The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1878-11-20
The Guard Above the Heart.

The Guard Above the Heart.
81 believe I have given all the orders,
Alma, Just as you wished. The little
library is already arranged with the last
little bracket and statue in place the
iining-room and kitchen with china, sill
YER, linen and superb old-fashioned
sideboard, just as you directed, have
everything in place. And your room
how I wish you could 60 and see it's
beautiful. There can be no greater
harmony than the blending blue-and-
gold furnishings Of that ROOM"
"You are very good, Arthur"
Thanks, Alma but not half 80 good
as you in loving me so tenderly and
Loyalty. But WAS bothered about one
thing, sweet"
"What was it9
Your writing-desk. 1t is such a
gem. ldon't believe you can ever write
anything but poetry at it. could not
get place in the library for it to suit
me. This light was too sharp, and that
: light too dull. I fancied it needed a
soft, mellow light. SO I set it in your
room, and will leave you to arrange q
place for it. I Hatter myself that every
thing else will please you"
ssThe pictures y
"They are all hung. I can hardly
tell you now where each one is. The
Beatrice Cenci I hung over the library
door which enters to your ROOM"
"Why, what made you give it such
poor place as that?"
"For just one little reason OF my own.
Her great, sad, suffering, patient eyes
are duplicates of your own. So have
hung it there rs sign to me that the
door beneath it opens to place wherein
the goddess of my life prss;ies; also
that when the door is shut, your face
shall still look down upon me, and fol-
low me with fnournful and gusrdful
tenderness"
"Though your love and fancy, Arthur,
make my eyes o.day as luminous as
Psyche's, perhaps tomorrow those that
love me most may forget or wish to for
get that ever existed: for who can de-
termine now whether Psyche, the very
idol of all poets, was reality or a
dream"
'But 10 morrow you will become all
the reality my life shall ever know or
wish, for tomorrow, when the priest
has had his service and the witnesses
have written their names, and your
dainty finger has new ring upon it, I
shall set you down in the pretty gold
and-blue room where Beatrice keeps
guard. Then you shall dismiss or re-
tain the historical sentinel as you please,
for you shall fill all my to .morrows with
your own sweet self"
He took both her slender white hands
in parting, and said:
Remember, we are to be promptly
at the church at four. Good-by, sweet,
till then"
Her eyes filled with tears. and she
clung to him tenderly as if she would
not have him go; but she only said:
Well, Arthur, let Beatrice stay
where she is, and whenever You look at
her think of me, if you will"
This last 80 low that he did not hear.
But he went out busy and happy with
thoughts of his Wedding day.
Alma stood still until the door closed
behind him, then she clasped her hands
and cried:
"Who am I? What am II that
should deceive such man."
When Arthur went on the morrow
4 where the merry guests we're assembled
for the wedding, the white-robed bride
was gone but in her room was found
note for Arthur Leroy, which read /:
s'Arthur, forgive me. I have not
meant to deceive you. How it has all
come abont I hardly know any better
than yourself. But true it is that when
you read this shall be thu wife of
another. Farewell, and may your noble
heart find forgetfulness of ALMA"
Five years after, Arthur Leroy was
standing watching the silent, dark-eyed,
picturesque group which sat on the gray
steps of the Trinita di Monte in Rome.
While lie stood and looked, tall, grace
full woman dressed in mourning came
down the street and stood beside him.
She glanced hurriedly at the same
group which his own eyes we're scruti-
MIXING.
Arthur was pursuing his artistic
} studies at Rome, and was searching for
J model. The woman beside him was
upon similar mission. She, however,
, seemed to find none among the group to
\ suit her, and she started to 20. As she
n turned, their glances met. Arthur and
Alma we're face to face. Her eyes we're
sadder than ever, and her garb was
I weeds of mourning.
| "Arthur p she exclaimed, in sur
prise, holding out her white, slender
hand.
The blood receded from his face and
left it white as marble. The old life and
! the old pain surged back. He took the
the hand she extended, and said in a
{ cold, cruel voice:
"Mrs. Ruesel, am glad to meet you
: here. In search OF model, too ?"
\ eyes she said in voice which had
pereeptibie culver ;" but I have found
none to suit my purpose. I am going
now 10 the Piazzi di Spagna. Won't
You. join me, aud tell me how you are
/ and how you have been ?"
He walked beside her as she started
of, saying
E Thanks. As to how I am now-well !;
how ! have been-I have forgotten"
She felt the little thrust; but it was
easy for Der woman's wit to parry it by
ssying with her old naiuete of manner !:
" Well, you see the influence of your
taste has had its influence on me. I
have turned artist myself"
You did not have to turn artist; you
kIwere always one by nature"
She saw clearly enough that the steel
was still in this mans soul. She had
placed it there, and she resolved to
pluck it onta at once.
mRnt you never told me I was an
artist =