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have reached my father. He's eager enough to trace her down! It is his fad to catch these people—these mystics. He believes the world, including the intelligent classes, has lost its emotional balance. God help the mystic upon whose trail my father goes!” Emlen appeared to be moved and troubled. “That's all I know,” she said without further interest. “And as for myself, I am sure that the soul does give physical well-being. I am simply radiating !” She descended the path into the mist. “Through here,” she said, going through an arch hung heavy with thick-flowering vines. Claveloux found that they had come to a wall of white stone, mounting up to the lower branches of the tall old pines in which the only opening was a window of vast dimensions. On either side of this window, set into the stone, was a bas-relief of Botticelli with all the figures shadowed clearly by moonlight. “His studio,” she said. “Why did you come?”
The door, apparently of bronze, was open, inviting them into the studio. Claveloux could see as they entered that draperies of cloth hung from the ceiling and along the walls. A revolving stand in the center of the room bore the rough outlines of a faun bending to drink at some water course. Several bronzes were upon the shelf above the fireplace, and in the corners large figures in plaster or clay appeared in the shadows.
“It is rather like a place opened after years have passed since a living being was present,” he said. “There is something suggestive of death and absence and lapse of time in these motionless figures.”
AN ESSA’S laugh echoed against the walls and from the high. ceiling —a gay and almost girlish mirth. She said: “They are not only motionThink of a company so companionable. Adam has created every one of them, and there is not one in the lot to talk him to death !” “Are there lights?” asked Claveloux. “We want no lights. Come here.” She pointed toward a sculptor's stand, full in the moonlight, with a wet cloth draped over the mass of clay. “There's the mystery he's been working on.” She looked over her shoulder at Claveloux with the moonlight full upon her face. “I feel like a naughty child,” she said. “At first, when I refused to come here, he begged me to do so. Now he talks as if my refusal to come had been a pledge or a promise to stay away. That means he has a surprise for me, doesn't it?” She touched the wet cloth. “Don't!” said Claveloux banteringly. “Remember Mrs. Bluebeard, who stole a look behind the closet door where the
other wives were mere pendulums upon
the clothes hooks.” “He will not care,” she said. “We are one—he and I. I think he has merged in himself all there is of me— all that was left I gave him.” She paused, however. “I am so curious.” “Then look,” said Emlen innocently enough. She pulled away the damp muslin gently until its edge suddenly released the whole of the drapery and dropped it trailing grayly in contrast to the silver of her gown. She stared at the mass of clay upon which the moonlight shone down in all its intensity. “My God!” Claveloux exclaimed. From the rough masses of clay a countenance chaste, noble, severe, and yet tender, patient and yet smiling, looked toward them, but through them as if into eternity. Perhaps both of them realized at the same time that the young sculptor had never reached before an equal power in his art. Be
low the inscription, “The Spirit,” was carved into the plastic material, and the face above, of heroic proportions, appeared to be the materialization of human purity, fortitude, and tenderness. This was an inspired work indeed. It was an expression of the immortal soul which sometimes glows beneath the features of mankind. But there could be no question of its source. The face was the idealized face of Emma Gammell. . Claveloux, after his single exclamation, remained silent and awed. He heard one moan rise from some unsounded depths of Vanessa. Afterward he rebuked himself for harboring the impression that this was the death cry of something long hidden beneath all the vanity, all the silly, wretched, wasted life of Mrs. Yates. For a moment they stood silent. Then she turned toward him, saying in a voice which was singularly like the voice of one who has long lain ill: “Isn’t it quite wonderful, Dr. Claveloux, my friend? I was not mistaken in Adam Pine, was I? This is genius! This is a masterpiece indeed.” She put her arms around her trembling body. “Are you cold?” he asked. “Very cold,” she said wearily. “I think we must be going. I am so cold. The breeze has sprung up from the sea.” “And it is damp here.” “Yes, like a—tomb.” They went out. He put his coat
HE next morning Dr. Claveloux breakfasted in his room. The rain was slapping at the long windows, the coffee was hot, and its aroma suggestive of comfort. Nevertheless he dressed as soon as possible and went down into the library. Mrs. Yates had ordered a fire lit upon the great hearth, and with her Airedale asleep on the floor before her, with its head between its paws, she was half sitting and half lying in the recesses of a carved leather Spanish seat. “You know, I never knew you ever got up before ten,” Emlen said. “It's a miserable day for me to go back.” “You must?” “I must.” Each understood. “You know why I am up? paradox. I am up because I didn't sleep. I have been sleeping so very badly these days—for a long time.” Each understood that this was untrue. “Last night I simply could not sleep!" she exclaimed, looking up into his face with an expression of weariness, letting cigarette smoke trail up from her lips, which were much too red. “Haven't you anything to take?” “Yes. I was going to ask you about it,” she said, holding out a tiny brown bottle. “Is this stuff safe?” “You mean, does it produce a habit” Oh, I think there is no real danger. It is not like the derivatives of morphine." She laughed. “Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant dangerous. I meant danger of taking an overdose so one would not wake up.” Claveloux said: “You are not being dramatic with me?” She was furious. “You ought to know me too well. We understood each other last night, but I am not a weakling.” “Well, it's safe enough unless one took thirty or forty grains all at once." She tossed the bottle into the fire. “I think one ought to learn to sleep without artificial means,” she said. “I’m sorry you must go in to-day. The roads will be horrible.” She arose and walked toward the windows. “Horrible,” she repeated. “But there is something I wish you would do for me.” “Anything,” said Claveloux from his heart. He took her hand. It was as cold as ice. He put it against his cheek. “Thank you,” said Vanessa. “I wish you would say to my secretary, Miss Gammell, that she and I have made a great mistake. I want her to come back to me. Tell her I beg her to do so." (To be continued neart week)
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tollier's, The National Weekly, May 28, 1921, Volume 67, Number of Entered as second-class matter, July 28, 1913, at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March s, 1879, and at the Post office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by P. F. Coater & Son Company, 416 Weat isth St. Mew York, N. Y. : 5 cents a copy, so so a wear: 10 cents a copy, ss.oo a year in Canada and Foreign Countries
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! 1", 23 go 9 C O || i er’ s THE NATIONAL WEEKLY
a man to smoke it!” answered Beauregard
ee UM-PIN–Jesh-i-mon!” Old Jeremiah Green— Sergeant, Company A, the Hundred-Ninth Indiana Volunteers—delivered his favorite expletive in his most explosive manner. His throat was contracted to the strangling point and, as he held his old briar pipe at arm's length and dabbled at streaming eyes with a huge blue bandanna, he sputtered in the general direction of the quietly grinning figure on the shady end of their bench. “Gol-durn Johnny Reb! What in "tarnal sin ye got in that t'baccer?” he demanded finally. “Ain’t got nothin’ in it; jest pure tobacco—does take a man to smoke it, though,” and Beauregard Crane, who had fought with Lee and was still proud of it, chuckled as he filled his own pipe from a bag of crumbs that were as black as his tie. “I’ve bin a-smokin' of it all winter.” “Takes a man t’smoke it, hey?” Jeremiah's short, white beard crinkled as his lips encircled the stem of his pipe again. He drew gingerly and quickly blew away a dark cloud. “Wal, if ye're that kind of a man ye kin smoke it. Where'd ye git it— somethin' yer nephew brought back from France?” “No; Johnny gets it fer the store t' mix with some other stuff. He says they smoke it thataway in England. They grow it down in Louisiana.” “Louisianny, hey? Thought so.” Jeremiah deliberately studied the little, dried-up man at the shady end of the bench, and as deliberately he said: “Only place in th’ world they'd make such stuff.”
To try next Monday to understand each other as fellow creatures of the same common clay—this is the first and greatest tribute we can pay to
the men who cared enough for all of us to die in our defense
By Paul R. Leach Illustrated by Frank Godwin
“All tobacco comes from the South—”
“So! But Louisianny's furdest South, and th’ furder ye go th’ more ornery they git!”
Beauregard Crane caught himself just in the nick of time. Here they were, first time they had seen each other since he had come back from his annual Southern hibernation, quarreling an’snapping at each other like a couple o' yeller pups; bringing back that old argument of North versus South, and being foolish about it. Besides, Beauregard was fair enough
to admit to himself quite privately that maybe he had been a leetle mite hard in handing his old friend pure perigue without a word of warning concerning its potency, especially when he knew that Jeremiah much preferred the denatured stuff that looked and tasted more like corn silk than anything else. “Ah, Jerry,” he said placatingly, “you don’t mean that, do you? I came from New Orleans, you know.” Sergeant Green took one more drag at the offending pipe and vigorously tapped it against the edge of the bench. “No, Bo,” he conceded, inspecting the empty pipe bowl and wondering if it ever could smoke sweet again, “but that thaccer . . . .” He shook his head in wonder. “Forget the darn stuff an’smoke some of your own kind; I brought ye a can of it, anyhow,” said Bo, and peace was restored. Through a hard winter Jeremiah had been forced to remain within doors at the State Soldiers’ Home, and Beauregard's visits, before he went South in December, had been spent in the cozy Monroe County cottage where Jeremiah held forth in solemn, solitary if somewhat disorganized, dignity. But now, with the sun warming everything up nice and bright, including stiff old bones, their yarn-swapping rendezvous on the edge of the bluff was just naturally the best place in North America to be. Their own favorite bench commanded a view of beautifully rolling countryside through which the Wabash cut its placid expanse, here and there showing its best parts as it
crete bridge. Jeremiah filled his pipe from the elaborate blue can Beauregard had contributed as a peace offering. With each spasmodic puff his eyes lighted a degree with satisfaction until, when a veritable cloud of incense floated above him, he was smiling contentedly again. Beauregard changed the subject. “Speakin' o' Johnny,” he said, “yestiddy he brought home one o’ them little, short bugles like he had in France, an” he blew her for me. Say! That boy can blow taps almost as good as what I can.” “Almost as good as you can!” Jeremiah came pretty. nearly to choking again. “Why, ye durned little runt, I taught that boy t blow taps out here to the home!” “Ye what?” “I says, I taught John ny t” blow taps!” “Ye did no such thing. Leastwise, he never said nothin’ to me about it.” “I can prove it.” Jeremiah was triumphant. “Didn’t he
ciliation, Bo Crane a rose stiffly and started- down the thousand - and - one stairs to the electric station. There really were n e a re r tenthousand - and - one steps in that terrifying terrace of concrete, but everybody, of the home as well as Digby, spoke of them in the lesser sense: m a de 'em seem a mite shorter. Not for Beauregard was this 'intimate companionship of his peers at the home. He had worn the butternut gray, but he had worn it honorably, and that honor was conceded to him by the men of the Soldiers’ Home. , That explains his visits there. They had become quite frequent of late when Bo was not hibernating. There was no sense in an old man's hanging around the store any more now. His nephew, John Henderson, looked after that, and Bo realized that the business he had built following his drift to the busy little Northern city had grown a way from him; that an old man gets in the
hold her up thisaw a y?” and he placed an imaginary bugle to his lips, elbow forming a perfect right angle, little finger standing straight out from a clenched fist like a sore thumb. Bo chuckled. “Couldn’t hold one o’ them short bugles thataway,” he criticized, “an', besides, he never did hold his little finger up so. That's hogwash! He held it thisaway, like we did down South in '61,” and Bo displayed a fully clenched right fist as he, too, played a phantom tune. The skin above Jeremiah's whiskers turned red. He looked like a ripe tomato that lay upper half out of the snow. “Anyhow”—Bo was watching an early beetle investigating the housing situation in the vicinity of Bo's Congress gaiters, and failed to notice the rising color abo, e Jerry's whiskers—“anyhow, I don’t believe you know which end to blow. I can beat you-all the best day you ever saw l’”
HAT was going a bit strong. Jeremiah endangered the pocket of his best black coat by jamming his lighted pipe into it, bowl down. His whiskered lips moved. Finally the words came. “Jum-pin—Jesh-i-mon!” he cried, as he arose from the bench. “Bugler! You a bugler!” Then he paused and shook his fist at Bo. “You—you— Johnny Reb . . . . Never was a Johnny Reb could blow the bugle! You—blow taps! Rats!” His beard fairly radiated sparks. A tolerant smile played over the lips of Beauregard Crane. At a time when carpetbagger and scalawag had trooped South, Bo Crane had gone North, and he had become Northernized to all but Jerry Green. He twisted his worst leg around to a more compromising position and squinted at Jeremiah. “I’ll admit, Jerry,” he grinned, with a drawl that
“None o' yer durned business wher’ I’m a-goin’,” retorted the outraged Green. “I’m a-goin’ inside wher’ I don't have t” listen to no durned Johnny Reb's braggin’—that's wher’ I’m a-goin’.” He hesitated as he reached the clean, white sidewalk. “Ye had plenty o' practice on taps when us Yanks got through with ye,” he cried, his whiskers dancing a fandango. “Ye never had a chanct o' blowin' taps fer sleep when night come!” The easy smile slowly faded from Bo's face. He loved to tease this old friend of the Northern armies, probably every bit as much as Jeremiah loved to twit him. But there were limits to which the teased could go in return. “Go on, then; go on,” Bo shouted in a voice that cracked. “I ain’t a-comin’ out here no more to listen to your gabbin', if that's what you're after. Go on; go on over t” your Widders' Home; that’s whar you belong !” That was the crowning insult, and Jerry felt that Bo meant it to be that. Bo knew well enough that Jerry would have nothing to do with those husband-huntin’ widders. He had to pass the long brick Widows’ Home to get to his cottage. That was endurable, but passing the Widows’ Home meant coming within range of M'lissy Fortune's tongue. Jeremiah was positive that Jimmy Fortune had died grinning, even if the sentimental side of the home called it a smile. M'lissy's tongue swung from the middle and it stung from both ends. Jerry would not even reply to that insult; he wouldn't dignify it so much. He strode on toward the little cottage where he received such visitors as still came to the Monroe County donation, although Mother Green was no longer there. Here Jerry received his visitors, sold them necklaces made of Job’s
way at times. It had been somewhat difficult for Bo to realize this last bit of truth, but realize it he did in time. There was nothing much an old fellow could do but hunt up people who could talk his language, of his period, and of the things that he know. In concession to the understanding that Bo Crane had worn the gray with honor—and in further recognition of the fact that he had possessed the good sense to come North—the men who sat on sunny days at the edge of the bluff and spun their yarns never sounded touchy subjects when Crane was among them. That is, all but Jeremiah Green steered clear of mention of Johnny Rebs and such things.
HE bond between them that had permitted, nay, even encouraged this breach and had made it just the opposite of a social error, dated back to a certain murky evening when a young man had poked his head through a screen of bushes on the bank of a stream that happened to be no-man's land. “Hey, Reb; got some t'baccer to swap fer some coffee?” he asked softly. The hazily defined figure that loomed out of the dusk on the opposite bank straightened and leaned a musket against a tree. “Yes, Yank—you got the coffee?” he replied. “Sure; all right t” come over?” “Come ahead ''' There was a subdued splashing for a minute as a youth in blue tatters waded the shallow stream, and two tightly rolled packages changed hands; but the trade had no more than been made when there came the unmistakable sounds of a man breaking his way through the underbrush toward them. The mud was slippery and the brush had a way of flying up and hitting one in the face; wherefore the man had sig
naled his coming with (Continued on page 16) o * +