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’“So Near, and Yet So Far!”
BY ALISON.
CHAPTER I.
A spacious drawing-room, ebony-fur
nished, the predominating color pale blue and
sage green; five tall narrow windows in a
bow at the upper end, curtained in sage-green
satin embroidered with blue, giving a wide
view of snowy lawn and dark shrubbery,
showing coldly against a faint afternoon sky
of wintry amber; within the room, a pleas
ant glow of firelight falling full on a girl
standing on the hearthrug—a girl in a jacket
of duskily golden fur, a cap of the same on
her head, with fair hair blown about her
white forehead, and in her cheeks a soft col
or, borne of the frosty outside air.
“Good girl, to have come over to see me on
such a miserable afternoon!”
Maud Kent turned her head. The door had
opened to admit a little figure in widow’s
dress, a figure as slight and girlish as her
own, on whose sleek dark head the widow’s
cap looked quaintly out of place.
“I don’t want to sail under false colors,”
Maud said, smiling, as they kissed each other.
“But the truth is, I was on my way home
from the village, and I thought I would turn
in, not to see you, but to get a cup of tea.”
“You might have allowed me to lay the
flattering unction to my soul!” Mrs. Harry
Wilde answered, laughing, as she sto d oppo
site to her friend on the rug. “But what
have you been doing in the village—church
decorating? Cold work even in that brand
new sealskin jacket!”
“You Australians are such shivery beings!
But do you like my jacket, Manie?"
“My dear, it is superb. Your father is
very generous to you, though he does not al
low you to have your own way in such small
matters as afternoon tea.”
“That is because he thinks it is not good for
us,” Maud said, a shadow passing over her
face. “Manie, why didn’t you come down to
the church to-day?”
“And catch my death of cold!”
“But it was not cold—at least, I did not
find it cold. And we have made the church
look so pretty!"
“And how you have made poor Mr. Gra
ham look?”
“We put chaplets of holly round each pil
lar, with lots of red berries,” Maud went on,
ignoring the question, “and we filled the
window-ledges with the most beautiful green
moss out of the woods. And the children
put up the text across the gallery—the letters
we made of cotton-wool, you know, to look
l like snow.”
“But what about Mr. Graham, Maud?”
“Do not bother about Mr. Graham, Manie.”
“Poor Malcolm Graham! Maud, you have
I a great deal to answer for.”
“You are very jocose to-day,” Maud said,
looking at her friend with some smiling curi
osity in her gray eyes. “What pleasant
thing has happened? Have you heard from
your friends in Australia, or has Mr. Wilde
given you that diamond watch you have
been pining for, as a Christmas box?”
“I have heard of my friends in Australia,”
Mrs. Harry Wilde acknowledged, returning
the smiling look with interest. “But you
would never guess from whom. ”
“Perhaps I could. Adam has come
“How did you guess, Maud? I declare y*»
must have been thinking of him!”
“Os course I thought of him the niouMwt
you mentioned Australia.”
“You mentioned it first,” Mi's. Harry
laughed, clapping her hands softly together.
“Well, he came home last night, Maud:
are’nt you glad ?”
Was Maud glad? So far as her face wemt,
the mingled firelight and twilight were too
uncertain to give her friend any clew.
“You scarcely expected him horn# for
Christmas, Manie?”
“Scarcely. He told us not to begin to kwi
out for him before the new year. But I
guessed that was because he knew his father
would get into a fuss if he expected him on
a certain date, and the steamer happened to
be delayed a day or two. He walked in while
we were at dinner last night—you may fancy
the commotion between his father and the
servants, to say nothing of the dogs!”
“I can fancy how delighted you all were to
) see him,” Maud said soberly. “Is he much
changed?”
“I did not think him changed—it is not so
very long since I saw him, you know—not
quite two years. ”
“No,” Maud observed, in the same half
absent way. “But it is seven yearssince I saw
him—and they say seven years in Australia
makes a great difference in one’s appearance.”
“It makes a difference everywhere,” Mrs.
Harry laughed. “I dare say you will find
him altered, as he is sure to find you. Only
you have improved, while he has grown hag
gard and sunburnt. ”
“Has he grown haggard, Manie?”
“Well, you know Adam never was good
looking,” Manie answered more gravely.
“Poor Harry was the handsome one of the
family—everybody acknowledged that. But
Adam has a nice face, and nice eyes too,
when he isn’t cross. I can’t think how it was
you happened to miss each other. He started
off to Kief Oaks directly after luncheon. ”
“And I went down to the village immedi
ately after breakfast,” Maud said, the shadow
vanishing from her face. “We have been
hard at work all day, Bertha Norcott and the
children and I. ”
“By-the-way, where are the children?”
“I sent them home with Miss Peach. I
thought one pair of muddy boots in your
drawing room would be quite enough. ”
‘ “I certainly prefer to have you all to my
self. But where were Jack and Mr. Fairfax!
It was not fair to leave all the hammering
and ladder-climbing to poor Mr. Graham. ”
“Oh, Sara did most of that!” Maud an
swered, laughing. “Sara is as active as a
boy, and as fond of climbing ladders. I think
Miss Peach was rather ashamed of some of
her feats to-day."
' “tiara is only thirteen,” Mrs. Harry said
' indulgently. “I hate to see old heads on
young shoulders. I like children to be child
ren, not little old men and women. My two
scamps have been out the entire day, making
a Polar bear of the snow on the tennis
ground. I thought they must have been half
frozen, but they declared they were “as hot
as toast."
“1 think children like this weather,’’ Maud
raid: but she said it absently, looking down
into the bright wood fire.
“It seems to agree with you," her friend
remarked, watching her with some amuse
ment in her dark eyes. Mrs. Harry Wilde
had very fine eyes—they were the best fea
ture in her small, dark complexioned face.
“Oh, yes, winter always agree with me—
and summer too, for that matter!”
“It agrees with most people to be happy,”
Mrs. Harry said, sententiously. “Come to
the table now and take your tea, my dear.
You won’t appreciate it half so much when
1 Adam comes in.”
THE SAVAINNAH DAILY TIMES, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1885.
They sat down opposite to each other at the
little gypsy-table, and Mrs. Harry prooesda*
to pour out tea. The two girls—Mrs. Hsnf
looked nothing more than a girl—maAs -a
pretty picture with the dainty tea-servies
between them, the wintry daylight lighting
up one side of each face, a soft glow of fire
light on the other, Mania’s dusky complexion
daintily relieved by the widow’s cap with its
long lappets, Maud’s fair hair looking fairer
than ever under the cap of velvet golden-black
fur.
Adam Wilde thought they made a very
1 ratty picture, when he walked into the room
as Manie was pouring out their second cup of
tea.
“Maud, allow me to present my brother-in
law. Adam, this is my friend, Miss Kent ”
“[ think I have had the pleasure of meeting
Miss Kent before,” said Adam, holding out
his hand.
Maud laughed—they were all laughing; i{
would have been hard to say which face
looked happiest of the three.
“Where have you been all day, Adam?” his
sister-in-law inquired.
“Where have you been?” Adam Wilde
asked, turning to Maud. “I called at Fief
Oaks three distinct times, and each time they
told me that you were ‘out.”'
“I was iu the village,” Maud said, smiling.
“If you had come down to the church, you
might have made yourself very useful.”
“And been the center of an admiring circle
of young ladies,” laughed Mrs. Hairy.
“They wouldn’t have admired me much,”
Adam said, in perfect sincerity.
His face was a plain and rather stern- look
ing one, except when he smiled. Then its
gravity gave place to a certain humor and
sweetness, principally in the eyes, which,
though neither large nor of a handsome
color, were expressive and keen. His face
was close-shaven, except for a heavy fair
mustache, and had the weather beaten look
of a man who had spent the greater part of
his life in the saddle; but, for all his bronzed
face, he looked shyly at his old sweetheart as
he stood on the rug while she finished her
tea. Still he did look again and again, looked
at her and listened to her while she and
Manie talked away to each other and to him,
thinking all ihe time of the days they
had spent together seven years before,
and wondering if she rememberod them as
well as he did. He had not forgotten her in
all these years. He had pictured her to him
self so oftem—the serious eyes, the straight
brows, the sweet mouth, the determined chin
with a dimple in it, the soft, fair hair that
was always blown in such pretty curls and
tendrils about her forehead. How often that
face had risen up before him by solitary
camp-fires on dark nights, as he sat on the
back of his motionless horse, keeping guard
over somo vast flock of sheep, perhaps
drenched with rain—in lonely shepherds’ huts
where he had passed weeks at a time without
hearing the sound of a human voice—on Sun
days spent in out of the way stations, when
he had strolled away into the scrub to think
of home and of his sweetheart, instead of
drinking and gambling with the rest! He
had never .forgotten her; hut had she
remembered him? Looking at her face
now in the firelight, he could
not tell. They had never been engaged to
each other, old Mr. Kent looking on a seven
years’ engagement as the purest folly; but
Adam had promised to come back for her at
the end of seven years, and Maud had prom
ised to wait for him, and the elders had for
bore to interfere, thinking it more than prob
able that they would have forgotten each
other in half th» time. But Adam had not
forgotten; it was in the hope of making her
his wife that he had worked so hard; it was
for her sake that he had risen early and gone
to bed late; it was for to ask her to marry him
that he had come back to England: it was
with the passionate eyes of a lover that he
watched her now, standing with his back to
the fire, listening to the sweet voice, every
intonation of which he remebered so well.
“I must hurry home,” Maud said at last.
“My father and Jack have ridden over to
Needham with Mr. Fairfax—they wanted to
show him the ruins of the Abbey there. Not
that he cares much for ruins,” she added,
laughing; “but when one has visitors one
must amuse them, and people are generally
supposed to like to see whatever ruins are in
the neighborhood. ”
“We have no ruins in Australia,” Adam
.Wilde said, smiling, ‘except the remains of a
shepherd’s hut iu the brush perhaps; and any
man would sooner sleep all night under the
stars than in a ruined hut, much less go out
of his way to see one. Nothing in nature
seems so utterly desolate as the ruins of a
house where a human being has lived, and
perhaps died."
“I can very well imagine it,” Maud raid
gravely, thinking as she looked at him, of all
the lonely hours he had spent since she saw
him last; then she turned to ray good-by to
Mrs. Harry. “And don’t forget to come
early to morrow,” she added, as she pulled ou
her gloves.
“Early to what?” Adam inquired, looking
from one to the other,
“To the children’s Christmas party,” Miss
Kent answered, smiling. “I have been turn
ing the question over in my mind as to
whether I should ask you or not. If Ido not
ask you, you will be offended, and, if 1 do,
you are certain to be bored. ”
“Oh, do ask me!” said Adam, smiling down
at her. “1 will promise not to appear bored,
at all events.”
“Then I invite you in my sister Bara’s
name. It is to be a fancy ball, but fancy
dress is not imperative. However, if you
choose to come as a geni or a giant, I have
no doubt you will be all the more welcome.”
“I think I shall appear in plain clothes,”
Adam answered, laughing.
They all went into the hall together, talk
ing and laughing, and so through the glass
porch with its ferns and cactus plants out to
the doorsteps and the frosty evening air. And
all the time Adam was longing for the mo
ment when he could say: “Maud, have you
forgotten me?” and Maud was wishing, wo
man-like, that something would happen to
prevent a tete-a-tete walk back to Fief Oaks,
though she had been pining for the sound of
Adam Wilde’s voice for the last seven years.
“Back my young monkeys in if you see
them,” was Mrs. Harry’s parting injunction
as she stood shivering oil the doorstep.
“May I see you safely into your own do
main?” Adam asked, with Mrs. Harry watch
ing them.
Miss Kent thanked hiln, walking by his
side as sedately as if she had forgotten all the
occasions upon which he had seen her home
long before, and as if she believed that he had
entirely forgotten them too.
The frost}' air was pleasant, the crisp frozen
snow crackled under their feet. It was still
quite light out of doors, a faint yellow glow
lingering in > the west, behind the leafless
branches of the trees. Leaving the carriage
drive, they turned down a long green alley,
called the Box Walk. Here, at the end of
this very Box Walk, on the little
rustic bridge which divided Wild
wood from Fief Oaks, they had
kissed each other for the first time
seven years before. Adam, glancing shyly
at his companion, wondered if she remeui-
tiered that kiss as well as he did—if she had
‘bought of it half aa often as he had—if she
guessed that the very memory of it had had
power to make his heart beat fast sixteen
thousand miles away; but Maud’s face looked
calmly oblivious. She walked along beside
him, the wild-rose tint still in her cheeks, the
fair hair blown about her forehead as of old.
but no tremble in the sweet red lips, no con
sciousness in the luminous gray eyes. And
vet the memory of the first kiss was as pres
ent to her as it was to him. She was think
ing of it as they walked side by side between
the high box-hedges. She hail never crossed
the bridge since without thinking of it. she
stopped a hundred times to lean over the
bridge and think of it, and of the lover who
had given it, with a passionate longing to see
him again which Adam Wilde might never
know.
“I have often thought of the bridge while
I was away,” Adam said shyly.
How poor and cold the words seemed, how
utterly common-place; and yet how much
they meant!
“Have you?” Maud answered, without ef
fusion.
“You know you said vou would often think
of me here, didn’t you?”
“As if one could think of a person more in
one place than another,” answered Maud.
“I don’t suppose you tried.”
“Oh, if you have to try to think of any
one—”
“I don't mean that,” Adam said lamely.
His heart was eloquent enough, but he could
not put his eloquence into words. If he had
felt less, he could have spoken better; but
perhaps Miss Kent understood him just, as
well.
“Do you find the place much changed?” she
inquired calmly.
Adam felt chilled. He did not know how
the heart of the girl beside him was beating
under her sealskin jacket.
“The place is not much changed,” he an
swered, without looking at her.
“I thought you would have found the plan
tations greatly grown; and the new drive was
planned only when you went away.”
He glanced at her, half longingly and half
vexed. Was this indifference real or as
sumed? If he had not lived so long iu the
bush he might have known.
“I think you have forgotten a great deal
that I remember. ”
“Oh, no,” Maud said, airily; “people at
home never forget! It is the people who go
away that have other things to think
about.”
“Nothing could make me forget the time
we spent together seven years ago. ”
“Oh, nor me!”
Up to this neither had called the other by
any name whatsoever. To call him “Mr.
Wilde” would have been too absurd. To call
him “Adam” —she meant to call him “Adam”
in a minute or two, of course, but he should
call her “Maud” first. It made her smile to
herself to think how he avoided calling her
“Maud”—he who had called her “darling”
half a dozen times a day seven years be
fore.
“There are different ways of remembering,”
Adam said gravely. “How often do you
think I have remembered you since 1 went
away?”
“How can I tell? Half a dozen times per
haps ”
“You can think so,” he said a little stiffly.
Her coldness wounded him. He could not
understand that she was only hiding her
own heart-beatings behind this “sweet brier
hedge” of indifference. He had pictured this
their first walk to the old bridge so often; he
had said to himself that he would kiss her
first on the very spot where he had kissed her
for the first time in his life. They were on
the bridge now, on the very planks where
they had stood then, his arms round
her, her head on his shoulder. The same
old rustic rails were at either side, the same
river hung its icicles from the same old
mossy piles between which the white water
rushed and tumbled just it did on that day
they promised to love each roller. Why did
h© not take her in his arms and kiss her, as
he had sworn to himself that he would?
Why did he allow her to cross those planks
and pass into her own gray wood without a
word ? She looked so tall and stately iu her
golden-black furs, she kept her sweet, cold
profile toward him so steadfastly, she gave
him no single word, no single look, to show
that she cared to remember that past the
consciousness of which seemed to him to fill
all the frosty evening air, which made his
tongue falter and his heart throb now that
the moment he had been picturing to himself
for the last seven years had come—and gone.
“You will scarcely know Jack,” Miss Kent
said, as they walked through the woods to
gether.
“I suppose not. I left him a schoolboy,”
Adam answered, trying to speak carelessly.
“And the girls—they will have grown quite
out of my recollection.”
“Bara has grown very much; Bell is a little
thing yet—l don’t think she will ever be tall:
but Ida was a baby when you went away—
scarcely two years old.”
“There is time for a great many changes in
seven years,” Adam said a little sadly; “when
a man has been seven years away from
home, he might as well stay away alto
gether.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Maud answered,
stifling the remorse she felt for keeping him
so long as it were at arms length—she meant
to be so good to him afterward. “But his
friends will be of a different opinion.”
“His friends!” Adam repeated cynically.
“When a man’s friends have learned to do
without him for seven years, they can get on
very well without him to the end of the
chapter. ”
“Perhaps so,* Miss Kent agreed. But all
the time she was thinking what a different
winter this would have been if she had not
been expecting him back. How passionately
happy she felt now that he was walking be
side her, that she had only to turn her head
to see the well-rein inhered face. And yet
she would not tell him so—just yet. “They
say there is no one in the world who cannot
be done without,” she remarked senteu
tiously.
“I don’t believe it,” Adam said passion
ately. “Os course one can live on, even
after one has lost ali desire to live. Bat
what do you think the world would have
been to me if anything had happened to you
while ”
A peal of young voice? interrupted him,
ringing through the frosty air. If Maud
ever wished her young sisters further away,
perhaps she wished it then. The passionate
yearning in Adam's voice had broken down
the sweetbriar barrier as if it had been a
cobweb, had made her heart swell, and filled
her eyes with tears. But it was just a mo
ment too late.
“Oh, here you are! We were coming to
meet you. ”
Then the three slim long-legged girls in
drab ulsters and red plush caps drew up sud
denly, catching sight of Adam Wilde.
“These are my sisters,” Maud said, pre
senting them one by one. “This is Sara, and
this is Bell, and this is Ida. Sara, don’t you
remember Mr. Wilde?”
Sara gave him a cold little red hand with
out effusion. 801 l followed her example. Ida
drew back behind her eldest sister.
“She is most like you,” Adam said, smil
ing down at the child.
“So they say,” Maud answered, “I think
her eyes are—a little.”
But Ida’s shy eyes refuse to raise themselves
from rapt contemplation of the ground. Sara
ami Bell however made up for her shortcom
ings by staring at the new-comer unflinch
ingly. They were both pretty children, fair
haired and blue-eyed, with a great deal of
their father’s coldness of manner, which how
ever in their cases was coldness of manner
only.
“Papa has not come back jr »t,” Sara
said.
“Have the others come back?”
“No,” Bell answered this tiiiLe. “Nobody
has come back.”
“I think I may hand you over to the safe
escort or your household troops,” Adain said,
smiling, as he held out his haml.
“Won’t you come up to the house?” Maud
asked.
“Not this evening, thank you. 1 have seen
very little of my father yet —I spent most of
the day hanging round Fief Oaks, you
know.”
“Then don’t forget to-morrow. Sara, 1
have invited Mr. Wilde to your fancy ball.”
Sara nodded, gravely regarding her pros
pective guest. Adam promised not to forget,
shaking hands with each of the party in turn,
beginning with Miss Kent.
“1 may come over in the afternoon,” he
said, his tone reversing the first two words.
“My father and Jack are sure to bo at
Wildewood to-morrow,” Maud answered,
though her heart, which had sunk a little,
grew lighter at the thought of seeing him
sooner than she expected. “But, if you come
over any time during the day, we shall be
very glad to see you, though the house is liter
ally turned upside dowm.”
So they parted who had beeu picturing this
parting—in very different colors—for the
previous seven years. Whose fault was it
that his heart was heavy as he walked back
to his father’s house, that all the brightness
seemed to her to have died out of the winter
day?
“He has forgotten me,” Maud said to her
self, as she passed under the leafless trees
with a skipping, chattering child in each
hand. “He never called me by my name, ho
never kissed me, though we were alone
together for fully a quarter of an hour? He
could never treat me like that if he cared for
me as he said he did long ago. I only hope
that he doesn’t think for a moment that I
care for him as much as ever. I dare say he
has cared for twenty people since he went
away! And yet he looked at me once or
twice as if he rememberod—perhaps it was
my own fault—he looked as if he cared for
me still ou the bridge! Well, I shall know
to-morrow. It is not so long till to-morrow,
when I have waited seven years!' 1
Yet she regretted that lost quarter of an
hour. She was sorry they had met like this,
after all those weary years. She longed to
put her arms round him, to tell him how she
pitied him for all his hardships; how she loved
him more than ever—a thousand times! She
had always meant to meet him like that, to
lay her head oil his shoulder with a great
thankfulness, to play no coquettish school
girl tricks upon him, to pretend coldness.
Yet had not he been cold? Or was it only
shyness? Adam had always been shy, as
people said. Not too shy to make love to her,
though—to kiss tier whenever he got the
chance! She smiled a little, remembering
those kisses, and then she thought of the
morrow.
“I shall know* to-morrow,” she said, sighing
—“only I wish I had known to-day.”
And Adam Wilde, walking back to Wilde
wood with his hands in his pockets and his
eyes on the ground, thought to himself—
“ She has forgotten me—women are all the
same. But I will make her love me again. I
would be ready to shoot myself if I did not
think I could make her love me again!”
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
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Net that barque which spreads its salff
the favoring gale and with every
drawing taut, sails the sea, a thing of llfeMul
beauty, but that bark which comes from a
cold and hastens the traveler to that port
from whence there is no return. For thi«
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, and for four
seasons has given entire satisfaction. Price
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham street*
J. C. C. C. (’.
Jpssr lining ten
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. R. Haltiwang-er,
Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong and E. A. Knapp
io Clean Your Last Winter’s Suit or
Anything 1 Else Use
“Household Cleaning Fluid.”
It removes grease spots, stains, dirt, etc.,
from woolen, cotton, silk and laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
sttH and Pvay jtablw.
Gray Eagle
Livery and Boarding' Stable,
Corner Congress and Drayton.
Just arrived and for sale, half car load o
buggy and saddle horses.
It. OeMartin & Soil,
Proprietors.
Sinnih Club, Linrj S Eiiri Stable
Corner Drayton, McDouough and Hull sta
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone No. 205,
LUMBER. AND TIM BEIL
BACON, JOHNSON & 00
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
WOO I > YARD.
LARGE STOCK OF,
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
#3r Vegetable Crates on hand and made
promptly to order.
J. J. McDonough. T. B. Thompson.
Ed. Burdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office : 116 i Bryan street.
Yellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Hill: Opposite
8., F. & W. Railway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
Saw Mills: Surrency. Ga., No. 6, Macon and
Brunswick Railroad.
D. C. Bacon, Wm. B. Sullwbll.
H. P. Smart.
D.C.BACON &CO
PITCH PINE
-AND—
Cypress Lumber & Timber
BY THE CAR
Savannah and Brunswick, 6a.
P. O. SAVANNAH, GA.
Beans! Beans ! Beans!
Inipwood White Spine Cucumber
S E E I> ,
TOMATO, EGG PLANT, CORN,
Alfalfa. Mixed Lawn and Bermuda
Grass Seeds.
JERUSALEM ARTICHOKES,
Onion Sets, Onion Sets,
A few of those Peas still on had. A fu 1
line of Garden Seeds, offering by
J. (ianlner, Agent,
30% BULL STREET.
GEO. M. HELM KEN,
Variety 13 «leery.
Cor. South Broad and East Broad streets.
BREAD, CAKES and PIES of all descrip
tion. ~ .
Wedding Parties supplied on reasonable
terms xvith tbe finest cakes. New England
Bread a specialty. None genuine without my
7