Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1877-05-10
THE YELLOW GATE.
. MINERALS STORY


Jane said that she was obliged to be
careful in avoiding the night air, and
would therefore go home instead of parad-
| ing about in the moonlight. The whole
statement was fib Jane did not fear
the damp in the least, and was as fond of
summer moonlight as any lady of forty
five, with bunch of gray curls ON either
side of her thin face, may be permit
ted to indulge in soft sentiment. But
there are martyrs who do not walk on heat
ed plowshares, or pass through the fire of
other than daily trials in life. Minerva s
happiness had been elderly James care
from the cradle.
1t was sultry August evening, rem
dered luminous by the full moon; the
town of Baden Baden lay in the valley
twinkling with stars of lamps, and in
closed by the mysterious shadow-land of
Black Forest stretching along the slopes
of neighboring hills. The Conversation
Haus had been the scene of gayety for
hours; groups of Germans had slipped
coffee at the adjacent cafe; groups of Rus
SLAMS had retained their striking individ-
uality of race amidst the travelling En-
glish and American thrOng; while the
towns-people inspected the whole with
the shreWd speculation of the watering
place resident. All the charm of Arts
most lavish decorations, aided by the
most beautiful setting of Nature, was still
to be found here. The banquet table gilt
tered with its ornaments of crystal, flowers
and rich plate; but the viands, highly
seasoned with excitement of gain, loss,
rapture and swift despair, had been swept
away Baden-Baden, robbed of its gam
bling, yawns now in the summer night.
Music waited from that orchestra pavilion,
where the gas jets gather to the semblance
of a gigantic bunch of grapes, de-
lightful to the listening ear Now the
softly mOdulated tones were audible only
in most subdued harmony, and again a
melancholy horn pealed out sustained
note that seemed to wander into the forest
depths seeking the ghostly echo Of some
wild huntsman's bugle.
Minerva had been silent, even penslve,
during the evenlng-a mood notunbecOm-
ing fair young widow in weeds, with q
brown curl hanging down her back Her
bert Wilson at least seemed tosustain him
self in the cleaning by studying her deli
cate profile with little conversation. El-
derly Jane saw it all quite plainly Mi
nerva was a beauty, and very amiable,
with surface seldom ripped, because
the velvet smoothness of her disposition
was rarely disturbed Somebody had been
in love with her since the age of fourteen,
when the eldest boy in the academy at
home had bought a package of candy as
votive offering after beholding her in
white muslin and pink ribbons. Elderly
Jane could not understand it, as men were
able to exist very comfortably without her
own society. Here was this artist, Her
bert Wilson, whom they had met at Rome,
traversing the route of his predecessors,
and discovering real artistic talent in Mi
nerva's sketches of landscapes, which
may have been attributable to the grace of
the amateur, the sweep of her silky eye-
lashes, the delicious hours spent on the
margin of Swiss lakes.
81 hope he may prove as good a hus-
pand as poor Harry, Tor L believe she
means to marry him. Minerva is weak"
reflected elderly Jane, and rose abruptly
from her seat.
Poor Harry was Minerva's first mate,
and not considered half good enough
for her when he was alive
The lovers expressed surprise on learn
ing her decision to depart. How anxious
they were about her health, and how glad
to be rid of herl She was such a good
old Jane to feel herself de tr0p on moon
light night, only Minerva must go home
with her-well, at least escort her to the
yellow gate. Jane smiled rather grimly
in the darkness, and consented. The trio
passed between the rank of booths, brill
liant with gas and stocked with charming
trinkets, and crossed the wide promenade
before the deserted Trinkhalle; then Jane
declared further escort to be unnecessary,
and sped along the street where they
lodged, alone.
Oh, the glory of the summer night,
with the Lichtenthal avenue frosty white
in the moonlight, and the noble trees
forming canopy of foliage far above the
head. There was subtle eloquence in
all Nature, as Herbert Wilson and Mi
nerva strolled along the path together,
shielded from all this world of strangers
by closer tie of sympathy that both were
foreigners-a separate sphere amidst all
these revolving planets.
The artist had roamed from italy to
Spain, from Algiers to Cairo, with his
portfolio, and was weary, now that the
freshness of novelty had worn away. The