Chapter XVII: The End of the Road

In the golden afternoon sunlight, when tree-shadows stretched long and velvet-soft across the lawns and terraces of Mr. Rose's park, amid all October's blending fragrances and mellow tints, Corrie Rose came home. After all, it was Jack Rupert who put the Mercury Titan in the garage, opposite the house; Corrie yielding his seat to his mechanician.

"I believe I'll let you take her around; I want to go in with my people," the driver explained. "You might as well get established here, you know, since you are going to stay some time. I," it was so long since anyone had seen that teasing mischief sparkling in Corrie's unclouded eyes, "I have grown so used to your gentle, winning ways that I don't know how to get along without you, Rupert."

Rupert settled himself in the great machine, regarding his companion with dry intelligence.

"I've got more respect for your morals than I had, Rose, and less for your sense," he issued final judgment above the clamor of the motor, before sending the car away.

"Right again," Corrie agreed. He turned and looked up at the house.

The three from the limousine were waiting for him upon the columned veranda. Weary, stiff and aching from long exertion, soiled with the dust of course and road, Corrie, victor of that day and of many days, climbed the broad rose-colored steps to them. There was nothing adequate to say, had they been a demonstrative family; as it was, no one considered speech. But at the open door Corrie stopped, turning his bright, clear glance to his father. And Thomas Rose closed his hand on his son's shoulder, so that they crossed the threshold together.

Gerard detained Flavia a pace behind.

"When I see you in the lace gown, I am going to kiss you," he stated firmly. "I do not care how many people are present or where it is. So you had better come down early to the fountain arcade, where I have pictured you more often than you will ever know. Will you, flower-lady?"

"Perhaps," she doubted. "If I think of it."

"Heartsease for thought," said Gerard, and kissed her dimpling mouth.

On the stairs a few minutes later, Corrie overtook his sister and caught her in his arms.

"I need a bath and some fresh rags and--well, everything," he laughed. "I'm not fit to touch--do you mind?"

She clasped her arms around his neck, nestling her soft cheek against the rough, grimy cloth of his driving-suit.

"I love you! Oh, my dear, my dear, if mamma had lived, this year could never have happened! Not to you, nor to me."

He looked into her upturned face, realizing with her the difference that might have been wrought by a mother's clairvoyant tenderness and the link of a wife's understanding between her husband and her children. No, without this lack in the household the year's deception could not have endured. If the chain of Roses had not once been broken, it could not have come so near this later destruction.

"Flavia, you know I feel how good they have all been to me? You know what nonsense it was for Allan--he tells me I can't call my own brother 'Gerard'--what nonsense it was for him to suggest that I ever could blame anyone but myself for what I had to stand?"

"I know you feel it so, Corrie."

"Then, I want to say there was only you, Other Fellow, who _never_ hurt or made it harder."

"Even--Allan?"

"I think there never was a man so generous as Allan--but, only you. I," he drew a breath of inexpressible content, "I see a bully good life ahead, but I don't see any woman in it, unless I find one like you. And from what I overheard Allan saying, just now when I passed you both at the alcove, he's secured the only perfect angel-girl----"

Laughing, warmly flushed, she put her hand across his lips.

But it was that evening, in the glowing richness and repose of the dining-room in the pink marble villa, now reinvested with the dignity of a home, that the core of the late situation was touched.

Once more Allan Gerard was intent upon the study of Flavia's young beauty as she sat near him in the lace gown, this time with his ring flaunting conquest on her fragile hand. Mr. Rose was leaning back and idly watching the ice dissolve in his glass, when Corrie broke the pause, resting his arms on the table and lifting his gay, mirthful face to the man behind his chair:

"Take away those oysters, Perkins! I want my soup right off, and a lot of it. I'm about starved----" He stopped, himself struck by the words.

The evoked recollections of that last dinner together were too much. Mr. Rose carefully put the glass down, his strong jaw setting. Flavia's large startled eyes flashed wet as they went to her brother.

"Corrie, Corrie, I can understand how you began," escaped Gerard impulsively. "But how could you carry it on month after month?"

The ruddy color ran up to Corrie's forehead, he looked down at the table, sobered.

"It didn't take me long to see I made an awful bungle of things," he confessed, half-shy and hesitant. "And it got worse and worse as I saw what I had done to you people. Yet I'd given my word. I guess you'll understand a lot more than I can say; as Allan will understand, now, why I couldn't help knocking down that tramp who wanted money because I belonged in prison and wasn't there. It was all too much for me to think out! But--isn't there something said about a fellow who puts his hand to the plough not taking it off? I used to say that over to myself, when--well, at night, for instance. I might have been a chump, but it seemed up to me to keep on with the work I had started, and--and not to flinch."

"Dear, if you had only spared yourself what you could," Flavia grieved. "You could have said it was an accident, at least; that you never meant to hurt Allan."

Corrie's violet-blue eyes laughed out of their eclipse and sought his father.

"Not much, Other Fellow! No tricks for mine; I had to tell just the truth or shut up. No, sir, whatever he _looked_ like, Corrie Rose had to plough a straight furrow."

"Straight furrows lead home," said Allan Gerard, not sententiously, but musingly.

He also looked toward Mr. Rose, and the senior nodded slow agreement.

"They do, Gerard. And we get more, sometimes, than we've any right to expect from anything we give. Where we spent this summer, Flavia and I liked the people. What we did for them didn't cost us much; we were not looking for any returns. But the news of it got out, somehow, and was cabled to New York days before we arrived here. One of the journals got the story and worked up a Sunday article about what an American millionaire had done for Val de Rosas, and interviewed a certain Luis Cardenas and his wife, Elvira, whom Flavia had brought together--it seems they are happy and prospering well, my girl--and printed the whole thing along with a photograph of Corrie in his racing clothes, as my son. New York papers go everywhere. The Southerner whom Isabel was in love with brought that article about her family to her, as an excuse for an early call, the morning he asked her to marry him. She says, herself, it was the picture of Corrie in the motor dress she last had seen him wear on the day of the accident, that broke her up so, and when her lover proposed she told him the whole truth. If I hadn't paid the taxes for Val de Rosas, Corrie would have been bearing a false charge yet."

The silence held many thoughts; a silence broken by Corrie himself.

"To-morrow we'll write a jolly note to Isabel," he affirmed contentedly. "She doesn't need to worry on her honeymoon, poor kid; she has squared up. There doesn't seem to be any need for anyone to worry, ever, while they're trying to keep straight, since the scheme is a Square Deal, you know."

The two older men exchanged a glance.

"I guess some of us need more than a square deal, Corwin B.," his father pronounced. "But it's all right; we get that, too."

THE END.

* * * * *

_MYSTERY AND ACTION A'PLENTY_

IN HER OWN RIGHT

By JOHN REED SCOTT

Author of "The Impostor," "The Colonel of the Red Huzzars,"
"The Woman in Question," "The Princess Dehra," etc.

Three colored illustrations
By CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD
12mo. Decorated Cloth, $1.25 net.

In this new novel Mr. Scott returns to modern times, where he is as much at home as when writing of imaginary kingdoms or the days of powder and patches. Mr. Scott's last novel, "The Impostor," had Annapolis in 1776 as its _locale_, but he shows his versatility by centering the important events of this romance in and around Annapolis of today.

There are mystery and action a-plenty, and a charming love interest adds greatly to an already brilliant and exciting narrative.

_CRITICAL OPINIONS_

"A brisk and cleanly tale."--_Smart Set._

"A sparkling, appealing novel of today."--_Portland Oregonian._

"Enjoys the exceptional merit of being a stirring treasure tale
kept within the bounds of likelihood."--_San Francisco
Chronicle._

"A charming and captivating romance filled with action from the
opening to the close, so fascinating is the story
wrought."--_Pittsburgh Post._

"Just such a dashing tale of love and adventure as habitual
fiction readers have learned to expect from Mr. Scott. A well
told tale with relieving touches of dry humor and a climax
unusual and strong."--_Chicago Record Herald._

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
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* * * * *

_By GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ_

=Dawn of the Morning=

Illustrated in color by ANNA WHELAN BETTS.
Decorated cloth. 12mo. $1.25 net.

Like her most successful stories, "Marcia Schuyler" and "Phoebe Deane," Mrs. Lutz's new novel is set in New York State about 1826--quaint old days of poke bonnets and full skirts.

It is a refreshingly sweet and charming story and the author has created in Dawn, a gentle appealing heroine, whose tangled romance only serves to make more happy the beautiful ending when all the threads of Dawn's life are straightened out.

=Phoebe Deane=

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Few present-day books are so thoroughly wholesome, fresh and charming as this quiet, old-fashioned romance, as refreshingly sweet as the name of its heroine.

Phoebe Deane, a motherless girl, meets the trials of a life of dependence, and an unwelcome suitor, with a brave, sweet spirit. In spite of deceit and treachery, her lover at last comes to her rescue, and her happiness is assured.

=Marcia Schuyler=

Frontispiece in color by ANNA WHELAN BETTS, and six illustrations from paintings by E.L. HENRY, N.A. Fifth edition. 12mo. Cloth, with medallion, $1.50.

The story opens upon the wedding preparations for the marriage of winsome, wilful Kate to strong and good David. Complications arise by which David marries her younger sister Marcia instead and it is only after a period of trials and heartaches that Marcia wins her husband's love when he comes to understand her worthiness and Kate's heartless frivolity and duplicity. The _Chicago Tribune_ pronounces Marcia "One of the most lovable heroines that ever lived her life in the pages of a romance."

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* * * * *

_A NOVEL OF THE REAL WEST_

"=ME--SMITH="

By CAROLINE LOCKHART
With five illustrations by Gayle Hoskins

12mo. Cloth, $1.20 net.

Miss Lockhart is a true daughter of the West, her father being a large ranch-owner and she has had much experience in the saddle and among the people who figure in her novel.

"Smith" is one type of Western "Bad Man," an unusually powerful and appealing character who grips and holds the reader through all his deeds, whether good or bad.

It is a story with red blood in it. There is the cry of the coyote, the deadly thirst for revenge as it exists in the wronged Indian toward the white man, the thrill of the gaming table, and the gentleness of pure, true love. To the very end the tense dramatism of the tale is maintained without relaxation.

"Gripping, vigorous story."--_Chicago Record-Herald._

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"Not since the publication of 'The Virginian' has so powerful a
cowboy story been told."--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._

"A remarkable book in its strength of portrayal and its
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* * * * *

_By ELIZABETH DEJEANS_

=The Winning Chance=

Frontispiece in color by Gayle P. Hoskins.
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We have no hesitancy in pronouncing this powerful story one of the most impressive studies of our highly nervous American life that has been published in a long while. It is written with enormous vitality and emotional energy. The grip it takes on one intensifies as the story proceeds.

=The Heart of Desire=

Illustrations in colors by The Kinneys.
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A remarkable novel, full of vital force, which gives us a glimpse into the innermost sanctuary of a woman's soul--a revelation of the truth that to a woman there may be a greater thing than the love of a man--the story pictured against a wonderful Southern California background.

=The Far Triumph=

Illustrated in color by Martin Justice.
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Here is a romance, strong and appealing, one which will please all classes of readers. From the opening of the story until the last word of the last chapter Mrs. Dejeans' great novel of modern American life will hold the reader's unflagging interest. Living, breathing people move before us, and the author touches on some phases of society of momentous interest to women--and to men.

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* * * * *

_By WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT_

=She Buildeth Her House=

"The Strongest American Novel"
_Chicago Journal._

Seldom has the author of a first great novel so brilliantly transcended his initial success. A man and a woman inspiringly fitted for each other sweep into the zone of mutual attraction at the opening of the story. Destiny demands that each overcomes certain formidable destructible forces before either is tempered and refined for the glorious Union of Two to form One.

With colored frontispiece, by Martin Justice.
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=Routledge Rides Alone=

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Mr. Comfort has drawn upon two practically new story places in the world of fiction to furnish the scenes for his narrative--India and Manchuria at the time of the Russo-Japanese War. While the novel is distinguished by its clear and vigorous war scenes, the fine and sweet romance of the love of the hero, Routledge--a brave, strange, and talented American--for the "most beautiful woman in London" rivals these in interest.

With colored frontispiece by Martin Justice.
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* * * * *

=PHRYNETTE=

BY MARTHE TROLY-CURTIN

With a frontispiece by FRANK DESCH
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Phrynette is seventeen, extremely clever and naive, and attractive in every way. The death of her French father in Paris leaves her an orphan, and she goes to London to live with an aunt of Scotch descent. Her impressions of the people, the happenings and the places she becomes familiar with, peculiarities of customs and every little thing of interest are all touched upon in a charming and original manner, while in places there is irresistible humor. Throughout there is a good solid love story, and the ending is all that is to be desired.

"A very charming novel."--_San Francisco Argonaut._

"Original, clever and extremely well-written."--_Pittsburgh
Dispatch._

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* * * * *

_ROMANCES by DAVID POTTER_

=The Lady of the Spur=

The scenes of this delightful romance are set in the south-western part of New Jersey, during the years 1820-30. An unusual situation develops when Tom Bell, a quondam gentleman highwayman, returns to take up the offices of the long-lost heir, Henry Morvan. Troubles thicken about him and along with them the romance develops. Through it all rides "The Lady of the Spur" with a briskness, charm, and mystery about her that give an unusual zest to the book from its very first page.

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=I Fasten a Bracelet=

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Frontispiece in color by Martin Justice.
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=An Accidental Honeymoon=

A sparkling and breezy romance of modern times, the scenes laid in Maryland. The plot is refreshingly novel and delightfully handled. The heroine is one of the "fetchingest" little persons in the realms of fiction. The other characters are also excellently drawn, each standing out clear and distinct, even the minor ones. The dialogue of the story is remarkably good, and through it all runs a vein of delightful humor.

Eight illustrations in color by George W. Gage.
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* * * * *

_By CAROLYN WELLS_

=THE GOLD BAG=

"The Gold Bag" is so unlike the usual products of Miss Wells' pen that one wonders if she possesses a dual personality or is it merely extraordinary versatility, for she can certainly write detective stories just as well as she can write nonsense verse. The story is told in the first person by a modest young sleuth who is sent to a suburban place to ferret out the mystery which shrouds the murder of a prominent man. Circumstantial evidence in the shape of a gold mesh bag points to a woman as the criminal, and the only possible one is the dead man's niece with whom the detective promptly falls in love, though she is already engaged to her uncle's secretary, an alliance which the dead man insisted must be discontinued, otherwise he would disinherit the girl. The story is well told and the interest is cleverly aroused and sustained.

Second edition. With a colored frontispiece. 12mo.
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=THE CLUE=

This is a detective story, and no better or more absorbing one has appeared in a long time. The book opens with the violent death of a young heiress--apparently a suicide. But a shrewd young physician waxes suspicious, and finally convinces the wooden-headed coroner that the girl has been murdered. The finger of suspicion points at various people in turn, but each of them proves his innocence. Finally Fleming Stone, the detective who figured in a previous detective story by this author, is called in to match his wits against those of a particularly astute villain. Needless to say that in the end right triumphs.

With a colored frontispiece. 12mo.
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