Jasper County Democrat, Volume 14, Number 74, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 December 1911 — THE MAN HIGHER UP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MAN HIGHER UP

By HENRY RUSSELL MILLER

CHAPTER XVII Sate ob love? DUNMEADE looked at Bob curiously, but asked no questions. “Certainly your wishes shall be respected,” he said courteously. He rose from the table. Bob reluctantly accompanied the others into the library. As they walked through the hallway they heard shouts of.childish merriment. At the door of the library they halted to watch a pretty little group, Eleanor sitting on the floor romping with the three children, con* aiderably to the disarrangement of hair and gown, while Mrs. Dunmeade and a maid looked laughingly on. Eleanor, flushing slightly, hurriedly rose to her feet, holding the baby. Now, a beautiful woman never appeals so strongly to a man as when she has a little child in her arms. • ■A- “Cbine, you children,” Mrs. Dunmeade commanded with mode severity, “to bed with you. These youngsters, Mr. McAdoo, have the run of the hpuse, you see."

'' But before the child was turned over to the waiting maid Eleanor, conscious —shah we confess it?—of the charming picture she made, must take him to his father to receive the good night salute. Next Murchell must pay his homage. Then she looked, hesitating, toward Bob, who stood in the jackground. As he read her Intent in her audacious smile he felt the blood rise uncomfortably to his face. “Come.” she declared gayly; “you shan’t be neglected, Mr. McAdoo.” She carried the child to Bob and held him up. Bob. with awkward unfamiliarity. extended his big hand toward the mite of humanity. But the little one refused to accept the advances, clinging tightly to Eleanor's neck and regarding the big stranger with frightened eyes. “Do you know what they say of children’s instincts?” she whispered softly, that the others might not hear. Bob flushed even more deeply. It was a little thing, but it added fuel to the flame of his angry resentment against her. She gave the child over to the maid. “Children are dears, even if they are hard on one’s hair,” she laughed as with the inimitable grace which a woman imparts to the operation she replaced the Wisps of hair disordered by the youngster’s irreverent hands. When the damage had been repaired Mrs. Dunmeade suggested. “Won’t yousing for us?” “Yes,” Eleanor replied without reluctance, real or affected. As her voice rose and fell in some simjpje song, chosen, had Bob only known it. to fit his own limited comprehension, his eyes fixed their gaze sternly on the singer. His arms were iolded across his chest, each hand gripping its fellow’s biceps, as he had sat through the convention when Paul’s impassioned voice, appealing to something higher in the audience than the orator himself felt, had found a lodgment where least expected. The easy unconcern with which he had taken his place among these people fell from him. Here in the somber old library, fragrant with memories, in the presence of the gentle souled Dunmeades, listening, to the beautiful, cultured, well poised woman who was singing—here was no place for him! “Let me get back to my heelers and my fighting, where I belong!” Murchell rose to leave. First he held out his hand to Bob.

“No use coming with me. Your train isn’t due for two hours yet. My friend.

yon won’t regret tonight. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.” , To Eleanor he said: “Thank you for your singing. It has done me great good—and to know you too. 1 repeat.

you are a very beautiful young lady and as good as you are good to look at, I’m sure. My dear, I'm an old man”— And he bent over to kiss her. A very becoming flush came to her cheek.

“You two can take care of each other for a few minutes, can't yotf?” Mrs. Dunmeade said to Eleanor and Bob. “We never leave this drai* friend until he has- passed the door?' So Robert McAdoo and Eleanor Gilbert were alone together once more.

When the others had left she looked at him uncertainly a moment, then she laughed. “Well, fate—or shall we say the force?—seems to take an intimate interest in our affairs. The last time we met we both determined never to see each other again, and now”—she waved her hand In an expressive gesture—“suppose you come oyer here by the piano. It's awkward trying to talk across a big room like this.” He crossed the room and stood by the piano, looking down on her. “Aren’t they the dear, good people?" she said earnestly. “And don’t they make you feel mean and small? They always do me, I know. Or,” she added, with the Irritating uplift of her brow, “do you ever feel Small and mean?” ;.

“I admit their goodness.” She saw that for some reason his temper was slipping its leash. She took a keen delight in her power to anger him. Daringly she tried to torment him further. “Do you know,” she leaned forward on the music rack, resting her chin on her folded hands atid smiling up at him, ’’J’pi almost tempted never to quarrel with you again?’ ’‘l don’t want peace with you!” he cried roughly. “No,” she laughed, “1 know you don't. That’s one good reason why 1 should yield to temptation. But I’m not sure that I want to quarrel with you, aside from that. The last tweu-ty-foiir hours I’ve learned a good many things. I begin to think you're not half so black as you have been painted, Mr. McAdoo.” “I don’t want your good opinion. Stick to the old ‘’one. I’m all you thought me and more.” “Then do you dislike me merely because Mr. Remington cares, or thinks he cares, for me, or do you really hate me for myself?!’ “Mrs. Gilbert. I really hate you for yourself.” “I knew it.” Atnusemeui was not written quite so plainly on her face as it had been. “Why?” “That’s the irony of it,” he exclaimed bitterly. “I hate you because you are beautiful, beCduse you are witty, because you have courage, because you are the only person 1 hate ever ( met that I’m not a match for, because you have forced me to change my plans. I hated you when I first saw you and saved your life. Mrs. Gilbert. I hate you so thoroughly that 1 have come to this decision—either Paul Remington gives you up or he gives me up. If he marries you he goes out of my life.once and for all. Now you may gloat,” he sneered. “I deserve to have you , know the truth. It’s my just punishment for not being able to beat a woman.”

“How you must hate me! I don’t understand it.. What you say almost makes you contemptible. Surely you can’t mean that merely because your petty, childish vanity is hurt you are willing to sacrifice not only my possible happiness, which, of course, does not count, but also the happiness of a man you have called friend. Surely you’re not so small and weak as that!”

Then his anger slipped its leash entirely. The red veil that had come before his eyes when he fought Haggin fell again. He was obsessed by a savage lust to hurt the woman before him, to deal her a blow that she would feel to the uttermost. His words fell slowly, cuttingly, with cruel distinctness.

“Oh, for that I have all the justification 1 need. You're not to be trusted with him. You’re beautiful. You’re the sort that has power over men. You have power over me. Seeing you sets me on fire with wild, insane longings. I have to keep my hate boiling or (good God. what am I saying? It’s true) or love you!” He laughed harshly, wildly. “And the weaker the man the greater your power. I know your history, Mrs. Gilbert. You had one weakling under your influence and you let him go to hell without lifting a finger to save him.” Even in his savage anger Bob was startled by the effect of his cruel words. She. turned white and shrank back as from a heavy physical blow. She drew a long, shuddering breath. “Oh.” she gasped. “I didn’t believe you could be so cruel. I didn’t believe you could be so cruel.” Slowly, unable to take her eyes from his. she rose and started uncertainly toward the door. She stumbled over a chair and would have fallen had he not caught her. She pushed herself away from him. shuddering. “Don’t touch me; don’t touch me!” He watched her, hardly able to comprehend the completeiiess of his brutality's triumph or the startling change in the woman who had mocked him so often jmtil she passed out of the room. And as she went from his sight the sweetness of his savage joy, turned to bitterness in his mouth—left him tp face the supreme fact of his life. A minute- later, mechanically, ashamed ant} humbled by his own cruelty. he followed her into the hall. But she had gone lipstairs to her room.; Seizing his hat and coat without waiting to put them on or to say goodby to Dunmeade, he strode out into the night. ; The mansion had been some time sunk in the midnight quiet when Mrs.

Dunmeade, troubled by Eleanor’s non appearance, tiptoed softly along the hall to her guest’s bedchamber. Eleanor was in bed. her bright hair straying loosely over the pillow. She was staring hopelessly at the flickering gas jet.- Mrs. Dunmeade saw no traces oi tears. * r , < ■ She seated herself on the bedside. “My dear.” she said gently, leaning over to stroke the pretty pair, “will you me what Is the matter?” Eleanor restively moved her head away from the ; caress. “Don’t pet me,” she said bitterly. “I’m not a child, but a woman nearly twentyjfeven years old, who has just bggjr £old she is responsible for the shameful life and death of her husband." “Oh,” Mrs. Dunmeade cried in shocked surprise, “did he taunt you with that? My dear, don’t take it to heart. We all know you were the one sinned against," "Y&s, that was one of my pretty fancies, too,” Eleanor said in the same bitter tone, “until tonight, when he opened my eyes. What he said was true. That’s why it hurt. 1 let Leonard Gilbert go to hell and didn’t lift a finger to save him. Only,” She added wearily, “I would rather have heard it from any one but him." “It is asking a good deal to ask you to forgive him; but, dear, I think he is suffering from some cause. Some day he will be sorry. He is a man who hasn’t yet found himself,” she concluded gently. “But when he does find himself he will be a vastly different man, and he will bring happiness to many.” - Eleanor shook her head listlessly. “But not to me. He despises me, and he will never relent. But I have no resentment.” The slow flush crept into her cheeks, and she put her arm over her eyes that Mrs. bunmeade might not look into them. Mrs. Dunmeade bent over impulsively and put her arms around her. “My dear child,” she whispered understandingly, “has it come to you at last-*and so?” Eleanor suffered the caress for a minute and then gently released herself. “Woh’4: you please go away? I would rather be by myself,” she said wearily. Years before a young girl, bruised under the ruthless heel of Bob McAdoo, had watched the night out. That night in the governor’s mansion history repeated itself. (To be continued.)

THE LITTLE ONE REFUSED TO ACCEPT HIS ADVANCES.