Newspaper Page Text
PEACE.
Wind.-. nud wild waves iu hcadloug huge com
motion
Scud, dork with tempest, o'er the Atlantic's
breast,
While underneath, few fathoms deep in
ocean,
T.ie peace and rest.
Storms in midair, the rack before them sweep
ing.
Hurry and hiss, like furies hate-possessed;
While over all white cloudlets pure are sleep
ing
> In peace, in rest.
Heart, O wild heart: why in the storm world
eaugiag
l lit st thou thus midway, passion's slave and
When Ml so near above, below, unchanging.
Are heaven, and rest r
—A. I}. B. in the Spectator .
MORXIX(. NEWS LIBRARY, No. 37.
FIVE OLD LETTERS.
1
BY MISS S. LUCY JOYNER.
[Copyrighted, 1887, by J. H. Estill.]
CHAPTER VII.
I have Rpoken of Miss Meredith. She also
conies into my story. She was the daugh
ter of wealthy parents and a reigning belle.
Her mother, they said, had tieen sacrificed
to her parents’ love of position, and had
married one man while loving another. Be
ing unusually plain iu person, the passion of
her life was her love for her beautiful
child. And she, like the rest of the world,
had done all that admiration could do to
spoil her. People called her spoiled and
vain. But she was so lovely that I set that
down to envy. She interested me. She
had lustrous dark eyes, full of charming
lights, magnificent dark-brown ham, and a
perfectly bewitching, siren-like face. Her
Skin was a soft, slightly rose-tinted olive. I
do not remember how it began, but we soon
came to be friends. And after a while they
spoke our names together. Somebody told
me at last—it was a lady, and one who could
not err in such matters—that I had been
paying Miss Meredith too much attention
unless I meant to propose for her hand. I
was altogether shocked. I certainly had
not thought of that. I had often said that
Miss Mereditli was a most companionable
young girl. She was not (I thought) a mere
society queen. She had decided literary
tastes and a poetic nature. There was
poetry in the upward glance of her soulful
eyes, in the dreamy tones of her musical
voice, in the graceful sweep of the rich
dresses she wore. She had dabbled in art
also. In two senses, though I did not know
it then.
"You are the strangest man in the world,”
she said to,me in her languid tones. "You
are down-right stupid sometimes. You
never pay me compliments like all the rest,
and yet 1 fancy you like me. Is it not sol”
The glance of her dark eyes emphasized
the words and made them seem wonderfully
childish and innocent
I answered quite seriously:
"Yes, I do like you ”
“How delightfully earnest you are!”
dapping her hands and brightening very
much. "Your eyes tell one so much. Oh,
how should X have gotten through this sea
son but for you?”
I laughed.
"To have helped so fair a creature
through the horrors of a 'season!’ What a
destiny! Then I have not lived in vain.”
••Now you are laughing at me, and I am
very serious bright.”
She was languid again, and so beautiful'
No true artist's eyes could look at her un
moved.
The crimson velvet lining of the chair on
which she sat formed a rich background for
the finely-molded figure in its close-fitting
dress of black velvet. Soft, creamy lace at
her throat, fastened by a cluster of gleaming
pearls. One rounded arm. dazzlingly fair,
displayed by the half-open sleeve that fell
back from the wrist, rested on the arm of
the chair. The soft eyes, the rich dark hair,
the full red lips, what a picture she made in
the warm glow of the firelight! The ele
gantly appointed room, with its silken
araped windows, its costly flowers, the
graceful, half-reclining girl with her beauti
ful, soft-hued face; in every detail of the
lurroundings a delicious luxuriousness was
breathed forth, and like the aroma of the
fiowers, crept into the senses with a subtle
enchantment.
One might almost close his eyes and fancy
himself floating down some flower-bordered
dream in the drowsy clime of the lotus
eaters, his faculties steeped in lazy enjoy
ment.
I half-started from my flitting dream as
another picture rose before me. The pic
ture of a barren room, and the strong,
pure face of a girl in whose eyes a lofty
purpose shone 1 Why could I not forget that
face ! Why did it always come back to me,
when I had been with Clara Meredith, like
a breath of sweet fresh air, and the smell of
wild dowel’s after the oppressive sweetness
of exotics !
“I wish you would talk to me!” The soft,
delicious voice again. “You have never
told me of your Italian mother. Was she
not lieautiful? 1 know you have her eyes
and her smile. Tell me of your home be
fore you came to your cousin’s. It must
have been enchanting.”
“I do not love to speak of it. I hnvo
never talked of iny home und my mother to
any one, except to a dear cousin whom I
used to love very much.’'
"How strange you are! But you will toll
tne?”
“I think not. At least not now.”
“You will not trust me that much?”
“You do not understand. It is hardly my
own confluence. Others aro concerned
whom I have no right to mention. This
much I con tall you. I was not a very happy
child.”
"But you said you had talked of it to
one person.”
■‘That was my cousin. And something of
whit I told her she knew already. - ’
“O, pray forgive me! I did not think of
what i was asking you. Ido understand.
Only if it is a sad story, I should be so glad
to let you know of my interest and my
sympathy.”
“Thank you very much.”
“And your cousin ? Was it Bessie Har
wood? Mamina knew her mother well, and
she had the little girls visit us once after
their mother died. I am younger than
either of them, but I remember how afraid
1 was of their black dresses. Boor little
things! That is all I remember about them,
but I have heard what fine girls they grew
up. Was it she?”
“Yes.”
A sudden thought seemed to come to her.
"Was it of her that the young man spoke
when you were so furiously angry that
night ?”
"The same. Shall I tell you of her?”
“No, thank you! I do uot fancy that
stylo of youug lady."
"You certainly do not attach any im
portance to such remarks as his, and from
such a source f”
“O, no! Still I gathered enough to feel
lure that she is one of Uiim interesting
young |iersoi.s wlioae very existence is meant
to lx- u reproach td such us 1. Pray don’t
talk of her. It tires me to think of all the
L rolc things she must have done to have
gained her reputation.”
“You have changed your mind very
maidenly. You have often told me how
much you want's! to be of some use ui the
world Only a few days ago you told me
how tiled you were of ynurlift of |irpet ual
idleiuaw und self-toduigaiiro, and how you
hail Im’u tempted to break away from It
and go to Rome and work like a true art
ist. “
“Old I say that to you? And you reinem
ls*ied Itr with ■ quick bright blush "The*!
1 u*nl it. I Iwlu-ve I am ernes to niglit
Rut you always have your way, Pray Util
hie about bet. Istov MU( f
‘‘lt is not of that I was thinking,” I an
! swered, finding myself strangely embar
i l assed at her question, and wondering why I
had tried to talk of her at all. “But.” with
an effort, ‘ ‘she has a face one never forgets
—singularly ‘sweetand fair and pure.’"
“But has she real beauty ! Fine eyes and
hair and all that?”
“ ’She had gold and pearls for her
dowry,’ ” I answered, quoting from a French
author. “ ‘But the gold was on her head,
and the pearls in her mouth.’ Her eyes are
blue and Very fine.”
“I thought you liked dark eyes best?'’
“1 may nave said that 1 think, as a rule,
dark eyes are finer, but the exceptional blue
j eves I prefer.”
“Very flattering to me. You might be
: polite enough to keep your preference to
| yourself.” This very pettishly.
“I am only answering vour questions,” I
j answered, laughing at her contradictory
j mood. “Perhaps you will sing for me now
: before sending me away. I have a book too
j I should like you to see. May I bring it
soon, and will you read to hue again* I have
seldom enjoyed anything more than the
poem you read to me that afternoon in the
park.”
A smile lit up the soft face.
“Ah! you know well what praises I like
best. A woman must have praise of some
sort, you know. Others tell me I am beau
tiful—and you—ah! yes. I like you best of
all, though,” with an impatient gesture and
a little flash, “you entertain me with praises
of another woman’s charms.”
“I could not give you a surer proof of my
confidence than to speak to you of my
cousin. 1 had grown to look on you as my
friend, or I should not have done so. But”!
do not think I shall talk of her again.
There, at least, I cannot count on the 'sym
pathy and interest’ you offered to-night.”
“Why should you need sympathy on her
account?”
She did not look as if she meant to give
it, no matter how great the need. Her lip
curled slightly, anil a frown disfigured the
white bl ows. I took a sudden resolution
and answered quietly;
“Because I loved my cousin, and—well,
j you know the rest.”
“Loved her ? You do not then agree with
Mrs. Browning (whose poetry I cannot bear)
about that phrase 'Loved once?’”
“I do agree with her perfectly. At least
in my own case. I cannot judge for oth
ers. ”
“Then you love her still!”
“Will you not sing for me?” I asked, try
ing to smile.
“Will you not answer my question?” she
persisted.
“Yes,” I said. “Why should I shrink
from saying it? I do love her. I think I
shall love her until I die.”
“You think so!”
“How closely you question me! And yet
you do not seem sorry for me.”
“I am not sorry for you. I am not sorry for
any man who wastes his life in grieving for a
girl who has jilted him, to whom his love is
valueless. I think Mr. Grimes’ name for
such a man the right one.”
“You mistake,” I answered, coldly, ignor
ing her last remark, though it angered me.
“My love is not valueless to my cousin.
And 1 do not blame her because she could
not change, at my bidding, the sisterly re
gard she had for me into a deeper feeling.
You are seax'oely yourself tins evening,
Miss Meredith. I had better go.”
“Very well,” languidly and haughtily.
“Pray call again.”
A week later this note, on delicate violet
scented paper, was handed me:
“1 am nothing but a spoiled child. Every
body else humors me. Why should not
you? I have never before shown vOu how
horrid I can be, and you run away from me
as if I were the plague. Come back to me,
my friend, and I will be so good—oh! so
good that you shall never repent it.”
I replied to the note in person. I took the
book 1 had spoken of, and I had a literary
feast in hearing a fine poem exquisitely ren
dered in the soft, rich voice whose perfect
modulations and tuneful cadences lent a
new meaning to the poet’s fancy. What a
companion she would make for a lonely
man! When we parted that night I asked
herAvhen she would finish my book. She
said I might come the next evening but
one, unless, indeed, I could spare a morning
before that time. That, I regretted, was
impossible. I held her hand for half a min
nto, and told her how much pleasure she had
given me. At which she gave me a lovely
smile.
I did not think that she cared for me. I
knew that she was full of coquetry. And
yet, like all women skilled in that art, she
had succeeded in making me think that she
preferred me to many others, so that I
might reasonably aspire to her hand.
Neither did I deceive myself into believing,
for one moment, that 1 was in love with
her. I had several times asked myself the
question if it might not be better for me if
—ah! well—l was getting lonely. My life
did not satisfy me. Each time I had seen
her I had discovered some new accomplish
ment. She would make my home full of
warmth and elegance. She would preside
gracefully at my table. She would enter
tain my guests superbly. To-night she had
worn a dress of white mull without orna
ment save the w bite roses she wore at her
throat and in her shining braids. The most
critical taste could have suggested nothing
in the perfect pose of the girlish figure as
she sat and read. Ideal beauty in its rare
perfection, grace and elegance and wit. All
these she possessed. What more could any
reasonably being desire?
I kept my appointment I must have
been earlier than usual. The fire was not
kindled, and I had waited full fiteen min
utes when, through the door which the ser
vaut had carelessly left ajar, I heard these
words:
“Love him! Ha! ha! .That’s too good! I
thought you knew me bettor, mother mine!
Never fear for me. There’s small danger of
my losing my senses. I was born to rule,
not to love! Pshaw! If he could have
known my disgust while he was moaning
over that girl whose role is to be heroic.
Just the kind of thing to attract such men
as he. But I have made him do homage to
my beauty. Ah! it's a triumph worth all
the trouble I have had' When 1 know how
lie detests such girls as I am in his heart!
And then my diamonds, my blazing,
splendid diamonds, worth all that he owns
for all his proud name! If 1 did love him,
it I were mad enough love anybody, do
you think I would not sacritico such" non
sense for the sake of Victor’s millions?
Shall I tell you what 1 have dime? I have
made a betv with Victor. You know I mean
to marry him. He is rich, and (like Fanny
JDorrit) ‘there’s no nonsenssabout him.’ He
will bo quite happy to give me beautiful
dresses, aud stay in the background (as he
does now) while others admire me, if only I
pet him a little sometimes (as I do now) and
tell him that he's the dearest old boy in the
world. I vowed that I would have that
man of stone at my feet. He promises mo
those diamonds, the loveliest—oh! the love
liest —the saiuethat von refused no'this win
ter—if I succeed. If I fail I am to marry
him when he shall say. '1 shall win! It
was ou his lips last night, hut lie is fearfully
slow and prudent. But to night—look at
me! Do you think I shall fail to-night<”
The dreamy, musical tones, the softly
vibrating, rhythmic tones of Clara Mere
dith's wonderful voice. But it was higher
pitched and sharper, each word uttered with
stinging emphasis.
“I have never yet failed and 1 do not
mean to now. But you know nothing of the
triumph of beauty, poor, plain-faced
mother that you are. And art that he
prates about there she laughed aguiul 1 am
ni ire skilled In that than he dreams!”
“Don’t, Clara:” and 1 beard a mild voice
speak in gentle, hopeless protest.
A violent hanging of doors, the rustle of
a dress, ami light te| along the passage,
and a vision of transcendent toveliue**
hurst upon me. Clara Meredith *Utt in the
centre of the room, looking, in her aaitsjr
tiued gossamer robes, os Tf she hail been
touched by some fairy's wnml of enchant
merit. One gleaming arm was extended,
m, 1 tier eyes shone like sUU’ft. 11l spite of
myself, I started, with a murmur of aduil
ration. Then 1 said smiling;
“Yuu have made an elaborate bdlct while
| here laid Me* ol'weure of wailing
I “111 uw ooH. she AniJied. glancing at the
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1887.
frate and frowning. “A thousand par
ons! Those stupid servants! I never knew
them to be so careless,” and she crossed the
room to ring the bell.
“Do not ring,” I said. “It does not mat
ter. I shall go directly.”
“What do you mean? Has anything
happened that you look so cold and hard?
Have you no woi-d of greeting for your
friend?”
Again she stood under the brilliant chan
delier. Again she extended her hand. I
stood before her, looking at her with a half
fascinated gaze, in spite of the scorn I felt
for her.
“You are wonderfully beautiful, Mias
Meredith. You' look like a goddess. Is
that what you expect me to say?’’
Bhe softly laughed.
“I have some right to expect it. have 1
not! But why are you going? Did you
uot bring your book !”
“Yes, but let me say the truth at once. I
do not know how to tell you except iu the
plainest words.”
Her eyes fell, and the long lashes drooped
over the pink-tinted cheeks, and the pink
deepened ever so little.
“Do not fear to tell me,” she said, softly.
How well she concealed her triumph, for
I saw at once that she had misconstrued my
words.
“I do not fear,” I answered, “though it is
not a pleasant truth I have to tell you. A
moment ago I heard you say that you ex
pected me to tell you to-night that—l loved
you. Instead I must toll you that Ido not.
No, Ido not love you. Enchantress that
you are, you have never touched iny heart.
I knew that before 1 came here to-night,
before I heard what you confided to your
mother just now. It was not my fault that,
1 heard. I regret that you will lose your
diamonds. But, on the other hand, Mr.
Victor Wright will gaiu ahrid j. I shall be
pleased to congratulate him!”
A cruel change had passed oyer the beau
tiful face. [Surprise, auger, scorn had suc
ceeded each other in rapid transition. All
the color had left, and thp large eyes were
no longer soft and tender, Quick, bright
flashes made them annost black. A scorn
ful laugh broke from her.
“You have the face to tell me this? And
you fancy I care!”
“I fancy nothing, Miss Meredith. I re
gret that I have lost a friend I trusted. It
is a hard lesson, but not an uncommon one,
I believe. I have only to wish you good
evening, and thank you for some pleasant
hours you have given me.”
“And I,” she said, “am glad our little
farce is over.'’
She had quite regained her self-possession,
and bade me good-night with a perfectly po
lite but freezing bow.
That night as I crossed the bridge, walk
ing homeward in the moonshine, I saw a
couple standing in the shadows. A slender
girl leaning with hands clasped on the
strong arm of her lover. His head was
bent eagerly toward her uplifted face. A
stray moonbeam flashed over her, and
showed a pair of shining love-lit eyes. Their
attitude spoke of mutual love and trust,
and I heard the man’s voice say:
“I did try, but it was no use. To love you
once, is to love you forever!”
0, Bessie! O, my queen! How could I
•have deemed it possible to disenthrone you!
As I walked sorrowfully onward I almost
hated the man for his happiness.
CHAPTER VIII.
“It is good to have you here. I wonder
if your illness was sent just to teach you
how much your cousins needed you! There!
No more thanks, if you please. W r e have
had quite enough of that, sir. I have a
whole morning for your amusement. Give
me the book. Not that one? Why ? I could
begin where she left off. But you prefer
another? Well, since all sick people have
their whims, I will humor you a little
longer; though the very air to-dav suggests
the soft-flowing numbers of ‘Hiawatha.’
But mind! Your rule is at an end when
your strength returns And you are look
ing shockingly well to-day. How lovely she
must be—Clara Meredith, I mean. I am
sorry she was uot true. I think beauty is
so divine a gift. It must be so easy to live
and be happy when one is beautiful. ’’
I was lounging near the open window. I
could see the undulating fields of waving
grain across the lawn and the flower bor
ders where June roses were blooming. Far
away beyond field and wood, glittered the
blue line of the sea. The breeze, freshened
with its salt, brought the smell of violets
and roses in its breath, and kissed the face
of the girl who sat near me with a book in
her hand. A pure, sweet face encased in
bands of golden hair. I remember the dress
she wore, and how it seemed a part of the
‘eternal fitness of things’ that she should
wear such a dress on such a day. It was a
fresh white muslin with no ribbons, and
pansies at her throat and in her belt. I had
had a fever, and had been ordered to the
country to recover my strength. They did
not kffow of my illness at Valley Field un
til I was almost well, and then Mr. Wallace
himself brought me such an invitation as I
could not resist.
I closed my eyes with a sense of perfect
content, fof the moment, anil listened to the
clear ringing tones of the sweetest voice in
the world as she read. I hoard the voice
only, not heeding what it said, until I start
ed, with a thrill, at these words:
"She will weep her woman s tears, she will pray
her woman's prayers;
But her heart is young iu pain, and her hopes
will spring again.
By the suntime of her years.”
“He w ronged her there,” she said.
"How?” I asked.
“Can you think, having risked already so
much for him, that death or time could
make any change iu her love!'’
“How can 1 tell,'’ I answered, crossly. “I
confess Ido not understand a woman’s af
fections when she happens to have any.
The few I have known have altogether baf
fled me. One never knows how to take
them or where to find them. For my part.
I have given up the riddle. No doubt the
’Duchess May’ was like all other Mays, and
Kates and Janes and Husnus from that time
to this.”
“How provoking you are!” she said. “To
bring down my mournful passionate rhyme
to the level of ‘Janes aud Susans.’ I w ill
not read to you in that mood. To read
rightly one might be sure that the listener
is not criticizing, but siiaring one’s interest
entirely.”
“Pray go on,” I said. “At all events,
your voice is pleasant to hear.”
I was unreasonably irritated because she,
ray model of a true womanhood, thus
showed rae that she' was faithful in her
heart and soul. I had thought it- impossi
ble to grieve deeply yet near a smiling face.
I had not remembered that that was her
way of bearing paiu. Until now I had been
too weak and listless to bo otherwise than
happy to have her near me, to see her Hitting
about the house, to watch for her coming.
More thau ever my queen. More than over
my good angel. More than over the on
woman in the world for me. Now, iu the
face of her earnestness, the old |>aiu w.i,
stirring.
“I am determined to be good to you, no
matter how cross you are, dear old bov,"she
said, after n moment of waiting. ‘’Ho I
will go on. But first I wunt to tell you
something.”
Hhe oame nearer anil snt down on the floor
by my sofa. Hhe took one of my lumds in
liotii hers and stroked it. Then she laid it
back, and placed one of bers on my fore
heuii, looking into my eves. 0, the ionging
in my soul! The mad longing to catch her
in my arms, to hold her close to my heart.
I shut my eyes to keep out the sight of that
tender, pitying face so done to mine.
“Dear Jeff.' she said, “‘I am afraid you
are worse. Hindi I wait and talk to vou
another tintef” i shook my lewd. “Jef
frny |” and she |>aued. “1 do not know how
to say it, hut i mast. I don’t know what
you are thinking if mo, but I know your
face so well that I am sura I have hurt you
in sima way. 1 want to l**g you to forgive
me for whatever jadil I have given or may
give you. I want to ask you to believe that
nothing nuutd grieve me so mud) as to think
that you doubted or mistrusted ttv*. I want
t<> aiwure you that there hi nothing in the
world I * iib so modi ae your hapianes.
Nothing in Mam world l*u you bear ms,
J afire if Lh> >ou undw.uuut i want you
to know that none of the heroes we used to
ltiad of, no single one of the brave and great
hearted ones whose nanus haye rung in
song and story, is half so bravo and great
hearted, worthy of all honor in my eyes as
—yourself dear cousin. I used to weep at
thought of the boy in that dark old house in
Venice, hiding his griefs in his lonely little
heart. I have shed sadder tears for the
lonely-hearted man who—shall 1 toll you
what they say of you ? How your praises
aro on every one’s lips! The man whose
large soul is first in ail noble undertakings.
The man who with a princely fortune en
nobles his profession by such labors that in
one year he has—”
“Spire me,’’ I said, laughing uupieasant
ly, and sitting up straight—as she arose—to
offer a seat by my side. “I have no pa
tience with what the world says. Because
1 am independent of it, it is pleased to give
mo nothing but praise. A poorer man, with
far higher abilities, would have met with
no encouragement until he had toiled to the
last round of the ladder.”
“Aud my opiuiou, Jeffrey? Does that of
fend your sense of justice also?”
“You but echo what you hear from oth
ers.”
“Let it pass, then, for what it. is worth.”
She arose, with a proud gesture, and walked
to the table where she hail left her book.
“Bessie!” I called. I had never seen her look
so niuoli offended. ‘‘Shall 1 finish the
poem,” she asked, “or had you not better be
left alone?”
“Forgive me!” I cried. “I am a brute.
Pray do not leave me! You cannot under
stand—'
“If you wish me to finish the poem,” she
began, “I have only time to do so before
dinner.”
Coldly and quietly she spoke, and then she
began to read again. The while her sweet
words kept repating themselves in my
thoughts—her sweet words that I had so
rudely put aside because I could not, could
not bear her pity.
“Oh, the little birds sang east and the little
birds sang west;
And I smiled to think God's greatuesss flowed
around our incompleteness,
Round our restlessness, His rest.”
“Round our restlessness, His rest,” the
sweet voice repeated.
I opened my eyes. She was looking out
of the window in a dreamy, absent, fasnion,
as if she had forgotten my presence. And
a look of pain had crept into her face.
The days sped by as ail days will speed,
whether happy or otherwise. I counted
them up —th&se that remained to me—and
was jealous of every moment spent away
from her. She was far, far too good to me,
though after that day there was a touch of
reserve in all she said. Still she was, as I
have said, far, far too good to me. The
day before my departure came, she sat at the
piano singing for me; the clear, liquid notes
now rising and floating through the room,
now sinking into sweet contralto strains
“Let me alone, the dream is my own—
And my heart is full of rest!”
The low murmur died away, and she sat
quite still, the song unfinished, the singer
silenced (I felt sure) by thoughts of her
buried love. It was early twilight. It hail
been raining all day, but the clouds were
broken, and one by one the stars were
throbbing out. A bird chirped tiis good
night song as she left the piano and stood
by the window resting her folded arms on
the back of a chair and gazing upwards.
“Bessie!” She started. “Bessie, forgive me
that I have been too selfish to realize the
sorrow you bear so patiently am i quietly.
If your heart is ‘full of rest’ it is the rest
that comes after sharpest pain. I know it.
But I cahnot talk of it. Ah! his waiting
must be the sweeter if he can see how faith 1
ful your love has been. 1 cannot tell what
it cost me to say this. I had not before
been manly enough to speak of him. She
started again, and turned away her face.
“My poor child! I will leave you atom.”
“No—oh! no. Jeffrey, what do you mean?
Do you think I— Did I never tell you?”
She stopped suddenly. Then she added: “I
forgot I did uot send that letter.”
“VVhat letter?”
“The one I wrote after you came to see
me. I remember now that I did not. I
changed my mind. But you have been so
much like yourself to-day, and, above all,
you are so unchanged in your rare way of
giving sympathy—l thiuk,” she said, turn
ing suddenly and looking into my eyes, “I
think I shall let you read it when you go
awav. I kept it as a kind of sad record of
those days. I think—that you will like to
read it.”
I could not guess her meaning, but her
strange, hurried manner came back to me
afterward.
CHAPTER IX.
AloDe in my city chambers, with trem
bling fingers, I unfolded the well filled
sheets, and read those pathetic pages And
my heart reproached me that I had failed
her in the hour of her direst need. Hhe had
not loved him? Perhaps—be silent, fool
ish heart: Yet she had said there was noth
ing in the world she so much wished as my
happiness. And now that I recalled the
last evening spent with her, there had bean
something strangely sweet in her voice, in
her eyes, when she said:
“1 think you will like to read it.”
O, foolish, foolish heart be still!
As the summer waned and the autumn
drew near again, I made another visit to
Valley Field. On a Saturday morning I
threw i few things into a portmanteau, and
took an early tram to . A few hours
ride brought me to the country town nest
ling in a green nook of a valley, the hills
around and fur beyond it looking like huge,
many-colored bouquets leaning against the
dark blue background of the sky. Lit up
magnificently by the yellow autumn sun
shine the scene was dazzling, and beautiful
beyond all power to tell. I gave my bag
gage to the hackinan. and docidod to walk
to Valley Field, a distance of three miles. I
struck across the fields and, after walking
about a mile, came into a shady path
through a dense wood that I know led up to
the back of the plantation. 1 walked along
at a rapid pace, busy with much thinking;
and while not outwardly noting, delightful
ly conscious of, the bracing atmosphere, the
sun-rays glinting through the branches of
the trees and dancing on the leaf-strewn
path, tlow very still! A squirrel darts
nor the path and rustles the leaves at my
feet. A robin twitters in one of the oak
branches. No other sounds save the crack
ing of a dead branch now and then, or the
thud of an acorn dropping on the ground.
I stop.
My heart gives a great iiound! Just be
fore ni", leaning her arm on the low fence
that divides tie- wood from tiie fields, a girl
is standing. Hhe wears a white dress and
pansies—my true heart's ease!
Her back is toward me, showing the
graceful outlines of her figure, and the
shnp.dy, gold-crowned head, set. so daintily
amt proudly onto the sloping shoulders.
.Suddenly the sharp harking of a dog breaks
the stillness, and rouses the ecnoes In tho
solemn, dim old wood. At the same time
a bird, perched on a bough just over her
head, opens its throat and trills forth the
maddest, merriest note. She turns and
looks up at tlie songster. What is it in her
face that I have never seen there before,'
With a fascinated gaze 1 stand anil look at
her for a minute; then 1 am at her side.
“You!" The rich color spreads over her
face, and even dyes tne pure, white neck.
“How you frightened m!” giving me her
hand. “I believe 1 was thinking of you.”
Ami then she stopped, and for tue first
time in our lives we two stood together and
hail nothing to say to each other. Hhe Ni>oke
first.
“It is kind of you to coma again. Josie
hits born fretting about you a groat deal.
A* you have not written lately, idle felt sure
that you had broken down again for not
taking her advice and staying longer when
you were hero. Are you quite strong
egaJu f"
“Quito fttroiig. But I And thet lam very
dependent on my cousin* dura they have
aliowu ini-, by their good new, my blank in
gratitude of the |auit. ”
Why dwl the worda corns *o slowly t
A passing wind lifted a half-brow lied trees
■if tier hair and fluttered her drew. The
bil l bed flown to another tree lie threw
bu ll hts head nod snug agaui hit Wonderful
m /us.
“I think lie is drunk with joy,’’ she said.
“And no wonder. The day is intoxicating.
When he burst into singing just now, I
thought of Shelley’s lines—
“ ‘Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips should tlow,’ etc.
I seemed so full of a joy that had no out
let. Can one help being haopv on such a
day! When nature gives tis such beautiful
lessons; when she opens her lips and speaks
to us in her own wild, sweet language i”
I answered some what sadly:
“A moment ago 1 felt tin* same strange
ecstacy. Hut the sight of —” I broke off
there. “Bessie,” I said, presently, “I am
mad myself to come lien* again. But when
a man’s sole happiness lies in the sight of
one sweet face, can you blame him if he
sometimes indulges it, though he feels it to
be dangerous!” 1 paused. There was no
answer. “Need I tell you how much I have
regretted writing you that letter now near
ly a year ago! It deprived me of your com
panionship, for I could not trust myself to
see you after that It placed a gulf be
tween us that nothing short of your tact
an,! delicacy could have bridged over when
I was here in the summer. And then it was a
piece of shameless egotism on my part to ask
you who had been almost my sister to marry
me before 1 had done anything to win j our
love. I hail no right to do it. I yielded to
an uncontrollable impulse, and I lmve never
forgiven myself that 1 added even that
much to what you already had to bear. You
will never know how much I have loved
you. I have tried hard to forgot you. That
is impossible. Forgive me, my love, my
love! Be patient with me! I shall not
speak of it again, i meant to be strong and
keep the pain and longing to myself, but to
day—
‘‘Stop, Jeffrey! i implore you to stop!”
She was very pale, and she trembled. A
wonderful gleam lit up the blue eyes. It
was a strange new expression.
“Speak to me, Bessie. What, have I
done! Are you angry! I cannot have you
angry with hie. I niust have your friend
ship.”
A sweet, bright smile broke over her face,
and the soft color cams and went in her
cheeks.
“No, I am not angry.”
“Bessie, what is this! Oh, my love! mind
what you do! Do not trifle with my earn
estness 1”
She put both hands over her eyes.
Trembling with a sudden inexplicable rap
ture that frightened me, I drew away the
hands with oueof mine, and with the other
I lifted her face. O, sweet, truthful eyes!
They flashed into mine a look of ineffable
love.
“My Bessie! Oh! niv da rling' My own!
After such a weary waiting Mine forever!
Mine to shield from the lightest breath of
care. Say that you love me! My heart is
hungry for one word of love from your
lips!"
The beautiful love-lighted face! the
sweet, low, trembling voice!
“I love you! O, Jeffrey, I do love you!
And that is why I am so happy to-day.
The shining head dropped on my breast.
To have her in my arms! To hold her there
while I kissed her fair forehead, her sweet,,
red lips, and smoothed back the lovely hair!
—ah! it was worth while to have suffered
and waited for this!
“How did you flud out your secret, Bes
sie!”
She lifted her head, and answered with a
proud smile:
“It was revealed to me long ago—longer
than I care to tell you. When I heard of
Clara Meredith I—was very miserable. I
felt that you did not lov her as you had
loved me, and it seemed cruel '< have found
out that I cared for you when it was too
late, when it only made it harder for both
of us. Aud then when you came— But
why go over it all now ! If you had not been
blind, Jeffrey, you might nave known my
weakness the night I broke down, not be
cause I remembered the doctor, nor because
my heart was ‘full of rest.’ But because it
was full of wild unrest, of unavailing re
gret. You were to leave on the morrow,
and my ‘light in life’ would go with j-ou. I
had tried to tell you once, and you taught
my pride a lesson it could not forget. Not
that I doubted your love, or failed to un
derstand the cause of your bitttemess And,
Jeffrey, that made it so much harder.”
“Mydarling! My precious one! Noth
ing shall ever be hard for you again. I will
take all the ‘hard’ things for my share.”
The bird had come back and perched just
nliOvo us. We bowed our heads as again its
wild, sweet warbling filled the wood with
melody. Melody that thrilled through our
united hearts.
* * * * * *
There are signs of day in the East.
I have written all night, yet I must add a
few words.
We live at Harwood Place. At 40 there
is no white in my wife’s shining hair, no
wriifldes on her fair face, no dimness In her
steadfast, eyas. She is still most fair to see,
and I think she will always he young.
We have had more joys than fall to the
lot of most couples. Three children God
has given us. One we gave hack to Him ere
its white soul had received one soil—our
little Josie, a year old when our tears fell
over her grave. Harold, our hoy, they cull
red headed. He is like no one else in the
world, I think, and we are proud of him.
Olive is like my mother, ns I remember her.
Well grown for a girl of 14, lithe and slen
der. With line dark eyes, full of tire ami
pathos, delicate features, und a rich bright,
dark complexion, and a great mass of dark
colored hair. The children have one beau
tiful trait in common—they worship their
mother. She is, in their eyes, almost as
beautiful and gracious as she is in mine.
The pen falls from my Ungers. My head
drops heavily on the table. lam awakened
by a calutous tap at the door. Before my
eyes are fairly open an old negro woman (no
other than “nursie") has entered and begun
to light my fire.
She is over 70 now, and age has planted
many a wrinkle ou her swarthy face. Yet,
though the [lortly figure is somewhat bent,
she is still active, and helpful, and there are
some offices she will allow no hands but hers
to perform for her “white folks.”
“Miss Bessie bin powerful oneasy 'bout
you, Mars'Jeffrey,” shesays. while the gray
turhaned head bobs up and down as she
blows the lire, “powerful. Hhe ’lowed sup
pen mus' er liar/ ncl, but I tole her I lay you
les done drapped ter sleep a raidin’ clem nr
letters o’ hern. I rickolleck vutiddy uz yo’
weJdin day. Ketch me fo’glttin’ dat day!
No, dat you don’t I I kin see my blessid
chile now er standin’ ’long o’ you In dat ar
lonesum-lookin’ little church, wid her
shiny white frock on, u i dat ar long vail a
hangin’ way down her back. An” you a
lookin' Ink you laid eat her up. An’ didn’t
her eyes ioolc happy! Lor! ljir! she never
look Ink do sonic gal she uster in ilat ole
sorry house what wara’t good nuff for none
o’ my folks to look at, let lone liv in an’ die
in. Po’ Mars’ Harold! Haem mity strange
to think'boat him. Aye I/rrd, my folks is
bin tbew de thews! Twaru’t no easy
cliastymnent what de Lord giv deni, but
Jt I'eglar Imrd swipin’ lieks, an' look lak
my iKi' young marster jes sink right under
Vn. But 1 ain't no eashuu fur tor com
plain. 1 tell you what it is, Mars’ Jeffrey,
de ways uv de good Master is mity kurus,
and look lak we doan' know what Ho do
mean by it suuitimes, but it alius kuin roun’
dat He ile on dot’s right an’ we do ones
ilat wrong. He bin mity mustiful to us,
M ar’ Jeffrey, dat Mo is!"
The tire is (turning briskly now, and as the
old darkey loaves the room, I hear a quick
step omning along the passage, whoso ap
proach has never yet fallal to quicken my
pulses, and presently the blithe voice of iny
daughter, who has rushed past her mother
into the room;
•Tujiii! Papa! ilo hurry up! Biddy says
(imitating tier) the brakthfn* is reddy, shure
an' it is, an’ the cakes a gittin' ail oowld!”
(THE END.]
Pink gum* uwl mouth and lUxxllng Mk,
Aud bmUi uf bain,V and Mp* of row,
An found uH in late world UmnuKli
With young or old, save only I Low*
Who ever wiwly , wtblft I “f uwy.
lot tev/.UD'J.’i i by tu4 nl nod dev
DRY GOODS.
E CKS T K IN’S!
Our stock of Fine Imported Robes, Dress Fabrics, Velvets
and Novelties for Combinations represent the very latest
ideas, both in designs and colors, from the largest European
manufacturers, aud are exceptionally attractive. Also, a full
line of American manufactured Silks, Velvets, Velveteen aud
Dress Goods.
Jackets and. Wraps.
IjMDKR DOWN FLANNELS, in solid cloth shn.lnn nnd delicate tints.
Fancy Stripes and Novel Designs In EIDER DOWN and JERSEY FLANNELS.
LEADERS.
fine All Wool Ladies' Cloth, Tricots, Serges aud Armures, IV6 yards wide, in all shades, 65c.,
75c.. (Be., $l.
OT-ineh Fancy and Plain Colored Dress Goods at 10c., lsc.
Double Width American Cashmeres, in all colors and black, at 25c.
All Wool Cashmeres, Serges and Armures, choice colors. 40c., 50c.. fisc. yard.
Some entirely new makes in Wool Dress Fabrics, such as Fedora, Carmelite, Armure, Nubian
Cloth, Figaro, Jet Black Cashmere, Cheviots. Blue Black Cashmere, Serges, India Cashmere,
Camel's (lair. Nuns’ Veiling, Silk Warp Henrietta Cloths, Kigolettu. Lihiau Cloths.
Scotch Plaid Dress Goods, so much in demand this season, from 10c. yard up to the finest
All Wool grades.
J>jsl opened, a large and superior stock of Mourning Dress Goods, including a line of ftiia
Nuns' Veils and Veiling. English Crapes.
KID GLOVES. Just oj>ened a full line. We lead off with a genuine Real Kid 4-Button Glove,
in all colors, at 75c. pair.
Zephyr Shawls. Long Wool Shawls and Fancy Theatre Shawls from 75c. up.
If prices will do It we shall sell all the Blankets and Flannels that will be sold in Savannah
this winter. We are offering Scarlet Medicated Twill Flannels at 8.5 c.: worth 50c. 10-4 Wool
Blankets at $3 50; worth $5. white and Unbleached Canton Flannel at #J4c.; worth 10c.
New Goods and Special Bargains in all departments.
ECK STE I N’S.
CLOTH IN'Ci
~~ ISTEVT 'F I T~R.TVr ~ ~
MENKEN & ABRAHAMS,
158 BROUGHTON STREET,.
HAVE NOW A COMPLETE STOCK OF
Men’s Pine Clothing,
Youths’ Fine Clothing,
Boys’ Fine Clothing,
Hats and Furnishing Goods,
LATEST STYLES AND BEST QUALITY.
In our CUSTOM MADE DEPARTMENT Suits made to order on short notice.
PARTIES IN THE COUNTRY sending orders can have same expressed C. O. D., free of
charge, with privilege of returning if not suited.
MENKEN & ABRAHAMS,
1/5 S BROUGHTON STREET.
NEW YORK OFFICE, 850 BROADWAY.
MILLINERY.
We Leai and Otters Follow I
FALL AND WINTER.
Krouskoff’s! Krouskoff s!
The Leader of Fashion.
We are now opening the Latest Novelties in Early Fall
aud Winter Millinery, consisting of the largest assortment
this side of New York. We have just opened and have on
display on our front tables 200 different shapes in Black
and Colored Straws, consisting of all the very latest shapes,
such as the Volunteer, Westminster. Sterling, Monopole,
Larchmont, St. Germaine, Just Out, Zingare, etc.
In Birds and Wings we have all kinds, from the Canary
to the Eagle, or all the Birds of Paradise, in all new shades
and combinations. Tips the same.
In Velvets and Plushes we are leaders in prices and
shades, as we always have been, and shall continue. In
Novelty Stripes, etc., we have the largest assortment; also,
Novelty Trimmings.
In Ribbons we have the latest novelties, just as they are
imported, and prices lower than the lowest.
School Hats ! School Hats !
5 (000 DOZEN IN ALL KINDS AT
K R O U K O lf ’ S.
• TRUNKS AND SHOES.
Low Quarter Shoes at Cost.
In order to make room for our Large Fall Stock, which
will soon be coming in, we have concluded to make a rushing
sale of the balance of our stock of
GENTS’ FINE LOW QUARTER SHOES.
We have sold our stock of these goods down closer this
season than we have for years past, and being determined not
to carry any over to next year, wc offer to close them out
AT MANUFACTURERS’ COST.
Remember the old saying, “the early bird catches the
worm,” so don’t wait until the bent lots are gone.
JOS. ROSENHEIM & CO.,
iy z> ujmjvuu ton trru& kt.
5