The Manitowoc tribune. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1866-1878, 1876-12-14
A HARD WOMAN.
a Thanksgiving Idyl.
From the Inter-Ocean.l


ing for the bell that was to summon her
to her lonely dinner, and as she waited
she looked into the glowing coal fire, and
conjured up visions of the past, not
pleasant or profitable ones, but true, and
as they flushed. and faded before her
some late impulse moved her to speech.
Yes, she had been hard woman /!
cold, tyrannical, ambitious-sinning not
as others did, nor ever forgiving those
who sinned loving her own ease, her
own imperious will, and standing in con-
scious pride alone on tie high plateau
OF worldly success she had married
young for wealth and position; her hus-
band gave her both, and then wearied
of his loveless marriage and went abroad.
Three months after the birth of q daugh-
ter whom he vas never to see he died in
foreign land, and strangers buried
him.
His wife paid the utmost respect to
his memory, and secluded herself from
society with her child, little, fragile
thing, fair as lily, with a timid, cling
ing nature, always longing for love that
it was afraid to demand. Mrs. Arnold
was proud of her child, and loved it In
her own way, but she was disappointed
in not being the mother of son who
would do and dare great things in the
world, instead of this slender, frig htened
girl, who was dreamer and romancer,
and of whom she could never make
blood must have wandered in Hrs. Ar
nold's veins, and it absorbed all the
tender essences of her wonan's nature.
She was thinking of her daughter as
she sat there alone upon this night, when
kindred should have met at her hearth
stone. 1t was ten years since she had
looked at her face five since she had
sent her letters back to her marked
"unread," and since then she had heard
nothing. Ten years ago she was 50
years old, still widow and very hand
some. Distaining the common mediums
OF affection and intercourse with her
kind, she had constituted herself sort
of Lady Bountiful to poor musicians,
authors and artists, who must have gen
Jus and gratitude. She elevated them
by her wealth and influence to q pedes-
tai before her, not as a WON an but as q
goddess. Such homage did not seem
base, for she was GueenlY woman.
But she was only woman, and then
came one man to whom her soul at last
went out in love, melting the cold bar
riers of pride in its genial warmth, and
flooding her soul with a new, delicious
life, so that even her child seemed to
her new revelation OF delight This
man was Francis Dare, the artist, and he
was the last person to whom any one
would have RELOCATED such a position.
Gifted, indolent, with Southern beauty
of physique, and loving and romantic as
a. girl, he seemed mere boy in compar-
ison with Miriam Arnold, though in re-
ality few years older than she +; but
who can understand a woman's heart.
Miriam loved him with all the repressed
affection of her proud nature, and less
obtuse man would have discovered the
knowledge. Dare's nature was weak /;
lie had been petted and fattered all his
life !; he conid not at once make up his
mind to break from SO sweet q bondage.
At last he went, and Miriam arnold s
1iI+Ia do,,rrbtar x,-o5,t with J,ip7-oIuooct q
child. yet she too had watched the hand
some artist at work, and her mother had
needed her no more than one Of the dolls
she lately played with. They were mar
ried before they left Washington, the
very hour, in fact, they left the house,
and Francis Dare had the marriage pub
lished in all the papers. He did not in
tend to bring any contempt on this little
girl, who loved and trusted him, and
from that hour to this they had never
looked on the mothers face.
The blow almost killed her; it was so
unexpected, and coming from such a
source But she made no sign to the
world. When her daughter tried to
reach her she sent her letters back, and
that was the end. Francis Dare made
no reputation with his pictures, and
passed out of sight and mind.
Mrs. Arnold removed to the West, and
in the Garden City resumed her queenly
sway among the rich and pleasure-loying,
beautiful, still, but as cold as marble =
friends admired her-they dared not
love. At home her receptions were ele-
CANT and comprised the elite of the city.
Abroad she rode as in chariot, pale,
still with that marble-ike countenance
that never changed at sight OF child,
or a flower still wearing the black
draperies of chiIdless widowhood.
One day I,or carriage was stopped by
a great crowd surging and swaying about
q building with closed doors she knew
the place, it was a resort for people who
met together to listen to superstitious
stories that few evangelists told, and
rs the doors were opened at last to the
waiting crowd, there foated out to her
n strange, sweet fragment of melody,
and the words were plain to her -:
Come to me- saith One, "and coming
Be at rest.
She went home, but the words haunt
ed her until she looked them up, and
then they seemed like & question of her
own answered.
All. my heart is heavy laden