Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 123, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1912 — The Chalice of Courage [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Chalice of Courage

Bcmfcdc Stonr ts XaMtfJdtnm* HB | VhoDrmik JKm

By Cyrus townsend Brady.

£/V-:* J fsA j;^ £M£'-’Va g ■vi-iSi-TOJ jdllrHrfii >

-■ 16. '. T.,, : SYNOPSIB* Enid Maitland, a frank, free and unspoiled young Phailadelphia girl, is taken to the Colorado mountains by her uncle, Robert Maitland. James Armstrong, Maitland’s protege, falls in love with her. His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but •he hesitates, and Armstrong goes east an business without a definite answer. Enid hears .the story of A mining engijneer, Newbold, whose wife fell off a cliff and was so seriously hurt that he was compelled to shoot her to prevent her being eaten by wolves while he went for help. Klrkby, the did guide who tells the •tory, gives Enid a package of letters which he says were found on the dead Woman’s body. She reads the letters and at Kirkby’s request keeps them. While bathing in mountain stream Enid is attacked by a bear, which is mysteriously •hot. A storm adds to the girl’s terror. A sudden deluge transforms brook into raging torrent, which sweeps Enid into gorge, where she is rescued by a mountain hermit after a thrilling experience. Campers in great confusion upon alacoving Enid’s absence when the' storm breaks. Maitland and Old Klrkby goln search of the girl. Enid discovers that her ankle is sprained and that she is unable to walk. Her mysterious rescuer carries her to his camp. Enid goes to sleep in the strange man s bunk. Miner cooks breakfast for Enid, after which they go on tour of Inspection. The hermit tells Enid of his unsuccessful attempt to find the Maitland campers. He admits that he is also from Philadelphia. The hermit fhlls in love, with Enid. The man comes to a realization of his love for her* but naturally in that strange solitude the relations of the girl and het; rescuer bbcome unnatural and strained. The stranger tells of a wife he had who is dead, and says he has sworn to ever cherish bejr memory by living in solitude. He and Enid, however, confess their love for •ach other. She learns that he is the man who killed his wife in the mountain. Enid discovers the writer of the letters •o Newbold’s wife to have been James Armstrong. Newbold decides to start to the settlement for help. CHAPTER XVll—(Continued). ’ •‘Nothing," said the woman, never shrinking back an inch, facing him with all the courage and daring with which a Goddess might look upon a man, “Nothing but my weakness and your strength.” “Yes, that’s it, but do not count too much upon the one or the other. Great God, how can I keep away from von; life on the old terms is insupportable. I must go." “And where?" “Anywhere, so it be away.” . “And when?” "Now.” “It would be death in the snow and in the mountains tonight. No, no, you cannot go.” “Well, tomorrow then. It will be fair, I can’t take you with me, but I must go alone to the settlements, I must tell your friends you are here, alive, well. I shall find men to come back and get you. What I cannot do alone numbers together may effeet. They can carry you over the worst of the trails, you shall be restored to your people, to your world again, you can forget me. 7 ~~/r-r' “And do you think,” asked the woman, “that I could ever fqrget you?” “I don’t know.” • “And will you forget me?” “Not so long as life throbs in my veins, and beyond.” “And I too,” was thg return. “So be it. You won’t be afraid to stay here alone, now.” “No, not since you love me,” was the noble answer. “I suppose I must; •there 4s no other way, we could not' go on as before. And you will come back to me as quickly as you can with the others ?” ---/l “I shall not come back; 1 will give them the direction, they can find you without me. When I say goodbye to you tomorrow it shall be foflever.” “And I swear to you,” asserted, the woman in quick desperation, “if you do not come back they shall have nothing to carry from here but my dead body.” r “And how will you prevent my going?” vj “I can’t But I will follow you on my hands and knees in the snow until I freeze and die unless 1 have your promised jf'j- . “You have beaten me," said the man hopelessly. > “You always do. Honor, what is it? Pride, what is it? Selfrespect, what is it? Say the word and I am at your feet, I put the past behind me.* . . ; M -i;1 “I don’t say the word," answered the woman bravely, white faced, pale lipped, but resolute. “To be yours, to have you mine, Is the greatest desire of my heart, but not in the coward’s way, not at the expense of honor, of self-respect—no not that way. Courage, my friend, God will show us the way, and meantime good night”. “I shall start in the morning.” “Yes,” she nodded reluctantly but knowing It had to be, “but you won’t go without bidding me good bye.” “No.” “Good night then,” she said extending' her hand." “Good night,” he whispered hoarsley and refused it, backing away. “I don’t dare to take it I don’t dare to touch you again. I love you so, my only salvation is to keep away.” chapter xviii. - “g The Strength of the Weak. Although Enid Maitland had spoken bravely enough while he was there. • .

when she was alone her tear* sank into the depths as she contemplated the dreadful and unsolvable dilemma, in which these two lovers found themselves so unwittingly and inextricablyinvolved. It was indeed a curious and bewildering situation. Passionate, adoration for the other rose in each breast like the surging tide of a* mighty sea, and like that tide upon the shore it broke upon conventions, ideas, ideals and obligations intangible to the naked eye, hut as resff as those iron coasts that have withstood* the waves’ assaults since the world’s morning. " Ts 4 The man had shaped his life upon a mistake. He believed absolutely in the unquestioned devotion of a/ woman to whom he had been forced to mete out death in an unprecedented and 4 * terrible manner. *His unwillingness to derogate by his own conduct from the standard of devotion which he believed had .inhabited his wife’s bosom, made it impossible for him to real love that had come into his heart for this new woman to have free course; honor, pride and self-te-spect scourged him just in proportion : to his passion for Enid Maitland. The more he loved her, the more ashamed he was. By a curious combination of circumstances, Enid Maitland knew the truth; she knew that from one point of view the woman had been entirely unworthy the reverence in which her husband held her memory. She knew that his wife had not loved him at all, that her whole heart had been given to another man, that what Newbold had mistaken for a passionate desire for his society-because there was no satisfaction in life for the wife away from him, was due to a fear lest without his protection she should be unable to resist the appeal of the other man which her heart seconded so powerfully. If it were only that Newbold would not be false to the obligation df the other woman’s devotion, Enid migfit have solved the problem In a moment. • It was not so simple, however. The fact - that Newbold cherished this memory, the fact that this other "woih'afi ' had fought so desperately, had tridd so hard not to give way, entitled her to Enid Maitland’s admiration and demanded her highest consideration as well. Chance, or Providence, had put her in possession of this woman’s secret. It was aA if she-had been caught inadvertently eavesdropping. She could not in honor, make us& of what she had overheard, as it were; she could not blacken the other womaifs memory, she could not enlighten this man at the expense bf his dead, wife 1 ® reputation. Although she longed for him as much as he longed for her, although her love for him amazed her by its depth and intensity, even to bring her happiness, commensurate with her feeling, she could not betray her dead sister. The imposts of ghonor, how bar cl they are to sustain when they conflict with love and longing. Enid Maitland .was naturally not a little thrown off* her ‘balance by the situation and the power that was hers. What she could not db herself- she could not allow anyone else .to do. The obligation upon her must he extended to others. Old Kirtfby had no right to the woman’s secret any more than she; he must be silencedr -Armstrong, the only other being who was privy to the truth, must bp silenced _ too. * One thing at least arose out of the sea of trouble in a tangible way; she was done with Armstrong. Even if she had not so loved Newbold that she could scarcely give a thought’to any other human being, she was done with Armstrong. * A singular situation! Armstrong had loved another woman, so-had ryw- : bold; and the latter had even married this other woman, yet she was? quite willing to forgive Newbold, she made every excuse for him, she made none for Armstrong, . She was an eminently sane, just person, yet as she thought of the situation her anger against Armstrong grew hotter and hotter. It was a safety valve be her feelings, although she did not realize it. After all, Armstrong’s actions rendered her a certain service; if she could get over the objection in hft’ soul, if she could ever satisfy her tense of honor and duty and obligation/ she could settle the question at once. She had only to show the -letters to_M*wbold' and to say: “These were written by the man of the picture; it was he, apd not you, your wife loved,” and * Newbold would take her to his heart Instantly. ' These thoughts were not.without a certain comfort to her. All the compensation of self sacrifice is in its realization. - That she cqpld and not somehow ennobled her love” for him. Bveh women are alloyed with base metaL .In the powerful and uni versal'appeal of this man to-her, she rejoiced at whatever was of the soul, rather than of the body. To POoWW .JMg. W lOuMfii UteK «■■■•

it in obedience to some higher law, is perhaps to pay oneself the* most flattering of compliments: There was a satisfaction to her soul in this which .was yet denied him. Her action , was qiite different from his. Sb 4 was putting away happiness which" she might have had in compliance With a higher law than that which bids huinanity enjoy. It was flattering to her mind. In his case, It wad otherwise; he had no consciousness that be/ vtad a victim of misplaced .trust, of misinterpreted -action. He thought the woman for whom he was putting.away happiness was almost as worthy, If Infinitely less desirable, as the woman whom he now loved. Every sting of outrage, every feeling of shame, every fear of disloyalty, scourged him. ,She could glory in it;he was ashamed, humiliated, broken. She heard him savagely walking up apd down the other room, restlessly Impelled by the same Erinyes which of old scourged Orestes; the violator of the laws of moral being drove him’ on. These malign Eumenides held him in their hands. He was bound and helpless, -rage as he might hr one moment, pray as he did in another, ho light came into the whirling-darkness of his torn, tossed, driven soul. The iiresistible impulse and. the immovable body the philosophers puzHbd over were - ; exemplified"' in' him. •Whilst'he almost hated the new'worn-

an, whllst 4 £e : alinosyt loved tHe old, yet that he dTd flelflfer jLhe one. thing nor 'the otter 'absolutely slgniflcafat - - -• indeed te 'fchew that *he was glad Enid Maitland had come into his life. No-life is complete uptH it is touched by. that dJLvipe ,Aie. which for lack of anottar. pame wf call .love,. Because, we. can experience.ttaL sensation we are said to be' made.'in God’s image. Thq ImagS'-ie tnurfed’ aA the animal preidlhinates/'itMs Clearer as the spirrtuil has - ascendency. The man raved in hie utftift * White taoed,-sleep, he walked, up and down he tossed his arum about him. te stopped, his eyes closed, he threw his ap toward God, his heart cried out under the lacerations of the blows indicted upen it No flagellant of old fevei* trembled beneath the body laah as he under the spiritual. punishment fee prayed that file might die at the same moment that-fae lagged to live He grappled blindly for solutions of the problem that yould leave him with untarnished honundiminished self respect an* fidelity, and yet give him this woman, and in vain. He strove to find a way to reconcile the post with the-present, realiajpg mi he did so ’tie futility of such a proposition. One or the other most te supreme, te must inexorably hold to Ids

ideas and his ideals, or he must inevitably’take the woman. How frightful was the battle that raged within his bosom! Sometimes in his despair he thought that he would have been glad if he and she had gone down together in the dark waters before all this came upon him. The floods of which the heavens had emptied themselves had borne her to him. Oh if they had only swept him, out of life Wth its trouble, its trials, its anxieties, its obligations, its impossibilities. If they had gone together! And then he knew that he was glad even for the torture, because he had seen her, because he had loved her, and because she had loved him. ■ He marveled at himself curiously, and in a detached way. There was a woman who loved him, who had confessed It boldly and innocently, there was none to say him nay. The woman who stood between had been dead five years. The world knew nothing, cared nothing; they could go out together; he could take her, she would come. On the impulse he turned and ran to the door and beat upon it Her voice bade him enter, and be came in. Her heart yearned to him. She was shocked, appalled at the torture she saw upon his face. Had he been laid upon the rack, and every joint pulled from its sockets, he could not have been, more white and agonized. ’" “I give' up,*’ he cried. “What are honor and self respect to me? I want

you. I have pht the past behind. You love me, and I," Fam yours with every -fiber of my being. Great God! Let us cast aside these -foolish quixotic scruples that have kept us apart If a.man’s thoughts declare bis guilt, I am already disloyal- to tte other woman; deeply, entirely so. I have betrayed her, shamed her, abandoned her. Let me have some reward for what I have gone through. You love me; come to me.” “No,” answered tte woman, and no task ever laid upon her had been harder than that “I do love you. I will not deny it Kvery part of me responds to your appeal. .1 should be so happy that I cannot even think ot it, if I could put my hand in your own. if l. could lay my head upon your ahoul-« der, if I could feel your heart teat against mine, ts I could give myself up to you, 1-would be so glad, so glad. But it cannot be. not now” ' “Why not?” pleaded tte man. He was by her Bide, his arm went around her. she did not resist physically, it would have been useless. She only laid ter slender hand upon kb broad breast and. threw her head back and looted at him. * “See,” she qald, “how,helpless 1 »rn, how weak In your hands. * Every voice in my head; bids me give way. If you insist I can dray you nothing. I ant

helpless, alone, but it must not be. I know you better than you know yourself. You will not take advantage of affection so unbounded,, of weakness so pitiable.” 'J. Was it the wisdom of calculation, or was It the wisdom of Instinct by which She chose her course? Resistance 'would have been unavailing, in weakness was her strength* , - Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth! Yes, that was true. She knew It now, if never before, and so did he. Slowly the man released her. She did no£ even then draw away from him. She stood with her hand still on his breast. She could feel the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. “I am right,” she said softly. *Tt kills me to deny you anything. My hearts yearns toward you. Why should I deny it? It is my glory, not my shame.” “There is nothing above love like ours,” he pleaded, wondering what marvelous mastery she exercised that she stopped him by a hand’s touch, a whispered word, a faith. “No; love is life, love is God, but even God himself is under obligations of righteousness. For me to come to you now, to marry you now, to be your wife, would be unholy. There would not be that perfect confidence between uA- that must endure in that revelation. Your honor and mine, your self respect and mine, would interpose. If I can’t have you with a clear conscience, if you can’t come to me In the same way, we are better apart. Although it kills me, although life without you seems nothing, I would rather not live it, we are better apart. I can’t be your wife until —” “Until what and until when?" demanded Newbold. “I don’t know,” said the woman, "hut I believe that somewhere, somehow, we shall find a way out of our difficulty. There is a way,” she said a little incautiously. “I know it." “Show if to me.” “No, I cannot.” “What prevents?” The same thing which prevents you: honor, loyalty.” “To a man?” “To a woman.” "I do not understand.” “No, bat you will some day." She smiled at him. “See,” she said, “through my tears I can smile at you, though my heart is breaking. I know that in God’s good time this will work Itself out”, . . .“I can’t wait for God. I want you now,” persisted the other. “Hush, don’t say that,” answered the woman, for a moment laying her hand on his lips, “But J forgive you. I know how you suffer." / The man could say nothing, do nothing. He stared at her a moment and bis hand went to his throat as if he were choking. “Unworthy,” he said hoarsely, "unworthy of the past, unworthy of the present, unworthy of ihe future. May God forgive me, I never can.” “He will forgive y6u, never fear,” answered Enid gently. “And you?" asked ter lover. "I have ruined your life.” * “No, you have ennobled it Let nothing ever make you forget that Wherever you are and whatever you do, and whatever you may have been, I love you, and I shall love you to the end. Now you must go, it is so late, I can’t stand any more. I throw myself on your mercy again, I grow weaker and weaker before yon; as you are a man, as you are stronger, save md from myself. If you were to take me again in your arms,” she went on steadily, “I know not bow I could drive you back. For God’s sake, if you love me —” - That was the hardest thing te had ever done, to turn and go out of the room, out of ter sight ted leave fate standing there with eyes shining, with pulses throbbing, with breath craning fast, with bosom panting. Once more, and at a touch she might have yielded!

CHAPTER XIX. The Challenge of the Range. Mr. James Armstrong sat at his desk before the west window in his private room in one of the tallest bulldlhgs In Denver. His suite of offices was situated on one of tte top floras, and from it te had a dear and unobstructed view of the mighty range over tte intervening house tops and otter buildings. The earth was covered with snow. It had fallen steadily through tte night, but with tte dawn the air had cleared and tte sun had come out brightly, although it was very cold. Letters, papers, documents, tte demands of a business extensive and varied, were left unnoticed. He sat with hia dbow on ft* desk, his head on hl« hand, looking moodily at tte range. in the month that hail elnnsed since he had received news of Enid Maitland’s disappearance te had sat oftra | in that way. In that place, staring «t j ft ' - *-t

the range, a prey to most despondent reflections, heavy hearted and disconsolate indeed. After that memorable interview with fir. Stephen Maitland in Philadelphia te had deemed it proper to await there the arrival of Mr.' Robert Maitland. A brief interview with that distracted gentleman had put him in possession of all the facts in the case. As Robert Maitland bad said, after presentation of the tragic story, the situation was quite hopeless. Even Armstrong reluctantly admitted that her uncle and old Klrkby had done everything that sms .possible for the rescue or discovery of the girl. _ - - - i Therefore the two despondent gentlemen had shortly after returned toj their western homes, Robert Maitland in this instance being accompanied by, his brother Stephen. The latter never knew how much his daughter had been to him until this evil fata had befallen her. Robert Maitland had promised to inaugurate a thorough and extensive search to solve the mystery of her death, which he felt was certain, in the spring, when the weather permitted humanity to have free course through the mountains. Mr. Stephen Maitland found a certain melancholy satisfactiuj in being! at least near the place whtee neither he nor any one had any doubt hist daughter’s remains lay hid beneath! the snow or ice on the mountain!! ini the freezing cold. Robert Maitland! had no other idea than that Enid’aj body was in the lake. He intended td drain it—an engineering task of nol great difficulty—and yet te lntendedj also, to search the hills for miles on! either side of the main stream down] which she had gone, for she might possibly have strayed away and died of starvation and exposure, rather than drowning. At any rate, he would leave nothing undone to discover her. He bad strenuously opposed Armstrong’s recklessly expressed inten tion of going into the mountains immediately to search for her. Armstrong was not easily moved from any purpose be entertained, or lightly td be hindered from attempting any en-J terprise that he projected, but' by the! time the party reached Denver tt« winter bad set in, and even te rtel-j ized the futility of any immediate; search for a dead body lost in ttei mountains. Admlttlng’that Enid was dead, the conclusions were sound, oC course, ’ ! . The others pointed out to Armstrong that if the woman they all loved had by any fortunate chance escaped the cloudburst, she must Inevitably have perished from cold,-starvation and exposure in the mountain long since. There was scarcely a possibility that she could have escaped the flood, but if she had, it would only to be devoted to death a little later. If ate! was not in the lake, what remained of her would be in some lateral canon/ It would be Impossible to discover her body in the deep snows until the spring and the warm weather canto-’ When the snows melted what was rami cealed would be revealed. Alone, she could do nothing. And admitting again that Enid was alone, this conclusion was as sound as the other. j Now 99 one had the faintest hope that Enid Maitland was yet alive, except, perhaps, her father, Mr. Stephen Maitland. They could not convince him, te was so old and set in his opinions and so utterly unfamiliar with the conditions that they tried to describe, to him, that te clung to his belief in spite of all, and finally they let him take such comfort as he could from his vain hope without any further attempt at contradiction. In spite of all the arguments, however, Mr. James Armstrong was not satisfied. He was as hopeless as the rest, but bis temperament would not permit him to accept the inevitable calmly. It Iras barely possible- that she might not be dead, and that she might not te alone. There was scarceup enough possibility of this to justify a suspicion, bat that is not saying Day after day he ted sat in his office denying himself to everyone and ing over the Enid Maitland, te loved ter before, and now that te had lost her, he loved iter still more. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Ilr

She Stood With Her Hand Still on His Breast.