a —
By Charles Neville Buck
I WARE
Cumberlands
RES A
With Illustrations
from Photographs of Scenes
in the Play,
“sc ‘
EN ———
(Copyright, to13. by W, J. Want & Co.)
0
SYNOPSIS.
——
On Misery creek Sally Miller finds
George Lescott, a Iandacape painter, un-
conscious. Jesse Purvy of the Hollman
clan has been shot and Samson is sus-
pected of the crime. Bamson denies it.
The shooting breaks the truce in
Hollman-South feud. Lescott discovers
artistfc ability in Samson. Samson
thrashes Tamarack Spicer and denounces
him as the “truce-buster’ who shot Purvy,
Samson tells the South clan that he is
&oing to leave the mountains. Lescott
goes home to New York. Samson bids
Spicer and Sally farewell and follows. In
much of city ways Drennie Lescolt per.
suades Wilfred Horton, her lettante
lover, to do a man's work in » world,
Prompted by her love Sally te 18 her-
self to write, Horton throws }
the business world and becomes well
hated by predatory flnanclers and politi-
clans. At a Bohemian resort Samson
meets Willlam Farbish,
asite, and Horton's enemy
spires with others to make
ous, and succeeds. Farbish
and Samson together at
club's shooting lodge. and forces
rupture, expecting Samson
and so rid the politica
of the crusader '
and thrashes the
Farbish con.
Horton jeal-
brings
imo
CHAPTER Xl—Continued.
and befriended me.
I had never known any life except
that of the Cumberland mountains.
Until I met Miss Lescott. I had never
known a woman of your world.
was good to me. She saw that in
spite of my roughness and ignorance |
wanted te learn, and she taught me.
You chose to misunderstand, and dis-
liked me. These men saw that, and
believed that, if they could make you
insult me, they could make me kill
you. As to your part, they succeeded
I didn't see fit to oblige them, but,
now that I've settled with them, I'm
willing to give you satisfaction. Do
we fight now and shake hands after
ward, or do we shake hands
fighting 7”
mountaineer,
“Good God!” he exclaimed at last
“And you are the man 1 undertook to
criticize!” '
“Yeu ain't answered my question,”
suggested Samson South.
“South, if you are willing to shake
hands with me I shall be gra
may as well admit that, if had
You
could hardly have succeeded in mak
ing me feel smaller. 1 have played
into their hands. I have been a damned
fool. 1 have riddled my own self.
respect—and if you can afford to ac-
offering you both.”
“I'm right glad to hear that”
the mountain boy, gravely vy
you I'd just as lef shake hands
fight. . . . But just now I've
80 to the telephone.”
The booth was in the
and, as Horton waited, he
the number for which
calling. Wilfred's face once more
flushed with the old prejudice. Could
it be that Samson meant to tell Adri.
enne Lescott what had transpired?
Was he, after all, the braggart who
boasted of his fights? And, if not.
was it Samson's custom to call her
up every evening for a good-night
message?
the hall, but, after a few
turned,
“I'm glad you liked the show ‘oa
the mountaineer was saying. “No.
nothing special is happening here—
except that the ducks are plentiful.
Yes, 1 like it fine. « Mr.
Horton's here. Wait a minute-f
Euess maybe he'd like to talk to you”
The Kentuckian beckoned to Hor.
ton, and, as he surrendered the re.
celver, left the room. He was think.
ing with a smile of the unconscious
humor with which the girl's voice hag
Just come across the wire:
“lI knew that if You two met each
other you would become friends.”
“1 reckon,” said Samson, ruefully,
when Horton joined him, “we'd better
look around and see how bad those
fellows are hurt in there. They may
need a doctor.” And the two went
back to find several startled servants
assisting to their beds the disabled
combatants, and the next morning
their inquiries elicited the informa-
tion that the gentlemen were all “able
to be about, but were breakfasting in
their rooms.”
Such as looked from their windows
that morning saw an unexpected olf.
max, when the car of Mr. Wilfred
Horton drove away from the club car
rying the man whom they had hoped
to see killed and the man they had
hoped to see kill him. The two ap
peared to be in excellent spirits and
thoroughly congenial as the car rolled
out of sight, and the gentlemen who
were left behind decided that, In view
of the circumstances, the “extraordi-
nary spree” of last night had best go
unadvertised into anclent history,
CHAPTER XII.
said
told
as
got to
same room.
recognized
Samson was
minutes, re
The second year of a new order
brings fewer radical changes than the
first. Samson's work began to forge
out of the ranks of the ordinary and
to show symptoms of a quality which
would some day give it distinction,
| Heretofore his instructors had held
him rigidly to the lHmitations of black
| and white, but now they took off the
| bonds and permitted him the colorful
delight of attempting to express him-
self from the palette, It was like per-
mitting a natural poet to leave prose
{ and play with prosody,
| One day Adrienne looked up from a
| sheaf of his very creditable landscape
studies to inquire suddenly:
{ “Samson, are You a rich man of a
| poor one?”
| He laughed. “So rich,” he told her,
“that unless I can turn some of this
stuff into money within a year or two
I shall have to g0 back to hoeing
corn.”
She nodded gravely,
"Hasn't it occurred to you,” she
demanded, “that in a way you are
{ wasting your gifts? They were talk-
ing about you the other evening-—sev-
eral painters. They all said that you
should be doing portraits.”
The Kentuckian smiled. His mas-
ters had been telling him the same
| thing. He had fallen in love with art
| through the appeal of the skies and
| hills. He had followed its call at the
| proselyting of George Lescott, who
| painted only landscape, Portraiture
seemed a less artistic form of expres-
sion. He said so.
“That may all be
{ conceded, “but you can £0 on with
your landscapes and let your por-
| traits pay the way. And,” she added,
{ “since I am very vain and moderately
rich, 1 hereby commission you to
paint me, just as soon as you learn
! how.”
very true.” she
i Farbish had simply dropped out. Bit
piracy had
| leaked, and he knew that his
| ness was ended and that we
| pocketbooks would no
| his profligate demands,
* ® * ® * wv *
Sally bad started to school
i saw her old sorrel mare making its
| way to and from the general direction
i of
i i
{No one knew how Sally's
bone's rift
morbidly sensitive and a woman
i girls in short skirts, and the
girls were more ady anced than she
{ But she, too, meant to have “Varnin’~
{ a8 much of it as was necessary to sat
| And yet,
{
{ the
the “fotched-on™
‘college” thought her the
| voraciously ambitious pupil they
| 0 fast did she learn. But her studies
:
{ had again been interru
| Grover, her teacher, riding over one
THE
For a moment she sald nothing,
then shook her head again.
“Issue your orders,” he insisted, “1
am waiting to obey.”
She hesitated again,
slowly:
“Have your hair cut. It's the one
uncivilized thing about you."
For an instant Samson's face hard-
ened,
“No,” he said: “1 don't care tg do
that.”
“Oh, very well!” she laughed lightly.
“In that event, of course, you shouldn't
do it.” But her smile faded, and after
ft moment he explained:
“You see, it wouldn't do.”
“What do you mean?
“lI mean that I've got to keep some-
thing as It was to remind me of a prior
claim on my lite.”
For an. instant the girl's face cloud
then said,
ed and grew deeply troubled.
“You don: mean,” she asked, with
than she had meant to show, or real-
ized she was showing—"you don't
mean ® hat you still adhere to ideas of |
the vendetta?" Then she broke off |
with a laugh, a rather nervous laugh. |
"Of course not,” she answered her |
self. “That would be too absurd!” |
“Would it?" asked Samson, simply.
He glanced at hig watch, “Two min- |
utes up,” he announced. “The model] |
By the |
way, may 1 drive with you tomorrow |
afternoon?”
The next afternoon Bamson ran up
the street steps of tha Lescott house |
and rang the bell, and a few moments
later Adrienne appeared. The CAr was |
waiting outside, and, as tha girl came
down the stairs in motor coat and
veil, she paused and her fingers on the
as she
below
with his
The well shaped head
was no longer marred by the mane
was
under the trans
the change the
seemed bolder and higher,
and to her thinking the strength of
the purposeful features was enhanced,
the man
looked at the man who stood
i
close cropped. and
influence of
a point which meant an aban
donment of something akin to prin. |
ciple !
She nothing, but as she took
inn greeting her fingers
his own in handclasp more
said
hand
al
Late that evening, when Samson re. |
studio, he found a mis-
and, as he took
his eyes fell on the postmark
dated from Hixon Kentucky,
the man slowly climbed the
it out
It was
Aas
his hand with a strange sense of mis
had deserted, met in the road
empty “jolt wagon” followed by a
ragged cortege of mounted men and
women, whose faces were still
brious with the effort
mourning. Her question elicited the
information that they were
from the “buryin'"
ler
of
» ® - * * . .
Towards the end of that year Sam.
son undertook his portrait of Adri
enne Lescott. The work was nearing
completion, but it had been agreed
{ that the girl herself
a peep at the canvas
was ready to unveil
condition Often, as
fred Horton idled in
them, and often George Lescott came
criticize, and left without eriticiz
ing. The girl was impatient for the
day when she, too, was to see the ple.
ture, concerning which the three men
maintained so profound a #ecrecy. Bhe
it
in
ske posed.
to
picture would show her not only fea-
tures and expression. but the
i estimate of herself.
| “Do you know. said one day,
{ coming out from behind his easel and
| studying her, through half-closed ayes,
i “I never really began to know You un-
| til now? Analyzing you-~studying you
{in this fashion, not by your words, but
| by your expression your pose, the
| very unconscious essence of your per.
| sonality~—thege things are illuminat.
ing.”
“Although I am not
| she said with a smile,
| studying you, too.
he
painting you,”
“I have been
| As you stand there
before your canvas your own person
ality is revealed—and | have not been
entirely unobservant myself.”
| “And under the X-ray scrutiny of
{ this profound analysis,” he sald with
a laugh, “do you like me?"
“Walt and see,” she retorted.
"At all events”-—he spoke gravely.
“you must try to like me a little, be.
cause I am not what 1 was. The per.
son that I am is largely the creature
of your own fashioning. Of course
you bad very raw material to work
with, and you can't make a slik purse
of"—he broke off and emiled-—"well,
of me, but in time you may at least
get me mercerized a little”
For no visible reason she flushed,
and her next question came a trifle
eagerly :
“Do you mean |
you?”
“Influenced me, Drennie?” he re
peated. “You have done more than
that. You have painted me out and
painted me over.”
She shook her head, and in her eyes
danced a lght of subtle coquetry,
“There are things | have tried to
do, and failed,” she told him.
His eyes showed surprise.
“Perhaps,” he a
dense, and you may have to tell
bluntly what |
know thatsyou
¥
have influenced
-”
am
me
am to do. But you
have only to tell me.”
i
i
The letter was written in the
hand of Brother Spencer
Through its faulty diction ran a plain. |
|
for Samson, though there was no word
Of or criticism. It was plain
Was sent as a matter of cour
who, having proved an
Apostate, scarcely merited such congid
eration It informed him that old
Spicer Bouth had been "mighty pore
I¥.,” but was now better, barring the
breaking of age. Everyone was “tol
erable.” Then came the announce.
ment which the letter had been writ
tent to convey,
The term of the South-Hollman truce
had ended, and it had been
for an indefinite period
“Some your folks
of repre
that it
teay
to one
renewed
of thought thes
they
to give you a say." wrote |
the informant. “But they decided that
it couldn't hardly make no difference
to you, since you have left the moun-
tains, and if you cared anything abott
it, you knew the time, and could of
here Hoping this finds you
well.” i
Samson's face ciouded. He threw
the soiled and scribbled missive down
on the table and sat with unseesing
eyes fixed on the studio wall. So, they |
had cast him out of their councils! |
They already thought of him as one |
who had been. i
In that passionate rush of feeling |
everything that had happened since
he had left Misery seemed artificial!
and dreamlike. He longed for the
realities that were forfeited. He want.
ed to press himself close to the great,
gray shoulders of rock that broke
through the greenery like glants tear
ing off soft raiment. Those were his
people back there. He should be run- |
ning with the wolf pack, not coursing
with beagles.
He had been telling himself that he
was loyal and now he realized that he
was drifting like the lotus eaters.
He rose and paced the floor, with
teeth and hande clenched and the
Sweat atanding out on his forehead.
His advisers had of late been urging
him to go to Paris. He had refused,
and his unconfessed reason had been
that in Paris he could not answer a
sudden call. He would go back to
them now and compel them to admit
his leadership.
Then his eyes fell on the unfinished
portrait of Adrienne. The face gazed
at him with ite grave sweetness; its
fragrant subtlety and its fine-grained
delicacy. Her pictured lips were si
lently arguing for the life he had
found among strangers, and her vie.
tory would have been an easy one, but
for the fact that just now his con
science seemed to be, on the other
side. Samson's civilization two
years old-—a thin veneer over a cen-
tury of feutlalism-—and now the cen
tury was thundering its call of blood
bondage. But, as the man struggled
over the dilemma. the pendulum
swung back. The hundred years had
left, also, a heritage of quickness and
been
bitterness to resent injury and injus-
tice. His own people had cast him
out. They had branded him as the
deserter; they felt no need of him or
his counsel. Very well, {et them have
it so. His problem had been settled
for him. His Gordian knot wae cut,
Sally and his uncle alone had his
address. This letter, casting him out,
must have been authorized by them,
Brother Spencer acting merely as
amanuensis. They, too, had repudi-
ated him-—and, If that were true, ex.
cept for the graves of his parents,
the hills had no tie to hold him,
bis face on his crossed arms,
his shoulders heaved in an agony of
believe in me ef hell froze!”
with his clenched fists.
of ye. I'm done!”
But it was easier to say the words
than to cut the ties
that were knotted about his heart.
With a rankling soul, the mountain
cer left New York
brief note, telling her that he was go-
ing to cross the ocean
pride forbade his pleading for her con.
He
plunged into the art life of the “other
ciously He was trying to learn
much-—and to forget much
One sunny afternoon when Samson
in Quartier Latin for
eight or nine months the concierge of
his lodgings handed him,
through the cour,
the
as he passed
an envelope ad
of |
he
lodg
As he read it he felt a glow
urprige
uri
cott
and, wheeling
skily to his
where he to pack Adri- {
had written that and her
mother and Wilfred Horton were sail
ing him
nless he were too bu ¥, eet their
steamer Within two he was
bound for Lucerne to cross the Italian
frontier by the walters
Lake Maggiore
A few weeks
rienne were standing together by
moonlight the ruin: the Coli
The junketing about Italy had
retraced his step
began
ghie
enne
for Naples, and commanded
to n
hours
slate-blue of
later Samson and Ad
fr
Of
Beum
i
His Eyes Fell on the Postmark.
been charming, and now in that circle
of sepia softness and broken columns
he looked at her and sudden asked
Limself:
“Just what does she mean to you?”
If he had never asked himself that
Question before he knew now that it
must some day be answered Friend
ship had been a good and seemingly
a sullicient definition. Now he was not ;
80 sure that it could remain so
Then his thoughts went back to a
cabin in the hills and a girl in calico
He heard a voice like the voice of a
song bird saying through tears
“1 couldn't live withou® ye, Samson
. a I jest couldn't do hit!”
For a moment he was sick of his life
It seemed that there stood before him, |
in that place of historic wraiths and |
memories, a girl, her eyes sad, but
loyal, and without reproof.
“You look,” said Adrienne. studying
his countenance in the pallor of the,
moonlight, “as though you were see |
ing ghosts.”
“1 am,” sald Samson. “Let's go.”
Adrienne had not yet seen her por
trait. Samson had needed a few hours |
of finishing when he left New York. |
Iy
done away from the model. So it was |
natural that when the party reached
Paris Adrienne should soon insist on
crossing the Pont d’Alexandrs 111 to
his studio near the “Boule Mich” for an’
inspection of her commissioned canvas
For a while she wandered about the
businesslike place, littered with the
gear of the painter's eraft. It was, in
4 way, a form of mind-reading, for
Samson's brush was the tongue of his
soul.
The girl's eyes grew thoughtful as
she saw that he still drew the leering.
saturnine face of Jim Asberry. He
bad not outgrown hate, then? But
she said nothing until he brought out
and set on an easel her own portrait.
For a moment she gasped with sheer
delight for the colorful mastery of the
among his portfolios and stacked can
vases until his return. In a few min
utes she discovered one of those ef
forts which she called his “rebellious
pletures.”
| These were such things as he paint
ted, using no model except memory
| perhaps, not for the making of finished
| pletures, but merely to give outlet to
| his feelings; an outlet which
| men might have found in talk
{ This particular canvas was roughly
{ blocked in, and it was elementally
simple, but each brush stroke had
been thrown against the surface with
| the concentrated fire and energy of a
blow, except the strokes that had
painted the face, and there the brush
had seemed to kiss the canvas The
picture showed eo barefooted girl,
standing, in barbaric simplicity of
dress, in the glare of the arena, while
& gaunt lon crouched eyeing her. Her
head was lifted as though she wero
| Hstening to faraway music In the
| eyes was indomitable courage. That
i eanvas once a declaration of
love, and a miserere Adrienne set
it up beside her own portrait, and as
she studied the two with her chin rest
on her gloved hand, her eyes
Now she knew
in her own
it had been paint
the mind
was at
ing
what she missed more
beautiful likeness
| ed with all the admiration of
the heart-—and this other was
She replaced the sketch where
and Samson return
ing found her busy with litt
Seine
from
Sally!
la gketr hes
1
W Hort
Wilfred
rail of
the
ning from Europe
hold off
me MID
served
my
hrown in some
wearer the goal?”
beave
and
bartion
reflection in
rl} d at the oily of
ihe girl k i O11)
cheeriess Atlantic
found
her head
the leaden and
somber tones
y 3
her eyes. She shook
wearily
‘I'm not
knew,” she said
he
‘1 wish 1
T mently
worth it, Wilfred Let me go
t of your life
can't read her own heart;
utterly selfish to decide upon her own
life ™
“I= it"
foreboding
me ou
he the
alter
question with
all, | was a
you — and South —
you on the doormat
marked ‘Platonic friendship? Have
you done that, Drennje?”
She looked up into his
own were wide and honest an
pain
TO BE CONTIN
put
that
Ye
f
Ha
ir leet
wiped
Her
very
eyes,
d
ED)
Man Seems to Have Much to
Recommend It
He was a lively old chap of past
seventy at a lobster palace table with
a glass of plain water for tipple
"Of course,” he was saying to the
Younger men with him. “I am pot as
; long for this world as you chaps are,
| if you live to be as old as 1 am. but
I have a satisfaction in life that you
haven't I know, because when 1
War in my forties every time | had
anything the matter with me 1 got
scared
“1 was afraid that either t would
that it wag some lingering discase that
Nor was | slone
Every man of
my age had the same feeling. ! think
that comes to most men when they
life a burdex
my
“Youth's carelessness lasts only a
time and a man mighty
goon begins to wonder what will hap-
stay in good shape When a man
ATTORNEYS,
D. » rexvwmy
ATTORNEY AVeaw
BELLAPOWTR En
Glos Bards of Coun Bouse
i
|
i
i
Sb 8800400000000 00000000 00 88a
bbb Abb ALE
less again. Most of what will happen
has happened and he is through with
it, and what is to happen next doesn't
make much diferenre because in the
nature of things it cent last long
whatever it is and the finality comes
a8 a resting spell and a cessation from
the worries of the flesh
“lI know some old men who don't
take the same view of themselves that
I do, and 1 am sorry for them. be
Cause a man owes it to himself 1
think, to quit bothering about giving
up when he knows he bas to do it
whether or no.”
Pleasure in One's Work.
Pleasure in work produces a sym:
pathetic, teachable mental attitude to
ward the task. It makes the atten
tion involuntary, and eases the strain
of attending. It stops the nervous
leaks of worry. One of the secrets of
lasting well is to avold getting stale
and tired and in a mental rut. Pleas
ure gives a sense of freedom that is a
rest, as a wide road rests the driver.
To know a thing thoroughly and at
tain mastership in it, one must be
drawn back to it repeatedly by its at
tractions, and must ind one's powers
technique, and she would have been
hard to please had she not been de
lighted with the conception of her
self mirrored in the canvas.
face through which the soul showed,
and the soul was strong and flawless.
The girl's personality radiated from
the canvas—and yet— A disappointed
litthe look crossed and clouded her
eyes. She was conscious of an in
definable catch of pain at her heart.
Samson stepped forward, and his
waiting eyes, too, were disappointed.
“You don't like ft, Drennie? he
anxiously questioned. But she emiled
in answer, and declared:
“1 love it."
He wert out a few
telephone for ber to
minutes later to
Mrs. Lescott, and
evoked and trained by its inspiration.
~Prof. Edward D. Jones, In Engineer.
ing Magazine.
Biamimow Walres
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