Delaware tribune. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1867-1877, 1867-01-31

A long llnc ditcr the gray hshcs WIZ
blown to the winds they sat together in 81
lence, the cheek of the mother resting ON
the daughters head, and many and many
night thereafter they sat the same way, each
understanding the others thought but speak
ing no word that represented the thoughts.
And the heart of the girl did not break
hearts do not break so easily as they are said
to do in stories--it suffered and ached and
throbbed for many weary day and month,
and then it settled into dreamless and hope
less quiet, and the face wore its old smile
a little sadder, but not less sweet--and she
took up the cares and duties of life with a
more steadfast and energetic will.
Matilda did not sing the old song at her
spinning, but she sung hymns instead; went
much to church, and mused upon the green
fields beyond the swelling flood, and tried to
| lay up her treasures there, not altogether
| without success, though not in perfect tran
guilty.
But though they were SO silent in the
household of Mrs. Hastings the neighbor-
hood was not silent, and strange to say,
there was little sympathy expressed for Ma
tilda.
'sShe was in love with Nathan Armstrong"
the gossips said, "and he has gone off and
married his rich cousin, and left her to dance
in the pig trough!' and they laughed as they
said il, even as though good thing had be-
| fallen themselves. Then they wondered if
she would not be ashamed to show her head
abroad, and few, from sheer curiosity, made
excuses to call at her mothers house, simply
to see for themselves how she bore herself
in her desertion. She was calm to all SEEM
ing, and kindly, and quiet as ever, and they
one and all went vexed away that they could
not get something of startling sort to tell
about the town.
But to go back little. The letter was
never answered, and one day when the ru-
NOR was flying everywhere that a beautiful
daughter-in-law law was shortly to be brought
home to Mrs. Armstrong, Nathan suddenly
presented himself at the door of his forsaken
little sweetheart. He looked unhappy, rest
less, flushed with excitement, as if he were
neither master of himself nor of any thing.
Would Matilda grant him one more last
walk in the garden? That was what he was
come to ask. He had no right, he made no
pretense of right, but would she grant him,
of her sweet generosity, thus much3 He
was going away-going out of the country,
and might never have another favor to ask.
He whispered this as she bent over her sew
ing work-a wedding-cap for his mother
beneath the west window through which the
. sunset lights were shining darkly red, for it
was autumn and the close of the day.
: She turned the cap of fine yellow lace on
: her hand for moment, and then put it down
: and went with him TO the garden. He put
t one arm about her when they turned down
/ the narrow path, but she said, ''No, Nathan!'
Y without smiling or blushing, and softly push
t ed the arm away. Then he asked her why
: she had not written to him-perhaps that ht
, did not know what else to say.
: "Because, Nathan, had nothing to say
IT to you, nor have now," she added, quietly
d and without anger
"Oh, Matilda that is cruel, very cruel-i
i you only knew"
!, 81 do know" she answered; "you wert
it good enough to tell me, you remember p
G "But you don't know, you don't begin tc
9 know how much l suffer-"
S II am sure am very sorry"
o s.Oh, Matilda, don't kill me with sucl
II coldness-I had hoped you would help mt
:, it was madness know, but hoped"
50 "You yourself made it impossible for mt
II to help you; and besides, what help can yo,
/ need? You have money, beauty, every thing
u you desire p
~ haven't what dcsire-it is yourself
e desire to hold and to keep, from this da,
II forward till death do us part!"
I And all against her will he put bis arm
II about her and drew her to the thyme banl
s by the bee-hives, and so held her as h
u poured out his heart, stirred now to the yer.
u bottom. He told her how his mother ha,
II vexed him with her constant opportunities
and how she herself had been cold to hin
' and held herself apart just when he reqnire'
le her tenderness the most; how ambition ha'
'r blinded and at last beauty and artfulnes
u bewildered him; and now, by one mean
le and another, he had been pushed an
81 goaded to the very edge of the precipice; bu
~ the last fatal step was not yet taken; woul
y Matilda, his own little sweetheart, all til
:. true sweetheart he had ever had, or eve
ot could have, help him to recede?
d. No, she would not help him. he was no
it the man she had taken him for.
Il,
IN ''No, Matilda, nor am the man l too
myself for; help me to be what l ono
;! thought myself, and what you once believe
ic me-
IL Then he took all the blame upon himsel
IL and abased himself to the very ground, cor
re Tossing his utmost weakness and Wicked
"l ness.
Ut But She only said How can you begi
". to he true to me upon lie to another! M
y Nathan. you have shaped yonr own destiny
! must accept mine.
There was much more between them. b,
III we need moi repeat ii il ended where il be
y gan. At least Nathan said picking fail
~ little flower that was yet struggling for iii
'o in the grass at their feet Forgive me,
ho least aud tnkc this in token of your forgi'
's' ness.
eii But she refused the flower. g can II,
~ forgive you" she said, 'sto-day, nor II
" morrow, nor for twenty years
NV Then he offered it again, saying her ~
=" ceptance of his poor gift would add SOM
~ thing to his happiness.
~ 81 have nothing to do with your happ
$40 ness or misery she said. "They are
i'e your own making; 20 and keep the fail
you have pledged y
al sis not a bad promise-one that WI
wrung from me, too-better broken ths
keptF"
10 "You might come TO think another BIT
lor tomorrow. And if you did not, why "
lln are not the man took you for, that Is ALL
ao 1t was quite dark now, and the wind blo'
ier ing chill. "Where is your shawl?' ask
ef' Nathan, endeayoring to shield her.