The Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1914)

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ik (ms2$ JBY f(ARL ScMLLtk Sometimes Stephen Clark wondered whether John were his fault or merely an anomaly. His wife's part in their son he had never questioned; she had given him her own delicate features, her wistful smile, her innocent eyes, deeply lashed ; but of her white flower-soul the boy had not a trace. Margaret — that was different. She was the spirit of the dear, dead woman in a different flesh. With closed eyes, listening to her voice, he could have believed Lilas beside him. So far their union had not failed, but the son of it — was it his fault, or whose? For John was wild, a sower of tares, a reaper of tears. Stephen had tried the argument of the birch switch until the boy was grown ridiculously tall ; he had tried, in secret, the aid of prayer, and, at last, hopelessly, he had turned him over to Margaret, and she, too, seemed to be failing. Then there was Frank Henley. Stephen's former trade of steeplejack called for steel-fibred nerves, a will responsive and responsible, and a steady hand and eye. Now he had become a contractor and employed others to do the dangerous work. Frank qualified well and was an invaluable assistant, but a thorn in the old man's soul, nevertheless. For it was John's heritage this stranger lad had taken. Stephen Clark could forgive much to his son — wild adventures, lawless deeds, even actual crime — but he could not condone cowardice. And, in his sick soul, he believed his son to be a coward. He had seen the fear of height more than once in the boy's eyes, had sensed the inward nausea of dizziness, visible only in the dead pallor of the young skin. The easiest jobs went, therefore, to him, while the father writhed in soul to see his assistant climbing nimbly and unafraid where swallows built their airy nests beneath the steeple eaves. Frank Henley sauntered along the street, whistling aimless fragments of melodies between his teeth. His hands were jammed into his pockets awkwardly. Be did not feel really at home upon the solid earth, and his supple fingers, like a musician's hand, were crude when it came to doing common, earthly things. Yet now he was also climbing — a mental steeplejack among the pinnacles of his castles in the air. lie had 37