Newspaper Page Text
MARCH, 190®.
a spirit of good will towards ah
men.”
She looked at him searchingly;
slowly the meaning of his words sank
into her heart and a softened expres
sion dawned on her face.
“I remember, now! You are
Philip, the preacher with whom 1
have never been friendly. Yes, I know
now, your wife is dead, and Esther
lives in your house and loves your
children. I remember it all!” She
looked at the two, long and earnest
ly, and each wondered if she divin
ed their secret by some subtle power
developed and sharpened by this
crucial hour.
‘‘Yes, I remember all, and I must
tell you before it is too late. Esther
can never be more to you than she
is now. Your father freed himself
by divorce to marry Esther’s mother.
Death cannot break down the bar
rier that separates you two. You
and Esther had the same father.”
Her voice trailed off into a whisper,
and her breath grew shorter. A
silence filled the room so intense
that it made the ticking of the clock
seem an impertinence. The rain
beat drearily on the tin covered roof
of the shed room, while the wind
fiercely lashed the tall Lombardy
poplars and the leaves torn from
their hold fell untimely upon the
rain-soaked earth.
Margaret assisted Dan to the bed
side and administered a stimulant,
but Martha never spoke again—
merely nodding her assent when
Philip was asked to pray for her
departing soul.
A sound of opening and shutting
doors, with muffled voices and light
walking, announced the arrival of
visitors: a few minutes later several
women came softly into the room,
while a couple of men stood in the
doorway. When a slight bustle of
movement and murmur of voices fol
lowed the solemn ‘‘she is gone,”
Philip and Esther arose, while in
voluntarily their eyes met in sor
rowful dismay and astonishment.
In the gathering dusk a man rode
alone through mud and slush, over
the slippery hills and past the swol
len creeks, unheeding that the sky
had cleared until he saw the stars
mirrored in the puddles of water by
the roadside. For days past he had
been swept back into the almost for
gotten channels of his early man
hood, by this strong current of hap
piness born of mutual love. He had
reveled in unaccustomed joy as if
drunken on new wine, but now had
come the sobering reaction.
An impassable chasm yawned at
his feet, and Esther stood on the
opposite side. Never again would
they wander hand in hand through
sunlit woods, except in the golden
reaches of the River of Dreams.
With bowed head he sat in gloomy
retrospection far into the night,
while the fitful firelight drew shad
ows from the dim corners of the
room. Boldly they advanced upon
him till he looked up to see them
shrink back and from their hiding
places leer at him, mocking his mis
ery.
Giving free reign to his idle fancy,
the room became peopled with the
shades of departed ones. There was
one more insistent than the others,
who dared come nearer and who
flitted back more slowly to the dus
ky recesses. Was that Mabel, taunt
ing him with a happiness which she
had never the power to bring into
his life? And there was another,
who towered as if in judgment over
him. Had Martha Redd carried her
hatred beyond the grave? And was
it true that even death could not
clear the way to the woman he
loved and who loved him in return?
On the way from the funeral next
day Philip and Esther discussed their
newly discovered relationship, which
they could but view in the light of
a calamity.
“I cannot believe that there is
any tie of blood between us: Ido
not love you as I would love a sis
ter!”
‘‘Ah, Philip, you cannot be sure
of that, never having had a sister.
Children of the same parents have
affection for each other from being
reared together. If separated they
become mere strangers. But,” in
mock raillery, “there is a silver lin
ing even to this cloud. At least the
denizens of Indian Fork can say
nothing more about the impropriety
of my staying in your house. As
brother and sister we may dwell to
gether all our days and retain the
respect of our neighbors.” Philip
was silent, but it was evident from
his face that the fraternal aspect
was but another suggestion of re
ceiving a stone when he had asked
for bread.
“It may be folly, but I will not
accept this fate as inevitable until
I ascertain beyond a doubt that Mar
tha Redd erred not in her statement,
either from prejudice or from igno
rance.”
“And you will find that she spoke
the truth! She was not a woman
to speak without authority,” Esther
sighed with sad resignation.
The man was silent, his face re
flecting his troubled thoughts. Was
there ever such a sequel to a di
vorce? Truly the children’s teeth
were on edge because of the sour
grapes their parents had eaten!
Then with a sigh he dismissed the
subject for the time.
“Are you going to the wedding
feast this evening?”
“Perhaps I should go, else Mrs.
Hicks will think I bear her a grudge
for past unkindness. She was very
urgent in her verbal invitation.”
And so it happened that they were
among the few friends assembled to
meet Viola and Bud, who had mar
ried and were coming straight home
to be forgiven Viola’s ambition to
be admired had become so chastened
that she was satisfied with the faith
ful and loyal heart that loved her
truly and honestly. The groom was
a trifle more awkward than usual, in
his shining tight shoes and a new
suit, which was entirely too large—
thereby accentuating his great thin
ness. Nevertheless his presence, un
gainly though it was, deterred Mrs.
Hicks from carrying out her hostile
threat against the bride. There had
been a compromise, a lecture long
and severe, with a compulsory repe
tition of the ceremony by Philip
Lyle under the maternal roof—the
knot having been first tied by a
Justice of the Peace.
There was a noticeable absence
of the hilarity that usually charac
terized marriages at Indian Fork.
Partly owing to the recent death in
their midst, and partly because of
other circumstances that have al
ready been detailed, the serving of
the wedding cake partook less of the
nature of a festivity than of a sacra
ment.
CHAPTER XX.
Y
'OU ought to help make the old say
in’ come true, that ‘One marriage
makes many!’ Now is the accept-
ed time: ‘Come ye who love the Lord
and let your joys be known!’”
Esther glanced at the old negresi,
as she stood with arms akimbo,
watching her intently.
“No better time, no better man.
What you waitin’ for?” she persist
ed, her blue filmed eyes fixed on the
girl’s face.
“Whom shall I marry?” indiffer
ently, but willing to humor the old
creature’s whim.
“Who but Phiiip Lyle is good
’nough for my little baby gal?”
“He’s my half brother!”
“What! no ma’am, I was with
Miss Clara when you was born. I
know who your ma was better than
you know yourself.”
Esther looked up with sudden in
terest, the color blooming in her
cheeks. But a glance at the half
witted woman, and the hope died
prematurely. How could she depend
on such questionable authority!
Martha Redd would never have ut
tered a false statement on her death
bed. She had been only six years
old when her parents died, but she
bad the most vivid • recollection of
them. The good natured, easy
going Tom Priester might have been
alike indulgent and indifferent to
his own or to a step-child, but her
heart misgave her when she recalled
Woman’s Work.
the passionate love of the only
mother she had ever known. It
would not be hard to believe that
Tom Priester was a step-father, but
very small proof would convince her
that she was in reality the child of
Sadie. Perhaps this accounted for
her Aunt Martha’s acceptance of the
money that Lucius Lyle had left—
Martha could not refuse the gift to
his own child. Undoubtedly she and
Philip were of the same blood, and
nothing could disprove that fact. It
was all over —the pretty romance
that had come to her so unexpectedly
and ended so tragically.
Philip Lyle on his way to the
ferry rode leisurely through a stretch
of woods, the familiar aspect of
which appealed to his memory with
a quick, sharp pang. Esther had
been with him the last time he had
passed this way; then the green
earth rose up and sang beneath their
feet, but now the landscape achea
with emptiness. The solitude of the
forest, unbroken by the voice of any
woodland creature, was a reflex of
the loneliness that engulfed his
spirit, and the wind sighing among
the great pines echoed the pathos
of his life. The going of his love
was as the shadow of endless night!
A glimpse of the ferry house
through the trees brought vividly
before him the object of his visit
there, and his heart beat tumultu
ously as he realized that within the
hour he would be in possession of
the knowledge that would make him
the happiest or the most wretched
of men. It had always been a mat
ter of surprise to him that Dan
Priester, uncouth and surly of man
ner, self-centered and narrow, could
be so closely related to Esther. That
he should prove but a cousin would
explain their unlikeness, but with a
grim smile Philip thought that noth
ing. else could make himself so
lenient to all of Dan’s shortcom
ings. as the proof that he was in
reality what he was supposed to be
—Esther’s brother.
The invalid snarled a greeting,
frowned and groaned, moving rest
lessly in his chair, under Philip’s
calm scrutiny. Would his unsup
ported word have any weight? Un
fortunately Dan was not of like
character with the great and good
man for whom he was named.
“Dan, I’ve heard you say that you
were several years older than Es
ther; perhaps you remember when
her mother married your father.”
Dan looked at him in puzzleu
surprise.
“You mean when her aunt mar
ried my father. Esther is not my
cousin but my own sister.” There
was no doubt of his sincerity, but it
was possible that he could be mis
taken about the relationship.
“Perhaps you were so young when
this second marriage took place that
you did not know the difference be
tween a small sister and a cousin!”
“I was twelve years old and I
remember perfectly when Aunt Sa
die married my father. There had
been a succession of events each of
sufficient importance to Impress Itself
indelibly on my mind when I was
of an age to be most susceptible to
impressions. My Aunt’s marriage
to a man that caused a breach in
the family, owing to Aunt Martha’s
opposition to him as a divorced man;
immediately after came his death
in a railway wreck. My mother was
not well then, and Sadie came the
next week after the funeral to take
charge of the store. Two months
later Esther was born and my moth
er died.
“Within a year after that, Sadie
and my father married. They did
not wait long to console each other,
people said, but it was owing to cir
cumstances that it was such a quick
match. Aunt Sadie, as I continued
to call her, was all the mother that
Esther ever knew, and I doubt if
her own mother could have loved
her more. She taught the child to
call her mother, and anyone not
familiar with the family history
would naturally have supposed that
Esther was her own child. But why
should you, who ought to know bet
ter, think that Esther was the child
of my aunt’s first husband?”
Then Philip related Martha Redd’s
dying declaration, to Dan’s unbound
ed astonishment.
“Well, did I ever! Who'd have
thought that poor Aunt Martha lived
all of those years under that mis
take! She had some reason for be
lieving that Esther was your half-
sister, but how the idea got in her
head I don’t know.”
“You don’t think that this dis
closure was in the nature of a cli
max to her long and bitter prejudice
against my family?”
“No sir, I never knew her to speak
an untruth in my life!” declared Dan
in stout defense. “If, as you say,
she wasn’t wanderin’ towards the
last, I don’t know what possessed
her to tell you such a wild story,
but I’m sure she had some reason
for believing what she said. Possi
bly she heard something that lead
her to think that Sadie had a child
when she married the second time,
and it was not likely that any such
mistake would be corrected, as she
would never let Sadie’s name be
mentioned in her presence after her
marriage to a divorced man. They
lived far apart, and there was no
communication between them. Give
me a dose of that straw colored
stuff; no it’s not time for the brown
mixture. I don’t see how you can
forget which comes first when I'd
soon be laid away without ’em,” —
reproachfully to his wife, who had
just entered the room.
“But, Mr. Lyle, you needn’t take
my word alone. If old Dr. Bailey
of Red Hills is still living (and he
was a year or so ago) he will tell
you the same story. He attended
my mother when Esther was born,
and, being a minister also, he bap
tized her when she was a little red
squaller in a long white frock. I
remember it as well as if it all hap
pened yesterday!”
Through green 'woods, where the
shadows of evening lay, Philip Lyle
rode slowly homeward. There is
balm in the air, and, far up against
the blue, the stately pine tops sing
like wind-touched harps, while the
chink, chink, cherk, cherk of the
frogs, the drowsy hoot of an owl, the
natural melody of the woods comes
from every side. When he came in
sight of the parsonage it was a
house of gold in the sunset, while
the soft blending of the crimson,
purple and gold stained the windows
of God’s great cathedral. Bats were
flitting and a whippoorwill called
persistently from the river bank.
Esther comes slowly down the
walk to meet him, the scent of jas
mines like sweet incense over the
garden, the light of renunciation in
her eyes. She had fought the bat
tle out and bidden farewell to the
man whose living presence had filled
the clear outline in which memory
had kept him; the man whose
patience and calmness through tribu
lation placed him well up in the
ranks of unrecorded heroes.
In her dim arraignment of the
irony of life she remembers the bit
ter cup that she must keep for her
own private drinking. The vista of
years opens before her into the
misty perspective of old age, and
she knows that no height of joy nor
depth of peace will be vouchsafed
for recompense. The tangle of his
and her affairs can end only with
the “earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust!”
Old Daphne, with her three bags
containing all her worldly posses
sions, passes the gate as Philip dis
mounts.
“I’m goin’ to Jakie’s, but I’ll be
back in time for the weddin’,” and
she goes down the path singing
blithely. Esther explains, in reply
to his look of inquiry:
“But s'he is so flighty we can never
depend on what she says!”
Then Philip, looking down at her,
the steady light of content shining
in his eyes, his face luminous in the
opalescent tints of the early twi
light, repeats Dan’s story.
“If all he says were not true I
could not feel so light of heart! In
a strangely new recognition, I see in
you the woman who was created to
be my wife. I doubt not that we
have known and loved each other in
a former existence, for,
“Life is but a dream and a forgetting—
The soul that rises with us—our life's star—
Has had elsewhere its setting,
And conies from far.”
“But assurance must be made
doubly sure. Together we will seek
this Dr. Bailey, and, his statement
agreeing with Dan’s—then, sweet
heart—” he raises her hand to his
lips, as they stand alone in the pale
glory of the falling day, with the
odor of jasmines sweet on the eve
ning breeze, and the moon rising
above the mountain with glorious
beauties of revelation.
(The End.)
3