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For Woman’s Work.
UNRECONCILED.
Yesterday the earth so brown
Fringed with snow her sombre gown,
Yesterday, JEolus wild,
Moaned and fretted like a child.
Yesterday the forest rude
Floored with leaf mosaics stood,
Lifting brows; with towering forms
Beating back the gathering storms.
Yesterday the sun went down ;
Overhead a starless crown
Closed in while I waited here.
And the midnight hour drew near.
Midnight faded into morn,
Out of it the day was born,
Yet the shadow in my heart
Kept me from all joy apart.
Ptill I fret, and like a child
Wavward am—unreconciled.
Still my sinews strained and tensed
Bear a load unrecompensed.
For Woman’s Work.
THE STORY OF A RING.
BY JO. KING.
PART 1.
HUMAN nature is weak, the bestofit; its
frailty, vanity and folly are sad facts,
not to be argued away. Human hearts,
too, are often fickle, often false, and in
capable of constant, unselfish affection:
but that this is always the case—that
there are no faithful hearts in this great
round world of ours—as some persons take
pleasure in declaring, I deny. Because
there is an imitation of the gem, because
we see an artificial rose, do we say that all
gems are imitations, all roses artificial ?
Shall we deny the existence of the true,
because we know the false also exists ?
But enough. I must hasten to tell my
story, to do which, not to moralize, being
the intention with which I started forth.
In regard to myself I will be brief,
since my present object is to relate the his
tory of my own life only so far as it bears
upon the lives of others with whom
this narrative is more nearly con
cerned. I am, I suppose, a ring of con
siderable value, a large sapphire, set with
exquisite pearls. Notwithstanding this,
however, many of my companions, some
of them much plainer and less valuable
than myself, were chosen in preference to
me. It was a weary, monotonous life, ly
ing for months in the jewellers’ window;
every morning bringing hope, doomed to
fade with the closing day.
It is said that all things come to those
who wait, and though I deserved no
credit for waiting, since I could do nothing
else, that which I longed for came at last
to me, and I was taken away where I
could learn something of the world.
It was early in the afternoon of a beau
tiful day in spring, when the birds sang, and
the blue forget-me-nots opened their eyes
and whisp°red of “true love,” as they smiled
up at the bright sun, that a young man
came into the shop to select a ring, and
after a few moments hesitation, to my
great joy, chose me.
He was, I imagined, twenty-three or
four, rather tall and slender, with dark
brown hair and still darker eyes, expres
sive of great earnestness, and bright with
youthful energy and fire. His face, an
unusually handsome one, was so good and
kind, his eyes so honest, that I felt con
vinced his heart was true, and that the
young man himself was one who could be
thoroughly trusted in every relation of
ife.
I soon learned that my new master was
in love, and that I was chosen to be the
outward symbol of an affection that should
unite two hearts and lives forever.
Having none of that superstition with
which some persons regard pearls, it was
with perfect satisfaction that he surveyed
me.
“It is a beauty!” he exclaimed, with
almost boyish delight; “ the very thing for
Lucia, the pearl of girls, my own beauti
ful pearl, more precious than all the world
besides. The sapphire will match my dear
love’s eyes; and blue means true: so will
we be to each other—Lucia and I.”
I felt much interested in this young
lover, which interest was accompanied by
a corresponding desire to see the young
lady who was destined to be my mistress.
After dressing with great care, my master
started forth with me. He walked several
squares, and in a short while reached his
destination. Ascending the steps, he rang
the bell, in answer to which a servant ap
peared who ushered him into an elegantly
furnished apartment, where an exquisitely
attired young lady was seated at the piano,
idly turning the leaves of a music-book. As
my master entered, she arose and greeted
him with a pretty smile.
a had never seen a more beautiful young
lady: with her slender, graceful figure,
regular features, a complexion of exquisite
fairness, a wealth of golden hair, and
pretty blue eyes, Lucia Carr was fair to
see.
“If her character,” I thought, “be
flawless as her face, surely no one could
wish more in woman .” "Whatever faults
she might possess, it was evident that my
master had not discovered them: his pearl
was a real pearl, without a blemish.
Lucia Carr loved him, I suppose, in a
superficial way—the only way in which a
shallow nature is capable of loving—but I
soon perceived that she did not care for
him as he cared for her. I think he felt
this from the first, though he would not
acknowledge it, even to himself.
Rich, accomplished, beautiful, Lucia
Carr had many lovers, but none ever
touched her heart, —or pleased her fancy,
I think I shall say—as Neal Moreland
had done. At first it was his handsome
face and agreeable manners that attracted
her; but gradually, without being con
scious of it, without asking herself why
she liked him above all others, he being
so different from her numerous other ad
mirers, his superiority to them and to her
self, came to have its influence upon her.
Mrs. Carr, Lucia’s mother, was an am
bitious woman, and wished her daughter
to make what the world calls a “brilliant
match.”
Neal Moreland was young, and his
fortune as yet unmade. He was, however,
spoken of as a young man with excellent
prospects, being a great favorite of a
wealthy uncle, who had educated him and
declared his intention of making him his
principal heir.
Notwithstanding this, Mrs. Carr very
reluctantly gave her consent to her daugh
ter’s engagement, and it was only in con
sideration of the young man’s “expecta
tions,” joined to Lucia’s declarations that
she could never care for another as she
cared for Neal, that she gave her consent
at all.
“After all,” she reflected, “it might be
much worse. Lucia is young, and can
afford to wait until Neal gets a good start
in business; then in a few years, I suppose,
there will be the old man’s money,—yes
it might have been worse.”
“Lucia,” Neal said to her one day soon
after their engagement, “you will always
love me, always be true to me, will you
not, my darling? No matter who should
want you, no matter how rich he might be,
you will always choose me—because you
love me, will you not, dear?”
“Yes, Neal, of course,” replied Lucia;
“I shall never like any one else so much
as I like you.”
“Like is a very objectionable word to
me, Lucia,” he said with mock gravity.
“Well, love then; I shall never love any
one else as I love you: does that meet with
your lordship’s approval?”
“Very much,” returned Neal, smiling;
“that expression is highly satisfactory.”
And you value my love more than every
thing else, do you not, darling ?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lucia again, “but,”
she continued, “you will be quite as rich
as any of them—as any one I might marry,
you know, Neal—sometimes.”
“Yes, dear, but suppose I should not be;
suppose anything should happen, so that I
would not be rich, but had to depend en
tirely upon my own exertions, you
would rather marry me than any one else;
you”—
“Oh, what a ridiculous boy you are!’’
exclaimed Lucia, interrupting him. “Do
please drop that tragic tone; nothing so
dreadful is going to happen; you will not
be poor, don’t let’s suppose such disagree
able things.”
Thus Lucia changed the subject.
»»•**»<»**#*»
“Like the swell of some sweet tune.
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
The tender beauty of spring was soon
followed by the riper glory of early
summer; flower-crowned June came with
her rich beauty, warm days and blue skies.
The young lovers were much together,
and found perfect happiness in the sweet
glow of first love. It was with them the
spring-time of life; the future, as well as
the present, wore but a rosy tint, as they
looked upon the cloudless skies above them,
without thought of coming trouble.
When June was at last followed by sul
try July, Mrs. Carr and Lucia, instead of
going off to one of the various popular
resorts, as had been their custom hitherto,
decided to board for a few weeks at a coun
try place a few miles from the city. Per
haps it would be more correct to say that
Lucia decided, and her mother agreed, as
it was Mrs. Carr’s pleasure to gratify her
daughter’s every wish, whenever it was
both possible and expedient to do so.
Thus she was willing to go to any place
that Lucia should chance to fix her mind
upon. At first, however, she objected to
the present plan, fearing that Lucia, so ac
customed to society, would find life at a
quiet country place, decidedly dull and
tiresome.
“But, Mamma,” Lucia had said, “we
might try it, at least; if we do not like it,
WOMAN’S WORK.
we can very easily go somewhere else; but
I really think that I shall like the novelty
of the thing. And we will not be entirely
cut off from all intercourse with the world,
as several of our acquaintances are going
down there this summer. They went two
years ago, and say that it is such a pretty
place, and that the time spent there passed
very pleasantly indeed. And then, Mam
ma”—here Lucia paused and smiled —“you
know that Neal will not have his vacation
for nearly a month yet, and if we go to
this place he can be with us on Sunday, at
least.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Carr, why didn’t
you tell me your true reason at once, Lu
cia? I should then have known how
useless would be any objections that I
might offer.”
“But, Mamma, it is not the true reason;
or, that is,” she added, “not altogether.
Os course, I like to be with Neal, but I
could exist for a few weeks without seeing
him; and if I did not think I should enjoy
being at this place, I would not go merely
on that account, though I must confess that
that is an inducement, and one of my
reasons for wanting to go.”
“Very well put, Lucia,” Mrs. Carr said,
smiling; “but I need no further explana
tions and no more reasons. Young people
always like to be together and near each
other when they are engaged. I will
write to Mrs. Martin to-day and engage our
rooms. We will take them by the week,
so if we don’t like it there, if it should be
too dull for you, we can leave on very
short notice.”
The end of another week found Mrs. Carr
and her daughter among the boarders at a
pretty, old-fashioned farm house, a few
miles from the city.
The young people flirted, played tennis,
got up picnics and sailing parties, and va
rious other rural amusements; and Lucia,
as she had fancied that she would, found
the novelty of this country life very enjoy
able. Nor was her pleasure lessened in
any degree by the presence of a wealthy
gentleman, one of the boarders, whom she
now met for the first time.
The fact of her being in love with Neal
by no means prevented her enjoying a sly
flirtation; nor did she consider her engage
ment to him any reason for her not to
amuse herself during his absence, in any
way that came to hand.
The gentleman above mentioned ad
mired Lucia exceedingly, and soon became
very much devoted in his attentions to
her. He was her senior by some ten or
fifteen years; and Lucia, whose admirers
had hitherto been younger men, enjoyed
the experience of having an adorer so
much older than herself.
N eal had planned to go down on the
train every Saturday evening, and return
to his business the following Monday.
But the first Saturday and Sunday of Mrs.
Carr’s and Lucia’s absence from the city
passed, and he failed to make his appear
ance. The next day Lucia received a note
from him, in which he expressed his regret
at not being able to be with her, but stated
that his uncle, whose health had been fee
ble for some years, was much worse, and
he felt it his duty to remain with him.
This, so far from being a disappointment
to Lucia which one would suppose it to have
been, was rather a relief. Not that she
would not be glad to see Neal; only she
had become so interested in what she term
ed an innocent flirtation, that it seemed a
pity for it to be interrupted just yet; and
—well, under the circumstances, she was
very willing that Neal’s visit should be
postponed, that was all.
Mrs. Carr said little, but thought a
great deal. She could make no serious ob
jections to Neal, since Lucia fancied him,
so long as he was heir elect of a rich old
uncle, who could live but a few years at
most. On the other hand, if Lucia fancied
another whom she could marry when she
pleased, instead of waiting for an old man
to die—why, so much the better.
Another week passed without bringing
Neal, when one morning Mrs. Carr took
up the newspaper and read aloud an ac
count of old Mr. Moreland’s death.
A few days later Neal arrived on the af
ternoon train. Lucia noticed at once that
he looked much changed, and had an anx
ious, troubled expression. He was sin
cerely attached to his uncle, and the lat
ter’s death, though not unexpected, was a
great shock to him; but there was some
thing else upon his mind now, of which
Lucia was in ignorance.
Soon after his arrival he asked her to
take a walk; they went off together, he
very quiet, and she unusually bright and
talkative, anxious to divert him. His
manner was very tender, more so than
usual, Lucia thought, but there was some
thing about it that she did not under tand.
Presently he paused, and regarded her
an instant in silence, as if trying to read
her heart.
“Lucia,” hethen said, “you love me, do
you not, my darling?”
“I wonder how many times you have
asked me that question since we have been
engaged, Neal?” Lucia made answer.
“You certainly are hard to satisfy.”
“But tell me again, darling; you do love
me, Lucia?” he said anxiously.
“Well, then, yes, of course I do, you
foolish boy; what do you suppose I prom
ised to marry you for, if I didn’t ?”
“You love me so that nothing would in
duce you to give me up—if I should be
poor, for instance, with nothing but my
clerkship—you—you would be true to me,
and wait for me, darling ?”
“Is—is anything the matter, Neal?”
Lucia asked, startled by his serious tone.
“Yes, Lucia, the firm in which my dear
uncle’s money was invested has failed, and
I have nothing but my salary ; but if you
love me, dear—if I have you—l am rich
indeed; the thought of you will make work
light; I would work so hard, and get rich,
and some sweet day we shall be married.
Now that you know all, tell me again that
you love me, and will be true to me; then
I shall be quite satisfied.”
But Lucia did not speak at once; and he
repeated his question. At last she replied:
‘‘l—l am very sorry, Neal; Mamma will
be sorry, too; but of course I couldn’t—
Mamma would never consent to me mar
rying apoor man; and—and I think we had
better break the engagement. Ido like
you very much; but we cannot marry
now, and it will be better to part, and for
get each other. I—”
“Forget each other, Lucia—you and I
forget each other!’’he exclaimed. ‘Oh,
Lucia, Lucia, you cannot mean that! I
I have trusted you so; you will not be
false 1” he cried passionately, as his dark
eyes looked appealingly into her blue ones.
“I love you so, Lucia; I cannot give
you up!”
But she only said: “Be reasonable,
Neal; as I told you, I am very sorry, but
it would be utter folly for us to think of
marrying now—”
“I didn’t mean that we should be mar
ried now,” he began eagerly; “but if you
will wait—”
“You misunderstand me, Neal,” Lucia
interposed: “I mean that, under the circum
stances we cannot think of marrying at
all; please don’t discuss the miserable sub
ject any more,” she added, with some im
patience.
If Lucia Carr had ever loved him, it was
evident that the feeble flame had burnt
out now.
They presented a striking contrast,
standing there in the glory of the summer
evening: she was slightly pale, but her
voice was strangely cold and indifferent,
and the beautiful face quite passionless;
while he spoke with terrible earnestness,
and the expression of his face was that of
intense agony, mingled finally with fierce
anger and scorn.
His idol was shattered, and he saw Lu
cia Carr in her true light at last—shallow,
heartless, mercenary—but he had loved
her; and now life seemed to him a great,
dreary blank.
My mistress took me from her finger,
and handed me to my master; then they
turned, and walked in silence to the house,
as the sun disappeared in the west, and
the bright day drew to a close.
When my mistress—my mistress now
no more—had entered the hcuse my mas
ter took a long, solitary walk.
It was awful to witness his passionate
grief and anger.
“I have been a fool,” he said bitterly,
“and this is what I get—for trusting, for
loving a woman!
‘Falser than all fancy fathoms, —
Falser than all songs have sung.’
Oh, Lucia, Lucia, Lucia!”
He held me in his hand an instant; then,
closing his eyes that he might not see
where I fell, my master threw me away.
TO BE CONTINUED.
• It is narrated of the great sculptor,
Michael Angelo, that when at work he
wore over his forehead, fastened on his
artist’s cap, a lighted candle, in order that
no shadow of himself might fall upon his
work. It was a beautiful .custom, and
spoke a more eloquent lesson than he
knew; for the shadows that fall on our
work, how often they fall from ourselves!
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