The Refugio Review. (Refugio, Tex.), Vol. 5, No. 46, Ed. 1 Friday, January 24, 1913 Page: 3 of 8
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SYNOPSIS*
George Percival Algernon Jones, vtc©-
Jjresldent of the Metropolitan Oriental
Rug company of New York, thirsting for
romance, is in Cairo on a business trip.
Horace Ryanne arrives at the hotel in
Cairo with a carefully guarded bundle.
Ryanne sells Jones the famous holy Yhi-
ordes rug which he admits having stolen
from a pasha at Bagdad. Jones meets
Major Callahan and later is introduced to
Fortune Chedsoye by a woman to whom
he had loaned 150 pounds at Monte Carlo
some months previously, and who turns
-out to be Fortune’s mother.
CHAPTER V.—(Continued.)
'‘Well?* Bald Mrs. Chedsoye, a quiz-
zical smile slanting her lips.
"You wish my opinion?” countered
the daughter. “He is shy, but he is
neither stupid nor silly; and when he
smiles he is really good-looking.”
"My child,” replied the woman,
drawing off her gloves and examining
her shapely hands, “I have looked In-
to the very heart of that young man.
A thousand years ago, a red-cross on
his surtout, he would have been beat-
ing his fists against the walls of
Jerusalem; five hundred years later,
he would have been singing chant-
royales under lattice-windows; a pa-
ladin and a poet”
"How do you know that? Did he
make love to you?”
“No; but I made love to him with-
out his knowing it; and that was
more to my purpose than having him
make love to me,” enigmatically.
“Three days, and he was so guileless
that he never asked my name. But
in Monte Carlo, as you know, one asks
only your banker’s name.”
“And your purpose?”
“It Is still mine, dear. Do you real-
ize that we haven’t seen each other
in four months, and that you haven’t
offered to kiss me ”
"Did he go away without writing to
you about that money?”
Mrs. Chedsoye calmly plucked out
the inturned fingers of her gloves. “I
believe I did receive a note inclosing
his banker’s address, but, unfortu-
nately, in the confusion of returning
to Paris, I lost it My memory has
always been a trial to me,” sadly.
“Since when?” coldly. “There is not
& woman living with a keener memory
than yours.”
“Yon. flatter me. In affairs that in-
terest me, perhaps.”
“You never meant to pay him. It
is horrible.”
"My dear Fortune, how you Jump at
conclusions! Did I not offer him a
draft the‘very first thing?"
“Knowing that at such a moment he
could not possibly accept it?” de-
risively. “Sometimes I hate you!”
“In these days filial devotion Is a
lost art”
"No, no; it is a flower parents have
ceased to cultivate.”
And there was in the tone' a
strained note which described an in-
tense longing to be loved. For if
George Percival Algernon Jones was
a lonely young man, it was the result
of his own blindness; whereas Fortune
Chedsoye turned hither and thither in
search of that which she never could
find. The wide Lybian desert held
upon its face a loneliness, a desolation,
less mournful than that which reigned
Within her heart.
“Hush! We are growing sentiment-
al,” warned the mother. “Besides,
believe we are attracting attention
Her glance swept a half-circle com-
placently.
“Pardon me! I should be sorry to
draw attention to you, knowing how
you abhor It”
"My child, learn from me; temper is
the arch-enemy of smooth complex-
ions. Jones—it makes you laugh
"It is a homely, honest name.”
*T grant that. But a Percival Alger-
non Jones!” Mrs. Chedsoye laughed
softly. It was one of those pleasant
sounds that caused persons within
hearing to wait for it to occur again.
“Come; let us go up to the room. It
Is a dull, dusty Journey In from Port
Said.”
Alone, Fortune was < certain that for
her mother her heart knew nothing
but hate. Neglect, Indifference, in-
justice, misunderstanding, the chill
repellence that always met the least
outreaching of the child’s affections,
the unaccountable disappearances,
the terror of the unknown, the blank
wall of Ignorance behind which she
was always kept, upon these hate had
builded her dark and . brooding re-
treat, Yet, never did the mother come
within the radius of her sight that she
did not fall under the spell of
strange fascination, enchaining, fight
against it how she might. A kindly
touch of the hand, a single mother-
smile, and she would have flung her
arms about the other woman’s neck.
But the touch and the mother-smile
never came. She knew, she under-
stood; she wasn’t wanted, she hadn't
been wanted in the beginning; to her
mother she was as the young of ani-
mals, Interesting only up to that time
when they could stand alone. That
the mother never made and held
feminine friendship's was in nowise
astonishing. Beauty and charm, such
as she possessed, served immediately
to •tlmulate envy in other women’s
hearts. And that man of £il stations
in life flocked about her, why, it is
the eternal tribute demanded of beau-
ty. Here and there the men were not
all the daughter might have wished.
Often they burnt sweet flattery at her
shrine, tentatively; but as she coolly
stamped out these Incipient fires,
they at length came to regard her as
one regards the beauty of a frosted
window, as a thing to admire and
praise in passing. One ache always
abided; the bitter knowledge that had
she met in kind smile for smile and
jest for Jest, she might have been her
mother's boon companion. But deep
back in some hidden chamber of her
heart lay a secret dread of such a
step, a dread which, whenever she
strove to analyze it, ran from under
her investigating touch, as little balls
of quicksilver run from under the
pressure of a thumb.
She was never without the comforts
of life, well-fed, well-dressed, well-
housed, and often her mother flung
her some Jeweled trinket which (again
that sense of menace) she put away,
but never wore. The bright periods
were when they left her in the little
villa near Mentone, with no one but
her old and faithful nurse. There,
with her horse, her book's and her
flowers, she was at peace. Week into
week and month into month she was
let be. Never a letter came, save
from some former schoolmate who
was coming over and wanted letters
of introduction to dukes and duchess-
es. If she smiled over these letters
it wae with melancholy; for the dukes
and duchesses, who fell within her
singular orbit, were not the sort to
whom one gave letters of introduction.
Where her mother went she never
had the least idea. She might be in
any of the great ports of the world,
anywhere between New York and
Port Said. The major generally dis-
appeared at the same time. Then,
perhaps, she’d come back from a
pleasant tram-ride over to Nice and
find them both at the villa, maid and
luggage. Mayhap a night or two, and
off they’d go again; never a word
about their former Journey, uncom-
municative, rather quiet These ab-
sences, together with the undemon-
strative reappearances, used to hurt
Fortune dreadfully. It gave her a
clear proof of where she stood, exactly
nowhere. The hurt had lessened with
the years, and now she didn’t care
much. Like as not they would drag
her out of Eden for a month or two,
for what true reason she never could
quite fathom, unless it was that at
times her mother liked to have the
daughter near her as a foil.
At rare intervals she saw steel-eyed,
grim-mouthed men wandering up and
down before the gates of the Villa
BUM
ky HAROLD MCGRATH
of HEARTS AND /AA5KS
<p/w ON THE BOX .
Ilkisfraliorvs by M.G.Kirrrjsneii_ . . .
COPYRIGHT 1911 Ay BOBEhS - AAERRILL COMPANY •
There was one man more persistent
than the others. Her mother called
him Horace, which the major mel-
lowed into Hoddy. He was tall, blond,
good-looking, a devil-may-care, edu-
cated, witty, amusing; and in evening
dress he appeared to be what it was
quite evident he had once been, a
gentleman. At first she thought it
strange that he should make her, in-
stead of her mother, his confidante.
As to what vocation he pursued, she
did not know, for he kept sedulous
guard over his tongue; but his past,
up to that fork In the road where man-
hood says good-by to youth, was hers.
And In this direction, clever and artful
as the mother was, she sought in vain
to wrest this past from her daughter’s
lips. To the mother, it was really neo-
essary for her to know who this man
really was, had been, knowing thor-
oughly as she did what he was now.
Persistent he undeniably was, but
never coarse nor rude. Since that
time he had come back from the
casino at Monte Carlo, much the worse
for wine, she feared him; yet, in spite
of this fear, she had for him a vague
liking, a hazy admiration. Whatever
his faults might be, she stood witness
to his great physical strength and
courage. He was the only man, among
all those who appeared at the Villa
Fanny and immediately vanished, who
returned again. And he, too, soon
grew to he a part of this unreal drama,
arriving mysteriously one day and de-
parting the next.
That a drama was being enacted un-
der her eyes she no longer doubted;
but it was as though she had taken
her seat among the audience In the
middle of the second act. She could
make neither head nor tall to it
Whenever she accompanied her
mother upon these impromptu Jour-
neys, her character, or rather her at-
titude, underwent a change. She
swept aside her dreams; she accepted
the world as It was, saw things as
they wore; laughed, but without merri-
ment; jested, but with the venomed
point. It was the reverse of her real
character to give hurt to any living
thing, but during these forced march-
es, as the major humorously termed
them, and such they were In truth,
she could no more stand against giv-
ing the cruel stab than, when alone
in her garden, she could resist the
tender pleasure of succoring a fallen
butterfly. She was especially happy
in finding weak spots in her mother’s
*
she had often heard him referred to
as “that brute’ or “that fool” or “that
drunken Imbecile.” If a portrait of
him existed, Fortune had not yet seen
It She visited his lonely grave once
a year, in the Protestant cemetery,
and dreamily tried to conjure up what
nmnner of man he had been. One day
she plied her old Italian nurse with
questions.
“Handsome? Yes, but it was all so
long ago, cara mia, that I can not
describe him to you.”
“Did he drink?” Behind this ques-
tion there was no sense of moral
obloquy as applying to the dead.
“Sainted Mary! didn’t all men drink
their very souls Into purgatory those
unreligious days?”
"Had he any relatives?”
“I never heard of any.”
"Was he rich?”
"No; but when the signora, your
mother, married him she thought he
was.”
It was not till later years that For-
tune grasped the true significance of
this statement. It illumined many
pages. She dropped all investigations,
concluding wisely that her mother, if
she were minded to speak at all, could
supply only the incidents, the details.
It was warm, balmy, like May In the
northern latitudes. Women wore
white dresses and carried sunshades
over their shoulders. A good band
played airs from the new light-operas,
and at one side of the grand-stand
were tea-tables under dazzling linen.
Fashion was out. Not all her votaries
enjoyed polo, but it was absolutely
necessary to pretend that they did.
When they talked they discussed the
Spanish dancer who paraded back
and forth across the tea-lawn. They
discussed her jewels, her clothes, her
escort, and quite frankly her mcrrals,
the dark beauty of a high-class Span-
iard, possessing humor, trenchant com-
ment, keen deduction and application;
worldly, cynical, high-bred. The stu-
dent of nations might have tried in
vain to place her. She spoke the
French of the Parisians, the Italian
of the Florentines, the German of the
Hanoverians, and her English was the
envy of Americans aqd the wonder of
the Londoners. The daughter fell be-
hind her but little, but she was more
reserved.
As Fortune sat beside the young col-
lector that afternoon, she marveled
why they had given him Percival Al-
gernon. Jones was all right, solid and
substantial, but the other two turned
It into ridicule. Still, what was the
matter with Percival Algernon? His-
tory had given men of these names
mighty fine things to accomplish.
Then why ridicule? Was It due to the
perverted angle of vision created by
wits and humorists in the comic week-
lies, who were eternally pillorying
these pnhappy prefixes to ordinary
cognomens? And why this pillorying?
She hadn’t studied the subject suf-
ficiently to realize that the business
of the humorist is not so much to
amuse as to warn persons against be-
coming ridiculous. And Percival Al-
gernon Jones was all of that It re-
solved Itself Into a matter of values,
then. Had his surname been Mont-
morency, Percival Algernon would
have fitted as a key to its lock. She
smiled. No one but a fond mother
would he guilty of such a crime. And
if she ever grew to know him well
enough, she was going to ask him all
about this mother.
What interest had her own mother
In this harmless young man? Oh,
some day she would burst through this
web, this jungle; some day she would
see beyond the second act! What
then? she never troubled to ask her-
self; time enough when the moment
arrived.
"I had an Interesting adventure
last night, a most interesting one,”
There Weren’t Two Other Women In AH
Two.
Cairo to Compare With These
Fanny, but they never rang the bell,
nor spoke to her when she passed
them on the street If she talked of
these men, her mother and the major
would exchange amused glances, noth-
ing more.
If, rightly or wrongly, she hated her
mother, she despised her uncle, who
was ever bringing to the villa men of
money, but of coarse fiber, ostensibly
with the view of marrying her off.
But Fortune had her dreams, and she
was aulte content to wait
armor, and she never denied herself
the thrust. Mrs. Chedsoye enjoyed
these sharp encounters, for It must
be added that she gave as good as
she took, and more often than not her
thrusts bit deeper and did not always
heal.
Fortune never asked questions rela-
tive to the family finances. If she
harbored any doubts as to their origin,
to the source of their comparative lux-
ury, she never put these Into speech.
She had never seen her father, but
“I Expect Every Hour to Hear of Some One Arriving Prom Bagdad.*1
which of the four was by all odds the began George, who was no longer the
most popular theme. All agreed that j shy, blundering recluse. They were
she was handsome In a bold way. This
modification invariably distinguishes
the right sort of women from the
wrong sort, from which there is no ap-
peal to a higher court. They could
well afford to admit of her beauty,
since the dancer was outside what is
called the social pale, for all that her
newest escort was a prince incognito.
They also discussed the play at bridge,
the dullness of this particular season,
the possibility of war between Eng-
land and Germany. And some one
asked others who were the two well-
gowned women down in front, sitting
on either side of the young chap in
pearl-grey. No one knew. Mother and
daughter, probably. Anyhow, they
knew something about good clothes.
George was happy. Be was proud,
too. He saw the glances, the nods of
approval. He basked in a kind of
sunshine that was new. What an ass
he had been all his life! To have
been afraid of women Just because
he was Percival Algernon! What he
should have done was to have gone
forth boldly, taken what pleasures he
found, and laughed with the rest of
them.
There weren't two other women in
all Cairo to compare with these two.
The mother, shapely, elegant, with
on the way back to town.
“Tell it me,” said Mrs. Chedsoye.
He leaned over from his seat beside
the chauffeur of the hired automobile.
(Hang the expense on a day like
this!) “A fellow brought me a rug
last night, one of the rarest outside
the museums. How and where he got
it I’m not fully able to state. But
he had been in a violent struggle
somewhere, arms slashed, shins bat-
tered. He admitted that he had gone
in where many shapes of death
lurked. It was a bit irregular. I
bought the rug, however. Some one
else would have snatched it up If I
hadn't I wanted him to recount the
adventure, but he smiled and refused.
I tell you what It Is, these eastern
ports are great places,”
“How interesting!" Mrs. Chedsoye’s
color was not up to the mark. "He
was not seriously wounded?”
“Oh, no. He looks like a tough In-
dividual. I mean, a chap strong and
hardy enough to pull himself out of
pretty bad holes. He needed the
money.”
“Did he give his name?” asked For-
tune.
“Yes; hut no doubt it was assumed.
Ryanne, and he spelt it with a^n *ne/
and humorously explained why he did
so.”
"Is he young, old, good-looking, or
what?”
Mrs. Chedsoye eyed her offspring
through narrowed lids.
“I should say that he was about
thirty-five, tall, something of an ath-
lete; and there remains some Indica-
tions that In the flush of youth he was
handsome. Odd. He reminded me of
a young man who was on the varsity
eleven—foot-baller—when I entered
my freshman year. I didn’t know him,
but I was a great admirer of his from
the grand-stand. Horace Wadsworth
was his name.”
Horace Wadsworth. Fortune had
the sensation of being astonished at
something she had expected to hap-
pen.
Just before going down to dinner
that night, Fortune turned to her
mother, her chin combative In its
angle.
‘1 gave Mr. Jones a hundred and
fifty pounds out of that money you
left In my care. Knowing how forget-
ful you are, I took the liberty of at-
tending to the affair myself.”
She expected a storm, but Instead
her mother viewed her with apprais-
ing eyes. Suddenly she laughed mel-
lowly. Her sense of humor was tocc
excitable to resist so delectable a sit-
uation.
"You told him, of course, that the
money came from me?” demanded
Mrs. Chedsoye. when she could con-
trol her voice.
“Surely, since It did come from
you.”
"My dear, my dear, you are to me
like the song in the Mikado;” and she
hummed lightly—
“ "To make the prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of Innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment 1’
“Am I a prisoner, then?”
“Whatever you like; it can not be
said that I ever held you on the leash,”
taking a final look Into the mirror.
"What Is the meaning of this rug?
You and I know who stole it”
“I have explicitly warned you, my
child, never to meddle with affairs
that do not concern you.”
“Indirectly, some of yours da You
are in love with Ryanne, as he calls
himself” ‘ -—3~-
“My dear, you do not usually stoop
to such vulgarity. And are you cep
tain that he has any other name?”
“If I were I should not tell you.”
“Oh!”
“A man will tell the woman he
loves many things he will not tell
the woman he admires.”
“As wise as the serpent” bantered
the mother; but she looked again into
the mirror to see if her color was still
what it should be. “And whom does
he admire?” the Mona Lisa smile how*
ering at the corners of her lips.
“You,” evenly.
Mi's. Chedsoye thought for a mo-
ment thought deeply and with new
Insight. It was no longer a child but
a woman, and mayhap she, had played
upon the taut strings of the young
heart once too often. Still, she was
unafraid.
“And whom does he love?”
“Me. Shall I get you the rouge,
mother?”
Still with that unchanging smile,
the woman received the stab. “My
daughter,” as if speculatively, “you
will get on. You haven't been my pu-
pil all these years for nothing. Let
us go down to dinner.”
Fortune, as she silently followed,
experienced a sense of disconcertion
rather than of elation.
CHAPTER VI,
't<0>
Moonlight and Poetry.
A ball followed dinner that nighty
Wednesday. The ample lounging*
room filled up rapidly after coffee;
officers in smart uniforms and spurs,
whose principal function In times of
peaoe Is to get In everybody’s way,
rowel exposed ankles, and demolish
lace ruffles, Egyptians and Turks and
sleek Armenians In somber western
frock and scarlet eastern fez or tap
boosh, women of all colors (meaning,
as course, as applied) and shapes and
tastes, the lean and the fat, the tall
and short, such as Billy Taylor is said
to have kissed in all the ports, and
tail-coats of as many styles as Jo-
seph’s had patches. George coulfa dis-
tinguish his compatriots by the fit of
the trousers round the instep; the
Englishman had his fitted at the
waist and trusted in Providence fpr
the hang of the rest This trifling de-
tective work rather pleased George.
The women, however, were all Eves
to his eye; liberal expanses of beauti-
ful white skin, the bare efffect being
modified by a string of pearls or diar
monds or emeralds, and hair which
might or might not have been wholly
their own. He waited restlessly for
the reappearance of Mrs. Chedsoye
and her daughter. All was right with
tile world, except that he was to sail
altogether too soon. His loan had
been returned, and he knew that his
former suspicions had been most un-
worthy. Mrs. Chedsoye had never
received his note.
(TO BEJ CONTINDjBDtJ»
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The Refugio Review. (Refugio, Tex.), Vol. 5, No. 46, Ed. 1 Friday, January 24, 1913, newspaper, January 24, 1913; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth846837/m1/3/: accessed July 11, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Dennis M. O’Connor Public Library.