The Tyranny of Weakness | Page 3

apart. Later as
she mixed for the General the night-cap toddy, which was an institution
hallowed by long usage, she commented on it.
"I'm afraid Stuart isn't well," she volunteered. "He's not a moody boy
by nature, and he doesn't seem himself to-day. Perhaps we had better
send him to Doctor Heathergill. It wouldn't do for him to fall ill just
when he's starting to college."
The General studied the toddy as though it held the secrets of a seer's
crystal. "Your very good health, my dear." He raised the glass and
about his gray eyes came the star-point wrinkles of an amused smile, "I
noticed that Stuart didn't ride over to see the little Williams girl to-night.
Wasn't that unusual?"
Mrs. Farquaharson nodded her head. "He must have been feeling
positively ill," she declared. "Nothing less could have kept him away."
But the father, who had never before shown evidence of a hard heart,
permitted his quizzical twinkle to broaden into a frank grin, "With
every confidence in Dr. Heathergill, I doubt his ability to aid our
declining son."
"Then you think--?"
"Precisely so. The little girl from the North has undertaken a portion of
the boy's education which is as painful to him as it is essential."
"He's been perfectly lovely to her," defended the mother indignantly.
"It's a shame if she's hurt him."
The General's face grew grave.
"It's a God's blessing, I think." He spoke thoughtfully now. "Stuart is a
sentimentalist. He lives largely on dreams and poetry and ideals."
"Surely, General--" Sometimes in the moment of serious connubial
debate Mrs. Farquaharson gave her husband his title. "Surely you

wouldn't have him otherwise. The traditions of his father and
grandfathers were the milk on which he fed at my breast."
"By which I set great store, but a child must be weaned. Stuart is living
in an age of shifting boundaries in ideas and life.
"I should hate to see him lower his youthful standards, but I should like
to see him less in the clouds. I should like to see him leaven the lump
with a sense of humor. To be self-consciously dedicated to noble things
and yet unable to smile at one's ego is to be censorious, and to be
censorious is to be offensive."
"But he's just a child yet," argued Stuart's mother. "For all his height
and strength he's hardly more than a boy after all."
"Quite true, yet to-night he's tossing in his bed and breathing like a
furnace because his heart is broken for all time. It's all very well to
swear:
"To love one maiden only, cleave to her And worship her by years of
noble deeds,
but for him that day is still far off. Meanwhile he's got to have his
baptism of fire. It's a mighty good thing for a boy like Stuart to begin
taking a little punishment while he's young. Young hearts, not less than
young bones, mend quicker and better. He's over intense and if he got
the real before he's had his puppy loves it would go hard with him."
CHAPTER II
When Stuart presented himself at breakfast the next morning his eyes
were black-ringed with sleeplessness, but his riding boots were freshly
polished and his scarf tied with extra precision. It was in the mind of
the youngest Farquaharson to attain so personable an appearance that
the lady who had cast aside his love should be made to realize what she
had lost as they passed on the highway.
Then he went to the stables to have Johnny Reb saddled and started

away, riding slowly. When he came in view of the house which she
sanctified with her presence, a gray saddle mare stood fighting flies and
stamping by the stone hitching post in front of the verandah, and each
swish of the beast's tail was a flagellation to the boy's soul. The mare
belonged to Jimmy Hancock and logically proclaimed Jimmy's
presence within. Heretofore between Stuart and Jimmy had existed a
cordial amity, but now the aggrieved one remembered many things
which tainted Jimmy with villainy and crassness. Stuart turned away,
his hand heavy on the bit, so that Johnny Reb, unaccustomed to this
style of taking pleasure sadly, tossed his head fretfully and widened his
scarlet nostrils in disgust.
Ten minutes later the single and grim-visaged horseman riding north
came upon a pair riding south. Johnny Reb's silk coat shone now with
sweat, but his pace was sedate. The love-sick Stuart had no wish to
travel so fast as would deny the lady opportunity to halt him for
conversation. Conscience and Jimmy were also riding slowly and
Stuart schooled his features into the grave dignity of nobly sustained
suffering. No Marshal of France passing the Emperor's reviewing stand
ever rode with a