Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 130: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

120 for Portland and the south. He would catch it.- He hoped Arthur. would not return before then. Horace opened his trunk, and took from it the clown’s dress. What was the mysterious influence, reaching down from the future, that had prompted him to bring it? Nothin which boded happiness to him—of that he was certain. He slipped on the cos- tume over his clothes, and proceded to “make up” as hideously as experience could suggest. watched his face change in the glass— saw it grow white as plaster, striped red and blue, with mouth distorted into shapeless lines. When he had finished he drew on a red wig, and, snatching up a dirty white conical cap, ran down to the lower floor. “Here we are again!” he guffawed, as he swaggered into the dining room. “How’s all the folks?” He tossed the cap into the air, and caught it rakishly on his head as it fell. And then he stopped short. . Arthur Lomas was standing at the farther side of the table. He was holding the tele- gram in his hand, but there was no joy of sudden fortune in his face. He was looking at Kitty, who had sprung to her feet and was steadfastly regarding the unlovely figure of the clown. Aunt Tabby had disappeared. Miss Kitty spoke up, and there was calculated malice in her tones, malice which—alack for her mischievous in- tent |—somehow suggested tears. “You are not irresistibly attractive in your working clothes, Mr. Atkins,” she observed, “but neither is a deep- sea diver. Was it only this you wanted to prove to me?” “No,” retorted Horace roughly. “I wanted to confirm you in your opinion of me. I wanted to give you a private view of a professional fool who is not ashamed of his calling, yet who knows it debars him from aspirations that other men may cherish. And now I’m going to say good-by to you. I’m going to take the eight-forty south to-night. I must get back to the circus, where I belong.” He turned abruptly, and went out. It sickened him as he’ _AINSLEE’S - “Horace!” called the clergyman after him, and strode to the door. But.Hor- ace had gone on up the stair. The clergyman glanced at Kitty. The color had fled from her cheek, and her hand was fluttering up to her throat. A gasping sound escaped her, as though she were choking. She had felt so sure. Horace would understand her tender raillery that now to find she was mis- taken left her dumb and without re- course. She sank into a chair by the table with a little hopeless gesture that smote Arthur Lomas to the heart. He longed to go to her and comfort her, but resolutely held to his place by the door. “Kitty, my dear!” he cried. “Horace shall not go away—not to-night. He loves you—he told me so this very day. He” Kitty’s head went down on the table suddenly, and the whiteness of her neck was stained with crimson. The young minister drew in his breath sharply. Then he finished, speaking very low: “He is a man, my dear, to be well loved—for he ‘is true and brave and kind.” A little sob was Kitty’s only reply to this, and the Reverend Arthur Lomas turned about and followed Horace up to his room. The clown had washed off his make-up, and was busy at his trunk. The clergyman went over to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Horace, my friend,” he said, “you have made me rich, but I am not going to attempt to thank you now. There is a matter of greater moment to be con- sidered by us.” “You mean—Kitty ?” eV pg’ “Well,” said the clown, “you saw how it was.” “Yes—but you did not,” answered the clergyman. “Oh, man,” he burst out passionately, “are you blind? She loves you with all her pure young heart. Even now she is waiting for you to come to her.” The clown eyed him searchingly. “You have had your chance with her —to-night’”” he demanded. (C@ HOOK (C@