Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1877-09-14

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wds stOrm-it toas a STORM" and her old
hands clasped and unclasped nervously.
'What dark and dreadful time of hor.
ror, and now so tranquil But will tell
you. You always do seem 30 like my
own children might have been-all but
Mr.. Stephen, mean," she said, with q
quick laugh that restored her to herself.
lone dGy we were in boat together,
alone upon the little river. How re
member it alll-the green boughs meet
ing overhead, the green shadows under
meath, the sunlight sitting through, and
his face, his proud, pale, passionate face,
as he said some simple words that let me
know, not that he loved me, not that he
wished to know IL Iloved him-as IL that
had always been understood-bu that he
expected me soon to be his wife. loved
him--Uh how loved himp said the old
lady, clasping and unClasping her hands
again. But some evil spirit seized me.
i was a coquette; answered him lightly.
How did he know said, but that l
was already plighted to Ralphr We had
hung close to the shore, beneath the
great boughs, and, looking up MS spoke,
| saw Mark, the second brother, sitting
in the boughs-oh, so strange his face
looked thenI l beckoned him mischiev-
ously, and In moment he had parted all
the leaves and sprays, and was threaten
ing to spring and swamp the little boat
If VIC did not let him in. That night,
at the home of the three brothers, there
was fearful contest the cause. Ahi
this soft, sweet summer night who could
believe it? and could / ever have be.
lieved ! should SIT here calmly and tell of
! IL to those who were not bornp They had
grappled; Ralph was killed; his eldest
brother was found red-handed. When
Mark came home from his ramble, the
officers were carrying that brother to
prison. He never opened his lips con-
cerning 1t from that day." said Mrs. Dal-
rymple, with sob in her voice. He
employed no lawyer, although the court
appointed one; he refused to plead guilty
or not guilty. 1 will hurry. He was
sentenced to death; his sentence was com.
muted to Imprisonment for life. AS for
me, would not believe it; never be-
lieved it"
"NeverH" said Mr.. Stephen, hoarsely.
"Never. sent Mark. to procure me
admission to the prison; nc came back
saying it was refused. wrote; Mark
brought me back the letter unopened.
His brother, he said, would have no
further communication with us. At
length, as if worn out with my impor-
tunity, Mark exacted of me a pledge of
secrecy. There was no needi There
was no need He told me that with his
own eyes he had seen the blow struck,
and had gotten away that he might not
be used as evidence. But did not be-
lieve it tnen. l gathered all my ready
money; / went to the prison and gave 1t
to the keeper, in my ignorance thinking
it necessary. 1t was the day of the SEN
| tenCe. was taken to the cell and left
He stood up burriedly to meet me. So
changed! so changed! White as death,
but his great eyes burning-and he held
out his arms to me. / waited one mo-
ment, one fatal moment. Tell me first,
l cried--' oh, just say yourself that you
are innocentp His arms fell. You
toop he said, and he folded his arms
upon his breast, and stood there, his
head fallen, surveying me from under
his eyebrows. You toor Oh, don't
know what there was in the words, but
fell upon the floor, fainting dead away,
and / never saw him again. Nothing
made any difference to me then. Mark
was very tender to me in those days. l
felt as if he ought to hate the sight of
me. 1t was five years before married
him. ! never loved him; but he was
nearer than anyone else. should never
have married him but for messages of
something little short of hatred that he
brought me from the prison. Why do l
tell you all this, my dears?" she said,
suddenly stopping. "And Mr.. Stephen,
too? Only, perhaps, because you are a
part of my life now-you and he-and
this life is as real to me now as that.
That? No, that is a dream: as the dying
do not weep, so the old do not suffer in
reliving the past. 1t is no longer my
story; there is no sacred secrecy about it;
it is the story of that young girl of whom
spoke to you. Well-to 60 on. Per.
haps it was because he knew did not
love him; perhaps he wearied of me;
perhaps to see me only recalled to him
his crime. We've were not happy to-
gether. We lived long life of wretch
edness. Yet, being his wife, ! tried
yes, tried never to fail in my duty. l
bore with him. nursed him faithfully
in those final years of nervous illness that
wore him to his death and nearly ruined
me. 1t was the last day that, pillowed
in his bed, his ghastly face like death re-
animated, he told me his secret. All his
life he had lived in luxury; his table had
been sumptuous with meats and wines;
his horses had been feet; his bed had
been of down; he had married the woman
he loved; he had wealth, freedom, all
mems honor. His BROTHER" she said,
again with that dry sob, chad a
prison cot, prison fare, solitude, labor,
chains, all mems contumely and con-
tempt; yet, of the two, his brothers lot
had been the best; he had laid on roses
where Mark had lain on red hot Goals.
Let grief and loss and want have been
his-he had had the proud inward con-
sciousness OF innocence. For it was
Mark who was the felOn, who was the
murderer. 1t was my husband who had
killed Ralph. His elder brother, in that
great love of his, had taken all the
burden, and Mark had let him do it,"
Mrs. Dalrymple was silent again and we
did not disturb her. "Oh, 1t was hard
to forgive HIM" she cried. "Have l
forgiven himP do not know. But
with wha: mad haste wrote out the
to him before them, made him sign it
with his dying hand Was it cruelG Oh,
he had been doubly cruel The pen
dropped from his fingers with the last
faint. bent and kissed him then, and
took his head on my breast. He looked
up in my face with such relief in his
tortured eyes-and then he was dead. l
published that statement up and down.
/ went to the prison to tell his brother,
and to make preparation orhis freedom;
for although we were both so old-sixty
sad years had we seen at least-there
wos time yet for little happiness in the
bitter world. He had been pardoned
two years before, and had gone no one
knew whittier. When hope is dead, you
live dull, colorless life; but when hope
has been uplifted only to be destroyed
ah, that is ruin! But one is old, one out
lives everything. So l came over here
among my mothers people a thousand