and unbroken sweep of country where the forest had stood, and where now were rows of cottages built for the men whose wives and families had come with them to the workings. lie could see Lucy-Belle Derwent's home, and not far from it the cottage in which Carla Haldan and her mother lived. He had often felt an emptiness of heart and a great longing when his eyes rested upon these half hundred homes of the women whose love and loyalty had urged them to follow their husbands' fortunes. His wife was not among them. Only twice in three years had she come up to what she had called "these horrible woods," and then she had departed after a day or two. Her picture was on his desk. He knew she was beautiful, in a vivid, golden way. But her beauty had never touched him deeply. It had been for him like a beauty of a lUuver made by a master craftsman from paper or glass, without the rare, sweet perfume per-fume which should have been a part of it, and for which he had yearned all his life. He had thought of her as a lovely bird in a gilded cage and the cage was the palace which he called his home. It was a senseless thought, for the cage did not hold her often. She was in Europe Eu-rope now. Last year it was Egypt. Next year it would be some oilier far-away place. He had been true to the woman on his desk. Just as he knew she was true to him, and whatever he had wanted In woman he tried to Is -Ls She Was in Europe Now. Last Year It Was Egypt. Next Year It Would Be Some Other Far-Away Place. build up about her. He wanted to love her. He did love the idea! which he created of her, a kind of dream woman, whom he endowed with a great love for himself and placed in one of the cottages which he could see from his ollice window. win-dow. He did not realize that during recent re-cent monlhs he hail clothed this ideal a little at a time in what he found in Carla Haldan. Yesterday he had received a letter let-ter from Paris. It was friendly and full of interest, quite a long letter, but without a line in it to cay she wanted him or was looking "forward to the time when she would see him again. She mnl have written It in her dressing j room, with her hair down, for one of the long. line-spun golden filaments had got Into Ihe letter somehow, and at first he wanted to believe she had put It there. Then he recalled re-called -Jial previous to this letter It had been live weeks since she had communicated with him. So there was no sentiment nlioul it lust accident. With Carla It was different. Mowers which she cut from her garden were always on his desk. A vase of gorgeous autumn au-tumn nasturtiums was there now. Usually Carla sent them over by one of her school children, hnl occasionally oc-casionally she brought them herself. her-self. She made no display of the act, nor was there a motive in It. except the one Inspired by kindness. kind-ness. Paul knew she would have done the same thing if his wife ha. I been there. The two had met. Carla had seemed to bear In her heart a warm and tender feeling for the woman to whose husband she brought flowers. A curious fact had come out between them. They were the same age twenty-five twenty-five both born on the same day. Funny, Paul thought, how mucn two women could learn from each other In a short time. Paul was looking at the Haldan collage as he sat thinking, and saw Carla come out into the rain and turn down ihe cinder path toward his office. In a little while he knew she was on her way to visit him. He ' stood up to watch the slim figure In its close-fitting silken raincoat and hood. He knew how she would come In through his door, hiding her grief as much as she could from the world, that its gloom might not oppress or embarrass others. To have a mother at home, dying, and then to smile, was Carla. He met her at the door, and Carla had wet, fresh nasturtiums in her hand. A glow of greeting was in her eyes and the smile was on her lips, as he knew they would be. He helped her off with her coat and hood. She objected a little to taking off her raincoat. "I want to talk with you for only a few moments, if the inconvenience incon-venience isn't too great," she said. "And I want to talk with you for a long time," he replied. "I am not working, not even dictating, and I have let my secretary go. I have felt peculiarly the desire to do nothing this afternoon. The day has been empty and blue, and It brightened only when I saw you coming down the path. I have been thinking about you quite a bit." He had never said as much as this, with the steely shutters let down from his eyes so that the other man within him looked through. A flush so faiut that Paul did not notice it gathered in Carla's cheeks. "Thinking of me?" she inquired. "That is kind of you. I like to be thought about pleasantly. And you could not think otherwise of me when I bring you flowers." He was glad she had spoken about her flowers. "They have been an encouragement encourage-ment and an inspiration to me for a long time," he said. "No matter mat-ter how annoying my work or how gloomy the day, they are always like a cheering friend smiling at me from my desk." The warmth In her cheeks deepened deep-ened into a delicate rose flush of color. "I am glad my flowers have seemed friendly to you. They are always that to me. I love them just as I love trees. If it were noi that their crowning mission Is to bring us comfort and solace, I should hate to pick them. Sometimes Some-times it seems to me like killing beautiful things with souls in them. I feel the same way when I see a tree cut down." Her gaze rested upon the picture of his wife. "I often think of Mrs. Kirke when I pick my nasturtiums," she added. "She is of their beauty, colorful, vivid, full of gold and life. Is she well?" "I believe so. She is in Paris. I received a letter from her yesterday yester-day In which she speaks of you. She says she has not forgotten her threat to come up and paint you some day. That will be exciting, her third visit in three years." She caught the inflection of irony in his voice, though he was not trying try-ing to reveal it. The knowledge of his loneliness sometimes oppressed op-pressed her. It was one reason why she picked flowers for him. And she was always saying something nice for ill e woman whose picture was on his desk and whose life was so apart from his, so infinitely separated sep-arated from everything in which he might have found happiness. "I have tried to grow hyacinths about my collage." she said. "But they won't live. They die. I love them and have given them every care, and I make myself believe they would like to grow for me if they could. 1 told Mrs. Kirke of my experience when she was here a year ago, and you should have seeu her eyes light up. 'I am like that, she said. 'I wonid die if I had to live up here. Paul doesn't understand. under-stand. You won't. Yet I would die' and I believe (hat. too. It isn't her fault any more than It is Ihe hyacinths. They are very much alike. A wonderful flower and a wonderful woman. I think your wife is the niosl wonderful of "the two giving you lip as slip Is doing, all because of your work." Behind her courage was a smoldering smol-dering depth of pain. Paul thought she looked like an angel as she sat opposite him, with the desk be-tsvecn be-tsvecn them like an exquisite. white-firwi "ln he had seen in the Urstilinc convent in Quebec. "Yes. she is a wonderful woman, r he said, thinking only vaguely cf his wiTe. "All women are wonderful. wonder-ful. And especially mothers." lie knew she had come to talk to him about her mother. Carla did not flinch when he brought het mission home to her in this way. She bowed her head a little, then her eyes came back to him with a misty glow in llieni. "1 ' don't like lo add to your wor ries," she said. "But It seems necessary. nec-essary. I don't want to go to any oilier but you. I think you will help me a little." "If my life could save your mother, moth-er, 1 would give it," said Paul. Ills words broke through her calm for a moment. "1 have come to ask if you will take me over to Peribonka tomorrow tomor-row and help me arrange for a little plot of ground," she said, tightening tighten-ing her hands in her lap. "My mother loves Peribonka. In so many ways it has reminded her of the village where she was born and from which my father brought her to America. We have dreamed of living there some day, for I love it, too. Now that mother Is going go-ing to die, she wants to be buried there. Tomorrow I want to arrange for a place In the cemetery, as near the river as possible. She told nie today just where she would like to rest, in a little corner that was overgrown with wild honeysuckle when we were there last. She Is so eager to get it, so happy and smiling and unafraid in planning for it so wonderful such a mother moth-er that last night I asked God to let me die and go with her." Looking into her bravely clear and tearless eyes, Paul felt himself, for a moment, unable to answer her. Then he said : "We will go tomorrow, Carla. But It will be a long time before any- 1 N mm "We Will Go Tomorrow, Carla. But It Will Be a Long Time, Before Anything Happens." thing happens. It may be it won't happen at all. Doctors are not Infallible. In-fallible. Sometimes " Carta smiled at him. Her look of gratitude transfigured her face. "Thank you," she said gently. "It gives me greater courage to know that you are hoping for me like that. My mother says the doctors are wrong. That Is why I want to go to Peribonka tomorrow. Mother Moth-er wants to be with me as long as she can, but she insists that the time Is very short, much shorter than the doctors have said." "You believe that?" "I must." Carla was looking beyond be-yond him, as if in the distance were a vision which It would be impossible impos-sible for him to see. "I try not to believe, but it comes over me and holds me. It Isn't just fear." "I am going to write for Miss Wixom to come and take charge of the children," said Paul. "You must be with your mother without Inter-j Inter-j ruption." Carla drew herself together with a little shock. "Please don't. I must have the work the pleasures the Inspiration of the children. Mother wants it that way, too. She sits in her window, win-dow, and I can see her from the schoolhouse, and we wave our hands at each other every little while. She can see the children, and they are always thinking about her. Even during school hours they don't forget. You see, they are as much mother's a3 mine, and we cannot turn them over to Miss Wixom. Mother and I need them. You won't send for Miss Wixom until it is necessary?" "No." As she rose from her chair she ! took the picture of Paul's wife from the desk and stood looking at It with her back turned to the light coming through the window. Thus Paul could see them both the profile pro-file of Carla. her exquisitely cut features, the grace and beauty of j her head, and his wife smiling np at her out of the picture. After a ' moment Carla smiled gently in return. re-turn. "When Is she coming home?" she 'asked. "I don't know. She doesn't keep me in touch with her dans. Some- ; time before Christmas. I think." I He wondered why the note of hit- : terness persisted in coming into his j voice when he spoke of his wife. It ' annoyed him. lie Iried to keep It back. Yet it would come out. "She likes to surprise me," he added, walking around the end of his desk to stand beside Carla. "When the time comes I will get a telegram from her saying she Is on board ship or In New York. 'Home, Paul.' she said last time. 'When are you coming to see me?' I wish she loved children as you love them." "All women love children," re-, re-, j.V.ei Carlst mysteriously "No, she doesn't. 1 ve vrartd a lot of them. Boys, mostly. Claire j could be such a wonderful mother."! "She will lie some day," said ! Carla. "I saw the painting of It j j in her face when she was here, and ; I see it now shining in her eyes in this picture. She bus a soul as i deep as the sea. Mr. Kirke. and she I must love children I" j She replaced the picture on the I desk, and Paul helped her again ! with her rainco::!. (TO BE C(iNTlNt'l:m , |