Part 1 (1/2)

The Sentimental Adventures of Jimmy Bulstrode

by Marie Van Vorst

THE FIRST ADVENTURE

I

IN WHICH HE BUYS A CHRISTMAS TREE

There was never in the world a better fellow than Jienerosities would have ruined hi taken in, was the recipient of hundreds of begging letters, which he hired another soft-hearted person to read

He offended charitable organizations by never passing a beggar's outstretched hand without dropping a coin in it He was altogether a distressingly impracticable rich person, surrounded by people who admired him for what he really was and by those who tried to squeeze hieneral wonder to people who knew hientleman himself knew the answer perfectly, but it amused him to discuss the question in spite of the pain, as well as for the pleasure that it caused him to consider--_the reason why_

Mary Falconer, the woman he loved, was the wife of a man of whom Bulstrode could only think in pitiful contempt But, thanks to an element of chivalry in the character of the hero of this story the years, as time went on, spread back of both the woman and the man in an honorable series, of whose history neither one had any reason to be ashamed

Nevertheless, it struck them both as rather humorous, after all, that of the three concerned her husband should be the only renegade and, notwithstanding, profit by the coood faith of his wife and theeasy in the task that Jimmy set for himself! And it did not facilitate matters that Mary Falconer scarcely ever helped him in the least! She was a beautiful woman, a tender woman, and there were times when her friend felt that she cleverly and cruelly taunted him with Puritanism and with his simple, old-fashi+oned ideas and crystal clearness of vision, the _culte_ he had regarding e and the sacred way in which he held bonds and vows It was no help at all to think she rebelled and jested at his reserve; that she did her best to break it--and there were tie But down in her heart she respected him, and as she saw around her the domestic wrecks hich the matrimonial seas are encuo safely through the storrateful to the man

As far as Bulstrode himself was concerned, each year--there had been ten of theerous Not only did the future appear to hian to hate his arid past He was so out of his colossal sacrifice? The only reward he wanted was the woman herself, and, unless her husband died, she would never be his Bulstrode had not found that he could solve the probleo from sheer weariness of heart

In the face of theof the drawing-room where Bulstrode sat on this afternoon of an especial winter's day the stor and froze, or dropped like feathers down against the sill The gentleman had his predilections even in New York, and in the open fireplace the logs cru jewels of the heat were held Except for this old-fashi+oned war and pillars, low ceilings and quaint chireeably proportioned houses still to be found in lower New York around Washi+ngton Square

Bulstrode had received about half an hour ago a letter whose qualities and suggestions were so, believe es which Bulstrode opened to read for the twentieth tiloom_ of Christmas, Ji sour and crabbed But don't you, who are so exquisitely apt to feelings--to other people's feelings,--at once confess it? It attacks the spinster in the bustling winter streets as she is elbowed by soantly laden with delicious-looking parcels that she is alloos at toy-shop s as they stand 'choosin'' their never-to-be-realized toys I'rant and the homeless in a city fairly redolent of holly and dinners, and where the array of other people's ho And, my dear friend, it is so horribly subtle that no doubt it attacks others whose only grudge is that their hearths are not built for Christs But these unfortunates are not saying anything aloud, therefore we must not pry!

”There's a jolly house-party on at the Van Schoolings' We're to go down to-ht, and you are, of course, asked and wanted Knowing your dread of these faloom--I was sure you would refuse But it's a wonderful place for a talk or two, and I shall hope you will go--will coo doith me”

There was more of the letter--there always is more of woly facile; there is nothing a woman can do better than talk, except to write

Bulstrode shts travelling like wanderers towards a home from which a ban had kept the of the letter He wasn't farant class His charities to that part of the population consisted in donations to established societies, and haphazard giving called forth by a beggar's extended hand

If anybody may be immune to the melancholy of which his friend Mrs

Falconer spoke, it should surely be this gentlear before the fire The unopened letters--there was a pile of them--would have offered ample reason why No one of the lot but bore soenerous heart which, beneath dinner-jacket and behind the screw-faced watch with the picture in the back of it, beat so healthy and so well

But the bestowal of benefits, whilst it iver, does not always transform itself into the one benefit desired and console the bestower! Bulstrode had a char home He was alone in it He had his clubs where bachelors like hilad to greet him He had his friends, many of them, and their home circles were coan and ended with hi a victiloom came and possessed Bulstrode as he sat and mused

But the decided sadness that stole across his face bore no relation, to the season, to whose whitein his boyish, kindly heart that always responded

The sadness Mrs Falconer's letter awakened would not sleep What his Christht_ be! He had only to order his motor, to call for her and drive over the ferry; to sit beside her in the train, to drive with her again across the wintry roads He had but to see her, watch her, talk with her, share with her the day and evening, to have his Christmas as nearly what a feast should be as dreaood-will--peace? No Not peace for hi else, but not that And he had been travelling for five weary months in order to er

Bulstrode sighed here, lifted the letter where there was more of it to his lips--held it out toward the fire as if the red jeere to set the it back in its envelope, thrust it in the pocket of his waistcoat