The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1867-01-09
FIVE YEARS OF A LIFE.
BY LOUIS CHANDLER MouLroN.

scene, with the fresh, young grass
creeping everywhere; the light, deli
cate green on the tree-boughs; the.
early blossoms starting up in clefts
and hollows; the young girl-the
young loyer-all like a tender idyl.
She had no thought of care or trouble.
She heard people talk about I" the
good fight" the battle of life," but
they were vague, vain words to her.
1t was easy enough to be good, she
thought, and she wondered why peo-
pie said so much about it. Who
wanted to tell lies, or steal, or muir
der? It was very nice, too, to go to
church. She liked to wear her fresh,
pretty garments, to sit reverently in
the solemn, stately edifice, with it's
light falling softly through stained
glass windows, its slow, solemn music,
its tender, persuasive preacher. How
easy it all wasl
She had never known the fierce
storms of passionate stern conflict
of right with wrong-she, in her gen
tie spring time of life. She thought
about it all, that last night of April,
as she sat watching the roseate spring
sunset, and wondered again why any
one should call it hard to be good;
felt a vague, sentimental delight,
which she thought was thankfulness,
as she remembered how happy she
had always been.
She was a pretty picture, her face
framed In the western window-her
bonny face, with its bright, yet
thoughtful eyes, its softly-falling hair,
its sweet, strong mouth. She had sat
there watching the sun go down, and
she sat there still when her betrothed
lover came up the path. He was
young man Of the ordinary type-not
the exceptional mould in which great
souls are cast. He had gentle, win
ming manners, handsome face, with
its laughing eyes, straight features,
and the silky blonde mustache curl
ing above his well-cut lips. Yet you
might have wondered that Lucia
Cromyn could find depth enough. in
Charley Frye to satisfy her, if you had
happened to know them both well.
He saw her at the window, her face
kindled by the tender radiance of her
welcoming smile. IF he should live
to be an old man, doubt whether he
will ever forget that picture-the
graceful, bent head; the gray, earnest
eyes; the parted scarlet lips, the wei
come shining on the young, happy
face-for he never saw her just so
again.
He went in and she told him what her
thoughts had been, and he agreed with
her in a surface, superficial sort of
way, for such speculations were little
to his taste. Indeed, it was almost
strange that he loved Lucia at all; for
though they were young and gay to-
| gether, her ways were not his WAYS, or
her thoughts his thoughts. He. was
commonplace, naturally; and the
effort to keep up to her standard,
though that was not so very high. not
infrequently bored him. Tonight
| she happened to be in an enthusiastic
mood. She said over to him snatches
of her favorite poems, which he
scarcely heard; but then he liked to
watch the color come in her cheeks.
and the light kindling in her dark
gray eyes till they looked luminous. +,
When he went away she said a little
prayer, thanking God in it for making
her so happy Then she slept all
night, dreaming of only pleasant
sights and sounds, and awaked, the
first day of May, to tragedy. Shame
and sorrow had knocked at her door
at last, and had come in. r.r ID ~
She found on her plate, at break
fast, note in her fathers writing.
which she opened carelessly enough.
thinking he had written it to
tell her that he was called
away from home on unexpected
business. She was used to such
attentions from him, for her mother
was dead, and he and she were alone
in the world. But an awful change
came over her face as she read. 1t
seemed to her as if she were turning
to stone. For this was no ordinary
absence. Her father was gone. not
for day,or week; gone into hiding,
never to come back. He was the
President of the little country bank
there in Ryefeld; and hitherto no
name in town or county had stood
higher than that of Jared Cromyn.
Everyone thought him so good and
so sure that to his private care widows
and orphans had intrusted their ali
never dreaming of asking other sure,
ty than his name. And now, it
seemed, all that had been trusted to
/ him was swallowed up. in some awful
vortex. He wrote to Lucia, ina sort
of passionate despair, that he was
ruined. He had used thereD private
funds In some speculations of his own