Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 September 1894 — A FEEBLE ATONEMENT. [ARTICLE]

A FEEBLE ATONEMENT.

“’E’s tipsey!” “’E’s ’avipg a rest!” “What is it?” “Only a sandwich man!” One of the miserable gutter file had slipped and fallen on the Strand pavement. 'With the imperial air of the neophyte medicine man, Talbot Villiers parted the crowd. A Samaritan stood by with a little brandy in a glass. Talbot put It to the human advertisement’s lips. 3he man opened his eyes with a look ts gratitude. The look touched the young medical student. He held up his finger for a cab, then he assisted the fallen man into it and took a seat opposite. “ ‘Whereto?’asked Talbot. ‘Where do you live? lam going home with you.’ “ ‘Talbot street, Westminster, No. murmured the other feebly. ‘My name is Stern, John Stern.’ ” Talbot gave the direction to the cabman; then he examined his companion more closely. He was an elderly man of refined features. His clothes, though shabby, were remarkably clean, his linen was clean, and he was clean shaven, in fact, such a surplus of cleanliness in one of his late occupation was rather suspicious. Stern bore the young man’s scrutiny with visible uneasiness. He leaned suddenly over to Villiers. “Sir,” he said, “if you are going home with me, will you keep my carrying of the boards a secret? I don’t want it to come to the ears of my daughter. I am pretty nearly useless for work, but I wish to help her all I can, and that is why I come Into the city to carry these boards. She thinks I work in an office.” “I quite understand,” said Talbot pityingly. “Your secret is safe with me.” The words of the man had aroused every generous instinct of his nature. “What made you faint?” “Hunger,” replied Stern laconically. Talbot made a hurried motion to stop the cab. Stern laid his hand on his arm and restrained him. “No, sir.” he said. “I am indebted to you already. You cannot help me further; I cannot take anything from you, even food. But I thank you, all the same.” Stern’s tone was decisive, and Talbot regarded him in amazement. The first answer showed him what little way' he had made in medical diagnosis; the second, how little he knew jf human nature. The pride that prevented a hungry man accepting food was to Talbot preposterous, This feeling gave way, however, to one of involuntary respect. At last the cab stopped. Ctybs seemed a novelty mjTalbbl street, for a face appeared at nearly every window. A girl of about twenty was looking from No. 5. As the cab drew up she burned very' pale and rushed to the door.

“My daughter, Kate,” said Stern. “Remember your promise, sir.” “All right,” replied Talbot; then as the girl came to the cab door, he raised his hat. “Don’t be alarmed ; your father hashappend with a slight accident. He slipped on the curb. He’s all right; but I thought I had better drive home with him from the —office.” At the sight of her father walking from the cab, the color rushed back to her cheeks in such vivid and delicate tints, and showed so clearly the beauty of her complexion, that Talbot stood gazing at her in silent admiration. His eyes lingered on her in a most embarrassing silence. They took in the lines of the slight graceful figure, the nut-brown hair and the honest steadfast eyes. “I’ll call to-morrow,” he said, with a start, “and hear how he is—that is, if you don’t mind.” It was evident that Kate regarded him as a junior member of some unknown and eminently Christian firm. “You are very kind,” she said—“very kind indeed.” “Don’t mention it,” stammered Talbot. “Good morning—l mean good afternoon—Miss Stern.” He re-entered the cab, and telling the cabman to drive anywhere, escaped from Talbot street in some confusion. But he was true to his promise. He called the next day and the day after, and many more times. The state of Stern’s health seemed to become a very serious matter. At last this pleasant fiction exploded. He came one afternoon when her eyes were weary with typewriting, and the sight maddened him. He clasped her in his arms. “Kate, my own dear Kate,” he cried. “I love you and I want you to be my wife. Will you, Kate?”

Kate looked into his eyes. He needed no other answer; and they passed the afternoon building up a quiet little Bloomsbury practice. Stern was to be made a dispenser. Over the teacups Kate told her father of Talbot’s proposals. He kissed her and sighed. It was not in him to spoil a love-dream; but he scented danger. Talbot Villiers was a gentleman in every sense of the word; but Talbot Villiers had undoubtedly’ a father. Who was he? Villiers, senior, would without doubt have his say, unless he was a very mild father indeed. Early the next day when Stern had “ copying” to do in the city, a letter arrived from Talbot enclosing two tickets for the theatre. The letter ran : “I want you and your father both to see this piece. It was produced last night with the greatest success. After you have both seen it I’ll tell you why I am so anxious you should go. I have enclosed some press cuttings which will give you an idea of the plot and the way it is staged. I’m sorry I can’t come; but I have a little business to transact With dad.” It was the first time he had mentioned that ominous person. Dad suddenly loomed up very large in Kate’s thought*. Villiers, senior, unac-

countably depressed her. She tried to throw this depression off by telling her father about the theatre. The play was called “ A Woman’s Love.” Stern had carried the boards that advertised its “first night.” To Kate’s great astonishment, her father vefused to go. She pressed him why. “I can’t go,” said Stern, gravely. “Don’t look so grieved, Kate. Let me tell you why; then perhaps you will understand me. A long time ago I wrote a play ” “You wrote a play!” interrupted Kate, breathlessly. “I knew, you dear, old father, you were clever. Talbot said you were clever. He said you had a clever face.” Stern smiled sadly' at this innocent tribute. “Writing a play, Kate, and getting it acted are two very different things. I wrote this play in want, in misery, and with an ailing wife by my side. I wrote it in the odd moments snatched from my work. I built high hopes upon it, my dear; I put my whole heart into it, and I fondly’ dreamt it would lift from me a burden of debt and give me a home. I signed it with a nom de plume, and sent it to a dramatist called Fielding Clark. I called upon him afterward and asked his opinion of the play. He told me he had lost it. Then, Kate, I lost-heart. Poverty drove me from pillar to post, and of the many things I grew to hate, the theatre was one.” Kate threw her arms round him and kissed him. “And to think but for that accident,” she cried, “you might have been a great man! Never mind!” “No,” said Stern, wearily passing his hand over his forehead, “never mind. But what have you got in your hand?” “They are the press notices of the new’ play. They came with the tickets.”

“Well, my dear, I’m just going to have a pipe at the back of the house; I’ll look over them. Perhapsl’ll go, after all. Y’ou are entering soon on a new life, and it’s about time I should throw aside such prejudices.” He fondly kissed her, and took down his pipe. When her father was gone Kate drew in thought to the window. To think how’ narrowly she escaped being a dramatist’s daughter ! While her mind was thus exalted, she observed a gentleman of middle age attentively scanning the houses. He was not a prepossessing gentleman. He was dark, slimly built, and of a sarcastic aspect. At last he fixed his eye on No. 5 and opened the gate. With a vague misgiving, Kate ran to the door. “Pardon me,” said the visitor, blandly, “but is this Mr. Stern’s.” “Yes,” answered Kate,feeling cold, “this is Mr. Stern’s.” “And if I judge aright,” said the stranger still more blandly, “you are Miss Kate Stern. May I have the honor of a few minutes’ conversation with you? My name is Barry Villiers.” Talbot’s father! The ominous dad in the background I With a very pale face Kate ushered him into the house. He politely waited for her to seat herself, then sat down. “I fear/’ he began, “I have called on a rather unpleasant errand. My visit concerns a flirtation between you and my son.” Kate caught her breath. “There has been no flirtation, Mr. Villiers. Your son has told me that he loved me, and I am not ashamed of returning his love.” Villiers bowed. “A boy-and-girl attachment,” he said, airily. “I heard of it from my son’s lips today. Of course, it cannot proceed. It is folly; but then, when were lovers wise? I can assure you, Miss Stern, though fully appreciating your affection for my son, that you must give up all thoughts of this marriage.” He smiled. “Give up all thoughts of it!” cried Kate, with pale lips. “Is that your son’s message?” “No —of course. lam here (o reason with you. You are a mere child; lam a man of the world. \V» look at different standpoints. But r, marriage is impossible. Your position ” “You mean,” interrupted Kate, “that you are rich and 1 am poor.” “Exactly. In all other respects you are, no doubt, my son’s equal; but tliis unfortunate circumstance is sufficient to restrain me from giving my consent. I cannot see my son’s prospects blighted. lam willing to pay any price ” Kate’s eyes blazed. The suave, insinuating manner of Talbot’s “dad” roused her. His way of putting a price on the affections brought back her color. “My price,” she said scornfully, “for what? The love I bear him?” Villiers coolly changed his tactics. ‘ ‘Pardon me; 1 was wrong. I ought not to have made such a suggestion. But you say you love my son. Well, his career is in your hands. Will you blight it? It rests with you.” “You are putting the whole responsibility of his future on my shoulders,” she answered bitt rly. “Is that the actof a gentleman? Is it the act of a father who loves his son?” Villiers regarded her more attentively. His suavity diminished. “You are more clever,” he said, coldly, “than I thought. I will say no more. If you take my friendly visit in this spirit, I can do nothing. But you may take it as my last word that if my son marries you he does so a beggar; I cast him off; I utterly disowm him.” “And yet,” cried Kate, “you say you love him!” Villiers took up his hat; he fixed her with a keen, cold glance. “I do. And here is my check book to prove it. I Will pay any sum to release him from a degrading marriage.” “Degrading!” The girl staggered. “I will prove to you,” she said, in a quavering tone, “which love is the strongest. I will give him up; I will tell him so from my own lips. And if ever you tell your son of this interview, you may say that I refused to marry him because I loved him. That is my answer.” She sank into the chair from which she had risen, and covered her face with her ha-ids. Barry Villiers’ face lengthened. “My dear young lady, I have wronged you. Pray, make some allowance for a father’s affection, Let Ae reward you for this act of selfsacrifice.” He pulled out his check book and stood beside hfer, apparently considering the sum, when the door

that led to the back opened and Stern walked in. He looked first at his daughter, then at Villiers. As their eyes met, something like an electric shock seemed to pass from one to the other. “Fielding Clark!” cried Stern. Kate gave a start. Barry Villiers was Fielding Clark, the dramatist. Talbot’s father was the author of the play for which they had received the tickets. She turned an amazed look upon her father. His face frightened her. It was exultant and denunciatory’. For a moment Stern’s face seemed to have the same effect upon Barry Villiers. He seemed disconcerted,'ill at ease. In Stern’s hands were the press notices crumpled into a ball. Villiers was the first to regain his comppsure. “Sinclair!” he cried, “John Sinclair, this is a surprise.” Stern turned to his daughter. “Leave us for a moment, Kate,” he said. “I have a few words to say to this—this gentleman.” Kate rose, and with a wondering look at her father quitted the room. When she was gone he fixed a searching look on Barry’ Villiers. That gentleman promptly held out his hand. Stern contemptuously disregarded it. “I don’t know why you are in my house,” he said slowly.“ But no doubt you can expTkip it. I should say you are a man who could explain anything. Perhaps you can explain this?” He held up the crumpled ball of paper. “These are press notices of a play produced last night. That play was mine. You stole it. You are a liar and a villain!”

Villiers put down his hat. “Sinclair,” he said, and histones were almost plaintive, “you will regret those words. Yet, they were spoken in the heat of the moment, and I forgive you.” His retort was so staggering that Stern gazed at him dazed. He nearly apologized. “No doubt,” pursued Villiers, “you think the worst of me. It is not unnatural. But there are extenuating circumstances. I own the play was yours. I own I used it. But at the time you came to me it was really lost. I had mislaid it. I had no knowledge of your real name—l take it that the agreeable’young lady who has just left us is your daughter—l had no means of reaching you. I sought for you; I advertised for you under the name of Sinclair; in the tide of London- life you were swept away. Then, Sinclair—l mean Stern —I was tempted. There came to me the great temptation of my life. I was worked out; a manager stood at my elbow and I took your play. It was culpable, very culpuble; but the question is: ‘What are you going to do?’ ” He paused and looked, not altogether without anxiety, at the man he had wronged, Stern stood before him dejected. To a third party he might easily have been mistaken for the one who was most to blame. What was he going to do? The hot fire of vengeance had died from him. He stood now with only the cold ashes of lost hopes. “Of course,” said Villiers, “you could harm me, prosecute me; but it would be unchristian ;” Stern thought of the sandwich boards and glared at him. “Give me the opportunity,” he went on,hastily, “of making atonement. We are both middle-aged men. Why live in the past! Why should we cloud the happiness of others?” “The happiness of others? What do you mean?” “I’ll explain,” said Villiers. “You know me as Clark. Villiers is my name, and Talbot Villiers is my son. You may not have noticed the likeness. He takes after his mother.”

“Thank God!” cried Stern,fervently; but the relationship troubled him. “He loves your daughter. The match seemed to me an undesirable one, and I came here to-day to break it|off. Now it is the dearest wish of my heart? Why should we blight their lives?” Stern gazed at him amazed. Here was a fresh sophistry. Villiers had robbed him, and now held out a net for him. Stern’s brain grew hot. “I say ‘we,’ but, of course I mean you. I have no power to do anything. You have the power, if you are so unchristian as to expose me, you do so at the price of their happiness, at the price of youth and innocence. You shall have all the money I took for the play. I may be a villain,” said Villiers, with a virtuous burst, “but I have a conscience. This is a feeble atonement, Stern; call it, if you like, the beginning of one; but do you accept it.” Stern could make no reply. The desire for vengeance had fled; but. in its place was a dull longing for justice. Then he thought of Talbot, of the afternoon in the Strand. “Go, now. I’ll send you my answer.” He walked as if he were carrying the sandwich boards into the shadow of the room and sat down on a chair.

Barry Villiers stood in the sunlight. He gazed anxiously at Stern, and was about to open his mouth when his eyes fell upon the door of the inner room. It had opened, and Kate Stern stood on the threshold. With a smile of relief the man of the world bowed and went out of the front door. Kate approached her father and laid her hand on his shoulder. Stern looked up and saw the traces of recent tears. He kissed her, and thus love conquered both the desire to reinstate himself and be quits with the man who had robbed him.

“My dear,” he said, “you shall marry Talbot.”—[Chambers’s Journal.