Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1875-10-07
try, which, at this season Of the year, with the
fields green and the woods in bloom, was par
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fields green and the woods in bloom, was par
ticularly pretty and attractive. -. ..-
Never had enjoyed music, flowers, books or
riding so we'll before as now; yet it did not
occur to me to question the cause Of this fact,
or to think that there could be anything haz-
ardous in an intimacy so naturally brought
about, and 80 quietly sanctioned by my father.
| was startled as if by an electric shock, when,
at some allusion made by DR.. Wardlaw, to his ap.
preaching departure, felt keen, sudden thrill
STIR heart to its very annd that
interest in him was deeper than had suspected.
What bad come over me? Had suffered my
affections to 90 forth, unsolicited and undesired,
to an object utterly unconscious Of them?
love with an individual SO much older, graver,
and wiser than myself. No, it could not be love
that felt; it simply congeniality OF feeling,
and reverence for the great and good qualities
which each day developed more fully in my
friends character felt that he was far above
me; with my childishly impulsive nature and
undisciplined, ,uninformed mind, was only fit to
sit at his feet and offer him the incense Of a ST.
lent, far off worship. But what should do when
this calm, refulgent star no longer illumined my
little armament with the brightness Of its pres
ence? felt blankly that his departure would
leave void impossible to tll.
The evening before he left, we two were sitting
alone in the library, my father having gone into
the village on some business. l felt very sad,
!
solictude, and presently asked me, in the kind,
half paternal tone he was wont to use in address,
ing me, if were feeling unwell.
"Oh no." said I, rousing myself from my ABB
"Then something troubles you, does it. nots
"I feel little blue, that's all,' replied, fore
ing smile Every one is subject to that dis
"Vapeurs noirs-that's a bad disease. Come,
| let me try and cure you. I'm professor of the
healing art, you know"
81 81 thought you only cured physical ailments"
too, sometimes, when am intimately acquainted
with the patient. I have known you long
enough Miss Rosamond, to feel sure that you
don't yield often to morbid feelings"
And, therefore, they are the more difficult to
cure"
"By no means; deep-seated, chronic ailments
are always the hardest to get rid Of"
"Well don't think You can do me any good
III don't like to see you look dull on the last
evening of my stay here. have been accustomed
to regard you as the embodiment OF cheerinlness'
and It makes me unhappy to see the sunshine OBJ
scured."
II am certainly not worth being unhappy about"
I rejoned, "but feel ashamed Of my seltishness,
in not trying mak your last venng
mo, not yet; perhaps before going to bed
will ask you for one Of my pet songs. think
would rather talk just now. You know it may
be long time before I see you again. do not
| often leave home.'
"Perhaps you will travel again next Spring."
! rejoined, speaking carelessly as could. IN
that case, you must certainly pay US another vist
"Icertainly shall. Indeed if travel at all, it
will probably be with that special purpose. MY
| time here has been 50 happily spent, that shall
carry away lasting remembrance OF your pleas
ant home and the kindness of its inmates-a
bright little picture to be framed and hung up IN
| orxyoo hal
| I sat stupidity looking out of the window, not
| knowing what to say next. DR.. Wardlaw rose
from the low chair in which be had been sitting,
and coming to my side, stood there for few mo-
ments in silence.
"How peaceful the lawn looks, with the moon
light sleeping on the grass" he said, presently.
"Fetch your hat and let us take little stroll:
| Perhaps we may meet your father coming home
| obeyed mechanically; 1t was equally lndif-
| ferent to me whether went out or stayed IN
doors. We roamed about among the flowers, DR.:
Wardlaw occasionally stopping to gather bud
or leaf.
II have no such flowers as these at home" he
said. II am nothing of gardener myself, and
the negroes, with the best intentions, cannot cul-
tivate garden properly without the supervision
| of an experienced eye. Old Barbara gives an eye
to the vegetables, which she appreciates more
than the choicest plants in the world, because, as
she says, they are of some use She is real old
curiosity by the way. think she would amuse
you.'
"Your housekeeper, is she?"
"Yes. She is an old Scotch dame, very shrewd
and very faithful. The servants like her, because
she is kind to them, and seldom finds fault with
them, though she keeps them in excellent order.
have known her all my life, and have had her
with me eversnce frstwent to housekeeping"
He stopped suddenly, with the same change in
his manner had before noticed in connection
with an allusion to his home life; but directly
painful thought =,
"She is quite a'companion to me in my soli-
tudo don't know how should get on without
her,
Had he ever been married, I wondered? Was
| he widower-or had he once been engaged, ana
separated by death or other misfortunes from the
object of his love? Or was he hopelessly IN love
at the present time? Some secret care weighed
upon him, felt sure; and longed to arrive at
the knowledge of it, yet dared not venture, too
openly, on what seemed to be unsafe ground.
To my surprise, he himself touched upon the
topic was trying mentally to find way to ap-
proach. ,
II suppose you wonder at my living such a
secluded life, with only my dependents for COM
pany. Several persons have suggested to me the
expediency of renting my place. and taking rooms
where would have more cheerful surroundings.
But the old place has charms for me, and am not
willing to givet up. There are in fact, ties bind
ing me to It, which could not break"
"It is hard to break old associations" hazard
ed, in reply.
Evidently, thought I, he clings to the past with
fondness which nothing can shake: The pres
ent and future have less interest for him than his
| by-gone life.
'"Not that my past has been altogether bright
one," he continued, answering my very thoughts
son the contrary, l have suffered much But
| ones surroundings become hallOwed even by
suffering"
ut must be dreadful to suffer-" said, vaguely.
He looked down at me with smile:
"You have never experienced it. " he responded
| f1xy
earth. May your skies ever continue as bright
and coudless as now" .
IT suppose everybody has to go through some
trouble at one time or another" said I, with
| feeling as if my time oftrouble were IN some way
near at hand
| "Yes-except here and there one who dies very
young. knew such q one, years ago. his voice
softened as he spoke, "who passed from earth un-
shaken by q single stornl-a flower upon whom
the wind had never blown with rough breath;
She told me- in her dying moments, that she had
been happy all her life-yet she left this world,
which was 80 beautiful to her, Wlthouta murInur,
| or token of regret"
(Of course he had been married; my doubts on
| the question were settled at once0
81 don't think dying is very pleasant way OF
escaping from adyersity," rejoined, with niue
shudder. feared afterward that he might have
thought me flippant, for he made no immediate
reply to my remark.
ut is Longfelow, think, who tells us
....how sublime thingits
To suffer and be strong,' ,"
he continued, presently. "Many hearts are en-
nobled by suffering-they do not know their own
capabilities until they have been tried in the fiery
furnace
II hope shall never be tried" exclaimed,
impulsively.
lit is fortunate" he answered quietly, that the
decision is not left in hands, and that there is
higher Power in whose wisdom we can conhde.'
1 felt rebuked and was silent. The CONVERSE
ton had taken turn which was not enlivenlng;
hosid 7 haH no metaDhVSlCS.