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For Woman’s Work.
Love’s Touch.
purpling graphs that feel the sun’s warm l<iss,
Turning their heart’s blood into nectar sweet,
and sweet thoughts, awaking, give me bliss,
Oh hove, when our lips meet.
Ida Khodus Jensen.
Written for Woman’s Work. Copyrighted by the Author.
FOR FOR WORSE
BY MARION MORGAN BUCKNER.
(Continued from last month.)
CHAPTER XVII. (Concluded.)
HE storm brewed sullenly. There
was no nun muring among the
trees. The river was still. A fixed
T
gloom hung over the place, a silent hold
ing of the breath of Nature for a crash
to come. Os finely strung tempera
ment, Esther was impressionable to
surroundings and in knowledge al
most prescient. A fear, mingled
with the vague foreboding of some
imminent calamity, reached the point
of superstition.
“My wife, Mabel! We have trac
ed her to the river. I fear she has
destroyed herself!” his voice hoarse
and unfamiliar.
“She is safe! I left her sleeping
while I go for food,” her heart thrill
ing with thankfulness that she could
banish that agony of anxiety from
his eyes.
“Ah, but she is mad! It is not
safe to leave her alone. Lead me
to her, quickly,” and they walked
silently back to the ferry house.
Reaching the stairs, Esther whis
pered:
“I’ll go up alene,” and she stayed
him with her hand. As she entered
the room, and before her eyes could
penetrate the semi-darkness, a sti
fled scream rang out, and a moment
later there was a sound of something
striking the earth with a heavy thud.
She flew to the window which had
been darkened for one brief moment,
and saw Mabel lying motionless be
low, among the rocks and rubbish
where she had hurled herself. It
seemed an age before Esther could
descend, and Philip stood as if para
lyzed.
“I have been rushing to some un
known but certain horror for days
past, and now I am about to meet
it!”
Together they lifted the bruised
and broken body and laid it on a
grassy bank, and were trying to re
vive her when the men arrived. Long
before a doctor could be brought
they knew that she had passed be
yond human aid.
In the ferry house they laid the
body for inquest, while from near
and far the people came agape and
astare at the fate that had befallen
the minister’s wife, now wellknown
as an erring and unfortunate wo
man. Close by Dan and Margaret
sat Esther, feeling that she was in
some dreadful nightmare. Nothing
seemed real, even the trees on the
opposite shore took o« grotesque
shapes and swayed with uncanny
meaning. Two thin bars of sun
shine stole through the shutters and
crept across the floor till they rested
at the foot of the bier in silent,
pallid reproach at the remarks of
the watchers. She gazed at them n
if fascinated by the intrusion of ir
relevant fancier which crowd about
a horror.
The storm, so ominous in its ap
proach, had passed unheeded with
the splashing of a few drops. The
river lay fiery red in the slanting
rays of the sun, as it sank behind
the hills. Shadows began to fill the
dim heights and corners of the ferry
house. A chilly wind sprang up and
moaned among the pines. The truce
of night came down alike on the
careless and the sorrowful, spread-
ing its mantle of peace on all through
the healing power of darkness. But
Mabel—
“For her the years are ended,
The wheels of life stand still.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
CAN’T go back, Esther; I know I
promised you, but Ma is so harsh I
dare not face her. Mrs. James has
I
been trying to make peace between
us, but Ma wont agree to let me
come back unless I take that whip
ping. And there is worse than the
whipping: I would never hear the
last of what she calls my disgraceful
conduct —and what have I done but
leave home on account of her un
kindness! She thinks that I ought
to feel about everything just as she
does, and she was thirty-three years
old when I was born.
“When I was a child I used to
pray every night that I would grow
up quick, so that I could get away
from home. You don’t know how
hard she is. how much like her ma
—old Grandma Hines! When Aunt
Jinny ran off and got marrleu,
Grandma said she would slap her
face the first time she laid eyes on
her. Three years later they brought
Aunt Jinny home, dead, and Grand
ma kept her word: she walked up
to the cold body and slapped the
face of the daughter who had only
disobeyed her by marrying the man
she loved.
“If Ma hadn’t kept me in hot
water I never would have thought
about marrying Bud Lane; I never
really loved him, but I believe he
loved me, and now when almost
everybody seems to scorn me, he is
still so good to me that my feelings
towards him have changed. I’m
sorry I ever snubbed him. His
white eyelashes don’t matter, when
he has such a kind heart!” Her words
ended in a sob, and, stopping only
long enough to control her voice,
she went on ?n the same excited
tone —born of her desperation of
spirit.
“Would you go back if you were
in my place?” with a fierce eager
ness. Esther evaded the question
by asking another.
“But why go to Millburg? If Eu
Young intends to marry you, do you
think it necessary to fellow him
up?”
“Well, he has said all along that
I ought to go there, so that we could
see each other oftener. His business
keeps him so close that he can’t
get off any more: he hasn’t even had
time to write lately.”
“You hold yourself too cheap,
Viola. If he were in earnest he
would not consider any cost too
great that brought him to your side;
rather he would prize you all the
more highly for being hard to win.
You will only get yourself severely
criticised, I fear.”
'M hat else can I do, and what
does it matter, when everybody
thinks I have already gone to the
bad? I’ll leave Elson tomorrow
morning for Millburg, and if Ed
Young doesn’t keep his word, I don’t
care what becomes of me,” and with
this reckless speech Viola took ab
rupt departure.
“Oh, what can I do to save Viola
Woman’s Work.
from herself!” and Esther, at her
wits’ end, looked anxiously from the
window, longing to call her back yet
not knowing what to do if she came.
Old Daphne came up with her
sanest face. She had been an un
observed listener to the conversa
tion.
“Dat gal ought not to go to Mill
burg. I was there las’ week an’ all
the talk was about Ed Young’s mar
riage to come off soon, an’ I see him
all the time walkin’ an’ drivin’ with
er fine qual’ty gal. They was sho
fixin’ sorer big weddin’.”
“Daph, can’t you go and tell Mrs.
Hicks all you have heard? Perhaps
if she knew—” Old Daphne had
turned her back and was crooning
dismally:
“I’m goin’ home, I'm goin’ home,
I’m goin’ home termorrer.”
The hours passed, but Viola’s
trouble still burdened Esther’s heart.
She was fond of the girl, and knew
that she had been sadly mismanaged
at home. Mrs. Hicks was wont to
remind her children that they should
honor their mother, but the Scrip
tural injunction that parents should
not provoke their children to wrath
was a passage she had never thought
of quoting in the entire course of
her life.
Hugh ran in to tell Esther that
some one on horseback waited at the
gate to see her, and with a sudden
queer feeling of relief that she could
not at first explain, she saw that it
was Bud Lane.
The news he brought—that Martha
Redd was worse and that Esther
had been sent for in haste—could
not keep her from trying to enlist
his aid.
“Bud, I know you have thought
hard of me for persuading Viola not
to meet you when you had planned
to run away and marry, but I felt
it my duty to act as I did. Now,
strange as it may seem, I feel it
my duty to send you to her. Once
I separated you, now I wish to bring
you together. Viola is in great dis
tress of mind. She is to leave Elson
tomorrow for Millburg, yet, I be
lieve if you would meet her and take
her home to her mother, she would
willingly give up the trip.”
The youth’s face flushed; in his
embarrassment he pressed the spur
too hard, but in quieting his horse,
he recovered his speech.
“I’m willin’ to go an’ fetch her
effen she’ll come,” with so much
sincerity that the girl felt that Viola
need not go to Millburg unless she
chose.
“An’ now while we’re on that sub
ject Miss Esther, I want to say that
when I told that I saw you an’ the
preacher settin’ on the church steps
I never dreamt that them old wo
men folks would git you talked
about. I—why good evenin’, Mr.
Lyle"—as Philip came up with Mab.
“All right, ma’am, I’ll drive over
to Elson bright an’ early tomorrow
an’ ’tend to that erran’, an’ I’m er
thousan’ times ’bliged to you for
fellin’ me,” and he went cantering
down the dusty road.
Mab scampered off to join her
brother, but Philip stood with the
gate between them, regarding her
intently.
“I could not help hearing what
he said, and I too, must tell vou
I regret exceedingly that your kind
ness in the girl’s behalf should have
resulted to your annoyance. Strange
as it may seem, I have just this af
ternoon incidentally heard why Mrs.
Hicks refused to keep you as a
boarder. I was under the impres
sion that your trouble was altogether
on account of your aunt’s dislike of
ray family, and I was amazed at.
David Burch’s revelation.”
Esther listened silently, her eyes
fixed on the western hill where the
pines were gilded by the sunset. But
for her interference Viola would
have married and in all probability
would never have known aught of
her present trouble. With morbid
self-reproach she recalled the trage
dy at the ferry, precipitated by her
own desire to minister to physical
need. What did good intentions
count if evil resulted? Was it ever
wrong to do what one conceived to
be one’s duty?
Briefly she told him of the petty
trials which had confronted her—
the difficulties of other people which
had in some unaccountable way en
tangled her. As she talked,' the
purity and sweetness of her expres
sion and the unselfishness that was
characteristic of her life was sud-
denly revealed to him in a new
light, and a strange new tenderness
thrilled every fibre of his being, find
ing expression in the calling of her
name.
“Esther, queen Esther!” Like the
sleeping beauty whose century of
sleep was ended by the kiss of the
Prince, Esther’s heart awoke to the
vibration of a chord that had never
before been touched. Each had been
conscious of the unusual attachment
that existed between them —not ar
dent enough for love, but sincere
enough for that true friendship which
is far rarer than love; yet neither
had recognized the fact that their
comradeship had ripened into deep
est emotion. Unconsciously he had
loved her, and she had unconscious
ly responded to that love.
“Esther, you must know that I
love you! Tell me that you are not
indifferent—that it causes you just
one brief pang to refuse my love.”
Moved by a quick impulse, he takes
her hand, draws her towards him,
and sees her face. And though no
actual w’ord, nor even the quiver of
the lip betrays her, before another
minute passes Philip Lyle has read
her mute confession.
His mother had advised him to
marry again in Mabel’s lifetime. Her
remarks, then cursory, were now
sublimed by death. That his heart
should be irrevocably given to a
woman so noble, so lovable, and that
he should have won her love in re
turn, was bliss unspeakable.
CHAPTER XIX.
I ORE than a year had passed since
physical disability had ended the
1 active outdoor life of Martha
M
Redd, but she had recovered sufficient
strength to make herself useful in
many ways about the house; and,
subdued into gentleness by affliction,
she had endeared herself to her
friends more in those last months
than in all the years of her life
when her harsh nature had held
every one at arm’s length.
With the mail bag over his shoul
der, Dan stopped at her open window
for a word before his early start
to Elson. “You’re not ready to go
the old route this morning, Aunt
Martha?” he asked jocosely.
“No, Pa, not this mornfng, Pa,”
looking. beyond him towards the
river where the earliest touch of sun
rise had set the treetops aglow.
Pa! and he’s been dead more
than a quarter of a century. Poor
old soul, her mind seems to grow
weaker, but she’s likely to outlive
any of us.”
When he returned that afternoon
his mental comment was a reminder
of the fallacy of human judgment.
It was apparent to all that the end
was approaching. But her hold on
life was most tenacious. A week
drifted slowly by and yet she lin
gered.
Heavy rains had fallen for three
days and nights and, the roads be
ing almost impassable, the neighbors
had not been in attendance as was
their wont in time of sickness. To
add to the distress of Margaret and
Esther, Dan was seized with a severe
attack of rheumatism and was un
able to leave his bed. But for Wes
ley Hk: ks, who was staying to carry
the mail, the two wearied women
were alone when Martha began to
sink As Margaret was despatching
the boy for assistance, a tall figure
emerged from the shadow of a great
China tree by the gate and Margaret
gave him a tearful welcome
“Oh, Brother Lyle, I am so glad
you ve come. I believe she’ll let
™ u , pray With her! ” Goln * Mar
tha s door with the minister, she
Wen A °? , t 0 J? an * hopins that she
help him to his aunt’s room.
M’th the ebbing of her physical
strength Martha’s mind had cleared,
«o, when Philip entered and she
saw the man she had known in the
>J ars gone by, the old-time hatred
glowed in the dimming eyes and the
old harshness came back to her
voice.
“And you dare come into mv pres
ence, Lucius Lyle?” ’
Taking the thin hand pointed at
him accusingly, he stroked it gently
and in a voice of the utmost kind
ness said:
“Forgive me for being mv father’s
son. and forgive my father even as
you must pray God to forgive vou!
I beg you. leave all enmity and blt
lorness here with your worn and
tired body. Enter the iew life with
MARCH, 1&09