Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 268, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 November 1915 — WHO PAYS? The PURSUIT Of PLEASURE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WHO PAYS? The PURSUIT Of PLEASURE

by EDWIN BLISS

tff\wivHrW tmk by Path* Exchange. Inc. All Moving Picture Right* and all For* Copyright* Strictly Reserved.)

SECOND STORY

I. Some specially acute torment must be reserved for the window dresser of a great city’s shops. By caravan and boat and rail, by camel. Ibex, mule and horse come the treasures of the world into his cunning hands. Lofts and factories stifle human lives without stint that the window dresser may allure the throng. It was a particularly charming pair of slippers, and the identical shade of ribbon she desired that caught and held Rita Deane’s eyes. Of course, purchase was out of the question. Since earliest remembrance her father had drummed into her pretty head, that personal vanity was the deadiest of sins. And besides —Mrs. Sharpe, Reverend Deane's housekeeper. held tightly to her arm. Surreptitiously, Rita fumbled the money in her purse. Yes, she had enough—just enough. She lifted her eyes to another window on the seventh floor of the great office building across the street, 'where James White, her fiance, transacted the affairs of his huge estate. She could see him dimly, pacing up and down in his office, now and then glancing at a letter in his hand. She had heard something of the contents of that letter from her father before he had dispatched it. In fact he had read it to her, after an exceedingly painful scene. She had rebelled at being obliged to listen to the harsh dictum: “You, a rich backslider in my church, marry my daughter, Rita? Never! How you met her puzzles me, as I have always carefully guarded her.”

Yes, the lines of that letter had seared themselves like letters of fire upon her brain. Again she turned to the window. Some sudden impulse of insurrection frothed within her soul. “Look! Look!" she cried, excitedly, pointing toward the end of the line of blocked traffic. Curiosity won. As Mrs. Sharpe’s Iron fingers relaxed upon their grip, Rita Deane’s feet glided swiftly inside the doors of the shop. It was a full five minutes before she returned, innocently assuming an air of Injury at the housekeeper’s reproaches for her disappearance. The slippers and the ribbon hidden beneath her little jacket more than made up for any punishment that could ever be hers. Gladly Rita submitted to the clutch of the dragon housekeeper. The more quickly she reached home the sooner would she see the enchanting transformation the finery made in her appearance. Letter or no letter, dictation or no dictation, she would see James again. Once in her own room she studied her reflection in the mirror, surprised ito find that the sins had left no mark upon her pretty face. Cautiously, a bit fearfully, she loosed the masses of her hair from their tight braids, binding them with the splendid ribbon, reveling in the effect its contrast worked in her appearance. And then the slippen! Carried away with her delight, with this new sensation, this realization of her charms, her feet —those beautifully shod feet—began to perform strange capers, began to steal away her sense of caution. They moved in gay, spirited steps, faster, ever faster, until the dancing girl seemed more like a festive wood-sprite prisoned in this house of gloom. And then —then a hand fell upon her shoulder. A firm, iron hand it was; a hand that seemed to grip like five bands of unbreakable steel about the very soul of her. The hand left her shoulder. She dared not meet the look she knew was upon her father’s face. She felt a little tug at her hair. Then a wild rage seized her as she saw the precious ribbon dangling from her father’s hand, held in the finger tips as though the very contact defiled him. She lifted fierce eyes toward his own, hot protest upon her lips, but the habit of a lifelong obedience is not readily downed. His trembling forefinger indicated the slippers while his lips opened and closed without any words coming. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, but ■till the voice was hoarse with suppressed passion as he commanded her to remove the offending slippers. Slavishly, yet hating herself for her obedience, she placed them in his hand, averting her eyes to hide the sullen rebellion there. "I have fought against this trait in you, Rita. I have prayed for victory. I should not have blamed you so harshly. My prayers shall yet win victory for me, victory over the vanity you inherited from your poor, weak mother. “The same slippers—the same ribbon, Rita! You were just a child then, that day your mother brought a doll dressed as a dancing girl. The doll wore Slippers just like these. j«st such • ribbon was bound about

her hair. And your mother gave them to you, placed them in your innocent hands. You were hugging the doll to your baby breast when I entered the room. The seed was being planted by your foolish, dear mother. I should not blame you so much as myself. I did not discover the horrible blunder in time. I was a few minutes late. *T took the doll away, took it to my study, Rita. I consigned it to the flames, and burned it to ashes. Your poor mother died shortly after that It was a judgment upon her, a judgment of which I have meant to tell you. Remember, Rita, God frowns upon adornment and pleasure. Remember and repent, my child, and I shall pray for you when I burn these things." Burn! Impulsively she reached out as though to save the precious articles. Then she nodded her head meekly, averting her eyes to hide the glint that leaped there. For, as her father turned away from her, her sharp ears caught a familiar whistle, the whistle that her sweetheart had used more than once to bring her outside the house. The door had barely closed behind Reverend Deane than she was at the open window, searching the moonspun night for the blurry mass that represented "White. Swiftly she detached the note from the weight, devouring it at a glance, obedient to it Instantly. “Auto at corner. It’s the only way out.” Carefully, with a smile upon her lips, a cruel little smile at thought of the hurt she was giving in return for the one just received, five minutes later, with her grip In hand containing all the tawdry, cheap reminders of the life she was leaving, she pinned her sweetheart’s note to the little cushion on her dresser, then stole softly down the stairs and out Into the night. Nor did she deign to give one glance back at the prison house. “Where, sir?” queried the driver again. “Reverend Black’s parsonage—opposite end of town, you know, on Carson street."

11. White smiled happily to himself as, lost in the pictures painted by the flames tn the library grate, he visualized the happy hours that had been his since that night in the comfortable, little parsonage when Rita Deane became Mrs. James White. A man worth while, a young man whose shoulders had not bowed beneath the weight of handling great wealth unloaded upon him immediately he quit college, a man submerged in business, at the age of thirty, he found the happiness which his nature had craved when he soon wearied of the laborious efforts at winning pleasure In the set in which his riches had placed him. He could not exactly analyze the sensations of delight It had given him to please her. And she was so easily pleased. And never an emergency but Mrs. James White met it firmly and controlled It The Rite Deane of MaryJanes and shabby attire had assumed leadership of the youngest and gayest set of the city. Arm in arm they moved down the long, winding gravel path to the garage. Rita was prattling over the details of a novel entertainment she purposed giving the following week. His eyes wandered dreamily over the level lawns, the beautiful gardening, the gorgeous flowers, then halted, and a tender, almost longing expression deepened them, as he watched his chauffeur playing with his baby. He glanced furtively at Rita, almost fiercely trying to find some reflection In her eyes of the light dwelling in that of Mary, the chauffeur’s wife, as she took the child from her husband, who stood at attention, listening to his mistress’ instructions.

And then Billie crowed. That is, it might be called a crow. For just a moment the whole world seemed spinning about before Jim White’s bewildered eyes. He rather suspected that the fat, tiny finger clamped about the one he had timorously thrust appeaslngly toward the arbitrary infant might have had something to do with this astonishing state of affairs. As from a long ways off he heard the gurglings rise into a penetrating wail. And then the laugh of Mary. “He wants to go to you, Mr. White. I never knew him to make up with strangers—with anyone before. He wants you—” Jim laughed, laughed to conceal the choking that constricted his throat “I’m afraid I’ll drop him,” be laughed, even as his arms awkwardly cupped to receive the child. “Drop him! . You hold him just like he was your own!” Jim White's heart almost stopped hem ting, even .as his arms clung tighter to the one who had come to alm. Perfectly satisfied, Billie was wiekiny a closer study of this man-

creature he had decided to adopt. Unwlnklngly his eyes studied the faee that looked down at him with such fierce hungering. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, his arms moved up along the great chest and a pair of rather sticky hands crept along the cheeks and finally the arms clasped about the neck, while the eyes closed gently and Billie slept. “Well, I never saw the beat —Sam, I wisht you’d look at—" Mary caught the annoyed expression on Rita’s face as she turned and spoke to her husband. He did not hear her, wrapt in his eager study of the slumbering baby’s face. She felt a sudden fierce jealousy consuming her, as she caught the expression of this man she seemed unacquainted with, this man who held a child to his breast so perfectly, with such an expression of unalloyed happiness upon his face. Something dawned upon her,, with that intuition which seems given women to amend for a certain lack of logic, which her husband would never have found out — that the perfect happiness that had been hers through this man was due to the paternal instinct in him that made him delight in treating her as a child, to be humored and pampered and spoiled. "Come, Jim,” she said softly, striving beautifully to make her voice sympathetic, "we must hurry now.” Reluctantly he returned Bifiie to the mother. Rita noticed that for a few steps he moved on tip-toe, as though fearful of waking the child. Diffidently, yet with a certain curious firmness, he led her to the library, seating her in his favorite chair and perching himself boyishly upon the arm of it, his arms about her. “No wonder Sam’s got a good disposition,” he said finally. She braced herself instinctively. “I sometimes wonder if home can be home at all without a baby,” he murmured, more to the sympathetic flames than to her. "I remember how my mother always thought of me as her baby, even after I was in college.” Rita leaned forward, drawing his hand about her neck and fondling it soothingly. "Don’t you ever think —Rita, don’t you ever wish there was a baby in our house?” His voice was low, his words a bit stumbling now, as though he found difficulty expressing himself. “Wouldn’t it sort of make things happier and —” She forced a laugh to her lips, a gay, tender laugh even as her fingers twined fiercely about his own. “But, Jim, I don’t want, any children just now. I want to enjoy myself, to see something of happiness. Sometimes,” she tempered the blow, “sometimes I think, Jim, that I’m little more than a child myself. I’ve been caged and starved so long that I hardly seem grown up yet. Don’t you understand, Jim?” She fought against showing her hurt as he sharply drew away his cheek from her own, then pressed it close once more. "Wait till Billie puts those sticky arms about your neck, Rita. Then — then you’ll know,” he called back.

Hour* he eat In hl* chair, motion!*** as one dead, leaden of soul, broken of heart: YOUNG HOSTESS PLANS BIG DINNER SURPRISE. Rumored Mr*. James White Will Appear Tonight a* Dancing Giri to Entertain Guests. The rustle of the newspaper falling to the floor brought him to his feet, his eyes blazing with sudden resolution. He darted from the room, snatching his bat automatically from the rack, and rushed out upon the street. A fierce fanaticism tugged at him, driving him faster, ever faster. His daughter must be saved, must be taken away from the depths Into which she had been dragged. He rushed up the driveway, the gravel crunching under his feet fiercely. The butler at the door would have halted him but he brushed the startled servant aside. Sweet, intoxicating strains of music from the orchestra In the balcony served but to inflame him the more. The laughter of the guests, clatter of cutlery and china, applause, dazzle of color in the women’s evening gowns, set off by the somber black and white of the men, held him silent for a moment. Then —then the sides of the great vase upon the long table In the center of the room burst open and Rita’s bewitching face appeared, her neck and shoulders bare, revealing the dazzling whiteness of her flesh. Again the vase cracked and she stepped lightly upon the table, dancing intoxicatingly there to the hushed admiration of her guests. A little sob of pain from the clergyman. “Repent this wickedness,’* he thundered. “Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand." James White sprang to his feet But Cyrus Deane did not notice him. His eyes held those of the startled, tightened girl. Slowly she moved away from those burning eyes. Her hands moved down in the old impulse as though she would conceal her attire from this man. James White tapped the clergyman upon the shoulder and the preacher whirled upon him, his face twitching convulsively. “You —you —you are the one who has done this shameful thing,” he choked. “It is you who have dragged my child into the gutter. You who —” He caught the laugh of Rita, that familiar laugh. It sounded in his ears, thundered there, maddened him. He leaped at the throat of the sneering man before him. His fingers clasped there and the impulse of the wild beasts to tear and utterly destroy was upon him. But with that impulse came also cunning. Through the drawing-room he dragged the man, heedless of the frightened cries of his daughter, her tug at his arms. Into the library he 'dragged his prey, shaking him viciously the while, turning the key in the lock. The voice of Rita brought him to himself and he flung White into the big leather chair as though he were a bit of unclean carrion. He turned to his daughter and reached out his arms to her, but a bitter laugh came from her lips as she shrank away from him. The action maddened him anew. He whirled upon White, who had risen, his face white with rage. “You—you have dragged my child down —’’

. 111 There was a look of triumph upon Mrs. Sharpe’s vinegary face as, announcing herself into the Reverend Deane’s study with a triumphant rustle of the newspaper in her hand, she stepped beside him. Slowly he lifted his leaden eyes from the ser-

mon upon which he had been., jyorking, shrinking away a bit before that expression he had come to know so well. He was frightened of this woman, this woman who seemed to read his thoughts, his heartaches; who took such delight in probing at his wounds. "Yes, Mrs. Sharpe?” he queried wearily, as she thrust the newspaper into his hands with a waspish sweep, waiting beside him while his eyes readily found the leader that signalized another escapade of Mrs. James White, the daughter that had been his. Had been? As big eyes caught the headline again, he suddenly found himself unable to read further for the mist of tears that sprang to his eyes. She was his daughter stilt Try though he might he' had failed to shut her out of his life. His eyes sought the headline again, sought and read it through, though It was hours before the meaning of the words fully penetrated to his brain.

“Dragged down-wdown! ” White’s laugh was so bitter that even Rita drew closer, searching her husband’s face curiously, anxiously. “Dragged her down from —what? From what, I ask you? From a den where all life and light was excluded; from a home that had bars upon the windows. Who starved and caged her joyous nature till she thinks of nothing but pleasure? Who taught her anything of a woman’s mission in life? Who taught her aught of the duties of a wife or the privi’eges of a woman? I a.ik you—Reverend Cyrus Deane —how that can be dragged down which has never been uplifted; I ask you that, you who guarded the gates of heaven so zealously for others that you made a prison of your home, for fear some harm might happen to those you had no time to teach and love?” Cyrus Deane could recollect nothing of leaving the place save the sight of his daughter being disdainfully thrust aside by a bitterly smiling husband, when she would have clung to him. “I have sinned —I have sinned —I have sinned," Rev. Cyrus Deane had cried all through that long, long night

IV. Rita frowned and toyed nervously with her glass, as, looking up, her eyes met those of her husband, who at a remote, obscure table, was entertaining two rather flashily dressed, noisy young women. She left the case immediately she decently could excuse herself from her friend, chafing at the Insult he had placed upon her. Rumors of his gay life had come to her but she had paid no attention to them. In the library she halted him late that afternoon, just as he was on the point of leaving the house. “You wish an explanation for the unfortunate coincidence of this afternoon?** he murmured. “No-o,” she shook her head thoughtfully, surprised to find herself cool outwardly while she boiled and seethed within, “not exactly that, James. I merely wished to tell you that it must not occur again. If you must choose such associates, kindly have some respect for me and do not Intrude them upon me." * “I beg your pardon, Rita," he answered coldly, “this place that I thought might be made a home has become a public place. Every place is public for me. If I have no home I must go in public."

"A public place—" her breath came with a little his* at the insult. *T mean you have made no home for me here and your life belong* to society and 1* wasted In the pursuit of pleasure.’’ Cold, passionless, haughty externally, she allowed the maid to coif her hair, then dismissed her. Swiftly she was transported down the years, and found herself once more a bride, standing before a garage. It was her own garage. And it was her husband beside her who held a baby awkwardly in his arms. It was her husband who perched upon the arm of her chair, a great human emptiness in his voice, a mighty yearning on the face of him as he pleaded with her for the rounded complete home she refused to give

“Oh, I wish Billie were here now," she cried, a little catch in her voice. "Then I could make you understand, Jim.” / "Billie!" He turned toward her inquiringly and something in her eye* confused him, set his pulse* dancing, made everything blurry before him. "Don’t you remember, Jim? Billie —Sam and Mary’s baby. Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. Billie’s been visiting me—Billie came over to play with the little boy in our house. He went to sleep in my arms, Jim, went to sleep with his arms about my neck, and they weren’t sticky a bit — well, only a little bit. He wanted to play, Jim, with that boy that belongs here and I told him the boy was losted, just a little bit lost Oh, Jim, don’t you—can’t you understand — won’t you help me —hunt for him?” He leaped to his feet his arms flung wide as though to clasp her to him. Blushing rosily, but with the gayest of trickling laughter upon her lips, she caught the expression in his eyes and retreated from him, all eager to be caught that she might lay her face against that shoulder she had regained, yet with the maiden instinct for flight Back — bAck and Jim laughingly advancing toward her, laughing with a curious sobbing sound intermingled with it And then he halted, the shadow of impending catastrophe gripping its icy hand upon him, freezing his blood. His lips uttered a cry of warning, even as Rita’s shrilled forth one of terror and appeal. The ripping of lace sounded as her heel caught in a ruffle of her boudoir gown, tripping her. The heavier sound of falling portieres as she dragged them down in clutching for support against the fall. Thud —thud —James White knew that horrid sound, the thudding of his wife’s beautiful body upon the' stairs down which she was hurled, would never quit his ears. Thudthud —a crash, as she brought up against the pilasters on the main floor, and lay there, very still, her white face upturned toward his own.

him. A rustle sounded beside her and she started, afraid to look about, for fear lest she disturb the vision that had risen so clearly before her. Slowly she turned, looking into a child’s inquiring eyes, the eyes of the baby her husband had held that day. “Don’t be afraid, lady,” Billie said encouragingly. “I won’t hurt you.” A little laugh, half hysterical, sprang from her lips at the infantile assurance. Then, in the relief of the moment, impulsively she reached out and grasped the friendly arms of the child that were extended toward her,

V. “No, I won’t hurt you. I’m not a burglar. “I’m Billie,” the youngster asserted when he had been sufficiently welcomed. “I know,” she nodded brightly. “You just came to pay me a call, didn’t you ?” Billie frowned, cogitating deeply. “No—o, not ’zdctly that. Mamma went to sleep and I just came here. I come to play with the boy. Where is the boy?” he started suddenly erect in her arms, looking about eagerly. “What boy, Billie?” She knew in advance what the answer would be, yet could not refrain from baring her soul to the hurt. “Why, the boy—your boy—the boy what belongs here.” “But there is no boy here.” She wondered at herself, purposely letting the lash of this Innocent child’s tongue thus scourge her. “No boy! Why, I thought there was a boy in every house —just like home. I’m the boy In our home.” Some quick instinct caused him to reach out and clasp his arms about her neck, the neck of this beautiful creature whose eyes were so sad and longing. "Did he get losted?” he whispered sympathetically. “No—o, Billie. Yes,” she suddenly smiled through the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Yes he got lost a little bit. He just wandered on the way. Don’t you understand, Billie?” “Like mamma will think I got losted when I ain’t losted at all. I knows where I am.” Together they laughed delightedly at the merry joke they played, this grownup and this child. “Why, lady, you’re crying! What' you crying for?” Billie tugged a bit tighter at her neck, roughing her perfectly coiffured hair in his gusty sympathy. “Ain’t you happy, lady?” “That’s why I’m crying, Billie —I’m so happy,” she murmured. With a sigh of contentment at this somewhat hazy explanation, Billie curled up in her lap like the healthy little animal he was and proceeded to go to sleep. Tenderly, an hour later, with a light in her eyes which no one had ever seen there before, she relinquished her precious burden to the mother, smilingly pleading forgiveness for the sleeping truant And then she turned to meet her husband, just stepping from the car. Linking her arm in his, she led him to the library, designedly selecting the same chair to seat him in which he, on another day, had seated her; designedly perching upon the arm, toyjng with his hair while she struggled for words, words that were the harder to utter because of the cold, puzzled look he gave her. “I’m sorry, Jim,” she whispered, finally. "It hasn’t been home, has it?" He did not answer, staring moodily into the leaping flames. Rita followed the direction of his eyes. It had all seemed so easy when Billie was in her lap, the breaking down of her barriers, the complete surrender that she might reconquer this man’s love and cling to it tighter.

VI Doctor Judd gently withdrew himself from the clutching fingers of the Reverend Deane. “The operation was a complete success and she is almost able to be about,” he said, then, as the old man turned away with a sign of relief: "But I think you had better come with me today. She may need you now.” He did not mind the coldness of his son-in-law’s reception, did not mind the hesitancy of his daughter’s kiss. He deserved all this. He only wished to be with her, to help her in her hour of misery, the misery he could feel running as an undercurrent beneath Doctor Judd’s cheery words. “Yes, little girl, you came through the operation nobly. It was a complete success. I didn’t think you had the strength for such a battle as you put up—” Rita blushed, looking meaningly up at her husband. "I had just gained untold strength —before the fall.” “Well, it worked wonders. It saved your life, Mrs. White. And now in a

few days everything will be as wna before except the happiness of motnerhood can never—” Like tiny threads of steel her fingers gripped his wrist. He nodded, avoidjing the horrified expression in those eyes. She did not weep—he only prayed that she would. She merely stared stonily into space. Her husband tenderly placed his hand upon her hair. She did not look at him. The Reverend Deane was upon his knees, fondling her icy fingers, but she seemed not to be aware of his presence. Doctor Judd motioned them from the room. “She must be alone until she recovers from the shock,” he explained. Alone? Always alone she would be. Always alone with the ghosts. Always alone, listening for the pattering of baby feet through the place. Always alone, searching for the “losted” ones she never was to find, though she knew her life would be consecrated to the search. Stonily she stared; eagerly she listened. And ,no tears would come, would ever come to soothe and balsa the soul of her. WHO PAYST (End of Story Number Two.) The next story, “When Justice

Commands Rita to Remove Gay Hair Ribbon and Slippers.

Rita Sneers at Her Husband's Love For Children.

Rita Lay Still as Death After Her Fall Downstairs.