The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1863-04-09

and solitary pools of stagnant water hiding
amongst the tangled brushwood.
Laur ence and | were to be married in the
following spring. He would come of age in
February, aud | should be twenty in March
scarcely a year between our ages, and both
a great deal too young to marry, my aunt
said. After tea Lucy and | sang and played.
Dreary music it seemed to me that night. |
thought my voice and the piano were both out
Of tune, and l left Lucy very rudely in the
middle Of our favorite duet.
| took up twenty books from the crowded
drawing-room table, only to throw them wea-
rily down again. Never had Lady Adela's no
wells seem so stupid as when l looked into
them that night, never had my aunt's conver-
sation sounded so tiresome.
| looked from my watch to the old-fashion-
ed timepiece upon the chimney half a dozen
times, to find at last that it was scarcely ten
o'clock. Laurence had promised to be home
by eleven, and had earnestly begged Lucy and
me to sit up for him.
Eleven struck at last but Laurence had not
kept his promise. My aunt and Lady Adela
rose to light their candles. Mr.. Wendale al
ways retired a little after nine. pleaded for
half an hour longer, and Lucy was too kind
not to comply readily.
"lsabel is right, she said Laurence is a
spoilt boy, you know, mamma, and will feel
himself very much ill-used if he finds no one
up to hear his description Of the grand mess
dinner"
Only half an hour, then, mind, young la
dies, said my aunt. 81 cannot allow you to
spoil your compilations on account Of dissipa-
ted people who drive twenty miles toa militia
~ dinner. One half-hour not a moment
more, or | shall come down again to scold you
both"
We promised obedience, and my aunt left
us. Lucy and l seated ourselves on each side
of the low fire, which had burned dull and
hollow. Twas too much dispirited to talk,
and | sat listening to the ticking of the clock,
and the occasional falling of a cinder i'll the
bright steel fender.
Then that thought came to me which comes
to all watchers. What if anything had hap
pened to Laurence?
went to one of the windows, and pulled
back the heavy wooded shutters. 1t was a
lovely night clear, though not moonlight, and
a myriad stars cleaned in the cloudless sky.
| stood at the window for some time, listen
ing for the wheels, and watching for the lights
Of the phaeton.
| too was a spoilt child life had for me been
bright and smooth, and the least thought Of
grief or danger to those loved filed me with
d wild panic. turned suddenly round to Lu-
cy, and cried out
Lucy Lucy, l am getting frightened
Suppose anything should have. happened to
Laurence. Those horses are wild and unman-
agable sometimes. If he had taken q few
glasses of wine-if he trusted the groom to
drive-and if"
Cho ,o,,,, ,.rnr 10 7,a a,A fn,ly ma ~, how
arms as if | had been indeed a little child.
my darling, she said, ''my darling Isabel,
you must not distress yourself by such fancies
as these. He is only half an hour later than
he said; and as for danger, dearest, he is be-
meath the shelter of Providence, without whose
safeguard those we love are never secure even
for q moment
Her quiet manner Gained my agitation. l
left the window, and returned shivering to the
expiring fire.
'It was nearly th~ree-quarters Of an hour
now, Bella, DEAR" she said presently 'we
must keep our promise, and as for Laurence,
yon will hear the phaeton drive in before you
go to sleep, | dare say
81 shall not go to sleep until | do here it"
| answered, as 1 babe her good night.
| could not help listening for the welcome
sound Of the carriage-wheels as | crossed the
hall and went upstairs. stopped in the cor
ridor to look into my aunts rooms; but she
was fast asleep, and | closed the door as soft
ly as l had opened it.
1t was as | left this room that, glancing
down the corridor, | was surprised to see that
there was a light in my own bed-Chamber. |
was prepared to find a fire there, but the light
shining through the half-open door was IN
thing brighter than the red glow of a fire. |
had joined Laurence in laughing at the
ghost-story, but my first thought III seeing
the light was of the shadow Of the wretched
Lady Sybil. What if | found her crouching
over my hearth
| had half a mind to go back to my aunt's
room, awake her, and tell her my fears but
one moments reflection made me ashamed of
my cowardice. | went on, and pushed open
the door of my room. There was no pale
phantom shivering over the open HEARTH
There was an old-fashioned silver candlestick
upon the table, and Laurence, my lover, was
seated by the blazing fire not dressed in the
evening costumehe had worn for dinner-party
but wrapped in a loose gray wooden dressing
gown, and wearing a black-velvet smoking
cap upon his chestnut hair.
Without stopping to think of the strange
ness Of his appearance in my room; without
wondering at the fat Of his having entered
the house unknown to either Lucy or myself
without one thought but joy and relief OF mind
in seeing him once more-I ran forward to
him, crying out:
Laurence, Laurence, am so glad you
have come back ~
~He-Laurence, my lover, as | thought
the man, the horrible shadow, the dreadful be-
ing-rose from his chair, and snatching up
some papers that lay loosely on the table by
his side, ~crumpled them into a ball with one
fierce gesture of his strong hand, and flung
them at my feet then, with a harsh, disso-
nant laugh, that seemed a knocking echo of the
joyous music l loved so well, he stalked out
of the door opening on the gallery.
[ tried to scream, but my dry lips and throat
could form no sound, The o~ak-panneling of
the room spun round, the walls and ceiling
contracted, as if they had been crushing in
upon me to destroy me. | fell heavily on the
floor; but as l fell | heard the phaeton-wheels
upon the carriage drive below, and Laurence
Wendale's voice calling to the servants.
PARTIL
| can remember little more that happened
upon that horrible night. | have a vague re-
collection of opening my eyes upon a million
dazzling lights, which slowly resolved them
selves into the one candle held in Lucy Wen
dale's hands, as she stood beside the bed upon
which | was lying. My aunt, wrapped in her
dressing-gown, sat by my pillow. My face
and hair were dripping with the vinegar-and-
water they had thrown over me, and could
hear Laurence, in the corridor outside my bed
room door, asking, again and again:
lis she better? Has she quite come to ~
But Of all this | was only dimly conscious :;
a load of iron seemed pressing upon my fore
head, and icy hands seemed riveted upon the
back of my head, holding it tightly to the pill
lifted it than l could nave lifted a ton-weight.
l could only lie staring with stupid dull eyes
and an I my aunt mt would go, and leave SlTe' me t entirely ely
to myself.