Jasper County Democrat, Volume 14, Number 87, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 February 1912 — THE MAN HIGHER UP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MAN HIGHER UP

By HENRY RUSSELL MILLER

DURING the days of Bob’s illness Eleanor had wandered restlessly through the big Sanger house in passionate remorse and self hate. During the time of his convalescence! the restless wandering continued in mingled thanksgiving and humility. Sanger saw the -change he had remarked in Eleanor become daily more pronounce ed, and it puzzled him. Not until Mrs. Dunmeade was preparing to return home.was the amazing reason discovered to him. It was the day when the doctors finally pronounced Bob out of danger. Mrs. Dunmeade had spent the noon with the, Flinns.,, Eleanor turned to, her with an inquiring glance. “He is much better,” Mrs. Dunmeade answered the glance. “The doctors say that unless a relapse occurs—and careful nursing will prevent that—it is only a matter of regaining his strength.” Eleanor made no answer. But Sanger saw a strange light—tb him a revelation—come into her face. Eleanor qpietly arose and left the room, followed by Sanger's incredulous, eyes.

“Absurd! Incredible!” he muttered to himself. Then he turned swiftly, angrily, on Mrs. Dunmeade. “Is this some of your work?” She answered quietly. “It is the work of something which you. Henry Sanger, or I can neither help nor impede.” “Ah! I remember, your husband has a theory,” he sneered. “John recognizes a fundamental principle of existence. Some day you, I think, will recognize it as a force you can't resist. You rich men are anachronistic. You think in terms of several centuries ago. You won't see that the principle of social responsibility has come into its own—until too late to save yourselves.” “You would be impressive on ’ the" stump, Katherine.” Sanger was his impassive self again. “But how am I concerned with that principle?” “In this: The people that recognize it won’t long tolerate your antiquated methods and philosophy. And in this: Even your triumph wouldn’t bring you happiness or content; selfish victory never does, Henry. You can trample underfoot the happiness of a great people without regret. You can destroy the work of good men—and that wouldn’t count with you either. But even you, Henry Sanger, have one love. And you know u t <hv that every ' step you take is on Elednor’s heart." He did not answer at once. He frowned irritably. ’ “I have a responsibility,” he said at last, dispassionately, “to my wealth and in my class. Incidentally I have an ambition. If between them Eleanor must be hurt—l’m sorry. What you visionaries close your eyes to is that the world is ruled by its necessities, by its pocketbook. You're on the crest of the Wave now. but your time is coming. It's McAdoo’s ambition and yours—or mine. It may take ten years or twenty, but in the end it will be mine; neither you nor your husband nor McAdoo—nor Eleanor—shall stand in the way. We haven't taken you reformers seriohsly, we men of wealth. But we haven't developed this nation's industries'to lef a few dreamers take them from us. Now”—his eyes gleamed—“we accept your challenge. It means war. Kawierine. And your friend McAdoo shall be the first to go under. Tell him that.” He left her abruptly. And yet that evening at dinner Mrs. Dunmeade thought she detected in his manner an unwonted gentleness toward Eleanor. One evening Eleanor and her brothet were alone at dinner. At its end he accompanied her to the library. “Henry.” she asked abruptly, “do you know where Paul Remington is?” “I do not.” he returned calmly. “He visited my office twice the day before the election. On his second visit we had a difference of opinion as to what should be done with a certain document. I maintained my position. He seemed much disturbed by that fact. I haven’t heard of him since.” “Then he had the decency to be ashamed, at least.” He made no answer, although she fancied she saw a slight flush rise to his face, but it might have been the firelight.. She looked at him steadily a moment. “Under Uncle Henry’s will, I believe, he left me and the annuity?” “Yes.* ? , “Will you give me the value of the annuity and buy the house from me?” , “It shall be done tomorrow.” he answered abruptly. “May I ask what your plans are?” i “They aren’t settled yet. except that I am going away in a few days.” “When do you expect to return?” “Never.” “Ah! Then I am to understand that, in the parlance of the stage. I am cast off? You doubtless class me as the villain in the recent episode?” She sighed wearily. “I blame yon

no more than myself—not so much. I’m not very proud of myself, Henry." “Eauppose most people would regard it a queer evidence, of affection, but—l care too much for you to urge, you to stay, Eleanor. You’re the only person I ever cared for, Eleanor.” He was manifestly telling the truth. Her astonishment was genuine and unconcealed. “I can’t believe it. You cared for me—and yet you could”--“Yes.” he interrupted, still quietly. “And would do it again. My emotions are under perfect control. I beg that you make no demonstration. I understand the situation better than I did. Your feeling .over that Remington matter is quite justified-from your point of view. Therefore lam ready to assist you, as far as you will allow me, in the casting off process. You have gone over to the enemy; rather, you never were on my side really. Our points of view differ radically. 1 think you are very wise. It will save us both some—discomfort. “That Remington affair,” be continued. rising, “was very amateurish and, in so far as you were concerned, 'in poor taste”—

“I was concerned in it all, Henry:” “For that accept my profound apologies.' And now—don’t you think we d better end this little scene. My secretary will bring yon the necessary papers tomorrow for your signature.” She made no answer. He left her alone. Her loneliness seemed to her immeasurable; complete. The next day, as Sanger had promised, his secretary prfesenteil/to her the papers necessary for the conveyance of the house and the release of the annuity; also there was placed in her hands a Certified check for a generous sum. ‘ Eleanor could avoiwher love to Paul, to Kathleen, to Mrs. Dunmeade. but the fear lest she,.betray her heart to Bob stirred up agonies of pride. But One day she summoned her resolution and went bravely forth to abase herself before the man who, she believed; must hate her bitterly.’ More than

once her keaf't failed her, crying out "I can't!” to be answered with “You must!” Fear of him and of Iris judgment fell from her. For one thrilling instant she looked at him, the' mask of expression drawn aside, all her heart hi irer eyfes; , He did not.observe her entrance at once. He was reclining in his big chair by the window, a heavy shawl thrown loosely around his shoulders. The ravages of his illness were plainly apparent. The big hands, white and bony, drooped inertly from the chair's arms. In his eyes was the tired, wistful expression peculiar to fever convalescents. She felt in them still another quality, a deep sadness bred of no mere physical weakness. He felt her gaze. His head turned slowly t<> face her. He looked at her wonderhigly. without speaking. His hand brushed across his forehead in a troubled gesture, as one would brush asidt) a dream that lingers overlong. She strove to give her words a conventional tone. -■ - “I'm glad you are recovering so rapidly, Mr. McAdoo.” His face lighted up in an incredulous eagerness. “Are you—really? I was just thinking of you. And sometimes my fancies get the better of me nowadays." He got to his feet uncertainly. She saw the effort it cost him in his weakness. She put her gloved hand in his; he caught it in a strong clasp. “You mustn’t stand,” she said anxiously. “You aren’t strong yet.” He sank back into' his' chair. As, he did so the shawl fell from his shoulders. Tremblingly he stooped to recover it. But she was swifter than he. She threw It around him again. As she drew her arm away it brushed against him. Foi- the first time their eyes looked away. 1 She took the chair where Kathleen had been. It was he who aj last broke the silence. The words fell haltingly, uncertainly. “I can’t quite realize it. Often I have thought of you being liere—there are so many things I wanted to you. Now-seeing you there—in that chair”— ~ She turned to him eagerly, her eyes pleading with him not to misunderstand. “I had to come—to acknowledge my fault.” “Your fault? But”—

“Yea. My shameful fault! Don’t you see, I owed it to myself to come.”' “You mean—Paul Remington? But that, is not your fault. I—l only—am responsible for that. I tried to shape his life after mine—a poor model, Mrs. Gilbert. I tried to cut him off from his happiness. Being what he was. he had to leave me. And there were—others—who were tempting him. We were too much for him.” “Ah, but 1 made it easy for him to yield by making him discontented”— “It bega.® before that. Bus that was your rigrw too. I tried to cut you off from your happiness.” “But—it makes what I did the more shameful—my happiness was not involved, Mr. McAdoo.” He shook his head gravely. “It might have been. He was very lovable.” He used the past tense in which we speak of the dead. Again their jeyes fell apart and there was a silence. She forced herself to speak. “You have learned the lesson of generosity well, Mr. McAdoo.”

“I have to earn the charity that'has been given me—from every one—now from you. I was cruel, brutal, to‘yon —yet you could come here. Doesn’t that prove,that you. top. have forgiven much—far more than I?” “No! For what you said was true. And I was afraid to come—afraid of your judgment! You make, me the' more ashamed”— “Don’t!” he cried sharply, as if m paip. “It hurts to see you abdse yourself before me!” Again a silence, while Iris eyes held hers. The quality of his gaze frightened her. It 1 was saying too muchbreaking down her self command, drawing her to him. She spoke hastily.. “Mr. McAdoo, do you know that he has disappeared?” She saw then the hurt that bad been put upon him. "Yes. I have tried to have him found; but they 'can discover no trace of him. But I will not give up until he is found—and our fa trit repaired.” He used the plural unconsciously. ■ “When you find him will you let me know? I shall send an address to the Dunmeades.”

“You are going away?” “Yes; tomorrow.” “And you will not come back.” He did not ask a question. He turned once mote to look out into the street. But he saw nothing there. He was measuring the meaning of the moment. She had changed, as had he; he felt it in her every word, in her presence, Yet her humility hurt him strangely. He had “many things to make up to her”—and he would never have the chance; she was going away, out of his Ijfe. as suddenly as she had come. Both feared the next meeting of eyes. Each had a secret that must be withheld. Yet by that telepathy which informs hearts eVen across the distances each guessed the other's secret, knew that the frank intimacy of the moment sprang from more than a common regret., was more than the death of an unreasoning {ipstility. But they were not children. Both knew that before life’s happiness comes life’s responsibility and that they, in their game of cross purposes, had assumed a responsibility which was not Vet fulfilled. She rose. lie. too, got to his feet. She held out "her ungloved hand. He took it again in his strong clasp. Her lips tried to fashion a conventional farewell. “1 hope you will soon get your strength back and that yoii will be. successful always—and happy." At the last words her voice began to falter. “I pray that life will be kinder to you thhn it has been. Mrs. Gilbert. And that you will forget.all this—and me.” Unsteadiness was in his voice too. “Can we forget?”

“I don’t want to forget!” he cried. “Nor do I want to forget!” The crimson flooded to her cheeks. But the unruly tongue ran on. “I couldn’t forget if I would! That night, when we thought you were dying—it is before me always. When I satv you lying there it seemed to me that I had struck you down”— “You were here! I don’t understand. You came”— “Ah, can’t you see? I had to come—to make my acknowledgment. I thought you were dying. Miss Flinn was nearest to you. I told her. She made me promise to come to you when you were able. That is why lam here now.” She would have withdrawn her hand, but his clasp tightened. “I don’t understand. You cared enough to come”— ' , ■ “Ah. can’t you see?” she cried pite ously. i “Why. did you come into my life—to teach me my lesson—to go away now? Why, since you must go away, were you chosen by the.force, which is”— Before him flashed the interpretation of the past few months, of the memory that had outlived the busy, crowded years. His face lighted Up with a look no man or woman had ever seen there. * “It wasn’t you I hated—it wasn’t you I fought agairist, but—love!” Words that spoae of themselves! He lifted his head sharply, as does the stag in the forest when he hears the call of his faraway mhte. > His eyes' caught hers in the grip that would not be denied, crying out that she was his —his! Her eyes, wavered, fell—returned to his. luminous with the answer. The moment ondt’di “Mr. McAdoo, there is a ruined life between us!” She was gone, leaving Bob alone. And yet not alone. For with him was the memory of a thrilling, wonderful moment when he had looked

into the depths of a woman’s heart. And between them lay an impassable barrier, a barrier of their own building. He bowed his face in his hands and prayed—prayed for courage and patience and faith to bear his punishment—and to.-atone. 'y (To be Continued.)

HIS HEAD TURNED SLOWLY TO FACE HER.