Newspaper Page Text
6
For Woman’s Work.
TRIALS.
No tinge of grief we borrow
From sentiment, can live;
The heart that’s steeped in sorrow
Alone can perfume give.
Geo. Bancroft Griffith.
For Woman’s Work.
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME.
BY GENEVIEVE HAYS.
[Note.]—This interesting story was com
menced m June, Woman’s Work. Back num
bers may be obtained for 5 cents each. Send
in your subscriptions at once and do not miss
the many good things in store for our readers.
J
USTso,” he muttered, “one can plainly
see that ‘Barkis is willing.’ But the
I idea of that ancient quadruped running
away,” he chuckled, ‘ it fairly astounds
me! Well! well 1 well! matches may be
made in heaven, but some mighty queer
agents are employed in bringing a num
ber of them about.”
But if Doctor Gay did not give that
runaway scrape much credence, his wife
did. She received Thorny craft as though
he were a hero, and made such a todo
over the whole affair that both the young
lady and her rescuer were almost per
suaded that they had a miraculous escape
from the jaws of death; and Thornycraft
mentally voted the Doctor’s wife the very
nicest woman he had ever met—with the
exception of two. And those two, it is
needless to say, were his mother and Miss
Lucie.
This chance meeting led to many others.
For of course Thornycraft must call again
to see that Miss Lucie had sustained no
shock from her morning’s fright, and the
next day he remembered that he had
left his rifle at the Doctor’s; as hunting was
the principal object of his visit to this out
of-the-way place, such a loss could not be
sustained an hour longer. He must go at
once for that rifle—which he did. But it
was a noticeable fact that he did not re
turn till dusk, and that he appeared in an
exceedingly cheerful frame of mind for a
disappointed huntsman, and besides, was
whistling the air of a tender love song
from a popular opera.
Each succeeding day found some excuse
for Thornycraft’s presence at the Doctor’s,
until his coming was expected as a matter
of course, and then excuses were unneces
sary. Clyde did not attempt to make
them, even to himself, or to analyze this
new, strange feeling of unutterable happi
ness that was taking possession of him,
and blinding his eyes to a mother’s disap
proval as well as to the existence of a cer
tain Miss Fitzhugh. At present there was
but one woman in the world for him. He
was living in the light of her smiles and
the consciousness of her love—finding
time for no other considerations, except a
feeling of dumb gratitude toward kind,
motherly Mrs. Gay, who, like a beneficent
—if portly—fairy, smiled open encourage
ment upon his suit with her fair guest.
So five weeks passed, and one evening,
as they sat together, Miss Lucie placidly
remarked, as though it were a trifling
statement, scarcely worth mentioning :
“I am going home, to-morrow.” Clyde
stared an instant, then boldly announced
that he, too, was going to return to Balti
more the following day.
Was not this decision a sudden one ?
Well, yes, rather. But business called
him—he was obliged to go.
He was really going ?
Really.
“Then,” said Miss Lucie, demurely,
while a mischievous light danced in her
eyes, “I must bid you goodbye and wish
you a happy journey. I shall not return
till the following week.”
“But—l thought—,” stammered Thor
nycraft, with an appealing glance at his
tormentor. “It really isn’t necessary—”
“I understand,” she interrupted, sweet
ly, “You regret going, of course, and nat
urally,” with a little, regretful sigh, “we
shall miss you a great deal. But duty
should b,e given the first consideration, al
ways.”
Miss Lucie leaned back in her chair
with an air of bewitching innocence as
she finished speaking, and as Clyde looked
at her, his resentment fast melted into ad
miration.
What a pretty picture she made in the
hush of the purple gloaming, with that
soft expression on her pure lace, and her
silky hair and filmy white draperies
steeped with the fragrance of the honey
suckles wreathed thickly about the veran
da where they were sitting !
In another instant he was kneeling at
her feet, pouring out the story of his love
with an impassionate eloquence that true
love only can give.
Though expecting this, though knowing
all along what would be the finale to the
pretty drama in which she had been acting,
now that Thornycraft had actually spoken,
Miss Lucie could find no words in which
to answer him—not even the conven
tional phrase of “being so taken by sur
prise,” and “must beg time te consider;”
occurred to her. But, thrilled through
and through with a hew, strange happi
ness, the girl sat mute, motionless, breath
less.
To her lover the silence was most elo
quent —for after one glance into the shy,
averted face, he drew her yielding form
into his strong, imperious arms and laid
his face against hers in utter content.
“My Rose of roses,” he whispered, after
a moment of rapturous silence.
The girl started, and gently disengag
ing herself from his arms, said, “Would
you love me as well by any other name ?”
There was an odd hesitancy in her man
ner that puzzled Thornycraft, but he an
swered, lightly: “Certainly. What’s in a
name ?”
Miss Lucie did seem prepared to an
swer. Several times afterwards she looked
at him in a doubtful manner, as though
there was something she wished to tell
him, but Clyde was too engrossed in his
own happiness to nqtice this, and so did
not help her to make any explanation—
even if she had so desired.
Presently, Mrs. Gay came and ushered
them in out of the night air; the Doctor
told his favorite anecdotes, Miss Lucie
sang, and before he could realize that the
time had flown, Thornycraft was telling
them all goodbye, and repeating, with a
sinking heart, his former statement that
he must return to Baltimore the following
day I
But, as he passed out into the cool night
air, there came a rustle, a step on the ve
randa, and a timid voice called to him.
“My darling,” cried the young man, his
eyes aglow with love as they rested on
the charming figure waiting for him.
How supremely fair she was in the
moonlight, with the night beams shining
on her silky hair, and the fragrance of the
honeysuckles clinging to her fleecy white
shawl I
Miss Lucie put aside his outstretched
arms so gently that the repulse seemed a
caress.
“Clyde,'’ she whispered, solemnly, “if
circumstances—if anything should make
you wish to cancel your engagement—re
member, from that moment you are free.”
Then she flitted away, without hearken
ing to one of the impetuous vows that
rushed to the young man’s lips—never,
never to part with this “Queen Rose of
the rosebud garden of girls !
chapter in.
“Hello ! Clyde Thornycraft, by all that’s
lucky 1 where have you been all this time ?
Come up and give an account of yourself.
No excuse—besides, I want your criticism
on my latest picture. Just finished it to
day.”
Clyde Thornycraft, thus pounced upon
in the busy thoroughfares of Baltimore by
his life-long friend, Bert Osborne, found
himself, in an incredibly short space of
time, in that iriena’s studio, looking, with
approving eyes, upon a newly finished
picture—a picture of a young girl stand
ing in the June sunlight amongst the loses.
Her face, beautiful as an artist's thought,
wore a far-away, dreamy expression, in
keeping with its spiritual beauty; and her
grace and delicate bloom, with the roses and
lilies in her hand, suggested the quotation :
“Queen rose and lily in one.”
“I have seen but one face more beauti
ful,” said Thornycraft, after a moment of
breathless admiration.
No one but a man in love—and bad hit
at that!—would dare utter such treason
against my picture,” Osborne declared,
laughingly.
Then, seeing the confusion on his
friend’s face, Bert exclaimed incredulously,
“Why, Clyde, you haven’t—”
“But I have,” interrupted the other,
laughing and flushing at the same time,
“Congratulate me, Bert! I have lost my
heart and pledged my troth to one of Bal
timore’s fairest daughters.”
Kind-hearted Bert seized his friend’s
hand in a vice-like grasp. “May you have
all the happiness you deserve,” said he,
warmly, “and if it is in order, tell me her
name.”
“Most assuredly,” responded exultant
Clyde, “but perhaps you know her?—
Rosamond Lucie.”
The expression of good humored indul
gence on Bert Osborne’s face changed to
one of dumb amazement on hearing that
name.
His face flushed, then paled, and in a
voice which had suddenly grown broken
and husky, he gasped : “1 do not believe
it.”
Clyde looked at his friend in intense
surprise. Then, as an inkling of the truth
flashed through his mind, he said, slowly,
in tones of heartfelt pity: “Bert, if I had
known—if I had dreamed of this—l never
would have spoken I”
“I tel] you.” cried poor Bert, “I don’t
believe it I There is some mistake. Rosa
mond is as true as steel, and—we have
WOMAN’S WORK.
been engaged a year I”
There they stood—those two lifetime
friends—miserably looking each other in
the face.
With electric speed, Clyde’s thoughts
reverted to Rosamond's words : “If cir
cumstances —if anything should make you
wish to cancel your engagement—remem
er, from that moment you are free.”
Now the opportunity had come.
Should he offer his happiness as a sacrifice
on friendship’s altar ?
Mechanically he took from an inside
pocket the small note book which held her
photograph and not trusting himself to look
at that fair, false face, turned his head
aside and laid the picture in Bert’s hand.
Osborne bent eagerly toward it, but the
moisture on bis eyelashes for a moment
dimmed his gaze. He dashed his hand
roughly across his eyes and then—
“ Guenevere Fitzhugh !” he cried.
Thornycraft turned sharply around.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, in
those rasping tones which mental suffer
ing is so apt to produce.
“Just what I say,” cried bewildered, joy
ful Bert, ll This is Rosamond !” and he
threw open his desk and revealed a pic
tured face, good and true and fair, but not
the face that Clyde loved so well.
“Thornycraft,” said joyful Bert, “this
is only another of Miss Guenevere’s merry
pranks! She is Rosamond’s dearest friend,
is well worthy of you at your best estate and
—but I tell you that she was only laughing
at you when she made believe that she was
my little darling ; bless her I”
Laughing at him? Does a woman
laugh at the man she loves ? W hat was
the need of this deception ? and since it
had been practiced, why had she not unde
ceived him ?
There could be but one explanation.
The whole affair had been deliberately
planned by his mater and Miss Fitzhugh,
and Thornycraft had been most shamefully
duped! Doubtless, even now, she and
Rosamond were laughing over the success
of the little ruse, and his mother would ex
pect him from his high sense of honor to
keep his plighted troth.
So, reasoning with the hard, cold justice
of youth, Clyde got away from his friend—
he could not tell how—and wandered aim
lessly about the streets, thinking, ponder
ing over the cruel deception that had been
practiced upon him.
At last, having fully made up his mind,
he enclosed Guenevere Fitzhugh’s photo
graph in a coldly worded letter of expla
nation and sent it to her address.
But Guenevere Fitzhugh was not laugh
ing, when, at dusk that evening, she
threw herself into Mrs. Thornycraft’s
arms—in that lady’s own boudoir—and
wept and sobbed and tried to tell a story
which the frightened mother could in no
wise comprehend, save that Clyde was in
some way mixed up with it.
“My dear,” she said, “you must control
yourself and tell me what your trouble is.
If Clyde has acted dishonorably—he is no
true Thornycraft.”
“But it is not Clyde, it is I,” explained
poor Guenevere, “I have deceived him and
he will never forgive me!” and very tear
fully she told her story.
Now if there was anything which de
lighted the heart of Mrs. Thornycraft, it
was a bit of harmless strategy, when that
strategy was employed to further her own
schemes; and when she found that her son
had actually made love to Guenevere, and
that Guenevere had actually accepted him,
her maternal pride and delight knew no
bounds.
“Tut, tut, my dear!” she said, soothing
ly, “to shed tears over such a trifle.
And is not your name really Lucy ?—after
me, your own godmother—and coming be
fore Guenevere at that! He was properly
punished for rushing into an acquaintance
with—he knew not whom. What if it
had been anyone else but you ?” And dis
may at the picture her words conjured up
impelled the good mother to a silence
which was suddenly broken by a masculine
hand flinging the door wide open, and her
son entered, to be confronted with a pic
ture which he had not expected to see.
“Clyde,” said his mother, in tones more
severe than she was wont to use towards
her idol, “it pains me that, instead of con
gratulations, I must give rebuke. But
you seem in some way to be the cause of
Guenevere’s trouble, and—but I had best
leave you to yourselves”—which she did.
But truth impels me to add that she lin
gered long enough behind the heavy cur
tains of the portiere to see her son go up
to Guenevere, and, taking the downcast,
tear-wet face between his strong white
hands, say, in a voice which tried to be
stern but only trembled with tenderness:
“Since you seem to be uncertain about
your own name, Guenevere, I had better
make haste to give you one which I, at
least, will recognize.””
Then—and not till then!—did Mrs.
Thornycraft proceed to the library, where
she sat for an hour in blissful meditations
upon the bridal trousseau.
“For,” she soliloquized, “if I don’t give
it a little thought, who will?—it is plain
that nothing is farther from their thoughts
than that I”
For Woman’s Work.
LITTLE BESS’ EFFORT, AND
WHAT CAME OF IT.
WINTON sat in his private
office, quietly brooding over his
business affairs, when he was
startled by a knock at his door.
“Come in, Bess,” he said, supposing it
to be his little daughter. The door was
opened and a timid little figure, scantily
clad, came slowly in. Her name is Bess,
but not Bess Winton.
“Well, my little dear, what can I do for
you ? How could you come out on such a
stormy day ? Does your Mamma know
you have come here ?”
These questions are asked by Mr. Win
ton in a somewhat surprised tone.
“Please sir, Mamma does not know that
I am out, but if she knew what; I came
here for, she would not be angry with
“Sit down, my little friend, and tell me
what you want.”
Bess climbed upon a stool and began
a straightforward little tale.
“My name is Bess Dare, and Mamma
is Mrs. Dare, and my brother’s name is
Harry Dare. My Papa died a long time
ago, when I was a baby, and Harry has
taken care of me and Mamma. But last
month he got sick, and when he got well,
he could not get any work; so last night
when Mamma thought I was asleep, I
heard her tell my brother that nearly all
our money was gone, and if we did not
get some soon, she would have to go to
work at something. Then she kissed
Harry and told him they would try again
to-day, and she went to bed. Harry said
that Mamma must not work, because the
doctor said if she did she would die.”
“Well, my dear,” interposed Mr. Win
ton, “what can I do for you?”
“I heard some one say you was a good
man,” continued Bess, “so I gave a little
boy a bunch of flowers to show me where
your office was. Please, Mr. Winton, can’t
you get Harry some work, so my Mamma
will not have to work ?”
Mr. Winton told Bess that her Mamma
would not have to work, and wrote a note
which he told Bess to give to Harry.
Bess returned home just when they were
getting uneasy about her. Her mother
thought she had gone to visit a sick old
lady, whom Bess pleased with her childish
prattle.
The note sent to Harry, read thus :
“Friend Harry :
. I have just learned from vour
noble little sister of your trouble, and will, for
her sake, help you.
Please call at my office to-morrow morning at
9 A. M.
S. J. Winton.”
When Harry and Mrs. Dare read this
note they were dumb-founded, but their
astonishment was relieved by Bess’ simple
recital of her errand.
Early next morning Hairy went to Mr.
Winton’s office, and pleased him by being
so prompt.
Harry ratified his sister’s statement, and
also told what a precious sister Bess was.
Harry, after answering Mr. Winton’s
numerous questions, was engaged as an
office boy.
By careful attention to his duties he
steadily rose in the esteem of his friends
and his employer. After the lapse of a
few years, several large firms failed, and
Mr. Winton was temporarily embarrassed.
It was even reported that he was about to
tail. At this juncture of affairs, his clerks,
on receiving their monthly salaries, sought
employment elsewhere. By good judg
ment and staunch business principles, Mr.
W inton avoided the threatened ruin of
his business.
Under these trying circumstances, our
friend Harry remained faithful to Mr.
Winton, and in a short while he was re
warded by Mr. Winton appointing him
general manager of his business.
Time glided away, and through his
meritorious behavior and his business
abilities, he became, not only a friend of
Mr. Winton, but his partner and his son
in-law.
Princess.
He is bordering on ingratitude who be
gins to search into the motives of those
who have done him service.— Thompson.