Jasper County Democrat, Volume 17, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 April 1914 — The Hollow of Her Hand [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Hollow of Her Hand

by George Barr M c Cutcheon

Author of “Grau star kJ “Truxton ILLUSTRATIONS by ELLSWCRIHTOG

SYNOPSIS. CHAPTER I —Challis Wrandall is foun, murdered in a road house near New York. Mrs. Wrandall is summoned from the city and identifies the body. A young woman who accompanied Wrandall to the inn and subsequently disappeared is suspected. Wrandall, it appears, had led a gay life a,nd neglected his wife. Mrs. Wrandall starts back for New York in an auto during a blinding snow storm. CHAPTER ll—On the way she meets a young woman in the road who proves to be the woman who killed Wrandall. Feeling that the girl had done her a service in ridding her of the man who. though she loved him deeply, had caused her great sorrow, Mrs. Wrandall determines to shield her and takes her to her own home. CHAPTER lll—Mrs. Wrandall hears the story of Hetty Castleton's life, except that portion that relates to Wrandall. The story of the tragedy she forbids the girl ever to tell her. She offers Hetty a home, friendship and security from peril on account of the tragedy. 7

CHAPTER IV. While the Mob Waited. The next day but one, in the huge old-fashioned mansion of the Wrandalls in lower Fifth avenue, in the drawing-room directly beneath the chamber in which Challis was born, the impressive but grimly conventional funeral services were held. Contrasting sharply with the somber, absolutely correct atmosphere of the gloomy interior was the exterior display of joyous curiosity that must have jarred severely on the high-bred sensibilities of the chief mourners, not to speak of the invited guests who had been obliged to pass between rows of gaping bystanders in order to reach the portals of the house of grief, and who must have reckoned with extreme distaste the cost of subsequent departure. A dozen raucous-voiced policemen were employed to keep back the hundreds that thronged the sidewalk and blocked, the street. Curiosity was rampant. Ever since the moment that the body of Challis Wrandall was carried into the house of his father, a motley, varying crowd of people shifted restlessly in front of the mansion, filled with gruesome interest in the absolutely unseen, animated by the sly hope that something sensational might happen if they waited long enough. Motor after motor, carriage after carriage, rolled up to the curb and emptied its sober-faced, self-conscious occupants in front of the door with the great black bow; with each arrival the crowd surged forward, and names were uttered in undertones, passing from lip to lip until every one in the street knew that Mr. So-and-So, Mrs. This-or-That, the Wliat-Do-You-Call-Ems and others of the city’s most exclusive but most garishly advertised society leaders had entered the house of mourning. It was a great show for the plebeian spectators. Much better than Miss So-and-So’s wedding, said one woman who had attended the aforesaid ceremony as a unit In the well-dressed mob that almost wrecked the carriages in the desire to see the terrified bride. Better than a circus, said a man who held his little daughter above the heads of the crowd so that she might see the fine lady in a wild-beast fur. Swellest funeral New York ever had, remarked another, excepting one ’way back when he was a kid. ' ■

At the corner below stood two patrol wagons, also waiting. Inside the house sat the carefully selected guests, hushed and stiff and gratified. (Not because they were attending a funeral, but because *the occasion served to separate them from the chaff; they were the elect.) It would be too far to intimate that they were proud of themselves, but it is not stretching it very much to say that they counted noses with considerable satisfaction I and were glad that they had not been left out. The real, high-water mark in New York society was established at this memorable function. As one after the other arrived and was ushered into the huge drawing-room, he or she was accorded a congratulatory look from those already assembled, a tribute returned with equal amiability. Each one noted who else was there, and each one said to himself that at last they really had something all to themselves. It was truly a pleasure, a relief, to be able to do something without being pushed vbout by people who didn’t belong but thought they did. They sat back — stiffly, of course—and In utter stillness confessed that there could be such a thing as the survival of the fittest Yes, there wasn’t a nose there that couldn’t be counted with perfect serenity. It was a notable occasion. Mrs. Wrandall, the elder, bad made owt the list She did not consult her daughter-in-law in the matter. It la true that Sara forestalled her In a way by sending word, through Leslie, that she would be pleased if Mrs. Wrandall would issue invitations to as many of Challis’ friends as she deemed advisable. As for herself, she had no wish in the matter; she would be satisfied with whatever arrangements the famUr arvd to make.

It is not to be supposea, from the foregoing, that Mrs. Wrandall, the elder, was not stricken to the heart by the lamentable death of her idol.

He was her idol. He was her firstborn, he was her love-born. He came to her in the days when she loved her husband without much thought of respecting him. She was beginning to regard him as something more than a lover when Leslie came, so it was different. • When their daughter Vivian was born, she was plainly annoyed but wholly respectful. Mr. Wrandall was no longer the lover; he was her lord and master. The head of the house of Wrandall was a person to be looked up to, to be respected and admired by her, for he was a very great man, but he was dear to her only because he was the father of Chailie, the firptborn.

In the order of her nature, Challis therefore was her most dearly beloved, Vivian the least desired and last in her affections as well as in sequence. Strangely enough, the three of them perfected a curiously significant record of conjugal endowments. Challis had always been the wild, wayward, unrestrained one, and by far the most lovable; Leslie, almost as good looking but with scarcely a noticeable trace of charm that made his brother attractive; Vivian, handsome, selfish and as cheerless as the wind that blows across the icebergs in the north. Challis had been born with a widely enveloping heart and an elastic conscience; Leslie with a brain and a soul and not much of a heart, as things go; Vivian with a soul alone, which belonged to God, after all, and not to her. Of course she had a heart, but it was only for the purpose of pumping blood to remote extremities, and had nothing whatever to do with anything so unutterably extraneous as love, charity or self-sacrifice. As for Mr. Redmond Wrandall he was a very proper and dignified gentleman, and old for his years. It may,.be seen, or rather surmised, that if the house of Wrandall had not been so admirably centered under its own vine and fig tree, it might have become divided against itself without much of an effort. Mrs. Redmond Wrandall i was the vine and fig tree. Abd now* they had brought her dearly beloved son home to her, murdered and—disgraced. If it had been either of the others, «hc could have eaid: "God’s will be done.” Instead, she cried out that God had turned against her. Leslie had had the bad taste—or perhaps it was misfortune—to blurt out an agonized “I told you so” at a time when the family was sitting numb and hushed under the blight of the first horrid blow. He did not mean to be unfeeling. It was the truth bursting from his unhappy lips. "I knew Chai would come to this— I knew it,” he had said. His arm was about the quivering shoulders of his mother as he said it

She looked up, a sob breaking in her throat. For a long time she looked into the face of her second son. “How can you—how dare you say such a thing as that?” she cried, aghast. He colored, and drew her closer to him. “I —I didn’t mean it,” he faltered. "Y ou have always taken sides against him,” began his mother. 'Please, mother," he cried miserably. “You say this to me now,” she went on. “You who are left to take his place in my affection—why, Leslie, 1 —I” Vivian interposed. “Les is upset, mamma darling. You know he loved Challis as deeply as any of us loved him." Afterwards the girl said to Leslie when they were quite alone: “She will never forgive you for that. Les. It was a beastly thing to say ** He bn his up. which trwmhied.

"She’s never cared for me as she carec for ChaL I’m eorry if I’ve made 11 worse.” “See here. Leslie, was Chai soso—” “Yes. I meant what I said a while ago. It was sure to happen to him one time or another. Sara’s had a lot to put up with.” ; "Sara! If she had been the right sort of a wife, this never would have happened.”

! "After all is said and done, Vivie, Sara’s in a position to rub it in on us if she’s of a mind to do so. She won’t do it, of course, but—l wonder if she isn’t gloating, just the same.” "Haven’t we treated her as one of us?” demanded she, dabbing her handkerchief in her eyes. “Since the wedding, I mean. Haven’t we been kind to her?” , “Oh, I think she understands us perfectly," said her brother. "I wonder what she will do now?” mused Vivian, in that speech casting her sister-in-law out of her narrow little world as one would throw aside a burnt-out match. “She will profit by experience,” eaid he, with some pleasure in a superior wisdom.

In Mrs. Wrandall’s sitting room at the top of the broad stairway sat the family—that is to say, the Immediate family—a solemn-faced footman in front of the door that stood fully ajar so that the occupants might hear the words of the minister as they ascended, sonorous and precise, from the hall below. A minister was he who knew the buttered side of his bread. His discourse was to be a beautiful one. He stood at the front of the stairs and faced the assembled listeners in the hall, the drawing room and the entresol, but his Infinitely touching words went up one flight and lodged. Sara Wrandall sat a little to the left of and behind Mrs. Redmond Wrandall, about whom were grouped the three remaining Wrandalls, father, son and daughter, closely drawn together. Well to the fore were Wrandall uncles and cousins and aunts, and one or two carefully chosen blood relatlohs to the mistress of the house, whose hand had long been set against kinsmen of less exalted promise. Beside Sara Wrandall, on the small, pink divan, sat a stranger in this somber company: a young woman in black, whose pale face was uncovered, and whose lashes were lifted so rarely that one could not know of the deep, real pain that lay behind them, in her Irish blue eyes. She had arrived at the house an hour or two before the time set for the ceremony, in company with the widow. True to her resolution, the widow of Challis Wrandall had remained away from the home of his people until the last hour. She hai been consulted, to be sure, in regard to the final arrangements, but the meetings had taken place in her own apartment, many blocks distant from the house in lower Fifth avenue. The afternoon before she had received Redmond Wrandall and Leslie, his son. She had not sent for them. They came perfunctorily and not through any sense of obligation. These two at least knew that sympathy was not what she wanted, but peace. Twice during the two trying days, Leslie had come to see her, Vivian telephoned. On the occasion of his first visit, Leslie had met the guest in the house. The second time he called, he made it a point to ask Sara all about her. It was he who gently closed the door after the two women when, on the morning of the funeral, they entered the dark, flower-laden room in which stood the casket containing the body of his brother. He left them alone together in that room for half an hour or more, and it was he who went forward to meet them when they came forth. Sara leaned on his arm as she ascended the stairs to the room where the others were waiting. The ashen-faced girl followed, her eyes lowered, her gloved hands clenched. Mrs. Wrandall, the elder, kissed Sara and drew her down beside her on the couch. To her own surprise, as well as that of the others, Sara broke down and wept bitterly. After all, she was sorry for Challis’ mother. It was the human instinct, she could not hold out against it And the older woman put away the ancient grudge she held against this mortal enemy and dissolved into tears of real compassion. A little later she whispered brokenly in Sara’s ear: "My dear, my dear, this has brought ue together. I hope you will learn to love me.” Sara caught her breath, but uttered no word. She looked into her inother-in-law’s eyes, and smiled through her tears. ’The Wrandalls, looking on in amaze, saw the smile reflected in the face of the older woman. Then it was that Vivian crossed quickly and put her arms about the shoulders of her sister-in-law. The white flag on, both sides.

Hetty Castleton stood alone and wavering, just inside the door. No stranger situation could be imagined than the one in which this unfortunate girl found herself at the present moment. She was virtually in the hands of those who would destroy her; she was in the house of those who most deeply were affected tSy her act on that fatal night. Among them all she stood, facing them, listening to the moans and sobs, and yet her limbs did not give way beneath her. . . . Some one gently touched her arm. It was Leslie. She shrank back, a fearful look in her eyes. In the semidarkness- he failed to note the expression.

“Won’t you sit here?” he asked, indicating the little pink divan against the wall. "Forgive me for letting you stand so long.” She looked about her. the wild light

still in her eyes. She was like a rat in a trap. Her lips parted, but the word of thanks did not come forth. A strange, inarticulate sound, almost a gasp, came instead. Pallid as a ghost, she dropped limply to the divan, and dug her fingers into the satiny seat. As if fascinated, she stared over the black heads of the three women immediately in front of her at the fulllength portrait hanging where the light from the hall fell upon it: the portrait of a dashing youth in riding togs.

A moment later Sara Wrandall came over and sat beside her. The girl shivered as with a mighty chill when the warm hand of her friend fell upon hers and enveloped it in a firm clasp. “His mother kissed me,” whispered Sara. “Did you see?’’ The girl could not reply. She could only stare at the open door. A small, hatchet-faced man had come up from below and was nodding his head to Leslie Wrandall—a man with short side whiskers, and a sepulchral look in his eyeS. Then, having received a sign from Leslie, he tiptoed away. Almost instantly the voices of people singing softly came from some distant remote part of the house. “ * And then, a little later, the perfectly modulated voice of a man in prayer. Back of her, Wrandalls; beside her, Wrandalls; beneath her, friends of the Wrandalls; outside, the rabble, those who would join with these black, raven-like specters in tearing her to pieces if they but knew!

The droning voice came up from below, each well-chosen word distinct and clear: tribute beautiful to the irreproachable character of the deceased. Leslie watched the face of the girl, curiously fascinated by the set, emotionless features, and yet without a conscious interest in her. He was dully sensible to the fact that she was beautiful, uncommonly beautiful. It did not occur to him to feel that she was out of place among them, that she belonged down stairs. Somehow she was a part of the surroundings, like the specter at the feast. If he could have witnessed all that transpired while Sara was in the room below with her guest—her companion, as he had come to regard her without having in fact been told as much—he would have been lost in a maze of the most overwhelming emotions. To go back: The door had barely closed behind the two women when Hetty’s trembling knees gave way beneath her. With a low moan of horror, she slipped to the floor, covering her face with her hands. Sara knelt beside her. ’

"Come,” she said gently, but firmly; "I must exact this much of you. If we are to go on together, as we have planned, you must stand beside me at his bier. Together we must look upon him for the last time. You must see him as I saw him up there in the country. I had my cruel blow that night. It is your turn now. I will not blame you for what you did. But if you expect me to go on believing that you did a brave thing that night, you must convince me that you are not a coward now. It is the only test I shall put you to. Come; I know it is hard, I know it is terrible, but it is the true test of your ability to go through with it to the end. 1 shall know then that you have the courage to face anything that may come up.” She waited a long time, her hand on the girl’s shoulder. At last Hetty arose. "You are right,” she said hoarsely. "I should not be afraid." Later on they sat over against the wall beyond the casket, into which they had peered with widely varying emotions. Sara had said: "You know that I loved him.” The girl put her hands to her eyes and bowed her head. “Oh, how can you be so merciful tome?" "Because he was not,” said Sara, white-lipped. Iletty glanced at the

half-averted face with queer, indescrit> able expression in her eyes. If Leslie Wrandall could have looked in upon’'them at that moment, or at any time during the half an hour that followed, he would have known who was the slayer of his brother, but it is doubtful if he could have had the heart to denounce her to the world. When they were ready to leave the room "Hetty had regained control of her nerves to a most surprising extent, a condition unmistakably due to the influence of the older woman. • "I can trust myself now, Mrs. Wrandall,” said Hetty steadily as they hesitated for an instant before turning the knob of the door. "Then I shall ask you to open the door,” said Sara, drawing back. Without a word or a look. Hetty

opened the door and permitted the other to pass out before her. Then ehe followed, closing it gently, even deliberately, but not without a swift glance over her shoulder into the depths of the room they were leaving Of the two, Sara Wrandall was the paler as they went up the broad staircase with Leslie. The funeral oration by the Rev. Dr. Maltby dragged on. Among all his hearers there was but one who believed the things he said of Challis Wrandall, and she was one of two persons who, so they saying goes, are the last to find a man out; his mother and his sister. But in this instance the mother was alone. The silent, attentive guests on the lower floor listened in grim approval: Dr. Maltby was doing himself proud. Not one but all of them knew that Maltby knew. And yet how soothing he was.

By the end of the week the murder of Challis Wrandall was forgotten by all save the police. The inquest was over, the law was baffled, the city was serenely ‘waiting for its next sensation. No one cared. Leslie WraUdall went down to the steamer to see hie sister-in-law off for Europe. “Goodby, Miss Captieton,’’ he said, as he shook the hand of the slim young Englishwoman at parting. "Take good care of Sara. She needs a friend, a good friend, now. Keep her over there until she has—forgotten.” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

He Did Not Mean to Be Unfeeling.

Hetty’s Trembling Knees Gave Way Beneath Her.