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A SENSE OT DUTT
Dy MARY LYNNE PA YNE, Author of "When Cupid's in the Hunt," "A Woman's Will."
HEN the visitor was ushered into the
library, he looked toward the window
seat, halting suddenly, where a girl half
reclined among a goodly supply of sofa
pillows. Her face was turned toward
the starlit world. He was loath to
break in upon her solitude, and for a
moment stood watching her with a sense
of satisfaction which her presence alone
■ a
had created. It had been twelve years since he had
last seen her. And even now he did not see her
sac the sight of a slender, well proportioned
figure, gowned in a white Princess dress, and the
back of a carefully made up coiffure vouchsafed
to him. Yet by these tokens he was conscious of
the strong personality of his old friend, Marian
Beckam.
At length Don Carlyle stirred and, stepping for
ward, a smile upon his face, broke the silence:
“Well, I’ve come a long way for such indifferent
welcome. ’ ’
At the sound of his voice the girl started, in
great surprise, and, almost as swift as the flight
of a bird, she had turned, gained her feet and hur
ried forward to greet him.
“Don!” she cried, “I am so glad to see you.”
There was no mistaking the sincerity of hei
words, the raidiant joy in her face and voice.
“It is good,” said Don Carlyle, as he felt the
warm, spontaneous pressure of her hand, “to find
some fidelity in the world.”
“And it is good, too,” declared Marian, “to have
your old friends remember you. Twelve years!”
she continued thoughtfully. “Why, it seems hardly
a week since we were at Indian Springs.”
She studied his Philippine tan.
“You have changed some.”
The truth of this staement Don did not doubt.
“I suppose you were hardly expecting me to turn
up,” he said, lamely. “I should have written or
called up. I counted pretty heavily on the past,
and decided I’d risk surprising you.”
“We are too good friends for fol-dc-rol formal
ities,” she replied.
“True,” admitted Don, ‘too good friends for
all that.” He was thinking that she was different
from other women. She gave more than she re
ceived. Incense burnt at her shrine would only
amuse her. If her friends were loyal, she could
pass by their words ot praise and flattery.
While he made his deductions, she was conscious
of the subtle change twelve years had made in him.
Alert, care free, easy in his manners - before, he had
added to his nature gravity and an air of stern
ness.
Suddenly she became aware that he was still
standing. She motioned him to a chair, apolo
getically.
“So polite,” she commented, “to have kept you
standing so long.”
“You were glad to see me,” he reasoned.
They went back twelve years.
They had many a laugh together over amusing
reminiscences, many comments to make on those
early morning horse-back rides, which were now
but happy memories of a past.
It was first Don’s contented voice: “And don’t
you remember?” then Marian’s reminder of some
scene or incident. So the evening passed all too
quickly for both of them. Hour after hour was
treked off by the solemn-toned clock on the stair
way, but time was nothing to these two, as it is
to no one who is happy.
If a very observant stranger had been in the li
brary that night when Don Carlyle came from the
Philippines, he would not have been long to no
tice that there was some person whom both parties
had known at the Wigwam, whose name was stu
diously avoided. (The Wigwam was a part of In
dian Springs.) The stranger, had his powers of de
duction been at aH reliable, would have been quick
to infer that this person, whoever she or he might
be, had figured in quite an important way, in the
affairs of Don Carlyle, or of Marian Beckam.
The Golden Age for October 31, 1907.
As, at last, all roads must lead to Rome, the
tabooed name was mentioned. The conversation
had lulled for a moment, as it usually does preced
ing something important. Don Carlyle drew in a
full breath, as a man who steels himself for a
crisis.
Marian, intuitively guessing what was to come,
looked encouragement, but with a mute appeal for
sympathy in her dark eyes.
“Though I hate to mar the pleasure of the even
ing by mentioning disagreeable subjects, Marian,
where is Pauline? How is she?
For the first time during the evening they be
came conscious of the stillness of the big house,
the great loneliness of the deserted, starlit garden.
Thus becoming conscious of external things, in a
relative degree they likewise became conscious of
themselves.
A hard, strained look began to gather on Don
Carlyle’s face. As Marian remained silent, it was
his sharp, curt question which brought her to her
self.
“Well, have you, too, lost sight of her?”
“No,” said Marian, with constraint. “I was
thinking how much I had better tell you about
her. As for where she is, she is at home for all I
know. As for how she is, people say that she has
changed greatly of late —a shadow of her old self.”
Don Carlyle’s face was set like a cold-blooded
statue, a perfect mask- of self-control. His clasped
hands dropped between his knees, his head was
bowed slightly, as though in deep thought.
Marian longed to say some word of comfort to
him, but she could not utter words that her heart
failed to sanction. He had sinned and must bear
the weight of his punishment. How gladly, though,
would she have comforted him, had her conscience
permitted. As it was, she sat in silence, waiting
until he should choose to speak.
Finally Don raised his head with a quick, decis
ive movement, characteristic of his nature.
“I suppose you know the whole miserable
story ? ”
“Yes,” admitted Marian, “I have heard it.”
“You know, then, what a cad I am? That I
made love to her, then went away and broke the
engagement. I have not laid eyes on her since.”
Marian nodded affirmatively.
“No doubt it was common talk at the time,”
continued Don, bluntly, “and I suppose that gos
sip ripped me up well enough. But. Marian, gos
sip has been light in comparison to the weight of
my own conscience.”
The abstracted gaze of the man wandered to
Marian’s face, and rested there in a hard, unsee
ing look. He rose from his chair and walked slow
ly the length of the room. Then, pacing pack,
he approached near to her chair and paused.
Knowing that he had halted near her, Marian
turned and sat looking up in an attitude of ex
pectancy.
“Why have you told me all this?” she said
“Where is the good in your keeping a dead and
unwholesome past?”
“Haven’t you guessed my reason?” returned the
man.
“No, I do not think you wish me to advise you
in this matter. You usually decide matters for
yourself. ’ ’
“For once in your life you are all wrong,” said
Don Carlyle. “I am going to ask your advice.
Now, what have you to say?”
Had the destiny of the world been placed upon
her right or wrong choice, she could hardly have
been mode shocked or surprised. Looked at from
one viewpoint, Don had conferred a great honor
upon her, but that phase of the situation did not
present itself to Marian. She realized that a great
sacrifice had been asked of her, and that she was
powerless to avert it.
Some time passed before Marian could control
her natural voice, and in that interval she real
ized that she was doing for another girl what very
few women in the world had ever had the courage
or nobility to do. Yet the path of duty lay clearly
revealed to her, and her conscience forced her to
the sacrifice.
“I think,” she said at length, in a slow, meas
ured voice, “that you must know that you have
sinned. You have wronged the girl you have pro
fessed to love. To me your duty seems to be to go
back to her. Ask her, Den, to be vour wife.”
Under the blur of the gas light Don Carlyle’s
face had grown steadily paler, and now, as Marian
ceased to speak, the magnetic, warm light of his
steel-gray eyes seemd slowly to fade, until they
grew mere bits of pale lifelessness, like the eyes
of men who have failed in the world.
“So you thnik that way,” he said at length,
in a dull voice. “I might have known.”
At the sound of the perfect hopelessness in his
voice Marian could have cried aloud in pity. But
she recognized, alas, too well, that he had his
guerdon of sin, and that all sin must cause sor
row.
For a long time there was silence in the room.
Don Carlyle held out his hand. “I thank you
for your advice. I shall leave the city on the
morrow. Good-bye. ’ ’
She rose mechanically, shook hands, and watched
the man she loved go slowly from the room.
Thus do the honest crucify their human heart.
* It
The Trinity Home-Coming.
Up there, at old Trinity, they say it’s goin’ to bfr—
An’ old-time, sweet home-cornin’, like the wander
ers love to see;
A hearty, old handshaking with the old songs
ringin’ high,
Like they used to when the angels joined the chorus
in the sky!
Just heard about it —an’ I sent this line to Brother
Lee:
“I don’t care how they crowd you, keep the old
time pew for me.”
There, where the shadows left me —there, where the
light streamed down,
An’ the soul knew all the blessin’ of the cross that
is the crown.
I’ve always had a longin’ for the old church,
standin’ there
Like a beacon in the darkness, like a monument to
prayer;
In my dreams it seemed to call me to a better,
brighter day,
An ’ I know my heart will find it: It has never lost
the way!
An’ I know they’ll sing the old hymns that we
loved in days gone by—
Glimpse “Canaan’s fair an’ happy land where our
possessions lie.”
While once again “Amazin’ Grace” shall thrill
each singin’ soul,
An’ we 11 sight the “Rock of Ages” “while the
nearer waters roll!”
I’ll be at that Home-Comin’, an’ claim once more
my right .
To “fields arrayed in livin’ green an’ rivers of
delight. ’ ’
To the sweet “rest that remaineth” for the weary
ones that roam—
The sweet home-bells are callin’, and’ I’m cornin’—
cornin’ home!
—The Atlanta Constitution.
Not In It With Hoston.
A Bostonian died, and, when he arrived at St.
Peter’s gate, he was asked the usual questions:
is your name, and where are you from ?’ *
The answer was, “Mr. So-and-So, from Boston”—
You may come in,” said St. Peter, “but I know
you won’t like it.’’—Christian Register.