Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1875-12-09

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lonely life among strangers. Some years
had elapsed since she had lost her parents
and had left France. Possessing small,
very small income of her own, she added
to 1t BY coloring miniatures for the photo
graphers. She had relatives still living
in France; but she had long since ceased
to correspond with them. "Ask me moth
ing more about my family" she used TO
say. II am as good as dead in my couh-
try and among my people.
This was all, literally all, that she tod
me of herself. | have never discovered
mora OF her sad story 9rosn thai Day 70
this.
She never mentioned her family name
never even told me what part OF France
she came from. or how long she mad HVeo
in England That she was by birth and
breeding a lady, could entertain no
doubt her manners, her accomplishments
her ways of thinking and speaking, all
proved it, Looking below the surface,
her character showed itself in aspects not
common 'among young women in these
days.
In her quiet way she was an incurable
fatalst and firm believer in the ghostly
reality of apparitions from the dead.
had strange views of her own. When
ever my purse was in my hand she held
me resolutely at distance from first TO
last. She refused to remove into better
apartments; the shabby little house was
clean inside, and the poor people who
lived in it were kind to her, and that was
enough. The most expensive present that
she ever permitted me to offer her was a
little enameled ring, the plainest and
cheapest thing OF the kind in the jewelers.
shop. In all her relations with me she
was sincerity itself. On all occasions, and
under all circumstances, she spoke her
mind as the phrase is, with the same I'M
compromising plainness.
II like you," she said to me; II res
pect you shall always be faithful to you
while you are faithful to me. But my love
has gone from me. There is another man
who has taken it away with him, | know
not where"
';Who was the other man?"
She refused TO tell me. She kept his
rank and his name strict secrets from me.
never discovered how he had met with
her, or why he had left her, or whether
the guilt was his of making her an exile
from her country and her friends. She
despised herself for still loving him; but
the passion was too strong for her-she
owned it and lamented it with the frank
ness which was SO pre-eminently part of
her character. More than this, she plain
ly told me, in the early days of our ac-
quaintance, that she believed he would
return to her. 1t might be tomorrow, or
it might be years hence. Even If he
failed to repent of his own cruel conduct,
the man would still miss her, as something
lost out of his life and, sooner or later,
he would come back.
s'And will you receive him if he does
come back ?" l asked.
II shall receive hisi,' she replied,
against my own better judgment-in
spite of my own firm persuasion that the
day of his return to me will bring with it
the darkest days of my life
tried to demonstrate with her.
"You have will of your own,' | said.
Exert it, if he attempts to return to you"
II have no will of my own she an
swered quietly, "where he is concerned. 1t
is my own misfortune to love him. Her
eyes rested for a moment on mine with
the utter selfabandonment OF despair.
I'VE have said enough about this she |
added abruptly. Let US say no more"
From that time we never spoke again of
the unknown man. During the year that !
followed our first meeting she heard moth
ing of him directly or indirectly. He
might be living, or he might be dead.
There came no word Of him, or from him.
was fond enough of her to be satisfied |
with this-he never disturbed us.
The year passed, and the end came.
Not the end as you may have anticipated
it, or as might have foreboded it.
You remember the time when your let
ters from home informed you of the fatal
termination of our mothers illness? 1t is
the time of which am now speaking. A
few hours only before she breathed her
last she called me to her bedside, and de-
sired that we might be left together alone.
Reminding me that her death was near.
she spoke of my prospects in life; she
noticed my want Of interest in the studies
which were then supposed to be engaging |
my attention, and she ended by entreat-
ing me to reconsider my refusal to enter |
the church.
"Your fathers heart is set upon it, she
said. "Do what | ask you, my dear, and
you will help to comfort him when am
gone"
Her strength failed her; she could say
no more. Could refuse the last request
she would ever make to me? | knelt at
the bedside and took her wasted hand in
mine, and solemnly promised her the re-
spect which son owes to his mothers |
last wishes.
Having bound myself by this sacred en-
gagement, had no choice but to accept |
the sacrifice which it imperatively exacted |
from me. The time had come when
must tear myself free from all unworthy |
associations. No matter what the effort
cost me, l must separate myself at once
and forever from the unhappy woman who
was not, who never could be my wife.
At the close of dull, foggy day l set
forth with heavy heart to say the words
which were to part us forever.
lcoNTISUED TOMORROW.
81. A. B. CHANDLER,