Newspaper Page Text
VOL. XIX.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 1877.
NO. 191
‘•IT IS I—BE MOT AFRAID.*’
Matt. Xiv. 27.
BY REV, 0. 8. BIRD.
The storm is high;
lJ«rk is th<* night;
And from the aky
No friendly light
Shineis on the toilers at the osr,
Who strive to reach the other (bore.
They toil aDd pray,
Those temp st tossed,
And wish for day,
For all seems lost—
As harder blows the liowlinggale,
And strength and hope and courage fail.
Out through the storm, ^
And on the sea,
There moves a Form
In majeaty,
With face Serene, and tranquil air—
The toilers are overwhelmed with fear.
Soft, nwett, and clear,
Above the roar,
TIiomc worda of cheer
Their hearts assure:
“No spirit speaks ; I heard your cry
Upon the monnl—!o! it is X;
“Bo not afraid,
For it is I.”
The storm is lai I;
The starry sky
Bends bright and fair above the sea,
And calmness rusts on Galilee.
So, from Thy throne.
Above tile sky,
Thou hear’st thegroai,
The prayer, the sigh,
From troubled hearts that faint from fear,
While tempests shake the darkened air.
0! to us, too,
Say, “It is I;”
For Thou art true,
And though the sky
Be black with clouds, aud the mad wavo
liasheH aud roars, O, Thou can’st save!
0, come and save;
Hush the wild roar.
And calm the wave;
Aud to the shore
Our foundered bark all safe convey,
For wiud aud wave thy word obey.
O Christ, 'tia thou!
Thou stiU’st the storm;
We se > Thee now—
Thy radiant form
Comes moving o’er the crested wave,
And comes to succor and to save.
A WORK OF RETRIBUTION.
BY CHRISTIAN BEID.
[From Appleton’s Journal.]
<11 AFTER V.
CONCLUSION.
A very safe and delightful retreat this
cave seemed to them when they found
themselves sheltered within it—notwith
standing the fact that they were in deep
darkness, and wet almost to the skin.
“Stand still,” said Thurston, releasing
Miss Loring's hand for the first time,
“and I will strike a match.”
“Is it possible you have matches with
yon?” she asked.
“I am an old soldier, and an inveter
ate smoker,” he answered. “I am never
caught without matches, and I carry my
case wrapped in leather, so that dampness
cannot affect them. See here!”
The next instant a feeble short lived
blaze lighted np their place of refuge,
and showed Miss Loring a stone, on
which she immediately sat down.
“We are at least sheltered from the
rain,” said Thurston, as the temporary
illumination died away, “and safe from
the eleotricity, since water is a non-con-
conductor. Now, if yon can possess
your soul in patience for awhile, I hope
that the storm will exhaust itself and we
may go home by moonlight after all.”
“I can possess my sonl in patience very
easily,” she answered. “It is better to
be here than to be riding along a forest
road in such a storm as this. How the
rain pours !
‘And lightnings, ns they play,
But show where rocks our path have crossed,
Or gild the torrent’s spray.”
“Von cannot be very nervous, Miss
Loring, or you would not be able to quote
poetry.”
“I am not at all nervous.” she replied.
“Pray set your mind at rest on that
»"'int. I havo always felt that if I were
called upon to face death itself—I mean
•loath in some sudden and violent form—
1 should be as calm and collected as I am
at this moment."
“You might find yourself mistaken.
Facing death is not such an easy matter
as you think. I, who have faced it many
tim<*8, know whereof I speak.”
“But there was always doubt in that,
was there not? If you were absolutely
certain that death was before you—say,
for instance, that you were on a sinking
ship in mid ocean—you would have no
fear of losing your composure, would
you?”
“I suppose not—the inevitable is said
to have always a sustaining power. Un
der some circumstances, however, I can
imagine that, apart from courage, a man
might shrink from the prospect of leav
ing those whom he loved helpless behind
him.”
“And would that be your oase?”
The abrupt question did not sonnd as it
would have sounded at another time and
in another place. So utterly unconven
tional were their surroundings, so strange
the darkness encompassing them, that
the ordinary rules governing social life
seemed for the present laid aside, and
Ihurston replied without a moment's
thought;
“Not at all. If this stream before us
were able to rise and overwhelm ns, I
should have the satisfaction of feeling
'hat I left no human being in the world
^rse for my death, and but one person
v ho would feel any active sentiment of
regret.”
She laughed slightly—not a mirthful
laugh by any means.
“Then you have the advantage over
me in the possession of that one person.
I should leave several human beings bet
ter for my death, inasmuoh as my fortune
Would be divided among them, and not
one who would mourn me beyond a
Week. ”
The instinct of distrust was so strong
in him with regard to everything which
ahe said or did, that he set this speech
down to mere striving after effect, and
answered more lightly than he otherwise
would have done.
“You have surely forgotten all your
admirers.”
“Thank you for reminding me of
them, ” she said, but* her tone changed
from earnestness to mookery. “I wonder
how many among them would mourn me
a week! Well, we reap as we have sow
ed, I suppose. People call me brilliant,
beautiful and fascinating, but many a
commonplace woman is richer in love than
I am.”
It was impossible even for Thurston
to doubt the sincerity with which these
words were uttered. Half bitter, and
wholly sad, the magnetio voice sounded,
and he felt his heart strongly stirred by
its tones. A doubt of himself—of his
own capabilities of resisting this woman’s
power—began for the first time to cross
his mind. Had Mrs. Jennings been
right? Was he, after all, playing with
fire?
“If you are poor in love,” he said, “it
is because you have flung it away from
you iu carelessness or scorn. I know,
Miss Loring, that devotion the most pas
sionate and true has been poured out like
water at your feet.”
“Do you know it?” she asked; and
there was not a little skepticism in her
tone. “Then you are wiser than I am.
But I confess I have always been incred
ulous whore protestations of passion
were involved. Perhaps I did not feel
interest enough to put them to any test.
Lite is a riddle to which I have never
found a key, and I have often thought
that it in not worth searching for.”
There was something so pathetic in the
half-weary, half-reckless ring of her
voice that Thurston said, involuntarily:
“You are too young, and far too liber
ally endowed with every good gift of na
ture to feel anything like that. Surely
you cannot seriously do so.”
She did not answer, for as he spoke
the most vivid flash of lightning which
they had yet seen illuminated the whole
wild scene with an unearthly glare, leap
ing from point to point among the crags
while the roar of the thunder overhead
seemed to shake the solid rocks around
them.
When darknesss again fell, veiling
from sight the white sheets of rain, the
surging, whirling torrents, Agatha said:
“Can we not go farther back? The
rain or the spray from the Btream is fall
ing over me.”
“Certainly we can,” he answered. “Let
me strike a match. Now give me your
hand.”
In the farthest corner of the rock re
cess he placed her, and then established
himself before her so as to shield her as
much as possible from the blast and dri-
ing spray which even here sought them
ont.
“I am afraid yon are very uncomforta
ble, ” he said. “That ledge on which you
are sitting is a tilting perch, I suspect.
If you will rest one hand on my shoul
der, you may be able to steady yourself
better.”
“It is not necessary,” she answered. “I
can steady myself very well without trou
bling you further. Then she added ab
ruptly: “It is very kind of you to take
as much care of me as if—as if you liked
me, Colonel Thurston. I assure you I
appreciate it.”
There was a minute’s pause before
Thurston said, in a voice which sounded
constrained:
“Why should you think that I do not
like you, Miss Loring?”
“Pray do not ask such a foolish ques
tion,” she answered. “You know as well
as or better than I do that you do not like
me; and you are very straightforward
and thorough, Colonel Thurston—far too
much so to pretend to be what you are
not. On that account I liked you from
the first,” she added. “Don’t be fright
ened because I say so—I mean don’t
think that I am on your conquest. I
would not add you to the list of my cap
tives if I could; but I should like to win
you for a friend if such a thing were pos
sible.”
“It is not possible,” he answered
hoarsely. “It is absolutely impossible.
So far from being your friend, Miss Lor
ing, I have never felt such deep and bit
ter enmity toward any human creature as
I felt toward you before I ever saw your
face.”
He saw that face the next instant, for
another vivid lightning-flash showed it
turned toward him with an expression of
astonishment on its pale, clear-cut fea
tures.
“Deep and bitter enmity!” she repeat
ed. “Did what you felt go as far as that?
Enmity is generally associated with the
desire to injure—did you wish to injure
me, Colonel Thurston?”
Even in the darkness Thnrston was con-
scions of a flush to his faoe. At that
moment he felt as if his desire that Ber
tie's wrong might be avenged had been a
very paltry thing.
“If you will allow me to waive that
question, Miss Loring—” he began, but
she interrupted him impetuously:
“I cannot allow it. I would rather
—much rather—hear the truth if you will
tell it. Dislike is one thing, enimity an
other. Why should you have enmity to
ward me?”
Then he told her, with the accompa-
niament of the raging storm, in the ob-
scnrify which shielded their faces from
sight, save when the fitful glare of the
lightning revealed them for a moment.
Who has not observed what strange capa
bilities of expression the voice develops
in circumstances like these? Is it be
cause our attention is not distracted by
the play of the eye and lip, that the ca
dences of tone reveal so much when we
listen to them in darkness? Certainly
Thurston’s revealed a great deal to Agatha
Loring. To make her understand how
much more than an ordinary brother Ber
tie was to him, he touched briefly on the
history of his childhood; he told her how
his father’s early death left his mother al
most destitute of fortuoe; how her sec
ond husband hid been a wealthy, gener
ous man, whose kindness to him (Thurs
ton) had been unvarying; how he was
killed in battle, and with his dying lips
commended Bertie to his step-son’s care;
how his mother repeated the charge when
she died soon after, and how near his
heart the boy’s happiness had always
been. Simply as the story was told, all
its details were made very dear to the
woman who listened.
“I was forced to go to Egypt,” Thnrs
ton went on. “A career there was the
only one which opened to me; but when
I turned my face homeward at last, after
five years’ absence, it was to Bee Bertie
—Bertie alone—and renew for a few
months our old association. My thoughts
were full of the sunny-hearted boy I left,
aud I found instead a man whose whole
nature had been wrecked by passion, for
whom all the hopes of life had been turn
ed to ashes, and whose reckless misery
was pitiable to witness. He could not
endure even my Bociety; aud when I came
here I had just seen him start alone with
his wretchedness to Europe. Consider
ing this, you may judge how charitably
I felt toward you, Miss Loring, who
from the beginning to the end had
wrought the work.”
“So Bertie Egerton is your brother,”
she said, slowly, after a moment’s pause.
“No one told me—I had no idea of it.
Not,” she added, “that Bertie Egerton is
more to me than any other man, except
that I knew him and liked him nntil—”
“Until, like Mr. Virien, he ceased to
amuse you,” said Thurston, bitterly. “I
am sorry we began to speak on this sub
ject. It can do no good, and, however
cruel and heartless one may think a wo
man, one is in courtesy bound not to
speak according to one’s thoughts.”
Silence for a fnll minute. The storm
by this time began to abate in violence,
the lightning grew less frequent and viv
id, the thunder rolled more remotely.
One of the peals was dying away with
many distant reverberations,when Agatha
spoke:
“You have only heard your brother's
story, so I cannot blame you for thinking
of me in this way—nor have I any in
tention of trying to change yonr opinion.
I have bever believed in men’s hearts, as
I told you once before—so, perhaps I
have not treated them very tenderly.
Your brother seemed to me a
pleasant, impulsive, undisciplined boy,
who mistook fancy for passion, and who
troubled me not a little before I dismissed
him. I am sorry that I should have
caused him so much pain, but I could not
help it.”
“I do not arraign you,” said Thurston.
“Your own conscience may some day do
that—some day when even your heart
Miss Loring, has been awakened to a
sense of suffering.”
“I thought you were convinced that I
no heart?” said she, quietly.
“How can I tell?” asked he, quickly.
“Women are enigmas. God only knows
what you are. I only know that you
have ruined Bertie’s life—and that you
would ruin mine if I gave you the
chance.”
He nttored the last words impetuously
—uttered them without thought or calcu
lation—and, if there had been a flash of
light at that moment, he might have
been surprised at their effect upon Agatha.
She started aud clasped her hands tightly
together, while for the first time in her
life she lost her readiness of speech alto
gether. She desired to speak, but no fit
ting words occurred to her, and so it was
be went on:
“I did not mean to say that, but since
it has been said, I owe you au explana
tion. I am not iu love with you, Miss
Loring, but since I have known you I
have appreciated for the first time how a
man might be fascinated by the charm of
such a women as you are, even while—”
He paused, but she finished his sen
tence calmly and clearly:
“Even while you do not respect her.
Thank you for being frank to the last,
Colonel Thurston.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “I
did not mean to be so rude as that. If I
had completed my sentence I should have
said, ‘even while it would be madness to
trust her’ — madness to suffer one’s
peace of mind and heart to be wrecked
in order that a coquette might add one
more victim to her list.”
Silence again. The rain had ceased
now, and the distant roll of thunder
proved that the clouds were drawing off
like snllen battalions who fire as they re
treat. Agatha’s hand involuntarily went
to her heart. It may be that Bertie and
many another were avenged in what
she suffered at that moment. But
woman's pride is equal to most emergen
cies, aud her s steadied her voice when at
length she spoke:
“It is as well, no doubt, that you are
not ‘in love' with me. I hardly think
I am the kind of woman to make a man
happy, even—even if I loved him. My
nature is not likely to prove a soil in
which the domestic virtues could ever
flourish, and a woman without domestic
virtues is—what shall I say?—only fit to
live and die a coquette, tor whom admi
ration takes the place of love, flattery of
respect. Well!”—what a low, soft, bit
ter laugh it was she uttered!—“one must
pay a price for all empire, but you may
rest satisfied that I am not a bBppy wo
man, Colonel Thurston.”
Strange to spa—considering how ar
dently he had desired that she might
suffer—this assurance did not satisfy
Thurston. Mad though he knew the im
pulse to be, he would at that moment
have given a great deal to make Agatha
Loring happy—granting that it was in his
power to do so.
“I am sorry—” he began, but she in
terposed hastily:
“Do not think there is any necessity
to express what yon oannot possibly feel’
Extorted sympathy is not worth mnch—
and I only mentioned the fact because
yon seemed to desire so mnch that I
should suffer. The feeling is very natu
ral, no doubt, and I do not blame yon.
Meanwhile I think it has ceased raining.
Can we not leave here?”
“I am afraid we shall find it very diffi
cult to do so,” he answered. “The
stream has probably increased in volume
and if it fills the gorge—as it may do—
we shall be forced to stay here until it
runB down.”
“That is a pleasant prospect; bat do
yon mean to take it for granted that it
has filled the gorge?”
“So far from that”—he rose as he
spoke—“I mean to go and explore the
passage. I am sorry to leave you here
alone, bat there is no help for it. I can
not take you until I have ascertained
whether or not it is safe to dp so.”
“Oh, pray do not leave me behind!”
she pleaded. Let me go with you. I
will be very cautious, and surely if it is
safe for you it is safe for me.”
“By no means,” he answered, “To
have yon on my hands would embarrass
me greatly, and in ease of danger might
be fatal to us both.”
“Then do not you go.” It is better to
stay here and wait for daylight than to
risk anything.”
He put out his hand and touched her
dress.
“I thought so,” he said. “You are as
wet as possible, and yet you talk of stay
ing here until daylight. We may be
forced to do so, but I shall not think of
snch a thing unless it is a matter of ne
cessity. Yon have a stout heart, Miss
Loring, I know, but do you think it is
stout enough to stay here iu the darkness
alone?” -
“Yes,” she answered. “If you insist
upon going without me, I am not afraid
to remain; but I hope you will not be
rash.”
“I shall certainly endeavor not to be
drowned, since it wonld be very unpleas
ant for you to be left here iu absolute
solitude—a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I
will leave some matches with you but I
beg you not to venture near the waterfall
nntil I return.”
He gave her the matches, made her
close her palm over them to preserve
them from dampness, then strnck one
himself, reconoitered in the neighbor
hood of the fall, reported that the stream
did not appear to have risen very much,
stepped aronnd the angle of the rock and
disappeared.
A stout heart, as she had said, Agatha
possessed, but it challenged all its stout
ness to keep nervousness at bay in the
position in which she now found herself.
Nor was this to be wondered at. Let any
reader of moderate imagination figure to
himself the situation, and he will be like
ly to decide that it was not conducive to
serenity of feeling. Of course, the time
of Thurston’s absence seemed immeasur
ably long, and she had quite decided that
he must have been drowned, when—by
the light of a match struck at the en
trance of the cave—she saw his figure.
“I could manage to take you out, Miss
Loring,” he said, “but it would be quite
useless to do so since the horses are gone.
“The horses gone!”
“Yes. I went to the place where they
were fastened, and found that they had
evidently broken loose—frightened, I
presume, by the thunder-storm. With
Sans-Souci ten miles distant, can you
suggest anything better for us to do than
to stay here?”
“But there are houses nearer than
Sans-Sonci. We passed two or three.”
“We did, but the nearest is four miles
distant. Can you walk four miles?”
“I think I can—at least I can try, and
it will be better than sitting here in wet
clothes. ”
He felt that this was true; so, having
safely made their way through the gorge
—a much more difficult matter after the
late flood than Agatha had at all reckon
ed upon—they set out upon a four mile
walk.
It was a walk which neither of them
was ever likely to forget. The clouds
had by this time parted, and the moon
shone forth sufficiently to guide them on
their way and prevent their wandering
from the road—sufficiently, also, to re
veal the loneliness and mystery which
surrounded them. Everything above and
below as wet as wet could be; but they
walked on courageously, endeavoring the
while to sustain their spirits by cheerfu 1
conversation. This conversation ranged
over a very wide field, but it did not
again touch in the remotest manner on
the personal topics discussed in the cave.
It was past midnight when they reach
ed their destination. During the last mile
Agatha had not declined Thurston’s as
sistance, and many a long day afterwards
he was haunted by the picture of that
moonlit forest-road, and by the memory
of the lithesome figure that hung in weari
ness on his arm, of the pale fair face on
which the soft light fell through over
shadowing boughs.
All things end at last, and this ended
when they emerged into an open space
aud saw before them a substantial farm
house standing in the moonlight, with
that supreme air of quietude which houses
wear at night when the inhabitants are
wrapped in slumber. So deeply wrapped
in slumber were these inhabitants, that
Thurston thundered at the door until he
was nearly exhausted before he succeed
ed in rousing them. When once fairly
waked, however, they were more hospita
ble than might have been expected under
the circumstances. Having heard who
the visitors were, the farmer volunteered
to hitch up his horses and drive them to
Sans-Souci, while his sons kindled a fire
and his wife made some coffee. All of
these offers were gladly accepted, and af
ter Agatha had somewhat dried herself,
and the coffee had been made and drunk,
they entered the obliging farmer's jersey
and were driven away.
Sans-Sonci presented no appearance of
life as they approached in the white
moonlight, and Agatha said, smiling:
“Oar friends certainly do not seem to
be suffering any anxiety on our account.”
“I suppose they quieted their minds
by fancying that we took refuge at some
wayside house,” Thurston answered,
“and the horses have probably not ar
rived.”
After they had alighted at the door and
the worthy farmer had been dismissed
with many thanks, Thnrston turned to his
companion.
“Before we part, Miss Loring,” he said,
abruptly, “I should like to hear you say
that you pardon—that is if you can hon
estly do so—the many harsh speeches I
have uttered to you. I had no right
whatever to ntter them, and 1 should be
glad if yon would promise to forget
them.”
She looked up with a sort of startled
wistfulness on her face and in her eyes.
“You have uttered no harsh speeches
that were not honest speeches, Colonel
Thurston,” she said, simply—“none
which I have not already pardoned. But
why do you ask this—now?”
“Because now is my opportunity,” be
answered. “Before you wake to-morrow
—nay, this morning—I shall leave Sans-
Sonci. I made all my arrangements to
do so before we started on our excur
sion.”
She did not heed the last words—in
fact she did not hear them, And he said,
“I shall have left Sans-Sonci,” a change
swift a3 thought came over her face—an
expression of wonder, appeal, and, above
all, pain—which no art on earth could
have simulated, and which, like a flash of
lightning, laid bare her heart before the
man who looked at her.
In that instant it was borne to him
with the force of a revelation that his
revenge was more complete than he had
ever dreamed to make it. For one wild
moment his heart leaped up madly—but
it was only for a moment. He was one
of the men who in an emergency cannot
only think bnt act promptly, aod as he
was about to speak again, the door open
ed, and on the threshold appeared Mr.
Jennings, arrayed in a dressiDg-gown,
with a lamp in his hand.
“By Jove!” he said. “So yon are here!
Lucy insisted that she heard the sound
of horses’ feet. Where on earth have
have you been all this time?”
“In tbe Devil’s Gorge, where you were
kind enough to leayg us,” Thurston an
swered, dryly. “I will give you an ac
count of our adventures, but we will not
detain Miss Loring, who is very mnch fa
tigued. Good-night,” he added, taking
the hand of the latter, as they entered the
hall. “I hope you will feel no ill effects
from yonr drenching and exercise.”
“Is it good-by ?” she asked, in a low
voice.
“It is good-bye,” he answered.
If his life had depended on the effort,
he could have said no more, nor did she
utter another word. She only drew her
cold, slender hand from his clasp, and,
with a slight salutation to Mr. Jennings,
passed up the broad staircase aud out of
eight.
CHAFFER VI.
By the time the inmates of Sans-Souci
were assembled round the breakfast-ta
ble, discussing their adventurous expedi
tion, Thurston was many miles away
traveling as fast as steam conld take
him from the scene of it.
He hardly knew—he certainly did not
care—where he was going. He had spo
ken truly when be told Miss Loring that
he had decided to leave Sans-Sonci after
Mrs. Jennings had altered her warning
the day before; bat since that determina
tion was taken, an age seemed to have
passed, so entirely do we “live in feeling,
not in figures on a dial.” Those hours in
the storm, the lonely midnight walk,
above all that glance of Agatha’s which
revealed so mnch of which he had not
dreamed—these things made a gap be
tween his life as it had been and his life
as it was, which even his thoughts could
scarcely bridge.
It is not to be supposed that, in the
course of thirty-three years, he had not
suffered more or less in matters of the
heart, yet he now found himself for the
first time under the dominion of a pas
sion—no fancy or sentiment, but a feel
ing strong as death and overmastering
life. Agatha Loring’s face was constant
ly before him, the music of her voice
dominated every sound that he could find
a cure for the infatuation in absence, as
he had found a cure for the fever fits of
his younger days.
The idea of yielding, as many men
would have yielded, did not for a mo
ment occur to him. He knew that with
his whole soul he loved the woman who
had ruined Bertie’s happiness, and who
would ruin (he felt assured) the happi
ness of any man who trusted his life in
her hands; but he said to himself that
this love was a mere temporary madness,
since no deep passion could flourish
where trust was lacking.
“It is an insanity which will pass as
quickly as it has come,” he thought. “As
for that expression in her eyes last night,
I must have imagined it—it is simply im
possible that such a woman could find her
heart for such a man as I am!”
But to think this was one thing, and
to feel it another. Trust her? No, he
did not trust her. He believed her to be
a coquette and actress through all her
nature; bnt nevertheless her face as be
saw it last—pale, appealing, with eyes
that revealed a hnndred fold more than
speech could ntter—haunted him, turn
where he wonld.
Nor was this the record of one day,
one week, one month. He pnt the
breadth of States between himself and
Sans-Sonci; he plnnged into the business
which partly brought him to Amerioa; he
sought social distractions; bnt the end
was as the beginning. “When Agatha
Loring is done with a man he is fit for
nothing bnt to go to the devil as fast as
may be,” Bertie had said in the mad
recklessness of his passion; and this in
lesser degree Thnrston felt now. He was
not ready to go to the devil; but he
found existence robbed of its savor aa it
had never been robbed before. Tor
mented by passion, by longing, by regret,
by self-contempt—what wonder that all
things seemed to him worse than empty,
less than uninteresting? If Agatha Lor
ing had treated him as she, had treated
many another, had flirted with and dis
carded him, he fancied that his cure
wonld have been rapid and complete. Bat
he could not forget that she had showed
him glimpses of her nature which he felt
sure she had showed to no other man—of
its weariness, of its yearning, of its ca
pabilities for higher things—and so, be
tween opposing opinions and wavering
feelings, the figW went on.
Nothing on earth is more weary than
snch a combat, and it was no slight addi
tion to Thurston’s trouble that he shrank
from meeting Bertie, though the cause
of this shrinking would not bear analy
sis. His affection had not altered in the
least; bnt he felt as if the influence
which had entered the lives of both with
snch fatefal result would stand as an es
tranging shadow between them. So the
months slipped away, and November
found him still lingering in Amerioa.
By this time he determined he must
leave the conntry. He had exhausted his
last excuse for remaining, and Bertie,
who had been waiting in Paris for weeks,
was growing restless and inquisitive. De
siring to go direcot to France, Thurston,
therefore, took passage on a French
steamer, which chanced to be that vessel
of tragio fate, the Ville da Havre.
Before taking his departure he had one
last struggle with himself. Since he left
Sans-Souci he had heard nothing of Aga
tha Loring; aud it cost him no slight ef
fort to go away frith the silence around
her name unbroken. That it was better
so he was well aware—for what good end
could knowledge serve?—but what is
there on earth cau so persistently ignore
wisdom as the human heart? Thurston,
however, turned a deaf ear to all that it
conld urge, and, being a man who held
bis desires in a strong lash of control, he
found himself at last on shipboard with
out having received a single item of in
formation regarding the woman whom he
bad vainly tried to banish from memory.
There is no donbt that Fate seems
sometimes to take a malignant pleasure
in baffling ns when we feel ourselves most
secure. So Thurston felt—though it was
a very dreary kind of security—as he
paced the deck of the Ville du Havre,
aud saw the great expanse of ocean in
front, the land receding far and faint be
hind. “The fight is over, the victory
won,” he said to himself, and at that mo
ment a woman’s langh floated to him.
A woman's langh! There was surely
nothing remarkable in such a sound, yet
as it fell on his ear, his heart seemed to
stand still. He turned abruptly and
fonnd himself face to face with Agatha
Loring. "She was as much astonished as
himself, aud perhaps as much agitated;
but beyond a certain change of color and
expression perceptible on both faces, nei
ther of them betrayed this agitation. To
people of their class conventionalities are
second nature, and the lookers on had no
reason to suppose their meeting to be
other than that of two ordinary acquaint
ances. They shook hands and uttered a
few commonplaces. Then Thurston said:
“I had no idea of meeting you here.”
“I certainly had not the least idea of
meeting you," she answered. “No doubt
you are on your way to Egypt?”
“I am on my way to Paris at present.
I shall not return to Egypt until the end
of the year. “You, I suppose, are only
going abroad for pleasure?”
“For pleasure, yes—and for health,
also.”
He noticed then that she looked frailer
aud more shadowy, than when he saw her
last—the alabaster complexion was more
transparent, the lines of the face more
attenuated, the limpid eyes larger.
“Have you been ill?” he asked quickly.
“I did not know—I have not heard.”
“Do yon remember our drenching in
the Devil’s Gorge?” she asked. “I took
a cold at that time which cast me a se
vere illness, from the effect of which I
have never fully recovered. The doctors
therefore have ordered me abroad—which
is a pleasant prescription.”
“I have often wondered if you did not
suffer from that adventure,” he said.
“But 1 did not fear anything like this.
You must have been very seriously ill. If
I had known—’’
He stopped abrubtly. If he bad known,
what could he have done? Agatha Lor
ing might be sick unto death, but what
right had he to express more than the
concern of a common acquaintance? Per
haps she felt this—at least she looked at
him with cool^ almost haughty, surprise.
“One must pay a price for all diver
sions,” said she carelessly, “and some
times it is heavier than one anticipates. I
hope we shall all have a pleasant voyage,
though the season is rather against us.
Have you ever crossed the ocean before
in November?”
After a few more remarks they parted
—she to rejoin her party, he to go and
control the tumult of his thoughts alone
with a cigar.
To do so was not easy. One glance
from those wonderful eyes, one tone of
that magical voice, had been enough to
shatter all his fancied victory. What had
months of combat availed? He asked
the question in a sort of despair, and the
answer was less than nothing. The fas
cination which controlled him was deeper
now than when he left Sans -Souci; tbe
passion that he vainly imaged he had
crashed was strong enough to defy his
utmost efforts to subdue it. A sense of
impotence—of being overmastered by a
Fate relentless as that of a Greek trage
dy—began to possess him. He had
thought that the ehapter in his life in
which Agatha Loring’s name was written
was closed forever, and lo! here on the
very ship which was to have borne him
from even the memory of his infatuation
he found her. What part in his life, and
perhaps in Bertie’s life, was she destined
yet to play?
“One way or another she will come
between ns," he said to himself. “Of
that I have felt an instinct from the first.
Well, it is nseless to straggle against the
inevitable. ‘If the gods force him, who
can shan his fate?’ ”
If he conld not shan his fate, he fonnd,
however, that it was easy enough—easier,
indeed, than be liked—to shun Miss Lor
ing. Unless be songht her attention di
rectly, she never seemed conscious of his
presence. Here, as elsewhere, she bad a
court of cavaliers around her, aud it was
with a very sore, jealous feeling that he
watched her graceful, subtile coquetry,
the long promenade with one, the quiet
flirtation with another, the seductive
charm with all. Plainly Agatha Loring
was Agatha Loring still, aud had not lost
a single attribute of her distinctive char
acter. The realization of this might
have cured Thnrston, bnt—bnt it
did not do so. He felt sore that he had
been worse than a fool ever to dream
that she had given him a deepor thought
than she gave any other victim of her
caprice; bnt the assurance was by no
means consoling. In fact, he had reach
ed that stage of passion when reason
forsakes a man, and he is ready to act
with a recklessness to which be often
looks back as veritable madness.
Several days passed, and the steamer
was in mid-ocean, before there came any
change in the situation. Then toward
sunset one evening, Thurston, by a rare
ohanoe, fonnd Agatha on deck alone.
She was leaning over the bulwark,
watching the sun sink in the vast expanse
of heaving sea—his last rays gliding in
the tossing waves with red glory, and as
Thnrston drew near, he saw her face in
profile before she observed his approach.
Seeing it thus, he was strnck by its ex
pression of strangely wistful and almost
bitter sadness—an expression so new to
his knowledge of it, that he hesitated for
an instant before advancing to her side.
“I hope I do not disturb you, Miss
Loring, ” he said, “but your attention is
usually so much engrossed that I have
seen very little of you; therefore you
must pardon me if I grasp au opportune
ty like the present.”
“Why should you grasp it?” she asked,
turning toward him. “What is there that
you and I can say to eaoh other, Colonel
Thurston? I supposed that yon held
aloof from me becaose you were too hon
est to talk society platitudes to a woman
whom you have never forgiven, never
learned to respect. Pray leave me in that
opinion to the last.”
“I oannot leave yon in an utterly mis
taken opinion,” he said. “It is no such
reason as that which has made me hold
aloof from yon; it is beceuse I distrust
my own strength of mind and purpose.
See here, Miss Loring, if yon care for
one more triumph, I will give it to you—
the only thing on earth I can give yon.
Do yon remember that night in the Dev
il’s Gorge, when I told you that you had
ruined Bertie’s life, and that you would
ruin mine if I gave yon the chance? Well,
yon have rained it. Since I parted with
yon I have never known a day, hardly an
hoar of peace. Do not suppose”—as her
lips partly unolosed—“that I blame you
for this. I blame nothing save my own
folly. Bat the fact remains—I have lin
gered in America because I dreaded to go
and meet Bertie with this madness upon
me. I fought against the overwhelming
desire to see you again, as if that desire
had been a personal enemy. I forced
myself to enter this ship without having
gratified it, and almost the first face I
met was yourH !”
She looked np at him, and something
in her appealing eyes recalled to his
memory the nnforgotten expression with
which those eyes met his when they part
ed at Sans-Souci.
“It was not my fault,” she said. “How
conld I know?”
“Your fault!” he repeated. “Have I
implied such a thing ? Do not think me
more of a brute than I am. Ten minutes
ago I never dreamed that I should ever
talk to you like this—but you will pardon
me. The consciousness of power is al
ways sweet to a woman, aud in all your
career of conquest you have never tested
—you never can test—that power more
thoroughly than you have tested it with
me.”
She was sileut; her faoe bent down
ward, so that he conld not see it, her
hand clasping the scarlet drapery of her
shawl closer aronnd her slender figure.
The Bun was gone, and twilight began to
fall over the wide waste of tossing wa
ters, when she spoke:
“Will you believe me if I say I am
surprised aud sorry? I never dreamed of
testing my power on you; I never imag
ined for a moment that I conld sncceed
if I attempted to do so. But surely one
whom you dislike aud despise cannot
harm yon much”
He uttered a short laugh.
“That depends on your definition of
‘mnch.’ If I were wise, I should not let
you ham me, certainly; bnt I am not
wise. You are mistaken, however, in
thinking that I ‘dislike and despise’ you;
though if ^ had ever doubted how little
the love of one man is to you, I should
have been convinced daring the past few
days. Enough of this, however! It is
unpardonable of me to talk to you iu
such a strain. Now that the snu has gone,
I fear that you must find the air very
chilly. Shall I take yon below?”
“Not yet,” she answered. “Listen to
me for a moment, and believe that your
brother and yourself are both well aveng
ed. Look here! ”—she drew off her glove
and showed her hand and wrist wasted to
a shadowy degree of thinness—“I have
not told the doctors, but I tell you that
suffering of mind, not illness of body,
has wrought this. I was intangibly wea
ry and restless when I met yon at Sans-
Sonci, bnt since then I have been con
sumed by a fever of the soul, which has
made me what you see. Do you know
what I was thinking when yon oame to
my side? I was wondering if down
•re”—she pointed to the sea—“I might
| not find rest and forgetfulness. Life has
held for me so mnch outward triumph, so
little inward peace, that the thought of
death has no terror for me. If it came
this moment I think I conld hold ont my
arms and welcome it.”
Not even Thnrston conld doubt the sin
cerity in her voice, the passionate earn
estness on her face as she spoke. She
could not have been less artificial if death
had been indeed before her, and recog
nizing this, he recognized also all that it
signified. Involuntarily his hand fell on
the one which she had ungloved, and
closed over it.
“Tell me,” he said, “why such a change
has come over you since we parted at
Sans-Souci? Agatha”—as she strove to
draw away from him—“your eyes told me
something when we said good by, which
your lips must tell me now.”
“Let me go!” she gasped. This is
madness, for which—if I answered you—
no one would be so sorry as yourself. Let
me go—you must let me go! ”
“Not until you tell me whether I am
wrong or right. Agatha, can it be possi
ble that you loved me then? that you
love me now?”
Gray and deep had twilight fallen over
the sea, but not so gray and deep bnt that
when she lifted her face he read his an
swer on it.
“Yon are mad,’’she said. “Remember
that this binds yon to nothing—nothing!
Everything stands between us—your
brother, my past life, your deep distrust
of me—everything! But you are right. I
loved you then, as I love you now. It is
retribution, I suppose—you know you
hoped that it might fall upon me, and
yon onght to be glad that it has done so.”
“Glad!” he repeated, passionately.
“Yes, I am glad, thongh God only knows
whether it means happiness or misery."
If he had known the fate toward which
they were hastening, he might have spar
ed himself that donot. It meant happi
ness for a few short honrs, and these
hoars comprised all their span of life.
“After long grief and pain,” the end
which neither had anctioipated was given
them as a gracious boon of heaven, while
the ship went forward to meet her doom.
Those m whose memory that tragedy
has not been effaced by later calamities
will remember that the collision which
sunk the Ville du Havre in less than
twelve minntes occurred at two o’clock
in the momiDg, when the passengers
were all wrapped in slumber. It
chanced, however, that Thnrston was not
among the number of these sleepers. He
had turned into his berth not long before
and was lying awake when the ship struck.
A knowledge of the danger instantly
flashed upon him, and springing to his
feet he threw on his clothes and went on
deck. Here his worst forebodings were
confirmed by the terror and confusion
which reigned supreme. He took in the
situation in all its hopelessness at once,
and after a minnte spent in trying to learn
what chance there was of launching tbe
boats, he hastened back to the cabin, and
made his way to Agatha Loring’s state
room.
As he reached the door, it opened, and
she came out—pale, but perfectly com
posed. There was no time for questions
or assurances. The ship was sinking fast
and their only hope was in gaining the
deck.
By dint of struggling, Thurston gain
ed it before the vessel went down. Then
they had one minnte—only one minnte
—for last words.
“If you can save yourself, don’t think
of me, Agatha said. “I will try and not
cliDg to you as women are said to do.”
He smiled a little. “Do you think I
will ever let yon go?” he said. “We are
together now for life or death.”
He olasped her in his arms, and their
lips met in the first, last kiss of love.
So they went down together—to death.
[the end.]
—Song of the baker—“I knead thee
every hour. ”
—A cross-eyed minister should never
get np and read the hymn, “I will gnide
thee with mine eye.”
—If Mrs. Potaphar had adopted Judge
Hilton’s rule excluding Jew boarders, the
whole course of history might have been
changed.
—A dentist advertises that he inserts
teeth cheaper than anybody else. He
might find a bull dog that would do it
still cheaper.
—What is the difference between a
girl aud a night cap? One is born to wed
aud the other is worn to bed.
—The person who advertised for a
young man to take care of a span of
horses of a religious turn of mind, now
wants a cook to work in a kitchen of a
pious character.
—A Western paper, in an obitnary no
tice of a subscriber’s son, says: “He
was an uncommon smart boy. Had a lit
tle too mnch curiosity, or be wouldn't
have peered so fatally into the muzzle of
his father’s shot gun.”
—Little boy—“Please, I want the doc
tor to come and see mother.” Servant—
“Dootor’s ont. Where do you come
from?” Little boy—“What! don’t you
know me? Why, we deal with you. We
had a baby from here last week!”
—The Kev. Mrs. Van Oott wants
somebody to “stand on the battlements
of hell and Bhake her glorified white
robes at old Satan.” Why, yoa dear old
girl, Satan isn’t afraid of an empty night
gown.
—“I don’t believe in fashionable
churches,” said a lady, reoently; “bnt af
ter all, considering that we are all to go
to the same heaven, perhaps it’s better to
keep up the social distinctions as long as
we can.”
—“My dear,” said an affectionate wife
to her husband, as she looked ont of the
window, “do yon notice how green and
beautiful the grass looks on the neigh
boring hills?” “Well,” was tbe nnpoetio
response, “what other color would you
have it at this time of year?”
—W T hy is it that none of the cuts of
the magnificent dining cars on the great
railway lines represent a man ponriDg a
onp of hot coffee down his shirt front,
while the lady opposite him pours a pint
of milk into her neighbor’s lap? The ar
tists appear to misa all the thrilling incii
den Vi,
