Democratic, atc
_—= .]
Bellefonte, Pa., November 20, 1925.
A ——
TRISTESSE.
. Today I'm sad, and wherefore sad,
. Since ull in nature seems so glad?
The sun its cheerful radiance sheds,
And earth once more its beauty weds.
The hill tops glean in burnished gold,
And smile though they are stern and old;
The autumn woods, and meadows fair,
Still summer’s lingering vestments wear.
The river mocks the azure sky,
And mimic clouds go sailing by
Within crystal depths, and why
Wears not my soul a mimic sky?
Yet I am sad; and wherefore sad,
Since earth and sky and stream are
glad?
Tis not that some past pain renewed
With sorrow has my soul imbued.
Tis not that some dear friend or kin
Now sleeps the charnel house within;
Whose once glad voice and cheerful smile
No more life’s weary hours beguile.
But ’tis alas! my native land,
For which my father’s drew the brand,
Dishonored is, and bartered, sold,
Her friend’s rights for British gold.
—H. H. G.
ONE OF MY OLDEST FRIENDS.
All afternoon Marion had been hap- |
py. She wandered from room to room
of their little apartment, strolling into
the nursery to help the nurse-girl feed
the children from dripping spoons, and
then reading for a while on their new
sofa, the most extravagant thing they | 28
had bought in their five years of mar-
riage.
When she heard Michael’s step in
the hall she turned her head and list-
ened; she liked to hear him walk, care-
fully always as if there were children
sleeping close by.
« “Michael.”
“Oh—hello.” He came into the
room, a tall, broad, thin man of thirty
with a high forehead and kind black
eyes.
“I've got some news for you,” he
said immediately. “Charley Hart's
getting married.”
“No!”
He nodded.
“Who’s he marrying ?"
“One of the litle Lawrence girls
from home.” He hesitated. “She’s
arriving in New York to-morrow and
I think we ought to do something for
them while she’s here. Charley’s
about my oldest friend.”
“Let’s have them up for dinner—”
“I’d like to do something more than
that,” he interrupted. “Maybe a thea-
ter party. You see—” Again he
hesitated. “It'd be a nice courtesy to
Charley.”
“All right,” agreed Marion, “but we
mustn’t spend much—and I don’t think
we're under any obligation.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I mean,” went on Marion, “we—we
hardly see Charley any more. We
hardly see him at all.” :
“Well, you know how it is in New
York,” explained Michael apologet-
ically. “He’s just as busy as I am.
He has made a big name for himself
and I suppose he’s pretty much in de-
mand all the time.”
They always spoke of Charley Hart
as their oldest friend. Five years be-
fore, when Michael and Marion were
first married, the three of them had
come to New York from the same
Western city. For over a year they
had seen Charley nearly every day and
no domestic adventure, no uprush of
their hopes and dreams, was too in-
significant for his ear. His arrival in
times of difficulty never failed to give
a pleasant, humorous cast to the sit-
uation.
Of course Marion’s babies had
made a difference, and it was several
years now since they had called up
Charley at midnight to say that the
pipes had broken or the ceiling was
falling in on their heads; but so grad-
ually had they drifted apart that
Michael still spoke of Charley rather
proudly as if he saw him every day.
or a while Charley dined with them
once a month and all three found a
great deal to say; but the meetings
never broke up any more with, “I’ll
give you a ring to-morrow.” Instead
it was, “You’ll have to come to dinner
more often,” or even, after three or
four years, “We’ll see you soon.”
_ “Oh, I'm perfectly willing to give a
little party,” said Marion now, looking
speculatively about her. “Did you
suggest a definite date?”
“Week from Saturday.” His dark
eyes roamed the floor vaguely. “We
can take up the rugs or something.”
“No.” She shook her head. “We'll
have a dinner, eight people, very
formal and everything, and after-
wards we’ll play cards.”
She was already speculating on
whom to invite. Charley of course,
being an artist, probably saw inter-
esting people every day.
“We could have the Willoughbys,”
she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on
the stage or something—and he writes
movies,”
“No—that’s not it,” objected Mich-
ael. “He probably meets that crowd
at lunch and dinner every day until
he’s sick of them. Besides, except for
the Willoughbys, who else like that
do we know! I've got a better idea.
Let’s collect a few people who've drift-
ed down here from home. They’ve all
followed Charley’s career and they’d
probably enjoy seeing him again. I'd
like them to find out how natural and
unspoiled he is after all.”
After some discussion they agreed
on this plan and within an hour Maxr-
ion had her first guest on the tele-
phone:
“It's to meet Charley Hart’s fian-
cee,” she explained. “Charley Hart,
the artist. You see, he’s one of our
oldest friends.”
As she began her preparations her
enthusisam grew. She rented a serv-
ing-maid to assure an impeccable-ser-
vice and persuaded the neighborhood |
florist '- «vime in person ana arrange
the flowers. All the “people from
home” had accepted eagerly and the
number of guests had swollen to ten.
“What'll we talk about, Michaell”
she demanded nervously on the eve of
the party. “Suppose everything goes
wrong and everybody gets mad and
goes home ?”
He laughed.
“Nothing will. You see, these peo-
ple all know éach other—”
The phone on the table asserted it-
self and Michael picked up the receiv-
er.
“Hello * * * why, hello, Charley.”
Marion sat up alertly in her chair.
“Is that so? Well, I'm very sorry.
I'm very, very sorry. * * * I hope it’s
nothing serious.”
“Can’t he come ?” broke out Marion.
“Sh!” Then into the phone, “Well,
it certainly is too bad, Charley. No,
it’s no trouble for us at all. We're
just sorry your ill.”
With a dismal gesture Michael re-
placed the receiver.
“The Lawrence girl had to go home
last night and Charley’s sick in bed
with the grip.”
“Do you mean he can’t come?”
“He can’t come.”
Marion’s face contracted suddenly
and her eyes filled with tears.
“He says he’s had the doctor all
day,” explained Michael dejectedly.
“He’s got fever and they didn’t even
want him to go to the telephone.”
“I don’t care,” sobbed Marion. “I
think it’s terrible. After we've invit-
ed all these people to meet him.”
“People can’t help being sick.”
“Yes they can,” she wailed illogic-
ally, “they can help it some way. And
if the Lawrence girl was going to
leave last night why didn’t he let us
know then?”
“He said she left unexpectedly. Up
to yesterday afternoon they both in-
tended to come.”
“I don’t think he c-cares a bit. Ill
bet he’s glad he’s sick. If he'd cared
he’d have brought her to see us long
0.”
She stood up suddenly.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she assur-
ed him vehemently, “I’m just going to
telephone everybody and call the
whole thing off.”
“Why, Marion—"
But in spite of his half-hearted pro-
tests she picked up the phone book
2nd began looking for the first num-
er.
They bought theatre tickets next
day hoping to fill the hollowness which
would invest the evening. Marion had
wept when the unintercepted florist
arrived at five with boxes of flowers
and she felt that she must get out of
the house to avoid the ghosts who
would presently people it. In silence
they ate an elaborate dinner composed
of all the things that she had bought
for the party.
“It’s only eight,” said Michael after-
wards, “I think it’d be sort of nice if
we dropped in on Charley for a min-
ute, don’t you?”
“Why, no,” Marion answered, start-
led, “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Why not? If he’s seriously sick
I'd like to se how well he’s being tak-
en care of.”
She saw that he had made up his
mind, so she fought down her instinct
against the idea and they taxied to a
tall pile of studio apartments on Mad-
ison Avenua.
“You go in in,” urged Marion nerv-
4 ously; “I'd rather wait out here.”
“Please come in.”
“Why? He'll be in bed and he
doesn’t want any women around.”
“But he’d like to see you—it’d cheer
him up. And he’d know that we un-
derstood about tonight. He sounded
awfully depressed over the phone.”
He urged her from the cab.
“Let’s only stay a minute,” she
whispered tensely as they went up in
the elevator. “The show starts at
half past eight.”
“Apartment on the right,” said the
elevator man.
They rang the bell and waited. The
door opened and they walked directly
into Charley Hart’s great studio room.
It was crowded with people; from
end to end ran a long lamp-lit dinner
table strewn with ferns and young
roses, from which a gay murmur of
laughter and conversation arose into
the faintly smoky air. Twenty wom-
en in evening dress sat on one side in
a row chatting across the flowers at
twenty men, with an elation born of
the sparkling Burgundy which dripped
from many bottles into thin chilled
glass. Up on the high narrow balco-
ny which encircled the room a string
quartet was playing something by
Stravinski in a key that was pitched
just below the women’s voices and
filled the air like an audible wine.
The door had been opened by one of
the waiters, who stepped back defer-
entially from what he thought were
two belated guests—and immediately
a handsome man at the head of the
table started to his feet, napkin in
hand, and stood motionless, staring
toward the new-comers. The conver-
sation faded into half silence and all
eyes followed Charley Hart’s to the
couple at the door. Then, as if the
spell was broken, conversation resum-
ed, gathering momentum word by
word—the moment was over.
“Let's get out!” Marion’s low, ter-
rified whisper came to Michael out of
a void and for a minute he thought he
was possessed by an illusion, that
there was no one in the room but
Charley after all. Then his eyes
cleared and he saw that there were
many people here—he had never seen
so many! The music swelled sudden-
ly into the tumult of a great brass
band and a wind from the loud horns
seemed to blow against them; with-
out turning he and Marion each made
one blind step backward into the hall,
pulling the door to after them.
“Marion—!"
She had run toward the elevator,
stood with one finger pressed hard
against the bell which rang through
the hall like a last high note from the
music inside. The door of the apart-
ment opened suddenly and Charley
Hart came out into the hall.
“Michael!” he cried, “Michael and
Marion, I want to explain! Come in-
side. I want to explain, I tell you.”
He talked excitedly—his face was
flushed and his mouth formed a word
or two that did not materialize into
sound. J
“Hurry up, Michael,” came Marion's
voice tenzely from the elevator,
“Let me explain,” cried Charley |
frantically. “I want—"
Michael moved away from him—the '
elevator came and the gate clanged
open.
PY ou act as if I'd committed some
J
¥ NW
OCTOBER
GEORGE BARR
Mc CUTCHEON
4
\
\ J
Sd
RA
NARMER = Uf]
MRR \
i HA “>
MYSTERIOUS Gypsy fortune teller
foretold the future of Oliver October
Baxter on the day he was bom.
She predicted for him much of the good
things of life —love, wealth and power.
But angered by some slighting remark,
she turned fiercely to Baxter, senior, and
shouted: “But that 1s not alll”
What else she predicted furnishes the
framework for one of the most dramatic
plots of all the popular novels by George
Barr McCutcheon.
Start Reading ‘Oliver October’ as a Serial in
the “Democratic Watchman,” beginning next week.
crime.” Charley was following Mi-
chael along the hall. “Can’t you un-
derstand that this is all an accidental
situation ?”
“It’s all right,” Michael muttered,
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Charley’s voice rose
with exasperation. He was working
up anger against them so as to justify
his own intolerable position. “You're
going away mad and I asked you to
come in and join the party. Why did
you come up here if you won't come
in? Why did you?”
Michael walked into the elevator.
“Down, please!” cried Marion. “Oh,
I want to go down, please!”
The gate clanged shut.
They told the taxi-man to take them
directly home—neither of them could
have endured the theatre. Driving
up-town to their apartment, Michael
buried his face in his hands and tried
to realize that the friendship which
had meant so much to him was over.
He saw now that it had been over for
some time, that not once during the
past year had Charley sought their
company and the shock of the discov-
ery far outweighed the affront he had
received.
When they reached home, Marion,
who had not said a word in the taxi,
led the way into the living-room and
motioned for her husband to sit down.
“I'm going to tell you something
that you ought to know,” she said.
“If it hadn’t been for what happened
tonight I'd probably never have told
Jou--but now I think you ought to
ear the whole story.” She hesitated.
“In the first place, Charley Hart
wasn’t a friend of yours at all.”
; “What?” He looked up at her dul-
y.
“He wasn’t your friend,” she repeat-
ed. “He hasn’t been for years. He
was a friend of mine.”
“Why, Charley Hart was—"
“I know what you're going to say—
that Charley was a friend to both of
us. But it isn’t true. I don’t know
how he considered you at first but he
stopped being your friend three or
four years ago.”
“Why—" Michael’s eyes glowed
with astonishment. “If . that's true,
why was he with us all the time?”
On aovvaais ol lias,’ ado Mas?
steadily.
“What?” Michael laughed incredu-
lously. “You're imagining things. I
know how he used to pretend in a kid-
way:
“It wasn’t kidding,” she interrupt-
3, Ton
“He was in love with me.” |
ed, “not underneath. It began that
way—and it ended by his asking me
to run away with him.”
Michael frowned.
“Go on,” he said quietly, “I suppose
this is true or you wouldn’t be telling
me about it—but it simply doesn’t
seem real. Did he just suddenly be-
gin to—to—"
He closed his mouth suddenly, una-
ble to say the words.
“It began one night when we three
were out dancing,” Marion hesitated.
“And at first I thoroughly enjoyed it.
He had a faculty for noticing things—
noticing dresses and hats and the new
ways I'd do my hair. He was good
company. He could always make me
feel important, somehow, and attract-
ive. Don’t get the idea that I prefer-
red his company to yours—I didn’t. I
knew how completely selfish he was,
and what a will-o’-the-wisp. But I
encouraged him, I suppose—I thought
it was fine. It was a new angle on
Charley, and he was amusing at it just
as he was at everything he did.”
“Yes—" Michael with an ef-
fort, “I suppose it was—nhilariously
amusing.”
“At first he liked you just the same.
It didn’t occur to him that he was do-
ing anything treacherous to you. He
wanted to take me to dinner without
you along—and it couldn’t be done.
Well, that sort of thing went on for
over a year.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing happened. That’s why he
stopped coming to see us any more.”
Michael rose slowly to his feet.
“Do you mean—"
“Wait a minute. If you'll think a
little you’ll see it was bound to turn
out that way. When he saw that I
was trying to let him down easily so
that he’d be simply one of our oldest
friends again, he broke away. He
didn’t want to be one of our oldest |
friends—that time was over.”
“I see.”
gan biting nervously at her lip, “that’s
all. I thought this thing tonight
would hurt yon less if you understood
t the whole affair.”
Cxes,” Micnuer answered in a duli
voice, “I suppose that’s true.”
ous turn, and when summer came they
went to the country, renting a little
{old farmhouse where the children
was just following a natural impulse |
—that was all. But after a few weeks |
he began to find you in the way. He
Michael's business took a prosper-
RBIs a@,
played all day on a tangled half acre
of grass and trees. The subject of
Charley was never mentioned between
them and as the months passed he re-
ceded to a shadowy background in
‘ their minds.
dropping off to sleep, Michael found
i himself thinking of the happy times
- the three of them had had together
five years before—then the reality
would intrude upon the illusion and
he would be repelled from the subject
with almost physical distaste.
One warm evening in July he lay
dozing on the porch in the twilight. He
had had a hard day at his office and it
was welcome to rest here while the
summer light faded from the land.
At the sound of an automobile he
raised his head lazily. At the end of
the path a local taxicab had stopped
and a young man was getting out.
With an exclamation Michael sat up.
Even in the dusk he recognized those
shoulders, that impatient walk—
“Well, I'm damned,” he said softly.
As Charley Hart came up the gravel
path Michael noticed in a glance that
he was unusually disheveled. His
handsome face was drawn and tired,
his clothes were out of press and he
had the unmistakable look of needing
a good night’s sleep.
He came up on the porch, saw Mi-
chael and smiled in a wan, embarrass-
' eed way.
“Hello Michael.”
Neither of them made any move to
shake hands but after a moment Char-
ley collapsed abruptly into a chair.
“I’d like a glass of water,” he said
: huskily, “it’s hot as hell.”
Without a word Michael went into
the house—returned with a glass of
water which Charley drank in great
: noisy gulps.
“Thanks,” he said, gasping, “I
thought I was going to pass away.”
He looked about him with eyes that
only pretended to take in his sur-
roundings.
“Nice little place you've got here,”
he remarked; his eyes returned to Mi-
chael. “Do you want me to get out 7”
“Why—no. Sit and rest if you want
to. You look all in.”
a am. Do you want to hear about
i?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, I'm going to tell you any-
how,” said Charley defiantly. “That’s
what I came out here for. I'm in
trouble, Michael, and I havent got
anybody to go to except you.”
“Have you tried your friends?”
asked Michael coolly.
“I’ve tried about everybody—every-
body I've had time to go to. God!”
He wiped his forehead with his hand.
“I never realized how hard it was to
raise a simple two thousand dollars.”
“Have you come to me for two
thousand dollars ?”
“Wait a minute, Michael. Wait till
you hear. It just shows you what a
mess a man can get into without
meaning any harm. You see I'm the
treasurer of a society called the In-
dependent Artists’ Benefit—a thing to
help struggling students. There was
a fund, thirty-five hundred dollars,
and it’s been lying in my bank for
over a year. Well, as you know, I live
pretty high—make alot and spend a
speculating a little through a friend
of mine—"
“I don’t know why you’re telling me
all this,” - interrupted Michael impa-
tiently, “I—”
“Wait a minute,
almost through.” He looked at Mi-
chael with frightened eyes. “ I used
that money sometimes without even
realizing that it wasn’t mine. I’ve al-
ways had plenty of my own, you see.
Till this week,” he hesitated, “this
week there was a meeting of this so-
ciety and they asked me to turn over
the money. Well, I went to a couple
of men to try to borrow it and as soon
as my back was turned one of them
blabbed. There was a terrible blow-
up last night. They told me unless I
handed over the two thousand this
morning they’d send me to jail—” His
voice rose and he looked around wild-
ly. “There’s a warrant out for me
now—and if I can’t get the money I'll
kill myself, Michael; I swear to God
I will; I won’t go to prison. I'm an
artist—not a business man.
He made an effort to control his
voice.
“Michael,” he whispered, “you’re
my oldest friend. I haven’t got any
one in the world to turn to but you.”
“You're a little late,” said Michael
uncomfortably, “you didn’t think of
me four years ago when you asked my
wife to run away with you.”
A look of sincere surprise passed
over Charley’s face.
“Are you mad at me about that?”
he asked in a puzzled way. “I thought
you were mad because I didn’t come
to your party.”
Michael did not answer.
“I supposed she'd told you about
that long ago,” went on Charley. “I
couldn’t help it about Marion. I was
lonesome and you two had each other.
Every time I went to your house you’d
tell me what a wonderful girl Marion
was and finally I—I began to agree
with you. How could I help falling in
‘ love with her, when for a year and a
| half she was the only decent girl I
knew?” He looked defiantly at Mi-
chael. “Well, you've got her, haven’t
you. I didn’t take her away, I never
so much as kissed her—do you have to
rub it in?”
“Look here,” said Michael sharply,
“just why should I lend you this mon-
”
ViWen—r Charley hesitated, laugh-
ed uneasily, “I don’t know any exact
reason. I just thought you would.”
“Why should I?”
“No reason at all, I suppose, from
your way of looking at it.”
“That’s the trouble. If I gave it to
' you it would just be because I was
slushy and soft. I'd be doing some-
thing that I don’t want to do.”
“All right,” Charley smiled unpleas-
| antly, “that’s logical. Now that I think
won’t you—I'm
3]
i of it, there’s no reason why you should |
“Well—” Marion stood up and be- | ’ yy
lend it to me. Well—" he shoved his
hands into his coat pocket and throw-
ing his head back slightly seemed to
shake the subject oft like a cap, “I
won't go to prisen—~ond maybe you'll
feel differently alout it tomorrow.”
“Don’t count on that.”
“Qh, I don’t mean I'll ask you again.
I mean something—quite different.”
He nodded his head, turned quickly
and walking down the gravel path was
Sometimes, just before !
lot—and about a month ago I began,
swallowed up in the darkness. Where
the path met the road Michael heard
his footsteps cease as if he were hesi-
tating. Then they turned down the
, road toward the station a mile away.
Michael sank into his chair, bury-
ing his face in his hands. He heard
Marion come out the door.
{ “I listened,” she whispered, “I could
‘not help it. I'm glad you didn’t lend
him anything.”
| She came close to him and would
{have sat down on his lap but an al-
most physical repulsion came over
him and he got up quickly from his
chair.
“I was afraid he’d work on your
sentiment and make a fool of you,”
went on Marion. She hesitated. = “He
hated you, you know. He used to
wish you'd die. I told him that if he
ever said so to me again I'd never see
him any more.”
Michael looked up at her darkly.
“In fact, you were very noble.”
“Why, Michael—”
“You let him say things like that to
you—and then when he comes here,
down and out, without a frieend in the
world to turn to, you say you're glad
I sent him away.”
“It’s because I love you, dear—”
“No it isn’t!” He interrupted sav-
agely. “It’s because hate’s cheap in
yils Word, Yrs got it for
sale. y God! at do you suppo
I think of myself now?” y Ppose
“He’s not worth feeling that way
about.”
“Please go away!” cried Michael
passionately. “I want to be alone.”
Obediently she left him and he sat
down again in the darkness of the
porch, a sort of terror creeping over
him. Several times he made a motion
to get up but each time he frowned
and remained motionless. Then after
another long while he jumped sudden-
ly to his feet, cold sweat starting from
his forehead. The last hour, the
months just passed, were washed
away and he was swept years back in
time. Why they were after Charley
Hart, his old friend. Charley Hart
who had come to see him because he
had no other place to go. Michael
began to run hastily about the porch
in a daze, hunting for his hat and coat.
“Why Charley!” he cried aloud.
He found his coat finally and, strug-
gling into it, ran wildly down the
steps. It seemed to him that Charley
had gone out only a few minutes be-
fore.
“Charley!” he called when he reach-
ed the road, “Charley, come back here.
There’s been a mistake!”
He paused listening. There was no
answer. Panting a little he began to
run doggedly along the road through
the hot night.
It was only half past eight o’clock
but the country was very quiet and
the frogs were loud in the strip of wet.
marsh that ran along beside the road.
The sky was salted thinly with stars
and after a while there would be a
moon, but the road ran among dark
trees and Michael could scarcely see
ten feet in front of him. After a while
he slowed down to a walk, glancing at
the phosphorous dial of his wrist
watch— the New York train was not
gus for an hour. There was plenty of
ime.
In spite of this he broke into an un=
easy run and covered the mile between
his house and the station in fifteen
minutes. It was a little station,
crouched humbly beside the shining
rails in the darkness. Beside it Mich-
ael saw the lights of a single taxi
waiting for the next train.
The platform was deserted and
Michael opened the door and peered in-
to the dim waiting-room. It was
empty.
“That’s funny,” he muttered.
Rousing a sleepy taxi driver, he ask-
ed if there had been anyone waiting
for the train. The taxi driver con-
sidered—yes, there had been a young
man waiting, about twenty minutes
ago. He had walked up and down for
a while, smoking a cigarette, and then
gone away into the darkness.
“That’s funny,” repeated Michael.
He made a megaphone of his hands
and facing toward the wood across the
track shouted aloud.
“Charley!”
There was no answer. He tried
again. Then he turned back to the
ver.
“Have you any idea what direction
he went.”
The man pointed vaugely down the
New York road which ran along be-
side the railroad track.
“Down there somewhere.”
With increasing uneasiness Michael
thanked him and started swiftly along
the road which was white now under
the risen moon. He knew now as sure-
had gone off by himself to die. He
remembered the expression on his face
as he had turned away and the hand
tucked down close in his coat pocket
as if it clutched some menacing thing.
“Charley!” he called in a terrible
voice.
The dark trees gave back no sound.
He walked on past a dozen fields
bright as silver under the moon, paus-
ing every minute to shout and then
waiting tensely for an answer.
It occurred to him that it was fool-
ish to continue in this direction—
Charley was probably back by the sta-
tion in the woods somewhere. Perhaps
it was all imagination, perhaps even
now Charley was pacing the station
platform waiting for the train frem
the city. But some impulse beyond
logic made him continue. More than
that—several times he had the sense
that some one was in front of him,
someone who just eluded him at every
turning, out of sight and earshot, yet
leaving always behind him a dim,
tragic aura of having passed that way.
Once he thought he heard steps among
the leaves on the side of the road but
it was only a piece of vagrant news-
paper blown by the faint hot wind.
It was a stifling night—the moon
seemed to be beating hot rays down
upon the sweltering earth. Michael
| took off his coat and threw it over his
! arm as he walked. A little way ahead
. of him now was a stone bridge over
' the tracks and beyond that an inter-
ininable ue of leicphione pu:és which
stretched in diminishing perspective
toward an endless horizon. Well, he
would walk to the bridge and then give
up. He would have given up before
except for the story he had that some-
(Continued om page 7, Col. 2.)
ly as he knew anything that Charley .