Jasper County Democrat, Volume 14, Number 70, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 December 1911 — THE MAN HIGHER UP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MAN HIGHER UP

By HENRY RUSSELL MILLER

CHAPTER XV. TEMPTATIONS. PAUL REMINGTON impatiently flung aside the book he had been trying to read. It was Sunday, and to Paul the first day of the week was always distinctly oppressive. “It’s no use. This day has got on my nerves. The time when myself and my dreams were all the company I needed is gone. I haven't seen her for two days, and I can’t wait another day, another hour, another minute.” A half hour later Paul was ushered into the Sanger drawing room. Eleanor not appearing at once, he wandered through an open door into the music room, at one end of which had been installed a small pipe organ. And Paul of the many talents, without being a great musician, knew how to make the organ respond to his soul's mood. He seated himself and began to play. His idle fingering gradually took form in a passionate, florid gust of melody that filled the big house. Then the stormy mood died away, and the organ sang a weird minor refrain. Eleanor, entering unobserved by the placer, stood leaning against a chair near him, regarding him with an odd look in which admiration and pity, perhaps a shade of contempt, mingledAt last, without turning or ceasing his playing, he spoke. “I can’t see you,* but I know you are there.” “Lawyer, politician, orator, musician—the gods have been good to you,” she murmured quizzically. - “Yes.” he answered, with a trace of bitterness, “Jack of all trades and master of none, but first and above all Mrs. Gilbert’s most sincere devotee. I’m constant in at least one thing— But you won’t let me speak of that. Today I’m possessed of a thousand devils. Sing.” He opened a sheet of music before him and struck into the ment, and Eleanor, standing where she was. sang.

Eleanor Gilbert could sing, and that afternoon she sang as she had never sung before, for in her singing that day she found expression for what she had never quite dared to put into words—the longing for something higher and better than had yet come into .her life to fulfill the ultimate woman’s mission, a longing which of late had been growing more and more poignant within her. As she sang her heart flooded with kindliness toward the handsome, romantic young man before her. , “I wish." she thought once when at ’the end of a verse the organ took tip the refrain—“l wish 1 were your moth er. I wonder can gthis.'be the beginning of love—and for you?” Song followed song until at length Paul turned from the organ and faced her. “Thank, you.” he said simply. She rested her elbows on the back of the chair, folding her hands and dropping her chin on them. “How are those devils now?” “Gone, every brie of them. You’re the most eminently satisfactory person in the world. 1 came here restless. morbid, filled with dismal fore bodings. You sing—the demons flee.” He folded his arms contentedly “By the way. when are you going to let me propose?” "Must I ever let you?” “It is inevitable that I shall propose sooner or later, whether you content or not. But I prefer to do it under the most propitious circumstances.” ' They say you ojn judge of love by the sacrifices it is willing to make What would you give up for me?" “What would I give up? Everything." “ ‘Everything' is a big word, my friend." she answered skeptically. “Let's come down to facts, as Henry would say. Friends?” ’ . He covered his face with his hands. She pressed, him almost fiercely. “Friends? Even your friend McAdoo?" “For God's sake, don’t!” “What!” she said mockingly.. “Then ‘everything’ doesn't mean everything?” Slowly his bands fell to his side. His face was very white, his eyes unutterably weary. '

"No; ‘everything' doesn’t mean everything. When he asked me to give you up I refused. If you should demand that I give him up I must make the same answer; otherwise I must be utterly contemptible. I forced my friendship on him against his will. If it means anything to him now I can’t take it away from him.” “My dear friend,” she said aloud gently. “I’m not tempting you, because I have nothing to offer you in exchange for the sacrifice. I’m only showing you what it means to care for an intensely selfish woman. And I—l should like to care for you, but I dare not. I’m too much like Mr. McAdoo. I can never let myself love any man with whom I am not first And he hates me. It dates from a day eleven yeass ago when he saved my life.” Paul looked up, astounded. “He has hated the mempry of me ever since, I think. If I married you, sooner or later we

should come to the place where you must "hurt him or me. That would mean misery for us both. I can never think seriously of caring for you until he withdraws his objections to me—or until you are willing to give him up for me.” He made no answer. She went close to him and laid a hand gently on his arm.'. “Don’t you see?" He caught her hand closely in both of his. “Do you think," he demanded fiercely—“do you think yon could ever come to care for me?” “I wish you could make me,” impui sfvely. “Then.” he said, with sudden deter ruination, “when you do we will teach him what’a wonderful woman you are, and he will approve.” “And that would be the only way it could be, I think, for you could never cast him aside, and I could never ask you to—never let you.” She withdrew her hand gently from his ardent clasp. “And now,” she said brightly, with an air of dismissing the topic, “did you know that you are to dine with Henry and me tonight? And afterward you are to take me to church. The preacher is very dull* but at least listening to him will serve as a sort of penance for our sins.” After dinner, while Eleanor was out of the room, Sanger for the second time took Paul up into a high mountain and showed unto him all the kingdoms of the earth. These he in-

timated might become Paul's if only the latter would help him (Sanger) to drive the mulish, hot headed foes of industrial progress into utter and unending oblivion. Paul laughingly declined the honor. In the exalted mood following his conversation with Elea nor to resist temptation was easy. “It conies too high,” he laughed, "I'ye got to stick to McAdoo." “Bring him along by all means. He would be.a welcome addition to our goodly company. I've mentioned thtf matter to him myself, but he refused, owing to an unfortunate misapprehension of my motives. Perhaps he might be persuaded to reconsider his refusal,” Paul shook his head. "You don’t know McAdoo.” The preacher proved to be as dull as Eleanor had predicted. For a few minutes Paul dutifully tried to fix his attention on the discourse, but he soon gave over the effort aniTfell to watching her. He noticed her looking queerly toward a retired corner iu one of the galleries. He followed the line of her gaze and gasped in astonishment. “Ye gods, Kathleen has brought Bob to church!" “Is Miss Flinn with him?" she whis- ; pered. “Which one?” . "To the right. I'll let you into a seefet. Kathleen is in love with Bob.” “Indeed!" she said'indifferently. But several times-during the service she caught her gaze straying from the pulpit to the man in the gallery and ! the sweet faced woman beside him. ' As he was leaving her Eleanor said: “Will you take me to call on Miss i Flinn?’ “Gladly! I'm sure you and she will 1 become good friends," For “the next few days Paul saw Eleanor daily. She was very kind to >him. and he was therefore lifted into j the seventh heaven He-Jook Eleanor . to call on Kathleen early in the week. His prophecy that they would become I good friends was not fufilled, at least ' immediately. Kathleen, with a self consciousness foreign to her. saw in Eleanor's honest efforts to please her only patronage, and Eleanor, chilled, i was convinced that the older woman disliked her. Kathleen returned the call a few days later, but at that time Eleanor had left the city to spend the week end with her cousin. Mrs. Dunmeade. ' * Twenty-four hours in the governor's mansion made Eleanor regret her visit The beautiful sympathy and simplicity of the Dunmeade household, by their very contrast recalling her own unhappy marriage, made her life seem unutterably empty. The afternoon of her second day at the capitol she had gone to . Mrs. Dunmeade’s sitting room and had surprised the governor there romping with the children While his wife loqked smilingly on. Eleanor! unnoticed and feeling her presence in the pretty little group a profanation, tiptoed back to her room, where t she brooded disconsolately on her loneliness. Not until the governor's footsteps sounded along the hall- +■ ' ■ ' i

way did she venture to return to Mrs. Dunmeade. The youngest child, a little boy just learning to walk, was rubbing his eyes sleepily, and Eleanor, taking him into her arms’, crooned a slumber song to him while Mrs. Dunmeade sewed. “I always make the little ones' clothes myself.” Mrs. Dunmeade explained. Eleanor nodded understandingly. “I know. 1 would myself if I had babies of my own. and I wouldn’t leave them to a nurse." She held the little sleeper closer. “I understand now how you could leave your beautiful home and all your old friends to come here.” “It was a little hard at first.” Mrs. Dunmeade said softly, so as not to disturb the baby’s slumber, “but I soon got over that. We’ve been here six years now. ai.u ■ it, leave it. I’ve bad John and the children, and our old friends, the best of them at least, visit us often. Occasionally, too, we meet very interesting people. By the way, we are to have one such for dinner this evening, one of your city’s politicians, Robert McAdoo.”.♦ Eleanor almost dropped the child in her astonishment. “Robert McAdoo!” “You know him. then ?” Mrs. Dunmeade’s question convicted her of duplicity. since Paul Remington had written her.’confiding to her. a little of his trouble. The child stirred uneasily, and Eleanor hummed a few bars of the slumber song before she answered. “Yes. I've met him three times in my life. And he hates me.” Later in the afternoon the governor came in. accompanied by Murchell. who had left the municipal campaign in Adelphia to be at a conference with Robert McAdoo: " Dusk had fallen when the little group broke up to dress for dinner. Mrs. Dunmeade went with Eleanor to the latter's room, "How pretty may we look tonight?" Eleanor asked smilingly. “Our very prettiest." Mrs. Dunmeade smiled back. “But won't Mr. McAdoo”— Mrs. Dunmeade interrupted laughingly. "My dear, you don't know the American man. If you’ve never seen Robert McAdoo in the evening I promise you a surprise. You’ll forget the mill hand and tough politician.” “Then he is a tough-politician?” “Judge for yourself tonight." And MrS. Dunmeade with a twinkle in her eyes left Eleanor alone. The latter proceeded to make a very careful toilet When she descended to the library she found Murchell there alone. He greeted her with a courtly bow. “Will you allow an old man to say that you are a very beautiful young lady. Mrs. Gilbert?” She dropped him a courtesy. “I assure you. I'm not half so good as I'm good to look at.”

“But Lekpeet you to be. You mustn’t disappoint me.” She shook her head, laughing, and promptly changed the subject. “Who are these dignified gentlemen looking down on us? Governors?" "Yes—that is"— And beginning with the portrait of the state’s first governor. a distinguished Revolutionary soldier and statesman, he guided Eleanor around the room, telling her briefly what each man had done or failed to do It was not always an honorable tale. The last; hung in an obscure corner. was Dunmeade’s. painted and hung during his first term. Eleanor studied it in silence for a few moments. “He's a good man. isn’t he?” she asked at last. Murchell answered with deep feeling. “The best I know and the most misunderstood.” The governor and his wife entered. “Is it a secret?” the latter asked gayly. Mrs. Dunmeade was very happy that evening. "Mr. Mur hell has been telling me about our governors." Eleanor answered. concealing her •disappointment over the interruption- “I wonder whose picture will be hung there next.” She saw a quick, meaning glance pass between Murchell’and the governor's wife. But for answer., Mrs. Dunmeade merely laughed and said evasively. "Oh. one never knows what a day may bring forth in politics.” They were chatting before the governor’s portrait when the tinkle of the doorbell was heard. Eleanor, with amused expectancy, stepped back into the corner where she could not be seen by Bob at once. He entered, and Eleanor, warned as she had been by Mrs. Dunmeade. could hardly repress a start of surprise. His manner as he met their cordial welcome was neither repelling nor eager, but rather the quiet dignity of a man who was sure of his footing. Eleanor found herself rejoicing that ’she had not attempted to patronize him during his calk ~ “I believe you have met Mrs. Gilbert.” Mrs. Dunmeade said when the first greetings were over. , (To be continued.)

Engraved calling cards t: order at The Democrat office.

"DO YOU THINK YOU COULD EVER COME TO CARE FOR ME?”