Jasper County Democrat, Volume 14, Number 81, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 January 1912 — THE MAN HIGHER UP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MAN HIGHER UP

By HENRY RUSSELL MILLER

t CHAPTER XXI. " \ 7HE POSEUR. iFTER a sleepless night Paul rose 1 / \ late Monday morning. He jf" heaped fresh coal ph the grate, coaxing the dying embers into a roaring blaze. Then he spent a few minutes in vigorous exercise with the dumbbells, followed by a cold shower. After a quick, bard rubdown he dressed very carefully. The mirror told him that his sleeplessness had left no trace other than the faint shadows under the eyes and a slight pallor that was very becoming. He went out and, boarding a car, * rode downtown Io his favorite grillroom, where he sat for more than an hour dawdling languidly over his breakfast. For another hour hetramped the streets listlessly, steering an aimless course through the bustling crowds. A faint, not unpleasant, melancholy fell upop him, such as sometimes comes to one who beholds an autujhn sunset or the unhappy denouement of a play. He lingered luxuriously in the mood, tasting its flavor. His course, without conscious inten | tion, led him to the First National bank building. Nor was he conscious of any exercise of will one way or the other as he entered the elevator and was whisked to Stinger’s offices. Sanger greeted him cordially, with no outward sign of exultation. 1 Paul’si only sensations were surprise that it was so easy and matter of fact, and somewhat of a disappointment that it was so flat and tasteless, this treachery upon which he had brooded so forebodingly. He read the formal statement twice before signing. He could not realize that it meant the end of six years’ friendship, the beginning of a new scheme of existence for him. Only when the notary administered the oath did he feel a qualm. A slight shiver passed over him. Then he laughed uncertainly. He drew a deep breath of relief—he thought—that It was over. The melancholy returned. His next stop was at a telephone booth, where he called Up the Sanger borne. In response to nis inquiries Eleanor’s maid informed him that madam had/signified her Intention of going to a certain department store to do some shopping. Paul hung up the receiver and steered a straight course for the department store designated. With a sigh of relief be espied the big hooded automobile standing before the entrance to the store. The chauffeur was fussily examining the machine. Paul stopped and abstractedly watched him. The latter touched his hat, importantly continuing his labors, which seemed to be superfluous. Paul sat in the machine and waited, smoking dreamily. Ah hour later he heard a surprised “What are you doing here?” He turned quickly, his eyes lighting up warmly. “Waiting for you.” She laughed. “I was so vain as to guess that. Are you going somewhere? Perhaps we can set you down there?” “Yes.” he said, with a proprietary air; “I’m going to luncheon, and you are coming with me.” “Is that an invitation? Then 1 accept. I’ll let you into a secret. I have been wretchedly lonely all morning. I came shopping just to escape it, And I was dreading the prospect of an afternoon alone In that big empty house.” “Then I’m twice glad I waited.” He opened the door, and they both entered the car. James cranked and deftly dodged through the crowded thoroughfares toward the restaurant Paul had chosen. He turned dreamily to her. “You shouldn’t be lonely,” he said in the hushed tone one would use at a deathbed? “since you have for company—you.” “I find myself sorry company sometimes.” she answered, with an attempt at brightness. His beautiful woman’s mouth curved in a dreamy smile. “It is company worth any sacrifice to win.” When the car came to a stop before the restaurant they alighted and went in.' Paul made only a pretense of eating. “You’re eating hardly anything.” she said. "Aren’t you well?” For answer he pointed to her own plate, hardly touched. “I bad a very late breakfast,” she explained. i “So had I. Hush!” he almost whispered. “Let us not talk.” * \With a half contemptuous shrug of her shoulders she gave over the attempt to disturb him. She wondered how she could ever have deceived herself into the belief that she could love or that she wanted to love him. “It was pity only,” she thought. “Always pity.” Paul* stirred uneasily, lowering his eyes to meet hers. He looked at her long and steadily. “Eleanor. Eleanor!” he cried, softly pleading. “It isn’t true?” “What isn’t true?” she asked, though •he knew the answer. “That you will never love me?' be

whispered tremulously. She put out her hand uncertainly, as though she would lighten the blow, “No,” she said pityingly. “1 can never love yqu as you wish.” He caught ber band in his own. Irvj their secluded corner they were saf© from observation, though 'neither thought of that. . ' "Ah. dear, don’t say that! You don’t know how great my love for you is. It is the one reality in my life. I have always loved you. even before I saw you. And I always shall love you. I will make up to you what suffering has taken out of your life”— Tears came to her eyes "Paul.” she said sadly, “it hurts me to tell you”— “Don’t! I’m willing to wait even unto death to win from you oqe thousandth of what I give you. My love isn’t a thing of the moment, but of all time. I’ll try so hard to please you, to cast out of my life everything that is inconsistent with my love, even to break with thb man who has stood between us’— *■ “No, no!” she cried involuntarily, her fingers tightening around his hand. “You mustn’t desert him. It wouldn’t be honorable”— “Ah! There is neither honor nor shame, right nor wrong, kindness nor cruelty, loyalty nor treachery, only you, always, supreme!” She drew her hand sharply from his clasp. “Romantic, phrases,” she said scornfully. “There are suffering and sin and remorse; there would be his unhappiness and the knowledge that we had caused it. Do you think I could be so mean, so little, as to seek happiness at that price?” “I don’t understand,” he said, passing his hand across his brow in bewilderment “You said yourself once”— "Ah, yes!” she answered, softening. “1 have no right to be angry with you, since it was 1 who first suggested it to you. That is my shame. Believe me, what I said then was spoken in a miserable selfishness far worse than I have accused him of. I bad no right to say it. I see my act in all its contemptible unwomanliness.” “I don’t understand”— “What you ask is impossible,” she went on sadly. “But even if I could care for you I couldn’t accept happl-

uess at the sacrifice of a man wjio cares for you so deeply, who has done so much for you.” He smiled bitterly. “There is something you don’t understand. He has been the first to sacrifice me. You probably don’t know that your brother offered to help him elect me governor, but was refused. My friend refused to sacrifice a policy for my sake.” “He hasn’t told you?” “Y’our brother has told me”— “1 mean Mr. McAdoo hasn’t told you that he went to the capital and agreed finally to join John Dunmeade on the condition that they support you for governor next year?”, Paul stared at her bewildered, stunned. “He did tbat?” he asked slowly, incredulously. “Yes.” . His arms fell limply to his side. For some minutes he sat motionless. When he looked up again his handsome face was marred by a sneer. “You pleading for him! You seem to have executed the volte face.” She flushed. “1 have no right to resent that. The one thing a woman asks of a man is loyalty. She should be the last to seek to turn it away from another. That 1 have done so is my ihame.” ' ' He shook his head in perplexity. “You have changed since you went away.” “I’ve found out that the world wasn’t created merely for my pleasure.” she answered quietly. ? “After all,” he continued, “the thing in which he has been falsest was in coming between us. If he hadn’t done that you could have loved me. That Sunday when you sang ybu almost cared for me. And you would have let yourself love me had it not been tot him. Even now you wouldn’t refuse me finally were it not for his opposition. But he and I have come to the end.” “You’re mistaken,” she said gently. “That isn’t my entire reason. He has told me that he no longer objects. He proves his friendship by that" Again Paul fell back limply in his chair. “He —has—told—you”— he gasped. “When?” “Saturday night—over th© phone."“It was too late—too late!” w

The music of the string band and ..the voices of the other diners receded. He lost sense even of the presence of the woman before him. He felt miserably alone.. Life had dealt hardly him, he thought bitterly. There was no hint of self blame in his bitterness. His heart contracted in a spasm of exquisite sorrow. Tears of self pity stood in his eyes. “The end of the dream!” he sighed. "It was too good to be true Nothing remains but. a memory—the deathless memory of what mipht have been.” Even in his bitterness he could turn his pretty phrase. Tears were in her eyes too. “You’ll forget. I’m not worth even a memory.” She could with difficulty preserve the steadiness of her voice as she •poke. ' “I have nd right to ask yotr anything. I haven't been fair with you. But I am fair with you now—l’m trying to atone for my selfishness—when I say -go back to him and forget me. You are all he cares for, and he is far more worthy of your love than 1 am. You will find your true happiness working with him and John Dunmeade. And I—l will go away where you can both forget me and I can no longer stand between you. 1, not he, have been the marplot.” “It’s too late,” he said listlessly. “He and I have parted forever.” “It Is never too late to atone for a fault. Be generous to me, if not to him,” she pleaded anxiously. The quality of his smile changed“To you? What is he to you?” “He is a mail who despises me—justly,” she answered steadily, “He is a man whom my brother is cruelly seeking to destroy and to whom I have carelessly, selfishly, dorse the greatest injury one can do to another. Paul, I know how my brother is tempting you. You will not do what he wants; please say you will not. See, I’m putting aside my woman’s pride to plead for a man who hates me. Because if you do what Henry wants 1 must always feel that the crime is mine." “It’s too late! It’s done!” “Paul!” A man at the next table turned sharply, hearing the low, gasping cry. He looked away again quickly. The cry pierced even Paul’s self pity. He saw her face go death white; a piteous, stricken look crept into her eyes. An unbelievable, stunning thought stirred in his heart. “Do you mean that you”— The sadly beautiful picture faded. •The pity of self—of the man upon whom circumstances had played so hardly—died. He saw his deed in all its shamefulness, its nakedness of defense. The sense of unreality fell from him. He saw the misery he had wrought “What have 1 ’ I done?” “What have we done?” Mechanically he fumbled for a bill and threw it on the table. He rose from his seat. As mechanically she followed him out of the restaurant into the street. He gave her one long look. In which she saw written all his shame; then, without a word, he turned and left her. She watched him until his figure was lost in the crowd. (To be continued.)

“NO, NO! YOU MUSTN’T DESERT HIM.”